Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Shroom the third: Shrek made it with the help of other fairy-tale characters. A worthy of B-? Our barfed-green, giant friend is at it again on the big screen, still spoofing other fairy-tale characters, accompanied with a Justin T's sexy voice, and unfortunately faltering--at its best, a must-see for kids under 7, younger adults, possibly 10-13 years of age and their wonderful parents who have become kids themselves.
Shrek the Third did not surpass neither the second or its first movies, although did not fall flat to its face, I was disappointed to see yet another Shrek-must-save-the-day movie, a slight difference from the first two but repetitive otherwise. And so I think, it deserves a slightly kick on the rear end and absolutely undeserving to be the top movie on the box office hits. There were a few good laughs, mind you but nothing that made me want to go back next year or the year after to go see a 4th one. I was not buying the whole other fairy-tale characters anymore even thought it worked like a charm in Shrek 1. Although the producers added its own original characters, plus a very lovable, irresistable ogre for *Mcdonalds to use as an incentive to lule younger customers in (*Notoriously known for making America, FAT), the whole movie was like watching Cinderella triumph to go to the Prince's ball all over again. Cliche overuled the movie: Frog king died, son-in-law is next to the throne but does not want to, son-in-law went to look for another alternative, and the villain, Charming, tries to take away the throne--jea, there's a twist right there. Do you see it?
In addition to reigning as another cliche animation, the plot was rush too. The animators put too much time on unimportant parts of the movie instead of developing the climax and or the plot more. Shrek had an easy time looking for Arthur, the supposed alternative for the throne of Far Far Away (what a name! They even spoofed the Hollywood sign and well, changed it into Far Far Away). If he was going to be the savior anyway, why did they not make it harder for Shrek to find him? I don't remember exact details because i resisted of actually remembering anything from the movie, but some of the parts were vague and some, that weren't essential at all, were develop further causing the movie to go on for about an hour and thirty minutes, or even longer (when it could have been shorter).
And did anyone who have seen it think the place Far Far Away looks just like Hollywood? I was in West Hollywood to gaze stars at the Griffith Observatory 6 months ago and I swear Highlands is the inspiration for Far Far Away. The Observatory as the palace that overlook the commoners place or San Fernando Valley and the long lines of Palm Trees were, after all, Beverly Hills.
Anyway, maybe I am grewing out of my pixar-animation days, who knows! But if you want to waste 10 bucks on something you have seen and familiar with already, then go ahead, go watch Shrek the third and feel free to contradict my views on this...oh no...oh yea, oh yowza blockbuster..OOOOh (as my opinion is lame itself).
Labels: critical condition, movies, opinion
My mind's unweaving/ 6:01 PM
Monday, May 21, 2007
It was not love at first sight although when they accidentally brushed each other along the 25th NYC transit going to Queensbridge, the two, as if struck with a magical love spell, stood there between a diverse amount of weary faces, dazed, and more so dumbfounded. Magnetic glances were exchanged between the two strangers for a good amount of time; neither tried to initiate a conversation even though their irrevocable glance expressed too little, apart from the admiration of the other's amorous eyes. The two managed to give a faint smile after fifteen minutes, however. Although this action still was not enough for these two people to leave each others accidental company, happily...or even acquire each other phone numbers, until after they had yet again unboarded the train to the same door, at the same time. Came out laughing, the strangers, as they might have been that day, alas, rambled through and finally spoken--the stop at Queensbridge was their own start, as strangers who happened to think they have found their own fairy-tale of love at first sights.
Alex reminisced all of their memories: that day in Queensbridge Station, their three loving years together after that, and how now, everything must come to an end and part as strangers just like they were on that Subway. He profoundly let her go to be with someone believed she love, rather than lusted within an hour in a public transportation. At first, Alex was horribly heartbroken and resisted love's bitter reality while he attempted to win her back although after nth times of trying, he withdraw and accepted his love's destined calvary. Alex was sure of his affections and understand clearly that if he truly love her, he must let her go. And so that Wednesday, the same day of the week they met each other three years ago, Alex drove to the Queensbridge subway station to bid her goodbye. Jess didn't tell Alex where she was going; Alex on the other hand, didn't even bother to ask at all--he was giving her away freely and thought that was all that matter.
