Now Playing: Igor

Maybe its because I'm getting older, but some movies I can't sit through. I try. I do try. But some of them are literally so bad that I just can't do it. I've seen enough movies in my time to peg the good ones and the bad ones and the mediocre ones all right from the start. I'm up for giving anything a try, but when all it does is try my patience then I shout, "Out with thee!"

"Igor" definitely tried my patience before finally exploding it.

The idea for it is great. An entire country worships a collection of mad scientists who try to one-up each other with ever increasing means of destruction. These scientists compete every year to see who is the baddest of the bad, and each scientist has an Igor for an assistant. So the question is, what happens if one of the Igor's decides to try for the title himself?

The results are scattershot to say the least. John Cusack voices Igor, and he has his own motley assortment of characters around him. One of them is a demented bunny voiced by Steve Buscemi who is, apparently, unable to die and quite bitter about that. He tries continuously to kill himself but always heals back up, which leads to some morbid running gags.

But like the rest of the film, those gags run out of steam after the second time.

Eventually Igor decides to build his own monster, and when it decides to become an actress I tuned out completely. No child is going to understand any of the "Sunset Boulevard" references let alone get why repeated suicide attempts are funny. The film (as much as I saw) is about as lifeless as the corpses Igor tries to reanimate, and the less said the better. Skip this one.

Now Playing: The Foot Fist Way

This is a thundering dud of unfunny that I turned off about half an hour in to. It stars the great (and I mean that) Danny McBride as a martial arts instructor who may have suffered one too many blows to the head in his career. McBride is normally hilarious (he easily stole many scenes in Tropic Thunder and that sounds impossible considering the level of insanity in that film) but here, in his debut, he sort of clunks along.

That's alright, because the film is one of those indie flicks that I have developed a sense for. It's the kind that is poorly written, shot, directed, and acted yet there are fans. Ardent fans too. The kind of fans who have difficulty understanding why Serenity is a schlocky, brutal slap in the face for everyone who loved Firefly. Different digression for another day.

My point is that if you've seen one bad indie film you have honestly seen them all, including this one. They include the same level of weak-to-awful acting, unenthusiastic staging or camera movements, comedy that lacks quality timing, and characters you have strong feelings for. Doesn't matter if you hate them - you at least feel something.

The only thing I felt after half an hour was ripped off and I got this via Netflix. Skip it.

Thoughts on Fallout

It was announced this week that the next installment in the Fallout series will take place in Las Vegas. But that's not what has the gaming world jumping for joy. The stand alone (i.e. not a sequel to Bethesda-developed Fallout 3) is in development at Obsidian.

Most of the crew at Obsidian came from Black Isle. Black Isle developed the original Fallout and is renowned among us long-timers as one of the best houses ever. They stand alongside BioWare and LucasArts (in their golden age) as one of the development houses that could do no wrong, and Fallout was their crown jewel. Knowing that they get to take another crack at the universe they created fills me with joy.

I have never played Fallout 3 but I have very little interest in doing so. For starters, I don't even remotely have 100 hours of my life to sink into a game anymore. Just doesn't exist for me. Second, Bethesda developed it. I've tried both of their last role playing games (Morrowind and Oblivion) and found them both lacking narrative cohesion and soul.

What they DIDN'T lack was a robust engine that the mod community could go wild on, and in both cases it was six to eight months post release when that same community added a crucial element to both games: Fun. This is the reason why I think Bethesda and id Software both should lay off building games and focus on building engines. But if members of the original Black Isle team were let loose in the Fallout world again, then that might be something genuinely special.

My Fair Lady and I can't discuss games. I mean she'll put forth an effort to banter with me about the latest LEGO game, and she's grown accustomed to my late night gaming, but she doesn't have the history with it that I do. Nor do I have the history with marching band that she does. She played the bass clarinet, and when we were at a concert recently she was stunned that someone was switching in mid-piece between bass clarinet and contra-bass clarinet. A thousand years from now I still wouldn't have the slightest clue what the hell that means. But the Fallout universe means a lot to me, more so than I have ever let on to anyone and here's why.

I didn't go crazy for the original Fallout when I played it. I had a complete and revelatory emotional experience throughout it, and I only played it once. Just once. I put it down after that and never went back. I skipped the sequel a few years later because despite picking up 80 years later, I just couldn't bring myself to go back into that world. Why? Because the story was finished. More than that.

It was complete.

