John Woo is Not Dead

I was a very big fan of John Woo, especially of his early films that featured — among other things — Chow Yun Fat, two guns and gazillions of well-timed doves.

As far as I was concerned, John Woo was king.

Tsui Hark was whimsical, Wu Jing produced crap piled on crap and Wong Kar-wai was difficult.  And then there was John Woo.

He introduced Hong Kong — and the world at large — to the bombastic portrayal of brotherhood, loyalty and righteousness in the midst of gun battles and triad massacres.  It was John Woo who gave us the wounded hero — the man who was flawed but every bit conscientious and worth rooting for.

With Chow Yun Fat, Woo built an arsenal of films that will never be surpassed.  No film of the triad genre can dispute the fact that without Woo there IS no genre.

It was practically Woo or bust.

Then came Hollywood, with its craptastic movies that somehow lured the great John Woo in.  I sort of think it was a trap.  If they couldn’t make films to surpass Woo’s, they would destroy him.

And destroy him they did, with a string of commercially passable but ultimately brain dead films that showed no signs of his genius.

But then here comes Red Cliff, and all is well again.

The man is alive so freaking hallelujah let’s celebrate!

Red Cliff and its sequel show that the master is back, with its scenic shots and the undeniable homoerotic undertones between Zhou Yu and Zhu Ge Liang (Kong Ming).  

It would be an understatement to say that I love the movie.

From start to finish, both movies had me glued to my seat.  It was like watching a storybook unveil before your very eyes.  Or maybe it’s like having the Romance of the Three Kingdoms actually unfold as you watch.  The acting was superb, the writing topnotch and the direction?

Sheer genius.

The doves are still there, but the guns are replaced by blazing molotov prototypes and stolen arrows.  The action scenes are perfectly choreographed, the dramatic ones just as moving.  

The final, climactic battle was so arresting that I didn’t dare move an inch for the rest of the movie.  

Standing over Red Cliff, watching the piles of dead soldiers strewn across the land, Zhou Yu remorsefully said, “None of us are victorious”.

But you are wrong, sir, with all due respect.

This is a victory.  

John Woo’s still a winner.

A Word with George Michael Bluth

Dear Michael Cera,

I love you.  I’ve watched nearly every movie you’ve starred in, and I fully intend to watch the ones I’ve missed.  I think you’re a fine actor, especially when you’re bumbling and stuttering like some poor geeky idiot.

But let’s be fair.  You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have George Michael Bluth, with his incestuous designs on Cousin Maeby and the rather unfortunate Star Wars home video.

So what’s this I hear that you’re holding out on the planned Arrested Development movie?  Is there something better on the horizon that’s keeping you from committing to the Bluth Family?

The frozen banana stand just won’t be same without you, George Michael, so what do you say you get on the project now before I shove the cornballer up your ass?

Much thanks,

Miss Choi

**PS: Pop-pop Jeffrey Tambor has promised that Cera will join the cast for the movie.  Here’s to hoping it’s true.

Remember, Remember

“In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia.” ~ Milan Kundera

I have this weird thing for memories.

These images of our past, the way we see them in our heads — they’re never exactly the way we picture them to be.

Over time, as we replay the events of our lives, things change.  We remember things and people not as they were; we paint and repaint, build and rebuild the most minuscule of details, slowly altering what was.  It’s a funny little inescapable human trait.  We remember things the way we want to, without any conscious effort or evident afterthought.

It’s not as if we’re forcibly rearranging details; with every remembrance, however, we somehow see things differently, clouded as they are with emotions and nostalgia.

In Riley Yip’s Metade Fumaca, the protagonist Roy returns to Hong Kong after decades of exile in Brazil.  He weaves a fantastic account of his life as a triad member, respected and feared throughout Hong Kong.  His captive audience, the fatherless Smokey, easily believes this tale of heroism and valour, falling for every inch of Roy’s story.

In the end, it turns out that much of Roy’s story — told stylistically in flashbacks — were shades more interesting than what actually transpired.  Far from a famed goon, Roy was nothing — a spineless bastard who sailed for Brazil after a falling-out with his mob boss.

But it’s not Roy’s duplicity that matters, if you can call it duplicity at all.

After living in Brazil for decades, Roy ventures back to Hong Kong, despite this being the setting of his failed youth.  He returns not for another shot at glory.  Despite his tall tales, Roy is resigned to his fate as a nobody.

Instead, he returns because his memory is failing, and the only thing worth remembering in his life is fast fading.

He returns because he needs to see her, a beautiful woman he met at a dance club right before he escapes to Brazil.  He doesn’t know her name, just her likeness.  With his memory slipping away, all he has left is a faded drawing and her half-smoked cigarette.

