Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

I’ll spare you a drum roll. It’s Synecdoche, N.Y.

Ebert called it the best movie of the decade. The AV Club‘s Scott Tobias bestows it cult status this week. My stomach turns.

Synecdoche, New York is horrid. It is exactly the type of pretentious tripe prompting critics to unleash elitist admonishments. You didn’t get Synecdoche? Well, let me explain it to you. Reviews lauding a dead-in-the-water story like this should result in confiscation of the critic’s laptop. Which, by the way, I’m sure is a Mac.

I mean, look at this nonsense from Tobias:

It’s no great slight against the film for me to confess that it’s hard to digest, especially in its second half, when the story-within-a-story and all the doppelgängers within reach a tipping point where they start to lose coherence. And the troubles aren’t alleviated by Kaufman’s directorial style, which mimics Spike Jonze’s unfussy, excessively drab approach to shooting his scripts; this complements the matter-of-fact surrealism that bleeds into his characters’ lives, but in Synecdoche, it can be suffocating, too, to be denied the cinematic grandeur of what Caden is creating. Maybe a more distinctive touch will emerge when (or if) Kaufman directs again, but my sense is that he was so consumed with the practical challenges of making this film (which was independently financed, in addition to being barking mad logistically) that he wanted to keep the shooting as simple as possible.

That, folks, is a paragraph of absolute shit. Written only to stroke the writer’s ego, written only to exert some sort of intellectual superiority, which is, in fact, motive similar to Charlie Kaufman’s entire self-indulgent purpose in creating Synecdoche, N.Y. This movie sucked, and that review sucked worse. Kaufman failed. Don’t bail him out.

Solely a pretentious exercise in flagrant self-importance. Charlie Kaufman spins his lead character’s tale in endless, interminable circles designed to comment on how bleak life is, I guess. Which is totally fine (I like bleakness!) if you care one iota about the characters. Instead, we’re exhausted and disgusted by the time Synecdoche ends, and eager to return to our own bleak lives. I guess in that case it’s the most realistically uplifting movie ever! (Rolls eyes.)

That’s not the point, of course. Instead, it’s Kaufman’s comment on society and the artist’s mind, or something. Fucking please. Kaufman already did this, with Adaptation. He already described haunting pain, in Eternal Sunshine. Those films are good. This one is root canal surgery. Themes and plot devices and swirling character studies are all fine, but at some point your movie has to be a movie. And this fails miserably. It’s the type of film that critics and eggheads are scared to dislike – for doing so means they “missed something” or maybe aren’t quite as intelligent as their brand purports.

If a movie can’t hold attention and doesn’t have any coherent narrative or authentic genuine characters, then it cannot be good. In the end, the writer’s commentary – whatever the fuck it is – is fine. But if there’s no story, there is precisely no reason to watch. Underline that, dipshit critics.

I’m not saying movies and stories should all be popcorn escapism. But story, hook and entertainment are each important. Synecdoche prefers to refute all that; and its defenders would cite its rebuff of all storytelling as some sort of jumbled commentary on the futility of life. Gag me with a fucking spoon.

At some point, the movie needs to be consumable. Not necessarily enjoyable (Examples – Requiem for a Dream and Closer are fantastic, painful movies), but worth the audience’s time. In Requiem, it’s drug dealer verite. In Closer, it’s the futility and selfishness of love. Synecdoche has not one – NOT ONE – reason for you to invest your time and brain power.

What would make you want to sit through three hours of overindulgence, of bland acting, of stalled narrative, of a story that goes absolutely nowhere? What makes you want to sit through any of this?

What, pray tell?

So you can learn that life doesn’t follow a verse-chorus-verse plotline?

Please. Didn’t you already know?

In a way, the Winter Olympics are perfect for us all.

You know, we’re not exactly the smartest populace. We revel in nonsense (24) macho violence (American football), and slick packaging (Totinos Pizza? In a roll?) in our consumption. We cheer for tired storylines (Andy and Erin on The Office) and easy jokes (Jay Leno), really anything funneling us toward cathartic predictability.

So the Winter Olympics take care of all that.  NBC pays tons of dough for the right to shovel heaps of Americana and human interest toward nothing sports like Figure Skating and downhill skiing and speed skating that are otherwise interminably dull. And in between all of that tripe, we’ve got Exhibit-A of tongue-in-cheek Olympic predictability:

Curling. Yep.

