Beware False Idylls

I know, I know.  I never write, I never call.

Spent five hours gardening, Sunday (seriously, don’t ask), and it felt like the lower half of my body should be in traction.  Otherwise I totally would have been at Be Your Own Pet, Monday.  I’m, y’know, an independent herd-following motherfucker.

Saw the Al Gore documentary.  Because according to the trailer (which you can watch here):  “IF YOU LOVE YOUR PLANET... IF YOU LOVE YOUR CHILDREN... YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS FILM.”

Yeah, not so much. 

I do love the way they’re marketing this thing.  “BY FAR, THE MOST TERRIFYING FILM YOU WILL EVER SEE.”  “THIS SUMMER... NOTHING IS SCARIER... THAN THE TRUTH.”  With the big Ka-THUNK sound f/x.  Like they’re going to fool some toked-up teens into thinking it’s Hostel 2.  Why not just bite the burrito and throw a hundred mil behind Jerry Bruckheimer presents Global Warming:  THE MOVIE!”?

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” sneers ugly-American-industrialist-who-learns-the-world-is-bigger-than-him Brut Hairpiece (Nicholas Cage) to leggy, concerned eco-activist and lover-of-small-dark-orphans  Máríánné Góódhéárt (that month’s Frenchie starlet) as he wipes a bead of sweat from his chin.  They glance behind them, see an approaching fireball.  She says, sharply, before they bolt from the green screen, “It is you... and people like you.”

Whatever.  The Gore film (directed by trust-funder Davis Guggenheim, somehow able to pull himself out from under Elisabeth Shue long enough to slap this puppy together) is basically a filmed version of the political liability’s roadshow PowerPoint presentation.  The inventor of the Internet and the Lock Box shows us charts and graphs and photographs with circles and arrows, etc. for the better part of the flick, determined to prove to us that We Are Fucked.

Which would have made a better title, I think:  You Are Fucked (un film de Al Gore).  An Inconvenient Truth sounds too much like some movie involving kidnapped Latin American children, something Costa-Gavrasy.

The movie does (what with the circles and arrows and paragraphs on the back of each one) a good job proving the state of our collective fuckeditude.  But there are problems with the presentation.  It’s not that Gore’s dry (lock... box); it’s that his slideshow – and it is his, he’s been doing this for years all over the world – is Al Gore’s Slideshow, and thus politically alienating to those who need to be convinced.  If the movie simply stuck with facts and photos there’d still be neocon naysayers and ostrichheads who’d duck and cower no matter what (and they will (and should) demand footnotes and sources that aren’t onscreen... but will also ignore those when they back Gore up (like this consensus)).

The movie compounds its problems by offering asides into the 2000 election (if I ever see Revlon spokesturd Katherine Harris again, so help me God...) and politically pouncing all over Hurricane Katrina (New Orleans’ problems are too many to be mourned momentarily in a movie like this, and replaying still-Mayor Nagin’s radio interview as The Voice of Chocolate City will further alienate people who aren’t, y’know, crazy). 

It’s as if Gore & Guggenheim are so intent on preaching to the choir they’ve called a fire drill to drive everyone else from the church.  Ma and Pa America might have responded to the slide show – there’s convincing stuff, there – and even the condescending cartoons that’re sprinkled in... but no one wants to shell out $10.75 to see politicians politicizing.  Gore insists it’s not a political issue; the extraneous footage in the film almost ensures it is one.

And why are they making people pay to see this in hyperairconditioned theaters?  Nice to know Gore can stop jetsetting around with his rolling suitcase o’ hellfire, but if the issue is so pressing, there are far more direct ways to get the word out.  Yes, it will eventually find its way to DVD; for now, though, it’s a limited-release documentary showing on 122 screens in North America (Cars, for comparison’s sake, is on 3,985); I’d wager most of those are in urban, liberal areas (at least thirteen prints are running in NYC).  Sure, it’s tough to get this sort of thing on primetime network television... but what about Gore’s Internet?  YouTube the motherfucker.

That brings me to the film’s biggest problem:  The third act is missing.  Gore spends 98 of his 100 minutes methodically convincing us that, yes, Y.A.F.  Great.  I get it.  I have personally ruined everything.  But, hey, I don’t want any more polar bears drowning because there are no more ice floes for them to swim between.  What can I do?

“Use longer lasting light bulbs!”

No, seriously.  Fearing, perhaps, that any sense of resolution might inspire viewer complacency (Maybe they’re working on a sequel?  You Are Fucked... and How!?), Gore suddenly speaks optimistically at the end, talks about carbon-scooping or some such thing, and phffffft.  Fin.  They send you to a website and then intersperse the credits with the same common sense home ecology we’ve heard since forever (“Walk or bike whenever possible, lardass.”  “Take mass transit.”).  Man, I sat all the way through the credits for X-Men 3; fool me once...

The page they cite is www.climatecrisis.net, and for the entire first day I tried to go there it wouldn’t load.  Polar bears were drowning because Al Gore’s server sucks. It’s up, now, though (and the front page has a soundtrack you cannot turn off, which totally fries my goat) so go there and see what you can do while you wait for the thing to come out on DVD.  At the very least, amuse yourself with the concept of a “virtual march” and the futility of a petition demanding George W. Bush watch this movie.

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Speaking of charring billy:  Glancing randomly at the Village Voice’s restaurant reviews I saw two separate recommendations for goat dishes.  No offense, but goat isn’t exotic.  You use them to pull carts and to ward off bridge trolls.  If you’re eating goat, it’s because you have to eat goat.  It’s because you’ve crash-landed in the Andes and your soccer team’s mascot is more expendable than your holding midfielder.

