Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Media Bias

I just opened Yahoo! and was greeted with the usual sort of headlines. Some political, some economical, some sentimental. But something below caught my eye. The following were the actual headlines in Yahoo’s news section this evening. Can anyone tell me which is the example of overt media bias?

As of 10:50 p.m. CST
• Obama asks Gates, a Republican, to stay on at Defense Dept.
• Fed rolls out massive new programs aimed at loosening credit
• Protesters shut Thailand's main airport, demand regime change
• Citigroup CEO blames bank's woes on deep dive into real estate
• Russian warships arrive in Venezuela for military exercises
• A dying boy's last wish inspires generosity across U.S.
• Accused drunk driver ends up running over himself with truck
• NFL · NCAA Football · NBA · NCAA Hoops · NHL · Soccer

If you said Accused drunk driver ends up running over himself with truck you’d be right!

The article goes on to describe a police chase that ended only after the 21-year old man being chased managed to run himself over with his own vehicle.

“Police said the suspect drove through a ditch and a barbed-wire fence before stopping. He tried to put the truck into park, but it ended up in reverse…the man fell from his open door and both of his legs were run over by the front driver's side tire.”

I simply cannot be more appalled by the sensationalistic desperation and blatant disregard for objective reporting that some of these "news organizations" continually put on display. Will they stop at nothing to boost their readership? Why would they immediately allege this 21 yr-old was inebriated when clearly anyone with an iota of common sense would realize this enterprising youth was merely inspired by Monty Python’s Flying Circus’ “Upper Class Twit of the Year”?

Go to the 2:52 mark if you don’t believe me.



When will someone take a stand and start holding the press accountable for their egregious and irresponsible news-mongering tactics?

Balaban Blunder

Wow, I just realized I lied to you, my dedicated four readers. About a week and a half ago I made a vow to include a “Bunch O' Bob Balaban Breed O' Brilliant Background Beguilers” blog a week. Whew, I always loved alliteration, but I can’t take credit for that title. When my brother-in-law Pablo convinced me to write the original Bowl-a-Rama a few years back, I always knew I wanted a section to celebrate unbelievably talented actors that should be household names but aren’t – starting of course with Bob Balaban himself. That title was another of Pablo’s suggestions.

Sadly since that blog about a week and a half ago, I totally forgot about that promise. It’s not that surprising though. Not that I am someone who frequently breaks promises mind you, but my memory is unreliable to say the very least. It’s like that Torchwood (the Doctor Who adult spin-off for those of you not in the know) episode where they think Owen’s fiancé has early-onset Alzheimer’s but really she’s just been infected by sinister aliens living in her skull, which later explode through her head during a surgery planned to eradicate what was thought to be a tumor but really was just aliens...But I digress...And I creeped myself out in the process...Maybe I should go wash my hair...

Anywhoo, I was just watching one of the two most embarrassingly guilty pleasures anyone could watch when I suddenly remembered that promise. Now when I say guilty pleasures, I don’t mean anything naughty because hey, this is a family site. Nor do I mean to say I was watching a guilty pleasure that most people seem to enjoy - like Grease 2 or any MTV reality show displaying the zany antics of slutty gals trying to lure has-been rock stars to wedlock. No, my guilty pleasures are not just guilty. They are nearly mortifyingly stupid to admit. And yet, admit to them I must, because in indulging this evening, I was reminded of the aforementioned vow due to sublime character actor Tom Skerritt’s participation in...drum roll please...Ice Castles.

Again, for those not in the know (and in this case it’s probably a good thing), Ice Castles is a film about a blinded Olympic ice skater whose climactic moment occurs as she triumphantly skates to Melissa Manchester’s mega-sappy “Through the Eyes of Love” but then stumbles over roses thrown to the ice. She can’t see them cuz, you know, she’s now blind. Robby Benson, playing her boyfriend, walks over to help her up, uttering in the best over-dosing-on-syrupy-sweetness voice he can muster, “We forgot about the flowers.” As he clears the way for her, the scene naturally culminates in thunderous applause when the audience realizes what they have witnessed. The cheese value of this film is astronomical but tragically, I admit that not only will I watch this doofusy film whenever it’s on (and yes, Dre, they still play it periodically) but once in a blue moon, like this evening, I feel compelled to seek it out. Luckily, someone else felt compelled to condense the film into the duration of the Manchester tune. Youtube may be one of the greatest inventions ever or I may be a glutton for punishment. I’m not certain.

