plastoblog

In Time (2011)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 16:24:00 +0000

ROBERT B. FORTNEY/OCTOBER 26, 2011

In Time takes place in the not-too-distant future. Humans don’t age past 25. Society is structured around the monetization of lifespan. The poor struggle not just for food, shelter, and the standard hierarchy of needs -- but for the expansion of their lives paid out, borrowed, or stolen minute by precious minute. Will Salas (Justin Timberlake) is one of the poors; a factory worker who is unexpectedly given a fortune’s worth of time by a wealthy man exhausted from living. Salas vows to use his newfound wealth to take down the system responsible for his mother’s (Tron: Legacy's Olivia Wilde) “time-out” expiration.

In Time is Writer/Director Andrew Niccol’s (Gattaca, S1m0ne) second foray into a world with a genetically engineered future. But while Gattaca is an exquisite masterpiece of mood and minimalism, In Time is a clunky, paint-by-numbers mess that feels like science fiction for stupid people.

I have so many problems with In Time that it’s nearly impossible to summarize my grievances. I’ll save the bulk of my notes for debates with the inevitable apologists. The film’s cardinal sin -- the one debilitating constant that zigzags through this story like a spine made of deteriorating popsicle sticks is: convenience. Characters, events, and emotions materialize out of necessity -- not because they are earned.

In Time exists in an unrealistic and unfamiliar vacuum. There are more questions than answers. And not good questions like, "is Adama a Cylon?" but logistical issues that affect the story's execution. How are babies naturally born with such genetic engineering? With glowing chronographs in their skin? How is time so precisely exchanged between people? There are no stamps or traces on this digital currency? What's this fight thing? Is it arm wrestling? I don't understand the rules! And don't even get me started on the car chases that conveniently ignore the laws of physics. Beyond a cursory viewing, it all just feels ridiculous.

The argument can and will be made that In Time's ambiguity is “just part of Niccol’s tapestry of minimalism.” To that I say: bullshit. That kind of approach works when threaded with a good script. I don’t mind the bare minumim. Gattaca never so much as showed the upholstery of a cockpit -- but I understood that world and was engrossed by the story, characters, and conflict. In Time is bare because it’s empty -- not because of orchestrated minimalism.

In Time starts Friday, October 28th

The Thing (2011)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 03:42:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/OCTOBER 11, 2011

Remember that John Carpenter alien movie that was actually less about shape-shifting crab monsters and more about dread, isolation, and distrust? How that film, with its simple sets, thick beards, and minimalist tones created a smart Lovecraftian masterpiece set in the desolate tundra of the South Pole? If any of this floods you with fond memories of the gore days of yore -- you might want to skip Matthijs van Heijningen Jr.’s dissapointing prequel.

The latest incarnation of The Thing from Another World revolves around the doomed crew of the Norwegian outpost featured in Carpenter’s 1982 version. After discovering a derelict spacecraft, Dr. Sander Halvorson (Ulrich Thomsen) recruits paleontologist Kate Lloyd (Scott Pilgrim vs. the World’s Mary Elizabeth Winstead) to help dig the petrified alien out of its frozen sarcophagus. What follows is less Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and more Friday the 13^th with the alien from Dreamcatcher.

While the film fails on almost every conceivable level -- from poorly animated mutations to bland characters to tremendous leaps of logic -- the most frustrating aspect of Heijningen’s prequel is its half-assed approach to tie it to the events in Carpenter’s version. The result is an uninteresting mess of half-connected dots that will undoubtedly tease fans like 103 minutes of unrequited foreplay.

Nostalgic errors aside, the film lacks all of the essential elements that made Carpenter’s version so timeless. Heijningen’s prequel, like the many sequels, remakes, re-imaginings, and reboots that have flooded theaters before it, makes the fatal mistake of eschewing the guiding principle of horror: that above all else, it’s the monsters we don’t see that scare us most. Carpenter’s version works because it’s carried by the mystery – not the gore. As a creature intelligent enough for interplanetary space travel, the alien was smart enough to work in the shadows. It was a survivalist – not a serial killer. It scurried into its new hosts like a frightened rat searching for a fissure home. Since mutation is a quick but arduous process, it was at its weakest (and most horrifying) during those critical moments. Heijningen’s alien is more of an exhibitionist; a boorish Cthulhu that breaks through windows and stalks like a demonic crustacean through the outpost's smoldering corridors.The result is a lackluster monster movie devoid of any tension, horror, or critical thought.

The Thing is the New Coke of horror movies: a bland modernization of a beloved classic that should never have been made in the first place.

The Thing starts Friday, October 14, 2011

NO BATT

Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 16:28:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/AUGUST 3, 2011

Few stories have haunted me as much as Radiolab’s tragic examination of cross-species cohabitation entitled, Lucy. This devastating podcast recounts the fascinating life and tragic end of a chimp who was raised by humans, and discarded as an adult. Lucy died in Gambia (most likely at the sharp end of a poacher’s blade) after years of struggling to assimilate to a life without humans.

Chimpanzees share 96% of our DNA. They use tools; have hierarchal social structures. They mourn, laugh, and love. In the case of Lucy Temerlin, she became accustomed to clothing, drank Gin, and exhibited a disturbing penchant for Playgirl magazine. Lucy is a cautionary tale about moral ambiguity in the face of scientific hubris. What, if anything, do we owe to such intelligent creatures once the observations are made and papers published? Or if such meddling should happen at all.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes concerns itself with similar quandaries (minus the porn). It’s more than simian rage and monkey carnage. And it works. Director Rupert Wyatt (The Escapist) has successfully crafted an action film complete with brawn, brain and heart. It feels like a Lucy revenge film, with a genetically altered chimpanzee named Caesar as the rising Rambo of imprisoned test chimps, circus monkeys, and abandoned POW's.

That’s not to say the film is perfect. James Franco (Spiderman) looks asleep, high, or lost in every scene. It’s a trait that compliments films like Pineapple Express, but in the role of genetic engineer – not so much. Tom Felton (Harry Potter) is Malfoy in muggle clothes. He’s a cartoonish villain who exhibits most of his disdain by wriggling his lips at guileless ~~wizards~~ monkeys. Felton also has the misfortune of delivering the worst line in the movie; a cringe-inducing failure made worse for the fact that the audience's guttural scoffs are likely to trample over a pivotal scene that immediately follows.

Those minor complaints aside, Apes is entertaining from start to finish. The film's biggest surprise is the photorealistic success of the animated monkeys. While the movement in some scenes isn’t perfect and some of the wide shots show a few too many polygons, there were moments when I had to remind myself that every single ape that appears on screen was generated by a computer. Some audiences might be put off by the fact that the first two acts are spent sowing the seeds of cross-species contempt before it gets to riot suits and gorilla pogrom. But it’s just that kind of slow-footed investment that elevates this film from simpleminded action – to convincing triumph.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes opens Friday, August 5th

Last of the Boys

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 11 May 2011 16:36:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/MAY 10, 2011

Set in a deserted trailer park, Steven Dietz’s, Last of the Boys revolves around the lives of a pair of Vietnam veterans, Ben and Jeeter, two men still coping with the dysfunctional aftershocks of their combat experiences. Ben, wonderfully realized by actor Damon Kupper, looks as worn and beaten as his rusty trailer. He’s a man haunted by ghosts that continue to claw at unresolved issues. Jeeter, marvelously played by Michael O’Connell, carries the weight of his despair much more overtly. Unlike his sedimentary friend, he’s a man who’s spent his life dodging any sort of personal stock of his conflicted history. The story of these two men, fueled by a refrigerator full of beer and Jeeter’s new love interest, unfolds on the backs of a few dilapidated lounge chairs hovered around a makeshift fire pit.

Last of the Boys has little to do with the romantic adornments of the Vietnam era. There are no love beads, daisy chains, or cute anecdotes about Haight Street Love-ins. This is a story about the debilitating remnants of war. But while every aspect of Third Rail’s production is flawless, from acting to directing, to an amazing stage and perfect sound design, the same cannot be said for the caliber of the story. Dietz’s words sound less like the makings of a Pulitzer-nominated play, and more like the incoherent reveries of two men who want to, “you know, man, tell you about the 60s!” The result is a disjointed, often confusing narrative that has less resonance than an impromptu war story shared at the local DMV.

The fundamental problem with Dietz’s construction is that it’s just not tethered to anything I can relate to. Boys simply feels like it was made for another time period, or at the very least, for someone much older than me. Even with a standout performance from Valerie Stevens, who expertly plays a downtrodden widow who’s waited half her life for a post-war apology, Boys wastes most of its energy on confusing abstractions featuring Robert McNamara’s press releases.

Even with Third Rail’s excellent cast and top-notch production values, if you’re in the mood for regret, McNamara, and disquieted alcoholism, you’d be better served by watching The Fog of War while sipping single malt whiskey.

Last of the Boys plays through May 29th

Paul (2011)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 16:27:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/MARCH 14, 2011

The latest film from Director Greg Mottola (Superbad, Adventureland) and writers Simon Pegg and Nick Frost (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) is nothing like the thirty-second duds currently blanketing American televisions. The failures of this movie begin and end with those mishandled marketing campaigns. Surprisingly, Paul is a delightfully entertaining mash-up of trivia and comedy. The movie unfolds like a glittering toy chest – overflowing with more inside jokes and pop-culture references than perhaps any film in history.

Paul is essentially an American road movie. It’s the story of Graeme Willy (Pegg) and Clive Gollings (Frost), two British geeks who discover an alien named Paul (voiced by Seth Rogen) while exploring the outskirts of Area 51 in a rented RV. The two Brits race Paul towards an undisclosed rendezvous point, pursued by aggressive hicks, government agents, and an angry father carrying a bible in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

While the plot of this film is thin at best, it’s merely a vehicle for a consistent stream of geek-winks and potent humor. As much as Rogen’s shtick annoyed the hell out of me in The Green Hornet, he does a surprising job (again, ignore the commercials) as the voice of the “slacker,” animated alien. The most startling aspect of Paul is its unflinching atheism. The film pulls no punches in regards to its views on religious myopia, specifically Christian evangelicalism. While I’m sure this will spark AFA boycotts and incalculable IMDB flame wars – those who take umbrage with the movie’s sentiments need to understand that the rest of the world is often baffled by our uncompromising zealots. Like it or not – when one in five of your fellow countrymen thinks the sun revolves around the Earth, you can’t be shocked when someone mines humor out of such bizarre intellectual deficiencies. In a country where 45% of its citizens believe “God created human beings, pretty much in their present form, at one time, within the last 10,000 years,” Mottola, Frost, and Pegg have merely poked fun at those Americans who, earnestly and sometimes viciously, cling to antiquated ideas in the face of overwhelming contradictory evidence.

