Even a remaker who is pure of heart...

"Even a remaker who is pure of heart,
And says his prayers at night,
can make a turd when the wolfbane blooms
and the autumn moon is bright."

Those are my thoughts on the recent remake of The Wolf Man. The 1941 film (FULL REVIEW) is one of my all time favorites. Sure, the effects are dated and the beast looks a bit like a toothy hipster with a Jew-fro, but the story has a lot of heart. Larry Talbot is a likable lug and a bit of a doofus, as we see him clumsily corner Gwen for a date in her antique shop. He falls into the werewolf curse by pure circumstance, and suffers the fatal destiny it bequeaths upon him. It is a sad and tragic tale. What it lacks in gore and terror, it delivers in pathos for its protagonist, who turns into a beast under the full moon and attacks those he loves. It can be taken as allegory; rather like the Nick Lowe song "The Beast in Me," about a drunk.

The remake, despite giving us Benicio Del Toro, Anthony Hopkins and even Art Malik- the bad guy from True Lies- goes for pure gore and a hackneyed, tortured artist story that generates zero pathos and instead makes us sit around wondering what orifice we'll see wolf claws sprout from on a Bobby's agonized corpse next. As special effects go, Rick Baker does a great job. The mastermind behind the excellent An American Werewolf in London (FULL REVIEW) effects, he goes hog wild here, making a hunkering, slavering beast of a wolf man to terrify the moors. The CG effects that make the beast hop around the landscape as realistically as Mario on Nintendo seriously detract from the mood. He hops on policemen like they are goombas, eviscerating them and moving on to the next. In most werewolf movies, they at least take a bite out of you. This one seems to make a game out of how many people he can kill before dawn.

Which is fine for a slasher. But this one wants us to take it seriously, with its Daddy Issues and having to make a good wolf man vs.a bad wolf man, which we already saw in Jack Nicholson's Wolf, a much better re-imagining of the original. This one has its moments, but doesn't serve as a respectable homage. If anything, it is worth seeing to watch Rick Baker pull out all the stops. Director Joe Johnston, who brought us decent adventure with The Rocketeer and Hidalgo, goes the same route that Stephen Sommers did for The Mummy, but without the fun. I would have preferred someone who loved the first movie, or the genre. Like Joe Dante, for example. I can't imagine watching the remake again, and it makes me dread the planned remake of An American Werewolf in London.

And what's with the title? Wolfman? Maybe his full name is Lawrence Talbot Wolfman.



© 2010 Tommy Salami

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In Cars

On Twitter, @OTooleFan was talking about some of the worst automotive disasters, like the AMC Pacer- celibacy on wheels- and the Yugo. For more of these, I suggest you read Car Talk's Worst Cars of All Time. Now, a lot of cars stood out as truly bad, but almost any car you drove from 1973 to 1986 was like a prank an auto exec was playing on you. I had a '76 Pinto Wagon as my first car, and the only fun I had in it was when it was parked. It was rust brown with fake wood panels, a folding rear seat and a roof rack. It looked like the Family Truckster from National Lampoon's Vacation.

Come to think of it, the round headlights and grille remind me of my current ride, a Mini Cooper S. Maybe that's why I like it so much. But anyway, the wagon may not have exploded like the Pinto hatchbacks did, but it was a dung cart of fun to drive. Steered like a cow, but it knocked down a parking meter I hit chasing my girlfriend, with nary a scratch. It wouldn't go a hair above 55, which is probably why my father picked it. He had used it for lugging his construction tools around, but I recommissioned the folding rear seat for other fumbling teenage endeavors in Lover's Lane, which for us, was a shady spot over by a railroad trestle. Despite being hindered by a catalytic converter and smog equipment that was probably a pipe filled with Henry Ford's old sweat socks, this car wasn't that bad. It had vinyl everywhere, but other than burning more oil than BP barbecuing a sea turtle, it ran okay after months of abuse. I replaced the steering column with a junk yard part, but it did well for a 12 year old car.

My next car was a '79 Mustang six-banger. While this was a far cry from the horrible Mustang II era, it was put together more cheaply with lots of plastic than that Pinto. The one luxury I remember was a silly light panel that would tell you when your tail lights, head lights, or other light bulbs were out. Nice touch. It ran like a champ, and was my first Mustang. A mere eight years old, it was already rusting through quarter panels. The speedometer only went to 85mph to appease Ralph Nader, but that just made us want to pin the needle. By this point we had the wonders of unibody construction, meant to save us in accidents. My first accident bent the car in half and required $700 of repair for a little fender bender. That would be $3000 today. But it sure beats the days of my favorite car I used to own, the 1965 Mustang convertible. It had no seat belts, and a dashboard made of steel. The steering column pointed at your heart like the sword of a  bloodthirsty Mongol. To steal Jay Leno's only funny joke, if you crashed it, they'd just hose you off the dash and sell it to somebody else.

