Yeah, [bush] baby!

I admit that I laughed my ass off when Kenneth Swale spat out that rebuke after Simon Cowell tore into him at Swale’s Idol audition.

But now that he and autistic buddy Jonathan Jayne are doing the talk shows and getting invitations to jobs, parties, and such, I’m feeling a little uneasy. I suppose it’s great for them to have been thrust into fame (if that’s what they wanted) and making money (presumably), but why exactly is this happening? Is the world laughing with them or at them? And if it’s the latter — which, being cynical, is what I assume is the case — are they aware of what they’ve gotten themselves into?

I’m hoping the answer is yes. I’m a magnanimous mocker — c’mon, throw a Polish joke at me — but even I believe there’s a line between having a little devilish fun and being cruel.

You can leave your hat on…

So Idol’s already got this season’s scandal, courtesy not of Abdul but Antonella Barba. As the world already knows, some nice friends of hers publicized pics of the contestant in various states of undress, poutiness, and deep-throatability. Really, though, does anyone care? There’s nothing wrong with the come-hither photos she had taken alone or with her pals.

It’s true that, silly girl, sex pics are for whores, but there’s that special time in every young woman’s life when she has to find that out for herself, and in Barba’s case, the timing was particularly bad. The latest news is that a friend has stuck up for her, saying that she "studied" the dirty snapshots — just like millions of guys are "studying" the whole lot — and claims that the girl smoking a beef cigar isn’t her. ""She’s the least slutty person I know," the friend claims. Aww. It’s cute that the BFFs got each other’s backs as well as their boobs.

The answer is no, because that’s impossible.

If Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader? hasn’t been canceled by the end of the show, it’s another sign of the apocalypse. Now, nearly all of these kinds of things are intolerable, but christ — are we really supposed to believe that a UCLA graduate doesn’t know Columbus Day is in October?

Even if America is gripped by this obviously staged show, Jeff Foxworthy has already run the "ha ha ha, this is a [blank]-grade question!" joke into the ground. And maybe I’m wrong, but that seems to be its sole reason for existence. Boy am I missing cable right now…

   
   

The Queeeeeeeennn!      

First of all, am I the only person who didn’t think the Oscars were boring? OK, there was an unnecessary montage here and a protracted presentation there. But shouldn’t anyone who really loves movies really be into it, even the award for Sound Editing or Best Grip? I’ve read so many negative reviews of the show; Tom Shales’ quipped that low ratings may send it off to cable next year.

I also though Ellen D. was pretty funny — and I say this as a huge fan of Steve Martin and, to a somewhat lesser degree, Jon Stewart and, yes, Dave. (C’mon: "You want to buy a monkey?" That was great!) I used to be an Ellen scoffer but christ, she’s too damn warm and likable. And readers of my stuff may guess that those qualities aren’t exactly what I look for in my comedy.

Anyway, no big surprises last night. I blew it with my picks for picture, supporting actor, foreign language film, and score — though I think I would have gotten the last one right on my pool if I’d actually listened to the music of each again. And the big win for The Departed didn’t really surprise me, either. I don’t think there was another movie last year that left such a big smile on my face. (Excepting Superman. But those were special circumstances.)

From what I saw, there weren’t many fashion disasters, either. On my looked-fabulous list: Jodie Foster, Helen Mirren, J. Hud., Cameron, Beyonce, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Abigail Breslin, Isla Fisher (so cute), Penelope Cruz (even with the feathers), Emily Blunt (better than in Prada). On the other end of the spectrum, Meryl Streep looked like a hippie (though she can get away with it). Reese Witherspoon needs to dump the straightening iron (there are enough hard lines on her face). And Jada Pinkett Smith, well, I seem to remember a time when she used to look feminine (all the better for her metal band, I suppose).

This is all very exciting without photos, I can imagine. I’ll try to scare some up later if I get a chance, but I’ve also got Black Snake Moan to get to tonight. I’m a little frightened.

