REVIEW: Halloween (2007)

NOTE: Review may contain, by necessity, discussion-of or allusions-to differentiations between this film and the original which may constitute SPOILERS. You have been warned.

The reason I don't automatically get bent out of shape about movie remakes is that, when you get right down to it, almost everything is a remake of something else "officially" or not. It's pretty likely that we ran out of "new" stories on the fourth or fifth night of Cro-Magnon campfire tales. Joseph Campbell neatly sorted every story in every culture into one of only THREE seperate stories, Karl Jung apparently got it down to ONE. The plain fact is, almost any movie you'll see is either directly or indirectly "inspired" by other material, and from where I sit after a full century of existance it oughn't be forbidden for movies to add other movies to the list of "stuff to base movies on" next to books, plays, history, etc. This especially goes for the Horror genre: If- as many horror fans continue to insist- Freddy, Michael, Jason, etc. are the modern equivalents of Dracula, Frankenstein etc.; then it shouldn't be a de-facto sin to similarly re-imagine or revamp them in the same way that other monster-mainstays have been... or at least try to.

So, short-version, I don't begrudge anyone merely for ATTEMPTING to, 25 years later, put out a different spin on the Michael Meyers mythos. I especially don't begrudge Rob Zombie doing so, since if you ARE going to demand horror-genre bona-fides he's spent two genre films and an entire musical career establishing his. And while Zombie hasn't exactly made a perfect film he's made a fascinating and noteworthy one, which I'll take any day of the week over what we might've gotten had the producers gone the risk-free hire-a-hack route. Brett Ratner's "Halloween," anyone? Didn't think so.

The plain fact is that the original "Halloween" is just about the perfect example of it's own franchise and genre. No straight-up "slasher" film is better, and none will likely ever be better. Going in to Mr. Zombie's remake, my biggest hope was that it would compare to John Carpenter's original film in the way that the Hammer "Dracula" movies compared to the Bela Lugosi/Tod Browning original: Familiar story and characters but with a total visual and characterization overhaul. Instead, what we have here is a film that resembles no other horror remake so much as Coppola's "Brahm Stoker's Dracula." Both are reboots of an iconic character that place the antagonist in the forefront of the story, both make it a point to delve into a newly-minted "origin story" for said antagonist, both are intentionally prodding the audience's sense of cognitive dissonance by making the viewpoint and story-structure "sympathetic" with an unsympathetic character at the center and both are framed as self-aware tributes to the genre/franchise keenly aware that the audience will probably NOT be able to "forget" the original while watching.

The key difference, and easily the most controversial and "difficult" thing about the film, is that Zombie's take involves a revised "origin" for Michael Meyers that completely reverses the original film's approach to characterization. The 'point' of the original Michael was that he was an empty-vessel for pure evil, sprouted without rhyme or reason in the heart of genuinely good suburban familyland. The "new" Michael is the abused and unloved product of a home enviroment accurately described by one character as the "perfect mix" of forces to turn someone into, well... Michael Meyers. For literally one half of the film, we watch as lil' Michael starts off killing animals (like any good psycho in training) and then moves up to schoolyard bullies and eventually all but the youngest of his vile family members - an act which, as you already knew, lands him a lifetime stint in an asylum. It's not so much that Zombie wants us to "sympathize" with Michael so much as he's forcing us to place our audience-interest in him. To "understand" the why of what he does. The original film was "about" the babysitters stalked by the killer, this one is ABOUT the killer.

This reversal indeed extends to the 2nd half of the film, an abbreviated retread of the original film but this time with greater emphasis on Michael's perspective. Now that it's the killer with all the depth and perspective, the film's victims are the empty, dehumanized ones. The film sees the "good guys" the same way Michael does: As lesser beings, targets, nothing more. They aren't important (well, one of them is, maybe) to Michael, they're in the way, and by extension they aren't important to the movie and aren't ever made important to the audience. We don't "want" them to die because they seem like nice-enough people (Zombie pretty much shoots his 'characters who deserve it' load on the Meyers family in Act I, so the latter half is refreshingly free of 'you stupid suburbanites' cheap-shots) but we're only "invested" in babysitter Laurie Strode for reasons that everyone and their grandma already knows and that the movie barely seems to recognize is supposed to be a twist.

So, yes. 40 solid minutes getting us "inside" the head/world of a savage murderer and a 2nd half that turns him loose on a cast's worth of one-dimensional canon-fodder, from the director of "The Devil's Rejects." And yet, what keeps the film from finally becoming the amoral "root for the killer" epic the prude-set has been warning us about since the original Michael stabbed his original sister comes down to a very deliberate and even MORE ballsy decision by Zombie: The killings aren't fun. There's no Freddy Krueger "funny" deaths, none of Jason Vorhees' improvisational genius, not even much of the original Meyers' "heh. Did I do that?" quizzical head-tilting. The butcherings of this new "Halloween" resemble the kind metted out by "Hotel Rwanda's" machete-wielding Hutus: Brutal, merciless and cold.

The new Michael, re-imagined as a towering 7-foot behemoth inhabitted by wrestler/actor Tyler Mane, is all business: He works fast, doesn't play games, and is so physically powerful he can take out some of his targets just by squeezing their neck really hard. And when the deaths do take longer than a few moments, Zombie purposefully dwells on the victims, not the hardware: Empty characters though they may be, the unlucky citizens of Haddonfield meet their ends with aplomb; screaming, crying, pleading for their lives. It's uncomfortable, it's hard to watch, it's horror-ific. There's not a single "Aw yeah, get 'im Mike!!!" moment once The Shape hits the 'burbs, and it seems to be the key to Zombie's vision: He's let the "slasher" audience deeper into the mind of the monster than they've ever been, but in exchange he's robbed them of the chance to "enjoy" the splatter.

So many of the choices Zombie makes here, and the fearlessness with which he carries it all out, are so fascinating that one wants to overlook or outright ignore some of the more basic and noteable flaws... but in the end that's not entirely possible. Setting up what is eventually a "two-act" structure is an interesting approach, but the fact that "part two" must so closely resemble the original film causes it to feel jarringly seperate: After spending 40+ minutes in the entirely new world of "growing up Michael," there's a genuine "oomph!" in realizing that the NOT entirely new world of the familiar "Halloween" story had just touched down.

More bothersome, the decision to retain (and directly involve) the true connection between Michael and Laurie despite the now much-less-supernatural-like Michael raises some basic logic questions the film just can't properly answer. And on the just-plain-silly side, while Zombie's penchant for stunt-casting genre icons thankfully doesn't get in the way of the movie (the who's-who of grindhouse vets appear in a series of minor roles, do their parts "straight" and move on) a somewhat gratuitous bit of striptease by Sheri Moon-Zombie does. Mr. Zombie, if you're listening: This officially became "showing off" about midway through "Rejects." Yes, you're wife is really, really hot. We're all very impressed. Good goin' on your part. But enough is enough.

I'll give him his biggest credit where it's most due, though (and this is where that SPOILER WARNING comes into play, kiddies): THANK YOU for finding an ending that is A.) as ballsy and brutal as the rest of the "big" scenes, B.) still doesn't let the audience "off the hook" or go for quick catharsis and C.) is an actual ENDING. I won't spell it out, folks, but if this new "Halloween" gets only ONE thing absolutely, spectacularly, perfect right; it's the decision to stand up in full knowledge of the ever-worsening sequels that followed the first film and boldly scream "fuck no!, NOT doing that!" at the very idea. Bravo, at least, to that.

FINAL RATING: 7/10

COMING ATTRACTIONS: DOUBLE FEATURE: EVIL BEHIND YOU & THE BURNING HELL

Well, we've now passed the six month mark here at The B-Movie Catechism and it's just in time for our 25th review. To celebrate, we're going to have our first double feature in which we GO TO HELL! First up is 2006's Evil Behind You, a direct to video horror/thriller produced by the folks at Given The Boot Ministries in hopes of bringing the Christian message into the secular environment. You can view the trailer here at the movie's official website. After that we take a look at 1974's The Burning Hell, evangelist Estus Pirkle's 16mm fire and brimstone epic which promises to deliver 20,000 degrees fahrenheit and not a drop of water! There's no trailer, but you can buy or rent a print from Mr. Pirkle himself at his website, or you can just watch the whole thing (in eight parts) on YouTube.

REVIEW: Balls of Fury

GUY #1: "Hey, who was that lady I saw you with last night?"

GUY #2: "That's no lady, that was my wife!"

The key to "understanding" Vaudeville staple jokes like that is to realize that they were told over and over, night after night, by comic after comic and were still basically funny. Simple joke, doesn't even have to be especially well-told to work. Just has to be, because the audience already knows the joke, thinks it's funny and is endeared to the comic who tells it for agreeing with their sense of humor and expectations. "Balls of Fury" is kind of like that. It's premise gives away the entirety of the film almost immediately: It's a comedy about a secret underground ping-pong competition, staged in the framework and trappings of a B-grade "kung-fu tournament" movie. If you can conjure a basic picture of what that might look like, and it amuses you, so will the resulting movie even though it's obviously not the "best" telling of it's own joke possible.

The advertisements want you to think of it as something along the lines of a "Dodgeball" sports-spoof, but the actual film is aimed best at a smaller niche: Ironic-appreciators of bad 80s U.S. martial arts films. Genre mainstays like James Hong, Jason Scott-Lee and Cary Hiroyuki-Tagawa are onhand in mostly-straight versions of the kind of roles they can do in their sleep. If you A.) recognize Cary Hiroyuki-Tagawa by sight, B.) know who he his by name and not "that one Asian guy and C.) are glad to see him, you will like this movie.

