Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow (2004)

[ARCHIVE: This review actually got published, the editor even thought it was great.]

Written for the September 30th, 2004 edition of the JHU Newsletter.

In the far flung year of 1939, the people of Gotham City live happy and healthy lives, working by day, enjoying the company of their families by night. But unbeknownst to them, their fair city is threatened by menacing mechanical monstrosities. Unstoppable, invincible, unreasonable, the armies of Dr. Totenkopf crisscross the globe, stealing materials with sinister surgical precision and then vanishing. But fear not! Up in the sky is the champion of the common man, ace flyer Sky Captain and his air pirates! Along with ace reporter Polly Perkins, his scientific sidekick Dex Dearborn and Capt. Franky Cook, the fate of the world rests on their shoulders. Go, Sky Captain, fight for everlasting freedom!

A throwback to the old radio and movie serials of yesteryear, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow hits you like a breath of old, recycled air: stale to some people, full of intrigue and wonder for others. First-time director Kerry Conran started the film in his own one-man studio with a single computer to his name. His goal: to make a film that, aside from the actors and incidental props, was entirely computer-generated. Along the line, Paramount Pictures decided to finance his dream, turning an independent film into a blockbuster production.

And what a production it is. Like a mad scientist, Conran lifts set pieces and sequences from the best stories of decades past, stitching and massaging the numerous sources into one cohesive whole that is simultaneously familiar yet fresh. Nostalgic but polished, Sky Captain handles like an old Max Fleischer Superman cartoon, right down to the reporter love-interest. The futuristic technologies of the robots are bright and streamlined, the complicated and unimportant inner workings hidden behind broad sheets of flawless steel. Every shot is color treated and softened until it resembles a faded, grainy film print. Retaliation against the robots is shown with bold, iconic silhouettes of machine gun fire. Even the antagonist Dr. Totenkopf is played by former screen legend Sir Laurence Olivier (who's been dead for more than a decade!).

But the source of the film's charm its most apparent fault are one and the same: its reliance on the classic stories, both real and fictional. The Empire State Building could be mistaken for the real one in New York, until a zeppelin (the Heindenburg III) docks near the spire. Polly's narration of the advancement of the robots on Gotham City is an easy homage to War of the Worlds. Even the monstrous lizard-like silhouette in the photograph of a Japanese skyline hints at a continuous world shared by these narratives. The movie positively soaks in the juices of its predecessors.

While this self-awareness works from a visual and audible sense, it causes the narrative to falter a bit. From the proper perspective, one might forgive the fairly straightforward the plot: good guy fights bad guy, love interest falls for protagonist, the hero saves his buddy and then gets saved by buddy, scheming evildoers chew the scenery over the obligatory menacing chord. From a general view, the lack of twists and unforeseeable dramatic moments can be disappointing. By the end of the movie, the audience is so antsy for a surprise that they would wholeheartedly endorse a supporting character, any of them, in stabbing our hero in the back.

Thankfully, the crisp dialogue and favorable acting go a long way towards making the movie enjoyable. On her own, Gwyneth Paltrow (as Polly Perkins) is somewhat flat. It is all too apparent that she's delivering her lines on an empty stage in front of a blue screen. Something in her chemistry with her Talented Mr. Ripley co-star Jude Law (Joe "Sky Captain" Sullivan) brings her delivery above standard. Law does his own character justice, equal parts competent, loyal, tested and dashing. The conversations between former sweethearts Perkins and Sullivan ripple with palpable tension.

Likewise, Giovanni Ribisi (Boiler Room, Saving Pvt. Ryan) delivers a solid performance as Dex Dearborn, so much so that it feels like the character is constantly being held back and never given a proper moment to shine. But surprisingly it is Angelina Jolie (Tomb Raider; Girl, Interrupted) who steals the scene. Potentially a cliche character, Franky Cook is instead a strong female lead, formidable for her talents and, while attractive, never a cheesecake "bad girl." One wonders what might have been had Jolie been given more scenes to work with.

The anachronisms of Sky Captain are its most distinguishing features. A movie so intent on mimicking movie serials that scenes and pacing wraps neatly into fifteen minute segments. For many, it's a great romp in the history of (fictional) scientific adventuring. For more, it's just a pretty-looking popcorn movie. There are far worse movies to spend money on and few as potentially eye-opening. The future of the film depends on those with an appreciative eye on the past.

3.5 (out of 5)
This movie is Rated PG

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Runythe

[ARCHIVE: As I stopped writing emo blog entries, I started writing emo stories. Go figure. I switched the genders, but the story is basically a paper-thin allegory for what was going on. Hell, even the names were rooted in our names (or nicknames). I do like the world "mythology" I sorta made up for it, especially considering it was conceived and fully drafted within the span of three hours.]