I realize anyone reading this blog born post 1979 will most likely never have heard of this film, but at the time of its release, Robby Benson was everyone’s favorite earnest, droopy-eyed, silly-voiced, safe-for-the-kiddies, teen heart-throb. (This is pre-Beauty and the Beast when he suddenly became cool.) Ice Castles co-starred nubile Ice Capade skater-turned-wannabe-starlet Lynn-Holly Johnson, who later became a Bond girl. Apart from Denise Richards (Charlie Sheen’s ex) as nuclear scientist Christmas Jones in The World is Not Enough, Johnson may be the most outright stupid of all the Bond gals with her stunningly whiney performance as an ice skater in For Your Eyes Only. I know! What a crazy co-incidence she’d play a skater again. At least For Your Eyes Only is still a pretty good film. Ice Castles, not so much. But at the very least, it’s got a sturdy performance from the ever-dependable Tom Skerritt, who played Johnson’s ever-supportive father.

Skerritt’s resume is humongous and although he is nearly always compelling, he rarely gets a leading role. He’s one of those guys though, like I mentioned before, as soon as you see his face you’ll remember a billion things he’s done.

As Hawkeye’s other roommate in the movie version of MASH, he more than held his own against Donald Sutherland, Elliot Gould and Robert Duvall.

As Shirley Maclaine’s husband in The Turning Point, he managed to convey both tenderness and tenuousness.

A dozen years after that film he co-starred with Maclaine again, this time playing her gassy nemesis in Steel Magnolias. He stole every scene. In fact, he’s the only thing about that particular schmaltz fest I can watch.

Playing his wife in Magnolias, Sally Field rips up the scenery with her version of “give my daughter the shot” when their daughter, Julia Roberts, kicks the bucket; but as Julia’s father, Skerritt’s far more subtle. He doesn’t have the number of scenes Field has and his character is supposed to be more of a comic relief; yet Skerritt still manages to express worry and grief and anxiety with the smallest of gestures. Just before the doctors hand over the paperwork to “pull the plug” on Julia, the camera briefly focuses on Skerritt. The shell-shocked expression on his face and the listlessness of his body communicate more about loss and helplessness in those few seconds than any other actor or any piece of dialogue in the movie. Why is this man not more famous?

I know right now he periodically turns up on TV’s Brothers and Sisters playing, once again, Sally Field’s husband (albeit dead this time round.) I don’t watch that show, however, despite everyone around me slowly getting hooked on it. One by one. First my mom. Then one of my sisters. Then a friend of mine. Then another one of my sisters. They all try to tell me how great it is but I don’t know. There’s something very weird and pod-peopleish about the way they all seem to be indoctrinated by the show. Can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just hypersensitive to pod-people type behavior because I DO have an alien thing in my skull infecting my memory??? Or perhaps infecting my judgment since I actually made that comment in a public venue...

Ahem...so anyway...yes, Tom Skerritt. Brilliant, consistent, engaging. Visit your local Blockbuster and rent a movie of his today!

Oh but before I sign off today, if you were wondering, my other guilty pleasure is 1981’s Victory starring a paunchy Michael Caine and post-Rocky, pre-Rambo Sylvester Stallone as World War II POWs trying to escape the Nazis during a soccer match.

I can’t help it. The music, which sounds as if it was an amalgam of ripped off musical bits from The Great Escape, The Dirty Dozen and The Magnificent Seven, makes me incredibly giddy nevertheless. And what can I say. The bicycle kick. When Max von Sydow stands up to applaud Pelé after a few slo-mo repeats, I’m standing too.



Go Pelé. You beat those Nazi jerks with your mad fútbol skills. Ole ole ole!!!

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Mr. T Wants To Sabotage My Happiness

I should be celebrating. I now officially have four followers. See, look over at my followers thing there to the right. FOUR! If any of you read my "About This Blog" section, you’ll see that’s what I set out to do. I think that doubles the amount of readers I had for my original Bowl-A-Rama.

However, there will be no celebrations for me on this day, my friends. Mr. T emailed me some rancid information that put a damper on my blogging festivities. But before I go further I should probably clarify that I am not talking about the Mr. T. I mean I’m sure that Mr. T is quite a lovely fellow but it’s not like we hang out or anything.


