Tell Them I Hate Them

Oh, HBO. How far the mighty are falling. With only Larry David and his still funny Curb Your Enthusiasm to prop up your entire fall schedule, what will you do?

Do you even watch these fucking shows before you put them on the air anymore? First there was John From Cincinnati to nearly drown your reputation as a producer of excellent drama. Running parallel to that was the once mildly entertaining Big Love, which this summer wanted so desperately to be the next Sopranos that they forced gunplay and gambling into the equation. Nevermind that Bill Paxton doesn't really have the appeal to pull off being the grand patriarch-sex-machine to three smitten wives. And those three wives of his have enough cuteness that it almost reaches critical mass. When left to their soapy domestic squabbles, Barb, Nicki, and Margie are plenty enjoyable and the show hums along. But this season wasn't so much about Bill juggling and walking the righteous path as it was about him being a wannabe Tony Soprano. Believing he was righteous as he conned and stole and manipulated, proclaiming himself the good guy as he sank into seedy deals and kidnapping. But it didn't fill the Sopranos gap, it just made me pine for Tony and Christofah all that much more.

Now, while Showtime heats up with a new season of Weeds and gives us a still-lovable David Duchovny going off the rails in Californication (<--they stole that title from RHCP), HBO sadly trots out their new sex-filled drama Tell Me You Love Me.

I know, I know. It sounds immediately promising, doesn't it? Sex-filled. Graphic sex, they promise us. What's not to like? Echoes of Elaine's infamous "He took IT out" ring through our heads as a wife pathetically jerks her husband off -- as therapy homework -- with his cock actually visible to us viewers! Another guy pathetically jerking off alone. (no visible cock) Visible Ball shots while the only two semi-attractive people bloodlessly screw. Graphic can be good, people. But graphic doesn't equal good, and this show proves it. I've definitely seen more passion in straight up porn than in the sex on this show. It's all just pathetic sex.

And, as someone who's put a lot of time and effort into trying to make material filled with freaky-fun sex, this all upsets me. No wonder we're so puritanical as a society about sex. If these are the graphic depictions of sex we have parading around as entertainment, we should be ashamed of sex.

The show as a drama? Remember thirtysomething? Remember how everyone hated thirtysomething? Yeah, this is MUCH worse. Supposedly, these are realistic depictions of marriage. This is exactly why I'm staunchly single. I hate all these characters. I particularly despise the two blondes that I can barely tell apart. I have a blonde hangup anyhow. I don't like them as a general rule. And this show proves the adage that they all look alike. Milquetoast, myopic motherfuckers with too much money and too little moxie.

I can't even post a picture to show you how much they resemble each other. Okay. Yes I can.


Kinda gross, isn't it? And here's what separates their characters: One is not having any sex, and the other is having lots of sex but doesn't have a baby. That's all we know and need to know about them. They are women defined by their womanly problems, with similar haircuts and similarly pointy-faced mates.

I've already said too much about these losers. A new season of Dexter starts at the end of September on Showtime. You know, that's the show about the serial killer who kills serial killers. Fitting. Because between the firepower of Dexter, Duchovny, and Weeds, I have a feeling that Showtime is poised to slaughter HBO.

Smokin' Aces

I finally got a chance to see Smokin' Aces this past weekend. I figured I'd like the movie, because it's got Ray Liotta and Andy Garcia and Jeremy Piven and plenty of guns. So, really, what's not to like? Well, I was disturbed when I saw the DVD case, because someone was in it that I didn't expect. Someone I flippin' HATE. BUT! It was all redeemed. In fact, the movie made me applaud and laugh out loud early on. This Joe Carnahan, he knows what audiences want to see! If you don't like any spoilers, don't watch this clip. However, if you want to see what makes this movie aces, check this out. And remember, this scene happens early on in the movie!



Oh, it still makes me laugh!

Cannes they do it?

Another season of Entourage has come to a close. Unlike the reception of Medellin at Cannes, I applaud them.


This season had some problems, and those problems were what plagued the Cannes cut of Medellin: there was just too much. Now, I love excess, and I loved having Drama, Turtle, Vince, Billy and Ari around all summer. Oh yeah, and E even had a couple moments where he didn't annoy the piss out of me. Taken on the whole, the arc of Medellin this season was excellent. But it was also blatantly clear that HBO had ordered up extra episodes to run alongside the dearly departed Sopranos this spring and then they whipped their workhorse boys of summer all summer long. And there were filler episodes. Most of those episodes had some serious hilarity from Ari and Lloyd, which made them not only watchable, but pretty enjoyable. Ari rescuing Lloyd from the lascivious writer was a particular favorite of mine.

But in these filler episodes where the Medellin action ground to a halt, the guys wandered about without much purpose -- much like Hollywood -- and the show loses some of its charm at those times. That's when it tries to compensate by being the male SATC, which is what made plenty of people kneejerk against the show in the first place. Because though Vince is a cutie, there's just not much tension in watching him get laid. Eric had a failed business/romance with Ana Farris, and if we all didn't hate Eric so much, his relationship foibles would be more interesting. I mean, look at him in that picture of up there! So tightassed you could shove a lump of coal up his ass and he'd shit a diamond later that day! So, since Vince holds no mystery and the thought of Eric having sex makes us nauseated, they basically have to rely on Drama and Turtle to carry the day when it comes to outlandish sexcapades.

And, luckily for them, once again Drama came through!


Nobody suffers indignity quite the way Johnny Drama does. Better, no one revels in the indignity and finds a way to pump his ego with it the way Drama does. So his adventures in Cannes were the perfect ending to his capers this summer.

As for the rest of the boys and Medellin, it turns out Eric was right about the movie being too long and needing re-cut. I kind of figured that was how it would roll, considering that's the way they've cast Eric -- as the supposed brains behind Vince's success. I buy it and all, but I still just really dislike the fucker. No matter how much the runt stands up to Billy Walsh -- and no matter how outrageously insane or wrong Billy is -- I still root for Billy. He's an arrogant prick, Walsh is. But Eric still just peeves me.

They've gotten a lot of mileage out of Harvey Weinstein this year. Either the real Harvey has an excellent sense of humor, or he gives extra latitude because Eric Weinstein is a producer on the show and I assume he's related to him? Probably his son? Anyone know for sure? If so, that only makes it all funnier! And, in the end, Harvey did end up in the driver's seat, didn't he?

I loved how this season ended. Once again, Vince comes off looking like a professional, classy artist instead of a spoiled, money-hungry actor. It may not be realistic, but it's nice to watch someone with so much integrity. And it's even better to watch him get routinely punished for it! After getting adjusted to the outrageous success these guys pull out every season with every project, the show has formed a new depth by now making them struggle so hard for their indulgences. Medellin has a lot in common with some other plagued movies. Apocalypse Now comes to mind. But so does Waterworld.

So what'll it be? Ultimate box office and Oscars for Medellin? I don't know. (but I'd be willing to be an awful lot of money on it.) I do know this: I sure wouldn't be upset if Entourage strutted off with the Emmy for best comedy this year.

A star is Bourne?

If you only enjoy action movies that like, make sense, then The Bourne Ultimatum isn't for you. Yes, there are some really clumsy dialogue passages, same as in Supremacy. For instance, when someone really wants Jason Bourne dead, instead of shooting him, they try to talk him to death with exposition. And yet, miraculously, even after massive info-dumps, things are still murkier than a Karl Rove explanation.

The Bourne franchise also suffers a bit simply because of its premise: It's about a guy trying to save his own skin. Most successful action movies raise the stakes considerably higher than that by having the hero of the piece fight for someone else's well being. John McClane had a bunch of hostages and his beloved Holly. Keanu was speeding down the highway for passengers and that chick who told him that relationships based on intense experiences don't last. James Bond takes Pussy Galore for himself but is generally saving the whole world. But Jason Bourne is the perfect symbol of our self-involved generation, because the whole heart of the matter is that he's trying to find himself.

What saves the Bourne films from ridiculousness is that their chase scenes and fight scenes are really freaking good. Choreography and filming mesh together to really make it feel like an intimate assault that can make a collectively experienced audience still lean forward in their seats. And, somehow, Matt Damon can make us root for Bourne.



I can't figure out exactly why I like Damon so much. And I do like him enough that I've tried to pick apart the exact reasons. But just like Bourne's identity, I can never fully grasp his appeal to me. It just seems like he's the antithesis of his no-talent, smarmy pal Affleck. There's something everyman about his looks. He's cute and attractive, but approachable. He never seems to be working onscreen (with the possible exception of The Departed) -- he just is the guy who's up there. Also, who else in his generation has shown such smarts in choosing roles? Even in the monstrosity that was Ocean's 13, his Linus never pissed me off. I still liked him, even if the nose did not, in fact, play.

There's something so blessedly normal about this guy. And yet when he's called upon to play unbelievable characters with unbelievably big brains, his quiet and understated manner works to make it believable. I know intellectually that I'm watching Matt Damon, but he's one of the few actors out there who's so damn unaffected and un-scenery chewing that he's able to uphold my suspension of disbelief for prolonged periods so that I end up watching the character he's playing. And really, there aren't many actors out there today who do that. That's part of what it makes it not-insufferable when he has to deliver such turgid lines like, "Marie used to help me remember the names of people I killed."

Damon has a kind of throwback feel, his style is more casual and laid-back Newman and Redford as opposed to the much imitated Brando-Pacino-DeNiro style that most actors today favor. But I could never imagine that Paul Newman would be willing to strap himself next to Redford to play a conjoined twin in the Farrelly brothers movie Stuck on You. Nor could I ever picture Redford picking up a gun and giggling with glee as he executes a boardroom as the angel of death in Dogma.