Lonely sighs both ruled them that morning. Nobody said anything as they stood there in the dimly lighted underground station, awkward, patiently waiting for the sub to completely break the three years of memories they have created. When the subway approached, Jess abruptly hugged him although Alex just stood there, like a zombie who just lost his soul, immovable, pale, although globes of water was tearing away. All along, Jess looked back before entering the railway despite how Alex was still as if standing outside, soaking in a pouring rain. After a minute or so, she was gone similar to a boxed of faded memories coated with dust, unabash.
They haven't seen each other then; it has been 5 years since they parted and it is just now that Alex decide to dig in deep through the box of memories they have had and read the letter Jess gave him that Wednesday, today, which also happens to be Wednesday. He is hoping to see a long, sentimental letter although only find this in the middle of a pink stationary unruffled with a sweet pea smell:
Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
with a little note along with it:
I'm sorry to leave you like this. I am not in love with another man. But i believe that if we truly are meant for each other, destiny will find its way to meet us up again. I will always love you.
Amaze, he sits on his basement for hours regretting why he did not read the letter right there and then on that subway station. He remembers what he wrote to her (and ironically was also from the same song):
Tell me you love me
Come back and haunt me
Oh and I rush to the start
Running in circles
And coming back as we are
when a female voice approaches him, coming down the stairs, "Honey, what are you doing down here?"
"Oh, uhm..." still dumbfounded he lied saying "...nothing. Just looking for my baseball cards," and he immediately put away the box, afraid that his fiancee will see it.
"Come here, you silly goose. They're in our bedroom," she said teasingly.
*Lyrics from Coldplay's The Scientist
Labels: amour, FICTION, le musique
My mind's unweaving/ 7:55 PM
Friday, May 18, 2007
A familiar site: Heart on Food.
Mornings were different back then--there were abundance of sunshine to fill my starving youth, and birds chirpings enough to put me in a go-getter mood. There weren't any days I've wished to stay in bed after 9:00 in the morning, unless it was raining or cold that is. I was eager to wake up and smell the garlic aroma that overflowed density around the house; my nieces crawling up my bed along *Gringo pulling off my blanket until I'm abled to pat their tiny heads, I have yet to miss another day in the Province.
I did not yearn for anywhere else but there. Although my entire family have had its dose of world-wars and have gotten entirely broken up, I was pretty contented with the simple life my dad led for us. That place, along with my grandma's house have always been my comfort zone. When waves have kept me on shore, farthest than I can imagine, I was able to go back to these places, with the help of the waves itself. We are not perfect...even now, my family still has its little vices but being at a young age amidst the chaos between my dad and my unruly siblings, I attained warmth and fuzziness to the simple moments when we all are getting along, most especially in the kitchen. I'd like to think that our lives have been a drama series full of emotional encounters, but just like anything on television, with its own upbeat moments as well.
We have always been, and always are food people. My oldest sister and I used to go over board on our food budget every week. Regardless how much money we had then, we enjoyed Sunday afternoons around the wet market in our town, wisely arguing prices with the vendors and ignoring them if they wouldn't budge in. There weren't any breakfast, lunch or dinner without tasty meals set before us in our dining table, as anyone in my family can cook a hearty food, aromatic and conversation starters. While most of our neighbors indulged themselves on cars or fancy clothes, we, however, evolved into in each-and-our-own epicures: my grandma at her best with igado, my dad's bulalo, my sister's filipino-stlye spaghetti, my brother's kilawin, my uncle Carlos' dinuguan...my criticism towards their meal, is it good, bad, and above anything else, my day-to-day "starvation"--my stomach screaming "I want more!"
It was more than the food, however. It was about how spending in the kitchen prepping for these meals have kept my family in harmony whether it be for only 2 or 3 hours. As i see it now, there is really something bewitching with food and the way my family get along better, shut us down, and have helped us understand each other more (with home-cooking). It binds us better than the familiar love that most family share. Is it then sad that we had rely our relationship on the pungent sense a meal can bestow?
*Gringo: pet-dog. Although probably dead by now.
Italicize words: filipino food that involves pork/beef, fat, and many hmmmm hmmm hmmm's.
