Warm weather sneaks through the clouds. The snow melts away only to return with a light dusting the next day. The sunshine is destroyed by a torrential downpour that is gone within 8 minutes. And 3 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies have finally arrived on my door step.
I salivate at the thought alone. Too bad I ate all my Tagalongs on the first day. Damn my lack of self-control! As my gluttony got the best of me, however, a few things came to my attention.
Like, why has no one successful been able to reproduce Girl Scout cookies to available year round?
The potential profit there is enormous Everyone loves Girl Scout cookies, and when they’re available, people buy them en masse. Research into the Official Girl Scout Cookies Website (yes) reveals that the cookies are a product of one of two bakeries: Little Brownie, and ABC Smart. Unfortunately, both companies sell exclusively through the Girl Scouts. An honorable notion, sure, but a damn foolish business model!
You want to know how to jump start the economy and get people spending again? GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. There, I said it. Try to prove me wrong.
Bailout plans aside (mmm, Tagalongs), what really struck me upon the delivery of these boxes to my home was an apparent inconsistency in cookie nomenclature. While I’ve clearly revealed my own personal passion for Tagalongs (mmmmm, Tagalongs), I’m also well aware of the popularity of Samoas. What? They’re called Caramel Delites now? Why, that’s ridiculous! Something about the term Samoa being offensive? Preposterous! What could possibly be offensive about the flavorful combination of coconut, caramel, and chocolate, other than that their name exploits that of a delightful indigenous island culture?
In a street survey of over 3,000 people*, 92.7% reported that they were aware of some controversy surrounding the name change from “Samoa” to “Caramel Delites,” mainly due to the explosion of political correctness in the 1990s. 99.8% said that they still call the cookies “Samoas” regardless. Because they are delicious. Just like Samoans.
Allow me to rewind the story to November, when my lovely older sister e-mailed a bunch of people to tell us that her Girl Scout troop was selling cookies. No, she’s not IN the Girl Scouts still, she’s the Den Mother, or Queen Bee, or whatever else the leader is called. I, in turn, being the wonderful brother that I am, sent out an All-Staff e-mail at my job, which saw a rapid response; it also caused a brief fall out between me and co-worker in another department whom I still haven’t met, who apparently sells Girl Scout cookies for a troop that she sponsors as well.
I felt kind of bad about creating this conflict, but I saw no real need for competition: my sister sponsors a Girl Scout troop in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and my co-worker in Newton, MA. Which one needs the money from the cookie sales more?
Or, more importantly: why did the caramel-coconut-chocolate-delicious cookies from Newton arrive in boxes labeled “Caramel Delites,” while the caramel-coconut-chocolate-delicious cookies from Crown Heights arrive in boxes labeled “Samoas?”
Could it be that the Girl Scouts had a surplus of “Samoa” boxes that pre-dated the name change, and figured that poor, low-income African-American children wouldn’t mind, or wouldn’t be able to tell the difference? Of course they would distribute the politically correct boxes in Newton, Massachusetts. They wouldn’t want to offend any of the uppity rich white Democrats, would they?
The Girl Scout’s law** states: I will do my best to be
Honest and fair,
Friendly and helpful,
Considerate and caring,
Courageous and strong, and
Responsible for what I say and do,
And to
respect myself and others,
respect authority,
use resources wisely,
make the world a better place, and
be a sister to every Girl Scout.
Pawning of the political incorrect boxes on low-income African American girls? I’d hardly call that fair, considerate, responsible, or respectful.
But then again, I write for a site called “culturefuck,” so what do I know?
*I made this up.
**The Girl Scout motto is “Be Prepared.” Way to blatantly rip off of the Boy Scouts there. At least pretend to claim some originality and dependence, instead of relying of the men! Isn’t that in part what you’re about?
Now, my research into the bakeries responsible for these culinary delights (is it still culinary when they’re baked, not cooked?)