Lucia sat in stony silence, the minute rise and fall of her tunic the only indication of life in the withered husk she had become. Her waterskin had long since gone dry, empty and shriveled like her stomach. Yet she made no move to drink from the river outside, to eat the berries that grew just outside the cave. She had long since lost herself in her own psyche.

In her mind, she could see it happen, as vivid and tangible as the day it had happened. She had thrown the runes, like she had done so many times before. People came from lands across the mountains to seek her advice. Young in face, her wit was ages wiser, and many times her self-spun parables and heart-felt advice was enough. But more times, parties persisted, and she would throw the stones. The runes that her father had treasured above all else, so that even when highwaymen robbed their carriage blind of their gold and iron he had hidden them away, sewn inside the belly of an ailing mule so decrepit that the bandits would not think to waste the time to sell it.

They were magic stones, impossibly strong yet deeply etched with the letter of the Elderlands. Some were cold to the touch, some always warm, others could keep no single color for a whole day. Her father called them runythe, the shattered remains of the weapons welded by the gods in their quarrelsome youth, discarded as they turned away from impulsive wrath. They were heavy in the hand, yet never sank to the river bottom, nor did they follow the current. The runythe were of the world yet strangely different.

It had been her childhood friend, a daughter of the mettlesmith that had asked her to throw the stones. Tyrissa had appealed to her sense romance and, when that failed, had wrestled her to the grass until she had agreed. The recent war had brought many tribes through their village. They would make camp on the outskirts, rest their horses and themselves for the night. As was common, the young men would seek to pass the night by the side of a local common girl.

It was one of these, a young nightsmen by the name of Crysurik that had unexpectedly stolen the heart of the mettlesmiths daughter, she who was as much a man as her admirers, sometimes more so. An oddity, for the nightsmen were known not for their strength but for their stealth. There were tales of entire enemy camps quietly overwhelmed by no more than three nightsmen, dispatched in their beds, at their posts, in front of their dinner. There was no honor or regard in their ruthless ways, only a grudging respect of their skills.

Lucia threw the stones as Tyrissa chanted his name, stumbling over the syllables in her own excitement. They careened against each other, ricocheting off each other but never leaving their unseen border. When they finally came to rest, Lucia did nothing but stare at the ground, the words of the stones clear as a spring river. Tyrissa had shaken her from her trance, eager to hear their verdict. Smiling, Lucia had told her friend, that Crysurik would one day live in her home. Exuberant, the mettlesmithe's daughter had laughed and ran off to tell her sisters.

Alone, Lucia looked back down at the runes on the ground. She had not told her friend the entire reading. Like a storycloth, the runythe proclaimed, "YOU WILL LOVE HIM AND HE WILL SUFFER FOR IT."

The stones had never been wrong, not about the sex of the ranger's baby, not about the fires that would have destroyed their village had they not prepared. Yet as she examined herself, Lucia could see no such indication within herself. She knew nothing of this boy, save for what Tyrissa had told her, and even that had been amusing at best. Even when Crysurik had returned to live in the village in permanence, Lucia saw only a war-battered youth, useless for the menial but necessary farming tasks.

Months passed and Lucia learned to control her trepidation. Tyrissa had pursued him in the subtle, giving way that was like all girls except herself. Crysurik, on his part had responded, if for no other reason than his loneliness. He had never been entirely at ease within the hunter's circle; his nightskills were limited to men alone it seemed. Tyrissa alone talked to him about things other than the war and the hunts. It was not unusual to see them walk over to his home and then hear the laughter as they joked like children until the middle-night, at which time she would hurry home and be scolded by her brother. And then one evening, the middle-night came and went, and still Tyrissa did not hurry home.

She had come to know Crysurik then, when Tyrissa would drag him with her everywhere. They were not uncivil to each other, but their friendship seemed to revolve around her friend and his lover. He was akin to the tribesman that had come to learn the eldertongues from her father. They spent time in each other company, and they were courteous, but nothing more.

And then one day, Tyrissa left. As a mettlesquire, she was apprenticed to a traveling smith. It was uncommon enough for her to choose this lifepath, but to have her lover come with, especially when he had no marketable, peaceful skills...

So he stayed behind. And Lucia, out of habit, would look out her window in the evening towards his house, expecting to hear commotion she was not a part of. So she quickly noticed that, with Tyrissa gone, Crysurik did not come out much at all. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was duty that motivated her to talk to him. Whatever the reason, she found herself outside his door with a paisley pie one afternoon.

It had been extremely awkward. Her repeated apologizing for disturbing him, for overcooking the pie, for asking for a glass of water, was surpassed only by his own, for the state of his home, for overcooking the boar, for only having one cup. When they were not mumbling pardons, they sat in uncomfortable silence. When they were not silent, they were talking about Tyrissa.

