Missing the Target: John Woo's Hard Target

It’s a strange axiom within film that bad movies are often far more enjoyable by good movies. I could cite the fact that I’ve seen classics like The Godfather and Casablanca once apiece, but I’ve seen Robot Monster at least a dozen times (That’s the one with the gorilla in the diving helmet. No, I'm not going to elaborate on that). Granted, watching truly terrible movies is not for amateurs. It’s been clinically proven as a link to alcoholism – and I’d argue it causes marijuana use too, but that’s a bit of a ‘chickens-and-eggs’ scenario. So you can be sure I took it very seriously when I went to my local library to seek out the worst movie I could find – on VHS, mind you, the way the true bad movie professionals do it. But, since picking on Batman and Robin is like picking on the crippled kid in gym class, I settled for the second worst movie I could find: John Woo’s Hard Target. I followed proper bad movie procedure: I called some friends, had a few drinks, and got myself ready. And by about five minutes in, I knew I’d done good.

The movie opens with a bunch of bad guys led by Lance Henriksen chasing down an unspecified victim through the back alleys of New Orleans. I was glad to see Henriksen in this one; he’s one of those really good actors who just keeps winding up in really bad movies. I’m not sure how you go from roles in Dog Day Afternoon, Aliens, and Near Dark to direct-to-video crap like Alone in the Dark II and Screamers: The Hunting, but hey, that’s Hollywood for you. Anyway, it turns out Lance and his cronies are one of those shady action-movie groups of wealthy tycoons that get together to hunt the deadliest prey of all – MAN! Yes, this is yet another adaptation of the classic Richard Connell short story “The Most Dangerous Game,” although as far as dead horses go, this one’s been beaten so often that you’d probably have to check its dental records to find that out. I also feel like these so-called ‘big game hunters’ kind of missed the point. I mean, there’s at least a dozen of them with motorcycles, machine guns, crossbows, and bazookas chasing after one unarmed homeless guy. Kinda takes the thrill out of the hunt, don’t you think. “If he gets to the river, he’s won. We cannot allow that to happen,” Lance helpfully explains. Really though, if he makes it to the river, they’re all gonna look like a bunch of fucking amateurs.

We go from the hunt to another bad movie veteran, Yancy Butler, arriving in New Orleans to try and track down her missing father. And I have to say, her performance is impressive in that I’ve never seen someone appear on screen for so much of a movie without ever appearing to act. She just sort of has that watching-paint-dry face in every situation. It’s like someone tried to teach a robot how to act and gave up halfway through. Her search leads her to Mr. Van Damme himself, introduced via a slow-motion close-up on the back of his glorious mullet. Now, one of my favorite things about Van Damme movies – and, trust me, I have a lot of favorite things about them – is that the filmmakers always try and come up with some background to explain his accent. But it’s never, ever the right one. Here, the muscles from Brussels plays Chance Boudreaux. Really, that’s his name. Trouble is, he doesn’t even try to sound Cajun whatsoever. It’s even worse than when he tried to play a French-Canadian in Sudden Death. So JCVD and whatshername decide to investigate the missing person’s case together and stumble upon… y’know, I’m just gonna stop right there. Nobody really cares about the plot to this, do they? We just want to see Van Damme kick some people in the face.

And oh boy, do we ever see him kick some people in the face. Another great thing about JCVD movies is that, since he built his career on kicking people really hard, all the fight scenes involve people attacking him in the most awkward, ungainly positions to leave themselves open for a face kick. I mean, when Van Damme can kick a guy off a speeding motorcycle, it doesn’t make him look badass, it just makes the biker look retarded. And since this is also a John Woo movie, the viewer gets to ponder such questions as: “Is it really necessary to kick somebody in the face after you’ve shot them five times?”

