Monthly Archive for August, 2009

(Just couldn’t resist that classic Allen joke in the title there)

You know the drill, Dear Reader: a birthday rolls around, and your humble narrator dedicates a blog post in your honor. Not a bad deal, really. This edition’s victim is none other than my older brother, Brady.

Let it begin!

My first memory of Brady, for some reason, occurs as I stand outside the front door of our old house. I’m looking down into the driveway, where an almost unnervingly focused teenager with messy black hair throws a worn-out basketball at a hoop. There’s nothing really to this memory, and I don’t know why my brain has clung to it over the years, but such is the nature of having older siblings. You find yourself simply gawking at them, whether you’d like to admit it or not, studying their every move like a language you just barely can’t speak.

Brady is about nine years older than me, and that presented a weird situation as I grew up: he was too old to be a playmate, and too young to be a parent. Who was this guy to me? I think I spent at least a few of my earliest years just trying to figure that out, but whoever he was, I wanted to be like him. I learned quickly that he was apparently “strong.” I learned this because he told me. And even though I nodded many assertions, Brady would always appraise me skeptically after I had been informed, certain that I didn’t quite get the message. He would then begin a very relaxed stroll in my direction, which always reminded me of those bad guys in horror movies who don’t run because they know they don’t need to. When he invariably caught me (and to be honest I hit a period where I would just throw in the towel out of fear), I endured a series of physical torments whose scientific classification is “a whooping.” I lived my young life in a constant orbit around whoopings, I was either coming from or going towards one all the time. As I got older and more opinionated, Brady began repurposing them as some kind of corrective mechanism for my attitude. I would make a smart comment to mom at the dinner table, and he would lean forward over his plate and advise me with a smirk, “You need a whooping, son.”

For years I detested this, and took it kind of personally. A less artsy kid probably would have rolled with it sooner, but I was built by the Lord to be sensitive and touchy-feely, so a guy who more than doubled my weight hanging me upside down over a body of water got old fast. One day, I submitted one of my many tattle-tale reports on this behavior to mom, who had initially intervened when I was younger but slowly began leaving me to handle it. She listened sympathetically, but stopped me when I declared something along the lines of, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t like me.” Her face was very troubled.

“Doesn’t like you? What are you talking about? Your brother loves you!”

Technically, I knew this, but when you’re that young, you’re still not sure what love really means. “I guess.”

“Honey, Brady loves you to death, that’s just his way of showing it.”

This revelation left me stupefied. I never looked at Brady the same way again. The next time he came after me, I still ran and begged for mercy, but when I would laugh, he laughed back. It also suddenly dawned on me that there was a laundry list of things he never did: he never punched me (not once), never slapped me or threw me into anything, never insulted me, didn’t inflict any real pain ever. Because he put on such an elaborate, theatrical performance, I never stopped to consider the fact that I always, no matter what, got right up from a whooping and ran along my merry way. From that day on, I began to think of this ritual as a kind of performance: I had my role to play (it wasn’t as fun if I didn’t still run and screech for help), he had his, but I never felt even remotely unsafe, and my feelings never got hurt. Because what mom said proved to be right (as usual): Brady loved me.

The dynamic of our relationship shifted after that. Once my behavior started signaling to my brother that I understood what he was really saying, I think he and I became friends in a way we couldn’t have been otherwise. He would take me fishing with him, or play basketball with me, talk to me about things that were happening in his life, listen to stories about mine, give advice and encouragement. I played along carefully, but I never got over being starstruck around him; he was always bigger and stronger, always seemed in control. When I would panic, he would focus, and where I was constantly running from responsibility, he was always embracing it. I formed an embarrassingly large amount of my personality and worldview around his example, and much of that remains to this day.

