<Note: This is for the 5th Annual White Elephant Blogathon>

Popaul: “I was fifteen years in the army. So, in the army there’s two things you like because you don’t have them. It’s logic and freedom.”-Le Boucher

Due to my young-ish age, the French New Wave never seemed addressed to me. I get it, or at least I think I do, and I’ve absorbed most of the techniques due to the simple fact that they’ve been exploited and reused to commonplace complacency. But when I sit down to watch movies from these directors who wanted to be considered the de-facto authors of their films, who wanted the world to know what music they listened to, the cinema that shaped them, and the books they read; I just don’t feel like the target audience. The films themselves range wildly in tone from the intensely personal and cathartic (François Truffaut) to centering on the strangely glib and rebellious antics of shallow, childish love-fools (Jean-Luc Godard). The obsessions are largely the same: class and money, across-the-board immaturity, belief in the transformative power of the cinema, frank but tricky sexual relationships, an overwhelming (strangely cynical) romanticism, and (above all) an overt playfulness from the director.

It’s that playfulness that makes me feel left out. And I normally love seeing a movie where it feels like the director is having an actual, direct conversation with me, though more often than not it just turns out to be winking in-jokes with a smirk. Even when a director like, say, Michael Haneke, shows palpable contempt and antagonism for his audience, that still means its directed toward me and I feel puzzlingly special. But the conversation around those New Wave movies seems mostly over. The whole movement was a considerably fertile one for artistic achievement, and the films are justly heralded as some of the best the medium has to offer. Those that saw them in their original runs were certainly affected, and those who were movie-makers mimicked the long takes and jump cuts, the hand-held cameras and revealing close-ups. The mimics became mainstream and the mainstream forgot how to, for the most part, use those tricks effectively. What once seemed personal, even intimate, now has the effect of white noise. Maybe if I had been introduced to these movies when I was younger I’d have a completely different frame of reference. As it stands, seeing Quentin Tarantino obviously have a boatload of fun directing is infectious. But I’m always shamed into feeling like I’m interrupting the Cashiers Crew at church; spitting in their food and pissing on their shoes. Sadly, given my present vantage point of film history, I feel all too aware of what comes next.

Weirdly enough, in Le Boucher, Claude Chabrol seems to sense it, too. A general malaise permeates the film and its characters. The plot, what little there is of it, is fairly straightforward. Popaul (Jean Yanne), the small-town butcher, meets Miss Helene (Stephane Audran, the director’s wife and frequent collaborator), the small-town school headmistress, at another teacher’s wedding, and they hit it off (and who wouldn’t after seeing him minister a silly walk and her elegant tipsy-ness?). Their relationship remains chaste, though Popaul is obviously interested and Miss Helene seems at least amenable to the idea. Popaul is a little too insecure (specifically asking what would happen if he kissed Miss Helene, instead of just doing it) and Miss Helene is guilty of all kinds of mixed signals (she makes him dinner, they go to the movies, she buys him a lighter as a gift, but tells him firmly that he shouldn’t kiss her). All around them, the countryside village goes on with its day to day activities. And a serial killer is targeting blond women.

I’m assuming they’re all blond because Miss Helene is blond. We only actually see one victim (blond), and only later do we learn that its the wife of the teacher from the beginning, and even then only in passing. In what I assume is an intentionally humorous inversion of a normal thriller, all the killing happens off-screen (even one crucial bit of end-time violence happens in complete darkness [and switches P.O.V.!] leaving the viewer wondering for a moment who exactly did what to whom) and the lead investigator sent in from the city mostly spends his time driving or walking around in the background of scenes. One of the few times he speaks, he simply points out his consternation over none of the women being raped. The movie is completely spent on Miss Helene, alone or with Popaul, and what they know about each other. And what we know about them.

Popaul seems like a nice enough guy, if a tad broken. He took over the butcher shop after his father (who Popaul makes clear was not such a nice guy) ten years ago. Before that, he wasn’t in town, he was in the army fighting wars in Algiers and the Phillipines. Popaul, like so many veterans before him, doesn’t seem to want to talk about the war, and yet can’t stop talking about it. Numerous times throughout the film, he graphically describes the death and brutality he witnessed unprompted. No one says anything. At times, he seems to realize how inappropriate these one-sided conversations make people, but throws himself right back into it again. This would also seem intentionally humorous if it wasn’t so sad.

Miss Helene is pretty broken herself. She speaks of a love affair in the past that ended poorly. It’s been years, but she still hasn’t moved on. She’s pretty good at noticing things, as she buys the always matches-less Popaul a lighter, so we have to assume she’s aware that she’s fostering crushes from not just Popaul, but a young student. She’s new to the village, she’s young to be a headmistress, she smokes in the street (which apparently is pretty risque), and she lives alone above the school. When she comes home, she constantly opens and closes various windows and doors, walking in and out of rooms, and lighting cigarettes. She’s a woman who feels uncomfortable, but hasn’t quite figured out what to change. And when she sees a familiar lighter next to a new body, she decides to hide it.

