30 September 2010

Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a memory, falling on my head like the Notes From The News

I grew up in the midwest; I'm used to severe weather and rainstorms that eat rooftops. Now I live in New York and that weather seems to have followed me here . . . sorry about that, by the way. And what it looks like here is we got us a classic nor'easter mixed with a classic sou'wester, which means that I should have brought an extra pair of dry pants with me because my ass is going to get soaked on the way home. But that's neither here nor there, because what is here is the news. What's there I have no idea. You might not want to step in that.

Myst, one of the most popular computer games of the 1990s, is being developed into a feature film. If it stays true to the game, the film will be wonderful to sit through the first time, and then boring and pointless every time you try to watch it after that.

I don't want to go on the cart, dept., Part One: Tony Curtis, who never let his Noo Yawk accent get in the way of turning in awesome performances as women, rich Cary Grant impersonators, and Roman slaves, has died at the age of 85. Bow your heads and say a quick one for one of the good ones.

Because it is never possible to make too much fun of Oliver Stone's pretentiously overwritten and yet hopelessly amateurish scripts, Filmdrunk presents us with the ten worst lines in Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps, with their hilarious commentary added after each one. And I betcha they had trouble winnowing it down to just ten.

The big question on the minds of everyone -- well, everyone who pays attention to this stuff -- well, everyone like me who needs a hobby (I am a sad, strange little man) -- is whether The Social Network will achieve the coveted 100% Fresh rating on RottenTomatoes.com, or whether some troll with a chip on his shoulder will come along and fuck it up. Not mentioning any names, of course . . . like, say, Armond "I'm such a douchebag I gargle vinegar and water" White, whose feelings of inadequacy have sprung forth again, this time in a hilariously over-written pan of the well-regarded film The Town, which allows Armond to throw around a shitload of ten-dollar words and pretend he actually knows what he's talking about, in the funniest display of pseudo-intellectual dick-waving since Ben Stein tried to link Darwin's Theory of Evolution to the Holocaust.

I don't want to go on the cart, dept., Part Two: Greg Giraldo has succumbed to death following his weekend overdose on prescription pills. Giraldo was 44. And you'd think he would have been smart enough at that age to know better than to fuck around with pills, but apparently not. Sorry Greg. Rest in peace.

I got my violence in hi-def ultra-realism, dept.: Trent Reznor has teamed with frequent Tarantino movie producer Lawrence Bender to start pre-production work on an HBO series adaptation of Nine Inch Nails' Year Zero album and alt-reality game project (and holy shit that's a lot of propositions in one sentence). This could be great, or it could just be one more trip to the same drying-up well for Trent, and this just becomes his empire of dirt.

Snooki is writing a novel. I would hereby like to announce that American Literature passed away today. Cause of death is listed as terminal embarrassment.

I don't want to go on the cart, dept. Part Three: Arthur Penn, one of the best directors who ever put his eye to the camera lens, is dead at. Penn did a lot of great things (The Miracle Worker, Missouri Breaks, Night Moves, Penn and Teller Get Killed),  and won a lot of awards, but even if he had never done anything else, Penn would be assured immortality for his groundbreaking, revolutionary work on Bonnie and Clyde, one of those rare films which broke so many molds, and redefined so many things about American cinema, that it's almost impossible to overstate what a towering achievement it is. Bow your heads again, folks. And say thank you to the master as he passes us by.

Finally: There's a Saw 3D poster on Pajiba and . . . uhhh . . . errr . . . aeeee . . . askdflquijybofbvwekl *head goes asplodey*

And that, as they say, is that. Now is the time on Nighthawk Postcards when we . . .

. . . actually, I have no idea what that is. But I think I saw it once after I ate some brownies after a Grateful Dead concert.


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