What a rip!

I’ve always been amused by rip-offs. In a popular culture filled with derivative crap, these are some of the most blatant examples—and sometimes the most perversely enjoyable, for their sheer “oh no they didn’t!” awfulness. The first rip-off I can remember seeing was Mac and Me. For those of you unfamiliar with this little 1980s gem, its sole purpose was to promote McDonald’s… while ripping off ET. (Well, that’s not entirely true; Coca Cola backed the movie as well, so numerous references to them pop up.) A boy in a wheelchair (gag me) befriends a grotesque little lost alien and nicknames him “Mac” after his favorite Mickey D’s sandwich. (Great, as if the kid doesn’t have enough to deal with being in a wheelchair, now he’s a prime candidate for childhood obesity.) The two have adventures… or something. I honestly can’t remember a thing about this stupid movie, besides one scene with the mom getting dropped off at Sears (product placement #3!) and a later scene in which the boy’s female friend, dressed in her McDonald’s uniform, gives Mac’s dying mother a sip of Coke from a McDonald’s cup. According to IMDB, the film ends with the onscreen legend “We’ll Be Back,” but since it bombed, they, well… weren’t. What follows is my loose and by no-means-complete list of other notable rip-offs.
Battlestar Galactica—Calm down fanboys, I’m not talking about the critically acclaimed new version, which is apparently some of the most brilliant TV around. I mean the atrocious cheesefest original, which according to some was “like Star Wars every week!” even though it lacked that film series’ quality acting, writing, special effects, or anything. (Yes, there was a time when the Star Wars franchise was well written and acted.) The similarities to Star Wars were so glaring that George Lucas and co. supposedly considered taking legal action. Which is understandable, because we all know Lucas would neeeeever allow his Star Wars legacy to be tarnished.
Friday the 13th—Perhaps no horror film has inspired as many imitators as Halloween, the 1978 horror classic whose massive success ushered in a new era of “slasher films” with holiday based titles: Mother’s Day, April Fool’s Day, Happy Birthday to Me, New Year’s Evil, Graduation Day… the list went on and on. But the first was this slapdash concoction, a dull and irritating film that somehow managed to become a “classic” in its own right. Once again we’ve got killer POV shots, a mysterious stalker, and a creepy “holiday” setting, plus lots of promiscuous teens and one plucky virgin. Audiences were so starved for another Halloween that they flocked to this film, despite the fact that director Sean S. Cunningham and star Adrienne King were a far cry from John Carpenter and Jamie Lee Curtis.
Sunset Beach—Okay, I confess, I loved this show. But in the grand tradition of daytime soaps, which have ripped off everything from The Exorcist (Days of Our Lives) to the death of Princess Diana (the kooky Passions, which was forced to scrap that storyline because of the uproar it caused), this sadly short lived sudser ripped off with abandon. The two I remember the most were its aping of MonicaGate, with an intern/politician affair and prosecutor Ken LaMoon (har, har); and a Scream-ish “Terror Island” storyline, with a masked killer stalking the cast. But it didn’t stop there; in a late-in-the-game bid to jazz ratings, the show had an earthquake and a tidal wave, which capsized a cruise ship filled with characters enacting their very own Poseidon Adventure.
Dawson’s Creek—Even nighttime soaps have a tendency to rip things off, as evidenced by this teen melodrama (another favorite of mine). In Season 2, the characters enacted kinky Titanic-esque scenarios like a nude portrait session (“Except, I’m Jack and you’re Rose,” Joey remarked to not-yet-out Jack) and steamed-up car make out session. In Season 4, a dramatic Perfect Storm take-off served as a larger-than-life backdrop for the deathless Dawson/Joey/Pacey triangle (cause hell hath no fury like horny, jealous teens!) and a goofy Blair Witch episode was less than successful.
Lipstick Jungle/Cashmere Mafia—Is it possible to rip off yourself? Seems that way, given that these two Sex and the Wannabes are from Candace Bushnell and Darren Star, the minds behind the original single gals in the city series. Viewers saw through one of these duds (the cancelled Cashmere Mafia, which deserved to die for the title alone), but Lipstick Jungle is back with the beyond-bland tag line “Bright lights, big city, best friends.” Personally, I prefer Saturday Night Live’s pitch perfect parody, Lady Business: “Now that I’m here there are gonna be some changes. Meetings are no longer mandatory—they’re womandatory!” At least the creators of that sketch acknowledged just what it was they were ripping off.

