The Paostian Deal

SPOILERS.

WHAT'S HOT: James McAvoy. Move over Tobey Maguire, there's a new hot dork in town. In Narnia 1 James was cute as Mr Tumnus, the perv goat guy. Now he's cuter even with only two legs. Plus he plays with guns now and those lovely blue eyes paired with leather jackets are the best offset for the lack of a six-pack. But now that I think about it, I was so busy staring at his eyes that I forgot to check if he can act or not...

HOT: Wanted's script. While the sufficiently linear presentation had a few twists obvious to neurotic minds further-corrupted-by daily crime news and personal goals to get back at bullies in high school, the story did make up for with littered surprises, subtle humor and nice tracking.
NOT: Morgan Freeman. I think he mistook Wanted for another Almighty installment.

HOT: The positioning of gore. Think of Wanted as a Sesame Street version of Kill Bill: You know exactly when skulls will explode and blood will cover the screen and so you can synch your puke reflexes.
NOT: The gore. You people are sick.

HOT: Amazingly, Angelina. On her first scene I gasp-whispered, My gawd Nicole Richie has an actual movie? A few minutes later, Lara Croft was grinning with a gun with a tablet PC attached to it then I knew I wasn't in Neptune. In this flick Jolie didn't act. She strutted for 2 hours simply to let the world know that she's still in control. Even the fag who kept whining about why he hates aisle seats was wowed. And no wonder she went anorexic: Plus-plus-size women can't play sandwich with trucks and tunnel roofs. CG tricks or no.
NOT: Me missing a step at a 7-11 branch and almost pulling a Miriam Quiambao in front of bystanders. I think I was emulating Fox's chin-up walk and forgot I wasn't yet an expert stair strutter...

HOT: The red carpet-vibe at Shangri-la's Cineplex. In cinemas like this you don't go to the movies to watch films. You wait until everybody gets in, then PARADE yourself to the middle row just before the lights go off. Not bad for a minute of celebrity-hood, on a weekly basis.
NOT: Sitting next to a latecomer colegiala who moronically knows nothing except the words, "Euww raaats, grosssssss!"

HOT: The Calayans' new billboard along EDSA-Guadalupe. It's a quarter pounder yum-burger with lotsa cream cheeeeez.
NOT: A gazillion Koreans jogging along EDSA at 1AM. I'm not kidding with gazillion. A surprise "EDSA Quatro" can be an adventure for the virginal but the thought of it wasn't exactly thrilling especially when I'd already been sweating in my spare top because of the tropics. A revolution of fair-skin people IN WHITE jogging uniform is a whole other story.

HOT: Payday.
NOT: 17 days before the next.

HOT: Morgan Freeman saying, "Oh, crap".
NOT: Yeah, the gore. Huge sickleS through an old lady's chest? Sick, sick, sick!

HOT: The Loom. "Destiny chose you". "It's in your blood". "Control your fate or let it control you..."
NOT: Yeah keep encouraging closet serial killers and junior maniacs, you idiots.


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BTW this is a tribute to the "film" a torrent of which I'm saving for a fatally blank Sunday afternoon: Hottie and the Nottie. I had planned to give it a shot but on my way to the cinemas I was distracted by tummies doing somersaults at the Philippine Belly Dance Festival and so yeah Paris Hilton--correction: Pares Hilton, according to a tongue-wag in an MRT line--is still a runner-up in the Actual Talent department. Pares Hilton. The line was so stagnant I thought somebody had begun selling "rice value meals" to resist insanity.

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Speaking of dorks: Shia LaBeouf leads an action flick? Wow. The male Anne Hathaway.

This is the problem with making a name in TV first: You end up turning the cinema into an insanely oversized boobtube and annoying the rest of the animal kingdom. And this is the problem with making a face in TV first: Your fans will notice even the micro-est of drops of botox. Or, in this case, the lack of it: Made Of Honor. For balance in the cosmos I understand the need for a "guy version" of My Best Friend's Wedding and the need to mock Cloverfield with an as-crazy-slash-stupid cinematography in a mushfest; but how Patrick Dempsey still plans to continue deluding himself that he's a movie actor is now beyond me. Watch the flick if you want to hear Oasis in a sunny Scotland slideshow.

I haven’t had a decent sleep since yesterday morning. And it’s all because of my stupidity, a child-traumatized man and The Happening.

The film was good. So good that it forced me to pretend to be asleep all night. Why and how I let myself be fooled into watching again something very disturbing—after my icky point-of-trauma in the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead—is beyond me. I should’ve known better than to expect wonderful things from free premiere tickets.

