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  • Win big $$$ playing games

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    E-@thletes  (2008)

    Jonathon Boal and Artem Agafanov made the documentary E@thletes at a time when competitive team-gaming seemed ready to expand into a new world of professional competition. The film presented, at the time they released it, a cutting-edge view of two teams out on the road, just before both teams joined a new league. By the time I watched the movie, league play was already into its second season and the film had become, for me, a how-it-all-happened tale. By the time I began writing this review, the league was out of business and team gaming had returned to the state it occupied before Boal and Agafanov began their documentary. And now, much later than that, in the midst of an economic slump, I have no idea how electronic gaming, competitive or otherwise, is faring. Holy cow. Will anyone ever see the movie? Will anyone ever read this review? If I fall over in the woods, will anyone ever hear me go?

    Whatever. Video-game revenue outstripped cinema ticket sales long ago, and then passed DVD rental sales. Companies spend millions developing new games, betting that one hit will pay for all their flops and make a profit for the company. Innovation is somewhat restricted these days by corporate rules, but it creeps in once and a while anyway. Amateur developers can now create new games using free tools, and deploy them to consoles and handhelds, not just desktops. Prize-winning opportunities for kids playing video games began to increase as gaming revenues increased. Even with the huge dip in revenue during the 08/09 recession, year-to-date totals at the end of July, '09, stood at $8.16 billion. A huge, young demographic with plastic in its back pocket is whiling away the Generation Y hours in cyberspace, guns and other weapons in its paws.

    e-@thletes highlights one consequence of the sloshing about of gaming dollars back in 2006 - the growth in pro gaming. The film follows two teams of young men paid to hit the road and compete at tournaments offering cash prizes to the winners. Ever been on one of those 5-day, 32-country tours? The movie includes a team tour of China with a film montage of, say, 10 cities in 100 seconds. (More than 100 Chinese cities have a population greater than one million, by the way. America has 9. The 100th largest city in the U.S. is Boise. Lot of folks living in China.) And speaking of seconds, the filmmakers shot something like 20 hours of film at a tournament and cut it down to less than 60 seconds for an opening clip in the movie. The filmmakers were in their early twenties when they made the movie; Boal began it as a final film-school project. Micro budget: some money from Intel for services rendered; travel and motel costs picked up by one of the teams; some money from dad. In seventy zippy yet professional minutes, the film interleaves interviews with the members of two Counter-Strike teams, their parents, scenes of team travel, competitive gaming action, and the obligatory talking heads - six of them.

    Counter-Strike is a first-person shooter video game that pits a team of counter-terrorists against a team of terrorists in a series of rounds. Each round is won by either completing the mission objective or eliminating the opposing force. First-person shooter (FPS) games are a genre featuring weapons-based combat viewed as if seen through the eyes of the player." That is, on one level, E-@thletes is a frag movie that features shooting, bombing, and killing. We don't see enough of it to get excited, however.

    e-Athlete: Someone who enjoys computer games (too much). Often possesses a grandiose sense of self. "I don't get out much. I pwn noobs on the net because I'm an e-athlete."

    The two teams: Team 3D, the well-funded top-dogs, and CompLexity, a diverse bunch gamers brought together by a lawyer with a gaming vision and some personal money to invest in the future of the sport. A climatic match between the two teams awaits us at the end of the film. When the filmmakers chose these two teams to follow, they chose well. The movie has a nice arc, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. The Intel-sponsered Team 3D was the first professional Counter-Strike team outside of Europe and Asia. 3D's motto: "Desire. Discipline. Dedication. Intel." A 3D team manager keeps the boys in line as they squabble and mostly beat other teams. Squabbling teammates are always of interest in sports, but hard to get on tape in a documentary, including this one. At one point, a team captain is deposed and replaced, but nobody dishes for us onscreen. I was reminded of the 70s documentary An American Family, wherein we follow the Loud family for hours and hours and then, in a hard-to-hear couple of minutes in a restaurant near the end, the mom and dad suddenly agree to get divorced, and I'm like, What? Where did that come from? But no tape to rewind in those days.