On that note, I’d like to observe a moment of silence for John Woo’s career. I don’t know if his IQ just dropped sharply once he left Hong Kong, but it’s simply stunning that he made this just one year after making one of the greatest action movies of all time, Hard Boiled. There are still plenty of his little trademarks, such as shitloads of slow motion, improbably placed doves flying everywhere, and lots of ‘seeing-things-in-reflections-of-other-things,’ but there’s not really much in the way of actual directing. Does America just have some sort of dumbening field around it or what?

Anyway, about halfway through, my notes on the movie devolved into a simple catalogue of all the ridiculous shit that was happening. This is a movie where Jean Claude Van Damme punches a poisonous snake unconscious, then hangs it from a tree as a booby trap so it can bite someone in the face. This is a movie where Jean Claude Van Damme kicks a can of gasoline at someone, then shoots the can in mid-air, causing them to burst into flames – when he could have just shot him. This is a movie where people dive face-first through plate glass windows unscathed, everything bursts into flames when shot, and Ted Raimi shows up for a cameo (and when you even know who Ted Raimi is, you know you’ve seen too many bad movies). By the end of this movie’s six hours – I mean ninety minutes – I was frantically searching the back of the box for some kind of crisis hotline. Someone I could call and ask “how does the bad guy know that the train went by two and a half hours ago just by looking at a muddy footprint?” I guess I got what I paid for, though (it was free). Now I can show myself in front of fellow bad movie connoisseurs with pride in my heart and say, “Why yes, I have seen a movie where Wilford Brimley rides a horse away from an explosion wielding a bow-and-arrow.”

Did I mention Wilford Brimley’s in it?

Wilford Brimley’s in it.



(Poster image obtained via http://wikipedia.org. Brimley image obtained via http://www.edhumphries.com)

Armed Forces.

When I first saw the front page of the Boston Metro on Friday, November 6, my blood ran cold. Now, I had heard that expression before, but I had thought it hyperbole until it happened to me. There had been a shooting spree at the Fort Hood Army base in Texas, the same base where my best friend Harry Dery was stationed. That was when I felt the chill, that gravel-in-your-guts horror that makes everything else insignificant. I spent the rest of my hour-long commute to school frantically trying to call and text Harry to find out if he was okay, but I couldn’t get a hold of him. I knew that Fort Hood was a big place, and that the odds were slim of Harry being one of the 13 dead, or even one of the 30 wounded. I also knew the horrible detail that the shooting had taken place at a processing center where troops receive medical treatment before going overseas, and since Harry wasn’t scheduled to go overseas any time soon, that also helped his chances. I knew these things, but they didn’t help. I was still gripped with the irrational terror of a horrible situation.

Eventually, I got to a computer on campus and saw a note from his sister on his Facebook page saying she was glad to hear he was okay (proof that Facebook is good for something other than tagging embarrassing pictures of your drunk friends). Later still I received a text message from Harry simply stating “Yea I’m good bro.” I could finally relax. But the horror wouldn’t go away.

I recall thinking later that day that I hadn’t been so horrified by a news item since the terrorist attack on Mumbai, India. It was then I realized that, while it felt like a long time, those attacks happened less than a year ago. Why do these things happen? What, exactly, is wrong with the world? The fact that this happened so close to Veteran’s day seems like the punchline to a sick joke that nobody will laugh at.

People will theorize, of course. Bob Herbert of the New York Times offered an article entitled “Stress Beyond Belief” that reads as passionate, if misguided. Herbert is just one of the many that have drawn connections between shooter Nidal Malik Hasan’s actions and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, something my parents who grew up during the Viet Nam war still refer to as ‘Shell Shock.’ Now, certainly PTSD is an extremely serious topic, as is the treatment soldiers may or may not receive for it. I am glad that more attention is being paid to the subject. But drawing this tenuous thread between PTSD and Hasan, and going so far as to imply that it’s the reason for Hasan’s rampage, seems a bit irresponsible. What Herbert and so many other journalists are failing to acknowledge is that Hasan had yet to do a tour of duty overseas. He was scheduled to go on his first deployment – a tour of Afghanistan – in the coming months. When discussing the event in my Criminology class that Friday morning, a fellow student asked “Is there such a thing as Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder?” It’s not a bad question.

