Tederick.com: September 2006 Archives
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September 29, 2006

Homo erectus

Give it up for the score from The Bourne Supremacy for stuff to listen to while you're working. You feel like your'e accomplishing shit when you do it to that music. The nervous strings and the driving synth pulse... man, every scrap of paper is a top secret government portfolio and every Hotmail password is a crucial computer hack with the seconds ticking away!! if you've got that music going.

Amber Tozer makes a fine point: everyone should know a thing or two about their brains. Knowing the difference between the cerebral cortex (the part Dr. Crusher's "cortical stimulators" never helped fix on Star Trek) and the amygdala (the part Blue Sun stripped on River's brain to make her all craaaaazy) is as important as knowing your vagina. (Possibly more so.) Yeoman's work, Amber, thank you.

Right now I'm fucking around with a GL-2 and man, I have got to get a new camera. Maybe not this camera but a new camera. I've got that big bad satisfied feeling in me because basically, I've just had the exact month I wanted to have. All the pieces just sort of made sense for the first time in a year. Got the full-time gig at work, got back on my feet moneywise, got the festival vacation, got my flirt on, got a whole bunch of things sorted out in me that have been slowly poisoning me for a really, really long time. Now the weather's getting colder, Black October's two days away, I've got my mug of tea and my fleece and I'm trying to sort out what's the clear way forward to keep some of this momentum. Nutshell being: I actually feel like me again for the first time in a long while, a good me, not the really awful me I've been lately. I feel like writing again, I feel like shooting again. I've got a backlog of projects to choke a pig and I think that's a big part of the problem: I'm bound by a bajillion relics and minimally invested in starting anything nifty and new. But a few things have my antennae twitching. I've got a comic book and a short film series and a feature script idea that doesn't suck. I've got a weekend of weddings, a month of driving around in the cold, and absolutely no idea what to be for Hallowe'en. It's all right.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself. And the Nockmaar army.

Wow. If I was ever gonna rename the blog, I have to say, My Sensitive Girl Hole would be pretty high on the list. Mmmmm, that has all kinds of flavours in it.

Today I got in trouble for saying FUCK! Which is, like, so 1997. Wowsers. I'm not complaining, though, because really, my use of it was totally inappropriate under the circumstances and yes I can still tell the difference. I try not to be sloppy with my word. (That's a modification of a precept my father passed on to me.) But here'n I was gonna write a big whole thing for Vagina Fridays today about cunt and pussy as power words, and now I just feel wayyyyyyy out there, naked and dangling from branches. Hrm.

Well let's try this:

Thing 1: A few weeks back, someone (female) saw that the hard drive on the Macbook was named "pussy" and said something along the lines of "so clearly you're not going for feminist support."

Thing 2: A few weeks further back than that, Chad forewarned me before I dug into the first issue of The Boys that they used the word "cunt" on the second page.

Now, to be fair, Chad was witness to the Great Cunt Freak-Out of two double aught five, so his caution can be understood. And, too, the big issue with any ism and feminism particularly will always be that even among the chosen, there will always be vast, vast difference of opinion in what the ism actually means. So neither of these examples are without context.

Things 1 and 2, however, illustrate opposite sides of the same "main dealie."

The main dealie involves learning where the power resides in the use of slang words for the female genitalia. Based on what I understand to be true about that power, I stopped using "cunt" and "pussy" as derrogatory terms for people about a year or two back. (I am also trying to pull "bitch" from the lineup, but it is really hanging in there. My very favourite curse is "son of a bitch," so this is going to take a long time.) This process of usage alteration was well underway by the time I read Cunt last year, but what Cunt ended up doing was fill in the other side of the equation: instead of banishing those words from the lexicon altogether like holocaust victims, I started re-investing them for positive use in my language. Because, as I'm sure I've made clear by this point, I rather like vaginas. I try to be vag-pos. And it bugs me that, specifically around language, vaginas are a hidden organ. So many people can't bring themselves to refer to the vagina any more specifically than "down there." They come up with euphemisms and workarounds. That shit freaks me out.

Now, slang is slang and maybe slang is part of the problem. But, for me, the nice thing about slang is that it is expressive. I dig on expression. I dig on stuff that carries a specific freight, that says something in a way that it can't quite be said in any other way. And on that score, the vagina is rich in options (tell me twat doesn't kick the pants off cock for baroque specificity), yet poor in social acceptability. For example, I think it's a fairly shoddy deal that dick is considered to be on the light end of the cursing spectrum while pussy sits more gutter-wise. I am, shall we say, exceptionally wary of any and all systems that attempt to position the vagina as worse/dirtier/more dangerous/more unspeakable than the penis.

Top of the order here, I don't like people who call other people cunts (or pussies). I don't really care if they're ignorant or not, it just bothers me. It bothers me that "pussies" are weak and "dicks" are strong (if annoying). A guy's an asshole if he is fundamentally self-absorbed (which goes right to the root of our primal identity-centering relationship with our anuses), but if you call a guy a cunt, what are you saying that he is? That he's a woman, and being a woman's bad?

It bothers me less in movies or TV shows (or comic books) because that usage tells me something about the character. Usually it's that I wouldn't want to hang around with them in real life. (I mean honestly: would you actually want to go drinking with Al Swearengen? He's fun and all, but he's not a nice man.) Also, maybe because when words are on a page I expect them to be respectful of wordly power, whereas a real live person is usually doing it out of a) blind ignorance or b) deep-seated, often unconscious, hatred and fear of every woman he's ever known in his life.

I am very much invested in wordly power. I don't fear words. To be any kind of a writer and fear words is like being a carpenter afraid of his own chisel. I'm sure you could still be a carpenter if you were afraid of your chisel, but I suspect your job would be significantly harder on a regular basis. Writing's hard enough. Words are the tools; respect the words.

I know everyone has their own limits and levels. I know everyone has their own opinions, and bless that! It's one of the things that makes us people, and the idea that we're even slightly supposed to come to some sort of common agreement is freaking ridiculous. I do my best to be respectful of the comfort levels of the people around me... but I also see the vagina get monsterized over and over and over again, and sooner or later, I snap. There are some battlegrounds I can pass by, but when words get involved, it hits me deep. This is me working through the negativity.

Wherein a Mamo is posted, and an Iron Man chosen.

What the fuck, I was gonna be done with the "wherein" things last night but I couldn't resist one last one. Here's the Mamo #59, "All the Weinsteins Love Mandy Lane." I like to think of it as our fifty-ninth show. And also our most recent.

Robert Downey Jr. is Iron Man! WHAT. When I first heard it I sort of thought the world had spun completely off its axis. Then I have to admit it started making its own weird kind of sense. If it works, this is Michael Keaton territory; if it fails, then I guess they can just say "They cast Robert Downey frickin' Jr. as Iron Man, what did you expect?" So whatever. Honestly I don't care all too much. As Chad pointed out yesterday, though, the forthcoming feature fillum is the best running argument for why Iron Man won't get killed at the end of Civil War, even though all signs point to the character's complete loss of redemption at this point. Me, I figure they kill him, and then re-launch the character in January '08 just in time to stoke the fires for the flick. But me, I'm crazy.

More to come. But first, we dance.

September 28, 2006

Wherein comics are graded even more rapidly than previously.

Another ten-issue day at the comic book shop yesterday, and I'm really short on time, so it's gonna have to be single-word reviews on these.

Spike: Asylum #1: Yes!

Supergirl #10: School!

JLA #2: Tornado!

Daredevil #89: Europe?

Batman #657: Robin!

Batman and the Mad Monk #2: Meh.

Young Avengers & Runaways (Civil War) #3: No.

Eternals #4: Wuh?

Stan Lee Meets Spider-Man: Ha!

Amazing Spider-Man #535: Yes.

Now read just the single words out loud. Your friends will think you have "the palsy."

September 27, 2006

Wherein an old friend is mourned, but the prospect of getting with a slender green youngster is admitted to be appealing.

Remember last month when my iPod went berserk when matched up with the new Macbook? Well, you may also recall that they inexplicably settled their differences a few days later and have been fine together ever since. Well the bad news of the now is that their settlement was apparently transient. Yes: my iPod is dead. My iPod is so fucking dead it is sucking the life out of everything else in the room. Lo, for she was an iPod, and a true addition to my life, as was stated all the way back in 2003. Now she is gone. Tomorrow, there will be another. And the other will be green and very, very skinny, because when I replace lost loves I am highly superficial.

I keep meaning to do stuff. I swear.

Wherein the sky-take is described, and Once More With Feeling is recalled most fondly.