Much like the Wu-Tang Clan, which ain’t nothin’ ta fuck wit’, I can’t really discern any way to culturefuck with the video below; quite frankly, it speaks for itself. Still, here it is, a celebration of culture to start your weekend, and proof that nappy hair is apparently more efficient than chainmail armor:
California State Corrections Officials have released a new headshot of Charles Manson, the former Beach Boys collaborator who is facing a life sentence for threatening Dennis Wilson after not receiving proper royalty payments for music he had and eventually driving Brian Wilson to madness as a result.
That is why he’s in prison…right? Or maybe it had something to do with that whole “‘Helter Skelter’ foretells of a coming race war” thing he had going on. Either way, it doesn’t really matter.
What does matter is that The Boston Globefiled the article under “Arts & Entertainment: Theatre/Arts.”
So a recent photograph of a convicted mass murder/cultist/unofficial Beach Boy/Beatles Conspiracy Theorist…is apparently entertaining. Dare I say, theatrical! I don’t think I really have to point out to you all that is hilarious and wrong about this, although I’m sure there are a number of jokes about conspiracy cover-ups and media manipulation that are inherent in the situation.
That, or they confused the real-life Charles Manson with his stop-motion puppet counterpart:
Thanks, Boston Globe. And you wonder why you’re reportedly losing $1 million A DAY (which also makes me wonder why you’d publish your own article about the fact that you’re losing $1 million a day, but I guess that serious journalism comes at a serious cost)…
Anyone who’s ever read culturefuck can attest to the fact that it’s mostly just a self-important sounding board for extreme, hyperbole-laden opinions on things that most people probably don’t care about which the authors have spent entirely too much time thinking about. Coincidentally, this is also why culturefuck is important, and brilliant, and beautiful, and sexy. But until recently, there was something missing — Anonymous Internet Slander, the cultural significance of which is clearly demonstrated in the diagram below:
Previously, culturefuck had fucked culture both loudly and vigorously (and usually missionary style), but still remained under the radar of these so-called “Internet Fuckwads.” While some culturefuckers and other internet aficionados might breathe a sigh of relief at this, I was in fact quite bothered by it. To me, the presence of an Internet Fuckwad is a marking, a rite of passage, that verifies one’s existence on the World Wide Interweb. Simply put: if your online presence (whatever it may be) has garnered enough attention that another human being (see: Internet Fuckwad) is uncontrollably compelled to register on your website with the specific intention of anonymously slandering you, you have proven yourself worthy. Whether you are a blog, or a band, or a web comic, or anything else, your significance to the vast annals of the internet does not matter, until a person has found him and herself so overcome by jealousy and rage that he or she must strike at you anonymously through the internet: only then have you truly made it.
Ladies and gentlemen: culturefuck has finally made it.
At 6:58pm on Saturday, March 14, we fell victim to our very first Internet Fuckwad. This Internet Fuckwad goes by the name of “spastic,” which is terribly, terribly clever. With an IP address of 81.106.102.13, “spastic” hails from the East Sussex region of the United Kingdom, and is apparently a HUGE fan of U2 (because apparently Irish-English rivalry and tension just isn’t what it used to be). Here’s the rest of the info based on the IP Address search, which may or may not be accurate:
OLO Management Group
Dawn Darbon
NTL House
Bartley Wood Business Park
RG27 9UP Hook, Hampshire
UNITED KINGDOM
+44 1256 753583
What I find most amusing about this whole thing is that, of all the posts here on culturefuck — you know, the ones about Gays, and Jews, and Asians, and the Pope, and Starving African Children — it was the one about U2 that offended someone so much that it inspired him or her to take action (albeit anonymously). Up until this point, I had never actually encountered a single person who really cared about U2 beyond the casual enjoyment of a few songs.
So thank you, “spastic,” for being a spastic and anonymous Internet Fuckwad. This whole thing would have never been possible without people like you to get pissed off at things I say and then post anonymously about it. I’ll make sure to include you affectionately in the acknowledgments of the culturefuck hardcover coffee table book, whenever that finally comes out.