The plot concerns a secret, underground, high-stakes, life-or-death table-tennis tournament overseen by a Triad arms dealer Feng (Christopher Walken in full "It's Funny Because I'm Christopher Walken" mode.) A government agent (George Lopez in the first time I've EVER found him funny) recruits a onetime disgraced ping-pong prodigy (Dan Fogler) for training under a blind Chinatown ping-pong master (James Hong) and his niece (an unspeakably sexy Maggie Q, hotter than any woman that skinny has any right to be) to help inflitrate the contest, which holds dual significance for Fogler's hero: The champ-to-beat is a German rival (the great Thomas Lennon) from his past, and Feng (what else) killed his father.



Fogler is a natural comic lead, the premise easily sustains a movie's worth of jokes and all-in-all it's good for laugh. The Asian actors, Hong especially, seem to be having fun doing deadpan-parodies of the cheesy roles they so often wind up playing in the "serious" films this is spoofing. Granted, Hong has been "in" on subverting Asian stereotypes for laughs since way back in "Big Trouble in Little China," and Tagawa grimmaces with unmistakable "yeah, it's me" conviction. But it's fun to see Lee get to cut loose as a heavy, and Maggie Q demonstrably "gets" both the appeal and the absurdity of the "itty-bitty Asian girl as icy high-kicking fetish doll" routine. And Walken, well... Walken has honed this bit with such expertise that at certain points his "dialogue" consists of a series of improv-ish mumbles and/or strange, suggestive eye movements and somehow it's still funny. (Feng on a pet Panda: "Sleeping... I think. Could be dead... I dunno. Not really sure... what they, y'know, eat. Anyhoo...")

This one's pretty easy, folks. Go watch the trailer. If you laugh, you'll like the movie.

FINAL RATING: 6/10

EAT MY DUST

TYPICAL REVIEW

"Eat My Dust, which opened yesterday at neighborhood theaters, is an exuberantly idiotic movie... The cast, directed by Charles Griffith, who wrote the screenplay, acts as though Eat My Dust matters. It doesn't." - New York Times

THE PLOT

Hoover (played by the director of A Beautiful Mind and Cinderella Man) has a "going nowhere" job refilling hand towel and toilet paper dispensers. He still knows what he wants out of life though, and that's Darlene, the prettiest girl in all of Puckerbush County. But unfortunately for Hoover, Darlene has one condition before she'll go out with him; she wants a ride in a fast car. In particular she wants a ride in the 700hp Camaro that just won the race at the local track. So Hoover does what any sane man would; he walks into the pit and "borrows" the car in front of God and everybody, including his own father, the county sheriff. Joined by as many teens as can squeeze into the back of a Camaro (a surprisingly large number), Hoover and Darlene tear through the countryside causing thousands in property damage while mysteriously never harming a living thing. (This was years before the A-Team turned this into an art form.) The authorities give chase.

THE POINT

"The heroine... likes fast young men and even faster cars... Fun stuff, concentrating on action, not social or psychological problems." That quote, from Britain's Channel 4 review of 1957's Dragstrip Girl, pretty much sums up the philosophy behind many of the hot rod movies aimed directly at the teenage drive-in crowd of the 1950s. And Eat My Dust starts out as the same kind of pure teenage fantasy as it's rockin-n-rollin chicken-racing predecessors. In the jejune universe of Eat My Dust every adult is an utter moron ("Hey, Roy, I'm looking for a kid in a blue jacket and Civil War cap, much like the one sitting four feet directly behind you in that conspicuous horse drawn wagon that I somehow mysteriously don't notice. Have you seen him?"), underage kids can get beer with no hassle (Hoover himself actually refuses to drink while driving, which is probably for the best considering the devastation he causes while stone sober.), and the destruction of private property doesn't matter as long as everyone walks away alive (Not necessarily uninjured, mind you, just alive.). If you need confirmation that this movie is told entirely from the kids' point of view, look no further than the brief segment preceeding the final chase where the Camaro runs out of gas. While Hoover drives a buckboard (apparently not uncommon in Puckerbush County) to the store in order to con some free fuel, Darlene breaks into a friend's house to shower, borrow some fresh clothes, and make a call to one of her girlfriends while polishing her nails. The background soundtrack to all of this is not music, but rather the frothing tirade of the sheriff (Hoover's dad, remember) which is being broadcast over the local airwaves demanding that the couple turn themselves in. Every single kid shown has their radio on, but not one of them ever hears a word that's being said. (Every parent reading this just bowed their heads in despondent solidarity.)

Had Eat My Dust been made in the 50s, that's probably all there would have been to it. Fifteen minutes of exposition, seventy-five minutes of car chases and hijinks, the end, date over, hope she at least kisses me before she goes inside. But Eat My Dust was released in 1976, just seven short years after Easy Rider had ushered in a very different kind of road movie, artful car-centered films like Vanishing Point, Two-Lane Blacktop, and the anti-Easy Rider masterpiece Electra Glide In Blue (get thee to a video store and rent that one right away). These films were anything but fun and games. Comparing some of those movies, author and critic Danny Peary wrote, "All these characters are not heroes to admire - they are miserable case studies. The sad aspect of [Two-Lane] Blacktop is that while these two young men take their endless trip to nowhere in their cubicle on wheels, they pass stationary cubicles - houses owned by people of all economic classes - where lights go on to signal that there are people inside who are just as withdrawn and isolated from the problems/horrors of the world." During the early seventies, filmmakers no longer saw the American highway as a simplistic playground for youthful rebellion, but rather a stage for existentialist explorations of alienation and aimlessness. While referenced subtly (okay, blatantly ignored sometimes for a cheap laugh), the influence of these weightier less-than-fun films can still be seen and felt in Eat My Dust.

The odd thing, however, is that the detached attitude from those earlier 70s films is expressed in Eat My Dust, not through the main character of Hoover, but rather through Darlene. She's the one who relentlessly chants faster, faster, faster even when the speedometer begins to creep up into dangerous territory. Faced with the inevitable point-of-no-return decision, Darlene's the one who just wants to keep driving, even after the duo has admitted to themselves that they really have no place to go. When the gas runs out, Darlene is the one who insists that the car somehow be refilled and made ready to hit the road again before she'll finally give Hoover his promised reward. And at the end of the movie, when the ride is over and the car has been returned (see, Hoover really did just borrow it after all), it's Darlene who rejects any notion of a real relationship between the two. "It was never about me, was it?" shouts Hoover, to which Darlene just shrugs and walks off into the night wistfully considering where the next day's escape from reality might come from.

If Eat My Dust had ended right there, it could easily be dismissed as an enjoyable, but mostly forgettable, teenage fantasy romp with a bittersweet ending. And really, as a stand-alone film, it still can. (This thing is a looong way from being a masterpiece.) But there's one final scene which, when considered in the context of the meta-narrative of American road movies, gives Eat My Dust a much more important status than one would think it actually deserves. It's a simple scene, really. After Darlene fades away into the dark, the owner of the car emerges from the stands and offers Hoover a job as his new driver in the races. Hoover accepts and the credits roll. That's it. Again, taken alone, it's no big deal. But if you know your early 70s car movies, then you recognize that something has changed. In the wake of Easy Rider, movie characters traveling the roadways had become so disillusioned and so detached from society, that they saw no options left other than to keep driving until they went mad or died or both. Hoover just gets a job.

I know it sounds crazy, but I think what we have here in this little Roger Corman produced no-budget quickie from 1976 is nothing more than the first signs of a paradigm shift in the American conscious. (Okay, once you've picked your jaw up off the floor where it dropped in disbelief, we'll continue.) If critics like the aforementioned Mr. Peary are correct, and the road movies of the early 70s reflected an undercurrent of feelings of alienation and helplessness over Vietnam and Watergate, then Eat My Dust reflects an emerging attitude of getting through it and getting back to work. If you think I'm overreaching here then consider the fact that Smokey and The Bandit was released just one year later. In that movie, Burt Reynolds accepts a cross-continental delivery job, makes a bet he can do it in record time, and along the way becomes a folk hero. Folks, that's the EXACT same plot as Vanishing Point. But whereas the earlier film ends in fiery death, Smokey ends with Burt winning the bet and... accepting another job. Hah! Ridicule me all you want, but I believe that in the sub-genre of car movies, Eat My Dust represents the first shot fired against the spiritual malaise of the early 70s. (And the New York Times said it didn't matter.)

Of course, I'm saying this with 30 years of hindsight and a stack of film magazines next to me. It's highly unlikely that the makers of Eat My Dust had any such thing in mind while they were in production. (Ron Howard himself once dismissed the movie as nothing more than the one where Opie gets laid.) But knowingly or not, the battle against the prevailing mindset of the early 70s was going on in the arts. When Walker Percy, author of The Moviegoer (my kind of book title) and Love in the Ruins: The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World, was asked what worried him most about America's future, he answered, "Probably the fear of seeing America, with all its great strength and beauty and freedom... gradually subside into decay through default and be defeated, not by the communist movement... but from within by weariness, boredom, cynicism, greed, and in the end helplessness before its great problems." St. Gregory The Great had a term for this kind of life-robbing dreariness. He called it "acedia". These days we recognize it by its more familiar name of Sloth. That's right, Sloth, the red-headed step child of the seven deadly sins. (There goes my Irish readership.) Sloth gets little respect these days because whenever most people hear the word they usually think of simple laziness. (Or that guy tied to the bed in the movie Seven, but we're not going there.) But you have to think there's more to Sloth than just the basic lack of desire to work, otherwise why would the Catechism list it as one of the capital sins of man?

