Monthly Archive for May, 2009

Review: “Drag Me To Hell”

Rating: 92%

Ahem.

Attention Mom/Dad/Caroline/Corelyn: you are strictly forbidden to see “Drag Me To Hell.” Under no circumstances may you partake of this film.

Attention Holly: get to a theater!

I’ll come right out and say it: “Drag Me To Hell” is the best horror film I’ve seen since “The Descent.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed, screamed (I’m not kidding, I was hollering) and almost vomited in such rapid succession. Director Sam Raimi has said that his goal with this movie was to make a carnival funhouse ride come to life, and he absolutely nailed it, God bless him. After decades of self-serious torture porn passing itself off as “horror,” I can’t tell you how good it feels to have an old salt back at the helm, doing what he still does best. It restores my faith in the genre.

Where do I even begin, Dear Reader? From the moment the lights in the theater went down, I could feel that I was in the hands of a master. Raimi, for those of you who are not aware, is most famous for directing the “Spider Man” movies, but he got his start directing a low-budget horror film called “Evil Dead.” As campy and gross as they come, it was a masterpiece of 80s horror, quickly followed by a budget-upgraded “Evil Dead II” and the balls-to-the-wall “Army of Darkness,” perhaps the most amazingly ridiculous movie ever made. All three of these films are treasures in the horror community, disliking them is about as acceptable as disliking “The Godfather.” Sam developed a reputation as the auteur of horror-comedy, the king of making you laugh and then making you beg for mercy. His writing and direction displays a cunning understanding of how thin the line between “funny” and “scary” is, and the more he blurs it, the more he gets both out of you. Unlike the vast majority of his genre comrades, Sam Raimi’s movies are fun. Not family fun by any stretch of the imagination, but fun nonetheless.

So now, after a too-long absence due to a certain web-slinging sensation, our boy is back with “Drag Me To Hell.” The set-up is delicious: we meet Christine, a decent-enough loan officer at a local bank who’s hoping to get a promotion on hard work and a good attitude; her boss wants someone who can make “the tough decisions.” Her competition is a sniveling weasel willing to do anything to get ahead, and it’s beginning to feel like she isn’t going to cut it. Along comes Mrs. Ganush, a slightly menacing old gypsy woman who is facing foreclosure after already receiving two extensions. Christine’s instinct is to help her, but in an effort to impress her boss she turns the woman’s application down. Mrs. Ganush does not take this well, and places a dreadful curse on our poor heroine: for three days she will be tormented, and then a fearsome demon will come to claim her soul.

First off, what a great setup. Many people have read all kinds of morals into this plot, thinking it has something to do with the recent economic woes, but I believe the real magic here is how it taps into the story devices of old, where a cruel twist of fate invites a disproportionate penalty for sin. There is a constant twinge of guilt throughout the film, because Mrs. Ganush is not some guy in a mask who kills for no reason, she has been humiliated and wants vengeance. Even though Christine’s motives and actions are defensible, she brings the wrath upon herself. This, in my opinion, is juicier subject matter for a good horror film than, “He’s insane! He kills teenagers!” We all encounter situations in life where we pay more dearly for mistakes than we should, and when we do we come to realize how frightening life can be, how little things can explode into gigantic ones.

Once the curse is set, the movie never lets up. There are funhouse pop-outs that drop like sledghammers, the kind that send barrels of popcorn to the ceiling. There are slow-burn suspense scenes during which the tension is wound so tight it becomes unbearable, where we slowly turn to see something we are horribly afraid of. Raimi has commented several times that he thinks slow reveals are scarier than pop-outs, and I have always agreed, but he takes it to the next level here; one in particular was probably the scariest of its kind I have ever experienced (SPOILER: when Christine gets into her car and sees a hankerchief floating in the air, look out END SPOILER).

This flick is scary, I don’t know how else to put it. If you’re asking me whether it’s scary, the answer is “yes.” I’m aware that fright is in the eye of the beholder, and almost every horror film ever made will fail to intimidate some people, but “Drag Me To Hell” hit all of my buttons dead-on. I was a jumbled mess when the credits rolled. To make it even better, Raimi got big laughs throughout the running time, a few of them contained within the scariest scenes. The tone of the film was right on the money:  I was always apprehensive, always on edge, but still having a great time.

