Reed died Tuesday at the age of 71 after a long bout with emphysema. He was famous for being Burt Reynolds' pal and for goofy country songs like "Amos Moses," "She Got the Goldmine, I Got the Shaft," "When You're Hot, You're Hot," "The Bird" and, of course, the theme from his best-known movie, "East Bound and Down."

Forget the rest. That movie is why I liked Jerry Reed. Not because he was going to win any Oscars. But you know how some songs, some movies, some TV shows just have a place in memories because of when you encountered them?

"Smokey and the Bandit" was that way for me.

It came out the last week of May in 1977. I was not quite 6, but this was the first non-kids movie I ever saw at a theater. That is, if by theater, you mean sitting in the back of a Dodge Dart at the drive-in with my parents.

(Coincidentally, another movie came out in that same week of May in 1977 that I would go on to see four times in the theaters as a 5/6-year-old before it's run ended ... "Star Wars." I've seen it hundreds of times since, and now my son has already seen it dozens of times.)

Reed played the Snowman in "Smokey." He drove the truck and had a basset hound with him. Only later would I realize how good a musician he was. A three-time Grammy winner, in fact.

Brad Paisley, a pretty good guitarist in his own right, as well as a singer of some Reed-like goofy songs, had nothing but nice things to say about Reed upon his passing:

“Anyone who picks a country guitar knows of his mastery of the instrument — one of the most inspirational stylists in the history of country music, a complete master. I’m in debt to him for paving the way for myself and the other guitarists of today.”

Reed was proudest of his musical abilities.

“I’m proud of the songs, I’m proud of things that I did with Chet (Atkins), I’m proud that I played guitar and was accepted by musicians and guitar players."

I was going to include some clip of Reed playing my favorite of his, "Amos Moses," but it seems all of his YouTube videos are suddenly "no longer available."

So the best I could do was a short of him with fellow guitar legend Chet Atkins.

Stavo smanettando su Facebook aggiungendomi a una quantità assurdi di gruppi! Belluno, Veneto, Addicted to Gilmore Girls, ADDICTED TO THE OC, Addicted to Gossip Girl, NOSTALGIA di DRIVE IN, Telefilm Magazine, Comitato "Cancelliamo Uomini e Donne dai programmi televisivi", Movimento Italiano Nemici Grande Fratello e Reality Show, Arte e ed eventi culturali (provincia di treviso e dintorni), Contro il tg di Italia Uno, ...PER CHI LO SPRITZ NON E' UN APERITIVO MA UNO STILE DI VITA....., Quelli del Primiero, ..la San Martino che piace.., Quelli che guardano gli occhi..., Love4Dummies, Agriturismo e Turismo Rurale, B yourself!, a morte la pedofilia!!!!, vorrei essere SUPER VICKY, Voglio farmi una sana scopata!!, Prostituzione Legalizzata, Cultura? SI GRAZIE, Il Club di quelle che stanno bene così, Libero spazio alla poesia..., Bizywoman, a fuoco chi ti fa il pacco all'ultimo momento!!, Io odio il formaggio, X Quelli che ancora ci credono..., UCCIDIAMO QUEL MALEDETTO TOPO!)
Si lo so, sono una cazzeggiatrice totale!

Mi ha raggiunta Esa che vedendo la luce della mia camera accesa prima di suonare mi ha chiesto se mi stessi accoppiando e io prontamente al citofono le ho detto che sì, mi stavo accoppiando con il mio pc!

Ci siamo svaccate sul divano con due Dreher da 66 e un pacco di Cipster a guardare Colorado. Ci siamo fatte delle risate assurde, soprattutto osannando quel mitico uomo che è Chicco d'Oliva! Abbiamo deciso che è il nostro uomo dei sogni!

E ora sto recuperando i miei arretrati di The OC , stasera finirò la quarta e ultima serie così poi ho qualcosa da recensire. :)

Domani andrò a pranzo con Gemma, sarà il nostro pranzo di addio, o mi piace pensare di arrivederci.  Un'altra amica stupenda che a breve mi lascerà, e lei se ne va pure nell'altro emisfero. Spero solo di riuscire ad andare a trovarla in Australia, che comunque l'Australia è nei miei progetti 2009. Mi sale già il coccolone.

Journey to the Center of the Earth

Wow, this flick made me appreciate movies I hate since they at least invoke some emotion from me. JTTCOTE is so cookie-cutter I forgot about it 30 seconds after seeing it. Brendan Frasier plays a scientist (in unconvincing fashion) who along with his nephew and random hot Chick, take a trip to the Center of the you-know-where.

