“People around the world have been talking about a movie so powerful that it can change the course of your life. ” –oprah.com
“If you’re talking about DIE HARD I agree.” –outlawvern.com
I am so happy and grateful now that I saw THE SECRET, because I can warn you not watch this shit.
Not too long ago I used to run into this drunk Native American gentlemen at bus stops who would tell me to go see WHAT THE COCKSUCKER DO WE KNOW, a movie that would change my life. Actually he called it WHAT THE BLEEP DO WE KNOW, but the title on the poster had a %$#^! type gibberish curse on it so I figured it was up to interpretation. Anyway, all the new agers and people you never knew were new agers were raving about it, and it played for months on end at one of the smaller Seattle theaters, making it the new NAPOLEON DYNAMITE. But I wasn’t sure if that was due to genuine demand or if the theater was rented out by the Ramtha cult. The movie features this crazy gal from Washington who makes lots of money pretending to channel the ancient wisdom of some Hagar the Horrible type warrior named Ramtha. That sounds like a funny movie, obviously, but I never gave it a shot. (read the rest of this shit…)
In my last post about Rob Zombie’s Halloween remake I mentioned MTV’s report that Zombie wouldn’t be using John Carpenter’s theme music in his version. Well, 
Make no mistake about it, it’s hard out here for a Spartan. Alot of these bastards, they’re “baptized in the fire of combat.” They grow up having to fight their dad all day, and I mean really fight him. You thought your dad pushed you too hard at hoops, well at least he didn’t beat on you until you fucked up. These guys, the beating is the actual practice. It’s their culture.
I don’t think I’m gonna surprise anybody by saying that Halloween is one of my favorite horror movies. Like alot of people I watch it once or twice a year. Usually the regular version, sometimes that TV version where John Carpenter shot extra footage of Dr. Loomis dealing with young Michael Meyers in the sanatorium.
Some people might say, just because Christina Ricci spends a good third of BLACK SNAKE MOAN wearing only panties and a half shirt, chained up like a dog to control her bestial urge to fuck anything with a dick, that it’s degrading to women. Well, okay, if I put it that way. But as cool as Samuel L. Jackson’s backsliding bluesman Lazarus is, it’s Ricci’s coughing town slut Rae that you sympathize with most. The weird thing is this ends up being a sweet movie, a cute movie. Like a really subdued KILL BILL, BLACK SNAKE takes ridiculous notions that don’t have to make sense in an exploitation* picture (a man chaining up a young girl to cure her nymphomania, her forgiving him for it) but then treats the characters’ emotions so seriously that I actually start to care about them.
David Fincher’s movie SEVEN (no, I’m not gonna do that cute shit where you type the number seven instead of a v, do I look like the type of dude that would try to pull that sort of typographic horseshit, I don’t think so) is the deadbeat dad of the modern serial killer thriller. Or the killer that inspired all the copycats. Ever since then, hacks have been trying to cop that thick atmosphere, that dark-as-tar nihilistic tone, that sicko mix of religion and violence, that serious treatment of the type of gimmicky murder sprees that used to be fun when Vincent Price did ’em, and especially those fonts used on the opening credits. Simply put, without SEVEN there would be none of those other movies where Morgan Freeman tries to catch a serial killer, nor would there be a GLIMMER MAN. And then where would we be as a society?
If you saw INFERNAL AFFAIRS you know the storyline. Undercover cop vs. undercover gangster. There’s alot of stories about cops going undercover in gangs, but this one also has a member of the crime family who entered the police academy and moved up the ranks as a mole for his gang. So now both traitors are well situated and it starts to get obvious to both sides that they have a mole in their midst. And the moles are given the job of finding out who the mole is. It could be called LOS TOPOS.
It turns out we’re all connected.
Hey, everyone. ”Moriarty” here.
