James Bond speaks better English than Jean Claude Van Damme (who's Belgian) and kicks more ass than Saoirse Ronan (who's a girl)

Lumping together a few of the movies I saw in the past few days: 

Went to see Hanna at a discount house, and I'm sure I would've liked the movie, being an ultra-stylish action film with touches of weirdness throughout, all done to a thumping Chemical Brothers score, and all -- except I was too distracted by the couple behind me who felt the need to add running audio commentary to the proceedings. It was beautiful, the comments they shared with each other; during one shot of a lonely snowy cabin in the middle of the woods at night, the lady told her man "That's scary!" Then during one scene involving Cate Blanchett's fetchingly cold-blooded (and stylishly-dressed) CIA agent character, the same lady then told the audience, "She's evil!" 

I decided to try something different from the usual "Can you please be quiet?";  I turned around after one of their comments and said "Yeah, I know, right?" in a really friendly way. It was a passive-aggressive masterpiece, that move, because it confused them as well as gave them the message that they were being loud cunts. 

Unfortunately, there were a few other people that Saturday night who figured, hey, it's only $4, no one will care if I take out my cell phone, hold it up so everyone can see it, and start texting my obviously important thoughts to some other asshole miles away. Then a boy with a cup of soda decided that there was no other greater pleasure than to suck on that straw after all the soda was gone, making that sweet, sweet music of a straw slurping the remaining cola moisture hidden in the minute crevices of the ice cubes. After that, he decided to turn the straw into a makeshift talkbox and do his impression of Roger Troutman, that is, when he wasn't just humming through it non-stop. 

At this point, I decided to no longer fight. There is no reward in fighting, only a delay in the inevitable heartbreak that Fighting For A Cause leads to. This fight against Acts of Douchebaggery in the Cinema, it is over. I tapped out. I sat there and Zen'd my soul out of my body and went somewhere else, somewhere quiet. The images of Briony Tallis and Eric Bana beating the shit out of people and bringing down severe pain upon their enemies, they did nothing for me, because my eyes were glazed over and I was no longer in the theater at that point -- only a desiccated shell of my former self was seated 

One day, I will rent the DVD or Blu-ray and watch it proper, the way I should've watched it in the first place -- at home. In fact, I will attend movie theaters far, far less frequently than I used to. Off the top of my head, the only movie I want to see in the theater in the coming weeks (after The Tree of Life, of course) is Super 8, and that's about it, really. Maybe a couple more movies, but other than that, I'm just going to wait to see them at home. If I do go to the movie theater, it will most likely be at a revival house like the New Beverly Cinema, or a Friday midnight show at the Nuart, but even then, I REALLY have to want to watch it. Because it's over, man. The douchebags have won. The cinema is now theirs. It's like Dawn of the Dead and we're running out of safe havens, only it's an even scarier threat than zombies -- it's human beings who should know better.

I don't want to end my current Hanna ramblings on a down note, so I'll tell you my positive Cate Blanchett story. She once held open a door for me at the Arclight Cinema as I did that lame fast walk towards it. She saw me going to the same theater (to a screening for Notes on a Scandal that I was attempting to sneak into) and she held the fuckin' door open for me, because that's what decent people do for their fellow man. Either that or she thought I was handicapped and needed help, because Leonard Maltin did the same thing at the American Cinematheque before a screening of Los Angeles Plays Itself, so maybe there's something about me that screams Please Hold The Door. 

Anyway, she held the door open for me and even gave me a warm smile when I caught up and took over door-holding duties, which was either a display of friendliness or her wanting to laugh at my dumb duck-wobbling ass. I said "thank you" by the way, because that's what you do to show your appreciation -- either that or a simple nod of acknowledgement -- you don't just walk past and ignore the door-holder like most assholes at the post office do to me. 

The next day, I watched Sudden Death, which I really dug back in the final week of December '95 in the theater and I really dug it this time as well. The premise is absurd (Die Hard in a hockey arena) and Van Damme really amazes with his lack of acting ability, but goddammit, he's trying his heart out and so is the movie. With the exception of completely depressing garbage like A Sound of Thunder, Peter Hyams is not only a solid director in the non-artist category of Artisan or Skilled Craftsman (or Hack, if you wanna be a dick about it), he's also one of my favorite cinematographers and it's too bad he only D.P.'s his own flicks (with the exception of the surprisingly tight Universal Soldier: Regeneration, and that's probably because his son directed it). 

Hyams' flicks all have that soft, hazy look combined with his You Don't Have To See Everything aesthetic when it comes to lighting a scene and god forbid you should see one of his joints at the drive-in. But in a properly projected theater (or at home), the shit looks damn near beautiful in its darkness.  If Gordon Willis is the Prince of Darkness in the cinematographer world, then Peter Hyams is the....whatever is below the prince. 

There's an interview somewhere online where Hyams talks about how even though he's worked on some huge Hollywood joints like 2010: The Year We Make Contact and End of Days (that's the one where Arnold figures the best way to fight Satan is with a shitload of guns), he's not only never been interviewed by American Cinematographer magazine, he's also had his membership applications rejected by the American Society of Cinematographers because these assholes hate motherfuckers like him and Steven Soderbergh for being their own directors-of-photography; How DARE a director also light his own set and compose his own shot?! Directors are supposed to be at our mercy -- the cinematographers who are truly responsible for the success of a film, certainly not the director and certainly not those faggy actors and those douchebag screenplays! 

Van Damme plays a former firefighter/current fire inspector named McCord; they explain the accent by saying he's originally from Quebec. The former situation leading to his current one was that he failed to save the life of a little girl during a fire, so he's all bummed about it. Even then, he's trying to keep his head up and be a good dad to his kids (despite divorcing their mother and putting those children in Broken Home City, population: them) by scoring them tickets to Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. 