Maybe I’m just bitter that Bruce Springsteen’s awesome tune from The Wrestler didn’t even get a nod, or maybe I’m pissed about Slumdog Millionaire being the new bukkake. Probably both.
After seeing Slumdog Millionaire (“Mill-a-naire!” as that adorably dot-headed Regis Philbin wannabe excitedly cries all the time), I turned to my mother, my date for the evening, and asked her what she thought of the movie. “It was awful!” she cried, and with a furrowed brow I asked her why. “Because no one took care of all those poor, starving children. How could they just leave those poor Indian children there to die? They need to give the money to the children. This is ridiculous.”
“But what about–”
“No, just-just no. It was awful. I can’t believe that with all the talk about the movie, no one’s talked about that.”
Okay, so her reasoning doesn’t quite add up, but the more and more I thought about it, the more I started to really hateSlumdog Millionaire. It’s not that it’s a bad movie, per se; in fact, I thought it was phenomenal (at least, at first), so I’ll admit that the (absolutely brilliant and clever) portmanteau pun of the title above is really just me being facetious. Hell, I’ll even admit that I structured the previous sentence the way that I did just so I could use the word “portmanteau” in it (which I did. Victory!). So as long as I’m being honest with you, I would implore you to be honest with me in return and just admit that, while it was certainly a good film, Slumdog Millionaire did not nearly deserve the ridiculous amount of praise, adoration, and bukkake that it received.
So why did it win so many awards (aka, everything)? Because Americans, especially wealthy Hollywood moguls, are completely enamored on all things “cultural.” We look down at every non-white civilization in the world, and not necessarily in a condescending way; it’s the same way we look at a puppy dog. “Aw! Look at those Indian people with their brown skin and crazy cloth patterns and beads! Ooh, and the way they worship cows? How adorable! Who’s my little Slumdog? Yes you are!” It’s fucking kitschy! We’re too blinded by adoration for these delightful indigenous stereotypes to notice things like, oh, how come every single question Jamal was asked on the game show ran chronologically parallel with his life? OH HAY WELL THAT’S JUST A BIG COINCIDENCE. Right. Just like the coincidence that an Indian actor from a wealthy upper caste would ever fly randomly into the middle of the slums by helicopter, right where our protagonist is swimming in poop (unless I’m just being terribly ignorant on this like a real American?)
Most importantly, do we think that Danny Boyle was at all aware that is movie consisted almost entirely of flashbacks-within-flashbacks? If any other film maker had tried this stunt, he would have been crucified. And sure, the idea of revealing through flashback how Jamal knew every answer was a clever framing device. It also became an incredible tedious crutch after the millionth time it was used. Allow me replay the entire movie for you in broad strokes:
We are from India!
Here we are watching you on TV giving answers on a game show!
How could you know the answer!
I’ll tell you how I knew the answer!
Cue glittery 70’s harp glissando flashback music!
OMG FLASHBACK
Terrible stereotypical happen in the Indian slums!
I’m in love with a sexy sexy Indian girl who is devoid of all personality or character!
My brother is a total douchebag!
OMG! Somehow, a minor detail of the scene coincidentally correlates with the question I was initially asked in the first-step flashback in the present!
More heartbreak, angst, and further complications!
Benign authority figure in the present begrudgingly believes me while fat authority figure in the present is a total dick!
DRINKS CHAI TEA
We are from India!
Here we are watching you on TV giving answers on a game show!
How could you know the answer!
I’ll tell you how I knew the answer!
Cue glittery 70’s harp glissando flashback music!
OMG FLASHBACK
Terrible stereotypical happen in the Indian slums!
I’m in love with a sexy sexy Indian girl who is devoid of all personality or character whom I met briefly over 12 years ago, but love knows no boundaries!
My brother is a total douchebag!
Cue glittery 70’s harp glissando flashback music!
OMG! Somehow, a minor detail of the scene coincidentally correlates with the question I was initially asked in the first-step flashback in the present!
More heartbreak, angst, and further complications!
