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Movie reviews, I think I will check out for a week.
18 years ago
General
Hola.
I have been really into things other than writing in Le Journal lately, so I'm going to take a wee break from it, I think. I reserve the option to discontinue this madness at any point in time.
This weekend: Not as much art as I'd like. I watched RAMBO in the Cineramadome at the Arclight. I was not so impressed with the Cineramadome, as there was a man sitting on front of me who sat perfectly upright the whole time in his chair and had to be one of the tallest people in the theater. I took a picture with my phone. He took up about 35-40% of the screen. When the title sequence ran, all I saw was "R__3O". Sadly, I was unable to move because the Cineramadome has assigned seating. Ugh.
So I leaned over onto Boyfriend's shoulder for the entire movie so I could see the center of the screen, at least. This probably looked more romantic than it was. I'm sure that the body count of the movie I saw was a little less than the one that everyone else saw, but it's all good. At least I didn't get a crick in my neck.
When I was 18, I rented all of the Rambo movies from the local video rental store and watched them all at once, feeling as though I had missed out on some of the vital, testosterone-laden schlock of the eighties in my insulated, lesbian-plagued childhood. I've since had this long-standing theory that the quality of a Rambo movie is indirectly proportional to how much John Rambo talks. I forced Boyfriend to watch the first two Rambo movies about a year ago, but the third one was just plain bad, so I was merciful and didn't make him watch it. The second one was also pretty bad, but there was enough good violence in it for me to show it to Boyfriend. I'm not sure he will forgive me, as it was worse than I had remembered.
Anyway, this brings us back to the recently released RAMBO, which we saw Friday night. I heard it would be satisfactorily violent, so I wanted to see it, and we did.
**** WARNING SPOILERS****
I really wish I was 20 minutes late or something. I hate Christians in the movies. Christians are annoying to begin with, but when someone writes a Christian character, they're always overwritten and horrible. Granted, Christians are pretty horrible to begin with, but even when I'm supposed to be sympathetic to their character in a movie, I can't be, because they have AWFUL dialogue delivered by someone who sounds like they're reading the daily specials out loud off of a sandwich board.
More on this later.
Anyway, after the annoying beginning of the movie, the killing got rolling. I was pleased with the authenticity of the dead things and the EXPLODING HEADS and LAND MINE BINGO and other fabulous violent pieces of the movie. Boyfriend and I weren't sure that Rambo would be able to move his arm after getting shot in the shoulder, but we're willing to suspend our disbelief if there's HEAD 'SPLODY and giant bombs. FUCK YEAH.
I am only sad that the good asian guy got killed. This was made up for ahead of time by the part where pigs ate a guy's legs. I mean, that was awesome. Boyfriend was worried that they wouldn't go there, but they did. Oh, yes, they did.
Boyfriend had to work this weekend, so I had lots of free time to accomplish something, but no. I accomplished nothing. I sat around and downloaded things off of the internets and installed Photoshop and chatted with people online. I slept and wrote and drew a little bit and masturbated. I ate old trail mix. I did nothing.
That's not too bad, really, but my art anxiety increased. Maybe I will get an art ulcer.
Anyway, Boyfriend got home early on Saturday and instead of making art, which was the plan, we got In-N-Out and watched some flims. Boyfriend had gotten Deep Cover for me from Netflix because of a secret project I have been working on recently, and we watched this first. After watching it, I still can't quite get why he wanted me to see it so badly, because I am not trying to bust a presidential candidate for Artgentina or whatever, but I do like Laurence Fishburne and I have a girl boner for Jeff Goldblum. Larry Fishburne and Jeff Goldblum made the movie - otherwise, it was a piece of shite with a few good lines, and it appeared to be filmed entirely at the corner of Cahuenga and Hollywood, which is really close to my home. We recognized nearly every location in the film. I could probably avoid seeing Clarence Williams III being a Christian again, because it was horrible. Seriously, horrible. Everything that everyone hates about Christians was all in this movie. He was a hypocritical asshole with mysterious motives who just talked about God a lot and wasn't a really convincing character. It was gay in the driveway.
Fuck you, Clarence Williams III. Fuck your "acting". And your hair.
After Deep Cover, which made me want to fuck Jeff Goldblum more, we watched Trail of Blood:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0202007/
a fine samurai exploitation film from 1972 featuring Yoshio Harada:
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0361757/
a man I can't decide whether he repulses me or I am attracted to him (I have a similar fascination with Ernest Borgnine's teeth). Yoshio Harada plays Jokicihi of Mikogami, and everyone wants his cock. After marrying the first lady he runs into who wants his cock, he marries her, and tries to go straight, abandoning his drifter lifestyle to sit around making combs all day. His combs are so nice that his local distributor tries to get him some more work in a nearby province, but he's attacked by enemies from the past, and since he doesn't try to fight back in hopes that they'll leave him alone and he can continue eking out a sad, domesticated existence with his wife and their young son, the guys beat him up and mutilate his fingers. Jokichi is badass, though, and gets pissed off at them, cuts off his own mutilated fingers, and manages to get back home, only to find that his wife has been raped and murdered and their son has been killed.
Uh-oh. You SO DIDN'T GO THERE.
So it looks like this is a trilogy where Jokichi will get back at all of the yakuza bosses who killed and raped his wife. I didn't keep a body count on this movie, but it's pretty high. He's no Ogami Itto, but he's alright.
Last night, we watched part two, in which more women want Jokichi's cock and some more dead yakuza. I also got some buttsecks and I cut Boyfriend's hair. We ordered pizza again. I am getting more fat. Ugh. I need to go back to the gym.