I loved that car because it was smoking hot, Silversmoke Gray with a red interior, my first V8 engine- a 289 2 barrel carb auto. Less horsepower than my Mini has today, and awful, awful handling, but what a blast to drive- because you were constantly putting your life in your hands. The master brake cylinder only had one chamber, so any leak in the brake lines put you in a suicidal charge toward the enemy front. Sure, it had an emergency brake but the cable was frozen, so I ended up throwing the car into reverse, bouncing my nose off the horn, and suddenly going backwards. The transmission held up, amazingly enough. I could change the oil by crawling underneath it without a jack. I had to raise the power top manually, there was a rust hole in the passenger door, but I didn't care. Because it was a blast to drive, and simple to work on. The only problems I had were gas and brake lines older than I was constantly leaking all over the place, a leaky fuel filler cap getting water in my tank, and a complete inability to back out of a parking space if there was more than a sprinkling of snow on the ground. So on second thought, thanks Ralph Nader!

Soon, cars went from simple machines, sort of like tractors, to add with sleek fins and chome bumpers shaped like tits (the infamous '60 Cadillac and its "Dagmars" named after a Swedish comedienne's rack). But after the muscle era faded, they became annoying household appliances, like a push-button blender with wheels. This was the era of the K car and the Yugo, when the best-loved car was... the Taurus. Shaped like Mork from Ork's Eggship, it at least gave a passing nod to the concept of aerodynamics. Everything was made of shoddy plastic that would dry out and crumble like sawdust in too much sun. They gave us automatic seat belts that would try to strangle you, but pop off their rails and let you smash into the windshield. You may complain about daytime running lights and nanny devices, but just try finding the damn headlight switch in a car from the late '70s. And the high beams? Try the floor, next to the emergency brake pedal. Oops, I was trying to flash my highbeams, and locked up the rear tires! What a calamity! At least nowadays, when someone plows into oncoming traffic it was because they were playing Farmville on their iPhone, and not because they pressed the wrong button.





© 2010 Tommy Salami

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more equal than others

What the hell is America coming to when the 14th Amendment is under attack, the one granting all citizens equal protection under the law? For one, why did it need to be written at all, when the preamble to the Constitution affirms that all men are created equal, and denies the government the right to deny us life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness? Well, because when the wise Founders wrote those revolutionary words (pun intended), the term "men" meant white, property owning males. So we had to clarify things a little.

The same political party that was discussing removing the native-born clause from the Presidential requirements just a few years ago when Arnold Schwarzenegger was hailed as the next actor-in-chief suddenly embraced it when the Hawaiian guy got in. And now, too many Hispanics are entering the country, so we want to make it so people born here are only Americans if they have names ending in a consonant that isn't "z." What differentiates America from let's say, France and Denmark, two social democracies that are having problems with their immigrant populations rioting, is that here they have a path to citizenship, however full of bureaucratic pylons it may be. In those countries, you can be second or third generation, and not a citizen. Essentially you are permanent second-class workers kept around for cheap labor. And while the term "un-American" gets bandied about too often, I can't think of anything less American than essentially pissing on the plaque on the Statue of Liberty that says her lamp stands beside the golden door.

Both sides of my family came to America in the 20th century, and struggled to make something of themselves. From Ireland and Italy, they were welcomed by "No Irish Need Apply" and school teachers who wouldn't waste time on them, because they were "just going to be another ditch-digging guinea." They became truck drivers, construction workers, fashion designers, store managers, and they put their children through college. Now that we got ours, we want to close the door to the richest and most prosperous country, one that thrives on new blood joining us to create new businesses, whether they be grocery markets, landscapers, or convenience stores. And we're doing it during a period when our taxes are lower than any time since the early '80s. We cry about the deficit, which is only inflated because of two wars and a $700 billion tax cut on the richest segment. I'm sorry if you make over $500,000 a year and can't make it, but tighten your shell Cordovan belt a little and suck it up- you paid higher taxes under the Almighty Reagan, and get ready to do it again.

Let's face it, this is just racial gerrymandering; one of the political parties doesn't like that the latest wave of immigrants to this country, legal or otherwise, tend to vote for the other guy because they don't like being demonized. Instead of becoming a more inclusive party and actually campaigning for smaller government- something they haven't truly done since the days of Teddy Roosevelt- they want to alter one of the most important Amendments to the Constitution, one that differentiates us from the so-called Socialist Democracies they seem to hate so much. This will create a permanent underclass or slave generation of people who come here to work, but are treated like second-class citizens for multiple generations. Does that sound like America to you?