    You can find E-@thletes on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and its own site but it isn't mentioned in IMDB. Boal told me that when the movie was finally finished and ready for release (post-production took a year), he and Agafanov decided to focus their distribution efforts on the gamer community and its various websites. I'm guessing that, based on the google hits for the movie, as befits a gamer flick, most viewers downloaded it via one torrent or another. When Boal and Agafanov submitted it to IMDB, it wasn't accepted because of its limited distribution, but the film added the Philadelphia Independent Film Festival to its resume after that and if the makers ever take the trouble to resubmit, it'll probably get listed.

    As I mentioned above, even though, at this point, the movie is way past being stop-the-presses current, it's structured with a narrative that suggests we're getting the current poop - perhaps an error in the director/editor's emphasis when applied to such a a fast-evolving environment. To wit: the two teams are introduced as the best, the cream of the crop, the only two sponsered teams in a world of gamers. We are told that it's becoming possible to earn a living playing video games. As the movie comes to an end in 2007, a gaming league is created and we watch a draft of gamers at the Playboy Mansion to populate it. The league, The Championship Gaming Series, was owned and operated by DirecTV. This was an international electronic-sports league based in the U.S. and then "expanded to every continent except Antarctica for Season Two." The league expired suddenly after two seasons. compLexity went away, came back with different players, drama ensued, the founder retired, all ancient history now. At the end of the movie, the founder of compLexity is quoted as saying that if the league fails, there won't be another to follow it. I'm no expert on gaming, but I think that various leagues did follow the failed CGS, but they're all gone, too, now, I think, except for Major League Gaming. Gamers making six figures have come and gone... though by the time  you read this, who knows? With gaming generating billions, somebody is still getting rich, I presume. My mom's lifelong best friend was Nolan Bushnell's mom (Nolan created Pong, the first video game, and Atari, and Chuck E. Cheese, and something else after that, and lives about two billion dollars up the hill from me here). As girls, his mom and my mom grew up on adjacent farms. Shouldn't that be worth a few million to me, Nolan's mom's best friend's kid? Even just a lousy million? But no. Nothing has rubbed off on me but a plate of potato salad that his mom insisted I eat the last time I saw her in Utah. Tasty!

    Anyway, my only negative about this well-made film: the documentary is structured, on one level, as a genre sports film. The established corporate team of winners, touring the world, idolized, pulling down the $$$, is challenged by the upstart misfits, who come together and begun to win. As is traditional in this type of movie, the rivalry is hyped throughout and brought to a climax with a major showdown at the end of the film, just at the dawn of the new era of league sports. Then, unaccountably, as the two teams engage in their final struggle, instead of descriptions of the match with on-screen illustrations, the docu's talking heads pipe up and tell us... well, I have no idea what they were telling us because I was trying to watch the frigging match! (I consider this not a spoiler, but a warning of impending disappointment), which was 1-0 and then, all of a sudden, 9-5 (a match can take hours) and then, oops, it's over. This is a climax? But I took consolation in the fact that the extras disk had a feature on this final match. When I watched it, however, it consisted of shots of all the players sitting at their keyboards, no shots of the screen action, what they were seeing, what they were doing, how the match was progressing. No final-game narrative.

    None of the detail and tension experienced while watching the Dynamo and Itkakuskaya National Chess teams battle it out over 20 boards in Oblasteskva Stadium.