Back to work. I got shit to do.
I have been really into things other than writing in Le Journal lately, so I'm going to take a wee break from it, I think. I reserve the option to discontinue this madness at any point in time.
This weekend: Not as much art as I'd like. I watched RAMBO in the Cineramadome at the Arclight. I was not so impressed with the Cineramadome, as there was a man sitting on front of me who sat perfectly upright the whole time in his chair and had to be one of the tallest people in the theater. I took a picture with my phone. He took up about 35-40% of the screen. When the title sequence ran, all I saw was "R__3O". Sadly, I was unable to move because the Cineramadome has assigned seating. Ugh.
So I leaned over onto Boyfriend's shoulder for the entire movie so I could see the center of the screen, at least. This probably looked more romantic than it was. I'm sure that the body count of the movie I saw was a little less than the one that everyone else saw, but it's all good. At least I didn't get a crick in my neck.
When I was 18, I rented all of the Rambo movies from the local video rental store and watched them all at once, feeling as though I had missed out on some of the vital, testosterone-laden schlock of the eighties in my insulated, lesbian-plagued childhood. I've since had this long-standing theory that the quality of a Rambo movie is indirectly proportional to how much John Rambo talks. I forced Boyfriend to watch the first two Rambo movies about a year ago, but the third one was just plain bad, so I was merciful and didn't make him watch it. The second one was also pretty bad, but there was enough good violence in it for me to show it to Boyfriend. I'm not sure he will forgive me, as it was worse than I had remembered.
Anyway, this brings us back to the recently released RAMBO, which we saw Friday night. I heard it would be satisfactorily violent, so I wanted to see it, and we did.
**** WARNING SPOILERS****
I really wish I was 20 minutes late or something. I hate Christians in the movies. Christians are annoying to begin with, but when someone writes a Christian character, they're always overwritten and horrible. Granted, Christians are pretty horrible to begin with, but even when I'm supposed to be sympathetic to their character in a movie, I can't be, because they have AWFUL dialogue delivered by someone who sounds like they're reading the daily specials out loud off of a sandwich board.
Anyway, after the annoying beginning of the movie, the killing got rolling. I was pleased with the authenticity of the dead things and the EXPLODING HEADS and LAND MINE BINGO and other fabulous violent pieces of the movie. Boyfriend and I weren't sure that Rambo would be able to move his arm after getting shot in the shoulder, but we're willing to suspend our disbelief if there's HEAD 'SPLODY and giant bombs. FUCK YEAH.
I am only sad that the good asian guy got killed. This was made up for ahead of time by the part where pigs ate a guy's legs. I mean, that was awesome. Boyfriend was worried that they wouldn't go there, but they did. Oh, yes, they did.
Boyfriend had to work this weekend, so I had lots of free time to accomplish something, but no. I accomplished nothing. I sat around and downloaded things off of the internets and installed Photoshop and chatted with people online. I slept and wrote and drew a little bit and masturbated. I ate old trail mix. I did nothing.
That's not too bad, really, but my art anxiety increased. Maybe I will get an art ulcer.
Anyway, Boyfriend got home early on Saturday and instead of making art, which was the plan, we got In-N-Out and watched some flims. Boyfriend had gotten Deep Cover for me from Netflix because of a secret project I have been working on recently, and we watched this first. After watching it, I still can't quite get why he wanted me to see it so badly, because I am not trying to bust a presidential candidate for Artgentina or whatever, but I do like Laurence Fishburne and I have a girl boner for Jeff Goldblum. Larry Fishburne and Jeff Goldblum made the movie - otherwise, it was a piece of shite with a few good lines, and it appeared to be filmed entirely at the corner of Cahuenga and Hollywood, which is really close to my home. We recognized nearly every location in the film. I could probably avoid seeing Clarence Williams III being a Christian again, because it was horrible. Seriously, horrible. Everything that everyone hates about Christians was all in this movie. He was a hypocritical asshole with mysterious motives who just talked about God a lot and wasn't a really convincing character. It was gay in the driveway.
Fuck you, Clarence Williams III. Fuck your "acting". And your hair.
After Deep Cover, which made me want to fuck Jeff Goldblum more, we watched Trail of Blood:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0202007/
a fine samurai exploitation film from 1972 featuring Yoshio Harada:
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0361757/
a man I can't decide whether he repulses me or I am attracted to him (I have a similar fascination with Ernest Borgnine's teeth). Yoshio Harada plays Jokicihi of Mikogami, and everyone wants his cock. After marrying the first lady he runs into who wants his cock, he marries her, and tries to go straight, abandoning his drifter lifestyle to sit around making combs all day. His combs are so nice that his local distributor tries to get him some more work in a nearby province, but he's attacked by enemies from the past, and since he doesn't try to fight back in hopes that they'll leave him alone and he can continue eking out a sad, domesticated existence with his wife and their young son, the guys beat him up and mutilate his fingers. Jokichi is badass, though, and gets pissed off at them, cuts off his own mutilated fingers, and manages to get back home, only to find that his wife has been raped and murdered and their son has been killed.
Uh-oh. You SO DIDN'T GO THERE.
So it looks like this is a trilogy where Jokichi will get back at all of the yakuza bosses who killed and raped his wife. I didn't keep a body count on this movie, but it's pretty high. He's no Ogami Itto, but he's alright.
Last night, we watched part two, in which more women want Jokichi's cock and some more dead yakuza. I also got some buttsecks and I cut Boyfriend's hair. We ordered pizza again. I am getting more fat. Ugh. I need to go back to the gym.
Back to work. I got shit to do.