The acting is fine, getting the job done and not making waves. Alison Lohman does fine work in the lead, Justin Long handles the boyfriend role well enough. Unfortunately for both of them, however, this is the type of story where the least interesting characters are the leads. Lorna Raver is tremendous as the lead villain, a monstrous old gypspy like the kind that used to frighten you as a child. Never for a moment did I think of her as an actress, the character was a complete creation. David Paymer has fun as the shrewd and somewhat canaiving bank manager, he’s one of those Hollywood character actors who adds an invaluable ounce of . Dileep Rao conveys impressive depths with very little flash as the fortune teller who serves as Christine’s advisor in her battle against the Lamia.

This has been a hard review to write because there’s little to talk about with this film. It aimed for a mark and then nailed it, dead-on. The script was tight, the confidence of the direction was palpable, and the laugh-scares just kept coming. Many worthy films have tried combining comedy with horror, and I think history shows this feat to be surprisingly difficult. Some went too deep into horror (”Slither”), some were a bit too comedic (”Shaun of the Dead”). They’re still great films, but they exist in a more specific space than they would have you believe. “Drag Me To Hell” is the true horror-comedy, a perfect blend which impossibly manages to serve two masters. If you like horror movies, you need to be in the theater pronto.

Rating: 70%

I won’t say that “Terminator: Salvation” is a bad film, but it is certainly not a good one. For every positive thing it has in its favor, it has an equal and opposite flaw that wrestles it to the ground. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a movie break so even, do so little, especially with concepts so weighty and a star like Christian Bale at the helm. Well, he’s not really at the helm, but that’s neither here nor there. Hm. “Neither here nor there.” That may be the best review I can give this thing. I won’t get into the plot, because I never cared about it, but suffice to say humanity is at war with machines. Post-apocalyptic Mad-Max type of thing, you saw the opening credits to “T2,” right?

To its credit, “Salvation” does right by Cameron on the technical end, the nightmarish warzone that Jim dreamed up in a few tantalizing shots is breathlessly realized here. The washed out chrome color of the cinematography is perfect, the landscapes are beautifully decayed, and the machines are sadistic monsters whose design fits in with the first films while also blooming in new directions. From a production standpoint, this is one of the most successful tonal pieces Hollywood has made in years. The rust, blood and gasoline are absolutely tangible, and every significant department, from wardrobe to visual effects, turns in Academy-worthy work.

Which is why the film’s inability to lift off is even more of a disappointment. The story, which had within it potential for all kinds of deep philosophical layers, is never arresting for a single second. I would have been more than happy with these vacant characters if they had been twisted and mangled for psychological reasons, but no one on this project has the courage to do anything with these people. Christian Bale huffs and hollers to the best of his ability, but director McG isn’t giving him anywhere to go, nothing to sink his teeth into. Sam Worthington, who the studio heads seem to be pushing as the next big thing, is absolutely hollow and totally forgettable. Maybe this guy has talent, but I didn’t see it here. It’s not totally his fault, the script calls for him to have this weird change of heart that the filmmakers never earn, and nothing irritates me more than arbitary plot arcs. This is a crippling flaw for the movie, which depends on Worthington’s character as its emotional core.

Equally troubling is the constant sensation in the back of your mind that the movie just doesn’t make any sense. There are unresolved plot threads, story elemenets which keep lingering and never pay off, and decisions made by the characters which feel…wrong. This movie contains some very serious plot problems. Maybe I’m just crazy, I sincrerely hope I’m just missing something, but it felt like the damned thing had a laundry list of logic goofs. (SPOILER) Why is it necessary for John Connor to invade the machine city by himself, especially considering the fact that he calls for back-up once he’s in there? And why are there consoles perfectly fitted for human beings inside said machine city? And how in the hell did hundreds of human POWs stroll right out of the city once Connor released their prison cells? Where are the dozens of guards with miniguns we kept seeing? I’m sure McG would tell me Worthington’s character disabled them somehow, but I don’t think the movie sufficiently earned that. Also bad: I don’t buy for a moment the idea that the machines could have somehow predicted who Sam Worthington’s character would meet, and what he would say to them. Their whole plan depends on him bringing John Connor, by himself, back to a specific place, but the way in which that actually happened was a ridiculous Rube Goldberg device of a narrative that no sentient being could possibly anticipate.

