How is it possible that nothing about this movie pissed me off? Gushing with incredibly low levels of abating after what bloggers seem to be calling “the jump.”

When Iron Man was released earlier this month, I was prepared to mark the event as the beginning of a promising summer season, and enlisted the assistance of one very special (but not particularly prolific) Cracka to help me celebrate the occasion. Sadly after the film, I had a strong sense upon my egress that the season’s offerings had prematurely expunged all of their greatness all over me and there was little left in the coming months beyond a lot of showering, immensely uncomfortable heat and mediocrity. To put unsettling metaphors and overwrought verbiage aside for just a moment, I think the movie was super good. Seriously.

Now, I must admit that I have a history of little more than passing familiarity with Iron Man, despite my high-school days being littered with almost exclusively Marvel-brand comic entertainment. My interest in the character exhibited itself only when trips to Target revealed him, in plastic form, to be an excuse for comic book artists to render a disquietingly emotionless and ass-kicking suit of impenetrable armor. I had a hard time coaxing myself into giving a shit when I heard hushed murmurs of the embattled, fragile spirit within the suit, possibly because he had a mustache that I didn’t think was particularly becoming. I did still watch Magnum P.I. from time to time, stalking the elusive James Hong appearance, so my decisions as a child are admittedly open to question. This may be venturing into both spoiler territory and graceless pride, but my honed suspicion regarding facial hair configurations served me quite well in the viewing of Iron Man. In your service, I will say no more on the subject.

I’m not saying the flick is a mind-blowing masterpiece of cinema, but there is perfection in its balance of elements. The characters are exaggerated enough to be interesting and stylized in accordance with their comic-borne lineage without being dehumanized or caricatured. The action is brisk and exciting yet relevant and necessary to the story. The comedy is deliberate without seeming forced or lackluster. Finally, it deals with issues containing a certain degree of complexity and messiness with respect. Initially, it feels like it might get heavy handed or dangerously patriotic, but the film portrays Iron Man as amazingly cool while simultaneously exposing the paradox of using force and unchecked morality in the pursuit of peace as a sort of zero-sum game. All this while creating some pretty great merchandising possibilities. As such, it reminded me of the most recent Gundam series.

You may notice that I’ve done little in the way of reliving personal pain and loneliness in this particular post. Maybe it’s because Tony Stark’s specific struggles are so foreign to me that I had to stop trying to relate for a moment and instead just give myself over to understanding his experience without my usual selfishness. Maybe it’s because I just let myself enjoy a summer movie for what it is, and what I’ve always valued in the blockbuster season. Maybe it’s because the movie successfully captured the wonderment and thrill I associate with my long-standing love for comic book characters. But lets just say that, while I admire the apparent triumphs of his will, the global community may breathe a sigh of relief that, Chinese or not, I’m such a sub-par engineer that I will never look to path of powered encasements in my search for redemption. We’d all be in a lot of trouble if I did.

Just because I’ve gotten used to disappointment doesn’t mean I’ve grown to enjoy it.

Because I have a desire to catch up with more recent viewing experiences, and no pressing need to revisit this movie, I’m going to keep this short. Just rest assured that I saw the movie, and now, you probably don’t have to. Again, your mileage may vary here, but I’d say that, considering the people involved, this should have been twenty pounds of funny shit stuffed in a four pound bag. As hilariously messy as that euphemism seems, I do not believe it applies to Baby Mama. And yes, I do think The Cracka would agree with me.