The motivations of both characters are kept pretty below the surface, but Chabrol seems to believe that in some way this has happened before and will happen again. The entire town shows up for the first scene’s wedding (and even cajole a local honeyed-throated man to sing), which they probably do for every wedding (and probably with the same cajoling). Every day, people buy their baguettes and little old ladies buy their hamburger. Instead of paying for things, everyone has tabs. People have always fallen in love, and the baker has always made a croquembouche for the big day. Papaul’s school desk is even still there. Not much, aside from superficial changes, seems to be any different from a hundred years ago.  When Miss Helene reads from Balzac and describes The Way They Lived Then, the class giggles when a character is named “Helene” also, as if they can’t tell the difference and somehow all Helene’s are the same. Maybe they are. Once a year (Bastille Day?), everyone goes to the costumer and put on wigs, dresses, and tails as if in the court of Louis XVI and have a dance. Even the children know the old dances. As a sort of button on film obsession, Alfred Hitchcock’s quirks pop up again and again; during the celebration Popaul stares at the back of Miss Helen’s head and her beautiful blond hair.

Even if its sensational, there’s always been murder, too. Every day, Popaul slaughters animals. But before that, he was in war. And before that, humans were in other wars. And before that, there was jealousy and anger. One day, he brings a choice leg of lamb to Miss Helene at the school. Its funny, because of how its wrapped and the way he holds it, it looks more like a bouquet of roses than a bloody stump. But before men brought flowers to court ladies, they probably just brought meat. Outside of town are the prehistoric Lascaux cave paintings, which play over the opening credits in a montage. And, like those ancient painters, Popaul offers Miss Helene blood and mushrooms (he has a “nose” for gathering) to woo her. He even offers to paint her apartment, but instead of rhinos, bison, and deer, he simply paints it all white. Eventually, he reveals himself to Miss Helene (and us) and even gets the kiss he so desires. Miss Helene stays a mystery, though, and we are left as confused and dumbfounded by her as Popaul. A woman that, for so much of the movie, kept her eyes closed, now seems to be unable to do anything but stare straight ahead forever.

In one scene, Miss Helene takes the schoolchildren to the caves and one asks what would happen if a Cro-Magnon was around today. Miss Helene thinks he’d learn to adapt and live among us or die.  Another thinks he would be nice. Those both seem reasonably plausible.

Bobby Gold:  “You’re right.  I’m a piece of shit.”–Homicide

Joe Mantegna:  “Nobody really talks like this…  it isn’t real… it’s hyper-real.”–Invent Nothing, Deny Nothing, a special feature included on the Criterion release of Homicide

Turn on a television with some sort of cable hook-up anywhere in an English-speaking country, then lay flat on your back and do sit-ups (or bicycle crunches, which the American Council on Exercise finds to be most useful).  Do this until someone on TV repeats his-or-herself.  Or you see the same commercial twice.  Or two different commercials for equal products.  Or another person reiterates another person’s opinion, which you just heard, verbatim.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Back already?  How do your abs feel?  Less than sore?

It’s hard to tell when this started, and I certainly won’t blame David Mamet.  Repetition has always been key; either in the attempt to gain muscle-mass, or to force a person to believe your way.  Repetition is key.  But there has been a certain “Mametian” quality to advertisements, edu-tainment, and programming since I can recall.  He is, of course, not the first (the Catholic Church has Scripture readings set aside for every day of the year, but the sermon is the editorial), but the way in which he uses language does have a habit of sending people reeling, especially actors.

Homicide is only 102 minutes long.  It’s not Mamet’s best film (that still is House of Games), but it’s his most strangely personal.  Det. Bobby Gold [Joe Mantegna] is working two cases: 1) catching Robert Randolph [Ving Rhames], which he isn’t even technically a part of due to FBI involvement, police bureaucracy, and anti-semitism; 2) and his serendipitous “catching” the murder of an elderly Jewish woman.  Gold is half-Jewish, half-Italian (the Italian part being implied); and while the former case simply needs good police work, the latter becomes a consuming interest (and later vendetta).

If you’ve seen a David Mamet film, then you know what I mean when describing it as Mamet-All-The-Way!!!… at least for the first 20 minutes.  It eventually turns into a parboil of a thriller where a man, who for all intents and purposes hates himself, chooses to stand by those who actually judge him the most harshly (but who also accept him… sorta).  There are amazingly clunky scenes (the fact that Gold constantly forgets his gun won’t holster is a bother; anytime two characters are alone to chat it becomes a class in Non-Exposition 101), but they also seem to fit.  Gold is angry, when explaining, that he’s been relegated to Hostage Negotiator, but everyone seems in awe of what he can do with his words (though if the movie is canon, we only see Gold simply agree with other people… usually on their terms).  His partner, Sullivan (William H. Macy) seems more concerned with what they’ve made together (as if they were a family) than anything else.  But there is NOT a long con… or heist (farewell Mamet-All-The-Way!!!).  It’s simple realization without redemption.

