Another irresistibly goofy bit of fluff in Terry Pratchett's staggeringly popular Discworld series, Mort tells the tale of the title youth, a rather simple young man who is hired as an apprentice one evening by none other the ever-popular Death. At first, poor Mort finds himself ingloriously mucking out the Reaper's stables. But soon the boy is accompanying Death on his soul-gathering rounds, and not long after is actually taking Death's own horse (Binky) out and filling in for the old Reaper himself.
But when Mort, out of love and chivalry, prevents the scheduled demise of a pretty teenage princess, his actions cause a rift in the course of history from that point on, causing
two realities to exist simultaneously on the Discworld, confusing the locals no end. Meanwhile, Death is off enjoying a much needed holiday, discovering for the first time this strange human thing called "fun," and deciding he rather likes life now that he's had a chance to see what it's all about.
Yes, it is all rather silly for much of its length, and on first blush it seems to have all the substance of a bouquet of party balloons. But if there's one thing you can say about Terry Pratchett, it's that beneath the gags there's a really warm and endearing outlook on life, death, and the need to cherish the time we have before that time is, inescapably, up. While some of Pratchett's jokes are a tad too self-conscious (you can practically hear the laugh track accompanying them), quite often he's a droll fellow. The tales he spins are inventive, whimsical, and fun to read. Mort, after a shaky start with too many sarcastic dialogue exchanges and trite bits of slapstick including Death spoiling his air of ominousness by slipping on a patch of ice and that sort of thing, really begins to take off when the fantasy elements of the tale take precedence, and the humor starts to serve the story rather than vice versa. (Any untalented clod can string dorky gags and one liners together and try to pass it off as storytelling, but Pratchett is smarter than this.)
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Pratchett's massive fan following won't need any recommendation from me to pick up everything in existence with his byline on it. Mort is a funny book, and Terry Pratchett is a funny man, a deft fantasist and a reliable ticket to a rainy day's good reading.
Brandon Sanderson matures remarkably in his second novel, a trilogy opener set in a land plagued by incessant volcanic ashfall and burdened by the millennia-long tyranny of its Lord Ruler, believed to be an embodiment of God himself. Here we see Sanderson warming to the tropes he likes best — a special class of people who possess carefully defined magic abilities; plucky heroines and roguish, devil-may-care heroes; the role of religion in how civilizations develop — porting them over from Elantris and allowing their thematic possibilities to flower. He is much more assured as a storyteller this time as well. He takes his time with Mistborn, allowing his characters and the almost stifling atmosphere in which he dresses his story to envelop you. With this book, Sanderson's considerable promise in Elantris is more than fulfilled. He's a major fantasy novelist.
Mistborn, had it simply been left to the contrivances of its plot, could have been just another groaningly tedious offering of the most clichéd premise that ever gathered dust in the storyteller's bargain bin: that of the valiant freedom fighter and his motley band of misfits sticking it to the man and waging war despite insurmountable odds against the forces of cruelty and oppression. Sanderson is a great deal more knowing than that, and casts his hero here as both a deconstruction and recapitulation of that archetype. Kelsier is a man on a mission. But though the Final Empire he battles is indeed appallingly brutal to its lo
west classes (the skaa, no more than slaves and most certainly less than human), Kelsier's own moral grey areas are blurred even further by his rationalizations, which he repeats by rote. He kills without remorse, casually justifying himself that anyone in the employ of the Empire is de facto evil and deserving of death. And he doesn't appreciate it much when his own brother reminds him that his latest victims were still men, with families, and insists on telling him their names.
But Kelsier isn't unlikable, because Sanderson lets his insecurities peek through the armor of his self-image. Amusingly, Kelsier is all too aware of his heroic reputation — betrayed years ago in an attempt to assault the Lord Ruler, and imprisoned in the Empire's most fearful mines, he is the only man ever to have escaped — and freely uses the awe his celebrity inspires to his advantage. Kelsier's ordeal led to the awakening of his powers as a Mistborn. And this, in turn, has made him a nearly legendary outlaw. In order to achieve his goals, Kelsier will come to realize he'll have no choice but to play out the legendary role he has built for himself to its logical ends.
As he did in Elantris, Sanderson is meticulous about establishing the rules of his story's magic. And the originality of his concept really elevates his book here. Mistings are people who can "burn" various metals (by ingesting them in a solution) to produce certain results. Brass allows you to make a person feel relaxed and amenable to doing your bidding. Steel lets you push against various metals. Pewter enhances your strength and stamina. That sort of thing. This is called Allomancy, and most practitioners can master only one metal. But a Mistborn can utilize them all.
It's a magic concept that Sanderson puts to extraordinary use in the book's action scenes, which, unlike Elantris, he spreads throughout Mistborn more carefully so that the novel's pacing flows through well-spaced dramatic peaks and valleys. Pushing and pulling on metals can practically allow flight. Simply by dropping coins on the ground and pushing against them, a Mistborn can propel himself to the roof of a high building. Fight scenes crash into white-knuckle chaos as literally every metal object in a room becomes a deadly projectile.
The story proper involves Kelsier's plan to overthrow the Lord Ruler, a task he treats with the glibness he might attach to knocking off a neighborhood jeweler. Ostensibly this is work-for-hire, as Kelsier is employed by another man. But behind the mask of his theatrical good humor and insouciance regarding near-certain doom lies a methodical mind driven by an implacable sense of duty and integrity, even if it is only to his own ideas about justice and retribution. His brother berates him, that everything's always all about him, not about the horribly subjugated skaa or anything so altruistic. Kelsier insists that's wrong. But we're not sure he's really being truthful until another player enters his life.
Vin is a young girl Kelsier rescues from a go-nowhere life working with a crew of small-time hoods. She comes to his notice when he detects her using Allomancy against no less than one of Lord Ruler's officials, and the audacity of the act spells doom for her whole crew. But Kelsier takes her under his wing when he realizes that she's a full-fledged Mistborn like himself. Innately distrustful (she's had it drilled into her head since childhood that anyone could and would betray her, by her own brother, who then promptly did so), Vin is not at all impressed by Kelsier's reputation nor his cocky, overconfident attitude. And even though she has nowhere else to go, she only agrees to join his crew and their seditious plans because she wants to see what happens. The story moves deliberately from their first meeting, as we see Vin grow from scruffy street urchin to savvy young woman through both Kelsier's magical mentoring, and the Pygmalion-like lessons she gets from his companions — in particular the scholarly and avuncular Sazed — that make an adult out of her. She's no hyper-focused, type-A manipulator like Elantris's Sarene, but a lot more down-to-earth, and all the more appealing for it. Kelsier himself grows up a little, too, thanks to his attachment to her, and the very real danger he knows he's put her in. For one thing, there's the curious matter that the Lord Ruler's fearsome Steel Inquisitors (truly badass villains indeed) seem far more interested in her than in him.