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Fine folks at Friendly’s, you can’t fool me.  I know Party Cake.  I love Party Cake.  This...

...is not Party Cake.

Party Cake is this maddeningly addictive mélange of vanilla ice cream, obnoxiously-colored cake chunks and buttercream icing.  The reason it works is that there’s neutral ground – the vanilla, the not-very-sweet cake pieces – that lulls you into thinking you’re not consuming HUGE QUANTITIES OF SUGAR AND ARTIFICIAL COLORING.  Before you know it, the tub is empty and you’re freakin’ high.

But Friendly’s, you’ve got “yellow cake ice cream” (sweet), chocolate fudge swirl (sweet), and (good Lord) candy-covered chocolate chips (sweetsweet).  I got cankers just looking at the box.

Turkey Hill’s buying into the overkill, too.  Lookee here.   “Tastykake Chocolate Cupcake” Ice Cream, with milk chocolate ice cream, chocolate cupcake pieces, swirled chocolate icing.  At the very least, it’s redundant.

That’s right, people.  I’m reviewing ice cream flavors, now.

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Junk food?  Oh, good, it’s Hicks time.  You can watch his soul wither (or become “Taylorized”) before your very orbs!  How fast can he sell out?  How much you got?  “Tay-Tay” has already performed for Wal*Mart shareholders (video here) and is the official spokesmonkey for Ford’s end-of-year clearance.

The American Idol Tour is underway, for those of you who like to trade cash for crap.  They’re pulling two nights apiece at Continental Arena and Nassau Coliseum; they’re not playing NYC proper because Bucky Covington’s yet to develop a viable Talking Heads cover.  But give him time!  Ticket prices range from $69.50 to $35.50; Ticketmaster service charges are $11.35 PER TICKET.  Tomatoes are extra.

The teevee show was free, but nothing beats cringing at a performer, live!  (A related reminder:  Steven Seagal is playing BB King’s June 25th.)

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I saw this at BoingBoing a couple weeks ago, and it still haunts my dreams:

Yo Gabba Gabba! is a fun live-action program for young children ages 1 and up. Join our host DJ Lance Rock as he introduces us to friendly toy monsters in a magical land full of music, dance, colorful cartoons and simple life lessons that will get you and your children up off the floor to learn and dance along. Muno, the red cyclops, Foofa the pink flower bubble, Brobee the green little one, Toodee the blue cat-dragon, and Plex the robot are ready to sing, play and teach whenever you're ready. Just say the magic words! YO GABBA GABBA!!

Anyone drawn to work in the delightful world of Children’s Programming is, I’ve long been convinced, inherently fucked up.  Radio Raheem and his candy-colored cohorts are going to make future psychoanalysts a lot of money.  Just watch the show’s trailer:

Awesome.  I hope to be able to pronounce that, someday.

The YGG! folks may vid-check Pitfall in an effort to seem retro-cool, but the show doles out some real emotional quicksand.  Check out these behind-the-scenes photos from their site:

"See, Bobby?  That’s why you can’t play with plastic bags.  They killed all your TV Friends!"

“Oh what a feeling!”  In Furdance, arc-welder-by-day/exotic-dancer-by-night Alex dreams of one day taking her love of choreography beyond her current audience of anthropomorphic fetishists (“Put it on!” they plead, “Put it all on!”).

Left:  I have no idea what they’re going to green-screen in, but I’m thinking Oz, shower, dropped soap.

Right:  The Zygons, Doctor!  They’re pooping out people!

Must be what happens when the party in your tummy gets out of control.

Yo Gabba Gabba – Party in My Tummy (mp3)

“We wanna go to the party!  The party in your tummy!”

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Just to clarify, Yo Gabba Gabba! should not be confused with Voobaha, the home of Barnes & Barnes, composers of “Party in My Pants.”

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Nor does it have anything to with Gabba Gabba Hey!, the Ramones musical.  Billed as “Grease on Speed,” it looks a bit like a hyper mash of Rent and Movin’ Out.  As far as I can tell, it has yet to play the U.S.;  it was supposed to begin a run at the Zipper Theater this past May, but the theater’s currently got no plans for it.  Hopefully it’s stuck in customs.  Hooray, Homeland Security.

It does look better in German.  Or in no language at all:  During a recent round of auditions in the U.K., show producers put vocal-less backing tracks online for those potentials who needed to practice their punkaroake.  Now you, too, can be Riff Randell.  Or Rayanne Graff:

Ramones – I Wanna be Sedated (No Vocals) (mp3)

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A couple final odd ends.

I’m beginning to think the HappyNews.com photo-pullers are just bored.  This, undoctored:

Looks like a painful birth.  The timing couldn’t be more Cruisesque (though Black and Stormare look more convincingly passionate); with movie release dates set before production, now, are agents ordering their clients to bang their wives exactly nine months before opening weekend?

And it’s a good thing I’m almost finished reading Stardust.  I read the comic book version years ago and promptly forgot it; figured I should read Gaiman’s novel before the movie came out, and am glad I did.  The Prologue might be the best non­-Sandman stuff he’s written.  The rest is okay, charming, light.  But what should I read on the subway to avoid getting knifed?  C’mon, it’s summer.  I don’t want to have to lug around Norman Mailer for protection.

The new Douglas Coupland is hardcover, at least.

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Jesus, that’s enough for now.  Will try and catch up on music, later.

tags: neil gaiman  ramones  al gore  movie reviews  yo gabba gabba  inconvenient truth  stardust  party cake  american idol  gabba gabba hey  taylor hicks  

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