Capital sins, as the Catechism explains, are called such because they engender other sins, other vices. How does this work with Sloth? Father Paul A. Duffner, O.P. puts it this way. "Friendship with God has its obligations, and those obligations can in time come to be seen as burdens, as joy-killers rather than sources of joy; and can give rise to a sadness that stands in the way of fulfilling those obligations. This peculiar sadness, comments Fr. F. Cunningham, O.P., which leads to a neglect of the spiritual duties that flow from sharing in God’s friendship is called sloth... a kind of spiritual paralysis that leads to the neglect of our duties." Father Duffner goes on to add, "The sin of sloth causes one to shun many things because of the sorrow or unpleasantness involved, and to seek many unlawful things as a means of escape from his depressing state; and because of this it begets many other sins." This is exactly the state of mind the protagonists of the early 70s car movies find themselves in. Overwhelmed by the state of the world and the effort required to do something about it, they instead withdraw into the isolation of their car interiors, fall into reckless unlawfulness, and eventually lose their souls. Even Hoover, goaded by Darlene, seems to be on this route throughout most of Eat My Dust. But at the end of the day, when confronted with the harshness of reality, rather than follow Darlene into hopeless escapism, Hoover just gets a job.

And that's what we as Christians have to do sometimes when spiritual apathy begins to creep in. Father Garrigou-Lagrange, O.P. advises that "to recover the spirit of faith, enthusiasm and generosity in the love of God, we must daily courageously impose little sacrifices on ourself in those matters in which we are weakest... The first steps are costly, but after a bit the task becomes easier... even when sensible joy is lacking." This is the exact point which dozens of better written, more intelligent blogs have made when addressing the recent Time Magazine article regarding Mother Teresa and her decades long struggle with feelings of spiritual loneliness. She didn't withdraw into herself and succumb to Sloth, she did the job, and tens of thousands of Indians are glad she did. Whether being fueled by joy or something even deeper, the Christian spirit can be pretty hard to stop once it gains momentum. Like Hoover said, it would take running into a wall or something. We just have to keep in mind that in Christianity the wall we most often run into is ourselves.

(I just linked Mother Teresa to Eat My Dust. This is either one of my proudest moments or deepest shames.)

THE STINGER

Hey, if you think I over-analyzed a simple carsploitation movie, then you might want to avoid the DOCUMENT OF THE PONTIFICAL COUNCIL FOR THE PASTORAL CARE OF MIGRANTS AND ITINERANT PEOPLE: GUIDELINES FOR THE PASTORAL CARE OF THE ROAD issued by the Vatican on June 19, 2007. (Note to The Holy See: Please consider reassigning whatever bishop is in charge of coming up with document titles.) The study included sections on "The Pastoral Ministry for the Liberation of Street Women", "The Pastoral Care of Street Children", and "The Pastoral Care of the Homeless (Tramps)". But the only section that really got any press at all (other than a few indignant yelps over the use of the word Tramps) was "The Pastoral Care of Road Users" due to a small sub-section which stated, "We have drawn up a special “decalogue” for road users, in analogy with the Lord’s Ten Commandments." Yep, the Vatican issued a Ten Commandments for Road Users. (Fortunately, most of the jokes which followed were fairly good-natured.) Here they are.

1. You shall not kill.
2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.
3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.
4. Be charitable and help your neighbour in need, especially victims of accidents.
5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.
6. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.
7. Support the families of accident victims.
8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.
9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.
10. Feel responsible towards others.

These "commandments" seem so obvious (like the recent award-winning warning label found on a laundromat washing machine which read, “Do not put any person in this washer”) that you would think even a journalist would understand them. However, during a press conference on the document, one reporter asked the President of the Council just when could a car become an occasion of sin. Cardinal Renato Martino replied curtly, "When a car is used as a place for sin." Somebody please send that guy a copy of Eat My Dust so he'll know what the Cardinal was talking about.

Michael Bay's "Super Mario Bros."

UPDATED: Now using a video-player with quality that doesn't suck!

What if the director of "Transformers" applied his, er.. "skills?" to movie remakes of OTHER beloved characters? Imagine no more...



Personal Challenge set with this project: Create something that looked and sounded awful from premise to execution but ALSO looked like an interpretation that might concievably actually get made. I think it came out decently, overall.

REVIEW: War (2007)

The best thing I can say about "War" is that it deserves to be better than it is. While I won't spoil it here, what is probably one of the niftier "Gotcha... and gotcha AGAIN!!" plot twists I can recall for the genre caps off what is otherwise an entirely generic, disposable John Woo knockoff action thriller; and has the effect of making the characters, motivations and story points involved so much more interesting and imbued with such greater potential you wish that the actual product was worthy of it.

The film is a two-way "versus" star-vehicle for Hong Kong action legend Jet-Li and up-and-coming British action star Jason Statham. The two "met" previously in "The One," but as it was made before Statham revealed himself to be a kung-fu virtuoso in his own right the film lacked a proper "Hero versus The Transporter" showdown. Unfortunately, despite implications of the trailers, "War" doesn't quite provide this either- the two share only a single brief-but-brutal exchange of fists (and anything else that isn't nailed down) at the climax -but instead sets them up as opposing forces in a large (and largely incomprehensible) Yakuza vs. Triad crime saga that finds each actor playing to darker, angrier places in their skill-sets. Fans can at least rest-assured that, whatever else is going on in "War" the standard "We must fight! Wait, we're actually on the same side! Let's team up to fight the REAL enemy!" hero/hero fight structure is NOT in play.

Statham is an FBI agent who's partner/best-friend was killed, along with his entire family, by "The Rogue," a martial-arts master Yakuza hitman who no one can catch and who surgically overhauls his face all the time to avoid recognition. Three years later, Statham has morphed into the standard-issue divorced/slovenly/bitter cop dedicated to hunting down Rogue... who has just now resurfaced, his face re-cut into that of Jet Li, in the midst of a stateside Triad/Yakuza war over priceless artifacts. What none of the cops realize is that Rogue, for reasons unknown, seems to be pulling a "Red Harvest" on both gangs. Devon Aoki (middle of my blog banner, the one with the snake) is on hand as a Yakuza princess to give us something to look at when people aren't fighting and/or shooting.

It's all rather basic and unremarkable, building to a pair of twist-reveals that succeed in redrawing the map of what you thought the movie was about but don't quite make the first two acts "better." At best, it's enough to make it an interesting action movie footnote.

REVIEW: September Dawn

If you're living near one of the 857 theaters currently showing "September Dawn," I reccomend that you do so. Not necessarily because it's entirely great, or because I believe there's some great intrinsic benefit to it, but because you just don't see one of "these" actually come around often. This is REAL independent filmmaking, folks, a self-made, uncompromised passion project with all the pros and cons that go with such an endeavor: A story that charges forth on the strength of will and conviction, a cast precariously balanced at the intersection of dutiful character actors, varied amateurs and marquee-name showstoppers; and most fascinating of all a tone that careens wildly to and fro between classy historical-dramatization and gut-reaction exploitation. By the time the third act rolls around, it resembles the result of Eli Roth directing second-unit for a Ken Burns piece.

This is an old-fashioned historical melodrama, the sort that Hollywood once pumped out by the truckload. True to that model, it's comprised of two main elements that never QUITE mesh into a proper whole. Part 1: A real historical event (here, the 1857 Mountain Meadows Massacre) boiled down to a simplified Good vs. Evil clash. Part 2: An invented substory (here, a wagon-train Romeo & Juliet hookup) designed to make the clash 'personal' to the audience. It's a difficult and usually ill-advised formula to use in the modern age, even for a period peice, but the execution here is about as good as can reasonably be asked for. It's melodrama, either you can "take it" or you can't.

"Mountain Meadows Massacre" is, along with the Donner Party, one of the grimmer footnotes in the history of the wagon train era. In 1857, a group of settlers en route to California stopped to rest in the Utah territories then occupied by the Mormons and their firebrand leader Brigham Young. Though welcomed to camp in the meadow under assurances of peace, the settlers were eventually decieved, betrayed and brutally slaughtered to the last man, woman and child (only infants were spared) by the Mormons' elite Dannite troops and a smattering of Paiute Indian allies - possibly under direct orders from Young himself as "blood atonement" for the expulsion of Mormons from Missouri decades earlier. The film, who's makers claim a painstaking amount of historical research, takes up the position that Young and the elder Apostles were indeed the masterminds of the butchery; a position that the modern Mormon church officially denies.

The film takes subtle but unmistakable pains to drive home it's welcome - though hardly radical - message that religious fanaticism is a source of great evil, with a special emphasis on the eerie coincidence that the final gory swipe of the slaughter took place on September 11th: In addition to the subtitle highlight of the date (which elicited an audible gasp from the audience I watched it with) and plentiful closeups of the baddies solemnly reffering to Mormon founder Joseph Smith as "The Prophet," a key flashback scene involving early Mormons destroying a critical newspaper's press is "narrated" by a quotation in which Smith's followers favorably compare him to Mohammed and the Koran. Allegory, much?

