Mad Catz is Magic
I swear I didn't fall off the face of the planet, nor did I get a new job promoting gadgetry. There is a new toy in the house, and it's damn near the best $25 I ever spent.
The tale begins several nights ago, when, in a rare fit of mobility, I decided to hit the local mom and pop video store and grab some flicks I'd missed in the theater. First on the list was "V for Vendetta," which I'd put off because my desire to ogle Natalie in all her close-cropped hotness was tempered by my distrust of the Wachowskis following their mediocre sequels to "The Matrix." Second was "The Ice Harvest," because I like a nice dark comedy, and this one eluded me during the past Christmas season, when I was too cold and miserable to worry about a damn movie. My last selection, "Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic," is one of those jobbers that only played at theaters in remote areas of Chicago, and although I was pretty sure I'd love it, I don't get out to those hoity-toity arthouses like I used to.
So, I get these suckers home, only to discover that someone had apparently been so offended by Sarah's film, they decided to drag this rented copy of the DVD around their driveway for ten minutes so no one could ever watch it again. This thing was scratched to shit, and naturally skipped so badly that a mere cleaning couldn't help. If it had been a copy of "Balto III" or something, I might have understood, since children exist to ruin nice things. Kids treat their DVDs like they treat babysitters - they coat them with boogers and spit and remnants of PB&J. (Don't get me started on the myriad bacteria I could have expected if I'd rented porn.) But sometimes, I'll rent some movie you would expect a more mature viewer to favor, the kind of person who won't ruin their family's VCR by sticking pizza inside it. Yet, even these so-called adults manage to mutilate copies of grown-up movies. What kind of sicko would rent "In the Bedroom" and then fuck the disc up? Seriously, the average American has degenerated into such a filthy, selfish animal they can't even be trusted to take care of a little plastic circle that they're paying to borrow.
The solution came to me after I tried to rip the "Jesus Is Magic" disc to my computer in a last-ditch attempt at a workaround within my immediate means. Confounded not by copy protection but by human negligence, I then hit Google in search of home disc-fixing remedies. The suggestions I found, like rubbing olive oil or toothpaste into the scratches, sounded shady, so I looked for options among commercial CD/DVD repair kits instead. There seemed to be two: an overpriced variation of the toothpaste rub-on method involving chemicals and a fancy cloth, or a machine that shaves off a microscopic layer of plastic so the disc surface evens out. Further searching revealed that GameStop sells a reputable device of the latter variety. I was kind of scared to try it on a rented disc, lest I be responsible for a new copy if something went wrong. Then I remembered how my brand new director's cut disc of "The Frighteners" had been somehow scratched between its trip from the factory to my home, and how pissed I was when I discovered this mid-viewing, months too late to exchange it. With this as my intended test subject, I located a GameStop in my mall-littered environs and purchased Mad Catz's disc repair kit.
My first surprise? "The Frighteners" played without problem when, not seeing any major scratches upon inspection, I stuck it in my DVD player to determine which of the disc's sides needed fixing. Had I imagined that it was messed up? I distinctly remeber popping it in and out a couple of times and having the same problem. Well, I ultimately decided to try repairing my copy of Arcturus' The Sham Mirrors, a big favorite of mine from a couple of years ago that somehow got scratched in a horribly concentric fashion some time ago. I figured the disc was already nearly unlistenable, and I could just download the damn thing if I ruined mine.
To work the repair machine (it looks like a CD Discman), you open the top, put a drop or two of solution on one of the little circular pads inside, position your disc on a spindle, close the hatch and press start. The disc slowly rotates while the pads rub against the surface, one wet and one dry. When it gets to a problem area, a horrible grinding sound emerges which will terrify you no matter how many times you've heard it. After several passes, it shuts off. You take out the disc, wipe it off with the static-free tool provided, and suddenly, you can listen to songs your player hasn't been able to read in years.
"Jesus Is Magic" took a little more effort; after several passes with the regular method, I resorted to the "buffer" pads, tougher inserts reserved for more severe jobs which come in a darling shade of pink. Now, not only can I watch that damn movie, I have also listened to The Sham Mirrors, Faith No More's The Real Thing and Pink Floyd's Meddle in their entirety for the first time in forever. This product is recommended for those who own many discs, audio or video - even if you're careful, the law of averages says something good will eventually be damaged.
