Date Movie/Firewall/Eight Below/Brokeback 4th Time

NOTE: Over the last week I've seen three movies that are so forgettable I can't even muster more than a few lines each. None of these three movies sucked they just don't inspire me to type. They aren't bad, they aren't great, they are just fine.

DATE MOVIE

I would never have seen this movie in a million years but a sexy guy suggested we go so I went. I laughed. I was grossed out. I wasn't bored. The audience enjoyed it. So there you go. It was the first time I'd ever been in a theater where it didn't bother me that people were talking on their cell phones. How can you complain when a movie made for third graders is attended by people acting like third graders?

FIREWALL

I loved Firewall. it's a movie we've seen a million times but I loved it none-the-less. I don't think I've ever disliked a Harrison Ford movie. I love the fact that Harrison Ford has never chased an Oscar. He is a MOVIE STAR and he knows it. He doesn't care about roles that transform him, he is HARRISON FORD, period. He chases bad guys. He entertains us. He is a dying breed.

EIGHT BELOW

What can you say about a movie where 8 husky dogs are more compelling to watch than the human actors they are forced to interact with? Paul Walker is a mystery to me. I never feel like he's acting. I always feel like he just strolled onto the set and decided to let the crew film hlm. His acting is effortless but only because it feels like he puts no effort into it. There is something admirably lazy about him. He seems like a fratboy who would be just as happy surfing as making movies. I know nothing about him but this is what I think when I watch his movies: Who are you??????
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BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN (4th time)

Everytime I see this complicated piece of art and have a completely different experence. I saw it with my heterosexual sister and after the fuck scene she turned to me with a straight face and said, "are they gay now?" I didn't answer. There are no answers in this thing only questions, questions and more questions. I can't recall a movie in recent memory that inspired as much lively discussion as Brokeback. It's a gift, really.

WHAT'S MUNICH?

I'm in Denver and I ask my sister what she wants to see. She asks, "what's playing?" i say, "Munich." She says, "what's Munich." Living in LA and New York skews ones perspective. There is no Munich controversy in Denver because in Denver Munich doesn't exist. It's already out of the cineplexes replaced by Date Movie, Firewall and Eight below.

When a Stranger Calls

(the above pic is Carol Kane in the original version)

I'm fucking furious. The original When a Stranger Calls is one of the scariest movies I've ever seen.

A babysitter is alone in a house, she's getting freaky phonecalls, she find out the calls are coming from inside the house. The kids get slaughtered. The guy escapes. The killer is pursued. The babysitter grows up. He comes after her. Oh my Lord, it's scary shit.

And one of the reasons it's so freaky is because it feels real.

So what the fuck does Hollywood do? They remake it! Fine, I have no problems with remakes but they fuck this thing up so bad I sat in the theatre shaking my head. By the end of the movie I was actually enraged.

What they've done is taken the premise of the first 20 minutes of the original and expanded it to 90 minutes leaving out the rest. The original had one of the best endings ever, did the new filmmakers even watch the original? And they've cast one of the worst actresses I've ever seen in a lead and they've set it in the most ridiculous house ever filmed. The whole house is high-tech, lights come on when you enter the room, the fireplace is on remote control...who lives like this??? Certainly not ordibary people and that's what made the original so scary, the horror was happening to ordinary people in an ordinary home in an ordinary neighborhood.

How can you remake a movie without understanding why the original worked?

And the actress: truly awful. Talks like a valley girl. She doesn't act she pouts. I assumed it was her first acting job then i looked her up on IMDB and she has credits. Unbelievable. We are entering a frightening phase in Hollywood where so many of the actresses seem to be completely unintelligent. No one ever questioned the intelligence of Jamie Lee Curtis but these new girls actually seem to want to appear to be morons. Is moron the new sexy?

Women should be outraged.

There are actresses like Rachel McAdams who are sexy and funny and seem extremely intelligent but so many others these days come off as idiots who can't even fucking speak. I digress.

This movie simply sucks. And now I read on Box office Guru.com that it's going to do like 28 million this weekend. What the fuck????? It may wind up grossing more than Munich.

PS While waiting to see When a Stranger Calls i bought a ticket to Hoodwinked and watched the first hour. I actually got involved. Maybe, I should go back and see the ending.

