A Cold Day In Hell

I wake up, wiping sweat with my hands as my eyes get used to the lack of light around me. Something glitters, off in the distance. Something...green. I reach out in front of me to a dark empty space. I make out a small dark lit room with a bed, two night tables at my left and a television set at my right. I'm in a motel room.

"Thought you'd never wake up"

Someone's in the room with me....a woman. She's staring out the window into the abysmal night from where a neon green light shines at us. Her voice is low and swift, like swiping through water. I try to compose myself. I'm in a couch sitting in the dark looking straight at her. I'm wearing a suit, it feels uncomfortable. The air is stale and hot, dry like my throat.

"Go clean up to the bathroom, we have to go"

I want to talk but the words don't come out. My mouth feels sore and stingy. Swallowing what feels like razorblades, I stumble to an awkward stand as I notice my whole body aches. My legs and shoulders hurt, my arms are void of strength, my hands feel weird and my head hurts. Bad.

I turn to see a door, open it and head for the sink. I turn on the lights, turn on the faucet, and wash my face and mouth. I'm wearing a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. The shirt has blood on it. I look up to find my image in the mirror in front of me after being able to see properly. It scares me.

The left side of my face is bruised and my beard is full grown. It wasn't when I went to bed. But the bruising is bad. Either I was being a very naughty boy or someone really doesn't like me.

I fall back into the room shaking at the sight of my shiners were the woman stands taking puffs out of a cigarette looking cool and pretty. Her image somehow begs the question -how much is a night with her worth- but her eyes suggests I just signed my soul to the devil. She doesn't fit with any of it. Not this room, not with me, not with those clothes.

I look at her and at the room, I know I'm not dreaming but I don't even dare ask her where I am. My heart is pounding and my left side feels heavy, stiff. Like something's pressing on my ribs.

"Shape up Tommy, we gotta make bail"

I smell alcohol in my clothes and wonder why am I bruised like this, why my shirt has blood on it, whose blood is it. My throat still feels like I swallowed a sword. With certain reluctance I muster -Greg- and sit on the bed for a while. She just says -What?- as I try to pick my thoughts and make up from down.

"My name is Greg"

A part of me expected her to say I was being stupid or crazy or tell me to stop playing, after all, she did call me Tommy with certain confidence. Instead a silence overwhelms the room till I finally look back at her and confront her stare. Now she's scared, mute standing in the middle of the room with the window looking out into the street. -Stand up- she says dry and cutting unlike before.

She doesn't pace her steps anymore and rushes me out the door, down the hallway, down the stairs to the parking lot towards a light brown Lincoln. She looks at me and asks -What's my name?- to which I stare at her, unable to respond. She's scared. She looks everywhere before popping up the trunk of the car. Motions me to look inside and says

"I know how this might look, but you told me to show you this if necessary. Tommy, we have to get out of here, now!"

There's a man inside the trunk. His jaw is bent out of place, his eyes are white, the head is twisted in a funny looking way as is the rest of his body, some bones are visibly broken and there's a deep cut in his neck. Real deep, almost decapitated. He's missing an ear and there's dry blood everywhere.

But the truly shocking thing at that moment isn't that I'm looking at a brutally murdered man, or the fact that I'm far away from home, or the woman, or the bruises, or the suit or the motel, but that I know this guy. I'm picturing him in my mind, fully dressed in business attire, with glasses waving his hand, extending it to meet mine. I know him, I know who he was and I know I did this to him. I tortured and killed a man.

I can picture my hands around his neck. I look at my hands; there are tattoos on my knuckles. On my left hand there are the four suits of a poker deck and on my right hand there are several markings on the backside of my palms.

The knuckles on both hands are scratched and worn closely to the bone. I take a look at the body, then at my surrounding in search for anything that can tell me were I am. It's very dark. I look at the plaques in the car and they read NEVADA, but around me there are forest-like areas. I'm not anywhere in Nevada.

I look at the woman who's now standing still on the side of the car, smoking frenetically. I move up to her. With the help of the light from the neon sign, I can see her eyes are glassy and bloodshot. She's taking drags off the cigarette and looking worried. She's also lightly bruised.

In the subsecuent rush in my mind, I'm still picturing the man in the trunk and how he looked like alive. I see him one more time. There's no way I can know how this man looked like when he was alive just by looking at the body. No one could.

I could run, shout, head the other way. I still feel something pressing at my ribs. Something is pressing at my ribs. I put my hand on over my coat and I feel it. I don't even have to look inside, I know it's there. For a brief second I wonder if it's loaded.

I move towards the woman, ask her name. Her glassy beautiful eyes look back at me. No doubt she's trouble. She stays still, swallows and says -Monica-. I grab the cigarette in her hand, take a drag and ask for the keys. I open her door and as she gets inside I get a strange feeling. I move on to the driver's seat and open the door.

Right before I get inside something stings and I turn around abruptly. Nothing. I move on, get inside, turn on the engine. It's all too natural. I drive out the parking lot and into the highway. I know I'm far away from home, have been for long judging by my clothes and beard. I know I'm in trouble, with someone.

I know I did that to the man in the trunk. But the only thing I'm feeling, the only hunch so far, was that someone's watching me. Back at the motel, before I got into the car, I could feel someone's eyes searing at my back.

We're a couple of miles away from the motel, none says anything. She looks forward without a peep coming out of her mouth. I can't even hear her breathing. Maybe because I'm having trouble hearing anything other than my own. A gun rests inside my coat against my ribs, I might need it. There's a dead man on the trunk and I'm making a run for somewhere at 2:45 in the morning.

I can't shake the feeling that someone's watching me.

A Cold Day In Hell revised

FRIENDS AND FOES! BEWILDERING CREATURES OF CREATION! MY MOST BEAUTIFUL AQUAINTANCES!

