Nic Doubles Down

I love Nicolas Cage. Don't try to give me shit about it, either. He had my heart with Valley Girl, and then he cemented the deal with Moonstruck. But leave it to him, my ultimate movie star boyfriend, to stake his claim as The King of the Strip with his one-two knockout punch Vegas movies.

In 1992's Honeymoon in Vegas, as loveable lug Jack Singer, Nic goes against his mother's dying wish and hesitantly decides to whisk his girlfriend Betsy off to Vegas to get hitched. Betsy, played by the gorgeous Sarah Jessica Parker, however, becomes the ultimate chip in a poker game gone bad when Jack loses, while holding a straight flush, to gangster Tommy Corman, played by James Caan.


In his sharkskin suits, Caan once again capitalizes on his Sonny Corleone legend as the tough guy mobster who negotiates payment of Jack's debt by having Jack lend him Betsy for the weekend. What the fuck more do you want from a Vegas movie? Bad beats, pimping out of girlfriends, mobsters, a side-trip to Hawaii, SJP in showgirl getup, and desperate, zany Nic as a skydiving Elvis.


Cage is at his best when he's in desperate-manic mode. (see also Vampire's Kiss) And this movie keeps the momentum going from start to finish. It's set in Bally's, which is a rather middle-of-the-road joint, but there are shots of Sarah poolside (back when she had a banging bod before getting too skinny) and Caan with orange hair and a still-young Nic racing around the joint to reclaim his bride-to-be to up the eye-candy quotient.

I can't say this is the funniest movie. In fact, it strikes me as though it should be funnier with the gags writer/director Andrew Bergman sets up. Most of them don't exactly fall flat, but they aren't hit with the right buttons to make them pop for full effect, either. And yet, it's still an enjoyable film with enough comedy capers to highlight the whirlwind and jubilant side of a Vegas love affair.

In stark contrast, just three years later in 1995, comes the profoundly depressing tragic love affair of Leaving Las Vegas, where alcoholic Ben meets a hooker who loves him. If Honeymoon was the quintessential "starting a new life" and Vegas wedding pic, Leaving is the death throes of a life gone wrong, where even true, unconditional love can't stop the inexorable decay into doom.


To say that this movie is the underbelly of Vegas is an overwhelming understatement, but Vegas really is just a metaphor here for the overarching loss and despair, despite the hope and opportunity that floats amongst the alcohol-soaked protagonist, of Ben Sanderson.

Written by John O'Brien, who took his own life as filming on this movie began, it's often seen as the pinnacle, tour-de-force performance of Nic's career, and it deservingly won him the Oscar. However, though often difficult to stomach with its intense depressing nature, O'Brien really does deserve credit for creating not just such a riveting love story, but also a carefully nuanced theme within a very simple plot that buoys this movie beyond the sometimes shocking and unsettling subject matter. This is saying a lot, because Julian Sands gets an above the title credit here, and you know that most any movie he stars in is an automatic B-movie. And at it's heart, this is a B-movie, but done well enough, largely thanks to the two leads, that it manages to outshine itself.

The hooker Ben meets, played by Elisabeth Shue in an astonishingly sweet and sorrowful performance, is named Sera, which is very fitting, because she turns out to be his guardian angel. And though she's a hooker, or probably because she is, Sera and Ben never sexually consummate their relationship until the eerie denouement. Instead, their connection is something much more needy, a connection based upon two lost souls finding a home in each other.


As their scenes on the strip together play out, the lights shimmer around them, and it's hard to imagine any couple ever giving off more sparks. Shue, here, is the perfect mix of slinky clothes and aching bravery in a delicate shell. And then there's Cage. Already, he was showing signs of bearing a passing resemblance to Andy Kaufman, and yet his sleepy eyes and crooked smile capture every calibration between cocky and lovesick. When he grabs her suddenly and inappropriately in the Gold Coast casino and backs her into a slot machine to make out with her, there's more passion in that one, brief kiss than in a hundred sex scenes from modern cinema.

Director Mike Figgis follows the stark and spare theme by making the most of what he's got. Not just Shue and Cage, but also the repeating refrains of the haunting soundtrack. Don Henley's version of the Johnny Mercer's "Come Rain or Come Shine" is a song that encapsulates the unconditional love that Sera shovels Ben's way and it repeats appropriately. Meanwhile, Sting enters two other classics, "Angel Eyes" and "My One and Only Love" -- the combination of which, we would hope, would be enough to pull Ben from his quicksand, drinking death trip. But they aren't.

Early in the film, Ben tells Sera that he moved to Vegas because the bars are always open, so much the easier to kill himself that way. And though it's known and loved as a party town, an elopement paradise, and a wild free-for-all, Vegas does have its price. There is a wicked and lonely feel to the city when off the strip and down on your luck, a nearly depraved and debasing indulgence that doesn't just permit, but encourages self-destruction, much like that alcohol that Ben chooses as his suicide weapon.

There is nothing subtle about Nic's performance here, though it is sly and Cagey. Between embarrassing DTs and wobbling black outs, he swings moodily from captivating and soulful to painfully cavalier and sometimes cruel. Even his hands here are hauntingly expressive, his long fingers moving with an almost dreamlike quality.

Vegas is manic. And Nicolas Cage has captured both the absurdly funny and absurdly tragic in the bright lights and dark corners of the city, which makes him my reigning movie star of the Strip. Here's some lights for you, Nic.

Chevy Chases the Dream, Bugsy shoots for the stars

Mmkay. Before I unleash my very top picks for Vegas flicks, I wanna do a round up of the rest out there.

In 1997, the Bellagio was still a year from opening its doors, and that meant that The Mirage was still the crown jewel in the Wynn empire, and Vegas was at the zenith of the family-friendly madness. In other words, it was the perfect setting for the Griswold family and their hijinks.


Vegas Vacation has pretty much every cliche, and that's what makes it so funny. Chevy Chase is the affable dad who gets the fever and goes off the rails and gambles away his family's savings, while his wife canoodles with Wayne Newton and his daughter becomes an exotic dancer and his son experiences the life of a high roller. It's some of the smaller touches that make this movie so funny, like when the family is having a relaxed breakfast and Chevy has to sneak away for a few minutes to secretly gamble, or, best, when he's huddled at the ATM, crazy-eyed, and the money starts pouring out as "All Along the Watchtower" thumps as the soundtrack. This movie captures the Mirage beautifully, the only detail missing is the unmistakable smell of pina colada as you enter the casino. But they even have Siegfried and Roy and their tigers prominently fixed into the plot. Ahh, better days.

When it comes to gambling fever, no one got a more fatal case than Julie Hagerty in Albert Brooks' hilarious Lost in America. It's 1985 and after Albert quits/gets fired, he decides to take his wife on the road a la Easy Rider, only in a Winnebago. But they make a hilarious and costly stop at the once brilliant Desert Inn where his wife gambles away all their money. Best? He then asks the casino for it back!

Barry Levinson took his second trip to Vegas in 1991 for the bio pic Bugsy. Unquestionably, Ben "Bugsy" Siegel was one of the most important architects of modern Las Vegas. Contrary to popular belief, he did not build the first hotel or casino in the desert. But what he did do with the Flamingo was bring it to levels previously unheard of which was the blueprint for what would come. He didn't see Vegas as a place for dusty gambling halls. His love for glamour made him want to make Vegas a sort of Hollywood-East, and his Flamingo would be the epicenter of luxury.


So if 40's Hollywood glamour is your game, Bugsy is your picture. Warren Beatty and Annette Bening look like they were created for this wardrobe and movie. And yet, like Vegas, all the glitz was covering some truly ugly aspects. Violent and nasty, both Bugsy and Virginia Hill were an awful lot to take, and this movie doesn't gloss over their despicable traits.

Levinson is a master filmmaker, and this picture is no exception -- character and plot twine together to make this movie riveting, and it's stamped with his classy touches even while the blood flows. And yet, Levinson has always had a touch of romantic and melancholy in his work, which is generally something I really like. But I guess maybe there's a gentleness about his films in general that puts this one at odds and somehow the pieces don't fit exactly right. It's hard to describe, really. But it's kind of like he and Scorsese crossed movies in this period. Scorsese was making the lovingly detailed "Age of Innocence" while Levinson was doing this period piece. And it was refreshing to see both men step outside their box, and the different perspectives brought something different to each film. And yet, it just doesn't feel exactly right. Kind of like fake tits. They're eye catching and you appreciate the effort, but they'll still never be authentic.

Top Twenty-Four

So the top twenty-four have been picked for this year's American Idol. I had to stop watching the audition rounds because the repetition got to me. But I picked it up again for Hollywood week and was surprised at how much I liked it, and how much I liked so many of the people. It already seemed a lot better than last year's crop. Favorites so far? Asia'h! Loved her. Of course Michael Johns is hot, and of course he's a ringer, along with the Irish girl. I think both of them have had record deals already. But we'll see. I loved both the Davids -- Archuletta and Hernandez. And that curly haired blonde girl, Brooke, I think is her name? I liked her a lot. So I'm all in for it next week!

Mammoth Happy

This year's edition of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica (vol. 7) is now available. Again, it's edited by the great Maxim Jakubowski, and, again, he shows his wonderful taste. I was lucky enough to have one of my stories placed in it this year, along with some wonderful work by the always great Donna George Storey, Tara Alton, Gwen Masters, Susannah Indigo, and MANY stars of the erotica field.

Yo Eleven!

Vegas is a town of gambling, and if you're at a rockin' craps table, or even just passing through the casino when a hot roller is on the tables, it's inevitable that you'll hear "Yo Eleven" at least a few times. The Yo! is a one-roll wager that the next toss of the dice will result in an eleven. It pays high, at fourteen-for-one, but that's because it carries a huge house edge of, appropriately, 11%. Yo or, the redundant Yo-eleven, is also what the stickman calls when the eleven is rolled, and, even if no Yo bets are placed, an eleven still wins even money for players on the pass line for come out rolls. So if you happen to hit on a hot table, there's gonna be plenty of YOs being shouted, and plenty of chips flying.

