For No Good Reason

Now That I'm Not Going to "The Black Super Bowl"...

... aka "The NBA All-Star Game" in Las Vegas (hey, I'll find a way to get shot in a much less expensive manner), it seems the masochistic alternative must be paying to see Ghost Rider.  Why?  Because if the following post from "Rothchild" on Jeffrey Wells's Hollywood Elsewhere is accurate, Mark Steven Johnson's follow-up to Daredevil - and, yes, I've seen the "Director's Cut" - is going to be... quite something:

Ghost Rider is dogshit of the highest order. It's Battlefield Earth bad. Imagine Daredevil without Ericson Core. And a worse script. And actors that have no business in the film and no grasp of tone. Then imagine Ghost Rider being in the film for ten minutes. Then imagine all of his dialogue being unintelligible. Then imagine villains that look like they walked off of the set of Highlander 12.

It's absolutely the worst big budget movie I've ever seen in my entire life. And I actually liked Daredevil. Just wait until young Johnny goes home and finds the letter to his dad:

"Dear, sir.

You have cancer.

Your doctor"

This movie will be the butt of many a joke for years to come.

Who's up for getting shitfaced on Arrogant Bastard Friday night at the Arclight and giving this fucker the penance stare?

 

His Name is Ned Holness

Because I'm no longer in the habit of consorting with conscienceless halfwits several times a month (though I do miss monitoring Earl Dittman's horizontal expansion), it's rare that I find myself chatting with someone fool enough to find Carlos Mencia (real name: Ned Holness) genuinely funny - "genuine" being the operative adjective here because the guy is the most unrepentant joke thief since Robin Williams (who, according to comedy legend, at least compensated the pilfered with a check for material involuntarily rendered).  But if I do at any point in the near future get prodded into battle regarding Ned's purloined chops, I'll at least have this incredibly damning video to effectively declare game, set, match.  Of course, only Joe Rogan would have enough time to mount an ambush like this; he's one of those comedians who patrols clubs preaching integrity and originality even though he's only funny when someone else is writing for him (and he was so good on NewsRadio that this annoying predilection is justifiably forgiven).

Attn: Too Many People

fac·toid   

n. 

1. A piece of unverified or inaccurate information that is presented in the press as factual, often as part of a publicity effort, and that is then accepted as true because of frequent repetition: "What one misses finally is what might have emerged beyond both facts and factoids—a profound definition of the Marilyn Monroe phenomenon" (Christopher Lehmann-Haupt).

Let's leave it at that.  Thanks!

A Prediction of No Importance

Now that Steve Francis is healthy enough to suit up again, expect the Knicks' surprisingly average-for-the-Eastern-Conference season - they're currently at 22-29 - to fall apart as Isiah Thomas once again struggles to find minutes for The Malcontent Formerly Known As The Franchise, whose very presence seems to throw the exceedingly flappable Stephon Marbury completely off his game, which ain't what it used to be back when he was nearly leading my fantasy squad to championship glory (indeed, my tandem of Nowitzki and Marbury should've netted at least one title over the last five seasons).  I only note this because I'm tired of the "Isiah's Been Vindicated!" line being coughed up by lazy sportswriters who fail to recognize that the Knicks still boast the most awkward collection of poorly matched talent since... well, I guess the '02-'03 Cavs.  Were it not for the emergence of David Lee, who leads the team in rebounds because he's generally cleaning the boards for two most nights thanks to Eddy Curry's aversion to leaving his feet, this Knicks team would be right down there with the Boston Celtics, meaning the Chicago Bulls would currently be four months away from landing either Greg Oden or Kevin Durant (who, judging from his play against Texas A&M, strikes me as curiously overvalued in terms of being able to make an immediate impact in the NBA; he'll be really good, but I don't know if he'll be a superstar).

Just getting this on the record so I can gloat later.  And I'm not going to write a damn thing about "My Montenegro", Sasha Pavlovic (and I've been not-so-cleverly calling him that for a solid week, so don't think I stole that from some Deadspin wiseacre), for fear that he'll revert to the kind of recklessness and lackluster defense that keeps him from becoming the Cavs' Manu Ginobili.

More Newsworthy Than Anna Nicole Smith Expiring

"Man Found in Trash Bin".  If this received two hours of non-stop coverage on CNN, my faith in humanity would be slightly restored.

And here comes the shame!

David Fincher's JAWS?

