It's been a while since I was a kid.
This afternoon, I finally caught Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire at the local second run theater. Scrunched down in the chair with my head propped up against the seat back, I began to notice little voices, followed by little heads bobbing down the aisle. Pretty soon, I was surrounded by a bunch of mites, giggling and gibbering away in whatever language 6- and 7-year-olds speak these days. Maybe I need a sign: Dangerous! Crotchety Old Movie Fan. No Loud Talking Within 20 Seats. Please Feed With Popcorn.
But any fears that I had dissipated as soon as the Warners Bros. logo appeared. The theater went silent, and for the course of the movie, it stayed silent.
Well, outside of a couple of frightened titters from too-young children. Whoops....
The last time I sat with people mostly born within the current decade, the movie was Star Wars: Episode 1. All the bad press and fanboy wailing had reached my ears by that point, so I was surprised when I actually enjoyed myself. Months later, in the safety of my cave, the glaring weaknesses of that film flared up at me, leaving to wonder why I hadn't noticed them the first time.
Most likely, it was the kid's fault.
Two seats away from me back in that theater, a little boy had clutched his bucket of popcorn, yapping away to his mother in whatever language 4-year-olds spoke in those days. But when the lights went down and the Lucasfilm logo appeared, the boy had one expression the entire time: wide-eyed with jaw in lap. I think I had more fun watching him than the movie itself.
The kids' movies of my childhood were no different for me--from Time Bandits to Willy Wonka to, yes, the original Star Wars, they took me on a ride that I didn't quite understand but still enveloped my imagination. As the years went by, my tastes grew old, demanding more complexity, more originality, more intelligence...mature challenges instead of simple wonder. Nowadays, when I watch those movies from my youth, there's more than a touch of nostalgia in my enjoyment--a laminated gloss covering the unwanted imperfections.
When I first found in the ether alike minds corrupted by strange cinema, I wrote a few movie reviews, even planned to start up my own little cornershop in the b-movie community. But after the first couple, the reviews came harder. My harddrive contains at least three unfinished ones, mere notes and phrases barely making sense. This despite the fact Netflix was sending me about 15 to 18 DVDs a month (yeah, I'm one of those). The reviews had become a chore. I didn't enjoy writing them, even when I wanted to praise the film to the seventh level of heaven.
Recently, even the Netflix hamster's wheel slowed. It was bound to happen. My own stash of DVDs isn't some "collection"; I've seen them all at least once, and most several times. The past few months, I've been revisiting those movies, remembering why they found their way into my home in the first place.
That's when I realized I was in another wheel.
I love films. A day spent watching new movie after movie is a good day. The last few months, however, I haven't enjoyed them as much as before. I had no idea why until today. I had not only forgotten the movies I love, but why I love them.
I'll never regain that kid's unfettered wonder, when something shiny on screen was enough. I wish I could return to the days when I didn't notice the seams in Godzilla's suit. Seeing Harry Potter with those who hadn't yet misplaced their basic delight, though, reminded me that I don't have to go that far. I was them once. And one day, those kids will look back, maybe scoff at the now-dated computer graphics, and pick apart how unfaithful Mike Newell and Company were to the original novel. Or, they'll remember why they went to see the movie in the first place.
I'll never be a kid again. But I can damn well try.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Saturday, May 07, 2005
By Unpopular Demand....
Dusty in here, isn't it?
One of my annual rituals is attending the Maryland Film Festival in Baltimore, Maryland. Hosted mostly at the Charles Theatre right across the street from Penn Station and two blocks down from the local meth factory, the festival is usually a fun mix of independent features and documentaries, short film collections, and classic odds and ends. John Waters always presents a film, and about four years ago, they started a tradition of showing a 3-D movie Saturday morning and a silent film with the Alloy Orchestra on Sunday morning. That said, the festival always seems hit-or-miss with me. Last year, I saw 9 to 10 showings, including a collection of work by music video icon Chuck Statler, a mockumentary about a death row inmate released to play in the (sorta) Super Bowl, and a little-seen Harold Lloyd movie.