Check it out

Since the name of this blog is inspired by Kermit-- along with the picture at right-- I figured it would "behoovie" me (as they say in Strangers With Candy) to include the following link. It will forever change the way you look at Kermit, Christian Bale, and possibly the world.

Remember the rules

This weekend I picked up a new copy of Gremlins, Joe Dante’s 1984 horror comedy. In this Steven Spielberg-produced classic, creatures run amok in the Capra-esque town of Kingston Falls on Christmas Eve; it’s the kind of odd mix (of humor, heart, and horrific satire) that shouldn’t work but does. The premise is beyond ludicrous: Gizmo, a cute as a button “Mogwai,” multiplies with water, and these new, meaner creatures transform into vicious armor plated beasties once they eat “after midnight.” (What are we talking about here, 12am-6pm? And what about time zones? A technician wonders about this in the sequel, and is brutally mauled for his trouble.) As a kid, I was absolutely obsessed with this movie and especially its sequel, the unbelievably entertaining Gremlins 2: The New Batch. You know how kids have their comfort movies and books that they can watch or read over and over again and never get tired of? Gremlins 2 was mine, though the original got its fair share of viewage—after twenty years, the VHS was finally showing its age this weekend, which is why I broke down and bought the DVD at Virgin Megastore. But I didn’t just watch the movies; I bought the puppets, trading cards, and toys, and drew my own Gremlins comics and stories. In elementary school, I got upset when I tried to draw a rabbit and everyone in my class—including my teacher—was convinced I’d drawn a Gremlin! I can also remember asking Santa if Mrs. Claus could sew me up a Gremlin puppet (only Gizmo had gotten one at this point), as my horrified parents shook their heads “no” in the background. (They’d already been forced to tear apart the house looking for the missing Nutcracker I was convinced “Santa” could find years earlier.) I’ve never really thought about just what it was that so fascinated me with Gremlins. I was always a “spooky” kid—the one whose preschool teachers deemed him in need of evaluation because he was always talking about witches and monsters—so Gremlins definitely served my appetite for the latter. And maybe, like The Nightmare Before Christmas, Gremlins subversively spoke to my need to make Halloween extend all year long; at one point, Kingston Falls’ DJ yells, “Hey kid, this is Christmas, not Halloween!” Besides, I was a Catholic school student, and the oppression of my environment was brilliantly skewered by the Gremlins’ anarchist sensibility. These creatures are gleefully nasty, spitting in the face (at times literally) of order. Mrs. Deagle, the cantankerous bitch (as unforgettably embodied by Polly Holiday) gets her comeuppance in one of Gremlins’ most famous scenes; her automated wheelchair zips up the stairs and out the window, and for a kid who nearly had a nervous breakdown because of his third grade teacher, this ghastly demise probably filled a deep psychological need. On another level, fresh scrubbed cutie Billy (Zach Galligan, an appealing actor who went on to not much of anything else) was an early indicator of my sexual identity. (From the sounds of his sibilant commentary on Gremlins, Zach and I might have something in common.) Beyond all this self analysis, though, Gremlins was just an original and fiercely entertaining franchise. The movies are campy and extremely dated, but they hold up surprisingly well. Slickly produced and cast, they offer laughs and chills and go out of their way to be as wild and enthralling as possible. I’ll always have a place for them in my heart, and I have a feeling my own children will, too.

A real gym bunny (??)

