Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Stardust
The best 3 things about Spiderman 3
We don’t go to theaters much. Seems like one or all of us catches cold at those things, so the movie had damned well better be worth it.
The best looker in Spiderman 3: actress Mageina Tovah, who plays Ursula, the super’s daughter.
Kirsten Dunst? Meh. Sure, she’s conventionally pretty, but something’s missing. Stage presence, perhaps, which Miss Tovah has in spades. If I had my choice of dates, I’d pick Mageina over Kirsten and I’d never look back.
(Okay you doubters. Here she is in a YouTube compilation video.)
The best special effect in Spiderman 3: the Sandman.
Yeah, he’s so The Mummy, but we enjoyed the Sandman effects just the same.
The best laugh in Spiderman 3:
That ’70s Show‘s Topher Grace in a Catholic Church, praying to Jesus to please, please kill Peter Parker.
But why were Jake and I the only ones laughing at that scene? Wasn’t it supposed to be funny?
Anyway, it’s late. We got home at ten forty-something, so my brain is too fried to give you a more respectable review. Perhaps tomorrow.
D.
Green Acres extra available for bar mitzvahs, bachelorette parties
. . . and he’ll clean ear wax, too!
Wandering the ‘net looking for a pic of child actor Johnny Whitaker, I found Genesis Creations Entertainment’s Celebrity Bookings list. Now I’m a kid in a candy store. Who knew Lisa Loring (Wednesday Addams) was this hawt?
Add to the hawt list Erin Murphy (Tabitha from Bewitched); and I have no idea who Ivonna Cadaver is, but I dig her look.
For you hetero girls, look no further than Brandon Cruz (Courtship of Eddie’s Father). But since he’s surrounded by screaming 13-year-olds, you’ll have to lust after Potsy instead.
What if yesteryear’s stars aren’t good enough for you — what if you want yesterday‘s stars? Book Fergie and Keven Federline through Esterman.com. Esterman has Ron Jeremy, too — you’ll have to watch the vid for a while to catch Jeremy playing with his pooch.
His dog. Jeez.
D.
A new standard by which to measure infamy.
William S. Burroughs’s monologue memorialized the captain of a sinking ship who dressed as a woman to get prime seating on a life raft. As measures go, this one barely registers on the modern Richter Scale of infamy. Think about it: this week alone, we’ve seen George Bush perseverate over his war of vanity, Abu Gonzalez play the fool to shield the boss, John McCain jest about bombing Iran — and then defend himself rather than apologize, and a psychotic undergrad turn a college into a slaughterhouse. Here in the 21st Century, one cowardly captain warrants less than a footnote.
But for some reason, Alex Baldwin ripping into his 11-year-old daughter hit a special chord for me.
See, I know myself well enough to say with near certainty that if I were President, I wouldn’t murder thousands of US soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis just to line the pockets of my rich friends. If I were the Attorney General of the United States, I would regard it as a position of trust, and I would try my best not to disrespect that trust. If I were a presidential candidate, I wouldn’t joke about killing thousands of Iranians, and if I were a depressed college student, I sure as hell wouldn’t buy guns and bulletproof vests.
But I’ve yelled at my kid, and that’s why Alec Baldwin’s tirade gets under my skin. Is that how I sound?
I don’t give a damn that you’re 12-years-old or 11-years-old, or a child, or that your mother is a thoughtless pain in the ass who doesn’t care about what you do.
That’s one of the tamer quotes. Then it dawned on me: he doesn’t know if she’s 11 or 12? Whaaaa?
Nope. I’ve never ripped into Jake like Alec ripped into Ireland, his daughter. Alec, you are such a dick.
Wait, that’s not quite what I wanted to say. It was this:
Alec, thank you for being such a dick.
D.
