Boondock Saints

Yes, the first one. No, I had never seen it before. Please get all your sin and sacrilege responses out now.

Feel better? Good. Let's move on.

A little bit of background, for the books. The 1999 film The Boondock Saints is the comedic and action-packed brainchild of writer and director Troy Duffy, for whom I gained an insane amount of respect in the span of approximately two hours. I can't even touch on how many aspects of this movie I adored, so you're just going to have to put up with me when I say "all of them." Especially the (SHOCKER) Willem Dafoe in drag there in the end. Not gonna lie. I just about busted a lung I was laughing so hard. [Mostly at myself: for a split second there I actually thought it was a woman.]

Speaking of Willem Dafoe, oh gracious, what a wonderful cast! And Mr. Dafoe was not even the most exciting star-stud it featured. Billy Connelly was, honest to god, the last person I expected to appear in an action flick, especially this one, so when I realized it was him I thought it was Christmas. He was fantastic as Il Duce (which I believe translates to 'the Duke'), and he, now he had a great plot twist. I will actually try and stay mute as to the majority of the twists in this one, being they're just too delicious. The aforementioned Willem Dafoe played a fabulous [and I mean insert rainbows here kind of fabulous, though the character himself certainly did NOT accept the existence of said rainbows until the very last minute] FBI agent with just a twist of insanity. Overall, wonderful performance. And then there were Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus as the MacManus brothers. They were funny, convincing siblings in all the right ways, as well as solemn and poised. Their banter was fantastically delivered and their characters were flawless: their personalities were even projected in their stances and walks.

I especially appreciated the use of Irish-Catholic heritage and faith as a device in The Saints' killings. The coins over the eyes were a nice touch. The rosaries were nicer. The family prayer was my favorite. And, as though the brothers needed one more thing make them wholly inseparable, their hand tattoos, one reading Veritas, the other Aequitas, or Truth and Justice, were a wonderful choice. I also approved, then, of Il Duce's tatoo on his hand, though I couldn't determine quite what it was.

To note, the whole idea of killing in the name of god usually doesn't sit well with me. For some reason, in this case, it did. Yes it was vigilantism, but somehow it felt right, necessary, in the context of the world woven by the film. The Saints were undeniably heroes in my mind, though they were perhaps a little bumbling, like all human beings can be, and terrifyingly absolute in their judgment. Perhaps it was the light nature of the film's tone on the whole that made me glide over this particular age-old quip of mine. But whatever the reason, I loved the MacManus brothers, and I don't think anything is going to change that.

Overall, glorious, amusing, wonderful, IRISH, mob-gang-decimating good fun.
I can't wait to see it again, and I would recommended it a hundred fold.

And shepherds we shall be,
for Thee, my Lord, for Thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand,
that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.
So we shall flow a river forth to Thee
and teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

The Riverrun Trilogy: Yestern by S.P. Somtow

Praise the unlikely triple-goddess, it's over! I cannot believe the sheer volume of time it took me to finish this trilogy. It was by no means due to the quality of its writing, nor its content: life got in the way, and that was the only obstacle.

Though perhaps a tad bit convoluted at times, The Riverrun Trilogy was, in all, an excellent read. The writing is disarming for two reasons, in my mind, however. For one, the first person perspective switches constantly. I wasn't in love with the idea at first, but it made the end of Yestern: it would have been an entirely ineffective literary climax without it. The other factor, which I did not fully acknowledge until the end (go figure) is that it's written in present-tense. I am not a fan of present-tense, so S.P. Somtow, wherever you are, I commend you: you used it effectively and without driving me crazy.

I also must give credit where credit is due: the Whitmoosh Award for knowledge of a little bit of everything in (at least) this universe goes to S.P. Somtow. I have not seen so many mythological, philosophical, and pop-culture elements implemented and referenced in one space. In that court, bravo!

In retrospect, I can think of very little to criticize. There are some themes I thought a tad bit unnecessary - the emphasis on incest could have been less-so, even if the characters tried to justify it with "we were gods at the time" or some variation on "Greek and classical mythology are full of it." But ultimately, this is a rather small complaint in a sea of compliment: the books were marvelously executed, and, for the most part, kept me on the edge of my seat.

A recommended read, but be warned: heere there be were-dragons and a whole lot more. not for the faint of heart.

Ink

I wish I could have captured my first impressions about this glorious and strange film right as they occurred, but alas, fate did not tend that way. Since I do not have my initial impressions and reactions, I will offer first facts and then recollections.

In the facts department, Ink was released in 2009 and appears to be entirely thanks to the handiwork of Jamin Winans. The film is produced by his production company, Double Edge Films with the aid of Kiowa K. Winans. It was written and directed by Jamin Winans, and the score was composed by him as well. It leaves a very distinct "what CAN'T he do?" feeling.