    Five talking heads appear rhythmically throughout the movie, explaining, as experts, that... well, I can't remember what they explained. Something about kids and video games? Are video games still called video games? 137,000,000 Google hits. Electronic games = 74,500,000 hits. I wonder what single search term in all of English garners the greatest number of Google hits, and how many hits that is? What's the hit limit, if any, for Google? More than one trillion pages are registered. Anyway, the talking heads comprise authors and the editor of GotFrag Magazine (http://www.gotfrag.com/portal/story/36956/  Don't believe anything I say about gaming; read GotFrag instead), all the heads serious onscreen but none dour. Serious because they've got books for sale on the subject; not dour because, after all, the subject is video gaming. I have not read any of their books, though I did trouble myself to price them all on Amazon ("Smartbomb," "Gameboys," "Got Game," "Everyting Bad is Good For You"), and could have had the lot, used, for a mere $16.76 plus shipping. I subscribe to "To The Point," "Left, Right, and Center," "Planet Money," and sundry other talking-head podcasts, and listen to them daily. From this I infer that I like talking heads. So why can't I remember word one of the offerings of this E-@thlete bunch (Aaron Ruby, Mike Kane, John Beck, Steven Johnson, and Heather Chaplin)? Hmm. I haven't read any of the books written by the talking heads I listen to every day, either. Or remember in particular what they've said. In fact, I'm reminded of what happens when I am made to sit through a sermon in church. I understand the words that I'm hearing, assuming that the sermon is spoken in my native tongue. I understand the concepts. The meaning of the sermon as a whole, however, the import, usually eludes me; or perhaps I elude it. Sermons. They're meaningless to me. I don't forget what I've heard; in some sense or other I just don't hear anything in the first place. A sermon is something that comes between the songs - often occuring annoyingly at the same time as a ballgame on TV. From this I gather that talking heads must be talking to or arguing with each other, as in the podcasts that I listen to, for me to hear and understand and remember what they are saying. I will listen to and ponder the pronouncements of conversing talking heads, but not to a lone talking head talking at me. I might also still be annoyed at Sun Dogs for using a legitimate people's activist talking head in an infomercial designed to further enrich the rich at the expense of a couple of poor dogs.

    I was in a documentary once, by the way. Up on the big screen. High on a rock wall, free climbing, facing death, sweat running off my back, muscles on the verge of failure, blue sky above and thin air below! I checked out the audience during a screening and spotted a few mouths hanging open. Wow! And then, wtf, the rock wall, with me on it, was suddenly replaced by my parents' kitchen with my mom standing in front of a sink full of dishes, brow knit and her going on about how I was raised to be responsible and how much I meant to the family and what was I doing taking my life in my hands when I should have been out in the shantytowns going door-to-door proselytizing and converting the inhabitants of Burkina Vaso (formerly Upper Volta) instead of traumatizing her and my dad and my sister by climbing without a rope, without, well, without a net, after all that she and my dad had done for me. Then my dad, down in the rumpus room behind the bar, just shaking his head, doleful, pointing to my trophy from the debating-society championships, pointing to the family Bible signed by Billy Graham himself, dad taking a drink from his highball glass and clinking the cubes. So the parents that appear in E-@thletes? They support their kids; but conflict being the essence of drama, this means - no drama. One dad, a Canadian documentary maker himself, does intone "Some nights when Griffin didn't come home at all, I'd go looking for him, usually ending up downtown in his favorite video game place. In these, the opium dens of the 21st century, an elctronic hook deep in the brain of harmless killing..." Spoken like a true parent! Let's keep in mind that these young adults are sitting in front of a screen for, say, five hours a day, clicking a keyboard with their left hand and moving and clicking a mouse with their right in order to win a kill-or-be-killed video game. Where's (where're?) the sunlight and fresh air? Where's the vitamin D and exercise? Where's the organic Vegan cooking instead of pizza? The good news: the rooms aren't smoke-filled. Steroids don't enhance performance. Or, wait a minute, what about drugs? Are these young men (no sign of a female gamer from start to finish) all jacked on some pill I've never heard of? That kid who chewed a hole through the linoleum floor when he lost - was that drug-induced behavior? We don't know.

    If you enjoy shooter games and, watching these young competitors, feel a sudden urge to spend some time sharpening your skills with a view toward winning a little prize money, permit me to remind you that even if you don't currently play tennis, for example, if you're in reasonable shape you can go buy a racquet, take a few lessons and shortly become the best tennis player on your block. Dedicate your life to the game and you might, in time, become the best player in your town, if your town isn't too large and you're not already too old. But that's about it. You can eat, sleep, live, dream, and pray about tennis 24x7, juice up, study with John McEnroe, bribe the line judges, and still, somewhere in your county, nevermind your state, you will encounter a 13-year-old of either sex who will clean your clock. That is in the nature of the human body, the psyche, and sporting competition. So is it also with e-gaming.

    End note: The movie does not deal with cheating, a fact of gaming competition that could command a documentary of its own.

