» Fringe Blog – Writing on Film, Culture, and Things on the Fringe

Snakes On A Plane

jelewis8 — Wed, 23 Aug 2006 00:11:45 +0000

Snakes On A Plane does not pretend to be a great movie. It does not put on airs, or give itself license to imagine it is great. It is trailer house trash designed to appeal to the puerile, adolescent mind whose only requirement is vapid entertainment of the sort normally seen in Wile E. Coyote cartoons. This is SOAP‘s intention from the beginning frame, and though its infantile title and premise is indeed the sole hook upon which its marketing strategy hung, it is honest enough to deliver what it promises.
There’s a plane. There’s a bunch of snakes. And it’s about time they made a movie about it.
Samuel L. Jackson plays Neville Flynn, a no-nonsense FBI-type guy who must transport the mild-mannered Sean Jones (Nathan Phillips) as a protected witness from Hawaii to Los Angeles to testify against vicious gangster Eddie Kim (Byron Lawson). Kim’s solution to off the witness? No, it’s not releasing a deadly aerosol toxin inside the plane once it’s airborne. It’s not even getting a sniper to take Jones out once he reaches Los Angeles. No, Eddie Kim isn’t just a gangster–he’s an entrepreneur. It’s why he became successful. He’s creative. And he’s not dissuaded by 24-hour FBI surveillance.
His creative solution is to release pheromone-enraged poisonous snakes on the plane mid-flight. Kim suggests he’s “exhausted all other options.” Well, my guess is he has quite a few other options at his disposal, if he really wanted. But it’s to our benefit that he feels differently.
Naturally, the plane is quickly turned into a metal cylinder of deadliness, with hapless passengers becoming snake food in various unpleasant ways, including several crotch-biting sequences that seems part of a revival in movie schlock-horror genital mutilation. Fun times for the whole family. Thankfully, Flynn is no stranger to danger. He spends the rest of the film adapting to the snakes and their murderous intentions, eventually culminating in the famous line adapted from the internet parody trailer, “I am sick and tired of these motherf***ing snakes on this motherf***ing plane!”
The film’s hype comes straight from the internet, and it’s likely that many of its promoters won’t actually end up seeing the film, due to the fact they’re too busy messaging people on MySpace and playing video games to actually get out of their parents’ basement to hit up the theatre for some good B-movie fun, which actually explains the weekend’s poor box office returns. However, the film itself delivers on its only promise, and delivers with the cheesy joy of a 1950′s giant insect movie. There’s no redeeming factor here. There’s no moral. There’s no metaphor. It’s simply a bad movie made for people to enjoy without feeling guilty about later on.
I’ll tell you straight out: if you go to this movie expecting anything resembling a well-conceived plot, you are a fool. If you’re going to see great acting, spectacular effects, or dramatic catharsis in a momentous triumph of some character over great adversity and personal struggle, you’re angling for shallow water. If you care to see snakes on a motherf***ing plane, then you just might have a good time.
Fringe Rating: out of 5