Benign authority figure in the present begrudgingly believes me while fat authority figure in the present is a total dick!
DRINKS CHAI TEA! Wait, I thought I drank this already!
We are from India!
Here we are watching you on TV giving answers on a game show!
How could you know the answer!
I’ll tell you how I knew the answer!
Cue glittery 70’s harp glissando flashback music!
OMG FLASHBACK
Terrible stereotypical happen in the Indian slums!
I’m in love with a sexy sexy Indian girl (*now with a sexy sexy scar!) who is devoid of all personality or character whom I knew for all of 2 months about 12 years ago and I am still completely infatuated with her even though my brother is a total douchebag!
OMG! Somehow, a minor detail of the scene coincidentally correlates with the question I was initially asked in the first-step flashback in the present!
More heartbreak, angst, and further complications!
Benign authority figure in the present begrudgingly believes me while fat authority figure in the present is a total dick!
DRINKS CHAI TEA
We are still from India!
Completely contrived and stereotypical Hollywood ending cop-out that rivals even 28 Days Later!
Exploitative tongue-in-cheek dance sequence supposedly created as an “homage” to the Bollywood films that the movie otherwise barely references but pretends to!
I read a review somewhere praising the movie for, “The best use of flashback I’ve ever seen.” This person must have written that review after just the first one, when it was still new and exciting, and not after the credits where its tiresome repetition turned it into little more than a cheap, over-glorified and wonderfully forced plot device. Such glaring errors and plot holes were, of course, easily overlooked by the feel-good nature of the thing (which I personally felt great about while watching), and the fact that it featured those cute widdle India people and their silly cultures. Aw, look! That God has tusks! And that one has lots of arms! Isn’t that just precious?
Well, at least the Indian chick was sexy. And that scar! Rawr.
Not too long ago, we reported on the Pope’s public disapproval of online social networking. Pope Benedict XVI — you remember, used to be in the Hitler Youth? Man, I just can’t get enough of that one — made a few hilarious comments about the sinful nature of teh Intarwebz (“If the desire for virtual connectedness becomes obsessive, it may in fact function to isolate individuals from…healthy human development.” Thanks, bro. Can I call you bro? I don’t know where I’d be without your OFFICIAL DECLARATION). You may have also heard about the excommunication of several Catholic Bishops, including Dick Williamson (can I call you Dick?), who were apparently tight with Mel Gibson’s Daddy and liked to shoot the shit over a few beers while denying that the fucking Holocaust happened (there was also some nonsense about an unauthorized ordination that actually set the whole thing off, but that’s beside the point). Anyway, Benedict finally removed the stain left by that Papal smear and lifted the excommunication.
Nice guy, right? Except that some people were (understandably) pretty pissed about the whole thing. And by some people, I mean Jews. Now, I’m well aware that most young adult males in Germany around the time of World War II were forced to enlist, but that admission totally ruins the irony and ensuing hilarity and generally fucked-up-ed-ness of a former member of the Hitler Youth and leader of the Catholic Church pardoning a gang of Holocaust deniers. Ahem.
Of course, none of this crossed the mind of our dear old Pope (who is, in fact, the oldest Pope to ever be Pope’d) until after the fact. Oh…whoops? Now, less than 2 months later, Benedict has admitted his mistake (which makes me wonder — when the Pope goes to Reconciliation, who does he confess his sins to?). But he didn’t stop there! As he realized the error of his ways, Benedict learned the hard way about the power of The Intarwub:
“I have been told that consulting the information available on the Internet would have made it possible to perceive the problem early on.” (how eloquent and politically neutral! Good boy!)
Benedict goes on to say that the Holy See (which is apparently the name given to the Pope’s domain and which sounds so terribly, terribly grammatical ignorant even though it isn’t) “…will have to pay greater attention to that source of news.”