Perhaps you’ve missed quips from several of your Facebook friends – devoting status updates to the mystical game of Curling! Either they’re excited to watch it! Or they can’t understand how it’s a sport! Let alone an Olympic sport! Or – because winter is here in the Midwest – they’re outside trying it!

Fucking please. This screams douche.

Perhaps you follow people on Twitter, who again, yearn to make fun of #Curling. They just want you to know HOW FUCKING WEIRD CURLING IS! I know, Z-O-M-motherfucking-G!

Wherever you’re at, curling is the easy joke. It’s tried, it’s true, and it’s either so weird it deserves snide scorn, or so weird it’s preternaturally cool. Even Slate doesn’t know what to make of curling. (It hates tired Olympic coverage, but curling’s probably progressive, so whatevs.)

Maybe you’re not online, and instead you subscribe to a broadsheet. And you’ve discovered heaps of local columnists, whose conglomerate employers have improbably Ok’d an expense account to subsidize stories of curling, learning to curl, and trying curling for the first time. IF ONLY I HAD A ZAMBONI…

So this is where we are. You can’t escape it. And no one wants you to. Instead, we’re forced to grin and bear the insufferable onslaught of dopes laughing at curling. But this is entertainment, and this is us, and this is the Olympics. Wait – they use brushes! How weird!

‘Scuse me. I gotta go try this. Till later.

In which OUR HERO the SNOW CAT finally DISCOVERS the winter wilderness of his new territory.

With trepidation yet SUBLIME BRAVERY, our SNOW CAT marks his territory, resembling the MAJESTIC SIBERIAN TIGER as he shuffles through dead leaves and the dirty ground.

The majestic snow cat pauses only slightly, SHARPENING CLAWS on discarded railroad ties, and PLANNING HIS STORM of the tree fort.

After traipsing through the FRIGID, BLOWING DRIFTS, OUR HERO returns to HIS CASTLE after TWENTY thrilling minutes.

Oh, right. Like you don’t come here for the thrilling cat play-by-play.

You’re expecting perhaps a recap of the Daytona 500, NBA All-Star game, or Winter Olympics? Well, check elsewhere, my friend. Those events are terrible, and I have a life. I mean, look at this cat!

Just a few quick things:

1. It felt like this one just began slipping away in the second quarter, right after Garcon’s drop and the Colts questionable offensive calls after the huge fourth-down stop.

2. That 51-yard field-goal attempt by Matt Stover in the third quarter should never have been attempted.

3. The Saints were faster and better than I gave them credit for. They executed beautifully, including the fourth-down call that was stopped, but still earned them three.

4. That pick-6 is an awful, awful way to lose the Biggest Game. Just abysmal. In a game that was tremendously well-played, to lose in that fashion really stings. A bitter, bitter pill. I’m done now.

This is going to ramble a bit. I’ll pause while you shake off your shock.

Let's get this thing started, huh?

First, I’m loathe to even churn out a Super Bowl Preview. Yeah, I’m a rational, content fan – unlike most humps – but I detest the interminable two weeks between the conference title games and the Super Bowl. I especially detest the weeklong buildup toward the game, featuring Media Day and Radio Row and the ongoing circle jerk among boring media talking heads and NFL has-beens.

Which is why I want to make special mention of the Tony Kornheiser Radio Show. You already know my unabashed love for the TK Show knows no bounds, but the cantankerous one was at his best all week, eviscerating Super Bowl media coverage. Besides a shout-out to Clear Lake, Iowa (Home town of Mister Faded Glory!) on the Day the Music Died, Tony spent the better part of each day decrying boneheaded athletes and Radio Row. I can’t do it justice, but it was phenomenal.

And, since Bob Sanders will not play in this year’s Super Bowl (and perhaps has played his last game as a Colt), we bring you this line from the inimitable Black Heart Gold Pants, celebrating his brilliance as a Hawkeye:

One, he’s Bob fucking Sanders and his play in the Aughts can really never be praised enough.  He set the tone for not just Iowa’s defense but the entire Iowa program while he was here — and even after he was gone.  In some ways, Bob is the quintessential Iowa player under Ferentz: talented kid who fell through the recruiting cracks for one reason or another but who emerged as a superior performer (in Bob’s case, good enough to not only be All-Big Ten but also NFL Defensive Player of the Year …  Bob was a beast at Iowa and I consider myself privileged to have been able to watch him play.