Which is all to say that, in gambling, eleven is a good number. Long odds, but high payouts.

Talk about long odds, the original Ocean's Eleven script was written by a fellow named Jack Golden Russell who was a gas station attendant in Vegas. He managed to hand off the script to Frank Sinatra while he was filling up his tank. From there, the payouts skyrocketed. The quintessential Rat Pack movie, Ocean's Eleven gave Frank, Dean, and Sammy, along with Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford, the perfect excuse to cat around Vegas while performing nightly shows and then having the Hollywood studio pay the tab for all the rest.


It's a solid heist premise, with much of the banter between Sintara's Danny Ocean and the rest of the gang being ad-libbed. Hot Angie Dickinson drifts in and out between the buddy banter, and even Shirley MacLaine gets to steal the spotlight for a moment with her deanish drunken quip. As for Deano, it could be considered a real drawback to the flick that he's the only one who sings, but lucky for us both his numbers are the same one, and it's his highly tolerable "Ain't That a Kick in the Head."

The Vegas captured in this film is now so long gone that this movie still reigns supreme as the hallmark of the Rat Pack halcyon days, and it has plenty of inside jokes. It was 1960 and in the final shot, as you see the would-be thieves walking down the strip at the end of the movie, the grand marquee of the Sands behind them lists Frank, Sammy, Dean, Joey and Peter as the entertainment. The slot machines all pay out in coin, and everyone looked dapper. It's not the best movie ever made, but it is a breezy and boozy throwback bit of fun with the biggest stars to ever shine in Vegas.

If you're a timid gambler, or a sober one, or even a smart one, once you place your Yo! bet, if it actually hits, you're probably going to shout and then take your money and go. Because it takes an awful lot of balls to turn around and place that winning cash back on that same longshot bet. So forty years later, the biggest star in Hollywood decides he's going to press his luck and parlay his stardom with a caper movie. He gathers together a new gang with box-office clout and they throw their chips on the table. And oh man, do they ever come up winners.


In 2000, the Bellagio was truly one of the most beautiful hotel-casinos in the world. Lovingly detailed and crafted by Steve Wynn for his wife as a remembrance of their honeymoon in Bellagio, Italy, it's an embarrassment of riches. With its flowers and fountains and creamy colors and gold lighting, it's a virtual paradise for taking already preternaturally beautiful people and making them look like timeless icons. And that's exactly what happens. Clooney, Pitt, Damon, Garcia and Roberts light up the screen and Vegas with their soft-peddled shenanigans.

The script gets an updated overhaul which truly improves it. Not just the techno-flash of the caper to match our new age, but the better structuring of interlocking romance-heist angle, along with characters who are better defined this go-round, too. They manage to keep the breezy tone, so breezy, in fact, that the plot holes just don't even seem to register until a second or third viewing. Mostly, this is because the original Ocean's was a good time for the cast. But this remake is a good time for the viewers. It's obvious they had a ball making it, and no one brings that across more than the villainous Andy Garcia. Oh yeah, he's the bad guy, but you can see it in his angry, arrogant swagger and calm-yet-festering looks -- he's also having the time of his life.

Of the male leads, Matt Damon is the only one already with an Oscar in his pocket, but he's third banana and yet he manages to create a believable innocent thief. Brad Pitt, never one of my favorites, fills the Deano gap and is also highly tolerable as he eats his way through the movie in loud shirts. Julia looks still-stunning in the Bellagio, wearing that beaded dress with all casual class. The only nitpick is that this is the type of movie that should've cemented her as an elegant vision, and yet, when she walks, she's not. She rolls and lolls, and although she's a skinny girl, she rather looks like a fucking cow, and she's forced to be the Debbie Downer instead of showcasing her showstopping smile.

But all that barely matters, because she is there, and under her character's cold exterior, she's still Julia. But even her beauty gets eclipsed by Clooney's. Before this movie, I thought he'd hit the zenith with his looks back in 1996 in From Dusk Till Dawn. (Seriously Clooney-philes, it's must-see.) But oh holy shit does he manage to sizzle in those tailored suits. And the tux? The DVD is worth it alone for that. I swear, when he and Garcia are onscreen together, it's almost as though handsomeness is about approach critical mass and make the screen (or something) explode. It's pornographic.

It's also one of the best glimpses of the then-remarkable Bellagio. Like movie stars, Vegas properties tend to have a lifespan, and Bellagio has now passed its prime. Steven Soderbergh has always been a director who's acutely attuned to colors in his films, and he knows how to use them to accentuate character and mood. Here, the blue of the lake is almost dreamlike, and the golden tones throughout can make you want to remark, "They just don't make pictures like that anymore."

But they do make them. They made one, and then they remade it. And just like parlaying a Yo bet, or stacking star on top of star, that second one came up an even bigger winner.

The Erotic Woman

The Erotic Woman has posted an excerpt from my book, 24/7. It's a really steamy one, and the picture they found to go with it is perfect. So if you're curious, do check it out, and do surf the rest of their funky site, you might enjoy it. The best? It's so nsfw.

Don & Donna

Donna George Storey has posted a wonderfully thoughtful review of Donald Capone's wonderfully funny debut novel Into the Sunset on her blog.

The Whore's Whisperer

I love Robert Redford. He's a cool guy. I don't think we need an enumerated list to explain why I think he's cool, either. Suffice to say that although neither of his Vegas movies really make my tops list -- in fact, I think one of them is a turd -- he still gets special mention in the pantheon of best Vegas movies because he's such an unlikely leading man for Las Vegas adventures. And it's exactly those distasteful veins that he taps into for each role. Instead of glorifying the city, which would be anathema for him, he brings across the disdain. And yet, that's the beauty of Redford -- it's still done with flair of wit and rapscallion charm.

So it's 1979 and Sydney Pollack decides to make a movie about the beauty of the unspoiled west. A cowboy movie infused with a natural romance. Hmm. Where to start? Las Vegas, of course! He gets two movie stars at the height of their fame and has Hanoi Jane and the Sundance Kid spar along the strip and appropriately calls it The Electric Horseman.

Redford rocks the purple satin, bedazzled with green sequins for accent, as the Electric Horseman, Sonny Steele. (<--great porn name)


Sonny's a hard-boozing, ex rodeo champ who's been outposted to do time as a breakfast cereal spokesman, and he's sent to Vegas, along with a $12 million dollar champion horse, to pitch the stuff. All of this is distasteful enough for Sonny, but when he sees that the once dignified horse is being doped, he gets his shit together and steals it. Which results in this scene, of the Sundance Kid riding down the strip in full, flashing getup.


Unexpected highlight of the movie? Redford, as Sonny Steele, actually slaps Jane Fonda's Hallie across the face at one point! That's the kind of shit that went the way of mob-rule in Vegas. By the mid-80's, it just wasn't done anymore, at least not publicly.

Once Sonny gets off the strip and into Utah, Pollack captures some beautiful scenery to really make this a laid-back western. But until then? It's set in Caesars Palace, which isn't all that different looking from the 1988 Caesars Palace, which still bears a striking resemblance, in places, to the 2007 Caesars Palace. But the wallpaper in the rooms is funkier than George Clinton, and Sonny's tricked-out ride down the strip features a Vegas that's completely gone today.

Fourteen years later, Redford gets tricked-out once again, but in a much more literal way. In Indecent Proposal, his character, appropriately named John, takes an even more expensive ride on a thoroughbred when he mounts top earning Hollywood female Demi Moore (12.5 million for her highest paying gig, I believe, therefore edging out the racehorse) for the American's Top Hooker price tag of a million bucks.


He also tries to steal this bucking babe away from her husband, played by Woody Harrelson, but instead of setting her free in Utah, she runs back to Woody by picture's end. This is the second unsuccessful theft in this film, as the first occurs when sex-obsessed director Adrian Lyne rips off the comic premise of Honeymoon in Vegas and turns it to a fucking dirge. None of this is the fault of writer Jack Engelhard, on whose novel the movie is supposedly based, and who published his book long before Honeymoon. However, he sure didn't help matters, either. Also, it should be noted that I have nothing against the sex-obsessed, I just think Adrian Lyne kinda sucks.

On the upside, Lyne is sex-obsessed, and Demi Moore is unabashedly uninhibited, so we get some skin shots, which is nothing to scoff at. In 1993, Moore was one of the sexiest and most beautiful women in the world, and it's a pleasure to watch her move onscreen. On the downside, Moore was also one of the most beautifully awful actresses in Hollywood, so watching her trying to act can be downright wince-worthy.

But there is also Redford. Casually flipping his chips, seated at a high-limit baccarat table beneath the crystal chandeliers in the Hilton Las Vegas casino. He inspired me to lean that trick. By most people's standards, the Hilton is a fairly unremarkable casino, because it has no theme. It's a just a casino, which is precisely what makes it pretty cool. I owe this movie a debt of gratitude, because I only stopped in to check the place out because of the movie being filmed. And because of that, I discovered the greatest cocktail ever created. The Warp Core Breach. It's not even mentioned in the movie, and in fact, the bar (Quark's) isn't mentioned, either. But this drink, it's legendary. So for that, I'm grateful.

Despite this movie's many shortcomings (no pun intended), it is worthwhile to see the elegance of Redford, and sexiness of Moore's lips as she kisses the dice and then puts on the infamous dress, and to get a glimpse of Vegas that's not theme-park mania.

We all know Redford prefers the peace and natural dignity of Utah. But put him in a suit in the middle of Vegas and he still manages to light up the screen and outshine all the artificial glitter.

