More absurd than miserable

A number of you threw brickbats at me for sullying the high-art of ballet. To all of you, I virtually moon you.

Speaking of absurdities that pass for art, I also watched some time earlier a movie - nay, a musical - by the name of Les Miserables, whose pronunciation remains a mystery to me to this day.

No doubt this was a masterpiece by Victor Hugo, and I am certain it makes for gripping prose. But the minute it transcended into the musical genre, it went Twilight Zone.

Sure the acting was great, and the gaunt Hugh Jackman laid the male audience's insecurities to rest - at least initially, when he was gaunt. Russell Crowe played himself, i.e. a douchebag asshole. Anne Hathaway did some convincing numbers. 

But why must they carry to absurd lengths the setting of everything to a tune? Yes, there are some nice songs - reasonable lyrics set to good music. But why, oh why, must even the quotidian banalities be sung? Can't Cosette simply call Jean "papa" instead of singing even those two syllables? I'm sure even Beethoven took breaks from composing.

But wait, anticipating the next round of brickbats, I do grant that I am being too harsh here. On second thought, I do realize the potential for immense daily pleasure this approach to life can offer.

Scene one: a ho-hum dinner in a middle-class 4-room HDB apartment. Imagine the following exchange, both lines sung to "So long, farewell" from the Sound of Music:

Ah Boy: Mama! Mama! I want to go and play-ay!

Mother: Sit down, shut up and eat your bah kut teh-eh!!

Father: ***** (fits nicely into "Cuckoo")

Scene two: flight from Singapore to India (any city)

Drunk passenger: AIR-hostess! AIR-hostess! (sung to the opening bars of Bicycle Race by the Queen)

(entire flight thumps on its collective tray)

Drunk passenger again: I want to have vis-KEE-so-da, I want to have it when I like! (sung to the mellow second line of the same song)

And when you see me next, please call me "Caustic Yoda" (sung to the tune of "Call me maybe"). Don't be shy, numbers welcome.

Fly Spanish

Today, I will review some recent movies that I watched on Singapore Airlines.

Volver: I am not sure I have ever seen anything of note with Penelope Cruz in it. Granted, this is a major chick flick, but it has some hilarious moments as well. I gained quite a bit of respect for Cruz and Almodovar. Especially the scene where she belts out a gitano tune whose subject revolves around "volver", or "to return". And you thought this would be a lascivious post on her looks. But by god, the woman is striking AND  a good actress.

Para que sirven un oso: An extremely funny Spanisih film tackling existentialist issues of mid-life crises, love, career and a bit of romance all through the eyes of two dysfunctional brothers and their even more dysfunctional governess. The delivery of the dialog, the acting and everything else was really quite excellent. It almost makes me regret not having liked living in Spain that much.

X-Men: First Class: Not bad. The mystery of Magneto's ridiculous helmet is solved.

Blitz: This Jason Statham movie is no Transporter and apart from the gratuitous vengeance and violence, best avoided.

Harry Brown: Same as above, but worse, as it has an old Michael Caine playing the avenger. He really was a rather good sort of actor.

Rhymes with hobo

Spoiler alert - but probably redundant

Recently I went to watch the movie that has apparently taken India by storm. The movie is called Enthiran, which is Tamil for Machine. Hence its alternate title Robot, except it is pronounced in the sophisticated French way and rhymes with "Hobo". I will therefore annoy you by referring to "Robo" for the rest of this article.

The movie starts with a hi-tech lab where the hero is putting Asimov to shame. Unfortunately, the opening scene featured a retard - who would proceed to provide an annoying "comedy track" with a fellow retard - in a shapeless pair of trousers and un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt that looked like someone had vomited Bolognaise sauce and melted Velveeta through a pasta maker on to the fabric. Even in the age of Robo your Indian family and friends, apparently, will still torture you with garish color schemes without the fall-back excuse of color-blindness. This is why I regift all items of clothing I have the misfortune of receiving as gifts from the Peeps.

The male lead warmed my cockles. At 61, he proved that men can always get to prance and carouse with women half their age. Sorry, ladies, it's unfair but so it is. Tough luck. This being a movie about a Robo, it featured the inevitable break dance bit with the "Robo" movements etc. My enthusiasm for the future sexagenarian me dipping my wick in some hot piece of ass was somewhat diminished by my fear that the hero - the star, nay, The Megastar - might at any moment keel over from hip dysplasia (for added entertainment, click on the "Canine" Wiki link). Let's just say that the actor's dance steps are more "jerky" than "smooth". Perhaps he was just slyly mocking the abysmally forgettable songs to which he was, er, "dancing".