Damon's Bourne doesn't have room for silliness like that, but it must say something that people root for Bourne. I mean, yeah, on the surface, he fits the pattern of the modern antihero what with all his past murdering business and all -- and yet not really. He was a killing machine, which is good. But, but, he was programmed to be that way, and he seems awful upset about the murders. In today's entertainment climate where the main characters are either alcoholic narcissists, drug addicts, or vituperative careerists -- and those are just the females -- we clearly like having characters with faults. And yet here's Bourne, this guy who's done awful things, and yet is clearly not an awful guy; he's more like a lost child, really, almost innocent of his sins -- and yet we still like him despite the fact that he seems to be a decent person. What the fuck? He's not a mob boss or polygamist, so what's to like?

I know. It doesn't make a lot of sense. Just like large portions of the Ultimatum script. Chase scenes shouldn't hold that much sway, should they? But just like Damon, already greater than the sum of his parts, I still like it.

Wipeout

So, any other assholes out there who actually kept watching that Deadwood-replacing, Milchatrocity John from Cincinnati? Yeah. I did. What. The. Fuck? The only entertaining part of this show is to read the crappy reviews of it, which it so sorely deserved, and then to hear people defending it with the same old tired cliches. "I enjoy INTELLIGENT programming!" "It makes you THINK." Bullshit. This wasn't about thinking. It was about believing. Believing in whatever was thrown out there on the screen and refusing to think about it, just accept it.

It made no fucking sense, this show. Milch threw his (admittedly funky) dialogue out there and kept repeating refrains and didn't play by any rules. People die and resurrect, people levitate, John keeps saying, "I don't know Butchie instead," and there's a little surfing, and it's cool and explained because that's how John's father wants it! Fuck Milch.

There were some acting bright spots on the show, such as Ed O'Neill. And Brian Van Holt ended up being pretty funny if you were able to stomach his ticks and quirks the first several episodes. But most of the acting was bullshit. Though the stylized dialogue was often funny, it often felt forced and just...bullshit. It worked on Deadwood, but drowned in its own self-consciousness on the beach here.

Deadwood was partially so compelling because it was about a time, place, and growing society that didn't have rules or laws. So it was about how people functioned and formed the necessary laws -- or disregarded them -- to suit themselves, and society. In contrast, John from Cincinnat was simply about breaking or ignoring any storytelling rules. Dues ex machina up the everloving yin yan to create any sort of wonderment or tension they cared for.

And don't tell me it's "smart" television that anything goes and we're supposed to find it divine because there's some other cosmic controlling factor. I like stuff that breaks the rules, but there still needs to be rules. Otherwise you've just got a bunch of wacked-out, would-be surfers roaming the beach and waiting for bullshit to happen. And that's what this show was. Bullshit. But oh yeah, it sure did look a lot cheaper to produce than Deadwood. Well there you go. You get what you pay for.

Bridging the culture gap with gratuitous voilence and nudity!

M'kay. So now I'll tell you my super-secret hidden agenda for posting about Paglia's nostalgia pageantry. Part of the reason that crotchety "things were better in my day" attitude hit me so hard this week was because 300 came out on DVD last weekend. Me, I'm getting older myself. And I won't lie to you, I had a horrible reaction against this movie when it was first released for a very shameful reason: My nephew loved it.

Petty, isn't it? Oh yeah it is. It was the height of "my old shit is better than your new shit" arrogance on my part. He loved this movie and insisted on me going to see it in the theater. Honestly? If I hadn't had any sort of feedback from him before going to see it, I'd have loved it. Here's the movie: Blood, boobs, brawn. What's not to like about it? It's a great flick!


But me and my nephew, we had recently had a prolonged culture swap that failed miserably. He won't read. He doesn't like Nirvana. He thinks Goodfellas is too slow and boring. (!!) Seriously, how was I supposed to communicate with this kid? So in my small little mind, when he came along loving this movie, I figured since he thought everything I liked was shit, that our tastes couldn't ever parrallel. So I watched 300 with a jaded, crotchety old bitch's eye. It sure didn't have the violence of The Warriors! It didn't have the sex like Showgirls! It was stylized with Bullet-time so it reminded me of The Matrix, which had Keanu Reeves and a superior script. (Shut up! The first one WAS good!) Also, that is NOT how the Battle of Thermopylae went down!

But you know what? Once I got bucked off my high horse and pulled my own head out of my ass, here's what I saw in the movie: Gerard Butler and his ferociously white teeth looking incredibly sexy, especially rounded up with a whole gang of nearly-naked Spartans as they threw spears. Again -- what's not to like? I won't go all Pauline Kael and say that this movie is trash at its finest, because, frankly, though it did have stylized action and fetishized both violence and war, it wasn't exactly revolutionary. It also wasn't historically accurate, but it was extremely faithful to the Frank Miller comic it was based on, which means it was even better. Bonus -- Rodrigo Santoro, also nearly completely naked for prolonged stretches.

But see, I didn't appreciate it until it was jammed down my throat a second time on DVD, after I'd gotten over my snit. I fear these sorts of snits are going to start coming along more frequently now that I'm getting older and more entrenched in my ways and tastes. (How fucking hip and modern can I be expected to be, I listen to Bobby Darin fer chrissakes!) I just hope my nephew tolerates and then slaps me out of my snits so I don't miss out on graphic violence and near frontal male nudity in the future!

The Age of Arrogance

The biggest laugh I got this week was compliments of Camille Paglia and her monthly Salon essay. I've always liked and admired Paglia. Though I disagree with what she's saying just as often as I agree with it, she's an intelligent woman with a strong, almost confrontational writing style. How she got appointed as a great cognoscente of pop culture, I still haven't figured out. Because she most certainly does have a big brain, and an even bigger ego-filled head to contain her big brain. And yet, that doesn't preclude her from being able to take her big old head and shove right up her own ass.

I mean, this woman spent countless pages over the years trying intellectualize her lust for Keith Richards...and Madonna! I have no problem with someone having a taste for Keith...or Madonna. But when you try to wrap it up in psuedo-historical-psychological-grandstanded philosophical crap, you lose me. Not everything needs to be footnoted with Edith Wharton references or have allusions to Foucault or the Peloponnesian war. Get over it, Camille. Keith played a mean guitar, wrote "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and looked kinda hot in a vampiric, overly drug gorged way. He was a bad boy, and bad boys are hot. Madonna? She sold sex. It's called whoring. It's been done for centuries. It didn't make her revolutionary. It made our culture less puritanical by accepting and commercializing whores. You like bad boys and whores. It's cool. We all do.

And yet, Paglia's writings mostly entertain me. When I read her column this month, she got me to bust out laughing with this riotously outrageous passage:

Aside from Francis Ford Coppola's "Godfather" series, with its deft flashbacks and gritty social realism, is there a single film produced over the past 35 years that is arguably of equal philosophical weight or virtuosity of execution to Bergman's "The Seventh Seal" or "Persona"? Perhaps only George Lucas' multilayered, six-film "Star Wars" epic can genuinely claim classic status, and it descends not from Bergman or Antonioni but from Stanley Kubrick and his pop antecedents in Hollywood science fiction.

Fucking funny, isn't it? Immediately, I thought she was joking. I thought she was intentionally yanking the reader's chain to stir controversy and discussion, and that her tongue was firmly planted in her own cheek, probably getting a giggle as she wrote that. Later in the column, she manages to up her own game when she crowns Kelly Clarkson the savior of modern music. I shit you not here, man.

So it was then, after the Clarkson comment, that I applauded her panache and brass ovaries. To be willing to make such blatantly retarded critically inclined opinion assertions...in public! But then I started thinking about her big brain and realized that maybe she wasn't joking and that she'd taken navel-gazing to incredible new heights by inserting her own head up her ass and inspecting the interior of her intestines with fatuous fascination. Then, it was the removal of her own cranium, and its passage back out through her rectum, which left her covered in shit. She then proceeded to shake this shit off her head and it landed all over the page. A page which she subsequently submitted to Salon, and which they in turn not only published -- but paid her for!

How does this fucking happen? Seriously. I want to know! How the FUCK does someone reach the stature of a Camille Paglia and then get PAID to write absurdly stupid things on the page that end up stinking not of reasoned intelligence but of self-satisfied nostalgia? Don't get me wrong -- I like nostalgia, man. Clearly, Paglia has a connection with the art of her time, including Keith Richards and Ingmar Bergman. And I like reading analyses of Bergman's work, especially if they're tinted with a "in my day" personal perspective.

What I laugh at reading is when an aging person has the knee-jerk reaction of either condemning or ignoring any film, music, writing, or art that's happened beyond their pinnacle--of-discovery formative years. It's arrogance at its peak. And when it comes from one of our supposed "great thinkers" like Paglia and is published in Salon, it reeks of stunt-journalism, where the need to create controversy is more important than actual relevant commentary and criticism. And that's when I get jealous. Again -- someone, please, tell me -- how the fuck can I get one of these jobs?

I understand that it's an "opinion" piece, and so comes under the protective blanket where it's no longer really required to be relevant or critical or, apparently, even make sense. I understand Paglia and this piece do its job by getting people all frothed up and going there to read it. I understand that I'm part of this machinery by writing about here and providing links. But that's just the point -- it IS fun. And it's fun for me to write on my blog and talk about how shit-filled Paglia's once seemingly-intelligent head has become.

