The Post That Never Ends!

I have a lot of episodes of "Wild West Tech" on my DVR. Nearly all of them, in fact.

If you don't know what "Wild West Tech" is, then I pity you.

WWT was a show produced for the History Channel from 2003-2005, hosted originally by Keith Carradine, otherwise known as the guy who played Madonna's boyfriend in her "Material Girl" music video.

Sure, the man has had a long and storied career, but that video was the first thing I remember seeing the guy in, so that's how he'll always be known in my fevered little mind.

Ol' Keith left the show after 11 episodes, handing it over to his older brother David in a classic episode of WWT where he lost the show in a poker game! Can you believe it?! It's hilarious!

At the end of the episode, Keith shows up dressed like Caine from "Kung Fu", telling his brother that he's decided to walk the earth, righting wrongs with his newfound spare time. Man, what a great episode.

The show is a mix of interviews with Old West "experts", re-enactments, and narration from our favorite Carradines, highlighting how the rapidly changing technology of the 19th Century played a pivotal role in many well-known historical events in the "Wild West".

Sounds boring, maybe? Well, it isn't. The show had a good sense of humor, never taking itself too seriously. Much of this was due to the late, great David Carradine and his very sarcastic tone. I think WWT really took off after David took over the show.

Bless his heart, Keith could never sell the humor in his narration. He carries this natural gravitas with him, making it very difficult to see him in a more comedic manner, which the show required. Whenever Keith made a joke, it always sounded like he was condescending, talking down to us "little children".

David, on the other hand, had a natural impish quality to him to begin with, making him a more natural fit for the material. And he seemed to genuinely enjoy himself during his on-camera segments, looking comfortable selling even the dumbest lines (and there were plenty on the show, make no mistake).

The show wasn't just entertaining. It actually taught me a thing or two about the Wild West. WWT introduced me to the amazing story behind legendary bounty hunter Bass Reeves, for example. Why this man's life hasn't been immortalized on the silver screen yet is a mystery to me.

I recently learned that a film called "Bass Reeves" is in production, and that piqued my interest. A quick IMDB search tells me that the film is being written and directed by Brett William Mauser. The man behind "War Dogz"?! Are you fucking kidding me?! What a fucking nightmare.

Speaking of nightmares, I suppose I should get to the real reason why I brought up "Wild West Tech", in the first place.

As I said, I have nearly every episode of the program sitting on my DVR. I've kept them on for three years now, and I have no intenton of deleting them. I like to watch them as I drift off to sleep, the soothing voice of David Carradine gently lulling me into a deep and restful slumber.

Two nights ago, I dreamt that all of my precious episodes of "Wild West Tech" had been deleted from my DVR. Panic gripped me as I opened the Recorded Programs menu again and again, hoping that I was hallucinating, that somehow the programs would just be there each time I checked.

But they were gone. Gone. And I was heartbroken.

When I woke up, I checked, and all was well. My WWT collection was still there, in all its digital glory. A sigh of relief.

Now you may tell me, Dear Imaginary Reader, that this dream was petty and inconsequential. And you would be absolutely right. But I can't control what I dream about.

Last month, I dreamt I was standing in an auditorium, pouring tap water from one beaker into another beaker, back and forth, ad nauseum. It was the most boring fucking dream I think I may have ever had. Why would I willingly dream about that?

In dreams, you're supposed to do amazing things, see impossible sights, indulge in your fantasies and engage in whimsical flights of fancy. I barely ever do any of that. Usually, I'm just pouring water into beakers or I'm wandering through my old high school, asking people where room D23 is.

My dreams suck.

Two things that don't suck?

"Black Dynamite" and "Bronson".

I recently watched these two movies on DVD. They never opened in Wichita theatres. If they had, I would have gladly seen them. But Wichita being Wichita, these things rarely work out. I was surprised "Moon" opened here, last Summer. That shocked me.

"Black Dynamite" was a lot of fun. I laughed heartily.

I've watched a lot of so-called "Blacksploitation" films in my day. I'm partial to "Bucktown", myself. It's a miniature epic. And Fred Williamson kicks all sorts of ass.

"Black Dynamite" captured the heart of the "Blackspolitation" sub-genre in its brief 84 minute running time, while good-naturedly lampooning the flaws of these films, creating a funny and affectionate satire that kept me entertained throughout.

I loved how the film ran with the conceit that everything was done in one take, like the filmmakers didn't have the money for coverage. Mistakes like flubbed lines, missed cues, visible boom mics in frame, and botched stunt work litter the film's landscape, and these "mistakes" make the film hilarious.

My favorite example of this lies in "Militant #2", played by Darryl Heath. He continuously speaks his stage direction, as if these cues were simply part of his performance.

The first time he does this, Black Dynamite, played by "Spawn" star Michael Jai White, briefly looks into the camera, then at the off-camera director, waiting for someone, anyone, to yell "CUT!". But after realizing that this is not going to happen, he continues on with the scene.

I laughed so hard, I nearly started crying.

Black Dynamite's insanely over-the-top reaction to the news that the residents of a neighborhood orphanage are addicted to heroin made my sides hurt.

Then there's the line that nearly killed me:

"Fiendish Dr. Wu! Your knowledge of scientific biological transmogrification is only outmatched by your zest for Kung Fu treachery!"

It's funnier in context.

I never thought much of Michael Jai White before this. He just never really left an impression on me. I knew that he was a skilled martial artist, and his big scene was cut from "Kill Bill, Volume 2", but aside from "Spawn" and "Universal Soldier: The Return" (uuugh), I never saw the guy in anything.

But after co-writing, producing, and starring in "Black Dynamite", I'm hoping someone takes notice and puts this man's career on track.

Or at least somebody should give him money to make a sequel.

"Bronson" is another ball of wax. Violent, British wax.

Before seeing the film, I didn't really know much about Mickey Peterson, AKA Charlie Motherfucking Bronson, aside from a few stray facts:

I knew he became infamous for being Britain's most violent prisoner. I knew he has spent over 30 years in solitary confinement. I knew he led a prison riot and had an affinity for taking people hostage in his cell.

When I saw the trailer for "Bronson", I immediately thought of Stanely Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange". Mostly because the trailer was apparently designed to make me think of "A Clockwork Orange". It looked violent and unhinged, and I wanted to see it.

Nearly a year later, I finally got my chance.

"Bronson" glosses over huge chunks of Michael Peterson's life, which frankly disappointed me. Most of the real Charlie Bronson's prison escapades are simply not in this movie. I mean, he married a muslim in prison and converted to Islam for 4 years, becoming Charlie Ali Ahmed!

That wasn't in the movie. But I think it should have been.

Instead, the film spends a lot of time showing many of Charlie's brawls with prison guards. Sure, all the confrontations are filmed differently, but after the fifth time, it tends to feel a little samey.

Although I was rather fond of the sequence where he took a prison librarian hostage.