Two weeks the scene repeated itself, clumsy conversation and silent dinners. Then one day, Lucia arrived to find Crysurik in high spirits. He had received a letter by messenger. It was from Tyrissa. Then night overflowed with jest and cheer. And in the midst, he had taken out a lyre and played. He was awful. She had laughed, but he took no offense. He knew the meagerness of his talent and played only for his own enjoyment. It was strange to see such a pursuit in a nightsman, but it was the first time she had seen him enthusiastic in something he was terrible at.

Time spent after that went by more easily. They began to talk about many things; his training, her father, his first horse, her last trip to the markets. They began to be real friends. Lucia began hosting dinners at her own home, opening up a wider range of foods for preparation. Evenings stopped being a duty and instead became something to look forward to. Then one night, Crysurik failed to come by for dinner. He indulged in a mid-day slumber and did not wake until the middle-night. But Lucia did not know this. All she knew was that she had prepared a nice meal and he had not even mentioned that he would be late. She smoldered as he thought of reasons she would be tardy. Different scenarios flashed through her imagination: he had made friends with the village men and was out drinking with them; he had gone out hunting and pursued his prey too far to return by sunfall; Tyrissa had returned home and they were enjoying each other's company after her lengthy absence.

At this thought Lucia halted mid-pace. Although she had rarely experienced it she could recognize the embers that burned in her heart. It was jealousy.

When Crysurik visited her home the next day, he found a cold dinner, upset bedding and no sign of the sole resident. He spent the rest of the day worried until Tyrissa returned in the middle-day. She explained that Lucia had no doubt left at the behest of a noble; a woman of her divinity was always in demand, so it was quite possible that she had been called upon to make haste.

After reading this from the runythe, Lucia swallowed them. They did not score her insides, nor did they leave her stomach. They simply existed inside her, sustaining her with life without good health. She felt no remorse in denying the world of the relics. They had done much good in the world through her, but she could taste nothing but the bitterness of their last prophecy. She traveled far, far away, walking forever away from her village. She walked where few tread, and she walked on still. She walked until at least her legs were weak.

And there she settled inside a cave. Tired yet not drowsy, Lucia sat and tried to wrest control of her thoughts. She thought of her father, she thought of the musical caravan she had seen on her tenth birthday, she thought of the way the grass outside her home swayed in the wind yet never grew past her thighs. She thought about everything she could so that she would not think of Crysurik. And when she could no longer stop it, she thought of nothing but him. And in her withered body, her heart sank. She had run from herself, from everything that she had.

Strange then, that by running away, by trying to deny the future she foresaw, her every action brought her closer to fulfilling it.

[As a story itself, I think it was accurately critiqued for not representing the "he will suffer for it" part of the prophecy.]

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Garden State (2004)

[ARCHIVE: I think I was a bit too close to the film to write this review. I come off as a mewling fanboy. But I really did think the movie was this good.]

Andrew Largeman has a problem. It's not his acting career, which has had its ups and more-recent downs. It's not his mother's death, bringing him back in his native New Jersey for the first time in nine years. It's not even the micro-migraines, tiny storm-clouds in his head, that he suffers from. Large's problem is his inability to feel happy, sad or... anything at all. But then, being on mood medication for fifteen years can do that to you.

In his directorial debut, Zach Braff (Scrubs' John Dorian), takes us on a ride through the landscape that is/was Large's life. Like a guided tour, we interact with his childhood (his father), his adolescence (his old friend Mark) and his present (love interest Samantha). The quirky nature of New Jersey is amplified by Large's reconnection with his emotional state, resulting in a sometimes unbelievable, often bizarre but always honest film about coming to terms with life. Most people will write this off as art house fodder, and they're right. Braff reaches for subjects not often covered by films and does so without the crutch of scientific absurdities (cough Eternal Sunshine cough). Instead, the lunacy of reality takes center stage. Without explosions.

Cinematically, Garden State is a very strong first try, if not without its kinks. There are beautifully framed shots that take your breath away. Something as innocuous as children holding hands while crossing a street pop out as if works of art. Once or twice the camera is rough, a jerky pan here, an uninspired crosscut there, but quite often it is spot on. The shot lingers long enough on Sam (Portman) and Large's quietly uncomfortable stare to make the audience really crave an answer to what, exactly what is it that silences them so? The forthcoming payoff is that much more hilarious.

Best known for a comedic role, Braff delivers a superb performance, conveying his lines with a subtle nuance that brings meaning to even the most neutral looking of expressions. I's a shame that he never really stands out since he's surrounded by such a talented supporting cast. Ian Holm gives a great bit performance as the father, wringing razor sharp bitterness from only a handful of lines. Natalie Portman, as compulsive liar Samantha, is a joy on screen, exhibiting a wide range that is overlooked by other egocentric directors (cough Lucas). She acts like she's happy and you believe it. She tells you she can laugh at herself and you know it's true. But the scene-stealer is Peter Sasgaard, who brings to life Large's chum Mark. Easily an unlikable character, Mark could have been the typical amoral jerk, robbing graves and abusing store-return policy. But Sasgaard plays the role with such confidence and identity that you entirely accept him, faults and all. He might be shady, but he's not a bad person.