Now the recollections. My first recollection is how sheerly visual the film was. At first I found myself wondering if it were going to be so abstract as to have no dialog at all. Even then I found it had nothing wanting: the aesthetics are incredibly engaging, as are the dynamics of the forces at work. The Storytellers, Incubi, and Ink himself are all terribly fascinating to look at and watch, and thereby they are ideal. My favorite aspect of the movie by far was the design: it had me wanting to run off and make things, which is increasingly the sensation I get when I really, really enjoy something.

The concept was also superb. It was certainly surreal enough for me. In some capacity it reminded me of The Fountain, and in another of Neil Gaiman's Sandman. For fear of spoiling anything, I'll avoid saying much more, but it was, in my experience, one of those stories which only makes sense at the very last moment, and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

The actors, too, were remarkably good. The only complaint I lodge on this front is with the Drifters (Steven Brown and Shauna Earp). Though they were described as poorly acted to me, I don't think they were so much poorly done as overdone. I didn't mind them too terribly most of the time. I think I'd have to see the film again to have a real opinion on this front. On the other hand, the rest of the cast was glorious. I especially liked Jeremy Make as Jacob, also known as The Pathfinder. He was excellent. And, though it was a short-lived appearance, Jeffrey Richardson's Incubus Prince was glorious. I would have loved to see more of him. Then again, I love antagonists.

In the end, I was impressed with how poignant and heartfelt this movie was. It kindof blindsided me, and it was a pleasant surprise, indeed.

Links for your convenience and leisure:
See the trailer here at TrailerAddict.com
The film is available to purchase through Amazon, as well as through the Official Ink Website.
IMDb is perfectly thorough, and Wiki is busy discussing it as well (just for you, my wiki-addict reader: you know who you are)
And last but certainly not least, if you're interested in Double Edge, pay them a visit right here on Blogspot!

Stay thirsty, my friends.

Toy Story 3

I don't even really know what to say about this film. It was beautiful and heart-wrenchingly sad like a Pixar movie ought to be, and I cried in the theatre, just like I ought to.

I am going to refrain from discussing any details because I absolutely refuse to spoil any of this movie for anyone, so sorry, but this will be incredibly brief and potentially even sparse.

(It helps that it's been a few days between when I saw it and when I wrote this entry. Apologies.)

I think the only issue I had in any sense with the film or its presentation was this: that it was only available in 3D. I mean really. I don't understand the appeal. I'd love to hear people's thoughts on it, because it just doesn't do anything for me. Not for Avatar, not for Alice in Wonderland, and certainly not for this. For me, a movie experience is enhanced by a large screen, good sound, and being able to share it with people I care about, the latter being the most essential. And, while I'm at home, the people I most readily share movies with are my parents: 3D gives my mom headaches and my dad simply can't see 3D films, so in the end it hinders far more than enhances.

But, a la Casanova, I have too long dominated the conversation; what are your thoughts on the matter?

Just a Thought

You know, I’ve always considered Brom’s The Plucker to be a sort of Toy-Story-Gone-Wrong, but, after watching Toy Story and Toy Story 2 in marathon (gearing up for seeing the new one tomorrow), I can’t help but think that if Woody and Buzz ever met this they’d be scared shitless. I mean really – a Jack in the Box who is infused with the essence of Banshee and armed with a sword and poisoned pin? Seriously. And Jack’s the GOOD guy.

Just sayin’.

Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice

Entry No. 4 in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (OSF) 2010 Recollection Series.

This being the first time I have ever encountered this text in any format, I warn you, dear readers: this may look more like musings and ramblings than a review.

I would like to think that Shakespeare wrote this play is order to spur conversation and debate. In fact, I'd wager the true performance here occurs after the curtain call - in the reactions of those who were of late in attendance and applause.

What struck me most was that there was only one character in the main cast who I found truly likable: Basanio. His only fault that I can see was haste without discretion and foolishness to trust a woman he'd not known previously (we must assume, or at least not to any great extent) to love him simply because he won her in accordance with her father's will. But this is pardonable by comparison.

I feel sorry for Antonio that his (in this production) obviously romantic feelings for Basanio came to nothing at all [what is it with Antonios? First the pirate and now this! And both in trade, of sorts. I wonder. Was one or both Antonios (be they perhaps in reference to an original) comparable to a summer's day?] and I feel sorry he resigned himself to die. However, I do not in the least feel sorry for him in light of his blatant prejudice and harmful, open discrimination, "climate of the times" be damned. Likewise, I feel sorry for Shylock's oppression due to his religion and the pain it causes him, but I can by no means pity his open greed and his lack of grief for the loss of his daughter rather than his duckets. And additionally, of Portia I can pity her predicament at being the grand prize in some shell-game contrivance of her father's, but I cannot help but be appalled by all her other dealings in the play: deceiving her husband on a whim, preaching mercy yet showing none, and being constantly swayed by prejudice and hatred.