Bronson verbally abuses the man for five minutes, yelling and spitting, and the poor bastard is absolutely certain that this big, violent bastard is going to tear off his fucking head. After the warden calls, asking for his demands, Bronson basically tells the big man to fuck off, resigning himself to a fight.

He strips naked, then forces the trembling librarian to grease up his naked body Quick Quick QUICK before the guards arrive. Then he tells the librarian to stay out of the way as the cell door opens, throwing himself at the guards, calling them all "fucking cunts".

The whole scene just made me laugh. I'm not sure if it was supposed to.

Charlie Bronson narrates the film, frequently performing before a faceless crowd in the theatre of his mind, sharply dressed with his face painted up like some demented mime. These bizarre interludes worked for me, but I can see how these stylistic choices, as well as many others, might turn some people off.

Tom Hardy surprised the fuck out of me with his performance. All muscle and nervous tics and boiling rage, he is the reason to watch the film. Believe me when I say that this movie simply would not have worked if not for Hardy's brilliant, fearless portrayal of Mean Michael Peterson.

I can't believe that the dude who played Captain Picard's Romulan Clone in "Star Trek: Nemesis" transformed into this brick wall of a man. I didn't recognize the man. He was Charlie Bronson. And he is reason enough to recommend this film to you, Dear Imaginary Reader.

Well, that and the surreal David Lynchian sequence where Charlie visits his dear Uncle Jack. That was like a deleted scene from "Blue Velvet". I was half-expecting Dean Stockwell to show up and sing "In Dreams" into a droplight.

So Here's To Your Fuck, "Bronson"!

Darkon Island

The ice was a-fallin' in the heartland, this weekend. Big, scary weather, coming down from the North to fuck shit up for everyone.

Well, it wasn't really that bad. Sure, the roads are a bit slick. But it wasn't nearly as bad as the brain dead "meteorologists" thought it would be.

These pricks on TV want you to believe that every storm front moving in is going to destroy your home and rape your children with lightning while its friends hold you down and make you watch. They take this shit too seriously.

We're all fine, here. Just take your blood pressure pills and give me the 5 day forecast.

But I braved "ICEOCALYPSE '10" this weekend, heading out to the Cinema to see director Martin Scorsese's latest collaboration with Leonardo DiCaprio, "Shutter Island".

You know there's a twist in this movie, right? Didn't the trailers make it a little obvious? Of course, the film is based on a novel published in 2003, so anybody who bothered to read Dennis Lehane's book of the same name probably saw the twist coming. At least, I hope they did. If they didn't, then this country is truly screwed.

"You expect me to remember something from a book I read seven years ago?! What are you, fucking Albert Einstein? Remembering shit you read?!"

Sorry about that.

SPOILERY BREAKDOWN TIME!!!

Leonardo DiCaprio plays Teddy Daniels, a Federal Marshal sent to investigate the disappearance of an especially disturbed mental patient at the Ashecliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane, located on the remote Shutter Island, in the year 1954.

Accompanied by his new partner, Chuck Aule, played by Mark Ruffalo, he arrives on the island just ahead of a very rough storm, effectively trapping him with the demented denizens of the maximum security loony bin.

But Teddy has a secret reason for coming to Shutter Island. His wife was killed in a fire started by an unstable arsonist named Andrew Laeddis several years ago, and he recently discovered that Laeddis has been a patient at Ashecliffe Hospital's secretive Ward C, reserved only for the most dangerous and violent patients at the facility.

Teddy has learned many disturbing rumours about what truly goes on in Ward C, based on several in-depth conversations with a former patient.

When he heard about the disappearance of Rachel, a patient who drowned her three children before being admitted to Ashecliffe, Teddy volunteers to investigate. But he really wants to find out what cruel experiments the hospital's chief physician, Dr. John Cawley (played by Ben Kingsley) is performing on the patients of Ward C.

But after arriving on the island, Teddy's mind begins to play tricks on him. He has vivid dreams involving his dead wife and the man who killed her. He dwells on his service in World War II, liberating the Dachau concentration camp, and the slaughter of the Nazi officers stationed there. Has Dr. Cawley drugged him? Is the mad doctor slowly driving Teddy insane, because he knows why the U.S. Marshal is really there?

With a storm closing in, and his sanity crumbling, can Teddy find the missing Rachel, uncover evidence of the nefarious Dr. Cawley's secret agenda, and discover the identity of the mysterious "Patient 67"?

No. Because it's all bullshit.

Andrew Laeddis was a U.S. Marshal. After returning home following WWII, he married his sweetheart Dolores and they had three children.

But the pressures of his job keeping him away from home for weeks at a time, coupled with his lingering issues concerning his service in the military, drove him to the bottle and kept him emotionally distant from his mentally deteriorating wife.

One beautiful day, he returned home to find Dolores sitting in the backyard, drenched in water, and their three children floating face-down in the nearby lake. Consumed with grief, Andrew shoots his wife and promptly loses his mind, eventually becoming a patient at Ashecliffe Hospital.

Andrew created "Teddy Daniels" to cope with his grief, looking for conspiracies where they don't exist, searching for the truth while hiding in a comforting lie.

Two years after Andrew arrives at Ashecliffe, Dr. Cawley comes up with a brilliant idea to make Andrew face the truth and come to terms with his past: LARPing!

Yes, the good doctor orchestrates the most elaborate Live Action Role Playing experiment, before "LARP" was even an acronym, involving the entire hospital staff, even the fucking batshit crazy patients, all pretending that Laeddis really is "Teddy Daniels", investigating the disappearance of a mental patient who doesn't exist, all so Laeddis can come to grips with the fact that he's really a lunatic who murdered his wife after she drowned their kids.

If only Dr. Cawley were around to treat poor Robbie Wheeling during the "Mazes & Monsters" craze of 1982.

So that's the "twist". A big role-playing game, the size of which defies credibility, to say the least. Now the viewer's enjoyment of the film largely depends upon whether or not one can buy this conceit.

For some, the film completely falls apart once the truth is revealed, and they immediately check out of the narrative. For others, the twist just adds a new layer to the story, and a subsequent viewing will allow these people to enjoy the entire film in a new light.

I knew the "twist" coming into the film. It sounded stupid to me, based purely on the sheer logistics of Dr. Cawley's experiment. How the fuck could he pull off a game like this? It just screams "unbelieveable".

Sure, it sounds like an innovative way to break through a mental patient's defenses, in order to effectively treat their illness. In fact, psychiatrists perform exercises like this frequently, although not on this incredible (and irresponsibly dangerous) scale.

It was still a little hard for me to swallow.

But knowing what was coming didn't really matter, because Martin Scorsese apparently realized how stupid the twist was, too. He made precious little effort to hide the truth, telegraphing it in the opening scenes of the film. Most reasonably intelligent people will figure out that Teddy Daniels is Andrew Laeddis long before Laeddis himself figures it out.