Here’s the worst offender: Kyle Reese is John Connor’s eventual father, right? The machines just want to kill John Connor, that’s their whole goal, they’ve sent like a dozen things into the past to try and do it. Halfway through the film, they successfully abduct Kyle Reese. Then they realize who he is, and he’s whisked away to…a private cell. What? Kill him! Kill him immediately! It would have cost them three bullets, and John Connor would have ceased to exist! What in the hell did they sit around waiting to lure Christian Bale into the city for? They’ve got his dad before he was ever conceived! Shoot him! And don’t you even think of telling me they “couldn’t be sure it would work” or something. That is ridiculous for two reasons: firstly, why not try? Secondly, the entire first “Terminator” movie was dedicated to the idea that wiping out your parents to prevent you from existing does work. The whole series is based on that kind of fatalism. That, to me, is such a massive, gaping plothole that nothing in the world can rectify it. It’s a crippling blow. (SPOILER OVER)

The tone of the acting also went weird. Christian Bale consistently blew past his mark, making his voice gruffer than it needed to be, shouting when a whisper would have worked better; Worthington escapes this fate only by being too squinty and hollow to elicit much of anything. Michael Ironside, that wonderful character actor, is a ridiculous cartoon, strutting around in a poorly designed submarine command deck like some kind of peacock. If I asked the director when his character was born, or where he comes from, I’ll bet you ten dollars he couldn’t tell me, because no one took the time to care about this guy and give him reasons for anything. You may say to me, “Let it go, Andrew,” but I refuse. This character’s role in the film is incredibly important, and failing to flesh him out is a fat, conspicuous error. I blame all of this on McG, whose direction of the actors feels desperate, anxious, unsure. Anton Yelchin turns in the only really solid male performance in the film, and good for him.

It saddens me that this film more or less cancels itself out. For every thrilling action sequence, gorgeous piece of set design, or inspired bit of camera work, there is a dead character, a hollow scene, a gaping plot hole. The end result is a film you enjoy but don’t appreciate, taste but don’t savor. The spectacle of the thing is effective enough that you will probably enjoy yourself, but by the time you’re in the parking lot you’ll be annoyed at how meaningless it all was, and then you’ll forget it. I feel bad being so harsh on a film McG worked so hard to make real, but I fear that “Terminator Salvation” is the ultimate opportunity for him to look in the mirror and grimly regard what is there: a master of style, but not much else. This was supposed to be the movie where he erased “Charlie’s Angels” from our minds forever, but instead he reminded me of it all the more. All he has done is trade one aesthetic for another, but McG clearly believes that “Terminator Salvation” is somehow different from his other movies. It isn’t.

Some of you may recall that I, at the last minute, threw together a trip to see Nine Inch Nails, one of my absolute favorite musicians (the name really refers to Trent Reznor), on his alleged “Wave Goodbye” tour. According to ominous threats on NIN.com, this is his last tour, and since I had been trying to see them live for years, I knew I had to get off my hindquarters and put a concentrated effort in. The only date we could swing was today, at a venue just south of San Diego. It’s now or never.

The location was the Cricket Wireless Amphitheater, a lovely outdoor pavillion nestled loosely in a gorgeous California mountain range, or at least something that looks like one. This kind of stark, raw beauty matched the aesthetic of Nine Inch Nails overall quite well. Often mistaken for his countless imitators, Reznor hasn’t really done the whole “goth eye make up” look in some time, and his music hasn’t attempted to appeal to that crowd. The stuff is dark, certainly, but it’s got a bit more maturity to it. Proof of this is in NIN fans, who are assembled from a wide range of tastes and backgrounds.

The opening act, which I rountinely ignore, was a band called “Street Sweeper Social Club,” and above their stage was a flag with the image of a boombox whose speakers were replaced with twin miniguns. As it turned out, the band was a charity effort, they petitioned the crowd earnestly to get involved in feeding the homeless, which seemed to be the basis of their identity as a band. Even more surprising, their guitarist was my favorite axeman of all time, none other than sir Tom Morello. A Harvard-educated madman and passionate activist, Tom does things with a guitar that make no sense. His original band, Rage Against the Machine, printed a disclaimer on their CD sleeves that read: “All sounds made by guitar, bass, drum and vocals,” mainly because no one believed any person could make a six-string electric produce those noises. Midway through their set, Morello cradled his Stratocaster in his arms like a child and, by means unknown, made it sound like a flock of chirping birds. He also did some other things involving tuning the guitar on the fly which produced sonic experiences I can’t really put into words; the weird thing is, the noises he makes are always in key with the song he’s playing. If you haven’t heard this guy, you don’t know what you’re missing (don’t listen to his solo stuff, though, he doesn’t do it there).