No, I am talking about a pal of mine who neglected to come up with a cool alias for himself for my blogging purposes and so I had no recourse but to give him one myself.

At any rate, I was sitting there feeling all celebratory about my four readers when I open Mr. T's email suggesting I look at the new Star Trek trailer. Up until this point, while I was excited about the forthcoming Trek, I had successfully managed to avoid reading anything about it, so I wouldn’t have any unfair expectations. Sadly, my curiosity got the better of me. I’m sorry; I am not feeling at all enthusiastic. If you haven’t looked at the trailer and are not planning on it, I guess you should...um...turn your head away? Ooh, look I am totally creating a spoiler alert. I am crazy 21st century!

So if you’re still reading, at first glance at the trailer, I was immediately reminded of Patton Oswalt’s shtick about killing George Lucas with a shovel. (It's just the first few minutes of the video, but don’t click on the link if you are offended by vulgar language...or the concept of once-brilliant directors being beaten to death by gardening implements.)

I thought Patton could have easily been referring to the new Trek because the 2nd trailer seems rife with the stench of Lucas’ now questionable influence. In the first seconds we get to see James T. Kirk as a little kid. And he looks like he’s running away in a car he must have borrowed from Mark Hamill’s Corvette Summer set. And he looks very sad. And then we cut to the teen heartthrob version of Anakin...er...Kirk riding a motorcycle. And he looks very sad. And then later we see a prepubescent Spock, who looks very sad – but mainly bewildered to have to be sporting an old Beatles wig. Next we are treated to an image of an older Spock, in a setting that looks like it was swiped directly from the Revenge of the Sith, comforting someone I am assuming is his human mom, Padmé...no...I’m sure that couldn’t have been her name…

But neither Patton nor Mr. T could have prepared me for the trauma I was about to endure. I decided to rewind the trailer after that last bit because I wanted to double check if I had actually seen Leonard Nimoy as older Spock. It was him! Those fleeting moments of elation were immediately eclipsed by the sudden and horrific realization of the actress playing the wife. IT’S WINONA RYDER!!!!!!



Why is J.J. Abrams doing this to me? To us, people! In the brief seconds she was on the screen, I could see she was doing one of her two emotions – "exhausted". Typical. Argh, I can just hear her saying, in her most annoying Little Women whine, “I could never love anyone more than I love my Spock”. Then I checked the IMDb and she’s got like 72 other movies about to come out. Was she in hiding, just biding her time til the moment was right to creep up on us again? Weren’t we doing ok without her upsetting brand of milquetoastiness?

Ok, I need to stop being pessimistic. At least she doesn’t appear to be doing "jaded" – the one other emotion in which she specializes. Oh goodness, this does not bode well for the future of the franchise. The future is now so uncertain. Thanks a lot, Mr. T. Thanks a lot, pal.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

So this morning I was awoken in a rather brutish manner by my mother who insisted I go listen to some little girl that was singing on Good Morning America. (Yes, I live with my mom – you got a problem with that??!! Don’t make me bust you up, cuz I will…ahem…I may be a little insecure about this issue)…Hmmm…so…where was I?

Oh yes, GMA this morning. Charice Pempengco. Now, was she worth being woken up in this heinous manner? I’m not sure. There’s no question she’s got a lovely voice but she is clearly preoccupied with sounding like everyone else. I’m linking to a vid in her site of her singing Smile, in what may be her bathroom. I’m choosing this one instead of others because while there is nothing particularly compelling about her version it’s still good and at least it’s not mixed up with the trappings of lofty orchestrations that always seem to accompany child singers.

I normally have nothing but disdain for the seemingly plethora of kids with the so-called amazing voices. I’d say a good 99% of the time the only reason people take notice of these wannabes is solely for their age; but I’m sorry, that’s just not a good enough reason for these kids to be getting the notoriety or record deals they are getting. This is just another example of society’s dumbing down their artistic standards. I mean really, the bottom line is if you didn’t know who was singing and these tykes were warbling on the radio, how soon would you change the station?

Test it. Watch this vid from recent, British kid phenom, Connie Talbot. Actually, no, just listen so you don't see that cute face. Yeah, I mean she can vaguely carry a tune but really, let's see how long it takes before you want to pull out your hair and stuff it into your ears while simultaneously looking for whoever is scratching their nails down a chalkboard.