     


  • The Greatest Movie Ever Made: Elf

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    Elf  (2003)

    Knowing  (2009)

    No sooner did I post my thoughts on the worst movie ever made, than Simon Mayo, Mark Kermode's sidekick, weighed in with Knowing as his "worst" candidate, on their 3/27 podcast. Kermode properly told Mayo the same thing that I wrote in my post: Dude, you've missed a lot of bad movies if Knowing is the worst you've ever seen. But then Kermode, who ought to know better, turned around and suggested What Dreams May Come as a reasonable "worst" candidate of his own. Proving that no one is immune to worstitis, the irresistable urge to go the limit when describing a movie that you (you) didn't like.

    It's never just once with these worst-enders. I know because I've checked. Can it be that each time they name a new "worst," it's truly worse than the last worst one that they named? Do they announce their worst car when they buy it? Their worst house? Their worst wife? Their worst newborn?

    Tell me that the movies aren't just getting worster and worster. Tell me that there is bestitis out there as well.

    I googled "Greatest Movie Ever Made." 79,700 hits, including Citizen Kane, of course, and IMDB's Shawshank, and The Dark Knight from the fanboys. But also Conan the Barbarian, I Am Legend, Last Year at Marienbad, Shogun Assassin, and Elf.

    I'm ignoring Peter Igluishvilli's choice of Lions for Lambs as his "worst," as he is only ten years old, just arrived from the woods east of Kutaisi on the Rioni river, and in his life has seen only one other movie, "The House Bunny" (his "greatest").

    It seems that "best" and "worst" appraisals are skewed toward the young, not the old, where the judgement would be based upon a greater number of movies seen. Suppose, for example, that a 110-year-old individual has been watching 100 movies/year since the age of 10. Now suppose that I ask him or her to name the "best" movie out of those 10,000 movies that he or she has seen, and suppose that he or she responds, "Elf." That would indicate some advanced degree of dementia in the cinematic portion of his or her brainpan.

    "Greatest Movie I've Ever Seen" 2,370. Shattered, Hancock, Revolver, Valkyrie, Titanic.

    "Best Movie I've Seen" 85,500 Hmm. Best in a while. Best this year. Best of its kind. Best is more provisional than worst, it seems.

    "Best Movie Ever Made" 110,000. Well, well. "The Best Movie Ever Made" (1997). Directed by Steve Bencich. Otherwise, Easy Rider, Commando ("This is the best movie ever made, it should have won 1 million Oscars." Nice), Showgirls, Crash.

    There seem to be more worsts than bests. Easier to make a bad movie than a good one? "Greatest" picks are less great than "Worst" picks are worse. That is, "greatest" picks are more often bad than "worst" picks are good. What does this mean? That movies are generally worse than we imagine, but, hey, not that bad? Or is it that the motivations behind choosing best and worst are entirely different? Worst springs from disappointment and hurt and a cynical abandonment of hope, a cry for help, abuse from the abused, denial of death, turning away from the void, a disgust at wasting 10 bucks or so, plus parking, coke, and popcorn. Best is warmed cockles or weepy moments or laughter (forgetting) or relief that it wasn't you, or whatever it is that makes art art.

    Since there's a thin line between love and hate, it's no suprise that there are movies listed as both the best and worst ever made. Showgirls, Crash, Hancock, and Citizen Kane all qualify. The U.S. elected George Bush, twice, and then Barak Obama, so why can't Hancock and Kane be brothers?

    I called a guy who listed Zombie Breakfast as his worst. I thought Breakfast wasn't bad. Bad? he said. It was terrible! Undoubtedly the worst movie ever made! I asked him if he'd seen the sequel, Zombie Brunch, a real stinker. Seen it? he said. Yeah, I saw it. It was ten times as bad as Zombie Breakfast. The worst!


  • Homo Erectus - a review

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    Homo Erectus  (2007)

    aka National Lampoon's Stoned Age. NL has produced a closetful of clunkers over the years, but Adam Rifkin gets this genre film right, the genre being Movies To Watch While You're Drunk. I was and it was.

     It's all here:

    David Carradine as MooKoo, proving once again that he will do literally anything for a paycheck. He's especially good in the scenes where he's carrying his head under his arm.