JTTCOTE is as "safe" a movie as your ever gonna see. It plays out like an example of commercial film making 101. No originality or visual flair. Maybe in 3-D it would have been slightly better (Wow, the fake CGI creatures are coming right at me) but otherwise this is as bland and forgettable as diet water.

After a quick trip to the Concession Stand to purchase Cheeseburgers, corn dogs, and onion rings, (man I love the Drive-in) our second feature started.

Tropic Thunder

Tropic Thunder is the polar opposite of JTTCOFE. Offensive and biting, I was laughing the moment the "fake" trailers played. 

All the performances are great (although Jack Black is playing the standard Jack Black role, albeit with a mean smack problem) and Writer/Director Ben Stiller doesn't just step on toes, he puts on a pair of size 12 combat boots and stomps on them. I admit, your enjoyment of the flick depends on your movie geekitude. My girlfriend missed a lot of the inside jokes since she hasn't wasted her life trolling movie websites like me. Still, if you have any understanding of the bizzaro way Hollywood works, your gonna have a pretty good time. There's also great advice on the proper way to play "retard" in order to win an Academy Award.

I remember my sister, six years older, taking my younger brother and me to see The Sound of Music. It was winter in Calgary, or near enough that there was still snow on the ground. My sister in some vain act of teenagerhood, had worn inappropriate footwear and spent the first part of the film whimpering as her feet thawed. But in the self-centered way of children, I heard her but stayed riveted on the film. I recently had the opportunity to see this again on DVD with a friend. My friend Kit, a sound actress, and once a stage actress, did some of her first stage work as Liesel. She had very interesting other versions of songs, such as "I fell in a pile of goat poop," which I think is "The Lonely Goatherd." I can still sing "Do-Re-Mi" even if I'm not a singer.

Movie theaters in Calgary were still these grand affairs, seating 400 people, with large screens and the magnificent, usually red curtains that drew back in majesty. Popcorn was a must and matinees were noisy affairs. I still like the old theaters, of which there are a few in Vancouver, and not always but often, I'll buy popcorn for the nostalgia. Because I also worked in a movie theater and know that popcorn is cheap cheap cheap I find the exorbitant prices and the oily stuff they often put on instead of butter somewhat lessens the nostalgia for me.

Herby the Love Bug was yet another matinee movie and I remember the least about this film besides a VW bug, yellow I think, bopping about and rescuing people, or something.  For movies in my childhood, those three are it. We didn't see that many. But there were the drive-ins.

Ah yes, the drive-ins, a unique invention for those big four-child families. We would go in our jammies, with blankets and pillows and homemade popcorn and snacks. That was the good memories. Unfortunately the drive-in was usually prefaced by some huge monstrous screaming (sometimes throwing) fight between my mother and my father. She would bundle us up and off to the drive-in we'd go.

They had those monster teardrop shaped, metal speakers that had to be wedged into the window. If it was a colder time of year, you would roll the window up, and every once in a while turn the heat on to defog the windows and warm the car. Imagine all that exhaust in a vast parking lot with a movie screem.  

The only two movies I ever remember seeing at a drive-in were The Fall of the House of Usher and The House of Seven Gables. They're blended together in my memory and maybe both were at the same driven-in night. The late, wonderful Vincent Price starred in both. I remember bleeding walls and a tumbling house, which was probably Usher, since it was about a sentient house, based on the Edgar Allan Poe story. There was a bleeding locket and Vinny pickaxing his sister in the forehead, which was from Seven Gables, based loosely on a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Perhaps that's why I grew up with a penchant for weird and fantastical stories and read some of Poe and a lot of Ray Bradbury. My mother didn't seem to mind letting us see such graphically gruesome films. I think I was six at the time. Definitely the images has stuck with me ever since, but considering what was going on in my family, they really weren't that scary.

I should ask my brother some day if he ever had nightmares from those movies. I like those early memories from The Jungle Book to The House of Seven Gables, and yet both have strong images for me. I guess that's why my muse comes from different corners at times, and though I write lighter or even humorous pieces, I often have a dark aspect to my stories.