If there is a weakness, it is the film's reliance on seemingly disjointed scenes. As was pointed out to me, one can easily feel like one is being subjected to a collection of tenuously related scenes. Only in subsequent viewings can one begin to draw out a cohesive whole to the film. But even if this is true, the initial sense of mellow contentedness of a single viewing is worth it.

Garden State is another one of those quiet small-budget films that might have been overlooked if not for the pedigree of its talent. Yet there are no compromises made; it is what it is. Few movies have straddled the line between art-film direction and high-quality production like Garden State does. Hopefully, it will be remember with the likes of Almost Famous rather than forgotten like Singles.

4.5 (out of 5)
This movie is Rated R

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Bardness

[ARCHIVE: Iambic pentameter is truly the height of pretentiousness.]

Now hear: I am an honest man as one
who ever held for his profession in
a public office. And a patient man
as ever that which saw himself the charge
of teaching youths with scholarly profession.
Noble, yes, as much as he who thought
to entertain within his heart the thought
of finding for himself companionship.
And handsome... here as handsome 'cept for all
the gifts that God bestowed upon myself
as well as those which give my peers their sight.

'Tis not within my mind to waste my time
at folly and at sport for that which won't
nor shan't (excepting can't) be won because
of measures that by Grace of God are mine
to call my own. As bound by this, my own
mortality and flesh, I live as one
would sure expect of one who is as I;
my mind, my stock, my disposition; glad
to have the time which fate as granted me.

Let no man judge my deeds, excepting he
that fell upon ill fate as I to break
commandment yet did find within himself
integrity enough to strike his own black heart
to dumbness, living all the rest his days
a shadow life, forever silent whence his crew
in jest or earnest t'will ask his thoughts upon
the very thing he once did fill his nights
and days and every hour, both waking,
sleeping and between. Alone may he
be fit to criticize my enterprises,
base as they may be, but still as faint
and subtle, enigmatic as the ether.

The time has come to draw the sword from out
my chest, as cleaved into that depth behested
so with mine own thoughts, and wretch'd inside
by mine own hand, protested all the while
by my better self. To 'xtract so deep
a cut as this, that I have worn so long
and proud, beheld alone within my mind
is trauma, plain and true. A poet such
as I doth know that art comes all the quicker
from a gash you nurse without intent
of healing, but with mind to keep it broached
so as to feed upon one's own distress,
A sick and parasitic bond from which
a man can gleam a mockery of poise.

What good, this self-devouring? What end is reached,
by this self-masturbation? Even this,
my "secret mind," demands an audience.
No, better now to cut the quick and stymie
future pains, despite prospective loss
of art, of voice, of prose which speaks to kin.

What worth the gains of other's praise
If she, the muse, is lost all days?

[It deviates a little, true, but so do most IP examples.]

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Blogprov: [psychodoughgirl6]

[ARCHIVE: As far as I can tell, this was the first true blogprov that I wrote. It was on my old (but still in-use) Xanga site, which at the time was getting more random hits. I remember this story actually went in a very different direction than where I had thought it was headed.]

At what point in a relationship does dating become exclusive? When you're six years old, the answer is a total given. The very moment she says "okie," bickity-BAM, you two are boyfriend and girlfriend. Never mind that neither of you really know what a boyfriend or a girlfriend is, or what you're supposed to do besides walk hand in hand or not pull her hair for once. It's so easy to be "an item" when you're young, because there's so little expectation!

Unfortunately, as you get older, the answer becomes less definite. Grade school adds the extra little layer of swapping spit, but it's still a pretty sure thing as long as she answers the affirmative. High School is the first real change. It's not enough that she says yes. No, now you're expected to buy her a meal and pay for some sort of entertainment and only at the end of the night will you know for sure. The quest is no longer "Will you go out with me?" It becomes "Will you go out with me again?" Just one word, but the concept becomes something totally different.

And yet here it's still possible to get blindsided in either direction. A girl I knew in high school didn't realize that she was going out with this guy until he showed up on her doorstep, bouquet in hand, proclaiming "Happy two-month anniversary!" She rolled with it, God bless her heart, because she saw it as a convenient way to bypass the entire Prom date search.

My ex-wife would tell you... well, she'd prolly tell you to sod off. But if she would deign to respond, she'd probably tell you that nothing is absolute, especially in matters of the heart. For twenty years, I stood by her. Affair after affair, I swallowed my pride and went to the same marriage counselor, even though I never saw results. I never looked at another woman the entire time. And that's saying something! Flying around the world, you see some breathtaking sites with plenty of breathtaking women. And each time, I would look into their eyes, and I would see her.