    Talia Shire as his wife, mother of the clan, who will do anything for a fur, even if it's off an australeamoustisimus.

    Ron Jeremy as Oog, who doesn't show it, but at this point doesn't really have to anymore. Anybody who cares has memorized it by now.

    Gary Busey as Krutz, who doesn't have to act crazy to be crazy.

    Ali Larter as Fardart, showing off the best set of prehistoric choppers in film history, although Raquel Welch still beats her from the neck down.

    Carol Alt as Queen Fallopia. "You turn me down?? Every Neanderthal between here and the volcano wants to get into this lizard-skin thong!"

    Kansas Carradine as the pregnant cavewoman. David's daughter adds her oiled belly to several of the scenes wherein the women drop their pelts.

    and Adam Rifkin, who gets hit in the head by large rocks twenty, no, twenty-two, no... I was too far gone to keep track.

    The movie poses the question, If you paste large shaggy patches of fake pubic fur over the female actors' actual areas, is that still full-frontal, or what?


  • The Curious Case of Brad Pitt

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    The name Benjamin Button is odd, but the name that always bothered me a little was Brad Pitt. I would ask myself, why choose a name like Pitt for your screen name? This was before I realized that these days, lots of actors keep their own names, regardless, and that Thomas Bradley Pitt was one of them.

    It never bothered me that the two Pitts were Prime Minister. Eartha Kitt was OK. Mitt was OK, though I didn't like his politics. I've got nothing against armpits, or fruit pits, or Pittsburgh.

    Just seemed like a strange name to choose. Now if he ever marries Angelina (whose real name is Angelina Jolie Voight), she can be Angelina Pitt.


  • The Pixar Story: A Review

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    The Pixar Story  (2007)

    The Pixar Story is an inhouse documentary presenting, in 88 minutes, the Pixar story. It's slick, it's historical, and if you're interested, it's worth a watch. Not so easy to find, though, unless you're willing to download it from not-your-public-library, where it is available in abundance.

    I could see Pixar from my office window. A Sarah Palin thing. I don't mean that I could see it now if I wanted to but don't want to, I mean that I used to could see it, but that was a couple of offices ago, back in the 80s. Sitting at my desk I could make it out. At the time, my office window looked out over a parking lot where a hawk swooped down and grabbed a pigeon, and even if you think that pigeons are flying rats, I'm sorry, but I've had rats for pets. Except for that naked tail, they're pretty cool. This was back when I worked above the Sand Dabs Restaurant and the aroma of deep-fried dabs would rise up right around naptime - back when I could see Pixar, I mean, not back when I had the rats; in fact, back when I could see Pixar, I had a parakeet, and in addition to Pixar, I could see the office of the parakeet's doctor, off to the left. Pixar was across the street behind the multistoried, zigguratlike Ask building, next to the Target loading dock. I could have worked at Pixar; I mean, I could have walked in and applied for a job, instead of jogging past the building every day. I guess that I could say the same about Yahoo when it was still stuck in a little building on the Central Expressway, next to the Decathalon Club - where, having laid off 15,000 last week, it may end up again - or when I worked three buildings down from Google on Garcia, when Google was just being born and was peddling their search engine incestuously to Yahoo. That's why I think of Pixar as sort of related to Target, because they were side by side, and because of the Target-like product packed into Toy Story as a consequence of the animators going over to Target for their pre-Starbucks coffee during their early brainstorming. But the point is, Pixar from the start was connected in its spiritual innards to Hollywood, whereas my company abandoned Jesus in those tough times and signed a deal with the Defense Department, so that while Pixar was working on 3D-landscapes to entertain, and while the DOD was abandoning their attempts to teach homing pigeons in the warheads of Cruise missles to peck at touchscreen pictures of the terrain around Verbiblobstakaya and instead was rolling into Silicon Valley like a Stephen-King black fog to shop for databasemaker systems that could map a route from a silo north of Seattle to the center of Moscow, to be used by a missle travelling the whole shot at a height of 3 feet above the steppe, my company was vectoring down 101 past Moffett Field to the Blue Cube and Lazy L. Leaving me in the end with this question: if one guy wins an Oscar for animation and the other guy contributes to the destruction of the human race via massive nuclear strikes, which one wins? Mothers, don't raise your children to build bombs tra la. Pixar moved across the bay to Richmond Point, anyway; impossible commute. For another time: how game designers and animators fit in, the sales and use of whose work dwarfs the efforts of Pixar and its kin; but does not dwarf, in spite of all those dollars and all that game violence, the real bomb makers.