Scorsese doesn't even play "the twist" like a twist. He clearly doesn't want to shock the audience with a "brilliant shocking twist that will suckerpunch your balls through your empty head".

It's played more for the benefit of the Andrew Laeddis character than for the audience. It's a cathartic moment for the damaged psyche of a mentally ill man, not a moment to make the viewer shout "Shit, I never saw that coming!"

Teddy believes that the true evidence of Dr. Cawley's mad experiments lies in the island's isolated lighthouse. He waits until low tide and crosses the divide between Shutter Island and the small atoll upon which the lighthouse resides. He knocks out a guard and steals his rifle.

He enters the lighthouse and scales the stairs, going from empty room to empty room, music swelling as he ascends. He finally reaches the top, kicking in the door...

...and the music stops dead. Teddy sees Dr. Cawley sitting behind a desk, seemingly waiting for him. His partner Chuck enters behind him, dressed in a sharp suit. Teddy wants to know the truth. So Dr. Cawley tells him the truth. And Teddy passes out.

The entire sequence was brilliantly set up. The way the camera follows Teddy up the spiraling stairs, the booming music abruptly cutting out the moment he enters Dr. Cawley's room at the top of the lighthouse, like the music was playing for Teddy, some suspenseful soundtrack to the conspiracy thriller playing out in his mind.

Absolutely fucking beautiful.

Andrew wakes up in a bed, surrounded by Dr. Cawley and "Chuck", who is actually Andrew's doctor, and he faces the truth. He knows "Teddy" isn't real. He remembers everything. The tragedy in his past, his drowned children, murdering his wife. He blamed himself for what happened, seeing his wife falling apart and ignoring the warning signs.

Andrew didn't want to see himself as a monster, so he created "Teddy Daniels", an anagram for Andrew Laeddis, to avoid the nightmarish truth.

Dr. Cawley is pleased to hear this, because his little LARP adventure was a last-ditch effort to reach Laeddis. In the two years since being admitted to Ashecliffe, "Teddy" became an exceptionally violent patient, rousing the ire of the hospital's warden, played by Ted Levine.

Quick sidebar: Ted Levine's warden has a conversation with "Teddy" late in the game, while driving around the island. In this sequence, he talks about violence. Not with "Teddy", but with Andrew. He doesn't mention any names, but he is clearly talking to Andrew Laeddis, and not his supplementary personality.

His brutal soliloquy is one of the highlights of the film. Ted Levine is only in three or four scenes in the film, and he only really speaks in this one. But he definitely makes the most of his screen time and creates a memorable and rather intimidating character with his very limited role.

I love Acting Sensation Mayor Ted Levine.

Anyway, Dr. Cawley explains that if his elaborate experiment didn't work, then the only option left to him would be to lobotomize Andrew, to curb his very violent tendencies.

The next morning, "Chuck" joins Andrew outside in the aftermath of the storm. He sits with Andrew on the stairs and gives him a cigarette. And he is disheartened to discover that Andrew has retreated back behind his "Teddy Daniels" persona, referring to his doctor as "Chuck", and talking once again about Dr. Cawley's medical conspiracy.

Orderlies approach them on the stairs, and Andrew sets off to greet them, turning to "Chuck" and telling him that it would be better to die a good man than live as a monster.

His doctor realizes that Andrew hasn't relapsed. He's not hiding behind the security blanket that is Teddy Daniels. He just can't live with the truth anymore, choosing to be lobotomized rather than deal with his tragic past.

It's a very sad ending, and I was surprised at how much it affected me.

Getting past the inane twist, I really enjoyed "Shutter Island". Everyone involved is at the top of their game with this film.

Scorsese's direction is superb. The entire cast is aces, from DiCaprio, Kingsley, Ruffalo, down to the supporting players like Max Von Sydow, Emily Mortimer, Patricia Clarkson, Michelle Williams, Elias Koteas, Jackie Earle Hayley, and the great Ted Levine.

The cinematography is fantastic. Director of Photography Robert Richardson knows how to shoot a fucking movie, and he pulls out all the stops for this one. Our introduction to Shutter Island itself, and the Ashecliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane, is a beautiful sequence, thanks to Mr. Richardson's amazing talent behind the camera.

Approaching the hospital, it feels like the old building is a living breathing thing, ready to swallow up our protagonists. Great, great work. I hope that Robert Richardson's cinematography is nominated for an Oscar next year, but the Academy will surely forget about this brilliant work by the time the 83rd Annual Academy Awards roll around.

The music, chosen by music supervisor Robbie Robertson, is a perfect companion to the fantastic visual work. I didn't know until after I saw the film that there was no traditional score, but that Robertson hand picked all of the music used in the film from existing works. All of the music flowed together so well, I just assumed that there was a single composer behind it all.

Now I have to go buy the soundtrack.

The script follows the book's pulpy, second-grade plot very faithfully. Any other director would have taken this story and made an entertaining-yet-forgettable B Movie.

But Martin Scorsese took this second-grade story and made a thrilling and visually stunning movie about one man's fractured mind.

It's not Scorsese's best movie, but at 67 years old, the fact that he's still able to elevate material like "Shutter Island" is an astounding feat. I loved watching this movie.

If you're reading this, Dear Imaginary Reader, do yourself a favor and go see "Shutter Island".

I'm gonna go play with my 12-sided dice.

The Wolfman's Valentine

I saw "The Wolfman" on Valentine's Day with my brother.

"The Wolfman" is a remake of 1941's masterpiece, "The Wolf Man", starring Lon Chaney, Jr.

Now "The Wolf Man" is my favorite of Universal's classic monsters. It has been ever since I saw it at the tender age of 6.

I love all of the classic monsters that were spawned from the loins of Universal Pictures, from 1931's "Dracula" and "Frankenstein", to "Creature From The Black Lagoon" in 1954. There's something amazing about watching these old monster movies.

Even the lesser efforts, like the sequels to "The Mummy" and the mash-ups like "House Of Dracula" and "House Of Frankenstein", manage to hold my interest, reigniting this childlike spark of imagination in my weathered, cynical mind. It's magic.

But out of all of these beloved monsters, "The Wolf Man" remains number one in my heart.

I find no fault in this film. It's easily in my top five favorite movies of all time, and that's never going to change.

There's so much I could say about what makes this film great to me, from the exquisite musical score, the great performances by Lon Chaney, Jr and the great Claude Rains (one of my favorite actors, period.), make-up maestro Jack Pierce's iconic creature design...

But what makes this film perfect to me is its conclusion.

Larry Talbot, bitten by a werewolf and cursed to transform when the full moon rises (which is never actually seen in the film), has desperately tried to convince his father, Sir John Talbot, that he is not delusional. He is a monster, and he must be stopped.

Larry's disbelieving father locks him away inside his estate, leaving to join the organized hunt for the killer wolf the villagers believe is truly behind the murders. Of course we know that Larry isn't delusional, as we watch him transform into the vicious Wolf Man, escaping the estate and roaming the English countryside.