She was one of a kind. Something... innate about her made me keep going back. Like she had the missing piece of life's puzzle. I don't know how she did it but she made runway girls seem trivial in comparison, and that was when she had just woken up. I'm talking full-on bed hair. Hell, I can't even pick up women in bars without talking about her, which you can very much attest to.

Look kid, I dunno why, out of all the empty stools, you decided to sit next to mine. I don't know why you decided to use the lamest pickup line in the world on a guy old enough to be your father. And I don't know why you've been habitually rubbing your wedding ring the entire time we've been talking. But my guess is that you're like me. You thought the whole marriage would be easier, that you feel stronger about him that he does of you. And you know that you're getting the raw end and sometimes you just get so fed up that you want to do something crazy, something wrong to try to wake him up to how fucking wrong he is.

But then you also know that, when push comes to shove, you'd always take him back. So my advice, kid, is to stop wasting your time talking to an old man and figure out just how to get him to realize how you feel. Because honestly, if she were alive today, I would be doing just that.

[It was always supposed to be an introspection on a failed relationship (which was pretty much all I thought about in college, all five of them). I was going through a very High Fidelity period in my life, so many of my stories tended to have that conversational tone to them. What I didn't expect was that the conversation would become literal. But the line "I can't even pick up women in bars without talking about her, which you can very much attest to," felt natural. From there the story just wrote itself. Writing this helped me remember my optimism. I do regret killing the ex-wife, though. It seems like an easy way out to make a lost love final.]

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Photograph

[ARCHIVE: Even though this is more a personal entry, I put it in because the last sentence makes it humorous in nature rather than simply emotionally masturbatory.]

I had the sudden urge to clean my room, which hasn't changed basically since high school. Under a pile of old Transformer instructions and photographs kept for way too long, I found an old silver frame. The corners had a hatch work of gold trim and a flawless if dusty glass cover. It was a picture of my first love.

I hadn't even thought of her in months, a feat that felt entirely foreign in that single instance. She had never returned my feelings, yet I had held a torch for her for a greater part of my teenage years. She was standing there with her head cocked slightly and a slightly embarrassed grin on her face, as if unable to understand why anybody would want a picture of her. She was wearing nothing special, just a white t-shirt and baggy pants. The legs were longer than her own, so her bare feet constantly stepped on the extra material.

Like I best remembered her, she was clutching a Frisbee to her chest. She was a big Ultimate booster; got me into the sport in the first place. Needless to say, I did it to be closer to her. I did come away with a pretty decent forehand, so it wasn't a complete waste. She was standing in a college quad; our closest bond was that we both felt at home at CTY, the premiere nerd camp of the 12-16 crowd.

She had consumed so many hours of my life, spent dreaming, daydreaming, writing letters never sent. She had been my muse; my unrequited love was the food of my developing artist's voice. But I was an in idiot. I was just discovering how to express myself, which made things very problematic. We played phone tag for a while, and then e-mail tag when the technology became viable. And one day she simply cut off contact. It was like she was dead to me. I never understood why.

In the interim years, there were some half-hearted attempts at reconnecting. I tried the (discontinued) e-mail a couple times. Friends of mine that crossed her path sent her wished to reconnect. I spent a few weeks anonymously reading her blog. Strangely (or appropriately) enough, we never managed to get past the "Hey, is this...?" stage in any of the messages.

All this came back to me as I squatted on my bedroom floor, the dust clouds wafting around in protest of being disturbed. I had thought so many times of throwing out the picture, of forgetting the past and getting on with my life. Be every time I contented myself with just burying it under more junk. I scrutinized the photograph, framed in the very present I had never gotten up the nerve to give her. I didn't need it anymore, and I certainly had no space for it. But my will to throw it out never built up. Despite how much failure and disappointment was etched into this physical memory, I couldn't bring myself to toss it. In a flash of inspiration, I flipped the frame over and popped the back screws. Lifting up the back, I found four hundred dollars I had stashed when I was younger.


Least the bitch was good for sumthin'.

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Saved (2004)

[ARCHIVE: The first review I did in my short-lived standard format. Interestingly, I really liked the movie when I started writing, but the closer I scrutinized it, the more I found fault with it. Eventually I had to go back and revise my earlier paragraphs.]

Mary is a good little Christian child. Not perfect (that's Hilary Faye's title), but very good. She's a rising senior of good standing at American Eagle Christian High School, she has the perfect Christian boyfriend, and she's a member of the Christian Jewel, the premiere student-led praise team. Mary's life is a perfect paragon of good life through Jesus' teachings.