Amen. I had season tickets to Kinnick in 2001 and 2002 and wouldn’t trade a minute of those games, watching Bob Sanders fly around the field like a maniac. I’m sad he isn’t playing, but weirdly, I’m actually proud that this incarnation of the Colts is able to succeed without him. Onto the preview:

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I keep telling you, there's no such thing as unnecessary White Sox hatred.

Bill’s Twitter feed reports he’s driving to Miami, so in his absence his editors conveniently cherry-picked several readers’ poor imitations of Bill responses to his “Most Tortured Teams” list from last Friday. Of course, Bill chose the Cubs No. 1, and of course, that’s totally justified. You can argue, I suppose, but it’s justified. It doesn’t matter if they’re more popular than your sorry team, we Cubs fans are tortured. Believe it or not.

However, the editors chose to run only with the dissident White Sox fan mantra; the “look at me” little-brother inferiority complex that theorizes, time and again, stuff like:

“Full disclosure: I’m a White Sox fan. I’ve lived around Cubs fans my whole life, and lemme tell ya something — Cubs fans are NOT tortured. First off, they aren’t even baseball fans. They care more about being at Wrigley and remembering where they parked their BMWs.”
- JB, Munster, Ind.

Oh, Cubs fans are all rich. Right. After all, that’s why I blog! Somebody tell me, but we’re probably yuppies, too, yes?

“Only one team had a “curse” everyone knew about and tons of yuppie fans signing up to hop on the failure bandwagon. … It’s romantic to go to the North Side and drink beer with rich white people and watch crappy baseball. There is so much “history and ambiance.” It’s a great way to feel like the common man, even though you paid $80 for a bleacher ticket.”

- Brent L., Chicago

Well, thanks, Brent L. It’s true. I never heard of baseball until I followed some dreamboat preppie to Wrigley. He looked just like Zack Morris. Next thing you know, Brent L., you’ll be telling me the 2005 title didn’t have an effect on Chicago.

“What do you think hurts more, suffering along with a cast of thousands in book and song, or getting spit on while you lose? The sick thing is that I’m still scarred, and we got our title.”

- Brent L, again.

Oh, poor you. Your team won a World Series and you can’t enjoy it. You’re right, it’s the fucking Cubs’ fault.

“Plus they wear their failure like a badge of courage, as if choosing this lifestyle makes them noble.”

- Mike K., NY

You know what, Mike fucking K? We don’t. We don’t want any points for nobility. We don’t love losing. We want our team to win the World Series every year, the pennant every year, and every single game. Just like you.

Sure, it’s just as sillly of me to cherry-pick quotes from Sox fan emails, as it was of ESPN editors, who chose only these columns, all White Sox responses. All predictable and annoying.

But honestly, surely a Cardinals fan wrote in and lambasted Cubs nation? (Assuming they could read. HA.) Surely some other city feels worse than the Cubs, worse enough to bag on the North Siders. I mean, the Mariners have never won anything. Ever.

But nope, some editor selected only bitter White Sox fan emails, lumping all Cubs fans into a pot of yuppie. Well, those generalizations are hopelessly played. You wouldn’t expect me to say stuff like, “all Sox fans are meth-addicts who live in trailers outside the Cell. With no day job, it’s easy to obsess about a team that isn’t your own. And no, stealing aluminum pipes doesn’t count as a day job.”

And I would never say that.

I have only three thoughts, and hopefully you won’t see them in your reader spouting pure X-rated gibberish. Sorry for that, k?!

Speaking of K. I hate K. I hate whoever started it. I hate whoever uses it. When I see it in my IM or phone, or email – I assume the person on the other end is some affable hipster sucking a juice box, more interested in shopping for a Mac decal or taking their a Farmville quiz rather than your distracting comment. Sorry to be 90 and claim that text shorthand is ruining our language (ZOMG!!11!), but for crying out loud, you need to abbreviate OK? The O puts too much strain on your finger? Your life really moves that fast? Well FU. & D.

So Comcast is changing its name. Wait for it. No, seriously, wait for it.

Xfinity.

No, seriously. Xfinity. ECKS-FINITY.

Outstanding. (H/T, Gizmodo.)

You know all those spoofs of corporate life, all those satirical moments in The Office, In Good Company, Newsradio, 30 Rock, Arrested Development, Better Off Ted, each installment of corporate American parody?