But because the filmmakers intended the title to have more than one meaning, something goes down during the game; a group of asshole mercenaries and former government agents plant C-4 all over the arena and take control of the skybox, holding the Vice President of the United States (and a group of hostages mostly comprised of Eventual Dead Meat) hostage, demanding the usual exorbitant amount of money or else, you know the deal, the innocent get shot or blown up. 

The screenplay is credited to Gene Quintano, the motherfucker responsible for writing Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol and National Lampoon's Loaded Weapon 1. Now, most of you read those credentials and think What A Bunch Of Shit, but me, I look at those movies and go, Thank You Mr. Quintano For Teaching Me How To Laugh Again. Sure enough, this flick is actually pretty funny (for the most part) when it's not being dead serious, and in some cases, it manages to do both at the same time, like when Van Damme throws down with a 6'5 assassin chick dressed like a giant penguin. 

The bad guys in this movie are Eeeeeevil Boo Hiss types; they make shitty jokes in between shooting innocent unarmed people. The villains in Die Hard were willing to blow up a rooftop of hostages, but in their defense, there's a cold logic to it -- they needed to do that so they could get away while the authorities think they also died in the explosion. But the bad guys here seem to get off on shooting old ladies and pretty blonde girls and while they may not be the most multi-layered characters, let's be honest here -- who gives a fuck. They're evil motherfuckers and it just makes you cheer louder when The Van Dammage shoves a bone into their throats or barbecues their asses with Super Soakers filled with lighter fluid. 

Powers Boothe is the leader of the bad guys and he's genuinely threatening, even when he's making lame jokes. He also seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy a big fat bloody steak; I read somewhere that when he was in the film MacGruber, he had to operate the stick shift for Ryan Phillippe during a scene where Phillippe was driving him around in a jeep, and I bet you Phillippe felt like a fuckin' lame-ass bitch not being able to drive stick in front of a man's man type like Powers Fuckin' Boothe. I bet you at least once, Boothe probably asked Phillippe something like "Really? You don't know how to drive stick?" and even though he probably asked as nicely as possible, because he's Powers Boothe that shit still sounded like "Go put on a dress and heels, woman, and bring Daddy a bourbon". 

Anyway, if you haven't seen Sudden Death, you should. It's a solid action flick, with a pace damn near as fast as the hockey game occurring during the film, and while he doesn't Kumite these assholes as much as he did in other movies, there's still a nice amount of Van Dammage throughout -- plus, he pulls a very well-deserved act of Motherfuckery to the bad guys during the climax. I'd say this movie and Hard Target are my favorite Van Damme flicks. Oh, and Knock Off too -- that movie was made by escaped mental patients/former prop comics from Hong Kong, I'm sure. 

The first movie I rambled about on this blog was Dr. No, and since then, every once in a while I'll pop in a 007 flick. Over the years, I've been watching them in order, catching up on Bond movies I never saw before while re-visiting the rest. Recently, I've gotten up to the Timothy Dalton joints, having an Inspired By The Approaching Expiration Date On Netflix Instant double-feature of The Living Daylights and Licence to Kill. 

I had never seen The Living Daylights, and for some reason, I was under the impression that it wasn't one of the better Bond joints. How wrong I was; this is a pretty damn good entry in the series, in fact, some people believe this to be the last true Bond movie. I can see their point while not entirely agreeing with them; this is the last Bond film to still have that old-fashioned feel to it. With a few adjustments, this story could've been told back in the 70's with Roger Moore (supposedly it was written with the intention of him starring in it) and it even looks old-fashioned, and I think part of that is due to the work of cinematographer Alec Mills, whose old-school veddy British classical manner of D.P.'ing involves lighting the shit out of everything and composing each shot with less importance on looking stylish and more importance on making sure the audience can understand what's going on. 

In this one, Bond is assigned to make sure Jeroen Krabbe (playing a KGB general, not as Jeroen Krabbe) defects from his country without getting his cap peeled back by those borscht-eating motherfuckers. Said cap-peeling almost happens; a hot Russian cello player is about to sniper the guy until Bond does some sniping on his own, except he doesn't kill her. At first, I was as pissed as Bond's partner in this mission -- this fuckin' guy had his scope aimed right in the center of Russian chick's pretty little forehead, before suddenly changing his aim to the rifle in her arms and blasting on that instead. 

It really looks bad for Bond, given his well-earned reputation as being a notorious slut with the ladies (the common thinking among his colleagues is that he let the little head do the thinking, rather than the big head), but it turns out that he was able to tell that this chick was holding that sniper rifle the way a Catholic priest would deal with a naked pair of titties -- like someone with no fuckin' idea on how to handle that shit. 

This was the last Bond movie John Barry scored, and that's a damn shame. I wonder why he stopped; was he done with doing 007 music or was he never invited back to the James Bond party? Either way, his stuff is missed; nothing against guys like Michael Kamen or David Arnold, because those guys are good, but goddamn, this was John Fuckin' Barry -- a true legend. He was right up there with Morricone, if you ask me. The action music is exciting and catchy, but it's his romantic themes that I really enjoyed, and in true Barry style, they manage to be these grand & majestic tunes that are also tinged with just the right amount of sadness. 

The end credits song, written by Barry and Chrissie Hynde (who also sings it) is a lot like k.d. lang's end credits song in Tomorrow Never Dies in that they're both better than the opening credits song. I guess a-ha was a bigger deal than The Pretenders back in '87, and as for Tomorrow Never Dies, the producers probably heard k.d. lang's song and thought to themselves, "Wow, she sings like Shirley Bassey but she goes down like Ron Jeremy and we need a pretty girl, not some ugly dyke to headline this sucker" and that's a damn shame. 

