Summer Movie Round-Up! Part One.

One of the greatest things about living in Los Angeles is that I reside next to some of the coolest movie theaters on the planet. The Arclight on Sunset is incredible, but I'm dead center between the Grove Multiplex, the Fairfax Mildewplex, and the New Bev. Usually, I don't have to walk very far for big screen entertainment. But this week I got the opportunity to revisit the Landmark in Westwood and visit the Arclight for the first time. Both incredible theaters, both with incredibly stupid assigned seating. I feel extra sorry for the poor schlub employees who try in vain to force people into their numbered seats. No thanks. This ain't Dodger Stadium. And even then, I'd be moving down after people cleared out in the fourth inning. If it ain't about a window seat, I don't need an annotated touch screen is all I'm saying.

I used to write a lot about the movies I've seen, but I've gotten into the bad habit of simply tweeting about it without giving you graphic detail. Here's a summer movie round-up for all the films you may have missed:

Transformers 2: Revenge of the Action Figures - This movie is not as bad as everybody says, but in the same vein as Spider-Man 3 it's so loud in its badness that it's hard to ignore. Giant robots with testicals aren't exactly brilliant subtlety. However, this movie should be credited for having Megan Fox occasionally onscreen. True, she gets humped by a Decepticon but rather than judge, I choose to live my life vicariously through said robot. I have to give them credit. They made senseless violence look damn convincing and almost exciting enough to care about, whenever you could tell what was happening.

If the first Transformers was stupidity wrapped in crap and giant robots, the second one is a somehow longer crap, minus Anthony Anderson, Jon Voight and the Australian Chick. You'd think that'd make it better, but it's not much. There's one bad jump cut in particular, when Isabel Lucas ditches Shia after the party that looks so amateurish that I wished the robots from MST3k were there to teach Michael Bay a lesson. Where does he get off crafting three-hour multi-million dollar crapfests when I'm stuck blogging better ideas in my sleep! In fact my 347 page draft of Beast Wars: Return of Dinobot gathers dust on the desks of agents around the city! It's ludicrous, I tell you!

But if you want a really great, really racist giant robot movie this is the one for you. Everyone hambones the idiot sambots but I think the painfully stereotypical Asian music in the opening fight sequence takes the racist cake. An old man is eating a meal. GIANT ROBOTS BURST THROUGH HIS HOUSE! He is slightly startled! (and like most "comedic" moments in this movie, the bit falls flat faster than the jetpack-hamburgers in Minority Report). Because Michael Bay doesn't want anyone to miss a "laugh," he adds in four seconds of audio-racism, reminding the audience that Asian characters in his films are stereotypes first, people second. That being said, I do recommend that everyone sees this movie on the grounds that it's something we can all hate this summer minus seemingly essential components Heidi & Spencer.
Grade: D-

Whatever Works - Larry David is a fine successor to Woody Allen, but the story surrounding him is not. While I'll be a fan of Woody no matter what kind of crap he schlocks out, this one is only watchable from the perspective that you're either a huge fan of Curb Your Enthusiasm or are a decade long Woody Allen apologist. In terms of bad Woody Allen it's a little worse than Scoop only in that Woody's never on camera, but it's decades better than Melinda & Melinda, a film that could never decide whether it was an unfunny comedy or a lackluster tragedy. It's worth it to see Larry David monologue clever Woody Allen quips, but it would almost be better to ask Woody to write a Curb at this point than expect the guy to invent a new universe as blissfully chaotic as that one. Say what you will about genius. It doesn't always age well.
Grade: C+




Moon - Duncan Jones' Moon is a technical masterpiece as well as an actor's thinkpiece. You will believe a man can act as Sam Rockwell brings introspective dialog to new heights, tapping into the subtle changes that manifest after three years of solitary confinement. I don't want to spoil too much of the plot, for as predictable as my friend Elizabeth thinks it is, I believe there's a whole sector of the populous who never enjoyed 2001: A Space Odyssey or Alien in their youth and would be wowed to know that good science fiction actually exists. Not only that, it's good science fiction that's well acted. Battlestar Galactica, eat your heart out. While Rockwell exudes Han Solo-like enthusiasm at times, this is hardly a bombastic film. Still an effects-driven space opera, Moon is more focused on proving its humanity to the viewer than satisfying mankind's natural desire for explosions and bouncing breasts. Simple moments like a high-five take on new meaning in this universe, and that's enough to promise a second viewing from this reviewer. (Also, Kevin Spacey is a robot who communicates through smiley faces. Hell yes.)
Grade: A

The Hurt Locker - The problem with The Hurt Locker is not that it has a bad message, or that that message is badly delivered. Its only flaw is that the message is one we've heard as a nation time and time before, that only a certain breed of man is cut out for the armed forces and that man must behave like a fearless demigod. While I have no doubt that our armed forces are packed with men and women with this sort of macho take-no-prisoners attitude, the stark realism of the film's environs present a depressing image of the American soldier. Even at his best in combat, the soldier is subject to so many horrors that the nature of his duties seem unfair to inflict upon any American citizen. The result is the sort of gung-ho patriotic message you might expect from this summer's upcoming G.I. Joe or Team America: World Police. "Be the impossible in any circumstance," the movie suggests to its viewers, "even situations that don't warrant it and might possibly make you look like an asshole."