So we can’t blame PTSD for Hasan’s actions. Hell, according to ABC News, Hasan “completed a fellowship in Disaster and Preventive Psychiatry at the Center for Traumatic Stress.” So should we blame those who treat PTSD for his shooting spree? Of course not. In the face of a tragedy like this, it can be hard for the disturbed public to accept that they’re looking for solutions where there are none to be found. Just like the shootings at Columbine or the Oklahoma city bombing, people will try to single out one factor as a cause, be it “dangerous” literature, “dangerous” music, or, in what’s already showing itself to be the case, a “dangerous” religion. It’s hard to accept and impossible to explain, but sometimes people just snap. The best we can do is try and gain a better, more scrutinizing knowledge of events as they unfold. And we can truly respect the soldiers in our armed forces, not just as a passing trend that fades with the memory of tragedy, but as an ongoing understanding that transcends mere patriotism into a true compassion for our fellow man.

-Michael James Roberson

The Roberson Record Roundup: Mike’s Top Five Albums of 2009

In the past ten months, 2009 has shown itself to be a pretty outstanding year for music. And while I know there’s still two months left to go in the year, if Pitchfork.com can do a list of the best albums of the decade in October, I can do a list of the best albums of the year in November.

I should take this moment to acknowledge that there are a few 2009 albums I haven’t yet heard that could’ve possibly made this list: Agorapocalypse by Agoraphobic Nosebleed, The Great Misdirect by Between the Buried and Me, Ghostdini: Wizard of Poetry in Emerald City by Ghostface Killah, Desperate Living by HORSE the band, and Only Built 4 Cuban Linx 2 by Raekwon. I’ll also use this space to give out some honorable mentions to the records that didn’t quite crack the top five: Crack the Skye by Mastodon, Blackout 2 by Method Man & Redman, The Sound The Speed The Light by Mission of Burma, Coaster by NOFX, and Common Existence by Thursday.

5. Animal Collective – Merriweather Post Pavilion

Animal Collective’s unique blend of jangly acoustic guitars and thundering, bass-heavy electronic beats has made them a real standout act in the post-2000 indie music scene. On this album, though, they’ve really outdone themselves. Merriweather Post Pavilion is one of those wonderful few albums that manages to be the most accessible effort by the band to date without sacrificing any of their artistic integrity. The throat-shredding screams and howls of albums like Feels and Strawberry Jam have been replaced with elegant, Beach Boys-style vocal harmonies. There’s still some of the band’s past brand of psychadelia on the introductory drone “In the Flowers” and the bizarrely catchy “Lion in a Coma”, but on tracks like the bouncy lead single “My Girls” and the epic ready-made for the rave set finish “Brothersport,” you can hear the sound of a band that’s found a whole new sonic territory to play around in. Animal Collective has revitalized themselves with this one, and potentially opened themselves up to a whole new audience.

4. DOOM – Born Like This

On his landmark 2004 Madvillain project with DJ Madlib, MF Doom reminded us to “Just remember all caps when you spell the man name.” Apparently, he took his own advice, because the mysterious rapper has dropped the ‘MF’ from his name in favor of the simple DOOM (this being, by my count, the seventh name change he’s undergone in his career). From the beginning of Born Like This’ lead track, “Gazillion Ear”, though, fans can be sure that this is the same old Doom as before, dropping gravelly-voiced, stream-of-consciousness references to Ernest Goes to Camp and the Large Hadron Collider in the same breath. Breaking away from his past two albums which featured production by Madlib and Dangermouse, respectively, DOOM does most of the beats here himself (although there are a few by Madlib and the late great J Dilla), and shows that he’s just as much of a force to be reckoned with in the studio as he is on the mic. And, in keeping with past albums, DOOM gives some of his best beats to the guest artists. Raekwon in particular walks away with one of the best tracks on the album in “Yessir”, a breakneck two-minute solo spot featuring one of the most hypnotically intense beats DOOM’s ever written. And then there’s “Cellz”, the stark, heavy centerpiece of the album, featuring probably the last guest spot I ever expected to hear on a hip-hop album: a two-minute vocal sample of deceased California beat poet Charles Bukowski. After four long years of waiting, hip-hop’s modernist master is back, and he’s put out one of the standout albums of his career.