On top of that, Brady also gave me an enormous gift: the ability to conquer myself. He knew I was a little spoiled, that it would be all too easy for me to stick to my safe zones and go stagnant as a man. Not on his watch. He would push me to do things I was afraid of, and he never let me back down no matter how much I begged him. He put me on roller coasters, mopeds, jet skis, high dives, water slides, sleds, and wild animals, and I fought him every step of the way. If I cried or put on a big show, he would sigh impatiently and demand, “You’re fine.” He refused to go easy on me, because I think he felt that doing so would be an insult, would suggest that maybe I couldn’t handle my fear, and he believed I could. “Suck it up,” “Don’t think about it,” “Just give it a try.” He had to push me pretty hard sometimes, but once I had done it, he was always there at the other end like nothing happened “Wasn’t that great?” I would get so excited, jumping up and down and declaring, “I did it! I did it!”

But Brady, incredible guy that he is, never once seemed surprised. He would grin and shrug, “Of course you did. It was nothing.” The consistency of his belief in me, his stubborn insistence that I could be strong and brave and do things on my own, was and is one of the best things anyone has ever done for me. I will never really be able to pay him back for it. I get incredible satisfaction watching him engage Jacob in the exact same way (it’s different with girls), although I am happy to report that the J-Man seems to be learning faster than I did.

By the time I was well into high school, my brother had a family of his own to worry about, and I knew that he could no longer devote the same attention to me. I realized that Brady was a father by nature, a man who lives to shepherd the ones he loves, and while I had benefited from that quality for years, now I had to let it go. I have never stopped missing it. There was one final lesson that I think he imparted to me, albeit a kind of strange one. One night I convinced him to watch “The Matrix Revolutions” with me (back when I was convinced it was good), certain that I could secure and relish his approval. After all, if Brady liked a movie, that was the highest stamp of honor I could imagine. So we watched it, and when the credits rolled he smirked and stated matter-of-factly: “That was not great.” I was destroyed by this, how could I be so stupid as to think this movie was good, when clearly he saw that it was not? Here I had been acting like his equal, and all along I was just a dumb kid again. My feelings were indescribably hurt and as I recall we got into some kind of argument. Brady walked away.

A few minutes later, he came back and said something I’ve never forgotten:

“Rew, I’m really sorry, buddy. I don’t…you have to understand that movies don’t matter to me like they do to you. I just watch them, and I enjoy them or I don’t. But you’re not like that, you love them, you know a lot more about them, and they’re part of who you are. Sometimes it’s just hard for me to understand that.”

No one had ever really taken the time to spell that out for me, and when he did I realized that I had lived my whole life somehow unaware of it (I really am not that bright). After that, Brady started connecting with me by showing me movies, especially R-rated ones that mom and dad would allow on the grounds of his supervision. He introduced me to Scorsese, Coppola, Spielberg, “Swingers,” “The Usual Suspects,” films and filmmakers that remain in my highest esteem to this day. But this was only the surface of what he was doing. He was also, in a very quiet way, reminding me of something very important: You are different from me, and that is okay. You can’t mimic me in every way, because it wouldn’t make you happy or successful. You can do things I can’t, and you should embrace that. You have to be you. I’ve spent my life emulating my brother, but in the end I think all he’s ever wanted was for me to be myself. The more I do things my own way, the prouder and more supportive he seems to be. He never hesitates to point out how he admires my skill at writing, or public speaking, or film making, or music. But thanks in no small part to his influence, I don’t really need him to point those things out anymore. I know who I am and I’m proud of it, and I owe the dude a beer for that.

Happy Birthday, Brady. I’m sure you know this, but you’re still my hero.

(note: there are no typos in that title. That’s how they spell it.)

Rating: 85%

It’s possible to say a lot of negative things about “Inglourious Basterds,” and that may be my favorite thing about it. Like “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” this is a movie built for anything except indifference, loaded with as many adjectives as a film can possibly contain: funny, sexy, gory, frightening, tragic, merry, harrowing. There is something positively jazzy about the narrative flow: the script has evolved from over a decade of writing, and yet there’s a sense that gigantic pieces of the film are borderline improvised. Some people will hate this movie, will not tolerate its loud and boisterous nature, but I find too much mastery in its construction to call it anything other than a triumph.