I welcome you and all to a dark universe in which shadows hide dangers far beyond the reaches of the human mind and night seems to be the perpetual state of time. Reality seems tainted by the sins of men and madness creeps behind every step you take. WELCOME, be you all, TO A PLACE that would put FUN HOUSES to shame!!!!

Welcome, to the stage and chamber in which you shall play your biggest role yet.
A museum of sorts, should you look at the walls. Thou shall findeth that the doors..are...CLOSED!!!

Nobody escapes; nobody ever gets out, not before the trail, not before the laughs. A place built for, and BY, paranoid schizophrenics with delusions of being chased and split personality disorders. A look in the mirror means a look at your face or a sentence for life.

Crowded streets that turn empty at a sway of your feet, madmen leading a turbulent carnival at your expense.

I WELCOME YOU, to my world.

A world of deceit and black magic. A place without real love. Were innocent men mingle with troubled women and fall into a spiraling vortex of DOOM. This is my home, this is the place.

Night never ends in the FILM NOIR universe.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally, after a year put on hold, the subject has surfaced again. In my not-so-meticulous-though-I-rather-wish-it-was mission to shed some light on movie matters I have failed on previous occasions to make an honorable mention at one of cinema's most beloved genres and for the matter one of my own favorites.
Film Noir has raged and evolved in such a manner without actually loosing it's essence to which an unaccountable number of followers and scholars have broken time barriers. Here I am, for example, now 21 and clamoring at something long before my time. It wouldn't surprise me there were younger persons, perhaps ignorant to the fact that they also love the genre.

The thing is that, you can't overlook the superb quality in the storytelling of a Film Noir. I am one of the many who had no fucking clue I loved it after some time. I believe my first encounter with the subject was, and I shit-you-not, in a Garfield cartoon.

First, some history...and I promise it won't be shitty.

Back in the 1940's, even when Technicolor technology already existed (which means movies could be in color now, and did for over 20 years) some studios started distributing movies that used black and white filters. Not only that, as time would tell, but they also made some unusual uses of low-key lighting to create heavy shadows and dim scenarios. The obvious was that the movies had a darker, somber tone to them.

The visual symbols were plain. Film Noir, literally translated to Black Film. But the darkness did go beyond just the lighting, it went to the storytelling, to the cast and script and circumstances.

Movie critics, connoisseurs and the public in general started noticing the sudden back trail at the colorless features and notices one too many aspects in the films. Finally a French critic named Nino Frank baptized the genre as Film Noir.

Now to get real dirty, Film Noir has stretched to unimaginable lengths when dealing with characters and storylines, yet keeps a distinctive feeling to all. The movies dealt, in their majority, with subjects close to the decay of human nature.

Almost all are crime dramas, with the main characters being the average Joe, the hardboiled detective or the ambivalent gangster. All cut by the same knife, middle age men who were hard drinkers and chain smokers with questionable morals drawn to attractive women, who meant trouble, and trouble in general.

They would always be drawn to situations where the world was directly or indirectly against them. They were the good guys even though they were the bad guys. They were tough and loners, standing ground for no one but themselves and the few people they actually trusted (which in most movies turned up dead).

Fighting rackets, mob guerrillas, vicious scumbags from all sorts and sizes and in general falling desperately into a viper’s nest, a wolf’s lair. The dragon’s mouth. Street wise and able to withstand anything from a beating to a heavy dosage of mind alliterating drugs. These were the heroes; scruff, dirty, mean and real, these were the ones whom I believed in, unlike the pristine ones.

The women were trouble because they meant business. Film Noir never knew such a thing as the weaker sex. Sometimes they were straight up bad ass, others they used their sexuality coming on as fragile and naïve when in reality they were…well…bad. And then there were the times when they were the criminal masterminds, plotting to commit a crime and get away with it, letting some poor sap take the fall. These were the femme fatales, women who were as smart as they were sexy. And shit bang, were this women hot.

The dialogues were jewels. Over the top, 50’s urban oriented lingo; like wise guy talk. The detectives talked like the scumbags they were after and all of this, you can bet you sweet ass to more, to a Jazzy, cool soundtrack.

Film Noir saw its run end somewhere among the 1950’s after stories of ruthless cops, corrupt cities, dangerous good looking dames, criminal masterminds and a solitary all-for-nothing-no-holds-barred detective or their criminal counterpart that drew the line somewhere who fought all the previous were no longer interesting…

..Or so it was thought.

Film Noir resurfaced as Neo-Noir which in turn branched into a serious of noir oriented movies that go from the Sci-Fi Noir (Terminator, Blade Runner), Psycho Noir (Blue Velvet), and a weird but subtle, neo-noir of sorts called by Wikipedia parody noir of which stands out the, and I quote, quintessential Neo-noir of the 70’s.
Not for nothing it’s my favorite movie of all times.

Modern day, Noir based works of art could be found in Sin City (both the graphic novel and the movie), Max Payne (The videogame, not the shitball fucked up movie), some Batman works (The Long Halloween for example) and of course, the classics. I loved it, all my life, because I saw something in these people. Perhaps it was the fact they weren’t muscle masses like most action heroes whom I saw a definite line of separation. Maybe it was the cool atmosphere of cigarette smoke, whisky glasses and Jazz tunes. It could’ve even been the lonely guys, fighting of the world and the shit, one dirty fuck at a time.

But I love it, none the less, and now I invite you to look out for one of cinema’s most beautiful, inventive and impressive genres.

A Year In Movies... Sorta...kinda... ALLRIGHT FINE, IT'S JUST ME BITCHIN' ABOUT A COUPLE OF MOVIES.

You know, to all there is I never really talked about Film Noir or the decay of modern cinema like I promised. Heck, I rarely ever write in here anymore. Figured people just don't seem to care much for anything not posted on facebook...Which is why I'll put this up there as soon as I'm done with it.