[via Corriere]

Chi spenderebbe online 15 dollari per un manuale di Carma Sutra? Pare in molti, dato che questa guida tascabile è un ormai un bestseller in Inghilterra. Foto, schemi e spiegazioni su come ottimizzare il sesso in auto districandosi al meglio tra leve del cambio, volante e freno a mano. Ma dico, che fine hanno fatto Viaggi di Nozze, i Black Sabbath e i Drive In anni '50? In realtà, il sesso in auto è da sempre la via di scampo prediletta dai giovani che vivono ancora a casa dei genitori e hanno poche occasioni d'intimità. Le statistiche lo confermano per l'89%, ma aggiungono il dato che di notte, all'uscita dei locali l'auto risulta il luogo più pratico e ideale (73%), che l'idea dell'auto è vissuta dalla coppia giovane come un luogo intimo (66%), che è ritenuta più sicura rispetto all'aria aperta (53%), e perchè offre inoltre la possibilità di accompagnare l'atto sessuale con la musica e i comfort (44%). Il 39% dei giovani, infine, preferisce il sesso in auto semplicemente perchè rappresenta un'alternativa più eccitante. Come chi scrive, che resta una fan un po' perversa di Joel&Ethan Coen.

Interessant, dachte ich mir —. Einmal weniger mit dem verhassten Rad, sondern diesmal komfortabel mit dem Auto direkt zum Fundort! Super (-:

Wir hatten das Auto doch einige Meter weiter weg, der angegeben Koordinaten geparkt und sind die letzte Meile zu Fuß gelaufen. So richtig vorstellen konnte ich mir zunächst nicht, wie einfach es ist, nur die Türe auf zumachen. Und schwups den Schatz in den Händen zu haben.

Aber letztendlich war es das auch; was wir zu Fuß erledigt haben, erledigen andere sicherlich auf o.b. Wege.

Die magnetische Cache-Box lag hang sicher verpackt an einer Autobahnbrücke. Allerdings war diese stark frequentiert. (Der Geocacher bezeichnet nicht geocachende Menschen allgemein hin als „Muggel“).
Davon liefen auch gestern einige herum. Aber das stellte kein Problem für mich/uns dar. Mit einem beherzten Griff, war der Schatz mein/unser (-:

Danach schnell auf eine Treppe gesetzt, geloggt und sicher zurück gehängt. Wie immer schlug mein Jagd-Herz in die Höhe!

Interessant an diesem Cache war der Inhalt. Diesmal verbag sich ein sogenannter Travel-Bug in der Box. Dies Art von Cache wird immer auf die Reise geschickt. Er soll in einer bestimmten Zeit, eine gewisse Strecke hinter sich gebracht haben. Der Auftrag des Caches in der Box lautete: „Bringe mich zu den Olympischen Spielen“. (s. Foto).

Den Wunsch konnte ich ihm leider nicht erfüllen, denn meine Wege führen mich nur nach Hause...(-:

On an ordinary Sunday morning in Marietta, Ga.,
Barry Hopkins would be getting ready for church. Today, dressed in
shorts and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt, he's already there - in his car.

Markle looks out over the sea of suits and ties, starched
dresses and patent leather shoes, opens his maroon Bible, and begins.
As long as there are people, there will be a church. And as long as
there's a church, he'll be there every Sunday, indoors or outdoors,
rain or shine.

Source: Worldwide Religious News

La respuesta a lo que Christopher Nolan lleva buscando desde que secuestrara a Batman se encuentra, quizás, en el último film de David Mamet, donde lo sutil se sitúa (muy) por encima de lo verbal, alejado de sus habitualmente generosos diálogos. Sin ser éste un trabajo sólido, su reciente estreno sirve como inusitado correctivo al destartalado concepto de Nolan, que cae por su propia aparatosidad.

Mike Terry (un transparente Chiwetel Ejiofor) es un humilde maestro de jiujitsu, y es humilde porque así lo ha elegido él. La trama, natural viniendo de Mamet, no tarda en apuntar suciedades morales. Cuando eso ocurre es inevitable preguntarse acerca del porqué de la temática, porqué las artes marciales y no una comisaría de policía o un equipo deportivo. Mamet no ofrece ninguna respuesta obvia, simplemente carga el peso del film sobre las espaldas de Terry, personaje que, lejos de la teatralidad de los caracteres de Nolan, representa adecuadamente a una incorruptible figura moral. Su conclusión, chuscamente previsible, no enturbia el resto del film, y no lo hace porque los mecanismos que articulan la narración poseen la cualidad de lo imperceptible.

Finalmente, 'Redbelt' se descubre como un cuento mínimo sobre la moral y su coste. Lo bastante sugerente como para imaginar el libreto de 'The Dark Knight' en manos de Mamet: el magma político-policíaco (digan politíaco de ahora en adelante) al que aspira Nolan cobraría forma y entidad, en lugar de fluir tímidamente bajo ese asfalto de vacíos prosaicos que se quiere un material macizo.