    Pixar started out as a group of bright young people in Lucasfilm, got bought by Steve Jobs from Lucas, made some hits, went public, made some more hits, sold out to Disney, made Ratatouille and Wall-E while managing, despite being acquired and despite the aging of its bright young people, to avoid absorption by Disney, and subsequent decline. So far. The Pixar Story - the movie - was completed in the Ratatouille timeframe. On a parallel timeline, Pacific Data Images started out with some bright young people, contributed to some movies, sold out to Dreamworks, made some hits, spun off as PDI/Dreamworks, made some more hits. Whereas I could see Pixar from my office window, I can see PDI from the roof of my house, down in a complex that does its little bit to wreck the baylands. A friend who works there tells me that the old timers - PDI was founded in 1979 - say that the atmosphere in the company hasn't changed so much over the years. Dreamworks, at the other end of the state, hasn't done to PDI yet what Disney will probably end up doing to Pixar.

    The Pixar Story comprises animated snippets alternating with talking heads. I've had it up to here with talking heads. Especially serious heads, telling me how hard they worked, lord how hard, and are all now without exception crudzillionaires. But wait a minute. I go out in my shorts every day and while jogging listen to the Washington Post political podcast, Slate, Washington Week, MacLaughlin, To the Point, Day By Day (RIP), News and Notes (RIP), Left Right and Center, The New Yorker Out Loud, Planet Money, so forth. Or did until I downloaded The Fountainhead the other day and got sidetracked by 30 hours of Ayn Rand. Is it that I need the talking heads? I talk back? Hold the IPOD like a phone to my ear and talk into it? One talking head in The Pixar Story that caught my attention was the former CEO of Robertson Stephens Investment Bank, which went down hard when the dot.com bubble burst. Watching him was like watching Hamlet talking to the skull in the graveyard. And George Lucas, get off the screen! You have lost your right to pontificate about anything ever again. Thank God your divorce and Howard the Duck made you dump Pixar before you started writing stories for it.

    Man, did Steve Jobs make a bundle off Pixar. The magic touch. Apple, NeXT, Pixar. My daughter-in-law's sister is his favorite serving person in Woodside. Another Palin thing. He's a good tipper, or maybe that's just money falling accidentally from his pocket when he pulls out his handkerchief. I also won a free lunch at a lunchwagon that parked outside NeXT every workday noon, two blocks dowon from the Glomar Explorer. I got pinworms along with the lunch, which only in recent years can you treat with an over-the-counter remedy; before that, you had to get a prescription and the only place you could get one, if you were the typical carrier of pinworms, was in the emergency room, so that when I fell off a ladder and separated both shoulders and was transported in exquisite pain to the hospital, transported, I had to wait to be seen in line behind three individuals with pinworms, such being the vagaries of triage. For this I do not blame Steve Jobs. In the movie, which took seven years to make, Jobs retains the fat of midlife and good living, which has since melted away with his cancer. :(

    What's the difference between "It's hard to remember" and "It's easy to forget"? Young kids just out of school, wearing those cotton pants that I always thought would be a reasonable alternative to jeans but could never find, and short-sleeved patterned shirts still favored by the Indian employees hereabouts. Animation scientists. Lasseter gets canned from Disney in the first 15 minutes of The Pixar Story. I googled "roy disney weird looking." 154 hits but not the kind that I was expecting.