Two Vows

jelewis8 — Mon, 06 Mar 2006 22:50:55 +0000

Unfortunately, I broke two pacts this weekend. One was my intention not to watch the Oscars. The other was not to see any theatrical movies this year. The shame is minimal, as you might expect from breaking a pair of baseless, unprecedented vows. It’s not like I slept with a hooker or anything. And it’s not like I was doing it for Lent. That would be one thing.
Oscars were enjoyable. I correctly predicted 16 of the 24 awards, including all the “major” categories. By next year, I’ll be pitch perfect and writing for Rolling Stone. My church put on an Oscar party with red carpet and paparazzi and lots of food. It was a fun experience, but it’s like any party which celebrates celebrity with more celebrity–it kind of feels like giving yourself the Heimlich. The Oscars is a nice way for Hollywood to feel appreciated, if only by themselves, by giving themselves pats on the back, providing they don’t trip over their own gowns and egos. George Clooney gave Hollywood a collective BJ by hearkening back to the days when blacks were still not allowed to sit in the front of buses. Apparently, if you’re letting blacks be gaffers while middle America is stuck in the “White Toilets Only” mode, you’re progressive. Congratulations. Piper, who still isn’t blogging, has more on the evening’s self-fellatio. Not his, of course…
Speaking of progressive, Brokeback Mountain ran out of steam about three days before Oscar ceremony time, giving Crash a much needed boost. Excellent marketing job…indeed, perhaps too successful. They made Brokeback such a ubiquitous catchphrase that it lost all cultural potency. But in truth, I do not believe everything in the Oscars is political. Having only seen clips from Brokeback, nothing impresses me to the point of starstruck awe. Heath and Jake are examples of two actors who are capable, but not extraordinary. They were nominated in the vacuum of other quality actors and in the parachute-like bulge of the movie’s content. Progressive? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just another interesting attraction on the arcade of 21st century culture.
I’ll have a review up later this week of the stinker I broke my other vow with. I can sum up Ultraviolet with three words, for those who don’t like my longer reviews: Ultra Suck It.
About 50 friends showed up in Los Angeles this weekend, which makes this four straight weekends of me getting absolutely nothing done. Not that I mind. But I do. I think it’s my fault, though, since I allow myself to get sucked into the funness of hanging out with old friends. The only solution is to hide myself away in a Malibu penthouse for a month. Call me in five years when I have the mortgage payment plan and a guest house. Then it’s call if you want to get together. I live out in Malibu. I’ve got a great place here, perfect for guests, but I ain’t drivin’ into LA.
A pleasant fiction. But still five years down the road, at least. Until then, I do need to land on a “get out of friends visiting” space. You’d think after eight months going around the board, I’d have hit it at least once. I get “free parking” all the time. But I love my friends. I don’t want to sound like a dick.
Too late.
I love you.
I totally forgot to link Piper’s Los Angeles visit, which he blogs in a more cohesive, comprehensive, and welcoming style than my own rapid-fire accounting. Piper, who is, I repeat, still not blogging, paints a generous picture of his time here, and I appreciate his observations for his mordant wit and style, which blends an East Coast cynicism with a West Coast blaseness. Way to win hearts and minds!
Also, very cool, Jewelboxing has a profile on Red State and how I used their DVD cases to create a wonderful complement to the film. I appreciate the shoutout, guys! While you’re at it, why not purchase the film on DVD, for the low-low price of $6 plus shipping? Link is on the sidebar, FYI.
That about does her. See you tomorrow. With bells on.

Cocoa Krispies and Haircuts

jelewis8 — Thu, 06 Oct 2005 21:45:02 +0000

You haven’t lived if you haven’t eat Cocoa Krispies for breakfast. No, wait, what I mean to say is, if you want to live, don’t eat Cocoa Krispies for breakfast. Or any other meal, for that matter. This is clearly a cereal marketed toward the part of a kid’s brain that has no intention of ever living right. It consists of tiny puffs of rice-based cereal (so not eligible for Communion food) dipped in a chocolate-like substance. It however does not have the pleasing taste of chocolate, rather the equivalent of a sickening dread you get when you are being stalked by an unseen, omnipotent killer (I could say cereal killer, but that might be going too far). If any of you has ever been stalked by a killer, you know exactly what I mean.
Los Angeles is currently experiencing another spate of round-the-clock hotness. One problem with moving to a new location is you’re never sure if the weather you’re experiencing is the norm or an anomoly. Even if it’s an anomoly, it might be a normal anomoly, and if you want total confusion, you can consider that the weather is neither normal nor an anomoly, but the onset of a new weather pattern paradigm. Then everyone’s screwed, and we can all blame Bush for not signing Kyoto.
In general, moving to a new town means having to establish new routines, new places to frequent, new schedules. I have happily found a coffee shop that, despite its lack of wifi, is quite good, and I go there often to wake up in the morning. One thing I haven’t found is a hair cuttery. This is quite a frightening ordeal, going into an untested hair place. You never know if you’re going to come out looking like your stylist was a psychotic lawn care professional or not. The most you can hope for is not to be disappointed. You will almost never come out of a new place thinking, “That was the most amazing experience of my life.” Then again, not everyone has access to Hollywood’s finest.
So I have yet to get a haircut, despite that I am back on my short hair kick. I like short hair, I like not having to deal with the intricacies of hair combing and knot untangling and shedding. I think I look better with short hair. But with no haircut, I’m fearful every morning. I wake up and look in the mirror and think about the possibility of immediate removal with a surgical, military strike. But no, I haven’t lost every brain cell.
I apologize for my lack of updates. I have a review of A History of Violence half-finished, and another short story I’ve been wanting to start writing. I have no excuse. Please forgive me, and come again tomorrow. I promise I won’t be slack.

Christ’s Return

jelewis8 — Mon, 11 Jul 2005 20:31:48 +0000

Has Rehnquist stepped down yet? No official word yet, but it’s expected. Timing seems to be the issue.