So I’ve decided to get in shape—at long last!—and so have joined the Chelsea Piers Gym, right by my work. (“Does your gym inspire you?” ask their ads. Umm, I dunno, but that dude in the Speedo sure does.) I went in the morning, to get a workout in before my shift. It was quite nice, actually. Not many people there. The views were pretty cool, too. Naturally I worked up a sweat—I haven’t been to the gym since the mid-90s!-- but it felt good to finally be doing something to improve my own health. I stuck to the treadmill and the cycle; I was a little freaked out by some of the wacky, intense machines being used by other people. A blond woman in her 30s was on her back, moving her legs which were slung in some kind of weird strap configuration. I thought she looked like Chelsea Handler, and then wondered what if it was her? But then I figured Chelsea must have her own private gym. I mean, can you imagine how annoying it would be if you were her and at the gym, getting mobbed by random muscle Marys? “Oh my God, I loooove your show! What do you think of Sarah Palin?” And you’re trying to be nice, and accommodating, and think up some quip about Palin but really you’re just sweaty and annoyed and needing to be left alone so that you can do your Cardio. (By the way, I checked and it wasn’t her.) Afterwards I hit the showers. (Wow, I’ve never written that before. Doesn’t it sound soooo butch?) I’ve always been a modest person, and so the locker room freaks me out a bit. I’ve never understood how guys tuck in their towels so that they cling perfectly to their bodies. Whenever I try that—and I did today, believe me—the towel always falls off really easily. Luckily there weren’t many people at the gym at that time, so I wasn’t too freaked. But when I returned to the locker area, there was a gorgeous, buff boy sitting on the bench—not the kind of person I want seeing me naked in my current state. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized I was in the wrong row, and my stuff was in the next one over. Thank God for small miracles! Maybe in a few months I’ll be ready to do the Full Monty in front of the cast of Another Gay Sequel, but not right now.

I am Jack's anxiety

So I'm waiting for Jacob to get here; he's visiting for the week and he called a little while ago to say he had landed at JFK and was on the way. Now, anyone who knows me knows my feelings regarding this kid are complicated. I definitely still have feelings for him, but at the same time I know that he's hardly the ideal match for me; it's just that old habits die hard, I guess. A couple weeks ago I had this big "revelation" (thanks in large part to Ashley) that no matter how much Jacob changes-- and to be sure, he's changed a lot since we met a year ago-- he'll never be the kind of guy I need, not in a relationship, anyway. And I thought this would finally help me move on and let go and yada yada yada, but now that he's coming I'm not so sure. I guess I'm afraid that old feelings are going to overwhelm me and make me all lovelorn and moody. It's like my head and my heart are two very separate entities and one is not listening to the other! But really, I think this week is going to be good for us and perhaps the realities of what our relationship is now, as opposed to what it was or I might wish it is will help me really and truly move on, after all. I think this visit will be good for both of us. Maybe I can finally snap out of it and realize that Mr. Right is still out there-- I just have to keep the faith.

My interest is piqued...

Last week the first teaser for Oliver Stone's biopic W., about everybody's favorite President, hit the internet. Stone's films are always controversial, and early word has it that this movie will be about as "fair and balanced" as a Fox News telecast, but I have to say the trailer looks great. (Look it up on YouTube and you'll see what I mean.) From choice lines like "All you ever do is drink, do drugs and chase tail-- what do you think you are, a Kennedy?" to the fabulous cast-- Josh Brolin as W., James Cromwell and Ellen Burstyn as his parents-- it looks like a compelling package, even if it turns out to be wildly inaccurate. The spot also gives us first glimpses of Elizabeth Banks (who I've adored in everything from The-40-Year-Old Virgin to Slither) as Laura Bush and Thandie Newton as Condoleeza Rice, among others. This excellent poster is equally intriguing. I'll be in line for this come fall, just days before that other significant November event.

