I'm the blues in your left thigh... trying to become the funk in your right

I was curled up in bed the other night watching the latest episode of VH1’s Single Ladies when Stacey Dash’s character, Val, made reference to a film called Love Jones, touting it as the obviously superior choice of movie entertainment over Blades of Glory for her night in with her man. A quick curiosity-fuelled search on Google led me to a slew of positive reviews for the 1997 film, including one that called it a “cult classic” for African Americans. Between that grandiose statement and Roger Ebert’s review calling the film “smarter” than your average romantic flick, is it a wonder that I sat down to watch Love Jones already cynical? Something so hyped was sure to disappoint, no?

Au contraire, Love Jones is indeed all that and quite frankly, more. Why? Well, there are many reasons, but like with any successful film built on the premise of a romantic relationship, the bulk of the credit has to go to the film's two leads (after all, a good script can only go so far).  In this case, actors Larenz Tate and Nia Long manage to bring this particular love story to life with an authenticity rarely seen onscreen. Tate plays Darius Lovehall, a smooth-talking, poetry-spouting, jazz-listening type of dude who says things like “When people that have been together for a long time say the romance is gone, what they're really saying is that they've exhausted the possibility,” all while fixing you with a deep stare and taking a seductive drag off his cigarette. Long, on the other hand, plays Nina Mosley, an aspiring photographer who’s just gotten out of a long-term relationship with Darnell from Girlfriends (a.k.a. Khalil Kain) and is in the process of moving out of their previously shared apartment.

When these two creative minds meet one night at a poetry slam, Darius steps up to the mic and, by all accounts, lays his swag on thick as he recites a poem "he'd like to call... 'A Blues For Nina'" to Long's character across the smoke-filled room. Therein lies the title of this post. Video below.



Unfortunately, Darius' little stunt fails to impress Nina in the way he'd hoped. It's all that overt "sex talk" that's got her rolling her eyes. Sex is great and all, she says, but... what about love? And that's the underlying question throughout Love Jones as Darius and Nina illustrate for us (against a backdrop of smooth jazz stylings) how two twenty-somethings navigate their way from just “kickin’ it” to being “the one” the other’s been searching for. Theirs is a love story so artistically and emotionally rich, you’ll find yourself appreciating the nuanced performances given by Tate and Long more and more with each viewing.

All necessary evidence lies in Nina and Darius' first date.  Video below.  See the awkward distance they keep as they walk together down the street? The goofy smiles and childlike flirtation that bounce between them as they discuss Sanchez and Mozart? How about the total cuteness that ensues when the two get their "bump and grind" on at the Wild Hare?  The chemistry absolutely radiates off these two -- so much so that Nina's decision to "go out like that on the first date" seems reasonable if not inevitable considering the circumstance (i.e. him being Darius Lovehall/Larenz Tate and all).  Get it, girl.

Titanic, what? The Notebook, who?

What Can You Say About a Legend?

A more appropriate question has perhaps never been asked about Elizabeth Taylor.  

Eight marriages, violet eyes, and "White Diamonds" aside, the woman was a humanitarian, mother, and film icon in the way they don't make film icons anymore.  It goes without saying that the world is a sadder and (might I add) less glamorous place without her. 

While I attempt to formulate something in the way of a passable literary tribute to Ms. Taylor in time for TCM's 24-hour marathon of her films on Sunday April 10th (beginning at 6 am ET/PT), here's what Paul Newman (who is also missed) had to say when he was asked to speak about his dear friend, Elizabeth, for the channel a few years back:

Rest in peace, Dame Elizabeth.  You were one hell of a woman. 

There are some things I can't deal with...

And this is one of them. 

It's like, can we not? Way to ruin one of my favorite songs from the late 90s, Glee. Were there no Kings of Leon songs lying around for you to massacre instead? Oh wait...

Apparently, this is the kind of shit that wins Golden Globes.  Darren Criss and his excessive mugging need to GTFO. Who would've thought A Very Potter Musical would still be the most respectable credit on his resume? 

Our Whole Universe Was In a Hot Dense State...

Warning:  The following blog contains perhaps one too many potentially awkward metaphors.  Reader discretion is advised.

I grew up on television.  As a proverbial child of the 90s, television was many things to me before the internet intruded upon our relationship and shamelessly swept me off my feet: babysitter, surrogate parent, forbidden lover, and above all, friend.  I was a “couch potato” -- as most modern children with parental-induced agoraphobia are -- and unapologetically so.  For a long time, Saturday morning cartoons and family sitcoms were my shit.