Joe Don Baker is in this, and because JDB is awesome and fat, he showed up in the Brosnan joints as well, playing a different character. But in this one, he's an arms dealer and his entry in the douchebag sweepstakes is that he's one of these guys who never served in the armed forces but thinks himself a fuckin' military master. He's introduced hanging out among a bunch of statues of famous military conquering motherfuckers like Genghis Khan and that guy Colin Farrell played in that Oliver Stone movie, only they're all made out to have his face. This fuckin' asshole has his own little private army, wears military attire and all of that shit, but he's as military as your average right-wing radio show host (with the exception of that rat-eating mofo G. Gordon Liddy). Fuck this guy. All he's got going for him is that he's played by Joe Don Baker. 

The next Bond film, Licence to Kill, is like the Timothy Dalton of Bond movies, if that makes any sense and I'm sure it doesn't; this one is pretty dark and intense compared to other Bonds, and that's kind of the complaint some people had about Timothy Dalton's portrayal of Bond. They forget that Bond's a dude who's been through some serious shit -- all that killing with a licence can get to a guy sometimes, and I like to think that compared to Connery & Moore, Dalton's Bond is less about drinking-for-fun and more of a drinking-to-forget type. 

The Netflix Instant version was the unrated cut (reinstating stuff that was trimmed to get a PG-13), so it was pretty cool and even a little jarring to see some of the extra violence -- a motherfucker's head goes Scanners in one scene and you see one poor guy's bloody stump after Deep Blue Sea starts chomping on the fuckin' guy. It was probably still jarring in the PG-13 version; up until now, the violence in a Bond movie had never been that particularly visual in it's brutality. But hey, this one's got a particularly brutal story. 

Shortly after his bro Felix Leiter is maimed and Leiter's new bride is murdered (and it's pretty obvious she was raped too), Bond resigns and has his licence to kill revoked as a result, but that really makes no difference to the guy, because it's fuckin' Revenge Time and he's out killing the guys responsible and the ones he's not killing, he's setting them up to be royally motherfucked in one way or another. It's pretty awesome to watch, all this motherfucking. 

Bond uses his particular set of skills to get in with drug kingpin Robert Davi (doing the Eye-tie playing-a-Latino thing). Davi's a pretty interesting villain; he does some pretty harsh shit to people which is actually pretty typical for a Latin Druglord (he has his men tear the heart out of a guy who was dicking Davi's dame), but I honestly didn't consider him nearly as evil as your typical Bond supervillain. I mean, he's a businessman -- he's not out to kill millions of people (not directly, anyway) or take over the world, he just wants to make money. Based on what I see him do in this flick, his big deal is loyalty, and if you're loyal to him, then he's cool with you. It's only if you try to fuck him (or his money or his lady) that he'll then teach you the most painful and permanent of lessons. 

If anyone is genuinely Eeeevil, it's his right-hand hatchet man, played by a very young, rail-thin Benicio Del Toro. That dude really enjoys the perks of his job, watching the victims suffer and beg, or raping helpless former actresses from Three's Company before murdering them. Yeah, that chick is in this movie too, as is that one chick who was in Law & Order for a while. You also have that dude from Quest for Fire and Under Siege 2: Dark Territory (Stephen Lang must've been busy) and you also have Shang Tsung from Mortal Kombat jumping in for some Intimidating Asian fun. 

There's also a bit of a Die Hard reunion because both Agent Johnsons (Davi and Grand Bush) are in this film, not to mention Michael Kamen is the film's music composer -- adding even more shades of Die Hard to the action palette used in painting this picture. Also, Wayne Newton is in this movie too, even though I couldn't quite figure his character out; he's either dumb, or weird, or just plain blinded by backed-up semen, given his behavior near the end and what he'll accept from a beautiful girl. 

The downside of this movie is that, yeah, this doesn't quite feel like a Bond movie compared to others, but that's because the whole point of this movie is that Bond isn't operating by the same set of rules as in the other flicks. He's gone rogue (or renegade, if you want to get all Captain Kirk about it), he's not even supposed to be doing this, so he's going about things differently. You know those awesome moments of cold-blooded ownage in a Bond movie like Moore kicking that asshole in the Mercedes off a cliff in For Your Eyes Only, or Connery killing the assassin who ran out of bullets in Dr. No, or Brosnan disarming Vincent Schiavelli and then shooting him in the fuckin' face in Tomorrow Never Dies? Well, that's pretty much all Dalton does to the bad guys in Licence to Kill, and that, dear readers, is what I consider the upside of this movie. 

It's interesting to find out that this movie was a disappointment at the box office in the U.S., and I would guess it's because it came out in the same summer as Batman, Lethal Weapon 2, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, The Abyss, and Ghostbusters II as its competition. Goddamn, that was a pretty good summer for Hollywood flicks. Hell, Ghostbusters II wasn't even that great, if I remember correctly, but nowadays it would probably be showered with praise in comparison to most of today's big-budget summer extravaganzas. I wonder if people figured Bond was old news and too proper compared to Mad Mel's broken collarbone theatrics, which is why they didn't bother going to see this movie -- which is kind of fucked up because I think Licence to Kill and Lethal Weapon 2 are actually kindred spirits, both solid examples in the Die Motherfucker Die sub-genre of action movies. 

Supposedly, Entertainment Weekly called this one of the worst Bond movies, and I guess it is if you consider how un-Bond it is in comparison to the others, but that doesn't mean it's a shit movie. I mean, Diamonds are Forever and A View to a Kill are among the worst in my opinion, and those were still very much Bond movies. This, on the other hand, is Good Times and when you get down to it, that's all that matters. Also, there's one of the most awesome Iguanas I've ever seen in a movie, the fuckin' thing is wearing a diamond-studded collar because it's all about bling-bling.