What amazes me about Quentin Tarantino is how much he cares about characters. It’s all too easy to dismiss him as a quick-cut kid of the MTV generation, an ADD storyteller who keeps trying to climax the movie over and over. But his movies don’t bear that out, and I think the accusation comes from lumping him with his imitators. Tarantino’s number one obsession is his characters, and the only consistent trait in all of his movies is an (arguably) disproportionate amount of screen time dedicated to them outside the confines of the plot. His movies are stylized to the point of irony, but they have an amazing and underappreciated ability to sit still that makes their director unique. The opening scene of “Basterds” is a long form, lovingly constructed interrogation, every minutia of the experience hand-carved. It took a lover of cinema to make it, and it takes a lover of cinema to appreciate it.

“Inglourious” is a great movie, but its greatness does not occur in the pages of its script; the same exact lines of dialogue could have crafted an absolute turd. Everything about this movie is the actors. Everything. Any slip on the casting and entire scenes, whole plot lines, would go down in flames. Fortunately, Quentin’s lineup is almost universally spot on. Brad Pitt matches the chutzpah of his director in his portrayal of Aldo Raine, chomping scenery and flying gloriously over the top. I never cease to marvel at this man as an actor: in “Benjamin Button,” he was equally fearless, giving a performance so silent that some would misconstrue it as vacant. But he knew what he was doing. Here, he hollers and yelps like a mad dog, and he still commands his craft. Sure it looks ridiculous from the outside, you can laugh derisively at the trailer till the cows come home, but put your butt in a theater seat and he owns you. I don’t see how it is possible to deny that he has become one of cinema’s legends.

As a constant critic of his films, not to mention his ridiculous cameo in “Death Proof,” I’m almost sad to report that Eli Roth is quite good as Sgt. Donny Donowitz. It’s pretty obvious he’s not an actor, but almost anyone can be brilliant when they’re given the right role. This is his right role. You may have been hearing about Christoph Waltz’s performance as the vicious “Jew Hunter” SS Colonel Landa, and the hype is true. He’s fantastic. Melanie Laurent absolutely took my breath away as Shoshanna, turning a plot line that would have been conspicuously “time spent away from Brad Pitt” into an equal emotional investment. Daniel Bruhl is also terrific as her would-be suitor, and a reluctant hero of the Third Reich. Diane Kruger, who was in some kind of coma during “Troy,” is mysteriously fantastic here. I’m surprised that an actor of her age can play such a mature, world-wise woman. Credit to the wardrobe and make-up people for perfectly capturing the essence of German starlet in her appearance. BJ Novak is also great in a small but fun role.

Alas, there are a few missteps. QT apparently has some kind of Achilles’ heel with the British, because Mike Myers and everyone in his one scene with him are terrible; I can see how these performances probably looked brilliant at dailies, but in the finished product they’re weak (fortunately, Michael Fassbender recovers once his character heads into France). And while I don’t necessarily want to spoil anything, I will say that the resolution of Shoshanna’s plot isn’t quite as good as I would have hoped. It was original, and appropriate enough, but I craved something a little more meaningful. And this is minor, but file her boyfriend under “useless character that didn’t need to be there.” Other than sheer practicality, I can’t fathom why that guy needed to exist. Also, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Tarantino tries to act like his film didn’t have a budget again, and again it gets in the way. His encyclopedic knowledge of movies is a wonderful boon when used to inform his characters, but crazy artistic flourishes—like an infomercial on burning film stock narrated by Samuel L Jackson—work only about 50% of the time. In general, these kinds of rough edges exist aplenty: characters have confusing arcs (if arcs at all), plots wrap up suddenly and clumsily, this is not a plotting masterpiece by any stretch. “Inglourious” works, and maybe even works because of these eccentricities sometimes, but a real emotional journey somewhere in there would have only helped.

And let’s be honest, QT wrote the same scene over and over again here. I can think of at least one example per chapter (and there are five chapters total) of a pleasant conversation that is actually an interrogation, resulting in either violence or skillful evasion. It becomes a little much. Once or twice is fine, but the fourth time the exact same formula is employed you start to…notice.