It got even more exciting.

For the band’s last song, Trent Reznor craftily snuck onto the stage and took over vocal duties. It took me about ten seconds to realize that my favorite guitarist ever was playing on the same stage with one my favorite musicians ever. My mouth hung open, I just got still and tried to take still photographs with my eyes. I would have paid three times what I did for my ticket if I’d known I was going to get to see this once-in-a-lifetime pairing. The best part was, instead of doing some song that I’d never heard of, they took on MC5’s classic “Kick Out the Jams.” I love that song, and they absolutely went crazy on it. It was a special moment.

The other remarkable thing about this concert was that it ran on time. At 7:30 on the dot, the opening band got going. At around 8:15 on the nose, Nine Inch Nails thundered onto the stage. I’ve never seen a gig do that, not even tiny little ones in smelly beer halls. The trade-off was, Reznor hit a little technical snaffoo in the first few bars of “Terrible Lie,” causing a twenty second pause as frantic technicians darted around the stage with their heads down, trying to solve the problem. A slightly peeved Trent approached the mic apologetically a moment later and asked, “Can you hear me now?” We went crazy, so he responded, “Awesome. It wouldn’t really be Nine Inch Nails concert if something didn’t f*** up. Next time, I tear the PA system apart.” Since concert audiences love you for almost anything, we all cheered. In fairness to him, his delivery had a levity that doesn’t translate here.

The actual show was a stunner, visually and sonically. Reznor puts on an almost perfect show in my opinion: he’s enthusiastic and physical, but he also takes the musical performance seriously, and doesn’t get distracted by headbanging. On top of that, a massive set of back-lit stage lights flash hot white strobes, cool blue streaks, and red stabs in time with the music, while giant waves of smoke pour on the audience. The effect is actually quite beautiful: the band is sihlouetted against the fiery light and smoke, the music pumping through the speakers. Again, it’s dark but decidedly un-gothic, which I appreicate.

I’m not promising that you’ll like the music, because I know many of you don’t, but if you dare to get an idea, take a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZfCA2M12tE&feature=player_embedded.

I have very good luck with my personal favorites getting chosen for setlists, it happens at almost every concert I attend. This one was no different, they hit “Wish” about half-way through the concert. A Grammy winning masterpiece, “Wish” is a frenetic, fist-forward marauder of a heavy metal song. Angry, chainsaw guitars explode over top of a syncopated four on the floor rhythm that marches like a tribal chant. The lyrics are the same crap about alienation and whatever, poetry has never been Reznor’s gift, but they function to heighten the mood and I was very impressed with how Reznor handled his vocal performance in a live setting. These are not easy songs to sing, most of them include shredding your throat at some point, and yet he skimps out on very few high notes and delivers a credibly vicious attack on each one. It helps that the rest of the band (which is always an assortment of hired guns, Trent is the only actual member of NIN) seemed more than capable of picing up slack; sometimes they would chime in to bolster his performance, sometimes they would take over entirely for a few bars. They did a nice job. I was also pleased by the inclusion of “The Fragile,” a wonderful, spooky love song which contains one of my favorite NIN lyrics in its refrain: “I won’t let you fall apart.” It sounds sarcastic, but in the song itself it’s meant very honestly, and I find it oddly touching and sympathetic.

Of course, as an encore, Reznor turned in a spirited performance of “Hurt,” the minimalist ballad about loss and sin that Johnny Cash famously covered right before his death. Most NIN fans admire the alternative but still prefer the original, and in the hushed whisper of Trent’s performance, you could hear the entire audience singing along to every word. It was perhaps the most tranquil three minutes I have ever experienced at a concert, the lilt of the music in the air bringing the entire audience of thousands to a dead stop. Moreover, it was a fitting coda, a relevant nod to Nine Inch Nails’ dual loyalty to chaos and stillness in their music. Again, the chorus here is an example of Trent doing some fine work on the lyrical front (which is sadly not always true): “What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end. And you could have it all, my empire of dirt. I will let you down, I will make you hurt.” The music adds an incredible tenderness to these words, a private confessional where an arrogant narrator breaks down and admits their sins. Cash covered it for a reason.