I have become quite reliant on the sky-take. The sky-take is like the spit-take, in that it is a stock reaction that can be used to comic effect under the correct circumstances. It is based on Billy Boyd's performance in The Lord of the Rings, from whenabouts Pip gets struck on the coconut by apples from the sky, and casts a befuddled full-body-tilt skywards (with a quarter turn rightwise) to find the source of the apples. Later, upon finding more apples, he does the sky-take again, although this time they clearly did not originate from skyward. This is the beauty of the sky-take. It is a perfect de-facto response for use when one has come upon weird shit that may just as well have fallen from the sky. I use it often. It amuses me immensely.

Today I reconnected with "Once More With Feeling." I was staying a bit late at work and the office was draining out and I fired it up on the iPod for the first time in, probably, 18 months or so. And I basically ended up singing and dancing in my chair. I tell ya, you can do some pretty wicked moves from "I'll Never Tell" while still seated in a rolling chair. I had to strongly resist the urge to jump up on the desk during "Rest In Peace," and to start twirling around having an orgasm for "Under Your Spell." Man, I love the toes off that bitch. I bought the first issue of Spike: Asylum just to calm my Whedony fretting.

September 26, 2006

Wherein a decision is made regarding the state of my fingernails.

I think I may keep the pirate fingernails. I rather like them. Not all of them at once, mind you; maybe a few nails at a time at random intervals. Just to fuck with "the man." You should see how "the man" freaks at "the office." You'd think I had chili cheese fries growing out of every single hair on my body. And it's one black fingernail. Soufflé!

Wherein the first episode of Heroes is discussed, Lost's third season is considered, and the toys situation is post-capped.

Heroes. I'm not all the way there, but I'm most of the way there. The big problem is that there is no fucking way this show is going to last. There is no way something this densely plotted and anti-mainstream can survive in the modern American television marketplace. But assuming it could, here's why I liked it: it made me ask a whole fucking load of questions. Like:

  • What genius came up with casting Ali Larter as the Hulk, and can I buy that individual a drink.
  • How many more parts of Buffy McBeal's body can be brutally mangled before she ceases to be hot.
  • How can I possibly be more interested in the Indian dude and the artist who paints the future than I am in Ali Hulk and Buffy McBeal.
  • Where is Greg Grunberg. Don't sell me on the Greg Grunberg and then give me no Greg Grunberg.
  • What the fuck is gonna happen when Shaft gets outta that motherfucking bed.

Meanwhilst over on "The Island," this horrific Lost tidbit was peeped by WandaKristin: "There is much more to the island, which is revealed early on this season--like, different areas that look unlike anything you've seen before on the show." In other words, a 1950s-era American town. Goddammit, does every single science fiction program eventually have to throw in the goddamnded 1950s-era American town.

I'm gunning through the tail end of Season Two right now, though, and man howdy that shit was intense. I've got a Kate-jones on right now like you wouldn't believe. There was also a hilarious fracas involving the Box girls and the season of Lost I just lent them. Boy I love yelling into the telephone.

Toys are down. Only the very strongest survived - Big Fuckin' Hermione is lording over a cadre of astromechs like a queen, while Buffy and Catwoman play tag-tail with an Alien and the animated Clone Wars guys stare down on Commander Cody who in turn hobnobs with Max Rebo. Viva la revolucion.

I don't use question marks now.

Wherein more toys are gassed about, and RSS feeders are discussed.

Further to last night's rantings, the Obi-Wan from Sideshow owns balls. All the balls. Everywhere. If you have balls, this toy owns them. If you don't have balls, you can only wish to have balls so that they, too, may be owned by the miniature Ewan McGregor sitting on my desk. HE. OWNS. BALLS.

But I was serious about packing up the littl'uns. I'm just not feeling it any more. I'm sure I'll still grab an Arcona if I can ever find one and any clone trooper that has a halfway decent paint job because hey, clones. But otherwise, I think I have just about every 4" Darth Vader action figure I'm ever gonna need. My cup runneth over; it's time to stop, and an eleven-year jaunt through the Hasbroverse looks to be coming to an end. This means little or nothing to you, gentle reader, but it's a rather large shift for me.

Yeah. He turns 30 and he gives up toys (of a non-sexual nature)! Headline time.

And it's official: as of this month, the Atom feed for Tederick.com is getting more hits than the actual site. So I guess I really oughta see what the blog looks like on one of those, huh? I am not, as they say, "technically savvy." I do, however, use "savvy" in conversation a lot, usually as a question.

September 25, 2006

The power you give the curse

The spell is broken, by the way. It was important to mention that. Tonight was a really, really good night.

The power you give the curse

The spell is broken, by the way. It was important to mention that. Tonight was a really, really good night.

Our man Harry

Here's the obligatory trio photo for Harry Potter 5, and yeah, the fact that I'm not hosting it here and just linking away to it shows you how much I don't care. And thereby shows you how much Goblet of Fire teabagged its own balls, because really, remember when this web site was all about those three kids?

Heh. I just referred to it as a "web site," like I usedta before they came up with the word "blog."

Also: have you had Sex With Bex? Because I just had Sex With Bex, and let me tell you, it is outstanding. As I had long presumed it would be. Naturally, I'm trying to get my own sex column going too. I'm having a meeting about it on Wednesday. I sincerely hope it works out this time. I haven't pissed off enough asswipes with my content lately.

My Qui-Gon has a bent wang. But otherwise QG and OW are some sweet, sweet toy. I'm about ready to drop 3 3/4" Star Wars altogether, because clearly, Sideshow is where my heart's at.

First among the fallen

I just took my Isis & Osiris staff to Helen Anderson's pirate pinata and feasted on the runny brainmeats within. Mmmm brainmeats.

Back in the swing of things at work. There is definitely a new level of responsibility and involvement happening now that I am full-time. It's a good thing though. Today, for example, I achieved every single thing I had to achieve and came in on curbsides for a couple of colleagues, too. (Wow that was alliterative.) I'm priming my first major project (have I mentioned that?), going to my first team offsite next month (have I mentioned that, either?), I'm in at 8:30 and out at 4:30 like a Swiss fucking watch, 1.5 coffees per day. It's all right.

NEW REVELATION!: I have been spelling "embarrassed" wrong for most of my adult life. I am embarassed, but not nearly so much as about the laundrey debacle.

So. As it turns out, Lost Girls is indeed pornography. FUCKING AWESOME PORNOGRAPHY. The sort of thing where if you found it on the internet you'd read it, jerk off, and then clear your browser cache and pray to god no federal agencies were monitoring what you were doing. Whoa, was that too much...? But seriously, this is some formidable shit.

It also (and this is gonna sound way creepy in light of what I just wrote) made me realize something I should have picked up long, long ago: it's Wendy. I have always had a thing for Wendy. I think I've had a thing for Wendy since I was like three years old. Alice is all right and Dorothy I could give two shits about, but Wendy (who shows up relatively late in Vol. 1 of Lost Girls) is the one I was keeping a restless eye out for, like I'd been invited to a party where an old flame was also going to be in attendance whom I hadn't seen in ten years. There's a reason I keep coming back to Peter Pan over and over again even though I don't like Peter or John or Michael or Captain Hook all that much. There's a reason why when Wendy comes down the stairs in Hook even though she's like a kajillion years old and played by Professor McGonagall, the air goes clean out of me. There's a reason why when she flies, not when he flies, that I fly. There's a reason why so many of these stories of mine have this precocious teenaged girl being menaced by hook-handed father figures of one kind or another, and why River Tam, Molly Hayes, Lyra Belacqua, Jill Pole, and Serenity Rose all belong to a weird club in my heart. Wendy, Wendy, Wendy Moira Angela Darling. How did I never spot this before.

And as such, seeing her in a four-way with Pan and her two brothers was, to be candid, a bit of a shock. More precisely, THAT SHIT FREAKED ME OUT. Eerie, nauseating, disturbing, profoundly unsettling, unconsciousness-stabbingly weird and subconsciousness-stirringly primary. It was one of those frisson (that's my word of the week) moments, where it's gotta be some kind of art, because only art can leave you past words to describe what you saw.

Why is the rum always gone?

Best estimates suggest that about 6 or 7 litres of rum were endrunkened at 3QF on Saturday night, by less than 20 people, some of whom drank no rum at all, others of whom drank a gigantic quantity of it. We started the night with one bigass bottle of Appleton's completely full, and ended the night with a total of six bottles of rum, all drained to below the one third mark, and one completely empty. That is one sweet fuck of a lot of rum. I'd rather like to see it all in one big jug just to get my mind around the sheer volume, but the mental picture will have to suffice.

September 24, 2006

Pirate party!

So as it turns out, everyone is awesome.

