CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS
TRANSFORMERS: Revenge of the Fallen 2009, 150mins, Dir. Michael Bay
Put Simply: Robots beat the shit out of each other for two and a half hours. What's not to love? Stars: Shia LaBeouf, Megan Fox, John Turturro.
Yeah, I know you don't really need me reviewing Transformers2 to decide if you want to see it or not. That decision will have already been made when you saw the trailer. If you saw the first movie, you know exactly what to expect. If you saw the trailer for the second one... you know exactly what to expect: things getting blown up for an extended period of time with no 'real' plot.
That's not to malign the plot of Revenge of the Fallen, I think it works just fine for the movie, but a lot of reviewers have seemingly had some gripe about it being a wafer-thin excuse to show robots fighting. And? Didn't you see the first one? If you forgave the narrative in favour of the effects in the first movie, you can hardly expect the sequel to be fucking Pride and Prejudice, can you?
Anyway, let's get the obvious one out of the way first, shall we? Megan Fox. I don't really get what all the fuss is about. I mean, she's very pretty, and incredibly fit, but in a kind of... dull way. Her personality doesn't seem to shine through in these movies (haven't seen her in anything else), and she delivers a lot of her lines in a clunky, uncomfortable manner. I think the other thing that makes me look blankly at her is she reminds me too much of Stacey from Eastenders. For those not familiar with Stacey, her character arc is basically to act nice, act like a scheming arsehole, go mental, then try and act nice again. Not a lot of 'nice' time. Puts you off liking the character. And sadly, when Megan under-acts the way she does, I just see a thinner, prettier version of Stacey. Don't believe me?
Oh, and that's the other thing, check out Megan Fox's thumbs. Crikey.
ANYWAY, back to the movie; it does exactly what it says on the trailer. It's one-part exposition, one-part talky quiet scenes, and five-parts smashing the fuck out of everything. In this respect, it's an absolute winner! And while I liked the humour again, I could have done without Sam's parents turning up every half-hour and shouting. They didn't seem to have a lot to do in this movie, but I figure Michael Bay had to justify their contracts? Other than that, Shia LaBeouf, John Turturro and Josh Duhamel are as good (or bad, or adequate, delete as necessary) as last time round, and it was nice to have a relatively linear plot this time. That sub-plot with the hackers in the first movie seemed a bit tacked-on to me, as entertaining as it was.
What really had me geeking out wasn't the mish-mashing of existing Transformers history, but the Indiana Jones references. If you recall, Indy 4 came out the year after the first TF film, during Shia's rise to A-List status. It's hard to say which role has raised his profile more, and there are several references to his Mutt Williams character.
The college that Sam Witwicky moves to in TF2 looks suspicously like Marshall College from the Indy movies. Of course, this is probably a pretty generic design for the American architecture of educational establishments, but there's also a reference to the Marcus Brody statue that served in memory of Denholm Elliot:
(Apologies for the shitty screnshots by the way, I got them from the internets. I do not condone shitty cam-jobs for ANY movie, but especially for a movie as awesome as Transformers.)
While the above is a pretty obvious reference for geeks like me, the next two were a little more subtle. There's a scene where Sam's got his black leather jacket and white t-shirt on, and uses a massive knife (for some reason) to carve glyphs into the earth. Reminded me very much of Mutt's blade fixation:
And again in the 'bottle house' when Sam and Mikaela are hiding from the Decepticons. Sam finds (again, for some reason) a saber blocking a hole in the wall. I guess the Egyptian villagers had run out of Polyfilla? Whatever the reason, it reminded me once again of Mutt Williams.
One question: I've got no problem with the Transformers speaking English, with their electronic brains it'd be easy enough to pick up and translate for their dealings with the humans, but why do they have such varying accents? When they break into the Smithsonian Air Museum and break out JetFire, it turns out he's got a Brummie accent. Did he have this when he was speaking Cybertronian? By the time we meet him in the film he's a fairly light-hearted character (best quote: "Bollocks!"), but he's meant to be an ex-Decepticon. Watching him in action would be like watching Timothy Spall fly into a rage wrapped in tin-foil.
One problem: I'd heard that Jazz was going to be back, and he was going to be the white Porsche 935 like in the old days. We got neither! :(
Other than those observations, there's not much more to be said about the film. It's probably a little long, but had it been shorter I'd only be wishing for an extended DVD version. Fuck it, I'd watch an extended version anyway :p
Nice little references to Gremlins and the Vader/Emperor dynamic make this a two-and-a-half-hour geek fest, but if you're not that way inclined, you can just watch things being blown up in an extended toy-advert ;)
I reckon: 8/10.
See this in the cinema, because it'll lose a lot of impact in the transition to your TV. Unless you're my best-mate's mum, who has a 50" plasma in a 54" room.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh lanugage and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Does anyone else think that Josef Fritzl and Joseph Jackson look a bit the same?
I mean, not identical, obviously, but y'know; the sweeping hairline... the puffy-yet-drawn features, the low-slung 'tache... the propensity for making the lives of their children a fucking misery?