In the same way that the past two Batman films strove to make the superhuman practical, Hurt Locker attempts to make the American soldier a superhero, rising above the call of duty no matter the cost. Of course this results in some needless breaking and entering, some mistaken identity, and some occasional friendly fire, but that's the nature of the beast for a bomb specialist. While skilled at showing the reality of the characters' external struggles, director Kathryn Bigelow occasionally misses the mark when attempting to display their inner turmoil. There is nothing particularly emotional about this film, which is a shame considering how high the stakes are. Otherwise this is another brilliantly shot technical masterpiece that forces us to relive the anxiety that we've ignored for the past few months thanks to recent celebrity deaths and imminent economic collapse. Our soldiers are still living a nightmare in a foreign land, never certain whether they'll live to see another day. Whether brave or riddled with fear these men deserve to know that coming home means they made a difference.
Grade: B+

That's all the time I've got for now. Stay tuned for more movie reviews! So far Star Trek and Moon are my favorites this summer, although Bruno is fighting for that position pretty hard (gay innuendo unintentional). I didn't see Terminator but I guess I'll just have to settle for seeing the OTHER Christian Bale movie this summer, Public Enemies. I broke onto the set of that movie in Chicago, which is undoubtedly one of reasons it's getting such lackluster reviews. I swear, I didn't mean to be such an anachronism, but I really needed to finish playing Tetris on my phone. In case I don't see ya, have a Happy Fourth of July!

My Breakfast with Wyclef (a.k.a. Jen Howell was right!)

Last night I got accused of being a sweaty guy by Jen Howell, a girl I find very attractive. Heartbroken, I rebuked her conversational advances for the rest of the evening. Surely I, a man of wit, charm and good humor could hardly be described by such an uncouth adjective as "sweaty."

Damn her. She was right.

This morning I woke up semi-groggy from the aftermath of Brittania karaoke and a hugely successful improv show, vaguely remembering that yes, today was the day I was supposed to meet Wyclef. Still skeptical and shocked that the whole thing was possible and reeling from a day full of friendly jokes about the situation, I shot out of bed and stumbled to the shower unsure of what to expect. One of my comrades cleverly suggested that I was about to be punk'd, that the whole thing was a scam set up by Ashton Kutcher's twitter account. I brushed those thoughts aside, threw on my best Mr. Sparkle t-shirt and headed toward Sunset. I remembered that Jay, Wyclef's assistant, had told me the place was right near the House of Blues. (At this time I am willing to divulge that the secret location of our meeting was in fact the perfect place for Wyclef's new worldwide social movement: the international house of pancakes!) I dropped my car off at the meter and strolled by the Comedy Store to ask a guy where the iHop was. He pointed down the long hill south on Olive Street. It seemed wrong, but the guy worked at the Store so he had to know the area fairly well. Time was running short, and Wyclef had just sent a message to his followers saying "don't be late!" I headed down the hill and after asking a supermodel-ish brunette for further directions, I found myself on Santa Monica right near Barney's Beanery. There stood the glorious iHop, and I headed inside.

The place looked deserted. Aside from a few dining families, there was no sign of an international hip-hop sensation. I asked the hostess if there was another iHop in the area. She said that there was, but that it was on Sunset and Orange. Something triggered in my memory, and I recalled that Jay had mentioned Orange Avenue. "Is it in walking distance?" I asked. "No. Not that place," she replied.

Like a bolt of lightning I shot back up the hill on Olive Avenue, sweating and panting like Chris Farley on a treadmill. Through asthmatic puffs of breath and beads of sweat dripping down my glasses I managed to jog uphill while Google mapping the intersection on my phone. Most disappointingly, the real iHop was even closer to my home than the one I'd just visited. Sweltering from the heat and my own physical inadequacies I surmounted Olive Avenue, jetted back down Sunset, popped in my car and cranked the A/C. Last night's late night drinking hadn't helped my hydration any, and I was definitely feeling it now. I called Jay to let him know I'd be a few minutes late (the clock had just hit 10:00 AM on the dime). Jay seemed laid-back and let me know he'd pass the message along to Wyclef. I felt a little more at ease.