Or I have them under some kind of weird Svengali hold. Because a whole bunch of people showed up at my house last night dressed like pirates.

As for example, here's me and Mark and Caitlin and Johnny:

Chris gets his freak on:

I'm with Helen Anderson! And dressed like a pirate!

People dressed like pirates in my kitchen:

The rum, however, is not gone. The rum is very much still here. Incredibly there seems to be more rum than there was yesterday. There is more rum than 3QF is going to be able to get through in a year of trying. Truly, forsooth, there is rum beyond human imagination here, and all pirates would be well-advised to set their sails for 3QF if they find their casks running low. Because we've got rum. Lots, and lots, and lots of rum.

Yeah. I had a great time. All the rum? Didn't suck. The five hours of non-sleep where if I rolled onto my left or right side I felt like I was going to explode vomitoriously, that sucked. But everything else was pretty much awesome. Like Helen Anderson bringing a pinata that we never destroyed. Or Steve Massey and the coins in his pants, which are already achieving legendary status. Or Matty Price bringing PIRATE PORN, the most expensive porn ever made (and it still sucked)! Or me throwing a pirate cup onto the crazy demon wart lady's roof and then worrying about it ever since. And... y'know. Stuff. Good stuff.

And Mark Brown made me a damn birthday movie. Me! Matt Brown! Fuckin' beans. (In a good way. I guess "fuckin' beans" probably sounds negative but it's positive in my mind.) I've been waiting for this for like thirteen or fourteen years. He brought his whole whackshit computer over in a brilliant example of 11th-hour Infinitely Brown ingenuity. And everyone sat around and watched the flick even though I guess most folk there probably didn't know the significance of what they were seeing. But yeah. That's huge.

OK I'm completely and utterly wiped out so I think I'm just going to lie on the couch and eat breakfast burritos. My hangover's gone but now I just have that stretched feeling involving butter and bread. Oh and I also have the latest Lord of the Rings DVDs. Because I am king and master of all loserdom. So it's going to be a low-key evening, light on rum. Oh: and I think I know what I want my tattoo to be at long last, and no, it's not pirate-related.

Thanks to everyone who came out for my pirate party. Truly, ye took the ruddy bite clean off the voyage into my thirties. Yarrrrrr.

- Cap'n Matt

September 22, 2006

Party. (3!)

OK now I'm really scraping the bottom of the barrel. I'm reading the Torontoist. I got all jazzed up to watch a Japanese movie I bought on DVD today, but then I lost the momentum when I saw Brandy watching Grey's Anatomy. That show just bugs me. It is to House what Chicago Hope was to E.R. i.e. the FUCKING ENEMY. Down with the Viet Cong, man. We don't like their nuc nom.

No vag post today. I have a bunch backlogged and a few new ones I want to write but I'm just not feeling it right now. Ditto for watching the Japanese flick. I've read enough subtitles for one month. Matty Price told me today that he'd watched like three other movies this week. I said, "You can do that? People do that?" cuz I pretty much never want to see another movie again at this point. I don't even know what's in theatres right now. I watched Return of the Jedi on Tuesday - which, admittedly, I've seen before - and when the subtitles came on I had to go hide in my room for five minutes.

OK my back hurts and I'm thirsty. There's gotta be something on TV or something.

Party!!! (2??)

You know what someone else at the office got me for my birthday? A motherfucking Superman lunchbox that's what.

Sorry I don't mean to be going on about the wonder that is me, but I'm pretty fucking impressed about the Superman lunchbox.

But Gift of the Year (and possibly all time) goes to the Bex list. Honestly that shit made me cry twice. Damn Bex and her chubby little ball of hope.

So yeah. Right now I'm pretty much procrastinating by way of refusing to leave the internet. Funny thing is, I'm not actually procrastinating anything, since I have nothing to do that needs doing. Yet I am fully aware that I am procrastinating. The mind, huh?

Don't you love it when you've got a pile of underwear on your floor and you know some of them are dirty and some of them are clean but you can't tell which ones so you do the smell test and they all pass so you stuff 'em all back in the drawer? Wait maybe that doesn't happen to you.

This. Is me. Doing nothing.

Gotta write in my journal about doing nothing. Hang on a tic.

Party!! (1)

I was gonna post a big thing about all the stuff that happened in my birthday week but I ain't gonna. Mostly because I can't stand the concept of a "birthday week." This has all been way, way, WAY too ostentatious for my taste. (And this from the guy who's throwing a fucking pirate party tomorrow.) But the people at my office, particularly, really came through this week with the general niceness. They like me. And there are pictures. So there.

Here's the Yoda cake my friend Lisa made for me:

Here's me belly dancing with a belly dancer:

Technically the belly dancing evening was unrelated to the b-day, but they used the b-day as an excuse to make me dance with the belly dancer. She's the kind of girl who stopped in the middle of the thing, pointed at the Stormtrooper on my chest, and said "Hey, I love your shirt." So all right.

And here's what I'd call a substantially hilarious picture of me with a glass of wine:

And that cell phone problem? TAKEN CARE OF. My man Jacob hooked me up in like two seconds flat with a phone that is so much better than any other phone I've ever had, that it's almost enough to make me like cell phones. It has Baby Stewie on it.

And furthermore, they're paying me about a thousand dollars a month more than they were last month. Which I don't say to brag, I just say to say "WHAT?!" because clearly, that's insane. They had me at Yoda cake.

September 21, 2006

I am Havarti

The following sentence was just used at the head of a lead news feature on CP24:

"Using cheese, I will demonstrate what happens to a body with osteoperosis."

Ruminate. I am off to Arabia, where they cut off your ear if they don't like your face.

September 20, 2006

EXTREME STEVE vs. THE BALLOON GOBLINS!!!!

Things I'd like to see on TV this year

  • One of the "minority" tribes on Survivor: Racism go completely feral, kidnap Jeff Probst during a tribal council, paint him up Jack Sparrow-styles and serve him toes for dinner
  • Dr. Cameron, naked. Please.
  • Phil Keoghan refuse, on camera, to describe what a Roadblock is
  • Kate and Jack have sweaty, gnarly full-contact sex in the wreckage of the hatch, shortly before Jack strips off his shirt, grabs a torch, and climbs to the top of the mountain where he does battle with the feral tribe from Survivor: Racism
  • Heroes not suck

September 19, 2006

The way of things

I'm thirty damn years old and watching Return of the Jedi for the three or four hundredth time in my life, and I actually noticed something I'd never noticed before: Boushh's wheezy old man breathing. How can I have seen this movie three or four hundred times and never noticed that before?

Because I'm still young.

Many great stories from the big 3-0, but I will share them elsetime.

The Benedict Chronicles: Fran's

"...as plate after plate of fluffy poached eggs, cartilaginous peameal, and lakes of sunshiney goo continued to pile up over time, I realized that if I don't start catalogueing these excursions in some formal manner, a great field of human knowledge would be lost. Hence, the Benedict Chronicles..."

As the family lore goes, about an hour after I got popped screaming into the cold green hallways of Women's College - thirty years ago this very day - my father ducked a block or two east on College to get a much-needed bite to eat at Fran's. Shortly after picking up my TIFF programme three weeks ago, I did the same, and out came the benny.

Unfortunately, I've had better bennies, and I've had better bennies at Fran's. The service on this particular occasion was absolutely top-notch and the benny was by no means bad, but it was also on the low end of the scale of what I've seen Fran's deliver, so I was disappointed. The eggs were overcooked - in itself not a bad thing - and the hollandaise was just on the verge of curdling into utter instability. Also, strangely, I didn't feel like I was getting enough food overall - the benny seemed disproportionately small, particularly taken alongside the massive mountain of hash-browns.

The major Fran's invention is that they season the benny with what I have to assume is actually paprika. That's a new one. It works pretty damn well though so I'm not complaining. I had this benny with a steaming cup of surprisingly decent decaf, as it was 5:30 in the evening at the time, and read my programme book and considered myself a well man.

But I must give the food itself a paltry two eggs out of four. Fran's can do better than this.

The Fran's in question is located at College and Yonge in Toronto. This entry is dedicated to my mother and father. The Benedict Chronicles is an ongoing, non-regular series.

September 18, 2006

It's finished! It's done.

By way of cleaning house, here's the last report for TIFF 2006. Live it up.

The best of the fest:

Penelope

The rest of the best:

Lake of Fire, Pan's Labyrinth, The Fountain, London to Brighton, Princess, Shortbus, Deliver Us From Evil, Rescue Dawn

The best of the rest:

Ten Canoes (unsubtitled version), Taxidermia, The Killer Within, Black Sheep, Sheitan, Severance, Venus, Renaissance, Offside, about half of Cashback

The rest:

Sleeping Dogs Lie, Red Road, Island, Summer '04, Summercamp!, The Host, The Jade Warrior, Time, U, Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Tour, The Silence, Outsourced, Mon Meilleur Ami, L'Intouchable, HANA, Bugmaster (why? because he's the motherfucking bugmaster, that's why!)