Anyway, that's it. I leave you with some NSFW parting words from Mr. Ice-T, which actually kinda could've worked as an intro to Licence to Kill: 

James Bond can be a real dick sometimes

Basketball has too many points, and hockey has too few, but football is just right. Soccer, on the other hand, is in a class of its own, a very annoying class. Maybe it's because I live in a neighborhood that is predominantly Latino (hell, the fuckin' region is predominantly Latino), and while I love mi gente, I can't fuckin' stand their love for this sport. They get so goddamn loud with the howling and the yelling and the yowling and the helling and the overall caterwauling when one of these fuckin' Third World countries finally makes a score, and for some reason (probably because I'm a fucking asshole), their joy makes me miserable.

Perhaps I'd feel the same way about baseball if I lived in Boston, and instead of raza, I'd have to put up with loud-ass fuckin' Pahk-da-cah Chowdaheads who don't act much differently from those characters played by Jimmy Fallon and that odd-looking chick with big tits on SNL. Perhaps I'd feel the same way about NASCAR if I lived in Alabama and had to put up with all those shitkickers getting all excited as if someone had brought in a rare extended print of Birth of a Nation. Perhaps I'd feel that way about basketball if I lived in, uh *leans in and whispers* the hood *clears throat* and had to put up with, uh...the fine individuals who are fans of that fine sport. It's the same everywhere, I guess, and I think what I'm trying to say here is that I should be living in a secluded island, somewhere far away from these jokers known as my Fellow Human Beings.

I was thinking about that while watching The Man with the Golden Gun, the James Bond movie starring Roger Moore, Christopher Lee, and a couple of hot chicks. Lee plays the villain in this piece, Francisco Scaramanga, a man who makes an honest living by shooting motherfuckers with a golden bullet. He's the best at the assassination game, making one million dollars a kill. Business is so good, he's able to afford his own private island to live in. Man, I want a place like that. It's off of southeast China, and his pad is built into the caves. He's got his own energy source, all done with solar power, and he's got a dwarf for an assistant. This dwarf Nick Nack is awesome; he handles all of Scaramanga's business deals (that way he doesn't have to see any of these asshole clients), he takes care of the house, and he's also trained at Le Cordon Bleu, so you know he can make some mean grub. Unfortunately, Scaramanga made the dumbass mistake of making Nick Nack the sole heir to all of this. That means the little bastard is always setting up other hitmen to show up and try to kill homeboy, as both a means for Scaramanga to get some practice, but also in hopes that he gets killed, so Nack could get everything.

But whatever, that's fine. There's always something. If it's not that, he'd probably get mixed up with some broad who'd want him dead. Oh wait! He DOES make that stupid choice in life as well -- mixing it up with this chick named Anders, and what a fucking C, man. She can't just live it up with this dude, no, she's gotta set him up and send MI6 a golden bullet with "007" etched into it to get them involved. What the fuck, lady? No wonder Scaramanga's leaving all his shit to Nick Nack; at least the little dude stays professional, even when trying to get his boss dead. This chick can't even pretend to dig having sex with him, probably because he's got a third nipple like Mark Wahlberg or Krusty the Clown. Sure, he's got his little kinks, like rubbing his custom-made golden gun all over her face and around her mouth, but I was once with a girl who wanted me to choke her, and did I complain? No! Besides, she was out of my league, I was in no position to complain.

I can see why British dudes like Tony Blair backed up Dubya, that motherfucker's probably cut from the same cloth as the MI6 guys who wanted my man Scaramanga stopped. Here you have a guy who has all that solar power, he doesn't need to deal with Edison or the gas company or any of that shit, his money is his money and he probably doesn't have to pay taxes and that pisses these assholes off. That's why they send Bond to kill him, not that bullshit they're trying to sell you about him trying to take over the world or whatever the fuck they say he's guilty of.

So we follow Bond on his job, which consists of acting like a real asshole. That's what Roger Moore brings to this portrayal; Connery had a way of never completely breaking that smoothness, he could make even the most threatening shit sound like pillow talk. Moore, on the other hand, seems quicker to smack a lady around if he doesn't get his way -- and it's always a lady. With guys, he's getting his ass handed to him and unless he cheats, he hasn't got a chance. There's one part where a couple of sumos are fucking him up, one guy's got him over his shoulder, crushing against him, so what's the first thing Bond does? He grabs at the sumo's buttcheeks. For real. Right after that, Bond realizes how fuckin' gay that looks, and instead gives the sumo some kind of wedgie. You know both Bond and the sumo are going to have the cheek-grabbing incident in the back of their minds for a while.

Later on, Bond's got to fight against a couple of martial arts experts, and he takes out the first one by kicking him in the face while he's bowing. There's no honor in this motherfucker. The second martial artist doesn't play that shit, and the moment Bond has a chance to get the fuck out of there, he does, jumping out the window just so some young schoolgirls can save his lame ass. He should be kissing these girls asses, but he doesn't even acknowledge them, instead he just goes back to treating other women like shit. Bond rules!

There's a chick named Mary Goodnight that Bond particularly likes to be a dick to, at one point getting her all hot and bothered, ready to bed her down. But then that ungrateful Anders shows up, so he shoves Goodnight into the closet and makes her wait there for the rest of the night while he bangs the other broad. That would be pretty awesome if it was someone else pulling that shit, but it's Roger Moore's asshole version of Bond, so fuck him and his proto-Patrick Bateman ways. By the way, even though she was just treated like a blow-up fuckdoll being hidden before the parents show up to visit, Goodnight is still into Bond, even more so, proving once again what Albert Einstein always said: Chicks Dig Jerks. (Incidentally, this is what led to Einstein helping in the creation of the atomic bomb -- you can't get more jerky than making a weapon that kills millions -- and sure enough, homeboy started smelling like ass 'cause he was getting so much of it afterward.)