Das Vergnügen an der Self-Service-Version des Essens auf Rädern wird allerdings erheblich durch die Qualität der Gegensprechanlage gemindert.

Ich bin der Überzeugung, daß sie ihren Namen deshalb bekommen hat, weil sie völlig gegen das Sprechen ausgelegt ist.

"Hiere Bechelun hippe," knarzt es mir aus dem Lautsprecher entgegen - der übrigens ein lebender Beweis für die Haltbarkeit von Vorkriegsware ist.

Heiliger McDonald ! Investment wäre hier angebracht. Als erfahrener Drive-In'er weiß ich allerdings, daß der Herr am anderen Ende des Dosentelefons sich gerade nach meiner Bestellung erkundigt hat. Ich eröffne das Spiel klassisch mit einer Gegenfrage:

"Haben Sie etwas vom Huhn ?"

Aus der Gegensprechanlage tönt ein schwer verständliches Wort, daß allerdings eindeutig mit "...icken" endet. Deshalb antworte ich:

"Gute Idee, junger Freund, aber zunächst möchte ich etwas essen." Etwas lauter tönt es zurück!

" TSCHIKKEN !"

"Ach so, Sie meinen Chicken. Nö, lieber doch nicht. Haben Sie vielleicht Presskuh mit Tomatentunke in Röstbrötchen ?"

"Hamburger ?", fragt mein unsichtbarer Gegenüber zurück.

Wahrheitsgemäß erwidere ich: "Nein, ich bin Einheimischer. Aber wieso ist das so wichtig für meine Bestellung ?"

"WOLLEN SIE EINEN H-A-M-B-U-R-G-E-R !?"

"Jetzt beruhigen Sie sich mal. Ja ich nehme einen."

"Schieß"

"Stimmt, hatte ich nach der letzten Mahlzeit hier. Mittlerweile ist meine Darmflora allerdings wieder wohlauf, so daß ich denke, ich kann es erneut riskieren."

"OB SIE KÄÄSE ZUM HAMBURGER MÖCHTEN!?"

"Netter Vorschlag. Ja, ich glaube ich nehme einen mittelalten Pyrenäen-Bergkäse, nicht zu dick geschnitten, von einer Seite leicht angeröstet."

Ob die nächste verknarzte Meldung aus dem Lautsprecher nun "Aber sicher doch" oder "Du *PIEP* " lautet, kann ich nicht exakt heraus hören.

Deutlich verstehe ich hingegen: "was dazu ?".

"Doch ja. Ich hätte gerne diese gesalzenen frittierten Kartoffelstäbchen."

"Also Pommes ?"

"Von mir aus auch die."

"Groß, mittel, klein ?"

"Gemischt. Und zwar genau zu einem Drittel große, mittlere und kleine."

"WOLLEN SIE MICH EIGENTLICH VERARSCHEN ??!?"

Diese, wiederum sehr laut formulierte, Frage verstehe ich klar und deutlich. Sie verlangt eine ehrliche Antwort:

"Falls das Bedingung ist, hier etwas zu essen zu kriegen: Ja. Also, machen wir weiter?"

"Gut, gut. Etwas zu den Pommes?"

"Ein schönes Entrecote, blutig, und ein Glas 1997er Chianti."

"ICH KOMM' DIR GLEICH RAUS UND GEB' DIR BLUTIG !!!"

"Machen Sie das, aber verschlabbern Sie den Chianti dabei nicht."

"SCHLUß JETZT ! Schalter zwei. Sechseurofünfundvierzig."

Schon vorbei. Gerade wo es anfängt lustig zu werden. Aber ich habe noch ein Ass im Ärmel. Ich zahle mit einem 500-Euro-Schein: "Tut mir leid, aber ich hab's nicht größer."

*PIEP* freundlich werde ich ausgekontert: "Kein Problem," und mit kaltem Blick ausbezahlt, klappert mein Wechselgeld auf dem Stahltresen.

Doch nicht mit mir! Ich will den totalen Triumph:

"Kann ich ne Quittung haben? Ist ein Geschäftsessen."

When I was young there were several drive-in theaters in Wichita, KS. The Starlite is the only one that has survived. It opened in the 1950's and is the last remaining twin drive-in theater in Kansas, with a capacity of 1300 cars. Across the country there are fewer and fewer as time goes by; another drive-in, The Cinderella located in Denver CO, closed this year to make way for condos...It had opened for business in 1973.