If you like Tina Fey, you should be spending quality time with 30 Rock instead of this flick. If Amy Pohler is your cup of tea, you have an unusual way of defining beverages, but nevertheless you can watch her episodes of Arrested Development and get an incalculable amount more laughs-per-joke, and jokes-per-minute. That’s value! If you like Romany Malco, Cracka will heartily recommend that you watch Weeds before smacking you upside the head for looking at her man crossways, and I will provide her an undisclosed amount of support for both of these and any subsequent actions. For a Dax Shepard fix, crack open at least one Brawndo and watch Idiocracy. Baby Mama contains zero electrolytes. Or perhaps you fancy yourself a fan of stilted, awkward, overwritten-yet-clever movies or Steve Martin? Insert The Spanish Prisoner slowly but firmly into your Netflix queue, if you know what I’m saying. Remember how Greg Kinnear was once praised for his ability to be comedic? No? Try revisiting Mystery Men, and you might see a faint glimmer of his sense of humor, dying valiantly under the weight of burgeoning Oscar hunger. Still, considering the pedigree of this flick, who would have thought it’d be so borderline humorless and not even a little bit touching no matter how much you empathize with one who sees the appeal of the grotesque and writhing shapes of newly spawned humans? Not me. Also, when did Sigourney Weaver stop kicking everyone’s ass up and down creation and become the go-to-girl for unsettling old lady roles instead?

One thing I do know is that Spider Erin and any other children I will now never have would have been a thousand times cuter than the parade of scary, bloated zombie spawn in this movie.

Sometimes, when I try my best and have faith in myself, I find inspiration enough to achieve my goals, albeit briefly. The inspiring tale within.

Shortly after its release, Cracka and I made a pact to see Forgetting Sarah Marshall, because we thought the ad campaign was funny, because Twinkie had said it was pretty funny and finally because we like to keep our pacts simple and easy to fulfill. However, as the movie is about the final days of a relationship and the subsequent aftermath, I warned my chaperone that I may need some absorbent material for potential eyeball discharge. She made a note, nodded and called me a disgusting sissy (using only her face). But we went anyway, and I became determined to steel myself against any emotional overreactions and instead feel nothing whatsoever when witnessing any depictions of soul-rending pain, loss and betrayal that would be inevitably played out before me.

Now, it may have simply been a perfect storm of thirst mutilating Brawndo and flesh weakening starvation, but I far surpassed my goal of becoming “stronger” (read: increasingly dead inside and able to snuff out any remaining smoldering embers of hope within the cavity where I once stoked the fires of an immense and churning engine of compassion). Nary a tear was shed, and I was even able to produce an awkward and hollow chuckle at the destitution of others. Eureka. Success at last. Now, while I won’t get into the details of the movie, because that would be useful and thus a radical change of pace from the standard that has been set in these pages up to this point, I will say that I thought it was pretty funny. I guess comedy is such that, if I tell you what I liked, it won’t be as fun for you to see the movie. Also, one’s idea of “funny” may be another’s idea of cruel and irresponsible, possibly bordering on sadistic and/or incoherent. I’ve actually had such a discussion with the universe itself, recently. But I do offer one word of advance preparation in the form of this video.

As for the development and maintenance of emotional fortitude, success is fleeting at best, as I will find myself tearing up watching a grainy ZONE video on YouTube, wailing laments to the emptiness of my room along the lines of “Damn you cruel fate, why do beautiful things have to end?” So hooray for that.

Come with me and travel back in time to a place where everything makes me angry. Snacks will not be provided.

Hey. I’m back. The Summer movie season is now well underway, so I’ve let down everyone who relies on me for informed movie going advice via this site. That is to say, I’ve let nobody down, because as little credit as I give humanity in general, people with whom I hold sway are smart enough to have stopped relying on me for anything, ever. Kudos all around, folks. But not the kind with granola, because if there’s one thing I am, it’s inconsolably broken and irreparably destroyed. I know that’s two things. However, if there are three things I am, they are: 1)inconsolably broken, 2) irreparably destroyed and 3) stingy with granola. So step away.

As if I planned it this way, The Forbidden Kingdom is a movie where some jackass American kid goes back in time and to find himself confused and trying to remember shit that he saw in some movies. So, the writing of this post is in many ways a re-experiencing of the film itself, as long ago, when wooly mammoths walked the great desert plains of unnamed continental masses and better Summer movies had yet to be released, Cracka and I went to see the long-awaited Jet Li/Jackie Chan collaboration which promised ten minutes or so of legendary fighting for the bargain price of an entire plodding feature length film. Even though they’re getting old, those guys can still throw the fists around with competence that tenses the sphincter of a normally able person.