There is an amazing scene (also, amazingly wordless), where Gold seems to go through all of his childlike wonder and respect (even pausing over a tableau of toy police officers).  He even stops to read the anti-Jew propaganda, a variation he’s heard all his life (and semi-believed), before coming out on a different side.

Proof positive that he can write a snipe-hunt better than anyone, but an action scene is beyond him.  Until Redbelt, which was categorically amazing for all the same reasons.  There are nuggets of interest for anyone, sometime divine-numerology based, but important nonetheless.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the various female secretaries who serve at the behest of the menfolk, doing such things as finding files or making copies.  If you think I’m reaching, pay attention to the female police officer who says “Good Morning.” in every police station scene.  Nobody responds to her.  Then they dump all the crap they need researching on her.  Sadly, the same goes true for the Jewish library.

For the esoteric, pair this with Pi (1998).  For the spawn-killer, watch Kidnapped (2006-07)-NBC.

<Note: This is for the 4th Annual White Elephant Blogathon>

Capt. Attwood:  “You’re not going to change, sir?”

Col. Masters:  “Into what?”—Play Dirty

Riding the thin line between derring-do and brutal, boring realism, Play Dirty answers an interesting question: how does one show action in an anti-war war film without glorifying it?  The film is interspersed with palpably long, wordless set-pieces that say more about the importance of engineering and endurance during wartime than Audie Murphey heroics.  Murder (and I do mean murder; the movie is very clear in its opinion of warfare) occurs quickly, usually with the perpetrators scavenging the bodies and possessions of the dead.  And, though it’s a war movie released in 1968 (and not on DVD until 2007) starring Michael Caine, it’s neither about Vietnam nor crappy (both very real possibilities).  It is British, however, which means it stars two Nigel’s.

The movie takes place during World War II and concerns the efforts of British forces in Africa.  Col. Masters [Nigel Green] has a plan: dress as Italian soldiers and blow-up a German fuel dump.  With that it’s time to assemble the (un?)usual group of experts/psychotic-criminal-mercenaries (led by Cpt. Leech [Nigel Davenport] and Cpt. Douglas [Caine]) we’re already done with Act I.  Though specific historical touches abound, the movie makes clear  (hilariously, the plan is derived from Roman tactics used during the Second Punic War).  The bureaucratic finagling Masters (who might actually have the most lines in the movie and is quite the professorial war-profiteer in his army cardigan) must go through is quite squirmy in the same way In the Loop was; the realization that what you’re watching might actually be how big stuff happens.  The mercenaries aren’t very fleshed out, all near-silent and almost all recruited from prison (some with cute matching specialties/crimes [i.e. the guy who "got into narcotics in a big way" handles supplies and transport] others with strange, baffling pairings [i.e. the guy who shot people trying to invite him to a wedding is in charge of communications]).  Of note, however, is the portrayal of the two local guides homosexuality, which is never used for shock value or laughs.

The character drama derives from the power struggle between Douglas and Leech.  Douglas is resourceful but green who is brought in to lead the team because of his fuel line expertise (he works for British Petroleum [and believe me, I tried to think deeper on that, but it mostly just set up easy targets] in peacetime).  Leech, as the ruthless, amoral leader of the mercenaries, mostly laughs off Douglas’ attempts at control (its also implied that the mercenaries or Leech have killed the other officer’s before Douglas).  Though Douglas has good ideas, its hard to win over the respect of a crew that just giggle at your orders and blindly follow Leech (who, it should be noted, looks exactly like a Clark Gable/George Clooney mix).  Caine plays Douglas as mostly clipped and high-class(though he does get a nice Alfie-meeting-Moneypenny moment with a secretary).  The only thing motivating Leech is the promise of £2,000 if he brings Douglas back alive.  Though a lot of bodies get stacked, and Douglas comes to trust Leech, the rivalry between the two is less Col. Kurtz and more the witty one-upmanship from Sleuth (Douglas even gets high-points for his Italian-looking cravat; shades of Milo Tindle).