I've been working at the Starlite Drive-In for the last couple of years. It's a fun job and most of the people working there have strong ties with the business and the other employees.

Don has worked at the Starlite, in Wichita, for over 20 years. He's had a lot of adventure in his long life. He was present at the testing of "The Atomic Bomb" and had his photo taken in front of the plume.

You see a lot of things at the drive-in. This is one of our regular customers. He always rides his bike in and brings his own chair.

I'll try and post some "interesting" drive-in photos, as they come up.

Al problema raíz que comporta toda adaptación cinematográfica de un cómic, -esto es, la presión del fundamentalista sector fanático-, debe añadírsele esa peligrosa tendencia que oscila entre el exceso de austeridad y la desproporción del énfasis. Una inclinación no muy antigua, hija de los sistemas de producción que afloraron en los 70 cuando 'Jaws' y 'Star Wars: A New Hope' replantearon los estándares del cine de entretenimiento.

'Batman Begins', al igual que su director, es una obra llena de duda e irregularidades. De duda porque ignora dónde y cuándo acierta, del mismo modo que ignora dónde y cuándo falla. Es un film donde late una intermitente y muy marcada inconsciencia. Impecable en los pasajes donde Christopher Nolan narra desde la recurrencia de su obra, borrosa e imprecisa cuando la secuencia no le ofrece motivos con los que conectar. Algo que queda patente en las escenas de acción, que son tratadas con una débil solvencia, insinuando en lugar de matizar. Es por ello que 'Batman Begins', bajo su fallido antifaz d´auteur, no acierta a disimular el hecho de que se construye sobre principios puramente industriales, unos que no rigen el tono ni la dirección pero que son adivinados mediante el contraste, esa grieta que su montaje se esmera tanto en cubrir.

Le pesa un afectado dramatismo, indudablemente adecuado para los planteamientos pero ineficaz (por redundante) en las transiciones y los momentos álgidos. No obstante existe en ella un sentido del riesgo refrescante: Nolan se apropia de Batman y lo somete a su prisma sin parecer disculparse... aunque el contraste sigue pesando sobre el conjunto. Su narración, sobre una línea temporal trifurcada, tampoco ayuda, salvo en esas ocasiones donde el tránsito de una escena inconclusa a una nueva de tono opuesto consigue dibujar unos espléndidos arcos dramáticos.

Nolan está convencido de que el Miedo y sus alrededores son el motor del film. El concepto base era ése, pero la realización mengua el alcance de dicho concepto. La idea es interesante por poco abusada, y su psicologismo (prudente, moderado) no chirría, lo cual supone un relativo triunfo. Pero cada una de sus virtudes llama a un defecto mayor, como esa nota pomposa que imprime gran parte de los diálogos; sin duda, la mano del burdo David S. Goyer, notoria en el libreto.

Contrastes: satisfactorios unos, dolorosos los otros. ¿Maniobra que imita la doble naturaleza de su héroe? Quizás. Y ése es un buen modo de enfrentarse a 'Batman Begins', con la certeza de que está impregnada por el ideario de su obsesivo autor.

In honor of the next top secret Retro-View, I had the sad pleasure of what will probably be the last time I get to see a drive-in movie at the West Wind Sacramento Six, which is due to be torn down so the city will have another multi-plex, which it desperately needs. In good company, I saw HANCOCK, which I thought was Will Smith's most enjoyable performance and WALL-E, which was just pure eye and soul candy. It was also cool during the space scenes as the screen vanished to merge with the actual night sky. A good metaphor for the last remaining Sacramento drive-in. Sigh.

And since I was "tagged" by Daniel G. over at Getafilm to continue on with The 12 Movie Meme started by Lazy Eye Theatre. Basically, in honor of the wonderful New Beverly Cinema, you chose a theme and 12 films for six nights of programming. Well, he said cracking his knuckles, this is my specialty. So my program is "Genre Busters," films that subvert or transcend their nature.

MONDAY - TUESDAY: ECO-HORROR

NO BLADE OF GRASS (1970)

PROPHECY (1978)

WEDS - THURSDAY: HARDCORE

OPEN SEASON (1974)

THE PENTHOUSE (1967)

FRIDAY - SATURDAY: TRIPPING

SKIDOO (1968)

PSYCH-OUT (1968)

SUNDAY - MONDAY: SO FUNNY IT HURTS

SHAKES THE CLOWN (1991)

HAPPY GILMORE (1995)

TUESDAY - WEDS: KEEP ON TRUCKIN'

SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT (1977)

CONVOY (1976)

THURSDAY - FRIDAY: THE DEAD SHALL RISE

CHILDREN SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS (1972)

RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD (1985)

And here's a list of lucky blogs I'm "tagging" to put up their own programming schedule:

Witch. Revolutionary.