Peter Travers put it best: lovers of cinema will not be able to resist “Inglourious Basterds.” It is a film of moments, each one rendered with such incredible force that the audience doesn’t see the woods for the trees. When you step back from it, it’s hard to understand how the movie could be good, and yet it really, really is. It works. Perhaps its the bravery that puts it on the screen at all, the courage we implicitly sense in all of the artists involved, that lets us drop our guard and accept the movie for what it is. Perhaps it’s the lingering sense of something underneath the surface, a layer the story is operating on that you haven’t absorbed yet. Or maybe it’s just that Quentin Tarantino is a scoundrel, a man who can spin a yarn so compelling that even when it tangles you love him for it.

Hello Dear Reader. Recently, certain people among your ranks have made insinuations. Dangerous insinuations. Namely, that my blog favors video games and movies over, say, the well-being of my wife and myself. There have been suggestions about re-tilting this balance. Some radicals have even called for Corelyn to receive her own weekly column. And to this I reply, with a strong and resilient voice:

Why don’t you love me anymore?

Ahem. Imagine that last sentence in the manliest voice you can fathom.

But seriously, what actually happened was my mom told me she was starving for some rudimentary updates, swimming in a vast sea of dork jargon. I hadn’t really noticed, but it is true that the last five or so entries have been ranting editorials which left little room for personal details. Fair enough. Still, my response was to laugh maniacally, and then advise her to relocate from the kitchen premises if she could not “take the heat” therein. The poor woman, she could barely wrest a description of my day from me when she paid for the house I lived in and the food I ate. Now I’m on the other side of the country, having dozens of experiences every day that are fascinating to her (because moms are like that), and I just won’t loosen the embargo. She must log on every day with her fingers crossed, just pleading to hear something about our weekend plans. You and I both know she is normally disappointed. When is a mother’s suffering done, Dear Reader?

Actually, my desire to avoid that stuff stems not only from the mind-numbing tedium associated with authoring them, although that figures heavily into the equation. Frankly, going “real” gets you in trouble. My father and I both have blogs, and both of us can tell you horrifying stories about just the wrong person happening across a certain post. For me, my employer actually googled the company on the one day I wrote an entry about them. Dad, meanwhile, vilified a local business he found unsavory, and then the daughter of the owner linked him the post. What’s scary about these stories is not just the fact that they happened, but that in both cases, the targeted personages discovered our work within a day of its creation.

Also, there are weirdos out there, I don’t know what they’re capable of, and my wife’s name narrows us down enough already. I’m fairly certain that a diligent stalker could draw together a complete portfolio on our whereabouts using what I’ve already provided on this website, and the idea chills me to the bone. I have developed a sincere understanding of how profoundly amplified consequences can be when you post things in the virtual medium, both concerning people you don’t know and people you do. It’s scary enough to make me hesitant.

Still, I suppose you must have your “details,” right? Sigh. Very well.

Last weekend, Corelyn, myself, and a gaggle of friends retreated to Zuma Beach in Malibu. Let me tell you something: freaking unbelievably great beach. The sand is soft and warm, it’s not that crowded, and the water is just the right degree of icy. We hopped in after some sunbathing, and once our teeth stopped chattering, I commented brazenly on the poor state of affairs in California for the amateur body surfer. Where, I queried aloud, where the early-crashing waves? The elegant monsters that would flick me to the shore effortlessly. Not here, I replied to myself, but I deigned to attempt a few waves anyway.

And then, as if incensed by the challenge, the Pacific gave me a long string of massive, early-breaking titans. These things were pretty mean. The first few, I honest to God chickened out on, abandoning my freestyle “wave catcher” stroke and sinking glumly under the crest. But I knew the ocean had been affronted by my ignorance, and now it was time to fess up. So the next time a giant rolled in, I grabbed it by the neck and let it take its best shot. For the next few hours, I experienced some of the best body-surfing I have ever encountered. The waves would often catch second and third winds during the ride, and they moved me with a purpose. Incredible.