Then things changed, as they are annoyingly prone to do.  ABC cancelled One Saturday Morning, family sitcoms became obsolete, and... I grew up.  The Dark Ages of American television had begun with “reality programming” at the sinking ship’s stern and— okay, I’ll stop with the dramatics and put it like this: things sucked until Chuck Lorre gave us The Big Bang Theory.   

TBBT is, quite simply, my crack.  Been onboard since the pilot, own all three seasons on DVD, would name my goldfish Sheldon Cooper if I had a goldfish, etcetera, etcetera.  Lorre (creator, writer, and producer) managed to do what so many in Hollywood couldn’t – he brought the sitcom into the new millennium, making it fresh, watchable, and most importantly, funny (can’t say I’m entirely surprised; he did, after all, do major work on Roseanne, the Holy Grail of sitcoms). 

My love for this show runs so deep that I feel obligated to be completely honest in my critique of its latest season: up until this week’s episode, I was worried.  Worried because the characters weren’t exhibiting any signs of growth; worried because Sheldon appeared to have become a caricature of himself; worried because the jokes were stale; worried because I wasn’t laughing.

Season Four is about one season too early for any show to jump the shark, and yet the signs, which I outlined above, are already there (it won’t happen officially until the writers go COMPLETELY assbackwards and give Sheldon a steady girlfriend).  I just pray that this week’s episode, where the gang hilariously embarked on a weekend getaway to a science conference, marks a turn for the better.  Interestingly, it appears the comedic stylings of Melissa Rauch (Bernadette Rostenkowski) and Mayim Bialik (Amy Farrah Fowler/Blossom) will be TBBT’s saving grace until the writers figure out to do with everyone else.  

But just like with a marriage, I'm in this thing for the long haul.  For better or for worse. In sickness and in health.  And that's no bazinga.   

Oh, and here's a little sumthin' sumthin' for the other sitcom lovers out there.  

When Sampling Goes Right

Theophilus London knows what's up.

This is how you sample a song, make it your own, and still pay homage to the original artist.

While I'm still getting acquainted with his music, the best way I can describe what I've heard of this guy's flow is this: Listening to a Theophilus London tracks is like seeing colours.  Lots of them.  Hey Wonderful samples Stevie Wonder's 1984 hit Love Light in Flight. Isn't he the cutest dancer?  Video below. 

Is He Trolling Us?

This is what happens when an actor takes himself too seriously. 

I’m referring to Zac Efron’s acceptance speech at last week’s People’s Choice Awards.  Whoever decides these things chose to name Efron this year’s Favourite Movie Star Under 25.  Ignore the fact that nobody watches the People’s Choice Awards.  And ignore the fact that Efron was named anyone’s (let alone “the people’s”) favourite anything under 25.  These are discussions for another day.  We’re here to talk about his voice.  Video below.  

Get a load of that drawl.  For those of you who’ve never heard Efron speak before, no, he doesn’t normally sound like that.  Dude was born and raised in California, not Louisiana, where, indecently, he spent the last few months filming Hollywood's latest movie to be based off of a Nicolas Sparks novel, The Lucky One.   His character’s from the South so the only logical explanation I can find for this fuckery is that Efron’s gone Method.  For a Nicolas Sparks movie of all things.  SMH.

And what the hell kind of speech was that?  Remember where you are, Zac.  Or is that asking too much since, evidently, you can’t even remember where you’re from?

I hope he's just trolling.

That Time of Year

To quote a sassy gay classmate of mine: “It’s officially my favourite time of year: Oscar season.” Preach it, brother. Preach.

The lead-up to the 83^rd Annual Academy Awards informally began -- as always -- with the Golden Globe nominations, announced by Katie Holmes and Josh Duhamel (of all people) last month.  As everybody knows by now, films that score big at the Globes typically go on to be nominated at the Oscars a month later, rendering the show somewhat of a dress rehearsal, if you will, for the Big Night.  Consequently, the Globes are a less stuffy affair than the Oscars, what with the celebs openly “eating” dinner and poppin’ champagne throughout the night’s proceedings and all.  If you couldn’t already guess, free bottle service + an open mike + a room full of celebs = good times for all (but more so for those of us watching at home since we won’t have to relive our own public humiliation via YouTube for the rest of our lives).  Who can forget Ricky Gervais’ perfectly executed roast-worthy jab at Mel Gibson at last year’s ceremony? Or Brendan Fraser’s herp derp “clap”?  I won’t anytime soon.

