If there was a film that would capable of reaching out of the TV and disemboweling you, Funny Games (1997) by Michael Haneke is that movie.

Everything about this movie is sinister. Mind you, if it were judged solely on content it would receive no harsher than a PG-13 rating. Friends, do not be fooled.

I got up from watching this film with my hands on my head. I could not believe what I'd just spent an hour and forty eight minutes watching. This was more raw than Full Metal Jacket, scarier than Alien, far more bleak than The Thing and in a different league of evil surpassing Silence Of the Lambs.

But

This film reared back and bitch slapped every notion of conventional film. The implied violence is gruesome, yet hardly a single violent act was depicted. The language is for the most part cordial and without vulgarity. There is nudity but none shown. The long takes were agonizing. The editing is decisive and obligatory. The acting is superb. The viewer gets no satisfaction. Even when one of the villains gets shot in the chest with a shotgun point blank, another villain scrambles for the remote control to the TV in the room, presses rewind and the scene replays again this time with the other villain not being shot. No special effects. No explanation. It's like the villains not only control what is happening to the actors, but also control the entire narrative. The 'fourth wall' is broken several times by the villains just to remind the viewer there is nothing they can do to stop them.

It's a feeling of helplessness and attachment like I've never felt to a character before. I yearned and nearly cried with the victims and I hated with all my heart the villains. Funny Games surveys the cultures lust for violence then force feeds that violence to the viewer without any of the tidy little Hollywood garnish they are accustomed to. Unrelenting and unstoppable.

When you are idling at the top of the La Cienega/Sunset Blvd intersection you can see for miles. The nocturnal view is certainly striking because you are looking down the barrel of La Cienega as it cuts a wide north-south swath of Los Angeles. The crimson and ivory columns pulse and ebb as traffic patterns ooze in their pulse. There are a lot of people down there. Most of them lonely. A lot of them chronically dehydrated.

CUT TO:

EXT: Interstate 10 - Day

Bump and go congestion at 3:30 pm on a Thursday. The 10 is not a very useful highway in that it traps it's occupants for far longer than they ever intend. I swear if that taxi passes me one more time I'm going to switch lanes; but remember what happened in Office Space. I'll just stay in my lane and hope for the best. A certain camaraderie happens in traffic. It's unspoken and not as strong as the bond that forms among people waiting in line for iPhones or something. Everyone wants to go faster and will collectively wish death upon the next driver who rides their brakes.

FADE OUT:
FADE IN:
INT: Office Kitchen - Day

It's been a slow Friday, the movie business is not particularly urgent around the turn of the new year. NEWS FLASH! A woman driving a UHaul is speeding down the 405 leading police on a highspeed chase. Editors and Producers pour from their offices and gather around the flat screen in the kitchen/living room at our office. One freelancer exclaims that the driver is right by her house, people confirm her excitement. Deep down each one of us is jealous of this crazed womans joyride; I wish I could just floor it in traffic on the 405.

Life gets interesting when she UHaul starts to weave back and forth. The woman is pulling wildly on wheel to jostle the last bit of fuel out of the tank. The cops are closing in as the escapee tries in vain to breathe life into her truck. Everyone gets closer to the TV. Voices get louder. Bets are made. Escapee slams on the brakes and books it out the door. Cops file out in hot foot pursuit. The woman weaves through oncoming traffic and puts both her palms on the hood of a Volkswagen Jetta. She pauses for a second and looks over her shoulder.

Pin drop.

Escapee spins around the front of the car and tries to pull open the door to the Jetta. All hell breaks loose in the kitchen. Jetta driver wisely hit the locks when he saw the crazy pursuant running at them. Escapee abandons the car and gets about 15 steps before LAs finest tombstones her to the ground. Nothing like watching a firm ground pounding on live TV to bring peoples true self to the surface. I feel bad for her, her life is never going to be the same, says one stupid person. She should sue those cops, that was unnecessary force says another person too stupid to even call them stupid. Most of us though are high fiving and enjoying the excellent group catharsis.

~

Music of the week is MGMT. Movie of the week is Aliens. High point of the week is Salma Hayek using what God gave her to feed the needy. Low point is Limp Bizkit getting back together.