Your character starts out in an underground Vault built before the bombs dropped. At some point, nuclear holocaust struck the world and it did so during the 1950s. Technology advanced with that mindset and the results were simultaneously strange and hilarious. Fallout's now legendary opening cinematic established a tone that combined gallows humor, optimism, and a shocking level of sorrow and pathos all in a single shot.

Once you've established your character's stats, you leave in search of a replacement microchip for the Vault's water supply. This part of your quest is ultimately resolved sooner rather than later, but it opens your eyes to a post-apocalyptic world filled with as many possibilities as there are corpses.

During my playthrough, I first encountered a mangy dog aptly named Dogmeat near a decayed border town. Dogmeat joined me on my quest and the two of us set off across the desert. Eventually we entered another town where a firefight ensued. This resulted in another companion aiding us, though his name escapes me. He was a tall man in a black leather jacket. Those are the only details I can clearly see through the haze of memory. But the three of us journeyed across the land, eventually coming into contact with a race of super mutants.

These things were massive. You have to, for a moment, bring your mind back to the world of graphics in the late 1990s. When I say "massive" I mean in terms of the isometric viewpoint of the world. These things were twice as big as a man, and four times uglier. They were large, green, vicious creatures who routinely carried heavier artillery than would fit in my backpack.

We came upon a burned out settlement. The rusted and ramshackle buildings, the ones left standing, were missing entire sections of roof. You could see just enough hallway to get a feel for the building, but in my gamer youth I failed to understand that it wasn't what I could see - but what I couldn't see.

A couple of mutants exited the buildings and came right at us. The way combat was handled was via allocation of move and attack points. We could move X amount of spaces but that might deduct from the Y amount of attack points, thus affecting range and amount of damage. Fallout was my first genuinely tactical game, in more than one sense, and you really had to invent a new strategy for each encounter.

For this one, the three of us made short work of a mutant we caught outside the buildings. I sent the man in black ahead to check out another building while Dogmeat and I fended off a mutant on our right flank. We brought down the beast, but both of us were dangerously low on move points. It was then that the man in black reached a long hallway that was missing a section of roof, thus allowing me a perfect view.

It was then that I realized I couldn't see the end of the long hallway that the man in black stood in the middle of.

All of a sudden a large mutant wielding the biggest flame thrower I'd ever seen stepped around the shadowed corner. He locked on to the man in black and squeezed the trigger. In my dreams that night I honestly heard the man scream as the flames engulfed the hallway. Dogmeat and I only had enough move points to retreat. My last save was an hour or so previous. The man in black stayed where he fell.

Eventually Dogmeat and I encountered a long-buried outpost in the desert that was a previous nuclear research facility. From what I recall (keeping in mind it's been over 10 years since I played) it was where one of the missiles launched from. It was filled with cutting edge technology - powered suits of armor, heavy artillery, laser doors, and a heavy amount of radiation. We dared not linger. It was close to the finale (play enough games and you can always sense when the final battle draws near) and I was anxious for my adventures to come to a close. Too anxious as it turned out.

I moved through the facility trying to exit in a hurry and that's when we came to a laser door, the last one on the way out. I moved when it was open and could see the light of the exit. Dogmeat's move points, however, were just enough to land him in the doorway as the laser closed cutting him in half. Again, my previous saves were useless. We'd braved an evil and deadly wilderness together and in my haste I'd managed to kill my most loyal companion inside a pit where no one would ever find him. I pressed on to the end. Alone. Openly grieving.

Only to encounter a relatively weak-ass ultimate boss that you can basically talk into self destructing. It's more complicated than that, but not by a whole lot. It didn't matter. Even with the world saved, my friends were dead and at least one I felt genuinely responsible for. Their deaths hurt, genuinely hurt, me. Then I returned to the Vault, my expedition a success in terms of goals accomplished.

It was then the Vault Leader turned me away. I was told my exposure to the world outside the Vault would doom its inhabitants, or some such nonsense. I could barely contain my rage. All of it was for the Vault. Everything I'd done, all the lives I'd saved or ended, all of it was so my character could return home and this bureaucrat stood there and had the audacity to tell me no. I was livid.

Then an in-game cinematic kicked in. The Vault Leader turned his back to me to re-enter the Vault. My character calmly drew out my shotgun and fired, blowing the pin-head in half. My jaw hit the ground in utter disbelieving shock. The game faded into a minor epilogue selling me that my character went west and established another settlement, but my mind could only focus on the bloody remains of the Vault Leader who denied me at the exact wrong time to do so. I've come to find out that this ending is not exactly rare but pretty darn close.