When bizarre suicides began happening in a Philadelphia park one cloudy day, America suspected terrorists had unleashed shitty airborne virus to drive humans to want cover pictures on tabloids and Ripley’s Yearbook in unthinkable ways: car keys to the eyes, strap-less bungee jumping, Lawn-mow Me Over, My Temple Needs A Bullet Now and Time To Feed My Arms To The Lions. Yet science instructor Elliot Moore (Mark Wahlberg), despite his perfectly systematic methodical thinking, soon realized there’s no solving it and even running away from this unfathomable happening isn’t gonna save anybody. Was it the trees? Was it the hot dogs? Was it the old couple who love hot dogs? Or was it that thing on her head trying hard to pass as her hair? So bothered Elliot’s wife Alma (Zooey Deschanel)’s—and everybody’s—head while ransacking a model house-&-lot unit. The clock ticked, a widow with anger management issues slapped cookie lover Jess (Ashlyn Sanchez)’s little hand, yet everyone in and everyone watching the silver screen was left clueless of the shit until the last cloud rolled in the closing credits. Shivering!

What wasn’t thrilling, however, was Mark’s performance. He knew he was acting, but the moviegoers needed not to. All his moves were almost that predictable, when he’s no longer shooting undies ads for Calvin Klein. Zooey deserved more claps, even including the minute scenes where she looked like Shannen Doherty whose effectively pretentious acting I miss.

SPOILER. Now of all the things, why did Shyamalan have to use trees and wind? Why turn something so-everywhere into something so scary? People have it hard already with global warming and all—now they have to worry about backyard grass having genius IQs too? Then again I would have walked out of the theater had he used huge rats with bloody fangs and red contacts…

And how come dogs never get infected with these mind-messing viruses, when they too piss on plants? More importantly, why did they have to use the granny-distorted old doll tandem?? It’s always so creepy. And girly. Old-girly!

Yet, on the other hand, M. Night could very well be offering just another explanation on suicides, notwithstanding how silent or gory victims commit the already-disturbing act. Hello, it kinda like happens everyday. Break-ups? Bankruptcy? WAISTLINES OVER 36? Duh.

The Happening is an enjoyably absorbing film, if you’re into that whole Armageddon-paranoia thing. Plus it has a better ending than Signs. It was quick, strangely to-the-point and leaves one helluva pair of eye bags to match that impossibly fast heart rate. Except if you’re me.

I grew so paranoid I wanted to sleep over at the driver friend’s house. Then I remembered his girlfriend was in the passenger seat. So I had to resort to my second best diversion: flirting with the neighbor.

His name is Ariel. He’s taller than I, dark and lean. Blah, blah, blah. Last words before moving on with the night? “It’s happening.”

4PM. Holiday. Phone goes off. Steam dream with Jonathan Rhys Meyers gets cut.

Liver Lady: (sic) Woi! Msta? No blita? Hay holiday nga ngyn my psk nmn mya. Kw, CHILAX ka lng ata ngyn e.Ingats!

Lost In Translation: (gets a pen and paper and a dictionary and a thesaurus)

...

Lost In Translation: Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: (sic) Gagi ka tlga!Praning!Msta?

LIT (sees "Woi!"): Chinese Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: ...

LIT: "Chilax"? Is this an infotxt on bubble gum?

Liver Lady: (sic) Hay nako ewn ko seo ___!Msta nb?Nonang blta seo ha?

LIT (sees "seo"): Colegiala Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: Wah

LIT: Crybaby Bob Marley?

Liver Lady: ...

LIT (goes back to "chilax"): OMG. Did we travel back to 1995, and I'm being recruited to Tropical Depression?!

Liver Lady: I HATE U.

LIT: Look, my hair's forming dreads on its own!

And this one's for a lady named Joan, ray of sunshine by day, hitman by night.

If there's one thing sadder than loneliness, it's loneliness because you're dateless. Yes, if it takes you all day figuring out when you last went out on one, chances are you're romantic life is lagging and you're days away from—yeah—a celibate introvert-hermit's life. Extreme, but fairly probable. But then you wonder, after such a dating dry spell, how in creation can you get back in the game?

Conviction is the best, so telling yourself that you want back in and believing that you want back in can get you on your feet. Now think back a little: Why did I go “on-leave” from dating in the first place? Was it exhausting? Was it too much of a hassle? Did I get fed up with all the odd dates? At the same time, ask: What do I want this time? Am I looking for a long-term partner, or a simple... snack buddy? Do I need to re-tune my attitude towards dating and stop demanding for perfection? Speaking of which, the “perfect date” is a myth. So if you're going to be as picky and judgmental as you previously were, then you might as well get yourself a Stepford date.