I'm not for one moment suggesting that the patriarch of the Jackson musical empire had another, secret mini-Jackson, which he kept in a cellar and sexually abused on a regular basis, raising some of the offspring and butchering the rest...
I'm also not implying that Fritzl Snr formed a full musical act from his inbred, bastard children, and got them to put on shows every night in the cellar to entertain the little ones that had too many fingers to master an instrument...
And for the record, I'm absolutely in no way insinuating that in Fritzl's down-time, spent away from his secret, subterranean family, he maybe used to travel to the US, black himself up, and manage one of the most successful Motown acts of the 1970's. Because that would be wrong. Well, maybe not as bad as being a tyrannical 'manager', refusing to be called father by your own children, and beating them before they go on-stage. And definitely not as bad as imprisoning, abusing and killing those children. But blacking-up would still be in very poor taste, and I'm sure that neither of the Joes in question would have anything to do with it.
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Bizarrely, I think the idea of The Fritzl-5 sounds like a great idea. They'd probably be like a crossover of The Sound of Music and the video for Thriller
Whereas on the other hand, the idea of the Jackson children being lorded over by an oppressive father, moulding them into a form he wants, and treating them as objects rather than children just sounds a bit- oh, hang on...
~ ~ ~
All I'm saying is, I think the look a bit the same, and I'd be very wary of letting either of them into my house. Although to be fair, I don't have four brothers, and I don't have a cellar; so I should be safe..?
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
It's 10pm, just getting dusky and I'm out in the garden. There's a hedgehog down the bottom there eating some dog food my better half put out for it. It's been blisteringly hot today, so it's gorgeously cool right now. I don't expect you to be bothered by this, I'm just setting the scene.
I am, of course, enjoying all of this sans-alcohol. [sigh]
Actually, truth-be-told, I've had hardly anyof the usual withdrawal pains. I put a bottle of white in the ice-box for our lass on Friday, and pouring it for her, it almost had that sweet/pungent aroma that daytime alcoholics have about them. It wasn't trampy wine either, it was JP Chenet (you can argue amongst yourselves regarding the tramp-level of various wines), so I figure that's just my brain over-compensating and telling me that even the nice alcohol is evil. Mind, she had a bottle of Weston's Cider on Saturday, and it smelled fucking gorgeous, so I don't know what my brain's doing there.
I'm usually at least craving a pint, but even in this heat, and even getting frustrated as I do with some of the dickheads at work, I'm... strangely fine. Of course, I haven't been to a pub yet. Years ago when me and my best-buddy used to take a month off, we'd go along to our locals on a Saturday night and take the piss out of people as usual, drinking pints of Coke all night. All well and good, but it gets horribly fucking depressing at around 10:30, when everyone's pissed and you're not. It didn't take us long to knock pubs on the head when we weren't drinking.
A bit like on Eastenders and the like when you'll get people popping into the pub for an orange juice, because their character doesn't drink. I know they're trying to advance the narrative, but that doesn't fucking happen.
Anyhow, by my calculations I'm due to start drinking in earnest once more on the 27th of September. There's a nagging voice at the rear of my brain suggesting that come that fateful Sunday, I'll be the one to say "Actually, I won't bother. I'm a better person without the filthy drink. I've turned over a new leaf, and I'm going to preach to everyone about it!" I mean, I can't actually imagine myself being that twat, but I'm disturbed that 15 days into my abstinence, I've had barely a passing thirst for the Devil's piss.
Fuck it, you have my word, here and now, that on Sunday 27th September 2009, I shall have beer for breakfast. I may actually cave in and go rabid at midnight on the Saturday, who knows.
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In other news I've been spending my time (as predicted) either at the cinema or on my PSP. Reviews I'll be posting up shortly: • Transformers • Terminator Salvation • The Hangover • Year One
All enjoyable, but at very different levels.
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In other, other news, Michael Jackson died last week (as you've probably heard - if not, sorry for breaking it to you like that). Can't say I was a huge fan of his, in fact the only album of his I bought was Bad.
The news was breaking in the UK at around 9pm on Thursday, and by Friday morning, the media was on fire. By about 10am on Friday morning, I was sick of the whole circus, and I hadn't even had the TV or radio on - this was just from people talking about it and reactions on the internet. Oh, and...
By 10am I'd had 19, yes NINETEEN jokes texted through to me. It petered out after that so that by the end of the day it had been around 30. I didn't bother to forward any for the reasons I'll get onto in a moment. My best mate texted me commenting that it was a sad day. I agreed with him, and said that it's always a sad day when someone dies that was loved; but I was torn between disgust at the rabid fans that had never met the guy, crying like one of their own children had died - and disgust at the same old tired fucking jokes being trotted out AGAIN. The jokes fell into three categories: • He's white, not black • He bums children • He's had plastic surgery
The validity of these claims aside, it's the same shit that gets hauled out every time he's in the news. It's not a lack of respect for the recently-deceased that galls me, (I send the sickest jokes with the best of'em), it's the lack of imagination that's making Orange, Vodafone and O2 a shitload of cash in the middle of a recession. Later in the day jokes started to incorporate Farrah Fawcett and 'blame it on the boogie', which, while more amusing, are still pointless to forward on to people when 18 million people are circulating the same joke.