While not as tightly paced as Pegg and Frost’s last two buddy comedies (masterfully Directed by Edgar Wright), the film is entertaining from start to finish. With a cast that includes Jason Batemen (Up in the Air, Arrested Development), Kristen Wiig (Knocked Up, McGruber), Sigourney Weaver (she who will always be Ripley), and Jeffery Tambor (Arrested Development, The Larry Sanders Show), Paul is a cinematic love letter to sci-fi nerds, cinema geeks, and any grown man or woman who, like myself, never quite learned how to “put away childish things.”

Paul opens nationwide on Friday, March 18th

C:\> Tron: Legacy (2010) – 3D

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 01:42:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/DECEMBER 16, 2010

The anticipated sequel to Disney’s beloved techno-flop opens with the voice of Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) describing the dazzling bits of his virtual world to his young son, Sam…

“The Grid. A digital frontier. I tried to picture clusters of information as they moved through the computer. What did they look like? Ships? Motorcycles? Were the circuits like freeways? I kept dreaming of a world I thought I'd never see. And then... one day... I got in.”

With the promise of more binary bedtime stories to come, Sam’s enigmatic father rides off into the sunset… and disappears.

Two decades later, 27-year-old Sam Flynn (Garrett Hedlund) is still dealing with abandonment issues. He’s a tech-savvy rebel with a penchant for Base Jumping, Freeware, and Ducati motorcycles. The course of his aimless existence changes after a mischievous stunt at ENCOM (once again run by greedy software executives) spurs a visit from his father’s old friend, Alan Bradley (Bruce Boxleitner). Alan tells Sam about a mysterious page (yes, twenty years later, he still owns a beeper) from Kevin Flynn’s long-disconnected number.

Sam returns to the dilapidated dustbin of Flynn’s Arcade to investigate – and to give aging fanboys a fair dose of 80s nostalgia. If the sounds of an 8-bit arcade aren’t enough – we’re treated to a superfluous Jukebox helping of Journey and the Eurhythmics.

Faster than you can say, ripped disc – Sam is unknowingly digitized and thrust into a world that only existed in his father’s bedtime stories.

Even with the addition of new blood, the plot sticks fairly close to the original. The young Flynn hits the Grid. Young Flynn breaks out of the Grid. Young Flynn rides a Solar Sailor to get back to the Grid’s I/O beam. Peppered throughout that thin narrative, we meet C.L.U., Kevin Flynn’s ageless doppelganger; a villainous genie desperate to get out of his digital bottle so he can – take over the world! As Disney villains go, it’s familiar territory.

We also meet Quorra (Olivia Wilde), Kevin Flynn’s beautiful apprentice. Of what – we are never told; perhaps it has something to do with Flynn’s Zen-like preoccupation with sitting. Michael Sheen (Frost/Nixon) gets to ham it up as a pasty Ziggy Stardust named, Castor. For all of Sheen’s charm and energy, his screen-time is nothing more than an entertaining tease in an otherwise lifeless journey.

While much has already been said about the irregularities of Bridges’ digital facial reconstruction, I can only think of a few moments when the movement of C.L.U.’s mouth took me out of the fantasy. The same cannot be said for much of Flynn's dialogue. Imperfect effects I can handle. Making Kevin Flynn a cross between “The Dude,” and a phosphorescent Zen monk felt far more unnerving. Adding insult to injury, the character arc of Tron is mismanaged from start to finish.

Much of Legacy’s failure rests on the shoulders of first time Director, Joseph Kosinski. The film comes off as a static flowchart of uninspired ideas and Disney marketing. Kosinski makes choices that are both odd and baffling. The most unsettling example of this is when we learn of Kevin Flynn’s disappearance. As if the film somehow switches to an alternate universe, we get what can only be described as a montage of news clips displayed on a smoky plane of artistically placed televisions. It has to be one of the most out of place edits in recent history. Cinematographer Claudio Miranda (The Curious Case of Benjamin Button) frames the movie with a glassy sheen, but the 3D looks so one-dimensional I took my glasses off several times to see if it made any difference.

This is not to say that the writers get off easy. The six writers credited to the movie drop us into a confusing world with little information on the particulars of the Grid’s X-Y-Z’s. Are the inhabitants of the Grid sentient programs? Are they merely avatars of their Users? Do we really need to see programs eat (whole pigs, no less), drink, and sleep? Why does Flynn’s residence (complete with a soaking pool?!) look like an L.A. episode of Cribs? As I’m aware that the original suffers from much of the same glaring deficiencies, pointing it all out makes me feel like an old man shouting about the way things used to be. Yet there’s nothing more infuriating than witnessing the unimaginative execution of a good idea. I went into the theater hoping that Legacy could be more than the sum of its flawed first edition.

Legacy’s biggest failure is in, surprisingly, its technological ignorance. The Grid is a linear world made for a nonlinear audience. While we live in an Internet age of particle accelerators and wireless computing, the sequel feels dated; as if it was made by someone who remains largely unaware of the anthropological revolutions now taking place between computers and humans. The Grid is weighted down by a mistaken adherence to linear motion. The games are stiff. “Dereezing” has gravity. And let me take a moment to put on my old-timer hat and yell, “Back in 82’ lightcycles moved really fast – turned in hard right angles – and that was just fine with me!” The lightcycle races built in 1982 were dazzling because the movement was unthinkable. The races in Kosinski’s version feel like a cybernetic version of The Fast and the Furious.

What did Old Man Fortney like? Not much. The Recognizers are flawless. They burst onto the screen like rumbling battleships. Daft Punk’s score is a symphonic layer cake of warm tones and orchestral harmonies. It surpasses Hans Zimmer’s magnificent addition to Inception and ends up being the biggest musical surprise of the year. I didn’t know they had it in them.

C:\>mem

I was 11-years-old when the original Tron (1982) hit the theaters. I lost count of the number of times I’ve watched the film long before VHS lost favor to DVD. I’ve regurgitated phrases like, “greetings program,” and “end of line,” more often than I’d care to think about. With those boyhood allegiances firmly lodged in the same grizzled cortex that houses my adult sensibilities, I am also well aware of the fact that Tron is not a good movie. With lines like, “they haven’t built a circuit that could hold you;” the ridiculous pageantry of “inoperative data pushers;” and Pac-Man featured prominently on Sark’s surveillance screen, is it any wonder that Tron: Legacy is nothing more than 1.0’s modern equivalent?

C:\>dir/a

Tron: Legacy is the Windows 7 of sequels. Really no different than its predecessor, but packed with a few cosmetic upgrades and superficial goodies.

End of line

Tron: Legacy opens Friday, December 17th

LOW BATT

Concepts & Characters for ARCLIGHT, BOOK I (Artist 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 22:19:00 +0000

Art is starting to come in for Book I of my proposed series of graphic novels entitled, Arclight. And it's looking pretty freakin' spectacular, if I do say so myself.

The first book in the series is called, Jonathan's Vision. It's being sold as Unbreakable meets Donnie Darko...

...A supernatural Columbine tragedy...

...A tale of Evil and Electricity

It involves vengeful Seethers

Soul-sucking scavengers

Dead bullies with amputated limbs

And electrified Clusterpunks

SparQ

Chloe did a fantastic job. She took my chapters and descriptions and nailed the images in my head wonderfully. I plan to do a lot more work with her in the future. You can see more of her work here.

Artwork from the second artist should start coming in next week.

Black Values, "Liberation Theology," and Glenn Beck's Drawers

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 04:06:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/SEPTEMBER 21, 2010

I recently asked a right-leaning friend if he's one of the 46% of Republicans who think President Obama is a secret Muslim. While I was relieved to hear him reject this ludicrous fabrication, I was surprised to hear him echo one of Fox News host, Glenn Beck's recurrent topics, that the President practices "liberation theology," a version of Christianity that is, according to Beck, "not recognized by most people."

In support of this statement, I was introduced to the "proof" of Barack Obama's liberation theology, the Black Value System of Chicago's Trinity Church, the President's former house of worship:

1. Commitment to God
2. Commitment to the Black Community
3. Commitment to the Black Family
4. Dedication to the Pursuit of Education
5. Dedication to the Pursuit of Excellence
6. Adherence to the Black Work Ethic
7. Commitment to Self-Discipline and Self-Respect
8. Disavowal of the Pursuit of "Middleclassness"
9. Pledge to make the fruits of all developing and acquired skills available to the Black Community
10. Pledge to Allocate Regularly, a Portion of Personal Resources for Strengthening and Supporting Black Institutions
11. Pledge allegiance to all Black leadership who espouse and embrace the Black Value System
12. Personal commitment to embracement of the Black Value System."

The friend who forwarded this to me is a good a man who shares vastly different political beliefs than my own. While I enjoy discussing such things with people who have different perspectives, doing so, at least face to face, means navigating treacherous waters with the bitter ghosts of past debates still wailing over the bow. As such, I thought the issue deserved something more substantial than a cursory retort.

This is my response...

A little research shows that this collection of values is not only used as evidence of the President's "odd" or "foreign" theology, but of his inherent racism.

On the one hand, these precepts do come off, at first glance, as somewhat exclusionary or -- yes, even racist. And on the other, isn't this kind of insulated ideology typical among groups, movements, and minority causes? Is there something wrong with a predominantly black church adopting a creed to strengthen and support the black community?

Conversely, would I give a church that advocated a "commitment to the white community," such careful consideration? Does the fact that it's a black church, roughly 12.9% of a population of 300 million, make it acceptable to focus on one race to the exclusion of every other? The answer is, I don't really know.

As for proof of racism, nowhere in the 12 Black Values does it state or imply "black supremacy." Does the fact that I go to gay bars and support gay causes (with similar charters) mean that I am against heterosexual rights? That gay causes trump any other? Certainly not. Furthermore, these stated values do nothing to paint Obama (a man raised by his white mother and white grandparents) as a man who Beck described as "a guy with a deep-seated hatred for white people or white culture."

To a certain degree, it's understandable that a minority church would embrace such insular logic; strategies such as this bolster group solidarity and inject energy into that group's given cause. Still, I don't agree with the wording of these values at all. I understand where it comes from, but it's myopic nonetheless. Just the same as it's hard to make the case for black, gay, or female egalitarianism when you have things like B.E.T, Logo, and women who expect men to open doors, a church that focuses on one race comes across as very antithetical to the overall cause of salvation and equality.