I've never played it sense and all others are pale imitations. But if Obsidian can deliver even half of the absorbing drama of a world without rules, a world filled to the brim with ghoulish humor, unexpected scenarios, and one emotional wallop after another, then I'm in.

Even if it takes 100 hours. I'll find a way, because an experience like this comes along once every so often. People have questioned why I'm as hard nosed a critic as I am, and I explain it is because I've played everything and nothing surprises me. This is only half right. The other half I can't explain because I would go through a story like I just told for Fallout and Planescape: Torment and Baldur's Gate II and Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time and have to patiently explain why each and every one rocked me to my core for different reasons.

But I may just do that in future posts devoted to those games individually that genuinely captured me. Stay tuned...

Achievement Unlocked - Foulness

I opened Blogger just now and was struck by the realization I didn't have much to say. I planned to start blowing through my movie reviews, then I heard my name shouted from the other room. I burst into Max's room and he's laying on the changing table with his butt up in the air, My Fair Lady is changing him, and WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?!?!

We have officially unlocked "Foulness" - baby's first more or less solid diaper. It is exactly as the title suggests.

When you have breast fed babies, their diapers are usually non-events. They don't smell all that bad and even at their messiest only take a few moments to clean up. Their little bodies absorb all the material from the breast milk quick as you please.

Introduce solids, however, and their diapers become some new (or I guess you could make the claim for "old") form of WMD. Had Max been able to wiggle out of this diaper and run around the house, there would have been a trail of epic foulness across my carpet, sort of like a Yellow Brick Road of the Damned.

And it is only going to get worse from here. Wheeee!

A Different Strategy

One of the things that I've discovered is vital to new parents is getting on a schedule. Any yahoo who says that children don't need schedules and need to be allowed to grow on their own is, pardon my language, a fucking tool who doesn't know what they're talking about. Max was a nightmare for the first few weeks at night. We introduced him to a schedule at 8 weeks and POOF! Nightmare gone.

Then it was time to get a day schedule which regrettably proved more difficult for us to establish due to a host of reasons. Among them is the work situation which finds both myself and My Fair Lady working from the house. It is great in the sense that we don't have to pay for day care and we can raise Max right from the start all by ourselves. This has led to an increased amount of bonding between the three of us, so much so that now when we leave him for a bit he knows we'll be right back and is surprisingly calm.

But the lack of a day schedule was killing us. Max was cool with it but neither of us were getting enough work done. Then My Fair Lady had a great idea:

"What if we get up when he does, at 7:30, and then one of us takes him for five hours while the other works? Then we trade off at lunch?"

It was so simple and yet so radical an idea it just may work!

We put it into practice this past Saturday, again yesterday, and again this morning. Thus far, it seems to be working like a charm. Both of us have been able to get the work we needed to do completed (or in my case, I was able to blow through Wheelman and most of GTA: Chinatown Wars as well as five more pages on my script) and Max has been a gem to deal with.

And it only took us four and a half months. We're slow learners, clearly.

So my plan of attack is as follows - use the first hour of my daily five for blogging, then the other four are allocated for work, scripting, whatever else. I'm looking forward to catching up on my reviews as well as finally sitting down to write some things about Max for a change. Here's hoping this schedule goes well until we can afford day care.

The Crook

Astute readers may have noticed an earlier reference to "the crook" which is what I have dubbed the manner in which I sometimes carry Max. It is a slight bending of the elbow which forms a small nook that Max is quickly inserted in to. He sits in "the crook" quite contentedly and looks around as I walk through the house doing chores with my off-hand.

This is essential to fathers: get "the crook" down at an early stage. It makes life easier. I would use flow charts and diagrams on how best to form "the crook" but with my drawing ability you'd wind up with a paper crane and a crick in your neck.

And wake up in Morocco.

Cutting the Cloth

A few weeks ago, My Fair Lady and I decided to begin the arduous process of weening Max from his Miracle Blanket, which is great for newborns. But as soon as they start wanting to stretch out and move, it becomes an ever increasing challenge to get them back into it. Plus, Max's legs were beginning to scrunch up inside because he was getting too long.

Yet we were not ready to go all the way and break the swaddle, i.e. let Max sleep the night away with his arms out.

So there we stood in his nursery at 1:30 a.m. arguing loudly about the best way to go about this. Max, meanwhile, just stared at us from his changing table. I don't quite recall who said what exactly, but these were some of the more memorable quotes:

"Just cut it!"