The Liar's Diary by Patry Francis

Patry Francis is a talented author whose debut novel, The Liar’s Diary, came out in hardcover from Dutton last spring. The trade paperback release is today, but a few weeks ago, Patry was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. She's had several surgeries, and her prognosis is good, but given that Patry won't have much energy for promoting, a number of bloggers are banding together to do it for her.

The Liar’s Diary is now available in paperback right here: purchase page on Amazon.

Also, please be sure to stop by Patry's website. Congrats, Patry!

About The Liar's Diary:

Answering the question of what is more powerful—family or friendship? this debut novel unforgettably shows how far one woman would go to protect either.

They couldn’t be more different, but they form a friendship that will alter both their fates. When Ali Mather blows into town, breaking all the rules and breaking hearts (despite the fact that she is pushing forty), she also makes a mark on an unlikely family. Almost against her will, Jeanne Cross feels drawn to this strangely vibrant woman, a fascination that begins to infect Jeanne’s “perfect” husband as well as their teenaged son.

At the heart of the friendship between Ali and Jeanne are deep-seated emotional needs, vulnerabilities they have each been recording in their diaries. Ali also senses another kind of vulnerability; she believes someone has been entering her house when she is not at home—and not with the usual intentions. What this burglar wants is nothing less than a piece of Ali’s soul.

When a murderer strikes and Jeanne’s son is arrested, we learn that the key to the crime lies in the diaries of two very different women . . . but only one of them is telling the truth. A chilling tour of troubled minds, The Liar’s Diary signals the launch of an immensely talented new novelist who knows just how to keep her readers guessing.

The Liar's Diary on Amazon

The Cooler couldn't be Hotter

The Cooler isn't just one of my favorite Vegas movies. It's one of my all-time favorite movies. The only reason this flick doesn't rank as the ultimate Vegas movie is because, although it's supposedly set in Vegas, it wasn't filmed there.



William H. Macy, an actor who specializes in losers, hits the jackpot of loserdom with this role. He plays Bernie Lootz, a guy so riddled with bad fortune that he's employed as a "cooler" at an old-school Las Vegas casino, run by his longtime friend, Shelly, played by Alec Baldwin. All Bernie has to do is show up on the scene and hot tables go cold, saving the casino a fortune. The problem is, when Bernie falls in love with beautiful Maria Bello's character, Natalie, suddenly Lady Luck is on his side, which drives Shelly crazy.

Written by Frank Hannah and Wayne Kramer and directed by Wayne Kramer, The Cooler is quite possibly the only noir fairy tale ever filmed. It's a risky cross-genre that really shouldn't work, but it does. It's moody and dark in all the right places and then effortlessly leaps into unlikely, gushing joy. And it's that duality that so perfectly captures both sides of the coin of love, and Vegas.

This is a smaller picture, not a multi-million dollar extravaganza. And what can make or break a little picture like this is the details. And the details here are so impeccably -- even lovingly -- translated, that it takes this movie to a different level where it does what so few pictures do. It marries the best of film and movies. It's highly entertaining, but it's also smart about it. The soundtrack alternates from tender and haunting with Diana Krall to raucous and swinging with an often overlooked Lerner & Lowe classic. The visual appeal of the movie is undeniable, even without a realistic Vegas backdrop. Here, the costuming stands symbolically in place, from Bello's watery greens to Macy's hot and cool suits. There are interweaving storylines, none of which get cluttered or overplayed; they just twine together and culminate perfectly.

It's a true testament to the excellence of this movie that it really does capture the essence of Vegas while not even being there. It was filmed in a real casino, which helps with the ambience. And it's the perfect casino for the story they're telling, but it's one that just doesn't quite really exist in Vegas, either. But, instead of being a drawback, it only adds to the fairy tale quality of the picture with it's slightly enchanted unreality.

Macy has never been better, and Bello is fantastic. Ron Livingston gives a solid performance. And of course, there's the great Alec Baldwin, and this is one of his greatest film roles.

Visually, Vegas may be missing as a character. But they still managed to capture all the heartbreak and romance of the city and translate it into one cohesive narrative.

The entire concept of this movie was a gamble -- to mix such distinct genres, and put it all in the hands of a loser as a leading man. But that's Vegas for you. Sometimes the most unlikely bets payoff huge. And that's what makes this movie a winner.

A lotta holes in that desert

Martin Scorsese's Casino is often thought of as an inferior bookend to his masterpiece, Goodfellas. The same actors inhabit the screen, but Joe Pesci captured audience and critical attention with his psycho role in as a mobster in Goodfellas and left them wanting more. But when he sank back into the snarling, viciously violent bulldog-bad guy genre this time around, it gave a lot of people way too much. In other words, guns and butcher knives are acceptable murder devices. But using a vise for torture is just, finally, going too far.

It's a shame that this movie is given such short shrift because of its similarities to the impeccable Goodfellas, because Casino, is, in its own right, a damn good movie. Brilliant, in fact. Scorsese is a master in every sense. He marries character to plot and has an unflinching eye for not only the most repulsive aspects of our species, but also a generally unheralded talent for capturing brief-if-startling beauty. And his skills were able to fully present, in all its vainglorious aplomb, a Las Vegas that had already been destroyed. He understood that there was the thinnest patina of faux-class that made the city so appealing.

Back in the '70's the city was exactly like Sharon Stone's character, Ginger. It was dressed up, glitzed out, and entirely tempting. But underneath, at the core, Ginger -- and Las Vegas -- is still a greedy hooker-hustler. From the start, it was set for a collision course, with the very people who creat it. Like a snake shedding its skin (albeit a sequin festooned one this case) and eating its own tail, Vegas has an uncanny ability to slough off the dead components to keep itself alive. It's a process that repeats as the city ages, with different names filling in the blanks to catalogue the rise and fall of fortunes and all the different skins left behind. Bugsy Siegel, Howard Hughes, Frank Rosenthal, Kirk Kerkorian, Steve Wynn. The details of the story change with each decade, and the setting reinvents itself in every incarnation. But at the heart of it, there's always romance, and heartbreak, and all that greed.

Scorsese tells the story of the mob rise and fall in Vegas through the fictional Tangiers, with Sam "Ace" Rothstein (Robert DeNiro) as the epicenter and architect of its success with mobster Nicky Santoro (Joe Pesci) as his would-be protector and the dame, Ginger, (Sharon Stone) who comes between them to help bring it all crashing down.


This is the last time, at least to date, that Robert DeNiro will be Scorsese's leading man, before the director turns his eye to Leonardo DiCaprio. It's also a film where Sharon Stone earns props more for her acting than for her body.

Filmed at the Riviera in the wee hours, Scorsese manages to do more than just capture the retro-feel of the '70s. He brings it to life. The Riviera is still an old-school establishment (make what you will of that statement) and its design reflects that. Though the Tangiers is fictional and the names are changed, the story is based on the life of Lefty Rosenthal, one of the most talented handicappers in history, and his co-hort, one of the most feared Vegas mobsters in history, Tony "The Ant" Spilotro, and the legend of the Stardust Casino.

By very definition, the material demands that the movie be both more gaudy and intricate than Goodfellas. Therefore, if Goodfellas is the renaissance masterpiece, Casino has no alternative but to tip into the baroque. And baroque it is. The sets, costumes, and violence escalate to nearly unbelievable heights, but that's precisely what stamps it as so authentic. What may appear outlandish can easily be traced by recent historical documents and verified to actually be true. Which is to say -- the infamous vise scene? It's not a construct of Scorsese's. It happened. The timing and confluence of events and certain characters are jiggered with to smooth the overall story. But the details are, frighteningly, real.

I think that's a part of the movie that dooms it even with plenty of Vegas aficionados. We like to swipe a veneer of romance across the past; people often talk about the old days before the classy call girl got turned into the cheap whore. But few of those people really want to think about the bloodshed that kept the machinery oiled back then.

When this film was released, in 1995, Vegas was mired in the grotesque throes of the family-friendly era. So while old-timers were lamenting the theme-parks sprouting up, this movie was an adrenaline shot back to the by-gone era of pure gambling and lights, but it failed to render the scene as dignified as some would like. Instead, it captures the whole story in all its panoramic excess. It doesn't just celebrate the shiny, sequined skin of the fresh snake, it shows us the terrible personal clashes that cause the skin to wither and die, and depicts the shedding in unrelenting detail. And that's exactly what makes it so breathtakingly, poignantly, and disturbingly Vegas.

Starlings

Check out William Reese Hamilton's "Starlings" live now at the Adirondack Review.

Simon, stalkers, and satire

The audition rounds of American Idol have begun. Traditionally, this is when we sit back and laugh at the idiots. Usually, this is an uncomfortable and guilty program, because we're sitting back and getting our jollies from people being humiliated because they're clueless in their idiocy.

But this year, there's already been a twist. Certainly, there have been bad singers and people so over-the-top with lunacy that I had to wonder if it was just an act for the cameras. But the funniest came when The Stalker Guy came into the room and was so obviously making a joke. He focused on Paula and cheerily sang her a song about breaking into her house and trying on her panties. Sound creepy?

Not so much.

Not since Adam Sandler rhymed "pumpkin pie" with "Sammy Davis Jr. only had one eye" in the Thanksgiving song has the nation been treated to such silly American songwriting. Given my love of "Flight of the Conchords," maybe I'm inclined to laugh at mock-songery. But although The Stalker Guy didn't posses the musical ability of Brent and Jemaine, he did have the same refreshing air of willingness to look foolish courage.

Rhyming everything he could with "stalk her," once he pulled out the "If I was Columbo, I'd Peter Falk her" line, I cracked up. But then, what made it even funnier is that it seemed like even Paula got the humor of it, until daft-ass Simon stopped the song and dourly called the guy creepy. If he didn't think it was funny, I could maybe get that. (but really, Peter Falk her? It's absurdly funny.) What was hilarious to me, though, is that Simon seemed to really think the guy wasn't even trying to make a joke. Simon seemed to think he was generally unhinged like so many of the others that they encourage to go off their meds and debase themselves.