Ok, I know you’re sitting there saying, “yo Hanja, you’re not the first to be making this sad state of cultural affairs argument; furthermore, this argument has been going on for an eternity.” True, however I think with the advent of youtube (which make no mistake; I am utterly addicted) and that despicable American Idol, there appears to be an infestation of unimaginative and generally inept singers being given their 15 minutes like never before. I mean, at least in the 70s during the initial Annie craze when every little girl and her dog (literally in this case) were belting out “the sun will come out tomorrow” most of the parents had sense enough to realize that one parent's young Ethel Merman is another person's screaming banshee, and would therefore wisely keep the concert confined to their own living room. Very few would venture outside; when they did, a camera crew wasn’t waiting. Was it because those crews had more legitimate talent to cover?

And think about some of the few young stars that did manage to make it big based on their “big” voices. Does anyone remember Charlotte Church – “Voice of an Angel”? Unless you live in England where she has her own talk show, of course you don’t because as soon as she became old enough, her “big” voice in a small child was no longer a novelty – which is exactly what she always was. No more.

Nowadays everyone has to be the next Miley Cyrus. (No, I’m not going to launch into a tirade about the mullet-offspring. I don’t really know much about her other than that doofusy, I-am-beside-myself-at-the-scandal magazine cover.) But isn’t she just the version of the next Lindsey? And wasn’t Lindsey the version of the next Britney? What are these gals known for really – their talent or their extracurricular activities? Is the talent that these gals allegedly possess really going to stand the test of time? And what is it with the “ey”s in their names? If you’re an Agnes you don’t qualify for fame and fortune?

The point is, there are very few legitimate child stars. They are an anomaly and this anomaly can’t be manufactured. That’s what makes the real young talents special. Kids that are unbelievable to behold because their talent is organic. They are not busy trying to imitate anyone else. That’s probably the biggest problem I have with all today’s crop o’ child stars. They have zero originality. That David kid from Idol – don’t tell me he doesn’t sound like every other singer who embarrassingly attempted to sound like Michael Bolton. They don’t even steal from good sources!

Name any of the current young singers. Do you honestly see a Little Stevie Wonder? A Judy Garland??

This goes out to the next person who sends their kid to a TV audition instead of school where they belong:



Stop wasting my time!

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Steven Spielberg Sexed it Up as a Tween (or My Brother-in-Law is Less Deluded)

In a move that redeemed him in my eyes, (I refer of course to that whole nonsense of David Tennant looking like Neil Finn – sorry Esme & Chad, I appreciate your reading and contribution but that’s just crazy talk), my brother-in-law Pablo reminded me of the fact that Eddie Deezen, popular go-to geek of the 70s and early 80s, can no doubt be the love child of Steven Spielberg and whomever Steve was sleeping with when he was 12 years old.


I mean look at the way Steve is looking so fondly at Eddie’s pic. The words “a face only a father could love” come to mind.

My guess is that Steve had to give Eddie up because in those days it would have been difficult to look after a child while trying to figure out how to direct Joan Crawford in Night Gallery. But Steven probably always looked in on Eddie from afar – taking an interest in Eddie’s career. I can just imagine the fatherly pride Steve must have felt when he saw his boy’s first film, Laserblast. (For more Laserblast info, you really must look over Mystery Science Theater’s treatment of this film. It has to be one of their top ten.)

And when Eddie was ready, Steve said, “Come, young Edward. It’s time to work with your old man.” This can be the only explanation as to Steve’s casting Eddie in 1941. I’m getting emotional just thinking about it. It’s like the antithesis of “Luke, I’m your father.”

Wow, now that I think about it, I bet that’s where George Lucas got the idea!

Apropos to this train of thought – the long lost relatives thing, not the Star Wars thing – my sister Goo volunteered the tidbit that one of the Deezen’s co-stars in Grease, Jeff Conaway (also of Taxi and now tragically Celebrity Rehab fame), is beginning to look like rock legend Keith Richards.

Ehhh. Kinda. Ummm. I’m not that sure.

Maybe if I gave Jeff a headband, black eyeliner and a kicky scarf?

I’m still not sure. More importantly, whatever happened to Judd Hirsch??

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Get Well Soon, James Cromwell!