When I rolled into iHop (the one across from In 'N Out near Sunset & LaBrea, NOT the closest one to the House of Blues, although I can see how an out-of-towner could easily make that mistake) I was a sweaty mess. My Simpsons shirt was clinging to my body like a baby marmoset, and I was dripping beads like a slutty girl at Mardi Gras. I walked inside and saw a long table of about twelve people. There at the center, like a hip-hop messiah at his own last supper, sat the man himself, Wyclef Jean. He was looking slick in a white button down shirt with close-cropped hair and I looked like I'd just been on the Rotor at Geauga Lake. I sidled up to the table and strangely enough, Wyclef recognized me from my twitter picture. I reintroduced myself and shook his hand. They added some extra spots at the table and I sat down next to some adorable little girls, maybe six and eight years of age. Wyclef came over briefly to inquire about my background. I gave him a little run-down of my travels from the past four years and told him that I was sorry I was late but I had to run uphill to get here. He was calm cool and collected, as you might expect, and seemed to have little need for apologies or formality. The more time I spent in his company the more I realized he was a man who respects honesty and generosity of character, that no amount of schmoozing could ever win this guy over.

After downing five glasses of water and meeting a few more people, the lady in charge of Wyclef's new website started broadcasting a live streaming video of our breakfast. I briefly got to do a shout-out to the web where I pimped my blog and stated my appreciation for Wyclef's approach to Twitter and social media. I wasn't sure if we were broadcasting live at that point, or if I was being recorded for a future video montage, so I apologize if I seemed unprepared, awkward or incredibly sweaty. According to most people who aren't Jen Howell, I am less sweaty in person, I promise.

Wyclef bought us all breakfast and I got to chat with a guy named Grafiki about his idea for a new webisode series. It sounded pretty cool so we exchanged contact information and promised to keep in touch. Noticing Grafiki had left his seat across from Wyclef to talk to me and had now sidled over to a nearby table featuring two very attractive ladies, I took the opportunity to pop closer to Clef and ask him a few questions.

Me: So what's the next step for this online community?

Wyclef explained that gathering more support, followers (or Warriors, as we like to be called) and creating a real community is the next step. Wyclef envisions a world where artists and fans can interact directly without big business getting involved. While labels and traditional marketing companies have been helpful throughout Clef's career, there have been times when they have failed to promote certain events correctly or have misread his intentions. Clef dreams of cutting out the middle man and connecting to people directly, so that the true fans can share their messages and stories with the world and also experience the music firsthand. He wants to create more autonomous flash-mob style events rather than big corporate stadium shows.

Me: How do you feel about file-sharing? Has it affected you directly?

Wyclef replied, "With the economy the way it is, you can't expect people to buy something without giving something away for free." Yesterday Jay sent me some of Wyclef's newest tracks. Not only were they incredible, it was a great taste of the things to come on his latest album and they definitely made me hungry for more. Wyclef believes that if you let the people sample the music, they're more likely to buy the album when it drops.

Me: I think people really respond to your honesty on Twitter. I follow a lot of celebrities, but most of them just crack jokes and you don't feel like you ever get to know them as human beings. That's not the case with you.

Wyclef thanked me and said that for him "Twitter is a lot like a psychiatrist...sometimes you're feeling sad and you don't want anyone around you to know that you're sad, so you just- [pantomimes typing on phone]". We laughed and it was clear that many people at the table could relate. It was interesting that he thought of Twitter as a cathartic release, a form of expression. I didn't get to follow up on this point, but I would have assumed that his music was his primary form of catharsis. Perhaps the nature of the music industry, big business and traditional marketing had changed the nature of music in his eyes, that what was once performative and expressive had become a full-time job. Twitter and Clef Zone seem to be Wyclef's method for combatting that stagnancy and despondency that often follows the stress of work. Now he can connect with fans all the time, whether or not his album is getting press.

I asked a few more questions, but the answers were mostly covered by Wyclef's toast at the end of the meal. He thanked everyone for coming and for their support (especially the wonderful woman who constructed his new website and ran the webcast) and then reiterated that anything is possible with this sort of grassroots movement. He used to ride a donkey in Haiti and now he lives in a McMansion in the states. Anything is possible, but it all starts from communities like the one sitting around him at the table and the gathering masses online. He envisions outdoor shows in parks and creating new content for the streaming video on his website so that it runs twenty-four/seven like a real television channel. Clef suggested that everyone records everything, films whatever they see and shares it with the world (a sentiment echoed by my newfound friends at Found Magazine).

We took a few photos and said our goodbyes. As we were parting I asked the question I'd been dying to ask since I'd started chatting with the man: When are we going to see another Fugees reunion? Clef cracked a slight smile and said that I should look for it sometime next year. Yes. God Yes. I'll be blaring Fu-Gee-La all day, every day until it happens! Thanks, Clef!

So that's the story of my breakfast with Wyclef and how I inadvertantly proved the lovely Ms. Howell right, yet still retained my composure in the face of celebrity. It was a fun if not surreal experience, and I have a feeling it will be the first of many interactions with the Clef in the distant future.

If you haven't already signed up for Clef Zone, started following @wyclef (or me: @shorester) on Twitter, I suggest you do so now. If this isn't a story about the magic and wonder of Twitter, I don't know what is.