If the plot is largely derivative of The Dirty Dozen, then André de Toth’s (who proves that in the land of 3-D, the one-eyed Hungarian is king) directing owes as much to Blowup and Bonnie and Clyde.  The blasting music (augmenting the Michel Legrand score) of the trucks’ radios (and the ease with which they turn from “Lili Marlene” to “You Are My Sunshine”, the better for sneaking with, my dear) is followed by silent scenes of people driving through deserts and sandstorms and the beautiful montage of flat tires.  The make-up effects in general make the characters look covered in dust and dead, and to see them shamble around like Romero’s zombies is quite strange.  One of the longer sequences concerns the problem of getting three trucks up a mountain (without using shirt-baskets, like Hannibal did), and watching the entire process of finding and implementing a solution (even the mercenaries get excited when they see its working).  Later, watching a hand pushing sand away from a trip mine in order to defuse a bomb or cutting barbed wire seems pretty intense when the scene is held out for so long.  Don’t get me wrong, there are explosions (and an amazing shot where Leech and Douglas walk calmly through a house as a fireball is seen through the window), but they don’t have the figurative punch as the quieter moments (and in the grand finale, some parts are oddly and confusingly edited).

There is nothing even approximating a characterized enemy (except for, you know, each other); its about men, their target, and the obstacles in between.  Actual firefights are over nearly as soon as they begin, with surprise and overkill winning out.  Early on a meeting with Arab traders goes sour when Douglas accidentally shows off his British ID tags, but instead of a suspenseful attempt to draw out the ruse (a la every scene in Inglourious Basterds) Leech just shoots them all in the back.  Then in the back some more.  After looting all the corpses (the guides dig watches, and wear them up and down their arms), Douglas thinks they should bury them, which gets laughs.  Later he demands it for British soldiers (and that fills the quota for class commentary), all the while not realizing that everyone is perfectly willing to kill him, too.  The only actual German (and only the second woman) that gets any screen time is a nurse they take hostage, who stays mostly professional and quiet (with some exceptions).  Douglas attempts to subdue her with wrestling, but Leech insists sucker-punches work better, and we see the two men have the same goals but different methods, albeit ham-handedly.

There are more things to talk about, but I wouldn’t want to spoil it (the ending in somewhat infamous [if a tad overrated]).  Some people get what’s coming to them, and some don’t.  Things going well for the mercenaries start to hinge on powers outside of their control or awareness, but its all leading to nature winning out in the end.  Nature is ever-present in this movie, and not just the harsh conditions.  When Douglas first meets Leech, there’s a large insect swimming in his whiskey. Later we watch men betting on a scorpion surrounding by a ring of flame.  Trying to sting with its tail the fire won’t get the scorpion out, but that’s really its only reflexive move.  Even the men never act as anything more than their natures (even being defined by the one thing they’re good at).  Human beings are, after all, effective and efficient human-killing machines; it’s getting trucks up mountains that’s unlike us.

I do not readily enjoy horror movies*.  It takes a far more naive and open mind than mine to openly accept the usually trite, shoddy, overly schlocky and shock-obsessed story-lines that fuel the average “around late-October” movie release these days.  Especially since these movies seem specifically tailor-made for providing an obvious segue between the awkward realm of early, fumbling attempts at putting one’s arm around a girl and the lubrication of said girl toward second base.

Okay, maybe (just maybe), I have a stick up my ass because I found out Edward Cullen drives a car that is nearly identical to my own.  Nope, never mind; I was right the first time.  If anything, the vampires of Twilight seem to repress the Id, not wallow down-’n'-dirty style in debauchery.  Which means, they represent feeling the tug of one’s innermost desires, but choosing to curb the more abhorrent tendencies (or, as its known in psychological circles, being a normal fucking human being [but, you know, super-strong!]).  This is not horror.  This crap is bullshit.§

-

* It should be noted that I do, however way this writing seems to skew, completely respect continual reinvention of the horror genre, and the literal and figurative monsters contained therein (one such example being the zombie’s transformation from Seabrook’s familiar/possession [and the spelling "zombi"] to the group vs. the individual mentality of Romero), except for, you know, the dumb ones (i.e. finish reading above).

† Honestly, I’m rather interested to see what will happen when the girls who read the Twilight series and the boys who masturbate to True Blood get a little older and start dating each other.  The exact magnitude of that disconnect cannot even be accurately explained here, but it would be akin to Gymborees across the nation showing snuff films.

‡ Though these are unproven, I’m sure the vampires in Twilight are also the only true friends of unicorns, smell exactly like that shampoo that the commercials say will give you orgasms, taste like Stephanie Meyers’ favorite kind of bon-bon, have interesting and smart things to say about a wide variety of topics, give great hugs, have a real passion for French cooking (but not in that pretentious way; you know the way), and would totally be attracted to Stephanie Meyer and think she was really, really cool and nice and funny and smart and, like, a great person if they were real.

§ Sadly, you’re seeing what is hoped to be a catchphrase of sorts for this author (who feels sorta pathetic pointing it out).  Look for “This crap is bullshit.” everywhere (note: only works on this blog)!

A friend says to you, “You should get out more.  You know?  Have a good time.  Our mutual friend (and my sexual partner) knows some people that you might enjoy being with.”