In fact, much of the raw power of the film (such as it is) comes from this somewhat uncomfortable source: We're USED to seeing "alien" foriegn (or made-up) cultures as evil-incarnate bad guys for movies like this... but it's downright jarring to see the model applied to a group of "all-American" looking frontier folk. For most U.S. audiences, seeing yet another dark-skinned, thick-accented heavy hiss "Allahu Akbar!!" through his teeth while hooking up the detonator on "24" barely elicits even a raised eyebrow. But this film, with it's fair-haired psychopath's solemnly chanting "all Mormons are avowed enemies of America" in Temple or howling "Do your duty to God!!!" while whipping a tomahawk at fleeing female settler, drives the point into infinitely more unsettling territory; driving home a condemnation of fanaticism and fundamentalism in ALL forms as opposed to individual faiths that alone makes the film a welcome inclusion in the long-overdue national discussion on the place of religion in politics and the modern world.

Some have sensed a dark motive at work in this allegory, and while I'll agree it's a go-for-the-jugular approach to contemporising the themes for the audience I'm not positive I see any concrete "bigotry" implicit here. And if it were, I suspect you'd find a rather even disagreement as to whether the film is attempting to smear Mormons with a comparison to Islam or to smear Islam with a comparison to Mormons. Let it be said, though, that casting Bad Guy extraordinaire Terrance Stamp (in full-on "Kneel Before Zod!!!!" mode) as a grave, ranting Brigham Young is just this side of pushing-it. Still, Stamp mainly appears as a framing device or transitional sequence base, while the main villian chores are left to Jon Voigt as the Bishop General who oversees the massacre even while his eldest son is secretly slipping off for chaste romantic rendevousz with a lovely "Gentile" settler girl. Three guesses on whether or not "that's" gonna end happy. Jon Gries ("Napolean Dynamite's" Uncle Rico) in a terrifically underplayed performance as massacre field-leader/scapegoat John D. Lees and Lolita Davidovitch as a lady gunslinger who's "sinful" unisex clothing enrage the Mormons round out the cast.

All this setup and character work (including a welcome detailing of the earlier intolerance and expulsion that helped make the Mormons so distrustful of other Americans) settles the story into a leisurely (and, it must be said, overlong) first two acts carefully laying out the machinations that led to the tragedy and playing-out the obligatory love story with such deliberate pacing that it's all the more wrenching when the actual massacre begins to unfold and the film takes-off (or descends, depending on your point of view) into unappologetic grab-the-audience-by-the-balls-and-twist-till-they-get-it exploitation territory. Whatever else it may be while getting there, the Massacre scenes themselves reveal "Dawn's" true desire to be nothing less than the Pioneer Era "Schindler's List."

The film is staking it's claim as THE dramatic rendering of this event, and the horrors play out as an endless montage of shot, beaten and slashed innocents with special attention to the targeting of women and children along with some of the Mormon raiders creepy decision to go into battle in garish "Indian" costumes. (One main character eventually looks like an escapee from Lord of The Flies, dual-wielding a knife/pistol combo and literally salivating with bloodlust.) It comes just up to "the line" of Mel Gibson-style sadism, (save that none of the Mormon baddies are set up to appear slightly effeminate or Jewish-looking beforehand, of course.)

"September Dawn" is a fascinating, flawed, occasionally grand and deeply troubling film that should absolutely be seen just for the sake of expanding the palette. "The Hollywood System" doesn't put out movies like this, and the film serves double-duty at demonstrating both why that's a shame and also why it's not entirely unwise or unexpected. In the end, a flawed film that gets under your skin is usually more worthwhile than a "perfect" one that evaporates the moment it's over. Reccomended.

FINAL RATING: 7/10

P.S. The "other" story of the film is the now-lingering question of how any focus onto this dark part of the rather secretive Mormon sect's history will effect, if at all, the presidential campaign of Republican and Mormon Mitt Romney. For the record, I think it would be a true shame if people opted not to vote for Romney because they saw this movie. I feel that people should come to dislike Mitt Romney the natural way: By having to listen to him for a few minutes ;)

SHORT FEATURE: JAC MAC AND RADBOY

How's about a little more pedal to the metal excitement to go along with this week's main feature! It's The Fast and The Furious meets Dante's Inferno.



Now put down that cold brew-ha-ha and turn to paragraph 1809 in the Catechism where we read, "Temperance is the moral virtue that moderates the attraction of pleasures and provides balance in the use of created goods. It ensures the will's mastery over instincts and keeps desires within the limits of what is honorable. The temperate person directs the sensitive appetites toward what is good and maintains a healthy discretion: "Do not follow your inclination and strength, walking according to the desires of your heart." Temperance is often praised in the Old Testament: "Do not follow your base desires, but restrain your appetites." In the New Testament it is called "moderation" or "sobriety." We ought "to live sober, upright, and godly lives in this world." So BYOB leeches, just in moderation.

WEEKLY NEWSREEL

Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Catholic, and all you other Christians at sea. It's not getting any more sane out there in the world of celebrity, but we persevere for your sake. Remember, today's gossip is tomorrow's Bible study. Now off to press.

DATELINE: THE FINAL FRONTIER - ALL WHOSE YESTERDAYS?

For those who remember our review of Final Exam: The Novelization, it should come as no surprise that the canon police are at it again, only this time they're keeping a wary eye on The Federation. Samuel K. Sloan, writing for Slice of Sci-Fi, is slightly suspicious of J. J. Abrams upcoming Star Trek film which appears to feature characters from the original series as youngsters during their days at Starfleet Academy. He writes, "I became more concerned about timelines and how this could all come together without violating the sacred Trek canon that any Trek fan holds as near and dear as a sacred holy book." One wonders what a disgruntled ex-Catholic secular humanist like Gene Rodenberry would think of this kind of organized religious tone seeping into his creation? Since the Catechism reminds us "it is also true that God "desires all men to be saved" (1 Tim 2:4), and that for him "all things are possible" (Mt 19:26)." , there's nothing wrong in hoping that one day we get to ask him.

DATELINE: GERMANY - A FEW GOOD MEN, AND THEN THERE'S ALL THE REST

Back on Earth it's time to once again check in with perennial easy target Tom Cruise. CNN reports that eleven people were injured when they fell off the back of a truck during the shooting of Tom's World War II drama Valkyrie. But don't fret or lose sleep worrying over Mr. Cruise. A spokesman for the German police informs us, "We have no findings to suggest anyone famous was involved in the accident." What a relief that only the peons were injured! The Catechism, quoting John Henry Cardinal Newman, reminds us that "wealth is one idol of the day and notoriety is a second... Notoriety, or the making of a noise in the world - it may be called "newspaper fame" - has come to be considered a great good in itself, and a ground of veneration." The Scientology homepage appears to confirm this with the statement, "We instinctively revere the great artist, painter or musician and society as a whole looks upon them as not quite ordinary beings. And they are not. They are a cut above man." Riiiight. In contrast, as Christians, we are called to remember that "created in the image of the one God and equally endowed with rational souls, all men have the same nature and the same origin. Redeemed by the sacrifice of Christ, all are called to participate in the same divine beatitude: all therefore enjoy an equal dignity." Here at The B-Movie Catechism, we believe we'll stick with the teachings which tell us that the eleven people injured in the accident matter just as much to the world as Mr. Cruise.

DATELINE: MADISON AVENUE - HEY, YOU'VE GOT TO HIDE YOUR LOVE AWAY, OR ELSE

And finally, the Catechism reminds us that "religious singing by the faithful is to be intelligently fostered so that in devotions and sacred exercises as well as in liturgical services," in conformity with the Church's norms, "the voices of the faithful may be heard." But "the texts intended to be sung must always be in conformity with Catholic doctrine." If only the doctrine of conformity between music and subject matter was also a requirement in marketing. IMDB news sadly informs us that "Superstar Michael Jackson has licensed the use of the Beatles' song "All You Need Is Love" for a series of new advertisements - for a diaper company." Like the Beatles or not, you have to admit that's pretty crappy, literally.

And it's on that off-key note that we draw to a close this week's newsreel. Quoting, as always, the words of the great Les Nessman, "Good day, and may the good news be yours."

This week's Newsreel has been brought to you (no, not really) by: Clergy Girl Dolls, available exclusively at oldlutheran.com

"What a great doll to display on the shelf of women clergy everywhere. Grace is also perfect for any aspiring clergy girls toy box. "Includes: Pastor Grace Doll, Black Clergy Girl shirt, Matching Black skirt, Cross, Chalice and Bible; Coming soon, Clergy girl robe and Clergy girl stole. Complete set will include ordination certificate. "

COMING ATTRACTIONS: EAT MY DUST

THE HIDEOUS SUN DEMON

TYPICAL REVIEW

"Word of advice to any future directors out there: never put a word like “hideous” in your title. It’s just too tempting for movie reviewers to use it against you." - Kelly Parks, feoamante.com

THE PLOT

Showing up to work drunk, again, Dr. Gilbert McKenna accidentally exposes himself to a massive dose of spaaaace radiation. But instead of getting super powers like that oh-so-cool Human Torch guy, Gil instead develops a strange skin condition. If caught in the direct sunlight Gil "devolves" (yeah, I know, we'll get to it) into a grotesque reptilian creature, a fact he first learns by scaring little old ladies in the park. While his medical colleagues (and for some inexplicable reason, his girlfriend Ann) work on a cure, Gil locks himself away, venturing out only at night to get drunk (again), curse his fate, and hang out with Trudy the town floozy. Unable to completely avoid the sunlight, Gil has a few of his "episodes", getting successively more violent with each one. In quick order he goes from crushing rats to mauling the floozy's regular Saturday night boyfriend to gleefully running over cops in his car. It all leads to a final showdown atop a water tower.