Hog roast

You know, a flaming skull that talks
isn’t quite as ridiculous as it sounds. At least you won’t think so
if you go into Ghost Rider keeping a few things in mind: It’s about a
fire-friendly crusader who fights evil on his motorcycle. It was
written and directed by Mark Steven Johnson, the filmmaker
responsible for much-maligned Daredevil. And Oscar winners – or
even People’s Choice nominees – tend not to be released in
February.

Nicolas Cage plays comic-book hero
Johnny Blaze, a stunt cyclist who becomes “the devil’s bounty
hunter” years after selling his soul to Mephistopheles (Peter
Fonda) in exchange for his cancer-ridden father’s health. When the
deal goes sour, Johnny (Blaze the Younger is played by Matt Long)
bails on a plan to meet and run away with his girlfriend, Roxanne
(Raquel Alessi), the next day, from then on set on living as an
eccentric loner devoted only to performing increasingly dangerous
feats. Much to the astonishment of fans and his manager (Donal
Logue), Johnny not only pulls most of them off but comes out without
a scratch even when he doesn’t. This also attracts the attention of
the local media, which includes the very grown-up anchor Roxanne (Eva
Mendes). Johnny finds that it’s difficult to have much of a personal
life, though, once his skeleton starts exposing itself and catching
on fire night after night.

Only fans of the comic will –
presumably – be able to connect the dots regarding what happens to
the biker when Satan comes calling at the peak of Johnny’s career.
The devil needs a favor involving his  estranged son, Blackheart (Wes
Bentley), and a particular soul’s “contract” that Blackie’s
trying to get his hands on. So he equips Johnny with a wicked
supernatural hog and makes him transform into a fiery fiend when the
sun goes down. That’s all fine – but then Johnny-as-Ghost Rider reflexively begins to fight crime, killing evildoers
by taking their victims’ collective suffering and mirroring it back
to the bad guys. Which can’t be what the Dark Lord wants, can it,
Johnson? If there’s an explanation for this apparent contradiction,
the audience won’t find it here.

It’s easy enough to let this
head-scratcher slide. After all, we’re not exactly dealing with
high-mindedness to begin with: There’s no I’m-OK-you’re-OK  message,
like X-Men. There’s not a heavy undercurrent of angst, like
Spider-Man or Batman. Ghost Rider is about outrageous battles with a
dude who’s engulfed in flames, and Johnson delivers the comic with an
entertaining mix of goofiness, mild frights, and cheese. The look of
the movie is all skulls-and-spirits, with dark cinematography and
quick flashes of ghostliness – say, a bit of bone showing through a
face – when the immortal get pissed off. Bad puns, scene-chewing,
and the largely useless Mendes’ continually straining shirts are
over-the-top fun; the eyelinered Blackheart and his dumb-looking,
ambiguously powered minions, Drippy, Frowny, and Dusty, are
over-the-top laughable. Everybody wins.

What especially keeps Ghost Rider
worthwhile, though, is Cage. Reportedly a fan of the character and
also a contributor to the script, Cage brings all his Elvis-wannabe
coolness (along with a hairpiece) to the role, projecting mellow
self-confidence whether Johnny’s being helped stumble away from a
stunt or telling his manager not to mess with his apartment’s
Carpenters soundtrack. (He’s also partial to monkeys and eating
candies out of a martini glass.) The actor’s more dry than menacing
– “Thanks for the info. I feel much better knowing I’m the devil’s
bounty hunter,” Johnny tells Sam Elliott’s weird grave-keeper after
being clued into what’s happening to him – but it’s an appropriate
hint that the whole thing should be taken with a grain of salt.
Particularly the speech-heavy, bwa-ha-ha ending, which is admittedly
the worst kernel of corn in the movie. But most viewers were probably
waiting for a bit of flat-out badness all along – as well as a
setup for the sequel.

What, you don’t like my plan to ruin America?

