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We saw “Hellboy 2: The Golden Army” last weekend. I disliked it. It is for movies such as this that the 2.5 star rating was invented. There were some good ideas, in spots, but never that unified, compelling vision thing ( apologies Poppy Bush ) just never really materialized ( like Jr. Bush ).

So here’s the gig. Humans are greedy and destroy the earth’s natural sylvan beauty. Elves and goblins, understandably tired of this, put together an unstoppable army that numbers, in the Lovecraft ordinal series, “seventy by seventy” unstoppable soldiers. After these clockwork and aurium terminators lay waste to such a degree that the beloved elven woods are actually damaged by the excess of blood, the Good King, his Moody Son, and his Good Daughter ( the twin of Moody Son ) decide to split up the crown which entitles the wearer to command the horde and put the army into a slumber.

Moody Son is not too happy about this but Good Sister agrees with Wise Father-King and thus began a truce lasting unto the present day.

Guess which unspeakable crime Moody Son must inflict? Guess who he must hunt to get that elusive missing piece? The movie telegraphs its arc in the first 8 minutes. But they don’t call hero stories archætypal for no reason, so I don’t bear this as a mark against the film.

The movie’s art direction is excellent.

The entire backstory I recounted above is told in a “reading of a story come alive” with a stripped–down animation that looks like ornate chess pieces acting out this tableaux from the forgotten pre-pagan yesteryear. It was a great start. It was a compelling, and eerily child–like setting of the story’s parameters.

Now, in time I believe that director Guillermo del Toro’s notebooks will be revered like so many sticky-pages of “Heavy Metal” magazine. His eye for creatures presents a large section action set in “The Troll Market”, a cross between the Mos Eisley cantina and Diagon Alley.

Stunning art direction is also seen in the unbelievable “Angel of Death” who recalls some of the more disturbing elements of “Pan’s Labyrinth”:

Finally I loved the soldiers of the Golden Army as steampunk Terminators. The meticulous attention to the gearwork appearance worthy of Gabriel “Sylar” Grey was something not required but which really showed that del Toro loves the material and great art design.

On these levels, the movie is a stunning success and I would love to see a fan edit that turns this into 5 minutes of a deliciously beautiful visual nightmare.

Ron Perlman also deserves some kudos for playing the working class Apocolypse-bringer Big Red himself in a realistic way.

But here’s the counterpoint, and I think I could do no better to quote Dustin Rowles at Pajiba

Guillermo del Toro throws a ton of eye candy at you, and it’s difficult to digest the true mediocrity of a film when the director keeps plinking you in the forehead with shiny pennies. But more than that, del Toro makes the shiniest pennies in Hollywood—golden pennies that reflect sunlight like a funhouse mirror in Alice’s Wonderland.

Well said, the visuals aside, the story, quite honestly, is entirely lame…and I liked the first one!

First, important questions are brought up, and never answered. Red and Liz’s relationship is explored and some fairly significant issues ( at least to the mind of anyone who’s been in a real grown-up relationship ) surfaced that require some delicate and sensitive discussion or couples therapy.

Some things like “Why am I the only one who cleans up the dishes” cannot be replaced by “whew, we narrowly avoided death there, I love you!”

Further, mentors give advice that is supposed to come in as important at a tell-tale moment, when the character chooses to evolve, you know, “use the force” style, to stop being so immature and be a better man / woman / demon–but. Those moments never surface. Instead we have these sagacious chestnuts that never get converted into kinetic utility.

The dialog is also jarringly inconsistent. Seth MacFarlane (over-)plays a Stewie goes to Salzburg voice as ectoplasmic doctor Krauss. Krauss is a by-the-numbers paranormal investigator who inspires a major intellectual man-er,fish-crush in æsthete and polymapth Abe Sapien. Krauss has great learning, great technology, and a rigid adherence to “Just Following Orders”.

Now why, in Anung An-Rama’s good name would such a character ever have conceivable reason to utter: “Suck my ectoplasmic schwanstuker”. Verily, the studio was assured this would get those 12-year-olds in the aisle rolling. For the 30+ set it merely set the eyes a’so.