For those of us who grew up on video games, going on a quest is something we've done quite often. A quest is defined as follows:

1. The act or an instance of seeking or pursuing something; a search.
2. An expedition undertaken in medieval romance by a knight in order to perform a prescribed feat: the quest for the Holy Grail.
3. Archaic. A jury of inquest.

Most would not consider shopping a quest and they would be correct. A quest has to involve many unknowns and the object that you are pursuing must ,according to my classical definition, be hard to find or thought to be lost forever.

So you would think that being able to go on a quest would be near impossible these days without seriously going out of your way. Well friends, I completed a quest today.

My 1985 Ford Escort GL soldiers on like a senior citizen running the Boston Marathon, it's kind of sad to watch but you feel happy that at least they are up and about. The Escort sheds parts quite literally with just the other day my left headlamp came out on the highway. My right side headlamp had already melted internally due to the alternator cable fusing to the exhaust manifold.... but I digress.

So my car was blind and I could not drive it at night because I had no lights. Autozone said and the internet confirmed that buying 1 new headlamp assembly would cost $189 so for two it would be 45% of my vehicles total worth. What to do? After much consideration and a good corncob pipe full of sumptuous North Carolina tobacco, I decided to go on a quest to the junk yard.

Every quest starts with a map. So I beseeched the ancient cartographer Google of Mountainview. For no fee Google of Mountainview produced a map for me, so I jotted the directions down in my trusty journal and mounted my injured steed. My quest brought me to the kingdom of Ecology Auto Parts, a proud and wholesome kingdom governed as a autonomous collective of the Mestizo people. I approached the gate with some trepidation, since my fair city clothing made me appear as an outsider. The gatekeeper was a Caucasian slave that spoke in an odd vernacular.

Gatekeeper: 2 dollars to get in, sign the paper, no refunds.

I nodded and produced the currency, made my mark on the scroll and entered through the turn style.

What greeted me then was a graveyard of ancient travelers. Travelers from as far as the spice regions of indo-china and the bitterly cold Argonne forest. Propped up on the parts of another traveler. Shells and ghosts of what they formerly were. I waded through the vast sea of monoliths and headstones. Other adventurers were on similar quests to find the parts there vessel needed, to openly rob the graves that the dead travelers so willingly permitted.

With the sun rising high in the sky I finally came upon a 2nd generation Ford Escort, a 1987 but it still would do the trick. Sadly I had forgotten to bring my tools so the only means of extracting the needed pieces was with my two knives I always carry with me. Other adventurers that passed by were more than happy to trade and converse with me for the correct tools and knowledge to loose the prize from it's moorings.

Success! I retrieve the right headlamp assembly, 3 bulbs and a Ford insignia to replace my battered standard.

I take my prize to the troll who stands at the taxing booth. I present my findings and the troll charges me the fair sum of 39.95 for all the parts. I pay with credit.

So there you have it, you can go on your very own quest. It's exhilarating to find your part amongst thousands of cars. Also recommended for dates and family get-togethers.

As a budding film-maker and fan, I've taken it upon myself to watch all of Stanley Kubrick's films. As of tonight I've finished the big ones: A Clockwork Orange, 2001, Full Metal Jacket, Eyes Wide Shut, The Shining and Barry Lyndon.

To my knowledge most people have neither seen nor heard of Barry Lyndon and for good measure. The fact that Barry Lyndon is a sweeping period piece set in 18th century Europe is not a fault. The fact that Barry Lyndon is loosely based off of some book that I'll never read isn't a problem either. It's not even that big a deal that Barry Lyndon is 3 hours long and has the most stilted dialogue imaginable.

The marathon length is offset by the visual eye candy. The whole movie looks like a baroque painting. Kubrick and his director of photography John Alcott hawked some lenses from NASA so they could shoot by candlelight. Much like Temple Of Doom, Barry Lyndon is cinematographic porn.

The problem with Barry Lyndon is that I hate everyone in the film. Down to Barry's stupid little son named Brian. SPOILER ALERT When little Brian falls off his birthday horse and dies two days later I could hardly contain my glee. Barry's mom, his wife, his stepson, his friends, his army buddies, his incestuous cousin, his 'kiss me lad' army uncle, the slutty Prussian lass he shacks up with, his accountant and the uber-faggot priest that lives in the Lyndon estate are all worthy of being stripped naked and shot with paintballs. I was hoping that The Chevalier de Balibari would be cool, cause he was all like straight high-rollin, pop bottles with fly honies all night long.