The best moment is when Scaramanga treats Bond and Goodnight to lunch; he tells Bond that they are both very much alike, they both get pleasure from killing people. Bond tries to justify his ways by saying that he doesn't like killing, and he only kills because he has to and because he's licensed by the government to do so. Whatever, Bond. If you hated killing so much, you wouldn't be so quick to have a fuckin' witty line to quip with afterwards. At least Scaramanga's true to himself about being a sociopath. Then Bond kills him and blows up the island and we're supposed to cheer that shit.

Of all the deaths in the movie, it was the island's demise that really got to me. I want to live in a place like that, hell, I'd like to have Scaramanga's life -- third nipple and all. The two main differences would be that I'd try to have a screening room attached to my cave dwelling and instead of a dwarf for my assistant, I'd hire some cute girl, maybe an actress who hasn't been in the spotlight for a while and could probably use the money, like Rachael Leigh Cook or someone. Then while she's filing papers or making me a grilled cheese sandwich, I can annoy her by asking her a bunch of questions like "What was it like working with Freddie Prinze Jr.?" and "Is it true that Freddie Prinze Jr. is really into comic books?". She'd give me the grilled cheese, and I'd take a bite and say "The cheese isn't melted enough. By the way, did you know that Freddie Prinze Jr. is supposed to be a very good cook?" and she'd finally get fed up and scream "WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING HIRE FREDDIE PRINZE JR., THEN?!" and storm out. Then I'd take another bite of my grilled cheese and start to laugh while my mouth was still full, saying "Where are you going, Rachael Leigh Cook? This is an island and you don't know how to work the boat" and she'd stop and mutter "Dammit!" before going back to her assistant duties. To think that this could have all been avoided had Josie and the Pussycats done well at the box office.

Since last December, I've been watching all the Bond movies in a row, checking one out whenever I was in the mood, and this is the most recent viewing, the second of the Roger Moore series of Bond flicks. The Man with the Golden Gun is considered one of the worst (if not THE worst) Bond movie ever made, but I thought it was okay. Diamonds Are Forever is easily the worst Bond movie so far, tarnishing what was a damn near spotless run for Sean Connery. The fact that the Moore flicks haven't been that great to begin with is probably why I'm pretty easy on this one. The theme song, on the other hand, is fuckin' HIDEOUS.

Holy shit, was that tune hard to sit through. You can only be a champion for so long before you start to lose a bout or two, and I guess it was time for composer John Barry to eat shit in a big fuckin' way. I tried to let it slide, but then there's a pretty decent chase scene late in the flick that ends with a really cool stunt. Bond drives his car off a broken bridge and it does a 360 degree spiral onto the other end of the bridge. No CGI, just the real deal -- the kind of shit only pulled in the "all or nothing days", to quote Stuntman Mike. When it happens, everything goes silent for a second -- and then this motherfucker Barry adds a goddamn slide whistle to accompany a perfect moment.

This man composed many beautiful epic scores; along with a bunch of Bond flicks, he also did the music to Zulu, Midnight Cowboy, Out of Africa, and Dances with Wolves. Hell, I just about cry every time I hear his score to Somewhere in Time (being half-a-fag might have something to do with that), and yet if I was to meet the man himself one day in person, I just might have to kick him in his wrinkly English ballsack for adding a slide whistle to that scene. Even if he tries to backtrack and say that it was the director's idea, I'd tell him it doesn't excuse the theme song for The Man with the Golden Gun. Then he'd nod in agreement while nursing his sore testicles. And if I ever run into the chick who sang the theme song, Lulu, I'll just give her a stern talking to, because I don't beat women, I'm not Chris Brown.

If I was, I'd be rich and happy.

James Bond is kind of an OK dude

I'm on a fuckin' roll here, writing stupid bullshit on this blog. So I'm gonna keep on going and talk about how I decided to check out another Bond movie when I got home from Christmas with the family. I've never seen most of the Bond movies, so I checked out the first two to see if it's worth considering checking out the rest.

So I busted out the Maker's Mark and went to work on it while checking out the follow-up flick to Dr. No, called From Russia with Love. I wanted to see if this bastard Bond pays for what he did to my main dude Quarrel, who is currently in ash form and probably being gobbled up by guppies.

The first scene of the movie is Bond being stalked by this buff dude who is probably Dolph Lundgren's father or something. I wouldn't be surprised if this guy also spoke German. We're talking Aryan superman shit here. What's really cool is that Bond doesn't look so smug here, in fact, he looks scared, so that's pretty awesome. He doesn't have time to piss himself though, because Dolph Sr. sneaks up from behind and piano wires this motherfucker something fierce. Yes! Revenge, baby! I'm like, this is awesome, the first five minutes and this limey fuck Bond is dead. Good. Say hello to Quarrel for me. Then they take it all away from you when you find out it's just a dude in a Bond mask, and this was all just a test to see how fast Dolph Sr. can find and kill J.B. should the opportunity arises. Boooooo! If I had popcorn, and I didn't want to eat any more, I'd throw it at the screen.

I really like the credits, cool shots of the names of the cast and crew projected against belly dancer types. The main theme is really nice too. I spent most of the movie humming it and making up my own lyrics. I can't remember them because I was feeling pretty good at the moment, loving that special glow that lovely, lovely booze can only provide. Being with a chick can also give you that glow, I've heard.

Turns out this is a revenge flick, except it isn't for Quarrel, it's for Dr. No. Really, who gives a fuck? Apparently, the evil agency he works for called SPECTRE does. So they get Bobby Fischer and this Russian lesbian to work on messing things up for MI6 (agency Bond works for) and to steal something called the Lektor. I think it's a code-breaking machine, like that Enigma machine that they made two flicks about a few years ago.