As heartless as it may sound, I'm not really bothered about the whole thing. He was good at what he did, which is all I really want from any person, but it's not like he found the cure for cancer, y'know?
Anyhow, after relating the above to my mate, he told me I should get back on the beer as soon as possible, as he can't cope with me talking sense all the time. I certainly put it down to the lack of alcohol; it seems to have levelled out any mood-swings I might have had by making me permanently fucking annoyed with the world.
As they say in the Jedi Temple: My glass isn't half-empty... it's FUCKING empty.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Yes, I gave beer a capital letter. It's like a friend, it means that much to me. I started (properly) drinking in about 1990, at around age seventeen. Yes, I'm that old. Seventeen is actually fairly 'late' by today's standards, and things were no different back in the day. But I looked a young-seventeen (as today I like to think I look a young thirty-six), and trying to get served in pubs before that age just wasn't going to happen. I started on Cider because Lager, Bitter and Ale all tasted foul, and spirits would just be stupid. I don't recall any 'alco-pops' in 1990, but I believe Bacardi-Breezers were new in 1993? A good friend weaned me onto the Brown (...Newcastle Brown Ale, not heroin) in 1991, and when I moved down south in '93, I figured that would be a good time to start on the Lager. I already had an on-off relationship with Jack, but that's another blog.
It's not that I consider myself an alcoholic or anything, but I've always had a healthy fascination with booze, and I'm always keen to find new limits and combinations. I don't enjoy being drunk, you understand; but I fucking love getting drunk.
Anyhow, it is with a heavy (and sober) heart, that I am writing about my latest stupid experiment: No alcohol for 100 days.
Yes, you read that right, and no, I'm not sure that I do know what the fuck I'm thinking. But I'll give it a go. I've had a month-off on many occasions, but it gets easier each time. I even did two-months at one point. But it's been a good-long-while since I took any time off, and I feel like a challenge, dammit! Richard Herring did the same thing last year, but I'm not sure if his hundred were intentional, or if he just gave up at that point.
I should point out now that I've made some concessions; • My fianceé's birthday in July • One of the nights when we're having a short holiday in August • My best buddy's birthday, also in August.
Now, the fact that I'll be drinking on those days does NOT mean that they'll be a 24-hour, Amaretto-fuelled blitzkrieg, just that I'll be enjoying a refined drink in good company. Well, thinking about the third one on the list, who knows? I'll have to monitor that one.
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Of course when I'm not drinking, I end up explaining it to bemused people far too often, and usually end up telling people I'm on antibiotics. It's just easier sometimes.
I also get what is now a classic question from people who don't quite 'get it': "Oh, but you can have one beer, can't you? ...Yes. I can have one beer in the same way that a Muslim can have one sausage.
I could have twelve beers if I wanted to, and on any other night, I just might - but just not for the next (insert seemingly insane number here) days.
...I'm just getting that one out of my system now, because it's bound to happen.
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One of the great things about no-beer, is you suddenly have the mental wherewithall to get stuff done. I've got a fucking mountain of jobs that I've never got finished; four PTN videos to edit, that Doctor Who/GTA artwork to complete my GTA trilogy, getting the last Mark&Lard show onto CDs with tracks in the right places, the list is ridiculous.
Not that I'll suddenly get an extra four hours magically inserted into every day, of course, but I'll be less inclined to lose time by having a beer and playing Vice City Stories. Although I'm not giving up VCS, that'd be really stupid, so there's always that avenue of procrastination to lose myself down.
Which is good, because one of the pain-in-the-arse things about no-beer is having to think all the time. I don't know how some people cope without that 'Standby' switch.
Still, at the end of it all, I'll save a bit of money, lose a bit of weight, and might actually be a better person for it.
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So, the last day I had a drink was on Monday the 15th June (because the PTN festival ran past midnight on Sunday). And I haven't re-done the maths with the three concession-days, but I think it's late September when I can get trolleyed again. 25th-ish? I'll work it out.
When you're taking a month off, the first week and the last week are the hardest. The two in between are relatively easy, because in the first week, your body (and mind)'s almost in shock at losing its regular "get me the fuck out of here" drug. In the last week, that beautiful bottle of Newcastle Brown you've kept in the fridge for a month is like a light at the end of the tunnel; a life-preserver to a drowning man.
I honestly can't say what this is going to be like, but I'll keep you informed. Probably with belligerent rantings, when I'd sell my own family for a can of Skol, but hey. At the moment it's been less than a week, and everything's cool. It felt a bit weird to finish early on a Friday and not pick beer up on the way home, but I had quite a bit to do so once I was home it wasn't an issue. Ho-hum.
Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger.
...well, apart from a stroke, obviously.
DISCLAIMERS: • ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