Rehnquist has every intention of retiring, but it seems cannot find a convenient time to do so. First O’Connor retired. Then London was bombed. Then Dennis struck the South. Perhaps Christ will return next thereby permanently ending any ability or need to retire.

Yes, that would be nice.

Knowing Thyself

jelewis8 — Thu, 20 Jan 2005 19:44:05 +0000

Inspired by a post by Ambra Nykol, Greg Piper writes of the uncertainty he’s faced, both in the past and currently, of how to be focused in his writing, and perhaps more importantly, how to define the genre in which he sees himself and his work. The questions he (essentially) poses to himself are ones I’ve often asked myself: What is my purpose in blogging? Who am I trying to reach? What do I stand for?
It isn’t uncommon for bloggers, and indeed all writers, to experience the occasional questioning, if not of the faith, so to speak, but of the goal. Inspiration and talent and motivation are all vital to the continued vibrance of a particular writer, yet without the essential knowing why, execution of one’s labours can quickly become a tangled, confused, directionless morass.
After the start of the new year, I made at least one public (ie, blogging) announcement, in which I explained my intention to take Fringe in a somewhat new “direction”; longer, more conversational pieces, continued and perhaps even increased frequency of film reviews, and a focus on the personal, social, and cultural, rather than the political. Politics wearied me in 2004. Not that I wanted to divorce myself entirely from that playing field, but I wanted to do more than just post links and rants about various news items, political talking points, or the latest information about what a creep so-and-so is. It ran its course around the end of October, and I had begun to reshape Fringe fairly soon after the election.
I wonder if I have ever clearly defined myself. My first ever post here stated the following:

Look for the oddly appealing here. I can only hope I’ll find it, along with you. Also, please excuse any site screwups. I’m still trying to figure out layout dealies, and I’ve got to consider what new sections to add as I go along (I’m thinking some school writings, maybe some poetry. Who knows. I’d also like to be politically active (and by that I mean opinionated). If you’re liberal and can’t stand a dose of strong medicine, you may want to avoid this. I will try and warn you if I’m about to go off. Or maybe I won’t, and just let you read and be offended. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Forgetting the parenthetical errors in the above paragraph, I now realize I started Fringe with the least idea of what it would be, or what it would become. Indeed, I so quickly jumped into the political realm that I nearly left my fiction, my critical essays, and poetry behind. That first year was politics all the way.
Is my purpose here a defined thing? Part of me thinks that my goal is to just have a voice. But that’s not enough. I suppose I have the luxury of maintaining a little distance from myself in that respect. Keeps me always searching, always striving for the best of myself. And it keeps traffic light. As much as I enjoy having readers, I don’t know that I want the responsibility or the care that comes with extreme popularity. Not that I wouldn’t try to do my best, given more traffic. But truly, this is only a hobby, a side sport that keeps my mind and writing sharp.
As for Greg, who is looking to make journalism and blogging part of his daily career, it’s a slightly different story. He’s managed to secure a niche market and his readership has slowly but surely climbed up the ladder of success and web traffic. He may be troubled by questions of focus, but I think he’s got the right blend of fluff and serious stuff. And he has sage wisdom that applies to anyone, whether blogger or just amateur writer for fun: Know thyself.

Life As a Beachhouse

jelewis8 — Thu, 23 Oct 2003 21:19:53 +0000

Junk For Code is reminded of the purity of a 1930′s architectural example as he looks at beachhouses along an unnamed seaside.
The commentary on transitional living reminded me of the vacation home on the coast of Northern France that is one of the settings for my first novel (still in progress). There, four disillusioned and disassociated Chicagoans migrate to France, each to escape their own private lives. There they live together in a white-boarded cottage vacation house, owned by the father of one of the characters. Their lives there are as empty and meaningless as before, perhaps even more so.
My intention with the setting and the story was to present a picture of the growing hopelessness of modernity, the growth of the individual as the death of society and the beginning of the last stagnation of humankind. Not a very pleasant picture, yet true, I think. When I saw the following passage, I connected immediately.

The new beachside holiday homes strike me as empty shells where life behind the glassy facade is much hollowed out. Then, maybe, this architectural beach form is appropriate to the poverty of experience in late modernity, which results from a hurried, machine-like processing of information, the destruction of tradition, and the lack of collective form of life. Transience and instability are the new conditions of life.

I absolutely agree.