What else is new? Let's see, Jon Nödtveidt of Dissection fame killed himself last week. This, after making one of the greatest records in metal history, going to jail for seven years for being party to a hate killing, pumping up and shaving his head, announcing the return of the band upon his release, putting out one of the most disappointing comeback albums in metal history, having to cancel Dissection's scheduled U.S. shows because they wouldn't let him into the country and finally declaring that the band was breaking up for good. They found him dead of a shotgun wound the other day, accompanied by candles, a will and a copy of the Satanic Bible. It's really a sad story. Right after hearing about it via a MySpace bulletin from - of all sources - fellow fans Agalloch, I tossed my feelings here (to find 'em amid the stupidity, search for my screen name, which is also SoulReaper at Blabbermouth). As I have noted before, Nödtveidt creates a huge moral quandary for me, and his death has done the same. Dissection's one and only Chicago-area gig - March 10, 1996, at the late, great Thirsty Whale - remains the concert I most regret missing during my life. The fact that there will now decisively never be another one seems worse than the fact that the show was also the last time Morbid Angel came though with both David Vincent and Erik Rutan in the band, as well as the only time At the Gates ever performed around here (at least I have bootlegs of AtG's Whale set and of all three bands from a few nights later in Texas). Nödtveidt created one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard, one I like so much I took its title as my blogging pseudonym, but his new record was really weak. The guy was obviously messed up (his crew is predictably trying to spin the suicide as part of his Grand Anti-Cosmic Plan), but he did plenty of dumb/detestable things of his own free will, not the least of which joining the MLO and writing a bland record about it or spouting mystical jargon in interviews like Trey Azagthoth after a Tony Robbins seminar. If Bård Eithun or Kristian Vikernes offed themselves tomorrow, I wouldn't have a problem saying, "good riddance." Jon Nödtveidt was an immensely talented metal musician and songwriter back in the day, and although it was lame, he at least attempted to make something new in the genre rather than ride coattails as a stunt-casted guest or turn his back on it completely, as have the aforementioned losers. I never interviewed or met him personally, but as an onlooker from another continent, the last section of the guy's life seems like a terrible waste to me. It's a damn shame.
Finally, the motherfuckin' snakes are on the motherfuckin' plane. At least until they seal them off with a bunch of luggage and forget about them for big chunks of the movie. My thoughts are here. Hopefully, my birthday movie will be more rewarding. Toodles.
The tale begins several nights ago, when, in a rare fit of mobility, I decided to hit the local mom and pop video store and grab some flicks I'd missed in the theater. First on the list was "V for Vendetta," which I'd put off because my desire to ogle Natalie in all her close-cropped hotness was tempered by my distrust of the Wachowskis following their mediocre sequels to "The Matrix." Second was "The Ice Harvest," because I like a nice dark comedy, and this one eluded me during the past Christmas season, when I was too cold and miserable to worry about a damn movie. My last selection, "Sarah Silverman: Jesus Is Magic," is one of those jobbers that only played at theaters in remote areas of Chicago, and although I was pretty sure I'd love it, I don't get out to those hoity-toity arthouses like I used to.
So, I get these suckers home, only to discover that someone had apparently been so offended by Sarah's film, they decided to drag this rented copy of the DVD around their driveway for ten minutes so no one could ever watch it again. This thing was scratched to shit, and naturally skipped so badly that a mere cleaning couldn't help. If it had been a copy of "Balto III" or something, I might have understood, since children exist to ruin nice things. Kids treat their DVDs like they treat babysitters - they coat them with boogers and spit and remnants of PB&J. (Don't get me started on the myriad bacteria I could have expected if I'd rented porn.) But sometimes, I'll rent some movie you would expect a more mature viewer to favor, the kind of person who won't ruin their family's VCR by sticking pizza inside it. Yet, even these so-called adults manage to mutilate copies of grown-up movies. What kind of sicko would rent "In the Bedroom" and then fuck the disc up? Seriously, the average American has degenerated into such a filthy, selfish animal they can't even be trusted to take care of a little plastic circle that they're paying to borrow.
The solution came to me after I tried to rip the "Jesus Is Magic" disc to my computer in a last-ditch attempt at a workaround within my immediate means. Confounded not by copy protection but by human negligence, I then hit Google in search of home disc-fixing remedies. The suggestions I found, like rubbing olive oil or toothpaste into the scratches, sounded shady, so I looked for options among commercial CD/DVD repair kits instead. There seemed to be two: an overpriced variation of the toothpaste rub-on method involving chemicals and a fancy cloth, or a machine that shaves off a microscopic layer of plastic so the disc surface evens out. Further searching revealed that GameStop sells a reputable device of the latter variety. I was kind of scared to try it on a rented disc, lest I be responsible for a new copy if something went wrong. Then I remembered how my brand new director's cut disc of "The Frighteners" had been somehow scratched between its trip from the factory to my home, and how pissed I was when I discovered this mid-viewing, months too late to exchange it. With this as my intended test subject, I located a GameStop in my mall-littered environs and purchased Mad Catz's disc repair kit.