But is this any different from the exclusionary customs of various other churches? Glenn Beck's own flavor of God (LDS) does not allow non-Mormons into their temples. And as far as racism goes, I find Beck's accusations intriguing, considering the fact that Mormons once thought dark skinned people were cursed by god. If, as Beck insinuates, Obama's liberation theology is "not a Christianity recognized by most people," what would you call a Christian church that requires certain members to don underwear that supposedly acts as a shield against evil?

Additionally, Beck's rants against liberation theology, that churches like Trinity pervert Christianity when they interfere with "social justice," seems doubly odd when you compare that sentiment with the beatitudes of Jesus:

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,

for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,

for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,

for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,

for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,

for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

Gospel of St. Matthew 5:3-10

On Obama's old church in particular, how is Reverened Wright's "God damn America" sermon...

...Any different from the words of Pastor Hagee, a man who recently sat behind Beck at his Restoring Honor rally:

"I believe that New Orleans had a level of sin that was offensive to God, and they are—were recipients of the judgment of God for that."

Or of the numerous times Beck has warned about the destruction that awaits us when God damns America:

And lastly, to what end does all this conjecture serve? I understand disagreeing with Obama's policies. But to imply that he is a racist, socialist, Marxist, "other," who collaborates with "leftist radicals" hell-bent on destroying this nation sounds, to many, like McCarthy era hogwash. Or at least I hope it does.

If the election of Obama has taught me anything, it has forced me see the mistakes I made when a Republican was in office; when I was the first one to jump on the anti-Bush bandwagon; when I gave the craziest of stories the benefit of the doubt. I've learned some big lessons over the past two years. Perhaps it's credulous to think it's possible to disagree with a politician without comparing that person to dictators or tyrants. I'd like to believe it's possible for Tea Partiers/Republicans to disagree with the President's fiscal strategies and policies without also leveling ridiculous charges about him being a secret Muslim or Kenyan Anti-Colonial or a closeted homosexual or identity thief or that he won't recite the Pledge of Allegiance or the he was sworn into office on the Quran or that he changed the red, white, and blue colors of the Oval Office to a "Middle Eastern"one or that he used teleprompters to speak to a group of elementary school students or WHEEZE that he might be the Anti-Christ!

If we can't change the level of discourse in this country, then we're truly fucked. Politics will continue to devolve into the bizarre Reality TV clips that have gone viral over the last few months. For myself, all of this serves as a personal reminder to make decisions based on evidence and introspection, not Dime novel conspiracies, apocalyptic hysteria, or pictures of politicians Photoshopped with mustaches and swastikas.

I hope we can get back to a place, if there ever was one, where political discourse wasn't overrun with inventions and insults.

On second thought, I just envisioned a Sarah Palin presidential run...

We're Doomed! Doomed!!! That nutty bitch will be the end of us all!

Yours in Service,
r

The Town

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 22:35:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/SEPTEMBER 15, 2010

Ben Affleck’s new film opens over the seemingly quiet streets of an infamous Boston neighborhood that once produced thieves like Florida produces theme parks and naval oranges. Charlestown was once home to the largest number of armed car robbers in the United States. It’s the kind of gritty town where prison records are as common as high school diplomas.

The film immediately drops in on the nefarious plans of the four characters below. The masked robbers, led by Doug MacRay (Affleck) rob a local bank and take the Bank Manager (Frost/Nixon’s, Rebecca Hall) as a hostage. Blindfolded, then released, Hall’s character struggles with the posttraumatic stress of the robbery while MacRay stalks her to find out what, if anything, she knows. The story follows this group of homegrown criminals as they regroup and plunge back into the endemic crime cycle of Charlestown. MacRay, a man who earned his levelheadedness by spending a lifetime fucking things up, falls in love with his former hostage and begins to envision a life away from his gloomy stomping ground.

In the hands of a less talented Director, the “boy meets girl - one last score” plot of The Town would most assuredly come off as predictable and dull. But Affleck keeps it interesting by investing as much time in the characters as he does in the enthralling shootouts. He gets outstanding performances from an amazing cast of veterans, favorites, and icons. Jeremy Renner (The Hurt Locker, 28 Weeks Later) plays James Coughlin, a hotheaded sociopath who exemplifies the amoral roots of his neighborhood. The tension he injects into every scene should dispel any doubts about his recent Oscar nomination. He gets better in every film. Affleck is the best I’ve seen him in years. He plays MacRay with just enough boldness and heart to make him the kind of crook an audience can root for. Hall brings depth to the role of Claire Keesey, a sad woman trying to start a new life in Boston. Jon Hamm (Mad Men) does a fine job as earnest F.B.I Agent, Adam Frawley. He successfully steps away from Don Draper’s slick persona and plays Frawley as a clean-cut, dutiful lawman. Blake Lively (Gossip Girl) plays a slutty, Oxi-addicted single mother with the perfect amount of white trash grubbiness. Screen veterans Chris Cooper (American Beauty, Adaptation) and Peter Postlethwite (The Usual Suspects, Inception) round out the stellar cast with predicable outstanding performances.

It’s impossible to watch The Town and not think of Michael Mann’s, Heat. Mann’s 1995 masterful heist drama also revolves around a dedicated cop hunting down a group of bank robbers led by a perceptive criminal who wants to start a new life after meeting a girl. It’s pretty standard stuff for westerns and modern holdups. The biggest similarity, to Affleck’s credit, is in the action. While many films have tried to emulate the kinetic chaos of Mann’s shootouts, none have come as close as The Town. The robberies had me on the edge of my seat. The scenes are riveting, perfectly paced, and realistic. Affleck somehow manages to make each caper more captivating than the other.

The Town is a remarkable feat, considering this is only Affleck’s second film as a Director. The film proves the success of his first project, Gone Baby Gone, was no stroke of luck. He isn’t a flashy filmmaker. But he’s smart enough to know where his strengths are. He plants himself right where he belongs. As a result, The Town has an unmistakable authenticity to it. You can practically smell the piss in the alleyways and feel the grime on the walls. Like the characters of Charlestown, he gives the town an endearing pat on the back and a swift kick in the balls.

The Town is easily one of the best movies of the year. The actors shine, the action pops, and Affleck is skillful enough to know how to bait an audience with just enough information to keep you leaning forward.

The Town starts Friday, September 17th.

Trek in the Park: Space Seed (July 31, 2010)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 17:22:00 +0000

Our story begins with a mistake. My mistake. Even though the flyer above clearly lists the show's location as "Woodlawn Park," I somehow see "Woodland Park," and type that into my GPS.

We end up on the other side of town, 8 miles from the correct location:

We still manage to arrive an hour and a half early, though all of the good spots have already been taken. We squeeze into a pocket off to the side of the grassy stage.

I dig into the final chapters of Catching Fire on my Kindle. Chad complains about having to sit in the dirt

Aaron (also forced to sit in the dirt) tries to hide his discomfort. Both resent the fact that I'm the only one who thought to bring a chair

The show begins...

A local take on Space Seed (1967), the episode that introduced us to the SS Botany Bay and Kahn Noonien Singh, played by Ricardo Montalban. He would later reprise that role in what is arguably the best Star Trek film to date, The Wrath of Kahn.

We are treated to a delightful production, complete with (the requisite) well-endowed female crew members, simple props, live music, and sci-fi sound effects.

Yours in Service,

Ensign Plastorm

I ♥ the Northwest (reason#11898.1)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 04:00:00 +0000

We drive into Gold Beach, Oregon in the late afternoon.

(click to enlarge pics)

After greeting Aaron's parents at the Turtle Rock RV Resort,

We discover a majestic strand lined with igneous rocks and mountain forests...

We climb a few of the rocks while being pelted with sand and salt swept up from the harsh winds gusting against the rocky shore.

I pause for a picture with the pup...

Then watch as he gets hit from behind by a strong wave, goes ass up, and does a face plant into the freezing water.

We return to the campsite, eat a great dinner, and plant ourselves around a small fire...

Where I learn everything I think I know about marshmallow roasting is wrong.

As the sun sets...

I prop my dirty feet above the flames and dig into the last half of The Hunger Games on my Kindle.

The next morning, Aaron's mother treats us to a speedboat ride up the Rogue River...

Which is so gorgeous and cinematic, it reminds me of every movie that ever took place on a wild river.

We spot deer...

And several Bald Eagles,

As we wind further up the river, well past the point of roads, access points, or any semblance of cement or civilization...

We stop for lunch...

Then stumble back to our campsite, sunburnt and tired from the 7-hour tour.

We drive up to Sebastian Cove the next morning...

Where we have a picnic, and let Sprocket run around chasing shadows and driftwood...

We drive back to our campsite, lay around, and further explore the nearby shores...

Then drive back to Sebastian Cove at 9:30 P.M. to give Aaron's parents a great view of the blushing horizon...

We stop at several sites on our way back to Portland...

I marvel at the miles of sand dunes at Honeyman park and make a note to come back here to rent a dune-buggy and sandboard...

Yours in service,

No Sleep 'Til Fusion

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 20:06:00 +0000

Illustrations: Wendy MacNaughton

I ♥ the Northwest (reason#11897.2)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 02:33:00 +0000

Our Northwest outing begins as we wind through the small towns that line the lush forests of Oregon's southern Cascade mountains...

(click pics to enlarge)

A four hour's drive takes us to Joe's Motel, where we are greeted by the owners, a friendly couple who I lovingly describe as, "nice hippies."

We check-in to a basic, comfortable room with a gas fireplace...

Then head for Crater Lake...

Formed by the collapse of a volcano approximately 7,700 years ago...

The lake has some of the cleanest, non-polluted water in North America. The water is a deep, cold blue...

The next morning, we hop in the car and head into the Umpqua National Forest in search of the famous hot springs tucked in the middle of the woods.

We stop for breakfast in a small restaurant. I eavesdrop on a conversation across from us. A tall man with a large, brown cowboy hat goes on about Obama and taxes. I think to myself, "it really is a miracle that he was ever elected." I marvel at the fact that so many Americans vote against their own interests. He mentions something about "not having much money," and "things are tough all over," and I wonder if he realizes he's getting more from this administration -- in fifteen months, than in the entirety of the past eight years?

We drive for another hour, get lost, park the car, throw on our packs, and follow an "alternate" trail (which I foolishly interpreted as: easier, but actually meant: 1.5 miles added to the existing 3.5 mile trail).