So a fine evening, one of the better concerts I’ve attended.

REVIEW: STAR TREK (88%)

It pleases me to tell you that “Star Trek” is great. I have seen it twice now, and I heartily endorse it as a rousing space opera. Helmer J.J. Abrams, responsible for TV’s “Alias” and “Lost,” takes command of the franchise with real gusto, pumping it full of blood much the same way he did “Mission Impossible III,” although “Trek” must be considered a superior picture. The real story of this movie may be Abrams, who is gradually growing into his britches as a filmmaker, and with this flick he takes another big step. Although “M:I-3″ was nothing to sneeze at, its pizzaz and high gloss masked a sort of hollow thud in the central relationships of the characters, particularly noticeable between Ethan Hunt and his fiancee. The movie could never completely recover from this flaw, because without us caring about Hunt’s girl, the insane lengths it took to rescue her lost that little ounce of impact.

The problem is, Abrams is a man with an extraordinary gift for cool. He knows things that are awesome like the back of his hand, and he can make any character, any scene, any piece of dialogue completely hip. He never insults your intelligence, he’s usually a step ahead of you, and as an idea man he is the first competition George Lucas has had in some time. So why is this a problem? Because J.J. has to stop, take a breath, and remember his characters. It would be all too easy for him to take an idea, make it cool, and put it up on the screen before he made it matter, and he’s so damned good at it that you might not even notice you didn’t care until you were driving away from the theater. With “Star Trek,” we begin to see him tread more carefully. Cool is coming out of this movie’s ears, but we care about the people (and aliens) in this world, and we’re along for the ride on those grounds first and foremost.

You’re not getting a description of the plot. If you honestly have no idea, you have not been paying attention to your own culture.

Foregoing proper form, let me discuss my favorite things about this movie, with little or no regard for journalistic pattern. Number one: the cinematography. “Star Trek” boasts the finest rendering of ships flying through space that I’ve seen in years. Nailing an incredibly fine line between vibrant colors and grounded reality, everything on display here is simultaneously beyond belief and oddly believable. From the noble, righteous blue wake of the Enterprise’s engine to the sickly, evil green glow of the Romulan adversary, everything is oozing attention to detail. I’m sure it’s all smoke and mirrors, I can’t imagine many of these ships actually functioning, but for every frame they were up in front of me I bought it. I thought to myself, “Well, naturally, I guess that plume of smoke there is an exhaust vent. I wonder if they need to vent every time they take off, or just in emergencies?” There have been a select few space movies whose vessels have stood the test of time: “2001: A Space Odyssey,” “Starship Troopers” (you laugh, but go watch), and I think this new “Trek” is destined to become one of them.

Even more than that, though, the framing of the space action is as good as you could possibly ask for. Learning from but not slavishly copying “Battlestar Galactica,” the team behind this movie puts their lense nose-down into the action; at one point, I noticed the camera shaking back and forth from the force of an explosion, which was a wonderful little trick. There are also fast-zooms, uneven tilts, and all kinds of handheld, combat-drenched camerawork which makes these fights feel threatening. At the same time, we are also treated to a dozen or more absolutely breathaking pull-backs–the camera is still, the sound goes quiet, and we see the insidious black warship stalk its prey as a frighteningly small band of lifeboats zoom away, cloaked in the hot orange glow of a nearby star. This is just one example. My breath was repeatedly taken away by how stunning the composition so often was, and I may be so bold, I was reminded of the kind of obsessive care that Kubrick took when he tread through space. I look forward to buying the DVD, pausing the damned thing, and just staring at the work these guys and gals have done. Incredible.