I have a passion for body surfing. It’s probably the least elegant way to hitch-hike on the ocean, but there’s something natural about it that I connect with. I love that it’s literally just your body and the salt water, no intermediary, and while you don’t move as fast as a board of some variety would allow, you are also in some way more vulnerable. It’s a personal experience. I would never make a hobby or sport from it the way surfers can, but as an athletic form of recreation and respite, it’s unbeatable. The experience always cleanses me psychologically, and if you do it for a long time, you can even get a nice workout from it, too.

Anyway.

California weather continues to be better than your weather. It’s okay, don’t feel bad, you guys have, uh…you know…great trees, or something. Seriously though, we are overdue for a fairly bad earthquake, and when it happens you can get some smug satisfaction in your rumble-free homes. You will have earned it by then, because I’ll be calling your cell at six in the morning weeks on end, asking how the scraping of snow off your windshield is going, advising you to “keep warm” with barely suppressed snickers. Some of you (cough Billy cough) like to stand firm with the adorable declaration, “I like the cold.” I’m sure you do. But at least consider the fact that pigs may like mud because they’ve never tried a shower (not that you guys are pigs). Live out here in mid-December, then talk to me.

Speaking of which, my dutifully calendar-centric father informed me today that this weekend will mark a full year’s residence in the Wild West. I think he put it best, “What a year.” What a year indeed. Terrifying, exhilarating, and full of promise. Years like these are why we stay alive: they are not the most comfortable, or easiest, but they are profoundly formative. These are the times that the Lord shoves you around, pushing you to take breathless gulps of life, leading you by your faith alone. He has gone incredibly easy on us so far, but I hope we are ready for whatever is coming next. Being young and married is quite an adventure, as any who have been there can tell you, and even though it can push you to your limits, I wouldn’t trade this ride for the world. Bring it on.

“Batman: Arkham Asylum” is definitely among the more hyped video games of the past few years. The timing is right, the previews looked stunning, and Eidos Interactive are not a bunch of idiots, so the game is basically everywhere. Now journalism in this field is not perfect, and one of its great weaknesses is the fascinating dichotomy between “previews” and “reviews.” The former are, almost without exception, gushy love letters to the production team, and completely worthless as any kind of advice. An educated reader will immediately assume that the people behind the game offered access to their product on the condition of a positive write-up, and I have little doubt that is exactly the case. The latter, for some reason, and completely in spite of the former, are usually hard-nosed ball-busters.

So, when IGN slaps a 6/10 on a game that was getting messianic preview coverage, a confusing and admittedly hilarious kind of schizophrenia sets in. I’m sort of okay with this pattern, and I wouldn’t trust previews anyway, because what good is speculation on an unfinished product?

Still, the problem with that standard is that it gives the big boys ideas. People at these massive game publishers know that their Metacritic rating is life or death, and they start wondering, “Hey, why can’t we control that like we control our pre-release press?” To them, it’s a fair question. For us, it has the potential to be the end of an era.

Which is how we find our way back to “Arkham Asylum” and Eidos. The game isn’t out yet, but a couple of raving reviews have already popped up, and a few hotheaded bloggers are crying foul. I don’t blame them, these reviews are pretty out of hand, and it’s somewhat mysterious that they are out there by themselves. There’s no proof that Eidos has done anything fishy, and they emphatically deny it, but this kind of speculation popped up around their latest “Tomb Raider” release too, and I can’t help but wonder. Let me give you a quick list of why I think we could be seeing tampered goods:

-The game is not, in fact, that good. This, I believe, is the main reason everyone is suspicious, even if no one realizes it. When the first two reviews of “Bioshock” were earth-shattering, no one panicked, because we all experienced the demo and knew something special was coming.

But “Arkham?” I think there’s a vague notion from what we’ve played so far that the game is simply…pretty good. It worked, I liked it, but that’s about it. Press like this just doesn’t feel right for a demo that basically mixed “Bioshock” with “Splinter Cell.”

Look, I want to be wrong about that. I want “Arkham” to be mind-bending, you and I both already know that I’m going to buy it. But as Chuck D once said, “Don’t believe the hype.”