The Hal Blog

Planet Rome.ro

Get more out of life - go out to a movie!

Photos taken at the first CPC meet in Chennai which we had at the erstwhile Woodlands Drive-in Restuarant.

Click here to view the photos

Hallarán, en todo análisis despierto (que no atento) de 'The Dark Knight', la misma referencia al Michael Mann de 'Heat', una me temo que apresurada y fruto del etiquetaje crítico; tan evitable como tentador. Lo que en el cine de Mann responde a una querencia insalubre por la magnificación del escenario como comodín estético (uno que amortigüe su patente imprecisión dramática), en el Nolan de la presente se debe a unos apuntes que el montaje de 'Batman Begins' terminó por difuminar. Si buscan con ahínco en el primer Batman de Nolan, hallarán una prueba consistente de que su mirada no bebía de la de Mann, pero ahí lo tienen, ironías de la democracia: nueve de cada diez críticos no pueden estar equivocados...

Es innegable que el maridaje entre composiciones simétricas y ráfagas caprichosas inunda 'The Dark Knight', ésa es una buena forma de establecer el paralelismo Mann/Nolan. La escena de apertura recuerda quizás demasiado a cierto segmento de 'Heat' (gracias sobretodo a la pieza musical que la acompaña), nada que objetar. Pero ese sello no debe atribuírsele a Mann: harto viejo, legítimo también, aquí funciona desde otra altura, otra óptica. Para comprenderlo, repito, uno debe buscar en 'Batman Begins' y abandonar las analogías más obvias entre ésta y la presente; ahora Nolan amplía el tablero de juego de la precedente, claramente mucho más desligado de las imposiciones industriales.

Así se explica el porqué de esa carcasa de thriller postmoderno; 'The Dark Knight' es un anexo digno y coherente a esa leve tragedia moral y psicológica que bosquejaba 'Batman Begins'. Ahora el espacio se amplía, y con él, para mal de sus detractores, esa teatralidad tan y tan explícita de antes, una que incluso era puesta en boca de sus caracteres. Ese tragedy for dummies prosigue aquí, pero deben entenderlo como un rastro, aquí menos hiriente, de condescendencia comercial. De aceptar esa (ligera) imposición podrán hallar satisfacción en un film que pese a sus otra vez evidentes tijeretazos, aspira a la densidad y la reescritura no ya del género de superhéroes, sino también del policíaco. Una pretensión que conoce no pocos accidentes, algunos ciertamente dolorosos (cuando desatiende el detallismo y se concentra en la panorámica), nada sorprendente viniendo de un director tan curioso e irregular como Nolan, hábil cuando aborda lo abstracto, inconcreto y dubitativo frente a lo más elemental. Sin embargo, ahí se encuentra el ingrediente secreto, la esencia de un estilo de veras valiente, que desobedece alegremente fórmulas ajenas para luego apoderarse de ellas, todo bajo un falso cripticismo que en el fondo sólo encubre una poesía ramplona, sí, pero igualmente arrebatadora en cuanto consigue definir sus intenciones.

Nolan se impone a Batman y a prácticamente el resto de personajes pero no lo hace con Joker, quien contiene el ingrediente social del film, uno que termina por imponerse a la pompa épica de 'Batman Begins'. Con la entrada de dicho personaje se pierde lo magnífico en favor de un formato thriller sucio y convulso (otra razón que tienta a nombrar a Mann). Sin embargo, como siempre que hay cómic de por medio, existen guiños y propinas a la parroquia: ese Wayne a bordo de un yate que ya ha aprendido a componer la faceta social de su creación mediante la frivolidad y la arrogancia.

El gran problema tanto de ésta como de 'Batman Begins' está en un plan narrativo deslavazado, que además encuentra en el montaje a su peor enemigo. El conjunto se reduce a un muestrario de sugerencias que chocan con una contundencia intermitente, casi aleatoria. Su triunfo está en sus contadas gotas de crepúsculo, en la amoralidad de un villano que consigue cohesionar esas intenciones quebradas... y en el saco de hostias que le propina a todos aquellos que la esperaban para ensañarse con su autor, pues consigue eludir el hype que la ha envuelto durante el último año. Aquí prima una suerte de anarquía, en sintonía con la de su villano, que se oculta tras una máscara, al igual que su héroe. Intencional o no, el paralelismo no es gratuito, como tampoco lo es el pesimismo que la recorre.