The... stuff that's generally poor and doesn't rhyme with "fest":

The Last Winter, The Magic Flute, The Prisoner or How I Planned To Kill Tony Blair, The Way I Spent the End of the World, La Coupure, Kabul Express, Chacun sa nuit

The motherfucking walkouts!!:

All the Boys Love Mandy Lane, End of the Line, Away From Her, L'Optimisti (walked out due to hypnosis), Sistagod, The Banquet (walked out due to other commitments)

Didn't walk in:

Trapped Ashes, Invisible Waves

Search this

Someone has been sending me nasty little insults through the search field on the blog here, which on the one to ten scale of passive-aggressive loserdom has to score in the high nines. Feh. To their point, though, truth be told, yes, I am a dick. I don't think I was always like this, but I certainly am now. I am fiercely loyal to my friends, but when it comes to many other people, I no longer seem to be able to muster up the effort to jump through all the hoops and play along with any of the bullshit. By rights that's a fairly substantial prick move. There just seems to be less and less energy to devote to the things I don't care about these days. I'm not particularly happy about the way things have gone with me, but it's the way it is right now. So yes. Matt is a dick.

It is also true that I am a loser. I'm always losing stuff. Why, just last week, I lost my cell phone. Before that it was my favourite brown hoodie. A while back I got to feel my soul bleeding out my ass hole and I still haven't found all of it. So really, it's not as though these insults weren't apt. Just foolishly passive.

And yes, I know exactly who the culprit is. Of course I know who it is. Do people really still not understand that every single thing they do on the internet is recorded and referenced? Fuck, I can tell you how many times a day you come here, how long you stay, what other windows you have open on your computer while you visit, and what site you go to when you leave. I can also come to your house and throw rocks at your windows. But I ain't gonna do it.

September 17, 2006

The last reviews

The mobile not-such-a-laptop made this year a hell of a lot easier in terms of getting reviews written, since I didn't have to do it at 3:00 in the morning after getting home from Midnight Madness. Here are the last of the stragglers and the closing podcast for moviesTO, which I just realized (and this is true for the previous one as well) was probably recorded on the built-in mic instead of my headset. Oops. (It's a lot worse on the last one than this one.) Well, you learn something new every day.

Reviews:

Renaissance

Red Road

Island

Chacun sa nuit

Kabul Express

Summer '04

Taxidermia

London to Brighton

Sheitan

Podcasts:

moviesTO #47: Fest Rest

Mamo #58: Fest is the Best

The DeLorean that lives on our street

It's been there for about a week now. The first time I saw it I just circled it for fifteen minutes taking pictures, in spite of the fact that I had a movie to get to. A fucking DeLorean lives on my street. I wonder if it's the same one that used to live up by my parents' place. One night I followed that DeLorean home because I was just enjoying watching it drive so much. I am a DeLorean stalker.

The Benedict Chronicles: Pickle Barrel

"...as plate after plate of fluffy poached eggs, cartilaginous peameal, and lakes of sunshiney goo continued to pile up over time, I realized that if I don't start catalogueing these excursions in some formal manner, a great field of human knowledge would be lost. Hence, the Benedict Chronicles..."

I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday night, I was nackered, and Matty Price and I were looking for a place to eat before the Midnight movie... and arrived at Yonge Street to find almost no options. It was raining outside. Frankz was closed, Popeye's was closed, so we ended up at the Pickle Barrel and, admittedly against my better judgment, I ordered the benny for the sake of the column. And just look at that thing. That is the saddest eggs benedict I have ever fucking seen.

To be absolutely fair: we snuck into the restaurant 15 minutes before the kitchen closed, so this might not be their best effort.

But this benny is a disgrace! Undercooked eggs and ham and english muffin - wait a minute, that's undercooked everything - and lumpy hollandaise. Oh, and the presentation looks like a three year old did it. The latkes that come with the benny weren't bad, but the whole thing cost $8.95, which is way, way too much for product this poor. And that fruit? Don't even get me started on the fruit.

One egg out of four, and that egg is given grudgingly.

The Pickle Barrel is located just north of Yonge and Dundas in Toronto. On weeknights, the kitchen closes at 11. The Benedict Chronicles is an ongoing, non-regular series.

Sheitan!!

I caught the perfect wave tonight. London to Brighton was terrific for my final (real) film of the festival, and after that it was nothing but goat-titty-sucking cream with the closing Midnight, Sheitan, to seal the deal. I took a quiet walk through the Ryerson back way, I said thank you to the staff at Frankz, I talked to a girl about her excellent brown pants, I had the big exhale sigh of relief and the calm and peace that comes with letting go. In the end, it all worked just fine. Keep running.

September 16, 2006

The last rush

I somehow managed to set my alarm for 8:30 p.m. and yet I only overslept by ten minutes. Getting to the Paramount for Kabul Express was a bit of a slog, but it got done. Then Matty Price put the whammy on me at The Banquet, pointing out that it was a slow and moody 2-hour-plus period piece, but that if I took off early I could hit the rush line for Summer '04, the only remaining "must" film that I was still not going to see. So y'know what? That's what I did. I said goodbye to the Elgin and walked up to the Varsity, solely on the fact that I just haven't done enough rushing in this festival. And for some sick bizarre reason, I enjoy the shit out of that process. It's like blowing up the Death Star or something. It just feels good to win.

My battery is about to kick out due to a Mac issue this morning (yet another Mac issue!); I'm still sort of reeling from the guy next to me in the movie who patiently explained that he never turns off his cell phone in movies, no matter what; and overall, the gruelling emotional experience of the last ten days has aired out every kink and knot in my clumped up heart and made them dance in front of my eyes like so many TIFF trailers. But that's okay. I'm in Taxidermia in an hour and London to Brighton after that, and then Sheitan to close the whole show, and I'm calling it all time well spent. Fire up the cigar, Linda, we're goin' to the movies.

Two guys wander the streets of Budapest trying to kill a chicken

The above title is a single-line description of a film from a previous festival, which Matty Price insists was terrible... but I keep thinking, how is that not the best movie ever?! I want to make that movie. I want to do a 2-hour film of two guys walking around Budapest, ostensibly chasing a chicken that they are going to kill, and only occasionally catching sight of it. That is my kind of film.

Princess pretty much saved my day. I had seen a couple of lukewarm reviews on it so I was getting worried, but it's fucking terrific, and my top ten for 2006 is now a whopping 70% film festival. The rest of the day was largely sunk by my incest double-feature. I did not know I had booked an incest double-feature. But both La Coupure and Chacun sa nuit contained brother-sister incest as a key plot element. What made it weirder was the fact that in both films, the people around the brother-sister couple were aware of what was going on, and were treating it as something only minorly unusual... a little out of the ordinary, perhaps, but still within perameters. If you only watched those two films at this year's TIFF, you'd come away thinking that siblings losing their virginity to each other was as normal a part of adolescence as checking out wangs in the locker room. Brother-sister incest, everywhere around us, all the time.

I sort of cracked up at around 7:30 when I found myself unable to make simple reasoning decisions regarding a course of action for the evening. It once again involved sitting on the steps of the Manulife Centre and holding my head in my hands, but only for a minute or two this time and not so much with the shaking. So that's good.

I am ready for this to be over. If I never see another hand dryer for the rest of my life, it will be too fucking soon.

Review:

Princess

September 15, 2006

The festival that saved my year

I just did a quick tally, and my previously-moribund “top ten” draft for films of 2006 now holds six entries for films I’ve seen in the past week, including first, second, and fourth place. When the hell has that ever happened? A hundred years of never, that's when. I think that means it’s been a good festival. I think that also means it’s been a shite year at the movies everywhere else. I have high hopes for a few flicks remaining for the rest of the year - although Black Dahlia’s negative reviews today are really disappointing - but I’m just glad to have gone from a year where I was afraid I would be begging off with a “top five” instead of a “top ten,” to a year where really, I’m probably going to need a “top fifteen” or a hell of a lot of honourable mentions in order to capture the year that was 2006. Thanks for pulling it out, TIFF. You’ve reminded me of who I really am.

And hey, vaginas. Lots.