And that's the funniest fucking part. It's American Idol, Cowell, not a freaking NATO summit. The guy was having a laugh, and if Cowell could've pulled his brush-topped head out of his self-important ass for a minute, he might've seen that. But that is the point of the awful audtions rounds, isn't it -- to laugh at people who're so damn clueless. Ahh, good times. These are good times, and Simon could be Jimmie Walker!

Bet Two for Good

To say that the Vegas scenes in this next movie had some influence on my life is like saying that Steve Wynn had some influence upon the Vegas skyline. Like Swingers, this isn't really a full-fledged Vegas flick, with the scenes taking up about twenty minutes of the film's time. However, in that twenty minutes, they manage to squeeze in the most recognizable symbols of Vegas that still remain today. There are lights, a pawning of a watch, blackjack, a swank suite, a hooker, and even some some elevator romance.

Set in 1988 Caesars Palace, Rain Man is quite possibly the definitive and final film representation of the city before it underwent the massive Wynnian reconfiguration. Barry Levinson's road-trip tale of brothers forming a connection seems at first an unlikely candidate to so effectively capture the zeitgeist of the city as it breathed its last few intermittent breaths before the desert got reconfigured into blazing corporate monolithic glory. And yet, given Levinson's great talent for character, I guess it's not shocking that he so effectively captured the character of the city at this strange time.

The Thetan and Dustin Hoffman dance before the skyline as Etta James sings "At Last," as the last of old-school Vegas glitters outside, amidst the sand. The only other large building is the legendary Sands, sitting kitty-corner from their vantage point. Next door, the Mirage hasn't yet been built, but it will open to the public just one year later. They're on the seventh floor of Caesars, and yet the rest of the lights seem dwarfed by today's standards. At that time, the strip beyond them was still one bright vein of neon nestled, so unlikely, in the dark of the desert.


The swank suite they're dancing in was once the quintessential high-roller style, but would now be not even be condiered retro-chic but just plain low-class, lacking in amenities and comforts. With its gilded doors and metallic wallpaper, it still had the '70s wiseguy-guache-chic vibe working for it. In Swingers, Vince Vaughn tells his buddy as they're driving to Vegas, "They're gonna put us in the Rain Man suite!" He didn't have any luck, and in all my years there, neither have I. It's officially called the Ann Margaret suite, located in the Roman Tower, which used to be illuminated by the soft green neon lines from top to bottom. But like most everything else in Vegas, I've been told that's it's been highly remodeled and modernized and bears almost no resemblance to how it looked then.

Gone also from Caesars is the blackjack pit where the Babbitts immortalized card-counting. It's now the site of the Pussycat Dolls casino. Gone too are most of the moving walkways and the enigmatic black golf-ball looking thing that was a signature part of the structure. The entrance where Raymond drove so excellently amongst the gaudy fountains has been scrapped and re-built. Entirely gone are the days where someone would feel it necessary to get a haircut and smart suit before sitting down at the tables.

But, blessedly, some of the corners and highlights remain. See below, Cleopatra and Caesar behind Thetan and Hoffman, watching the action? They're still there.


See all those chips piled up in front of them? If you know what you're doing, you can still make those appear, too. (Contrary to what the film says, it's not an illegal activity to count. Just, uh, discouraged.) The bar where Raymond meets the hooker is Cleopatra's Barge, and it remains almost exactly as it was in the film, which somehow increases the romantic melancholy. There are still a few, very few, nostalgic nooks and remnant corners of older Vegas still alive, but most are just strange anachronisms lost in so much chaotic preening and catering to the cult of "new, big, bright." Some chunks may just be slaves to design -- nearly impossible to remodel because of unworkable locations. But some parts left unchanged are a calculated gamble, based most certainly on revenues and not sentimentality.

Those throwback centerpieces, like that vaulted, gold-lighted casino behind Cleopatra's Barge, have been around for over forty years. They may be unlikely candidates, but they've stood the sands of time and make that connection, fusing the old-school swank with the new gaudy-luxury. And being able to see them on beautiful pieces of film, seeming timeless and now iconic is what makes leaving them untouched such a good bet.

No Reservations, No Writing

As a writer and a reader, I deeply respect Anthony Bourdain.


In other words, he can turn a phrase, crack a joke, and tell a story with the best of them. At times, he has a penchant for overblown vocabulary and indulgent poetic passages. But hey, he's a writer, don't we all? The thing about those words and passages is this: It gives him even more credibility with a lot of people. Why we do that as a society, I don't know, but for some reason, we're much more eager to laugh at someone being rough and crude when we know they also possess the ability to fabricate the appearance of also being urbane and educated. (certainly, these things are not mutually exclusive) Like, they're so high-fuckin-falutin, but they chose to go the lowdown route because it's just more real, man. And Bourdain is a master of leveraging and then cashing in on that credibility and cache.

Again, I'm not taking anything away from him. I not only respect his writing, I think he's possibly underrated as a writer. (If you haven't read Kitchen Confidential, you'll probably enjoy it, even if you're not a foodie or in the food biz, thanks to his writing talent and panache.) But he's also undeniably quite clever in his pursuit of money and stardom. He wields the double edged boning knife of celebrity chefdom with the dexterity one would expect from a French master chiffonading his parsley to both brutally slice through other chefs and gently eviscerate himself upon the edge of funny self-effacement, which serves to make him even more triumphant in his ascendant fame. Again, if you know me at all, you know these are traits I respect. Just because I can see the machinery working doesn't mean I have disdain for it; sometimes it makes me respect it even more.

All of these wonderfully entertaining earmarks of his are on full display in his latest blog entry. Go ahead, read it. The offhanded (deserved) insult to Guy Fieri's hair, the jokes about his own declining appearance, and the wholly well-written and entertaining piece that's both a controlled rant and informative-to-the-public volley back at Scripps.

What really cracks me up about the entry is that last night, I watched the season premier of No Reservations and was considering blogging about it before I read that entry. And I most definitely was going to crack a few jokes about how the smokes and booze are rapidly catching up with ole Tony. There were two things that astounded me last night on TV with their unexpected puffiness: Tony's face, and Bruno's package. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Overall, Bourdain's most recent trip to Singapore already played like vintage Bourdain -- except that the fishing trip was successful. (that was probably attributable to him not so much fishing as laying in a hammock and smoking while another guy fished.) But seeing him gobble down the bones-and-marrow diner/street fare with joyful abandon and then seeing him knock back countless gin-and-tonics (respect!) while he suffered through the high-end hospital-chic setting in that fine dining restaurant was what No Reservations is all about. Well, that and eating disgusting things.

And I think his blog entry succinctly encapsulates what's going on with Food Network airing his past A Cook's Tour series as it axes Emeril Live. Funny, though, how Tony doesn't refer to Emeril as ewok-like when he's using him as a pawn on his side in this battle.

As the writers' strike drags on, I figured I'd toss this gem of a show out there for you to check out as scripted television starts to run dry. Because, as a reality show, Tony's voice overs and monologues don't count as "writing" so production shouldn't be interrupted.

Cocktails first, questions later

Swingers. How can I not love a flick that's all about the 90s lounge scene in LA? Even better, the characters are set up to be a modern Rat Pack. Also? Vince Vaughn.



Written by Jon Favreau and introducing us to the motormouthed tall cool one -- who even at the dewey young age of 26 already wore his eye bags like a true designer accessory -- Swingers remains one of the funniest and most quotable flicks in Vaughn and Favreau's repertoire. Set mostly in LA and chronicling how a group of friends try to get a lovesick wannabe actor back into the social swing by lounging around, this probably doesn't qualify as a full-fledged Vegas movie.

Except it does. It does qualify because the Vegas trip is -- wait for it, you know it's coming -- so money!

The beauty of great Vegas flicks is that they can capture not just scenery but also the ambience of a particular place and time. And since Vegas is so rapidly changing, those settings that can seem so grotesquely iconic can be demolished and replaced within a matter of years. Such is the fate for the setting of Swingers at the now defunct Stardust.

The Stardust was a giant, neon, purple nightmare. And it was the perfect fucking choice to put Jon and Vince and let them do their thing at the blackjack tables. There was a retro-vibe to the place by '96, which made it somewhat hip in its squareness.


It was home for an older generation, but the younger kids would hang out there with both a smirky irony and genuine affinity for the throwback vibe. In other words, it wasn't really a place to be taken seriously -- much like Vegas on the whole. Not a serious place, but sometimes a fun one. And it fit perfectly with the movie's loungey milieu and as a way of juxtaposing the outrageousness of Vince's wannabe hipster flagrance to the contrast of the old woman they end up playing with when they get busted out of the bigger money game.

Reportedly, they didn't even have permits for shooting in the casino, and yet security let them finish shooting before escorting them out. That's Vegas, alright. Or, it was Vegas in '96 at the Stardust. Just as annoyingly Vegas -- how the old woman screws the rules and odds, hits her seventeen -- and wins! AND wins the comps they'd so wanted. And the cocktail waitress hookup is just classic.

Still don't believe that one small slice of a movie can make it a Vegas classic? This is all there is to say: "Vegas, baby! Vegas!"

Win Some

The new Eclectica is online.

Lose some

This is the final year of Susie Bright's landmark Best American Erotica series. In that link, you'll find a detailed post by Susie about why the series is ending.

I'm very sad. I'm sad not only that the series is ending, but also because I fear that Bright is quite correct in her thoughts on the state of publishing and writing. It's uh, it's not easy. There's a lot I could tell you about trying to make a go of a writing life, but that's not really my style. But I will say this: It's not easy.

One of the things that makes it bearable, even joyful, is encouragement, particularly from respected peers or patrons or teachers or editors or publishers. Susie Bright is all those things.