Meanwhile, if you are looking for a long-term partner, it is best to live by the saying, “Patience is a virtue.” Avoid rushing things if only to find the “perfect guy or the girl” you'll exchange vows with. On the contrary, don't wait too long, either. As they say, time lengthens the minutes when you wait. When you wait, you get bored. When you get bored, it's back to Tables For One. Be clear on what you're looking for in a date, but keep an open mind. Like in a bazaar, great things sometimes come in hidden, unexpected places. Be willing to take risks.

Talking about time, it's also good if you set time for dating. You go to work, you shop for clothes, you pay bills, you argue with your credit card collector and you find time to go on a date. Exert effort. Ask your friends if they know someone whom you can go out with. Ask about nice date spots. Hear about their recent positive experiences in dating and let it encourage you more. Yet don't overdo it—you don't want to stress yourself out, especially because you've been away from the dating scene and the industry may have new regulations. Do not oblige yourself. Take it easy. Enjoy meeting new people. Enjoy learning more about old acquaintances. Enjoy the quest! Prepare for the icebergs that still lie ahead, but more importantly, anticipate better, richer experiences.

This is for a gal named Shella, who loves getting up at 4AM.

It can be a most exciting thing to do, but no one’s ever really assured of a fantastic ending in this Adventurer's pastime-slash-Desperado's saving grace: blind dating.

Scarier, you risk spending at least two hours with a stranger, 107 minutes of which could spell a-w-k-w-a-r-d. Come on, both of you can only turn your head sideways so many times before finally snapping it off because of boredom. Now how about picking a place littered with common-interest things for the, dare I be politically correct, first meeting? Like a tasteful snack bar. Everybody loves munching. Plus, that will ensure a long list of things to talk about after the “Where were you earlier?” queue to a possible “Ah, I see. I don't know that place.” Fine dining can wait until your third or fifth night out… or in.

Or maybe try a bowling alley: You can talk and have wholesome-interactive fun at the same time. The movies can wait for next couple of weeks, so can that other interactive fun, if you’re both into the “liberated” style of things. Guys, of course you will shoulder the bills, but if the “modern” ladies offer some bucks because they had a great time—they wouldn't if they didn't—crack something like, “Thanks, but you're buying me coffee next time.” Corny, yes, and you will mean it as a joke, funny man, but it could segue to an invite to a second date. Or bad review from the girlfriends.

Be sure to have the givens: Comfy outfit a.k.a. your style a.k.a. not too flashy, not too uptight; smarts a.k.a. your own personality and open-mindedness; budget a.k.a. emergency cab fare. Hey, you never know when a flat tire could happen.

To save yourself from a tragic dismay, you can expect the proverbial worst from that other person whom you've never met—but why do that? Instead, go the other way and anticipate a very nice time with that person who, after all, is just as blind as you are in that hook-up. Focus on what you have in common. For starters ask about, compare notes about or simply verbally abuse the mediator friend that fixed you up, but you should only do as much. You are there to see each other, and the whole point of it is to try find someone who you can be with in the coming days or weeks—or years—so do just that. Talk about safe but interesting, familiar but non-invasive things: like how her day was and how she felt about it, or what he loves most about his job and how he plans to improve his craft, or how the world will be a more beautiful place without Sarah Geronimo in it. Then, if you want to, let your opinion on their stories ease into the conversation. Offer compliments, but do not patronize because it's obvious and, well, lame. Dwell on the lighter side of life, where you as persons are sure to find common interests. Then let the chat progress. Never try too hard. Simply enjoy it. Before you know it, you'd have shared your third banana split or have tied at 16 strikes each.

It's been about 20 hours and I still reek with embarrassment.

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Officemate 1: Have you seen the layout? The copy needs checking.

MVP: No. But it's 5PM. Weren't you supposed to submit to the Creatives four hours ago?

Officemate 1: There are two versions. I'm goin' for a smoke.

Officemate 2: Hey could you help me with this letter to my client ? I want it to sound super smart.

MVP: Where's the template we did last week? (to Officemate 3) Could you throw me that phone directory? ... Thanks.

Officemate 2: Oh this letter is a special one. I want that dimwit to be wowed by my writing skills...

MVP (on the phone): Yes--Public Relations, please. (to Officemate 2) Two minutes.

Officemate 4: Here you go--and I'm sorry.

MVP: What? How can you decline my budget request--I filed this ages ago! FUCK! (to Officemate 2) ONE MINUTE!

Officemate 4: Admin says it's too big for an average project. And the president just left...

MVP: FUCK! I need this on Wednesday! FUCK! (To phone) Yeah, hi, Paolo is it? So is she there yet?

Yummy voice: I'm sorry, but she hasn't returned yet from the meeting. I'm the only one here in our department right now. Would you like to leave another message?