X Marks the Underwhelming, Poorly Written, Homophobic (!) Spot

At the beginning of The X Files: I Want to Believe, the first new adventure for Mulder and Scully since the series ended in 2002, we follow two parallel events: a frightened young woman, chased by menacing men; and a team of FBI agents seeking something out in a snow field, assisted by a strange old man (Billy Connoly). The inter-cutting is more confusing than scary, and the final revelation in the snow, as Agent Dakota Whitney (Amanda Peet) digs with her bare hands, strangely unassisted by the team of men holding pick axes (apparently standing there just so Xzibit's Agent Mosley Drummy can bark, "Hold the line!") is decidedly underwhelming. It's an arm. A partially frozen arm. In the snow. It's what Dexter finds on an off week-- we waited six years for this? Sadly, this sub-par opener sets the tone for the rest of the film, a slow-moving, convoluted whimper of a movie-- when fans were clamoring for a bang. Soon we're back with our heroes, oft-expressionless Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) and gravely skeptical Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson), no longer with the FBI but inextricably drawn into the snow field goings on because-- well, because there's no movie otherwise. It's nice to see the two reunited on screen, along with some sly winks at all the die-hard "X-Philes" in the audience: Mulder's bowl of sunflower seeds, a photo of his abducted sister Samantha tacked on the wall. (If only the film had contained more of these unobstructive but enjoyable in-jokes, I might have been more forgiving.) They're soon on the case, naturally, trying to track down a missing FBI agent with the help of the aforementioned (supposedly psychic) old man, a pedophile priest desperately seeking redemption. Naturally, the Catholic Scully is particularly hard on him; I wish the movie had gone a little deeper with this subplot, since so many real-life Catholics have been repulsed by the church-wide sex abuse scandal. Instead, we get a standard-issue procedural lacking the sense of urgency that a race to save a missing agent deserves; Peet and Xzibit's bland characters do little but service the plot (the latter's character may as well be named Agent Angry Black Guy), and if the film needed FBI agents, why not Robert Patrick and Annabeth Gish's Doggett and Reyes, from the later years of the show? (That's right, I just wrote that I would have preferred Annabeth Gish. In a movie I paid to see.) Actually, I wish there had been more returning characters, but I suppose that would have been tough since so many fan favorites-- Cigarette Smoking Man, Krychek, even the Lone Gunmen-- went off to that Big Sci-Fi Convention in the Sky. The best parts of the movie are those focusing on Mulder and Scully's relationship-- more intimate than ever, for all you S-on-M action junkies-- and their continuing struggles with issues of faith and trust. Duchovny is serviceable as Mulder, while Anderson shines again as the more complexly drawn Scully. Her subplot involving a dying boy is relatively affecting, avoiding any undue treacliness; unfortunately, the script does neither star any favors. From ham-handedly obvious dialogue-- "I feel a connection to this boy," Scully declares in blatant defiance of the Show Don't Tell rule-- to plot holes large enough to fly a UFO through, The X Files:IWTB seems like the work of someone who's gotten awfully rusty when it comes to Screenwriting 101. While Scully briefly alludes to Mulder hiding out since fleeing charges in the series finale, she fails to mention how she managed to get off the hook entirely, rising to chief surgeon while Mulder grew a Grizzly Adams beard in a remote cabin. Also left unexplained is why, exactly, a Catholic hospital let Scully engage in a highly controversial stem cell research procedure. (We know it involves "stem cell research" because the phrase "stem cell research" is uttered around 49 times.) To make matters worse, series creator Chris Carter-- here the writer/director-- makes the dubious decision to cast a Sinister Gay Couple as the villains: when Xzibit asks "Guess who he's married to in the state of Massachusetts!", I wanted to chuck my X Files lunch box at the screen. (Also, one of the two men was abused by the priest as a boy. Thanks for perpetuating that spurious connection, Chris.) In the end, the Big Reveal is as murky and lackluster as the rest of the movie, though-- spoiler alert, I suppose-- the movie finishes strong with a hopeful little coda involving Scully. Maybe it's our fault for not watching Harsh Realm, but Carter seems out of practice when it comes to writing and producing a good story. Like any series, The X Files produced some turkeys, but at its best, it was thoughtful and compelling entertainment that could alternately thrill, amuse, and provoke. I Want to Believe barely does any of those things; throwaway gags involving W. and the end credits are the best things in the film. I chuckled as I got a last look at Mulder and Scully, but after this strained affair, I'd prefer the two ride into the cult phenomenon sunset for good.