But beyond the drunken shenanigans and designer gowns, the Globes and subsequent Oscars are, of course, nights to celebrate the institution of film.  This is why for the past two years, I’ve actively set out to join in on the fun by watching as many of the nominated films as I can – if only to have something/someone to cheer for when the envelope’s read.  It’s more exciting that way...having your own "horse in the race" so to speak.  For instance, I was happy as hell when Sean Penn won Best Actor for Milk in ’08, and annoyed as fuck when Slumdog Millionaire won Best Everything Else -- I honestly didn’t/don’t think it was/is that great.  Sue Me.

Of the films nominated for Globes this year, I’ve only watched 4.5 of them so far (127 Hours bored me, ok?).  I hope to make it 5.5 when Blue Valentine FINALLY comes out this weekend, but ‘til then, here are my thoughts on the others:

The Social Network (Best Motion Picture, Drama; Best Director; Best Actor; Best Supporting Actor; Best Screenplay; Best Original Score):  Everyone and their mother seemed to love TSN and I. JUST. DON’T. GET. IT.  Don’t misunderstand me – the movie was good, yes, but...Oscar good?  Fuuuck no. To me, it was no better or worse than your average...let’s say...Wall Street 2.  That movie obviously didn’t get nominated – so why the hell should this?  Movies honoured at this level usually possess some sort of emotional complexity to them that permeates the screen and awakens within the viewer a newfound sense of self and/or mankind.  TSN is a flick about a post-secondary bromance gone wrong set against a back-drop of Harvard dorm rooms and frat parties.  Its premise may be culturally relevant but emotionally, it’s hollow. I won’t even comment on Justin “I act now” Timberlake.

I will, however, applaud director David Fincher for that cinematically flawless regatta sequence.  It's not enough to get me to back his nom for Best Director, but I give him extra props on the song choice.

Inception (Best Motion Picture, Drama; Best Director; Best Screenplay; Best Original Score):  Now here’s a set of nominations I can get with.  Inception was the proverbial needle in the haystack of lackluster films released last summer.  It's #2 on my list of best films of the year. What can I say about it that hasn't already been said?  The actors, effects, concept -- all impeccable.  And that score.  If Zimmer doesn't win...if (God forbid) it goes to TSN...I don't know what I'll do.  That soundtrack got me through last semester's finals.  I'll leave it at that.

Toy Story 3 (Best Animated Feature Film): It has to win, it just has to. TS3 is my #1 film of 2010 and if you're thinking that seems like a weird thing for a person over the age of 8 to say, you're either biased, stupid, or the Prince of Darkness himself.  Once again, Pixar shits all over the competition with what is possibly the best film in the (already flawless) Toy Story franchise.  The film literally has no faults.  Beyond its immaculate animation is a timeless story that speaks so clearly to the child in all of us, grown men leave the theater weeping.*  Just ask Adam Levine.  An emotional roller-coaster, TS3 deserves every accolade it receives and then some.  If it doesn't get nominated for Best Picture at the end of the month, the Academy will officially be dead to me.  Dead, I tell you.

*Side note: You know something's amiss when a film about a group of toys displays more emotional depth and is truer to the human condition than a movie about actual people (Re: The Social Network).

Black Swan (Best Motion Picture, Drama; Best Director; Best Actress; Best Supporting Actress): Regardless of what I say about this one, it will win BIG at both ceremonies this year.  Trust me. It's pure, unadulterated, Oscar bait -- maybe even to a fault.  My personal sentiment is this: Black Swan is creepy as hell.  At times, it's hard to watch.  The copious amounts of self harm and dark imagery coupled with the film's hair-raising score results in a sensory overload that makes it impossible for the viewer to RELAX.  You'll be thinking about it weeks afterward.  Natalie's performance was good -- though slightly one-dimensional -- and Mila's effortless in her role as the main character's eventual nemesis.  Black Swan's not my personal pick this season, but I'll credit Aronofsky with creating a memorable film.  

It's the Deadpan

Bill Murray is a funny guy. 

I discovered this the other night when I finally decided to park my ass down in front of my computer and watch Ghostbusters. Yes, I know; I’m fucking late to the party. Y'all have packed up the Doritos, wiped down the tables and placed the empty beer bottles on the curb for pickup. I'm thoroughly embarrassed. What can I say? Better late than never? 

To be fair though, one could argue my "invitation" kinda/sorta got "lost in the mail", so to speak. Ghostbusters hit theaters in the summer of 1984, six whole years before my immaculate birth, so by the time I was able to string together a coherent thought and legitimately comprehend a film of Ghostbusters' scope, my cinematic interests lay elsewhere (Clueless, anyone?).