You do? Good, ’cause no subtle or overt commentary has ever manifested itself in the real world quite like this. Comcast’s selection of the name “Xfinity” as its new brand. What did that take, six bland focus groups multiplied by seven ad-hoc committees and divided by three targeted surveymonkeys?

“The rest of you start writers thinking up a name for this funky cable company; I dunno, something along the line of say… X-Finity, only more proactive.”

“So, X-Finity OK with everyone?”

(Simpsons)

Well done, Comcast. Well done.

And finally, is there anything worse than opening iTunes and having it inform you there’s a new version? And you’re like, Fantastic, I just wanted to update my podcasts and I totally had an extra 48 minutes. Thanks, Apple!

Man, we’re grumpy with this new leaf we’ve turned over. Your Colts preview drops tomorrow. LIKE A BOMB.

Sophie hates your company's new name.

for those of you with reader. carry on.

for all of you with google reader. back to cat fotos soon.

See, we’ve also doubled our fun, just like the Oscars!

I should point out that I haven’t seen a flick in the theater since Terminator Salvation, and even with the bulge in nominations for the Academy’s Best Picture, T4 wasn’t making the cut.

Anyway, even though I saw only Adventureland, (500) Days of Summer, and T4 in 2009 (meh, liked, bleah, respectively), that doesn’t preclude me from instinctively realizing which of the nominees is good, and which is evil.

Isn’t that one of the sacred pillars of the Internet? Instead of courteous insight, the medium allows us to baselessly criticize just because we can. Straight from mom’s basement, sometimes. And with cursing. Excuse me. With fucking cursing. That’s better. Let’s get started.

Avatar. I don’t get it. I don’t get you people, and I don’t get blue people. (Ha.) Not only did each and every CGI-filled preview look absolutely retarded, but the entire movie is practically a caricature of every ambitious sci-fi artificial-intel piece that anyone’s ever done (which in turn makes the title kind of genius).

But quite honestly, how much money must a studio invest in any film that it resorts to bombarding the media with bogus “highest-grossing-movie-ever” stories? What? Why, yes, I do have an open mind. Why?

(See, this is fun.)

The Blind Side. Spoiler Alert: The story is terrible, contrived, and phony, and basically a wink and nod from Michael Lewis to his buddy Sean Tuohy (read the acknowledgements!), who circumvented all high school and university standards to ensure underprivileged Michael Oher played for his alma mater, Ole Miss. Lewis, for his part, does his best to excuse all behavior without the slightest illusion of objectivity or even-handedness. (How dare these NCAA bureaucrats impart learning standards on poor, uncultured football players!) The story is as sleazy as college athletics as a whole. No wonder it’s a perfect sudser.

District 9. I can’t hear the words “Peter Jackson” without remembering his beyond-indulgent 765-minute dinosaur fight scene in the atrocious King Kong, and my ritual suicide it nearly inspired. Next!

An Education. You know, Pearl Jam has a great song called Education, which should actually have been included as track 3 on Binaural instead of counterpart Evacuation. You often wonder how the better songs sometimes don’t make it out of the same track session.

The Hurt Locker. You left your bookbag on the hook … you adorned me with goofy Jonas Brothers stickers … and instead of locking me fully, you set the combination to slide right open … you scratched the Anarchy symbol into the paint … and your socks on the floor smell … oh the pain (sniffle)

I’ll wait for you to fully realize how poor that joke is.

Go on.

We good? Good.

Inglorious Bastards. I spelled the title correctly, because that’s where we’re headed. Correct spelling, lack of abbreviations, and proper grammar are becoming more rebellious than – ZOMG – slang!!11! Just like tattoos. Ten years ago you got a tattoo to break from the crowd. Now, you’re more original if your skin is clean. Also, Quentin Tarantino sucks.

Precious. I’m either running out of venom, or I loved this adorable little film. (See, I told you 10 nominations was too much.)

A Serious Man. Though I’m more miss than hit with the Coen Brothers (I love No Country, hate Fargo, and I never fell for The Big Lebowski), I wanted to see this movie. Someone described it as similar to Barton Fink, which ruined it for me, because I’ve queued up Barton Fink nearly ten times and never made it past minute 20. But, hey, those 20 minutes …. uh, they’re boring!

Up. Oh, those scamps from Pixar!

Up in the Air. I actually read this book, by Walter Kirn, and it’s fairly great, even though it runs out of steam toward the end. The hook is awesome and the lead character connects, which makes me certain the story, structure, and finished product here will totally disappoint me. I know, you’re shocked.