In that spirit, I offer you the comprehensive list of things that make Hulk Smash. I like how so many of them begin with “inexplicably” and “somehow”.

98. Crawling through the sensitive, highly dangerous electrical service tunnel
for no apparent reason, only to accidentally kick several of the electrical cables
loose and flailing around near the hot water pipes so that he can be practically
electricuted and fried at the same time.

Also, The Hulk Meets Thor:

Jesus, I could mainline this crap.

Frankly, the best performance in the movie came from Sascha Baron Cohen in the bit part of Pirelli. Cohen jumped into the role, which really showed off his ability to inhabit a character: in my opinion, the performance was worthy of Peter Sellers. Maybe it’s because of his on-the-spot work as Borat/Ali G./Bruno, but Cohen has an instinct for theatre that seems to elude Depp and Carter. This couldn’t have been more obvious in “Pirelli’s Magical Elixer”, during which Cohen delivers his stanzas with gusto and relish, and Depp and Carter practically recite theirs with all the enthusiasm of a high school student forced into the drama class by his over-zealous parents.

That’s not to say that Depp wasn’t up to the task: by the last 45 minutes of the movie or so, Depp really stepped into the role, really tapping into the obsessive thirst for revenge that’s at the core of Todd. And maybe it’s not his fault that it took so long to get there: it was hard to take him seriously with everything larded with Burton’s flatulent gothiness. And that was a key weakness of the film for me: I never forgot that I was watching Burton’s vision. I get it, Tim: Todd and Lovett are creepy characters, which is indicated by their wacky hair, their black-and-white wardrobes (the White Stripes travel in time to 1880), the pancake makeup they apparently apply with a garden trowel, and the football paint around their eyes. Ultimately, the overly-contrived darkness undermined my suspension of disbelief.

After reading more about Helena Bonham Carter, I am surprised that she was so disappointing in the role of Mrs. Lovett, but this may have as much to do with the fact that she looked like Edward Scissorhands in a dress as the the fact that the character’s inate humor was never allowed to surface. Mrs. Lovett without the laughs and the bawdy humor is a shadow, an allegory, an empty character. And so it was that the hilariously gruesome song “Have a Little Priest” didn’t get so much as a chuckle from the audience. Nor did “God, That’s Good”. “By the Sea” came off as a non-sequitor, although a montage featuring Depp-as-Todd glowering humorlessly in a variety of venues gave me a sardonic chuckle as I reflected that the play was as funny as it was bleak.

Mrs. Lovett isn’t the star of the play, but she is the most important supporting character, offsetting the bitterness and lust for revenge in Todd. That’s why her black sense of humor is so important. Even Shakespeare’s bleakest plays had some comedic scenes. In Burton’s version, there’s practically nothing of the sort. Worse, there really didn’t seem to be any chemistry between Todd and Lovett in the movie, and that doesn’t make sense when you have two characters sing a gleeful song about how everyone deserves to die, and they will go into business together as they carry out this mission.

So yeah, the movie was good. It gets a solid B from this nonprofessional. But in my opinion, you should save a few bucks and rent the Lansbury/Cariou version available on DVD. After all, I liked the original play so much I got Sweeney Todd tattooed on my left leg.

A few weeks ago, it was Rocky that brought me down. That final fight scene is just incredible, a tribute to the indefatigable will. Creed swings, lands his punch, and Balboa doesn’t so much fall to the mat, as he flops down like a rag doll, stunned like dog kicked in the face. Dripping with blood, looking like his face was replaced with a steak, Rocky staggers to his feet as much because he can’t stop himself as any will to win. BANG! Down he goes again, his own trainers are begging him Stay down, Rock!, and the guy just drags himself up and starts throwing more punches. He simply. Will. Not. Give. In. And it chokes me up. Every. Single. Time.

I’ve been trying to determine whether this actually DID initiate when Sam and I were split up, or whether this hyper-emotional response (as I see it) precedes the breakup. I’m still not sure. I spoke about the problem with my professional friend earlier this month: it’s a topic we’ve discussed briefly before, but have never explored in depth. She seemed to think it was curious as well. “If you were the kind of person that stifled his emotions, I would say it makes perfect sense,” she said. “But it seems that when you’re mad, you let yourself be mad, and when you’re happy you let yourself be happy. So it’s interesting.”

I wrote to my friend Tim about this, and I’m sure he won’t mind my sharing his response:

You seem to be overlooking one other key reason why you reacted so strongly to this movie:

You are an armor-plated, cheesesteak-eating, Philadelphia douche rocket.

I’m joking, of course.

The same shit happens to me. Dude, La Vie En Rose, the film about the life of Edith Piaf: I was crying like a fucking baby for half that fucking gut-wrencher. The latest Wes Anderson flick, Darjeeling Limited: as much as I need to watch that flick again to fully figure out if I even liked it, there were scenes in it that had me going watery. His last one, Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, there was one scene towards the end (where Bill Murray is wondering out loud if the leopard shark still remembers him) where I realized I had bought a one-way ticket to Wah-ville – population: me. Finding Neverland: same fucking thing. Lilo & Stitch: ditto.