Vin's personal journey sees her forced to confront the distressing moral uncertainties that her companions' rebellion bring to light. Playing the role of a naive noblewoman, she has a hard time reconciling the beautiful and cultured people she meets at balls with the heartless plantation lords and aristocrats who are legally permitted to rape and murder skaa at their whim. Is Kelsier right to kill them with such casual disregard?
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Sanderson is worlds better about not telegraphing major plot points as he did in Elantris. Though he still has a habit of setting off loud alarm bells with the way he establishes some supporting characters (gee, what is it with the wastrel nobleman Elend, and the way he ostentatiously spends his time reading books at formal balls and ignoring Vin — you think there's gonna be more to him than meets the eye?), the effect is much more appealing than eye-rolling this time. Mistborn is, on the whole, an admirably successful and impressive epic adventure, retaining all the entertainment value of Sanderson's debut while dialing down its Hollywoodish excesses. It promises fine things for the remainder of the trilogy to come, and cements Brandon Sanderson's credibility in the fantasy fold. If you want storytelling magic, Mistborn offers a little Allomancy of its own. This is heavy metal.
Little by little, title by title, innocence and joy is being drained out of the movies. What do you think of when you hear the name of Robin Hood? I think of Sean Connery and the Walt Disney character. I see Robin lurking in Sherwood Forest, in love with Maid Marian
, and roistering with Friar Tuck and the Merry Men. I see a dashing swashbuckler.
That Robin Hood is nowhere to be found in Ridley Scott's Robin Hood, starring Russel Crowe, as a warrior just back from fighting in the Third Crusade. Now Richard is dead, and Robin is essentially an unemployed mercenary. This story is a prequel. It takes place entirely before Robin got to be a folk hero. The idea of taking from the rich and giving to the poor was still in storyboard form. Grieving Richard the Lionhearted and now facing the tyrant King John, Robin leads an uprising.
This war broadens until, in the words of the movie's synopsis, “it will forever alter the balance of world power.” That's not all; “Robin will become an eternal symbol of freedom for his people.” Not bad for a man who, by general agreement, did not exist. Although various obscure bandits and ne'er-do-wells inspired ancient ballads about such a figure, our image of him is largely a fiction from the 19th century.
But so what? In for a penny, in for a pound. After the death of Richard, Robin Hood raises, arms and fields an army to repel a French army as it lands on an English beach in wooden craft that look uncannily like World War II troop carriers at Normandy. His men, wielding broadswords, backed by archers, protected from enemy arrows by their shields, engage the enemy in a last act devoted almost entirely to nonstop CGI and stunt carnage in which warriors clash in confused alarms and excursions, and Russel Crowe frequently appears in the foreground to whack somebody.
Subsequently, app
arently, Robin pensioned his militia and retired to Sherwood Forest to play tag with Friar Tuck. That's my best guess; at the end the film informs us, “and so the legend begins,” leaving us with the impression we walked in early.
Ah, you say, but what of Maid Marion? In this telling, Marion is not a maid but a widow, and not a merry one. At one point she threatens to unman Robin with her dagger, which is unlike the Maid Marions I've known and loved. Blanchett plays the role with great class and breeding, which is all wrong, I think. She's the kind of woman who would always be asking Robin, “Why do you let that smelly so-called friar hang around you like a fanboy?”
Robin Hood is a high-tech and well made violent action picture using the name of Robin Hood for no better reason than that it's an established brand not protected by copyright. I cannot discover any sincere interest on the part of Scott or Crowe in any previous version of Robin Hood. Their Robin is another weary retread of the muscular macho slaughterers who with interchangeable names stand at the center of one overwrought bloodbath after another.
Have we grown weary of the delightful aspects of the Robin Hood legend? Is witty dialogue no longer permitted? Are Robin and Marion no longer allowed to engage 
in a spirited flirtation? Must their relationship seem like high-level sexual negotiations? How many people need to be covered in boiling oil for Robin Hood's story to be told these days? How many parents will be misled by the film's PG-13 rating? Must children go directly from animated dragons to skewering and decapitation, with no interval of cheerful storytelling?
The photography is, however, remarkable, and Crowe and the others are filled with fierce energy. Ridley Scott is a fine director for work like this, although in another world, Hollywood would let him make smarter films. God, he must be tired of enormous battle scenes.
Can they really be setting up a sequel at the end, with Robin as an outlaw? Let’s hope so--that’s the movie you actually wanted.
I’m going to make no bones about this, I love Hedley, always have, so this review will be more than extremely biased in many people’s eyes. So obviously when I heard that the four piece were going to make a new album, I was over the moon. The finished product however is not what many fans expected.
The album kicks off with the dance-pop tune and first single “Cha-Ching”, a song far different from the sound and feeling of much of the Hedley back catalog, whilst lyrically, the band takes a jab at fame grabbing celebrities. Whilst it’s a far cry from the power balladry and heart wrenching topics of previous works, it’s an extremely 
catchy song that will have you singing along all day. A similar vibe is continued with the next track “Don’t Talk To Strangers”, where the use of auto-tune, while not really overused, feels entirely unnecessary when Hoggard’s vocals are extremely capable of delivering.
The album swiftly moves along with “Scream”, which moves further away from the dance side of things but is still laced with electronica and voice altering. The chorus is by far the highlight in the track. The tempo is shifted down for the start of the next track in “Hands Up”, which starts with superb vocal delivery and country style acoustic guitar, which eventually builds up to an anthemic and uplifting chorus.
After a very materialistic and inauspicious start lyrically to the album, Hedley get back to what they do best which is writing songs from the heart. “Amazing” starts with a soft piano reminiscent of “For the Nights I Can’t Remember” and hits just as hard. “Shelter” and ‘Young & Stupid’ show off Hoggard’s vocal talents and one of the highlights of the album.