I don't know if it's intentional, but David Shire's very understated score for Zodiac echoes John Williams's eerie use of harp glissandi in Jaws in such a way that you begin to feel like Jake Gyllenhaal's obsessive, pure-of-heart Robert Graysmith has a bit of Sherrif Brody in him as he unofficially takes over the investigation from the disgraced Detective Dave Toschi.  In fact, the whole middle section of the movie felt a lot like Jaws.  And that's a good thing.

12:15 Addendum:  Okay, I'll expound a little.  The film's greatest strength is its evocation of time and place; the attention to period detail is Kubrickian to the point that even the most minute bit of clutter around Toschi's desk feels authentic, which is part of the reason I'll be seeing Zodiac again when it hits theaters.  Then there are the performances of Robert Downey, Jr. and Mark Ruffalo, both of which would've really muddied the Best Supporting Actor picture had the film been released in December (note: to hear Paramount tell it, this was never a possibility).  Watching Downey ecstatically ply his craft over the last few years following his devastating jail sentence has been a pleasure akin to getting Bernard King back on the court at full strength after reconstructive knee surgery.  The latter never happened, but the former has, and it's a miracle the Academy is going to have to recognize sooner or later because Downey is one of the best actors we've got (I'm not suggesting that the Oscar validates the work, but it would be a fitting Hollywood way to reward Downey for conquering that which might've destroyed him).  Ruffalo, on the other hand, is sort of revisiting his scumbag cop character from Jane Campion's fascinating In the Cut, though he emphasizes Toschi's quirks in a completely innocuous way.  It's fine, subtle work.

Just some additional thoughts off the top of my head.  I'll have more to say nearer to the film's release.

They Were the Pete Hammonds of Their Day

But at least they were shilling for a great film.

Back-to-back Ryan O'Neal posts?  Next you'll get my thoughts on The Main Event.

Ah, Nostalgia!

Ryan and Griffin O'Neal are at it again.  Suddenly, I feel like watching The Escape Artist.  And Ordinary People. 

And to think I was worried about Ray Lewis all weekend.

Where Are the Bee Gees?

It's entirely unfair to declare Julie Taymor's Across the Universe the worst thing to happen to The Beatles since Michael Schultz's Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, but the painfully earnest vibe given off by this trailer isn't exactly encouraging.  To be sure, Taymor is a major talent and one of the best theatrical directors working today; unfortunately, her movies - Titus and Frida - have been of the "interesting failure" variety.  When I first caught wind of this movie, I was excited, and listening to Evan Rachel Wood enthuse about the whole experience during the Pretty Persuasion junket... didn't really mean anything, but she's cute when she enthuses.  She wasn't so cute when I asked her if there was any chance of us "making it", but that's what I get for using slang so antiquated it would've drawn groans in Meatballs Part II.  (That's the one where the alien helps "Flash" Carducci win the boxing match in order to save Camp Sasquatch.  And quit pretending you never saw it.)

I hope to do a big ol' about-face when Across the Universe starts screening, but, as I explained in the below post, I have a nasty habit of being right all the goddamned time!!!

I'm looking forward to Jeff's indignant comments.

On Being Right All the Goddamned Time

In the interest of being unbearably smug, I'd like to point out that I've been advocating extended minutes for Boobie Gibson since December 6th, 2006, meaning that it only took Cleveland Cavaliers Coach Mike Brown - I specify because I know a goodly portion of y'all have no idea what I'm talking about - almost two whole months to recognize the obvious and insert the sharp-shooting rookie into the starting lineup where he belongs.  In the interim, it's become obvious that Gibson is not a classic point guard, though he does run the offense reasonably well when LeBron isn't in the game - which, sadly, isn't a new wrinkle.  And that's the impetus for this post (aside from exulting in my hardcourt genius):  LeBron must be vehemently discouraged from pounding the ball outside the arc and looking to a) feed Z or Gooden in the post, b) drive and kick to one of the team's many inconsistent three-point "specialists", or c) come off a high screen and dribble into double team, at which point he realizes there's six seconds left on the shot clock and must therefore hoist a low-percentage jumper that will careen off the rim and, more often than not, result in a transition opportunity for the opposition.

And if he can't be shamed into making free throws in the clutch (which would've clinched last night's ridiculously winnable game against the Heat, even after Wade started drawing fouls on speculative contact)... then nothing.  The Cavs will just continue to near .500 basketball and get ousted in the first round by whomever they're matched-up against.  Tired or no, LeBron should at least be more fundamentally sound than he is at this point in his career.

And whenever Mike Brown feels up to explaining why he left Gibson and Sasha Pavlovic on the bench for the last shot in regulation...