THE POINT

Hollywood has given us a long and distinguished line of sympathetic creatures, from the misunderstood Frankenstein's Monster to the tortured Wolfman to the heartsick King Kong. They may scare us, but something about them tugs at the heartstrings, eliciting our empathy even as we gasp in terror. Not so with the Hideous Sun Demon. Whether as man or monster, he's just an a-hole.

Producer-director-writer-lead actor Bob Clarke claimed that his intention was to update Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for the atomic age, with Gil as the beleaguered scientist struggling to contain the monster within himself. Maybe so. But the idea might have worked better if the protagonist wasn't a self-absorbed alcoholic womanizer who recklessly endangers everyone in the area by playing around with fissionable material while under the influence. By the time Gil is curled up in a fetus position crying out, "No one can help me, what I've got is DIFFERENT! Why me? Why me? WHY ME!!", all you can think is, "Because you deserve it you insufferable jerk."

But other than that, The Hideous Sun Demon is just good old B-Movie fun. How can you not like a movie where they could only afford the top half of a rubber monster suit? (The Sun Demon wears khakis throughout the film.) Or how about when Gil first sees Trudy in a seedy bar faking her way through playing the piano, her hands flailing about like she's tenderizing meat? (Nan Peterson, who played Trudy and whose next role would be the lead in Louisiana Hussy, was probably not hired for her musical talents.) And how cool is it that, rather than ponderously lumbering through the woods like some idiot slasher, the Sun Demon just gets in a car and drives wherever he wants to go? How many other B-Movie mutants rack up a body count by hit and run?

Now I know you're probably thinking the incident in which Gil runs over the cop could be considered an accident because, after all, reptiles aren't considered very good drivers. And, unlike most lizards, Gil's eyes are on the front of his face, so his peripheral vision isn't that great to begin with. But that's no excuse. I watched the movie and he ran over that guy on purpose, no matter what scientific theories you toss my way. Actually, that's another thing which adds to the movie's absurdity. The Hideous Sun Demon is one of those productions that proudly wears its bad B-Movie science on its sleeve for all to see. After Gil's initial transformation, the movie grinds to a halt for almost five minutes as the lead scientist gives a lecture IN DETAIL on why all of this is actually possible. You see, it's based on Ernst Haeckel's Biogenetic Law, first proposed in 1866, which claims that an embryo fully repeats the evolutionary process of its species before it's born. In other words, a human being starts out as a single cell organism, then becomes a fish, then a reptile, and finally a mammal. So you see, all Gil did was reverse this process and "devolve" himself back into a reptilian state, just like he was back in the womb again. (Well, except for being 5' 10" and dressed in khakis.) It all seems to make perfect scientific sense.

Except, of course, that it's all crap. You see, poor old Haeckel verified his theory through the visual inspection of dead fetuses and without the benefit of our modern lenses. These days, with the ability to actually take a microscopic peek inside a living pregnant woman, biologists have learned that some of Haekel's "proofs" (i.e. fetal gill slits) aren't what he thought they were. (I guess, even in science, looks can be deceiving.) Plus there's the fact that evolutionary theory isn't really about a neat linear process anyway; it's about entire species haphazardly adapting traits over a long period of time. If you think about it, the idea that human women carry inhuman eggs which undergo a series of transmutations of species and end up being human beings EVERY SINGLE TIME really pushes the envelope of credibility just a little too far. Let's face it, we start out as tiny single-celled humans and we end up as crotchety old humans. So even if it was somehow possible to miraculously reverse the developmental process, no human (not even an atheist) could ever "devolve" into another species.

But who really cares? After all, this is just a movie with a guy in a rubber monster suit. (Not that there's anything wrong with that!) So as long as it's entertaining, most movie fans will be pretty forgiving when it comes to bad science. (Insert obligatory Star Wars comment here.) Of course, in real life it's different. In real life it's better if we try and get the science right. Both the Catholic Church and Galileo Galilei learned this the hard way when they butted heads over Galileo's theories about heliocentricity in the early 1600s. Everybody knows the story right? The Indigo Girls even released a song referencing it back in 1992. You know the words, "Galileo’s head was on the block, the crime was looking up the truth.” Emily Saliers wrote the song, but her singing partner Amy Ray had a degree in religion, so to believe they got the story right would seem to make perfect sense.

Except, of course, that it's all crap. As far back as Aristotle there were already scientists, including a number of Jesuits, who were speculating on the theory that the Earth revolved around the Sun. They were just hesitant to embrace it, however, because the theory contradicted the literal interpretations of certain Bible verses and, more importantly, couldn’t be proved as fact given the technology of Galileo’s time. (Even some of Galileo's own "evidence" was wrong. Scientists didn't authoritatively prove the theory correct for another 100 years or so.) Until it could be irrefutably proven, The Church had given permission to teach heliocentricity only as a theory, not as fact, and certainly not as reason to reinterpret scripture. Galileo, thanks mostly to a misunderstanding on his part, ended up doing both and getting in trouble with a Church tribunal. For his disobedience, he ultimately received a strict form of house arrest. So his crime wasn't looking up the truth and his head was never on the block. (Don't worry, you can't still sip your cappuccino to the dulcet tones of earthy folk rockers, just don't phone them up for your history lessons.)

Still, the Church tribunal did goof. As Pope John Paul II put it, "The new science, with its methods and the freedom of research which they implied, obliged theologians to examine their own criteria of scriptural interpretation. Most of them did not know how to do so. Paradoxically, Galileo, a sincere believer, showed himself to be more perceptive in this regard than the theologians who opposed him. "If Scripture cannot err", he wrote to Benedetto Castelli, "certain of its interpreters and commentators can and do so in many ways". "The irony of the affair" wrote Crisis editor George Sim Johnston, "is that Galileo's argument that Scripture makes use of figurative language and is meant to teach "how to go to heaven, not how the heavens go" was eventually taught by two great papal encyclicals, Leo XIII's Providentissumus Deus (1893) and Pius XII's Divino Afflante Spiritu (1943)." So it would seem that we've finally reached a point where we understand that religion does its thing and science does it thing and never the twain shall meet. That makes perfect sense right?

Nah, that's crap too. If we truly believe that the Church is infallible in her objective definitive teaching regarding faith and morals, then the Church is under an obligation to have some things to say about science. "Science and technology are ordered to man, from whom they take their origin and development" states the Catechism, "hence they find in the person and in his moral values both evidence of their purpose and awareness of their limits. It is an illusion to claim moral neutrality in scientific research and its applications." Science is still just a human act, and no human act is so methodical and controlled that it can't benefit from a little wisdom and guidance. Left on their own, scientists, like everyone else, can get offtrack and ultimately do something negligent or harmful. Like show up to work on a nuclear reactor drunk. Again.

THE STINGER

A lot of people don't know that the Catholic Church still employs its own team of scientists comprised of both lay people and ordained priests. The Vatican itself houses one of the premier observatories in the world. The 80-member Pontifical Academy of Sciences (now over 400 years old) meets every two years to offer their findings and advice to the Church. The Academy includes many Nobel Prize Winners, including Stephen Hawkins, who offer council on issues such as the implications of genetics and environmental concerns. In 1996 the Academy was extremely influential in advising the Pope when he attempted to reconcile the theory of evolution with the biblical story of Creation.

REVIEW: Stardust (2007)

It's based on a book by popular fantasist Neil Gaiman, but "Stardust" could've come straight from a pre-fab outlet in a crate marked "Instant Cult Classic." It's a loopy, silly, fairytale mini-epic spilling over with ideas that are finally too big for the movie that holds them, executed with an abundance of dry Python-esque satire that seems at least in part intended to make it's core of ooey-gooey "dear diary" romanticism a bit easier to take for audiences who aren't wistful young ladies from the Drama Club. Resembling the offspring of "Somewhere in Time" and "Buckaroo Banzai," it's an agreeable, enjoyably hard-to-categorize thing, and the parts that work will earn it devotees who'll love it fiercely and turn the ignoring of the parts that don't work into a kind of mental kung-fu.

As is the case with most Instant Cult Classics, the "plot" is elaborate and complicated, all the better to reward multiple viewings and detail-hunting: Young romantic Tristan, aiming to prove his love for the vain Victoria, sets off from their tiny village of Wall (the setting seems to be some point in 19th-Century England) to collect a recently-fallen star. This involves hopping over the stone wall seperating, er.. Wall from what the locals believe (but don't seem all that amazed with) is an alternate-universe fairytale kingdom called Stormhold, who's Lear-ish dying King has opted to settle the thus-far bloody succession quarrel among his sons by sending the remaining boys on a quest for a magical object - an act which is responsible for knocking the star from the sky in the first place. Stars, it turns out, have a human shape: This one is named Yvaine, looks like Claire Danes and has something of a sour disposition. Tristan and the wicked Prince aren't the only ones seeking her, either: A trio of aging Witches are aiming to restore their youth and powers by devouring her heart, and have dispatched their leader Lamia (Michelle Pfieffer) to fetch her.