Reviews:

The Fountain

Severance

La Coupure

I've got a better idea

I was gonna sit here and try to write reviews of all the stuff yesterday - although I think at this point The Fountain is going to fall into the same subjective netherworld that left Lake of Fire unreviewed - but instead I think I just want to go to the theatre early, drink coffee, read Pride of Baghdad, and get some alone time. Yesterday was good though; Renaissance was terrific (as was the aforementioned Fountain), as was (to everyone's surprise) Severance, the scream-festiest laugh-your-ass-offiest Midnight I've been to in a long, long time. I also got to walk out of Sistagod, which receives this year's Cameron Bailey Award for Cameron Bailey-Programmed Movies That Are Not Good Movies. That makes what, four walkouts and an outright skip this year? Or is it five? I'm getting nasty in my old age.

(OK: I understand what CB is doing, and that movies like Sistagod aren't supposed to be "good" in the traditional sense but are merely "interesting" from a developing cinema standpoint. Every year I take a chance on one of these things on the hope that one of these days, one of them will really penetrate through for me in a new and profound way. As of this year, though, I'm done with such clemency.)

Oh: if I have absolutely no idea what else to say, you might hear me describe films as "cerebral," "luminous," or "metaphorical." They are the bullshit watchwords of the day. As is spinning around in your seat the moment the credits roll and saying "SO WHADJA THINK?!"

Podcast:

moviesTO #46: Sex and Love

September 14, 2006

Deep breath

So the good news is that I'm alive. I'm alive, I'm well-rested, I'm ready to tackle the final three days and I'm in a rather good mood about it all. Fuck, I'm even gonna clean my room. So that's cool.

There's no denying that the middle of the week was absolute balljive for the most part. I guess the fest dumps their lower-end stuff there, as evidenced by the not-sold-out screenings and generally poor filmmaking. In fact, I don't think I "loved" any of the movies I saw yesterday; at best I could say "yeah, that was all right." I'm expecting big things from The Fountain today, and still trying to wrangle a Summer '04 ticket for Saturday.

Sean Penn: you're an asshole. But we knew that when you did the Jude Law props at the Oscars two years ago. As to whether my opinion applies to all smokers... well, that's a discussion for another time.

Reviews:

The Killer Within

Shortbus

Outsourced

Mon Meilleur Ami

The Last Winter

L'Intouchable

Bugmaster

Podcasts:

Mamo #57: Fest That Sells Sex

September 13, 2006

Knock knock knockin’ on heaven’s door

Okay, so as it turns out, this is the day. This is the day when the gas goes clean out of the car. I was pretty much hallucinating by the time I got to the Silver Snail this morning, I was so tired. I thought it was just early-ish morning fatigue. Shortly after writing that last post I passed a kid on the street begging for change with a sign that read “will take verbal abuse for change.” I walked by and then walked back, gave him a buck thirty-five, and then screamed “YOUR SIGN IS RIDICULOUS, YOUR CLOTHES ARE DIRTY, AND YOU MAKE ME FUCKING SICK!!!” in a voice loud enough to actually stop traffic. As expected, it made me feel better. But as the day wore on my alpha-wave brain state did not dispel, even after multiple coffees and a serious Guns n’ Roses recharge on the street outside the Elgin. I’m just basically on a single blip right now.

So it’s good I’ve got no Midnight tonight and no morning show tomorrow, because I think I don’t get through Thursday, Friday and Saturday if I don’t get the hell out of here pretty soon. I feel bad for the flicks I saw today and the ones I’ll see tonight, because they got the really short end of the stick in terms of my consciousness span, but that’s the way it is. At least I got one day further than 2004, when I had a nervous breakdown on the steps of the Manulife Centre at around 5:30 on the Tuesday night.

Optimism, Captain...!

The Beast defeated me. Not in a bad way. But I had to give up on Trapped Ashes at midnight last night because waiting to go into the theatre, I was almost asleep on my feet. I took it home instead and now don’t even recall getting into bed or how long or well I slept. I’m back at the Paramount now, which must mean something. I must have gotten here somehow. But the first flick I was supposed to see, Optimisti, started with not one but two scenes of a Hungarian dude hypnotizing a room full of farmers into sleep. I didn’t last ten minutes, and that was on a full cup of coffee. You just can’t do that shit at ten in the morning on the seventh day of the festival.

This film festival has become all about structure for me. I am hyper-aware of narrative structure. Aware of it in dramas, aware of it in docs, aware of it in comedies, aware of it each and every time something isn’t working. I am on structure like flies on shit right now. The problem with all this film festivalling, though, is how it turns the mirror back on me, like I’m seeing my own future: some feature film I’ll kill myself making for three years, that someone just like me will walk out of in twenty minutes because of poor structure or something equally obvious (to everyone else) that wasn’t obvious (to the filmmaker).

The issue is that I don’t think I’m a good enough writer yet to cover my deficits as a director, and I don’t think I’m a good enough director to cover my flaws as a writer. That’s an unholy combination, the result of which is that I think I need to spend some time working on other peoples’ scripts. I think subculture is okay - that thing has been revised and mulled over so many times that it's got the structure of a brick shithouse - but my directorial skills won't bone up on something I wrote myself nearly so well as they would on something that I connected to that was done by someone else. I have a couple of those that I’m knocking around, but I have to take the big leap and actually go do it instead of think about doing it a few months ago. And that means money, and that means time, and that means getting my shit together. Which has been overdue anyway.

And finally: praise Buddha, cuz Joss Whedon really is taking over Runaways. How good? That good.

September 12, 2006

Deja vu deja vu

Walked out of the Sarah Polley movie. Why? Because I’ve seen that shit. I’ve seen that shit literally dozens of times. The thing where the couple faces Alzheimers and whoever has the Alzheimers slowly degenerates over the next 90 minutes of the movie and there are absolutely no turns to the story and thereby no “story” in the traditional sense of the term at all and instead just scene after scene of the woman getting worse and worse and worse until she dies? Yes. I have seen that movie. I have seen students make that movie; I have seen adults make that movie; I have seen one crazy Slovakian nut make that movie backwards; I have seen Sarah Polley make that movie. Will everyone in the world please stop making that movie. Enough already.

Someone out there is actually going to crack the way to make a good movie about the personal costs of Alzheimers, but it’s not happening in Toronto this year. Jesus, if The Notebook is a more affecting look at this disease than Away From Her, then TIFF once again needs to get its programming head examined. (Yes, The Notebook. There was crying and promises of eternal love after The Notebook.)

Well it’s 10:30 and I’ve just busted into Blackstones even though they don’t open until eleven and don’t serve Benedict on weekdays. Killer Within’s at noon, my iPod toasted itself this morning, gonna go buy the Star Wars trilogy (for the seventh time in my life) and reschedule my plans for the 19th cuz clearly, I’m watching Return of the Jedi.

Review:

Sleeping Dogs Lie

The Beast

Tomorrow is the Beast. Five films and a three-hour John Waters conversation, between nine in the a.m. to twelve in the midnight. It's gonna be a killer. It's gonna be great.

Today was great too; I really needed today. A chance to completely recharge my batteries on the whole festival-going process and undo some of the exhaustion-based depression that has set in over the past few days. Sure, most of the films were shite. In fact, they were all pretty much shite after Venus. I walked out of End of the Line after about five minutes, my fastest walk-out ever: dialogue so poor it could have been written by ten-year-olds ("What? Jenny jumped in front of the subway? But I warned Dr. Collins not to let her out of the hospital. Now I'm going to feel responsible for what happened to her!"), acting so stilted it was like watching first year theatre students who would not make the second year... and a set-redressing of Bay Station that was pretty much laughable to anyone who's ever been there. I just couldn't take it. So I went and sat on the big rock in Yorkville, recorded my podcast, and took advantage of some free Wi Fi. Now that, that I could live with.

Didn't walk out of The Way I Spent the End of the World or U, but only because I'd already got my walk-out ya-ya's done for the day. And Bobcat Goldthwait's much-awaited Sleeping Dogs Lie was disappointing, just because it was so shittily made. His pre-show shtick about the only American in the audience, who he nicknamed Yeasty, was way funnier.

I await the Beast.

Reviews:

The Jade Warrior

Offside

Cashback

Black Sheep

The Way I Spent the End of the World

U

Podcasts:

moviesTO #45: Best Weekend Ever

September 11, 2006

Going under, 2006

What a breath of air a good film is. Venus pulled me right out of my post-cell phone post-on hold for 2 hours post-lost my favourite shirt doldrums. I realize this has been happening to me a lot lately, so I’m somewhat worried that I’m essentially in junkie mode - only happy when a movie makes me happy - because this bears potential dangers, should I be confronted by a crappy movie when I need a good one. But I must say, I’ve been tremendously lucky over the past few days. And now I’m writing like an Englishman in his nineties. Good show.