"He needs to not be swaddled anymore!"
"You want to start completely right this second? We haven't slept in three months and you want to ensure we don't sleep for three months more?"

"I don't want to ruin it! What about the next child?"
"Hey look! They have a website from which we can order more!"

"What if we cut it so his feet go through but his arms are still swaddled? Is that a good middle ground for you?"

This last was asked of Max and he just blithely smiled up at us. He was fine with it. So we cut off the bottom portion of the Miracle Blanket and re-swaddled him thus conking him out immediately.

I recommend for future parents that discussions like this be held during the daylight hours when your body knows instinctively that it's supposed to be awake, even if it feels like sleeping.

Achievement Unlocked Again

3 a.m. Casa de Skim. Slight rain falling outside. Everyone in the house asleep.

/sound of "Law & Order" duh-duh!

"Wait! What time is it?!?"

My Fair Lady was awake in a panic. I groggily opened my eyes, looked at the VCR which had yet to be pushed forward due to that $%^#ing time change, and swore at having to do the complicated math of adding two and one.

"Uh, three o'clock I think." I turned to go back asleep. My Fair Lady would have none of it.

"But he hasn't been fed! I never fed him! Is he alright?"

"Uh, I presume so. Haven't heard anything through the monitor yet."

This is where My Fair Lady grew persistent. Bear in mind - me asleep in the dead of night is the wrong damn time to persist in anything with me. Were the house on fire, I'd mouth off about busting out the marshmellows depending on how restful my sleep up to that point had been. And I assure you I'd had at least three hours worth of restful sleep.

"But I haven't fed him! When did you put him down?"

"8:45."

That's when my eyes went open as it finally registered that lil' Max had been asleep for six hours solid. I immediately leaped out of bed and raced to check on him. He was sound asleep in his crib. I stumbled back to our room.

"He's fine."

"Well I'm sure not! I'm swollen like you wouldn't believe? Dammit! I wanted to sleep through this!" With that, My Fair Lady grumbled off to go lower her excess levels. I went back to sleep.

For exactly one hour.

At 4 a.m. Max awoke for his first feeding of the night. If he does the same thing again tonight we will be so happy it boggles the mind. But you never, ever get something for free. Today he's been a pill for the most part and we think he's beginning to teethe.

But at least he's making progress on the sleep thing. Maybe at some point we will too.

That's better. Kinda.

So I post the story about Max on Monday. Tuesday night I start feeling a sore throat coming on and a general malaise begins to sink in. Wednesday it kicks into high gear and I feel horrible. Thursday (my birthday) I wake up, throw up, lose my voice, hack up both lungs, and stay in bed most of the day. Friday, Saturday and Sunday were all exercises in frustration trying to get my voice back.

Monday morning I woke up feeling like a truck had run over me. Twice. Then backed up and did it again for good measure. But as the morning progressed, I felt better. Much, much better.

Today when I woke up, it was sans the sensation of being roadkill. Tonight I'm having another round of coughing fits but they lack the sheer intensity of the ones that have ravaged me the past week. I'm guessing at this rate I should be back to full strength with only a recurring dry cough by Thursday of this week. And my voice has started really coming back so hopefully I'll have that by tomorrow or also by Thursday at the latest.

This year's version of the cold should be avoided at any and all costs. If you hear someone coughing, run for your life.

It Goes Without Saying

I'm washing Maxs clothes tonight while My Fair Lady recuperates from not feeling so well and I double checked a label on one of his outfits.

"Keep away from fire."

Thanks for the warning there, chief. I'll make sure little Max isn't roasting smores at the ripe old age of three months while in this particular jammy. The one with the frog head for a cap though bears no such warning, which means when we go camping next week and try to slay a bear with our bare (zing!) hands I'll know what outfit to pack.

What's this? What's this? There's something in the air!

1) Normally I don't quote musicals while blogging but that one line was all that floated through my brain this morning.

2) Verizon FIOS has a nasty habit of resetting their boxes whenever a power surge or anything even flickers.

3) Max hit 12 weeks today.

Now, what do these three things have in common? Max almost slept through the night last night. That's what they have in common.

As all new parents know, no baby sleeps through the night right away. People who claim their child magically does are, pardon my language, fucking liars. To. A. One. Doesn't matter if your baby has colic or not. It ain't sleeping through the night for the first month, maybe not even the second. It may sleep through long stretches, but by and large those stretches are going to range between one to three hours.

