Innocent Bystander

The final day of the year...

It is the final day of the year, a time reserved for a look back over the accomplishments of the previous 365 days, a time to look ahead to the next year.

And I got nothin' for you. No erudite bon mots, no flashes of brilliance about the coming year, no secrets, no resolutions, no nothin'. I have been off for nearly 2 weeks and I'm burned out on resting up from being burned out, and while I have work to do, I have no ambition to do any of it, no drive no focus, again--no nothin'.

So all I can do is wish you all a happy and safe new year, and ask you to please keep reading. Sometime soon, I'll return to my regular habit of boring you all on a daily basis (but sans the red and green holiday motif).

Feels like the last Netflix night of the year...

Here's our last wrap-up of Netflix viewings for the year of our lord, 2008. WOO-HOO! Another year older and deeper in debt, but at least we watched a few movies.

This time around, a surprisingly robust plethora of comedies...(sort of).

I finally caved to peer pressure and watched Thank You For Smoking, a film I steadfastly avoided for years due to the fact that I feel Aaron Eckhart is the kind of actor who portrays people who would try to sell you cigarettes. Wait a minute...ah, that's the point of this fine, funny film. Eckhart is a PR person/lobbyist for a major tobacco company and he's unapologetic about his line of work until he meets a femme fatale reporter--believe it or not, Katie Holmes--who seduces him into spilling all his secrets. The movie is a pointed satire on consumerism and how we get sold the bill of goods we buy each and every day. Eckhart is excellent, as is everyone else in this film written and directed by Jason Reitman (Juno), but he's still a bit of a used car salesman to me (even though he made a very fine Harvey Dent/Two-Face in The Dark Knight). Next up, he should play an anchorman in a remake of Broadcast News. They're pretty much all used car salesmen, too.

Death Race was the  Lionsgate/Jason Statham movie for the summer quarter this year. WHAT? IT'S NOT FROM LIONSGATE? Universal, you say? Sure seemed like Lionsgate. I mean, gratuitous violence, nonsensical plot, Jason Statham. It has all the Lionsgate telltale signs. Are you sure? Anyway, it's about a guy--Jason Statham!--who gets set up as the murderer of his wife, so he can get sent to a maximum security prison. Seems it's the near future, and the prisons have all been taken over by the private sector, and in order to make a little profit on their investment, they resort to pay-per-view mayhem, in this case, a race to the finish between homicidal prisoners in souped-up, weapons-filled cars. Oh, and it just so happens, this guy--Jason Statham!--is a championship driver, only he lost his license. So they dress him up like this other guy (NOT Jason Statham) who was the championship driver but he wore this mask and they called him "Frankenstein" but he died in a race, but everyone who did the pay-per-view thing liked him, so they made this guy--JASON! STATHAM!--wear the mask. And then all hell breaks loose, because, let's face it--it's Jason Statham! (Are you sure this isn't a Lionsgate movie?) Anyway, it was a bit of a hoot, but not a comedy per se, mainly because Joan Allen-who looks like she's been Botoxed within an inch of her life--is the evil warden and Ian McShane is the wry mechanic. It's fun, but it's--no surprise--violent. VERY violent.

The House Bunny was a real pleasant surprise. The always enjoyable Anna Faris plays Shelly, an over the hill Playboy Bunny who gets kicked out of the mansion when she turns 27, which is, like, 59 in Bunny years. She wanders onto a college campus and becomes the house mother of a downtrodden sorority of geeks, none of which are played by Robert Carradine or Anthony Edwards, but instead by the likes of Kat Dennings (almost unrecognizable at first), Emma Stone, and singer Katharine McPhee. It's unfortunately one of those comedies with a moral, i.e. we're all beautiful inside, but it helps to have a great rack and know how to display it. It's surprisingly laugh-out-loud funny and utterly charming, something I didn't see coming (that's what she said), and Faris not only rules the house, she rules the movie, too. Somebody give this woman a sitcom or something MAJOR to do.