Eventually, Sir John crosses paths with the Wolf Man, and bludgeons the beast to death with a silver wolf's head cane. He then watches in horror as the curse is lifted in death, and the Wolf Man becomes his son, dead at his feet.

I cried my eyes out when this scene unfolded on the 19 inch black and white television in our family's living room on Halloween night, 1989.

Sure, the Wolf Man scared me, but I also knew that he wasn't just a monster. He was a kind and afflicted victim, searching for help, trying to do the right thing when nobody would believe him. He didn't want to hurt anyone. But when the full moon ascended, he had no choice.

And to see his own father end his life in such a brutal manner destroyed me. What truly sells the scene is the expression on the face of Claude Rains when he realizes that he has just killed his own son. It breaks my heart every time.

I could talk about these movies for hours, and I have in the past. But I spare you more pointless remembrances and get to the point of this entry:

Jump ahead 18 years. It's 2007, and I read that Mark Romanek was going to direct a remake of my favorite monster movie. This excited me to no end, because I was a big Mark Romanek fan. I thought h0is big screen debut, "One Hour Photo", was a very effective and visually inventive thriller. Plus, he wrestled a great performance out Robin Williams, which is increasingly rare.

But beyond that, I loved the man's work as a music video director. Creative videos for bands like Audioslave, Sonic Youth, Eels, Jay-Z, Beck and Nine Inch Nails, all leading to his "Citizen Kane": the video for Johnny Cash's cover version of NIN's "Hurt". Nothing else to say about that.

So obviously, I was eagerly anticipating his interpretation of "The Wolf Man".

Then he left the project two weeks before production began due to "creative differences".

Joe Johnston quickly came onboard to pick up the slack. Now Johnston has made some solid films, including "The Rocketeer", which I adore, but I just didn't think he was a fit for a property like this. So I began to worry.

But the brilliant Rick Baker was doing the make-up effects, so I wasn't too worried.

Then the film's release was delayed. Once, then twice. I heard many troubling stories about the production.

Then the rumors concerning the film's final cut began to circulate. It's R-rated! It's PG-13! Two hours long! 88 minutes long! Danny Elfman's score is gone! Wait, it's back in! Legendary film editor Walter Murch has been brought in to "save" this mess of a movie! It's R-rated again!

The worry sat in my stomach like an ulcer. Was this movie doomed? I figured I'd find out when it finally opened.

And then the day came. "The Wolfman" has been unleashed. And it is good.

Not great, mind you. But good.

Joe Johnston did a fine job directing this one. He captured this eerie, gothic aesthetic on film which I absolutely love. I'm a mark for this stuff.

Rick Baker's make-up is great. It captures the essence of Jack Pierce's original work, but it's more visceral, more dangerous. After the Wolfman kills, blood hangs from his jaw in thick tendrils, and Benicio del Toro's eyes really shine through the prosthetics. It's fantastic.

The performances are uniformly good, from del Toro as Talbot to Anthony Hopkins as his loony father, to Emily Blunt as Gwen, the wife of Talbot's late brother. Hugo Weaving shows up to play Inspector Abberline from Scotland Yard.

This is the same real-life Abberline who worked on the infamous "Jack the Ripper" case in Whitechapel in 1888. Weaving revealed in an interview on CHUD.com, my favorite movie website, that the sole reason the Inspector in the film is named Abberline is to mention the Ripper murders.

This feels like a misstep to me, because it comes out during a scene where Abberline interviews Talbot after he has been attacked by a werewolf in a gypsy camp. Abberline basically accuses Talbot of being Jack the Ripper in this scene. He also seems to believe that Talbot may be responsible for the killings at the gypsy camp, which makes absolutely no sense. It completely took me out of the film.

Aside from that, Weaving is fine in the film. I've liked the guy since I saw "The Adventures Of Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert".

Art Malik plays Sir John Talbot's Indian manservant, Singh. He plays Singh behind a grey, mountain man beard and long, wild hair. This made me chuckle for a moment, because as soon as he showed up, he looked like a crazy hermit who just clawed his way out of a deep, dark cave.

It took me a while to recognize him as the main terrorist who got blown up by Arnold Schwarzeneggar in a Harrier jet after he threatened to kill his daughter (and Key West) in James Cameron's 1994 tribute to psychological spousal abuse, "True Lies". Those were simpler times.

The story is substantially different from the 1931 original, but the skeleton of Carl Siodmak's script remains. Larry is a Shakespearean actor, not a mechanic. The werewolf that bites Talbot isn't an afflicted gypsy in this version, it's his own father, who had been infected years before while on a hunting expedition.

Sir John is responsible for the death of Larry's mother when he was a small boy, as well as the recent death of his brother, the reason why Larry returned home in the first place.

Sir John doesn't keep this knowledge from his son for very long, telling him the whole story while his poor boy is locked up in a sanitarium. Larry obviously doesn't take this news very well, swearing to kill his bonkers lycanthrope father, straining against his shackles.

Soon after this, a mass of doctors gather in a lecture hall at the sanitarium to watch the restrained Talbot while his psychiatrist tells them all that when the full moon rises and he does not transform into a monster, that Larry will realize he's merely a delusional killer, and not a fucking werewolf.

Obviously, this plan blows up in the smug doctor's fat face, as Talbot Wolfs Out, tearing out of his restraints. He then proceeds to jump around the lecture hall, shredding all of the self-assured medical pricks, even tearing out one's wet, throbbing liver. Nice.

He leaps out the window, fucks some shit up in downtown London, then wakes up on the bank of the River Thames, covered in blood and filled with shame (and doctor meat).

Talbot returns home to kill his bastard of a father before the full moon rises again. This does not go as planned. Sir John beats the living shit out of his spawn, babbling all the while about the pleasures of the damned, or somesuch nonesense.

Then, the moon rises, and it's time for a fucking showdown.

Wolf Larry and Wolf Sir John duke it out, throwing furniture around, breaking oil lamps, and just generally making a mess. Wolf Larry rabbit kicks Wolf Sir John into the fireplace, and Flaming Blind Wolf Sir John starts flailing about, before Wolf Larry removes his burning head with a swipe of his mighty claw.

RIP, Flaming Blind Wolf Sir John. You will be missed.

Inspector Abberline and Gwen show up, and Abberline tries to shoot Wolf Larry with a silver bullet. Gwen grabs his gun, and the bullet misses. This proves to be a poor turn of events for the Inspector, as Wolf Larry lunges at him, biting his shoulder. Gwen runs away, and Wolf Larry gives chase.

Abberline gets up, grabbing the iconic silver wolf's head cane that Larry left at the estate, stumbling out of the burning building, aiming to cave in the bitey wolf asshole's thick head.

Unfortunately, he never gets this opportunity, because Gwen shoots Wolf Larry in the heart with a silver bullet from Abberline's gun, and he stays alive long enough to tell Gwen that she did what had to be done, before his head lolls back and he shuffles off this mortal coil.