Until her boyfriend, Dean, comes out. And yes, this is one of those rare times that I do mean it in the gay way. So Mary, progressive Christian girl that she is, offers up her body to degayify her boyfriend and asks Jesus to restore her (spiritual) virginity.

But faith, no matter how strong, can't deny basic biological processes, like pregnancy.

What's most troubling about this movie is not its subject matter. Christianity (and faith in general) is an important part of society, always evolving. To deny investigations into the ideas and foundations of faith would be incredibly one-sided and irresponsible. Similarly, constant defamation without true analysis is the easy way out. It's easy to make fun of something for being silly when you don't try to understand it. Christian youth itself is constantly maligned as outrageous and empty-headed, often by jaded teens who can't find belief or faith in anything except entropy.

No, what is bothersome about this Saved! is the very lack of investigation. It inserts itself within a situation rife with possibilities but fails to capitalize upon it. Scene after scene we are shown how Christians are hateful, hypocritical and self-centered. But in each case, there is only one way towards being a "better person," and that's by not being Christian. Mary (played by Donnie Darko's Jena Malone) loses her faith in God, and only by putting her faith on the backburner does she begin to make real friends (who, obviously, are not very Christian at all). For a movie that preaches a philosophy of interpreting the world as a "grey area," it takes great pains to paint the world as Christian vs. non-Christian.

Hilary Faye, brought to life by the adequate Mandy Moore, is completely one-dimensional. Popular, talented, snobby, spiteful; the only deviation from the formula is that her conviction comes not from self-righteousness but Jesus-righteousness. Prerequisite rebel Cassandra (Eva Amurri) is sarcastic, worldly and smokes constantly, because she's the bad kid. But of course, she's a good person underneath, willing to help out a former member of the popular kids when she falls on hard times, despite the countless times they've made life difficult for each other. And even though it is constantly brought up, we never explore Judaism, her given religion. Instead, she acts more like an atheist than anything.

Which is not to say that there aren't great performances that save (haha) this otherwise dull movie. We can only thank the Lord (and the casting director) for the inclusion of Patrick Fugit and Macaulay Culkin. Yeah, I never thought I'd say that last one either. Fugit, best known for his staring role in Almost Famous brings the same wit and charm to... Patrick, the skateboarding, Vespa-driving son-of-a-preacher-man (A song which is glaringly absent from this movie). Overflowing with charm (and a great wardrobe), Patrick the character is great on screen, a kid who's faith has been tempered by his experiences. It's a shame that, with the exception of one scene with his father, we are only exposed to him as the love interest.

Culkin, on the other hand, comes to the part almost untested as a young adult actor. He plays Roland, the "differently-abled" brother of Hilary Faye, with an earnest and professionalism people will be quite surprised to see that he possesses. Easily the most likable character in the movie, he is sidelined like Patrick and not given much time to shine (an injustice, considering he is saddled with such a disgustingly patronizing name). We get a glimmer of his depth near the end of the movie, but by then it's time for the quick-wrap up and we get the final answer before we really want it. In what is probably the best scene of the movie, Culkin does an impromptu wheelchair-bound dance while panhandling for kicks. It's not a visual that can be done justice with words alone.

Despite the reasonably talented cast, the film is too interested in denouncing the extreme actions of Christians to model any of its characters with depth or exploration. It's funny to me that the topic of representing Christianity accurately is constantly brought up in publicity, because it's misleading. Yes, contemporary Christian music does sound exactly like secular music, and yes there are kitchy t-shirts that spoof other brand labels in the name of the Lord. But it's a superficial represenation, a hollow apple without a core. There are Christian kids out there who are genuinely good people, and for all the right reasons. But Saved! isn't interested in exploring what it means to be Christian in a post-modern world. It's only goal is to explain why not-so-Christian people are better than Christians. And because of that, faith is misrepresented as just another popularity-driven club.

This should have been a great movie that people would be raving about. But as it is, it's just an okay movie worth a few (genuine, but infrequent) laughs. No, like the pulpit-beaters, there is a distinct message to get across, and it shall be, even at the expense of the film's quality.

2 (out of five)
This movie is Rated PG-13

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The RC

[ARCHIVE: Continuing the trend of video game fiction. I realize now that I guess these qualify as fanfiction. Oops. Even though failed to popularize "The RC" as an acronym for the game, I find it amusing.]

Alex lounged on the front steps of his school, alone. This was not uncommon. He had a reputation among the student body of being a recluse. It wasn't that he was outcast. Ask most of his schoolmates and their replies varied upon, "He's a nice enough guy, I guess. I don't really know him." Most people knew he was an okay guy most of the time. There were even rumors of how he would step in, helping people in need, but never staying around to receive any gratitude. The problem was his other reputation. When he got angry, he got really angry. Angry enough to throw punches. Only a few people had ever seen it, but the few and fragmented accounts of such legendary blow-ups were enough to make it school gossip. But Alex was a loner mostly by choice. It was a matter of feeling different, like he didn't quite belong because of what he thought about.