High marks also for casting, especially in regards to Chris Pine as the heroic Kirk. A wonderful choice from any possibly angle, Pine’s boyish good looks betray a fast wit and real gravitas that make him captivating the whole way through. He is respectful of what Shatner did, but he also respects himself and what he brings to the table. The results are grand, and thank God, because if Kirk slips even a little bit, the game is up. Ditto for Zachary Quinto as Spock, of “Heroes” fame, one of the most obvious casting choices in history, but still enormously gratifying. Poor Zach is given the extra burden of acting up against the original, Mr. Leonard Nimoy, who is in predictably incredible form. And yet, the young turk holds out, defiantly crafting his own character as if he were the first man to take the job. His Spock is a more passionate man, his eyes bore holes into everyone around him, he is Kirk’s better in combat and happily displays the fact, he even has a fiery romance. Oh, he retains that Vulcan calmness they’re so legendary for, but he distorts it, perverting it into a weapon. Even against other Vulcans, Spock’s mellow nature has an edge, a threat to it. He is less like a tranquil forest, more like a time bomb. I have nothing but praise for Quinto’s performance, which I found captivating: I loved him, and I loved to hate him, sometimes at the same time. What more can you ask for?

The rest of the cast is a neat little dream team, well-known faces who are not yet superstars who feel planted by God to play these roles. It must be fate that this movie gets made when you have Karl Urban to essay Bones, Simon Pegg to take Scotty (thank you Lord), John Cho for Sulu. How can it be a coincidence that this talent was lying in wait for these characters? Kudos to Abrams for assembling the most exciting crew for his Enterprise that I can imagine. I wish all casting in Hollywood was handled like this. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, due credit also goes to Bruce Greenwood, a veteran with so much charisma it hurts. He plays Captain Pike, a father figure for the semi-orphaned young Kirk, and his instant believability reminded me of the greats in Hollywood like Denzel Washington. I’m always glad to see him in any movie.

As for the script, by Kurtzman and Orci, it’s also in fine order. I was surprised by how much comedy the film used, and I liked its willingness to embrace that. “Star Trek” is a movie that takes itself very seriously, and it should, so those doses of levity are absolutely crucial to keep from annoying your audience. There’s no question that “Trek” is an action flick through and through, it’s packed to the gills with as many set pieces as the story can feasibly hold. But no more than that, Abrams is a man who knows when to say when. Yes, this thing is heavy on the spectacle, but it’s not “Quantum of Solace,” jamming a fistfight in every time you blink. It walks right up to the line of credibility, but it does not step over, and that is an incredibly important distinction.

So. There are flaws, let’s go ahead and talk about them. First off, Abrams has got to learn how to handle fight scenes. His shoot-outs are okay, they were actually a bit better in “M:I-3,” but his hand-to-hand has always been shaky and discombobulated. That continues here. I’m also not wild about the climax. It works in a kind of rote, Hollywood way, but it basically amounts to “kill the bad guy.” Since I was utterly involved in the Kirk/Spock friendship/rivalry, I wanted to see these two forced to some kind of brink, either in cooperation or competition, because that is the real story going on here. Eric Bana’s Nero may be the “villain,” but he’s a means to an end, and the story forgot that in its last hurrah.

The film makes its heroes butt heads with great success a few times in the middle, but by the end it has mostly resolved their differences, and I think this was a mistake, since it leaves us with little to do. If their reconciliation had been deep and profound, it might have been satisfying, but they are muted and cautious with one another, and the last thirty minutes sort of drops their conflict pre-emptively. The result of this fumble is that Kirk and Spock never forge the friendship we so long to see between them. Their rivalry is so compelling it hurts, but we feel cheated as the credits roll, because we know these men are practically brothers and we feel we’re going to miss their coming together.

I think two forces are to blame for this: firstly Trekkies, who Abrams clearly thought would not stomach Kirk and Spock being at each other’s throats the whole time. Second, the studio, which I’m sure put pressure on the team for a textbook “whiz bang” ending. As the last few explosions start going off, the movie seems to suddenly remember Nero, and awkwardly attempts to shift back to him for the finale, as if the conflict with him was anywhere near the real point of this story. The first time through, none of this will bother you in the slightest, but on repeat viewings I think the problem will bear itself. If Abrams, Kurtzman, Orci, Pine and Quinto hadn’t done such a great job through the whole thing, they might have had a real problem here. But they get away with it, there’s no other way to put it than that, because their bases are well enough covered to take this blow. Just like “Batman Begins” got away with a kind of “what the hell?” climax, “Star Trek” gets away with focusing on a boring character at the end. Sometimes, when you’ve done your homework, we just let this stuff slide.