So I was chatting with my Scottish blog bully/mentor the other day, whom I shall now refer to as Super K – not that I have a particular affection for the K Food Store chain or because my lil Scot pal has any extraordinary powers that I know of but because let’s face it, I can’t call him a bully every time I write about him else he’ll stop being one of the three people who read this.

Anyway, Super K had suggested I pace myself and not worry about whether or not I blogged daily. Presumably this was so I wouldn’t get stressed about trying to come up with something new or I guess incessantly bore people. The problem is that I am undisciplined in the best of times so if I let more than a few days go by I’ll just blow it off entirely.

It’s like that thing where you’re dieting and you eat one cookie and then you go “oh man, I just ruined my diet forever, I might as well eat the rest of this bag of Milanos."

So in trying to break that unhealthy pattern I am going to look at things like French novelist, George Sand. I remember reading somewhere that she wrote twenty pages a day, religiously. Now the thing is, I think people remember Sand more for her personal life than her writing, but I can’t help but admire that sheer power of will. And my guess is she greatened the odds she’d come up with a golden nugget* by being so prolific. It’s like Michael Caine or my brother’s fave actor, Gérard Depardieu. They each made well over a hundred films – a ridiculous amount of them caca. Still they are each highly respected because for every five Jaws: The Revenge or My Father the Hero respectively, they came up with something truly special to last a lifetime. Caine couldn’t have deserved his Hannah and Her Sister’s Oscar more and Depardieu’s Cyrano de Bergerac is one of the most achingly gorgeous performances captured on celluloid.

And while I am no Caine, Depardieu or Sand, I’m going to do my best to just keep throwing things out there when I can, in the hopes that something sticks. In that spirit, I am actually going to go back and rehash some observations I made in the original Winona Bowl-a-Rama because I was just reminded of some of them when I read that actor James Cromwell had recently been injured in a bicycle crash. (From what I read he was supposed to be out of the hospital this past Monday.)

James Cromwell is one of those actors everyone knows, not remembering from what. I don’t think I would be wrong in suggesting most people can’t place the name when they see his face. But looking at his resume, the man is a beast. Like the two aforementioned actors, he’s racked up a ridiculous amount of credits, yet because he’s never the lead, doesn’t get significant attention. But unlike the aforementioned actors, Cromwell has rarely done anything that could be looked on as a source of great humiliation, even despite early appearances in things like Diff’rent Strokes, Three’s Company, and Eight is Enough.

I first wrote about Cromwell in the original Bowl-a-Rama’s Bob Balaban section. Bob Balaban is another one of those phenomenal, consistent and productive actors whose name isn’t readily recognizable but who I thought actually epitomized one of these types of outstanding actors that don’t get nearly enough the celebration they deserve. At the time I had written, “There is an amazing and extraordinary group of actors that do their jobs exceedingly well; so well, in fact, that even though I guarantee you’ve seen them all in at least one film or another, you may not even know their names. These people are not about stardom—they are about getting the job done right. They lend astounding support to each star with whom they’ve shared the bill, and with each picture they manage to distinguish themselves.” I think that still holds true and the actors I mentioned at that time perfectly exemplified that old adage that there are no small parts. James Cromwell – shocking in L.A. Confidential, unsympathetic in The Queen, quietly dignified in Babe – most definitely fit that description then and he continues to do so.

In celebration of these actors about whom when people realize who they are, invariably spout out, “ohhhh yeaaah that guy,” I will attempt to devote at least one blog a week. At the very least it’ll keep me vaguely regimented and perhaps offset the irritation I have from those actors I listed in the original Bowl-a-Rama as “Overrated Winonas,” e.g. Keira Knightley.

And so, to finish out the first blog regarding this second version of my Bob Balaban section, specifically about James Cromwell I say: That’ll do, Hanja. That’ll do. La la la…



*I know Goo & Pablo are sitting there snickering because they immediately thought of poo when they read the word "nugget". Sigh...

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Elisabeth Sladen And Mary McDonnell Are The Same Person (or Debra Messing is trying to haunt me) (or whatever happened to Helen Hunt?)

This is essentially Separated at Birth Part 2 because I was going back and trying to toss out some of the excess bad cut and pasting jobs I did from yesterday when I realized I didn’t showcase this piece of evidence:

Maybe Elisabeth Sladen was trying to find a way to do both science fiction and more traditional, critically acclaimed roles so she created this American doppelgänger in Mary McDonnell to handle the Wolves, Grand Canyon and Passion Fish type parts. Of course Mare kind of screwed up that theory by starring in Battlestar Galactica but I still think it’s a valid argument.