Nevertheless, the hike was beautiful...

We reach the spring about an hour later. It's broken off into several pools, one covered...

The rest cascading down the side of the hill. While the main pool reaches about 114 degrees, the temperature decreases by a degree or two for each lower tier...

I throw off my clothes and hop in...

Aaron stays out and reads a book. He says it's because he doesn't care for it, I think it's because he's not much for public nudity...

I soak for about 30 minutes...

Wishing I could stay longer...

But we have to leave to take care of the main reason for our trip, a chance to take a look at these little guys...

To make the hard choice of picking one out of the litter...

We make our decision, but can't take him home until he's properly weened in three weeks.

On May 1st, we take on the arduous but ultimately rewarding task of raising a Golden Retriever...

Yours in Service,

Clash of the Titans (2010) - 3D

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 21:02:00 +0000

BY ROBERT FORTNEY/MARCH 31, 2010

Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, my childhood memories are inexorably linked with what was then a new subscription service called “cable television.” There was nothing so thrilling as faking a fever (using a technique I learned from E.T.) so I could stay home from school, plant myself in front of a wood-paneled Zenith and have exclusive authority over its gigantic, two button remote.

I lost more school days than a kid with Polio watching movies on channels like Cinemax and HBO. While my classmates drooled over their textbooks, I ate chips while laughing at premature ejaculation jokes I didn’t fully understand (History of the World: Part I) and got my first look at the female form (the naked witch in The Shining). Of all the movies I watched during those cinematic hooky days, two seemed to be in constant rotation. One was Seems Like Old Times, and the second was Clash of the Titans. I must have watched the latter dozens of times, and I don’t recall ever tiring of it.

With those memories intact, I approached Louis Leterrier’s (Transporter 2, The Incredible Hulk) remake with the same cynical reservation I adopt when loaning someone money: that I’ll most likely walk away disappointed. 15 minutes into this remake, it was apparent that I donned the right kind of armor. Clash of the Titans is a three-dimensional dud.

Avatar’s Sam Worthington takes over the role of Perseus, son of Zeus, the humorless team captain of the Gods. But unlike Harry Hamlin’s Perseus in the 1981 version, Zeus’ progeny has serious daddy issues this time around. The story goes something like this; Zeus (Liam Neeson) pretends to be a mortal king so he can bed with that king’s wife. The king finds out about the celestial shenanigans and, like all good kings, throws his wife and her infant son into the sea to spite Zeus and his demigod son. The boy is plucked from the water by a fisherman (Romeo + Juliet’s Pete Postlethwaite) who raises him as his own. Perseus and his new family spend the following years living a poor but idyllic life.

As soon as you can say “dead meat,” Perseus watches his family perish under the weight of a boat crushed by Hades (Harry Potter’s Ralph Fiennes), a squiggly ink-devil who reminded me of Lord Voldemort’s developmentally challenged step-cousin or, at best, Satan’s minion in Comedy Central’s South Park:

With his mortal parents sleeping with the fishes, Perseus begins his adventure while fostering a seething hatred for the gods.

What follows is a bland, simple-minded action film that somehow manages to miss every mark. From sets and costumes that look as if they were pulled from the aforementioned History of the World: Part I, to weak dialogue, and all-too-convenient plot devices—the movie seems more like the generic introduction to a theme park ride than a full-fledged Hollywood production.

The film's biggest crime is that it doesn’t seem to be in on the joke. The trailers would have you believe that you’re in for an epic adventure with legendary creatures and powerful Gods. The only problem with that is, the Gods really have nothing to do but stand around. Liam Neeson’s Zeus is only there to bellow about his misgivings in sparkle-filtered armor. As mentioned, Ralph Fiennes’ Hades has nothing much to do but wriggle his upper lip and react with congested snarls.

The creatures themselves leave much to be desired. Each poorly animated fiend looks like a distant cousin of the other. Medussa, who in my eyes should be the standout, is actually the worst looking creature in the lot. She comes off as a poorly animated Michelle Pfeiffer, who is neither stealthy nor terrifying. The Kraken is the best looking creature of the bunch. But its effect is lessened by disjointed cutaways to an annoying hippie dressed like an Indian Sadhu, and a damsel in distress that looks about as distressed as a girl sipping mineral water on a green screen lot.

As for the other players of this mythic turd, they’re all equally dressed with no place to go. Worthington wears the same face in every role, but I don’t say that as an insult. He’s perfect for these kinds of action roles because his personality rests in a comfortable middle-zone. He’s a blank slate that can easily be inserted into a variety of action roles. Unfortunately, in the hands of a less talented director, there’s not much for him to do but smile, frown, and nod. Side players like Nicholas Hoult, who was engaging as the odd, sexually confused college student in A Single Man, has nothing to do here but look like a twink at a Trojan-themed gay club. Gemma Arterton (Quantum of Solace) pops in and out like an annoying kid sister following her big brothers around.

I’m not going to pretend that Desmond Davis’ 1981 version was a cinematic masterpiece. After scanning through a few clips on Youtube, I was reminded of just how campy and stilted that movie was. But it thrilled my 11-year-old eyes enough to inspire me to dash around the house battling invisible beasts with a bicycle grip sword and a cardboard shield strapped to my arm. Will this do the same for modern audiences? I’m very interested to find out. Personally, I think Davis’ Titans is far superior—dated effects and all!

The biggest lesson here is that 3D has more than overstayed its welcome. As a self-proclaimed “tech-head,” I’m all for embracing new technology. I have and will continue to defend films like Avatar—because, unlike the new Titans, Cameron’s movie was specifically designed for a three-dimensional pallet. Dressing up a 2D film (not to mention one with lackluster effects) in 3D makes it look worse, not better. It’s like someone with bad skin examining their pores and blemishes over the magnified side of a vanity mirror.

Sadly, it looks like there’s no end in sight for the marketing rage Roger Ebert calls a “juvenile abomination.” If Titans finds a receptive audience, it will only bolster the fact that we're in for years worth of 2D films with 3D in their titles.

To that I’ll defer to Spyros, Perseus’ fisherman father:

“One day, somebody’s gotta take a stand. One day, somebody’s gotta say… enough.”

Clash of the Titans starts Friday, April 2^nd

No Batt

Paris

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 05:20:00 +0000

Our visit to Paris starts at the Oops! Hostel. We check in to a spartan, relatively inexpensive room with a private bathroom...

And a small terrace overlooking the Latin Quarter...

We put our things away and make the short walk to the subway station...

Where we buy the single most important item of our visit: a pass that gives us unlimited access to all trains for the duration of our stay...

(I look pissed because of all the steps it actually took to get this thing)

With our new passes in hand, we wind through the grimy corridors of the subway station, find the right track, and wait for the next train.

*Note: Paris is a lot dirtier than I imagined; Like a foreign New York. And there's dog shit everywhere!

A wretched looking homeless woman gets up from her blanket on the other side of the station. She nonchalantly walks to the end of the platform, pulls down her pants -- and starts to piss with the force of an elephant. The sound of her urine echoes off the dirty walls of the station.

Aaron and I look at each other with a baffled, "is this really happening?" question mark blinking on our faces. We seem to be the only two people who care.

Our train enters the station. The woman gets up, grabs a few pieces of crumpled newspaper -- and violently retches into her hands.

And thus begins our introduction to Paris...

Soon after, we arrive at the Eiffel Tower...

Like everything on our visit, the line is surprisingly short. Which is most likely the result of the extraordinary cold snap currently blanketing most of Europe. And damn is it cold!!! Bad thing is, only the middle deck of the tower is open.

We get on the elevator and all I can think about is Superman II. Of Lois spelling the word "P u l i t z e r." Or the terrorists holding the nuns hostage: "It's me that controls the bomb, not the bomb that controls me."

After freezing our asses off on the observation deck, we take a boat trip along the River Seine...

We disembark, set the camera on auto, and smile with the tower at our backs...

The next morning, we hit the Musée d'Orsay, an incredible museum housed in a former railway station...

It's here that I finally "get" Monet. As a younger man, his work seemed far too pedestrian. I liken this error to the way a boy shuns the tastiest fruit for low hanging branches. My budding interest was matched only by a need for instant gratification. It was easy to "get" someone like Dali; Much harder to appreciate the subtle majesty of Monet's lilies...

And his mastery over shadow and light...

Another amazing Van Gogh...

We walk through the entire museum, winding through all the nooks and crannies of this cultural edifice.

Next stop: the Louvre...

Which is, quite frankly -- freakin gigantic! Over 652, 300 feet of collected art!!!

We enter through I. M. Pei's pyramid...

And feel overwhelmed by the crowds. It feels like Art Disney. We decide to just hit the big stuff...

This is a place where even the ceilings look like great works of art...

Winged Victory...

As close as we can get to the Mona Lisa...

The Raft of the Medusa...

Which towers over our heads...

A greek chick with no arms, otherwise knows as the Venus de Milo...

My personal favorite, Vermeer's The Lacemaker...

*Vermeer is the true master of light, in my humble opinion. Like Van Gogh, no picture can do his work justice...

We leave the museum and get lost for the fiftieth time. At this point, we're both sick of reading maps...

Something for my mom, Madeleine...

The Arc de Triomphe...

Which surprisingly, has an elevator that takes you to the top. But it's broken. So we climb more stairs...

The view...

How do parisians navigate such madness?

Coffee afterwards...

The obligatory photo of the "Royal With Cheese!"

*See: Pulp Fiction

Before bed, I complete my nightly ritual of scrubbing my only pair of dirty jeans in the shower...

We hit Notre Dame de Paris first thing the next morning. The cathedral sparkles like a jewel in the early morning light...

I'm shocked by the amount of souvenirs...

"Official" medallions...

And expensive candles being sold -- in the middle of the cathedral! Now, I'm no Christian, but it seems completely wrong. It cheapens the place. Makes it less "sacred." I think about how furious Jesus was with the merchants in the temple...

We go up more stairs! To get great views of Paris...

And a closer look at the famous gargoyles...

I take a picture of Aaron...

He snaps a picture of me -- at the moment I lose my temper. This is me saying: "Just forget it!"

We walk around the cathedral...

To get a better look at the structure's exposed buttresses...

Just amazing.

An exquisite marriage of form and function. Almost modern by today's standards...

We get lost (again!) looking for the Centre Georges Pompidou...

Which looks like a gerbil cage...