Tori Amos the thursday proper to posterior! Looking set agoing unto yourselves.

Mind'm punily out of plumb- and Buddhi've egress re beer. So as to the fridge!

¿Les he contado ya que cada vez que se avecina un blockbuster se dan fenómenos cretinos que se prolongan hasta...? Bueno, una vez que el acontecimiento tiene lugar la onda expansiva tarda poco en disiparse. Tanta boca llena, tanto presumir de erección para luego depositar dos tristes gotitas de lefa. Ya bautizó Paco Fox a esa estirpe de freakies en permanente estado de entusiasmo borderline: los batmanbeguínicos. Existen, y eso es todo lo que necesitan saber.

Christopher Nolan es el Hombre de una transición que todavía debe confirmarse. 'Batman Begins', frivolidades del blockbuster al margen, fue pionera en algo tantas veces ansiado como mal ejecutado: encontrarle al superhéroe el tono justo. Aquellos que veneran a ese peón llamado Alex Proyas dirán que Nolan no merece crédito alguno por ello, que 'The Crow' y 'Dark City' fueron los primeros ejemplos sólidos de... no sigan, no, que ya se han meado fuera de la jardinera. Ustedes están pensando en el gótico-tech ése con apuntes estéticos retro y toda esa masa de empacho bladerunneriano; que no, que no se enteran de nada.

'Batman Begins' mantiene un equilibrio casi perfecto entre el autor y el género, existe ahí un juego de concesiones que se salda con un balance en su día inesperado para el ojo comodón. Algunos esperábamos hacía demasiado tiempo el resultado de esa fórmula: cineasta con universo privado y temas recurrentes lleva a la pantalla a superhéroe a la espera de retrato digno. No, Tim Burton no fue ese cineasta: pese a que encaja en el vago perfil que les ofrezco, Burton se llevó a Batman a su terreno y lo asfixió hasta oxidarlo, quedando un muestrario de estéticas que acaban imponiéndose a la sustancia del relato, de haberla.

'The Dark Knight' promete mantener el tono de su predecesora, al menos eso sugiere lo que el aparato comercial ha desvelado. Aquí es fácil obviar los interruptores habituales del blockbuster, desde que los perfiles turbadores y el psicologismo prudente vuelven a asomar. Sobre la parte de Heath Ledger ya se han podido oír unas cuantas decenas de sandeces, unas que por supuesto me ahorro compartir, cada uno irá dando con ellas a medida que el fenómeno batmanbeguínico vaya apoderándose de esa juventud cretina que día tras día emponzoña el ciberespacio con su criterio meningítico y su redacción etílica.

El caso es que éste no es un blockbuster común. Es una secuela, una que como debe ser dividirá a insensatos e imbéciles y les enfrentará en antológicos diálogos donde la pataleta y la observación pomposilla irán de la manita. Tenemos también aura post-mortem+reinterpretación de un villano mítico, un 2x1 irresistible para los buscadores de anécdotas irrelevantes. Como último queda la labor de Nolan, que muchos no sabrán apreciar mientras que otros la ensalzarán desmedidamente; el gadget, el aerodinamismo y las punchlines complacientes coparán el protagonismo en la sesera de muchos. Otros nos reconfortaremos a la luz (y sombras) de un Batman que representa con la justa teatralidad a la gentuza en que nos hemos convertido. Pero con teatralidad, con violines majestuosos y actores convencidos, sin que la épica del héroe se resienta.

El toque británico, dirán. Algo de eso hay, sí.

When Bernie walked through the door, Helen straightaway asked him what he was doing home in the middle of the afternoon. He hemmed and hawed and came up with a nervous story about needing to retrieve some work stuff. Bernie's jiggly behavior, plus a telephone call Helen had received only minutes before, put her on a Mean-Green Betty alert. She didn't let on, though, just allowed him to think he had lied his way out of the situation. Bernie didn't know it, of course, but he was pre-sunk—that phone call had alerted Helen to the younger woman's resurrection. "Your buddy Fred called," Helen said, telling part of the truth. "Wants you to drop by the police station tomorrow first thing. Some kind of special project."

