Saw II recently joined the ranks of what this reporter privately files as inexplicable sequels. Didn't everybody hate that? Wasn't that universally panned? Didn't that tank out at the box office? I appear to be living in a fantasy dreamworld concocted from whole cloth by my outraged sense of Basic Decency (my as yet unproduced screenplay for the sequel to Basic Instinct). Saw II joins the ranks of products like Jeepers Creepers and Child's Play (up to number five now).
The Saw series appears to be a member of a sparsely populated and unnamed (as far as I know) horror subgenre, this technical funhouse homicide schtick. The Cube series, and Thirteen Ghosts are the other examples that come to mind. The scenario is, that the star of the movie so to speak is not so much a particular villain or monster as it is the elaborate arrangement, baroque setting, and graphic execution of complicated technical killing scenarios. I also saw it described as "sadistic pornography."
Caligula? See, there's, like, this whole running theme thing.
Anyway. So: I figure, why not, I am a professional writer, after all, and "script treatment I'm shopping" needs still to be ticked off on my "Scribblers Watch" list, so why not: It's Rome, Baby presents: Saw III.
So there's this pencil. No, wait, first there's like this kite, right? Somebody is flying this kite out a window. But what you don't realize is that this kite, nobody is holding its string: it's actually attached to a series of pulleys that cause the kite to open the door on the moth cage.
So the moths escape, and naturally the first thing they see is this shirt, so of course being moths they eat holes in it. But it doesn't stop there. The shirt doesn't hang alone. It is perfectly counterbalanced across another pulley series by the old boot. Join in the audience's tense and horrified expectation as the moths feast on the shirt and the terrible realization dawns that this center cannot hold. The inevitably falling boot depresses the electrical knife switch - which incredibly perpetuates this chain reaction of thrilling events.
The switch feeds juice to an iron that overheats and sets fire to a pair of slacks on the ironing board. The smoke from the slacks fire vents into the tree's bole-hole (that's right, baby. There is a tree inside the room. Did I just blow your mind?). The smoke drives the 'possum out of the tree, into the basket, raising the birdcage, unleashing the woodpecker. And the woodpecker, of course, pecks at the wood pencil. The pencil. The pencil. Ah, yes, you forgot about the pencil, didn't you? And the pecking of the woodpecker pecks the wooden pencil sharp. Which then gets jammed right in their eye. And slashes their throat with the emergency knife.
Happy Halloween, 'Possums.
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Monday, October 31, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn Observe Checkout Lane-iversary
Numerous A-list stars of the Roman aristocracy got together to make sure newly minted sweethearts Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn made note of the setting of the date for their Checkout Lane-iversary. The event, observed only in relationships between the higher echelons, marks the very special moment at the start of a young and fragile love when some lurking stranger captures surreptitious photographs of the couple engaged in an intimate display of affection, photos which are then published and displayed at the checkout lanes of supermarkets and department stores.
Several established couples chipped in on a card for the couple, who were photographed kissing on a balcony in mid-October. The card featured a dirty cartoon with a crude reference employing the phrase "clean-up in aisle 6." Among the comments, Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey advised "just keep denying everything," Tom Cruise quipped "lock it in, buddy, knock her up pronto" and Ashton Kutcher joshed Vaughn "rawk! Way to snag the older woman!" Aniston is in fact only a year older than Vaughn.
Suggestions that the candid photographs were staged and their release managed is typical of a cynical age which has forgotten the tender simplicity of young love. Aniston costars opposite rising Brit star Clive Owen in the Miramax film Derailed, opening November 11. (Miramax is a subsidiary of the Walt Disney Company).
Aniston and Vaughn co-star in the romantic comedy The Break-Up, currently in post-production and expected out in February of 2006. Universal Pictures, a Universal Vivendi company.
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Several established couples chipped in on a card for the couple, who were photographed kissing on a balcony in mid-October. The card featured a dirty cartoon with a crude reference employing the phrase "clean-up in aisle 6." Among the comments, Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey advised "just keep denying everything," Tom Cruise quipped "lock it in, buddy, knock her up pronto" and Ashton Kutcher joshed Vaughn "rawk! Way to snag the older woman!" Aniston is in fact only a year older than Vaughn.
Suggestions that the candid photographs were staged and their release managed is typical of a cynical age which has forgotten the tender simplicity of young love. Aniston costars opposite rising Brit star Clive Owen in the Miramax film Derailed, opening November 11. (Miramax is a subsidiary of the Walt Disney Company).
Aniston and Vaughn co-star in the romantic comedy The Break-Up, currently in post-production and expected out in February of 2006. Universal Pictures, a Universal Vivendi company.
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Monday, October 24, 2005
Daniel Craig: Mysteries of the Reincarnation of James Bond
English Naval Intelligence officer Ian Fleming's fictional agent James Bond has always been a weird property since he made the leap to cinema in 1962. Franchise producers EON Productions and MGM/United Artists (the latter was recently acquired by a consortium comprised of Sony Corporation of America, Providence Equity Partners, Texas Pacific Group, Comcast Corporation, and DLJ Merchant Banking Partners, by the by) have managed to hold admirably tight control over the product, with only a handful of exceptions.