The heroine was a sight to behold. Gratuitous shots of her in tight pants and bending over after a sprint (but in perfect makeup) were much appreciated, though the straggler fanatic-morons in the empty cinema reserved their occasional clap or catcall for the hero's utterance of signature hand gestures. I desperately wanted to catch them as they stepped out to the restroom - the movie was 3 hours long - to explain that the actors could not actually hear them.  Anyway, the heroine also could not dance, and thank god the Ms Universe finale did not involve a test in this area (she won it a decade ago).

The coup de grace of the film was that not that the Robo was created and eventually lightning-bolted into a touch of human-ness, with icky feelings etc. It was the amazing ways in which, after plugging into a power outlet for 5 minutes, the Robo could practically fly to the moon and back. It will be some time before the laws of thermodynamics can catch up with the new-found expertise in CGI graphics in the land of Indian cinema, where logic is for fools. 

Various stereotypes and retrograde, anachronistic subplots were at work. The Robo saves a bathing girl from a raging fire, and she promptly commits suicide from the shame of her nakedness - what fucking stone age are the producers living in? Indian women are bonking like rabbits and the only shame is that I am not the counterparty - or is it counterbunny? Why can't an Indian movie or soap just once show a groom demanding dowry being handed over to the police; a tortured woman walking out with a divorce in one hand and a strapping young hunk in the other; a widow or a divorcee remarrying; a man having a peg without getting theatrically drunk; or any such socially progressive idea?

An atrocious supporting cast and storyline round off this dismal movie best vaccinated against to prevent infection. This has been a public service post.

A night at the hotel

This is going to be a long ramble. You've been warned.

As usual, your truly has been getting the star treatment at this nice hotel. I have especially taken a shine to the sweet thing at front desk in a suit; her sari clad sidekicks, all of them; - one must be generous, Gandhi and Jesus both said; the women I end up meeting on business; and the gang of 7 girls at the next table at dinner, which my colleague tauntingly pointed out were behind me, whereas she was squarely facing them. Sigh. Indian women are gorgeous.

You may remember some time ago I made some poor life choices at the fitness room of a hotel in Japan. I am not sure what my emotions are - sad, glad, disappointed - to report that I have not learned my lesson. You see I have been, as usual, upgraded to a suite, and mine has a Japanese-made "massage chair". I should of course have draped a sheet over it, knelt in front of it in propitiation, and possibly made a peace offering from the mini-bar. Hey, I am a pagan and proud of it. But no. I had to sit my ass in it.

I am doing this because I am too wiped out to be out meeting the hot young women of Mumbai one-on-one. Furthermore - you know what a movie buff I am, and what a pachydermal memory I have too - as I flipped channels, as is my wont, I saw on HBO, "Sudden Death" next.

Now anyone can separate the wheat from the chaff, but me, I know chaff from chaff. I immediately suspected this was a Jean Claude van Damme movie, but my addling brain was trying to challenge itself - perhaps, but just perhaps, it might be a Steven Segal movie. Oh the suspense.  I had no choice but to see if I still got it, and so here I am an hour later waiting for van Damme to do his split. The man has the creativity of quick-drying cement.

Anyway, I am in my massage chair, which is just as well because my colleague told me the spa charges $100 for an hour's worth of massage. Even though this magnificent Japanese-made has English controls and display, I swear it has a mind of its own. Maybe it is angry I did not profer said offering from the mini-bar.

I pressed some buttons, and what appear to be two bowling balls have emerged. The balls are apparently especially angry at my non-offering , and have proceeded to punish me on either side of my spine with the vigor of a Korean drum dancer- except it is more of a  Japanese (or Hawaiian or Mongolian) sumo grandmaster with a lot less finesse and a lot more rage. There were controls on strength of the masage, something called the "air massage" feature, "width adjustment" etc, but there seemed to be no difference to the pounding I got: either the Japanese engineers have a sadistic streak in them or The Chair is still angry that I did offer my soul to it.

After trying the "Whole Body", "Lumbago", "Neck and Shoulder" and "Executive" options - none with a happy ending, might I complain here - I ventured further - the manual options! I tried the "Leg and Bottom" feature, which did a good job pressing my calves, but not very much by way of kneading my butt, aching from the cycling machine earlier at the gym. Or it has a *very* strange idea of what "bottom" is, and I an only pity the wives and girlfriends of abovementioned Japanese engineers. I do not believe I need to explain further.

Thankfully, another thing that needs no explaination is a van Damme movie, so if you will allow me, I need to get back to the exciting finale. Maybe he'll do a split. In my movie, an angry Sumo wrestler will choose that very movement to give him a mighty whack right on his balls.

The end of the Dry Spell

Not that, perverts!

After a very long time, I was finally inside a cinema recently. This in itself was an achievement, for as you know I am a member of the "Modified Mile High Club".