I came here to see "modern art." Walking through the building, I'm struck by a revelation: modern art (for the most part) sucks! This epiphany is undoubtedly the result of spending the last two weeks looking at nothing but the work of masters. In contrast, most of the "pieces" on this floor look like vapid marketing gimmicks or outdated fashions.

We move to the next floor. As we go backwards in time (away from the 60's and 70's) the art becomes more heartfelt, labored, and authentic...

Chagall...

Some dude name Picasso...

And one of my personal favorites, Joan Miró...

At this point, I've had my fill of art. I don't want to see another painting, statue, or crucifixion for the rest of the trip!

The stunning Opéra Garnier...

Which served as Gaston Leroux's inspiration for Phantom of the Opera...

We visit the Pantheon...

I mosey around, admiring the interior when -- all of a sudden -- it hits me! I have to poop -- and I have to poop now!

Aaron sees the "look" in my eyes as I dart past him like an agitated chicken, snapping my head in every direction.

I streak past him going one way, then, a few minutes later -- zip down the other repeating this silent mantra:

"Oh please -- oh please -- oh please! Let there be a bathroom!"

This has been the recurring hardship of my European visit. For some reason, my stomach thinks we're in Mexico. Because of that, I've spent most of the trip making frantic, last minute dashes to the toilets in every monument and tourist attraction in Paris.

Back to the Pantheon...

I grab a visitor's map and study it like a greedy pirate looking for treasure. It's on the other side of the building! Once again, I dart past Aaron.

I stumble down the chiseled stairwell and rush towards the green sign marked: Toilets. Since this is Europe, there's not much of a seperation between "Mens" and "Womens," so I rush past a lady who's taking her sweet time -- no match for a man about to soil his only pair of jeans near the crypt of Voltaire.

I run into the stall -- closing the door like someone trying to flee an axe wielding maniac.

The most critical moment of the entire process is when your sphincter puckers at the site of the bowl. It's like your mouth watering at the sight of cut lemons.

I fumble with my belt, throw down my jeans, and plant my ass on the bowl with no time to spare. Though I'd normally wait for an empty room to exorcise this kind of putrid foulness -- this is no time for such pleasantries.

My ass explodes with such angry force -- the sound echoes through the monument's stone walls. I'm certain I hear the woman on the other side of the door give an "oh dear," followed by a slight gag.

There's no way I'm going to face anyone who just witnessed all this unpleasantness, so I wait until I'm certain the coast is clear.

I sneak out the door and tiptoe up the stairwell like a man who's just committed murder.

That night, I complete my nightly jeans scrubbing, focusing extra attention on the "danger zone" of the day's adventure...

Before bed, I wrap up a bathroom towel to form a much needed "crotch pillow." I notice that it looks like some kind of terrycloth ninja...

Les Invalides...

The tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte...

Aaron's Crêpes...

One of the most memorable locations of our trip...

The Catacombs of Paris.

We start the long...

Dark walk into the underground depths...

Housing the relocated remains of long dead Parisians...

Artfully arranged...

Deep below the city...

Macabre, yes. But it was fascinating...

Our next stop on our "Day of the Dead" was Père Lachaise Cemetery...

The final resting place of Jim Morrison...

Frédéric François Chopin...

Oscar Wilde...

"What harm is there in a kiss?" -Oscar Wilde

Edith Piaf...

The cork-loving Marcel Proust...

And finally, Mr. Balzac...

This looked like a Nine Inch Nails cover...

For our last night, we decide to splurge on an authentic, well prepared French meal. And the L'Ardoise delivered!

Since the menu's in French, we blindly point at our course selections. In a place like this, it's not much of a gamble. Chef Pierre Jay's three course meal starts us off with a foie gras ravioli with smoked duck (spare me the lecture hippies -- I had to try it once!). It's quite possibly the single most amazing plate of food I've ever eaten. Aaron chooses a delightful escargot creation...

Our main course. Succulent duck...

And for dessert, a souffle as light as a feather for me, and chocolate covered pralines for Aaron...

A great place to eat if you ever find yourself in Paris.

Yours in Service,

In Bruges

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 04:42:00 +0000

I first heard of the Belgian city of Bruges in 2008, thanks to the movie In Bruges, starring Colin Farrell and Ralph Fiennes. While the movie left me a bit disappointed (its cult status is still a bit puzzling)...

The real star of the film was the backdrop of the city; A town so quaint and beautiful it looks like a collection of fairytale castles and gingerbread houses...

Forward to 2010.

We get off the train and wander hungrily through the cobblestone streets of the city.

I tap my first impressions into the notebook of my iPhone:

The entire town smells like french fries and waffles!

We check-in to our room at the Martin's Hotel...

And have a good laugh at the "Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle" message on the television...

We visit the Groeningemuseum, which houses an amazing collection of Flemish art, such as:

The Judgement of Cambyses...

The Last Judgement...

Death and the Miser...

We go to dinner at De Vlaamsche Pot, where I have an incredible Flemish meal consisting of sausages and baked apples..

Later that night, I discover the fermented joy that is Witte Beer, which tastes like a light Hefeweizen...

We wander the square...

Admire the bell tower bathed in a sulfuric glow...

And make the 400-foot walk to the top the next morning...

Bruges is the first town we've visited in Europe that is not covered in graffiti. It's a welcomed surprise.

The cogs and mechanisms of the clock...

We get our fill of the view and head back down the narrow staircase. Turns out Colin was right! Those hefty tourists would have never made it up this cramped cylinder!

We get lost trying to find the various the sites outlined in our guidebook...

And decide to give that responsibility to this friendly looking horse...

The mare's shoes click and clack as our guide points out the landmarks of the city. I feel a bit nervous sitting in a "romantic" carriage with another man, but no one seems to care or notice. Years worth of drive-by insults and scary encounters have made me cautious of such overt displays of affection or intimacy.

Our carriage stops at The Minnewater to let the horse take a break. We cross a bridge built in 1740 to admire The "fuckun swans" (see: movie).

We pay our guide, thank the horse, and visit Bruges' town hall (1376)...

Interior...

We walk over to the Crowne Plaza Hotel, which was built over the crypt of an old cathedral. Exhibition cases display the various archeological finds, such as these stunning paintings...

Across town, we discover the statue of the Flemish mathematician Simon Stevin, famous for his formulation of the hydrostatic paradox, as well as being the first to explain the moon's affect on ocean tides.

The Basilica of the Holy Blood, first built in the 12th century...

The basilica's claim to fame is venerated vial said to contain a cloth with Christ's blood, brought by Thierry of Alsace after the Second Crusade.

I pass an old, wooden confessional and am reminded of my time in Catholic School; Of what it felt like to kneel in a similar dark chamber, air my confessions into a mesh screen, and receive the obligatory Hail Mary prescription for my sins.

That time notwithstanding, I love environments such as this. The architects of these old churches knew what it was all about -- that such structures should transport you to another world. As such, I feel as if I'm in a womb. I feel protected and calm. My voice doesn't go above a whisper.

Bruges' narrowest street...

And, most importantly -- Belgium's glorious waffles!

Our last night in this wonderful city. Bruges will prove to be my favorite place in Europe. It's quiet and relatively unassuming, with an authentic, fairytale charm Disney has spent decades trying to mimic.

We order our last Witte beer...

That I won't be able to finish...

Aaron takes the opportunity to enjoy one more plate of waffles...

We end our last night with a walk around the cold, dark city trying to soak up and preserve--

This wonderful experience...

Yours in Service,

Amsterdam

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 03:36:00 +0000

It's about 27 degrees in Berlin's open air station. Our train has just been delayed an hour. I blow warm air into my frozen hands and think of the subtle differences between my country and the rest of the world. America is an insulated land of temperature controlled environments and convenient parking lots. Comfortable, yes... But I wonder if those modern luxuries have made us spoiled and soft? That being said, I'd gladly opt for a little heated comfort to thaw my shaking bones...

With an hour to kill, we wander around the station and run into a Buddy Bear exhibit.

*In 2001, the Buddy Bear («friendship-bear») was developed by Klaus and Eva Herlitz in cooperation with the sculptor Roman Strobl. During the same year, approximately 350 bears were creatively painted by as many artists to be shown in the city of Berlin for two years[1]. Afterwards, many of the bears were sold at auctions in aid of child relief organisations. These Buddy Bears can now be found throughout Berlin, usually on the sidewalks in front of their owner's business or office.

Here are those same bears in Vienna:

Back at Track 1, I scramble to fill out the required information on our Eurorail pass as our train slithers towards us.

As the train enters the station, we watch the cars pass and scan for the number listed in our reservation. We find the right car number -- but the door is locked! Since European trains stop from to one to several minutes, we scurry around like pigeons looking for a missing bread crumb -- looking for someone -- anyone to help, but the cars are virtually empty.

Such panic will prove to be the norm. Each trip will be a confusing scramble to find the right car or seat before the train suddenly (and often without warning) takes off.

The train begins to inch forward. We find an empty spot and hope for the best.

The conductor comes by about twenty minutes later. He only speaks German, so we struggle to ask if we are in the right place. He gives an affirmative nod, points to our darkened car and says, "heater is kaput." "Ahhhh," we reply as he stamps our pass. He smiles and moves to the next car.

Aaron lets out a sigh of relief,

I lean back and put my headphones on...

We watch Germany's frozen landscapes streak past our window...

We've been traveling for a few hours. Aaron curls in his seat and begins to snore. I watch the sun dip behind a frozen field and write this in my notebook:

3:30 P.M. Weds, January 6. Somewhere in the Netherlands.

Another one of those quiet moments when the world stops. I stare out the train window looking at the waning sun and feel so lucky to be right here, right now.

A few hours have passed. I break out the map to try to find our location...

The train stops at a deserted station. I hop outside to look around while keeping a sharp lookout for any train movement.

We arrive in Amsterdam during a historic snowstorm. The snow falls so hard that we can barely see in front of us.

We hop into a cab and give the driver the address to our hostel. He leans back and says, "You sure you want to take a cab there? It's very close?" We look at the falling snow, turn back to the driver and respond in chorus, "no problem!" "Okay," he says, but it's going to be twenty Euros."

He drives for about 3 minutes, stops the car and says, "here we are!" We look at each other and laugh like idiots. Aaron forks over 20 Euros (about $30), looks back at me and says,"at least he was honest!"

We check into our hostel. The Tourist Inn. It's a small, no frills room, about the size of a closet...

With a bathroom so tiny, you could wash your hair while sitting on the toilet. The room is relatively cheap and centrally located -- so it's just what we were looking for.

