24 June 2016

CUT!

The following is a message to filmmakers: not every film needs to be arse-numbingly long. Don't be so fucking precious. Learn to edit, and have the integrity to trim some of your crap. The most recent offender is Zack Snyder's much-awaited Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice. The theatrical version alone is a shade over two and a half hours long. The upcoming DVD and Blu-ray release adds another half an hour to that already-lumbering runtime.

I'm part of the apparent minority who enjoyed the film, but even as somebody who's been wanting to see Batman cave Superman's face in on the silver screen for years, I found myself nodding off midway through, even in an IMAX screen with sound levels approaching those of a Motörhead gig. The last time I found myself napping in the cinema was during 2000's George Clooney crap-a-rama The Perfect Storm. During the titular storm. Not a good sign, Mr Snyder.
C. Montgomery Burns there, struggling to stay awake during
Jesse Eisenberg's excruciating performance as "Lex Luthor"
Excessive length is a problem with a lot of movies these days, even children's movies, but the most noticeable offenders seem to be adult comedies from the last ten to fifteen years. Superbad, for example, at 113 minutes, is only five minutes shorter than the classic labyrinthine thriller The Silence of the Lambs. I actually enjoy Superbad, but why the hell anybody needs nearly two full hours to tell a story about two dorks trying to get laid is beyond me. And even as a fan of the movie, I stop laughing after that 90-minute mark. Anything over that is just too goddamned long for a comedy.

David and Jerry Zucker's pant-pissingly funny disaster spoof Airplane! is the standard for comedy as far as I'm concerned, and that's a mere 88 minutes long. If you think you're funnier than Airplane!, then not only are you wrong, but by Lemmy you'd better be able to fit a near-equal amount of gags into that amount of time. Good ones. Mel Brooks' racism-punching western parody Blazing Saddles is 95 minutes long, and there's about eight seconds of it that aren't so funny you'll rupture your spleen.
"In the future, comedies will be two hours long? Surely you can't be serious."
"I am serious. And don't call me Shirley."
Anyway, the point of this seminar is: filmmakers of every genre need to reel it in. You're not Francis Ford Coppola, and your film isn't Apocalypse Now. Make long films if the subject matter or the actors merit it: parts one and two of The Godfather, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, anything with Daniel Day-Lewis. But I'm so fucking tired of having to give up entire nights if I want to watch a regular film. That pointless Judd Apatow piece of shit Knocked Up is ten minutes longer than the final cut of Ridley Scott's existential sci-fi masterpiece Blade Runner, for fuck's sake. Bridesmaids, Paul Feig's gender-swap of brainless bro-down The Hangover, is twenty minutes longer than The Terminator. Do these people have to release every frame they film?

Honestly, I blame Judd Apatow for this shit. Fine, let your actors improvise. But don't cave to their egos and include every last gag they tell. Not even George Carlin hit the mark every time—I never personally cared for his "The kind of fart whereby the Centers for Disease Control declares your pants a level five biohazard" crack; seems too lowbrow for me.

The unrated cut of Judd Apatow's The 40-Year Old Virgin is only ten minutes shorter than Stanley Kubrick's nightmarish Stephen King adaptation The Shining. Why? A pointless, excruciating song-and-dance number. Kubrick, the legendary auteur, extended his film's runtime with eerie silences and lingering, unsettling shots of what has come to be known as the Kubrick Stare.
Top: absolutely vital
Bottom: completely and utterly pointless
Judd Apatow, meanwhile, decided that none of us could do without a nipple-hardeningly embarrassing performance of a song from the hippie musical Hair, performed by some of the most irritating leading lights of 21st century American comedy. In addition to cutting some of the improv, you may decrease your film's runtime by not being so fucking arrogant as to think we care about your secret wish to be Busby Berkeley.

This has gotten off-track. As the aforementioned George Carlin said, I have no ending for this, so I take a small bow.

21 April 2016

THE WORLD JUST LOST A WONDER

Treat her for just who she was: a trailblazing icon
Joanie Laurer, better known as Chyna, professional wrestling's "9th Wonder of the World", has died at the age of 45. In the coming days and weeks you'll see a lot of pieces from mainstream news sources about how her post-wrestling career overshadowed her work in the then-WWF, but I'm not here to moralise or pass judgement on a woman whose body isn't even cold yet. I'm here to talk about, to use a phrase beloved of WWE commentary legend Jim Ross, "what brought her to the dance": her career in and around the wrestling ring.

Chyna was a true cornerstone of the fabled Attitude Era. Trust me, I lived through it. She was all over the place. Every new merchandising venture the company made, the faces involved were always Stone Cold, the Rock, the Undertaker and Chyna. Not Triple H, not Mankind, not Kane, certainly not that vacant airhead Sable, but Chyna. And it seemed completely natural. It was meant to be. Here were all these powerful badass characters, and of course, there was a powerful badass woman with them. The way it should have been.

If it wasn't for Chyna standing there like an intimidating badass, the first run of the notorious* stable D-Generation X would have been truly awful, just Triple H and Shawn Michaels standing around making dick jokes to a crowd of baying idiots. Chyna, simply by standing behind the two jocks with a stoic look on her face, gave the group depth and mystery when it could so easily have been a boys' club that was even more cringeworthy than the nWo.