What was different with Alex sitting on the steps of his school today was that it was already ten in the morning. Classes should have been well underway, but the front door remained chained and the side entrances were all locked. It was as if classes were not meant to be in session at all today. In his mind, Alex could imagine the meetings the School Board had toiled in. He could hear the announcement in the morning informing the students; the announcement he had not heard because he had ditched school in favor of sitting under the bridge, contemplating life and lazily throwing stones into the river. He saw the copies of the letters sent out, notifying homes that there would be no school this day. He could see the single typo that put his letter into the endless rerouting of the postal service, never to land on his doorstep. It seemed like fate's kind of humor.

Like the brick flying in his direction. Almost instinctively, Alex extended his fist in its direction. The cement block shattered against his hands, sending red debris cascading to the ground. He looked at the small rubble pile without turning his head. This is what I do. I don't stop a threat, I take it apart, hurting it until it will never attack aga-
He narrowed his eyes. Under the stone fragments seemed to be a note. It had been more than an attack; it had been a message. He turned in the direction it had come from- the school.

There, in the window. Andy, one of the Dragon Twins. Ever since he and his brother Randy had arrived, the school had been plagued with delinquency and violence. Almost immediately they had risen to the top of the street gang hierarchy. Their fighting skills were unmatched; only their lack of intelligence kept them from being really threatening. If they were inside, it could only mean that they had taken made good on their boasts to take over the school. But Alex knew that they could only be muscle puppets for someone smarter.

Hopping to his feet, Alex charged out the front gate. He was strong, even scarily so, but he was only one man. If he was to help his school, help his friends, he would need help. And as much as it made his stomach turn, he knew only Ryan could be of any help. The thought of fighting alongside his rival from Cross Town High was sickening, but not as much as his dread at unleashing his inner fury, the one he had spent so long trying to control. Being alone was fine with him, as long as it was his choice. He didn't want his classmates to see him for the animal he was and lose any positive thoughts they had about him. He cursed the unknown mastermind. Whoever he was, he had already made Alex cross two lines he had hoped to never do. But he would make him pay. He would show him what happened to those who threatened River City High.

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Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes (GCN)

[ARCHIVE: This video game review follows the OldSchoolGamers website formatting.]

Content:
Game features realistic combat, gunplay, and political intrigue. While focus of the game is arguably on stealth and avoiding detection, the battle system is well developed and often intersects gameplay. As a result, there is a good deal of violence. What makes it more offending than say, a spy movie is that the blood is often right onscreen. Wait until the teenage years, by which they've past their "violence for violence's sake" phase.

Suggested Age Level: 17+

Rating: 8.0 out of 10

Review:
Snake Reloaded
When the original Metal Gear Solid was released on the PSone, it forever raised the bar in terms of quality. Here was a game with a truly cinematic feeling. Cutscenes rivaled theatrical action movies, with dynamic angles, superbly delivered voice acting and amazing plot reversals. As if this wasn't enough, the game engine allowed a large degree of freedom. You could dispatch enemies with traditional violence, but provided one had the skill one could simply sneak past them by ducking around corners or hiding under boxes. Game director Hideo Kojima boasted that it was possible to beat the game without fighting anybody but the bosses.

With the release of the much anticipated sequel, Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty, gamers were treated to a vastly improved game engine that increased the level of detail. Glass shattered, shadows gave away positions and tranquilizer dart efficiency depended on where you shot the enemy. Unfortunately, many people did not feel that the new story delivered as well as the original had. Jokingly, some suggested it would have been simply better for Konami to just remake the first game with the game engine of the second. Little did they suspect that that was exactly what Kojima would do.

Gameplay
Like in the original, you play Solid Snake, former agent of the American military and living legend. Terrorists have taken over a government nuclear armament facility in Alaska and are threatening to launch a nuke. Your mission is to infiltrate the base, rescue any hostages and eliminate the terrorists’ ability to launch a nuclear strike. The bad news is that you start off with only a radio, radar, and a pack of cigarettes. The good news is that you don't need to eliminate the competition, just avoid them. To this end, you can misdirect your enemies with sound, hide inside, or sneak up behind them and make them reach for the sky. If it comes down to it, you can use one of any number of weapons you pick up along the way to take soldiers out. Be wary, however, because the more you kill, the higher security will become. They've got numbers and equipment on their side ,so it's better to try that whole sneaking thing.