Abberline shambles up to Larry's corpse, holding his bleeding shoulder, staring intently at the full moon. A wolf howls in the distance. Cut to black.

I like to imagine that after this cut to black, Abberline uses the silver wolf's head cane to bludgeon the incredibly stupid Gwen to death for screwing up his clean shot five minutes earlier, and allowing him to get bitten by Wolf Larry, condemning the Inspector to the curse of the wolf.

Honestly, it was just an incredibly bone-headed decision.

Like I said, the movie is good. It feels rushed at times. Some of the sequences don't work particularly well. It needs more time to breathe before the attack on the gypsy camp. We need more time to get to know Larry before he is bitten.

Luckily, it's rumored that the eventual DVD release will include an extended edition, with around 17 minutes of additional footage. I hope this addresses some of my concerns with the film.

I recommend "The Wolfman" to you, Dear Imaginary Reader. You'll have a good, gory time.

One final note: I received a comment regarding my last blog posting, "Why Did I Watch This?!", which recounted my perception of the endless Opening Ceremony to the 21st Winter Olympics.

The author of this comment, "John", actually agreed with me!

Not that the Opening Ceremony was a nightmarishly boring waste of time, but that I was, indeed, a fucking moron for forcing myself to watch the entire ordeal. And he is absolutely right.

So thanks for the feedback, "John", wherever you are!

Why Did I Watch This?!

So the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics have officially begun, eh?

And of course, as is tradition with this, the grandest athletic stage of them all... not counting Wrestlemania... it all began with the majestic opening ceremony.

This is the opportunity for the host city to show the world what makes them great. A chance to expose their art, their culture, their very soul to the millions of people around the world tuning in.

It's also their opportunity to bore us to death.

I don't know why I subjected myself to this awful "extravaganza". I mean, I watched parts of the opening ceremony during the Beijing Olympics. It was entertaining. There were crazy dudes running on walls and banging gongs and being all dynamic, and shit. It wasn't great, but it managed to hold my interest.

But this... this was just bad.

After all the athletes walked in a big circle around the arena, waving their flags and smiling like fools, Canadian Teenage Jazz Sensation Nikki Yanofsky came out to sing "O Canada".

Pardon me, Canadian Teenage Jazz Sensation Nikki Yanofsky came out to lip synch "O Canada".

I don't know what makes this young lady a "Jazz Sensation". Every article I've read about young Miss Yanofsky refers to her as some derivation of the term. Based on her performance last night, I don't see it.

She was quite lame. This set the tone for the evening.

Next, Nelly Furtado and Bryan Adams came out, hand in hand, to lip synch some boring fucking song that made me forget how to blink for about two minutes. I don't know what the song is called, and I don't want to know.

And Bryan Adams? What the hell for? Didn't the Canadian Prime Minister officially apologize to the world for Bryan Adams in 1991? Is this the best our neighbors to the North have to offer?

Don't get me wrong, I think Bryan Adams has his moments... well, moment. That moment being the release of his hit single "Summer of '69" in 1984. But that's it. So why did Canada decide to punish us all once again with this man's dubious talents?

After that delightful little diversion, I tuned in and out. Not literally. The television remained on NBC throughout the duration of the Opening Ceremony. My consciousness repeatedly retreated into the depths of my mind, reliving happier moments in my life as a defense mechanism, to keep me from going insane as this tedious madness unfolded.

When the booming voice of Donald Sutherland began reciting poetry as cloth totem poles rose from the arena floor, becoming trees before my very eyes, I was sure I was hallucinating.

Surely, this wasn't really happening.

Solid ground became a rapidly deteriorating ice floe, as oddly dressed dancers leaped around the chaotic scene.

Then it was the ocean, and a pod of whales were traveling through the arena, water spouting from their blowholes.

Now it's a rolling, golden field of wheat, and a young Peter Brady was awkwardly flying around it all, with his windswept hair and empty expression filling me with dread.

But wait, now there's some dude in a floating boat, playing a fiddle above the stage, dueling his own shadow projected over the harvest moon.

There were constellations gleaming on massive projected LED sheets suspended over the audience.

And then a giant bear ascended from the Underworld, glowing like a UFO, arms outstretched as if to embrace us all in peace and brotherhood, gently floating away like some kind of LSD-induced apparition.

Clearly I was losing my mind. But I eventually realized that I was still quite sane. Because although this imagery sounds rather interesting and perhaps "trippy", it was all so completely fucking tedious.

Not exciting. Not awe-inspiring. Dull.

Just like the razor blade I used in a vain attempt to slit my wrists after I endured this nightmare.

Sarah Mclachlan showed up to lip synch some song while pretending to play the piano, grinning like a lunatic during her entire "performance". At one point, she glanced into the camera and I thought she wanted to eat me.

Suddenly, it was Autumn, and a gaggle of folks with shitty hairstyles and shittier fashion sense jumped around, pretending to play their fiddles while a crowd of what I assume were mentally infirm residents of some local psych ward undulated in circles, in some sick parody of what the normals call "dancing".

Then out come the tapdancing douchebags on the biggest and shittiest birthday cake I have ever seen. Why do these tapdancing cocksuckers exist? Who decided it would be the neatest thing in the history of the Olympics to put these fools on a world stage?

They weren't even really tapdancing! They were pretending to tapdance to a prerecorded tap dancing track! And they still managed to fuck that up!

Although, to be fair, the tap dancing track these prancing nitwits were miming had absolutely no rhythym. It was just a cacophonous racket, with absolutely no meaning.

Gregory Hines is dead, and his fucking corpse has more talent than these "professionals".

Then a storm settled into the arena. Thunder and lightning and chaotic noise! A cloth mountain rises from the floor, ascending to the sky! A group of useless people dressed up as snowboarders and skiers descended upon the crowd, their jackets glowing with beautiful soft lights as they mimed skiing down the polyester Matterhorn.

They call all of this "interpretive dance". I call it garbage.

And here comes some fat, bearded "Poetry Slam!" asshole to tell the world what it means to be Canadian. He yammers on for what feels like a week, and by the time he's done, I still have no idea what it truly means to be Canadian.

You fail, sir!

Then some boring people gave some boring speeches, and I nearly passed out. This experience had simply exhausted me. My mind was slowly unraveling.

Then they fucked up the Olympic Cauldron Lighting Ceremony.

Four pillars were supposed to rise out of the arena floor, leading to the unlit cauldron. Four athletes were supposed to approach their respective pillars with their torches, touching their flames to the pillars. The flames would then travel up the pillars, into the cauldron, which would then burst into life, signaling the official beginning to the games of the 21st Winter Olympics.

But only three pillars rose from the arena floor. The fourth was too embarassed by the garish and boring splendor that preceded this moment, and decided to stay underground, where it was safe.