My biggest complaint is a lack of connection to the Hellboy mythos. I love the Hellboy mythos. Black cult Nazi’s are manipulated by dæmonic elements into opening the gateway to Hell. They think they’ll get demons to defeat the Allies, but the demons plan no such thing, but rather to let their reign on Earth begin. The Nazi’s black ritual is interrupted and the plan is thwarted. By accident a single demon does come through, but it turns out it’s a young, naive, demon who incidentally happens to be the one who’s supposed to open Hell’s gate. Thwarting his destiny is the fact that he’s raised by loving and kind humans and thus is set up all sort of angst around Destiny, Duty, Fate, and to what degree a man can beat his fate ( probably explains my like of God of War, as well ).

Is that not some compelling mythos or what?

I can parallel this to the “X-Files” back in the day. You’d tune in for the show, but the ones that were like crack were the ones that advanced the mythos that covered the Scully abduction or featured The Smoking Man ( there was even a song about it ).

In “Golden Army” we get only but brief reminders that this red-chested Hudson Hawk is something of a Biblical–scale bad–ass but only once or twice ( Abe sees his flaming crown through special glasses, the Angel of Death calls him by his demon name, and Good Princes asserts his royal blood by naming him as a demon and heir to the Fallen One). These unique elements of his background never played into his motivation or into how he handled situations ( except for the Right Hand of Doom occasionally illustrating its superior ability as a bludgeon ). It was like watching an entire X-Files season and not seeing Mulder…who would want to watch that?

Lastly there’s a really irritating battle between the forces of myth here. So much of the movie hinges on just how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Hellboy, a demon, with an indestructible stone hand is beating a Middle Earth-worthy troll. In some ways it makes me think about debating who would win in a fight Terminator or Neo. Or would the Easter Bunny beat Santa Claus’ ass if he knew ninjitsu. It makes the audience’s appreciation and ability to scale threats accordingly difficult and, as a result, a lot of dramatic tension goes down the crapper.

Two-point-five stars.

It’s no secret that when I get the sleepy-time bug, it’s sleepy time. Period. It has been ever thus, much to my friends’ consternation, from time to time.

In college, that time when you’re supposed to “stay up all night” my version was to go to sleep at 11 and get up at the crack of dawn: 4am, 5am, to study / do homework / etc.

In my later years of study, I was blessed to live with my friend Brown and his great dog, Bailey. When I would wake up at such an hour I would sit at my desk, the blankets still warm from my slumber, and work away until a single, solid, bonk of wet nose against my door would let me know that Bailey knew I was awake and was wondering, in that ever-so-polite-yet-insistent canine manner, if I wouldn’t please mind opening the door for him.

Invariably I would accompany him out to the front yard, where he would strangulate my New York times and then, bite-kill accomplished, head off to do what dogs do before playing a few fetches with me.

But the year before that, I didn’t live so close to campus. So I would wake up and drive into West Campus and park ( a task that, at that time, could only be accomplished via nepotism, Santería, or Fortune ) before walking to Mojo’s on 29^th-ish.

The baristas never seemed too-surprised to see me, but were still a bit surprised to see new blood so soon after the last of the 2am set shuffled out.

I would get a big coffee, and sit, picking apart Monadology or some such.

Those early mornings were great things. You would see such interesting things at that hour and, in some sense, the world felt selfishly yours. The wet strets, for you. The sprinklers, standing for you.

In Austin, one can do this in shorts and a t-shirt most days of the year, sans any cloak or jacket. A virtue of this climate is the ability to get completely dressed in <10 seconds.

I’ve not done such in quite a while, but today I woke at 530 and got dressed. I took trash to the dumpster and heard two dog-walking ladies discuss a rash that indicated they believed themselves to be alone and unaccustomed to contact.

I opened the dumpster and found an middle-aged fellow dissecting a garbage bag in the dumpster receptacle area. He seemed shocked to see me, like a raccoon stopped in mid dig. I bade him goedemorgen and tossed my bags in.

I looked to the Northwest and saw a moon, nearly waning into nothing, such that it looked like a thin circle with a fat sideways smile against the deep azure blue of the night sky.

I saw the roiling clouds that foretell a scorching hot days’ wrath brewing and pushing hot air out of the Orient.

I then hopped in the car and drove down to Epoch café where, as I stood there ordering my drink, the fresh pastries came in. I took a danish.