-The reviews aren’t well-written. I confess I have not literally read either, but I’ve read summaries on both, and as a piece of journalism they’re both dodgy. There’s no solid, empirical footing beneath these authors, everything is superlatives and accolades. Gamers implicitly develop an incredibly well-tuned eye for reviews, because we’ve had so much opportunity to compare phrases like “engaging combat” and “replay value” to hard experience. Good reviews with substantial products inspiring them will always make direct statements, things that can be disproved: “There are 12 new levels,” “The cover system rarely glitches,” “You can save anywhere.” I don’t sense a lot of that in what I’m reading here.

-This isn’t the first time. Eidos has been getting a reputation for this, fair or not.

Anyway, not that it matters, because I still support the game. Even if it isn’t perfect, the idea of taking the time to make a really quality Batman experience is just right on the money for me. They hit so many of my wish list items: get Paul Dini to write it? Gotcha. Kevin Conroy and Mark Hamill? Yes indeed. Wildstorm character designs? Nice. A plethora of reverently recreated rogue’s gallery highlights? Damn right.

Little known fact: there was going to be a “Dark Knight” movie tie-in game. No one knows what went wrong, but it was attempted and then quietly scrapped, its very existence as flatly denied as the aliens at Roswell. Fortunately, Gary Oldman is a man who loves his fans and hates Non-Disclosure Agreements, so one day in an interview he just came out with it, to the shrieking gasps of hundreds of Warner Bros employees. Whoops.

The point is, this is better. I’m happier with “Arkham Asylum” then I would be with a direct adaptation. The “Batman Begins” game was actually surprisingly okay, but most of the time this is far from the case, and if “Arkham” does well, the business model might change. I think it’s incredibly savvy of them to say, “Okay, we need a Batman game. Doesn’t need to be the movie exactly, it just needs to be in the same vein.”

On another note, there are just so…many…games coming out right now, Dear Reader. How can I ever hope to prepare? Let me list some off and tell you how I feel about them:

-Prototype. It’s already out. The reviews are middling, and yet I want it. I want it, damn it! Don’t tell me I can’t have it, IGN! I don’t want to hear it! You just don’t understand! I need to belly-flop an Abrams tank, do you hear me? There has been a hole in my heart where a flying kung-fu sidekick onto a helicopter should be!

-The Beatles: Rock Band. I don’t want it at all, but I love the idea and fully support everyone buying it. I actually enjoy watching other people get excited for the game, because it’s such an incredibly good idea, and I never thought they’d actually make it happen. I often make a big deal out of the fact that I’m not a huge Beatles fan (and I’m not), but you should know something, Dear Reader: I respect the Beatles. I do. Their ability to reach music lovers anywhere in the world for decade after decade means something to me.

Now if you make “The Rolling Stones: Rock Band” or “Bob Dylan: Rock Band” or “Led Zeppelin: Rock Band,” my money is yours. I have fantasies of blasting through “Blood on the Tracks,” “Sticky Fingers,” maybe “Bringing it all Back Home,” and of course “Led Zeppelin IV” top to bottom, on lead vocals. Mmmm.

-Halo 3: ODST. It’s just shameful how you take my money without even asking, Bungie. You’re going to charge me full price for a new campaign (like anyone really plays Halo for the campaign), and two new maps. I said two. No, don’t tell me three, because “Heretic” is a carbon copy of a Halo 2 map and you know it. You didn’t even, like, put some snow on it or something. Two maps and a campaign, and there goes my wallet.

Okay, okay, yes there’s Firefight mode, and I’m excited about that. But it would have been lovely if you hadn’t charged full retail for it. Don’t worry, you know we’ll support you, but…it just would have been nice. You owe us, man, you could have shown us some appreciation.

-Wolfenstein. So, I’m going to shoot some Nazis who have occult super powers?…Go on.

-Shadow Complex. I’m fascinated by you, you little side-scrolling, Orson Scott Card-penned, XBLA hussy. Your antiquated profile view both disgusts and attracts me, you strange creature. I want you, even though I already have “Metroid” on my Wii. Must resist.

-Need for Speed Shift. You had your chance. I used to love you so much, NFS, you were the first game that taught me to love cars, but now you just can’t let the whole “tuner” thing drop. It’s over. You forced me to drive a hot pink Nissan Altima one too many times.