We'll set aside for the moment that all of the official films through Goldeneye were produced by a man named "Cubby" Broccoli. The exceptions all have weird little backstories and twists. Never Say Never Again is fundamentally a remake of Thunderball. The novel the latter was based on was adapted from a screenplay project author Fleming worked on in the 50s called Longitude 78 West which was never filmed: Fleming was sued over the appropriation of the work by one of his producing partners, English producer/writer Kevin McClory, who was awarded film rights over the story - rights which earned him involvement in the "official" EON production of Thunderball and gave him the power to make the retitled remake completely outside of the official Bond system. McClory muddied the waters further by securing the services of then-retired Bond stalwart Sean Connery for the role.
Still with me?
The other exception is Casino Royale. Film rights to the first Bond novel were sold separately, prior to the package deal with EON, in the early fifties for a thousand dollars. It was first made into a reportedly unremarkable television special in 1954 as part of CBS Television's, I kid you not, "Climax Mystery Theater" just a year after the novel was published.
But the real gem is the 1967 Columbia Pictures adaptation by Charles K. Feldman (also responsible for the Woody Allen-scripted farce What's New, Pussycat?). The film featured Peter Sellers, whose diva-style demands of his role reportedly required multiple rewrites of a script that eventually featured three credited writers as well as script doctoring by a cadre of uncredited talent including Woody Allen, Joseph Heller and Billy Wilder. Among other features of confusion, multiple characters carry the James Bond identity in the movie, the result of a convoluted plot involving one "real" Sir James Bond (David Niven) and a host of Bond impersonators, Sellers among them. The film featured such heavyweights as Ursula Andress, John Huston and Orson Welles and is generally critiqued as an ambitious but sprawling and incoherent parody of the Bond movie canon, or more rarely as some sort of postmodern metafilm permeated by "the failure of modernity and a celebration of what Umberto Eco would call the postmodern 'crisis of reason' [not made up]".
Right. Still with me?
It's interesting because the novel Casino Royale is altogether a more straightforward construction, all but bereft of the gadgetry and self-reference that came to define the movie series. The suave manner and high style of the Bond character remains, but it is counterpoint to the mission-minded agent's ruthless attitude and casual violence.
So what's to be made of of the newly-acquired MGM/UA electing to adapt Casino Royale for the third time in its launch of new Bond face, English actor Daniel Craig? The project is reputed to be a reversal of over forty years of Bond Movie Canon, drawing more closely on the atmospheric spy intrigue of the original novel and largely abandoning entrenched serial plot elements like the pervasive spy gizmos and comic-relief characters Q and Miss Moneypenny. The most recent crop of deeply canonical, high-tech action vehicles helmed by Pierce Brosnan, while critically nondescript, have nevertheless claimed unprecedented box-office receipts. While this picture isn't black and white (as recent films' budgets have similarly swelled into 9 figure territory), the thematic move proposed for Casino Royale has to be seen as a risk.
So okay, you say, now I have this new perspective on some of the depth and convolutions of a strange cultural franchise. But where is the joke? What's the wry take on all this pomo cultural gak? Man, I don't know. Maybe I assumed it would lead somewhere. Did I mention, I'm quite ill. Imagine there was some sort of suggestion of a remake of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, with, like, say Clive Owens as Caratacus Potts (you know, Dick Van Dyke)? And the title will be just Bang Bang? I know, it doesn't quite hold together. But it might just be permeated with the failure of modernity.
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We'll set aside for the moment that all of the official films through Goldeneye were produced by a man named "Cubby" Broccoli. The exceptions all have weird little backstories and twists. Never Say Never Again is fundamentally a remake of Thunderball. The novel the latter was based on was adapted from a screenplay project author Fleming worked on in the 50s called Longitude 78 West which was never filmed: Fleming was sued over the appropriation of the work by one of his producing partners, English producer/writer Kevin McClory, who was awarded film rights over the story - rights which earned him involvement in the "official" EON production of Thunderball and gave him the power to make the retitled remake completely outside of the official Bond system. McClory muddied the waters further by securing the services of then-retired Bond stalwart Sean Connery for the role.
Still with me?
The other exception is Casino Royale. Film rights to the first Bond novel were sold separately, prior to the package deal with EON, in the early fifties for a thousand dollars. It was first made into a reportedly unremarkable television special in 1954 as part of CBS Television's, I kid you not, "Climax Mystery Theater" just a year after the novel was published.
But the real gem is the 1967 Columbia Pictures adaptation by Charles K. Feldman (also responsible for the Woody Allen-scripted farce What's New, Pussycat?). The film featured Peter Sellers, whose diva-style demands of his role reportedly required multiple rewrites of a script that eventually featured three credited writers as well as script doctoring by a cadre of uncredited talent including Woody Allen, Joseph Heller and Billy Wilder. Among other features of confusion, multiple characters carry the James Bond identity in the movie, the result of a convoluted plot involving one "real" Sir James Bond (David Niven) and a host of Bond impersonators, Sellers among them. The film featured such heavyweights as Ursula Andress, John Huston and Orson Welles and is generally critiqued as an ambitious but sprawling and incoherent parody of the Bond movie canon, or more rarely as some sort of postmodern metafilm permeated by "the failure of modernity and a celebration of what Umberto Eco would call the postmodern 'crisis of reason' [not made up]".
