Simon Pegg is dropping his writing chops across the chest of the Enterprise. The actor, who plays Scotty (not like you didn’t fucking know this), is cowriting the third Trek flick.
Absalom Fabliaux had drained fifteen Pepsi-Colas and he felt like a goddamn king.
Sitting in the bar for the better part of four hours, Absalom whittled away at a couple of chapters, clickety-clackin’ at his keyboard with little regard for his surroundings. Smarmy suits and slicked-back trustfunds poured shots into the fertile secretaries that’d someday be their suburban broodmares. Y’know, after accounts were conquered and four-oh-one-kays secured and dividends divided. The digital music lasered its way into their brains, encouraging the Vanilla Paste People to strut their stuff.
And still, Absalom forged ahead, undeterred.
His writer-comrades didn’t understand why he’d write in the midst of such chaos. Unlike him, they flocked to their studies and libraries and offices and espresso bars. But Absalom Fabliaux never found himself more distracted than when he tried to work in such venues. To him, these places were the domiciles of good — silence and thought and books, which contain no little amount of that stuff called the Incredible. And, of course, coffee.
Absalom Fabliaux could never count on making a deadline if he set up shop in a Den of Wonder.
His office? An upscale bar in the financial district. His workday? Happy hour until close. In the eye of the storm, Absalom Fabliaux knew he’d get work done. Zero temptation to talk to anyone. A consistent environment, day-in and day-out. With the rot in his periphery, he had just enough white noise to fuel his words. And to top it all off, the place served glass-bottle Pepsis.
As he requested another, Absalom chuckled to himself. “I’ll be goddamned if I’m not the only bastard who should’ve been cut off but ain’t.”
Absalom Fabliaux had drained sixteen Pepsi-Colas and he knew himself to be a goddamn king.
This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I spew words at you in the form of a short story or vomit-essay. Then, I show you the entertainment-debris I’ll be rummaging through in the next days. Lastly, you hit up the comments section and tell everyone what you’ll be doin’ to get through the week.
Rock and roll, baby!
Despite all my shit talking of Abrams (perhaps misguided because it’s the plot for STID that I so loathe), I’m excited for the dude to be doing Episode VII. So when he comes out and directly addresses his over use of lens flares, I can only get a bit more excited. Self-awareness? I’ll take it.
Damon Lindelof has spoken out against movie disaster porn, which is hilarious. Such a act of dumb assery underscores the fact that Lindelof is not just a fledgling, self-congratulatory, horrific plotter. Instead he is also the recipient of at best, an embryonic sense of self. Dude tries to cop to being guilty of movie disaster porn whilst denouncing it, but let’s be honest. The hack has spent the last two summers getting rich as fuck off of the cheap trick, penning two movies (Prometheus and Star Trek Into Ennui) that feature iconography that harkens back to 9/11.
Now that Patrick Bateman and Rendar Frankenstein have returned from squatchin’ in the Great White North, the Three Omega Idiots decide to tackle the San Diego Comic Convention Thing. Plus! Taking gnarly dumps, maybe two functioning microphones, how much better Thor is than The Flash, and cheap plugs of shitty t-shirts.
[Caff note: Pacific Rim spoilers in here.]
One of the neat things about such a small, tight-knit community is that narratives can begin to grasp hold. Throughout this very summer, the lot of us have discussed the latest crop of Whiz-Bang Hollywood Fecaltainment. As the movies have arrived, we have all received them in a variety of manners.
More than anything, I think I could be typified as generally disappointed by this latest crop. As movie after movie has been released I have been somewhat entertained. But for the most part, I have found them to be ephemeral, forgettable piles of crap.
Butting heads with even my own brother who (whom?) I typically see eye-to-eye with, I began to ask myself why I’ve been so disappointed. I figured I’d use this Opinions Vary to articulate my feelings. Namely, that this summer’s blockbusters have been bereft of Goosebump Moments, and that I don’t (and shouldn’t) accept middling efforts when this very genre is capable of capstone experiences and inspirational wankery.
[Caff Note: A good friend of Rendar and myself wrote this rather awesome defense of Star Trek Into Darkness. I imagine he saw dullards like me bashing it, and decided to wave a righteous saber. Despite not seeing eye to eye with him, I demanded that he allow me to share it here. Enjoy.]
Into Darkness. What’s in a title? Nothing (if you ask me). However, Into Darkness attempted to conjure into the minds of the would-be viewers a universe that was literally entering into a ‘darker’ world. Into Darkness is the post 9/11 Trek – a world in which, yes, you can die. Into Darkness has a body count that would rival the epic end of Commando. More humans (not Vulcans) die in this film than in any other Trek film. San Francisco is literally leveled to the ground at the end of the film. Is this a forward direction for Trek? Did Abrams destroy a franchise that deserved something more?
Coming out of Star Trek Into Unnecessary Reveals, a slow rolling realization swept over me. J.J. Abrams wasn’t unquestionably awesome. In fact, he was becoming the master of Smug, Self-Satisfaction courtesy of Contrived, Forced Mysteries. Don’t get me wrong. He can get great performances out of folks. He can cut a mean set piece. However, there are other concerns. As I sat stewing, wanting to chop him and the entirety of the Bad Plotting team in the fucking neck, I began to get concerned. You see, this is the ass clown who is the official steward of The Franchise.
I was concerned.
After much ruminations on the topic – involving Divinations courtesy of Blood Letting, Tin Foil Hats, and countless conversations with our own Eduardo Pluto – I’ve come to a conclusion. Abrams ain’t right for Star Wars. Or, at the very least he isn’t the Glory Be Messiah that I (I will take culpability for jizzing all over his initial announcement) originally ordained him to be. Here’s the deal: Abrams could knock it out of the park. Episode VII could rule. I’m allowing for that possibility. But this OV is dedicated to the delineation of my various anxieties involving Captain Lens Flare and Self Back-Patting.
RLM’s Half in the Bag humorously takes a run at Star Trek Into Darkness. I’d recommend it. Smarter minds than my own delineate DARKNESS’ failings, and also what it gets right. Though if you put me up against the wall, I’ll say: Abrams is really good at making a pretty movie that hits all the same thematic beats as the first film, while not advancing the Universe along what so ever, and he also really doesn’t seem to give a fucking shit about anything like plot, or narrative coherence.
But like I said, RLM does it way better than me.
[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the kal-if-fee that is the comments section]
It’s time for us to get emotional about science-fiction’s most beloved logician.