"Precious Little," based on the idea that people are just far to happy with life and need two hours of depressing, soul sucking viewing by Sapphire

Another film I have been witness to over the past weekend was "Precious" based on the novel "Something" by Someone. Besides having possibly the most irritatingly pretentious and agonizingly unnecessary title in movie history, it was an incredibly harsh and terribly over the top depiction of the craptastic life lived by this poor, poor girl. Here's a brief synopsis:

Poverty stricken, illiterate, African-American teenage mother has worst life imaginable. Mariah Carey wears no make-up. Mo-nique (?) cries lots at the end. Nothing gets solved. I feel so depressed I want to vomit. Roll credits. Notice Oprah and Tyler Perry have executive producer roles. Actually vomit. Call my Mum.

I don't know why I watched this. When it came out, I wasn't necessarily inclined to watch it at all. I heard it was powerful, and I thought it might be a feel-good kind of film. I was wrong. I thought it might be something perhaps to be inspired by. I was wrong. I thought there might be some enlightening denouement and possibly some things about the human spirit that I could take with me. I was very wrong. Basically I watched an impressively overweight teenage girl from the ghetto get shit on for 120 minutes. Good times?

Between being impregnated (twice!) by her father, and being beaten and basically enslaved by her mother, this insanely mentally decimated child has no education, no contact with anything positive, and is forced to dream of a life lived as a famous model, singer, or actress. Okay, okay. I'm sold. How can I help her? Tell me, I'll do it. Just tell me! Why won't you tell me-he-hee?! Unfortunately, the film offers no answers. She ends up going to an alternative school, and it starts to look like Dangerous Minds but with no hope.

No Coolio either.

My only thought while watching this was "what are they trying to accomplish with this fictionalized, almost sensationalistic story disguised as entertainment?" I found absolutely no joy, no satisfaction, and no clue as to why somebody would even write this, let alone green-light it for a studio. I guess it sells and wins awards. I mean you got the Big O behind you and let's not forget Tyler Perry's Tyler Perry brought to you by Tyler Perry's hand prints on it as well.

Tyler Perry's Tyler Perry.

And why does the novel HAVE to be mentioned in the title. It's like "oh by the way, if you didn't want to blow your head off just from watching this movie, here's a plug for the book so you will definitely be left with no other option after reading." This movie was horrible during awards season. Every time it was discussed or announced, it took five minutes of embarrassing recitation just to say "is nominated."

Wow, I sound pretty grumpy don't I. I sound like someone who has no soul or is a little hard-hearted. I might sound like someone who just sat through this film and can't understand why things are so shitty for some people. I don't believe in anything anymore! Well, I do but it is now a struggle. Thank you Ope, Tyler Perry Tyler Perry, and Sapphire for extracting the good thoughts and replacing them with more helpful and meaningfully useful negativity. Guess you needed the trophies.

I will say this. The scene were she steals the bucket of chicken is great. But seriously, you can't catch a 300 pound girl with a bookbag and a 15 piece?! Your business is going to crumble.

Steroids.

Life is a little better than all this. At least for some. And I'm not saying that stories like this shouldn't be told, but not fictional ones. Document the ones that are similar and stimulate change. If you don't, it's just glorified snuff meant to make award givers feel guilty and that they owe you something. And Gabourey and Mo-nique (seriously I don't have time to Google. is this how her name is spelled?!), you killed it. I was very impressed. But Gabby, if you ever host SNL again...now I feel like crying again.

Who knew porn was that scary?

It's Friday night. The curtains are drawn and the angry rain outside provides an eerie soundtrack adding pathetic fallacy to any events forthcoming. A solitary light is on in the house but is situated in an area so far from ours that it is rendered almost redundant. There is a cold beer on a coaster and a hot girl on the couch. It's movie time. Scary movie time. On demand, what you got?

Actually, all of this happened on a Saturday afternoon. But the movie we were about to watch made the above atmosphere feel oh so real. I am a self confessed wuss when it comes to the horror films (you may notice their absence in my upcoming movie review posts henceforth to be called "Talkin' 'bout Talkies." Incidentally, stay tuned to my 17 part series about the Golden Age of Silent Cinema: "Mimin' 'bout Muties.") so the mere idea of viewing this film, a film I had tried very hard to ignore, held no appeal whatsoever. Baby Girl hit the menu, found the flick, and pressed the button. Ladies and Gentlemen, Paranormal Activity.