Some of my fellow writers could use a break. Truly. They come few and far between. Sometimes, I feel guilty, or incompetent, or just frustrated with myself, because I've gotten breaks. Lots of them. I don't know how I'll ever show my appreciation to these people. What I want, what I really hope for, is to someday be able to capitalize on these lucky, generous breaks and put together a career so that I can somehow help and push along someone else. As desires go, I don't think it's a bad one. But also, it's ain't gonna be easy.

And that's why the end of BAE is sad. It just got harder. For all of us.

Read some

"The Best People in Town" by William Reese Hamilton.

Showgirls, darlin'

Tawdry, trashy, and oh-so-terribly terrific, one of my favorite Vegas movies is the much-scorned Showgirls. Wait! Don't click off! Hear me out. This movie was a huge failure when released, but in recent years has gained somewhat of a cult following for those willing to view it with a cheeky camp-comedic slant. And I have to admit, I laugh like hell at it, too. But I'm not laughing at it because I'm looking at it with jaded irony. I laugh like hell at it because it's funny, and because people think they're so above it. The melodrama, the glitter, the sleaze!

Part of the reason this movie tanked, and took Elizabeth Berkley's career with it, is because of people's expectations. Director Paul Verhoeven and writer Joel Eszterhas had previously teamed up to create the sex-laden thriller Basic Instinct. For reasons I understand, that movie made the image of white-sheathed Sharon Stone nearly iconic as a femme fatale for the ages as she gave a mini-peep show to voyeuring investigators. For reasons I don't understand, that movie somehow carried a cache of respectability along with its lurid ice-pick-sharp sexuality.

So then Eszterhas and Verhoeven teamed up again to take on the daunting NC-17 rating. Showgirls was supposed to prove that a film could be commercially viable even with that new badge-of-dishonor slapped on it. People were expecting a suave, sophisticated movie with lots of explicit nudity and sex. What they got was a sleazy, shockingly crass movie with lots of explicit nudity and sex. To-may-to / To-mah-to, you know?

Instead of Sharon Stone in her slicked-back hair and chicly revealing designer outfits, we got the double delight of Elizabeth Berkley and Gina Gershon in enough synthetic fabrics and stage makeup to fuel an all-drag modern Broadway revival of "Annie Get Your Gun" for a full year. Snakeskin and spandex, lipstick, leather and lame, and glitter dripping from every eyelash, fingernail and tendril of carefully over-arranged hair.

In other words, Verhoeven and Eszterhas got it just right. This is, after all, Vegas.



But the crowds flocked away from this movie, forever staining the NC-17 rating and signaling a disturbing trend for major Hollywood movies to back away from blatant sex.

Fools. Not the studios. Audiences.

Apparently, it's perfectly acceptable for Sharon Stone to flash her snatch and we consider that tasteful entertainment. But for someone to actually say the word snatch? Tacky!

From the costumes to characters to the sets, Showgirls is quite probably the most stylized-yet-brutally accurate representation of Vegas put on film for that decade.

What was it that appalled the audiences? Was it Berkley's twist on the naked (pun intended) ambition of Nomi Malone? We like our hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold stories, and Berkley gave us part of that, but she also gave us the realistic depiction of the hardness that it takes to survive as a whore. Of course, that was the point of the movie. She didn't think she was a whore. Until she accepted that she is one.

The plot is simple. A stripper pushes her rival down a flight of stairs. But it's all those extra details, from the lurid lapdances to the splashy water-sex (still hilarious!) to the characters of Nomi and Cristal. They didn't show us that romanticized notion of a stripper-dancer. We like to envision those grad-school girls who strip to pay their tuition. We like to imagine artistes on the stage --deep spiritual beings for whom dance is a transcendent manifestation of their je-ne-sais-quios. But for both Nomi and Cristal, the dance was a manifestation of their aggressive ambition and willingness to barter their sexuality for their desired ends.

And oh, it was all so campy, darlin'. Gina's wisened Cristal isn't so much smart as she is tough and jaded. And Berkley's Nomi isn't so much a fresh-faced naif as a fresh piece of meat with her own sordid past. The relationship between the women wobbles between the sisterly and the sapphic, but there's never a single exchange between them that's not loaded with underpinnings of catty and jealous competitiveness. By large part, that tension and dynamic between them is built right into the script. Through timeworn archetypes, Gershon and Berkley manage to make these characters their own in their over-the-top way that's a joy to watch. Cristal is the star, struggling to keep her hold, and Nomi is the upstart, hungry to learn from her. But Nomi is also disgusted by Cristal's plain acceptance and crass commercial attitude. Nomi, desperate to be that "artiste" type, bristles when Cristal informs her that everyone is a whore.

And then, ultimately, Nomi's ambition and ruthlessness rise to the top as she sends Cristal plunging down that flight of stairs. She finds her fortune and fame, and just as quickly has to turn her back to it. (A much easier decision for her than for Ricky Gervais's Andy Millman.) She has to turn her back to it not because she thinks she's above it all, but because she's realized that she is a whore, but not a whore in control of her own destiny any longer. She's being pimped out. So she decides to make it on her own again. Well, there's that emotional journey that prods her forward. But there's also the fact that she stomped the shit out of some hotshot's face so she has to hightail it out of the city before she's charged with felony assault.


What's funniest is that some of the things that people found so ludicrous about this movie were actually just a bit ahead of the curve, even for Vegas. The stupendously stupid sex show at the major resort that was passed off as showy? Zumanity is a big hit out there! And there are plenty others like it. Berkley's flaky, psychotically-veering portrayal of Nomi? I fucking defy you to go troll about the Spearmint Rhino, Cheetah's, Olympic Gardens or any other gentleman's club and then tell me that those girls don't have the same melodramatic affectations and over-the-top, cheezy reactions if dissed.

There's a difference between exploitation and portrayals. Exploitation is when we trot out the tricks and get our titillation-factor and then sneer with contempt as we sit back with the moral high hand. But that's the beauty of Vegas. Vegas deals plenty of loser hands to the tourists, but they never deal the moral high hand. In the traditional "cinema" and "films", they sometimes pull the stops and let us get a glossed-up glimpse of scandalous (or in this case, silly) sex, but then the audience gets absolved for enjoying it because there's some moral comeuppance. That comeuppance never happens in Showgirls, and it's quite possibly the only kind of come-shot that doesn't happen in the movie. But that's also the beauty of it -- they aren't exploiting what they're portraying.

It wasn't all dressed up in a classic white sheath in Showgirls. Instead, Nomi makes her grand entrance into the showgirl scene with a black "Ver-sayce" dress, adorned with buckles. They put the sex and lust and desire and greed of Vegas out there, without ridiculing it. But the audience obviously prefers to keep "what happens in Vegas" quiet, like a dirty little secret. And you can't have a dirty little secret splashed all over the silver screen, can you?

Showgirls is tawdry, alright. It's tacky. It's over-the-top, stylized cheeze in the scenes, acting, and costuming. But it's also terrifically candid, and terribly, campily entertaining. You could call it a guilty pleasure, except they leave the "guilt" out of the formula here. That's why it's not a respectable film. But it sure is one hell of a movie, darlin'.

Vicarious Vegas

Happy New Year!

This is now the time of year I wish I could hibernate. The dog days of winter. It's long, it's cold, it's dark. Generally, to get through the months of January and February, I just count down the days and look toward March. I know that's not a good way to live, to wish away time, but I need something to look forward to. And around here, March isn't really all that much relief. It's generally still cold and snowy, even if the days are noticeably longer. But it is a breaking point where the end is in sight. And, traditionally, I'd always take a nice long vacation in March.

For years, I've gone to Vegas for March Madness. So, to help pass the time in enjoyable ways right now, I plan my trip and spend silly amounts of time daydreaming about how much fun I'll have and how wonderful it'll be to get in the sunshine. One of my favorite things to do to heighten my anticipation is watch my favorite Vegas movies. So, since we're also looking down the barrel of a barren television-scape the next few months, I figured I'd tell you about some of my faves for vicarious thrills.

Happy Old Year

I know, I'm egomaniacal and need to take a break. But but but. I knew I had a review of my short story collection, American Cool coming out in the new Romantic Times magazine. Online, you can see the rating, but not the text. It got 4 and a half stars, which is really good. But I went out yesterday and picked up the magazine to read the text. Here it is:

DiPlacido's characters are risk-takers and rebels. While not all of these stories fit the erotica genre, they are well written, unique and fascinating. Realistic jargon paints the settings, and the use of unusual points of view is refreshing. A bit like a literary Pulp Fiction, this book offers a glimpse into the exciting, sometimes dangerous lives of people living on the edge. Reviewed by Jennifer R. Wells-Marani

I've conveniently bolded the part that makes me ooze. I can't stand it. I've had friends say a few Tarantinoish things about my stuff before, which I greatly appreciate. But I also sort of brush it off, because, let's face it, I have great friends I figured they'd say things I'd like to hear. But I don't know this person at all! She doesn't know me at all, so she'd have no idea that I'd wanna hear that. She just sort of plucked out that reference all on her own. Once, another unknown reviewer said a different book of mine had a When Harry Met Sally flavor, which was written by Nora Ephron. I loved that, too.

I love those comparisons to films because that's what I try for. I don't try to replicate movies, but I try to write so that it feels like you're watching a movie, not reading a book. Which is to also say, if I'm to be bluntly honest, that I love reading and have certain writers who are very influential upon me. But none are as influential to me as movies and screenwriters are when it comes to my own writing.

To be honest, I don't think I have that Tarantino vibe in my own stuff, because let's face it, Pulp Fiction was a seminal piece of filmmaking and storytelling. I simply don't have the chops that QT has when it comes to character and plotting. Nor does my stuff really have the bang-per-page (or reel) that his does in action. I mean, he's Quentin Tarantino.