So....It's been quite a while. Matter of fact, it's been nearly a year since I did the Carlin piece. Took some time I guess and then I just plainly forgot. 'Lot of things happened since then and specially lot of movies came out. Some way more suckier than the rest. But what did stood out was amazing. Though, here's something I didn't expect even when some people had warned me about it.

Watchmen

There, I said it. Watchmen sucked, and for anyone in the know-how with this things, it really isn't a surprise. It was an ok movie, but Watchmen. Watchmen was something to get at, you know? in comic book terms, this was the adaptation that would've set the record straight. "Comics can be smart, who'd known?" people would say.

BUT NO, fuck that shit, we're stuck with the wannabe piece of crap delieverd by a fuckin' retard. I wrote once, I'll write it again. Zack Snyder, you're a fucking idiot...and I say that with love.

How was it? When he pitched the idea for watchmen, how did it went?

"300 was a FUCKING success!!!! (Money rolls). We HAVE to do something like that again"

"Well, Mr. Snyder, there are a number of graphic novels out there that you could ad..."

"NO TOMMY!!!!!, my wonderful assisntant, We won't just do any graphic novel adaptation, WE'LL DO A FUCKING MASTERPIECE!!!"

"Ummm, ok, may a suggest..."

"QUICLY TOMMY!!! What's the HARDEST.... no, that's not how it went ...

"QUICLY TOMMY!!! What's the MOST BELOVED COMIC BOOK IN THE HISTORY OF COMIC BOOKS!?!?!?"

"Well, sir, if I had to mention one, right out the top of my head...I guess Watch...."

"GREAT!!!!!!!!!!!! WE'LL DO THAT!!! QUICLY, CALL WARNER (or fox, however you wanna look at it), TELL 'EM WE GOT A GREAT-FUCKING-IDEA!!!!"

"Uhh...But, sir...Don't you think it would be a little hard to...."

"NONSENSE!!! It will be EPIC like EVERYTHING I direct"

"Uhh...ok...But, wouldn't you at least like to take a look at the novel to see if you'd wanna do it"

"...Hmmm, you got a point tommy, fine get me a copy"

(a few hours later)

"Let's see......girls, explosions, blood, end of the world, stuff I don't get.... :mummbles: ....uhh, OH MY SWEET GOD IN THE SKY, A BLUE PENIS!!!! I'LL MAKE THIS FILM"

and that's how it went. Seriously though, it was a good try. YEAH YEAH I KNOW I SAID IT SUCKED, but really, when it comes down to it, I read the fucking book, I know what happens. So even when I didn't get my favorite lines from the book in the movie, I still got to see firsthandendly, and bask, in thy fearfull simetry. Rorscharch people, he and Manhattan truly took the movie.

At least...I have that...And it would've been enough had it not been for the completely obnoxious and unecesary sex scene were Snidey took away all psychological depth and meaning when Night Owl and Silk Spectre (The second ones) had ominous sex to the beat of Hallelujah, or whatever the fuck that song is called.

Is ominous the right word for it. Don't know, don't care, Scene sucks. NOT sexy at all.

And Dragon Ball, does no one have any respect for fanboys and fangirls anymore? Snyder and Watchmen: The movie came out like Fellini and 8 1/2 compared to that irreverent piece of shit. Beyond shit, I mean the movie does it's best to suck, you get the idea it's a friggin parody or something. Goku is a pansy-ass angst-ridden teenager that can't get girls and can't do anything right? Bulma is an expert marksman, who misses every single little fucking shot? Yamcha is a Japanese surfer dude? chi chi (milk in mexico) is an asian hottie? pikolo is a fucking...something...

THE FUCKING LIST IS ETERNAL!!!! To say the least would be to say it sucks. They, somebody really really hit a nerve with that fucking movie. And people still want me to have faith on the american version of AKIRA. Oh yeah, pfff, sure. Go ahead, do that. Surely it won't be bad.

Tell you one thing, IT BETTER not be bad, because then legions of faithfull followers will do what they do best. Bitch.

Oh yes we will. We'll flod the hotlines and channels with constant ranting about how much did AKIRA sucked and it won't stop there. There'll be forums and mail petions and more forums and people will go on forever. SO IT BETTER BE, at least, VERY FUCKING DECENT.

You see, this is just part of what I mean when I say modern cinema has decayed. There's the casual flicker of light here and there but most of it is better still made up than adapted. A lot of movies have come on to suck, there hasn't been anything as epic as before, Pacino is loosing street cred, that can't be right.

The movie bussiness is certainly not what it used to be, at least by some standards. You still get your epic win here and there but seriously sometimes it's as if the people in charge wanted to make this about the benjamins and movies ain't completely about that. Real cinematographers do it for the lulz and for the prestige and for the inmortality of a realy good fuckin' story.

There hasn't been a clever long lasting Horror Flick in a long time. There hasn't been a truly epic war story in a while. A blissfull completely intelligent hillarious comedy...some people don't even know they exist. And it's all been thanks to the need for the green. What the fuck?

Still, light allways shines at the end of the tunnel. True, there may not be another Star Wars or Godfather saga in a nearby future or an Urban/in the Guetto story done with dignity or even a There's Something About Mary coming anytime soon, but there sure are good movies out there. One just has to find them.

Education helps, I mean if anyone went to see Fast and Furious and thought it was a masterpiece or a Wayne brothers production and thought it was a laugh riot and completely innovative then that somebody suffers from some sort of severe dumb-fuckness.

That's it for now people. Movies to see: Frost Nixon (Incredibly fucking brilliant), Miracle at St. Anne's or something like that (War movie aobut an african-american batallion, good), REC (spanish horror movie, later adapted into an american version called Quarantine; Both are just fucking spectacular), VickyChristinaVarcelona (I missed Woody Allen, good to have 'im back), etc...