“Perfect” shows a different side to Hoggard’s vocal delivery, using an unusually higher tone for the heart wrenching chorus, but yet again, is delivered extremely well. Claiming “I’m not perfect, but i keep trying, cause that’s what I said I would do from the start, I’m not alive if im lonely.” “The Sweater Song” is a very stripped-down acoustic song of conversations of two young lovers. “9 Shades of Red” switched the topic to completely about partying and the closer “Friends” is a perfect closer about graduation and wins and losses of high school friends.
Musically this album is is not very technical, as the guitars and bass are very simple, yet still delivered extremely well, as usual. Lyrically this album is extremely up and down. Amid the usual heartbreaks and sadness, it also shows plenty more materialistic lyricism. In the end, Hedley have created a solid record, one that fans will not necessarily like due to the departure and progression of the band. But for me this is still another solid Hedley record.
Whoever said that genuinely humorous sitcoms are becoming an endangered species in the 21st generation has obviously been too busy scrutinizing awful comedies like How I Met Your Mother or Big Bang Theory of its undeserved popularity, miserably unaware of the existence of 30 rock, Modern Family or in this case, Community.
Community is a promising comedy about a shallow man trying to make his life right, one bad deed at a time. It is odd how losers make winning comedy. You couldn’t ask for more agreeably amusing company than this oddball group of misfits and miscreants, led by the likably snarky Joel McHale. Community is a barbed but ultimately endearing ensemble sitcom that follows the fall (and possible rise) of Jeff Winger, a cocky jerk of a disgraced lawyer who enrolls in a hard-luck community college, assuming he can just coast through and regain his credentials the easy way. “That cannot be an inspiring journey,” says his professor pal, from whom Jeff hopes to cadge all the answers. Circumstance, and a crush on fellow Spanish student Britta, who isn’t buying his smarmy act, lead Jeff to form a wacky study group that includes Chevy Chase (wonderfully droll) as a needy senior who made a fortune from moist towelettes, and the hilarious Danny Pudi as the awkward chatterbox Abed, who sees everything in terms of movie/TV archetypes. (Next episode, when Britta starts going on about the plight of murdered journalists in Guatemala, Abed blurts, “Spoilers!”) Silly, sweet and frequently hysterical in its fractious group dynamic, Community has the instant feel of a classic-in-the-making sitcom with a refreshingly diverse range of characters to play with.
One of the pleasing things about Community has to do with what it is not. The show doesn’t fit into any of the more familiar half-hour comedy formats on network TV right now - family sitcoms, workplace-family sitcoms, or friends-in-the-city sitcoms. It isn’t entirely formulaic. What else isn’t it? Another reason to moan about sitcoms fading quality.
A Game of Thrones is a knockout, a bullseye, a touchdown, a home run. A gargantuan fantasy saga set in a world where seasons last years, it earns the right to be called an epic by virtue of its sweeping and engrossing story, and the most believable and human cast of characters to populate a fantasy. Sure, it's a bit of a chore to keep track of all of them, but Martin rewards stalwart readers with the kind of story most fantasy writers can only dream of pulling off. Multiple plotlines abound, intrigues pile upon intrigues, and virtually none of it flags or falters despite the book's nearly 900-page length. While many fantasy authors seem to think that all you have to do to write an epic novel is make it really, really long, Martin knows you've gotta fill all those pages with a narrative that keeps your readers glued.
Martin's epic is set in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, on a world in which summers can last a decade or more, and winters nearly a century. 
Eddard Stark is lord of the Keep of Winterfell, who finds himself hosting a surprise visit from his old friend and king of all the realm, Robert Baratheon. Eddard aided Robert in an uprising against the ruling Targaryens, and only he seems aware just how dangerous Robert's queen, Cersei Lannister, and indeed the entire Lannister House, really is. Cersei has designs upon the throne for her snot of a son, Joffrey, and will evidently stop at nothing to achieve her ends. King Robert asks Eddard to take the position of King's Hand — sort of like his prime minister — as the previous hand, Jon Arryn, has met with an untimely death. Eddard accepts only out of duty, for his wife Catelyn has told him that her sister, Arryn's widow, is convinced Queen Cersei is behind his poisoning. Robert, though he dislikes his wife, remains blissfully ignorant of the extent of her intrigues.
Eddard's appointment begins under a cloud. One of his youngest sons, Bran, nearly dies in a horrible fall that leaves him paralyzed and comatose, and which we know was no accident. Bran has inadvertently stumbled upon one of Cersei's darkest secrets, and nearly pays with his life. After Eddard is miles away from Winterfell, at court in King's Landing, Bran awakens from his stupor, and though he cannot remember what it was he saw, Catelyn and the eldest Stark son, Robb, are now convinced that the Lannisters are up to absolutely no good. Catelyn hurries off to King's Landing to warn her husband, leaving Robb in charge of Winterfell, a 15-year-old boy suddenly thrust into the position of Lord.
A host of brilliantly drawn characters brings the saga to life. Among the more memorable are Tyrion Lannister, the black sheep of the Lannister clan, stunted by dwarfism. At first the one member of Cersei's family remotely sympathetic to the Starks, he finds himself swept up in the growing turmoil between the two families until all of his skills at conniving must be brought to bear simply to stay alive. Jon Snow, a bastard son of Eddard's, rejected by Catelyn, joins the Night's Watch, a legion whose duty it is to guard an immense wall far to the north, beyond which lies a fearsome supernatural threat to the Seven Kingdoms. And in a fascinating subplot, we meet princess Daenerys Targaryen, one of the last surviving heirs to that unseated regime. Living in exile in a land far across the ocean (the book doesn't even provide a map to it) and having been wedded to a savage but noble warlord, she dreams of returning to her homeland one day and seeing the Targaryen name and its power restored.
Martin has an ability to go for the gut that most of his contemporaries in the fantasy genre simply lack, because they also happen to lack his character development skills. Whether in its bloody and violent battle scenes or in its intimate portrayal of the bonds of family and brotherhood, A Game of Thrones has a raw emotional force that hits you where it counts. Much of the time you do feel you're being manipulated — there are certain characters you simply want to see die in the most agonizing possible way, and occasionally Martin pays off — but it's being done so well you really don't mind.