Ghosts. Pant-poopingly terrifying.

Now to be honest, when the lady decided (read demanded) that we watch this, I was a little anxious. We had just finished watching what we both agreed to be one of the better movies we had seen in some time (Youth in Revolt, fucking brilliant!), and to switch gears to something that different was a bit disconcerting. I mean 90 minutes of Michael Cera and then on to demons is like finishing a fantastic meal with the waiter kicking you in the balls. But after the pleas and the begging and then the usual threats of bodily violence, I benevolently gave in and watched her select this blockbusting scarefest and sat back to drink in the terror.

Well, 10 minutes in, the word "meh" became an internal mantra staving off perhaps thoughts and feelings of impending girlish screams sure to allow her full licence to confiscate my man card. It's actually quite funny, I'm sure, to watch a dude try to manifest swagger while laying on a couch.

No, not really.

That being said, day turned to night in this indie flick, and hands crept closer to face.

Let it be said that as a concept, this movie is extremely effective. It is very Blair Witchy in it's "Oh this is a true story (wink, wink)" and it did scare certain bejesuses out of me, but as a movie, it kind of fell flat. At least for me. I was too busy worrying about what was going to happen to dwell on the really scary thing: the acting. Well, I dwelled a little. Here we go.

The whole thing looks like a high-class porno. From the characters trying to act as if they are normal and yet smacking of more effort than that asshole kid in class who always has his hand up, to the framing and camera movements asking us to truly believe that people who are doing the things they are doing, and experiencing the things they are experiencing, have time and presence of mind to always pick up the damn camera and start turning over. I half expected the "demon" to be a wayward pizza delivery-boy who will come in for a nice glass of lemonade thank you very much. Even though he could lose his job.

Extra sausage.

Either way, the horrendous acting aside, and also the fact that as the movie went on (a movie she promptly fell asleep halfway through leaving me to fend for myself should some shit go down) you actually want to see some scary happenings because these characters are annoying as shit, the way that tension and the camera were being used, made me understand the trailer with all those movie goers being shocked and the terror on their faces. You stare at the screen...and stare...and stare...taking in every piece of the bedroom. Waiting for something to happen. Hoping for a little fright. Not understanding exactly what all the hype was abouUHHTHEDOORJUSTMOVED!!!!! What the fuck was that? I didn't see that comiUMMMITJUSTMOVEDBACK!!!!! This technique is very effective on people like me. Never before has a four inch movement of a door made me almost urinate. And then when she gets up and stares at the dude for HOURS!?!?!? That's effed yo. That is scary. I don't care who you are. When I move in with a girl now, damn her feelings, we're gonna seriously discuss my own room with a lock.

Overall, I'll be as truthful as possible. It's not really my type of film, but you have to respect the idea of it, and the fact that it can make powder footprints and the ominous flicking on and off of a light pretty terrifying. I am sure that it has little to no replay value but hey they got a another one coming out now. I hope she falls asleep during that one too. These movies murder my ego.




Hold me...

“My girlfriend’s dryer eats my buttons,” and other tales of temporary domesticity

For those who are married or currently just cohabiting with their significant other, the overall trepidation of the first period of living with your partner might be a bygone memory. It might be to a point right now that the thought of coming home to an empty dwelling or to a roommate that’s just a friend is so passe, it almost becomes a story of yore. Well, if that’s the case for you, allow me to take you back to maybe those first few weeks of domestic bliss. Those times when excitement of spending time with your special friend and building something together begins to wane and you try to mask the fear of immediately going from this…















To this…
















My relatively brand new relationship recently took a rather large step/risk. My new girlfriend’s cousin, whom she lives with, was going to Europe for 3 weeks and I was asked if perhaps I would like to stay there over that period of time. It wasn’t by any means on the same level or category of seriousness as marriage or having a baby, but considering this particular union was in it’s infancy, spending the first 1/3 of your companionship under the same roof with no buffer has two endings: the potential of movin’ in, or the necessity of movin’ on. Which one would this end with? I wasn’t really sure either.