That's not to say, of course, that my awareness of the world only spans the time elapsed from my birth 'til now. Definitely not. In fact (not to get too off topic here, but...) I absolutely loathe ignorance and will promptly side-eye anyone my age or younger who says, "Well... that happened like, fifty years ago. Why should I care?" No bitch, read a book. I don't excuse people like that (so don't excuse me) but if for some legitimate reason a person missed the boat on something (and is willing to be filled in), I can sympathize, and certainly understand.

But back to Murray.  It's all about the deadpan.  That, and the eyeroll -- always done at the most appropriate moment and to the most appropriate degree.  A born comedian, he's incredibly witty -- any of his interviews on Letterman will tell you that.  He'll call you out on your shit too, both on screen and off.  This man doesn't have an agent, is allegedly only reachable via a 1-800 number, and will walk around West Hollywood and New York unshaven and in a ratty old t-shirt without a second thought.  Why?  It's almost passe to say this but well...because he's Bill Fucking Murray, that's why.  He just can.  We've all heard the stories: Bill will show up at some frat party in Wisconsin and start washing dishes, or crash a band session in some dude's basement and start playing tambourine.  The man simply doesn't give a shit -- and we love him for it, praise him for it, and frankly, envy his ability to get away with it. 

No sooner did I finish Ghostbusters did I locate Groundhog Day, another film probably best watched at this stage in my life if only for it to receive my full appreciation.  Another hilarious film, brilliant in its subtlety, it left me wondering why movies aren't made that way anymore and why so-called "comedians" like Vince Vaughn are able to make so much bank at the box office these days. The next night I squeezed in a viewing of Lost in Translation -- another Murray vehicle I had somehow slept on -- and at one point he said something that completely shook my world and gave me one of those "aha!" moments Oprah's always talking about:

"The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you."

Epic. This is the kind of stuff they don't teach you in school but should. 

Viva la Murray!

The Chosen One

Okay. Here I go.

So I nearly fell out of my chair when I heard the news about Victoria Beckham being pregnant with Baby #4 (a.k.a. “Heir to Posh Spice’s Wardrobe” or “The Chosen One” given -- of course  -- that Baby #4’s a bambina and not another bambino).  So excited was I that I immediately ran down the hall to my cousin’s room and proudly informed her -- to her disdain -- that  I was going to be an aunt (in much the same way that I’m Willow Smith’s older sister and no, you can’t tell me I’m not). 

You see, assuming Baby #4 comes correct (i.e. with two X chromosomes), she will essentially be my Shiloh Jolie Pitt: the baby of all babies with the birth of all births.  I’ve secretly been anticipating this announcement since ’04 when Posh and Becks first landed on my Canadian radar (three years before they landed on the rest of North America’s, mind you).  It’s no secret the Beckhams have been coveting a baby girl for Victoria to pass her Birkins down to, and at 36, this might be her last chance. Questions about whether they invested in gender selection methods to ensure they get a girl this time are already being asked but let’s be honest...if you were them --already blessed with three healthy boys and had the financial means and resources necessary-- wouldn’t you?  Well, you might not admit it but I would.

Again, assuming this kid knows what’s good for it and arrives with the proper reproductive organs, she’ll likely be SPOILED in ways even Suri Cruise and her Burberry nappies couldn’t imagine.  I can already picture David bent over The Chosen One’s custom designed Marc Jacobs bassinet, coochicoo-ing away while placing a diamond encrusted rattle in her tiny hand -- not unlike Rhett Butler in that scene from Gone With the Wind when Bonnie Blue is born and Rhett won’t shut up about how he’s going to buy her a pony or something.  Yeah, like that.  But even more lavish.

And then there’s the thing about the name.  When you’re part of the Beckham clan, an ordinary name is simply out of the question.  Years ago when Victoria was pregnant with Romeo but reported (by the British tabloids) to be having a baby girl, it began to circulate that the Beckhams highly favoured the name “Paris” for their unborn daughter (apparently they loved the city and felt the name would complement the one they’d already given their first child, Brooklyn).  True or untrue, a lot of time has passed since then and as we all know, the name “Paris” has been tainted to the point where it likely won’t be reusable for another fifteen years.  So what’s left?  I say go North and name the kid London – it’s patriotic, fierce and (dare I say it?) "posh" enough.

Five bucks says her first word’s “Gucci”.