-Star Wars: The Old Republic. Listen to me, Dear Reader. If you love me at all, you cannot let me even come near Bioware’s new MMO. “Knights of the Old Republic” is arguably my favorite game ever, and now they’re making a version that never ends. Do you understand what will happen to me if I acquire this? Have you ever seen a man die in a computer chair?

-Dragon Age: Origins. Sigh. Bioware is coming out with two games? Do those people work for the devil or something? Are they trying to ruin my marriage?

-Starcraft 2. Speaking of those in the employ of Satan, our good friends at Blizzard are back to crazy glue your eyeballs to a computer screen. Blizzard, I’ve said many times, could well be the greatest game studio that has ever existed. Their excellence is to the point that I get frustrated with them, because it takes years to unpack every morsel of their games, and just as you near the finish line, they have a new one waiting. To quote Guy Pearce in Memento, “I want my f___ing life back!”

-Left 4 Dead 2. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

-Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. Sigh. I might honestly not get it. There are, as you might have noticed, quite a few games on the horizon, and I don’t have time for something I’ve always felt rather blase about. I have nothing necessarily against COD, in fact I quite admire it, but I’ve always felt its overshadowing of everything else to be unfair. The first “Modern Warfare” was a game I got thoroughly sick of with relative ease, and I have no doubt the same will occur if I get this.

-Assassin’s Creed II. You burned us once, “Assassin’s Creed,” but it seems like you want to learn from your mistakes. We’ll wait and see.

-Dead Space: Extraction. We all know that the problem with Wii shooters is moving. Aiming via the Remote is fun, but flicking it against the side of the screen to try and induce a head-turn is frustrating and borderline ruinous. So here comes our friends from EA with an on-rails shooter. You intrigue me.

-New Super Mario Bros. I’m not only going to buy you, I’m going to sleep with you tucked into my arms every night. (sucks in a deep breath) Four player simultaneous cooperative/competitive side-scrolling classic Mario gameplay with juiced up graphics and exciting new game mechanics? I thought you’d never ask.

-Metroid: Other M. I want you to find out whoever decided Team Ninja should make the next Samus adventure, and I want you to give them a big bag of money. This person is a genius, and should have statues of him/herself erected in town halls. Thank you, sweet prince/princess.

I told you that “GI Joe” was terrible, but you still went, didn’t you, Dear Reader? For those of you who didn’t, bravo. For those of you who did…sigh. I take comfort in knowing that most of you probably passed, and good for you, but they still had a $100 million international weekend, and that is shameful. I’m genuinely amazed at how gentle the critics are being, as if every bad action movie was this ridiculous. They’re not. There are degrees of absurdity, and this one is so far over the line it’s unacceptable. Even Sommers’ own “The Mummy” bothered to make some kind of sense on its own terms.

Anyway, not that it matters, because next weekend “District 9″ comes out, and I think we can all agree: that looks fabulous. Hopefully, with some positive word of mouth and a predictably gaga-for-sci fi American audience, Neil Blomkamp’s debut effort will wipe “Joe” from the leader boards with tremendous vengeance. This will be all the more satisfying because it has no name stars, an unheard of director, and is in no way a sequel or prequel or threequel to anything (technically it’s a remake of a short film, but very few people know that). It will be a genuinely new intellectual property. Do you even remember what it’s like to see one of those, Dear Reader? I’m not sure I do.

Let’s be honest: mainstream cinema is in bad shape. The Oscars fall all over themselves for weepy dramas that no one likes, the studios pump out brain-dead popcorn flicks, and we the moviegoers refuse to force anyone to do better. We just give them money because we like to go to the theater, and when people like me chastise this practice, we get told that it is in fact our tastes that need adjusting, not the cinematic output. What a revelation! If only I could rewire my brain not to be aware of artistic bird droppings!

Meanwhile, the eternally put-upon art form of video games keeps innovating, keeps pushing boundaries, and consistently makes more money. There are constantly new IPs, sequels are normally better than originals, innovation is prized, and quality still matters. Maybe I’m in the wrong freaking business.