Max hit almost a full 11 hours last night. I say "almost" because he was up three times but it wasn't so bad. New parents look for the good in literally anything because they want their child to mature (not grow up mind you) enough so that all of you can sleep through the night again.

Here is Max's normal nighttime routine we've established:

6:30 - 6:45 p.m. = Bath time. We strip him down, put him in the bath, and wash him every other day so as to not dry out his skin. Other days we just let him splash around. As a result, he's really taken to enjoying being in water which is a far cry from his mother.

7:00 - 7:30 p.m. = Feeding. This is his "final" feeding before bed time. Then we change him, and wrap him in the Miracle Blanket. One of us then walks him while burping him and works to put him to sleep. We lay him down in his crib, turn on the sound machine (set to White Noise) and close the bedroom door. He then sleeps normally until about 10 p.m.-ish when he'll wake up hungry. From that point on we feed him, change him, put him right back down. This last part involves rocking some nights, no rocking other nights.

Last night here's how it went.

6:45 - 7:00 p.m. = bath time
7:00 - 7:30 p.m. = feeding time
7:30 - 8:30 p.m. = me walking while holding him trying to get him to go to sleep while my dinner grew colder by the second

For whatever reason he did not want to go to sleep. He wasn't fussy at all though. He just calmly looked at me while I held him, yawned every now and then, but otherwise was wide awake. Then I put him in The Crook* of my arm and it was like a light switched off. Out he went and out he stayed.

I'll explain The Crook* in a separate post.

I put him down and went on about my night. He woke back up about 10:30 p.m. which was fine. My Fair Lady fed him, then I took over changing him and rocking him. The catch was he was so far asleep and completely limp that there was no need to excessively rock him. So I laid him down and he went back to sleep. Since I was still awake and needed something to put me to sleep, I went and played "Assassin's Creed."

Zing!

Max woke up again at 2 a.m. for his nightly feeding. I told My Fair Lady that I would change him and put him down after the feeding and to come wake me up after she was done. She agreed and I went back to sleep. Fast forward to this morning.

I hear Max crying via the baby monitor and immediately snap half out of my stupor. I look at the time on the Verizon box and it says 141. "Dammit!" I shouted, loud enough apparently to awaken My Fair Lady. "Wait a sec. Weren't you supposed to wake me when you were done feeding him?" I asked.

"Yeah, he went right down though so I just did it myself," she replied. "What time is it?"

"I have no idea." Max cried out again. "What the hell is the time?!?!"

"Oh my God," came the response from the other side of the bed. "It's 7 a.m."

We just looked at each other stunned. We got out of bed and I fetched Max while she up the feeding station. I brought him out and he immediately latched onto her. Meanwhile she and I just stared at each other and at him in complete shock. He'd actually slept and woken up at clockwork intervals, specifically ones we could handle. We needed to get up at 7 a.m. anyway and we went to sleep around 10 p.m. anyway. One time in the middle of the night is no big deal. Not a bad way to start off his 12th week.

"What's this? What's this? There's something in the air!" blared through my head at full volume.

Here's hoping there is more joy to come. Oh, and he's an incredibly happy baby right now and his parents both feel more alive than they have since November. Amazing what a decent night's sleep can do for you.

Now Playing: Run Fatboy Run

I’m an ardent fan of Simon Pegg. “Shaun of the Dead” and “Hot Fuzz” are hilarious, surprisingly deep films made by geeks for geeks. But rather than be tribute films chock full of references to the exclusion of plot (looking at you, “… Movie” uh, movies), they were smashing entertainments all their own. That they spoke the language of their respective genres fluently was almost incidental.

“Run Fatboy Run” is not up to either of those. It’s amusing for the most part, and laugh out loud funny a few times, but on the whole is a surprisingly toothless affair. It isn’t like Pegg is incapable of going dark (witness the battle in the bar at the end of “Shaun”) but here he’s just going through the motions. Granted, several of those motions are damn funny.

Pegg plays a guy who literally ran away from his pregnant fiancé (Thandie Newton) on their wedding day, and he’s more or less been running from life for the subsequent five years. He’s stuck as a security guard for a clothing store, he’s behind on his rent, and he’s not setting the best example for his son. He’s happy with life though, despite not going anywhere at all. But that changes when his ex brings home a dashing and successful money man (Hank Azaria) who can offer her and their son all the things that Pegg can’t.