I'm not sure that I'm jealous of Paglia, exactly. If she was joking, I'm jealous as hell, because she's still one clever, calculating broad who knows how to keep herself in the dough. But if she was serious in her statements, I kind of feel a bit sorry for her. Yeah, she's still getting the paycheck and attention, but she's missing out on some really fantastic movies and music that are happening now. The world is passing her by as she lives with her big brain up her own ass.

For real now, though. How the fuck do I get a gig where I can do what she's doing?

Still Missed.

What kind of Funny do you fancy?

I found this little test from a link at Maryanne Stahl's blog.

I'm really not big on those personality tests and such, because I have a pretty firm fucking grasp on what my personality is like, so why would I take a test about it? That'd be like consulting a magic 8 ball about whether or not I'm going to graduate high school. But I figured this one might give me some laughs, so I clicked the link.

It's fast and it's supposed to tell you if your sense of humor is light or dark, clean or vulgar, and spontaneous or something else. I didn't get many giggles from it. Nor was it a big shock what they say my sense of humor is like. They don't tell you if you are funny or not, though. I guess there's no way to gauge online if your "blue steel" face is funny or just pathetic.

Anyhow, here's what they've deemed me. What are you?

Your Score: the Shock Jock

(66% dark, 42% spontaneous, 42% vulgar)

your humor style:
VULGAR | SPONTANEOUS | DARK

Your sense of humor is off-the-cuff and kind of gross. Is it is also sinister, cynical, and vaguely threatening to the purer folks of this world. You probably get off on that. You would cut a greasy fart, then blame it on your mom, and then just shrug when someone pointed out that she's dead.

Yours is hands-down the most outrageous sense of humor; you like things trangressive and hardcore. It's highly likely (a) you have no limits (b) you have no scruples and (c) you have no job. Ironically, it's your type of humor that can make the biggest bucks in show business.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Howard Stern - Adam Sandler - Roseanne Barr




The 3-Variable Funny Test!
- it rules -

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test

300 for 47!

YAY TOM!

Darin' to love Kevin

For the three or four people who've paid attention to this blog over the past couple years, the following statement probably isn't shocking. I love Bobby Darin. I mean, I love Bobby Darin. When I'm feeling ground down, and that's been happening a lot lately, a surefire pick up on a particularly crappy day is to go home and throw on Aces Back to Back and swing my blues away.

Occasionally, I take a little heat from people about my Darin love. I'm not sure, but I have a feeling that's because Darin's legacy isn't quite accurate in a lot of people's minds. The reason I think that is because more than once, someone has come over to abuse my pool and vodka bar and when I happened to be spinning some Darin, they wouldn't recognize it. I'd tell them who it was and they'd get a funny face and either say, "You mean the 'Splish Splash' dude?" or, dismissive, "Yeah yeah. Mack the Knife." And from that I infer that he gets a minor blip of pigeonholed name-recognition from many people but not much else. Then, of course, by the time they've heard him sing the holy hell out of "Artificial Flowers," the martinis start going down more smoothly and they start to re-calibrate their opinion of Mr. Bobby Darin.


That makes me happy when people take a second listen to Darin. Because besides having a set of pipes that could blow the roof of the Copa, Darin was the quintessential antithesis of a one-hit wonder. Darin played the piano, drums, and guitar, along with writing plenty of his own material, and songs for others. His early incarnation was that of a teen idol, but his career took a turn when he demanded more creative control and released the jazzy-campy "Mack." And then his career went into full swing. He hit his stride as a vampy showman and sometimes torchy-saloon singer, but he was always best known for his full-swinging, jazzy style. Selling out the Copa, winning Grammys, marrying Sandra Dee, acting, and then eventually letting Vietnam change his hipster ways into that of a full-blown hippy, thus he even conquered folk music.

None of this, of course, is news to you if you've seen the Kevin Spacey biopic Beyond the Sea. And for that, I profusely thank Kevin Spacey.

Beyond the Sea isn't a perfect film. When I first heard of Spacey tackling the role of Darin, I thought, "He's too old." Already in his mid-forties, Spacey was a little long in the tooth to be playing Darin, who died, much too young, at 37. But Spacey mostly overcame this with the construct of the movie to make the pieces fit.

My second thought about the movie, upon hearing that Spacey would be doing his own singing, was, "He's fucking nuts." For real. Who in their right mind would want to be compared to Bobby Darin like that? There is no way, no fucking way, you can win. Worse, you can possibly look bad. Trying to outsing-swing Darin is kind of like trying to drive better than Ricky Bobby, trying to cook more fucked-up than Sandra Lee, or trying to out-Thetan Tom Cruise. Double Oscars are swell, but it doesn't make someone Bobby Darin. But, after seeing the movie, I realized that Spacey mostly overcame this handicap of not being Darin by having a darn good voice of his own.

Kevin, he's not Bobby. But his voice does bear more than a passing resemblance to Darin's when they're in the middle register. His lower notes lack the muscle that Bobby's had, and though he stylistically mimics and bends notes in Bobby's signature style, it's not quite as cool sounding, possibly because although Kevin's range is really good, it's not quite on par with Bobby's. But what he does capture, with both broad strokes and loving details, is Bobby's overall style. The arrangements of each piece of music are spectacular. He takes the film's namesake song and nearly doubles it in length by adding a flouncy and vibrant extended musical portion. He comes off best in the more folky or showtuney numbers, like "Simple Song of Freedom" and "The Curtain Falls." And, notably, Kevin's got a nice touch of heartbreak in his voice for the slower-tempo numbers and ballads. A bit of a nice contrast, actually, because Darin never really strikes me hard as a balladeer, with a few notable exceptions. (His "Don't Dream of Anybody But Me" slays me.)

It's on the swinging tunes that Bobby shined brightest, and I have to say, I never would've guessed that Spacey had it in him. After all that Keyser Soze and Lester Beauty business, I kind of thought he was a bit...I don't know... serious. But Kevin, he can seriously swing. He doesn't have the same chops, but he sure doesn't drown when he goes up a "Lazy River" and it's actually not a charade when he sings "Charade." Frankly, not only does Spacey have it in him, he clearly loves it. And he does it well enough that I've found myself listening to the soundtrack a few times.

If you're looking for a historically accurate picture about Darin, that's not what Spacey made. But that's also clearly not what Spacey was going for. It's romanticized, particularly his relationship with Sandra Dee. What Spacey did was give us an artistic rendering of Bobby, and in that capacity, the film is both joyfully good and heartbreaking sad. Which, of course, means it's a smashing success.

Spacey had built up an awful lot of respect, capital, and clout in Hollywood, and he cashed it all in on this one movie. Passion projects and labors of love can be dangerous territory for stars like Spacey, because they can reveal the laughable banality, off-putting ego, or utter lack of other skills that were always masked by repeating other people's words in front of a camera. But, happily for Spacey, and luckily for the audience, Kevin had the skills as a filmmaker, humility of love for his subject, and understanding of his subject's foibles to pull this all off. Every frame of the movie and every cut on the soundtrack drip not with reverence but with care and often joy.

As for Kevin's acting like Darin. Well. My frame of reference is different from Spacey's, because I was a baby when Darin died. So I never really knew much of the man as a person. But I'll trust Spacey on it. I don't really know if the big old schnoz he plastered on his face was necessary as part of the rendering. Yeah, we get it. Bobby had a nice Roman nose. Thing is though, Bobby's nose fit him and he was still kinda cute. But Spacey deformed his face a little with that nose and it was just distracting. But, Spacey didn't do it to mock but because his instincts told him it was right, so I can accept that. Also, okay, maybe it was a little funny. And, really, how can I question his acting? He's Keyser Soze, man! I always liked Spacey, even if he didn't really hold a place as one of my lovable favorites. But with his singing and dancing and fighting with Sandra onscreen, he really did bring the man to life for me in a way I'd never known him.

Honestly? It all kind of makes me jealous of Spacey while admiring the hell out of him. I'm jealous because he was able to go ahead and create something he was so obviously into, and do it so damn stylishly. But I also admire him because it would've been an awful lot easier for him to not take the gamble and just keep cashing paychecks for bullshit like "K-Pax." It's just so very clear that he followed his heart on this, and his heart took him to a great place and gave an awful lot to other Darin fans like me.

I don't think the flick was a huge commercial success, but I know that Spacey kept saying his major intent was to introduce a new generation to Bobby Darin. And that is a worthwhile goal. Part of me loves Kevin now for making me feel like less of a dork for having such an affinity for Darin's music. You know, because movies totally validate our existence and all. Maybe only fans flocked to the theatres for its initial release, but as the movie now pops up on cable channels every so often, I can't imagine that at least a handful of people who watch won't be piqued enough to look into Darin a bit more.

And if it brings even one person around to checking out and discovering the awesome that is "Darin at the Copa," Spacey oughta feel damn good about himself, because he just increased the happiness in the world by a little bit.

Bobby Darin said that his wish was "to be remembered as a human being and as a great performer." And that's why I now also love, love Kevin Spacey. I don't know if he realized he was doing it as he was making Beyond the Sea, but Kevin has helped make that last wish for Bobby Darin come true.

Spacey has recently said that he no longer cares about his acting career. I think people have misinterpreted that comment to mean that intends to not act in film and continue his work at London's Old Vic. What I think Spacey was really saying is that he hit the peak and did what he wanted and he's not into the game of being tops in Hollywood anymore, but that he'll still take roles. Whatever he meant, I wish him nothing but the best.

Secret Confessions in Paperback!

Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA by Ellen Meister -- I loved this book! And you will, too. And now you can get it in paperback!


Seriously. You will LOVE these crazy characters. And you'll laugh a whole bunch, too. For more info, visit Ellen online

New Zealand -- Why Not?

Are you watching Flight of the Conchords? They kill me. Whether Jemaine is dressed up as Ziggy Stardust David Bowie or Brett is trying to learn to flip the bird, they're just funny. This week's race war with the fruit vendor was too much, man. I wish they had the other song -- "Mutha Uckas" -- for download this week, because Brett getting all badass and singing "he's gonna wake up in a smoothie" is just the best. But they do have "Leggy Blonde" up. So, enjoy.

Never say Die, Bruce

Alright, let's get this out of the way right off the top. Yes, I know Bruce Willis is kind of a crazy fuck and all. But I can't help it. There's just something about him -- and he still has that something -- that's so charismatic and engaging and enjoyable to watch that I can't help but dig him. He's older and balder but that squinty glint of mischief in his eye is still clear and I can't resist.

And if you go to see Live Free or Die Hard this summer, I doubt you'll be able to resist him either. This is the summer of blockbuster sequels, with Spidey, Pirates, and Ocean's each entering their third (and presumably final) movies into their repertoire. They say three time's a charm, and those movies did do big business.

But Die Hard is a much older franchise, with the original flick being released 19 years ago. That original, to me, still stands as one of the finest action movies ever made. It was remarkably smart in addition to being clever and it spawned a large number of inferior rip-offs over the next several years. Bruce was making a name for himself on "Moonlighting," but Die Hard propelled him to box office gold and movie star status. His John McClane was both a reluctant hero and loveable, cocky smartass. He took movie quotes to new heights with the unforgettable "Yippee kai yay, motherfucker."

Also noteworthy, he made bleeding sexy.

Over the years, the second and third entries into the franchise really hadn't suffered the suck quotient that most sequels do. They weren't the same caliber of the first movie, but they ranged from decent to pretty good, which is saying a lot. And a lot of the credit goes to the character of John McClane as played by Bruce Willis. The stunts stayed real, the action was heart-palpitating, and McClane cracked jokes.

Now, nearly twenty years later, here comes the fourth film of this series during the summer of blockbuster sequel pageantry. It seemed everyone making the other movies decided they had to make things complex and convoluted to somehow justify their existence. The studios and directors understood that people like to see shit blow up onscreen, but they also seem compelled to make the shit blowing up be couched in faux-artsy-fartsy plots and gaudy sets.

Luckily, Bruce is back to show us that's just not the case.



In what may become the sleeper hit of the summer, he teams up with Justin Long to save us all from terrorists who're hacking all the systems that make our country tick. And believe me, they blow up a lot of shit while saving us all!

Best? Most of the blowing up of shit is real, man! You really can't top that. Don't get me wrong, I like CGI effects in some capacities and think it enhances a lot of movies. But, when shit is blowing up, I want to see the real thing. When pixels are crashing, burning, twisting, and suffering, there's really no excitement there.

And excitement is what Live Free or Die Hard is about. Director Len Wiseman and writers Mark Bomback and David Marconi seemed to get what others didn't. Bigger and badder can be good, but not when it's just bigger and badder confused plots and blurry action. There are a few twists in the flick, but if you've seen the other flicks, I really don't think you need to be as clever as John McClane to figure out what this movie is really all about. And that's the beauty of it. It keeps it simple and just keeps roaring forward.

Bruce and John McClane are older, and that's acknowledged. But here's where Bruce still has the drop on a few other stars who've recently tried to reprise old roles or still kick-ass in action movies. Bruce, he still can pull it off.

Times, they have certainly changed. Wanting the most bang for the production dollar, they kept this movie at the PG-13 rating. And I personally find it appalling that all the blood, violence and destruction isn't a problem for this rating, but the aforementioned "Yippee kai yay, motherfucker" money-quote has to be truncated to not include an audible version of the "fucker" portion of the phrase. But that's our society. Blowing shit up is okay for kids, but saying "fucker" is not. Fucking the ratings board.

But I certainly wouldn't let a quibble about our decency standards sour me on this entire movie. It's definitely not as smart, fresh, or clever as the original. Most of the jokes, in fact, are callbacks to the first. (The best is when a feeb named Agent Johnson comes to help out McClane.)

Timothy Olyphant as the designated bad guy works. It took me a really long time to place his face. For a while, I thought he looked Josh Duhamel, but knew he wasn't. I'm very familiar with Olyphant from Deadwood, but without his Seth Bullock 'stache and wild west greased back hair, his face just wasn't clicking. Ultimately, it was his cold demeanor and hard eyes that helped me connect the dots, and what worked so well for his role here.

Justin Long has taken heat over his "this movie is better than God" comments, because a lot of people like to get pissed off over ridiculous shit. But I thought he did well in his role as the young hacker thrown into this dangerous partnership with McClane. His humor has an innocent timbre that plays well against McClane's weathered, wiseass routine.

It may not have the beautiful jewel-box plot of the original, but this new flick does summer movie-going right. It starts with a bang, and races forward with plenty of thrills and chills as it blows shit up. It proves that even two decades later, Bruce, Die Hard, and the basic action genre, still have plenty of life.

Oh. Also noteworthy? Bruce is still sexy when he bleeds.

Yippee kai yay, motherfucker.

Sitdown with Donald Capone

My pal Don Capone was kind enough to take the time to answer some questions for me regarding his latest release, the comic-slanted novel Into the Sunset, which is now available.



I loved this book, and was really excited to hear him tell me a little more about it.

1) Into the Sunset is about a young man who decides he wants to live in a retirement community. How did you come up with the main premise of the story? As a busy New Yorker, is this something that appeals to you in theory?

While bringing my own mother around to check out these types of places, I had the same reaction as my lead character, Wayne. Which was basically, "Holy shit! This is great! I want to live here!" So, once I had my character in a retirement community disguised as an old man, I had to make something happen. It couldn't go smoothly, or there'd be no story. It had to all come crashing down eventually. Living in a community like The Sunset appeals to me personally, but I know it's just a case of "the grass is always greener."


2) You're a fan of The Sopranos. Didn't that show make it clear to you that moving anyone, for any reason, into a retirement community is a bad idea?

Yep, and things end up not so great for my lead character, too. Assisted-living communities are so popular now (seems new ones are being built every day) that I think we'll see them as the setting in more and more books, TV shows, and films. I'm glad I am one of the first to use this setting. A lot of potential for good stories there, both serious and comedic.

3) Though he has certain problems, overall Wayne Benson is a cool, laid-back guy. Did you base some of his personality on yourself or anyone you know? How about his friends? All imaginary, or ripped from the headlines of your life?

Little bits and pieces are me or people that I know—for all of the characters. But really not that much. And I don't know how cool Wayne is. He was a really selfish guy in the early drafts, then I gave him some heart and vulnerability. He's just a guy looking for a home.

4) If you were casting Sunset as a movie, who'd be in it? What would the soundtrack be like?

While I was writing the book I didn't have anyone in mind for the character of Wayne. Now I think it would be a good part for Ashton Kutcher.

For Eleanor I had in mind Julie Kavner (aka Marge Simpson) for some reason. Though I think Eleanor needs to be sexier, someone like Diane Keaton, though she's been on a real cold streak lately. As for the soundtrack, I actually mention a lot of bands in the book. U2, Cake, Green Day, The Ramones, Blink 182. Stuff like that. While in the Sunset, some old-time music would probably be playing, though. Maybe there has to be two soundtracks, one for each of Wayne's personalities. And the soundtracks should definitely include some funny dialogue from the movie between songs, like the soundtrack for Animal House.

5 a) Let's talk about writing in general. I've heard some writers say they write primarily to please themselves first. Others, I've heard say they write for an audience. Which do you do?

I think I write for myself. Stephen King has a theory of having a "first reader," someone you are writing for, someone you have in mind that you know will appreciate what you're doing. A spouse, whoever. But I think I write what I would want to read. That's my criteria. I am my own first reader.

5 b) Sometimes, there's tension amongst writers between the literary and commercial boundaries. Do you favor one or the other for reading? If forced to hear someone else categorize Sunset, would you prefer to hear that it's literary or commercial?

I think I do have a literary style, which comes out in my short stories (and possibly my next novel), but I think Into the Sunset is definitely more commercial. Which doesn't mean it's not well-written, just that it's probably too silly to be deemed "literary." I mean, there are toilet paper jokes in there! It's like a comedy film not garnering Oscar nominations. But, hell, I'd watch Office Space any day over Crash. As for my reading habits, I can read something just laugh-out loud funny, like anything by Tim Dorsey. Or I can read The Road, which is very gray and ashy (and literary).

5 c) If you were forced to categorize, which would you say your strongest asset is in Sunset: the craft, the art, or the storytelling? (or something else?)

Well, all those three things are really inseparable. But if I had to choose, I'd say the storytelling. The plot pretty much cranks along at full speed. I tried to keep in mind Elmore Leonard's rule about "cutting out the parts that readers tend to skip."

6) How do you think your favorite writers have influenced your writing?

Well, there are my favorite writers, and then there are my favorite writers. I've always listed John Irving and T. C. Boyle as my all-time favorites, but those guys are so good they're in another league. You can't even aspire to them (or, at least, I can't). This is what I got from those guys: from Irving I got the semi-colon; from Boyle I got the fucked-up shit always happening to the lead character. Now some of my other favorite writers are: Jonathan Ames, Ted Heller, Nick Hornby, Tim Dorsey, Christopher Moore, Bill Fitzhugh, and Elmore Leonard. From those guys I got the high-concept plots, engaging dialogue that includes lots of rock n' roll references, and screwed up romantic relationships.