Fred, the town sheriff, was Bernie's best friend from high school. At one time Fred had also been belly-bumping close to Helen, but she had kept that fact from Bernie, it being a bit of deception she allowed herself out of concern for his feelings—or so she liked to think. Without another word, Helen went back to work on a complicated tuna fish concoction she was whipping up for supper, her mayonnaise-covered hands deep in a big yellow mixing bowl. Bernie picked up some papers and walked out the door. Helen was whistling as she worked, but she had murder on her mind. She had confessed as much to Fred earlier when he called. Helen told him straight out that either Bernie or Betty had to die, and she was at the point where it didn't matter which one. Fred laughed, of course, but he also felt a tad uneasy—not being sure if Helen was joking or what.

Monday was Helen's bowling league and her mom kept the kids, so Bernie was free to do as he pleased—within reason, of course. He went out for a ride and stopped at Jigg's Drive-In for a few beers, and it wasn't long before he got to thinking about old times. The Jigg's crowd provoked it, all them being real young these days—too young—and Bernie realized he didn't really know anyone enough except to nod and say "Hi" to. On an impulse, feeling a tad lonely, he decided to cut out and visit his old friend Chuck. That turned out to be a first rank bad idea. He and Chuck were a duo that went back to the days of running with the booze-pill-and-sex bunch that featured Betty as the main attraction. The three of them were—well, let's just say they got to be very close. Chuck is your basic small burg bachelor, a big rumpled guy with a small neat apartment over the pet shop on Main Street, and he has a small neat brain to match. He's the sort of fellow who gets along by going along, satisfied to spend his days working part-time in an auto body shop, picking up the occasional house painting job and selling a bit of weed or a handful of pills to take up any financial slack. Chuck would never intentionally harm a living soul but he's not above providing the means for folks to screw themselves over.

That evening found Chuck and Bernie in Chuck's living room, shirts off, drinking beer, toking on a fat spliff they passed back and forth, and yelling at a two week old football game Chuck had recorded on his VCR. Three minutes into the fourth quarter there came a knock on the door. Chuck opened it and Betty glided in a foot off the floor, on what appeared to be air currents. Whatever it was that she had ingested also produced an aura of sensuality that glowed off her like yellow-green neon. Bernie and Chuck could tell she was there for one purpose only, to play big-time party tag and those two hapless dolts were "It."

It being hot, the first thing Betty did was take off her blouse and bra and head for the fridge to, as she said, "cool her tits" and get a beer. Bernie somehow came to the conclusion that he was capable of resisting her charms and followed her into the kitchen. Betty was stationed in front of the open freezer door fanning cold air onto her chest with one hand and sipping from a Coors can with the other. As in times past, Bernie felt himself instantly attracted to the incredible muscle definition in her back. "Goddamn it, Betty," he said, "one of us is gonna have to leave this town."

She turned around, smiling, with one perfect breast cupped in her free hand. "Really, Bern? You mean that?"

"It's good to see you, baby—been a long, long while—but I can't afford to play them games no more."

"Your choice, hon." Betty slid past him and headed for the living room where the amiable Chuck waited in ecstatic anticipation.

Bernie stayed in the kitchen for a beat, feeling what resistance he may have had ebb from his body like brackish water from a swamp. By the time he got to the living room Betty was completely naked, astride Chuck in the classic lap dance position, him smiling over her bare shoulder like it was Christmas and he was more than willing to share this gift. Bernie watched those two go at it awhile, then shrugged. "What the hell," he thought, moving toward them, "Helen thinks she's dead."

By the end of the evening the threesome had done everything to each other they could think of, short of man-on-man, which Chuck and Bernie would have no part of even to please Betty. They were convinced, however, that they had invented several trio combinations heretofore undocumented in Chuck's extensive porn collection. Bernie had never had so much fun or felt so low at the same time—especially later, on his way home, drained dry like a corn husk left in some farmer's field during a ten year drought.

Part three of My Wife Thinks You're Dead will post tomorrow.

I know I am supposed to be blogging about my upcoming departure from this country and not about these random little pop culture party convo type things anymore, but I could not help myself.

The other week I am driving to the drive in with my special friend and we pass a Chuck E. Cheese. As a kid this establishment represented fun, good times, pizza, coke, games, and tickets that never buy you anything worthwhile.  However, driving past this child's playpen now I realized something different.  I realized that the mascot is a RAT. A FUCKING RAT.  A disease infested, garbage residing, feces eating rat. A rat symbolizes fun and good times? I think not. I don't know who gave this a green light, but kudos to you for having a rat be a successful mascot. Who would of thunk.