Graphics and Sound
The jump in visuals between the original and Twin Snakes is readily apparent. They difference between Sons of Liberty and Twin Snakes however is negligible. Silicon Knights, who handled the translation, could have attempted to make any number of small improvements (the ability to break limbs bare-handedly comes to mind) but decided instead to simply sit on their haunches. This does not mean that the game does not look great, but those looking for "the next step" will be sadly disappointed.

What has been improved, however, are all of the cinematics. The high polygon count and better textures mean that all the laughably pixelated closeups of the original have been refined to television show Game Over quality. The action direction is vastly improved, thanks to director Ryuhei Kitamura. Snake's combat prowess is now akin to Jet Li, even if it does go over-the-top sometimes. Careful attention has been spent on mood, however. You can feel the desperation in the Ninja's fight against Metal Gear, and Psycho Mantis is way creepy.

The soundtrack in Twin Snakes fits well with the game, but lacks the flair of the original score. Whereas before, the familiar melody would swell during intense moments, cinematic or otherwise, the new songs seem more subdued overall. Thankfully, Mantis' haunting chorus returns, but one would be hard pressed to hear anything else familiar.

Control
Mapping the Playstation controls to the Gamecube controller worked out pretty well, all things considered. The shoulder buttons handle inventory once again, and the Z-button is thankfully there to cover first-person mode. The control layout has been switched around to accommodate the A-button-centric scheme, with mixed results. For a while I found myself wasting bullets when I wanted to crouch. Lowering you weapon (without firing) has also be deprecated, so make sure you know what you're doing before you go on the dogtag hunt.

Flaws
The biggest flaw in the game is its almost-religious adherence to the original. The maps are exactly the same barring slight scaling differences. The enemies follow the same old patrol routes. The challenges are either as difficult as in the original or less so. There is a distinct lack of "new" in this game. The new freedom the MGS2 engine brings only further illustrates how bad this is. Areas constantly have a cramped feel to them, as if things are crammed way too close together.

Lasting appeal
There are some unlockables, so you might be able to squeeze a couple run-throughs before it begins to collect dust. Like its predecessor, the action movie, Twin Snakes is really more of an occasional play. You'll be glad to have it, and maybe pick it up again in the far future, but one completion is probably enough to satiate you for a while.

Kiddie play
This is not really a game for the young-uns. This is a game you should get for your high school upperclassman or college student if they haven't already. If you really feel ambitious, compete with your teen to see who can get the better end ranking, which involves more sneaking than kicking ass.

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A Study into "sk8r l33t"

[ARCHIVE: Looking at the Internet through the lens of sociology always gives me a laugh. Unfortunately, the LJ that inspired this post has since been shut down.]

Ladies and Gents, I present ElLie.

After my initial reaction of revulsion, followed by regurgitating bile, then righteous anger (with accompanied flaming), I came to ponder what it really meant. I don't mean the blog itself. Even translated, it would give drivel a bad name. What I began to think about the true intent of speaking/talking in this way.

Think about it. Even 1337 sp34k, its nearest relative, is a simple matter of character substitutions. Correct grammar is retained more or less. However, this new bastardized strain is detested by even the 1337est of the 1337. Careful observation and study throughout the Internet reveals that it is carried not by the disenfranchised, but by the infractors of the Internet. For reasons we shall see later, this shall be know as "sk8r l33t." Let us observe the main principles of SL.

• Chronologic Borders: SL is used primarily among Internet users fifteen years of age and lower. Upper outliers can been observed as far up as eighteen, and occasionally a freak can be found as far up as twenty, but never higher than that. Conclusion: SLs are teen/pre-teens.


• Cultural Boundaries: Decrypted passages have been found to tell tales regarding heartbreak, betrayal, boredom and depression. Unfortunately, little canned be gleamed from this information, as many humans experiences these things. Contextual clues are much more revealing. Worship and idolatry of certain figures like Avril and Britney implies a fascination with baseless and superficial objects. A "culture of nonculture," if you will. Note: For males of the species, there is a substitution of idols with patriarchal counterparts like 50 cent and Nelly. Conclusion: SLs are trendy morons.


• Social Boundaries: Directly related to culture, SL transcripts rarely talk about happenings outside their personal area of sight. Occasionally the rule is broken when natural disasters, but for the most part information is tangentially related in some way. Their bubble of interest is extremely limited, either because of or resulting in a self-important view. This view is shared by their acquaintances. Conclusion: SLs are arrogant and self-absorbed.


• Social Inferences: When one considers the first few points, we begin to pinpoint the source of SL. Trendy and arrogant teens fall into one general category: The In-crowd. These individuals are considered the alphas in the adolescent pecking order. Regardless of intelligence or substance, they see themselves as the trendsetters and are quite vocal about it.

Final Conclusion: The Internet is being poisoned by dumb fucks who don't belong here.
Remedy: Social Cleansing
[Of course, in my typically hypocritical way, it was okay for me to write whiny blogs, because I used proper grammar.]

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