7) Say you sold 10,000 ebook copies of Sunset, and only 10 paper copies. Would that satisfy you as much as if the stats were reversed?

10,000 copies? Are you high? Is that a typo? Actually, I get more money for the ebook, so that would be fine by me. Really, it doesn't matter. I just want people to read the book, whatever the format.

8) You've also serialized a novel online through Rebel Press, Like I've Never Been Born. Do you think this sort of electronic reading is going to continue to blossom?

People have a short attention span online. That's why flash fiction is perfect for the internet. Also, you can finish the story before your boss magically appears behind your desk. Not that I am speaking from experience, mind you. You shouldn't do that at work. NOW GO BACK TO WORK RIGHT THIS INSTANT! YES, YOU!!

Seriously, I think some version of the ebook will become practical. Like music on an iPod, you could load up your reader with books, go on vacation and have several books with you, though you'd only be carrying around something the size and weight of one book. Just think, you'd be able to search through the book easily if you had to refer back to something, or even switch over to an audio version of it! How cool would that be? Sony has the Reader, but it isn't Mac compatible, they have no clue how to market it, and no one really knows it exists. I'm waiting for Apple to pick up the ball here and do for publishing what they did for the music industry. Maybe they will incorporate it into the iPhone.

9) Rebel Press is growing with the latest new releases. What are your ultimate goals with the company?

The original intention of Rebel Press was to get exposure for the writers involved, so we could get another writing credit on the old resume, then enter the books in various contests which would hopefully lead to more exposure and more credits. So I'm not deluded. Those are still the goals. One day I'd like to have an ezine version of Rebel Press that would focus specifically on new, unpublished writers.

10) I've asked it before, but let's see if you've changed over the past couple years. You can't have both. So, from your writing, would you rather have critical acclaim or lots of cash?

The critical acclaim.

Thanks Don! Also, as a side-note, I stole the "who would you cast" question from Ellen Meister, who routinely does this with authors on her blog. It's cool. And, to answer Don's question about if I was high when I asked the one question, I was drunk. Nevertheless.

Now Available from Rebel Press

Into the Sunset by Donald Capone.Amazon

Katrina Denza profiled

Check out the hugely talented Katrina Denza at Writer Profile Project.

I couldn't title this post because Blogger is being a fucktart. Anyhow.

Are you watching Flight of the Conchords after Entourage? If you're not, you should give it a try. It's REALLY funny. As with some other HBO shows (Curb Your Enthusiasm, Extras) the humor is calibrated a little off-center, but for a show about a band trying to make it in New York, it's not the off beat kind that you're thinking of.

It actually goes well in conjunction with Entourage, because all the Hollywood excess and good luck and lavishness of that show can really make you want to fucking kill yourself if it's the last thing you watch on a Sunday night before going to bed and knowing you have to face another workweek in your shithole job. I mean, yeah, Drama and his loser proclivities should help ease the sting, but even with Vince now being broke, they're still clubbing and coozing and though I've grown to love three of the guys, the knowledge that there are talentless peckerheads like Eric Murphy populating LA -- living high on the hog for doing nothing -- really can be a pisser. I was really hoping Harvey would've smashed his face in when Eric was supposed to tell him he couldn't buy Medellin. But, of course, Drama saved the day there.

Anyhow, I digress. I didn't mean to talk about Entourage. My point was just that Conchords brings you back down to Earth and makes you feel not-so-bad about yourself. I mean, what with Bret and Jemaine having one fan, sharing a bedroom, and taking public transportation. Give 'em a try.

William Reese Hamilton

This month's Eclectica is featuring some excellent writing set in Venezuela from William Reese Hamilton.

Tagged by Paul

Paul A. Toth has tagged me.

The rules:

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Here's my eight things:

1. I can't ride a bike. I've tried to learn several times but always end up injured.

2. I swam with a shark once, and went scuba diving with a whole bunch of sharks. Hammerheads. They're very cool and beautiful and primal, but I was really, deeply scared. The best part of the whole thing was this loudmouth asshole who kept making fun of me for being nervous before the dive. They warned us many, many times that the most important thing to do was to NOT get freaked out and swim away. Asshole got down there and when the sharks showed up, I looked over to see his reaction and only saw a cloudy trail of sand in his wake. He totally bolted. Surfaced too fast and got black eyes. Laughing at him made the terror worthwhile.

3. Right now, I believe that Semi-Homemade with Sandra Lee is the funniest show on television. I'll talk more about this shortly on the blog, but in the meantime, if you have a chance to catch this gem of a show, please do. It's on at 5:30 PM weekdays on the Food Network.

4. If celebrity encounters interest you, I've had a few. Most notably, I've been yelled at by Greg Maddux and fell on my face in front of Andy Garcia. The yelling at by Maddux? Oh, I totally deserved it. The loudmouth asshole I referenced in number 2, he's got nothing on me. Look up "obnoxious" in the dictionary and you'll find a picture of Susan DiPlacido after eight stadium beers. The whole ugly incident also cost me my favorite boyfriend. For some reason though, I still laugh about it, so I don't regret a second of it! The Garcia thing, I don't think I deserved that humiliation. But my friends still laugh about it so I don't regret it.

5. I would rather swim with sharks than speak in public.

6. I once got arrested for streaking. The following detail probably doesn't need stated as it's implied, but I had been drinking. I'm telling you, that Cocktail Hour with Sandra Lee can lead to some wild stuff!

7. I have a tattoo that reads "Please return to Caesars Palace." Again, with the cocktail hour. You know.

8. I struggled an inordinately long time to come up with this list. I love to talk, but prefer to talk about things that interest me. I don't interest me, because I'm a boring person. I have a few decent anecdotes, but they're best told verbally while swapping stories over vodka.


Since I'm not a rulebreaker, I tag:
Biff Mitchell
Dennis Mahagin
Don Capone
Maryanne Stahl
Ellen Meister
Jordan Rosenfeld
Diane
Middle Aged Suburban Diva

Get AMERICAN COOL this summer!

AMERICAN COOL now available from Rebel Press!



ENTER the world of AMERICAN COOL, where risk, rejection, and romance are played to win. When characters meet every roll of the dice with grit, humor and determination, is it enough to change the stakes? AMERICAN COOL is Susan DiPlacido's first collection of short stories.

Amazon
iUniverse

Available soon at Barnes & Noble and Booksamillion.

Also, read a lively interview with me here.

This book is published by Rebel Press, and I thank Rebel profusely. I can't thank Don Capone enough. He designed the kickass cover and set everything up and encouraged me and dealt with my difficult freak-outs. Another huge thanks to Ellen Meister, a fast rising literary superstar who was kind enough to give me a great blurb on the book.

Drama Queen

About a month ago, I sorta ragged on the new season of Entourage. I take it back. It was crawling along there, and Vince and Ari being broken up was comedy fodder for Ari, but Vince's new agent just annoyed me. But the show has started steaming along again with Medellin back on track.

I never thought I'd say this, but I love Johnny Drama. Lovable loser finally getting some luck his way! It may not be noble or cool, but there's a lot of Johnny Drama in me. I'm certainly more Johnny Drama than I am Vince, that's for sure.

Johnny protecting his new condo from the party was over-the-top, but I liked it. Some good chuckles in there. Kevin Dillon has this character nailed. You know what cracked me up? When Johnny was shooting his big monologue scene for "Five Towns" and Dillon did such an admirable job of having Johnny act "bad." Too funny.

Even funnier? Seeing Vince dressed up as Pablo Escobar!


Isn't that a riot? He looks like Andy Kaufman's alter-ego, Tony Clifton! This is something Entourage has always done, and it's a sly, funny joke. Every time we see Vince acting, it's bad, man. And I don't mean half-assed bad. It's always exaggerated, over-enunciated, intense-looks bad. But the audience and suits and viewers fawn all over it. Nice commentary on acting and Hollywood. And Medellin is supposed to be this grand epic, and it looks awful! An interesting twist that Eric actually doesn't like it.

I'm also glad to have Rhys Coiro back as crazy Billy Walsh for a few episodes. Have you ever had to deal with a volatile asshole like Billy? They make life interesting, but Entourage also totally nails how silly and frustrating dealing with a guy like that can be. Such a temperamental artiste! Completely disregarding social niceties, flaunting budgets and authority, totally committed and passionate about his "work" -- and then it's shit! Who do you think he's based on? I totally think they based Billy on Vincent Gallo.

You know how you know this show is suddenly cooking again? All that good shit, and I barely even mentioned Piven/Ari. Not that Ari's taken a backseat, though. He's still Ari, and he's still great. But this show works best as an ensemble, and that's how it's been clicking recently. Fat suits on Vince, Turtle and his endless pursuit of tits, and Drama being Drama are the cake, and Ari is the icing.

Famous Fathers & Other Stories

Famous Fathers and Other Stories by Pia Z. Ehrhardt is now available.


I haven't yet read this entire collection, but I am familiar with Pia's work and it's fab. You can check out her website right here.

Enjoy the Sunset!

Now Available from Rebel Press

Into the Sunset by Donald Capone.