    Sign of the times: notice how nobody asks for "a reasonable facsimile thereof" anymore? The copy now equals the original. Back in the day, you had to sit down and draw a bunch of boxtops that looked like the single one that you had, in order to buy the poster without having to ten boxes of Wheaties. How long before live actors will no longer be needed, or wanted, in films, squeezed out by their virtual brothers and sisters? How long before actors join gas-station attendants in their netherworld? Or will actors hang on like supermarket checkout clerks, battling automation? Note that PIXAR spelled backwards is RAXIP (Replace Actors with Xygotefree Illusionary Personas). Didn't Steve Jobs as a young man look like the devil? Now what? Live actors to take refuge in/on the internet? How will that work? Porn is practically there already, but I mean otherwise?

    When computer animation cranked up, old-fashioned pen-and-ink cartoonists were in fear for their jobs; The Pixar Story shows them still busy with those pencils, but my friend at PDI never sees anyone with pencil in hand, away from the keyboard. In the future, I'm sitting on my couch in front of my Sony holographic box and my neighbor, who already, here in the present, bemoans the paucity of gigs in the acting profession, says to me, "Hey, I could do that!" as we watch a movie in which Buzz Lightyear appears to actually be the authentic Clark Gable. No, my neighbor couldn't do that, because Gable pulls off his leg and beats a chicken with it. Pathetic.

    Sure, live actors will keep acting. I just wrote a review about two guys who spent 29K doing a 9-day shoot for their movie. But you know what? They spent another 500+ days at the computer using Adobe Creative Suite 3. But yes, live actors will persist. There are still clipper-ship captains, aren't there? About four of them, versus thousands in the 1800s. There are still muleskinners. Or are there? There aren't that many damn mules anymore. Mine is gone, laid low by loneliness. There isn't a single mule in the family anymore. You ever eat mule? There's good eatin on a mule. And you know how they say that if gays can marry, next thing some guy will marry his goat? What about cartoons? One fellow applied to marry Jessica Rabbit. He was turned down not because she was a cartoon, but because she was a rabbit. If I marry the cartoon Maggie Gyllenhaal, does that mean that nobody else can too? Does it mean that I can get that scene in Sherry, Baby removed so that nobody can watch it but me? From here on out, PDI is going strictly 3D-with-the-glasses for theatrical releases - the next step toward these unholy unions? And what about those scriptures that say the sheeps will be separated from the goats? Why the goat-hate?

    With regard to blockbusters: when an animated blockbuster becomes absolutely indistinguishable from a real one, will anyone ever hire 10,000 extras again, or travel to strange and photogenic sites, a la The Fall? Will DIY filmamakers at their computers bifurcate into the ones who make extravagant swashbucklers and the ones in the mumblecore community who mumble to themselves alone in the dark of night bathed in the glow of their flatpanels? There are a few folks out there who prefer vinyl records to digital CDs because the imperfections and underproduced music on the wax disks imbue the music, or so they say, with a richness missing in the sterile digital world. Will it be like that with the movies? Or will the enterprising animator let a boom mike hang down into the frame and add projector film scratches to create such effects for the old-fashioned movie afficinado?

    Tom Hanks and Tim Allen have a word to say in The Pixar Story. Is it weird that the actors' bodies go first, so that only their voices remain in the movie? "Oh, Tom Hanks is in Toy Story. Isn't that wonderful." When animation makes the computerized actor identical to the real one, but voice technology continues to lag behind the visual, Tom Hanks will be dubbing himself. He'll get paid for the use of his image, of course, but he won't be acting anymore. Or worse, he'll take the money for his image but refuse to do his voice, and then he'll find himself watching himself onscreen sounding like Michael Madsen, who will do literally anything for a buck. And then virtual actors onscreen who become favorites won't be copies of current living favorites anymore - well, they might be, replicas of John Wayne, Jean Harlow, favorites old and new - but more often they'll be new nonexistent actors. And then Tom Hanks' voice will be animated too and used for an imaginary character instead of himself, maybe another Woody (who actually looks and acts more like Dick Van Dyke), and Hanks will be paid for that too and can go spend his money at the Old Actors' Home. But I'm no Luddite. Who will now take the plunge and animate Hilary Swank? Meanwhile, the virtual stars will marry - strange ceremonies on tropical islands where only the animators are present. The virtual stars will have children, who will also become stars. Since they'll be rich, the virtual stars will adopt real babies from Africa. They'll cheat on each other. Thank God there will be virtual Jimmy Stewarts around to maintain some reasonable standards. But then, some sorehead will bring back Anita Bryant.