The friend says this while turning on the oozy eyes.  Pleading, is what you’d more accurately call it.  Rheumy is another way, but you aren’t quite sure why that adjective comes to mind (and suddenly you think of a dog long dead).  It is the kind of look you think you’d recognize if given by someone with whom you are close after you knock on their door.  “I’m being held hostage,” these eyes say.  “You can’t see the gun, but it is there.  Pointing at my head.  Right behind the door frame.  Smile, nod, chit-chat about work and such and accept when I say I’m super-busy, then walk away and get help.”

“I don’t want to do that.”  You say, forgoing that whole idle banter completely.  It was kind of dumb anyway; neither one of you have careers or pets or children.

“But… I don’t know.  Wouldn’t you say that you’re unhappy?”  Your friend shifts nervously.  Is he holding a twig and messing about with it?  Why is he so nervous?  This is how good cop and bad cop work really work; you muse; people have goals, but they shift from them so easily.  They just want something that makes sense.  To latch onto something that they can sink their teeth into.  Get behind.  Wrap their head around.  Some sort of idiom or cliche that just fucking makes sense to them.  Before there has always been a feeling like a blanket or shroud over your head, but now things seem smooth.  Or, at the very least, not-scratchy.

“I get up.  I have a bowl of cornflakes.  I go to work.”  You say, and you notice he’s stopped tracing circles in the ground with his stick, or his shoe, or whatever it is your friend does.  “I come home.  I eat some rice.  I watch late-night television.  Sometimes I laugh, occasionally I smile, but mostly I just sit there watching comedy shows.  Blankly.  Absorbing it.  Then I go to sleep.  Could you imagine sharing that with anyone, and not in the way we’ve just shared it, but actually sharing it second by second?”

“But that’s just it!  You’re lonely…” The friend says, forgetting all outside stimulus but you.  Excited about catching you, like some sort of trap was set with all those traced circles in the dust, and you’ve sprung it.  Perhaps it was a spell.

“I’m not.”

“But you are!  It shouldn’t be like that.  I mean, it shouldn’t be like you’re apart from…  you could go out to dinner!  We could go out to dinner with someone, see a movie…”

“A double-date?”

“Yes or no.  It could be, but…” and now the friend, your friend, turns inward.

“Could you imagine me doubled?  With a twin?  Because that’s what it would be.  We get up and each have a bowl of cornflakes.  Then we go to our respective jobs.  When we come home, we eat rice.  Then we watch late-night television…”

“C’mon, it’s more than that!  There’s… other things you’d do to pass the time.”

“Sex?”

“That and other things.”

“Buying cornflakes and rice?  This is what happens.  Alone, I can maintain.  It’s functional.  Add another person into the mix and it will end up this way.  We become too alike.  Things that make us sometimes laugh turn into occasional smiles.  Eventually we just become more boring, stupid, and lazier than we used to be separate.  Eventually we give up on fighting and just watch the other become more boring, stupid, and lazy.”

“But then that could just describe you, couldn’t it?”

“Duh.”

-

I have a pizza waiting for me.

This is what I tell myself, when I’m feeling the drunkiness, when I start to slosh and slope.  I am sitting outside a pizza place with a long line, a pizza place that caters to the after closing-time demographic with individual slices for cheap, and I put in an order for a whole XL pizza.  With pepperoni.

I think that I am happy about this.  I think that this pizza could last me days.  I hope that this pizza is good.  I think it was stupid to order pepperoni.

The line is enormous and they tell me the wait is 30 minutes and they ask me if I’m okay with that.  I nod, sagely, thinking that buying the whole thing is wiser than a slice.  I am wise.  I’m so much wiser and smarter and better than these fools just getting a slice of old, soggy crap.  They’re making a pizza just for me.  With pepperoni.

I sit outside absently nodding, but not really to music.  More to rhythm.  Cars go by way too fast here, turn their music up way too loud.  Usually I hate it, usually I have something to complain about.  Now I have something to nod to.  I also have a receipt.  I am not a ghost.  They know who I am.  I start counting the satisfied customers.  There’s a person walking out cramming a whole piece of pizza into their mouth.  They are trying to talk at the same time.  1.  Another person, same glitch.  2.  Why do people eat like this?  3.  I am nodding, sagely, and sitting in the little alcove the brick makes with the window, but from the outside.  There I can smoke.  I notice there are a lot of cigarette butts that look like mine.

“I ordered one already.  A whole pizza!”  I say to the people that try to stop me from cutting in line.  “I have a receipt!”  At the front, the guy… this boy glares at me.  “I have a receipt!  I’m just checking to see you haven’t forgotten about me!  I am sitting outside!”

“Yeah, we can see you.”  He says.  His friend, his partner in crime, his commiserator sells more slices.  Why are these people buying slices?  You could order a whole pizza and be so wise.  Be as wise as me.  “We’ll bring it out to you when its done.  It’ll be like 30 minutes.”  I nod sagely.