And now I write you to tell you that much of the world goes on while much of the world sleeps and if you’ve not seen the dawn lately, maybe you should.

I have a new favorite coffee place in North Austin, and while I’m not excited about seeing all you sumzuhbitches there taking up all the outlets, I do like the ambience and the owners and I want their store to do well. So, if you have the inclination and are at the MoPac and 183 area, please come to Sodade Coffee.

It’s much less-crowded than competitor Primo 360. It has the quietness of Epoch Coffee on a weekday but is several miles closer to my home and saves me some of that precious, precious petroleum.

The other thing is that their choice of music is largely out of the jukebox of Steven Harms: Interpol, Pink Floyd, post-“Pepper” Beatles, etc.

And, good lord, they have a beautiful la Marzocco machine. At the Huffington post a few weeks back they had an article on “Artist Porn” ( ’twas this article that got me on to “Mad Men” ), it strikes me that the author really ought have included the La Marzocco catalog.

or

By Tim Holmes

I. Love. Italian. Design.

Lamentably, I missed the recent exhibition about Olivetti in Turin: “Olivetti, Una bella società”.

I should get back to Italy soon—and you should get to Sodade

I think the balance has shifted again, I think I’m going back to Firefox as my default browser.

1. The add-ons are amazing. Mozilla as a platform for new ideas simply rules ( from a user perspective )

2. I always liked type-ahead find, an emacs thing that I think should be everywhere

3. The render time isn’t notably better on Safari anymore

4. Safari keeps barfing on the JavaScript on my netflix queue. I visit that thing often enough that barfing on the site and taking out my browser state is a major problem.

5. The issue that ruins my Firefox experience when i’m forced to use a PC experience, memory leaks, doesn’t seem to be a problem on OSX.

Safari -> General -> Default Browser

Here’s something from the embarrassed and ashamed section of my Netflix queue.

We’re watching the “Degrassi High” series and there’s nothing like hearing the endless litany of “Suurries” and seeing Amanda “Spike” Stepto’s beautiful haircut.

What can I say about “Degrassi”?

For some of us growing up in Jesusland there were a lot of questions that didn’t get answered questions that, well, concern hormones, and girls, and, uhm, Kotex. To be fair, it’s not because my parents were prudish, religious, or too–embarrassed to talk, but there are some things you just want to not to have to ask about.

“Degrassi” provided that outlet, or input.

In the first episode we deal with the topics of:

• Abortion
• Pregnancy Test
• Teen pregnancy
• Periods

In other episodes we cover:

• Handicap accessibility
• Breaking up
• “Just Being Friends”
• Abusive friends
• The utter baloney of content in girl magazines

in a realistic, sensible, neutral way. The dialog, while delivered through a lens woodenly, is legitimate dialogue through the issues: Pro is given, con is given, traditional is given, moderate is given, and the characters make a decision that, while you may disagree with it, is understandable.

Instead of the topics being over–emotionally they’re dealt with in a polite and, well, Canadian manner ( “please, thank–you, and sourrey”)—even the girlfriend-batterer say “could I please speak with you” before the beating commences.

Footnote:

1. This is a pale, weak version, in text, to capture the Canadian accent’s infamous “sorry”.

moar funny pictures

Lauren and I just finished watching the turn–of–the–decade camp–comedy “But I’m a Cheerleader” starring Natasha Lyonne and featuring roles by RuPaul ( as a man ) and Bud Cort ( aka “Harold” ).

The opening song is April March’s “Chick Habit”:

Lacking a canonical video, I’m going for the one with the “Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill! footage

This song is an amusing interpretation of Gainsbourg’s “Laisse tomber les filles” (literally, Allow the girls to drop or “Quit the girls” - so an excellent translation by March ) as recorded by yé-yé chanteuse France Gall:

The bass–line is infectious and definitely writhes like Jack Marshall’s “Munsters Theme”. It just screams out “go–go boots, 20–year–old ingenues and two–count–step.”

“Laisse tomber les filles” was written by Gallic naughty–fellow Serge Gainsbourg ( what, in the ’60’s in France wasn’t? ). Serge’s prolific work ranges from an early herald of “world music”, a great horns arranger, and a writer of not–so–thinly–veiled entendre for ever–so–corruptible girls—most “scandalously” his own daughter, Charlotte.