There is an exhilarating quality to this story that has been absent in fantasy, which has in turns been stultifed by literary pretensions or hamstrung by recursive, self-referential humor, for who knows how long. Martin's tale mostly dispenses with such post-Tolkien clichés as wizards and elves and spells and dark lords, turning its focus to real people and only hinting at supernatural or mystical goings-on behind the scenes. In spite of its length, the tale rarely flags in its pace. Martin's conceit of finishing most of his chapters with a cliffhanger keeps you wired, athough the multicharacter and multiplot nature of the story can make it terribly frustrating when you're presented with a shocking turn of events only to be suddenly thrust into another scene, without being able to get any sort of resolution for another 60 or so pages. But mostly, Martin balances his story well, leaving, in the end, only a few characters' narratives lacking closure — a situation successfully calculated to have you clamoring for the next book.
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Dazzling in the scope of its legendry and in its heartfelt humanity, A Game of Thrones signals the onset of perhaps the most significant work of fantasy since Bilbo found the One Ring. True, that is a claim that critics and readers have made time and time again about virtually every fantasy saga to see print, but until now, in all honesty, it's been hyperbole. With A Song of Ice and Fire, it may well be true. This is one that will go beyond the status of bestseller into honest-to-goodness classic.
Welcome to Wonderland. A world meticulously crafted by the minds of Forgive Durden, lies, deceit, greed, and lust lay within. The picture of Wonderland is painted with vivid lyrical imagery provided by Forgive Durden in their debut full-length. In one of the most diverse records to come out in recent memory, Forgive Durden brings their own musical style to several different musical genres, including takes on country, tango, and pop. But intertwined into all these styles is a distinctive sound that the band has made for themselves. Showing influences from Gatsby’s American Dream, Wonderland is full of accented off-beats and chromatic progressions, adding another band from Seattle who follows in Gatsby’s tech-rock footsteps. But the comparisons should end there. While listeners may hear similarities in certain chords or guitar stylings, virtually 
every song on Wonderland contains a chorus and Forgive Durden takes their musical exploration far beyond the expected scope.
Wonderland begins with a bang with the quickly paced “Ants” and the now revamped version of “Beware the Jub Jub…” Not only are these two songs full of memorable choruses, but they both provide depictions of corporate greed. “Beware the Jub Jub…” contains a distinctive progressive crawl with a resonating chorus that continues the theme of Wonderland. Lines like “I want to sink my teeth into/skin I can’t see through” are metaphors for real situations, and it starts to become evident that Wonderland is a depiction of our modern day society, painted in a unique limelight by Forgive Durden.
Aside from the fantastic lyrics, the musicianship is exceptional. This first manifestation occurs on “Ear to Ear,” a blast of tech-rock complete with horns, saxophones, a mandolin, and start-stop downbeats, all transitioning into a nice, poppy chorus. The verses are exceptional and completely unpredictable – this song is one of many on Wonderland that takes unexpected turns, and while each song contains a chorus, the timing and overall structure of songs will leave listeners guessing. “Ill Tango Della…” contains verses written in tango style while providing a deep lyrical story. It’s just another example of how clear a picture Forgive Durden paints – the song speeds up while escalating into an emphatic percussion solo to end the song. While there were teaser animations made to promote the release of Wonderland, songs like these have convinced me that Wonderland could easily be the soundtrack to a musical. One can’t help but visualize actual events happening while listening to the music. This quality alone sets the record apart from the pack, and that’s just the beginning.
Wonderland refuses to lose steam after the halfway point, as “The Great Affair is to Move,” marches forward with emphatic downbeats and hand-claps. “For a Dreamer…” is a brilliantly crafted pop song that is instantly contagious, with excellently layered backing vocals in both the verse and chorus. While the song begins with the appearance of pop-rock, Forgive Durden refuses to be predictable as midway through the song a complete transformation occurs. A punching chromatic ascension builds with cries of “Extra! Extra! Read all about it...” Wonderland winds down nicely with the absolutely stunning track “I’ve Got a Witch Mad at Me…” This somber track uses piano and crescendos to build into an emotional chorus once again filled with lyrical imagery. “Cue the Sun” concludes Wonderland with another somber song that sweeps into a grandiose finish to a superb album.
There are very few flaws to Wonderland. It is a tad bit short, as the journey seems like it’s over before it even began. The last two songs are fantastic but are both slow and seem slightly out of place next to each other. That being said, this is a completely different band from their previous work. Thomas’s voice has matured greatly and is smooth and confident, the songwriting is years ahead of their time, and the production is easily Casey Bates’ finest work to date – not overdone, but has enough bells and whistles to help Forgive Durden achieve their story telling.
Wonderland is one of those albums that people will be talking about for years. Forgive Durden is a band, much like Gatsby’s American Dream, that stands out from the scene with their unique approach. Technical, diverse, ambitious, and addicting, Wonderland will make Forgive Durden a buzz band in the community. Buckle up and prepare for quite the journey. Welcome to Wonderland.
Sitcom veteran Lorre, the executive producer of Two and a Half Men, co-created The Big Bang Theory, but apparently his sizable sitcom fortune hasn’t blunted his anger at the world in general and intellectuals specifically. The Big Bang Theory takes as its premise that people who are super-smart will never have sex, and what’s more, those geeks who att
empt to emerge from their socially awkward shells should be viciously attacked. In a funny way, ha-ha-ha.
I'm not sure what Chuck Lorre has against smart people, but with the foul sitcom The Big Bang Theory he tries to have his revenge against anyone with an IQ above room temperature.
CBS is openly aspiring to make itself cooler and to hang with the hipsters, so to speak. What the network fails to realize is that, these days, the nerds are the hipsters. Many far superior fall shows and a host of successful recent movies take as their premise that geeks are gently mockable but also kind of cool and attractive.
Never mind all that. In the eyes of Lorre and his co-creator, Bill Prady, every nerd deserves to be given a wedgie and shoved in a locker.
The unfortunate stars of this show are Johnny Galecki, who plays Leonard, and Jim Parsons, who plays Sheldon. They are undone when a shapely blond neighbor, Penny, moves in down the hall. She is a waitress at the Cheesecake Factory, so, according to the logic of the show, she must be stupid.
Yet Leonard still wants to chat with her.
“But we don’t chat, at least not offline,” Sheldon hyperventilates.
If you have trouble telling Sheldon and Leonard apart, by the way, the former has plaid pants and the latter has thick, black glasses (because apparently geek fashion hasn’t changed a whit since “Revenge of the Nerds,” which came out in 1984).
