KItten in the Crosshairs 05/11/2012
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I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if ‘badass’ is indeed the right word to describe this biopic of Facebook’s chief executive geek Mark Zuckerburg. My advice: check out Aaron Sorkin’s smooth-flowing patter and find something else to worry about.
Not only are Zuckerburg’s actions as outlaw-friendly as any you’ll find in the boldest blaxploitation flick but Sorkin has a colorful exchange for every occasion in this bittersweet tale of the Z-man’s rise. The language is geeky when it has to be, clever when it wants to be and always, always smart.
Having said all that, Shaft or Slaughter would have rocked something a little flyer than that gray hooded sweatshirt while violating the privacy of co-ed cuties. Yeah, I know. The hating must stop.
Not only are Zuckerburg’s actions as outlaw-friendly as any you’ll find in the boldest blaxploitation flick but Sorkin has a colorful exchange for every occasion in this bittersweet tale of the Z-man’s rise. The language is geeky when it has to be, clever when it wants to be and always, always smart.
Having said all that, Shaft or Slaughter would have rocked something a little flyer than that gray hooded sweatshirt while violating the privacy of co-ed cuties. Yeah, I know. The hating must stop.
Today's pre-gunfire monologue 05/07/2012
Look, I’m sorry it had to happen this way. We’ve known each other forever, grew up together. Best man at each other’s wedding. The whole BFF routine. But when those cocksuckers are calling you at two in the morning, threatening your kids, showing up at work with guns, you do what you have to do. And don’t get all smug about it. You’d take the same path if your family’s safety was at stake. You’d serve your best buddy’s head on a platter if you had to, wouldn’t you? Now just get on your knees and stop giving me that look!
There’s a pretty good chance that you know nothing about Network save for Peter Finch’s oft-quoted “I’m mad as hell” speech. But that’s just the tip of the badass iceberg. Also on display are Faye Dunaway’s remorseless ratings queen, Ned Beaty’s oscar nominated turn as a fire-and-brimstone preaching executive and William Holden as a beleaguered career newsman who somehow finds himself in the middle of the madhouse that a television network has become in this dystopian masterwork.
How bleak and strange is this world? Imagine a docudrama called The Mao-tse Tung Hour. Or a news anchor promising to commit suicide live on the air. Or a TV host getting an assassin’s bullet because his ratings don’t make the grade. Screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky takes us there in style, mainly with searing, stunningly ugly dialogue placed in the mouths of this crazy world's mad men and women.
Does Network still hold up? Yes and no. Decades later the satirical impulses that made Sidney Lumet’s film a classic in 1976 have taken hold on our contemporary TV screens. But Maybe the vision Chayefsky spotted in his crystal ball wasn’t as clear as some insist. Sure TV at its worst has gotten sleazier, stupider and more of a spectacle. But if you’re like me you’re too busy watching Breaking Bad and The Office and Family Guy to care. In the end, Chayefsky can be forgiven for only seeing part of the future. Part-time clairvoyance aside he's created a work that is sharp, clever, snotty and unrelenting. That’s a good a definition of baddass as you’ll find.
How bleak and strange is this world? Imagine a docudrama called The Mao-tse Tung Hour. Or a news anchor promising to commit suicide live on the air. Or a TV host getting an assassin’s bullet because his ratings don’t make the grade. Screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky takes us there in style, mainly with searing, stunningly ugly dialogue placed in the mouths of this crazy world's mad men and women.
Does Network still hold up? Yes and no. Decades later the satirical impulses that made Sidney Lumet’s film a classic in 1976 have taken hold on our contemporary TV screens. But Maybe the vision Chayefsky spotted in his crystal ball wasn’t as clear as some insist. Sure TV at its worst has gotten sleazier, stupider and more of a spectacle. But if you’re like me you’re too busy watching Breaking Bad and The Office and Family Guy to care. In the end, Chayefsky can be forgiven for only seeing part of the future. Part-time clairvoyance aside he's created a work that is sharp, clever, snotty and unrelenting. That’s a good a definition of baddass as you’ll find.
James M. Cain wrote the novel. Billy Wilder directed the film and co-wrote the screenplay with some guy named Raymond Chandler. Need another reason to fall in love with the musical dialogue these masters compose?
And what better musicians to give voice to this masterwork than Fred MacMurray -- decades before the infamy of My Three Sons -- as a fast-talking insurance man with a trouble-seeking libido, and Barbara Stanwyck, a sexy she-devil who lets the sex float from her mouth like nobody this side of Billie Holliday.
