Changing Tracks

Okay.

I tried to be nice. I really did. I gave three whole posts about what's good in cinema because there are things in cinema to be happy about. Just as there are good things in literature, music, games, the whole of entertainment to be happy about, but it feels forced. I feel a sham and irresponsible to my (potential) reading public.

So, I'm taking a break for a day or two to figure out what the hell direction I'm going (not a serious break mind you, this is a blog, not the fucking TIME). I still am Hopefully Entertained, but I will nitpick and make points and sweeping generalizations.

Like for Indiana Jones latest escapade, it doesn't need to be said, but you gotta say it- ALIENS. Holy shit, ALIENS. And not the kind that mow your lawn for two bucks under minimum wage.

And Sex and the City I never saw all the way through. I just saw bits and pieces over a period of several weeks and have thus assembled an opinion from spare change and my favorite bit? The actress with the best faces shits her pants! Basic humor folks. The rest of the movie is good, if confusing- I'm not a big fan of shoes, dresses and fashion "names." Do I look fucking awesome in this? Yes. Does it cost much? No. By the craziness surrounding me, we have a winner!

That's about the problem I had with it which is why I never watched the show in the first place. It was like talking down to you if you weren't in New York and wearing Prada's latest explosion of "taste." I'm sorry, but a stitched bag is a stitched bag and it doesn't matter if it was made by a French douchebag who sits front row at a show where pissy men and women strut up and down a running board in clothes I'd wear to a circus. As a performer.

As for Indy? Just old. He's farty, the crew that made him initially is farty, just let him age gracefully and hand off the torch to the eunich Shyuh LeBuff (seriously, did you see the amount of testicular torture he endured? Insanity).

It's like lately all the baby boomers are making a last go at being cool and bad-ass. We are their children and suddenly we're their friends and they can surf with us, or fight the Commies with us, or whatever they want. Sixty is the new thirty. What? I thought sixty was when you took up writing in a blog and complaining about these damn kids and their rap music.

I apparently didn't get the memo.

Not that I should talk. I'm sure when I roll well past over the hill, I'll be making bids for my once nubile, non-saggy self and be doing things someone my age shouldn't. It's part of the human experience, right?

I just hope I'll have the strength of will to be doing it in dignity like such big names as (and required butt-kissing goes here) Terry Pratchett and George Carlin, to whom this post is dedicated and if you can't tell by the tone, inspired.

So, as my track hops for the eighth time, I wind down and decide that the next post should be as honest because I want to be entertained and I will always find something that struck my fancy, but I shouldn't hide the gallons of crap I had to sift through to get the nugget of gold. Where's the fun in that?

Sex and The City and I'm not getting Either

Let's first let it be known that I haven't seen much, if any, of the show. I've been aware of it like many other people out there, but never really had the chance to get into it or just plain get into it in general.

Fortunately, like most tv-to-movie cinema, this film makes room for the just-wandered-in with a little up-front explanation. A lot of up front explanation. You really didn't need to see the show to watch this film, which, I know I'll lose some geek cred for saying so, I enjoyed.

I know most of my enjoyment stemmed from its romanticized unromantic leanings and the fact it was a bunch of girls sitting around talking about sex (gee, how is this similar to my life?), but in particular it was the performance of Kristin Davis as Charlotte York.

Watching Sex in the City meant watching her steal the show any time she was on screen. Her face was this nimble portrayal unmasking all her emotions in the funniest of ways. It was like watching a real-life caricature of how to act. She'd mug just enough to take it above the rest of her gliding co-stars and keep it just below cartoony so that it seemed credible. Seeing Davis pull some of the faces made me want to just sit her down for ten minutes and play random clips to see how she'd react as this character.

Her triumph is the scene where Charlotte, after achieving levels of OCD I thought only possible of Adrian Monk when it came to avoiding the water and cuisine of Mexico, swallows a little of the South of the Border. This in turn aggravates her South of Border and after an internal struggle she expresses through every pore, she shits herself. Quite gloriously.

Maybe it's because I've been close to that point myself (mall trip when I was a teenager and Taco Bell was catching up when I couldn't locate a loo), but every little dance she did with her face made me giggle like mad up till that last point of explosion. Then I exploded. In a more enjoyable way. With laughter, people.

Proof that what my dad says is true- "Nothing beats a well-timed fart joke." And Kristin Davis's faces.

Indiana Jones and the only scene I want on my DVD

Though I'm probably a bit tardy here, what with the one of the big summer movies getting ready to leave theaters, such a cinematic event couldn't escape my attention as I'm just an up and coming blogger.

Suffice to say, the latest installment in Indiana Jones's adventures met mixed reviews. Seriously mixed reviews. Cocktails made by a bi-polar transsexual couldn't mix more than these reviews. That said, among my peers, there was an overwhelming sense of disappointment. Why they cried, why foul Indy so?

And yeah, the movie was not so much godawful so much as it was just... Lacking. Like it showed up and just said, "Yeah, I'm Indy and here's my hat and blah, blah, blah. Where's the booze?"

We here at Hopefully Entertained prefer not to dwell on the fact that grandpa has passed out in a stupor, mumbling about the "good ol' days" while attempting to sleep-fondle himself, but on the highlight(s) that made this movie watchable.

Namely, one scene. The motorcycle chase sequence.

No overly fancy stuntwork, no CG, no tricks that couldn't be done by anybody with a camcorder, some vehicles past their insurance payments and some willing idiots/friends.

You can tell me the rest of that movie was delivered with a personal hate letter from God directed at the movie-going public, but that motorcycle chase was AWESOME.

It started with a fight ("Hit him. In the college, hit him.") and ended with a great visual and line (Dr. Jones on motorcycle with James Dean, er, Mutt exiting building as he's saying- "If you wanna be a good archaeologist, you gotta get out of the library!"). I can quote that scene verbatim thanks to my job at a theater- and I like to because it's so cool.

That kind of scene was what made Indy so awesome twenty years ago and the fact that it survived the prarie dogs, ants and Evil Russians means there's still a little shine on the old dog's gunbelt in my mind. At least till the medication wears off.

I Like It!

I do. I really like it. Whatever it may be.

Despite what critics will tell you, there are nuggets in the entertainment world worth looking at. Granted, some of them may be small, underfed, only good for one rental or possibly exist in another country, but they're out there. If you're paying attention.

So this is the blog that does just that: it pays attention and looks for the fun bits. I plan on reviewing, commenting and laughing all the way to the grave here. Because there are plenty of people kicking the tires and pointing out how the AC makes a funny noise, so why not have a friend who's sitting in the seat discussing the orgasmic effect of the leather on her butt and how the color reminds her of that cool scene from the last Batman movie?

I've been laughing most of my life because I find this place so entertaining, and now's the time to get everyone laughing with me.