© 2010 Tommy Salami

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a message in a bottle, sending out an S.O.S. to the Gulf

As you know, Abita has been one of my favorite American craft microbrews since Firecracker introduced me to Purple Haze back when we met. Nowadays my faves are their staple Amber, their oddly named buy tasty brown ale called Turbodog, and Jockamo IPA when I can get it. Based in Covington Louisiana near the shore of Lake Pontchartrain, they brew a large stable of varietals and their newest, Save Our Shores Charitable Pilsner, gives 75 cents a bottle to Gulf spill restoration. They're no stranger to charity beers, and their Abita Restoration Ale is still available, with the charity going to Katrina relief. I visited their brewery last year, and you can read all about it here.

We ordered a case of the S.O.S. Pilsner thinking they were standard six packs, but they turn out to be 1 Pint 6 ounce large bottles with a pretty logo screen printed on the bottle itself. It is a hoppy pilsner with a lot of body, completely unlike American rice beer pilsners you may be used to. It blows Prima Pils and Pilsner Urquell out of the water. It has a full mouth feel yet doesn't fill you up like a brown ale. I highly recommend it, even if they weren't donating profits to Gulf spill relief. We ordered ours at a local Bottle King, but Abita is carried nationwide by Whole Foods, and their website lists distributors around the country. It is worth ordering if your liquor store does not carry it, and will be a fine brew to have on Labor Day. While we relax and grill, try to remember all the fishermen whose livelihoods were destroyed by BP's negligence, now forced to work clean up for a pittance of what they made serving us local, fresh shellfish and seafood.

© 2010 Tommy Salami

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Zardoz: Happy Birthday Sean Connery

Zardoz, how I love thee. My friend Peter introduced me to this wacky science fiction allegory written and directed by John Boorman. It spins the tale of a distant future where the intelligentsia are idle, decadent immortals called Eternals who toy with the little people they call Brutals, by making a warrior class who worship a floating stone head called Zardoz. He spits out rifles and pistols, and tells them "The Gun is good! The penis is evil!" Yes, the same Mr. Boorman celebrated for excellent films such as Deliverance and Excalibur.

Sean plays Zed, one of the Exterminators, which is why he's in hip boots with a Webley revolver and his meat & veg in royal red regalia. We see things through Zed's perspective as he learns the secrets of Zardoz, that he is a pawn of the Eternals, specifically one Arthur Frayn, who wishes to be free of the shackles of immortality. At heart it is a socially updated pastiche of H.G. Wells' "The Time Machine," with its Morlocks and Eloi evolved into uselessness. But it's a lot of psychedelic, bizarre '70s fun as Sean shoots and humps his way through a post-apocalyptic bounty of babes, including Charlotte Rampling. When we first saw it, it was cut for TV, and made absolutely no sense. So we went to the local video shop, Curry Home Video- which had everything from Pink Flamingos to A Clockwork Orange, all the bizarre a growing boy needs- and got the uncut VHS.

Suddenly, the story made more sense, as half the expository scenes have a topless woman in them. So you have to watch it a few times and pay attention. We studied it like scholars. It remains one of my favorite indulgent, psychedelic excesses of the '70s. You can tell that Boorman, he who made the ghostly, near-surrealist noir Point Blank, wanted to create something like Jodorowsky's El Topo (full review) but he just couldn't hack it; it comes off more as an exploitation picture made by a poet. So we have 2069: A Sex Odyssey of sorts. If you like science fiction or Sean Connery, this relic is unique and interesting, and unlike Highlander 2: The Quickening, it can be enjoyable to watch. So it's perfect for sitting back with on Sean's birthday.

© 2010 Tommy Salami

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Some clown sent me brownies!

If you follow me on Twitter, you'll hear me rave about the hilarious, touching, eye-opening blog of André du Broc, Too Many Cookies. Go read it now. Come back if you aren't crying, laughing, and ravenous from reading how he's baking all 175 cookies from Martha Stewart's cookbook, and regaling us with tales of his life in theater while doing it. It's one of my favorite blogs, and I follow over a hundred.

I met André through Firecracker's sister, who is a stage director. André himself has been everything from a clown in Ringling Brothers circus to a short order cook. We met over drinks at Bill's Gay Nineties, a theater folk bar in NYC when he was in town. He is an ebullient, witty fellow with a dash of sarcasm. There he told us that he was participating in an AIDS charity walk, and if he made over $3,000 he was going to bake all 175 cookie recipes from Martha's book. Of course, the donations rolled in from friends all over who like cookies. And who doesn't like cookies? Besides Newt Gingrich. So we donated, and so many others did that he raised $4500 for the cause. And he got to baking.