Amazon

Wayne Benson has decided that the easy life of cooked meals and laundry service of the Sunset Retirement Community is for him. Too bad he's only 30 years old. But Wayne thinks he can pull off an elaborate scheme involving theatrical makeup and mild identity theft of his father to get himself the lush and easy accommodations he desires. All works well until he starts forming friendships with other residents at the Sunset. Then, it's only a matter of time before he has to start worrying about his new golden-aged girlfriend or nosy next-door neighbor discovering his ruse, not to mention suspicious security guards and an intrusive community administrator.

This book starts off with a clever and carefree plot that promises plenty of fun, and boy does it deliver. When Wayne's hoax seems set to crumble, the laughs are fast and frequent. He's a likable character, but so are all his new friends at the Sunset. Eleanor and Herb make for great comedy, but also ground the novel with plenty of heart. This is a completely charming debut novel from Donald Capone.

Unlucky Thirteen

I think I heard an interview years ago where George Clooney said that he wanted to remake Ocean's 11 because it was a movie with a great idea, but ended up not being so good. His theory was that you shouldn't bother remaking a great movie, because it's already great. I thought that was pretty smart, and an accurate assessment of the original movie.

Don't get me wrong. I liked the Rat Pack Ocean's 11, but not because it was a particularly good flick. It was breezy and fun and showed the guys hanging around Vegas and there was a heist tossed in and a clever ending. But overall it came off exactly like what it was: An excuse for a bunch of friends to live the high life on the studio's dime while screwing around in Vegas and tossing in just enough fluffy entertainment to get the viewing public to throw their money away going to see the onscreen antics.

When Clooney & Co. remade the first one, it retained the breezy charm of the first one, and while it had plot holes you could drive an Escalade through, it all moved quickly and entertainingly and held together as a great movie. The director, Steven Soderbergh, isn't a guy to be trifled with. He'd previously directed Clooney is the highly underrated Out of Sight, which was based on an Elmore Leonard novel. So he definitely had a feel for enticing heists and colorful criminals. He'd just come off a best director win for the highly overrated Traffic, and the Eleven project allowed him to brighten and lighten up, literally.

One of Soderbergh's trademarks that I really love is how he can make a movie look so damn good. His Ocean's Eleven really did manage to capture the Bellagio on film with the dreamy, creamy colors and diffuse golden lighting everywhere. He was working with an amazingly good-looking cast, even by Hollywood standards, and the flick really did bring back echoes of old-Hollywood glamour.

Overall, the original entry in this franchise captured the charm and swagger necessary to pull off a successful heist flick, and did it with plenty of style to spare.

The second movie in the Ocean's franchise wasn't as well received as the first, but I still liked it. Certainly, the plot was ludicrous. Also, I'm not a big Brad Pitt fan. Sometimes I watch him in movies (Fight Club, Twelve Monkeys) and I'm not appalled by him. But his looks do nothing for me, and I have to laugh because he's basically filling the Dean Martin role in this crew. Dino, to a lot of people, symbolized odious Hollywood excess and a way of sliding by based on connections with little talent to back it up. Lots of people thought he was smarmy. But I like Dino and don't even FF through him singing "Ain't That a Kick in the Head" -- which he performs twice in the original Ocean's movie. Brad Pitt, on the other hand? Well, he is a kick in the fucking head. I do find him to be an example of odious Hollywood excess and smarmy as hell.

He slid by in the first one, eating in every scene and generally not annoying me. But in Twelve he had a love interest and beefier part. But, for me, that was counterweighted with Matt Damon's presence as the earnest and innocent youngster trying to get a better handle on the business. And though this may be out-of-fashion to admit, I like Julia Roberts. She didn't come off particularly well in the first movie with all the walking she did. Though she's a lovely woman, she walked like a cow and undermined her glam-factor. In the second installment she didn't have to play the gorgeous card. Instead, in a move that annoyed most people but made me laugh, she mocked herself. And instead of walking around like a cow, she went over the top with a fabulously de-glammed awkward, pregnant jog.

Clooney, in both pictures, was the anchor, and he looked great and showcased his smirky, fatuous charm that he somehow pulls off. But Andy Garcia's role was slightly diminished for Twelve, which didn't work for me for two reasons. First, for me, Garcia, not Clooney, is Teh Hot. I was in Vegas when they were shooting Ocean's Eleven and I was all about catching a glimpse of Garcia. I was lucky enough to watch them film a re-shoot scene of Garcia and Julia Roberts in the casino. It made my year. Everyone else in the city was chasing down George, but I was more than happy to watch Andy.

Second, and more important, have you ever seen anyone have more fun onscreen than Andy Garcia in Ocean's Eleven? For real. Sometime, watch that flick and take note of Andy. He's not chewing the scenery and he stops short of twirling a mustache, but his walk and talk and manner as the arrogant foil to Clooney's thief is truly delightful.

In Twelve, he has a nice turn at the start, rousing everyone together again, but then the clutter starts and he gets pushed aside when the main opposition to Clooney's crew is Vincent Cassel as a French master-thief. Cassel, he was a drag, man.

But, overall, for me the movie worked because although Soderbergh lost that gilded Vegas look, he was able to reminisce the sleepy blues he did so well in Solaris while filming around gorgeous Lake Como, and he kept the pace swinging like a Bobby Darin tune.

So now here comes the third installment, Ocean's Thirteen. Soderbergh's colors are again brilliant, and we're back to the Vegas palate. From jazzy reds to nearly electric gold, the look of the flick sizzles. There's also one well-placed exterior shot outside at the Bellagio fountains which must've been shot shortly after dawn, where he captures the strange, misty, dreamy look of the place that's so unbelievable plunked down there in the middle of the strip.

But you know you're in a little trouble when the best part of a movie is the colors. Dig?

The interiors this time aren't shot in Bellagio, or at a Vegas casino at all. They're a Hollywood soundstage version of Vegas, and it's just not quite right. I don't blame them for not going back to Bellagio, because it would've been a logistics nightmare, and, frankly, Bellagio is a property in decline. Part of the beauty of watching Ocean's Eleven is that although it's recent, even that version of Vegas is already gone. Once the crown jewel of the strip, Bellagio is already living off its reputation as it cheapens and changes and gets cluttered and has relinquished its title as the IT resort in Vegas.

And that gives it something in common with this latest Ocean's installment -- because it's also living off its reputation. The latest movie shows the strain that sequels tend to do, and it's become both more extravagant and cheapened by the clutter.

It's hard for me to find an exact fault with it, as the plot is tighter than Twelve, and the stars are just as charming. The additions to the cast come off well. Al Pacino is a ha-ha funny shade of orange, and Ellen Barkin is sexy and silly as ever. Andy still has a diminished role, but he got me to laugh along with him in one scene where he was enjoying getting his evil on. Clooney still looks fabulous, and Damon is still cute. Pitt is still a tool, whatever. Soderbergh again keeps a tight pacing and breezy tone.

But yet. I don't know. Kind of like how it's supposed to be set in Vegas, but you can just tell that it's not. Believe me, it's hard to get more superficial than Las Vegas, but a Hollywood studio can most certainly pull off that magic, and they do in this movie. I know that the casino is supposed to be beastly and atrocious in its excess, but they still managed to somehow get it not quite right.

It's not a spoiler to tell you that there's a running line in Thirteen about shaking Sinatra's hand. It's a nice little tip of the hat to bygone days of Vegas, and to the guy who created the original material for these films. But it only serves to show how this whole thing has come full circle. Because although what's onscreen this time is fairly enjoyable, it no longer plays like a great movie. It now comes off like a bunch of pals who wanted to jerk-off the studio for a ton of money while they screwed around onset and tossed in enough fluffy entertainment to get the viewing public to throw their money away to see the onscreen antics. It's still a great idea, but this just isn't such a great movie. It's the most clever part of the heist, really.

YAY Myfanwy

Myfanwy Collins can be found this month in some very fine publications. Her story "The Emergency Contact" is in The Jabberwock Review, and her story "Have You Seen Us?" is in The Kenyon Review! Sharing pages with TC Boyle! Congrats, Myfanwy, and these places are lucky to have such great fiction.

Gandolfini the Great

What I want to talk about today is James Gandolfini. Because I, unlike Chase & Co., can't let shit go in the blink of an eye. And I watched John From Cincinnati but if you think I'm ever going to bother talking about that waterlogged piece of shit show, you've been left out in the sun and surf too long.

Anyhow, with the end of The Sopranos, I could write an essay about Tony and fan the flames of debate of sociopath vs. not. (He wasn't one. I think Chase was trying to present one, but somewhat failed, which was for the overall good of the show. I think we've come to toss that term around loosely for anyone who shows a selfish streak and propensity for doing bad things. But that doesn't define a sociopath, and Tony Soprano lacked many key sociopathic traits. I also think it's easier and a simplification to explain away bad or violent behavior by placing it under that umbrella; it's kind of like dividing the world up into good vs. evil and it's just not that simple most of the time.)

But, my point is this. The writers of The Sopranos (David Chase, Terence Winter, Diane Frolov, Matthew Weiner, Michael Imperioli (occasionally) and Andrew Schneider) were amazing. They built a complex show with difficult characters that kept us engaged, shocked, and amused for eight years. But I still don't think it ever would have worked without the perfect man to anchor the role of Tony Soprano.

What Gandolfini was able to bring to Tony was the X factor in spades. I remember back when the show first started, and it was shocking to the media that ladies loved him. He wasn't the Hollywood version of a leading man. He's too old, too bald, too fat, and too goombah-Jersey-dago. But hey, women enjoy bad boys and don't mind going slumming in the suburban wasteland of the east coast sometimes. So the character of Tony had that going for him -- the roguish thug appeal. But Gandolfini brought the charm.