With my cell phone gone I am now without timepiece. I am navigating the between-screenings allotments with the temporal equivalent of dead reckoning. If I leave the Paramount at ten to two, I must arrive by subway at Museum station by 2:05. If it takes five minutes to walk to Quiznos and five minutes to order, I have about twenty-five minutes to eat and read my comic book before I should head to the Varsity to relieve myself, and then walk to the Cumberland to arrive five minutes prior to my 3:00 show. Thank goodness my internal clock not only doesn’t suck but has frightened people on occasion.

Today is my first day going largely solo, hence the timekeeping issues. But I’m really happy about it. I needed a bit of time to get back into the why’s of doing this marathon filmgoing thing, a bit of time to listen to my iPod on Bay Street and stride the windy corridors of the city in my full film nerd gear. I needed some time to find my power centre again, and found it I have.

Reviews:

Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Tour

Venus

Life is growth growth is change change is chaos

You know what's neat? I can no longer tell what a film's shot on. Back in '99 or thereabouts, when the first video-to-film transfers started showing up at the multiplexes, that shit stuck out for me like a sore thumb. Now yesterday I spent twenty minutes watching Offside - which totally improved my day by the way - before some part of my brain twinked and went, "You know? I think this was shot on video." I guess the visual language has finally become pluralized enough that my head is able to get back the medium and back into the story. Not sure when that happened, but glad it did.

Now I'm on hold with the cell phone company - who I, ahem, work for - trying to cancel my fucking phone. Hello? Shouldn't this be a priority item? I have to leave in about five minutes so I guess any erroneous charges will just have to be charged back to the company for making the single most irritating aspect of my festival thus far, that much harder to manage. Fucking cell phones. I FUCKING HATE CELL PHONES!!!

Anyhoo. Yesterday was a pretty weird, all-over-the-place, up-and-down day overall. There were some weird synergies in Cashback - which I recognize is not a very good movie, or at least, is a wildly uneven movie - about my life and things that have happened to me and the weird psycho-sexual neuroses of the male artist and his relationship to women, which made the screening uplifting in a way that had nothing to do with the objective merits of the film as a film. Plus I was sitting in front of Sean Biggerstaff, so that was hilarious.

Then we went to do a Mamo outside the Ryerson, and the writer of Mandy Lane turned out to be listening in, and came over afterwards and asked us what we thought of his movie. So we, uh... told him. It was freaking neat, man. I don't think I ever would have had the balls to do that as a writer.

There was also some trauma involving killer sheep, and something about an effort to turn my romantic tragedy into a romantic comedy, but I don't really remember what any of that was about. People watching from the benches would be wise to recall, however, that my story is not going to have a surprise ending. It has a surprise middle.

Reviews:

The Silence

Rescue Dawn

Summercamp!

Pan's Labyrinth

Podcasts:

Mamo #56: Fest Without Guests

September 10, 2006

Slipping on shale

I’m feeling the burn now. Day Four, and admittedly the disappearance of my cell phone has put me in a shite mood - having it gone for the one week a year when I actually need the thing that I hate for the entire rest of the time - but the uphill struggle is also starting to make it harder and harder to stay focused. I think it’ll be easier when I’m coming down the other side of the mountain instead of continuing to clamber uphill. I’m sixteen films into a 49-film set at this point, so mostly I’m just feeling the mass ahead of me instead of the distance behind or (more importantly) the thing right in front of me. So that sucks.

I should have built more time in between the shows because there is absolutely no margin for error. An attempt to reclaim the cell phone at the Ryerson, coupled with a five minute wait for what passed for my lunch, put me standing outside the Elgin scarfing down chicken while fending off a self-esteem-challenged TMN flyer girl three minutes before Pan’s Labyrinth. Upside: Guillermo Del Toro’s car arrived when I was just standing there, and Ron Perlman jumped out of the crowd to hug him, and I’m like “Fucking hell, it was Batman yesterday and now it’s Hellboy.” And Pan’s Labyrinth really is its own kind of awesome. A deeply challenging, mature film. I was really impressed.

So now I’m trying to grab five consecutive minutes of “me” time at a Tim Horton’s while simultaneously attempting to log onto the One Zone which has not exactly lived up to its potential since that glorious moment on the Burrito Boyz patio two days ago. Fuck... was that only two days ago? Feels like a bloomin’ week.

Yeah. I’m in a bad fucking mood right now.

So close

Today was very nearly a perfect day at the festival. And then I might have actually accidentally killed someone in the midst of walking out of a cruelly offensive horror movie. So call it a toss.

The first four movies I saw today are the best movies I've seen at the festival thus far. Two of them are among the best movies I've seen this year. One of them is actually the best movie I've seen this year. Penelope was that thing, that thing I've had at the festival only a few times in my life, where I was literally jumping up and down in the streets afterwards just to work out the sheer cinematic happy that that movie had crammed into my soul. I loved every single damn thing about the film from the tips of my short head-hairs to the roots of the gnarlier hairs on my toes.

And then I had to go to another movie. And that's another good indication of the pedigree of film I had today: every time a movie ended, I didn't want to go to the next one because I just wanted to sit in the fug created by the one I'd just seen, and live in it for a while. I had to go from the best cinematic fairy tale I've ever seen, a movie that made me hap-hap-happy like me, to a documentary about a Catholic priest who raped children. As we parted ways at Yonge & Gerrard, I heard Matty Price call out to me: "Matt! If it's not working, walk the fuck out." Fortunately, unnecessary advice: Deliver Us From Evil was terrific, though very hard to take. Still, two for two on a day, I was feeling pretty good. I sat at the Timothy's in the Manulife and tried to write reviews, which was made difficult by the fact that a) I was wearing my Superman shirt and b) it was garnering a lot of attention.

Then it was Lake of Fire, the anti-abortion doc, and I was nervous; no way could this live up. Well, it did. It lived up in a way that few movies in my entire life ever had. After the film (which was in fact far longer than the programme guide lead us to believe) the director thanked us for staying through such an overwhelming physical experience, and that's what it was - this was a physical movie. Forget how it made you think or feel or whatever else, this thing made me want to run out into the lobby and throw up or burst into tears. I don't think I can review it, actually. I think it'll be the first top-ten winner here on Tederick.com that has no formal review, because there's nothing more I can say besides the fact that it is almost impossible to watch, and should be required viewing for everyone on the planet. I sure as hell didn't love it... but I am so glad it's there.

So now completely convinced that the streak has to end somewhere, we go see Rescue Dawn... and I come out four for four, with one to go. Plus, Batman was there. And Werner Herzog, but he suffered a tragedy today and wasn't very talkative (rightly so). But damn, it was an awesome day at the movies right up until the Midnight got started, a flick called All the Boys Love Mandy Lane. From the first frames, my hackles were up. I don't think it was ever conscious on the part of the director, who must have been born about five years after I started masturbating. From his quips before the film started, he made it very clear that he is just one of "those guys who don't get it." But this is about as patently offensive and misogynist a film as you're ever likely to see, even within the admittedly-misogynist slasher film genre. Mandy Lane, in weird and violent ways, really did seem to be about why it's okay to rape girls. Shortly after a teen got blowjobbed to death by a guy using a shotgun as a phallus, for daring to suggest that she deserved some oral sex after administering some to a boy, I decided it was time to split.

And then my cell phone jumped off my belt clip and tumbled off the balcony of the Ryerson and into the general seating below.

Oops.

The breathtakingly beautiful house manager helped me reassure myself that no one was lying on the ground in a pool of their own blood with a Motorola next to their head, but was otherwise unable to ascertain the status of my phone without interrupting the movie, so I left it behind. Now I've got a short turnaround: tomorrow morning, I'm going to Summercamp!

No way tomorrow beats today. But it's got Pan's Labyrinth and a movie about killer sheep from New Zealand, so it can't be half bad.

Reviews:

The Host

Penelope

Deliver Us From Evil

Podcasts:

Mamo #55: Fest Without Rest

September 9, 2006

The collapse of time and reason

At a certain point during the festival - when your screening count gets north of 5, which is probably more movies than most people see in a year - time turns into an entirely other thing. Or more accurately, your ability to judge time goes completely out the window. I had an almost hallucinatory interaction with the passage of time during the screening of The Silence - my third film of the day and sixth (and a third) overall - at the Varsity yesterday afternoon. Though the program notes claimed that the film was an hour and 45 minutes long, by what (I later assessed) must have been about the hour-and-ten mark, I was convinced that I'd been watching the film since about a week after my birth.