Finally, as the last Netflix film of the year we give you a real treat, Ghost Town, a movie that came and went like...well, like a ghost in the wind. Starring Ricky Gervais as a sour, self-centered dentist who has a death-like experience (he dies, but comes back...that's pretty death-like, I imagine) and sees dead people. Like Greg Kinnear, who has some unfinished business with his wife, Tea Leoni. He enlists Gervais's aid in making sure she doesn't marry her new beau, played by Billy Campbell. The movie is smart, funny, and fresh, and shows a bit of a different side of Gervais, and therein lies the rub, I believe, as to why it wasn't a success at the box office. I think we Yanks are used to seeing Gervais as a rude, cynical Brit and this film paints a bit of a different picture (those of us who have seen him, that is). I'm not sure we're ready for a heart-warming Ricky. Still there are flashes of the Gervais wit and he's surprisingly leading man material. And even though the whole "love of a good woman redeems a self-centered, lonely, old bugger known for not being very friendly" plotline hits a little too close to home on the night before the most romantic night of the year, I liked this film, very much, even if only on a platonic level.

The Spirit (2008)

I had high hopes for The Spirit, Frank Miller's adaptation of Will Eisner's classic comic strip. Actually, the original Spirit incarnation is a little hard to describe. Technically, it is a comic BOOK, but it was distributed free in newspapers across the country each Sunday from 1940-1952. It's one of the few such hybrids, but we're only in the first paragraph of this review and already I confess...I digress.

I mean, why wouldn't I have high hopes? One of the industry's top talents--Frank Miller--a comics legend in his own right--adapting one of the most legendary comic talents' signature character to the big screen. The good news is The Spirit is a stunning film, visually. The bad news is it lacks almost all of Eisner's wit and charm.

The plot--what there is of it--revolves around he blood of Heracles, the son of Zeus. Supposedly the blood will make both The Spirit (Gabriel Macht) and his nemesis, The Octopus (Samuel L. Jackson) become immortal if they drink it. But first they have to find it. Miller does an interesting thing with The Octopus, tying him to Denny Colt's origin. (Moves like this are admittedly not always popular with comics fans. When Tim Burton made the Joker the person who killed Bruce Wayne's parents, it was regarded by some as heresy. I'm not sure The Spirit is going to generate that much interest to be considered heretical.) Seems that The Octopus was the morgue doctor when dead cop Denny Colt ended up at his final destination. He injected him with an experimental drug that not only brought him back to life, but made him vertually unkillable. Then The Octopus injected himself with the same drug. Two birds of a feather, and a good portion of the film is filled with Warner Bros. cartoon-like violence while Jackson and Macht try to kill each other.

There's other stuff, too, including a who's who of both Eisner femmes fatale and Hollywood actresses. Totally wasted in glorified walk-ons (and all but unrecognizable) are Jaime King and Paz Vega as (respectively) Lorelai and Plaster of Paris. Eva Mendes is Sand Saref, on which much of the plot swings and sways as much as her butt, which Miller showcases to its most awesome majesty. Sarah Paulson is Ellen Dolan, Colt's ex, The Spirit's current, and even though she's given a real job by Miller (she's a doctor), but how can you respect a woman who can't seem to realize The Spirit is really Denny Colt brought back to life? Scarlett Johansson is Silken Floss, and she seems like the only woman in the cast who's having any fun. The male equivalent is Sam Jackson, who eats up the scenery like a man coming off a hunger strike. Between the two of them--and the film's visual style--they almost make the film enjoyable. As for The Spirit himself, Gabriel Macht is too light-weight to make an impact. Eisner's character was part Cary Grant, part Bob Mitchum. Macht is neither, just a good-looking mannequin who goes the Batman route with a gravelly voice at times. Shot mostly in shadow, it's hard to even figure out what he really looks like.

But the sad truth is Miller's script is too weak. There's a certain arched eyebrow to everything Miller writes these days, whether it be this film or his single current comic book project, All Star Batman and Robin the Boy Wonder. That nudge-nudge, wink-wink quality grates pretty quickly, and The Spirit suffers from it, too. Miller seems to want to substitute that "it's only a comic book and we all know it" feeling for Eisner's signature suspense, charm, and gentle humor. And while visually the movie has almost constant echoes of Eisner's art, it's too dark and gritty to really capture what made the strip so great.

Miller has already been announced as directing another adaptation of a classic comic strip, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. It'll undoubtedly be another one of these green-screen wonders, where the entire world is created on computers in post-production and inserted behind the actors who play out their roles on almost-bare stages. Visually, it's a cool way to go, accomplishing things you can't possibly emulate in the "real" world (that is, as real as any movie is). But it results in a suprisingly soulless final product. The Spirit, that strip by Eisner that had so much depth and so much soul, has been rendered impotent on the big screen, a victim of too much style and the technology of the day. Eisner did it all with just pen and brush, and much, much better.