MVP (in a half-trance): Huh? Oh, okay, uh, can I just send the signed proposal letter then? Our office closes in half-an-hour. If would just give me the FUCKS number...

Yummy voice: I'm sorry--wha--

MVP: FAX number--I need the FAX number. Where I can send... the, ahem, letter.

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Grace under pressure. Never an easy thing to keep. Especially with a rejected budget proposal.

Regardless, the Sex and the City Movie deserves a fuckin’ A, if at least for letting the still-craving fans hear once again Carrie’s jokes, Miranda’s convictions, Charlotte’s hopes, Samantha’s moans and the now-classic SATC music theme. Not to mention, basking again in the trademark portrayals of Sarah Jessica Parker, Cynthia Nixon, Kim Cattrall and Kristin Davis as New Yorkers—women—happily wrestling life and love. It’s like coming home from a surprise lunch with your boss and his museum-lover wife. Ah-ma-a-a-a-zing wedding and New Year’s Eve scenes! More than any forecasted blockbuster ratings, the movie adaptation is one nostalgic, fabulously grand gift for loyalists of the phenomenal HBO series that ended four years ago.

Which was, a bit unfortunately, scarily obvious in the reels. Not too idiotic not to ask, but can people really age that much in four years? The girls are forever lovable, but if not for the Speed Racer-ly taste in set design—hi there, theeeese are colors—and mouth-watering pocket-humbling clothes, one could mistake it for "Desperate Grannies The Movie".

Oh did I say mouth-watering clothes? I meant mouth-watering pocket-humbling, extravagantly beautiful, delectably gorgeous, I-am-so-inspired-please-throw-Hannah-Montana-to-a-wall shit definitive of what Sex and the City is all about: fashion, love life, and sex. Even the “ladies” Stanford Blatch (Willie Garson) and Anthony Marantino (Mario Cantone) looked expensively cute in the wedding scenes. So the fashion was there, and the sex in MTRCB’s undersea-volcano vaults. Re-read about the idiocy. That leaves us with SATC’s ulti-meat: the fab four’s lives as stuck-in-relationships women.

For straight men, alien geeks, chastity belt champions and other non-SATC followers, the movie was just another 2 free hours. The cult members, on the other hand, are the toughest crowd to please. For one thing, they’re used to the faster-paced nature of the TV version, hence the prolonged and lengthened—redundant for emphasis—progress of the movie's story. The core conflict in the plot, Carrie and Big (Chris Noth)’s wedding, was already presented in the first 30 minutes. What happened in the next 90 was just a series of lengthy in-betweens for nothing else but delaying the apparent movie ending. It's SATC's style to cut in on Carrie's dilemmas with the other three leads' character quests, yet apparently you can only stretch things so much in the silver screen. Maybe the writers thought the flick will run for only 20 minutes? SATC historians don't mind indulging in such longevity, but the straight men, alien geeks, chastity belt champions and other non-SATC devotees surely found it, I’m sorry, boring. The writers could’ve given Stanny more exposure than Carrie’s new assistant Louise (Jennifer Hudson) who didn’t really beef up the story aside from her big eyes and bigger boobs. More pink humor could’ve salvaged the film’s dull moments. BUT STILL:

A fuckin’ A to Michal Patrick King. And a fuckin’ AAA to the girls.

Now fuckin' nuke MTRCB.

Ridiculous. Utterly, immensely, gravely ridiculous. I am willing to forever tolerate her hopeless case of schizophrenia, but to murder something I waited for so long, something I love like spaghetti Bolognese on top on a 36-incher pizza, something worth far more than some teeny bopper’s attempt at sexiness-by-appearing-like-a-moldy-piece-of-bread… I don’t think I can forgive this country this time.

Case of ramble: the much-awaited movie release of the phenomenal Sex and the City. Which should have been renamed to "Cuts and the City"—or, plainly, "Dimwits and the City"—when finally shown here in Manila. With a fourth of the flick barbarically axed from the entire thing, the viewers deserve a 30% refund from their tickets—the 5% is for being fooled into watching a crappily mal-reedited film. Grr.

Morons at the Movie and Television Review and Classification Board should be sacked. And I don’t care if the entire company shuts down because of that. In fact it’d do us a huge, huge favor if that happens too. Because cinemas can stop pretending to screen moviegoers—which they most clearly suck at, at least to the Board’s blind eyes. If they don’t want kids, nuns, hormonal teens and what-have-you to watch “censored” stuff in movies, then by all means park a tank by the entrance and blast all kids, nuns, hormonal non-virgin teens and lewd-looking etceteras that even looks at movie posters with the letters S, E, X.

Stupid. Stoopid, stupid!

That I can pull off strutting in colored pants all over the metro, and you can't? Stop staring. You're not cute.