So, what we're ultimately presented with a point-A to point-B chase movie, set in an amusing little world of magic spells, fairytale staples and even the occasional unicorn - and if the prospect of seeing a live-action unicorn is already making you swoon, this is the movie for you. I can also add, treading lightly so as to avoid spoilers, that it offers up a bounty of grand sights and well-observed goofs at the expense of genre cliches: There's some terrifically gruesome fun to be had with the absurdity of the three Witches' entrail-based divinations, and it borrows an ever-welcome bit from "American Werewolf" involving the ever-expanding Greek Chorus of the ghosts of the fueding Princes. Best of all are a truly original final battle scene and the grand centerpiece: Robert DeNiro as the sky-pirate Captain Shakespeare, easily the best comedy turn for the actor in a long time.

For all that goodwill, unfortunately, no film that's asking it's audience to both laugh at the silliness of it's own genre and still get swept up in it's "I Wuv you thiiiiiiiiiis much!"-level romantic dizziness can fully overcome it's more irksome issues: There are some distractingly cheesy special effects, an inappropriately bombastic score and an embarassingly-telegraphed surprise twist. Director Matthew Vaughn, as far away from his breakthrough territory in Ritchie-esque British gangster films as possible, puts in a worthy effort and manages to come up with a movie that's a damn good time in spite of it's own failings. When all is said and done, "Stardust" is too much fun to have much quarrell with.

FINAL RATING: 7/10

REVIEW: Underdog (2007)

"Underdog" basically has three quaint, manageable target audiences with three sets of quaint, manageable "demands" in terms of enjoying it: Nostalgiac fans of the original 60s cartoon show, who're mainly there to see whats been left and whats been lost in the adaptation; small children who are mainly there to see a flying beagle wearing a cape; and folks looking to see a funny, family-friendly new comedy who've already seen everything else. All three should find themselves entertained, though Group #3 may find themselves frequently restless once they realize that the stew is pretty thin outside of "Awww, he can fly!" and "Hey, that's from the show!" In other words, while quite short of a classic, it's probably the best movie you can make out of "Underdog" and still have it be ABOUT Underdog.

The cartoon, a General Mills funded cheapie superhero-spoof featured Shoeshine Boy, one of three inexplicably anthromorphic dogs (heroine Sweet Polly Purebred and gangster Riff-Raff being the other two) in an otherwise human world. When his city fell under attack by villians, most-often mad scientist Simon Bar Sinister, Shoeshine donned a Superman-inspired costume and dropped a power-granting Super Energy Pill to become the superhero Underdog, who spoke all of his dialogue in rhyme.

In the new film, Shoeshine (voice of Jason Lee) is a beagle pup who, after coming up short on his dream to become part of the police department's elite squad of bomb sniffing dogs, finds himself abducted by egomaniacal scientist Simon Bar Sinister (Peter Dinklage.) Bar Sinister aims to use Shoeshine as fodder for the creation of genetically-engineered Super Dogs he can then sell to the (apparently canine-fixated) police force, but the pup escapes - causing an accident that blows Sinister up along with his lab... and leaves Shoeshine with ramped-up senses, the ability to speak to humans and a healthy assortment of standard-issue Super Powers. Adopted by the son of an ex-cop (Jim Belushi,) Shoeshine is encouraged to put his powers to good use: Fighting crime as the costumed hero Underdog. Unfortunately, Bar Sinister has survived as well, scarred and driven to (greater) madness by the accident and thirsting for city-wide revenge. Oldschool fans, take note: The rhymes are here, along with Polly's "where oh where can my Underdog be?" and, surprisingly, even a variation on the Super Energy Pill (an element famously censored from 70s/80s reruns due to ludicrous complaints that it encouraged drug abuse.)

It's a lightweight affair, as befits the material. The filmmakers are accutely aware that they have a winning central visual in the personage of a flying, cape-clad beagle going through the now-familiar beats of Superhero bad guy busting, and they're content to go not much further than that'll carry them. Imagine Richard Donner's original "Superman" if Christopher Reeve was a beagle, and you've got the movie. It shows telltale signs of having been drastically cut for time, with too many plot points being advanced by Lee's voiceover narration, but when it's settled into The Stuff We Came For, i.e. the mandatory 2nd act crimefighting montage, the puppy-love spoof of "Superman's" famous date-with-Lois sequence and the Final Battle with Simon, it's piched EXACTLY where it needs to be. If you can't smile at seeing a superhero-costumed beagle stop an out-of-control car - rear bumper clenched in it's jaws, asphalt flying up in a wave as he digs in his heels - from hitting a busload of schoolkids, I don't want to know what happened to make you so cold.

By far the most (okay, only) genuinely intriguing element of note is Dinklage's turn as Simon Bar Sinister. Dinklage, a tremendously-talented character actor best known for "The Station Agent," is a dwarf and, thus, so is Simon. However, were you to watch the film with you're eyes closed the entire time the matter of the villian's physical size would be entirely unknown to you: It never comes up. Not once. There are no short jokes, no physical gags or even broad references to Mr. Dinklage's size, and the camera typically approaches him either on his own eye-level or from an intimidation-increasing low angle - never in a downshot that would accenuate his stature. No one in the film even brings it up, not even a single "oh, didn't see you there" bit. He's a straight-on mad scientist supervillian, and Dinklage seems to be enjoying playing a full-bore baddie; especially in his just-freakish-enough post-accident makeup which I can attest scared the SHIT out of the younger kids in the theater.

It's a fun turn from an actor who, let's face it, isn't often presented with broad, showy material like this to work from; and it's the first time I can remember seeing Dinklage or any other little-person actor in a role that didn't seem to think the audience required a constant reminder of their size. "Underdog" isn't exactly one for the ages, but it at least deserves it's due credit in this regard. Well done.

FINAL RATING: 7/10

SHORT FEATURE: SMILE, DARN YOU, SMILE!

Let's see. I've got my feature presentations, my coming attractions, and my newsreels. I even take an intermission here and there. But it still feels like something is missing. Ah Hah! I've got it. How can you possibly have a Saturday matinée without cartoons and such? You can't, of course. So every week or so, we're just going to have to throw one in. And since the shorts are... well, short, that's what the comments will be also. That should just about complete the old matinée experience. (I suppose I could fly to your house, make you some popcorn, and tell you to get your feet off the seats and back on the sticky floor where they belong, but I think we're good with what we've got.) And what better way to start off our short features than with that old classic starring Mickey and Min... er, Foxy and Roxy, "Smile, Darn You, Smile!"



From The Catechism: "The virtue of hope responds to the aspiration to happiness which God has placed in the heart of every man; it takes up the hopes that inspire men's activities and purifies them so as to order them to the Kingdom of heaven; it keeps man from discouragement; it sustains him during times of abandonment; it opens up his heart in expectation of eternal beatitude. Buoyed up by hope, he is preserved from selfishness and led to the happiness that flows from charity."

We're Christians people, we have hope. Make a joyful noise. Smile, darn you, smile!

COMING ATTRACTIONS: THE HIDEOUS SUN DEMON

A few weeks back, The Curt Jester, author of everybody's favorite Catholic humor blog, had some nice things to say about our own meager efforts here at the B-Movie Catechism. Along with causing a very noticeable spike in the number of folks entering our turnstiles, he also made mention of his affinity for movies with guys in rubber monster suits. It just wouldn't be right if I didn't give him one in thanks for his kind words. (Of course, if you've seen The Hideous Sun Demon, you might be questioning whether this an act of gratitude on my part or not.)

REVIEW: Rescue Dawn

It has to mean something that the making of generally-positive, dare we say even "patriotic," films about America and/or the American soldier that are actually GOOD MOVIES is an act that Americans seem to no longer be capable of. Understand, I'm not talking about the broken-record of "conservative" bleating about "the hate-America left" or "the eeeeeevil Gay/Jewish/Liberal Hollywood conspiracy." I'm talking more generally about a disinterest or lack of "outside perspective" that at least SEEMS to be keeping U.S. filmmakers from any kind of net-positive examination of our admittedly quirky lil' culture. And no, Michael Bay's John-Philip-Sousza-Meets-Linkin-Park horeshit doesn't count. Where is the modern cinema's John Ford, able to celebrate ("She Wore a Yellow Ribbon") even as he scolded ("The Grapes of Wrath")? Where is our Frank Capra to mine the affection by HIGHLIGHTING the faults? Where is Preston Sturges to see virtue among the absurdity?

As depressing as it is to consider, is it possible or even PROBABLE that we are now so profoundly divided as a people that we no longer have anywhere to meet in universal acclaim? After all, why make a film about everyday people who make it through determination and opportunity when you KNOW that "conservatives" will just accuse you of "class warfare?" And why highlight the unique courage of American soldiers when you know "liberals" will see ANY positive military story as "pro-Bush/Iraq propaganda?" Who's got the time or gumption to risk that kind of B.S. just to tell a simple story?

The answer, as it turns out: Foriegners. Last year saw the best positive, uplifting "American dream" movie in almost decade in "The Pursuit of Happyness," directed by an Italian on the suggestion of the film's real-life inspiration that a foriegn filmmaker would understand the American Dream BETTER than most Americans. And now we have "Rescue Dawn," easily the most genuinely-felt and, yes, essentially patriotic ode to the will-to-survive and "frontier spirit" of American self-mythology in general and American soldiers in particular in YEARS... directed by German film icon Werner Herzog.