When the WWF started letting Chyna show some personality was, for me, when the stable started to actually be entertaining. Remember when DX played strip poker on Raw, and Chyna was cleaning up? She was genuinely entertaining despite remaining completely silent and keeping all her clothes on. That's how you build a character without having her say a word.
Notice how Chyna's standing at the forefront of D-Generation X?
It's because she was more interesting than the high school jocks behind her
During the second DX run that began after Shawn Michaels' first retirement followingWrestleMania XIV, Chyna was once again the best part of it. Look back: the guys in DX were all sophomoric meatheads. Triple H had the same tired dick jokes ("the cock-pit!") and a catchphrase he stole off that joker Michael Buffer; Road Dogg had the same speech he made every night plus what seemed to be a nervous tic brought on by a poor performance in a childhood spelling bee; X-Pac just yelled for the crowd to "make some noise," laughed at Hunter's jokes and called other men bitches, and Billy Gunn had a great physique but some of the worst mic skills I've ever heard in wrestling. Chyna, meanwhile, didn't have to do anything to be interesting and memorable. She was distant and different.

One of the most genuinely shocking moments of the Attitude Era was when she turned on Triple H in early 1999 and joined Vince McMahon's nefarious Corporation: a true "holy shit!" heel turn that was handled far better than even "Stone Cold" Steve Austin's in 2001. I was gutted. Then when she and Triple H seemingly got back together a few months later at WrestleMania XV, I was overjoyed... then crushed again later in the night when they both joined the Corporation. Apart from Owen Hart kicking his brother Bret's leg out of his leg** in late 1993, it was the first heel turn that actually affected me.
Chyna defeats Jeff Jarrett for the Intercontinental Championship
at WWF's No Mercy pay-per-view, October 1999
All this doesn't even go into the way she broke down boundaries for women in wrestling: winning the Intercontinental title, and being the first female entrant into the Royal Rumble and the King of the Ring tournament. She was a trailblazer, an icon. And none of it seemed like a marketing gimmick or anything like it, it seemed perfectly natural. "Chyna's wrestling for the IC belt? Cool!" I remember being legitimately disappointed when she lost it, principally because that opened the door for Chris Benoit to start wrestling for it, and at the time—unpopular opinion alert—Benoit bored my arse off.

Remember that this was at a time where women's wrestling was seen as an excuse to go for a piss, or for the horny teenage boys in the audience to fill up their spank banks for the next few months. Evening gown matches and bikini contests and promos that amounted to nothing more than the arcade game Cat Fight from The Simpsons. As Kefin Mahon from the Attitude Era Podcast put it, the air was thick with phrases like "Your hair is a bitch! Your fingernails are sluts!" Absolutely terrible. But despite that, you had Chyna kicking men's asses and proving that yes, women do belong in the squared circle. Fifteen years later, we're seeing the fruits of the seeds Chyna sowed, as women like Sasha Banks, Becky Lynch, Bayley and Charlotte have proven to be legitimately more entertaining and over with the fans than most of the male talent on WWE's roster.
Chyna and Eddie gave us some of the most
memorable moments of the entire Attitude Era.
However, Chyna losing the Intercontinental title did open the door for her run with Eddie Guerrero, and while a case can be made (particularly on-air by Jim Ross) that Eddie set back Hispanic-American relations by a number of decades, it was truly entertaining TV, and to see Chyna smile was wonderful, especially in hindsight, knowing what was going on backstage between Triple H and Stephanie McMahon. Mention Eddie's name to people, and a lot of them will come out with "Mamacita!" Remember that it was this angle that gave Eddie his famous nickname, Latino Heat. Arguably it was his association with Chyna that got Eddie over in the WWF, because the fans back then couldn't have given a stuff how good somebody was in the ring: if you weren't entertaining, they didn't care. And Eddie and Chyna were entertaining in every sense of the word.

I always hoped WWE would cut the bullshit moralising regarding Chyna's post-wrestling career, and induct her into the Hall of Fame. What, Hall of Famer Jimmy Snuka murdering his girlfriend isn't as bad as pornography? Hall of Famer Hulk Hogan saying he doesn't want his daughter dating a "fucking nigger" isn't as bad as pornography? Hall of Famer*** Donald Trump proposing the banning of 1.6 billion people from the "Land of the Free" and labelling an entire nation's inhabitants as drug dealers and rapists isn't as bad as pornography? Get the fuck out of my office.

I guess things like that prove that it really is just Stephanie McMahon's pettiness that kept her out of the Hall of Fame. Seems like vindictiveness is a McMahon family trait. And I must say, as Stephanie can reasonably be accused of directly causing Chyna's downward spiral, it kind of sickens me that she's all PR sympathy now. "Tragic news," my arse. A sense of relief is more like it.

So today, whatever you do, make sure you pay tribute to Chyna: punch somebody in the balls.

Goodbye, Joanie. I hope you find the happiness in death that seemed to elude you in life.
JOANIE "CHYNA" LAURER
1969-2016
* Though nowhere near as notorious as WWE's revisionist history would have you believe
** Right, Owen? Post-match interviews: always a bad idea
*** I well and truly wish I was joking. "Celebrity Wing", my arse