So three athletes performed this ceremony, as they touched their three torches to their three pillars, and the flames traveled up the three pillars into the cauldron, which then burst into life, signaling the official beginning to the games of the 21st Winter Olympics.

The fourth athlete just stood there, holding his torch, looking confused. I laughed heartily.

Schadenfreude is a beautiful thing.

Great job, Canada. Ya blew it!

I used to like Canada. Now the idea of visiting Canada fills me with a deep, primal terror. I just broke out in a cold sweat thinking about it.

In conclusion, Dear Imaginary Reader, I still do not know why I subjected myself to the utter torture that was the Opening Ceremony of the 21st Winter Olympics.

I could have watched something else. I could have turned the channel at any time. I could have watched any of those episodes of "Wild West Tech" I have cluttering my DVR.

I should have read a fucking book. Or plucked my eyebrows.

Or plucked out my eyeballs.

But I didn't take the coward's way out. I sat in front of that television and I endured.

Because I am a fucking moron.

The Third Man Was A Vase Filled With Blow

Super Bowl Sunday. The biggest TV night of the year.

Untold millions gathered around their massive flatscreen HDTVs, shoving fatty foods down their throats, watching a bunch of guys wearing tight pants slamming into each other, fighting over an oblong ball.

Oh yeah, and a bunch of really expensive, lame commercials.

So what was I doing on this monumental evening, you didn't ask?

Why, I was watching that guy from "The Tudors" get outacted by a cocaine-filled vase in "Taken" director Pierre Morel's latest film, "From Paris With Love".

See, I'm not a sports guy.

So... this movie. Spoiler Time, I guess.

Jonathan Rhys Myers plays James Reece, personal assistant to the U.S. Ambassador in Paris. He has a French seamstress live-in girlfriend named Caroline. She cannibalized the bedroom curtains to make her latest dress. She's so cute! He lives in a small apartment with a bunch of books, and he has a shitty excuse for a moustache.

Seriously, this guy is playing Henry VIII in "The Tudors", and he can't grow a fucking beard. Every portrait of Henry VIII you have ever seen portrays the decadent cocksucker sporting a massive, manly beard.

And crippling obesity. In some portraits, you can see a positively Jabba-esque hunger in his beady eyes.

But this douchebag can't even sport convincing 5 o'clock shadow. His pathetic peach fuzz makes Leonardo DiCaprio's occassional big-screen facial hair look like the beard of the mighty Billy Gibbons. It's a fucking disgrace.

You'd think the director, or the cinematographer, or the make-up artist, or fucking somebody would sit this bastard down and tell him to give up on the facial follicles. It's a wasteland. Especially once John Travolta pops up, but I'm not there, yet.

So this Henry VIII can't grow a beard to save his festering leg, and he has crazy eyes. Crazy, bugging-out-of-his-fucking-head eyes. It's obscene.

I've seen this guy attempt the odd tender moment in cinema. It doesn't matter how convincing he sounds, you won't believe a word he says.

You could be in a terrible automobile accident, and lose consciousness. Here comes Johnny Rhys Myers On The Spot, the right man in the right place at the right time, dashing toward the burning wreck to pull your bleeding ass out of the fire. You slowly rouse from your micro-coma, hearing this soothing Irish accent, telling you everything is going to be all right.

Then you open your eyes. Give yourself a moment for your blurred vision to readjust, wincing from the painful gash in your head. You look up, and the face comes into focus. You think to yourself:

"Oh my God, look at his eyes!"

"Did this guy rape me?"

"Is he going to rape me?"

"Holy shit, I'm bleeding. I think this psycho beat me up and raped me!"

(Screaming incoherently)

It doesn't matter that this guy just saved your life. You just suffered a terrible trauma. You're hurt. You're confused. And in this state, you naturally assume the Irish dude standing over you with the "I am going to rape you" eyes has or intends to rape you sometime in the near future.

It's only natural.

Holy shit, that was a weird digression. My apologies. Moving on...

So Rape Eyes is working for the U.S. Ambassador in Paris. But apparently, he's also got a side gig with the CIA.

Nothing too flashy. He gets called out to switch out the license plates for a group of field operatives in a parking garage. Later, he is tasked with planting a bug in some diplomat's office.

He first tries to clandestinely affix the bug to the underside of the diplomat's desk with chewing gum. He fails at this. So he turns to plan B: Staple the fucking bug to the desk. He staples a sensitive piece of surveillance equipment to the bottom of a desk.

And despite my reservations with this questionable tactic, it seems to work. He's commended for a job well done by some mysterious voice on his cell phone two minutes later. So... Bravo?

The CIA Sidekick spends the first twenty minutes of the movie alternating between his monkey work for his superiors and making goo-goo eyes at his delightful French girlfriend. They share some wonderfully romantic moments together, as I begin to wonder if I accidentally walked into a screening of "Dear John".

Then our boy gets the call he's been waiting for. A field operative on a special mission needs Reece to drive his ass around Paris while he does whatever the fuck he's supposed to be doing. If he does his job well, he can say goodbye to shitty gruntwork for more qualified people, and hello to the dangerous and sexy life of a gun-toting, license to kill-carrying field agent.

So Reece heads to the airport to fetch his new partner, who is being held by customs officers because they won't let him bring his energy drinks into the country.

This is how we are introduced to Charlie Wax, the bald-headed, earring-sporting, foul-mouthed loose cannon CIA agent played by a very bearded John Travolta.

Say what you will about the man's performance, but at least Travolta can grow a fucking beard. I wonder if Rhys Myers ever cried himself to sleep in his trailer after hours, overcome with beard envy. That thought makes me smile.

Anyway, Reece takes Wax to a Chinese restaurant, where the two have a pleasant conversation about the dubious cultural origins of Egg Foo Young.

Then Wax whips out a gun and kills everybody.

Then he shoots up the ceiling, and it starts raining cocaine.

Then Wax tells Reece to empty an ornate vase and fill it with the cocaine falling from the sky.

On the road, Wax tells Reece some bullshit story about how the Secretary of Defense's niece OD'd on cocaine sold by the same Chinese guys who were using the now-defunct Chinese restaurant as a front for their drug smuggling operations. Wax says he was sent to Paris to break up the drug ring as a favor for the Defense Secretary.

At least, I'm pretty sure that's what he said. To be honest, the film's plot didn't really grab me. I was barely paying attention to the boring exposition in this sequence. Which turned out to be no big deal, because the whole "Defense Secretary's niece OD'd on Chinese smack" story was a complete lie.

The real reason why Wax is in Paris is to thwart a terrorist plot to attack some big international summit. The terrorists were using the money from the drug operations to fund their imminent attack.

Why Charlie couldn't just tell the truth from the start, I have no idea. It's completely pointless.

So the Dynamic Duo, with their trusty sidekick Coke Vase, go about their business, running down leads and shooting a bunch of ethnic people. Reece literally drags this vase filled with cocaine around for half the movie. Kinda like Linus and his security blanket.

