Let The Right One In review

Despite crushing loneliness and a complete lack of satisfying social interactions, working nights is not without its advantages. It affords me plenty of time to stare into space, with ample time left over to keep my international film-viewing resumé up to date.

The most recent addition to the laughably voluminous list is a Swedish film called Låt Den Rätte Komma In (Let The Right One In.) In the loosest sense, Let The Right One In is a vampire movie. Which is to say, there's a vampire in it. It could just as easily be described as a movie about friendship, revenge, or loyalty. This complexity is what makes the film so excellent. A conspicuous dedication to character gives the filmmakers the ability to innovate within a seemingly drained genre. It differs from clichéd portrayals in important and unique ways, but manages to create an experience that is both familiar and refreshing.

The story follows Oscar, a lonely outcast who struggles with a fractured family, physical weakness, and constant torment from school bullies. One evening Oscar meets Eli, a strange little gal who, by her very nature, relates to Oscar's isolation. Slowly but surely, the pair become friends, with Oscar providing the affection and understanding that Eli craves, and receiving Eli's wisdom and protection in return. The relationship is quiet and haltingly sweet. Even as Eli's nature becomes apparent and the blood begins to flow - in great supply - the interactions retain an affecting innocence.

The film keeps its characters in sight from the first frame to the impressive conclusion, a feat essentially unmatched by American equivalents.

The characters are certainly at the heart of the film, but the entire production is a joy to behold. It has one of the most beautiful opening shots I've seen in years, and in true Scandinavian fashion, the quality of cinematography is marvelous throughout. The stark Swedish landscape is a perfect backdrop, used skillfully to emphasize Oscar and Eli's seclusion. The special effects are tastefully minimal, often chilling but never distracting. Best of all, nobody sparkles.

By stripping itself of the fatigued trappings so often seen in vampire cinema and literature, Let The Right One In succeeds in new and exciting ways. True film lovers really couldn't ask for a better gift for the Holiday season. Do yourself a favor and get cozy with these Swedes.

They may not be able to defend you from H1N1, but they should help dispel the the worst symptoms of New Moon Fever. Team Eli 4EVR.

This Is It review

This Is It is a documentary about Michael Jackson and company preparing for the King of Pop's
ill-fated final concert run in London. The film's cited aim is to show MJ "Like You've Never Seen Him Before," but in reality it only solidifies two prevalent suppositions about The Gloved One:

First, that Michael Jackson was the quintessential popular performer of our time. Second, that Michael Jackson was an undeniably peculiar fellow.

It's difficult to write a film review for This Is It, because in the strictest sense, it's not really
a film at all. While it falls under the documentary category, the sparsity of annotative content makes it a bleak example of such. More than anything else, This Is It is a shrine to the achievement and legacy of a boy from Gary, Indiana.

In terms of technical production, the work is excellent. The majority of the film consists of rehearsal performances of Michael's many hits, (Beat It, Thriller, Billie Jean, The Way You Make Me Feel, etc.)
Most of the numbers feature compiled footage from several different rehearsals. The footage is excellently and unobtrusively edited, and it's fascinating to see the production at various stages of completion, as well as MJ's skill for improvisation. Some of the music is in the process of being perfected, and Michael mentions several times that he's trying to save his voice, but the power and variety of the Jackson canon remains impressive.

Canned interviews throughout are filled with accolades for Michael's energy and humanity, but the footage exposes Michael's lack of any identity independent of his music. Although his musical vision and understanding are apparent, he is often completely helpless in articulating it. His communication is fragmentary and platitudinous, and he seems unable to relate in any pertinent personal way to the cast and crew. This isolation is only exaggerated by the constant and obnoxious pandering of Kenny Ortega, who was Jackson's stage director as well as the director of the film.

The film is at its best when it avoids trying to render forced warmth and instead focuses on Michael's unique talent and penchant for entertainment. This Is It portrays Michael Jackson in all his myth and mystery. It forces us to understand him in the only way in which he can ever be fully understood: as a performer.
It lets him live onstage, connecting with humanity through his music and movement, a feat he is unable to achieve through any other means. He is in command of the very world that we, the eternal audience, both created and forced him to inhabit. Under the lights of This Is It, we see and remember the best of a troubled and misunderstood human being. What better eulogy could any of us ask for?