If you'd seen him as the sadistic hitman Virgil Vega in Tony Scott's True Romance, you know he'd be able to bring the goods when it came to explosive violence and threatening malice. But there were flickers, even in that fiendish role, where Gandolfini was able to show glimmers of playfulness.

He's got the cuddly appeal and a winning smile, even if it's not veneered and whitened. And he's so devilishly appealing a potential as a husband/lover exactly because he doesn't get all mooney-eyed saptastic. He's a throwback kinda guy, a man for all seasons, if you will. And it was that guy's guy ease and jokester glimmer that helped him create a smoky aura of dangerous appeal around Tony instead of leaving him a razor-edged beast.

After The Sopranos started its run, Gandolfini became notoriously press-shy. In his few interviews, he's always come off as more educated than Tony, and with a wit that's just as sharp but less cutting. He's gracious and endearing in his manner, often rolling his eyes when his talent is remarked upon and often volleying back a self-effacing comment when heaped with praise.

And yet he's managed to land only a few plumb roles; notably in the Julia Roberts flick, The Mexican. He played, of course, a hitman. The twist, however, was that he was a sweetheart and gay. How daring, the critics noted and reviewed him favorably. Other than that, he got a few roles, mostly playing assholes or bastards. Or, worse, starring opposite Ben Affleck. Because maybe over on the other coast he can be a leading man on a TV show, but I don't think Hollywood is going to gamble on Gandolfini stuffing the seats of the local cineplexes in the bible belt.

I know he's producing a thingy about Ernest Hemingway for HBO. And I hope he'll be able to step out of the heavy typecasting and find some Hollywood success. Aren't we about due for a movie version of "Gilligan's Island" or something where he could be the skipper? Oh, yeah, it's not exactly dignified, but as long as Ben Affleck isn't cast as Gilligan it's not like he hasn't done worse, you know. Can't he start getting some of those cherry roles that Alec Baldwin used to snag now that Al's done with acting?

In the end, it's all a big nothing.

Initial reaction to The Sopranos finale:

What the fuck?! My cable!
Oh.
WHAT THE FUCK!

Don't lie. Your reaction was the same.

8 years for us to learn that Meadow is lousy at parallel parking? You're fucking with me, right, Chase?

After it settled a minute, I was struck by how deeply divisive this seemingly closure-less finale scene would be. There would be those who would proclaim it Great Art and Pure Brilliance. And there would be those who felt cheated and thought it sucked and lacked closure and marred the series. And there would be a third category who felt a little of both.

One thing is certain. This series that was both shotgun shine bright and bad moon dark hadn't capitulated and had closed with an ending every bit as controversial as any of its storylines or characters.

Truly, it wasn't lacking so much closure. The feds are still closing in on Tony, same as always. But he won the battle with Leotardo and they've fallen back into business. Carm's fight is over, she's content being a material girl. AJ has become the master manipulator to carry the torch of Livia, showing both his father's willingness to do what needs done and his mother's ability to shut out the morality and spirituality and be content with living the lush life. Earlier in the episode he lashed out at people for being fucked and living in a dream and went on a disjoined discourse about consumerism and superficiality. But eventually, he happily sinks into that very lifestyle. Meadow's deep river of denial cuts to depths unknown as she unwittingly sticks the knife in her father's heart by telling him she's not a doctor because of seeing him treated unfairly by the justice system so often. They are the quintessential American-made children, with nurture and nature colliding to make them the only people they ever could be.

In the "unresolved" category, Chase did hang Chechov's gun on the wall in the first episode of the season when Bobby gave Tony that massive machine gun/grenade launcher. And in the previous episode, we saw Tony fall asleep cradling it. Of all the mob films that had been referenced and subverted through this series, it definitely conjured images of Tony Montana's "little friend."

But it never got used. Though, fittingly, that final scene couldn't have been more stamped with a DePalma feel unless Chase had actually used a split screen at some juncture. Thankfully, he refrained.

The episode itself, the first one since the premier episode to be both written and directed by David Chase, was filled with hilarious moments:
Paulie and the Christopher cat!
Agent Harris!
Tony using AJ's leggy therapist as a stand-in for Melfi!
Uncle Jun telling Janice that Janice is a lousy kid!
Phil's head getting squished and the puking bystander!
AJ banging a high school girl!
Paulie seeing the Virgin Mary at the Bing!

And there are many potential ways of looking at the ending.
Philosophical -- the angsty existentialism had finally tipped into nihilism
Religious/Literary -- the ninth circle of Dante's inferno had finally, inexorably been reached, with Phil getting sold out and one of Tony's crew flipping on him.
Psychological -- parents fuck us up.
Filmic -- Film school Hitchcockian suspense 101 for the sheer delight of it.
Contemplative -- Uh, did Tony get whacked? What with the replay of his and Bobby's conversation, about how you never see the one that gets you coming, and in the end it's just silence. Livia's repeated refrain of "it's all a big nothing" haunting the final season. The whole series was about Tony, and the sudden quiet and black could signify...
Hopeful -- Who was left to wanna whack Tony? He's fine. Chase is a dick. AJ recalled the first season dinner at Vesuvio by admitting Tony was right when he told him we should "focus on the good stuff."
Redundant -- Does EVERY season have to end with the family sitting down to eat together?

In the end, I guess Chase gave us the only ending that hadn't yet been presented in mob fiction. As the song by Journey says:
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on.

Don't stop

For me? I think those final minutes were a true taste of Tony Soprano's POV. Back when we met him, he was under so much stress he'd pass out from it. We understood on an intellectual level the shit he was dealing with. But that final scene found Tony pretty much back where he'd started the show, only this time, it wasn't a rational presentation of his life. This time, we felt the stress of it. And it was nothing. It was a dinner at an ice cream parlor. But everyone around was suspicious, everyone made us edgy and nervous. What the fuck was Meadow doing? Who was the guy at the counter? Is that a Fed in the trucker hat? Are those kids going to cause trouble? Where the fuck is Meadow? Why is that Members Only guy getting up? It was nearly heart-stopping, the tension. But it's just dinner, man.

It was true to the series, as it followed the previous season's same rhythms. We were poised for a bloodbath, but as usual, the major and shocking violence came in the penultimate episode, with Phil and AJ's SUV being the only victims of graphic injury and death this week.

Uncle Jun got his final say, with Tony trying to jar some of his pride back into place by whispering to him that he used to run the mob in North Jersey. Addle-brained Junior's response? "That's nice."

Tony, he couldn't get out of there and away from Junior quick enough after that.

These final nine episodes were clearly patterned after Dante's Inferno, with Chase & Co. doing a masterful job at locking the various characters, rhythms and plotlines into those sinful themes. Just as the "Made in America" title worked to show non-mob overviews of our societal decay, the mobbed-up implications rang out throught the finale and this entire season to showcase this descent.

Limbo was well represented by the lake house visit, and lust and doomed lovers were handled poetically by Johnny and Ginny Sacrimoni, while Carm got pissy about Tony's dalliances being portrayed on the big screen in Cleaver in episode 2. Circle three of gluttony culminated with Doc Santoro literally reaching over and helping himself to Phil's food, and Phil ends up whacking the guy who reached too far and for too much. Paulie, playing the fool in this episode, he got spared from Tony's suspicions and paranoia after giving T a plate of rigatoni.

In the fourth episode, avarice played a key role when Tony destroyed his only true friendship to Hesh over a money dispute, as Tony was losing his ass at the gambling game. Episode five was all about the sullen and slothful, as AJ sunk into depression and Christopher couldn't deal with Paulie insulting his father-in-law, and he sank into an alcoholic stupor and whacked Tim Daly.

Then, just like in Dante's masterpiece, the shit really started to hit the fan. Episode six was the one where Chris got killed by Tony. That's Dante's circle for heretics and liars. Tony couldn't stomach Chris's deceit over his drug problem any longer, and then Tony had to hide from everyone what he'd done so he jetted off to Vegas. The violently wrathful? The seventh episode is when Tony went ballistic on Coco for insulting Meadow and where AJ tries to kill himself.

In the eighth episode, the frauds and liars come to front, with Phil making a final stand and starting a war with Tony, reasoning that Tony's crew doesn't respect tradition and conduct things in an upright manner. We see Agent Harris tip off Tony, and most damning, we see Melfi, a doctor who's taken an oath, dump Tony in a time of crisis, claiming she can no longer help him. (I guess it's clear where Chase stands on psychiatry. I have to ask, does anyone know -- is he a scientologist??)

Tony's life, sometimes it feels like hell on earth, but as in Dante's Inferno, you have to keep hoping to make it to the next plateau and hit purgatory or eventual paradise.

Pretty clever, really. Same as the final ending scene of the series. Clever. Always clever, this show. Did it leave you with the warm fuzzies? No. Did it leave you despondent? No. It left you feeling the way you always did about it, the way a life in this thing of ours will leave anyone, the way anyone's life, when truly lived, examined or not, will, hopefully, keep them. On the edge.

So I'd like to know. What'd you think? Brilliant of Chase? Or dickheaded bullshit to pull that abrupt shit and actually make us find the meaning of it all in a Journey song? (Fucking Tony and classic rock, paired with his sentimental tendencies. Passing over Tony Bennett and settling on Journey. Perfect.) Was it meant to be artistic? Or as a final "fuck you" to fans who became too enamored with the show? And, mostly, 100 years from now, when we're all dead, will people still be watching this thing?

Porn Star?

Speaking of erotica, my quest to be one of the best (or least one of the most-published) writers of unsavory, filthy fiction had some nice forward progess this week.