Though he probably thinks motorcycles
are too dangerous, Ralph Nader has recently been accused of  acting
out of questionable motivation as well: Is he still just an advocate
for the people, or something darker? Well, Satan would be a stretch,
but ego’s a possibility according to An Unreasonable Man, a
compelling documentary about Nader’s career by first-time directors
Henriette Mantel and Steve Skrovan.

The film opens with the biting comments
of detractors who blame him for the Democrats’ losses in the 2000 and
2004 presidential elections. James Carville says that he has no
greater contempt for anyone besides Jerry Falwell. Jimmy Carter
announces that Nader needs to “go back to examining the rear ends
of automobiles.” A columnist at The Nation remarks, “Thank you,
Ralph, for the Iraq war.” A machine-gun list of unpopular other
George W. Bush-induced issues follow. Their thinking, of
course – and these few are just a drop in the liberal ocean — is
that by running for president as a third-party candidate, Nader took
votes away from Bush opponents Al Gore and John Kerry in races that
were close enough to warrant hand counts and accusations of cronyism.
At this early point in the movie, no more data is given: Nader’s
responsibility for the current state of the country, the filmmakers
seem to be saying, is as obvious as the fact that he was never going
to win.

Then Mantel and Skrovan turn the
climate around. Using archival footage and a running commentary by
people close to him, they go back to the beginning of the
attorney/activist’s public career. Carter’s quip references Nader’s
first cause, the unsafe design of cars (or “psychosexual
dreamboats,” as Nader refers to them here). Prompted by an accident
that left a friend of his a paraplegic, Nader wrote first an article
about the issue in The Nation and then a book, Unsafe at Any Speed,
which largely focused on the Chevrolet Corvair. Thrusting Nader into
the spotlight was the weird series of events that followed: Ford came
up with a popular new safety package, which it quickly discontinued
because of threats from General Motors. (Apparently, the company did
not want the attention to safety to lead to federal regulations.) And
after the book was published, Nader determined that he was being
followed – by a woman who flirted with him at the Dupont Safeway. A
GM exec later admitted that the company sent the vixen out to try to
smear Nader’s character, which as far as they could tell was without
flaw.

The experience and Nader’s newfound
fame led him to years of public-safety advocacy, with Newsweek
dubbing him “the Consumer Crusader” and his efforts leading to
developments such as seat belts, air bags, cigarette warnings, safer
x-ray machines, and detailed drug labels. It’s difficult not to think
Nader a hero based on this gleaming, intricate biography. A look at
his small-town childhood tells that he was raised by parents who had
their kids debate issues at the dinner table, his father asking him
at the end of each school day, “Did you learn how to believe, or
did you learn how to think?” His activism led him to seek out a
group of helpers that became known as “Nader’s Raiders,” each of
them following their boss’s example of working tirelessly to seek out
injustices (corporations would later become a big target) and improve
American lives. “You can bring your conscience to work,” he’d
assure them.

An Unreasonable Man – the title comes
from a George Bernard Shaw quote, “The reasonable man adapts
himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to
adapt the world to himself” — talks to dozens of journalists,
politicians (Pat Buchanan is one of the more amusing), Nader’s
current and former associates, his sisters, and safety experts to
paint the portrait of a man truly interested in serving the people,
who points out in interviews here that in ancient Greece, the word
“politics” actually had good connotations. You even cheer for him
as the film covers his 2000 candidacy, showing snippets of speeches
and zealous rallies that suggest he’s the fresh air Washington has
been lacking. To hell with the stale two-party system; as Michael
Moore tells a crowd, if you pick the lesser of two evils, “you
still end up with evil.”

Then, somewhat unsubtly, it’s time to
flip back to the naysayers (Nader should have known better in 2004)
and back again to the supporters (stats prove that he wasn’t a factor
in Bush’s win). Though  Mantel and Skrovan’s thoroughness — and even
balance – are to be commended, it all gets a bit head-spinning
toward the end. The documentary is undeniably informative and
interesting, and will serve as an adequate crash-course for Nader
neophytes. But a film dedicated to a man with a jones for warnings
should come with this one: Like Nader himself usually is, it’s better
to go into An Unreasonable Man already armed with an opinion.

copyright 2007 themoviebabe.com

Because I’m challenged, I didn’t get to see last night’s Idol. Will have to settle for the piddly recap later!