There's several more, be sure of that, you just have to find 'em.

NEXT POST: FILM NOIR

That's it folks, good times, good year (school year) good everything.

Always Remember Who Is The Man That Set Me Free

I'll take a brief brake from the movie posts and the bitching for this...

Comedian extraordinaire, political and social satirist George Carlin Died last Sunday in the afternoon due to heart failure at the age of 71 in St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica, California.

I don't expect a lot of people to read this much less know who this man is, however, I'm pushed by my inner bastard to do this. Sort of a goodbye.

George Denis Patrick Carlin was born in Manhattan, New York on May 12, 1937. A high school dropout, Carlin found his true path when, after being discharged from the army, started as a comedy team alongside Jack Burns with whom he would perform until the early 60's.

After that came a line of live TV Shows before actually pursuing a career as a stand up comedian in the 70's. Carlin went off to become one of the most intriguing and groundbreaking performers in history, reaching mass popularity when his (at the time) controversial record "Class Clown" which featured the Seven Words You Can't Say On Television routine was broadcasted live from a public station in New York City and The FCC (people supposed to censor and regulate anything broadcasted on TV, Radio and Press) fined said station. The seven words were Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker and Tits.

Mr. Carlin was also the first person ever to host Saturday Night Live. I will repeat that. George Carlin was the man, THE man, to ever host the very first episode of Saturday Night Live. Beyond that, his professional life was primarily stand up routines with the addition of 4 published books, a collection of these including never before seen material and about 16 appearances on Film. He was named 2nd best comedian in Comedy Central's recount of the top 100 stand up comedians of all time. But that's just what he did, now let me tell you who he was.

Around my 16 years of age and 3rd semester of high school I was getting pretty much into pop culture and certain non-mainstream fads. One of them, was sketch, stand up and improv comedy. I would really much enjoy all the stuff from Jerry Seinfeld, later on Robin Williams, Gabriel Iglesias, The Original Kings of Comedy, The Original Queens of Comedy, anything by the guys at Def Jam comedy club, and my then favorite, George Lopez. All of them good in their own separate space. All of them talented, all of them pretty amazing as well. But none would compare to the moment I accidentally downloaded the whole You're All Diseased album.

The first time I listened to it I didn't know what to think. The man was a pessimist, way to pessimist. He was rude and raunchy and at moments even disgusting. That first time I heard Carlin speak, I couldn't believe that what he said came from an elderly man. Someone who opposes the establishment and says things pretty straight forward without breaking a sweat was new in my life. After I listened to the record for about 2 hours, I just sat there thinking, laughing still at some of the stuff he said. George Carlin went of to become one of my heroes.

I was a kid and different from who I am today. George Carlin was one of the many who help change my point of view about everything. He gave me something I had to seek and use and learn to use. Wit. He gave me courage, through his words. Unlike Hunter S. Thompson or Woody Allen or Stephen King, those guys gave me examples and ideas. I wish to be like them, but Carlin taught me how to function. I was shy before I knew about him, I was so self aware of stuff that didn't really mattered. I was weaker. Carlin gave me the push, gave me the help that nor my friends or my family could. I needed him.

Watching him on stage calm and non-threateaning gave me a new meaning of tough. He was tough, one of the toughest guys I'd ever known. Because he talked. He didn't moved a lot. He didn't shouted a lot. He wasn't buff or hard or, like I said, he didn't looked dangerous, but he was dangerous. He was blunt and crude and raw and tough. And that changed me. He was the first bastard I ever met, the first real bastard. Because this is how they come. They're not big, they're not physically strong. No, they're tough, they could stand a beating and scaring and torture but the way they'd talk to somebody could make you shiver in fear. The way he said things, the way he thought things.

He was a teacher to me like many have been teachers without them knowing so. He is the reason I write how I write. Free. I'm free because I listened to Carlin and I watched Kevin Smith movies and because I've been through grammer school and middle school and high school like any other kid went through those painfully embarrasing moments in which you don't stand up for yourself and everyone takes a toll on that. I've allways been a dork, but now I do stand up for myself and I do defend my ground and no one can shake me that easily. No one can get to me unless I let them and no one can scare me the way I used to get scared.

Now I'm not shy and I'm not weak and it's all in part thanks to him, thanks to Carlin.

George Carlin was a man of words. And he lived up to those words. He said things like he meant them and he said things that could destroy a fucking nation. One of the best things he could've ever said, "I fucking hate self help books, motivational speakers and all that shit. When you buy this books, you're not getting self help. That's not self help, That's help! If you did it yourself, you didn't need help to beggin with".

He challenged authority, government, religion. He challenged society and made them think for themselves. Pushed them as far as they needed to be pushed just so they could push back. He was a New Yorker by heart and a savior no less. He wasn't afraid. And he made us just as unafraid. If he didn't like something he would tell it to go fuck itself and so have we. He made me a figheter and an ideologist and he did it by making me laugh. No one will ever come close, as close as changing so much in me than George Carlin ever did. And no one will go on as far as to understand how much does he meant to me.

I said before that my inner bastar push me to do this. It isn't my inner bastard. It's me, is the human that I am. Carlin made us humans, not puppets or robots. He's my savior and now he's gone. I wanted to meet him, I wanted to shake his hands, to have a talk with him. Just like I do with Woody and Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino. Guess we'll just have to meet on another life. If heaven does exist, he's right there right now on the lower east side in an improv bar with Lenny Bruce and Richar Pryor. Hunter S. Thompspon is probably working the bar.

"We're all fucked. It helps to remeber that"

"If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, set them on fire"

"Most people are not particularly good at anything"

"I never eat sushi. I have trouble eating things that are merely unconcious"

"The only good thing to come out of religion was the music"

"I'm not concerned about all hell breaking loose, but that a PART of hell will break loose... it'll be much harder to detect"

"Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?"