I wish I ordered sage on my pizza.  They don’t have sage.  They don’t have anything.  This place sucks.  The only thing that looked good was the pepperoni.

It takes another cigarette for me to realize that I might just have accidentally ordered another pizza.

“I’ve already ordered,” I say as I push.  “I don’t want a slice, I have a receipt for a whole pizza!  I’m not a ghost!  I am real!”

“Do you remember me?” I ask the boy.  This pizza boy.  “I ordered about 45 minutes ago and you said it’d be 30 minutes.  When I came in 30 minutes later, you told me it’d be another 30 minutes.  I just don’t want some sort of mistake to happen.  I have my receipt.”

“Yeah, I remember you.”  He says.  They continue to sell slices behind me.  I almost barf.

“I am not a ghost.”  I tell him, sagely.  With the wisest of intonations.

“Ha-ha… what?”

“I am not a ghost.  I have my receipt.”  Props speak louder than actions, so I hold up my payment-for-services-rendered contract.  “I will not be forgotten.  I will be outside, for I am a smoker.”

Pepperoni is so boring, I decide.  I wonder if anyone has made a beat centered around a person’s heart-rate and air-intake.  While they are running.

Then the bars close.

I watch the rush, the whoooosh, of people filing onto the street.  I perch onto my brick facade window and stop nodding.  Police are everywhere making sure the bars empty out.  Making sure everyone walks to the pizza place to get a slice before they stomp their way home, drunk-dialing and crying.

Why don’t people like gyros?  Where is my XL pepperoni pizza?  It should last me for days.

Some girls show up outside my post, not a gaggle, because it is just two.  They speak, and they are slurred.  Bobbing and nodding to some irregular, immediate, internal rhythm.

“That’s why I got that whole bottle of tequila.”  She slurs, but I hear it perfectly.  We sway together, me in shadows, her in stupidity.  “I was just ran so frayed at work today.”

I step down from my spot, hoping my shadow acts as slinkily and cool as I do.  Hoping they didn’t see me stumble.  “You mean ‘ragged’.”

Both girls stop and look at me.  I think I should bow, but that would make me fall over.  I think I should introduce myself in some way, or describe them, but then I’m not really so good at that either.  I think I should quote Shakespeare.  I nod sagely.

“No,” she argues.  “Everyone says ‘ragged,’ it’s boring.”

“It’s not boring.  It’s descriptive.  A shirt cuff gets frayed.  Or a stereo wire.  A dog’s chew toy is ragged.  So is a cigarette butt you find in the gutter.  Ragged denotes a sense of moisture, and in your case the sweat from your toils at work.  If you were just frayed, nobody would give a shit, because that meant you didn’t really work hard enough.  Or that you are a robot.”

And then I have a pizza.

On the way home, clutching my x-tra large box (and eating some, too), I bob in and out of alleyways.  Sometimes I sit down for long periods, and for no reason as I’m constantly telling myself to get up.  I feel a crying fit coming on, but it passes.  I laugh, loudly, at nothing at all.

I sit down on the curb and look up, pretending to swing on a swing.  I could jump off it.  I see it all; mascara and lip-liner being applied as ladies talk in bathrooms: “This date tonight is going to run me ragged.”  And then, the next day when it turns out to just be a one-night stand, “I just ended up frayed.”  The mascara and lip-liner stay the same.

I trip on a curb trying to stand up.

Ten Seventy-Eights were becoming more and more common to Bobby as he moved up the food chain; a kind of slang he and the rest of the shift used to refer to “blow-job in progress.”  Luckily, the girl (and, man, was she a girl) was a willing consort and didn’t need to be paid.  Less luckily was the fact that she got a touch clingy in the scant one hour they had known each other and curbside drop-off to her place was needed in order to get her out of his car and out of his short, well-coifed hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he thought to himself as he allowed the brief pleasure of watching her ass sidle out of his Cutlass.  “A dorm?!  Bobby, you either still got it, or you’re definitely losing something else that most people really want to keep track of.”  But, as any observer with his keen eye for detail would note, while he may be checking out the legs for sale under ever skirt, the ladies seem to just be gunning for him.  Mid-forties, a build seemingly made out of pots of coffee and untapped aggression.  Well, judging by the amount of paperwork he was filling out for sidearm discharges, maybe not so untapped. She closed the car door and leaned on the window, probably an overture; the lean in for the good-night kiss in some circles, but to a detective and former Vice Police, that’s more of a aperitif than an after dinner drink.  That reminds him, he thinks as he drives away almost callously, time to get a new bottle of Jameson to stow in the dash; the two pussy-hairs past jailbait drank all of it.  They really are training them to be whores nowadays, just like Alice always said.  Graciously, she left a couple drops; and he’d need it.  Murder.  Uptown, too.  A real citizen.  And being the only one close enough to respond, that means it’s his case.  Bobby’s Luck dictates that its gonna be red-balled.  The rule of Bobby’s Luck cannot be denied.