Thirteen things about Keith Olbermann
You can thank Balls for today’s Thirteen theme. I had wanted to write a quick “intro to KO” post for my Canadian and European readers, but Karen thought a Thirteen would be more fun. As for “Thirteen Things I Learned at My Sleep Disorders Meeting,” come back next week — it should be interesting.
1. KO is Teh Newsman. Every evening, at the conclusion of his news show Countdown on MSNBC, KO signs out with Edward R. Murrow‘s famous phrase, “Good night and good luck.” With any other TV newsman, this would be the heighth of arrogance, but not with Keith. Reminiscent of Murrow — who publicly took on Senator Joseph McCarthy when no one else had the guts — Keith Olbermann has repeatedly challenged the Bush Administration, even back when it was unpopular to do so. And the man does not mince words. His Special Comments are legendary. If you’ve never watched one, start here: Special Comment about ‘Sacrifice.’
2. While CNN’s Anderson Cooper travels to the Amazon to “brave” the dreaded Goliath Bird-eating Tarantula, Keith gets the job done. Last night’s stories: the Scooter Libby trial (will he or won’t he flip on Cheney? Will Bush pardon him?), the Justice Department’s revelation that it has been inflating its terrorism statistics, and the Coalition of the Willing’s flight from Iraq, led by England. Yes, KO’s producers make him cover the latest schlock about Britney Spears and Anna Nicole Smith, but he relegates that to the end of the show.
Meanwhile, Anderson Cooper screams like a girl over a big, hairy spider. (Um, we don’t know that for a fact. The show hasn’t aired yet.) Remember to wear clean undies to your date, Coop!
An open letter to Countdown with Keith Olbermann
At the end of Countdown, when the network forces KO to report on Britney’s latest brainfart or the travails of Anna Nicole Smith’s uninterred body, what does Keith do? He plays straightman to the likes of Michael Musto or or or good Lord, the rest of them are so forgettable! Times like those, Karen and I turn off the sound and wish Keith would discover Cintra Wilson, the woman who wrote the book on the cancer of fame.
Well, guess what, buckos. They’ve finally found her — sort of. But eight seconds of Cintra is not enough. Hence, The Letter.
Dear Countdown,
I was watching tonight’s piece on Britney Spears, in which the topic of the day was, “Does Fame Destroy the Minds of the Famous,” and I was busy howling at the screen because y’all were talking to Dr. Drew. Dr. Drew! I didn’t want to hear what that putz had to say, I wanted you to interview Cintra Wilson, the woman who wrote the book on the subject. And I got my wish!
I hope you will delve deeper into Cintra’s work. The woman is brilliant. Here’s her rant on Tucker Carlson. And here’s the best obit written on Anna Nicole Smith. Next time a celebrity wigs out, I hope you’ll give Cintra the chance to go head-to-head with KO. She always has funny, intelligent things to say, and she’s a helluva lot cuter than Michael Musto.
Best,
Doug Hoffman MD
I thought I’d add the “MD” for that scintilla of extra clout.
Feel free to send your own emails: countdown@msnbc.com.
***
Wish I had more for you today, but I’m still recovering from jet lag. See ya.
D.
Too clever by half
Imagine a necklace, its wooden locket small, flat, lozenge-shaped. It has a seam along its long diagonal, and it is hinged at the center. Twist it, and it changes from lozenge to heart, and what’s more, a new seam appears. Now the wearer may open the heart, revealing a tiny photo of the face of her beloved.
But the locket is a fiction, a special effect, and the metaphorical strings and wires are in plain sight. Seams visible one shot vanish in the next. Someone has done some sleight of hand, and it wasn’t the young girl’s lover, the budding Illusionist. The locket isn’t a magician’s trick; it’s merely the prop of a dishonest filmmaker.
This is one of the film’s earliest images, and also one of its most emblematic. The filmmaker (director and screenwriter Neil Burger) isn’t content to leave visual deceit to his protagonist, commoner-cum-performer Eisenheim (Edward Norton). He’s willing to fool his audience, too, with misleading reaction shots and uproariously illogical character motivations, whatever is necessary to lead his viewers by their noses to his oh-so-predictable surprise ending.