Forced to admit his past to Smokey, Roy bitterly laments his inability to retain the one thing he holds dear: the memory of her.  Even the drawing is fading, signaling his inability to retain even his stylized version of who or what she was.

Perhaps, as with his other memories, the mysterious woman is not as beautiful as Roy remembers.  The events that transpired between them — the dance and the conversation — might not have been as magical as he believed.

But as the sunset of his mind approaches and all that he holds dear is washed away, every detail is beautiful, perfect and worth remembering.

Who’s the Happy Fan Girl?

I am! I am!

happy fan girl I am

Got this off some guy on eBay for much less than it costs brand new. It looks good save for some creases on the bottom of the box. Major nega points for you, Mr. Ex-Owner.

Still it’s mine and I’m glad and I can just do my best to shut out the creases on the box and pretend it’s all good.

I’ll shut up now.

Pacman at the Movies

After finally completing Series 4 of the revived Doctor Who and sniveling over the fate of Donna, I popped the DVD out and switched to local channel, GMA7. The gods must love me, for what should I find but a showing of the internationally-acclaimed movie Anak ni Kumander starring Pinoy demi-god, Manny Pacquiao.

Amidst cries of “did we just dumb down?” from my sister, I stopped laughing long enough to jot this particularly moving scene here, so that you may all experience it as I did.

Enjoy.

Manny: Bukas, ihahatid ko na kayo sa bayan.
Ara: Hindi. Mas ligtas kami dito.
Manny: Parang may gusto kang ipahiwatig.
Ara: Alam mo, kumander, may isang bulaklak na hindi nasasamyo ng isang bubuyog. Hahayaan mo bang malanta na lang ang bulaklak na ito?

She then stares at the hotness that is topless Mr. Pacquiao and they proceed — how shall I put this delicately? — to suck face.

End scene.

*Bonus: There’s one scene where Efren Reyes, Jr. cries bitterly in Roi Vinzon’s arms, crying, “binaboy niya ko”. Now that’s entertainment.

Chala! Head Chala!

Okay, so I was never officially a Dragonball fan.

The only reason I somehow saw parts of it was because it preceded Ranma 1/2 every Sunday, which was pretty much my favorite anime back in high school. I was a big, big, big anime geek back when it wasn’t cool to be more than ten years old and still watch “cartoons”, so I sort of got lumped into this nerdy, unpopular category with a bunch of guys who knew little about girls and even less about personal hygiene.

Which is another matter entirely.

I did have female friends, though we got along primarily because we had no one else (I sort of think — sorry!). For certain nerdtastic interests of mine, therefore, I had to resort to my gang of unlikely male chums.

This is going nowhere, unless I somehow remember what it was that brought about this onslaught of high school memories.

Ah yes, the Dragonball movie, which I had sworn to ignore and not — at all costs — watch.

I never liked the anime (though I still get LSS every time I hear the ending theme — yes, I can somehow sing it, wrong lyrics and all) but I do know a lot about it, surprisingly. For some reason, I know the major arcs, villains and characters, though how I don’t exactly know.

has to be the bloody accent. or the necktie.

Back to the movie. I didn’t even want to watch it so I can make fun of it. I wasn’t interested in it at all. Yes, it has Chow Yun Fat, who was my greatest triad movie love for the looongest time, but that isn’t even enough to get me interested.

Now, though, I’m itching to get into a theater and watch the goddamn movie. See, all this time I thought the guy playing Piccolo was James Marsden; turns out it’s the love of my life and erstwhile Spike of Buffy the Vampire Slayer — James Marsters.

Yes, I need to get my eyes checked.

Anyway, thanks to a recent Buffy redux, I started googling everything related to Mr. Marsters and somehow realized my goof. In time, no less, as the movie won’t be shown till April this year.

So yes, he will be bright green and ugly, but that’s still James fucking Marsters, man, and I’ll drool over him whether he’s hot or not. Weird but true. Or not entirely weird. Or just plain weird.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of insane.

So if any of you are Dragonball freaks, or James Marsters freaks, or — this is a leap in logic, but quite possible — both, drop me a line and let’s go watch this thing! See you April, kids!

Attack of the Clones

I love Blair Waldorf.

That’s not just a fact; I’m making a declaration. This is my heartfelt commitment to the adorable Miss Waldorf.

Given an opportunity, I would, of course, gladly trade places with her. I want her pretty, bouncy hair; her wardrobe; her phone; and, well, her money, of course.

That said, there’s a pretty huge difference between “wanting to look like her” and “actually doing something to look like her”. It’s a big gap; be careful not to fall into chasm people.

At first I thought Blair’s headband was pretty cute. I told my sister I would buy one just because. Ever the fashion expert, my sister agilely rolled her eyes to somewhere in the back of her head, smirked and pretty much told me to forget it. Look around, she said, and you’ll realize why you really shouldn’t buy those headbands.