I was going to write a long post attempting to revisit a conversation that I had with Beezer and attempt to figure out my recent fascination with race and identity. Why was I so irritated that the poor man’s Shia LeBeouf got to hang out with an Asian posse? It never bothered me before when Ralph Macchio did it. But these days it’s not uncommon to find your humble narrator, with Cracka in tow, hanging out around Chinatown  and plotting to harangue and drive away outsiders by throwing food at them (in lieu of Hawaiian shirts). Had I developed some misplaced sense of racial entitlement? Was it because my former, whole self was betrayed and forsaken by an insidious and exclusively Caucasian conspiracy, forcing me to come to terms with the possibility that The Man had set his sights on me? Was I trying to erase my banana roots and reinvent myself as someone unidentifiable to those who knew my previous cultural ignorance? Did I know that bananas aren’t a vegetable, but rather a fruit and therefore my analogy was flawed at best? Would I get over it in time to see Iron Man without bitching about the lack of Asian representation in a movie so rife with themes of engineering? Who knows. I hit my head on my door muttering lines from Pulp Fiction until I forgot everything, instead simply chalking my bitterness up to a vestigial phantom desire to have conversations I don’t get to have with a friend I’m no longer allowed to know. Because Whitey won’t let it happen.

Instead, I’ll note the fact that the photo on the above right wasn’t even in the movie, and there should have been much, much more of the girl so awesome they named her twice, Bing Bing Li. Or maybe she was mistaken for a panda at birth.

While I admit that I enjoyed this film two days in a row this week, there were some flaws that made it just slightly unbelievable.

I’m breaking with tradition here, as I’ve tried in the past to keep up with myself by keeping posting order consistent with viewing order, but I feel compelled to write something about this film, having spent unprecedented consecutive days in its company. Well, it’s not completely unprecedented, I suppose. When I was in junior high, I spent an entire summer watching Labyrinth each and every day. Additionally, I’m pretty sure I watched Aliens at least once daily for a couple weeks at some point during my shimmery and brilliant youth. And suddenly I’m realizing that 1986 was a good year for the development of my obsessive compulsiveness. At any rate, Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay is in some fairly prestigious company. Still, I think it may be a first for a theatrical release. But enough about me.

Yeah, right. Cracka‘s most recent appearance here in the vaunted halls of MediaSlave are proof that, if I keep whining and pleading without any thought of cease, someone will pay attention, momentarily. And, as has oft been the case lately, it was she who provided me not only with her usual good company, but also bore witness to my having seen H&K2 (that first time). This is more valuable than you might think, as I have begun to question whether things have actually happened when nobody is with me. I have an entire trip to Japan that I can only account for with weird photos of toys. You can call me Schrodinger’s Bear. Or you can continue forgetting to call me altogether and carry on living your life, too. It seems to be of little consequence either way.

I think it’s obvious that I liked the movie. I mean, I can’t possibly be that bored or desperate to get away from my apartment and the soul-crushing weight of emptiness and web development that awaits me there, can I? Nope. I just like a good Asian-American romp every four years or so, and this one was even better than the first. I say that even acknowledging that immediately after seeing the original adventure, in an attempt to capture a similar magic, I unsuccessfully tried to befriend each and every remotely Indian stranger with whom I crossed paths, initially enchanted but later simply undaunted by their curiously spicy fragrance. Alas, my search ended unfulfilled. But I can say that, for all its ridiculousness, the movie seemed to have some kind of impact on the mainstream audience (and me, too) regarding perceptions of Asian-American identity. Truth be told, I used to have a treasured confidant with whom I enjoyed entertaining such tangents, but without whom such inklings of mine remain scattered and undeveloped, so I guess I’ll abandon my attempt to legitimize the film.