Big Bang is the kind of comedy that is so proud of a non-funny joke that it trots it out twice (sorry, but the idea of Klingon Boggle is not exactly gut-bustingly hilarious the first time around).
And it crams as many geek stereotypes into the pilot as it possibly can: There are references to Stephen Hawking, all manner of mathematics and Darth Vader shampoo. And of course the closest anyone gets to an actual request for a date is when one of the nerd duo’s friends asks Penny if her avatar can hang out with him in an online game.
The one ethnic character, a nerd of apparently Indian descent, is so flummoxed by Penny that he can’t even speak to her. Raise your hand if you find that even remotely amusing.
Even if the jokes on this show weren’t tired and mean-spirited, it would be hard to care about any comedy that hates its own lead characters so much. It's just the same joke endlessly repeated--the everyday translated into geek-speak, and the obscure 
and difficult treated as if it were common knowledge.... These are perilous times for sitcoms, and Lorre & Co. may want to think up another.
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It would seem that the networks thinks it time to resurrect the groan-inducing cliches of stinky sitcoms to remind us of just how truly rancid the genre can get.
This show, my good friends, is about as witty as a pocket protector.
Arrested Development is the funniest show on television in recent memory, and, in my opinion, bows only before Friends as the funniest show I've ever seen. How dare I make such a brazen claim? I challenge you to acquire watch the first season by any mea
ns necessary and watch it. If you sit stone-faced throughout these episodes, I would submit you are either (a) in a coma or (b) wouldn't know what funny is even if it sat on your head and peed on you.
Granted this strong language is frowned upon in our post-modern society of self-esteem bolstering and back-patting, where tastes are deemed relativistic and subjective—but screw it. This show is a breath of fresh air, Actually, strike that; it's a typhoon of goodness that blows away the mildewed, formulaic flotsam that poses as thirty-minute comedy these days. If you're offended when I call you stupid for not liking Arrested Development, tough. That's what you are—stupid!
Well, in this age of decaying television, where a sewage-ridden onslaught of half-assed reality shows seems to be slowly overtaking quality, innovative scripted television—oddly enough this show didn't top the ratings, I know, something is rotten in Denmark.
What separates creator Mitchell Hurwitz's baby from the rest of the pack is the premise of the show: it doesn't play by the rules. There is no formula. There is no laugh track. There are no sweet, sappy-song-driven morals at the end (though they are lampooned).
What 
you do get is:
The best ensemble cast working on television
From Bateman's deadpan-perfect timing, to Arnett's supernatural sleaziness, to Cross's self-effacing nebbishism, the cast is money. Portia de Rossi's Lindsay, though quite funny, is the only weak link; her character is too one-dimensional. But she would nonetheless be the stand-out in any other series. And that's the most illustrative comment I can say about this cast—each character is so great, they could individually anchor shows. Besides Gob, my favorite is Michael Cera's George Michael. The hardest gut laughs always come from scenes involving this clueless kid.
Multi-layered comedy
Repeated viewings of Arrested Development reveal new gags and jokes. The writers pack so much stuff in their 22 minutes, you might miss something the first time through. They do this by sloughing off the sitcom formula—the show is filmed like a documentary, a creative approach that just opens up the options for the creators to go wild.
Ludicrous narratives
Anything is possible with the Bluth Family. How about a faux drug bu
st featuring male strippers dressed as cops? An on-the-fly marriage resulting from a series of dares? A "blind" attorney who's faking being blind—but her seeing-eye-dog really is blind? Each episode introduces outlandish plots. Some carry on for several episodes—Buster's relationship with the vertigo-stricken best friend of his mother, the shady dealings of the family attorney, the impossible crush George Michael has for his cousin—and some wrap themselves up by episode's end. Again, a testament to the innovative style.
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"I think that the seal with the yellow bow-tie might be the one that I released into the sea after giving it a taste for mammal blood..." muses a very serious Gob on Arrested Development. It's not just lines like this that make this show brilliant, it's lines like that combined with celebrity cameos, brilliant dead-pan acting, running gags that go throughout the entire season, and some of the best pop culture references outside of Family Guy. In short, if you're not watching this show, you should be arrested.
I thought I knew funny, but I was mistaken. Before the blessed light of Step Brothers entered my life, I knew not the sweet comedic splendors of live burial, bunk-bed catastrophe or a minivan family singing Sweet Child O' Mine in four-part harmony.
Will Ferrell plays Brennan and John C. Reilly is Dale, two unemployed full-grown manboys who each live with a widowed single parent. Brennan mooches off mom Nancy, Dale off dad Robert.
When Nancy and Robert get 
married, their live-in sons become stepbrothers, and lo, the foreheads of the world's comedy writers did submit to a mighty thwacking as their owners begged the gods of japery, "Why didn't I think of that?" There hasn't been this much fun under the same roof since the creation of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.
Instead of banging the same gong throughout, though, the writing team of Ferrell, Reilly and director Adam McKay, who is maybe the second hottest comedy helmer after Judd Apatow, keeps trying new situations.
The boys are alternately sworn foes, BFFs and even sober job-holding adults. The only standing order comes from Reilly: "We're here to f - - k s - - t up!" Proclaim it, sir! Step Brothers is, by a hair, the funniest film I've seen in this year (watched it in 2009), and at least as funny as McKay's other ones, "Anchorman" and "Talladega Nights."
After fooling with night-vision goggles, one of the manboys says, "Imagine if we'd had these when we were 12." "Even better," is the reply. "We got them when we're 40!" The concept of grown men acting like boys has been done so frequently that it's nearly time for a shock-value comedy about grown men acting like grown men. But it has rarely been done properly, with the correct degree of vulgarity, social awkwardness, scowly faced mystery, aggression and Bruce Lee T-shirts. Boys are freaks. Picture Tom Hanks in a de-cornified "Big": Wouldn't his first move have been a mission for porn and beer?
There is fascination with pretty ladies, but a fog of unease when it comes to talking to them. There is much fighting - Brennan hits Dale with a bike - and the soft crackling of old bones as geezers are lightly tossed down flights of stairs. At a moment of détente, Brennan offers Dale the chance to ride with him upon "majestic and translucent steeds," while Dale responds, "I will follow you through the mists of Avalon." Brennan wants to sing, but he's t
oo shy to perform, so Dale encourages him: "Your voice - it's like a combination of Fergie and Jesus."