This year, it's mostly miss.
Outside of the comedy and animated shorts programs, there isn't much of interest. Even the 3-D and silent films are underwhelming: the Raymond Burr thriller Gorilla at Large (about a serial killer gorilla) isn't as bad as last year's William Castle special Fort Ti or as classic as Vincent Price's House of Wax, while the silent version of Hitchcock's Blackmail pales next to previous showings of Sunrise and the two-color Technicolor Black Pirate with Douglas Fairbanks. I'll probably see Blackmail, but I've already missed the 3-D flick, mostly 'cause sleeping in sounded better. On the other hand, I really wanted to see Murderball--a documentary about the clash between Canadian and U.S. wheelchair rugby teams--but the two showings of it conflict with the aforementioned short programs. That's another problem with the festival: Sometimes they have a lot of movies I want to see, but most wind up showing at the same times.
One of those conflicts this year is between two independent features that sound interesting but could excruciate more than entertain. One is Black-Eyed Susan, wherein two friends rob a dead man's apartment but get caught up in a cat-and-mouse game with the man's relatives. The film was written and directed by Jim Riffel, who apparently has been making ultra-low budget films for years now, including the Howard Stern documentary Shut Up and Listen, the feature Mass of Angels (which really does sound interesting, damn it), and a unnamed cult film that he's disowned but was named to the 300 Films of All-Time by the Edinburg University Film Society. The other is After the Apocalypse, a Japanese film about the survivors of a nuclear war. More Lord of the Flies than The Road Warrior, the film is shot in black and white and features no dialogue. The latter can be extremely effective, as borne out by the horror film Soft for Digging, which I saw in my first Maryland Film Festival.
Since I wasn't able to choose between two movies that don't demand my attention, I instead left it up to my esteemed fellow collegues, zombies, witches, and whatnot at the B-Movie Message Board. They have until Sunday morning at 8 a.m. to vote. I'll go see the winner and post an in-depth review on the BMMB later in the week. Sounds fun, huh?
In 24 hours, I've gotten a grand total of 3 votes.
Looks like they're just as excited about the festival as I am. Oh well. A review still will be done, and a report of the rest of the festival should appear here as well.
One of my annual rituals is attending the Maryland Film Festival in Baltimore, Maryland. Hosted mostly at the Charles Theatre right across the street from Penn Station and two blocks down from the local meth factory, the festival is usually a fun mix of independent features and documentaries, short film collections, and classic odds and ends. John Waters always presents a film, and about four years ago, they started a tradition of showing a 3-D movie Saturday morning and a silent film with the Alloy Orchestra on Sunday morning. That said, the festival always seems hit-or-miss with me. Last year, I saw 9 to 10 showings, including a collection of work by music video icon Chuck Statler, a mockumentary about a death row inmate released to play in the (sorta) Super Bowl, and a little-seen Harold Lloyd movie.
This year, it's mostly miss.
Outside of the comedy and animated shorts programs, there isn't much of interest. Even the 3-D and silent films are underwhelming: the Raymond Burr thriller Gorilla at Large (about a serial killer gorilla) isn't as bad as last year's William Castle special Fort Ti or as classic as Vincent Price's House of Wax, while the silent version of Hitchcock's Blackmail pales next to previous showings of Sunrise and the two-color Technicolor Black Pirate with Douglas Fairbanks. I'll probably see Blackmail, but I've already missed the 3-D flick, mostly 'cause sleeping in sounded better. On the other hand, I really wanted to see Murderball--a documentary about the clash between Canadian and U.S. wheelchair rugby teams--but the two showings of it conflict with the aforementioned short programs. That's another problem with the festival: Sometimes they have a lot of movies I want to see, but most wind up showing at the same times.
