Gone Baby Gone and a Triumphant Return to the Cinema

Unfortunately, a combination of high stress levels, fucked up work schedules, lethargy, laziness, limbo and my trip to Las Vegas prevented me from visiting the local Cineplex¹ for over two weeks. It was a break I wasn't ready for and I was happy to put an end to it last night. I tearfully apologized while holding a boombox playing John Mayer songs and brought her a bouquet of various stomach discomfort medicines (all that candy and popcorn is rough on her system) before purchasing a ticket to Ben Affleck's directorial debut, Gone Baby Gone from her box office. (okay, so I actually bought the ticket online, but it didn't work for my li'l story)



I personally have been rooting for Ben Affleck for a long time. Maybe it's because I can relate to people not believing in you in spite of what you know about your own abilities. Maybe it's because I think he's been treated unfairly when compared to others in the limelight.² Or maybe it's part of my standing loyalty to the great director Kevin Smith, one of Affleck's best friends. No matter what the reason, I hope that this will be (and I am confident that it will be) the beginning of a long winning streak for Ben.



Casey Affleck (Ben's brother) is in the midst of an impressive if not shocking winning streak of his own. After his nearly film-stealing performance in Ocean's Thirteen and his turn in another film playing right now, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, the younger Affleck now has another feather in his cap. I have counted myself as a fan of Casey's for many years now, but I would have thought it was a stretch at least if you had told me at this time last year that he would be one of the candidates for Most Valuable Performer of 2007. His powerful and emotional at times; so real and understated at others performance is something to be proud of here. His Patrick Kenzie is one of those roles that you will find nearly impossible to think of any actor being able to do half as well in. It's not always an explosive performance, but it's consistently effective and impactful.



There were sections that bordered on being heavily cliched and even predictable, but it was not enough to overshadow the ebb and flow of the film and the performance of its characters. The lines that even sniffed of being cliche were never unbelievable or annoying. It's okay to meet expectations rather than exceeding them when it comes to tales that most of us can relate to. Everyone did a masterful job of making this feel more like life than a movie. It didn't hurt that many plain-looking people were casted. It gave the film more of an organic and communal look and feel. If God loves ugly, he probably dug this flick.



The best part for me was that it felt like two films in one. Where most movies have 3 small parts, this one just felt like 2 huge events and it worked like a charm. Just when you think for a moment that things may be going nowhere, the action picks up and suddenly you're glued to the screen, intensely gritting your teeth much like many of the on edge, drug-addicted characters may be known to do in their not-so free time.

The performances by Morgan Freeman (who I hate to say it--seems to be losing a touch of his magic) and Ed Harris were predictably awesome at times, but in my opinion, they were overshadowed by some of the lesser known actors and even one of the newcomers. Slaine, a rapper from a supergroup named La Coka Nostra, shined as Bubba Rogowski, a drug dealer with friends in high and low places. His role was a simple ingredient, but it was so likable and without it, the recipe for success would have felt incomplete. If he doesn't parlay this into some serious work, there is something wrong in Hollywood.§

It's not the most original movie, but the fact that it is done so unapologetically, so slickly and respectfully and that it doesn't take itself so seriously gives it some extra momentum, not that it really needs any. Parts of it will move too slow for some people, but there are too many moving scenes to count that will make up for it.

Though most of the film centers around a missing child, I found myself relating more to the relationship aspects of the movie. When the main character stands up for (and butts heads with) his live-in co-worker, you can't help but feel it. There were two particular scenes where I felt it in my tear ducts. It was so awesomely and painfully real. The interaction between Casey Affleck and Michelle Monaghan was all too familiar to me. Their performances didn't just reach out and touch me. They smacked me across the face with cold reality. Thanks, Ben, I needed that.

There was nothing for me to not like about this movie. It was nearly flawless and everyone involved deserves to be commended. The only thing that holds it back from a higher rating is the fact that I don't think it has much going for it as far as a movie you watch again and again. With movies that have an absolute truth and a not-so-happy result, I find it difficult to revisit them unless it's every few years or so, and sometimes not even then. I have a feeling this will become one of those movies. That, of course, should not take away from the initial merit of Gone Baby Gone. And it doesn't. I will be impressed for a long time, whether I watch it again or not. I don't have to root for Ben anymore. Even if you can't see him, you feel his presence. He is definitely back. Not necessarily with a vengeance, but a strong statement nonetheless.

¹More like CinEmpire

²Like Geddy Lee for example?

§Something else, that is.

Alan Alda On Acid

I've always wanted to be drugged without my knowing. It's not because I want to be violated in my sleep, or anything like that. I guess I just enjoy that "what the fuck is happening to my head?" feeling. Some of my favorite days are uneventful other than the fact that I feel really messed up for no reason. Working 16 hour shifts is basically your company supplying you with free drugs. I've done 'shrooms once or twice in my life and I dabbled in pot for awhile, but I haven't done any of these, or anything else in almost ten years now, unless you count the occasional ant hill and that one time I sniffed the ashes of Keith Richards' father.

But on those days where I already feel that natural high at about the 13 or 14 hour point, if I was slipped a mickey or roofie or whatever silly fucking name people are calling these things nowdays, I'm sure my high and insanity level would be multiplied substantially.

As long as what you put into my bottle of Fiji water or Cherry Coke is not going to kill me, then go ahead and throw a tab of acid or some X in there and watch me go cuckoo while I watch a M*A*S*H* marathon.