Instead, lets talk about how it’s totally fake-y. Er and I were having trouble with the name of the movie, feeling slightly mislead (although I won’t say why, exactly). We offered alternatives, such as Harold & Kumar Ride a Boat, Harold & Kumar Pet a Deer, Harold & Kumar Visit a Whorehouse or Harold & Kumar Don’t Ride a Cheetah. But on further reflection (and an inappropriately discerning review of the original film) I think Harold & Kumar Wander into a Wormhole would be a better title. The sequel picks up immediately after the first movie (immeasurably more successfully than Hostel: Part II recently attempted), but somehow Harold has a black MacBook, and the world seems to have been regrettably purged of extreme skate punks. Me? Well, if given the choice, I would have clung to 2004 like grim, unrelenting death.

Like a circus freakshow for the idiotic, come one, come all, and marvel at the burdens and impossibilities beset upon the intelligent.

In general, I’m happy that I’m not that bright. Even when it involves getting all riled up to drag Cracka Number One to the movies in the pursuit of semi-independent comedy about the tightly-wound and neurotic. Sometimes such endeavors end in disaster and escalated self-hatred, and although I vowed never to speak of this again, such was the case when our dual curiosities were piqued by the likes of Margot at the Wedding. Oh, the ruing continues to this day on that one, let me tell you. At any rate, this week such appetites coupled with a curiosity about Dennis Quaid apparently brandishing a prosthetic gut brought us out into the sunlight on our way to see Smart People, which I’m told has some vague connection to the hands which brought forth Sideways, and said link is detectable by the mere tone of the film, and Thomas Hayden Church‘s lovable jackassery.

If I were to tell you what lesson I was taught by this film, it would be that Ellen Page continues to defy her Canadianism and maintain her status of awesome. But I say that with a kind of admiration which I liken to that which I have for Natalie Portman; I can’t help but think that starting a career with impressive work only makes it difficult to live up to people’s expectations. Personally, I prefer the opposite (“That’s how you’re gonna beat ‘em, Butch. They keep underestimating you”). Anyway, I might have to watch Hard Candy again just so I can write about it here. If you haven’t had a chance to give it a look, I highly recommend it, provided you like acutely stylized and disquieting ordeals about pedophiles.

But back to Smart People for a minute. I used to be unsympathetic to unhappy people in general. This was, I have come to find, naive. It is with shame that I recall looking down on those who appeared to know what they wanted in life, but did little to pursue it. Now, I’m still pretty judgmental about it when it seems that the main factor in such a static condition seems to be laziness or fear of the unknown. However, sometimes it’s very difficult to idealize the possibilities. Sometimes, between two evils, neither are ultimately lesser. If you’re given a spent Chinese take-out container and are asked to erect a monument to architecture, do you attempt it knowing that the outcome will never be more than a pale approximation, or do you refuse the endeavor entirely in an attempt to maintain the integrity of aesthetic and engineering achievement? People tend to over-think things, and such contemplation can lead to paralysis. Whether such suppositions of mine are born of detached observation or experience, I leave to you, but I will say that it forced within me a sympathy with the film’s characters when I was between Brawndo-induced fidgeting and spasms.

That’s my take on it, though. I think if you were to ask her, my viewing companion would have told you that, by the end of the movie, she just wanted people to stop being dicks.

Gather up your wallets, everyone. It’s time for a moralistic defense of capitalism.

A few weeks ago, I posted another review for the New York-Tokyo crew, because they hooked me up with an advance screener of Ex Machina, the latest Appleseed anime adaptation, and I was (mostly) appreciative. Check out the review if you want to know my thoughts on it, but it probably won’t matter to you if you don’t give a shit about Appleseed. Here, though, I have some stories to tell you about how I try to do my part to maintain the output that fuels this little site, and my life in general.