By the hour-and-a-half, I was fully convinced that the program notes had got it wrong and that I was now missing my next screening. In fact, I was fairly anry at TIFF for so completely underestimating the corpulent running time of The Silence. And I use the word "hallucinatory" here quite literally, because this was a delusional state with all the trimmings. And then the house lights came up, and an hour and 45 minutes had gone by. It was like the end of Flight of the Navigator where Joey's like, "it all happened in one night?"

It's not that the flick is bad or even that it's slow. It's just that after heaping feature on top of featre, my ability to interact with its pacing in a meaningful way pretty much vanishes. How do I know this? Because the same phenomenon happened in everything else I saw last night.

The other big weirdo for the day was finding out that Rolf de Heer's Ten Canoes is supposed to have subtitles. This was fairly disappointing given that the subtitle-free status was one of the things I heaped the most praise upon for the film. Now I sort of want to track de Heer down (he's in town) and convince him to skip the titling. Take a chance, mate! Artistic value lies aplenty in TIFF's so-called "error."

Yesterday was a five-film day. The delirious happiness of blogging from Burrito Boyz gave way to a somewhat disappointing screening of my number one film for the festival, Kim Ki-Duk's Time, after which I was further disappointed to learn that tickets for 2:37 - which had been my first pick for the mid-afternoon slot - had become available again and then sold out again, sticking me right back into The Prisoner instead. Thom Powers (documentary programmer) really pissed me off by coming out and announcing that he'd had a vanity work made explicitly to fill the time-gap before The Prisoner was to start... a twenty-minute "documentary" made of outtakes from a longer documentary. What an asshole move. I was not predisposed to like anything this man was going to show me after that.

Then I carted up to the Varsity for The Silence, and then me and Matty Price went to Oja to grab a pre-Mamo bite, where we were waited upon by the most beautiful girl I've ever seen without being in the company of Chris MacLean. Then we cabbed it down to the P-mount, did the Mamo in the Chapters coffee shop (and were stared at almost the entire way through by a twentysomething dude about my age who could not figure out what we were doing), and then had minutes to spare to get into The Jade Warrior, the fucked-up Finnish kung fu movie. Yes.

Matty Price checked out a time or two during the screening and I found the quasi-dreamy rhythm of the film sort of hypnotic but I really liked it. We got out of the film to find a torrential downpour outside, and were literally forced into it by a stunningly mean-spirited security guard with a vaguely Eastern European accent... who then, after thrusting us into the deluge, then attempted to use one of the Paramount doors to move/crush a pair of teenage girls. That was when Matty Price FREAKED OUT!!! Dude, I'm telling you, it was awesome. He got in a full-on screaming match with the turbo-nazi bitch. It was glorious. I only wish I'd had the energy to participate.

Cabbed it through the rain to the Ryerson with a guy who ended up stiffing me for his share of the cab fare, and was really pleased to see a full house for The Host in spite of the full-house screening for Borat happening just a few blocks away. Got home at twenty after two and did very little other than collapse directly into bed, thoroughly exhausted.

Reviews:

Ten Canoes (revised)

Time

The Prisoner or How I Planned To Kill Tony Blair

Is it too late for a VF post?

I am haunted by Borat's use of the term "back pussy" to describe his own asshole. I am going to have to re-name my hard drive.

September 8, 2006

Festival learnings for make benefit glorious person of Matt Brown

Significant functional improvements that have vastly increased my quality of life in this Toronto International Film Festival:

  • Cab rides home after Midnight Madness. I loves me some vomit comet but this simple $100 cabbing budget is the slender line of thread between sanity and utter loss of reason on my end.
  • Bringing Macbook to festival to write reviews while in line for the next movie. Couldn't be sweeter.
  • Free Wi-Fi in the downtown core, allowing me to do this post live from the bench outside fucking Burrito Boyz! HOW GOOD IS THIS SHIT?!
  • The 6-second TIFF trailer for this year. Saving me, literally, a hundred minutes of agony over the course of the festival.
  • Willingness to grant sexual favours for tickets. I'm not getting action any other way, so why not?
  • Only 2 midnight-to-9 a.m. turnarounds in the whole festival. Even if I'm waking up at 8:30 after a midnight, it beats the shit outta waking up at 7.
  • On-the-fly single-take podcasting in Garage Band. Works a hell of a lot faster than the other way. Today's moviesTO #44, for example, took only the twenty minutes it took to say it all out loud. (And then 40 minutes to encode the file, of course.) I'm sort of amazed that I pulled it off vocally but really... favourite show ever? May actually be.

Man. It's sunny, I'm full of Burrito, I've got Lost Girls in my bag and I'm going to see Time in a few minutes. Right now I'm having a conversation about Macs and free Wi-Fi while writing this post and checking my e-mail on my gloriously Hermionefied new Macbook. FREE WI-FI. Sweet mamalucien, everything's coming up Milhouse.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring banana phone

Oh my god the new James Bond trailer. Oh my god.

The Beguiling claims to have Lost Girls in stock so I'm going to head out there early and grab it. They also claim that the Chapters order for the book won't be filled until December, so... same end of sentence. That'll make a good bit of porny porn to read in the ticket holders line methinks. Matty Price has my ticket for Time, making it a pretty solid six-film day. Here's yer Canoe-review:

Ten Canoes

Here we go again...

Into the river

Once you're in, you're in. It's moving faster than you expected, and you're already on your way. My two-ticket day became a four-ticket day by 6:00, and then my four-ticket day de-volved into a three-movie day. What?

I got to the Elgin at 1:30 or so and Matty Price and I took in The Magic Flute as our first film of the year. Good news: the TIFF trailer is only about six seconds long this year. Bad news: The Magic Flute is a lot longer than that. It takes about fifteen minutes for the charm to wear off and for you to remember "Oh yeah, I don't like opera." But it's too late. You're in the river.

From there I hop-skipped it up to the festival box office to return a few tickets and thereby cram a few more blank spots onto my festival pass. I wasn't two steps out the door when I got a call from MP saying that Erik had snagged us our Borat tickets for the night - a dodgy proposition given that it had somehow become the single hottest ticket in town. (More later.) I went into HANA, and then used my new Borat-rush-line-free chunk of time to rush Ten Canoes instead. Got to talking with a fairly adorable girl in the rush line, but naturally only in the last two minutes before the line went in, and then - equally naturally - I got stopped at the door for pass trouble. The guy at the booth insisted that there were no more tickets available on my pass, which was patently untrue; I insisted otherwise, and we went back and forth on the "I'm right!" / "No, I'm right!" crap for a minute or two before he finally went quiet, spent five minutes digging through the computer, and gave me my ticket. No harm.

Ten Canoes was more my speed, though it's the only review you won't be reading tonight. I strode over to the Ryerson from the Varsity, met up with Dexter from work in the line, along with the ever-radiant Candace Day. Then it was joining up with my friends, offering to fellate Erik right there on the street, and laughing about the fact that one of the few gels not banned on American flights right now is 4 oz of personal lubricant.

But Borat. What the fuck.

This would have been the strangest Midnight Madness of my life, regardless of what happened later. A three hundred person rush line. A throng of people chanting "BORAT!" at the red carpet. And Sacha Baron Cohen showing up in character, and riding a fucking horse. The screening did not start at midnight. Hell, I don't think it started at 12:30. The screening only got started after the inside of the Ryerson basically ate itself alive in a Borat frenzy for about 40 minutes or so.

And then, 20 minutes into the show, the projector broke.

And then Michael Moore stormed the projection booth, prompting us to start rumours that he was doing a documentary on the Kazhakstani government's ongoing efforts to shut Borat down for good.

And then the Amazing Mesmeronic started doing his fucking presto magicko shit on the ground floor.

And then Larry Charles started doing shtick on stage.

And then... and then... and then...

No Borat for you.

Poor Colin. My heart just goes out to him. This was the biggest night in the history of Midnight Madness and right now he must just feel like the whole world showed up to eat his asshole (but not in a nice way). In some entirely inconsequential way I can relate. But fuck, I love that guy to tears. What a great show he's put on this year.

By the time we were out of there, I felt so fucking punch-drunkenly dazed that I pretty much couldn't make intelligent conversation with Jenny from blogTO, who we happened upon on the street. I jumped in a cab and hightailed it back here, scarfed down a PB&H in three bites because, oh, I forgot to eat since breakfast, and now I'm here.

Just got e-mail from Matthew: Time tix available for the morning. Here we go...

Reviews:

The Magic Flute

HANA

September 6, 2006

I can get you off. Maybe not the boat...

Rapid blogging facilitated by irritating, Bendis-like "ITEM!" bullets:

ITEM!: I've been hired full-time at my job. This means I am no longer contract. This also means, as they usedtacould say, I am well taken care of. This also means that 2006 is now officially a lost year. This also means that I have no idea what I'm doing next or even if I'm still technically "me." This also means angst, but well-taken-care-of angst. So really, I don't know what to feel.