"Honesty may be the best policy, but it's important to remember that apparently, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy"

"I think it's the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately"

"Some national parks have long waiting lists for camping reservations. When you have to wait a year to sleep next to a tree, something is wrong"

"The very existence of flamethrowers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, "You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done."

"Those who dance are cosidered insane by the people that can't hear the music"

Goodbye Mr. Carlin. We will remember you allways...And thanks for the kind inspiring words.

Film Noir, The Decay of Modern Cinema and Why The Happening Doesn't Happen #2

You guys, this is, like, totally my first followup post. Yay!!!

Ok, so. As told before by me, there is but one moment that completely and utterly obliterates this fucking movie (The Happening). No, it's not the fact that the ending sucks. No, it's not the fact that, regardless of how believable the plot can be, it still doesn't really add up for a decent horror movie. No, it's not the fact that Wahlberg's acting consists of clean language and a "I wanna take a shit" grin throughout the goddamn movie. And No, it's not the fact that most of the movie happens in the country side as opposed on the movie posters which was kind of a turn off for me.

It's the kids that get blown away by shotguns.

THERE, I FUCKING SAID IT!!!! WHO ON THEIR RIGHT FUCKING MINDS COMES UP WITH A SCENE LIKE THIS?!?!?!?! WHO ON THEIR SHITFULL LITTLE HEADS DARES TO MAKE AN AUDIENCE UNDERSTAND THIS?!?!?!?!?! ARE THEY OUT OF THEIR FUCKING MINDS?!?!?!?!?!

Sooooo....halfway round the movie, after we've put up with seemingly enough bullshit and welcome some cinematic sense anytime soon, our heroes and the addition to the group who are two teenage kids that don't look a year over 16, give or take, wind up in front of this house. Finally, some shelter to protect them from the mean, vicious, sucide inducing plants. As they come closer to the house, I'll say, it started to give me a certain sense of uncertainty while seating in the movie theater with my sister and her friend. I didn't said anything of course, but had you been me, you wouldn't have shaken that feeling either.

Come to think about it, nobody would've shaken that feel of uncertainty. It was a big, old "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" style house. From the outside it looked so decrepit that you could just hear it squick by looking at the damn thing. As the group of survivers comes closer to that house we see how it's pitch dark on the inside...and on the outside there's nothing but old, rotting window wodden blinds and a big ass tree. Old one too, as they say in the movie. So now you have what I called "shit factors" when I saw it. Shit Factors meaning that any of those two can give way to a moment were you conciusly go "Shit, I didn't expect that". Here being the windows and the big ass tree.

The window blinds looked like you could knock them the fuck off with your elbow. Now for some reason, I thought "Imagine what a shotgun could do to those things". We're talking old, non sturdy wooden blinds. AND A BIG ASS TREE, by now, it's pretty clear that anything plant is bad. So what happens? Good guy Wahlberg starts looking inside the house through the cracks in the window and when realising there's movement inside asks for help.

Here's an important lesson in horror movies. People's psyche is fired when watching this movies. I mean, anyone will get inmersed in the storyline of any horror movie, wether it's good or bad. Now, something life has tought us and Death Proof's very own Quentin Tarantino has remarked; In a horror movie, you don't hate the maniac killer, the vicious monster, the underlying threat to people's lives or anything related to that matter. You hate the assholes. The men and women who, among the events that unfold and threaten the very way of life in people, act like utter idiots. They don't help, they don't die and they repeatedly get in the way. We're talking the skeptics or the overly fanatic, the stuborn, the bastards or bitches, and finally the people that take advantage of others. Be it the sassy white bitch or the rapist macho mother fucker.

In this movie, it just so happened to be the owners of said creepy house. Upon asking for help, our hero encounters that the current tenants don't want to open the fucking door and let them in, not because they might be infected, nor because they might bring said sickness into the house. They won't let them in, get this, because according to the owner of the house, Mark Wahlberg and company could be the terrorists. AHA!!!! A redneck asshole who's got his head far up his ass to realize a man, a woman and three minors of which non of them represent a serious threat are not terrorists, even though he could hear them. Wow, talk about hating material.

The scene carries on, the kids get impatient. "OPEN UP BITCH!!!" shouts one of them (By the way, one kid is white the other is black). The one that does stands in front of the doorway, the other starts hollering from a window. The man still refuses and you can feel the tension. Suddenly the voice from inside says somehting like "OPEN THIS" or something and out comes the long, stiff barrel of a shotgun and voila. White kid goes down. Not only does he go down, we get to see from his back how all the little pellets of the shotgun shell pierced right through his whole torso.

Everyone shrieks in fear, the dramatic music get's pumped and just as his friend, the black kid, looks in horror at the bloody body of his now deciesed friend, another barrel comes from within the cracks and points to his right side temple and boom. There goes the black kid. Now, I have to admit that this is horror. True, undeniable horror. The kids get killed, that used to be a big no-no in the horror film industry and only the directors with the cojones and the compelling story line could pull that off. Why then does this scene piss me off so damn much I even dared to write all of this?

Simply put, there is no retaliation. The kids get shot, the other flee the scene and we know nothing of Tim Fuck and the hillbilly gang. Nothing!!!!!Nada!!!!Zero!!!! Two kids, two perfectly and incredubly inocent kids have just been blown away BY FUCKING SHOTGUNS!!!! And nobody does anything. That's it, that's what pisses me off so much. You waste your time and energy creating this scene. You strive to make it perfect, you wanna lead audiences to fear, to hate, to suffer. Good, now were's our goddamn price. As a director/writer/whatever you can't ask that much from an audience.