...and it came to me then

...that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time."
- Death Cab for Cutie

Recently I have come to believe this. And father time is not answering my prayers.

The last two years have been a consistent string of disappointments. It seems as if every one of my plans has fallen through. I was spectacularly binned by both a woman and a country in the space of one week. After a year of confessions and flayed pride I had the rug pulled unceremoniously from beneath me, only to become a bullet point on someone's ecclesiastical résumé. I sometimes feel like, a la Little Pete and Artie, I'm trying to beat up the Atlantic Ocean.
I'm keeping my feet moving. I'm throwing punches.

The strange thing is that in the fevered brevity between landed blows, I find gratitude. I have learned so much.

"When meeting calamities or difficult situations, it is not enough to simply say that one is not at all flustered. When meeting difficult situations, one should dash forward bravely and with joy. It is the crossing of a single barrier and is like the saying, "The more the water, the higher the boat." - Tsunetomo Yamamoto, Hagakure

My Dear,

Here are some things that need to be said:

At my worst, I am ashamed to know you. I am ashamed to have spent so much time with someone so self-serving and unerringly vapid.

I regret having fallen for it. I regret every moment I spent ignoring my better judgment and trying to "make things work." I am grateful that I won't have to spend the rest of my life explaining punchlines. And politics. And who we were fighting in World War II. (I mean, really. How have you made it through college?)

I would love to say that I wish you only the best, but I can't. Eventually I will. At the moment I want you to hurt.

It's been helpful to remember how cruel you are. It's been helpful to know that you've pulled this trick before; that I'm not the first, nor will I likely be the last. It's been helpful to remember your selfishness and lack of depth.

I laid myself open, and you spat inside.I am bitter from that incomparable hurt.
I am bitter from the apparent defeat of all that was good in you. Amidst your smallness, I glimpsed something warm and lovely. There were times when you believed in who you might be. With your hand in mine, you reached for the beauty of it. In the end, you've fallen among thieves, and in glazed triumph have traded all the best of you for the trinkets of a culture you're too lazy to comprehend.

I prefer cyanide to your saccharine. I wonder why you gave up.

And I miss you. Still.

Girls.

The battle of the sexes has raged, and cuddled, since the dawn of man. and woman.
Why is the conflict so heated, and why have we failed to draw up satisfactory terms for a ceasefire?

I have an answer.

1. Cafe Rio
96% of females (in a made-up-in-my-head-blind-study) raved, gushed, or clapped when Cafe Rio/Costa Vida was introduced into the study environment. Why is that? Why are the majority of females so united in their love of this ethnically non-noncommittal delicacy? Is it genetic? Does the extra X chromosome contain some sort of tex-mex craving?
Theory: Despite the fact that, depending upon the amount of south-o'-the-border fixins, most Cafe Rio dishes bestow you with ~1300 calories, they are, conspicuously, salads. Under this definitional guise, women are free to enjoy mounds of meat, geographies of produce, and a fried tortilla large enough to be incorporated into the famed opening ceremonies of the Beijing games.

Karma

Believe me when I tell you this. I wish I could burn the boats. I want so badly to empty my hands, and swell my lungs with the breath of this unknown country.

The sea is comfort. It is empty, save for the bodies of those who have come before. The sea is fear, but it is a fear that is known to me.

Ahead of me, the shore sprawls like light beneath the door. The wind sweeps the sand; their whispers curl about my ankles.

The whispers tell me that I will find nothing at sea but an empty horizon. I hear them, and I know that these ghost voices are true, but I am so weary of this battle. I am weary from beating back the waves, riding against a line that will never break.

And so, I will stay with you on this wet and sparkling shore. I will splay my hands and feel the candle flame lap at my palms. I am reaching for a love to cling to, here on the cold and tattered edges of the new world.

South Park Rorschach

it was more fun than studying!