The movie in question was "City of Men", sequel to "City of God", centering again on the favelas of Rio. I was as usual mesmerized - by butts and (string) bikinis. Everyone in Rio has a perfect body, men included. My date rightly pointed out that this is a direct result of survival of the fittest, what with the conditions in which slaves were transported all those years ago.

To be fair, there was more than butts and bikinis in the movie. Since I assume by this time you are expecting a review, I might as well provide one. An excellent movie, with simple, time-tested themes such as friendship, growing up, search for identities and of course guns. Lots of guns. The cast does a superb job acting effortlessly. The story moves well. The ending catches you by surprise.

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable movie. It also brought back memories of Rio. The movie seemed to have been shot right in front of the hotel where I stayed. And the two peaks in the background - I assume one of them was where I leapt off hang gliding, landing on the beach, barely in time to catch my bus back to the airport.

Back to butts and bikinis. I wonder if gravity reverses in the Southern hemisphere, for how else could you explain the act of defiance on display on every street and playa?

New York = No way

Boy am I glad I left New York. "Why?" you may ask. Or not, but I shall explain anyway.

As you all know, NYC is the most dangerous place in the world.
- When aliens invade, they come to NYC. Too many movies, but "Independence Day" and "War of the Worlds", for starters.
- When Godzilla wants to lay his/her androgynous eggs, he/she, ignoring all the fucking places in the goddamned-ly large Pacific Ocean, manages to seek out NYC. What a shameless, unpatriotic Madama Butterfli-zard(ess). On a side note, there is a beautiful island called Lanzarote somewhere in the Balearic, which of course translates to "Lizard".
- Monkey invasion (Planet of the Apes). Please stop being childish and pointing out apes are not monkeys. I bet you believe in "global warming" too.
- Mr. Deep Freeze, son of Mr. Global Warming, in that wretched, wretched movie "Day after Tomorrow".
- Post-apocalyptic blood suckers - "I am Legend"

You point out these are all movies, and many of them suck. To which I reply: many French people come to New York, IN REAL LIFE!!! They can often be seen sitting outside "alfresco" cafes sipping "espresso".

However, there is a divine (or perhaps moviemaking) sense of justness, as shitty stuff like Twister and the giant disgusting thing in Evolution manage to happen in Podunk or Bumfuck or somewhere hopeless and flat, just like... never mind, I promised my therapist no anatomical references.

So it is for all these reasons that NYC is already a scary place, but now it got even scarier:

DNA to be stored in NYC

Here is a movie we have not seen. Neo wakes up, and realizes he has been fooled. He is not human, he is the Predator, but denying all movie-logic, he is in love with his mortal enemy the Alien. The movies were all... LIES!! He then proceeds to commandeer a starship with many little green men with laser guns, destroys large swathes of New York, and steals the DNA so he can change himself and have passionate, carnal, out-of-this-world sex with the Alien. The Alien meanwhile, runs away with Ellen and some of the new manless sperm, so he kills himself. His now-unsupervised experiment goes awry, and all the little green men become monkeys and take over New York.

In the distant future, there is a furore because of a scene showing a monkey kissing a lowly human being.

Thank you, but I have to take my pills now.

Time flies

When you are watching movies. Recently seen at the Singapore Film Festival (all but one in a single sitting):

Dean Spanley: the best movie of the year. Sam Neill deserves an Oscar. So does Peter O'Toole. What casting, what story, what acting. Brilliant. Newfound respect for dogs.

Daytime Drinking*: one of the best coming of age movies, pointless and celebrating halcyon post-college days. The cinematography of the young guy alone in his box-like room in the guesthouse perfectly describes what men really love - sloth.

Beetle: about an Israeli guy with a very pregnant wife who drives to Jordan to repair his crumbling VW Beetle. Halfway through the movie, you want to join the wife and m-i-l and bash him up.

Berlin Song (seen separately): they can try all they want, but Berlin ain't no New York. But the one butch girl among the 6 musicians portrayed has a voice to watch for. I have the CD, if anyone wants it.

Promised Land: disturbing docu-drama on the sex trade from E. Europe to Israel. Amos Gitai is a bit of a dick and dissed my date during the Q&A, but a good movie nonetheless. Rosamund Pike is... phew.

Thor at the Bus Stop: a rather offbeat, low-budget flick shot in Las Vegas. Can't say I got it. But it had its moments. 

Which of course begs the question, "CY how can you watch movies for 12 hours"? Because the only better thing to do for 12 hours is to sleep, but...

* I keep saying "dreaming", when it should be "drinking". A lot of that in the move. 

Confluence of time and space

When you travel alone, as I do most of the time, you end up in some hotel room watching a late night movie after a long day out traipsing about whatever city it is.