But, when it comes to influence and education, maybe I did pick up on and learn a few of his tricks and was able to incorporate them. And that's not a bad thing. I mean, there wouldn't be a Tarantino without Scorsese before him. (and so on, and so on.) And maybe I do sometimes capture the "movie" feel that I'm going for. I can't say I ever set out to write something specifically Tarantinoish or Nora Ephronish. I try to write my own stuff, which someday I hope will be DiPlacidoish. But it's both gratifying and really quite a charge to have something like that said, because that's a piece of art that I so admire.

Now I'll stfu about myself. Thank you.

Year end reading

Found some great fiction to close out this year. Loved all these stories!

"Luna's Future is his Christmas Present" by Dennis Mahagin.

"The Wonks of Santo Tomas" by William Reese Hamilton.

"The Daughters" by Myfanwy Collins, which will also be featured in the Dzanc Books Best of the Web anthology.

"The Honeymoon" by Katrina Denza.

Best of 2007

Movies

I still love movies. But this year made it a little more difficult to love them because I often walked out of the theater simply feeling ripped off. I did have a few that I liked, though I can't recall a comedy that made me giddy or a romantic flick that made me sigh. And there was really only one flick that made me appreciate the big screen of a theater.


Released separately on DVD as two movies, Death Proof and Planet Terror, the US theatrical release of Grindhouse was a financial failure. But the double feature was double-the-fun with bonus "trailers" and a truly quirky arthouse meets grindhouse vibe to the presentation. From the carefully replicated worn look of Rodriguez's Planet Terror to the missing reel of Vanessa Ferlito's lapdance (admittedly, a nice addition on the DVD release) these guys tried to bring the onscreen experience of '70s sub-prime cinema to a new generation. The ambience was there, but Rodriguez managed to make a really cool zombie flick in the process, and Tarantino -- with his lack of CGI that was more than compensated for by the incredible Zoe Bell and the mesmerizing-menacing presence of Kurt Russell -- created another near-masterpiece of thrills that utterly bored most audiences.

It was generally a shit year for women in movies. But Planet Terror unleashed vampy-vixen Rose McGowen, while Death Proof had the ultimate trio of Tracie Thoms, Rosario Dawson, and Zoe Bell.


While the underlying premise of Grindhouse was to harken back to a sleazier, previous movie experience, I can't help but worry about the critical and commercial rejection of this film in 2007 and what it means for the future of movies.

I will give props to Matt Damon and The Bourne Ultimatum. Despite Paul Greengrass's over-use of the shaky cam, this is an action franchise that delivers the action. And Damon finally snagged his long-coveted spot as People's SMA. Also not bad? Live Free or Die Hard. Bruce is still sexy when he bleeds.

Television

30 Rock
You know I love my TV, so picking one favorite is difficult. But 30 Rock has those weird running jokes about the Shinehardt Wig Company and "Werewolf Bar Mitzvah". Liz Lemon is an attractive, smart and talented woman, and yet she's a total loser in the 30 Rock universe, with her bras held together with tape and penchant for eating Pop Tarts that may or may not have been previously used as sex toys. Also? Alec Baldwin. There is nothing left to say.

The Sopranos finished its run with what may be remembered as the most contentious finale in TV history. Love it or hate it, that cut to black really shouldn't undermine a season that did so successfully what Grindhouse attempted. It linked back to the classics and updated and reimagined in startling new ways. The scene of Tony standing as Godfather to Christopher's daughter still lingers in my head as the defining moment of the series -- both archly coy and deeply disturbing.

Books

If you hated the ending of The Sopranos, then you definitely loved the ending of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. Talk about tying up every end. Quidditch on a crutch, man. She sure as shit did go on... and on. And then she went on some more to elaborate in press conferences that Dumbledore was gay. That revelation, it was about as shocking as Clemens and the juicing, huh? Guess she ended any potential mainstream/literary conversation with this finale.

In the literary realm, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz lived up to its name. And Don DeLillo's Falling Man lived up to DeLillo's reputation.

And in the pulp realm, Paris Noir was a great collection of shorts about the shadows in the city of light.

Free Holiday Cheer from The Erotic Woman and Me

Are your credit cards getting overburdened as we hurtle headlong into the holidays? Well, I've got some free cheer for you. I've got a short story live this week at the classy-sassy and oh-so wonderfully explicit website The Erotic Woman. Do stop by and check it out.

Also, I'm holding a year-end drawing for a free, signed copy of each one of my books. All you have to do is drop me an e-mail at susandiplacido @ aol.com (remove the spaces) with your name, address, and the title of the book for which you'd like to be in contention. Then, next Friday, I'll draw one winner for each book and get them mailed out so you can have some bangin' reading material to keep you busy while you stick to your resolutions.

Here's each book (click the links for more info on them) that's available:

24/7

Trattoria

American Cool

Mutual Holdings

Thanks, good luck, and I hope to hear from you!

Bad Santa

"I beat the shit out of some kids today. But it was for a purpose. It made me feel good about myself." -- Willie Stokes, Bad Santa



It's a week early, but I've got a lot of cooking to do, so here's my top pick for Christmas movies this year. If Christmas is all about hanging out with family, you have to do some recalibration of traditions so that it's inclusive instead of oppressive. There are no little kids in my house, but there are late teenagers. You think a teenager will tolerate sitting through It's a Wonderful Life? It wouldn't be generous in spirit to force that on them. And, honestly? Our Christmas day tradtional movie as a family never was that flick anyhow. It always was, and remains, The Godfather. (Yes, seriously.) The Godfather and Godfather II still plays in one of the rooms during the day, with people popping in and out to catch a certain scene or two as they mill about, eating or taking a break from doing the dishes. But at night, when the extended family has gone and we just want to kick back, cozy up, digest it all down, and continue to eat and drink through the night? Bad Santa is what we sit around and watch together.

This movie is raunchy and lowbrow. At times, it's disgusting. Instead of bells ringing, there are gunshots ringing out. And yet, in recent years, when I think of the King of Christmas, it's Billy Bob Thornton who's managed to supersede the image of Jimmy Stewart.

The original version of this movie was written by the Coen brothers, because they wanted to do a movie about a guy who changed. As I mentioned before, there are echoes of George Bailey (distant, sullied, dirty-mouthed echoes) in Billy Bob's character, Willie. Probably a closer relative is the Grinch. The Grinch was a thief, after all. (I'm not quite sure Grinch was an alcoholic perv with a thing for doing fat women in the ass, but Geisel never really elaborated.) Anyhow, the Coens remained as producers as the script was re-written, presumably to a much nastier degree.

The premise is clever enough. Willie is a safecracker, and every Christmas season, he and his working partner, Marcus, get a gig at a department store as a Santa and elf. Then, come Christmas Eve, they rob the bejeezus out of the store and part ways until the next holiday season. Only problem is, Willie takes self-loathing to previously unheard-of levels, and his drinking, swearing, fucking and insipid behavior are putting their gig in jeopardy. John Ritter is the store manager who's disgusted by Willie, and Bernie Mac is the no-bullshit security dude who's on to them.

But what's a Christmas movie without a kid? Bad Santa somehow unearthed the alarmingly deadpan Brett Kelly to play the kid. He may or may not be challenged, and he's the perfect antidote for the precocious, precious little snots we usually get. Willie gets himself tangled up with this kid and the kid's advent calendar and his compulsion to make sandwiches. Then, somehow, between telling the kid to fuck off and accepting a wooden pickle, the kid does change Willie. The kid unwittingly manages to offer some redemption for Willie's dog-shit soul.

At the outset, Willie pronounces himself an eating, drinking, shitting, fucking Santa Claus. I can't imagine anyone but Billy Bob pulling this role off. He is by turns pathetic and repugnant, a big old fucked-up, drunk ball of slyly sympathetic symptoms of our culture rot. When he's getting sneezed at in the face with chocolate ice-cream by a brat, you can barely imagine a more sorrowful, masochistic mess. And yet, when Lauren Graham is looking at him, sleepy-eyed, or when the kid is quizzing him about the reindeer stables, you kinda, sorta have to love him.

Okay. Not everyone could love him. And that's part of the charm of the movie. Remember those candy cane cocktails I told you about and how sweet they go down for the daytime drinking? There comes a point every season when you really have gone to hell with the "merriment" and all your clothes stink of gin and you just kinda relate. Not everyone in this world has neatly folded chenille sweaters and faux-shearling-lined leather gloves and a pristine background and optimistic outlook to pass along to their well-fed, clean brood of smiling children. Those of us on the shady-to-dismal spectrum of humanity deserve a few cheap and cynical laughs around the holidays to keep us from slipping into a spiraling abyss as rank as Willie's.

And this picture is for people like us. Well, us and anyone else without a candy-cane of saccharine sweetness shoved up their ass. So go ahead and laugh at the crassness, you can always blame it on the talking walnut. And oh yeah. Merry fuckin' Christmas.

Bloody Merry

Last night was a battle of finales by the dueling subscription networks, Showtime and HBO. Showtime capped off a riveting season of Dexter while HBO closed out the highly under-appreciated BBC import, Extras.

With its explanatory voice-over and graphic details, Dexter really isn't the kind of show that leaves a lot to the imagination. This season alone we got to see Keith Carradine's ass and James Remar's vomit. And yet, even with all the detail, they were still able to keep us guessing and keep the suspense level rising every week. Thankfully, for the season finale, they also left very little to the imagination. It managed to release the tension not once, but twice, both in totally satisfying moments -- almost like perfect sex -- first with a shocking bang, and then with a whispered sigh.

Just as they'd effectively turned the tables and made me feel sorry for Doakes and somewhat sickened by Dexter, the writers used torchy Lila to keep Dexter's moral code intact by having her do away with Doakes. The show has first rate production, and the grand explosion that ended Doakes' life and sealed his fate as the strawman Bay Harbor Butcher was no exception. Great pyrotechnics. But the best detail wasn't the flames, it was Dexter's bounce in his step as he brought premium doughnuts into the mourning squad room the next day. The mask had to come back on after it was pointed out to him that it was no day for celebration for most folks. Of course, Masuka wasn't fazed and he gladly took a pastry.