But no. Balibari was a Libertine. A Libertine being the Victorian England equivalent of an emo kid. Pale make-up, fake moles, powdered wigs, lipstick, gaudy jewelry and absolutely nothing but a drain on society.

It's one thing to have a movie based on an Anti-hero, like in Citizen Kane. But at least you had some emotions, positive or negative for Charles Kane. Barry Lyndon and his ilk are, like their oil on canvas counterparts, incapable of depth.

Two blog posts in two days! Crazy I know.

So I broke character today and asked a girl for her number. For those of you that know me, you can assure the rest of the studio audience just how insanely non-Nick like this behavior is.

I got turned down. But the story leading up to it is cool and so is how it ends.

~

I'm shopping for a cello bow. My roommate has many electric guitars that she does not play so I wanted to dabble in the art of playing a guitar with a bow. Guitar Center had none but they recommended I go to this mom and pop place down Pico.

The indie joint was so much cooler than GC. Low ceilings, a bunch of old dudes, people talking about hammer ons and pull offs (or whatever it is guitar people talk about). Beaming like a beacon of light from the crowd was a certain young woman. She had a really nice smile that beckoned me to ask her a question. I opened my mouth but forgot that I'm recovering from a cold so i need to clear my throat first before I speak. So I coughed right at her face. She laughs. Good sign.

At a loss for words I quickly recover and ask if she has any bows for playing. She explains that the bows are in the back. I ask some stupid bow questions like 'so whats better? a cello bow or violin bow' straining to sound like I'm a guitar regular and am merely doing this to entertain my vast talent. 'Does it need resin?' I coolly ask. 'Umm resin is what helps the strings vibrate so yes you would need resin' she states matter-of-factly. Thwarted by her obvious knowledge and brutally pretty eyes I start to shrink away 'ok well I guess I'll just look up some on ebay then'.

'Would you like me to show you one?' she asked, 'sure if you have the time' I reply.

So we go to the hall closet and she pulls out a bow, I ask some more dumb questions like how long do the strings last and what does HH mean (HH means horse hair). While she is explaining things to me I cant help but notice she has this totally groovy snake tatoo on her ankle and lower calf. Every time our eyes meet I fail at holding back a smile, and she seems to have the same problem. After what seems like just mere seconds our encounter is over and I'm out the door driving away.


...

eh, what the hell.

I hang a Uey at a light and make my appearance back into the guitar shop. 'Oh your back' she cheerily replies, 'sure am'...she is working on a guitar stringing the neck. Girls that play guitar are keepers I've been told. 'So would it be dumb if I asked for your number' was the best i could muster, I didn't even make eye contact when I said it. She bites her bottom lip 'no its not dumb, but I have a boy friend'. I can feel my face heating up, all the blood is rushing from my arms to my face, my hands go clammy. 'Oh ok, well um I guess it was kinda dumb then'

A skinny guy who was getting something from under the counter we were at stands up and announces 'I'm her boyfriend'. I freeze and force a smile. 'No your not, don't be mean' she chides and he gives me a goofy smile cause he knows whats up. 'Well I'm very flattered, whats your name?' she extends her arm. I take her hand 'Im Nick', 'I'm Julie'. Her face has turned red as well. I breath out in relief, at least we both feel awkward. 'Good luck with your bow playing' I turn to leave, 'Thanks I will, I'll be back probably, see yah later.'

I'll be back? What possessed me to say that? What a creeper. Ladies if a guy says something that sounds a little creepy, don't always assume he's a weirdo. It could just be that he is totally uncool and doesn't know what to say.

~

Happy New Year ya'll. Music of the week is Amon Tobin. Show of the week is How I Met Your Mother.

Having just finished watching the documentary Man On Wire I feel refreshed and excited for several reasons.