We tuck our things away and head out into the frozen city.

At dinner, we clap like seals as the waiter serves us french fries with mayonnaise -- a Dutch custom made famous in Pulp Fiction...

Then start hitting the local pubs...

We're both shocked by the number of gay bars in Amsterdam. I've always associated Amsterdam solely with marijuana and whores -- so it's a welcomed surprise.

We hit the Red Light District on our way back to the hostel; Truly one of the most bizarre, intriguing, exciting, and disturbing things I've ever witnessed.

We walk through the narrow alleyways, keeping a watchful eye on the dodgy looking tourists who look too high and drunk to be peaceful...

I hide my eyes within the folds of my coat when a girl looks at us and gives a "come hither" tap on the window...

I wonder how many of these women are successful independent contractors, and how many are indentured servants? Further research shows that it's a mixture of both.

We wind through the outskirts of the district, passing what could only be described as the Bargain Bin windows.

I look up at a corner perch and see a scantily clad girl who looks like Precious, slumped in her chair listening to an iPod...

I wake up to the sun rising behind the city's snow covered rooftops.

We get dressed, take a picture...

And set out to find the Anne Frank House, passing by the frozen canals...

The exterior of the Anne Frank house now...

And during Nazi-occupied Holland...

Annelies Marie Frank, along with her family, hid in the back rooms of her father's office building for over two years. The diary she kept details those experiences.

They were captured on the morning of August 4th, 1944. Anne died of typhus at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp 7 months later. And if that wasn't depressing enough, the camp was liberated by British troops a few weeks after her death.

Trying once again to file away (but not forget) all that we've learned about the Holocaust and Hitler's Germany, we wander around the city...

And finally make our way to the Van Gogh museum, the reason for our visit...

We enter the museum. I get chills. This is a dream come true.

The Potato Eaters is so beautiful I want to cry. No picture can replicate its texture and tones. Any photograph of a Van Gogh painting is, at best, a muted facsimile.

We go up the stairs, wind around the hall and I spot the object of my affection; my favorite Van Gogh painting, Wheatfield With Crows...

It is more beautiful than I could have ever dreamed of. It possesses more gut wrenching sadness than any work of art I've come to know. Each stroke brittles with resounding emotion. The colors of the landscape collide into the darkened sky like the discordant notes of a hell-bound orchestra.

Wheatfield With Crows was one of Vincent's last paintings. That same month, he went for a walk in the fields and shot himself with a revolver.

I stare at the painting, trying to contain my tears and emotion. I walk away, come back, see the rest of the museum, and come back three more times.

Later that night, we take a boat trip through the canals of the city...

The next day...

Rembrant's house...

No matter how many times you are told about the freakish number of bicyclists in Holland, you'll still be amazed AT THE FREAKISH NUMBER OF BICYCLISTS IN HOLLAND! Take a look at the train station's parking lot, filled not with cars -- but thousands of bikes!

I'm amazed at the number of people riding their bikes in this record breaking cold. Not just kids or bike nazis -- but people as old as my grandmother.

I think this is why we have become a fat country. Our love of sweets and fatty foods is really not that drastically different from Europe. I think the difference lies in the fact that most of us could go days without ever really making our heart pump. Most of us go from our houses to our cars to other convenient parking lots.

Please don't mistake this observation as some "holier than thou" hippie dump. I've touched my bike once in the last six months. And that was when we were moving. That sad revelation is evidenced by my own expanding waistline.

Our last day in Amsterdam. We eat breakfast, drink our coffee, and watch an infinite number of bikes speed past the restaurant window...

That night... we visit one of Amsterdam's infamous coffee shops. It's exactly the type of mellow place described in our Rick Steves guidebook.

A friendly girl greets me as I walk up to the counter like a newbie at a porn shop. She sizes me up immediately, smiles and asks, "been awhile?" "Yes," I reply sheepishly. She politely explains the details and offers a suggestion.

I nervously take my purchase to the table, get comfortable, and light up.

A Smiths song starts playing on the stereo. I can't hear The Smiths without thinking of Mr. Jamie S. Rich, so I send him an email describing this moment...

Never much of a smoker, I take a few more puffs, start to feel a bit dizzy, and put it out.

Sheesh... What a tourist!

Yours in Service,

EDGAR

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 01:33:00 +0000

I'd like to introduce you to the newest member of the Plastorm family...

EDGAR

(my first robot)

*Also see: iRobot Roomba 562 Pet Series

Why Edgar? Well, his full name is J. Edgar Hoover [wink. nudge. yuk-yuk.]

And... well, I like the fact that he shares the name with the A.I. troubadour in the 1984 movie Electric Dreams...

Electric Dreams is one of those silly 80's films that, possibly because of its non-stop rotation on cable television, somehow wedged itself into a corner of my brain. The movie features the only two Culture Club songs that don't make me feel like I'm trying to squeeze into an old pair of parachute pants.

It's silly -- I know, but I've never forgotten EDGAR's dream sequence. It's a sappy, melodramatic montage of rudimentary graphics and Boy George riffs that really moved me as a kid.

EDGAR performs his floor cleaning duties extremely well. I've held out buying one of these for a long time as I wasn't sure if they actually worked. Seeing one in action at a friends party quickly erased those doubts.

Here's EDGAR in action...

I know. I know. I just blogged about a vacuum cleaner. But it's the little things that excite me!

Yours in Service,

For the Record: Countries that allow homosexuals to serve in the military

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 04:12:00 +0000

Countries that allow homosexuals to serve in the military

Countries that disallow homosexuals from serving in the military

The United States of America prohibits LGBT service members from serving openly under the Don't ask, don't tell policy. Service members who remain closeted are allowed to serve, but investigation into a member's sexuality without suspicion is prohibited.
In Russia, those alleged to have "sexual identity problems" are to be drafted only during wartime. "Well adjusted homosexuals" are permitted to serve in a normal capacity."^[25]

Yours in Service,
rp

Berlin.2 (sex, lies, and unspeakable horrors)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 15:09:00 +0000

Part 2 of our story begins after New Years Day, when the remnants of the holidays still glow in city streets and home windows.

We visited Berlin's Erotikmuseum, the second biggest waste of money on our trip through Europe (more on the first in later chapter).

Vistors of the Erotikmuseum are treated to displays like this...

Along with junk science and information about what gets men and women aroused. Basically, the stuff any adult should already know. If not, then that "uninformed" individual might be shocked by the wall of genital plasters around the next corner...

Or the penis flute...

Seeing all that penis, strangely, put us in the mood for sausages...

After a hearty lunch of tasty wieners, our next visit was to the Kommunikation Museum...

Where we were greeted by robots...

Who spoke German, so I have no idea what they were saying.

His buddy liked to play football...

We paid for the English audio tour and were given iPod Touches that impressively supplied both audio and visual information...

The museum outlines the overall history of "communication," from the first letter carriers to early radio transmissions, and so on...

I got my first close look at an Enigma machine, most notably used as an encryption device by Nazi Germany...

The German was a little hard to understand, but I think this is an Absolution Certificate, used in the granting of Indulgences. Acts such as these are what led Martin Luther to initiate the Protestant Reformation...

Here's where our story dips into darkness.

Our visit to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, established in 1936. The "camp" started out as a pool of slave laborers. The prisoners were forced to toil in the brickworks so Albert Speer could build Hitler's unrealized vision of Germania.

We walked from the train station at Oranienburg to the perimeter walls of the camp, roughly following the same path as the former prisoners...

...through the main gate forged with the words: Arbeit Macht Frei, translated as the chilling false promise of: Work Will Set You Free.

Historical photo of prisoners walking past the main gate:

And role call under the watchful eyes of the gunner above...

Role calls were often brutal tests of pain and endurance. The prisoners were often ordered to stand at attention for hours at a time as each person was accounted for. On one such occasion, when the numbers didn't add up, the inmates were forced to stand for the entire night. It was only then that the guards discovered that the missing man had died earlier. Rather than let the prisoners rest, they were forced to go straight to work from their grueling standing positions.

The camp was bordered by an electric fence and Death Strip, an area where prisoners were shot without warning. Historically, this area proved to be very lethal as most of the early prisoners did not speak German and could not read the warning.

Our guide led us through the camp's triangular perimeter, modified later to make room for the massive influx of prisoners.

Prisoner barracks (recreated)...

Toilets...

It was a cold day. Shivering in my winter coat, I imagined how horrible it must have been for the prisoners. How could human beings live through this kind of weather wearing nothing but thin rags?

We walked past a perimeter wall, on our way to "Station Z,"

Stopping at the controversial Soviet Liberation Memorial. Though the camp was liberated by the Red Army on April 2, 1945, the Soviets soon converted the camp into their own Special Camp No.1. The new camp was used to detain political prisoners along with German officers. These new captors were often as brutal as the former ones. Mass graves from this period were discovered in 1990.

"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

Before adopting more "efficient" methods of execution, prisoners were lined up and shot here...

In 1942, inmates were forced to build Station Z, a structure built for the sole purpose of mass extermination.

In 1943, a gas chamber was added, along with 4 incinerators to dispose of the bodies.

On April 2oth, 1945, with the Red Army advancing towards the camp, 33,000 prisoners were forced to evacuate. This "death march," killed thousands of prisoners, either by exhaustion or German hands. Those too weak to walk were shot without hesitation.

The prisoners were eventually abandoned by the guards, who fled to save their own asses.

We leave the camp with the sun setting on our heavy thoughts. I wonder if this kind of thing could ever happen in America. After much thought, I think we're most likely one dirty bomb away from complete chaos. And considering the role three American evangelicals had in a proposed Ugandan bill that would ultimately impose death sentences for homosexual behavior, I can honestly see how such a thing could slowly unfold. Maybe I just have too much of an imagination.

Staying on the path of darkness, our next visit was to the DDR museum.

Which documents what life was like in the socialist state of East Germany, or the GDR.

How people lived...

What they were allowed or directed to listen to...

And of the unprecedented amount of surveillance of its own people in an attempt to root out "class enemies" within the population.

A comic book given to school children, roughly translated as (I think!) "Soon, I am a school child."

The illustrations speak for themselves...

We then visited the Ministry of State Security (Stasi) headquarters.

At one point, the Stasi employed a staggering amount of citizens as full time operatives. Along with those 91,015 people, an estimated 500,000 were recruited as informants.
With roughly 1 agent per 553 citizens, eyes were everywhere...

A button cam...

Even body odor was collected. Which could be used to track a person down with sniffer dogs.