Presidential brief: the media is a fickle beast...

I love this CBS News article about president-elect Barack Obama already bristling under the constant attention of the media, weeks before he's in office. What I love most of it is it's totally non-ironic mention of Obama ordering a tuna melt on 12-grain bread in the middle of it, pointing out the very fact that is bothering the president-elect: who gives a crap about what he had for lunch? I'm shocked--shocked, I dare say--that the reporter didn't go on to mention whether or not he had a pickle and chips on the side and what brands they were.

I don't think the White House press corps needs to record every thought, utterance, or bowel movement the new prez has while he's in office. While I would prefer to know more things about the president than I would, say, Madonna shagging A-Rod, or Lindsay Lohan's alleged rug-munching with her adrogenyous-looking BFF, I think the media needs a major time-out. And I firmly believe the world would be a better place if the media kept bankers' hours, say from 9am to 5pm (with a nice hour-long lunch from 12-1), and went home and got a good night's sleep each night.

I'm hoping Obama is the president who leaves the bozos on the bus for once. Bush and Cheney certainly had their secrets, I'm certain Obama and company will, too. But this article points out the one constant fact in the media's reporting on itself: whoever is doing the reporting is never guilty of the sins of the rest of the reporters. "Oh no, not me," said the CBS reporter, as he asked the newly-minted president "mustard or mayonnaise?"

Where in the world is Stan Miller...the final chapter.

This dates back to October, but if you click on this link, you'll be directed to SignOnSanDiego, a local website run by that august newspaper of Pulitzer prominence, the San Diego Union-Tribune and Diane Bell's column for October 14. We're running this now because A). we're lame and missed it two-and-a-half months ago and B). the January issue of San Diego Magazine has a full-page ad for O'Riordan and Associates, prominently featuring--you guessed it--Stan Miller.

For those of you waiting for the imminent announcement of former KFMB (CBS8) anchor Stan's return to the airwaves-somewhere, anywhere--stop waiting. He isn't coming back. Many of you surf your way here to find out just where in the world he is...well, here's your answer: He's now the marketing director for an insurance firm, and as Ms. Bell's article states, he has no plans to return to local TV news. He's not opposed to radio, however. Plus, if you want to talk to Stan directly, she includes an email address.

Much as I hate to admit it, CBS8 hasn't been the same without Stan. His replacement, Carlo Cecchetto, has zero chemistry with the lovely Barbara-Lee Edwards, the sole anchor left from the firm of Miller, Bade, Edwards, and Shelburne. I still prefer CBS8 as my local news source to any of the other local stations, but it's tough sledding at times, especially on a day like today when they have Doug Kolk anchoring. Stan was never the reason why I watched (it was his co-anchors, both here and at KUSI who were the real stars, in my book), but many of you evidently enjoyed him a great deal, judging by your comments, and he did have a sense of humor and a bit of chemistry with his co-anchors, even if it could have been summed up as gentle "ribbing" (we're being polite).

With this post, we close the book on Mr. Miller. You'll have to search elsewhere to find out what's going on in his life. We're fine with covering the local TV news scene occasionally, but the insurance business is a bit out of our league.

Friday Foto #58

"And I heard him exclaim, as he rose out of sight: 'Get me the f*ck out of here! They're ALL nuts!"

To see more of my photos, Friday or otherwise, click here!

Nothing says "Merry Christmas!" more than...

...the Snapped marathon on the Oxygen Network.

1:30: A soccer mom's story about her husband's murder doesn't hold up more than two decades after the crime.

2:00: A woman lets her lover take the rap for the murder of her husband, an Air Force captain.

2:30: A woman claims abuse caused her to shoot her football-player husband.

3:00: A woman shoots her drunken husband following an argument.

3:30: A messy divorce leads to a brutal murder.

4:00: A woman is accused of committing murder to obtain a hefty insurance payoff.

4:30: A woman orchestrates the murders of her ex-husband and her second husband.

5:00pm-3:00am: 20 more episodes filled to the brim with the warm holiday sentiment of all the above.

And for the happiest of New Years, don't forget the Snapped new season premiere on Thursday, January 8, only on Oxygen!

Merry Christmas from Oxygen...the cable network for murderous women!

Merry Christmas, everyone...

Merry Christmas Eve, everyone...