Despite having just seen the movie for free and finding it unlikely that I’d be in a hurry to repeat the experience, I bought the DVD upon its release. Now, I didn’t do this because I have some desperate and endless need to purchase goods that I think will fill my time, not to mention the bottomless void in my life where love and compassion once flourished. Seriously. Nor did I do it to satisfy some compulsive and inexplicable urge to build an insurmountable fortress-like wall of media in my apartment to prove as a warning and a heralding of my oft-questioned idiosyncrasies. Nope. I bought the DVD because I wanted to give something back to a perceived system, in an effort to keep it functional. I had gotten a several hours of entertainment from the collective forces that created the work, and I wanted to acknowledge that appreciation. That, and I thought the special edition steelbook case was super pretty.

I’m not going to get into too many details here, but the anime industry has been in some trouble lately. Basically, this is because people are generally impatient, cheap and entitled. But also because people love anime. As such, free subtitled versions of Japanese TV anime can be distributed across the vast expanses of the internet within days of the initial broadcast in Japan. Of the musings on Japanese TV you’ll see here, many viewings have been made possible by this process, born of boredom, greed and stinginess, but also of people’s desire to share that which they love. Unfortunately, nobody having anything to do with the production of these works sees any money as a result, and new shows lack funds for development. Sure, arcane business machinations get in the way so that buying your favorite band’s t-shirt at their concert often gives them more support than buying their CD at Best Buy. Still, I’m compelled to emphasize and require in myself an appreciation and process of recompense when life has been improved in one way or another. As such, even though I’m probably not going to sit through over a hundred and sixty episodes (and counting) of Bleach ever again in my life, I’ll still buy the DVDs as soon as they’re licensed and released here. Because my world would be particularly shitty if suddenly, art and entertainment stopped being in it.

Now, I should note that, while I’ve been trying to be all ethical and shit up in here, I was disappointed in my disappointment with the flick, which also rippled forth with monetary effect. I had really wanted to love the movie. Yes, because I’ve loved Appleseed since junior high and everything, but more than that, because I really wanted to buy amazing toys that had been released for the film. But, while I could easily stomach dropping a couple bills on the DVD, in the end I couldn’t justify a few hundred bucks for the toys. Have you ever had a moment like that? Where you had your heart set on buying something, maybe a pair of shoes, maybe a contract on someone’s life, but for one reason or another, you were prevented from making that purchase? When it happens to me, I get an odd, joyous feeling like I’ve found money. So, of course, I went off and spent it at the wonderful Nucleus Gallery store on an armload of prints and books.

I don’t rent video games or movies anymore, nor do I buy them used. Mainly because I want the people who inspire or entertain me, and not some jackass who started a video conglomerate or regretted a drunken internet purchase, to receive some reward for their toiling. Sometimes, it means that I’m forced to exercise caution and judgment, and end up buying one DVD when I could have bought four. On other occasions, I’m found facing down personal responsibility, my arch nemesis, and kicking myself that much harder when I realize I’ve paid nearly full-price for something like Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. But I do understand that mine is a privileged position, from which I make some attempt not to be cripplingly judgmental. Instead, I’m thankful that I can afford this practice, as I have friends who lend me movies on their recommendation, and because I have a job which, in addition to basic sustenance, serves the express purpose of funding such habits, the way I imagine Boba Fett gives a lot of his bounty money to saving intergalactic whales and stuff.

Wong Kar-Wai and Natalie Portman team up to prove that any time of the day is a good time for pie. This should have been the greatest movie ever made.

A couple weeks ago, just as work was beginning to forcibly ween me off my own self-aggrandizement here, my cranky sister and I went to check out the latest offering from my second favorite film director. Alas, the mighty have fallen, albeit not terribly far. More like stumbled, and then pretended to be instantaneously in a hurry and initiating a sudden run in an attempt to mask the mistake. My Blueberry Nights, is Wong Kar-Wai’s first attempt at shooting a movie in America, with Western stars, in a language other than every language other than English (see 2046 for insight and a translation company’s dream project). The flick stars Norah Jones (yeah, that one), and Jude Law (also that one) who, despite a stuttering start, are serviceable leads for the most part. But when you’re used to seeing Tony Leung take the reigns in such roles, opposite the likes of Maggie Cheung or Faye Wong, the two look like neophyte deer in headlights. If you squint really hard, you can see a joke about white people’s eyes in the sentence preceding this one. Also in the one preceding this one. But now I’m done.