Some creative U-ies, brought more by the drops of whiskey (and the swigs and gulps that came before it) more than actual enthusiasm gets him to the scene pretty fast, before the M.E. even.  “Shit, probably coulda finished.  Seems like the type to follow through.  Why else give me her underwear?”

Flash the badge, through the tape; it all really becomes rote from here.  Though, he notes, he’s not even wearing a tie (she pocketed it, or its under the seat, when he got the thong), so that adds at least the idea that this one will be slightly different to him in his memories.  Maybe for his memoirs.  He snorts at that one, loudly too.  The uniform shockingly looks at him as if this were his normal reaction to the vic.  It might as well have been.

Nude.  Splayed out.  Bite marks on the nipples.  Even without the M.E. there he sees the lacerations inside the vagina and inner thighs.  Rape turned murder.  Not exactly open-and-shut dunkery, but simple enough.  No I.D.’s, but that’s easy.  A pretty girl like her has to have some dental work on file.  Some, he thinks with another percussive, derisive snort, this girl has been in and out of orthodontists all her life.  Maybe we are all the children of architects.

“You get pictures.  Total coverage?”  He asks to the alley wall just above the vic’s head (never look at the uniform, it keeps the chain of command).  Dutifully (its in the job description, right?), the uniform says, “Yeah, sure!  It’s all documented.”  Then he pauses.  Bobby can hear the pause.  It’s what called a “pregnant pause” by the people that think up that sort of thing; knowing that after the person is done talking, he will, invariably, start up again.  And soon.

“Are you really Robert Brady?  The Serial Catcher?”

He hates that name.  He’s already decided that long ago, but each time he hears it, he hates it anew.  It isn’t like an old wound opening; that denotes time.  This is like amnesia, he thinks.  This must be like how the people he puts away feel about how they’re called in the press, they don’t even get to name themselves.

“It’s Bobby.  Call me Bobby.”

That little moment is all it takes him to get out of the zone.  Of finding points of entry.  Movement.  You can even see motive this early in the game, and it is most definitely a game.  “See what I can do,” they say.  “Let’s play.  Tag, this is it.  Your turn.”  But that’s just exactly what he needed, at least for this one.  His mind has been wandering, not looking at what was in front of him.  He was thinking about how police photographers might be able to make a nice living, with a side job, blowing up crime scene photos to just see the ephemera around the body.

Around the body.  Garbage cans.  Rain puddles.  Dumpsters.  Detritus there for ages that have nothing to do with case.  He sees the case now.

“Where the fuck is that medical examiner?”  He shouts, “Because unless I’m mistaken some of these hematusions were inflicted after the heart stopped pumping, which means she was raped before and after mortis.  I want that canvas tight, look for lead pipes and bottles.  Anything suitable for insertions, anything rape-able, don’t use your best judgment… take it all.  And I want that fucking M.E. here NOW!”

Very commanding.  They all run scurrying to the sides and out of his vision.  Makes sense to him why he got there so fast, before everyone else.  Never leave Burbank, not even for vacation.  Dad designed half of this town.

And he’s struck by that colloquialism.  Usually it’s “Mike” in his mind, but he’s gripped by a wave of nostalgia, and the undertow is definitely a bitch.  He bends down to look this poor girl in the eyes.  Or just in one eye; old salesman trick.  Pretty blue, with strands of red.  Another dead girl.

Surprisingly, to him at least, he speaks.  “Those tresses of yours.” He says as he lays a freckled hand over each eyelid, one at a time, closing them forever.  “The same as my sisters’.  The same as my mom.  (Shit, he thinks, did I just call her “mom”?)  The same of the girl, and she was a girl, who was sucking me off earlier when I got your call.  All of them have hair of gold.  Why didn’t I notice that before?”

I figure, what better way to inaugurate this blog than by posting a review of a movie that came out over a year ago?  Enjoy!

-

About halfway through Iron Man, starring Robert Downey, Jr., Iron Man faces off against a group of armed terrorists using hostages as human shields.  His H.U.D. (Heads-Up Display, for all you girls) targeting reticle passes over each person, leaving behind a red, locked-on target for “enemies” (or was it “armed” or, more hilariously, “combatant”?), and sweeping harmlessly over those dubbed “civilian.”  He then fires six simultaneous head-shots, killing the bad guys instantaneously.  Next to me, my girlfriend muttered, “Cool.” Later in the same fight, he destroys a tank with what could only be called a pocket-rocket, which is equal parts bad-ass and laughably-pathetic.  And aside from it looking a little too much like the old “Lethal Enforcers” arcade game (which, oddly enough, I usually play in the lobbies of movie theaters), it was cool.  It’s also a little troubling.