Pegg winds up deciding to run a charity marathon against Azaria and a large chunk of the film is his hilarious training. A few of the running gags killed me, like his repeated failure to set his alarm clock, but the charming story sort of runs out of gas right before the marathon.

The good news is it picks back up again in ways I wasn’t expecting once the marathon begins, and the result will leave a smile on your face. Especially the way they depict “The Wall.” You’ll know it when they come to it. So to speak.

First time director David Schwimmer of all people manages to keep things moving but overall lacks the lively touch of frequent Pegg contributor Edgar Wright. Wright brings an energy and focus to his films that is sorely lacking here.

“Run Fatboy Run” is a charming film, but far from a top notch one. Pegg is great as usual and has earned enough cred with me that I’ll see him in whatever he does. If supporting him means more films like “Hot Fuzz” and “Shaun of the Dead” then I’ll even go see him in next summer’s “Star Trek” not-a-reboot.

Now Playing: For Roseanna

This is the gem I whip out whenever someone demands to know why I can’t stand “Titanic.” At least I did back when James Cameron’s magnum sudser was the de facto standard for love stories aimed squarely at the tween demographic.

In the intervening years, it’s become more popular to use “Titanic” as the punching bag I always knew it to be, but one thing needs to be clear right from the start – I called it an Epic Fail opening night and have never wavered in my judgment.

So when the inevitable “you just hate romance movies, don’t you?” lines would start up I would use “For Roseanna” as my “nuh uh!” ticket out of the conversation.

Jean Reno, favorite fanboy heavy of “The Professional” and “Ronin” fame, goes way against type as the frantic Marcello. He and his wife Roseanna (Mercedes Ruhl) lost their daughter some time ago, and Roseanna wants more than anything to be buried next to her when her time is up. Roseanna has a weak heart and could go at any time, so Marcello sees it as his life’s mission to keep everyone in the village alive long enough that Roseanna can safely secure her grave spot.

Sure it may sound morbid on paper, but the heart of it is the extent to which a loving and devoted husband will go for his wife. “Titanic” was all flash-in-the-pan affair-driven lust. “For Roseanna” is about what it’s like 20 years later, and what can happen when two people are genuinely devoted to and love one another. The passion, joy, and fun that everyone aspires to when they say “yes” followed 3-24 months later by “I do.”

That’s why I hold this film up, because it celebrates the very thing that the real world has over Hollywood – the heights that genuine, true love can reach.

Plus, the film is damn funny. Reno is simply hilarious as he juggles his wife’s illness, their restaurant, Roseanna’s sister (who lives with them), and the lives of literally every one in the town. Of particular note is his reaction to the climax of a subplot involving an ex-con that literally leaves me gasping for air each time I see it. It’s a shame I haven’t seen him in more roles like this because he imbues Marcello with an honest and bottomless heart.

Ruhl is equally dazzling as Roseanna. She masks a deep sadness regarding the loss of her child by trying to take care of everyone but herself. She knows her clock is counting down, and intends to make the most of it before the final chime sounds. Ruhl is a rock solid counterpoint to Reno, and the two of them make beautiful music together.

Hollywood is invariably focused on the here and now. That comes from 100 years of marketing to the 18-32 demographic. But “For Roseanna” aims higher and goes about it in a smaller, quieter manner. As such, this little gem remains solidly in my Top 10.

Before anyone brings it up, yes my Top 10 tends to hold anywhere from 15-30 films at any given time. Step off.

Achievement Unlocked

Max just rolled over onto his left side for the first time. Then we put him on his stomach and he did it again right away. For those keeping track at home, that's called scoreboard.

Now Playing: Logan's Run

The Internet Movie Database issued a challenge directly to my brain without even intending to. I found a feature on their site that when you register (free, though I imagine my inbox will shortly be deluged by spam) you have access to something called MyMovies. This nifty gem lets you add and sort all manner of films you’ve seen into whatever categories you feel like creating.

Want to create a list of all the romantic comedies you’ve seen, or only the ones you would recommend? It’s great to have options, but I took a different plunge:

I wanted to know what I’ve seen, period. In total.

Those who know me just read that sentence and laughed saying a variation on the following sentence, “Good luck with that chief, you’ll never finish that list.”

I would agree even though I blew north of 300 listed films right off the top of my head. If I really worked at it I’m sure I’d probably climb closer to 1,000 without too much of a struggle. But then I found a link on Wikipedia that lists every single film that was released in every single year since the late 1800s.