Walking through the former Stasi offices was like stepping through a time portal...

With the inevitable collapse of the GDR, Stasi personnel frantically tried to destroy the massive amounts of personal files they had collected over the years.

On January 5, 1990, GDR citizens stormed the building and haulted much of that destruction...

Next stop: Checkpoint Charlie, the former crossing point between East and West Germany...

*It's important to note that the Berlin Wall was constructed not to keep people from coming in -- but going out! Between 1941 and 1961, approximately 2 million East Germans fled to the West. Many were young and well educated. This "brain drain" was so damaging to East Germany that on August 13, 1961, a barbed wire fence was erected. This would soon become the Berlin Wall.

Turning to more lighthearted fare, we visited the Bode Museum.

*Note: this and many other pictures look like this because I was freezing my ass off and couldn't stop shivering. We just so happened to visit Europe during a historic cold snap. And damn was it cold!

The Bode Museum showcases stunning works of religious art...

We left the museum and walked through the city...

Noting the fact that all of Europe is covered in ugly graffiti. Most of it by untalented taggers who don't even have the skills of the guy who painted this Slimer...

We stop to wag our fingers at Mr. Clooney. "Oh George, you little whore!"

I flash to Bill Murray in Lost in Translation saying, "It's Suntory time."

Going through the Tiergarten on our way home, we stumbled across Berlin's Gay Holocaust Memorial. A looped film within the structure serves as an eternal reminder of the thousands of gay men who died in Nazi concentration camps...

A country that once killed a person for something like this...

Now serves as its eternal host...

A visit to the Victory Column...

The next morning, we take our first European train to Amsterdam (next chapter)...

Yours in Service,

Europe.1 (Berlin)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 15:48:00 +0000

Part One of our story begins in Berlin...

With me, staring at the empty baggage carousel. Lufthansa somehow managed to lose my checked backpack. "Most bags are returned in two days," the disinterested woman at the end of the long Lost & Found line tells me. "Here's a number you can call, but they probably won't answer." She then tells me to check their website for any updates. I immediately get the feeling that I'll never see my bag again. That sense of foreboding will be proven right.

We leave the airport and drive to my mom's wonderful flat, gorgeously decorated for the holidays.

With a great view of the Bauhaus museum from the terrace.

My exhausted and head-heavy brother plants himself on the couch and stays there watching Stargate Atlantis for most of his visit...

The next morning, Aaron and I set out to walk the streets of Berlin. Because my bag is still missing, I wear my light coat, thin shirt and airy shoes (what I wore on the plane) and freeze my ass off the entire day.

We stop at the Bendlerbock, where Claus Schenk von Stauffenberg and several others were executed after failing at the 20 July plot to assassinate Hitler.

Note: Hitler, quite miraculously, survived numerous assassination attempts.

We walk towards the center of the city and stop at the Holocaust Memorial. It's a symmetrical labyrinth of 2,711 grave-like concrete slabs...

Then visit the Reichstag, Berlin's historic parliament building. A mysterious fire in this building gave Hitler emergency powers that really set things in motion. Many historians believe the fire was set for that purpose.

Here's what the building looked like after the allied bombing:

We then walk over to the American Embassy to meet my mother at work.

It's a secured building, so we wait for her clearance and escort. As always, the Embassy gives me a patriotic buzz: the flags, emblems, and Marines... it is possible to love your country without being a nationalistic prick. I've been to a lot of countries, and they all seem to love their country as much as I love mine.

The view from the Embassy is amazing, but you're not allowed to take any kind of recording devices into the building. I take a pic of the Brandenburg Gate once we step out.

The next day (or so), Aaron and I head towards the meeting point for our Third Reich Walking Tour. We're early, so we browse the Christmas market at Zoo Station.

And marvel at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. The building was badly damaged in a 1943 bombing raid and was left in that condition as a memorial...

The steeple before the bombing...

And after:

Our walking tour starts at the former Ministry of Propaganda building. Amazingly, it remained relatively intact after the war. A lot of sinister plans were laid here. This was Goebbel's office.

Below was Goering's haunt. It was the Luftwaffe Headquarters. Another structure that somehow survived the war with minimal damage.

Looking at these original buildings, I was reminded of Albert Speer's semi-autobiographical book, Inside the Third Reich. Speer, Hitler's architect, wrote the book while serving a twenty year sentence in Spanau Prison. Since he was prohibited from writing, he spent two decades smuggling out two books worth of notes. Inside the Third Reich provides, in my opinion, the most intimate and detailed look into Nazi Germany.

While this isn't a Speer design, it's analogous to the mixture of strength and neoclassical elegance common amongst the architecture of the Third Reich and Hitler's ill-fated vision of Germania.

Speer was brilliant. As evidenced by Hitler's Nuremburg rallies. It was his idea to build the implied structure below, formed by pointing 130 anti-aircraft search lights towards the sky. The result was as powerful as it was ominous, bringing to mind gigantic columns in a "cathedral of light."

The tour then crossed a portion of the Berlin Wall...

Which still haunts the city along its former perimeter:

The bricks, angled throughout Berlin, serve as a constant reminder of the Cold War...

Behind the wall, we see what's left of the SS and Gestapo Headquarters:

And walk through the Topography of Terror, a sort of pictorial reminder of the horrific plans and polices of these sinister offices.

The glass dome of the Reichstag shines in the distance...

The tour ends at the former site of Hitler's bunker. We thank our guide and try to brush off all the Nazi funk. Aaron finally see's a bear he could love:

Later that night, my parent's take us out for dessert...

The menu is filled with spectacular works of confectionary art:

It's day 5 or 6 (I can only estimate at this point). There's still no sign of my bag. I've gone back to the airport, pleaded with Customs to search for it myself (the guy behind the counter says no), and still can't get anyone from Lufthansa on the phone. I call their office in the States, and they offer no help at all. I call United Airlines, and they flat out tell me it's not their fault.

There's no escaping the fact that my bag has been stolen or completely lost.

To top it all off, I get sick and lose my voice.

Tired of wearing the same shirt, we go to a few malls...

I'm stunned by the crowds....

I buy a few shirts and a winter jacket and spend the equivalent of around $800, thanks to the dollar to Euro exchange rate.

It's upsetting to lose all of my clothes. Since we'll be in Europe for a month, I packed my bag with most of what I own.

Ho-hum...

Downtime at my parents house is spent on each of our Apple laptops...

My mom and step-father stuff us with nightly feasts and hearty breakfast's made with love...

At some point, we go to the Sony Center...

Purchase tickets for Avatar (so my brother can see it)...

And wait out the time until the show starts.

Note: theaters here take 10 minute intermissions. I used to hate it when living in Europe, but then got very used to that 10 minute bathroom break.

A day (or so) later, I talk the family into taking us to Sanssouci Park.

I somehow expect to see rolling gardens and baroque interiors, but end up freezing my ass off in ghostly fog:

Berlin's a very "green" city. The high price of bottled water gets people (like my parents) to get much of that back by recycling. I make fun of my mother for hanging out at the recycling center like the bums in Portland...

It's weird to see grocery stores in malls. And to push around carts in the same place where people go to buy designer shoes and clothes...

We walk by this tube slide a million times and finally deicide to take the plunge on New Year's Eve...

Berlin Cathedral:

Altes Museum:

A few more pieces of the wall:

With our Paris, Amsterdam, and Bruges trip nearing, we go to Berlin's main train station, a huge structure of steel and glass...

We wander around like idiots and finally find the office we're looking for.

Note: the Eurorail system is as confusing as it is expensive. Figuring it all out is like deciphering code...

While we try to make sense of it all, my brother sits and rests in his borrowed trench coat. It's my birthday (New Year's Eve), so he's left the comfort of the couch to join us for the day...

We decide to take a boat tour, braving the Arctic winds as we circle the city like blind tourists looking for the dock...

We wait out the next boat in a nearby cafe. Aaron tries what can only be described as a "beer smoothie."
We take the boat tour and find ourselves completely lost. The guide only speaks German...

The snow falls harder...

We get home in time for another great dinner. My mom makes me my favorite birthday treat: cheesecake and sparklers...

Aaron surprises me with the kind of leather messenger bag I've always wanted...

My brother argues...

Aaron gets fabulous:

We take a few pics...

And search for a local gay bar, which turns out to be nothing close to what we're looking for.

As a side note: an unattractive man walks up to our table and smiles at my brother while licking his lips. Stunned, we all explode with laughter. He looks insulted and moves on, grabbing the ass of a guy standing in front of the bar across from us...

Sadly, it's the most intimate encounter with a local we've had so far. Berliner's tend to keep to themselves. Many are downright rude, and none seem to know how to line up. I dread any moment I have to line up at a counter as it usually ends up being something close to a Darwinian cattle call.

On the way, we stop at the Gay Holocaust Memorial, honoring the frequently overlooked mistreatment of homosexuals during the Nazi's reign. More than a million gay men were persecuted, with close to 100,000 arrested and 50,000 sent to prison for being "gay."

Thousands of gay men were killed in concentration camps, either by Nazi hands or beatings from fellow prisoners.

Nazi doctors often used gay men in experiments to find the "gay gene" or a possible "cure."

The two words at the top of the plaque read:

STRUCK DEAD

HUSHED UP

Cut from that downer/

We leave Hafen to get close to Brandenburg Gate in time to see the midnight fireworks show. Even with my parent's warning about the night's chaos, nothing could have prepared us for the celebratrory madness that bloomed all around us. Firecrackers explode at our feet. Bottle rockets whizz past our coats. Everyone drinks from champaign, wine and beer bottles -- even at the subway station!

We squeeze like cattle into the train, getting off a stop early -- before a guy lights up a bottle rocket in the car...

We get to the Potsdamer Platz street corner in time to see the wonderful madness of a Berlin New Year's Eve. While the main party is further down, there's no way I'm putting myself in the middle of a million drunkers shooting fireworks.

I've never experienced anything like this. It was beyond words and unlike anything you'd ever see in the U.S. There would be SWAT teams everywhere! Keep in mind that we're standing on a street corner, drinking, far from the "real" crowds at the Brandenburg Gate.

The crowds are getting brazen, so we finish our beers and dodge through the myriad of explosions...

We find a great cafe...

And welcome the new year...

*The DJ plays Born Slippy by Underworld. Everyone applauds. I haven't heard the song in ages and am reminded of how many times I listened to it after Trainspotting opened.

By 3 AM, it was time for food. But food was nowhere to be found. So we gave in...

And...

Gorged on Dunkin Donuts...