I fully understand that this is a work more relevant to our times than many would be comfortable with admitting. I can see that, and I openly acknowledge it. As a text it is something which is timeless and thereby invaluable, and I commend all directors, designers, artists, participants for attempting to drive that point home by anachronistic integration (the costumes, for example, were a blend of Renaissance Italy and present-day Europe: my best example will once again be Basanio, who cut a fine figure in a blue leather doublet with detachable shoulders, black riding boots, a white shirt with a button-down collar, and blue jeans): you did your jobs well.

At last I think I come to my point, in a roundabout kind of fashion, as seems to be usual for me now. I think I am so unsettled by this work because although the aim was to have this piece hang somewhere in the interim where past and present are seem at once like two panes of different colored glass held to light [for blue and yellow do indeed make green] in some brilliant stroke of fantasy, the cruelty in the actions and words was all too human, and all too real. So I beseech not only myself, but others, though to few ears and to the world in general, if it had a mind to hear me: learn from that cruelty. Acknowledge it, and know it can bring no good.

But then again, how precious few look to do things for "good"s sake alone.

In short, my readers, a grim kind of not-quite-fiction, human through and through, and absolutely food for thought.

Shakespeare's Hamlet

Entry No. 3 in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (OSF) 2010 Recollection Series.

There is always a certain dubiousness one encounters upon realizing a shakespeare is done out of its time. It is never, for me, a question of "purity" of the work, rather, "is it done well?"

Well. In the case of OSF 2010's production of Hamlet, yes, yes it is done very well indeed. In fact, out of all the years I've attended OSF, this year's Hamlet has certainly been one of their best shows, and one of the best shows I've seen in my life.

This is owed in part to Dan Donohue, who played the title role with skill, grace, and above all else, passion. In 2007 I saw him play opposite John Tufts' Romeo as a motorcycle jacket-clad Mercutio. I've admired his style and ability ever since. I could go on about Donohue all day, but suffice it to say he played an intense and intensely convincing Hamlet.

The rest of the cast was likewise brilliant. Susannah Flood as Ophelia, especially, was impressive. In the end, it was the integrity of the actors which made this play what it was. All else I will discuss later, but the actors, their passion, and skill where what gave me chills and ultimately what moved me to tears. (I will admit to losing it when Horatio spoke: "Goodnight, sweet prince. Angels sing thee to thy rest," as well as in the end, where Old Hamlet's ghost appeared to hold his dead son in his arms under a single, stark spotlight. Oh, and of course when Horatio tries to poison himself to follow his closest friend to the grave.)

But enough of that: there's a lot of ground to cover with this one.

Hamlet had my second favorite Ashland set ever (second only to the aforementioned 2006 performance of Jekyll and Hyde). Its diversity and changeability left nothing at all to be desired. Nor, on the subject, did the costumes. It was admittedly disarming at first to imagine and then see Hamlet in a perfectly modern black suit and sunglasses, but in the end it suited him marvelously. The portrayal of Horatio as a sort of roadside scholar and sometime hitchhiker was equally disarming and then endearing (the glasses were a great touch).

And the lighting! I could go on for pages. An example: the low, dim lighting of the scene following the play within the play, Hamlet vowing to use words only and not weapons when he goes to speak with his mother, then suddenly seizing the dagger anyway and plunging offstage with an almost animal cry of "MOTHER," and, just as suddenly, the low lights on stage extinguish at the same instant that the house is plunged into light! (I gasped aloud and jumped, neither of which happen very often with live theatre.) And what, instant intermission? it was great. As was the introduction of hip-hop for the players (don't worry, I frowned when I first read it, too: trust me, it worked), but that's another matter entirely.

In short, everything was fabulous, but a few more tidbits and things I want to remember, before I go:

One. Old Hamlet was portrayed as deaf. He and Hamlet conversed in sign-language, Hamlet only relaying bits and pieces of what his father told him to the audience. He also had a habit of occasionally punctuating his conversations with other characters with a sign or two, placing special emphasis and usually anger on certain words and moments. This even deeper connection between father and son - this absolute fluency that not even the audience was privy to - was powerful.

Two. Hamelt's antics with scissors when feigning madness. It went something like this: Hamlet's repeated line of "except my life" (suggesting self-slaughter, see Act 2) was accompanied with a slow advance on Polonius. Hamlet held a pair of scissors at eye level as though ready to kill him then and there and have done with it. After he stopped and fell silent, rather than strike, he abruptly cut off Polonius' necktie and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world (but not without a hint of thoughtfulness), used it as a bookmark.
I also enjoyed later that all Hamlet had to do to make Polonius back off was to snip his scissors at him once.

Three. The choice of casting Rosencrantz and Guildenstern not only as women, but as a lesbian couple. It was a take I had never thought of and certainly have never seen before: the innovation was refreshing.

Four. Everything else.

Do You know me, sir?
I do, sir.
Do you?
Aye: you are a fish-monger.