Hey that's me. Maybe you'd think "DON'T KILL THE KIDS", wereas I think "Go ahead. Kill the little buggers. It adds up for the suspense and thrill of the movie. BUT WERE'S MY FUCKING PAYBACK?!?!". That scene had me haiting a non existing sorce of evil. Non whatsoever. It wasn't enough the guy was undeniebly stupid and wild, clearly he's some country ass boy who, like I said before, must be the sort of stupid white american macho asshole to believe. Firmly hold the fact that this people might be terrorists as truth. Well it isn't enough to lead me into believing this, analysing the situation and draw up conclusions. Now you also want me to swallow up the fact that, not only can't I see his face, but neither do I get to see Trigger McHappy in all his republican gun enthusiastic shitface fucking existence bite the dust.

NOT FUCKING FAIR. You don't do that. The assholes, as unnimportant to the story IS STILL THE ASSHOLE and nothing says satisfaction more in a horror oriented movie, were violence of any kind is condoned, than watching most of this very own violence get wasted senslessly on the one goddamn asshole. Fuck the plants, fuck the people. If somebody really deserved to die, was White Trash Toby sitting on his stupid rural ass on that movie. And it might seem like I'm overreacting but come on. In horror movies, if you're gonna kill the kid, you best make sure someone pays for it. It's hard allready to see someone die from a shotgun blast that's not the bad guy, let alone a kid.

That's what I'm talking about. All I get was a voice, were's the promise that them assholes gonna end up killing themselves? Were's the scene in which the big ass tree gets inside the house and chokes that motherfucker to death? Dude, it's pissy. When you're watching such bullshit all around you, like an unworthy plotline, crappy acting, out of role personalities and stupid solutions to way too over themselves problems, the LAST thing anyone needs is watching the kids get shot, in the chest and in the head....with a shotgun....FOR NO APPARENT REASON...and sitting there as nobody does anything.

That's not the Mark Walhberg I know, that's not how Zoey Deschanel would leave it and there's absolutely no way in fuck end hell M. Nigh Shyamalan would let any of his stories go this bad. Not even a curse word, or a "YOU SHOT A KID, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!". Not even a face, I mean not even have a decency to show us what to hate but give us something to hate anyways. Last time I cheked, unfocused anger was not a huge seller.

So if this movie sucked so bad, why invest time on it? Why talk about it silly? I'll tell you why, because there are other examples of better movies. Examples of movies that don't seem to be better movies but are anyway.

This is Mr. Bitchin Telling you, It's all about the audiences true needs. Tune in next time to find out what movies are keeping it real in the revange department, which are the movies that are decaying the medium and what in the holy darn world is all that about Film Noir.

Film Noir, The Decay of Modern Cinema and Why The Happening doesn't happen. #1

"It was done, it had happened. The people, the places, the images. It was all worthless now. Any attempt for me to fix this was now miles away in a highway of despair filled with broken illusions that could cut you up like shards of fine glass laid on the floor and terrified screams emanating from the souls of those as unfortunate and unprepared to visualize this horror.

Still, I didn't know what was worse. Knowing of this crime and it's effect on us, acting up on the impotence it carried within or being like the others, uncaring, unaware, indifferent. Nevertheless, we had been cheated, lied too and I felt cheap, maybe cheaper than some regular bar fly looking for a little adventure. Me the wise guy, I thought I had this all figured out but in the end it was me who got played for a fool. I felt like one too.

It all started about a week ago, or so. My lil' sis had her friends come over. Too young to be asked to the ball, too old to play with dolls. Perhaps that's why the house got to small for them. They needed out, they needed air and for multiple reasons I was assigned the task to take 'em out. Little did I knew that I was leading them and myself towards disaster. We took all the precautions; I even invested in my decision. Said that it must've been the right path to choose. So I got along with the idea that all was gonna be ok.

But it wasn't. I took them to watch....M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening.

The rest is history and to the day I still carry that burden over my shoulders"

...

Ok, so I might've exagerated a liitle bit. Big deal, that movie sucked and it shouldn't have. What the fuck, dude? It's Shyamalan. Motherfucker is like big on horror themed movies and suspense thrillers, so what the hell went wrong here?

The Happening, written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan and starring, Tough guy Mark Wahlberg, Pretty eyes Zooe Deschanel and John Leguizamo juts doesn't happen. Where's the intensity? Where's the feeling? Where's the meaning? Where the fuck is Shyamalan? Are we seriuosly supposed to belive this is him? Are we to accept that the same man who brought us to our knees with his rendition of a ghost story called "The Sixth Sense", the same man who showed us a movie about superheroes like we've never seen before with Bruce Willis on the lead role no less (Unbreakable), THE SAME GUY WHO SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ALL OF US WITH SIGNS (SIGNGS, PEOPLE, SIGNS!!!!! THEY WERE FUCKING ALIENS. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU GOT SCARED BY ALIENS?)...made this?

Ok, reason numero 1 why I'm so outraged buy this. Shyamaln directed AND wrote this. Now, I have an undying respect for people who write and direct their own movies. Generally they're just increadibly good. But this, this movie isn't Shyamalan AT ALL. First, there's the plot

...................SPOILER ALERT.....................not that you should care.....

So, finally and after years of abuse, planet earth decides to take action and what best way to do so than letting plants, yes plants, kill humans. But they don't do it in a fashionable way. They don't raise from the ground and start strangelling people, neither do trees start stepping on people or are there any diabolical branches that rape young women slowly and painfully a lá Evil Dead. No, what do plants and other specimens of the green leafed species do to take on motherfuckin humans? They evolve and release toxins into the air that, when sniffed, humans give up on their logical skills and kill themselves. that's right, KILL THEMSELVES!!!! In the most gruesome way possible. As soon as they've, so to speak, been infected, people grab whatever is at hand to kill themselves. Not before acting weird (not making any sense in what they say, walking backwards, shit like that).

