More Bhutto

A great post from Jezebel:

• Musharraf On Bhutto: "I May Be A Dictator, But She Was Like An African Dictator..."
  • For someone who wants to be military dictator for life and cried when he had to take off the uniform, that's a pretty pot-kettle kind of statement. Does that mean he's really just following in her footsteps?
  • I also recommend reading all of the links within the post.

Goodbye to Bhutto

This morning CNN.com greeted me with blaring headlines about the death of Benazir Bhutto and my jumbled thoughts were something to the effect of: "Holy shit! I know who she is. Oh, no. This is bad. This is very bad."

I'm not going to waste time giving my view of things. I am unqualified to do so and still a little too shaken up. Also shaken up by the fact that I know enough to be shaken up. Apathy is so much easier. I don't quite know when or how the ripples of this tidal wave are going to reach my doorstep, or if the effects will even be as severe as some predict, but I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge this troubled day.

Once Upon a December

I like to measure my life in Decembers. It's a hard month. It's cold in a way that the other winter months aren't. By February, the cold is purely physical, it's annoyance, it's scarves and coats held tight, a distaste with hot chocolate after months of imbibing warm drinks to counteract the low temperatures.

But December feels fresh. The outside cold is still sort of new and can invigorate. The hot chocolate tastes like happy memories. The chai tastes like family and friends and the sudden steaming up of your glasses when you walk into a warm coffee shop after walking for blocks in the cold.

But the December cold goes deeper than the temperature outside. The coldest part of December is the remembrance of another year gone by. It's facing all of the things you've fucked up, acknowledged that you've changed in a lot of ways that you shouldn't have, and haven't changed in a lot of ways that you should have. December is the month of introspection, self-reflection - internal combustion.

My best love stories begin in the chill of December - under blankets, beside ice covered cars, in front of fire places, inside of crowded movie theatres; memories of window sills and hookah bars and road trips and love letters and lame bars. My worst love stories begin in December.

So, here it is: December 2007. A year ago, writing out 2007 felt so amazing. The number seemed to teem with positive energy and hope and promises of fantasticness. It of course turned into just another year and this is yet another December, full of emotional tidal waves catalyzed by memories, twinges of regret, moments of fear...hope for the upcoming year...anxiety over what the remainder of this year has in store for me.

And there's nothing more to say. I have a case of the Decembers. It is neither good nor bad. I'm not depressed or overly excited. I am pensive. And by the time I get anywhere with my thoughts, draw any conclusions about my past or future, the new year arrives and I realize once again that there are no conclusions...

Sell Out of the Day: Gwen Stefani

I am not one who uses the term sell-out very liberally. I think anyone who believes that pursuing money for one's art makes that artist less devoted to his art is either independently wealthy or pretentiously misguided. While I do not believe in overly compromising ones art work and I never believe in compromising ones beliefs, I do believe that, as in relationships, one must often give a little and take a little in regards to making their art "presentable" to others. And besides...who isn't a sell out? What greater joy can there be than to make a living doing what one loves best? And who am I to judge if someone's style changes as they get older? I certainly don't dress the same way that I did when I was 16. I don't like to think that I've sold out my fashion taste...but I do believe that my style of dress has changed with my age and with the times.

This brings me to Gwen Stefani. When Rock Steady came out, I was one of the few of my friends who didn't hang her head in despair. I thought it was a fun record. I like dance music, so why isn't a band I like also allowed to like it and even *gasp* make it?! Even if it was not their usual style? (Don't you like to play dress up sometimes?) And even when Gwen's solo album came out, I just shrugged my shoulders. I didn't like it so much, but she was having fun. I just prayed that she didn't get caught up in the glamor and money that comes with going solo, killing No Doubt (just as Justin Timberlake killed 'N Sync and Beyonce killed Destiny's Child...hahahaha).

No, no. I lost all hope when flipping through November's Vanity Fair. The ad caught my eye before I even realized what it was for. Now, I would like to believe that the ad is supposed to be ironic, poking fun at the double-entendres, sex-sells copy prevalent in most advertisement. But...it just seems too sincere in its efforts to be playfully sexy. But it's not sexy!! It's just sad!!