And so look I did.

I found soon enough (after acting like Jane Goodall in a city of apes) that the new sartorial head gear of choice was none other than the ubiquitous “Blairband”. Please do not shoot me; I had nothing to do with that lame-ass semi-brain-dead moniker. Anyway, as you may have figured out by now, a “Blairband” is a cross between “Blair” and “headband”. No, it is not half-human. Yes, it is a headband that resembles the ones Blair wears in most of Gossip Girl.

It wouldn’t be as bad if people used these headbands as they normally would (i.e. push all the hair back and away from the face). Unfortunately, these people wear the “Blairbands” in a way that imitates Blair to a perfect B. With Blair, though, pretty tendrils fall gracefully and complement the poor little rich girl’s attractive face.

On the people I see around me, not so much.

What I’m about to say is nasty, as always, but quite honest.

People, why on God’s green earth would you ever assume that just because something looks good on an actor, it’ll look just as good on you? Actors have make-up artists and designers at their beck and call. No frame will be shot until the actor looks perfect. Perfect.

You, sitting on that jeepney with the wind breaking up your face — you don’t have a make-up artist. There’s no hairstylist to brush away those tendrils from your face and keep them in place. You can buy “Blairbands” and use them daily, but you’ll never look like Blair. Read my lips, baby:

Dream on.

The same goes for people who wear trench coats in this country.

This is a tropical country. You can pray for global warming to turn this country into a snow-covered arctic zone, but until then you have no business wearing Neo (or Trinity) clothes.

And yes, your futile attempts at looking like Wu Chun or some Korean guy-du-jour is pathetic. Scarves are not for men, no matter what those skinny Taiwanese/Korean/Japanese people say. You don’t look hot. You look gay.

And oh, you might want to lose the F4 hairdo, too.

That’s just so five years ago.

Loser.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

So yes, this is late.

I never made it to the actual screening, thanks to a flurry of unexplainable incidents. Or maybe they’re explainable, I just sort of don’t remember them. I have amnesia.

Anyway, I finally got to watch 21, the movie that stars my beloved boytoy-to-be, Jim Sturgess, and the perpetual villain, Kevin Spacey.

Not that I care about Kevin Spacey at all. Yes, he was in Superman. Yes, he’s gay. Boooring.

I’m only watching 21 because of my darling Jim.

Honestly, the movie is barely watchable, considering the ginormous gaps in story-telling. Kate Bosworth’s character is particularly unmoving; I have no idea why she even agreed to do the film with such a flimsy part. Oh wait, I know. It was probably the promise of hot kisses and a steamy love scene with the aforementioned Mr. Sturgess that had her sign the dotted line.

But seriously, I was disappointed because I really thought it would be a good movie. The premise was interesting: kid joins card counters in their Vegas exploits to earn enough money for Harvard Med, gets screwed over by his mentor, takes revenge, gets screwed over by someone else and bangs token hot girl. The end.

Unfortunately, everyone in the movie had cookie-cutter roles. Even Kevin Spacey did little more than snarl and act smarmy throughout the film. Hard to do anything more than that, really, given the constricted space his cardboard bad guy is given.

Jim’s still good with the wide-eyed nice guy schtick, but his transformation to vindictive bad boy seemed a little force. The transition was far from smooth, and viewers are left scratching their heads. His performance was still engaging, though, because he is Jim Sturgess, and I will watch nearly anything that has him in it.

Yes, even porn.

As long as it has Jim, I’ll watch it. I might not like it, but I’ll drool over him predictably. I might slip on my own saliva and die, but at least the last thing I see is Jim.

So should you watch 21? I don’t know. I don’t care.

I want Jiiim.

Pinoy Klasiks

Just today, Inquirer Sunday published an article listing the most memorable lines in Philippine cinema. Sadly, not on the list is a classic line from the cinematic gem, Angelito San Miguel at ang mga Batang City Jail:

“Sa sobrang pagmamahal mo sa mga materyal na bagay, nakalimutan mo nang mahalin ang kapwa mo tao! Tandaan mo! Tao ang minamahal, hindi materyal na bagay!” ~ Angelito San Miguel (Raymart Santiago)

How eloquent. Why anyone would say that to Roy Vinzon is beyond me.

Anybody who knows me should know that I’m a huge fan of Pinoy movies. I love it all: horror, drama, action, comedy. I even watch the cheap “sexy” films that show up on PBO late at night. They never fail to entertain me, those bold stars. You can barely identify the starlets, let alone figure out the plot with all those cuts (yes, they do not show anything remotely “bold” even when it’s past midnight). It’s just funny, watching them strut around in whatever passes for acting in these pito-pito parts. Plus the dialog is unbelievably laugh-a-minute, particularly when the “actors” fumble through their lines.