Oh yes, I found my Holy Grail™. I’m up to 1940 or so now, and I’m already dreading when I hit the 1970s. Why you ask?

Because I realized courtesy of this list that there are a few GLARING holes in my extensive cinematic knowledge. I’ve seen virtually everything under the sun, or so I thought. But then I found this list and went down the rabbithole and when you combine this with Netflix I’m able to plug those holes with gleeful abandon.

Such was the case with “Logan’s Run” and I honestly wish that hole had remained.

This film is an awful, cheap-ass 70’s sci-fi clunker with some of the dreariest dialogue, horrid costume design, and virtually no sets to speak of. Not that it lacks for imagination. Anyone trying to pass off a hotel or conventional hall lobby as the town square of the future deserves kudos for chutspaz. Even the famed “Run runner” line is poorly delivered by an emotionally constipated Michael York. Speaking of which, let’s talk motivation.

York and his pal Richard Jordan play Sandmen, futuristic hit men who execute people that would rather run instead of facing mandatory execution once they hit the age of 30. So let’s see here. I can be killed when I hit 30 by a machine called Sanctuary or be killed by a guy with a light pistol calling himself a Sandman. Hmm. How about Door #3 where I get the hell out of this place when I’m 18?

York’s Sandman is tasked with tracking down all escaped runners and destroying their hidden refuge. Since he can’t tell anyone what he’s doing, his friend goes berserk immediately when he sees York behaving strangely. This in no way implies a man-crush or unrequited love between the two. Oh no. It practically shakes you by the shoulders while screaming it in your face.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

As odd and under-financed as it appears, the movie deserves major kudos for wanton 70's nudity, which is always welcome in my DVD player. Another snicker comes from seeing the Fort Worth Water Gardens at the end as a futuristic water recycling... something. Plus I think I've been in the building they used as the primary city hall or some such, because the layout and architecture remained exactly in tact through the 1990s. I would imagine it's still there, but beyond pegging it somewhere on the Plano/Richardson border, I don't recall where it is. A shame, really.

Oh, and what’s with the weak fight at the end? The bad guy gets three love taps from a pole and rolls over? What the hell is that? THIS was a giant hit in 1976?!?!?!?!

At least Star Wars came out the following year and showed what genuine science fiction is. This film is so horrible I’m stunned it wasn’t the lead off picture of MST3K.

Now Playing: Get Smart

EDIT: Due to the clever use of his eyes, NPA reader Nathan was kind enough to point out that Alan ARKIN played the Chief. So replace Alda with Arkin when you're reading this and we're good to go.

I was surprised I liked this as much as I did. I grew up on the Don Adams series and the hilarity of each episode guaranteed by small butt would be glued to the TV every time I heard the classic theme music.

First of all, Steve Carrell is spot on as Maxwell Smart. He nails the stoic nature Adams had even as events surrounding him evolved into ever increasing levels of insanity. Carrell also takes seriously the world Smart is a part of. Death and mayhem are no small element of the spy world, and there was always an undercurrent of violence in the original show. Nostalgia may prevent some from seeing that, but a cursory review of the original series hints at, when it doesn’t outright show, significant danger in the battle between KAOS and CONTROL.

One thing I hated though was Anne Hathaway’s 99. In the show, 99 adored Max. Here they have 99 loathing Max and considering him as beneath her. True, there needed to be some tension but it’s not until right at the very, very end when she even begins to crack. It’s like the film makers realized at the last second that 99 was a bitch and needed to be thawed by Max RIGHT THIS SECOND. It is highly annoying even though by the end, Hathaway does manage to capture some of Barbara Feldon’s warmth and charm.

Alan Alda’s Chief is hilarious. I loved the fury his bookwormish exterior holds at bay. Alda kills whenever he’s on screen. He respects Max for his work as an analyst but doesn’t want to lose that skill. As such, he tries his level best to keep Max chained to his desk. But once events spiral out of control (so to speak), Chief does his best to help out, usually with genuinely funny results. His confrontation with the Vice President left me gasping for air.

The film is a giant bag of silly filled with strong supporting characters like The Rock as Agent 23, Terence Stamp as Siegfried, and that fat guy from “Borat” as Siegfried’s right hand man. Other cameos abound with the funniest one saved for the very end. Oh, and everything that happens to David Koechner’s agent is side splitting. Period.