Lastly, Uhura says “I’ll be monitoring your frequencies” to Spock in a tender, emotional moment. Am I missing something? Is that a Trek-ism? If it is, okay, but if it’s not, then that was a blatantly awful line which sticks out in an otherwise adept script. Both times I saw “Star Trek,” people laughed out loud. I hope I’m just missing something.

I can’t say how pleased I am with “Star Trek’s” great success. These franchise re-boots are starting to be a real pleasure, since studios have begun recruiting real talent and making dynamic, modern new statements about classic characters. There’s something sweet and sort of reverent about our newfound love for retooling the old classics, especially since so many of these new flicks have had such obvious respect for their ancestors. I like getting in the habit of looking to the past as well as the future, to remembering the stories that we loved when we were young, and sitting obediently at the feet of the old masters.

Ah, hello again, Dear Reader. You know I can’t stay away long. Only you truly understand me. I have no idea what I’m going to write this entry about, but such is my love of our friendship that I return again. Some of my best blog entries have originated from the freeform openness that I’m experiencing at this exact moment. We could discuss anything, you and I! Trotsky! The Cotton Gin! The sky is the limit!

Oh, very well, let’s talk about Batman again. If you’re gonna twist my arm about it…

The magical glow of “The Dark Knight” is beginning to wear off, I need some new Bat-blood. I’ve long flirted with getting a subscription to the actual Batman comic books, instead of just buying them in compilations and pretending they’re one big novel, but I hesitate. I don’t know if Batman arriving at my door every week would permit me to function as a husband, a student, or anything. I might implode. When you’ve been a hobbyist as long as I have, you can kind of sniff another one coming, and you begin to regard it warily. I’ve been down this road before, you might even think to yourself. There are so many hobbies I have deliberately avoided for this reason; I know for a fact that if I let them into my life, they would leave me in a dark alley, completely out of money and 40 years old.

In fact…let me list some:

1. World of Warcraft. Video games are amazing, but a persistent online world within a video game is so amazing I can’t quite breathe at the thought of it. Within two or three days of our becoming engaged, Corelyn aimed her pointer finger at me resolutely, the diamond on the ring still sparkling, and intoned a dire commandment: “No World of Warcraft. Ever.” We weren’t even talking about video games, that’s how serious she is. Thank God I’m terrified of her wrath, it makes controlling myself much easier.

2. Dungeons and Dragons. D and D is the nerdiest thing in existence, and out of respect for this, I avoid it. I’m already fighting every woman I know to convince her that normal people now play videogames (side note: why are women so slow to believe this?) But a small part of me is aware that I let the ol’ Dungeons into my system, I’d probably like it. I wouldn’t love it, but I’d like it, and I wouldn’t avoid it when it was presented to me. For some reason, this game is just forbidden in “proper” society, it’s like being a Communist in the 50s. It marks you as some kind of heathen, people audibly groan in your face when you mention it. As such, I have never played, and never will.

3. Motorcycles. Ever since I outgrew my timid phase, where roller coasters and jet skis terrified me, I have discovered that I love the sensation of speed. Love it. I have also discovered that I’m a moron. The combination of these two things on a hog would probably result in the highest ratings Dateline News has ever had, but it might not work out so well for me. I know I would love to have one, but there’s no way.

4. Superheroes other than Batman. Let’s just not even go down that road. I stick rigidly to Batman as a measure of self-control; the entire world of comic books just sits out there, waiting for me to digest its delicious collectible items, but every time I reach out, my other hand smacks its brother and I get control of myself.

5. Pop Tarts. They’re so freaking good I want to roll in a bath of them. But I never purchase them. Never. The line must be drawn.

6. Star Trek. I’m really more of a “Star Wars” person myself, I like the sexier, more operatic tones of the original trilogy. Nothing would ever change that, even if I regularly watched both, nor could anything alter the fact that “Indiana Jones” is still cooler than both. Still, I sincerely doubt any part of me would be averse to the delicious campiness and starry-eyed wonderment of the “Trek.” If I let myself, I would go all the way down that road, but I never do. Between you, me and the wall, I kind of prefer “The Next Generation,” if only because Jean-Luc Picard is the man. People from my generation: remember “Star Trek: First Contact”? That movie was the business. After that thing, I don’t know if 70s Shatner and Nimoy could ever command my loyalty the same way. I love me some Bill Shatner now, with his hilarious new self-aware comedic stylings, but the old school stuff wouldn’t work on me the same way.