Troy

I decided to go see Troy this past weekend. Nothing better than a 3 hour epic on a Sunday afternoon. It's easily he best way to spend a non-football Sunday afternoon.

I enjoyed the film, but that's not why I choose to write about it. While a bit lengthy, the movie featured some steller performances, with Eric Bana's Hector and Peter O'Toole's Priam the most noteworthy. A classic epic, the film meanders through a semi-interpretation of Homer's Iliad, all while focusing more on the emotions behind the battle than the battles themself. I found it a refreshing change of pace that the final siege on Troy was almost set in high speed, as if the filmmaker's wanted to get past the action and get back to the true climax of the film, a hero's tragic end. All in all, I definitely recommend.

Still, in the end, it wasn't the film that lasted in my mind. Pictured on screen was a story of nations at war almost in spite of themselves. The players in this game chose to fighting a senseless war in the name of power (Agememnon), honor and glory (Achillies), or revenge (Menelaus).

On the opposing side lay the kingdom of Priam, Troy; so proud and arrogant as to think its walls could never be breached. Hector remains the voice of reason in the film, but history dictates that he was as bloodthirty for glory as the man who slay him. And finally, Paris; naive and arrogant, immature and impatient. Clueless and cowardly.

One need not have me draw the inevitable parallel's between the war thousands of years ago and that which lies at our doorstep today. Amazingly, such a simple thought, as to realize that ego and pride will forever be the downfall of man is what came of my filmgoing experience today.
And for all who fear that war brings young man death and old men glory, I leave you will words from "The Iliad."

Could we but survive this war
To live forever deathless, without age,
I would not ever go again into battle,
nor would I send you there for honor's sake!
But now a thousand shapes of death surround us,
and no man can escape them, or be safe.
(XII, 362-7)

The Toy Collector

Sometimes you pick up a book for the stupidest reason. A book can often be judged by its cover, you must admit that. In today's example, I was sold by two things, the word "Toy" in the title, and the picture of the Lego man on the cover. Another thing that you have to admit, Legos rule, and they always will.

It's an aside, but how cool was it when Legos started creating toys for the new Star Wars movies. Man, what I would have given to be a kid when they came out.

As for the story, I'd rank it somewhere between Transformers and Go Bots toys. Which is to say, its not great, but it's not bad. And if there is a nostalgic kid in you suffering through the 20's, its definitely worth a peek.

25-year-old orderly, James Gunn is wasting his life away. Talented and educated, he steals drugs from the New York City Hospital he works in to finance his addiction to buying the retro toys he loved while growing up in St. Louis. I can appreciate the great needs to go to to finance this love, though if I did this I'd aim higher than a set of Scrunch 'Em, Grow 'Em Dinosaurs. The novel follows his escapes, as he enjoys drunken benders, sex with random and often unsavory women, and spending thousands of dollars on TV paraphernalia, action figures, robots and games.

The book cover says that James does this in an attempt to recapture the few moments of beauty in his mostly horrifying childhood. I won't despute it, but I'll add one thing to that. Sometimes, people like James aren't trying to recapture the past. They are living in it and afraid to move on from it. And that is what makes this book interesting.

James and his brother are survivors, of family abuse, peer pressure, and the tragic suicide of a friend. Rather than stick together, they grow apart, and deal with their issues in seperate ways, with wildly different results. The author Gunn (not the character named after him) makes Jimmy and interesting protagonist, at once powerful and heroic, as well as pathetic and tragic. He is a loser you can root for, regardless of just how outrangeous he becomes, simply because his hilarious personality sheds light on the misery of his life.

This is one worth a beach read. Trashy and entertaining, with some points worth engaging yourself in, but not profound in the slightest.

What's Not to Love?

I hope that one day, when I'm published, that I have enough balls to title my book something that a critic could easily take a cheap shot at. What's Not to Love? This book is a good place to start is one way I could begin. But I won't because Jonathan Ames is nothing if not oddly amusing here.