One of those conflicts this year is between two independent features that sound interesting but could excruciate more than entertain. One is Black-Eyed Susan, wherein two friends rob a dead man's apartment but get caught up in a cat-and-mouse game with the man's relatives. The film was written and directed by Jim Riffel, who apparently has been making ultra-low budget films for years now, including the Howard Stern documentary Shut Up and Listen, the feature Mass of Angels (which really does sound interesting, damn it), and a unnamed cult film that he's disowned but was named to the 300 Films of All-Time by the Edinburg University Film Society. The other is After the Apocalypse, a Japanese film about the survivors of a nuclear war. More Lord of the Flies than The Road Warrior, the film is shot in black and white and features no dialogue. The latter can be extremely effective, as borne out by the horror film Soft for Digging, which I saw in my first Maryland Film Festival.
Since I wasn't able to choose between two movies that don't demand my attention, I instead left it up to my esteemed fellow collegues, zombies, witches, and whatnot at the B-Movie Message Board. They have until Sunday morning at 8 a.m. to vote. I'll go see the winner and post an in-depth review on the BMMB later in the week. Sounds fun, huh?
In 24 hours, I've gotten a grand total of 3 votes.
Looks like they're just as excited about the festival as I am. Oh well. A review still will be done, and a report of the rest of the festival should appear here as well.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Hey, What's This?
Or, "The Technological Caveman Dips His Toe in the Water"
Nothing much to say to start off, which is probably a bad sign. This hodgepodge of a column will feature a wealth of blab, a smattering of movie capsule reviews, dribs and drabs of sports commentary, and the occasional enlightening deconstruction of our democratic governmental system. Or not.
Obviously, this blog will update whenever I have time to write something, which isn't anywhere near enough (or, those three short stories sitting on my hardrive would have won the PEN Faulkner Award by now). Because I'm not one to rant when angry, nor do I have an ideological agenda to flog, the very idea of founding my own outlet of visceral verbosity sounds a bit off. I assure you, there is a very good reason:
My ego.
You see, back when I was a wee teen dreaming of becoming a much-honored muckraker, I started a high school newspaper column called "The Cockeyed View." Like most high school newspaper columns, it was very gimmicky: each week's entry was divided into two sections--one funny, one serious--that usually discussed two separate issues but always ended in a question. The idea was to get my readers thinking; the usual result was a question grafted awkwardly onto a one-sided argument.
Nevertheless, that column helped me get through high school. It gave me an identity, and my classmates suddenly had a peek at what kind of person that wallflower was. Heck, it almost got me a girlfriend. And since my love life today hasn't improved much since then....
In some ways, this blog is way to get back that feeling. But mostly, it will be my little niche on the Web where I can express myself the best way I know how.
Which is, go figure, what blogs are about.
How about that?
Nothing much to say to start off, which is probably a bad sign. This hodgepodge of a column will feature a wealth of blab, a smattering of movie capsule reviews, dribs and drabs of sports commentary, and the occasional enlightening deconstruction of our democratic governmental system. Or not.
Obviously, this blog will update whenever I have time to write something, which isn't anywhere near enough (or, those three short stories sitting on my hardrive would have won the PEN Faulkner Award by now). Because I'm not one to rant when angry, nor do I have an ideological agenda to flog, the very idea of founding my own outlet of visceral verbosity sounds a bit off. I assure you, there is a very good reason:
My ego.
You see, back when I was a wee teen dreaming of becoming a much-honored muckraker, I started a high school newspaper column called "The Cockeyed View." Like most high school newspaper columns, it was very gimmicky: each week's entry was divided into two sections--one funny, one serious--that usually discussed two separate issues but always ended in a question. The idea was to get my readers thinking; the usual result was a question grafted awkwardly onto a one-sided argument.
Nevertheless, that column helped me get through high school. It gave me an identity, and my classmates suddenly had a peek at what kind of person that wallflower was. Heck, it almost got me a girlfriend. And since my love life today hasn't improved much since then....
In some ways, this blog is way to get back that feeling. But mostly, it will be my little niche on the Web where I can express myself the best way I know how.
Which is, go figure, what blogs are about.
How about that?
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