Labels: awkward, memorial family, of food, say cheesey
My mind's unweaving/ 11:58 PM
Monday, May 14, 2007
Ballerinas of the Middle East, 1. "Only 5 dollars, ladies," the man behind the counter told us with a cultured accent...a little bit of a middle eastern mouth although until now, I'd still picture him waving his arms around like the Godfather mobs. I invited Donica to come along with me that Friday night as I didn't want to watch another festivity alone and bitter. I forced myself to for once, spend a little something on my friends thus I told her that the ticket was on me. That's one disadvantage of not having a better-half, boyfriend, a pimp (whatever): you always have to squatter around your friends until you find the perfect companions to accompany you with certain events. You see, it is always hard to go shopping with the guys and even harder to be carefree around the girls (and when I said carefree i meant no boundaries or insecurities that often arises between female companions). Then again, who wants to be tied down, be suffocated, and possibly end up dying (methaporically) with a controlling boyfriend or girlfriend?
The turn outs for the Hungama Show was very surprising given the fact that although it was announced and various flyers were posted all over school, there were a lack thereof. They called it Hungama which pertains to Middle Eastern cultures only but Mexican dances and African-American step-dance are presented too. The show started off with a mainger like stint, Mary and Joseph on the center stage with a slight difference as the hungama twist was added. A majority of the performers sang, danced, and paraded down the runaway (as there was a fashion show too...a long one that killed the whole bumping routine) on various Bollywood songs. Amidst the proud Middle Eastern parents & kids who eventually understood the festive songs being played, Donica and I were definitely lost in translation. If you've listened to foreign language cassette tapes before, that was how the whole program sounded like but of course, absolutely better than blunt. What the artists were singing didn't really matter to us, however--we're cultured kids...we eat samosas on chinese containers and stir-fried noodles with fork...listening to weird phonics sing-song was far from our problems, and so accordingly delighted, I danced along with them.
Refreshing to the ears, that's how I would describe it. Being able to dripped off, away from american rap, hip hop, and or my daily favorites, indie & alternative renditions for one day was amazing in a sense that, I actually enjoyed the beat and rhythm than the lyrics alone. The sad songs? Pretty upbeat and it is now no wonder why a lot of Persian kids that i know or Middle Easterns in general loves to party--outgoing, and playful...BECAUSE they have great, off the hook music to party with. And trust me, Shakira got nothing, niet, nada, on those dancers who waved their arms and moved their hips gracefully, like actors in a Bollywood musical movie.
Labels: clash the casbah, Culture
My mind's unweaving/ 4:17 PM
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Ego-deflate, a must? I am a sucker for pro-inspiron, self-motivation books. The way these authors puts a simple cliche "nobody's perfect" into a literary art amazes the inner old, deeper soul in me. Although I get enough of banality from a particular friend who became my part-pyscho therapy ever since I met him, I am always on, seeking for the book that can all-in-all change my common outlook in life. Thus, my lame attempt of over-analyzing life's great adversities, preaching my opinions like a monotonous tone that possibly put many people in immersed oblivion. And although that's how it feels like my writing is to me, sub-titles on an odd Mexican movie that even Mexicans would not watch, I am proud of myself for being stubborn and egocentric--I still write. Hurrah.
(*I've always have a big head, deranged huge eyes, mickey mouse ears, what's new?)
Ironically, I did not always want to be a writer. I grew up with oil pastels and a sketchbook in hand. I remember drawing the most intricate house, beyond cotton candy clouds and lame two windows when I was 9 years old mind you, outdoing everyone in my class. When I got to the 5th grade, my homosexual (he was fruity, i remember) art teacher was already able to distinguished me apart from the others; I was the emerging artist with a big hollow head filled with arrogance and--obnoxiously, carbon dioxide. For many years, I made myself to believe my inability to create an art-history slogan under time contraint was cause by a constant pressure that have gotten me not once, but always during actual contests. The truth of the matter is, I was nothing but a big-headed kid who believed every compliments that was given to her, back then; I was delirious of an imaginary talent that made me special. I did not discover my so-called artistic talent by myself. It was actually endowed upon me by the people who did not only cause my failure to accept criticisms well, but also deviated me from reality. Yes, I do blame the people who created me like an incompetent person that only manage to get by with dishonest compliments. My grandmother for one but also the strangers that were afraid of causing my politically/powerfully inclined family emotional trouble, how hard was it to say "your youngest daughter is an underdog"?