As fun as it is to make fun of the round-eyes and alienate everyone who reads this except my parents, I’m getting off track even earlier than usual. Which is alright, because I’ve got a lot of movies and TV to write about, so I’ll try to be short. Which shouldn’t be hard, because I’m Chinese. Dammit. To get back on point, it really wasn’t a bad flick. I just felt like I’d seen it all before, but with people I cared more about and in locations that were more evocative and striking. Still, the quirky love stories were sufficiently quirky, and the beautiful cinematography effectively beautified the oft-hideous South. But that doesn’t change the fact that this was the first time I watched one of Wong’s movies and didn’t feel especially sympathetic to those who were heartbroken, nor inspired by those who persevered in the pursuit of human connections. Then again, I haven’t watched one of his movies in the last couple years, if you catch my meaning. In the end, I felt like this attempt was  but a pale approximation of his previous work. But to put things in perspective, a bootlegged VHS copy of Battle Royale is still preferable viewing fare compared to most sparkly Blu-Ray releases to date.

I can’t help but be colored by the behind-the-scenes rigmarole I’d heard about this. No, that one wasn’t a race joke. Jesus, just keep up here, you’re trying too hard now. These days, I have a hard time trusting the Weinsteins, and not for the reason you think (and you should be ashamed of yourself, really, because it’s only okay when I do it since I’m a minority trying to right inequities, you big racist jackass). Well, unless you think the reason is because they really fucked up releasing Stephen Chow‘s movies over here and hobbled Grindhouse by declaring it an utter failure. At any rate, I’d heard they were unhappy with the reaction this thing got at Cannes, and mandated some alterations. So, I’ve taken that ball and run with it (which I believe constitutes illegal motion or “traveling” in some sports), and decided to scapegoat Harvey and the other one for everything I didn’t like about the movie. Apparently, this is because I have a desperate need to deify Wong Kar-Wai. As such, I’m blaming the re-editing and such for the fact that the end of the movie simply did not sit right with me, since the alternative is to admit with some level of finality that I’ve truly become incapable of sympathy, hope or love.

Still, as far as movies with Natalie Portman and Jude Law, I’d pick this one in a heartbeat over Closer, which is what makes me better than you. You know who you are.

It’s time for a discussion of tactics and espionage. Bring some weapons though, because inevitably, someone acts a fool.

So, are you like me? Now, I’m not asking whether you have a crippling amount of self-doubt and a gaping void where your ability to love or trust others used to be, all brought on by abandonment and broken promises leaving you unable to function like a reasonable or even decent human being. No, I’m asking if you dislike being told that something is the heir apparent to something else that you think is awesome. I guess that first thing would be interesting information to have, too, though. In fact, we’ll circle back and pick that up again in a minute.

Before that though, have you noticed that pieces of entertainment are occasionally marketed with phrases like “the next…” or “better than…” followed by the name of something that has somehow already proven its worth? You’ll be surprised, I’m sure, but this pisses me off. Sometimes, I dislike it because I have no one person to be angry at, and instead I have to attempt to find a way to focus my aggression on the disembodied voice of a faceless marketing drone. Sometimes, I’m mad at the shortsighted jackanapes who never thought putting the name of a superior work on the box would ultimately result in an unfortunate and disappointing comparison. Now, I’m not talking about noticing similarities or homages. In fact, I think you’ll find the MediaSlave posts chock-full of admiration for those who appreciate and declare influences. I’m just talking about the shifty, futile gimmick of attempting to promote something on the shoulders of established efforts.