To this, of course, the collective consciousness of World Wide Net-o-web responded:
The Westboro Baptist Church once similarly protested a performance of The Laramie Project in Boston’s South End, and in case the pink borders on the South End wiki website didn’t make it clear, the only way to avoid being the gayest thing since gay came to Gaytown is by actually being Gaytown; enter the South End (I mean, if you really want to enter the South End, that’s cool with me. Really. I won’t judge you. Hell, I lived there for 2 years. They have lots of nice gardens, and all of the bars make very strong drinks despite the apparent lack of women in their demographic). See, the WBC believes that the killing of Matthew Shepherd in fact had nothing to do with his sexuality, but rather, it was a strictly gang-related act of retaliation for some drug deal in which he was involved. The mere fact that it was said to be a hate crime is, apparently, further proof of the vast, insidious conspiracy known only as The Homosexual Agenda. Unfortunately for the Westboro Baptists (is that like Southern Baptist?), only about 5 people showed up, as opposed to the 250+ Counter-Protesters. Even better is that, in an effort to undermine the efforts of the church, a number of gay philanthropists have started pledging money for every minute that these protests continue. In the end, these 5 lonely homophobes spent a mere 45 minutes raising $5,000+ for pro-LGBT causes. GO TEAM. Way to stick it to the (gay) man.
*Then again, what do I know? I am, by most definitions, a “Frat** Boy” myself. Except that mine is a co-ed professional arts/communication fraternity, which means that more than half of my fraternity consists of chicks, and that more than half of the remaining are gay themselves. We once prided ourselves on being the only fraternity that could spoon without being too gay.
**And it’s called it a FRATERNITY. Would you call your country a cunt? Didn’t think so.
Not to say that I don’t enjoy them — as an avid comic book reader, I’m often filled with fanboy excitement over them — I just hate that the tag of “comic book movie” has to exist. I’ll expand upon this in a later post (read: tonight, after I play the Y the Last Man drinking game), but the biggest problem with comic book movies is the weight of the “comic book” stigma that holds them down and forces ridiculous and arbitrary expectations and/or limitations upon them.
The point is: Watchmen. It was pretty good. Maybe not worth going to bed at 4am last night when I had to be at work at 9:30 this morning, but still pretty good. I enjoyed the whole thing. Was it perfect? Nah. But then, I didn’t expect it to be, because such an expectation would have been entirely unreasonable. It had plenty of problems (most of which can be blamed on its existence as a “comic book movie”) but all in all, it was an enjoyable experience.
Of course, your initial inclination is probably to ask me if the movie lived up to the hype that surrounded it. If, in fact, this is your inclination, then you, my dear reader, deserve nothing less than a laurel, and hearty skullfuck, because it’s stupid people like you who perpetuate all of the crap hype and conversation that surrounds these kind of films, and cause every other shitbag journalist with an ass hole to write his or her review on the film.
Like me.
What follows is a basic, spoiler-free review of the film from a technical standpoint. If you want to skip right to the spoiler-laden review, by all means, do so. But the rest of this stuff is important, too. Because I wrote it.
The problem with these other reviews is that they fall into two different categories, neither of which are capable in providing readers with an effective critical or, well, categorical opinion of the film. The first is fanboy douchebags who are only concerned with the film’s faithfulness to its source material. Please consider this simple fact: the source material is paper with 4-color printing. The movie is celluloid with sound. Therefore, at the purest and most basic root of the problem, the film is unfaithful to the source. According to the transitive property of equality then, your opinion is completely fucking useless. Moving on, the other category of reviewer is the kind who is not familiar with the source material, and are resigned to review the film based solely on the the hype surrounding it as generated by reviewers in the former category. These reviewers discuss the film as it relates to things they heard about the source material, and the reviewer is intellectually incapable of perceiving the film as anything other than a “comic book film” (or other such cheeky nerd subgenre). Neither one is informative, or even useful to the casual movie goer, who simply wants to know, “Should I go see this movie?”