Russkie employs two other people to help out, the first being Dolph Sr.. It's pretty funny how obvious Russkie hates men; the first time she meets Dolph Sr., he's out sunbathing while some blonde cutie (who's kinda sweaty & oily, but I'm not complaining) is giving him a massage. Russkie is probably pissed that it's not her getting the shiatsu treatment by this chick, so she breaks that shit up immediately. And I guess his admirably fit male physique really grosses her out too, because her reaction to seeing this is to dry-gulch him with her brass knuckles. Jesus Christ lady, we get it. It couldn't get any clearer unless you started belting out some Indigo Girls song while you did it. Luckily, homeboy doesn't flinch and Russkie's is impressed, so he's on the job.

Next, Russkie meets up with this smokin' hot blonde Russian named Tatiana. I must be old school in my taste, because I find this chick a lot hotter than a lot of what passes for hot nowadays in movies. I mean, Keira Knightley has a cute face, but with that body of hers that just makes her the cutest boy I've ever seen, and that's wrong. I felt so bad for her when I saw her in Domino giving some gang members an attempt at a lapdance. There's some serious Oscar caliber acting going on in that scene, because when she takes off her shirt and is down to just her bra, the homies act like her flat DiCaprio-in-Titanic chest is painfully boner-inducing. Maybe if they had just gotten out of the joint, I can kind of understand that. If I have to go to jail, I would hope to have a cellmate that looked like Keira, otherwise, I'm not completely buying that scene in Domino or that moment in Atonement where homeboy gets so hard up thinking of her he's driven to typing out CUNT on a typewriter. I know, I know -- I would be lucky for someone like Keira Knightley to give me the time of day. But why do you have to kill my buzz? Sounds like you could use a drink more than me. When you're finished, we'll get back to Tatiana and Russkie.

Russkie interviews Tatiana, and by interview I mean she makes Tatiana take her jacket off and show off more of that lovely figure. It's pretty funny, Russkie ordering her to turn around and slow motion for her, remarking that Tat's a "fine looking girl". She even establishes dominance by beating her cane on the table whenever poor Tat asks her a question. You know, if Russkie wasn't such an mean old hag, I could probably hang with her. We could go out for beers and she could be my winggirl. Reminds me of an interview with some actor I read online, can't remember who or what but I'm not bullshitting, saying that he was at some function and was having drinks with Ellen DeGeneres. At one point, they started scoping out the ladies, and she was even goading him into pursuing a couple of them. Ellen seems like a really cool chick. She'd probably start dancing though, but she seems like she'd be cool with you busting her balls about it. You know, just two bros hanging out. Anyway, at one point Russkie tries to be all slick by placing her hand on Tat's knee, who reacts by going into Bad Touch mode, so Russkie removes her hand. A few moments later though, she tries again! She's all running her hand over Tat's shoulders, hair and face. This chick is such a dude.

At this point, the movie unfortunately remembers that this story is about that asshole Bond, so we go to him macking on some chick from the last movie. But it isn't Dummy McDumdum from Dr. No, instead it's that broad at the beginning he was playing cards with. It's pretty awesome though, because he has to take a phone call in his car and the girl won't stop messing around with him. Eventually he SMACKS THE SHIT out of her hand -- and she seems to dig it! The good old days!

Bond arrives at MI6 and engages in some flirting with this chick Moneypenny. I actually started to feel a little bad for Bond here, because you get the sense that Bond thinks this lady is really into him. He thinks he's such a charming dude that EVERY girl digs him in that way. Such is the fallacy of men. Moneypenny is probably just humoring the poor chap. I mean, she's fond of him and all, but she can't completely respect a slut like Bond. I can see her making light of the dude while she's out having lunch with her girlfriends, the entire group cackling away while she tells them the latest dumb thing that came out of his mouth, or how he still thinks tossing his hat at the rack when he enters the room is charming.

So Bond goes on assignment in Istanbul (not Constantinople) and meets this dude named Kerim Bey, played by Mexican actor Pedro Armendariz. Pedro Armendariz? Orale! We got raza in a James Bond movie! But you know what that means. You KNOW what THAT means --

Homeboy's gonna die.

He eventually does die, even though the movie plays with our hearts by having him survive an attempt on his life early in the film. You think, "Hey, maybe he's going to live" and then fucking Dolph Sr. kills him on a train. Fuck you Dolph Sr.. Your son Dolph Jr. is awesome, and I even liked his Punisher movie, but you just made my shitlist, making Bond cool with me in the process. Remember, Bond treated my boy Quarrel like shit, had him killed, and never broke a sweat about it. Now he's all right. That's how badly you fucked up, bro.

Somewhere along the way, two gypsy chicks fight over the love of one man. Pretty awesome. They still have fights like this, even in American society, only they all happen on Jerry Springer and the chicks look exactly as you'd expect a guest on Jerry's show to look. Not the same thing at all.

Eventually our girl Tatiana falls in love with Bond and wants to live the rest of her life with him. The poor deluded girl is pouring her heart out to him, making such an ass of herself. You'd think she was a drunk co-worker at a Christmas party, the way she carries on. It's made worse because Bond humors her, even buying her clothes and playing husband & wife with her. But you know that as soon as the mission is over and he finds out if the carpet matches the drapes, he is Out Of There. That is so fucked up. J.B.'s okay with me now, but he can still be a real dick sometimes, you know? I mean, Bond is going to mess up that chick something awful, and the next guy she hooks up with is going to pay for it.

Dolph Sr. attempts to kill Bond on a train but it turns to fightin' time and Bond does to Dolph what Dolph did to the Bond imposter at the beginning of the movie. That's ironic, right? I don't even know anymore. Does anyone? Pretty cool fight scene, by the way. They do something here you don't see much of anymore in movies: the filmmakers try to communicate to the audience what's happening in the fight by making clear choices in shot composition and editing. You can actually understand what's happening. It's weird and kind of scary, really.