An early Thirteen: Thirteen Movie Memories
An early Thirteen, because somewhere in the world it’s already Thursday*.
Veterans to my Thursday Thirteens know I like to use these occasions to revel in the only subject of which I never tire: me. It’s autobiography as viewed through a variety of lenses. Food, sex, love, are little more than angles and gimmicks. But isn’t that the original idea of the TT, to learn more about the author?
I shall always be faithful to this blog’s subtitle. Besides, if you’re here reading this, you haven’t tired of me, either. Or perhaps you’re just hoping for more recipes.
Follow me below the fold: my life in movies.
Rocks on the brain
‘Kay, everyone, Kris Starr has a contest, and it’s easy. (But Kris, you really expect me to believe that guy on the cover is a doctor? He looks younger than Doogie Howser at his youngest! And he doesn’t look like he’s had all the joy stomped out of him by med school and training. He . . . he looks like a pre-med. *Shiver.*) Michelle has a book giveaway, too!
I woke up this morning thinking about the Vasquez Rocks. You all know the Vasquez Rocks, unless you’ve spent the last 40 years or more never watching television, never going to any movies. You may not think you know the Vasquez Rocks, but you do.
Vasquez Rocks are an absolute trip for people like me and my son who love to rockclimb but don’t know a thing about it. And who don’t have proper shoes, not to mention proper equipment. Thanks to the formation of the rocks — a formation which makes them recognizable to damn near everyone — newbies like my son and me can climb to great heights with little risk of broken bones. And it’s always cool to be climbing a little bit of Hollywood history.
Here’s a short list of the Vasquez Rocks’ guest appearances:
Star Trek: The Original Series. Three episodes
Blazing Saddles
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Apache (1954)
Planet of the Apes (2001)
The Outer LimitsAustin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)
Army of Darkness (1993)
Dracula (1931)
Give up? Pic below the cut.
Where are they now?
My adult self came together in the years 1975 to 1980, and in my recollection of those years, Saturday Night Live glitters, a gaudy thing, a huge but imperfect gem. On the one hand, it flashed with brilliance: SNL introduced me to Steve Martin, Lily Tomlin, Madeline Kahn; and oh, the musical guests, could they ever be eye-openers to a kid raised on AM radio. Through SNL I met the B-52s, Elvis Costello, Zappa, Leon Redbone, and David Bowie. (I knew Bowie’s music, of course, but seeing him perform was a revelation.) On the other hand, SNL could infuriate. Who can forget the dreaded Last Half Hour, graveyard of unfunny skits? And yet we would watch on, long past the point of fatigue, hoping for one last laugh.
The first season of SNL (1975-1976) is out on DVD. Yesterday, I rented two of the set. I wanted to see Peter Cook and Dudley Moore together, and I wanted to see Peter Boyle cut up for the camera, too. And of course I wanted to see Gilda, who died way too soon.
Before I get started, I have a question for the older crowd: what was the name of the program which followed SNL at 1 AM? It was a musical program, I remember that much. And while the theme of SNL is engraved on my brain, the musical intro to that program escapes me . . . and yet that, too, was once a shining point in my life, something a good deal more vivid than the rest of my day-to-day crap.
Below the cut: where are they now?
Thirteen college memories: freshman year
What, only thirteen? Yes, you can regard this as an extremely limited selection. I’ll be attempting to come up with tales you haven’t heard before. No small feat.
1. Shin splints. During orientation, on our walking tour of the Berkeley campus, the guy walking next to me noticed me limping.
“Don’t baby it,” he said.
“Huh? It’s shin splints.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. But don’t be a wimp. Walk through it.” And that’s how it went for the next hour or two — me limping, him ragging on me to stop being such a pussy.
His name was Russ, and he became my roommate, and remained so for all but one year.