Rocky is an awesome film on so many levels. My dad used to use Rocky in his English classes because of the lessons about winning not being everything, and just how well-written a story it is.

I can’t speak for Tim’s crybaby reactions, but I suspect in the case of Rocky my blubbering stems from my strong identification with the underdog archetype. That has my name written all over it. I can’t even begin to count the times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night panicking over my equally worthless past and future, worrying about my debts and wondering if maybe now is the time to end it once and for all, relief from the endless struggle to achieve nothing, only to discount the whole idea. I have a kid who needs a role model (the last thing this beer-swilling dirtbag ever expected or hoped to be), and suicide would not only rob him of that, but would give his mother a sweet notch in her belt: it’s not everyone that can drive another person to jump off a bridge. It’d also give my in-laws a sigh of relief and their moment of triumph: after all the trips to Syracuse, the American is out of our lives forever! There is no way that they get that victory: not now, not ever.

And so more “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” are what I’m looking at, probably for the rest of my life. And like Balboa, I’m going to wind up looking like hamburger with nothing to show for my troubles but another rematch.

Bah.

Where to start? On Thursday, as part of Domestic Violence Month, I had to work a fundraiser in Chestnut Hill from 5:00-8:00 PM, after which I headed up to Doylestown where Pete Wroblewski throws a bluegrass pickin’ party on the first Thursday of every month.

Friday evening, I had a gig down at the Navy Yard in Sowfluffya: it was the afterparty for the new M. Knight Shymalan movie. The party was down at the Navy Yard because the film crew was shooting a number of scenes in a massive warehouse with the ceiling space to erect life-size facades of Philadelphia rowhomes. It was pretty amazing, but unfortunately (and understandably), they wouldn’t allow me to take any photos.

You can’t see it because of the darkness and the angle, but right behind us was an enormous battleship. Every ten minutes or so, we’d be drowned out by the sound of airplanes taking off from Philadelphia International. On the other hand, it was one of the few gigs the Mill Creek Boys have played in which we didn’t outright suck, and that’s enough for me!

The whole event was catered by Famous Dave’s BBQ, but after eating a few platters, I disagreed strongly with their claim that they’re the “best take-out and best barbecue joint”: it just wasn’t that good. The ribs were dry and simultaneously bland AND overflavored, if that makes any sense. the brisket was better, but unremarkable. The chicken was not barbecued, and shouldn’t have been described that way. As for the varieties of BBQ sauces available as condiments, none lived up to the description on the bottle. On the other hand, it’s hard to complain about free food, even if it WAS the BBQ equivalent of “Olive Garden”. At the very least, I now know not to waste my money at Famous Dave’s. Pass the pork…

Shymalan dropped by to say hello to our little band, and to introduce us to one of the actors, a cutie named Zooey Deschanel: yeah, I heart that too! She later sang a duet of Webb Pierce’s “Please help Me I’m Falling” with our friend Danny Stewart, who was sitting in on mandolin and tenor.

Good times with the auteur and the director: note the middle finger. I tried to get Shymalan to do the same, but he demurred.

The next day, I had a gig in Setauket Long Island to raise money for a Unitarian retreat known as Star Island. Good times: the band featured two memebrs of the Ida Reds, my old friend Dan Torday and Jeanna Steele; and needing a fourth member, we got Grizzly Izzy Zaidman to drive out and take some guitar anbd mandolin work.

We’re blurry but good-looking!

Good times: that is, until we stopped at Burger King on the way home. I will never eat there again. McDonalds may serve lame food, but it doesn’t have the horrific aftereffects of a meal with the King. I have had the shits now for nearly three days, beginning that evening at 2:00 AM. It’s horrible: what’s coming out of me defies description, making every fart cause for alarm. I’ve inadvertently crapped myself twice today passing gas, and now every time my stomach gurgles it’s off to the loo just for safety’s sake. Fuck you King. Your clever commercials made me forget how abusive that crap you call “food” is for my guts, and now I’m a shit machine. I hope the peasants guillotine your ass.

So yeah, that’s my weekend in a nutshell. The fight over my sister continues (albeit with less vitriol than last week), and with luck there will be a resolution of some kind or another.

Hopefully I’ll be more interesting in the week ahead. And hopefully Zooey Deschanel will come along and shower me with love and money.

AIC was good, but not as remarkable as I’d expected: perhaps because I have a background in the environmental movement, I’ve been well aware of the disasters Gore warns out about since the 1990s. We called that decade the “make it or break it” years, because scientists even then were warning that if we didn’t curb our emissions, global warming would be irreversible. And on that note, I think Gore is far too optimistic.

While I was impressed with the way he pointed out how small changes add up to big changes, and how the hole in the ozone layer was incorrectly deemed “impossible” to remedy by the same skeptics that question climate change. On the other hand, I have no faith in humanity to make the changes necessary until we lose Florida or lower Manhattan. Then people will do something. That something will be we’ll wring our hands and say things like “why didn’t we do anything sooner??” Bank on it.

The Caine Mutiny was awesome. Here in left blogistan, Dick Cheney is often compared to Captain Queeg, the paranoid captain of the Caine. That comparison is 100% accurate.