Brennan's rich brother Derek (language sampler: "Bro," "Not gonna happen," and "It would be kickass"), who brags that he knows Jeff Probst, becomes a hilarious foil as played by Adam Scott, who has been popping up here and there for a few years but never made his mark before. Now he's hit on a role that can pay his wages for the next decade: He's not just a tool, but a power tool.
There is too much funny here for a movie (even though it continues into the closing credits). Step Brothers should be a TV show. Given the limited career aspirations of its main characters, the demotion would be fitting.
If Michael Bay were a strip club, he'd be one of those high-class joints where all the gorgeous girls work, dancing to two-minute R&B songs while offering top-shelf champagne and primo lap dances, but never letting you do anything more than touch. If Neveldine & Taylor were a strip club, they'd be the small, cramped room with blaring rock music, one pole in the middle of the floor, a bar that pours only watered-down Tequila shots and a stage full of skanks who'll do anything for $50. They're both essentially about the same stuff -- hot chicks, violent action, pounding music and snappy visuals -- but one leaves you feeling quasi-classy and satisfied where the other leav
es you feeling like a dirty, degenerate scumbag.
Gamer is a film that's simultaneously criticizing and targeting its audience: videogamers. It predicts a future where violence and sex are so glorified that the only thing that can sate society's collective id is seeing convicts kill each other for sport. In this future, videogamers are either upper class brats or disgusting slobs, neither of which have any sense of morality. Neveldine and Taylor aren't the first to put forward this idea, of course—remember Death Race? Well you probably wont be surprised that this movie isn't any better.
In the future, where exposition seems to be a part of every nightly newscast, buildings are covered with poorly Photshopped billboards and exploding fire text. Pay-per-view is still a reliable business model. Everyone uses Minority Report-style computers. Second Life and World of Warcraft have been replaced by remote controlled humans who look like they were dressed in a Spencers. Amidst all this chaos is the leading convict-slave-superstar: Kable. He's well on his way to winning his freedom, and everyone's super excited about it.
Unfortunately, just giving a character a wife and splicing in some quick flashbacks to imply some sort of frame-up or mystery doesn't make him three-dimensional. Kable, played adequately by Gerard Butler, is just another gruff action hero out to get his wife back. That's fine, especially in a movie that's supposed to be a throwback to the good old days of action flicks, except that the action is indecipherable.
Neveldine and Taylor have the potential to among the most creative action directors in the industry—they operate the camera on rollerblades, swing it from the ceiling, and employ any number of interesting angles and pans—except that their films are edited with the pace of a hummingbird heart. Gamer's primary selling point is the action, but the film insta
ntly becomes a mess of explosions, quick zooms, video glitches, and slow motion. I understand that they were trying to recreate something like the Gears of War games on XBox 360, but what's missing is a cohesive point of view. The film is an assault on the eyes. Gamer may have failed to level-up in the story department, but it looks extremely good on a technical level. Most of the effects and stunts were done practically, and the HUD overlays during the game footage are believable enough (although way too confusing for any actual videogamer to use).FAMOUS LAST WORDS
Gamer is one of those interesting juxtapositions of positive and negative. Clearly, Gamer is a bad movie. It's filled with a stupid plot reflecting today's society, less than exemplary acting, and enough editing cuts to cause an aneurysm. I watched it, knew it was bad, knew it was derivative, and knew it was a highly polished turd; yet somehow Gamer does something right, give actual gamers a bad name.
In its amiable, quiet, PG-13 way, The Invention of Lying is a remarkably radical comedy. It opens with a series of funny, relentlessly logical episodes in a world where everyone always tells the truth, and then slips in the implication that religion is possible only in a world that has the ability to lie. Then it wraps all of this into a sweet love story.
The screenplay is filled with hysterical one liners and acerbic barbs, but the greatest achievement might be its disquietingly full-throttle satire on religion. Gervais and Robinson have shrewdly implied that in a world without lies there is no religion, an
d they use a mix of broad and subtle comedy to build on this interesting idea. The scene in which Gervais writes down the equivalent of the 10 Commandments is played for guffaws because he's doing it on pizza boxes, but a sequence in which he has to explain said rules is filled with a probing style of humor that takes no prisoners.
The Invention of Lying also has dramatic ambitions, but its fulfillment of these is a little less consistent. There is a beautiful moment in which Gervais creates the idea of heaven and eternal paradise to quell his dying mother's terror, but some of the romantic stuff with Jennifer Garner is less successful. The two have a reasonable chemistry and their first date at the start is uproarious, but the love subplot never feels as inventive or satisfying as the rest of the project. It's a very formulaic addition to an otherwise refreshing comic gambit, and the finale looks lifted out of the dreariest rom-com possible. Still it's the only genuine narrative slip-up, and by that juncture the movie has already established itself as an entertaining use of your time.
I saw the movie with my brother, who laughed a lot. I have no idea what he thought of its implications. The Invention of Lying isn't strident, ideological or argumentative; it's simply the story of a guy trying to comfort his mother and perhaps win the woman he loves. Gervais, who co-directed and co-wrote with Matthew Robinson, walks a delicate tightrope above hazardous chasms.
He's helped greatly in his balancing act by Garner's inspired, seemingly effortless, performance as a great beauty who isn't conceited or cruel but simply thinks Mark, with his pug nose, is the wrong genetic match for her children. She plans to marry Brad, who is as conventionally handsome (and boring) as Clark Kent. The film has one of those scenes at the altar ("Do you, Brad, agree to stay with Anna as long as you can?") that avoids obvious cliches by involving profound philosophical conclusions.
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Yeah, the romance doesn't fully work and it is aesthetically a bit bland. Still I've already discussed these and made it clear they don't prevent The Invention of Lying from representing a fun way to spend 99 minutes.It's a solid comedy with a superlative central concept and ultimately I regret not having gone to see it and doing my bit to stop it from flopping.
You may have been either avoiding this book or worse, unacquainted of its entire existence but I suggest you catapult away from any hesitation you retain and read this book . Don't be swayed by the befuddling synopsis or self-described pundits spatting the book every way they can, Catch-22 isn't just a piece of satirical anti-war fiction, mind you, it's much more than that.
An unconventional novel arose from the hand of an unknown author to the stature of a world classic and its messages remain relevant, nay, prophetic for all ages.
For the most part, the many characters carry out their tasks without questioning their own activities or their leaders; they seem happy simply to occupy their time.