A "just-the-exciting-parts" dramatization of a true story Herzog documented years ago as "Little Dieter Needs To Fly," the film's hero is Dieter Dengler (Christian Bale) a German-born American pilot shot down during a secret bombing-raid over Laos in the early days of the Vietnam (not-yet) War. As a child in Nazi Germany, Dieter caught the eyes of an American bomber pilot straffing the countryside from his bedroom window and became hell-bent on taking to the skies himself. When offered freedom and comfort post-capture by the Viet Cong authorities in exchange for signing an anti-American propaganda letter, his response is to matter-of-factly refuse, sliding the page back and calmly explaining "I will not sign this. I love America, America gave me wings." For this he earns a round of exceptionally nasty tortures, punishing marches an eventual internment in a hellish jungle prison camp - but neither these burdens nor the initial defeatedness of his fellow "inmates" seem to make a dent in Dengler's (brave? naive? both?) optimism as he hatches a daring escaped targeted for, yes, the 4th of July.

And, really, that's all there is to it. There's no reach for irony, context or broader questions. It's the simple story of a peculiar yet exceptional guy with the will to survive and the drive to actually pull it off. And while you'll find no slow-motion group-strides in front of a billowing flag or magic-hour aerial high-fives, Herzog subtly but unmistakably draws a clear paralell between Dieter Dengler's personality and the fact of his existance as what we once called the quintessential American: The optimistic immigrant with a surplus of spirit and guts. Once upon a time, this was the default-setting for "our" heroes, and as jarring as it is to see one played "straight" in a modern film it's EQUALLY jarring to see him existing at all in, of all places, a Vietnam movie. Such a strange animal... a story-outline and a character that would've been ideal fodder for John Ford and John Wayne (or Capra and Jimmy Stewart, come to think of it) somehow time-displaced to the very war where such iconography was supposed to have ceased to be, concieved in the age of 9-11 and Iraq by a German director and a British star.

It's not surprising at all that arthouse-icon Herzog would find a rather atypical (for a European filmmaker) affection for the U.S. His stock in trade, after-all, is a fascination with individuals posessed of "pioneer spirit" or it's ugly flip-side, pig-headed self-destructive tunnel vision. What better oasis for such fascinations than the culture that gave the world both the Moon Landind AND Manifest Destiny? And it's equally clear that Herzog, who makes his home Stateside, feels a certain kinship with fellow ex-pat countryman Dieter Dengler. The man himself said as much in an IFC interview about the film: http://ifc.com/news/article?aId=20451

"We should be cautious, because there are an abundance of films that are anti-American or at least question American's attitude in the world. Strangely enough, this is a film that praises the real qualities of America. In Dieter Dengler, you had the best you can find in America: courage, frontier spirit, loyalty, the joy of life. He's the quintessential immigrant. He wanted to fly and America gave him wings. As you may know, I live in America, and it's not for no reason. I like America, even though I see there's trouble at the moment and turmoil. But in my opinion, America always has a kind of resilience and youthfulness to overcome all these things. Everyone is desperate about the situation right now and I keep saying, "Look back 50 years ago, how America overcame the McCarthy witchhunts." There is something I like about America, it's dear to my heart and I'm a guest in your country. It's not that I don't have some ambivalent feelings, but strangely enough, the film is against the trend." -- Werner Herzog

Of more immediate import is that it's also a damn, DAMN good little movie; a lean, mean, no-bullshit "POW escape" movie that merges Herzog's unparalelled expertise in capturing the feel of man pitted against The Forest Primeval with Christian Bale's fearless physical endurance-acting (alongside a pair of shockingly raw turns from Steve Zahn and Jeremy Davies) and the rat-tat-tat pace of an old-fashioned war picture. At once dreamlike and immediate, with moments of intruding-unreality as Dieter's mental state threatens to come undone, it's as though Herzog has located the central nexus of all other Vietnam films - if Dieter were, during his escape, bump into both Colonel Kurtz and John Rambo stalking side-by-side through the foliage, neither man would feel entirely out of place.

It's difficult to accurately describe just how good Bale actually is as Dieter, making a flesh-and-blood human being AND an improbably resourceful Movie Hero out of a character who is either the bravest man alive or a lunatic - in a film that doesn't seem to be interested in drawing a definative line between either option. Zahn, eternally-underrated and once-more the sidekick, has quite simply never been better - or in a better movie.

For decades now, Herzog has been one of the closely-protected cause-celebres of the most elite of the U.S. "arthouse" circles, but in the last few years he's had a sudden break toward the American mainstream thanks to the nature-doc circuit's embrace of his "Grizzly Man" and the Geek Culture's celebration of his oddball docu-spoof "Incident At Loch Ness." Yet even still, it's genuinely surprising to see him offer up such a personal-feeling work that is ALSO more broadly-accessible than a lot of so-called "tentpole" blockbusters of the summer. It will likely find it's audience on DVD, as did the similarly-underappreciated "The Great Raid," and when it does it will find itself in the rare position of a film that both Tarantino-generation Movie Geeks and film-lovers old enough to have seen "The Cowboys" on the big screen can find equally meritous - even if they'll soon be right back to arguing over whether or not the onscreen shooting-death of John Wayne was more or less traumatic than that of Optimus Prime.

FINAL RATING: 10/10

INTERMISSION

Wow, it's been a while since I stepped outside the auditorium. But who wants to? Have you checked the temperature outside lately? I don't know what it's like where you are, but my part of the world has gone all Damnation Alley like. (Hmm, should really review that one sometime.) It's just so nice and dark and cool in the theater. It's already calling to me,"Come back, coooome baaaack". But anyway, I'm in the lobby for a few minutes, and it looks like someone's left a message.

Dadwithnoisykids (he's got like thirty of them or something) over at Scorpion Stalking Duck has tagged me with the Why I Love Jesus Meme. The rules on this one are pretty simple. Those tagged will share 5 things they love about Jesus and must tag 5 other bloggers. Those tagged must provide a link in the comments box here with their name so that others can read them. Fair enough. But as my close friends already know, and what those who visit here shouldn't be surprised by, is that I can rarely make it through a single sentence without a movie reference. So with that it mind, here are my 5 Things I Love About Jesus.

(1) "Have you found Jesus yet Gump?" "I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for him sir." - Forrest Gump

I was not raised a Christian (or anything else for that matter). I can count on my fingers the number of times I attended a church service during my pre-adolescent days. But once I finally went looking for God, imagine my surprise to find out that He had been there all along, close by, laying the groundwork for our first official face-to-face meeting. And he did the same thing for each and every member of my family in there own due time. I love Jesus because He's always there, whether we know it or not.

(2) “Dear Lord baby Jesus, we thank you so much for this bountiful harvest of Dominos, KFC, and the always delicious Taco Bell. I just want to take time to say thank you for my family. My two sons, Walker, and Texas Ranger, or TR as we call him. And of course my red hot smokin' wife Carley, who is a stone cold fox." - Talladega Nights

In middle school, when I finally became a Christian and started my journey into the Church, my beginners prayers were not what you would call eloquent. It went something like, "Thank you Lord, for everything." I still trot that old prayer out every now and then, although it has a much deeper meaning to me these days as I've come to understand that "everything" doesn't just include the good stuff I've been given. I love Jesus for teaching me to be thankful for everything.

(3) "O God, ease our suffering in this, our moment of great dispair. Yea, admit this kind and decent woman into thy arms of thine heavenly area, up there. And Moab, he lay us upon the band of the Canaanites, and yea, though the Hindus speak of karma, I implore you: give her a break." "Clark..." "Honey, I'm not an ordained minister; I'm doing my best." - National Lampoon's Vacation

I didn't start out very eloquent as a Christian, and I ain't much better now. I love Jesus because He's able to work with what He's got.

(4) "Ahh, Jesus, I like him very much, but He no help with curveball" "Are you trying to say Jesus Christ can't hit a curveball?" - Major League

The spiritual journey can be bumpy sometimes. I actually jumped ship from the Church in my late teens and didn't come back for almost two decades. My second (and final) time entering the Church was less emotional and much more intellectual than the first time around. I love Jesus because He let's us ask the hard questions. And He has answers.

(5) "Hey Ray. Do you believe in God?" "Never met him." "Yeah, well I do. And I love Jesus's style, you know." - Ghostbusters

Once you're in, and you're open to it, it can be surprising where the Spirit leads you. Especially when it comes to opportunities to share the faith. Back in the late 90s, right before I started to figure out there was something to this whole organized religion thing, I had developed a rather nasty attitude towards the current crop of high schoolers. I thought they were lost, hopeless, spoiled, arrogant, filthy... well, you get the idea. Basically I couldn't stand to be anywhere within earshot of even one of them. A few years ago the head of religious education at my parish told me she wanted me to work with a group she had discerned I was perfect for. Guess which one? I love Jesus because He's smarter than I am.

Well, that's probably more than dadwithnoisykids was expecting. I would imagine he, along with anyone else who hung on till the end of this, may have a movie quote of their own in mind.

"At no point, in your rambling incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points and may God have mercy on your soul." - Billy Madison

Probably time to head back into the theater where I belong.

(Oh, as for passing this along. After checking around, I'm pretty sure the handful of bloggers I've become acquainted with over the past few months have already been tagged. So, in a total cop out, I tag the first 5 people who read my blog but never leave comments.)