My first surprise? "The Frighteners" played without problem when, not seeing any major scratches upon inspection, I stuck it in my DVD player to determine which of the disc's sides needed fixing. Had I imagined that it was messed up? I distinctly remeber popping it in and out a couple of times and having the same problem. Well, I ultimately decided to try repairing my copy of Arcturus' The Sham Mirrors, a big favorite of mine from a couple of years ago that somehow got scratched in a horribly concentric fashion some time ago. I figured the disc was already nearly unlistenable, and I could just download the damn thing if I ruined mine.
To work the repair machine (it looks like a CD Discman), you open the top, put a drop or two of solution on one of the little circular pads inside, position your disc on a spindle, close the hatch and press start. The disc slowly rotates while the pads rub against the surface, one wet and one dry. When it gets to a problem area, a horrible grinding sound emerges which will terrify you no matter how many times you've heard it. After several passes, it shuts off. You take out the disc, wipe it off with the static-free tool provided, and suddenly, you can listen to songs your player hasn't been able to read in years.
"Jesus Is Magic" took a little more effort; after several passes with the regular method, I resorted to the "buffer" pads, tougher inserts reserved for more severe jobs which come in a darling shade of pink. Now, not only can I watch that damn movie, I have also listened to The Sham Mirrors, Faith No More's The Real Thing and Pink Floyd's Meddle in their entirety for the first time in forever. This product is recommended for those who own many discs, audio or video - even if you're careful, the law of averages says something good will eventually be damaged.
What else is new? Let's see, Jon Nödtveidt of Dissection fame killed himself last week. This, after making one of the greatest records in metal history, going to jail for seven years for being party to a hate killing, pumping up and shaving his head, announcing the return of the band upon his release, putting out one of the most disappointing comeback albums in metal history, having to cancel Dissection's scheduled U.S. shows because they wouldn't let him into the country and finally declaring that the band was breaking up for good. They found him dead of a shotgun wound the other day, accompanied by candles, a will and a copy of the Satanic Bible. It's really a sad story. Right after hearing about it via a MySpace bulletin from - of all sources - fellow fans Agalloch, I tossed my feelings here (to find 'em amid the stupidity, search for my screen name, which is also SoulReaper at Blabbermouth). As I have noted before, Nödtveidt creates a huge moral quandary for me, and his death has done the same. Dissection's one and only Chicago-area gig - March 10, 1996, at the late, great Thirsty Whale - remains the concert I most regret missing during my life. The fact that there will now decisively never be another one seems worse than the fact that the show was also the last time Morbid Angel came though with both David Vincent and Erik Rutan in the band, as well as the only time At the Gates ever performed around here (at least I have bootlegs of AtG's Whale set and of all three bands from a few nights later in Texas). Nödtveidt created one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard, one I like so much I took its title as my blogging pseudonym, but his new record was really weak. The guy was obviously messed up (his crew is predictably trying to spin the suicide as part of his Grand Anti-Cosmic Plan), but he did plenty of dumb/detestable things of his own free will, not the least of which joining the MLO and writing a bland record about it or spouting mystical jargon in interviews like Trey Azagthoth after a Tony Robbins seminar. If Bård Eithun or Kristian Vikernes offed themselves tomorrow, I wouldn't have a problem saying, "good riddance." Jon Nödtveidt was an immensely talented metal musician and songwriter back in the day, and although it was lame, he at least attempted to make something new in the genre rather than ride coattails as a stunt-casted guest or turn his back on it completely, as have the aforementioned losers. I never interviewed or met him personally, but as an onlooker from another continent, the last section of the guy's life seems like a terrible waste to me. It's a damn shame.
Finally, the motherfuckin' snakes are on the motherfuckin' plane. At least until they seal them off with a bunch of luggage and forget about them for big chunks of the movie. My thoughts are here. Hopefully, my birthday movie will be more rewarding. Toodles.
posted by SoulReaper at 12:47 AM
4 Comments:
After biting start, these "Snakes" are too plain
We were in need of a good killer snake movie. What was the last decent one, "Sssssss"? In 1973? Even if "Snakes on a Plane" doesn't live up to its, um, potential, it never takes itself so seriously as to become distasteful. At worst, it's incredibly dumb, but a good-natured kind of dumb - just the attitude this movie needed.
For what it's worth, you can thank the Internet for "Snakes on a Plane." After all, that's where the movie's legend was born.