I've always wanted to see Alan Alda on acid. No, not while I'm on drugs. I just want to see what Alda is like when he's on acid, because Flirting With Disaster was just too small of a dose for me. I would have no major problem settling for simply being on acid myself while watching a totally clean Alda, but I would prefer to take a gander at Hawkeye while he's cockeyed.

Steely Dan can't buy a thrill, but I admit I'd get a cheap one from watching Jamie Farr prancing around in women's clothing. I'd like to see if I get the same tingly feeling that Garth would get when watching Bugs Bunny in drag.

But I've seen so many episodes of M*A*S*H* over the years, I might actually prefer to see Farr in plain old guy clothes. Atten-hut, indeed, mithter. Party on, Cpl. Klinger.

My next step would be listening to "Bohemian Rhapsody". Besides, I've always been curious as to whether Flavor Flav's grand experiment of seeing whether the motion picture version of M*A*S*H* lined up perfectly with Queen's A Night at the Opera LP and what better time to find out than after being drugged? (What an abortion that last paragraph was. Something's already kicking in. I wish I knew what it was, so I could have a specific excuse for sucking.)

By the way, fuck that Wizard of Oz bullshit. The Pink Floyd thing is pure coincidence, but I do have it on high authority that Ozzy's Blizzard of Ozz was inspired by a viewing of Wizard of Oz mixed with a bad acid trip which concluded with the yellow brick road flying off the tv screen and landing smack dab in the middle of Ozzy's basement. Osbourne immediately vomited on it before screaming "Frazzle bizzle smash hammuh!" and passing out, but I probably didn't need to tell you that part.


Don't hesitate, folks. Spike my Bloody Mary to your heart's content, but just make sure I have a safe ride home. I don't want to be stuck in some smoky lounge in Vegas, listening to Styx cover songs and wanting my mommy. I'd rather be at home tripping out on Green Acres or the Big Lebowski. The dude may abide, but I won't really give a shit when I'm hopped up or drugged down. I just can't wait to see what those ferrets look like in the bathtub when I'm hanging upside down from my ceiling wearing nothing but my Starbury sneakers. You're welcome, ladies.

I'm pretty cool with any scenario that involves me being taken advantage of actually, as long as the other party has no STD's or abandonment issues. I don't want the person who deflowers me in my sleep to get all clingy afterwards. Unless it happens to be Scarlet Johansson or Christina Ricci, of course, but with my luck I'll probably get double-teamed by David Johansson and Lionel Richie. It would be great if Stephanie was to violate me as well, but I've been trying different variations on this for years, all to no avail. I even tried bathing in tofu, because she's a healthy eater, but instead I was mauled by a vegan bear. Or maybe it was just a really hairy hippy.

I would prefer the violating party to be female, but hey, let's face it, it's the 2007's and if Johnny Depp wants to set sail on my pirate ship, who am I to say no? The customer's always right. And Johnny is fucking money. I'm sure he'd make it a memorable experience.

It seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind. Oops, sorry, I was looking at the wrong piece of paper.

It seems to me that guys don't have a huge problem with stuff like this. Not the way chicks do, anyway. Men find it flattering when they're stalked because most women won't give us the time of day. Women, on the other hand, can't go anywhere without getting pestered, so they'd prefer not to be bothered while showering or having a cup of coffee, those shallow, selfish bitches. (The preceding line was a joke, for all you sensitive types. I apologize to any stalkers who I may have offended. I know it's hard work and I did not intend to demean your thankless profession) {That was another joke in the parentheses there. Now I'm using the fancy bracket things. I don't know what they're called. Sorry. And yes, stalking sucks. It is a very bad thing. Especially when the chick you are stalking will not give in, no matter how many times you hide in her closet with her underwear on your head. Sorry to break the bad news to you, fellas, but chivalry is dead.}

I guess that's where that whole men from Venus/women from Mars thing stemmed from. Everyone knows, especially those who are drugged while reading this, that in Las Venus, everything goes and that Mars Meadows is like a rotating feminist rally where things such as toga parties, boxing, Spam, infidelity, bacon grease, orgies with weird old dudes wearing creepy masks, midget pornography, kung fu movies, buffets and of course, fun, do not exist. Okay, so it's not THAT bad. I think I'd rather go to Mars Meadows than Oklahoma, for instance. (No offense, Gerald) But Las Venus is the shiznit. It's so great that you don't care when you say things that haven't been cool for years (or ever) such as transforming the word "shit" into "shiznit". But I guess the good ol' U.S.A. will have to do for now.

That's why I need your help on planning my next trip. Next time you're having a drink with me, put a little something extra in there and at least one of us will be allowing the good times to be done rolled and what not. If it's as funny watching me as I think it will be, then bring a camcorder. (Do they still make those and are they still called camcorders. I'm a little bit behind the times. I'll be right back. Someone just beeped me. I'm going to call them back on my rotary phone.)
I'd like to see the footage the next morning. I'll need to know where that strange pain in the backside came from. It could have just been the onion rings I had at the bar. Or maybe it was that sword fight I had with Mr. Depp. We can call the video 69 Hump Street.

Fin.

(The thoughts and ramblings and whatever the fuck this idiot was talking about in this blog do not necessarily--no, fuck that, they definitely do not--reflect the views of anyone with a working brain. We apologize for wasting your time with this palaver. The author has been detained and is in a padded cell being violated in ways that even former pets of Michael Vick would find to be a tad bit inhumane. Please go on with your business and forget this ever happened.)