ITEM!: Development art for Tederick.com's new cartoon, Erin is Really Really Tall. Not sure if it will be an ongoing series or just a one-off:

ITEM!: This new, gimp-less Dr. House has "jump the shark" written all over it. I dunno, the premiere was pretty good, but they had better have a damn good idea of where they're going with this or the show will be dead by season's end.

ITEM!: Someone called me at my desk today and tried to poach me out of my job, not 24 hours after I'd signed my offer letter. So clearly, the word is out on me.

ITEM!: Over the weekend I put some time into character development for the comic book that Chad and I are working on. The working title for the book is Terra, though evidently there's another comic with that name so that might change to Sweaty Ballsack. Or something else. Anyways like I said I did some character development, and fell ass over teakettle in love with two of our lead characters... one of whom is sort of the obvious "Gee Matt's in love with that character? Stunning" and the other one not so much. So that was fun. It's a different writing approach for me, given that I'm actually planning before drafting, etc. Oh and also there's this Chad guy. Working with a partner? Doesn't suck.

ITEM!: Standoff rough cut is done. Lots of work to do but the movie has a shape. And it's only missing two key transitions this time, instead of my usual eight or nine. Yay storyboards.

EXTREME STEVE!!!! episode thirteen

September 5, 2006

Runaways down.

In the shit-suckiest news in the history of shit-sucky news, or at least since Angel got cancelled, Vaughan and Alphona leave Runaways in just five damn issues. I cannot freaking stand it. If Joss Whedon himself takes over the book I'll still be depressed about this for a year. There is so much left for them to do here. We're just getting started.

The book keeps going, of course, but if the Runaways/Young Avengers cross is any indication, it just isn't anywhere close to the same.

Sorry Tederick.comkateers, I would post more - there is lots more to post - but it's just way too much going on right now. There will be blogging aplenty during the film festival, I assure you, and hopefully a surprise or two tomorrow.

September 4, 2006

The Crocodile Hunter is dead

Holy crap that sucks.

September 3, 2006

If I wanted to play the lottery, I would play the lottery. Oh wait: I do play the lottery.

I got my picks back... I knew I was in trouble when I heard that box 27 got processed early yesterday morning, and I was still waiting for mine at 3:30 today. They finally came in just now as I was continuing to watch Café Lumiere - irony! - and now I'm just trying to put the pieces together here. Not a complete and utter bloodletting but still with some key, key holes in the programme. No Time, for example, and no Borat, making my first two rush lines of the fest, in the first two days. Didn't get Ten Canoes - which sucks - or 2:37, or Stranger than Fiction or The Fountain. No Vanaja for me, which bothers me more than I thought it would - that one I may try to rush. Unfortunately D.O.A.P. looks like a lost cause because that thing is getting wayyyy too much press to be rushable. And I'm trying to finagle Summer '04 tickets for the second Saturday. I can't not see the flick that has the phrase "nuclear sexual flowering" in the program notes.

Bright side: Pan's Labyrinth, Princess, Deliver Us From Evil, the John Waters evening, Rescue Dawn, Sleeping Dogs Lie, U, The Killer Within, Shortbus, The Last Winter, L'Intouchable, London to Brighton, and Taxidermia all good to go, along with many others. Happy festivaling.

Editing and illicit substance abuse do not mix.

Well after wasting a clean month+ whinging about my not-to-be one-minute movie, I'm finally cutting Standoff. It's going very well. Given the amount of time that's gone by I really should have just dumped all the footage over to the Macbook and used it to teach/refresh myself on Final Cut Pro, but oh well, it'll be my last Premiere project instead. I just finished the assembly cut, snipping the available footage down from 52 minutes to about 8. So far so good. I'm doing this cut with no sound at all, because all the sound's going to have to be replaced anyway and I'd rather not have to worry about syncing up the dialogue and so on and so forth. I'm liking this approach - it lets me concentrate on the pure graphic matches and not so much on "story." It also lets me listen to other music while slapping the footage together which creates some interesting tonal refreshers in the scenes - you learn new things about your footage if you're looking at it while listening to gentle underscore from Return of the Jedi, for example, or if some latter-day Madonna comes up in the middle of a bit of ultraviolence.

Some of the footage is just fucking savage. Like, I can't believe two people actually did this live, with no stunt training and no safety precautions. I am a very bad person in a lot of ways. But my movie is good. And I'm going to score the flick with my didgeridoo, which I'm really looking forward to, and probably dedicate it to all the meanness and rage in the universe, because that seems to be where it came from.

September 2, 2006

Would you like fries with that worldview?

Yesterday I met a really amazing misogynist, one of those guys who will never even understand that he's little more than a footsoldier in the patriarchal cold war, spending his days making sure everybody's bodies are shaped like everyone else's and colour-coding physical fitness like fucking national terrorism threat level. ("You're fat. Condition orange!!") He opened the conversation with the old chestnut about how women in fact have three weeks of PMS - one before the period, one during, and one after - leaving only one functional week of "normal" behaviour. (In this model, I guess that would be the ovulation week, a.k.a. the only week where he gets laid.) I've always found that concept fascinating anyway, even in the presumption that there's a) "normal" psychology, b) that men and women would have the same "normal" psychology (and that when a woman slips the norm she's, as they used to say, "hysterical"), and c) fuck you. It kind of went downhill from there. I almost left after fifteen minutes. I was in a really bad mood anyway after the day I had (BOX 14?!?!) and not in any kind of shape to deal with all the moronium. But I stuck it out and eventually (co-)won the night with my Balderdash masterstroke: defining the word macrocarpa as "An enclosure of soldiers protected from enemy artillery by lateral reinforcement." Read that sentence carefully and you may notice that it doesn't even make sense, let alone refer to the word it's supposedly defining. Sweet linguistic jumping jacks.

It's cold out. I shall make banana bread.

I can still remember what space tasted like

I suppose I oughta weigh in on the whole revised special effects for Classic Trek issue. On the basic artistic/historical level I just don't care. The original versions continue to be preserved appropriately in the digital media, and Paramount/CBS' desire to futz with the resolution and effects really does nothing to take away from the technological resourcing of the genuine article. It just proves, as has been proven for a clear decade now, that they have no real idea of how to manage the property. So fuck 'em.

But here's the thing: I'm watching "Where No Man Has Gone Before" on DVD right now just for the hell of it... and it's not even that I'll always prefer this version, but more that the sheer flavour of the show - and the experience of Star Trek itself by extension - will always be bound up in the sights, sounds, and textures of that oblique, simplistic 1960s production style. Something about watching space exploration, even on this limited visual level, feels more real than anything they churned out in four years of the godawful Enterprise show. It makes me feel about space and the Star Trek universe what I did when I was a kid, when I was devouring pulp novels and VHS tapes and inventing a whole cosmology in my mind that was endlessly more exciting and brave than anything they ended up creating since about the fourth season of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Maybe that's a boon of bad special effects - they suggest rather than enforce, inspire rather than conclude. Paramount and CBS will do what they must, as they always have. But this thing is not that thing, any more. Strange that the 23rd century should live so resiliently in the 20th, and not be able to join us in the 21st.

Yes this is a long way of saying I wish I was at the Comic/Sci-Fi Expo today. But I'm not, so...

September 1, 2006

Red September

It's all happening now. I've got my picks to drop off at this way-too-early hour, I've got my brand-spankity red Metropass for the month of my birth, I've got big red X's on my calendar at work counting down until I'm free-mercifully-free, I've got cold air and hot showers and a generally good feeling about this. This is my favourite time of year.

Tederick.com hits the big time over at blogTO today: I'm interviewed for the blogerati files, an ongoing column by Lily Dustbin about Toronto-based blogs. I tried to be effortlessly hilarious.... though it might have come off more like cunningly dyspeptic. Please leave comments and make me seem cool.

When my body complains about the lack of sleep this week, I just remind it that all this is merely a preview of the lack of sleep in the two weeks coming.

moviesTO #43: TIFF Rising

Okay, I'm just going to say it: Garage Band is freaking nightmarish. For podcasting, anyway, that program is Satan's work on the planet Earth for the year of its release. Who in the name of sweet funct came up with this??? And for the love of all that's holy and right, WHY?!

I'm going to have to completely change the way I approach the podcast in order to overcome the astonishing gaps in common sense over at Mac Mothership. In the meantime, I rattled off the fruits of the past 48 hours of labour by picking and panning from the festival guide for TIFF 2006. And that, as they say, is that.

Click here to deal with it.