And since I was still thinking in this vein and just cuz I had the Traveling Wilburys on in the background (despite the fact that my pal King Juan Carlos of Spain* has suggested on numerous occasions that I stopped listening to any pop music that came out after the last major Supertramp record – see Juan, the Wilburys released their first album in 88’ so ha! I am on the cutting edge of modern music) and as I thought of the Wilbury supergroup lineup, I started thinking about how the last time I saw Bob Dylan he looked like Vincent Price:


And then my mind wandered spasmodically to a few other have-to-be long-lost relatives like Dita Von Teese and Rumer Willis:


Which reminded me of this time I was going through a Tyrone Power obsession (like one does) and rented a film noir/melodrama of his called Nightmare Alley costarring Helen Walker, who if she isn’t related to Will & Grace’s Debra Messing then it can only be because Debra Messing is Walker’s reincarnation:


And listen…Walker died in 68’. Any guesses on when Deb came into the world? Whooooooo…cue in the creepy ethereal music please, o ye blog gods**

Then I thought of recent look-alikes that have been troubling me of late, Brian F. O’ Byrne, Clark Gregg and John Benjamin Hickey:

They confuse me because every time I see one of them I always think it’s the same guy from The New Adventures of Old Christine. But Gregg wasn’t in the recent film Then She Found Me; that was Hickey. And for those who have indeed been wondering whatever happened to Helen Hunt, this was a film she co-wrote, produced, directed and starred in and managed to do all of it sublimely, without it looking remotely like a diva production. Truly it’s one of her best and most organic performances and she never resorts to her usual look-at-how-natural-I-am-when-I-do-that-shrug-smirk style acting – which I always found forced and which obviously wound up limiting her choice of roles. In this performance, however, she is unwaveringly honest; and as director she likewise garnered performances from Colin Firth and Bette Midler that are unexpected but spot-on. The result is a really beautiful little film and it’s a shame more people didn’t see it. Go rent it now! Because if you stay here, I’ll have no recourse but to point out again that Neil Finn has morphed into an insane version of Patrick Duffy.


* I don’t really speak with any royals; this is yet another cleverly placed pseudonym.
**Not joking…my computer totally flickered and my Internet connection shut off just after I typed that last sentence. Debra Messing is out to get me!!!!!

Sunday, November 9, 2008

My Brother-in-Law is Deluded

Now before you think I am going to launch into a hateful tirade designed to malign various in-laws, I need to state empathically that I am crazy about all my extended family members. But make no mistake Pablo* is, in fact, deluded. The reason being - he thinks Doctor Who’s David Tennant looks like singer/songwriter Neil Finn of Split Enz and Crowded House fame. It seems that Pablo was looking over my first blog, apparently came to this conclusion and then was kind enough to send me a pic to illustrate this “fact.”


I ask you readers (all 3 of you...including Pablo), what is he thinking?? Apart from the extraordinarily generalized ensemble and über-vague hairstyle similarity, what else is there? I mean if we’re going to talk about startling similarities, surely there would be no better display than to point out the fact David Tennant looks uncannily like Charlie Korsmo circa his starring roles in Men Don’t Leave & Dick Tracy.

Man I miss those old Separated At Birth books. Anyone remember them? Well in the spirit of nostalgia and to go on with this Doctor Who theme, I give to you the following images, which should provide you with incontrovertible evidence that these individuals were indeed separated at birth. But before I do that, I need to preface while it is true I have perhaps an unnatural obsession, at the moment, with all Doc phenomena, I want to assure you that this blog will not be isolated to that topic. I have a variety of questionable obsessions from which to ramble. It is because of this actuality my sister Goo*, like my Scottish pal, had encouraged my blog-writing in the guise of sibling support; but I am quite certain it’s so instead of boring her to tears with details about things like the long-defunct, but among the funniest shows in history, Mystery Science Theater 3000, for example, I can spread that heapin’ helpin’ of useless information in this locality.