Well, whaddya know -- the plan is foiled and the head of SPECTRE, this asshole named Blofeld is pissed. He has Bobby Fischer killed, which serves that anti-Semitic piece-of-shit right, and warns Russkie to get her shit together or she's next. She doesn't, by the way. Her attempt at attacking Bond in his hotel room, using poison-tipped knives in her shoes, fails when Tatiana busts a cap in her ass, sending the sapphic Russian to that big Lilith Fair in the sky.

There's shootings, explosions, shootings that lead to explosions, screaming motherfuckers on fire and lovely dinners of grilled sole with white wine -- and yet I nodded off every now and then. I blame the liquor and lack of sleep since all I hear about is how this is supposed to be a pretty damn good flick. It is, but Dr. No was better in my humble drunken opinion. From Russia with Love has a better theme song, though. Dr. No just has some Jamaican dude singing a bullshit version of Three Blind Mice. Fuck that noise.

James Bond is a punk bastard

I skipped Christmas this year. Instead, I watched movies -- so it's like any other day really. Except with a lot more booze and a lot less faith in myself.

I put on a movie called Dr. No, a tale about a simple fisherman named Quarrel who decided to make a few extra bucks by taking some Englishman named Strangways out on his boat to collect some rock samples. You can't blame a dude for trying to score some extra dough. Next thing he knows, he finds out Strangways has disappeared, along with his attractive "secretary". Quarrel knows he's in something deep, and this is proven when homeboy from Hawaii Five-O shows up and tells him "Guess what? You're working with the C.I.A. now, bro". Keep in mind that even though they're in Jamaica, this IS the early '60s, and you know what *that's* all about.

Things get worse when this smug English asshole named James Bond shows up. They introduce him playing some French card shit with this hot foreign chick. She tells him that her name is "Chick....Hot Chick" (I can't remember her actual name) and he fucking mocks her back when he tells her his name: "Bond...James Bond". What an asshole. But this dude must be a big deal because even H5O kowtows to his Royal Highness. I'm telling you this guy would be completely insufferable if it weren't for the fact that he's got a way with the ladies -- his way. Really, Bond gets around. He's old-school too; he doesn't ask or plead, he just takes a woman by the hand in a manner that seems to say "Listen girl. I'm the man and you're the woman. Never forget it", and they don't either. They completely go for it. Supposedly back then, there were a lot more men around like this, and women dug it. Now every guy tries to play the sensitive card, and every woman wants to be "independent", whatever that means. I have a feeling there were a lot more home cooked meals being made back in the good old days.

That reminds me of a pretty awesome scene in the movie. Bond has just finished banging his third or fourth broad of the day, this Asian chick. She's putting on her makeup and he's lounging back in bed, like the stud he is. He tells her he's hungry. She offers to cook him a home-cooked Chinese dinner. Because she's Asian. He declines, inviting her to an Italian restaurant instead. She's says she wants to stay home and order in. Bond's like "Listen Yoko, I said I want to go out for Italian". She stand her ground, and he gives this shrug like "Whatever bitch" and calls a cab for her. Holy shit. I've never seen "my way or the highway" taken to such a literal level. You can't hate a guy for being a player like that.

But you *can* hate him for ordering around our man Quarrel, which he does after smacking him and his alligator-wrestling friend around. You know how sometimes a kid will stand up to a bully, and next thing you know, the bully's his best friend/lapdog? Well, I've heard stories about that kind of thing happening anyway. Or I saw it in a movie. But it happens with Quarrel. Rather than telling Bond to go fuck himself afterwards, he becomes his partner, if you can call indentured servitude a partnership. It's pretty messed up. He gets to be the token Negro, hanging with Bond and H5O on their little adventure.

They end up hanging out at a nightclub, and everything seems cool until this chick does a piss poor job of trying to sneakily take a picture of Bond. J.B. thinks he's such hot shit, like he's Brangelina or somebody, and gets upset about this so he orders Quarrel to get her and the camera and bring them back to him. Now check this out: Bond is actually a few feet closer to this chick, so why can't HE get his white ass up and take this chick? Plus, he's James Bond; all he has to do is grab her by the wrist and give her the I Own You look, like he does to every chick and she'll be too busy wondering why her panties are percolating and he can grab the camera. Noooo, this asshole has to show that he's the boss and tell Quarrel to get up and get her, even though he KNOWS Quarrel's going to have a harder time about it. At least be nice about it when you ask, jerk. To add injury to insult, the chick smashes a photobulb into Quarrel's temple, which he just laughs off, wiping off the mixture of blood and smashed up glass from his face, even though you know the guy is crying on the inside. I wouldn't blame you, if you just let it out, Quarrel. Shit like that can make you feel like the loneliest man in a crowded room.

So Bond, H5O and our man Quarrel get on a boat and head for this island called Crab Key suspecting there's some bad guy nonsense going on there, even though Quarrel is scared shitless of taking them. He explains that no one goes to Crab Key because there's a dragon there. Bond and H50 give each other a look like "Ha ha, what a silly Negro" and make him go anyway, dismissing that dragon crap as horse shit. Just island superstition.

As they get near the island, the boys set up a raft when H5O suddenly pulls some "I can't go with you because my presence will cause an international incident" shit or something, I don't know, I was getting pretty hammered at this point to remember. But you know he just couldn't man up. Maybe if his balls were as big as his bulletproof hair, he might have gone. But no, this guy is really yellow under all that red, white and blue. So Bond's like, "It's cool. I'll just take the Expendable Negro with me" and you know all Quarrel's thinking at this point is "Fuck, I should've stayed in school". I know the feeling, Quarrel. Don't I know the goddamn feeling.