Next time Ms. March is in the area I’mma goin’.

We saw “The Dark Knight”. It was very good. etc.

I thought that the whole “Saw” turn in the writing ( difficult moral conundrums ) was an unusual turn, but it served very well to highlight the trouble with being a masked vigilate ( until March, 2009 when “Watchmen” will give the final word ).

I love Chris Nolan’s direction: he really seems to be the heir to the Hitchcock–style of suspense.

The movie is also very much a product of its times questions of how much humanity do you sacrifice ( torture, invasion of privacy ) of the things that made you once great in the name of preserving that state—at what point do you lose it in pursuit of protecting it ( any bells ringing? ).

“Iron Man”, “Wall-E”, and now “The Dark Knight” it’s been a good summer for movies.

For some reason I can’t explain
I know I’ll hear this song all day
Never a heart-felt word
But this song will rule the world

Previously

…and they have the temerity to call the album Viva La Vida?

Greeting any new Leaguers while The League is away

I am a huge “This American Life” fan. Last year, for my birthday, The Leagues’ bought me an iTunes gift card which I promptly spent on TAL episodes. I got into it when I first moved to CA. Not knowing many people, having those stories there late on Saturday night became part of a ritual that helped me transition to living there.

My absolute favorite episode is #74 “Conventions”. The first segment ( or, “act”, according to show host Ira Glass ) introduces John Connors, a man from the midwest who goes to New York City for a weekend to celebrate “Dark Shadows”.

“Dark Shadows” is the Gothic–themed soap opera that showed on ABC in the late– 60’s: it’s pacing is nothing short than glacial, the production value is iffy, and the egregious use of the Theremin might be against the Geneva Conventions.

At the end of the convention, Conners feels “Dark Shadows”–fatigue and seems to be experiencing slight embarrassment while relating a story about a woman who, in the convention hall, before a panel of DS cast, bellowed:

“‘Dark Shadows’ Rules!”

Conners seems to have felt the shame that only a true fan of something cultish can experience. You’re shamed by the action of the other fan, but you’re also a bit shamed because the zeal of that fandom exists in you, although maybe not in dictum–bellowing grandiosity.

In the end, Glass gives Conners a chance to say on the radio “‘Dark Shadows’ rules”. Laughing, with a hint of shame, and very quietly, he says it.

I think this explains the way we all feel about our guilty pleasures that we obsess about.

“Danielle Steel rules!” or “WWE rules” or back in 18^th England: “roman’s rule!”

I have felt this way about my love of Rush for many years. There’s a huge fan-base for the Canadian power-trio but most of our lives we live in the closet, but upon finding one another, there’s the immediate understanding.

How can you explain the voice of Geddy Lee from 1974-1981? How can you explain that dressing in robes was a good idea?

How can you explain the talent that barely makes it possible for Neal Peart to even be classified as a human? How can you explain lyrics about

science,

a black hole,

Ayn Rand’s Anthem re-cast as a rock opera,

the unbelievable bass breakdown to the slapback-effects laden “Free Will”, the poetic allegory of “The Trees”, or the master’s essay in Moog known as the record Signals? Much less to a pretty girl?

In the utterance of “Rush Rules” to end them all, enters the pean by one Stephen Colbert:

Recently I discovered that fellow Leaguer and former resident of the Hall of Justice itself, Nicole, has an aptitude for sythesizer. How totally awesome would it be if sweet, petite, gently sweet-Texlahoma-lilt-voiced Nicole were to get up behind an ersatz wood–paneled Moog and rock the socks out of the synthesizer-solo of “Tom Sawyer”? Equally acceptable would be the synth denouement out of “YYZ ( that’s Why-Why-Zed for the uninitiated )”

Although, playing that synth solo may be the synth crowd’s version of walking into Guitar Center and playing “Stairway”.

Rush fandom is a weird thing, but it’s oddly virulent. Even my Sublime-n-Sunshine SoCal girlfriend, of late, under the sway of the Teutonic Thunder drumming of Neal Peart has confessed that she has the sneaky suspicion that what I’ve known for many years may be true:

<h1>Rush Rules</h1>