Our bellies full with American junk food, we trudge through the crowded streets, say goodbye to a shitty year (the worst of my life) and eventually find our way home...

PS> It's day 13. Still no word from Lufthansa...

Avatar

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 22:18:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/DECEMBER 17, 2009

The story of Avatar is as old as candlelight. Cinematically speaking, if you’ve seen Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai, and to a lesser extent FernGully – you already know the basics of the plot. Beyond the boy meets (alien)girl storyline, we’re reminded that deforestation and industrialism is bad… while the magical natives of that targeted world are strong, spiritual, and fundamentally good. On a structural level, there are no surprises—but I didn’t care about that for a minute. Cameron promised a world like we’ve never seen… and he delivered.

I went into this screening with very low expectations. The movie’s ad campaigns dropped my initial excitement levels down from DEFCON 5 to foreboding shivers. The TV spots make Pandora look boring and its people undercooked. Those concerns were forgotten the moment I put my 3D glasses on. I couldn’t help but whisper, “wow,” 30 seconds into it.

Aesthetically, Avatar is a sight to behold. From the luminescent forests to devil-dog pumas, Cameron creates a lush world that is at once, dazzling and believable. Sorry Lucas, don't be too proud of the technological terrors you've constructed; this is light years ahead of anything featured in the dreadful Star Wars prequels.

As with the plot, the characters of Avatar are all old hat principals: the greedy industrialist, the warmonger, the frustrated scientist, the magical native, and the weary soldier. But Ribisi (Lost in Translation, The Gift), Lang (Public Enemies), Weaver (Alien, Ghostbusters), Saldana (Star Trek), and Worthington (Terminator Salvation) fit comfortably into both real and imagined skin.

Stephen Lang is sharper than shrapnel as the warmongering villain. He was unknown to me before this film, so I was surprised to see the list of 71 roles he’s performed since 1981, most recently as Brigadier General Dean Hopgood in the disappointing, The Men Who Stare at Goats. I’ve been very underwhelmed with Sam Worthington up to this point. But I’ll be the first to admit that my lackluster appraisal might have more to do with his last project (McG’s Terminator Salvation) than in his acting ability. In Avatar, he fits into the role of Jake Sully perfectly.

Since Cameron’s film is built around the concept of Avatars (remote control bodies guided by R.E.M. transmitters) it’s important to mention that they are absolutely believable. This is due, in large part to the revolutionary motion-capture helmets Cameron used to go beyond traditional body movement and focus on the previously neglected facial cues good actors inherently use as essential emoting tools.

While I recommend this movie without reservation, it is by no means a perfect film. While my complaints are minor, I’d have to list Horner’s ham-fisted score (complete with a slight Titanic refrain during a tender moment) in the fail column. And as for multiple shots with warriors on horses (or horse-like creatures), once you’ve seen one raised-arm battle cry – you’ve seen them all. The one plot point I couldn’t dismiss is the ease in which the Na’vi (Pandora’s indigenous population) accept an enemy warrior into the deepest regions of their home. Even with the blessings of Pandora’s floating jellyfish creatures, Sully’s Avatar is accepted into the tribe with little trepidation or resistance. It would be like an Amazon tribe having a bulldozer driver over for a sleepover.

There are pockets in the film that take too slow a course for a vision of this magnitude. While I marveled at the floating cliffs and spiritual prayer rituals (scenes that must have been inspired by the Kecak chants in Baraka) the sci-fi nerd in me was itching to get out of the “enchanted forest,” and back to the anxious villains revving up their futuristic machinery at the edge of those hyper-colored woods. That being said, there are few wasted moments. Cameron masterfully seeds the majority of Avatar’s scenes as narrative triggers.

I do question how Avatar will be received in traditional theaters. The screening I attended was shown in 3D and projected in glorious DLP. It was beyond beautiful. Cameron uses that 3D technology more as a sophisticated canvas layer than “in your face” gimmick. I would imagine that, without that essential element, it’s going to be a very different experience.

Lastly, if you’re going into this movie expecting Shakespeare, prepare to be severely disappointed. Watching Avatar reminded me of what it was like to discover The Abyss, Aliens or Cameron’s first two Terminator films. If you didn’t like those projects, I’d be willing to bet on your chances of liking this one. Make no mistake about it—Avatar is a Cameron action film through and through. Complete with cheesy chunks of dialogue, gripping action, solid acting and technological prowess like you’ve never seen before.

Avatar starts Friday, December 18th.

Rock Me Salieri!

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 23:00:00 +0000

Stephen King, in his book On Writing likens the process of his craft to digging for fossils. A writer writes. And in doing so, brushes the dust from his prose to uncover larger shapes amongst the chaos and clutter.

Over the years, I've tripped over my own share of scattered bones. But that's where it ended. Like a boy in a sandbox, I quit as soon as the task became complex or tiring. I never had the discipline to stick with those ideas and give them the attention they deserved. But I never forgot about those discoveries. Or better yet, they never forgot about me.

So in the middle part of 2009, armed only with piles of index cards and scattered field notes, I decided it was time to return to those sites with an adult pair of eyes and a proper tool box. After months of digging, brushing, and scrapping about -- small finds became large finds, and those large finds grew bigger the more I dug around. Before long, I found myself starring at a T-Rex, laying on its side -- holding hands with a Brontosaurus. And that's where I am now. Relishing the days when I feel like I'm really onto something and trudging through days when I feel like a talentless idiot spinning round and round and round.

Writing is an odd struggle. For myself, it's a constant battle with willpower and self-doubt. It's a task wrought with fear and vulnerability. A writer, like any artist, pulls his heart out and asks you to admire the contours of its folds. Or, as George Orwell puts it:

"Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist or [sic] understand. For all one knows that demon is the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's personality."

Like Orwell (and I assume most writers), I am haunted by those same demons of instinct and influence forever tapping at the door. Those shadows expect to be greeted -- and there'll be hell to pay if those demands are ignored. But that's not to say these petulant imps have my best interests at heart.

When all is said and done, it's quite possible that none of this work will ever see the light of day; that the fruits of this labor will turn out rotten and dull. On the bad days, I worry that I'm no different than that 40 year old singer on your Facebook page. Someone needs to tap me on the shoulder and say: “Psst – it aint gonna happen. The best years are gone.” On my worst days, I suspect that I’m as oblivious and untalented as the contestant below:

Or, like Amadeus’ Salieri, I’ll spend the rest of my days cursing those infernal seeds of inspiration:

OLD SALIERI (To Father Vogler):
All I ever wanted was to sing to Him. That's His doing, isn't it? He gave me that longing - then made me mute. Why? Tell me that. If He didn't want me to serve Him with music, why implant the desire, like a lust in my body, then deny me the talent?
Go on, tell me! Speak for Him!

And therein lies the struggle. If all of what you produce is garbage -- why give in to the temptation at all?

For myself, it’s because -- even on the worst days, nothing else I do or have done feels as natural and pure as the resonance guiding these hands now. Like King's analogy, when I write, it feels as if I'm unearthing something that already has form. It often feels like digging out tracks buried in the snow. For myself, writing has proven to be less an exploration into imagination, and more a resolution to transcribe the clamoring transmissions constantly hovering around my skull.

There is nothing so magical as the moment when characters begin to speak and act as if they had a consciousness of their own. Or when independent ideas merge together like lovers at the end of a romance novel. Even the clicks of my keyboard have charms of their own.

When I start drowning in self-pity. When I hit the roadblocks of doubt. I refer to the advice of a friend:

Then I pout a little, shake off those worries as best I can, take a sip of coffee and return to the job.

Yours in Service,
rp

Space: The Final Junkyard

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 22:55:00 +0000

(click to enlarge)

Astro Boy

noreply@blogger.com (Robert B. Fortney) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 18:34:00 +0000

BY ROBERT B. FORTNEY/OCTOBER 23, 2009

I have a warning for all you parents out there... Those Hollywood communists have set their sites on your kids! Never has that been more apparent than in Astro Boy, the new animated film culled from the celebrated Mighty Atom manga series by the late artist and author, Osamu Tezuka.

While I’m joking about the devious motives behind David Bowers’ (Flushed Away) new animated adventure, I suspect there are going to be groups of furious parents who consider Astro Boy to be as divisive and dangerous as Obama’s “illegitimate” birth certificate. This inevitable uproar will undoubtedly be sparked by the appearance of a trio of revolutionary robots who’ve adorned the walls of their hideout with Pravda newspaper clippings and Lenin posters. But never fear, my god-fearing, liberty-loving countrymen, it’s all in good fun. If anything, the script paints those metallic Trotsky’s as bumbling fools. Your children are safe... for now.

Astro Boy takes place in futuristic Metro City, a society built and maintained by a vast multitude of robots. When brilliant scientist Dr. Tenma (poorly voiced by Nicholas Cage) loses his son Toby (Freddie Highmore) during an ill-fated weapons test, he remakes the boy as a nearly indestructible robot. Tenma, saddened by the realization that his new creation is nothing but a cosmetic copy of his beloved son, eventually turns his back on the mechanical forgery. Shunned and discarded to the underworld below, Toby’s adventure begins in the forgotten depths of garbage and misfits.

I went to Astro Boy reluctantly. The trailers promised another watered down hatchet job parsed for a wide audience of Shrek-loving parents and sugar- buzzed kids. So I was pleasantly surprised to discover an enjoyable action- adventure story with a tight pace and funny script.

The movie diverges from the original collection of stories so drastically that it’s almost unfair to compare the two. Astro Boy, like most of Tezuka’s work, is a zippy hodgepodge of contemplative playfulness. The script, written by Bowers and Timothy Harris (Space Jam, Trading Places) can’t match Tezuka’s genius, but successfully maintains his spirit of adventure and mindfulness.

The cast standouts include Bill Nighy (Love Actually, Shaun of the Dead), who voices the compassionate Dr. Elefun with quiet skill and Donald Sutherland, who embodies the evil and power hungry General Stone with a delightful grin. While Highmore, Kristen Bell, Eugene Levy, Charlize Theron, Nathan Lane, and Samuel L. Jackson all fit snugly into their animated skin, the same can’t be said for Nicholas Cage, who brings nothing but “Cage” to the voice of Dr. Tenma.

While I don’t consider Astro Boy to be a groundbreaking masterpiece, I think it succeeds as a lighthearted adventure movie. The real question is, will kids enjoy it? If the motionless boy who sat beside me is any indication, he erupted into applause at the end of the film.

HALF BATT