Wax and Reece both indulge in a little cocaine from their handy vase from time to time, which I'm sure is Standard Operating Procedure.

They get into a fight with some asian gang members. Well, Wax gets into a fight with some asian gang members. Reece just holds his vase and looks incredulous. Then they shoot it out with another group of asian gang members.

Then Wax fucks a prostitute. Then he shoots some more people.

Most of these action sequences are bleeding together in my mind. It's difficult to separate them.

I know Reece gets jumped by two dudes, and Wax just watches them beat the shit out of his partner for a while before he shoots them both.

There's a big sequence in an apartment building filled with armed terrorists. Wax shoots a bunch of people, then drops a bunch of C4 on a pair of stragglers running to their getaway car.

Reece is confronted by a particularly unhinged terrorist who shoves Reece's gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger, blowing his brains out the back of his skull and showering Captain Crazy Eyes with blood.

This is the moment when it gets real for Reece. He's in shock and covered in blood, in a daze. He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror and frantically washes his face.

I know I was supposed to feel something for the guy, but his fucking eyes ruined it. While he was having his big acting moment, I was wondering how long his "turn your back on me and I will carve a hole into your back with a rusty knife and fuck it" eyes would haunt my dreams.

I'm getting sidetracked, again.

Oh Jesus, it doesn't really matter, anyway. Travolta shoots people. Rhys Myers carries his drug vase and stares. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

It's nighttime, now. Wax sits on a bench and eats a Royale with Cheese. That's right, a "Pulp Fiction" joke. What the fuck for?

Reece gets a text from Amelie's ugly sister telling him to come home for dinner, and to invite his "new friend". So the Odd Couple leave their French McDonald's food to fester in a dumpster in favor of some home-cooked cuisine.

When they arrive at Reece's apartment, they are joined by Caroline's friend Nichole. Wax clumsily hits on Nichole before he blows her brains out at the dinner table.

He tells Reece that Caroline and her friend are working with the terrorists and that his apartment is choked with surveillance equipment. Caroline shoots Reece in the shoulder then jumps out the window. Wax pursues, but loses her.

The next day, Wax blows up the terrorist mastermind in his bomb-filled car with a bazooka before the bad guy plows into a U.S. delagate's limo. And Reece rushes to the summit to stop his sleeper agent girlfriend from blowing it the fuck up with her incredible suicide-bombing skills.

He tries to talk her out of it, telling her how much he loves her and crying and OH MY FUCKING GOD HE'S STARING RIGHT AT ME and she tries to blow herself up anyway, so he shoots her in the head.

Job well done, Wax and Reece play chess in front of a plane and dream of foiling future terrorist plots together in a string of sequels with names that write themselves. "From ___ With Love".

Blah blah blah, roll credits.

Despite everything I've said, I actually enjoyed it. It entertained me, which is more than I can say about my last movie-going experience.

Travolta seemed to be having a lot of fun with his role. He has some decent one-liners, and loves his guns. He's really the only reason to see the movie. Every moment he's off-screen, the film suffers.

Jonathan Rhys Myers can't really pull off a convincing American accent, and... those eyes...

Everyone else does an okay job, I guess. Nothing noteworthy.

I liked the gratuitous violence. I liked the fact the schmaltzy love story that I hated so much ended with the hero shooting his lady in the face before she could blow herself up. That was nice.

There aren't enough R-rated action movies out there, anymore. Perhaps that's why I am giving this one a pass. But at least it tried.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am off to scream myself to sleep.

(Screaming Incoherently)

February Spells Tragedy For Doomed Fat Man

The month of February. Some people pronounce it "Febooary", but those people are idiots.

February means that Valentine's Day is fast approaching. This obviously means something to all the boys and girls who have found each other out there in that cold, lonely world.

On this wonderful day, they get the opportunity to buy gratuitously expensive flowers and chocolates and jewelry for each other.

Because if you don't do this, then you are a fucking monster.

I never really saw the point in buying flowers for people. They look pretty for a day or two, then they die. So you get to watch these lovely flowers die slowly in a decorative vase. I don't need another reminder that I am going to die someday.

Demetri Martin said that you should give flowers to people as a threat. That makes sense to me.

Maybe I'm against Valentine's Day because I'm single. Am I bitter because I have nobody to hold onto late at night? Am I depressed because I'm going to die alone and unloved?

That can't be it. I hate Valentine's Day because I'm an asshole.

I also posted a new photoplay on my YouTube channel. Because I'm an asshole.

It's a new month, after all. I try to do this on a semi-regular basis.

I'm like cancer. I keep coming back. You thought you were in remission, but BAM! Here's a brand new shitty photoplay for you to choke on! Relapse!

Anyway, it's called "Card Sharks!" and it's about... well, it's about card sharks. Or card sharps. I mean, this photoplay isn't really about a pair of poker-playing sharks. I wish it were. How awesome would that be?

You know, I've never seen a painting of sharks playing poker. We've all seen the dogs playing poker. I've seen cats, hamsters, aliens, ducks, dead celebrities and guinea pigs playing poker.

I've even seen Freddy Krueger, Jason Vorhees, Leatherface, Michael Myers and Pinhead playing poker together. That was a good one. Never sharks, though. Maybe I should Google "sharks playing poker".

Hold on.

Eh. I couldn't find any sharks playing poker. I did find an image of a shark playing poker with a bunch of other animals. It's not as good, though. If I had any talent, I would paint this image, myself.

The world needs a lame painting of sharks playing poker.

Where was I?

So I posted "Card Sharks!" on my Youtube page. It's about two poker studs who find themselves in the most dangerous game of their lives. It's... odd. But if you like Patsy Cline, then you need to watch it. It will change your life.

You can find it on my Youtube Channel here: http://www.youtube.com/uncleoflies or maybe on this page's embedded viewer on your right. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Watch it, and do whatever it is you people do. I'm going to watch "The Wire".

More Tales Of The Nuclear Jesus!

Edge Of Darkness" is not a very good movie.

Now I could just leave it at that, end this post, and go back to playing "Mass Effect 2", but I feel like rambling. So here I go.

In my previous review for "A Single Man", I mentioned that I'm a Mel Gibson fan. I'm not sure how Mel Gibson popped up in a discussion about "A Single Man", but it happened.

He's been out of the acting game since 2002, when he starred in M. Night Shyamalan's "Signs", a really good alien invasion thriller that shoots itself in the face in its final moments.

After M. Night drove him into the wilderness, Mel decided to go back to directing. We all know what happened next. He seems to enjoy challenging himself with projects that involve all actors speaking in dead languages, from Aramaic and Latin with "The Passion", to the discarded Mayan dialect in "Apocalypto".

Mel has said that he intends to make a Viking epic next, with all of the actors speaking in period-correct Olde Norse and Olde English. I am all for this. We need more crazy directors making odd films in dead languages. With graphic violence.