Yossarian stands out of this crowd because he asks many questions. He wants control of his life, he wants to live, he “was willing to be victim to anything but circumstances.”
Wanting to escape the bureaucratic machinery makes Yossarian look like a coward to most people around him. For this reason, he is the protagonist, but not exactly a hero in the traditional or conformist sense – he is the anti-hero.
This novel’s world flourishes with characters moving about as an army of 
ants, running in circular logic from which they cannot step free, nor do many of them seem to care even if they were aware.
Yossarian and Dunbar stand out almost as villains. Yossarian flows against the social current as the anti-hero; he recognizes the absurd logical loops by which others around him consider their lives perfectly normal.
Although most people might view WW II as a highly justified war, it nevertheless played out with all the graft, corruption, and big-money contracts as any other. WW II ushered America into the world theater as a superpower with the moral credibility that would feed the ego-centric hubris of a sleeping giant with an unmatched thirst for power.
Every decade that followed WW II showed America how to become an empire at the cost of the republic, how to garner an emperor’s war power for the President, at the cost of Congressional restraint.
Catch 22 captures the essence of the credulous, poorly educated, and uncritical citizens who follow mindlessly the Pipe Piper of bureaucratic institutions from government, military, and big business.
Heller began writing this novel in the late 1950’s to see it first published in 1961. This period saw the rise of the Truman Doctrine and the Cold War era during which the U.S. fought to ward off any spread of communism in places like Korea.
In order to uphold the Truman Doctrine, the U.S. military budget began its exponential growth into what now fattens into the largest military spending in world history. Heller’s novel satirizes this transformation of America from a republic into an empire that runs on a bloating bureaucratic military-industrial complex, the dangers of which Eisenhower warned.
Given this background, Catch 22 reflects a larger transformation of America than simply a reaction to the Vietnam War. In fact, by 1964, the Gulf of Tonkin incident occurred and the U.S. was just beginning to escalate toward an official and publicly recognized conflict in Vietnam.
The novel reveals the logical loops in which the citizens run about in their daily occupations. All people need is a logic, an ideology, a belief system to guide them, and they’ll do whatever the program requires for the sake of fitting-in and getting along in life. Catch 22 is a law structured in mindless, uncritical circles.
This circular and absurd logic pervades throughout this story, in almost every conversation between the characters, in their actions and thoughts. It creates an eerie Kafkaesque atmosphere that continues through the real world.
This looping logic could not be more obvious than in America’s present war in Iraq. As a timeless classic, one can now read Catch 22 as if it were written today.
Bush Jr.’s initial justifications for his blind invasion of Iraq were based on lies, now obvious and abundantly proven, about imminent threats of WMD’s and later of terrorism.
When these reasons were proven as valueless as the large quantities of chocolate covered cotton that Heller’s seemingly innocent entrepreneurial character, Milo Minderbinder, sells, Bush Jr. explained that the war was necessary because terrorists overran Iraq. Of course, this statement spins in its own circle because regular Iraqi citizens as well as foreign intruders appeared on the scene as insurrectionists only after the U.S. occupation.
When this reason for war no longer sufficed, Bush Jr. told Americans that we must continue fighting in order to honor the soldiers already killed in battle. Obviously this logic, too, loops on itself into an absurd infinity. If Americans were silly enough to follow this logic, soldiers would go to war endlessly in search of honor of those who died before them regardless of whatever the initial reasons were at the war’s beginning.
We know about the lemmings, the small rodents who run over the cliff only because their companions did so before them. Once the program is put into place, no American is really silly enough to run in step like a mindless hamster on its exercise wheel.
Likewise, the many Generals and other military leaders at the Pentagon could have resigned when they first opposed the unplanned, unjustified invasion. Instead, they held onto their careers and their government salaries, despite their courage to serve the greater good of the country.
Americans are much smarter than that. But then, sometimes reality plays out more phantasmagorically than the most wildly imagined satirical fiction. Sometimes reality is less believable than fantasy.
In Catch 22, Milo Minderbinder’s commercial operations reveal the only realistic reasons for the war despite the double talk of ideological calls to freedom, liberty, and democracy. Economic power drives men to many places and to many endeavors.
Milo Minderbinder represents the small time entrepreneur working the black-market. He claims that his growing enterprise offers benefits. “Every man will have a share.”
Compared to Colonel Carthcart, who sends his men to death only for the sake of his own promotions, Minderbinder’s profiteering seems moral, at least until he does a deal with the Germans to bomb his own squadron. Then his syndicate takes on the power of a multinational that no state laws or national loyalty can restrain.
Again, reality proves more surreal than the fictional satire. During the cavalier cowboy gunfight in Iraq, one wonders where the $9 billion of tax money disappeared?
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I'm not sure how many knows the 1998 dud Dead Man On Campus, though yours truly does. He's not really ashamed of it, though he does wonder why. Most critics spit on it, calling it a degrading, unfunny black comedy that seemed to rely on sophomoric sperm songs and bombastic bong use to get most of its laughs. That's pretty true, though for some reason I saw more in this neglected oddity than most people. Sad, I know.
Josh is a conscientious pre-med scholarship student who has the misfortune to land in the same dorm room with Cooper , a wealthy stoner who's completely unconcerned with his education. And they're both stuck with Kyle, a Neanderthal in pants who lives in their suite's single room, until he mercifully abandons them to shack up with his girlfriend. Josh starts out the semester taking a slew of difficult science
classes, but his ambitions are thwarted by Cooper's distracting, bon vivant ways. After disastrous midterm exam results and a nasty visit from Cooper's dad -- the king of toilet-cleaning -- both lads are in desperate need of a way out of their bad grade predicament. Enter that old collegiate canard about how you automatically get straight A's if your roommate kills himself: They embark upon a quest to find the most suicidal person on campus and move him in to Kyle's old room.
The story's not much, but this dark comedy contains moments of unexpected wit. Gosselaar gives a spirited and funny performance, as does Lochlyn Munro in the role of Cliff, one of the more promising wackos. Unlike most comedies, this one actually picks up steam about halfway through, managing to find a fresh take on such all-too-familiar campus fixtures as depressed Goths and paranoid computer geek
I know what you are thinking: the premise is as believable as Paris Hilton eventually winning an Oscar. The lame story is courtesy of Anthony Abrams and Adam Larson Broder, who must have been on some serious mind-altering substances when they brewed this up. However, I have to give them credit for daring to write a black comedy on suicide, something most films would never do. Sure, it may still come off as a shallow movie, though Dead Man On Campus still has its fair share of funny elements.