Without further ado, I give you the one of the Doctor’s most popular past companions, Sarah Jane Smith, played winningly by Elisabeth Sladen and two-time Oscar nominee and current Battlestar Galactica star, Mary McDonnell:

Next we have the Doctor’s current companion (and no I didn’t see the last episode because I was trying to catch up on my Torchwood, so if she’s dead or something, DON’T TELL ME, ANYBODY!). Ahem…here we have the Doctor’s latest companion, Donna Noble, played by famous, award-winning English comedienne Catherine Tate and Edina Monsoon of Absolutely Fabulous played by famous, award-winning English comedienne Jennifer Saunders:

Well that’s pretty much it when it comes to the Doctor Who would-be cast members. I’m sure there’s more but these were the first that popped into my head. And they are certainly more valid than the absurd notion that Neil Finn looks like David Tennant. If anything, Neil Finn is starting look like a crazed, disheveled Patrick Duffy:





*Goofy nicknames have been created and borrowed to protect the innocent who will be super-pissed if anyone outside our immediate circle find out who they are.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

I Am Soap Scum (Goo told me not to denigrate myself by calling myself scum so Boo said to add "Soap" to soften this title)

I should have been doing my job. (Despite what some of my pals suggest, I actually do work.) Instead, when I became frustrated with an item I couldn’t figure out, did I do the logical thing like asking for help from my boss (sorry Pablo)? Did I take a short break? Did I look at painfully adorable puppy dogs? No, I opted for the “Odd News” section in Yahoo News and saw this dreadful headline - Teen compacted in Wis. garbage truck, survives - which was all about this poor kid who, while attempting to escape some sort of quasi-military school, nearly killed himself in the process. Instead of immediately feeling sympathetic for this unfortunate soul, mean-spirited synapses activated in the darkest crevices of my brain and I instantly thought of Omar Sharif getting compacted in his car in 80s (should-have-been) classic, Top Secret.
Wow, my blogging contribution really is honest-to-goodness procrastination.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Keira Knightly is illegitimate offspring of Rachel Hunter and Robin Leach

My sister Dre read my About This Blog section and immediately accused me of being mean to poor Keira. More importantly, Dre went on to mention that most blogs contain more than one entry. Who made up that rule? But fine, if I must write something else, I shall clarify my feelings about Keira - this generation’s answer to Winona Ryder - with possibly less talent.

Winona basically approached every role in the same, non-committal fashion; making every one of her characters, from Lydia in Beetlejuice to Veronica in Heathers to Lady Anne in Looking for Richard (ahh Winona & Shakespeare), appear exasperated and altogether deflated. It’s as if she found her niche in Lucas and decided every other performance would be a variation on that whiny “give it to Luuuucas” pout/cry theme she developed back then. Even in her best performances (though I’m just not sure I am capable of picking one), she always seemed as if it were exhausting to merely have to utter dialogue.

Having said all that, I have always been of the belief system that if you're going to be in the movies you should be either talented or good-looking. (Then again Josh Hartnet and Bill Paxton continue to defy that logic.) But at least Winona has been vaguely pretty on more than one occasion. But Keira?? What’s this wonky-eyed, bad-postured, boy-boobied chick have to offer other than unimaginative, unbelievable portrayals and one of the single-most annoying voices in cinematic history? There can be no doubt she inherited that insipid twang from her long-lost parents, Rachel (“working out with weights”) Hunter and Robin (“and I don’t know why”) Leach. I’m definitely showing my age but there was a time in the 80s where it seemed that the pair of them were always on TV. Try as I might, however, I couldn’t find any really good classic audio clips of them – her Sports Illustrated Body Sculpting vid and any of his old Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous to give you a good idea. Nevertheless there are some hints of the past in the following clips and after you watch them, you can be the: Knightley – Hunter/Leach spawn?
Hunter
Leach
Knightley

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

2008 ELECTION - Blogging conundrum

I hate blogs. I’m quite certain other bloggers have written those words, sort of like when someone writes a fan letter starting with the phrase, “I’ve never written one of these letters before,” which I’ve also done – to singer Tommy Shaw of Styx circa the “Kilroy Was Here” release – but I digress. The point is I’m not a blogging fan. Blogs remind me of those angsty, would-be poets from high school who always wanted people to read their journals in order for the reader to gain insight into the poet’s profound inner-workings. Most of the time these inner-workings consisted of nothing more than self-pitying whining about how the world didn’t understand their personal pain. (Reminds me of a great Bill Bailey bit).