It was enjoyable to watch a movie where there was a non-violent story is told. The story being that of Phillipe Petit; a French tight rope walker who rallied a scrum of Americans, Australians and other Frenchmen to sneak into the World Trade Centers in 1974, rig a cable from the roof in the middle of the night and then Phillipe perform his high wire act at dawn.

The director James Marsh made a documentary from archival footage and re-enactments to unobtrusively let this story tell it self. Man On Wire, in my opinion, embodies exactly what a documentary film should look like. The art of Documentary has been soiled for the past 10 years thanks in no small part to Michael Moore. When people think of a documentary they cringe at the thought of having to suffer through several hours of heavy-handed, vitriolic and snide soundbites wedged in between shaky amateur video and slow pans of news clippings with out of context phrases being highlighted to drive the producers point home.

James Marsh lets this story speak through it's characters (Phillipe and his gang) in the way a director should, by gently guiding and massaging the narrative to be clear and concise. Cutting what he must and letting breath what can breath, Much like The King Of King: A Fistful Of Quarters.

Getting to see the French do what God put them on this earth to do (which is getting us to stop and reexamine our lives, take notice of something different, be whimsical) is a carnal pleasure for a frustrated writer/director who resides in a cold apartment in the giant money machine of Los Angeles. Watching men in their mid twenties in bell bottoms and poofy hair frolic in grassy fields as if they have no care or job in the world seems kinda gay, until you realize they are just hanging out and doing some cool stuff in a very 70's sort of way.

It reminds me of my fathers VHS camera we had when I was young and how I would set up all my action figures in a high powered board room setting and would then voice over some high powered board room dialogue in as many voices as I could. For some reason Skeletor always ended up having an affair with the Strawberry Shortcake Secretary who mas married to Mr. Fantastic the struggling amateur inventor. Zooming in on Lion-O's face as he delivered his rousing monologue never really conveyed the West Wing Martin Sheene emotion I was going for but it was good enough for me at the time. I've never been racist but Roadblock did end up dying a majority of the time. That just means I had the horror movie conventions memorized correctly.

Water is our most precious resource out side of time itself. Given the fact we treat the ocean like a toilet and a pantry, you would think a forward thinking society that prides is self on "progressive thought" (as opposed to oppressive or regressive) would fall lock step behind water conservation and preservation.

I'm not going to complain about the taste of tap water here in LA because that would be like saying 'hey how's it going'? to someone in college and you hear the reply 'man, I'm so tired'. Well no duh you in college and your supposed to be tired. So complaining about water that has been filtered god knows how many times and has laid in a trash filled aquifer for eons in the hot desert sun just seems redundant.

What I will say is that Los Angelinos seem to have no problem wasting this resource. Not just in a normal oh a water main broke lets fix it kind of way but in far more flagrant displays. Case in point; you can drive down cash-laden Wilshire avenue in Beverly Hills any given morning and you'll see the janitors and groundskeepers spraying the sidewalk free of debris. Every where in LA I see people spraying off their driveways and sidewalks...with water. I'm drafting a letter to Mayor Villargairosa proposing a groundbreaking and environmentally sound plan to decrease water usage through out Los Angeles county.

Brooms

Brooms are an ancient device first used by the ancient Babylonians to sweep away the skulls from the human sacrifice chamber. Later on they were adopted my most cultures for greater effect (except of course the Egyptians who could never quite keep the sand out of their houses.) Fast forward several thousand years and brooms are holding fast in the janitorial trade. Parents use brooms to occupy children and ancient Greeks use brooms to beat women. Several hundred years later industrious pagans in northern England and southern France manipulate brooms for air travel. Sadly this technology has been lost to time. Brooms swept across the continents (pun) but finally meet their match when Herbert Hoover invents a device that "profoundly inhales the grime and filth from our most impoverished and disenfranchised citizens" in the late 1920's. He quits the presidency and opens up business for himself and employs half of the United States.

Brooms still hold on underneath street sweepers and in low income housing. Brooms will always be the most economical and efficient way of clearing some cobwebs from your eaves, scaring away raccoons from the trashcans and giving chimney sweeps something to dance with.

~

There is no music of the week cause I've barely had the time to listen to any, let alone tell you about it. Show of the week is Dexter.

I'll do my best to get blogging again, this time with better material than brooms.