And oh, not one of those starlets can be considered sexy at all. Half the time, I stare at the television screen thinking about what the hell the director had in mind when he filled his cast. I can’t exactly explain it, but these wannabes contort themselves into whatever sexy pose seems to appeal to them (or the director), all the while with their ginormous pusons hanging out for all to see.

Great.

Anyway, I also watch tons of action films, particularly those that feature my favorite action star, Ronnie Rickets, who is, by the way, not the brother of Mariz Ricketts. Sometimes I assume Mariz married Ronnie just so she could have a last name. But no, I was actually kidding. My favorite actor is Derek Dee. NOT.

I love Robin Padilla.

That’s actually true. I have a humongous, unforgivable crush on Robin Padilla, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I also like watching movies starring my all time idol, Sharon Cuneta. Yes, that means I’m a closet Sharonian no more. Boo-yah! Of course that doesn’t mean I liked watching the horror that was the Sharon-Richard (Gomez, not Gutierrez) shower scene. No. No. No.

Moving on.

I like comedies, too, especially those that star Joey de Leon. I’m a big fan of his, and I can’t tell you just how many times I’ve seen “She-Man”. I love that movie, most probably because it includes a gay Joonee Gamboa. And oh, I love “Petrang Kabayo”, too. I can even sing the theme song, given the right “motivating” circumstances.

Going back to that gem of a movie, Angelito San Miguel. It was fun watching a young Raymart act all angsty and serious. His shift from happy to angsty to torn and weepy in seconds left me speechless. No actor can possibly convey such a diverse range of emotions in a split second. Raymart is God’s gift to Pinoy cinema. *cue tears*

Not at all overacting was Keempee de Leon. I must admit I had a big big crush on Keempee back then; I was a big fan of the Keempee-Carmina love team. Go ahead, gag. At least I didn’t go for the Sheryl-Romnick barf fest.

Before I get distracted again, I just have to say that the movie’s “Most Unnecessary Yet Still Highly Entertaining” award goes to Gary Estrada, who tagged along with the motley “Batang City Jail” crew just so he could use his gigolo skills on Dexter Doria while his friends sneaked off with her antiques. Seeing Gary in bed with Dexter Doria is really something else.

They just don’t make films like this anymore.

I miss Tora-Tora Bang-Bang.

A Lot of Stuff

I watched CJ7 yesterday. For people who don’t know, it’s Stephen Chow’s new movie, slated for international release.

Who is Stephen Chow? Drop and give me twenty you ignorant asshole. Stephen Chow, king of comedy and god of the Hong Kong box office, is the greatest actor/director/producer who ever lived. I say that even if I love Andy Lau with all my heart. Anyway, he’s the guy behind Kung Fu Hustle and Shaolin Soccer, as well as God of Cookery, Mad Monk, Fight Back to School and dozens and dozens of Hong Kong cinema gold.

I love Stephen Chow.

Okay then. CJ7 isn’t really as drop-dead funny as the rest of Chow’s movies. This time, most of the comedy comes from the little girl who played Chow’s son (yeah, you read that right). It’s sort of a feel-good movie with a cute and furry CGI alien pet instead of the usual Ng Man Tat. Digression: I love you, Ng Man Tat, please come back and show up in some HK screwball movie soon. The world needs you.

I thought the film was okay, it was funny, though lacking in the usual mo lei tau that the Chow is so known for. Maybe because it’s a film for the Western audience, and no one in the West (save for the Chinese immigrants, maybe) will be able to figure out what the hell he’s babbling about.

CJ7 isn’t hard-core comedy and it sure isn’t Stephen Chow’s best. I watched it only because I’m an affirmed Chow-head and I’ll watch nearly anything with Stephen Chow in it. Anyway, there’s hope: Kung Fu Hustle 2 is in the works.

I miss From Beijing with Love.

**************************************************
I watched AI for two consecutive weeks because of the Lennon/McCartney and Beatles themes. So far, I think I’m hating that Archuleta dude (who royally screwed up when he forgot the words to “We Can Work It Out”) because he keeps giggling. He seems genuinely nice, but I hate the fact that he might win this contest because of his hordes of giddy teenage fans.

Obviously I’m rooting for someone else, and that someone else is Cook (I have no idea what his first name is). His rendition of Eleanor Rigby and Daytripper knocked me out of my senses. He must win. Must.

And oh, I like the Pinay girl. I saw her sing “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me”, which is so Pinoy karaoke (you know who you are, you Lani Misalucha wannabes), and I just instantly liked her. Hope she does better, though. Her performance has been steadily declining since.

**************************************************
Horrible horrible horrible.

I won’t be able to watch They Kiss Again tonight because channel 66 has been AWOL for days. Blech. Screw you, Destiny Cable, screw you!