Favorite Link(s) of the Day

From Jezebel:

• Where Are All the Black Models?
• Can Rapists Get You Off? Our Questions About How Serial Rapist Jeffrey Marsalis Got Away With It, Answered

From Vanity Fair:

• A Death in the Family
  Having volunteered for Iraq, Mark Daily was killed in January by an I.E.D. Dismayed to learn that his pro-war articles helped persuade Daily to enlist, the author measures his words against a family's grief and a young man's sacrifice.

From CNN:

• 60 grams of fat for breakfast!
• Are record labels dead?

Movie Review: 30 Days of Night

Director: David Slade
Screenwriter(a): Steve Niles, Stuart Beattie, Brian Nelson

I'm not much of a fan of gore porn and unfortunately, most of the "horror" films that have come out in the past decade have fallen into this rather unfortunate category. Blood, guts, and over-drawn scenes of torture have replaced tension, suspense, and subtlety in the quest to frighten and entertain movie goers.

I regret to inform you that the film, 30 Days of Night, based on Steve Niles' graphic novel of the same title, finds itself at times skimming into this realm of blood and guts. I am happy to inform you, however, that other elements of the film completely redeem it and make you forgive its graphic displays of violence.

The movie tells the story of a group of vampires who travel to Barrow, Alaska, the northernmost point in the United States. For one month out of each year, the sun does not rise in this part of the world. A perfect place to take a vacation if you're allergic to sunlight, no? Josh Hartnett and Michelle George star as the hero's of this tale, which also stars Ben Foster, Danny Huston, and Mark Boone, Jr.

A large part of the film's success is due to the superb acting. Josh Hartnett is rightfully notorious for being rather bland and devoid of personality on screen. But his mellow energy is perfect for this role, belying a sense of calm and reason, giving a necessary strength to this common police officer cum hero. Michelle George is exquisite. Despite her pretty face, one never doubtsfor a moment that she isa tough woman, used to, and capable of, surviving the bitter colds and lonelinesses of the northernmost reaches of Alaska. Ben Foster, who I've loved since his days on Flash Forward, is mostly annoying with his overly contrived and unconvincing "accent." His performance is solid, but disappointingly overshadowed by the manner in which he chooses to speak.

The true acting prizes belong to the movie's antagonists: the vampires who invade this dark town. Their bizarre make-up could be laughable in the wrong contexts. However, these vampires, at times taking their cues from the recent influx of mainstream zombie films like 28 Days Later, speak little, but say much. Their movements and mannerisms are often comical, silly, causing them to resemble the dark clowns that haunt many a child's nightmares. But don't get me wrong: these are not to be confused with the clowns of Killer Klowns From Outer Space. The actors (and actresses) manage to frighten merely by cocking their heads to the side and opening their fang-filled maws. The laughter rising past your lips is a nervous, frightened laughter.

All of the displays of extreme violence in the film seems to be done as a service to its target audience, its assumed fan base: readers of the 30 Days of Night comics, horror fans, cynical young people with no interest in the Anne Rice take on the vampire myths. However, that is not the film's only trick. It is also full of tension and suspense, as the few remaining humans hide and plot and plan in efforts to survive.

Unfortunately, the suspense was not created to its full potential. Without the day stamps that occasionally appear in the bottom of the screen and without monitoring Josh Hartnett's unsightly facial hair, it is often difficult to tell accurately guage the passage of time. This could be a good tool to show the mental turmoil of our protagonists, but the pacing just does not work. As in the American version of Insomnia, a movie also set in Alaska but during the time set when the sun does not set, 30 Days of Night doesn't quite make the best use of the phenomenon which has the ability to wreak havoc on a person's ability to tell time and tear apart the fabric of one's sanity. The film just feels poorly paced. There are often times, such as when Hartnett and George see their enemies for the first time, when the moment would have been much more poignant if it had been put off, extended, for just a little longer, if the filmmakers would have been comfortable giving the audience just a few more seconds of nothingness.

Overall, the movie is frightening and exciting and invigorating. The changes made from the graphic novel were all quite wise, creating a film that is even more intriguing than its source materials.