Jennifer Carpenter had a good episode. I nearly expected her to go all "Emily Rose" on Lundy's ass when he was packing up to skip town, but she managed to keep her shit together.

The Big Cliche was actually used in this ep to get us back to sympathizing with Dex. For real, he actually saved children from a burning building. Not since The Outsiders have I seen such a blatant display of cheap manipulation and device. And yet, it was coming all season. I once referred to Lila as "smoking hot" but at the time didn't realize just how literal that description was. But more important than the singed eyebrows and saved children was Dexter coming to embrace his Dexterness through the fog of soot and smoke, and once again, he recovered his calm demeanor after being uncharacteristically rattled this season.


And then was the seductive send-off for Lila. In Paris, she immobilized with a spinal epidural, he whispering to her that this was as close as someone could get to him. His blade then slowly piercing her heart. That Dex, such a ladies man.

Michael C. Hall nabbed a Golden Globe nom for this role, and he deserves it. Viewers of the show can now enter to win a walk-on part in next season. So if you'd die for a chance to meet Michael or be on the show, do check it out here. (yes I entered)

If high suspense and gory goodbyes aren't your cup of tea, then perhaps well-mannered emotional torture and vivisection of pride is more to your liking. As fantastic as Dexter was this season, HBO proved why they're still the one to be envied with the series finale of Extras.

The brainchild of Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant, this unassuming show took a clever idea and spun it into pure gold. Ricky and Ashley Jensen played Andy and Maggie, a couple of pathetic film extras, with Stephen as his incompetent agent. The laughs were often grounded in humiliation, and it was a brilliant toss-off for major stars to skewer their own images. But as the first season closed, Ricky's Andy Millman found himself in a peculiar predicament. He'd penned a television show about a crazy boss and the BBC threw money at him to air it. The catch? They turned his show into an LCD, catch-phrase riddled piece of crap that embarrassed Andy. He had to make a choice -- either have artistic integrity, or take his one shot at fortune and hope to spin into later rewards.

The BBC show became a huge hit, but Andy became the butt of jokes among true actors. (David Bowie singing about the "little fat man who sold his soul, sold his dreams" in a crowded club as Andy had to listen with horror was particularly hilarious.) Everyone was having a laugh, but most of them were laughing at Andy, not with him.

The finale opens at Christmas, with Andy and Maggie out in a store, where the dolls of his character are stocked up and being outsold by Kramer dolls.


What follows is a series finale mining the dark side of fame for both laughs and tears. Clive Owen and George Michael show up, with Clive turning in the most blisteringly nasty degradation scene imaginable.

Though still a C-list celeb, Andy becomes a grade-A asshole in his confused pursuit of integrity, while also finding himself unable to let go of fame. His every attempt at legitimacy is so weighted with his own expectations that he manages to conduct a hilarious symphony of his own debasement, making him further miserable. Meanwhile, Maggie's fortunes and fate have gone from never-was to near-impoverished and she carries the soul throughout the show.

I was expecting the laughs, which were biting and uncomfortable. What I wasn't expecting was the heartbreak and sublime humanity as things got ever more wicked and treacherous.

At one point in the show, Andy's new agent, thoroughly frustrated, finally asks him, "What do you want? Do you want integrity and artistry? Or do you want to be rich and famous? Because only a handful of people in the world have both, and you will never be one of those people."

Andy makes his choice. But Ricky Gervais doesn't have to. With the brilliant finale of this show, he proves -- once again -- why he's one of the handful of people who's got both.

Rocket's Crash Landing

Yesterday, former Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell released his report linking eighty-five Major League Baseball players to illegal use of steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs. In 409 pages, he identified players, including All-Stars, MVPs, journeymen and scrubs.

After perusing the list of names, my reaction was, "No shit, Sherlock." Talk about finally having a firm grasp on the obvious. Wow.

I mean, okay. This report, it's comprehensive and it's going to stir the pot. And I did get a couple of chuckles that I wasn't expecting (Kevin Brown). But did I see any name I was shocked by? No. Not a single one. I suppose I'm a little surprised by a couple of names that aren't on the list that I was expecting would be. Mostly, I'm failing to understand why Roger Clemens has become the poster-boy for this whole non-revelatory information. Is it because he was finally named and "caught"?

The only thing that shocks me is that he wasn't dogged by juicing rumors earlier. Just, fucking look at him. If you couldn't tell that he was drug-enhanced, perhaps you'd also need a 3 year investigation and 400 page report to give you a clue that Pamela Anderson has surgically enhanced tits. Clemens, I'm not a fan of his. I never actively disliked him until he left Boston. It was clear his career was over at that point, and then he had a decade-long resurgence. Year after year, I'd look at his massive bulky frame, listen to the media kiss his injected ass, and wonder what the fuck was going on. Frankly, I've seethed for the past five or six years, when he was informally given the title of "greatest pitcher of his era." I thought his 300th win was a total farce.

If you're a sports fan, or even a casual watcher, I'm sure you already have a fairly clear and strong opinion on what rampant juicing has meant to the game of baseball. And I'm sure you already have your own idea on how all the records and players should be dealt with. Do you want them stripped, or asterisked, or blocked from the Hall of Fame, or should bygones be bygones? I'm not going to scribble my own thoughts and try to justify them. I'm content to sit back and watch the circus continue. Because I'm sure of one thing. Selig and Co. will carefully look at all this information, and then they'll do what they feel isn't necessarily the best thing for the game of baseball, but what's best for the business of baseball. And those are two very different agendas.

But what would make me satisfied is if the asshole sports writers who never did a goddamn bit of investigative journalism and instead just sat back and wrote post-game, op-ed pieces and congratulatory color commentary and helped light Rocket's star-fuse would finally climb out of golden-boy Roger's now-tarnished ass and continue to write whatever the fuck they want to about him, as long as they retire the moniker of "the greatest pitcher of his generation" from their list of seemingly mandatory descriptors about him. It's time to give that title back to the guy who's earned it. Greg Maddux.

Are the writers having a laugh?

So the WGA strike continues. The AMPTP is getting testy. This mock website is hilarious. (the real amptp site is amptp.org) The letter on the front page alone cracked me up. I don't know about mightier, but the Pen is definitely funnier.

And Oh! The title of this post reminds me: The HBO series Extras concludes this Sunday, the 16th with a special finale episode. So sad to see this one go.

Nothing says Christmas like...

Before I wrap up my movie picks next week, I wanted to give a little shout-out to a few other offbeat movies that can give you some holiday happiness in a few different ways.

Nothing says Christmas like Crime

Though not on the level of my previous picks, The Ice Harvest and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, here are a couple more capers high on hijinks that can help add a little salt in case all the old standby sickly-sweet movies are starting to make you sick.

The Ref
Caustic Denis Leary takes Kevin Spacey and his wife, Judy Davis, hostage in their home on Christmas Eve. But they're even bitchier than he is.

Trading Places
Dan Aykroyd, Eddie Murphy. Do I really need to tell you about this movie? No. But Dan's drunk, wearing that Santa suit, stealing buffet food and brandishing a gun. Makes your office party seem a little less painful, now doesn't it?


Trapped in Paradise
You might not like this flick, but I think it's okay. Full disclosure, I have a thing for Nicolas Cage. I'd like to tell you that this offbeat movie about three brothers who try to rob a bank at Christmas was done before Nic turned crazy. But I can't. Let's face it. His jingle bells always did ring a slightly different tune.

Nothing says Christmas like Comedy

Look. We all know that A Christmas Story is the best. And Christmas Vacation still cracks me up. (Randy Quaid in that dickey gets me every time.) But you might find some unexpected laughs or lighthearted levity in these picks.

The Bishop's Wife

Cary Grant is heaven sent. Literally. A bishop is having trouble building a church, so he's sent Cary Grant as an angel named Dudley. Apparently, it was a rule in '40s cinema that angels had to be given dorky names. Clarence. Dudley. Whereas in modern days, we just go for it and namecheck archangel Gabriel and turn him into a nasty piece of work (see Constantine and The Prophecy) Anyhow, everyone falls in love with Dudley, but Dudley falls in love with the bishop's wife.

Just Friends
Ryan Reynolds isn't Cary Grant. Ryan Reynolds is...Ryan Reynolds. If you hate him, you'll hate this movie. But if you give his affected methods a chance, he really can grow on you. The laughs in this flick are in no way sophisticated, but there are some good chuckles and plenty of winter scenery.

Nothing says Christmas like Cranial Injury and Watching other People's Careers Crash

Surviving Christmas
This isn't a good movie. It's a pretty bad movie. Ben Affleck has made a few grabs for holiday gold. (His previous entry, "Reindeer Games" isn't bad, if you can stomach him. It's not good, either.) But you know, Surviving Christmas does have some redeeming qualities. For instance, this happens in the movie:


If Jimmy G smashing Affleck upside the head doesn't make you Ho Ho Ho, then you're totally scrooged.

Holiday Reads

Gift Yourself for Free

Myfanwy Collins has a lovely short published in the new Monkeybicycle, "I am Holding your Hand."

Gift yourself (kinda free)

Author William Vitanyi was recently interviewed on youcube.com. If you're in the Erie, PA area, he'll be hosting a book signing for The Official Guide to Office Wellness at Borders on December 15 from 1-3, followed by a writing/publishing workshop. The workshop is free.

Gift yourself or others (not for free)

Looking for something to stuff a stocking or place under the tree? Books are cool, man. Some of the ones I enjoyed most this year:

I loved my pal Don Capone's debut novel, the very funny and very entertaining Into the Sunset.