This, also a possibility


So aside from the “can we get along for this prolonged chunk of time” contention, I failed, at first, to consider the details. Things like, she has no dishwasher. So every spoon, cup, and plate, if not cleaned almost immediately, is evidence and maybe a bit of foreboding, that I might be slobbish in future. Also, the dog needs to be taken care of in her absence. The cats need to be fed and litter cleaned. Because of the animals, vacuuming is required quite frequently, and absolutely, positively, NO CLOTHES ON THE FLOOR!

All of these tasks and minor considerations notwithstanding, the transition was remarkably smooth and issue free. I packed a bag, was given a key, and thus began the domestic bliss I was sure would fertilize this sapling of a romance into a strong, redwoodian trunk-like affiliation of affection. With a hopeful, excited air I strode into the domicile to begin the three weeks of stayin at my girlfriends. I had been away with girls before (granted, only for maximum 4 days straight) so I figured it was just those experiences times 5. No big deal. Plus, sex. Like, whenever. Seriously, whenever. That’s good things. What could possibly be tough about this?

Then I remembered the bathroom. The one bathroom. Call me immature, and yell at me to grow up, but I’m still not one hundred about using the bathroom after my girl does. Or, for that matter, having her use it after me. This was going to take some getting used to. But, after a while, I became more comfortable and accepting of the fact that she is in fact a human, and she can’t be sexy ALL the time. Okay, meaningless crisis number one sorted out and beaten. What’s next?














Her neighbour, Miguel, was excited about our progress also.


Well, misunderstandings abound. I was under the impression that this here deal was gonna be somewhat of a quasi-vacay for this guy. Limited responsibilities, new relationship perks on a daily basis and at a close proximity, and sex whenever. When-ever. But no. Baby girl had plans and jobs that needed to be done around the house. By the end of the stay, I had hung two sets of blinds, planted a garden in the backyard, cleaned and scrubbed her bbq, and shampooed her rugs. Then we would make dinner, have some drinks, smoke a joint, and pass out watching Intervention. This was some serious house playing.

Luckily, the potential of the two of us getting on each-others nerves was temporarily interrupted by a much needed and always awesome cottage weekend with the boys (as evidenced here). A perfect little comma in our domestic sentence. It was great timing too. Sometimes, tempers flared a little. Mostly mine.

For example, coming home from work one morning, I was expecting to be met in her backyard by her and the dog for a cigarette and an open door. Walking around to the back, they weren’t there. Okay fine, I would walk all the way around the complex to the front door and open it from there because she’s obviously still sleeping, I mean it’s 730 am. I get to the door, slide my key in and turn til it clicks. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I realize she had locked that from the inside making any entry into the house through that door impossible from the outside. Getting a little perturbed at this point. Tired, hungry, and sweaty. Where was she? I knock. No answer. I call. Voicemail. I knock again. No answer. I call again. Voicemail. I am about to turn my fist to prepare for some good ol’ door poundin’ as my temperature begins to spike, when she opens the door and smiles. I’m about to turn into dick-mode and demand to know why I had been made to wait, when I am smacked in the face by a familiar and delicious fragrance. My face softens and my anger cools down as I notice what is awaiting my return home…

















You can't stay mad at bacon


After that, I decided patience and some steady nerves was one way of making this work. I’d need to remember that this thing is not just about me, but that there is like a whole nother person involved. Look at that! Learnin’ stuff about makin’ things work all the time. Just tackling all these problems head on and for the most part, sorting them out and getting through them. Doin’ all right so far.














Miguel’s constant encouragement was essential.


All in all, the experience was enjoyable and fun, low-key and low-drama, and enlightening as well as educating. We both have a long way to go mind you. There was no fights about money or anything important. No kids and no real stresses to complicate our relationship. However, for a first kick at the domestic can, I’d say we passed with our sanity in tact and a stronger union as a result. I’ll still never understand why she has to wash clothes inside out but I’ll let it go for now. As long as breakfast is on the table!