They get to the island and take a nap on the beach for a while, or at least Bond is, and he probably has poor Quarrel keeping watch the whole time. It's not all about YOU, motherfucker. Bond changes into some faggy blue getup and creeps out this chick who's collecting seashells by the seashore. I didn't catch her name, but I would wager it's Sally. She's a healthy girl, this Sally. I miss it when hot chicks used to have honest-to-goodness bodies, and would occasionally eat a cheeseburger and allow nature to take it's course, rather than using their fingers. That reminds me; Scarlett Johansson is in that new Spirit movie that just came out. She's pretty fit, but I think I'm going to have to wait to rent that on DVD rather than spend precious, precious money on it in the cinema. That flick's been getting TERRIBLE notices and it's not like she gets naked in it anyway. Damn it. Nobody gets naked anymore, except guys in Judd Apatow movies. Fuck Judd Apatow.

Bond tries to croon his way into Sally's heart, but she's not having it, because the chick's packing a filero. I was like "Good for you, don't fall for it like every other girl", hoping she would maybe give our man Quarrel a little taste instead. It would serve that limey bastard right. But no, if anything, she freaks out even more and jumps into Bond's arms when she sees Quarrel. What the fuck? Get over yourself, girl. Just because you're a hot blonde doesn't make every black dude O.J.. Bond doesn't even help. Instead he says to Quarrel, "fetch my shoes". I'm not kidding. He makes Quarrel run halfway down the beach to pick up his stupid ass footwear. What an asshole. He might as well call him "boy" to complete the package.

So later on, as they all get to know each other, Quarrel brings up how scared he is to be on this island because of the dragon. Just as Bond is about smack the superstition out of homeboy, Sally not only agrees, but claims to have SEEN this dragon. You should see the look on Limey's face. Before, he was able to dismiss that dragon story because it was a black islander telling it. But now he's got this hot chick, a white chick at that, saying she's seen this dragon in the scaly flesh. Bond is able to handle it though, because a couple exchanges later he realizes she's a bit of a loon and not the brightest bulb in the socket either. Example: Sally tells a story about some guy who wouldn't leave her alone (probably a black guy, which would make sense with Ms. Aryan Dingbat over here), so she leaves a black widow spider to sting him, leading the unwelcome suitor to die over the course of a week. Bond gets all Dolemite and goes "Biiiitch, are you for real?" and she seems genuinely confused and asks him if that was wrong to do. Bond's like "Girl, the only wrong thing you could do right now would be to say No....Dr. No".

They get further into the island when they hear something. Quarrel takes a look and freaks out, saying it's the dragon. Bond checks it out and finds that it isn't really a dragon, but a tank with painted teeth in front and huge headlights for eyes and two flamethrowers on the side. Bond immediately takes action and tells Quarrel to shoot at the headlights, while he and Sally hang out somewhere safer and pretend to try shooting at it. Fucking asshole doesn't even try to explain to Quarrel that yes, it's deadly but it ain't no dragon. He's just like "shoot it, boy". The tank gets closer, firing its deadly jets of fire toward homeboy. Quarrel shoots at it over and over again, proving he's as skillful with a firearm as Michael J. Fox is with a game of Jenga.

Eventually the dragon gets close enough to Quarrel and...and...it's fucking horrible. You can see the fright on his face as he realizes that his life is about to come to an end. The dragon exhales genuine Satan Breath from the pits of Hades and engulfs poor, poor Quarrel with it. We hear him let out one final, long painful scream as the fire burns him alive, giving him a taste of Hell before he goes to Heaven. Despite his constant begging and pleading not to go on the island, despite the many warnings of this dragon he and fellow fishermen fucking KNEW existed, the same dragon those two evil, evil white men mocked him for, he couldn't escape his fate. All he wanted was some extra cash. Who among us, especially during this tough financial crisis our beautiful country is suffering through, wouldn't sympathize? He didn't even get to bang a chick, either -- you'd think Bond would've let him have some of his sloppy seconds. Now, all that is left of him is a flaming crumpled up pile of fisherman.

Christ. Guy started as some mother's son, lived life, and now look at what remains. Shit. I mean, what will be left of us, when our time comes? We're all human beings and shit, and we all become fucking dust in the wind? Is that what that fucking song in Old School is about? God, I don't even want to think about it. Excuse me, while I take another drink.

Ok, that's better.

Anyway, you figure at this point that the movie has ended. Our hero is dead, and there is no reason to continue. But continue it does, for another half-hour or so, as we follow this piece of shit Bond and his dumb blonde as they are taken prisoner by Dr. No's henchmen. You figure maybe the movie will give what the audience wants, and have Bond suffer for sending poor Quarrel into a situation he was ill-equipped to handle. Unfortunately, the most we get is a kind of half-assed Silkwood shower, and even then, Bond seems to dig it. He meets this Dr. No, foils his evil "toppling" plan, defeats him and ends up blowing up the godforsaken island of Crab Key -- so now even Quarrel's family can't visit to pay their respects at homeboy's final resting place. Nice work, douche.

The ending is pretty fucking revolting; Bond and Stupid McDumbchick are making out on a boat when from out of nowhere H5O cruises up in another boat with a bunch of Marines to congratulate him. Damn, if only those Leathernecks knew what a pansy H5O was, and how he sent a civilian fisherman to do Man's work, they would probably tie him down and beat the yellow out of him with bars of soap wrapped in towels. I think even Bond's lost some respect for the dude, because when H5O offers to give him a tow, Bond unties the rope. It's almost symbolic, like he doesn't want to be connected with a metrosexual who punks out when the going gets tough. It could also be symbolic for England not wanting to be connected with the United States. Sure, it's real easy to talk shit like that after we kicked your ass and won our independence; "oh, we never wanted to be part of you people anyway". Go screw, you bunch of cigarettes.

Tonight, I'm going to pour some of my drink on the ground for my man Quarrel. Rest in Peace, bro. See you at the crossroads.