I was notified that a story of mine was accepted into Maxim Jakubowski's annual collection Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Vol. 7. The story is "Coyote Blues" and, fitting for this collection, it's actually pretty good. This anthology will be available in Jan 2008. Yay!

Also, a story of mine titled "Afterdeath" can be found in the newly released anthology from Xcite Books, Five Minute Fantasies 2 edited by Cathryn Cooper.

This book should also be available via Amazon shortly.

Alicia Night Orchid

Erotica fans, please meet Alicia Night Orchid. She runs an extremely successful blog and has a large following of fans already. You can check out her work, which includes fiction, essays, and commentary, on her blog and website. You can also get a taste of her fiction in her book Fulfillment and other Stories.

Jane's Guide says Alicia's site is "impressive and hot. Well worth the visit!" And I definitely agree. This week, she's featured me and one my stories. Thanks, Alicia!

Orange Crush

I love this story by Myfanwy Collins!

Snow for Pyros

My house is surrounded by these damn trees that release fuzzy, cotton-like puffs this time of year. Some people call them cottonwood trees, some people tell me they're poplar trees. I don't know the name for them, but they're hell. Seriously. This is my front lawn.


And this shit goes on for about three weeks. It's disgusting and messy and cutting the grass just makes it fly all over the place and stick to you and get in your eyes. Sometimes, if there's a big storm, the rain will knock some of it down and mash in the stuff that's on the grass and there'll be a day of relief before it starts again.

If there's no rain, there is one thing you can do to get rid of the stuff. Burn it.

You have to make sure the grass isn't TOO dry, or else it'll just catch on fire and burn to a crisp along with the cotton. Last year, my neighbor, who's a chemical engineer and a bit of a pyro, torched his entire front yard by miscalculating the moisture on the underlying grass. It was great fun for a few minutes!

I live about two minutes away from the beach here, and that's also surrounded by these bastard trees. So when it's a day without much wind, the bay gets nice and still and the cotton floats on top and congeals together, and that can be lit and you can watch the flame rush across the bay. You're not supposed to do that, as boats can catch fire. But every year some dumb teenager doesn't think about that and ends up burning the bay. I did it with my pals about 20 years ago. I know my nephew is maturing quickly, as he was escorted home in a cop cruiser yesterday with a few of his pals. They'd set the bay on fire. I lectured him sternly, pointed to our neighbor's lawn and told him don't ever try that shit on my lawn.

That'd be taking away my fun.

Bang Bang at The Bada Bing

Oh no! Not Silvio!



Up until his long run on The Sopranos, Steven Van Zandt was best known as a guitarist for Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band. During shows, Bruce would introduce his band mates with special titles, and Steve was often called "the minister of faith and friendship, keeper of all that is righteous." When it comes to The Sopranos, I think the same title could apply to Silvio Dante.

Has there ever been a more dependable, more level-headed, more trustworthy, more loyal consigliere in mob fiction than Sil? Tom Hagen was great and all, but he just didn't have that affectionate, co-conspirator streak for his boss. Silvio's last name is Dante, but he's been more like Virgil, accompanying Tony as they navigate through the myriad layers of this hellish snakepit. But Silvio never reached the 9th circle of traitors.

Last night, when his loyalties were put to the test, Sil never even wavered. He knew a bigger, better, and probably safer deal was waiting for him in New York, and he answered by strangling the mutinous son of a bitch who brought it to his attention. Though I feel the worst for Bobby's children, now left with Janice as their only parent, Sil getting shot just sucks.

The scene itself, however, was a finely-tuned piece that played every note of my nerves like a staccato solo. That was a seriously intense episode, with the suspense mounting the whole way, and when Sil was trying to lamb it out of The Bing and Phil's crew came roaring into the lot, guns blazing at Sil and Patsy Parisi, OH NO! was all I could think. Even in the rain of bullets, Sil turned to grab his gun. Then, of course, the unexpected hilarity of all the strippers and Bing patrons standing there topless and gape-mouthed staring, and even funnier, them scampering out of sight so as not to be seen as witnesses! Then a slow pan of Silvio in the front seat, unconscious and bloodied. And then the poor neon-yellow outfitted motorcycle guy getting squished as collateral damage -- truly ghastly. And the strippers watching that, too!

Truly a sick scene -- and I do mean that in the cool, youth-version of the term sick.

So this is what it's come to for Tony, huh? Alone in the dark on a strange bed with no sheets, holding a shotgun to his chest. His inner circle is destroyed -- Sil probably won't regain consciousness, Christopher is dead and so is Bobby. His trusted therapist and de facto cumare Dr. Melfi has broken up with him, and he's had to remove himself from his wife and children. Exactly what's left for him to fight so hard for now? All that remains is Paulie Gaultieri.

Could it be? Could it possibly be that Paulie ends up top dog in New Jersey when all the dust settles? And how about Patsy Parisi as his partner? Couldn't be coincidental timing that Carm and Tony get quizzed by Charmaine and Artie (I love Artie) about Meadow and her dating Pat Parisi, with Charmaine remarking how it's odd that Patsy is one of Tony's underlings. And we've been left to question Paulie's loyalty all season, and were reminded again last night that he's the cockroach of the Soprano family. He may not be considered "management" by the New York crew, but he has "survived the '70s by the skin of his balls" because he's one tough walnut.

How will Agent Harris play into all this? Sure, he's always had a good rapport with Tony, so it wasn't shocking that he tipped Tony off about the ordered hits. But what is strange is that Harris has all this information even though he's supposedly working the terror detail. Phil Leotardo himself said it last night. There are five families, and the New Jersey gang is just a pygmy outfit. Even more damning, Tony's never done time. Tony's not a big prize, but the Feds have been putting a case together against him, and Harris just buttered him up. Do they want Tony alive merely so they can offer him a deal? As Kupferberg alluded to this episode, sopranos are singers. And Tony has enough dirt on the NY crew to sing an opera.

How about that scene where Dr. Melfi broke up with him? So unprofessional! Such a scream! Her bitchy therapist Kupferberg finally got through to her. But we all know it wasn't in her best interest. His smug satisfaction and jealousy over her prize patient couldn't contain itself. You'd think therapists would be better at masking their true emotions. But he had to commit the cardinal sin of revealing Tony's identity in a crowded room, even while admonishing her for being immoral and unsafe for treating him. And yet -- the peer pressure and humiliation worked. Finally, with a tainted eye, Jen, not Dr. Melfi, but Jen sat in bed and read the paper about treating sociopaths.

And it most surely was Jennifer, not Dr. Melfi, who dumped Tony in session. They've had their spats before, and it's at those times that her professional veneer gets thin and her personal interests become transparent. It wasn't a doctor dismissing a patient, but a woman dismissing a man who'd disappointed her. Pissed off that he'd "defaced her reading material" in the waiting room! Him, clueless about what's really eating her, asking if she was being hostile because he'd made that crack about her being divorced!

And of course, all his righteous indignation and seething was kept to a minimum as he cockily replaced the steak recipe into her defaced "Departures" magazine in the waiting room before leaving. It's not exactly the ending of "Casablanca", but these two star-and-gun-crossed, would-be lovers have finally parted. And it ended with a bigger dose of reality than cinema breakups generally hold, meeting the same fate as most tragic couples do: Neither one is wiser or better for the experience, really. They're just worn out, beat up, and let down from the whole thing.

Also speaking of things that aren't very rewarding, there's AJ. Even though Melfi chastised Tony about his preferred method of parenting, wanting to stick his foot up AJ's ass, by asking him if he was a better man for "having several assorted pairs of wingtips and loafers inserted into his lower bowels" (I'm gonna miss Melfi the most!), AJ tripped Tony's triggers at the wrong time. Tony basically pleaded for AJ to grow up and be responsible for a short time, but AJ was stuck in his terror-minded, selfish myopia and made his Uncle Bobby's death and his father's potential murder all about his own depression and inability to "maintain", and so Tony gave in and finally dragged him out of bed and screamed at him to pack his bags.

Frankly? I thought it was long overdue. Though wingtips being forcefully inserted up my lower bowels weren't the most happy experiences of my life, I needed it at times.

I was happy to see Rosalee Aprile at least one last time. She's Carmela's Silvio. Even though she's been through the shit, with a dead husband, murdered son, and then "gone missing" boyfriend, she, unlike AJ, has been able to "maintain" and also stick by Carm's side no matter what. Is she a reflection of Carm's future? No longer the queen of the family, but no longer encumbered by those trappings, either. Free and breezy to enjoy a trip to Paris without being haunted by visions of dead friends?

Phil Leotardo, he's gone into hiding, same as Tony. However, there are glaring differences between their situations. Phil is still insulated and safe. His crew was given orders and so far, they've been successful. Meanwhile, Tony's "glorified crew" from New Jersey has bungled their jobs and paid the price. Paulie accepts responsibility, but in the end, does that really matter?

Tony is left to fight for his life -- and not much else. His family is destroyed, his friends have either forsaken him or are dead, there's no one left to keep the faith, and is what he's fighting for all that righteous anymore?

There's a saying that comes from the opera -- It's not over until the fat lady sings. Well, right now, on this show, she's backstage, clearing her throat. Or is possibly a fat man named Soprano, laying on a bed, holding a shotgun, who's getting ready to belt one out before the curtain falls?

Well. Shit.

The Sopranos took a week off, Idol is finished, Ocean's Thirteen isn't released yet, and I haven't seen Pirates. So I don't have much to say this week. Sorry.