SHOCK WAVES

TYPICAL REVIEW

"First of all, it manages to escape what most zombie movies can’t…simply being a crappy movie. If you can at least be an average zombie film, with the glut of all the really bad ones, you’re destined to stick out among the crowd." - Dead Kev, All Things Zombie

THE PLOT

Following an unexplained solar event (a.k.a. yellow filter on the camera lens) a mysterious ship appears from nowhere and sinks a small tourist boat. The water logged survivors make their way to a supposedly uninhabited island where they discover a former SS commander (Peter Cushing, stuck in Moff Tarkin mode from Star Wars, which was filming the same year) holed up in an abandoned hotel. It seems the old fellow has been in self imposed isolation keeping watch just in case his battalion of superhuman underwater zombie Nazis should resurface. (I never get tired of writing stuff like that.) As he explains, using a combination of science and sorcery, the Third Reich created the Death Corps, undead soldiers manufactured to operate in otherwise fatal environments. The problem was that the original test subjects were taken from the only stock available, imprisoned madmen and sociopaths, the type of personalities not inclined to take orders. (Stupid Nazis.) The creatures were ordered destroyed, but as it turns out, merely sinking a boat full of zombies specifically modified to be amphibious isn't really a permanent solution. (Did I mention the stupid Nazis?) Now, decades later, the Death Corps has arisen with only one purpose in mind; destroy every living thing in its path.

THE POINT

Zombie Nazis. I hate these guys.

Not just because they're zombies, a group of monsters who are seriously wearing out their welcome due to overexposure. And not just because they're Nazis, a group of monsters overused by scriptwriters too lazy to come up with more original villains. No, I hate zombie Nazis because, when the two are combined, they almost always make wretched movies. Starting with 1941's King of the Zombies and continuing on through such bombs as Night of the Zombies, Oasis of the Zombies, and Zombie Lake, the zombie Nazi film has left a trail of putrid stink throughout the world's cinemas for decades. So when a DVD's cover art bears a blurb proudly proclaiming it to be the "best of the Nazi zombie movies", you can only think sarcastically to yourself, "Yeah, that's not gonna take a whole lot!"

And fortunately for Shock Waves it doesn't, because for most people, this movie isn't going to give a whole lot. Gore-hounds will discover this is probably the most bloodless, sexless post-Romero zombie movie you can find. (The zombies have a few scabs if that counts for anything.) Thrill seekers will be disappointed with the scarcity of "jump out of your seat" moments. (In fact, there are a couple of scenes where someone spots the zombies standing off in the distance and... both groups just check each other out for awhile before walking away.) And anybody even remotely interested in believability will just have to run screaming. (They just keep going in the water. Zombies in the water. Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies.) So many of the recognizable touchstones of a good horror movie are simply missing from Shock Waves.

"But there's another kind of horror, a subtler, more seductive and lingering kind." says producer Bill Mechanic in an interview with Time magazine. "Some of the best horror movies had a certain elegance to them... They are to the gore fests as romantic dramas are to porn. They are about mood, atmosphere, the notion that death is everywhere and inevitable." Mood and atmosphere; that's like bread and water to the true horror fan. We might love movies that give us a full course banquet of horror, but we can subsist off mood and atmosphere when all else in the movie lays barren. And Shock Waves pretty much lets you know that "bread and water" is what it's going to give you right from the beginning.

As the movie opens, a loan castaway from the tourist ship is rescued from a drifting lifeboat. (Yep, like our old friend Mesa Of Lost Women, it's another story told in flashback.) Normally I would criticize a horror movie which let's you know in the very first scene who survives, but this time it seems designed to let you know the film's focus is on tone rather than suspense. You can especially see this in the movie's unique approach to the undead. These are neither your catatonic pop-eyed natives nor your modern slavering brain-munching ghouls. The Aryan zombies of Shock Waves are quietly eerie and visually striking as they march through the water in their uniforms and black goggles (which are an actual plot point by the way, not just a fashion choice). They're especially creepy in scenes where they float in repose, face up, mere inches below the water line. It's almost as if they were a natural part of the landscape. In fact, all of the settings in the movie are used to great effect. The Florida swamps, where the producers somehow managed to find a real abandoned hotel, feel tangible, yet very remote and dreamlike in the haze and fog. And it's all played out in that recognizable 1970s style pacing, which will probably seem lethargic to the post-MTV quick-cut generation, but is intended to be mildly hypnotic. Shock Waves is the kind of movie that's best viewed when you're curled up under a blanket on the edge of sleep; when you're entering that state of consciousness where dream logic is just starting to take over. Shock Waves, like a dream, doesn't make a whole lot of sense when you wake up and think about it rationally, but it maintains its own workable logic while you're there.

Zombie Nazis. Wouldn't it have been nice if the SS actually had wasted their time working on that kind of crap rather than committing the real atrocities they did? Oh sure, it's generally accepted that Himmler, head of the SS, was something of an occultist. But according to The Occult Roots of Nazism by Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke, Himmler's interest lay mainly in neo-paganistic new-agey type stuff like crystals, spirit guides, tarot cards, and fortune telling. Not quite on the same level as calling on the dark forces to raise the evil dead. As for Hitler, who really knows? He seems to have picked and chosen from various belief systems anything that would help solidify his hold on power. Of course, that doesn't stop nutballs (is that uncharitable?) like John Patrick Michael Murphy from writing in Free Inquiry magazine "Hitler was a Roman Catholic, baptized into that religio-political institution as an infant in Austria. He became a communicant and an altar boy in his youth and was confirmed as a "soldier of Christ" in that church. Its worst doctrines never left him. He was steeped in its liturgy, which contained the words "perfidious jew." This hateful statement was not removed until 1961. "Perfidy" means treachery. In his day, hatred of Jews was the norm. In great measure it was sponsored by two major religions of Germany, Catholicism, and Lutheranism."

Let’s face it. Nobody wants to claim Hitler. And it sure would have been nice if he had been raised in some goat-worshiping pagan cult or something like that. But the sad fact is that he was indeed baptized Catholic as an infant and probably served as an altar boy. Which in the end, at least to adults, means absolutely nothing. You might just as well claim that spinning dreidels as a boy is what turned the Jewish David Berkowitz into the Son of Sam. No matter what religion or philosophy he adopted over the years it all comes down to the fact that Hitler was a sociopath of the highest order and using him as the poster boy for anything is just grasping at straws. (Like I insinuated at the start of this review, we really need to find us some new uber-villains.) But it is interesting that Murphy's article, written years ago, brings up the "perfidious Jews" line from the Good Friday liturgy instituted in 1570 by Pope Pius V. You know, the one that's been repeatedly misreported in the news lately as being reinstated by Pope Benedict XVI. I'm not even going to talk about that. By now, anybody who wants to know the truth realizes that the prayer for the "perfidious Jews" will not be said in any mass allowed by the Pope's Summorum Pontificum document. That said, it doesn't change the fact that it WAS there for a long time.

"The history of the relationship between Israel and Christendom is drenched with blood and tears." said a then Cardinal Ratzinger. "It is a history of mistrust and hostility, but also - thank God - a history marked again and again by attempts at forgiveness, understanding and mutual acceptance. After Auschwitz, the mission of reconciliation and acceptance permits no deferral." It was in this spirit that Pope John Paul II apologized to the Jews on the first Sunday of Lent in 2000, "We are deeply saddened by the behavior of those who in the course of history have caused these children of yours to suffer. We wish to commit ourselves to genuine brotherhood with the people of the Covenant." Beyond condemning antisemitism and acknowledging common objectives, though, what does that mean? As brothers, do we no longer teach that the Jews are in need of Jesus?

The Catechism tells us that "the Jewish faith, unlike other non-Christian religions, is already a response to God's revelation in the Old Covenant. To the Jews "belong the sonship, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; to them belong the patriarchs, and of their race, according to the flesh, is the Christ", "for the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable." Which kind of sounds like they aren't. But the Catechism also tells us that "Having been divinely sent to the nations that she might be 'the universal sacrament of salvation,' the Church, in obedience to the command of her founder and because it is demanded by her own essential universality, strives to preach the Gospel to all men." "Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you." Which definitely says they are. Is the Catechism contradicting itself?

Bwah hah hah hah! Like I'm really going to say yes? When it comes to evangelizing, the Catechism is pretty straight forward. "The duty of Christians to take part in the life of the Church impels them to act as witnesses of the Gospel and of the obligations that flow from it. This witness is a transmission of the faith in words and deeds." What's at issue here is not whether we should evangelize, of course we should. The question is how? "To every thing there is a season" says the Bible, and so there are definitely times for confrontational apologetic battles, even with the Jews. But perhaps what the Catechism and the last few Popes have been getting at is that, given the events in our shared history that are still relatively fresh, maybe this isn't that time. Maybe this really is a time to transmit the faith through different kinds of words. A time for apologies, for teshuvah, for reconciliation. (I hear that God can do wonders with those kinds of things.) So for the moment, let's stick with the prayer for the Jews we have in the current Good Friday liturgy. "Let us pray for the Jewish people, the first to hear the word of God, that they may continue to grow in the love of his name and in faithfulness to his covenant. Almighty and eternal God, long ago you gave your promise to Abraham and his posterity. Listen to your Church as we pray that the people you first made your own may arrive at the fullness of redemption. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen." Maybe it's not watered down theology after all, but rather the right prayer for the right time. If nothing else, maybe it'll at least diffuse any more of those ridiculous and tiresome Hitler comments.

Stupid Nazis.

THE STINGER

A 1978 study by psychologist Samuel Janus found that roughly 80% of professional comedians were Jewish. Most of the rest were raised Catholic. The study would seem to suggest that there must be some similarities in upbringing and experience in Catholic and Jewish homes to produce that kind of statistic. For a jackass like me, however, the first question that comes to mind is why aren't there more funny Protestants?