Hell Air

Every time I go to the airport, I suddenly feel like Charlie Chaplin trapped in a mechanism I cannot control.

I arrive at the counter. I check in. For once, everything is fine. I'm in the computer. Whew. Relief. I have my ticket. One last step and I'm done. I throw the bag on the scale and it's 10 pounds over.

"Can you shift things around?" the counter lady asks?

"No, I can't shift things around, you stupid cunt." (I didn't say that, but I wanted to.)

So I politely agree to "shift things around," and the nightmare begins. I begin to unpack in front of an audience of 20 travelers. I open my suitcase, and it feels like I'm opening my soul. My life comes pouring out onto the concrete floor. Everyone studies my assortment of socks, books, Netflix, underwear. Privacy is a thing of the past.

One man, an asshole, sees a book I'm reading, but he can't make out the whole title:

Asshole: Hey, what book is that?
Me: America.
Asshole: What's it about?
Me: America.

I throw my repacked bag onto the scale again. I am now 20 pounds under the weight limit. How the fuck did that happen? Did I really repack 30 pounds’ worth of socks?

I put the next bag on the scale and the zipper breaks. I try not to get upset. I accept that it's just my bad karma haunting me on behalf of all the actors I've mistreated over the years.

So now I can't check the bag. I carry it and head to the gate. I pass all the food courts. I want to stop, but I can't eat and juggle three bags at the same time, and I'm running late because of the 30 minutes spent repacking my socks. I desperately want to stop and spend $9 on a tuna fish sandwich, but I resist and head to the plane.

I arrive at the gate and the ticket taker ignores me. I was going to ask whether they're boarding my flight, but it becomes painfully obvious they are. However, I've already stood there for five minutes, so it would be weird to just walk away without asking my question. I'm terrified of doing anything strange in an airport for fear of detainment and/or imprisonment. I don't want to spend the summer at Abu Ghraib. So I stand there and smile, but he continues to ignore me. Finally, after he has taken the tickets of five other people, he turns and asks, "May I help you?" So I say, "Are you boarding now?" He looks at me like I'm an idiot.

I board the plane. The oh-so-chipper flight attendant says, "How are you, sir?"

I make a stupid joke about having to repack and she sees this as her cue to do a five minute stand-up routine:

Flight attendant: “Who knew underwear was so heavy! I guess that's why they have nudist colonies, blah blah blah. You know whenever I travel with family I pull out the scale and we weigh it at home. You should get a scale."

Do you see how fat I am, you fucking cunt??? Do you really think I want a scale in my house??? (I didn’t say that, but I wanted to.)

I continue to listen and smile. And smile. And the next day my friend informs me that I whine too much in my blogs, so I just want to say that I enjoyed the experience very much and I look forward to doing it again in the near future. Have a happy day and enjoy your flight!

Move On

I spent a hypnotic afternoon in Central Park, strolling, listening to Sunday in the Park With George. I strolled so slowly that I was barely moving. Strolling is a lost art. No one strolls anymore. It's not even strolling, it's more like crawling. I crawled through Central Park, at a snail’s pace, listening to the same Stephen Sondheim song over and over again: Move On. Some of my favorite Sondheim lyrics are contained in that song.

"Stop worrying where you're going
Move on.
If you can know where you're going
You've gone.
Just keep moving on."

As I strolled, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude. Grateful that Central Park exists. Grateful I have an iPod. Grateful I have the luxury of time. It's amazing how easy it is to be mindlessly busy. Mental clutter constantly creeps into my brain. I force myself to resist it. Just say no, Ronnie! I get invited to a see a play that I don't want to see. I say yes, then spend three days trying to figure out how to get out of it. I answer all my e-mails and the next day I have 40 more. I feel tortured by them. I could spend my whole life answering e-mails, but what kind of life would that be? I don't want my tombstone to read: "Here lies Ronnie Larsen. He answered his e-mails." Time is fleeting, life is short, my mother is dying and every minute I spend doing something I don't want to do is a moment I don't spend doing something I do want to do.

I haven't learned much in my 36 years on this planet, but I do know that time is a precious commodity. I must learn to use it better. In a year from now I won't remember the silly e-mails I answered, but I will remember my stroll in Central Park with Stephen Sondheim on a cold afternoon on the last day of January 2006.