And for the record, I initially disliked how they did the infamous Cone of Silence but the second everyone started speaking I fell on the floor laughing. The movie does manage to capture the humor of the show while taking things a bit darker than the show ever could. Whether that’s your cup of tea or not is up to you. As for me, I liked the heck out of it and am ready for the sequel.

Achievement Unlocked

Max just rolled over for the first time. That would be two weeks ahead of when he should, for the record. Booyah.

Time to Wash Dishes

How do you know when it is time to wash the dishes? When you are down to only two spoons, and they are both sugar spoons. Then you realize you are about to use both of them. One for the soup you're having with lunch.

The other is for ice cream afterwards.

Now Playing: Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium

In the extras of “Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium,” there is a behind the scenes video of people clowning around on the set. At the end of it, co-star Jason Bateman sits in a chair while someone off-screen pelts him with a Nerf gun. Bateman refers to the guy by name then says, “He can write, direct, and shoot a Nerf gun.”

I turned to My Fair Lady and said, “Yeah, but he shoots the Nerf gun like he writes and directs. Poorly.”

“Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium” is an absolute disaster, a cornucopia of elaborate special effects meant to convey wonder yet fail utterly to do anything other than distract (briefly) from the limp script and razor thin characters. Natalie Portman (who I’m convinced will still look like she’s 10 even when she’s pushing 60) plays Molly Mahony, the store manager for Mr. Magorium.

The big M (Dustin Hoffman) is a 200+ year old toy maker with wild hair, an odd not-quite-a-lisp, and a child-like view of the world. He makes magical toys and wonders to amuse children and has a giant silent guy living in his basement who builds the books of Magorium’s life. Oh, and no one in NEW YORK CITY thinks it the slightest bit odd that all this goes on in a small store sandwiched between two skyscrapers.

If that sounds odd, then let me state one thing right off: That’s all the odd there is in the film.

I watched as this beast lumbers along once the emporium grows surly following Mr. Magorium’s announcement he’s leaving. His departure requires him to bring in an accountant (Bateman) to get the financials in order so he can pass the building on to Mahony, despite her heart being set on a life as a concert pianist. There’s also a kid named Eric with a hat fetish and an annoying narrative voice.

Which brings up a point that made me want to set fire to the film. It’s called “SHOW, DON’T TELL!” Basic screenwriting 101 states this message very clearly at the top of the chapter called “How to write a screenplay,” and when an amateur film maker feels the need to have a voice read off text that’s clearly visible on screen, in addition to spelling out details that are RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR EYES, it hacks me off. Every. Single. Time.

You want an example of how to use narration to amazing effect? Watch “The Shawshank Redemption.”

You want an example of how to do childlike wonder and “pointless but it really does have a deeper meaning” philosophy? Try “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” (the Tim Burton version, not the awful 70’s version).

My Fair Lady commented after it was over how the film was ultimately pointless and I agreed. This is a mountain of suck that’s a waste of talent and, more importantly, your time.

Now Playing: Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension

What the hell is this?

When I decided to fill in the gaps in my extensive movie knowledge, I figured there would be some bumps along the way. Then I got to this and I think my brain literally froze. I’ve heard it described as “a comedy with all the punchlines removed” which bears asking a simple question:

“What’s the point?”

In a comedy, saying something funny does not necessarily require the use of a punchline. For Exhibit A, I present “Raising Arizona” which in my view is one of the five funniest films ever. Nary a punchline in sight, but rip-roaringly hilarious all the same. It comes from character, you see.

The more invested you are in the characters, the more tuned you become to their particular rhythms. Not once did I care about a single character anywhere in the film or what they were doing. As such, “Buckaroo Banzai,” though ballsy in ambition, has now been consigned by Yours Truly to the bin of awful throw-away 80’s comedies.

Witness Peter Weller’s delivery in the prison. He asks his buddy, Perfect Tommy, to give his jacket to Buckaroo’s girl, Penny Pretty (no joke).

I think the only thing that works is John Lithgow’s utterly unhinged performance as Lord John Worfin. If you thought you’d seen him go over the top before, and “Cliffhanger” and “Ricochet” are pretty far out there, you’ve seen nothing. He goes berserk here and hilariously so. But it’s like he’s performing in a different movie, nay universe, than everyone else. The only thing missing is a mustache for him to twirl as he makes Snidely Whiplash look like a den mother for the girl scouts.

So this was a glaring gap in my film knowledge? Pfft. I’ve now seen it. It sucks. As such, I’m moving on.