His friends, co-workers and family got so inundated with decadent treats that he now asks people to mail him cookie containers- and I suggest you slip in a tenspot or double sawbuck to cover shipping and ingredient costs- and he'll mail you back a gift of delicious, fattening treats. Because Firecracker loves peanut butter and chocolate so much that if the Reese's had not existed, she would have invented it, he sent us peanut butter swirl brownies. They are amazing. Especially when you heat them and put ice cream on them, but even plain, they are a rich, chocolatey haymaker punch to the palate that makes you want to collapse into a bean bag chair and moan like a pregnant walrus.

So, go read André's blog. You'll get to read about naked midget clowns getting electrocuted, among many other things. Here's the link again if you're too lazy to scroll up:
Too Many Cookies




© 2010 Tommy Salami

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Les Expendables

It took 33 years, but Sylvester Stallone once again has a sense of humor about himself. And that's what makes The Expendables, the balls to the wall '80s style action flick that we've been anticipating for over a year now, so awesome. I'll admit it, when I saw his low rider pickup truck that hearkens back to his '50 chopped Merc in Cobra, I was a little bit concerned that the kickassitude of Rambo went to his head. But no, he is definitely the star of this one, yet plays well with others. He gives plenty of screen time to all the big names he got together to make this throwback extravaganza, and we can't ask for anything more. Well, except maybe for Kurt Russell and Jean-Claude Van Damme to show up in the sequel.

Testosterone Level Causes Impregnation Within 50 Yards

I'm not going to bore you with the plot except for this single line: a group of bad-ass mercenaries take a suicide mission to assassinate a South American dictator. We first meet them as they rescue a cargo ship held hostage by Somali pirates, scaling it like Navy SEALs and blasting them to pieces with laser sighted machine guns and shotguns loaded with shells that will blow a man in half. But they're reasonable people; Sly isn't playing Rambo here, he's more of a tired old guy who wants you to surrender, but will blast six holes in you with his revolver the second he realizes you won't. He has a buddy rivalry with Jason Statham, the knife master of the group, over who can take someone out quicker. As in many of Sly's previous films, he equips his men with custom knives, from a Gil Hibben Bowie blade with a brass parry strip, ring-pommelled throwing daggers, switchblades and huge, fast draw folding knives.

If I wasn't getting married, I'd buy this $1850 Gil Hibben Bowie...

Sly and Statham are the biggest roles, but Jet Li gets some good fights in, and gets to show some comic chops as he complains he should have a bigger share, because everything is harder for him because he's the short one. He has to take more steps when they run someplace. Randy Couture "used to wrestle in high school" and that explains his cauliflower ears, which he is very sensitive about. Terry Crews gets to have some fun with a Sledgehammer shotgun, but this is a long way from his hilarious role as President Camacho in Idiocracy.Pity, he can be really funny. Dolph Lundgren gets the thankless job of being the guy who's a little too psycho for a band of psychos, and Mickey Rourke has retired from mercenaryin' to be a tattoo artist. He gets to give the "I'll cry when I'm done killin'" speech.

The movie showcases the strengths of our favorite bad boys but peppers humor in between, a wise choice that has worked since classics of the genre like Commando. I was a little disappointed that the fictional country they invade isn't named Val Verde, but that should be saved for an Arnie movie, I suppose. Speaking of which, Arnie and Bruce Willis's cameos are hilarious. Sure, they only get five minutes, but Arnie lets himself be the butt of the jokes, with Sly poking fun at the weight he put on as Governor, and that he "wants to be President." He's a rival merc leader, and doesn't ham it up. Maybe after he's done governating, Sly will give him a big role in the sequel. I sure hope so.

If he dies... he dies

The bad guys are played by a psycho Eric Roberts and David Zayas, best known as Angel from "Dexter." The girl is Giselle Itié, a beauty from Mexican television, who will likely appear in Hollywood again. She has good chops, though Sly isn't the best at getting realistic performances out of women (see Julie Benz in Rambo, who we know can act like a champ). But that's not what we're looking for in an action funfest like The Expendables. It was great seeing so many of them together. I enjoyed the hell out of it, but I don't think it's as good as Rambo- which is damn hard to top. The best I can say about it is: IT DELIVERS. And I damn well hope they make a sequel, and keep it rated R. And I will agree with Milky, my movie buddy, that they better bring back that shotgun, too. It should get its name in the credits.

4 out of 5 exploding human heads


© 2010 Tommy Salami

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