Despite all that, I simply could not let a monumental time like this go by without making some sort of contribution. I feel it is my duty as a tax-paying member of society to make my voice heard. This may very well be the most important decision of our lifetime and the individual elected could easily affect the lifetimes that follow. And while I know I speak for everyone when I say David Tennant’s imminent departure from Doctor Who will no doubt leave us all bereft of joy and wonder; we must not wallow in our bereavement. A new Doctor must take up the mantle and I put it to you, that new Doctor should be John Simm.

Think about it. How delicious was Simm’s portrayal of The Master in season 3? Simm was enigmatic, unpredictable, poignant and altogether mesmerizing. I know many Doctor Who purists stand by Anthony Ainley but from what I’ve read from even the most diehard, Simm was the closest to mastering The Master. (Ahh, see what I did there!) At any rate, just think about the possibilities. Granted, this territory has kind of been covered in movies like Face Off but just superficially. How amazing would it be to deal with the ramifications of looking and sounding like your greatest enemy (Daleks and Cybermen notwithstanding) for multiple episodes/seasons?? Apart from The Doctor’s usual, awkward getting-to-know-himself period that follows any regeneration, he’d have to deal with the constant reminder of what The Master was, what The Master did to him, and what The Doctor was willing to sacrifice the last time they were together. Russell T. Davies, if by some miracle you see this, listen to me, it could work! Perhaps it was when The Master used The Doctor’s DNA to make him age in The Sound of Drums and then when The Doctor used the screwdriver doohickey to stump The Master it somehow affected the doc’s DNA further so that on his next regen, this would be the result!

The beauty of Doctor Who is you really can have a second chance with a cast. Unlike with James Bond. I always thought they missed out on a goldmine when they cast Timothy Dalton as Bond instead of a latter day bad guy of the Blofeld oeuvre. How fabulous was Dalton in Hot Fuzz? He was just too serious for Bond. He lacked a sense of humor at the time. And while the part didn’t necessitate Roger Moore-type goofiness, the actor portraying Bond should have a healthy dose of sardonicism. That’s why this Daniel Craig works so well…That and the whole Steve McQueen thing he’s got going on. The point is, think outside of the box, Russ!!

Mind you, the box does serve some purpose. I was recently dismayed to hear that Robert Carlyle was being considered as the new doc. Now I don’t have a problem with Carlyle at all; I think he’s a splendid actor. He just resides in an altogether different geometric shape. Carlyle is brilliant but there is something so perpetually forlorn and vaguely heartbreaking about him that I would be hard pressed to think of him taking on this role. Sure the doc has both those qualities just from living so long, but there’s also a vital wonder about him that keeps him doin’ his thang. But the thang that specifically makes Carlyle not a valid option is that he seems to lack mystery and, for me, that’s the one quality all the best Doctors have shared.

When I heard that Doctor Who was coming back on the air in 2005 I was elated by Christopher Eccleston’s casting. He’s always been a spectacularly intense actor (I recommend Revengers Tragedy if you like your intensity in copious doses) with a healthy sense of humor (I find him chillingly hilarious in Gone in Sixty Seconds) who has the innate ability to wrench your heart apart (Let Him Have It – if you haven’t seen it, just stop reading this and go out and rent it now). The Doctor has to be unpredictable. Almost like an animal. The character always reminded me of this time a stray cat came up to me and started nudging up against my leg. When I reached down to pet it, it inexplicably popped out its claws and scratched two long, vicious lines down my calf. Apart from the fact that I was fairly scarred for life (psychologically; not physically – the disfigurement lasted as long as it took the Neosporin to do its magic) and now have a mostly dubious trust of felines; the point is, like a wild animal, you should never know 100% what The Doctor might do next. Eccleston reeked of that abandon during his tragically short tenure. Tennant “mastered” (I feel like Kevin “Mr. Subliminal Man” Nealon suddenly) in his first episode with the way he handled his whole “button” speech and the succinctness with which he dispatched the Sycorax guy (Incidentally, Sycorax sounds far more like Dr. Seuss than Doctor Who, but..you know..that’s past tense).

The main point is Doctor Who is one of those iconic figures that stand the test of time because his singular persona allows him to take the risks we wish we took; go on the adventures we’d like to take; and be the hero we’d all like to be. It takes a truly special actor to take over this persona and create something we could still believe in. The best candidate for the position is the electrifying John Simm! Russ! Make the right choice!!