3. The Thermals – Now We Can See

“I only felt sane when I was afraid,” shouts singer Hutch Harris on Portland, Oregon punk rockers The Thermals' fourth album, Now We Can See. When he was afraid was probably on their last album, The Body, The Blood, The Machine, their biblically terrifying 2006 indictment of the Bush presidency (still my contender for punk rock album of the decade). Now We Can See may lack the sheer vitriol of that album, but it still features all the complex lyricism and catchy guitar hooks that Thermals fans have come to expect. They might be taken aback at first, though: this is probably the most laid back, radio-friendly album the band has yet recorded. Upon further listens though, new complexities open up both musically and thematically, such as the album’s ever-present lyrical themes of death and the afterlife (evidenced in the triptych of songs “When I Died,” “When We Were Alive,” and “When I Was Afraid”) and the new types of songwriting and production the band explores (“At The Bottom of the Sea” sounds unlike anything they’ve recorded prior). This is the definition of an album that rewards upon repeat listens, and with songs as catchy as the sing-a-long title track, repeat listens are absolutely guaranteed.

2. Converge – Axe to Fall

The most impressive thing about local hardcore band Converge is their remarkable consistency. Since their debut Petitioning the Empty Sky in 1998, these guys have yet to release an album that was less than terrific, and even if that first record was also their last, they’d probably still be legends within their genre. It should go without saying then that their new album Axe to Fall is just as terrific as anything they’ve put out in the past ten years and well worth the four year wait from 2005’s No Heroes. The new twist here is that the album features a veritable who’s-who of notable metal and hardcore musicians as guest artists, including members of Hatebreed, 108, Cave In, Neurosis, and Genghis Tron, among others. There’s more collaboration within the band as well, with guitarist Kurt Ballou showing off his impressive vocals in “Worms Will Feed/Rats Will Feast,” maybe the best slow/heavy song the band has written to date. The overall effect is that this is probably the most metal-sounding album Converge has ever recorded. Almost every song features a lightspeed guitar solo, blindingly fast double-bass drums, or both. And, as always, Converge are masters of pacing within the album format, kicking it into high gear at the beginning with the headbanging trio of “Dark Horse,” “Reap What You Sow,” and “Axe to Fall” before bringing it back down at the end with the shockingly slow, soft collaborative jam pieces “Cruel Bloom” and “Wretched World.” Converge has definitely still got it, and they remain standouts in both the hardcore and metal scenes.

1. Doomriders – Darkness Come Alive

As a massive Converge fan, I was convinced from the beginning of the year that their new album would be the best of the year. What I couldn’t count on was being blindsided by a Converge side-project. Converge bassist Nate Newton takes on guitar and lead vocals for Doomriders’ second album, Darkness Come Alive. There’s no sophomore slump here. Instead, the leap in musicality from their first album, Black Thunder, is a musical evolution comparable to the jump Metallica made between Kill ‘Em All and Ride the Lightning. Tracks like “Heavy Lies the Crown” and “Come Alive” are the kind of songs that truly deserve being called “anthemic,” with utterly metal guitar harmonies and vocals delivered in Newton’s best Glenn Danzig howl. Plus, there are still tracks that call back to the band’s hardcore background, such as the punishing two-minute long “Knife Wound” or the fantastic closing track “Rotter.” If they can get out from under Converge’s shadow – and they deserve to – Doomriders are poised to become the Misfits or even the Iron Maiden of this generation.