    In The Pixar Story, the heads talk and then we see the cartoons they created. Irony?


  • Caro Diario (Dear Diary) - Review

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    Caro Diario  (1994)

    dear diary, i just watched a movie that has your italian cousin caro diario in it. now don't be jealous that caro diario appears in a big old color movie, whereas you're just a little bitty blog diary. don't be jealous that nanni moretti puts his little diary up on the big screen and and then writes into it there, or that nanni's so popular and witty and a real know-it-all, whereas you are typed into every day by a nobody who got caught one time with panties on his head. and finally, don't be jealous that whereas i lie to you all the time so that the wife and kids won't find out, nanni includes himself and his wife silvia right up there on the screen along with his little diary, and if he works up a heavy sweat, if you know what i mean, in a movie like quiet chaos, he can always tell silvia that he was just acting. although i hope that his twelve-year-old son doesn't see him doing what he did in that one, at least not until the boy grows up a little bit more. and when, i mean if, i ever do some heavy sweating like that, i'm keeping it to myself, dear diary! you won't need to know and neither will the wife.

    besides, d.d., nanni is sort of like me - popular where he lives but who else knows him? whereas i'm popular in my backyard, but only when i'm throwing buddy his rag bone or pouring purina into his dinner bowl. so hold your head up high, dear little diary, because you know why? eyes are reading you right now! whereas in the big city down there on the flats, with its i-don't-know-how-many libraries, caro diario is to be found only in the old carnegie free branch over by the cooling towers, on a vhs tape in a cardboard box! so sad.

    nanni made caro in three parts:

    part one - while he putt-putts around rome on his vespa, i am cruising pea gap on helga's old huffy. nanni shouts beautiful slogans and that makes him grow beautiful (he says), whereas i squawk at the pickininnies and they pull on my sheet. just kidding. i pass harry and leonard sitting on harry's porch. one day harry and leonard will be inside with the door closed and after that they'll either be back on the porch or off to discover the world, who knows which? dillian is planting lillies in front of the church. leonarda is in the cemetery lying down on a yellow tablecloth, practicing for when she goes there and doesn't come back. when i was in high school, there were scooters all over the place, mostly cushmans. where are they now? nanni says that there is a bridge in rome that he needs to cross twice a day (well, he can't cross it just once, i guess, and still get back home); so i'm crossing pea creek on the huffy, dear diary, on those two-by-fours that the noxapater clan laid down after the last storm washed away their sorry little excuse for a bridge.

    in part two, nanni travels around the aeolian islands with a friend who hasn't watched tv in 30 years. my nanny never watched tv. she could stand on the tail of her bear rug and expectorate a stream of tobacco juice into a hills bros coffee can balanced on the nose of the bear, making the can ring like a bell. she would dunk the head of the bear in a pail of water once a year on easter to clean off the residue of her misses.

    in part three, nanni gets sick. tumor. it don't look good for nanni. mild spoiler: 15 years later, at 55, he's still kicking. at first he just itched, dear diary, whereas i've got this godawful boil that makes me wonder how the hell i rode around the hamlet on that huffy all afternoon. nanni goes to doctors, whereas i use my special "medicine" from the pine grove half a mile up the hill. then nanny applies a poultice to the area and gives me a high colonic, though she don't call it that. so don't get sick, and if you want a horror film, forget saw or hostel and go find a documentary about cancer. also, quit watching so many movies and go help somebody who needs your help.

    what a thinker nanni is, d.d.! you won't catch him doing analogy or metaphor in this movie, no more than i do in you. he spits out the facts, straight onto the subtitles. although come to think of it, when he was riding around rome, there was no traffic, whereas on one of the islands that he visits, traffic is gridlocked and honking about it. could that mean something? can irony be metaphor?

    anyway, thank you to duder for recommending the movie. it was good and it got me going. tomorrow, dear diary, i'm watching guadacanal diary and then taking my .22 out into the field to plink varmints. then i'm going to italy for three weeks to visit cinquefrondi, mammola, and grotteria on a rented vespa. ciào for now.


 


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