So far, so good. The storyline seems good, the premises are awesome and at first it all seems perfect. People star killing themselves, shooting themselves, willingly falling off from buildings, evem coming up with ignenious ways to die. All this are valuable elements for some scary shit, why, then, does the movie blow?

The acting. Come on, really? Mark Wahlberg? Marky Mark? You put him as the film's wussy. What gives? Wahlberg is this science teacher who becomes the leading man in what seems to be the end of time. Along his best friend/math teacher Leguizamo, Leguizamo's in-movie-daughter who adds up for the cuteness factor in the movie and his now-distant-due-to-relatioship-problems girlfriend, he sets out to find a place that appears to be safe. Safe meaning nobody who appears not to have suicidal tendencies grab hairspray and a blowtorch and come up with a way to melt their own face (Doesn't happen, but like I said, ingeniuos) are there.

So naturally, you would expect this guy to be tough as nails or at least pretty straight forward. WRONG. Wahlberg's character does not develop as anything in particular. Early on in the movie he's a concerned guy, not so big into action and oviusly not a threat to society. As the movies keeps going, his character fails to realize the imminent danger that surronunds the story line and even come up with any witt what-so-ever. Maybe it was the director's intention to portray an average joe as the movie's hero. But everybody knows, that regardless the scenario, survival horror oriented plots allways wind up with the main character growing a pair in the midst of battle. Besides, Deschanel is off her personality. She's a witty, smart ass gal, she can also be tough. So why make her the pessimist damsel in distress who's ever so scandalous little secret involved having dessert with some guy.

Really, the movie suggests she might be cheating on Wahlberg and she just had a fucking dessert with some guy. Then, it's the storyline itslef. So people and the media start pulling out their own theories and without a moments notice pull out the big pointy finger and bame it all on terrorism. Because it isn't enough they live in the fucking deser, they somehow got a hold of some chemical weapon that screws you up so badly that you'll kill yourself, again, in the most gruesome way possible.

This was actually a good point. Taking in consideration Shyamalan is of middle eastern descent, not only is he blatanly making fun off the publics paranoid fears in a tongue in cheek fashion, he's also exploiting today's biggest weakness of the american people. Terrorist attacks on small town in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, miles away from anything remotley important and with small population census. Only true red, white and brute americans would buy that. But beyond that point nothing supports the story, we're suggested that it isn't terrorits (NO, REALLY? YOU'RE FUCKING KIDDING ME) by another character. Instead he suggests, it's the plants. The plants evolve when facing new threats, and since humanity aren't exactly a ray of fucking sunshine, it was only a matter of time before plants went "WHO'S THE BITCH NOW?".

The problem with this is that it's to early on in the movie. Now we know what's wrong and there's no mystery. On the other hand, the character that suggests this is a goddamn farmer. A farmer for christ's sake, who minutes after getting introduced to the story IS TALKING TO FUCKING PLANTS. He also says that it's been proven by science that is you talk nice to plants, they'll respond to the stimulus, which is true. I know that, HOW ABOUT THE REST OF THE FUCKING WORLD? the plot is believable; both things are true. Plants do respond to stimulus giving the fact of quantum physics and other things, therefore plants do act on sweet talk AND it's also true that they evolve in a rapid manner when facing a new predator therefore creating new improved deffenses against other types of creatures. Mother nature is tough you guys.

So then, how does it work? Nobody ever really explains that, how do the plant pick and select their victims so they can sniff up suicide sented leaves? At first we're told it's big groups of people, then if the plants think they're threats, they have it in for them. At the end the plants get super sensitive and start "attacking" one person at a time (though we only got one example like this) but somehow the leading guys, which at this point it's just Wahlberg, Deschanel and the little girl, don't die or get affected by the plants. So I'm pushed to believe "OK, the plants attack people who has negative feelings, like anger or hate" but if so, then why did all the other people die. They surely weren't all angry. Scared out of their asses, but not angry.

At lasts, and I'm saving this because of it's hate inducing nature, the one moment in the movie, the point of no return, the minute were it jumped the shark and it all went to hell. The scene were the shit hit the fan....Look onto the next post, to find that out.

A Rose in the Gutter

Twas one lonely afternoon, amidst a summer now gone
That I remember I saw a friendly ghost
Sure, I was half asleep and out of this world
But I know what I saw, and what I saw was a girl in grey robes.

She was sweet and quite happy
I can tell by the way her face looked
She was tender and sassy
I can tell by the feeling that gave me her touch

She holded my face between her beautiful ghastly hands
She looked dead on in my eyes
I was obliged, and quite happy, to look back
"Wake up" she said in a calm tone as I shuffled back to this land

I had forgot about that, about a nice day in which I came back
Though at first I gave credit to my imagination and my mind
I know what I saw; I saw a time to pass
I saw a moment that would sooner than later come to my life

That day I felt alive, unlike I had on previous occasions
No wonder I forgot, There was no reason to remember
But now I see why that day was so special
Call it a dream or a vision, but what I saw made me feel better.

....

Just as there's no decent or coherent explanation to what I just wrote, there's no reason to do so. A simple as a flickering ray, just a eenie-winny-tiny-teeny spick of whatver the fuck it is that holds your mind at bay in this realm. It's simply a word, a sentence, an hours-long stone cold talk or a close-to-insignificant gesture that things are going to be ok.

A rose in a gutter, it's one of the good cliches. Kind of cliche that's true, honet. Kind of cliche that works. We've allways got our rose in the gutter, a really beutiful thing that's on the most unexpected of places. That's that tiny spick, the flickering ray, the 1% chance that things will work out in the end in the 99% probability to fail. That's what it is.

To anyone who's ever been alive, that 1% is worth something, it's hope and hope is allways worth something. I remeber one day when I was 16 that I had that dream. I was in my couch, slowly falling asleep, getting to the point in which you're half awake, half asleep. Illussions start to kick in, and I started to see places, people mixed with memories. Like witnessing the formation of a dream, and right smack in the process of falling asleep, I saw a girl that closely ressembled a cartoon, the nature girl from Fantasia 2000.