I used to think that when I choose to write a memoir, I’d have no shortage of good material, based upon the absurdities of my childhood and formative years. Of course, that could be the trademark of my entire generation, as Burroughs, Eggers, Sedaris, and Jonathan Ames are proving. With Ames’ book, “What’s Not to Love” I found myself somewhat amused, but mostly disturbed by Ames’ self-deprication in the face of his ridiculous adventures.

Ames' writing portrays an innocent enough side to his odd ball and sexual perverted ways. And he certainly is perverted, enough to make even the most promiscuous nervous. He spins details of his unsavory behavior into fairly interesting adventures, but you must be prepared to venture into avenues like sex with a transsexual, his frightening Oedipal complex, exhibitionism, prostitutes, and most disturbingly, getting crabs.

You really don't know what to expect next with Ames and that is not always a good thing. If you have more than the average appetite for the bizarre and perverse, then I’d say you might like this book. It’s candid and honest, frank and humorous, at its best. It is perverted, odd, and frightening at its worst. For me, it was a decent enough read, but nothing you you’d miss by passing up on.

Van Helsing

Against the advice of my good friend Jason, I decided to go see the new Hugh Jackman film Van Helsing. I did this because I was a sucker for the marketing machine that hypes films like this into events not to be missed. I also did this because, at its core, we have a great idea here, gathering some of literature's greatest creations in an action packed adventure. Unfortunately, Hollywood is known more for its understanding how to spend a lot of money than of its understanding of literature. But we'll get to that in a minute.

Cutting to the chase I'd tell you not to waste your time or money right now. Catch it on DVD of cable if you are interested, but its not worth rushing to right now. I could go on and on about the fact that I've seen Jenna Jameson act better than Kate Beckinsale in this film. I could rant forever about Stephen Sommers over reliance on special effects when a decent story might have helped twice as much. Or I could argue that Hugh Jackman should never waste his talents in something like this when the chance of being Bond awaits him.

I'll leave that and instead choose to discuss Frankenstein.

In Mary Shelley's work, Frankstein’s creation is the villain of the book, but the narration of the novel forces the reader to feel at least some pity for him. He is the true outcast of society, and though he has the intelligence of man, he isn’t allowed into society. After many attempts to gain the favor of humans, the monster finally resolves to take out his anger and misery on mankind, particularly his creator, Victor. To carry out his vengeance, the beast kills Victor’s closest friends and family, and ultimately makes sure that Frankenstein is dead himself. At the conclusion of the story, the beast is left to die at the North Pole, satisfied that Victor’s sin in creating him is recompensed.

In Stephen Sommers work, the Monster appears to be some sort of birth defected version of Shelley's creation. Outcast from society before being acknowledged by society (all to satisfy an MTV generation's attention span), the Monster is an overly intellectual 10 foot beast(that stands barely six inches taller than Hugh Jackman I should add) that manages to discuss the absence of love in his life while re-adjusting his head so that it doesn't fall off. Misunderstood and unloved the Monster cries for the death of his father, Victor, and spends the entire film in fear that Van Helsing will follow the orders of the Church and destroy him as an abomination of God, which of course Van Helsing will not.

Why?

Because Frankenstein is alive, just like us, and because Van Helsing senses that good is in him. Could it be that even though he stands as a symbol of everthing the Church condems that he might not be evil?

Cue the not in the slightest bit subtle, please don't condemn gay people, Mr. Pope standpoint.
So not only did Sommers absolutely destroy one of literature's greatest creations, his motivations, his angers, his thirst for revenge, etc, but he also managed to make Frankenstein's Monster a symbol of gay pride for this generation. And if you were gay and seeking respect, would you like to have this comparison made? I highly doubt that.

Don't see this movie. Wait for DVD or cable and then, just watch it for the explosions, or make it into a drinking game based on how many times Kate Beckinsale slips out of a Transylvanian (is there one?) accent.