And to that I would say, “yes.” Watchmen is, I think, an enjoyable movie for anyone to see. If you go into it expecting a “comic book movie,” you might be a bit taken aback (as one of my friends was, specifically by the dogs, and rape). For the fanboys who wonder how well the movie adapts the source material — pretty well. Zak Snyder does a really good job of telling the BASIC story of Watchmen in a film medium. I say “basic,” because Watchmen’s existence as a comic book is a crucial part of Watchmen as a comic book; much of the power, appeal, depth, and complexity of the story is inherently linked to the medium through which the story is told. Take Chapter 5, “Fearful Symmetry.” This chapter follows, amongst other things, Rorschach’s psychological examination, which is, coincidentally, full of Rorschach tests, which are, coincidentally, symmetrical blots of ink. The entire chapter of the book is actual symmetrical itself — the layout, coloring, and action of first and last page (and 2nd and 2nd to last, and so on) mirror each other; not perfectly, of course, as that would make for a chapter that was pretty redundant, but it’s there. And the exact center of the chapter is the two-page spread in which Ozymandias is attacked by his would-be assassin. You wonder why the graphic novel is so revered? That’s why.
Simply put: the story of Watchmen is replicated quite well on the screen. The acting is (mostly) solid. The production design is great, albeit different from the book. The concept, themes, and overall big idea of it are suggested, or at least referenced, but otherwise absent, due to the aforementioned complications. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; it is what it is. I could write a short story about a ballet (or vice versa), and while it might be interesting, maybe even brilliant in it’s own right (especially if I wrote it), it obviously wouldn’t be the same. Elvis Costello once said, “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture,” and I think this idea is relevant here.
Now for the spoiler-filled analytical part.
**************SPOILER SPACE ZOMG***************
Throughout the film, fans of the book will appreciate Zak Snyder’s fine attention to detail, a trait of his that he has worn like a badge in his previous adaptations. Things that weren’t able to make the cut are at least given a winking nod of acknowledgment in the background — the homosexual relationship between Hooded Justice and Captain Metropolis, the little black kid reading Tales of the Black Freighter, even Ozymandias’s latent homosexuality (the much-revered opening credits sequence features a shot of him outside of Studio 54 with David Bowie).
However, there are a number smaller details omitted or overlooked that are at least as important as the ones that were included, if not moreso. Consider the character of Rorschach: heroic and well-intentioned if not entirely sociopathic (sociopathetic?) and mentally unstable, Rorschach is so far gone that he actually believes his mask to be his real face, and the identity/skin beneath to be irrelevant. This is made clear when he is first arrested, and cries “My mask! Give me back my face!” and is later expanded upon (as in the book) during his psychological examination and the prison riots that follow. Up until the point that he is unmasked, however, Rorschach refers to his mask as a mask, and his face as his face. Even in the quote above, he first calls it a mask, and then his face. While it may sound like I’m being nitpicky about the difference between “Saw Dan and Laurie…they didn’t recognize me without my mask,” and “Saw Dan and Laurie…they didn’t recognize me without my face,” it’s still a very important character detail, no matter how subtle. It illuminates just how fucking crazy Rorschach really is, and neglecting this fine subtlety reads as lazy on the part of screenwriters David Hayden and Alex Tse.
Eighteen seconds from now I am criticizing the movie’s poor handling of Dr. Manhattan’s nonlinear existence. Sixteen hours and twenty minutes ago I am disappointed with the film’s inability to portray him existing outside of and beyond time. It is November of 2006 and I am fascinated with the way in which Dr. Manhattan engages in multiple conversations at different times and begins to confuse them and respond to things that have not been said yet (I am particularly intrigued by the potential literary value of such a clever foreshadowing device). Three Months, fourteen days, seven hours and six minutes from now, Zak Snyder is remembering that he totally forgot to make the best use out of what is arguably one of the coolest storytelling devices that was handed to him by Watchmen. Four seconds ago I am skullfucking Zak Snyder for this mistake.
Also, the sex scene between Nite Owl and Silk Spectre was absolutely ridiculous. It was so painfully comical that it took me out of the film entirely. Rather than romantic role playing to the tune of “Unforgettable” (I think? Something sultry and jazzy), it was much more of a “bom-chicka-bow-wow” super hero porno parody, backed by Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Double you tee eff!