She told me "Wake Up" and I woke up rapidly, allmost alarmed because it felt so. It felt as if someone had kneeled to wake me up. When I did, I just felt nice. And just like that I forgot about that day, I forgot about that dream and forgot about allmost everything from those times. Ocassionally I remember those moments with everything including how I felt, what it felt.

And there it is...Right now, I feel it. Creeping up my spine working its way to my head. That feeling. The drive, the inspiration and every single other thing out there that just lets me know that it is time once again, the memories, the dreams, the feelings. All of it, and then a little more that just make up for all the time spent, all the time lost. It's time. Slowly the irrationality kicks in. Each time more and more I remember, but this time is a good one. It's not like when I'm all sad and pathetic, no this is one of the good ones.

I'm not sad. It's the memories, all over again one by one in my mind. But they're not screaming or making fun at me. My head spins around that notion, I'm standing but I'm not alone. Everything that surrounds me isn't a reminder of darkened times and pittyful moments. It's taking hold allready, like in my last post. The nothingness, the what-could've-been scenarios. They take shapes, forms, images of people I know and love or hate. But they're not laughing. They're not even smiling, they just look back at me, pranks and jokes now spent, bottles on the floor, remains of an ongoing party at my back, a celebration of the weakend state of my mind, which lives no longer and they're looking at me just as I look back.

They know I'm angry, they know I'm furious, they know I'm drunk and high with strength and hope and exaltation and love. They know I'm not afraid and that scares them. It's my rose in the gutter. It's me, it's my mind, it's my friends, my mum, my family, my books, my stories, my movies, my EVERYTHING. It's realizing that IT NEVER STOPS and therefore THERE SHOULD BE NO FUCKING REASON FOR ME TO FEAR. It never stops, the shit, the suffering, the pain, so why the fuck should I. Me who has come all the way up to here being the way I am and doing the things I do.

Every single little thing that I've allways wanted to say and do. All the fucking things I've allways wanted to be, it's been building up, waiting, and it's time once again to let it out. My kids, my boys and girls, my dear beloved readers who might wander ever so carelesly into this space and find nothing new and interesting or stumble upon the key phrase or word they needed to read, this is me. The insanity, the senselessnes, the constant and abundant feeding to my ego on this rare special ocassions.

It's why sometimes I pass as an italian from brooklyn called Frank. It's why I suddenly speak in as many accents as I possibly can, because I want to do it. It makes me happy and what let's me go through. Fuck it, anything I don't care I'm training to be a New Yorker so I gotta be hardcore just as I am all fluffy and nice, I gotta get things done, I gotta get things said. At least, I know that there will allways be the next thing to a rose in the gutter.

Shaky Promises and Half Truths: The Unnerving Reality of What is to Come

It's that time allready when we all look at the mirrors, take a deep breath and tell ourselves that which we need to so the day can carry on forward. We're on the verge of a new year, 2008. We're in the beggining of a process called New Year's Resolutions. All the things we said we would do, all the things we're doing are just the first steps into our prominent succes or our inevitable failure. The only thing that, at most, is definite, is our desire for the better in our own lives however and whatever the cost of it.

It's in this times were I tell to myself things are gonna go different from now on. It's in this times were I face those old ghosts of mine who, regardless of the many, many pep talks and all those self medicated spoonfulls of wisdom, courage and self-esteem, refuse to die or even walk away. But specifically, it's this time in the early morning that I just sit quietly awaiting the giant that approaches and this year's battle for my survival. It's here and now were my mind plays tricks on me, deceives into missery and sadness. Emoeness.

I begin to understad now, this is what happens to those who stay up late. After hours and hours of continuos conciousness, the wrong type of memories strike in. It's only the mentally ill who stay up this late and carry on. Beings without real souls who have not a care in the world for anything but themselves. Those who do, like me, suffer the consecuences of a world and a reality not made for us. It is what consumes us, what makes us act like utter savages. Worlds were thoughts are made up of ironic moments in our lives, hurful remarks and sudden thoughts of what-could've-been scenarios.

It is here were most radiant smiles turn grimm. Were brilliant minds turn to mush. They are this hours, the one were drugs, fear, pain and humiliation reign. It's here were they all work together to make up for the time they loose during the day, scheeming plans to take control of my life and those like me who wander in the unknown realities of this late hours.

I talk and write, so as not to loose my mind. I'm being bombed by irrational thoughts of envy towards people who do not deserve it, ongoing questions and impossible dessires. I feel dragged, compelled to stay here until I've gotten statisfied. Obligated to finish and call it a day. A crooked and faulty day. I wish it weren't so but I can't stop it. Not now, I lack the stregnth to stand up and not look onto the computer.

I look for answers were there is no question, I walk in circles threateaning the nothing that it better keep it's eyes open. For me. For what is to come. Yet nor I nor anybody truly know. People could have an idea, but nobody really knows. I feel, though I ignore, therefore I fear. Slowly and thankfully fear and anxiety leave my body. False sense of emptyness and lonelyness disipate with the immediate tick-takcs of the keyboard. I'm beggining to get back my senses.

I coulnd't go to sleep because I had to do something. Check my mail, see this page, something. Sometimes I see it as a sickness that never really heals. It's been some time since I actually had a goodnight sleep and therefore some time since I just lied down to rest instead of lying down, sitting or standing and talk to myself. It's hard to wonder, to face the truth and swallow my anger or pride. It's tough to stay up this late and fight the mixed memories and thoughts I get when there is nothing to do, nobody around. Everyone I know just might be asleep. Maybe not. I just hope they're not to fighting themselves. It's tyresome and probably very unhealthy.