What we don't need is Mel Gibson acting in films like "Edge Of Darkness".

The film is based on a 1985 BBC mini-series, written by Troy Kennedy Martin, and directed by Martin Campbell. But this movie is not even in spitting distance of the mini-series.

Both stories follow a cop named Thomas Craven in his search to find the bastard who destroyed his daughter with a shotgun while they shared a tender moment on his front porch. They both involve nuclear conspiracies tied to some shady corporation called "Northmoor". And Craven is aided in his quest by a connected stranger named Jedburgh in both versions.

But what separates the 2010 film and the 1985 mini-series is a truck-load of crazy.

Largely inspired by something called "The Gaia Hypothesis" (Google it), Troy Kennedy Martin infused his story with references to the planet's self-correcting nature, implying in his script that the world had deemed the human race a threat, and that counter-measures were being prepared against our meddling species, illustrated at the end by a patch of black flowers.

Sure, there's a plutonium conspiracy, but that's not really what most of the folks who watched the mini-series remember. They remember the vengeful planet, and the numerous references to incest, regarding the relationship between Craven and his daughter.

You don't even have to read between the lines for the incest stuff. It's right there, in the meat of the story.

There's the scene where the ghost of his daughter seemingly taunts Craven by telling him how wonderful her boyfriend was in the sack,and a dream sequence with his daughter dressed up as a sexy nurse.

Then there's the moment that made me cock my head in disbelief: soon after Craven's daughter is gunned down, he is looking through his daughter's things, and he discovers her vibrator. He looks at it longingly, then he kisses it. He kisses her vibrator. Thomas Craven kisses his dead daughter's vibrator.

I can't believe I just typed that sentence.

Of course, none of that crazy shit is in the Warner Bros. movie.

Instead, we're treated to two hours of Mel Gibson wandering around, being told everything he needs to know without any real detective work, shooting a couple guys, forcing Danny Houston to drink irradiated milk before shooting him in the neck, and then dying of radiation poisoning before walking into Heaven, hand-in-hand, with his daughter's ghost.

Ugh.

This movie hardly does anything right. Gibson finds out his daughter was working at Northmoor, a "green" company with a shady, classified secret operation. Turns out Northmoor is manufacturing nuclear weapons with fissile material from other countries for the U.S. government.

See, if these nukes are ever detonated here or abroad, they could not be traced back to the United States. Instead the radioactive material in the weapons would point to "rogue nations", giving whoever is in charge the excuse to blow up their enemies with impunity.

Although Craven's daughter Emma worked for Northmoor, she was working with an activist group to find evidence of this conspiracy and leak it to the public. In the mini-series, the activist group was called "Gaia", and in the movie they changed the name to...

Shit, I don't remember. "Nightbird", maybe?

I must admit, I was so bored by the film, that I didn't really give a shit about anything that was happening onscreen. My mind began to wander around the thirty minute mark.

It's just so fucking boring.

Craven finds out that his daughter was already dying of radiation poisoning when she was shotgunned in the everywhere by the Northmoor triggerman, and she had a handy Geiger counter in her personal effects. He uses this Geiger counter later in the film to find out that his delicious organic milk is practically glowing in the dark. But apparently it's too late for this knowledge to help him, because I guess he already drank some of it.

If my daughter were mysteriously irradiated, and I found a Geiger counter in her overnight bag, I would scan every fucking thing I owned with the damn thing. Every fucking day. I would get Harry Caul at the end of "The Conversation" paranoid with that fucking Geiger counter.

Not Thomas Craven, though. You know he's sick earlier when he coughs. You know... "the cough". That cough that people develop in movies, and someone asks the coughing person if they're all right, and they respond "I'm fine". Fit that bastard for a backless blazer because he's a dead man walking.

Craven starts coughing, even though he's in good health. So obviously, he's gonna die. I'm surprised they didn't include a scene where he's combing his hair and realizes that it's all falling out. Maybe they left that one on the cutting room floor.

Craven realizes the depth of this conspiracy when he finds out that Emma contacted a U.S. Senator for help. Unfortunately, the Senator is in Northmoor's pocket, so Emma became a target of the evil conspirators.

He doesn't really find any of this out, the mysterious "consultant" Jedburgh tells him this. He just shows up at Craven's house and tells him this shit. There's no detective work going on here. People just tell Craven what's going on. It's kind if insulting.

Jedburgh, by the way, is played by Ray Winstone. This guy was awesome in "Sexy Beast". He was awesome in "The Proposition". He was awesome in "Beowulf". He sucked balls in "Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of The Crystal Skull". Of course, everyone sucked balls in that movie.

In "Edge Of Darkness", he's okay. He's not really in the movie that much.

He shows up at the beginning, says a few things, shows up in Craven's backyard and says a few things, drinks some wine and says a few things, then shoots the Senator and his Northmoor cronies before getting gunned down by a pubescent cop after he lowers his gun.

It's pretty anti-climactic.

In the mini-series, Jedburgh is played by Joe Don Fucking Baker, and he actually does stuff. He irradiates one of the central villains with some plutonium before going down in a hail of bullets in true badass fashion. This is another case of somebody stepping into the shoes of Joe Don Baker and failing miserably.

But I don't hold it against Winstone. I hold it against the "creative minds" reponsible for this waste of celluloid.

Pray for the unlucky soul who is cast in a remake of "Mitchell".

The evil Senator is played by Damian Young, by the way. You know, Bus Driver Stu Benedict from "The Adventures of Pete and Pete". That show was a huge part of my childhood. And it still holds up admirably well today.

Stu Benedict and his unstable personality amused and disturbed me as a young boy. Watch the episode "Yellow Fever", and see poor Bus Driver Stu Benedict slowly descend into madness as he gets his bus lost while on a field trip.

That scarecrow had it coming, if you ask me.

Hell, do yourself a favor and watch any episode of "The Adventures Of Pete and Pete". And don't watch this movie. Just stay home and watch "Field of Pete". You'll thank yourself.

Don't get me wrong, it was nice seeing Damian Young in a big Hollywood movie, and he did a fine job with a shit role, but it's just not worth it in the end.

I believe Mel Gibson tells United States Senator Stu Benedict that he is going to "throw a box of tarantulas" on his situation at one point in the film.

That line made me laugh like an insane person for a few minutes. It just doesn't make any sense. I have never heard anyone in the history of ever threaten to throw a box of tarantulas on anybody's situation.

It was great, because it was so bizarre. But it was one moment in an otherwise mediocre film.

Don't you dare see this movie. The original mini-series is available on DVD in the United States. Buy it. Rent it. Bittorrent it. I don't give a damn. Just watch the out-of-its-mind story unfold. It is definitely worth your time.

But stay far away from this movie. Shame on Mel Gibson for returning to acting with this garbage. And shame on Martin Campbell for directing this ill-advised "remake" of his own amazing work.

And shame on me for watching it.