Rules and Regulations: The Shotgun Rule by Charlie Huston

Charlie Huston's The Shotgun Rule is one of the most earnestly unsettling novels I've read in some time. Now, that may not be the case for everyone who reads it. I have a feeling it has something to do with the fact that I read all of Charlie Huston's other books before this one. I know the kind of horribly nasty surprises he keeps in store for his protagonists. So, upon starting the book and discovering that the protagonists were four teenage kids, I was biting my nails even through the fairly benign opening sections.

The four kids in question are the violent Paul, suffering from some ambiguous problems at home and always looking for a fight; Hector, the hispanic hardcore punk-rocker who makes fearsome use of a bicycle chain; George, the de facto leader of the group, and his younger brother Andy, a nerdy Dungeons-and-Dragons-playing outcast whose outer intelligence masks violent inner thoughts.

The story starts off with a simple moment of carelessness, as Andy allows his bike to be stolen by Timo Arroyo, youngest of the fearsome Arroyo brothers who made a profession out of terrorizing their fellow high school students. When the four friends break into the Arroyos' house to get Andy's bike back, they discover their other profession: manufacturing and selling crystal meth. All it takes is a couple furtive glances between Andy and Paul, and the gang suddenly has an extra kilo of amphetamines to their name. But the Arroyos are not happy, and neither is their shadowy boss, only known as Geezer, a man who always has to find exactly the right word for the situation...

Much has been made of this novel's narration, as this is Charlie Huston's first (and, to date, only) novel written in the third- rather than the first-person. And he does a really impressive job with it, using the third-person to its fullest potential and really getting inside the heads of all of his characters. The narrative passages from Andy's point of view are particularly engrossing, with his all-consuming knowledge of mathematical and scientific trivia often being interrupted by his fascination for violence - which disturbs him just as much as it does the reader. The narrative approach also allows Huston to get some other voices into the book, most notably George and Andy's father, Bob Whelan. Bob is fiercely protective of his kids and tries to teach them the value of an honest day's work (which is largely lost on them, as they spend their spare time hocking pills and burglarizing houses). Bob, like many of the others, is harboring a nasty secret, one that might explain his sons' propensity towards violence. “It sure sounds like a real story [...] Because he’s thought about doing stuff like that, but it sounds like his dad really has done stuff like that. So maybe it’s not so bad to have those things in your head. Or, at least, maybe there’s a reason for them getting in there.”

This adolescent preoccupation with violence becomes basically the central theme of the entire novel. All four of the kids, even nerdy Andy, love getting into fights, and much space is devoted to analysis of how and why these kids keep doing it: "Paul gets in more fights than anyone, but that’s because he’s always mouthing off and starting them," whereas Hector prefers to "Just stand there and stare at the sidewalk while some redneck calls you spic and wetback and makes fun of your Mohawk and the safety pins in your earlobe, and when he turns to his friends to laugh at you, you [...] start punching him in the side of the head.”Much is made also of the way these kids seem to inherit their violent tendencies from their parents. In addition to Andy and George's father's ambiguous former life of violence, Paul's alcoholic dad seems to have some very creepy, possibly violent tendencies to him as well, which are (perhaps mercifully) never fully explained.

Overall though, despite all the grimness I've just described, this book is still a total blast. Huston's trademark humor may be at its darkest here, but it's still wickedly funny, whether it's the four kids arguing over who wins the title of 'gayest band ever' (if you're curious, they pretty much unanimously vote for Depeche Mode) or Geezer bragging about how wealthy his criminal empire is on the basis of having both HBO and Showtime. The simple two-act structure of the story works wonderfully as well, with the first half containing all the setup and the second half, which uses the time-honored suspense technique of confining all your characters to one location, containing all the payoff. This may not be your average coming-of-age tale (although no lesser authority than Stephen King has called it "Stand By Me on Dexedrine"), but it's certainly the most memorable I've read in a long time.

Coming Soon in Books: In anticipation of the new Boston Noir anthology and the upcoming Scorsese flick Shutter Island, I'll be taking a look at Dennis Lehane's debut novel, A Drink Before the War.

(Cover image obtained via http://pulpnoir.com)