At least the ones who were singing, anyway. Last night’s American Idol was a big yawn — boring songs, lackluster vocals, a non-fucked-up Paula. Thankfully Seacrest & Simon, the bickering sweethearts, injected some entertainment value in between the Stepford renditions of classic rock tunes. "Nights in White Satin?" C’mon! (Can anyone tell me how Mr. "Sundance Head" even got this far to begin with?)

OK, not everybody suck-diddly-ucked. Nosferatu ended the show on a high, bulbous note. And the Pointily Blond Beatbox — from here on P.B.B. to save time — sang a surprisingly sweet and competent version of "Somewhere Only We Know." But did they stack up to Ryan’s deadpan? Close, but not quite.

(I’d like to interrupt myself to write words that were unfathomable to me a year or so ago: Yes, I’m a Ryan Seacrest fan. From all reports the guy works his ass off, lets some bite sneak through bullshit, and is quick with a Queen joke. Nice.)

Chris Richardson was decent, too, but dude — "I Don’t Want to Be?" Take off the suit and sneaks, let your hair grow out, and drop your voice a little, and maybe you’ll no longer scream JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE.

Looking forward to the gals tonight. It’s gotta be better. At least it’s more likely we’ll see some tears.

At least the ones who were singing, anyway. Last night’s American Idol was a big yawn — boring songs, lackluster vocals, a non-fucked-up Paula. Thankfully Seacrest & Simon, the bickering sweethearts, injected some entertainment value in between the Stepford renditions of classic rock tunes. "Nights in White Satin?" C’mon! (Can anyone tell me how Mr. "Sundance Head" even got this far to begin with?)

OK, not everybody suck-diddly-ucked. Nosferatu ended the show on a high, bulbous note. And the Pointily Blond Beatbox — from here on P.B.B. to save time — sang a surprisingly sweet and competent version of "Somewhere Only We Know." But did they stack up to Ryan’s deadpan? Close, but not quite.

(I’d like to interrupt myself to write words that were unfathomable to me a year or so ago: Yes, I’m a Ryan Seacrest fan. From all reports the guy works his ass off, lets some bite sneak through bullshit, and is quick with a Queen joke. Nice.)

Chris Richardson was decent, too, but dude — "I Don’t Want to Be?" Take off the suit and sneaks, let your hair grow out, and drop your voice a little, and maybe you’ll no longer scream JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE.

Looking forward to the gals tonight. It’s gotta be better. At least it’s more likely we’ll see some tears.

No, this isn’t an early review. It’s a…blog entry. That’s right: I’m using my blogging software to post something other than reviews. I know you’re all (hello?) very excited. Finally, a peek inside my life of writing, movies, and naps.

Actually, I’m going to try to keep the site up-to-date with the latest reportage on all things — most things…how about some things? — pop culture. Movies are a given; music is likely; television will be covered in the form of American Idol and, unless Simpsons references count, not much else. General celebrity insanity (talkin’ ’bout you, Brit) may make the page, too.

Let’s get down to business. If you haven’t heard, a big fuss has been made out of the trailer for Grindhouse, the delayed Quentin Tarantino/Robert Rodriguez collaboration that consists of two mini-movies featuring violence and smut. Its "worldwide debut" happened Friday, simultaneously released on TV, cell phones, Yahoo!, and before the dumb-but-cool Ghost Rider.

When I got the press release, I thought it was a big to-do about nothing. (After all, this isn’t The Simpsons movie.) Then I went to review Nic Cage’s hairpiece and nearly cried with giddiness after catching it. (Not the hairpiece.) Who knows, maybe it was due to the Spider-Man trailer knotting my panties first, but really, Pulp Fiction fans, does this not give you anticipatory goosebumps?

Grindhouse trailer