Not in the “super-heroes shouldn’t kill” way.  In movies we’ve already had morally ambiguous anti-heroes like Wolverine, the Punisher, and Elektra slicing, shooting, and stabbing their way into our hearts (well, maybe only Wolverine); and unless Captain America offs some Nazis in the most wham-o way during his WWII-era movie, people are gonna wonder why he’s being such a pussy.  My concern lies with Iron Man’s whole motivation as a hero: essentially, dude just wants to protect his patents and design ideas.

Wall-flower turned wall-crawler Peter Parker is the ultimate bystander, accidentally being there whenever someone huffs crazy/strength gas; embraces evil, sentient robot tentacles; or a symbiotic oil-slick decides to crash on earth.  He fights because no one else around can.  The X-Men valiantly attempt to band together and stand-up to a society that treats them as outcasts, but mostly end up beating the shit out of each other in the most un-valiant way.  Daredevil, Blade, Punisher, and the Hulk are even simpler heroes; hating crime, vampires, criminals, and hate itself respectively.  On the DC end of the spectrum, Batman seems to create (and kill) more villains than rehabilitate them (sadly expending a great deal of energy protecting WayneCorp), and Superman has an easier time being an iconic symbol than a man, much to his (and the movie-going audience’s) displeasure.

And Iron Man?  Copyright infringement (though, it should be noted, this is the same reason the Fantastic Four movie exists, but not, however, why the Fantastic Four do).

Therein lies the crux of Tony Stark’s personality problem (and, truth be told, secret strength).   Escaping from “Hollywood Middle-East Land” (where everything blows-up!  and everyone is taken hostage!), wanting a burger, and then going to Burger King?! only makes him seem like a mildly unlikable tool.  Having him retreat to an incredibly immature bachelor pad (I believe he’s even working on the same hot-rod that obsessed Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor for a season of Home Improvement) to yuk it up with his robotic underlings makes him comes across more glib and self-centered than genuinely charming or funny.  Doing all this while adorned with a goatee comprised of two Nike swooshes and spending his free-time glory-fucking models and hate-fucking reporters, and now we’ve crossed over into the purely reprehensible.  When we’re first introduced to Stark, he’s busy annoying our troops, and then spends the next hour and half pissy over the fact that the shrapnel lodged in his heart literally has his name on it.  As a viewer, you have to wonder why this boy-genius/celebutard even wants to be a hero; a question that is only answered with the last line of the film:  Because, screw it, he can.

Stark’s only the hero of the movie because he’s less monstrous than the actual villain.  All the enemies (or those armed, or the combatants, or however you want to target them) carry Stark Industries weapons designed by Tony, or want Stark Industries weapons designed by Tony, or wear suits culled together from old Iron Man parts designed by Tony.  However, in perhaps the most obvious “this is the bad-guy!” scene, professional goatee-caressor Obadiah Stane’s H.U.D. doesn’t differentiate between friend or foe, civilian or combatant, it just targets the unarmed Pepper Potts and, ostensibly, will do the same for everyone else.

He gets electrocuted, then blown-up.

In fact, there’s only one bad guy in the entire movie that doesn’t die by explosion or small-arms fire, and that’s the terrorist that originally kept Tony in cave captivity.  Iron Man leaves him to be handled by the civilians he so “cooly” saved.  Even the best case scenario outcome for that is that he faced some sort of military tribunal and was executed.

So, the question arises: will Tony ever get some sort of comeuppance?  Certainly not from Ms. Potts or “Rhodey,” his supporting cast, as they seem as infatuated with him as he is (hell, even we the audience are, myself included).  And if reports of the sequel are to be believed, its unlikely a talking dragon from outer space and a magic Chinaman could humble the Invincible Iron Man.  No, I believe that glory will be saved for his teammates, the Mighty Avengers.  Maybe Stark will see a bit of himself and warning in the equally brillant doctors Bruce Banner (a rageaholic monster that just wishes someone would like a movie he’s in) and Ant-Man, Hank Pym (an on-again, off-again wife beater with an inferiority complex as big as he can get [whose power is to increase and decrease in size, his name stemming from the inexplicable tendency of Stan Lee to not make sense]).  Or maybe the Norse god Thor will make Tony feel like a mortal fish in a crazy, fucked-up pond.  Ultimately, it’ll probably be a combination of the teams leaders, Nick Fury (basically an amalgamation of every Samuel L. Jackson characters, played by Samuel L. Jackson) and Captain America.  Either way, the biggest dick in the Marvel U will start drinking more, and that’s always funny.  And as much as I liked Iron Man (and I did!), it won’t be until Cap (full of old-timey hokum) gets one whiff of Tony Stark and knocks those face-pubes off with a right cross that I will start muttering “Cool.”

However, we have to sit through Iron Man 2 before that, which will probably have him building a Burger King in his house a la Richie Rich and then letting all of America fellate him.

Nice gamin’ chair, dude!