Many of us live under the wing of foolery. We would rather hear a thousand lies than a single honesty. Deceits that comes from outside forces and ourselves rule our lives: thousands of women would like to think that their husbands/boyfriends still love them regardless how horrible they may be getting the treat; some would rather assume that life is still fruitful (when it is not) as they go on purchasing gucci bags and manolo shoes; while others live in a delusional world all-together. Is such mentality then optimism or completely a disguise of the truth? Childhood comes to a great play with this. Take females who were called princesses when they were young, for example. There is a 70/30 percent chance of them staying like that, and possibly turning into stuck-up, manipulative bitches. While it is likely for these women to outgrow such behavior, it is still wrong for parents or guardians to accustom kids with great misconceptions early in life. The tooth fairy? Prince charming? Santa? What a bunch of lies.
I am way behind years with parenthood (although i'm an Aunt with 2 nieces, and a nephew already) but delusion and even hoarding a kid with compliments, as well as the constant over-protectiveness will mislead such young mind into greater hallucination. The good thing about my childhood was that, I did not have parents to call me a princess or bestow me with tender, loving care. I was out and about deep-belly laughing with my childhood friends and listening to my grandma's philosophies, might have it been right or wrong. Although the compliments I've heard through out the years i was growing up made me just a little bit ego-maniac, I am discovering that i do have the ability to do art--and yes, even to write something gramatically incorrect. :-)
My mind's unweaving/ 2:25 PM
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Cliche NicheWhen you get to the ocean, do you use your arms to swim or let yourself float? I am sure many of you have reached all sorts of finish lines before, maybe not as champions by your own live races but have finished something nonetheless. I see success as getting into your own pool of post doubts or celebrations, still struggling to swim or enjoying the undazed, chlorined water, floating and celebrating.
39 days from now, the kids at my school (and hopefully I myself will) will be walking down the stage in the newly mowed football field with visible confidence of having to yet again finish another chapter in their lives. They are on top of their own games, and a life coach have already given them an assured scholarship from different collages and unversities. "Anything is invetible" --they repeatedly try to convince that tiny, evil voice that constantly discourages them of getting and being somewhere other than this town. But what the future brings to these promising doctors, lawyers, and businessmen is questionable. Getting through 12 years of school is a big hurrah, being in a bigger institution and successful in the real world is another rocky mountain waiting for these new generation of smart kids to stumble and triumph from. It is not an skeptic notion but rather generally what the "real world" will bring even if you do it by yourself or with the guidance of others that have done it before you.
Personally for me, it doesn't matter when you get there but how, with all the scratches and bruises, do you manage to have fun and still get there. I have yet to convinced myself that I actually reach this point in life, 17, a soon to be a graduate of a small school and well, still have not done any relevance to the world before i could discuss another journey i'll soon be taking. I do not see graduating from high school a finish line for me but rather lucky if I get out of high school that is. Ever since I was a small kid, I have had plans for myself: the first one might have been to join & reign as Little Miss Philippines and be on TV--it apparently did not happen as I still envy gorgeous women and live a life in vain. I soon transfered to look upon my older sister, convinced, that i wanted to be just like her, epitome of the artist she used to be. Within years of living behind her artistic merit, I moved on and made another dream, hope, a want: to be a doctor. Because i've heard doctors acquire a lot of money, I thought i would stick to it and drive a red convertible someday and still willing to help other people while, well, taking away their money. Until I soon learned it take 10 years and high tuition fees in return just to be so. No way, Jose, I declared to anyone--the Jose's of the world, maybe.
Confusion about wants pertaining to goals can be high on the radar when you're young: 17, 25, there's not much of a difference. Our minds changes as fast as lightning bolts (for some of us) while for others, they stick to what they want and can truly be successful in life. Getting a diploma, I see now, is not a big deal if you don't really know what to do with it. Yes, you can go to college and bullshit your first year but then wouldn't that be somehow a waste of time!? It is either training wheels for the new road or a guidance guru to lead the path of success; neither is available. There is a thin line between being brilliantly creative and an idiot so when in doubt, just take a dive and see how things will come up. I guess that's all we need to do, to be daring but do things rightly and we'll soon find out where the present can lead our future. Test and go ahead, ride and if it doesn't work out, TRY AGAIN LATER.
Labels: cliche, stating the obvious-es
My mind's unweaving/ 4:15 PM