Add to the combo, the brassy shrill of Edward G Robinson as a scenery-chewing crank and you'll get an enduring classic worth every spin of its heavy rotation on the oldies station.
And what better musicians to give voice to this masterwork than Fred MacMurray -- decades before the infamy of My Three Sons -- as a fast-talking insurance man with a trouble-seeking libido, and Barbara Stanwyck, a sexy she-devil who lets the sex float from her mouth like nobody this side of Billie Holliday.
Add to the combo, the brassy shrill of Edward G Robinson as a scenery-chewing crank and you'll get an enduring classic worth every spin of its heavy rotation on the oldies station.
Today's pre-gunfire monologue 05/01/2012
Remember me? That scrawny little fuck on the playground who spent third and fourth grade wiping sand out of his hair thanks to you? Remember the fun you had in the locker room in high school, tying me down, slapping me with towels, tossing me into trash cans? I gave you some pretty good times, didn’t I? Played that victim role to perfection. Never told anybody, never fought back. Never clued you in to the revenge fantasies simmering away in my head. Pretty potent stuff, those plans I had. They involved your house going up in flames, you car exploding. But I've matured. I’m keeping things simple. I’m just going to watch you die slowly. Then I’m going to go home and sleep like an infant. I'll tell my wife I just had a little errand to run. You know, like taking out the trash.
So what is this... "noir" thing you write? 04/30/2012
Me: Well, Noir means dark, foreboding.
Not me: Oh, so you write dark stuff, like stories about teenage vampires and what not?
Me: No. I write stories that expose the dark underbelly of humanity. Stories that haunt and question the very concept of free will.
Not me: What does that have to do with teenage vampires?
Me: It has nothing to do with teenage vampires. It has to do with man's place in an empty universe. The eternal question of man's fate, and... oh, just watch this:
Today's pre-gunfire monologue 04/29/2012
It really just comes down to the numbers. Your sales have fallen eleven percent, your efficiency way down. You would have been a liability to keep, especially with the benefits you’re getting. I suppose I could have fired you, but it would have been a major pain in the ass to go through the paperwork with human resources. On top of that, I don't like you. I've never liked you. Never thought you deserved to rise so high, so quickly. All with that smug smile on your face that made it all seem so effortless. Well, those losers you leapfroged over and those of us you've scheduled to skate past in the coming days are happy to see your story end in blood-soaked tragedy. We've wanted nothing for you but gut-clutching pain and sorrow since the day you've darkened our company with your sinister presence. Nothing personal.
Today's pre-gunfire monologue 04/28/2012
Give it up, mothefucker. Every got damn dollar, every five, ten, twenty up in that bitch. Hell, I put some of Jacksons and Lincolns in there myself, buying them overpriced juice drinks and watered down Pepsis you be sellin’ in this fucked up place. Talkin’ ‘bout ‘you buy or you no buy. You no touch!’ Well, touch that cash on into this bag, Osama. Yeah, them nickels and pennies too. I’m takin’ all that shit. Now get on your knees and think about all them times I walked up into here and you patted my pockets down like a TSA agent right before I was ready to give you some more of my money. Think about that shit real hard...
Today's pre-gunfire monologue 04/27/2012
If you're a fan of noir, you that some of the toughest talk comes just before somebody's face gets sprayed with lead. So why not write a nightly monologue celebrating this venerable noir cliche. Here's installment one:
You thought you knew me, didn’t you? Thought you had the blonde trophy wife all figured out? Dust her off every couple of weeks and strap her to your arm for a cocktail party. Decorate her neck with something shiny and expensive five, six times a year and she’ll aim her eyes somewhere else when you slip into the maid’s room at night. Or when you’re off at the strip club or on your boat or in Florida on “business.” But a girl can only look the other way so many times before her neck gets sore. And you’ve just reached that limit. Hit the lights for me, honey. I hate the sight of accidents.
You thought you knew me, didn’t you? Thought you had the blonde trophy wife all figured out? Dust her off every couple of weeks and strap her to your arm for a cocktail party. Decorate her neck with something shiny and expensive five, six times a year and she’ll aim her eyes somewhere else when you slip into the maid’s room at night. Or when you’re off at the strip club or on your boat or in Florida on “business.” But a girl can only look the other way so many times before her neck gets sore. And you’ve just reached that limit. Hit the lights for me, honey. I hate the sight of accidents.