For more than a decade, the action saga of an airborne FBI agent forced to contend with a nest of deadly snakes languished as an unproduced screenplay by a University of Pennsylvania administrator named David Dallesandro. Then, last year, screenwriter Josh Friedman posted an entry on his blog about being asked to doctor the script. Friedman detailed why he loved the title/concept (for its silly simplicity), and announced that he was substituting it for "C'est la vie" or "Shit happens" during everyday conversation.
The web quickly exploded with fan sites, speculative trailers, tribute songs, video parodies, fake posters, t-shirts and other homemade wonders, all featuring snakes and planes and star Samuel L. Jackson hollering obscenities about them. The cruder folks made their artwork, the funnier: all the better to highlight the concept's astounding lack of complexity.
As a result, the movie ultimately debuts in theaters, not on some basic cable channel like all those other killer animal flicks - or dumped on DVD, as was the recent knockoff "Snakes on a Train." "Plane" was completed last year, but additional footage was shot in March, including a profanity-laced line for Jackson's character inspired by the Photoshopped fan pictures.
At this point, "Snakes on a Plane" isn't so much a movie title as an instant punchline, one that gets more hilarious the more you contemplate and elaborate. With such a huge fanbase tickled by the ludicrous images its name conjures, there was no need for director David R. Ellis (Final Destination 2, Cellular) or his cast to play it straight.
Thus, we get jackhammer exposition and broad acting all around. In quick succession, surfing enthusiast Sean (Nathan Phillips of "Wolf Creek") stumbles upon a mob killing while out motorcycling - and probably auditioning for a Mountain Dew commercial while he's at it. Sean is saved from assassins by federal agent Neville Flynn (Jackson) and agrees to fly from Hawaii to L.A. so he can testify.
So, there's the plane, but what about the snakes? Well, the mob guys somehow sneak a humongous assortment of poisonous snakes from around the globe into the planes cargo area. They're concealed inside a shipment of flowers, and are set free by a timer. Once loose, the normally docile creatures react to the pheromones the baddies have sprayed on the passengers' complimentary Hawaiian leis, and... you know.
The plane is naturally stocked with jokey snake fodder, from a haughty megastar rapper with germ phobia (Flex Alexander) to a comically leering captain (David Koechner) who sexually harasses the flight attendants. Everybody's game for hamming up their one-dimensional roles, so the time spent introducing the plane's population is fun and breezy.
Then, a couple sneaks into the bathroom to smoke a joint and have sex. Like a reptilian Jason Voorhees, a snake appears from the ceiling and offs the libertines, biting the lady in a particularly sensitive area. (To even the indignity, a guy later uses the same bathroom and gets an unfortunate chomp in a bad place himself.)
Anyone who's been looking forward to this movie will love the first snake attack, a gleefully chaotic succession of hissing, cartoonish critters popping out of emergency oxygen masks and air sickness bags. We see the snakes' points of view in cheesy green-tinted "snake vision shots." Passengers fight back with laptops and kickboxing skills. Jackson uses a taser. The gruesome fun is capped when a flight attendant sticks a snake in the microwave, where it pops in homage to "Gremlins."
For the movie to even begin to live up to its image, Ellis would have needed to go for broke at every opportunity. Sadly, once the first attack has passed, "Snakes" begins to feel more like a normal action/monster movie. As a hybrid of "Speed" and "Aliens," it goes through all the standard moves, with characters freaking out when the snake-fighting lulls or dying in mawkish mockeries of poignancy.
A lot of questions go unanswered, like just how the head bad guy got this big box of snakes past security. In light of recent air travel restrictions, this seems like a worse blunder than rerouting a plane because some old lady who carried on some hand cream had a panic attack.
Do the Feds even catch the snake-planting mob boss in the end? Forces are supposedly deployed, but we never see what they do.
Oh, yeah, you just wanted to hear Samuel L. Jackson bellow, "I've had it with these motherfuckin' snakes on this motherfuckin' plane!" You will.
I'm sorry you went through all that trouble to watch the poorly-directed "Jesus is Magic." How Liam Lynch managed to render Sarah Silverman unfunny is beyond me, but subsequently I have to un-anticipate "Pick of Destiny."
I saw a trailer for "Pick of Destiny" before "Snakes." It looks pretty cheap - like an "Ernest" movie cheap.
I still haven't watched "Jesus" yet... I hear the musical numbers and sketches are lame but the stand-up parts are fine, which is easily imagined.
For some reason, picturing your face upon hearing the "horrible grinding sound" for the first time has struck me as so unbelievably amusing.
This isn't to say that I find your misery and pain amusing, but it seemed like a great sit-com moment: "Oh, man! How am I gonna tell Teddy that I ruined his favorite Nelly CD?"
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