In more than one instance within the limited confines of my chosen destinations online, I’ve seen Black Lagoon referred to as either a spiritual successor or worthy follow-up to Cowboy Bebop. Pish. You read that right. Pish. What on earth would drive me to such harsh exclamations, you ask? Well, partially because they’re unrelated for the most part, and partly because this particular comparison is, in a word, retarded. It’s like saying Big Momma’s House is similar, but superior to Pulp Fiction. Or implying that, if you liked Battle Royale, you’ll love Beverly Hills Ninja. Or that Reloaded and Revolutions have everything that made The Matrix great, and much more. Shhh. Don’t say anything; I like to pretend these movies are unrelated… Still, my point is that it’s certainly not impossible to draw such comparisons, it’s just incredibly unwise. It undermines the purpose of such declarations to make them at all. Most of the time, these works could actually stand on their own merit, if only they were given a chance. Maybe not Big Momma’s House, which I must admit to never having seen.

To that end, I’m not trying to say that the show wasn’t any good. In fact, I think it’s well above average in some ways. Despite uneven quality in the animation, it balances somewhat interesting characters and compelling action with an impressive amount of darkness and tension, especially in the second half. There are interesting racial dynamics and some kind of commentary on xenophobia and the international community if you look for them. It’s an exciting and formidable extrapolation on the workings of the global underworld. I’d even recommend it to you, if you can find something to like about watching soulless husks of damaged human debris shamble around their worlds desperately groping for their formerly glorious or impossible potential selves in a tragic and endless ballet of suffering. Like I can.

Proof positive that even dour, suicidal whiners can be entertaining. At least that’s the angle I’ll be trying to sell to those of you who are still on the fence.

I’d actually been looking forward to the release of In Bruges since The Cracka and I first saw the trailer back in ’07, so we went to see it promptly after its release back in frosty early-February before the mighty resurrection of MediaSlave. After that viewing, we managed to smile for longer than either of us had previously remembered doing in recent memory. For my part of it, I was happy to have seen such a well made film with someone who could appreciate it but also register and understand my affection for it. I’m not going to call it the best black comedy since Heathers, unless you ask me to reference it in relation to the last black comedy I enjoyed with the same approximate amount of admiration. Do they still call them black comedies? Or is that somehow racially insensitive? When Twinkie called me last week after seeing the film, saying that she immediately wanted to either see it again or fly to Bruges for the sole purpose of mocking an entire town and its attractions, I was quick to volunteer for either outing. Since the dollar is weak right now and I’m still trying to see how long I can live without ever crossing the Atlantic, we just went to the movies later that weekend.

I’m not going to get into specifics, lest I wander into the oft-treacherous waters of spoiler territory, but there’s a weight that Colin Farrell‘s character Ray carries throughout the movie. This weight makes it difficult for him when he tries to enjoy the little joys of life, like visiting religious sites, dating mysterious criminals and midget-spotting. All of these pursuits are successfully albeit temporarily distracting, particularly the midget-centric one for which he possesses a unique enthusiasm, but they don’t seem to ease the burden and loss he shoulders. There’s a touching desperation in his attempt to find reasons to continue. I know what you’re thinking. You know a guy like that. A guy who’s doing what he can, and you want to show support. But at the end of the day, you just wish he’d realize the past is the past, and he should just pry his heart open again and seek new happiness. I’m hear you. I like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, too.

And who knew Ralph Fiennes could be so funny? I mean, he’s kind of funny in Harry Potter, but I think that’s because he doesn’t have a nose. You know, the way that Domo-kun is funny. Like he’s cute but he might eat you. Here, you laugh at him because he’s just kind of unstable and odd. Like if you knew him for real, you’d never invite him out to hang out when you were meeting up with other friends, but at the same time, you wouldn’t want to be alone with him, so you’re always sitting around awkwardly in restaurants or coffee shops because there’s less chance that he would break public social protocols and set about devouring your organs. Evidently, this tangent has unearthed from the depths of my psyche the deep-seeded fear of being ingested. Who knew? Speaking of which, they couldn’t just find some authentic fat Americans for this flick? I mean seriously, it’s not like we’re having a shortage over here.