It is thus that I ended up watching a movie, which had already commenced. Only after some google-research did I realize that I had watched "Arch of Triumph". An old-school movie dominated by character, script and story. The Great Gatsby meets Catch-22. A gorgeous Bergman - is she a naif or a manipulator? Boyer, the consummate hero. And the exceptionally wonderful performance by Louis Calhern playing the Colonel.

Sometimes, you stumble and fall on a bed of roses.

Worthwhile pleasures

Finally, the Dark Knight. I have to admit this was as good a movie as my friends said it was (good call DH), but I thought it was over when the heroine died. I thought that was plenty long enough, and felt like a full movie.

Speaking of the dark knight, what is it about Maggie Gyllenhaal? She has a weird body, no ass, you can practically see her cerebellum through her nostrils (and she doesn't even have to recline). Yet something about makes for a compelling personality.

Anyway, who am I to bitch? Perfect for a longish flight, and sure beats watching Kindergarten Cop in my wonderful Beijing apartment.

More crap

How many ways can you say "Crap"?

If you are Spielberg: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Total Bull. What a crappy-ass show.

If you are M. Night Shymalan: The Happening. More like, what the fuck is happening?

Thank you.

Movie recommendations

Yes! You know my idea of the Mile High Club is to watch movies solely while at 30,000 feet. So yet again, I created my own movie marathon on a fairly large-sized personal LCD screen aboard a very lovely business class seat (Motto: every seat is an aisle seat. Really). My picks:

Vantage Point: this is actually not a bad movie. Shot fast, and with enough unexpected twists. Definitely worth watching. Even though it has ludicrous twists like the American president's "double" getting shot. Yes, I know - you can plumb the depths of the IQ charts and yet not find a double for W. Suspend reality, that's what movies are for anyway.

Cleaner: a fairly interesting drama with good acting. Many scenes look like Mr. Ebola directed them, so if you are queasy watching CSI, skip this entirely. Samuel L. Jackson is everywhere these days - he may just turn up in my Weetbix tomorrow morning. I strongly recommend this movie solely to drool over Eva Mendes. Now THAT is a beauty spot.

With Your Permission: a rip-roaring, if slightly disappointing-at-the-end Danish movie. Absolutely great cast, story and direction. Highlights the perils of skinny guys marrying plump women.

Re-investigation (I think that's the translation): a well built-up French drama. Loved the ending. Revenge, thy name is a six foot hole in the ground. Nice!

Global warming is a handicapped cretin, and arrives in 2 days

Dearly Beloved, you all know how much I absolutely hate the movie called "Day After Tomorrow".

Recently, aboard a very swanky business class "couch" on a 777, I had yet another opportunity to watch this dismal movie and, this time, avoided the impulse to watch it.

For those who don't know, one (not so) bright morning, Mr. Global Warming wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, develops into a Cold Front by mid-day and in keeping with Godzilla, sundry alien invaders, large rats and roaches, high-power soot, etc., decides to attack New York City. Everything in his path just freezes and dies.

Except for the clever son of the film's hero. Using the terrific ruse of - get this! - closing the door on Mr. Cold Front, he escapes a numbing death. Apparently Mr. Cold Front, who made it all the way to NYC through the atmosphere could not enter the closed room, thereby demonstrating that he is an utter moron. And apparently he also lacks opposable thumbs, thus unable to overcome his imbecility through simply turning the door knob.

So folks, do not be afraid of Mr. Global Warming. Take that Al Gore!

KTV, Dick and Julia, and the Single Guy

Finally, 30 years or so after being released, Pretty Woman was seen by yours truly recently. Richard "Gerbil" Gere and Julia "Sigh" Roberts star, as you know. What has this to do with me? It's all about KTV.

For the uninitiated (i.e. people not from Asia) KTV lounges are Karaoke bars. You you only embarrass yourself with inebriated displays of tone-deaf idiocies (which you should be more cautious about, with Youtube and cellphone video cameras around). However over here, a trip to the "KTV lounge" gives new meaning to musical phrases like "deep throated", "rhythm and melody", and of course "climax". Yes, it is basically a strip joint with value added services, which, to use a phrase from the limit principles of calculus, approaches a brothel but is not quite it.

And I, the Single Guy, at some unspecificed point in the past 6 weeks was dragged to one of these. The mama-san proudly brought her stable, and following my friends' lead I picked my companion. She gave a heartrending story about why she became a KTV girl. Just as it looked like a Pretty Woman moment, she shamelessly overquoted me for her additional services (they expect to be tipped for gyrating on your lap, that is the basic service). Shameless only because she quoted so high, I would rather learn gymnastics and do it myself, if you catch my drift.

Of course they sang horribly, tried very hard to impress us, were hideous looking and as with strippers all over the world, need an introduction to personal hygiene and the bidet. None of this deterred the mama-san who proudly passed around her business card for future visits.

I left my friends to cavort and beat a hasty retreat.