Donna George Storey had her debut novel released this year, Amorous Woman. It won't be fully available in the US until next year, but you can order directly from her, and get some free chocolate as an added bonus, if you order from her directly. Details Here.



Shameful Self-Promotion

It's not new, but if you never read it last year, I have a Christmas-themed dirty short story available.

I also had a collection of short stories published by Rebel Press this year. It's called American Cool and it's half erotic, half not.


My first novel, 24/7, is now available on Amazon in Kindle edition, so that's a nice, inexpensive way to get a lot of bang (and banging) for your buck. (Both 24/7 and Trattoria are also still available as paperbacks.)

Also on the cheap, you can order a paperback copy of another one of my books, Mutual Holdings, for just $3, and that includes postage within the US.

Hollywood writers may be on strike, but I'm not. So if you fancy a tale, have at it. I'll save a moment for you under the mistletoe in thanks.

Perfection Dies Hard

"Come out to the coast, we'll get together, have a few laughs...”

Nineteen years ago, NYC cop John McClane went to LA on Christmas Eve to visit his estranged wife at her company's holiday party.

During the festive soiree, he lost his shoes, defeated a gang of would-be terrorist/thieves, humiliated some FBI guys, got a gun-shy cop back on his feet, won back the love of his life, Holly, and made it "snow" in California. Oh, and yeah. He also redefined the modern action movie and set the bar so high it'll probably never be hurdled.



John's wifebeater went from white to grimy to downright dark green as he wittily sassed his way through gunshots and broken glass. As McClane's shirt darkened, Bruce Willis's star rose. As Gudunov bit the dust, Alan Rickman defined "bad guy." And as the one-liners stacked up and feebs exploded, director John McTiernan created a masterpiece of modern movies.

Special effects have gotten better, but I still can't believe that they'd have marginally improved upon the production of this film. The thrills in this movie are still heart-in-your throat, and there are a few explosions. But so much of the tension comes from intimate danger to our hero, even though the stakes are considerably higher due to the hostages. And through it all, McTiernan never once lost sight of what McClane was suffering for -- Holly. (even her name works with the Christmas theme)

There were action movies and action heroes before Die Hard. But they were never as sassy, sophisticated, sly, or satisfying. I mean, come on. Reginald VelJohnson even carries the Dickensian torch of Tiny Tim throughout this picture -- and it works! The plot of the movie unfolds like a gilded origami. And then it wraps itself back up with neat precision and every thread combines to create the perfect red bow.

But the delightful gift inside the beautifully wrapped box is still Bruce Willis as John McClane. Before Willis, Stallone and Schwarzenegger ruled the roost of this genre. Both had bigger body mass, but less brains. (Stallone's "Rocky" had an amicable meathead charm about him. Schwarzenegger could toss off a one-liner. But they were generally dull and almost workmanlike.) Bruce, he didn't just bring the muscle, he brought the smart-ass funny. Him and his pursed lips and insouciant smirk. From squinty-eyed to slack-jawed disbelief, he was all at once hard-headed and hot-tempered, but with a heart-of-gold and having a ball. And he was smart. He wasn't just out-gunning the bad guys, he was outwitting them. Also? He was sexy when he'd bleed.

"Yippee-kai-yay, motherfucker" may never be as festively appropriate as "Ho Ho Ho." But this movie will never lose its place in the pantheon of great action movies and cheerful Christmas flicks.

Capra lassos the moon

How much of a staple of Americana has Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life become? Other outlandishly feel-good flicks are often referred to as "capraesque". Capra shot for the stars with this movie, and he at least got hold of the moon.

I've seen it probably over thirty times, and yet, by the time the whole "No man is a failure who has friends" line is read, I still get misty. Frankly, I give a lot of latitude when it comes to taste in movies, but if the ending didn't tear you up a little bit the first time you saw it, I'm inclined to think that you're as dead inside as one of Dexter's victims.

Oh, there's a lot to be said for this, the granddaddy of all holiday films. A slick script, a luminous Donna Reed, plenty of forties-style banter between the leads, a few madcap laughs, and an ending that can make Disney endings seem downright dour by comparison. But still shining brighter than anything else is Jimmy Steward as George Bailey.

Jimmy and George are often pointed to as the ultimate "good guy," and that's something I take great pleasure in. Because George was good. But he sure as shit wasn't cheerful about it. I like my men the way I like my coffee -- strong and bitter. And though George Bailey was determined and ambitious, he most certainly did show cracks in the plaster, just like his drafty old home. He was often cranky, sometimes showing a propensity for bursts of anger and self-pity. Best? He sure knew how to tie one on!

Looking at this movie with a modern eye, George is fairly tame. But I swear I can trace the lineage of Billy Bob's "Bad Santa" back to George Bailey. And I often wonder how his behavior wasn't considered scandalous back in the day. I mean, I mentioned it before, but it bears repeating: The guy sure did like to knock back the booze. For Clarence's sake, when hard times hit, he dealt with it by getting shitfaced and crashing his car! Not to mention that he yelled at the women and children. During his time of being tested, his hair even got wild and his face had a rather unkempt after-five-o'clock shadow creeping across it. And he sure was horny for Mary Hatch. (and maybe even Violet)

But it's all these little crabby tweaks that make George that much more lovable. George, he had to put up with an awful lot of shit. But he invariably did the right thing, even if he bitched about it. Which, of course, is the point of the whole thing. It may not seem so at the time, but in the end, it's all worthwhile.

It's been sixty years and it's been remade, mocked, sentimentalized, grossly colorized, and definitely over-referenced. Sometimes, I roll my eyes when George reaches in his pocket for ZuZu's petals. You can't even make a joke anymore about bells ringing/angels wings because it's so over-used. Yet, I still think it's kind of funny when Mary's naked in the bushes. It still makes me want to scream at the screen when Uncle Billy unwittingly hands the cash to Mr. Potter. I still think Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey is the cat's pajamas. And yeah, I do still get a little teary at the ending. How can I not? It's a wonderful movie.

If the Suspense is Killing you

If you're a fan of Showtime's Dexter, then you probably already know that we've gotten an early Christmas present because the two final episodes of the season have been leaked online. I have no self control, so of course I've already watched them both. I promise I won't put any spoilers in this post, other than to tell you that they are really high quality, both the downloads and the streams. And, of course, they were killer good!

I can't really believe that this was an accident. Which is to say, I've noticed that Showtime has been using the "It's not HBO, it's Showtime" line an awful lot in their promos. I guess HBO can be flattered, as it's always nice to be king. But should they also be worried? Uh, yah. While HBO tossed up the unwatchable "Tell Me You Love Me" this fall (yes, even with graphic sex, it was unwatchable) Showtime rode "Weeds" and "Dexter" for all they were worth. And they're worth a lot.

Dexter just racked up the highest single showing ratings for Showtime -- ever. The buzz around this season has been growing, and with just cause. It's a terrific series. Tightly written, wonderfully acted, with a deliciously evil premise, a catchy score, loads of suspense, and a riveting leading man.


With all the buzz building, and the fact that Showtime already has this show paid for by the subscribers, the pre-release of the penultimate episode and finale could only spur on holiday DVD sales so that people can get caught up on the series. Also a nice tie-in? Don't forget that the series is based on Jeff Lindsay's excellent novels, the first one titled "Darkly Dreaming Dexter." (the first season followed that book, but this season took a left turn from the second novel this year, so it's all new stuff)

The only possible problem with these being online? I really wouldn't have wanted to be spoiled on this season. The suspense was so intense and mounted each week so that it was almost unbearably good. And scene after scene, Michael C Hall was able to infuse Dex with alternating giddy joy, sly intelligence, and even sometimes monstrously frightening darkness and sickness.

I can't imagine how disappointing it would be to be a curious first time viewer and to go and watch those episodes now, only to then go back and watch the show from the start. Oh sure, it'll still be a great show. But this season turned the whole murder mystery idea inside out. We all know that Dex is the killer. But watching the cops buzz and feds close the loops, wondering if and how he'll wiggle out of each new problem, and trying to get a step ahead and dying to see how it would all pan out was just beautifully, nerve-wrackingly fun.

Premium cable channels like Showtime did have the way paved for them by HBO and the success of their original programming. Also, Dexter is a direct descendant of Tony Soprano, only taken to a much more stomach-turning extreme. Whereas Tony would kill, Dex lives to kill. But Dex is a whole different genre. From the opening credits, we knew this wouldn't be the heavy-weighty, sometimes depressing dramatic enterprise that The Sopranos could be. This series took the killing, moved it to sunny Miami, gave us a guy with a cheery disposition and made it all about thrills, chills, and suspense.

The opening credits tell you all you need to know about this show. The shaving looks repulsive, the cutting of the ham is menacing, the juicing of the blood orange is gross. Even Dexter's muscled arm tying his shoe could frighten you. It's those intense close-ups, paralleling what it'll be like to get so close and personal to the mind of this serial killer. And yet, there's that loopy, quirky theme overlaying it all to give it a skewed perspective.

As a longtime fan of Batman, I loved the little "Dark Avenger" angle that got played up this season, too. One of the things I always loved about Batman is that he always seemed like a bit of a crazy fuck -- and a dangerous crazy fuck at that. That's what Christopher Nolan and Christian Bale captured so well in Batman Begins. The hero doesn't just do away with the bad guys, he takes a bit of a perverse glee in fucking them up. And what allows us to root for Dexter is that he's a crazy fuck, alright. Cracked like an old teacup. But we can sleep easy -- sometimes happily -- knowing that he's not out there carving up us, he's out there gleefully carving up people who would fuck us up.

And you've just gotta admire someone who's so happy in his work. I love the flashbacks to a young Dexter when Michael has on the geek-face and bad wig and he's just flush with excitement about potential bloodletting. It's at once hilarious, disgusting, and heartbreaking.

This was a masterpiece of a season, everything you could want in top-notch entertainment. And having the final two eps sliced off early is the gleam on the cleaver.