This college comedy is better than you'd expect, given the lowbrow humor and scant plot.
Although it falls far short of fulfilling its full potential as a dark comedy of desperation, Dead Man On Campus is a modestly amusing trifle that merits a passing grade as lightweight entertainment.
Yep, my new years resolution: making reviews in the music scenery on just about anything. Anything but Hip-Hop, Trash Metal, Rap....errr maybe at least keep away from those morally depraved teens that believe they're making music by simultaneously hitting two trashcans together. Anyway, on to the first ever album review!!!!
I like to divide up the genre of pop punk into two subcategories. On one hand, you have the deep and profound bands – those like Say Anything or Brand New – and on the other, you have the plentiful mass of sunny-eyed, catchy bands – ala All Time Low, The Maine, We The Kings, etc. Both sides have their quirks and positives, and despite what may be the initial belief on the subject, the population of listeners throughout the world is probably divided almost evenly when it comes to the number of those that actually enjoy each side of the genre. There is a right way and a wrong way when it comes to the bands actually crafting their music within these sections, and unless the band is trying to push the envelope and create something original, many outputs – particularly those on the catchy side of pop punk – tend to follow a similar format and formula when it comes to the creation of the band’s album.
I’ll get right to the point: We The King’s Smile Kid follows the successful formula for a catchy pop punk release almost perfectly. The band isn’t Radiohead – or Brand New for that matter – and they aren’t out to crea
te something original. The band is just doing what they learned to do with their self-titled debut: the band is just making a summer album for teenagers. Lyrical subjects are what you would expect them to be – growing up, girls, and summer – and the emotions that come across from the music fall into the category of the mysterious and often unsettling area of angst.
The opening track should all but cement what I have said thus far: ”Do, do do, do do, do do do…” follows behind a catchy pop punk riff, and the chorus to be found here is loaded with hooks and many possible interpretations:”She takes me high, she takes me high…” Suffice it to say, the song could certainly be the anthem of those searching for love and affection. We The Kings continue from there on and deliver summer anthem after summer anthem. “The Story of Your Life” is riddled with a naïve type of hope – the kind that only someone who hasn’t been hit with the negative side of life talks about – and for what it’s worth, I can certainly see a lot of girls falling for Travis Clark’s lyrics that encourage them to run away with the singer. As far as switching it up in terms of sound, “In-N-Out (Animal Style)”, with a healthy ammount of sexual innuendo in the title, has this reggae edge to the verses that later connects with the type of chorus that can be found throughout the majority of the album: catchy, hopeful, earnest, etc.
While the majority of the album is a happy and hopeful anthem affair, there does happen to be one moment where the band slows down a bit. “We’ll Be A Dream” features a duet between Travis and Demi Lovato, and while the track does evolve into another anthem for better and hopeful times, you wouldn’t be incorrect in calling it the album’s ballad. Unlikely as it may be, the album’s closer may be the best example of a catchy, pop punk song. A jingle-bell type of pop punk riff enters the track, and the chorus accompanied by sets of well-placed: “Hey, hey, hey, hey!” make for the album’s defining track.
Smile Kid is an album of hope that is full of desires for better days. The band has decided to take the relative success of their self-titled debut and tweak a bit, creating an album that’s meant for the summer season but will have to do for the months of winter instead. As mentioned, the band follows the format for a successful and catchy pop punk release almost perfectly, and those interested shouldn’t expect anything below or above that threshold of quality. Listeners should be warned though: the contents therein are full of sugar; it is best that this album be enjoyed in small doses if this is your type of thing.
If you've had more than your fill by now of those cookie cutter, tearjerker music biopics that follow the inevitable trajectory from rough roots to fame, a fall from grace and final redemption, Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story may just have the cure. And it's ab
out time. This satirical tongue-in-check musical, spoofs movies like the Johnny Cash weepie Walk The Line and Ray's over-the-top emotional frenzy, while parodying with a vengeance the whole mystique of celebrity sainthood. Move over, Britney Spears.
John C. Reilly does Dewey Cox as an initially troubled, hilariously beer gut middle-aged teen, courtesy of a makeup department that deliberately discarded the usual ridiculously youth-enhancing makeovers here for its over-the-hill stars, relatively speaking. In a wacko Abel and Cain setup, Dewey suffers second-class status in his dysfunctional backwoods family to favored brother Daniel. One day while engaging in a little fantasy swordplay in the barn, Dewey possibly not so accidentally severs his resented sibling in two. And it's a strangely comical disaster which seals his fate as family pariah, doomed to wander the earth a moody and moping sad sack, when not happily jamming on stage.
The movie, directed by Jake Kasdan, was co-written by Kasdan and the productive Judd Apatow, and they do an interesting thing: Instead of sending everything over the top at high energy, they allow Reilly to more or less actually play the character, so that, against all expectations, some scenes actually approach real sentiment. Reilly is required to walk a tightrope; is he suffering or kidding suffering, or kidding suffering about suffering? That I'm not sure adds to t
he appeal.Walk Hard, with its raunchy comedy skit-to-screen sensibility, not surprisingly has its frequent ups and downs, but with the buoyant moments offering plenty to forgive the more stagnant interludes. Among the coolest high-lights count the variously drugged Dewey indulging in controlled substance group activity with participants parading around in assorted states of undress; and his encounter as a little kid with some seasoned elderly bluesmen in the woods who hand over the guitar, and novice Dewey's belting out a number in raspy baritone like a pro who's eight going on eighty.
Then it's on to an early gig during his loser period, worshipfully mopping up a black folks' disco. Inevitably of course, Dewey drops janitor duty and begs his way on to the stage the one night that the main attraction rapper calls in sick. Not quite getting it that he's the only white guy on the premises, Dewey indulges his own inner rapper with some
off-color race lyrics - just the way the house star always does it - and ends up, well, getting the Imus treatment, to say the least.
Equally radical but tame in intent pulled off by Apatow and Kasden from just about but not quite going off that rude deep end, is a mock-lewd episode of nasty gyrations on the same house floor. And the devilish duo is not at all shy about taking what's really going on with those highly suggestive moves, to what might actually be marinating in the dirty minds of those too much information, sexually charged dancers.