Growing up in my small town life, we waited until Christmas morning to open our presents each year. It usually descended into an anxiety-prone waiting period longing for that ONE. BIG. THING. I really, really wanted, and dropped endless hints about. Well, as a child, I don't think they were hints. I'm not the most subtle person in the world. Some of my friends would categorize me as a "manipulative bastard." I, myself, prefer to hear that phrase as "magnificent bastard." So there.

Later in life, the toys turned into books, and some of my fondest memories of Christmas in my teen and post-teen years (of which I am still a member, on most days) was of finding some big movie or comics-oriented tome on Christmas Day buried under the tree. The sheer weight and heft of the package was a dead giveaway, and I knew I was prepared to get lost in at least one of these books as company arrived, dinner was served, and my mom, begged, pleaded and implored me to join them all at the table. ONE MORE PAGE, MOM!

I definitely remember getting thoroughly engrossed in The Celebrated Cases of Dick Tracy around the time I was about 16 or so, and feeling monumentally gypped when none of the stories contained therein actually ended. The editors, in their monumental stupidity, though just presenting examples of Chester Gould's masterpiece was good enough, evidently feeling no one would bother to actually READ the stories. Similar books like Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, another massive tome, were edited by the same people it seemed. Only the Nostalgia Press books seemed to offer complete stories and were deferential to the readers. But I digress...

I dearly remember discovering the Marx Brothers one Christmas Eve, due to the fine efforts of my brother, who gave me a paperback edition of the Marx Bros. at the Movies. The night was capped with late night screenings of Duck Soup and A Night At The Opera, courtesy of Channel 5 (then WNEW) in New York City. I was scarred for life, and the next year Why A Duck? graced the foot of our very fake Christmas tree.

Books became an important part of my life through these annual gift-giving frenzies, and remain so this day. The other day when I was in Borders finishing up my Christmas shopping, a woman was trolling the store, trying to gently coerce shoppers into looking at the Sony Reader, an electronic device that contains books. She stepped clear of me at least three times, undoubtedly due to the perpetual scowl on my face that warns passers-by to keep at least three steps away at all times and frightens small children and dogs (cats, however, ADORE me). If asked, I would have told her, in no uncertain terms, that that "thing," wasn't a book, nor was its clunky and chunky looking Soviet-era counterpoint, the Amazon Kindle. I know, I know...you have one and you love it. Good for you. But without the paper, without the slick dustjacket or smooth, soft feel of a matte finish trade paperback cover in my hands, without the enjoyable sensation of physically turning the page and seeing what comes next, it's not a book. I hate to keep killing trees, but I'll never buy one of these things. Books are an important possession in my life, quite possibly the only one I couldn't do without. Keep your electronic toys, your clothes, your liquor and food. Books are my only vice, and one I can totally live with.

This year, I found a book that brought all of that back into perspective to me. It's a new version of The Comics: The Complete Collection by Brian Walker, combining both pricey volumes (The Comics Before 1945, The Comics After 1945) into one economically feasible book. I picked it up for 20 bucks, and it's massive, at least 9x12" and weighing in at 668 pages. It's how I intend to spend at least part of my Christmas Day, lost in a book about the history of comic strips, my own little time machine, taking me back to much happier, family-filled days, when holiday stress meant something else entirely.

May your Christmas Eve and Day be filled with books.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful...

I don't often get to write this, but the weather out here in Southern California has been pretty awful the past two weeks, as it has in much of the country. We're scheduled to have another stormy week here and had two major storms last week. (I'm a bit surprised that the dread term "La Nina" hasn't been mentioned, since it sure seems like one of those wet, stormy, cold years is in play.) I often lament the lack of rain here, but when it's heavy and you have to drive in it, I don't relish it one bit. I'd almost rather be driving in snow. The water pools up on the highways and splashes back up from the cars in front of you, creating a fog-like mist that makes visibility dwindle to nothing. And--just like back east on snow and ice--idiotic drivers still think they can go 65 mph and above in lousy conditions, especially those driving SUVs. It's almost like their thought process is "I bought a TANK, so therefore I AM indestructible." What fools these mortals be.

Well, let it rain this week. Due to a combination of remaining vacation time and my work closing down for the holidays, I'm off until Jan. 5. I can sit here in my cozy little perch, high above the Gaslamp Quarter and watch the rain below me. My Christmas shopping is done, all the presents are wrapped, the fridge is stocked, and I have tons of books to read and many movies to watch. Bring it on, Mother Nature. I'm ready for you.