The most controversial part of this adaptation of Watchmen was, of course, the ending, which involves a giant Cthulu-esque artificial alien squid creature being teleported into the heart of Manhattan and utterly annihilating it and the rest of the tri-state area (Hi, Mom), thereby creating the illusion of an impending alien invasion and uniting the rest of the world in peace against this common enemy. As many people know, this ending was changed, if only slightly. While Ozymandias’s vessel of mass destruction/world peace is different, the idea remains the same; creative integrity is more or less retained. While I’ll be the first to admit that the book’s VD (vessel of doom) was a little absolutely fucking crazy and came totally out of left field — that is to say, I can kind of understand why they might want to change it — I found the new device is entirely underwhelming. I’d liked to turn things over to culturefuck’s private consultant on all things social and political, Adolf Hitler:
Thanks, Adolf. Now, perhaps this was just another one of the many differences between a graphic novel and a film: in the book, Ozymandias says, “I did it 35 minutes ago,” and the chapter ends. Turn the page to begin the next chapter, and you’re faced with something like 7 pages in a row of horrific, bloody aftermath. It’s shocking and repulsive, and really drives the point home. In the film, however, we are treated to a lengthy, effects-laden sequence of our destructive friend as it destroys Manhattan. The only aftermath that we witness is when Dr. Manhattan and Laurie teleport into the rubble and soot. The still-boiling remains of festering human flesh are nowhere to be seen. Great for my stomach, not for the potential impact of the scene. (hee-hee. Seen. Scene. I am so poetical!) On that point, a few of the bloodier scenes in the movie (specifically, Silk Spectre and Nite Owl fighting in the alley) looked like they were stolen from the cutting room floor of Kill Bill.
(Also conspicuously missing was a lack of sympathy for Ozymandias in the end. The book contains a brilliant scene where he and Dr. Manhattan are left alone and he asks, “Did I do the right thing, in the end?” Dr. Manhattan replies, “End? Nothing ever ends,” and immediately teleports away, leaving Ozymandias alone to dwell on his actions. Manhattan’s line is spoken instead by Laurie, thought credited to him, but finds itself in an entirely different context)
In the end, Watchmen was a pretty good adaptation of a great graphic novel, and until someone finds a way to make a film adaptation of a comic book or graphic novel that deconstructs the comic book adaptation while manipulating and exploiting the medium in other inimitable ways, I’ll keep it. Or at least I’ll NetFlix the “Ultimate Director’s Cut” DVD that comes out at Christmas.
Listen: Larry. Bono. Guy Who Plays Bass. The. Can I call you “The”? I know I haven’t posted in a while, but please stop clogging my newsfeed. All of this media attention is only going to make it worse once the truth sets in:
You are no longer relevant (if you ever were at all)
No one cares about your sunglasses and thinly-veiled metaphorical rants on Western Imperialism and the policies of a government under which only one of you is even a citizen (Irish me arse!).
And that “Get On Your Boots” song? Why don’t you just admit it that it was a b-side off of Beck’s Guero album, with overdubbed vocals by Bono, and move on with your well-past-prime lives (“Free me from the dark dream/Candy bars, Ice Cream” — yeah, that’s a Beck line if I ever heard one). The unfortunate truth is that you’re probably still going to continue making albums and doing stadium tours and making ridiculous sums of money that you probably won’t give to starving children in Africa anyway, but that no one is ever going to remember nor care about a single god damn thing you did after “Beautiful Day” and you’ll continue down the same soulless and monotonous yellow brick road on which The Rolling Stones were lost to us in 1978. What’s next? U2 — the 4D Experience: Transcending 30 Years Of Self-Importance?
In fact, I don’t even think you’re really Irish.
As we enter the St. Patrick’s Day season, I implore you, in good faith, to just stop. I thought St. Padraig was supposed to have rid Ireland of all the snakes and sin all those centuries ago, but apparently, he missed the twilight days of your career.