Right. Still with me?
It's interesting because the novel Casino Royale is altogether a more straightforward construction, all but bereft of the gadgetry and self-reference that came to define the movie series. The suave manner and high style of the Bond character remains, but it is counterpoint to the mission-minded agent's ruthless attitude and casual violence.
So what's to be made of of the newly-acquired MGM/UA electing to adapt Casino Royale for the third time in its launch of new Bond face, English actor Daniel Craig? The project is reputed to be a reversal of over forty years of Bond Movie Canon, drawing more closely on the atmospheric spy intrigue of the original novel and largely abandoning entrenched serial plot elements like the pervasive spy gizmos and comic-relief characters Q and Miss Moneypenny. The most recent crop of deeply canonical, high-tech action vehicles helmed by Pierce Brosnan, while critically nondescript, have nevertheless claimed unprecedented box-office receipts. While this picture isn't black and white (as recent films' budgets have similarly swelled into 9 figure territory), the thematic move proposed for Casino Royale has to be seen as a risk.
So okay, you say, now I have this new perspective on some of the depth and convolutions of a strange cultural franchise. But where is the joke? What's the wry take on all this pomo cultural gak? Man, I don't know. Maybe I assumed it would lead somewhere. Did I mention, I'm quite ill. Imagine there was some sort of suggestion of a remake of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, with, like, say Clive Owens as Caratacus Potts (you know, Dick Van Dyke)? And the title will be just Bang Bang? I know, it doesn't quite hold together. But it might just be permeated with the failure of modernity.
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Justice Got Served: Memos Continue from Plague House
The obligations of It's Rome, Baby! to the local systems of justice, previously mentioned, have been suitably discharged. God willing we can now quit with this sordid business of dealing in the goings on in some tawdry non-celebrity's house and get back to the People of Importance and their fascinating affairs. As thanks for his unflinching service to the State, Scrivener has gots the pox, along with Son of Scrivener not to mention Wife of Scrivener. We will brave the tidal wave of snot, nonetheless, to continue to bring you tales of things that never happened, in a world that never was. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we thank you for your service.
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Thursday, October 13, 2005
Vikings Football Club "Sex Cruise" Scandal Inspires First Ever It's Rome, Baby! External Link
So, okay, it's like this: I've lived in Minnesota since I was four years old (that's three decades for those of you keeping track) but I can't sincerely claim to be a real Vikings fan. I'm not really a football person. I follow the sport only on the most superficial level.
But I submit that you don't really have to be observing all that carefully to come to the conclusion that the Vikings are one of those teams that just seem born to lose. Any team can be bad, but it takes a special kind of team to, while being capable of flashes and even streaks of genuine goodness, consistently, repeatedly, and reliably turn up those bad cards at the critical moments. It's a rare combination of bad luck, unfortunate intrusions of personality, and I would imagine a issues to do with football playing acumen as well - again, not really my area. But it clearly goes beyond mere sports mechanics. The Vikings are cursed. Unlike pre-Millennial Red Sox, though, the Vikings curse doesn't even have an interesting story behind it. Maybe it was the Hungarian grandmother of some underage teenage girl, who knows. It could actually be an ancient Viking curse.
Case in point: the particular collision of money, politics, and players behaving badly represented by the recent "Sex Cruise" scandal does seem to up the ante on an already inspired history of bad judgment, bad timing and bad luck. You know how it is: it's happened to all of us. You're lobbying hard for a special Legislative session to consider the issue of buying you - a group of gentlemen earning base salaries between 230,000 and 3.25 Million Dollars, owned by a gentleman himself worth 400 million dollars - a new place of business. Your stadium deal is on the ropes. You are running dead last in a three way race for some public stadium funding love that probably, in these troubled times, nobody will get. You are walking narrow line. What do you do?
Why not hire a couple of boats?
And some hookers.
Men and women of Minnesota, I submit to you: this is the sound of Vikings Football.
That is all.
(Bob Barker Horn Vamp via)
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But I submit that you don't really have to be observing all that carefully to come to the conclusion that the Vikings are one of those teams that just seem born to lose. Any team can be bad, but it takes a special kind of team to, while being capable of flashes and even streaks of genuine goodness, consistently, repeatedly, and reliably turn up those bad cards at the critical moments. It's a rare combination of bad luck, unfortunate intrusions of personality, and I would imagine a issues to do with football playing acumen as well - again, not really my area. But it clearly goes beyond mere sports mechanics. The Vikings are cursed. Unlike pre-Millennial Red Sox, though, the Vikings curse doesn't even have an interesting story behind it. Maybe it was the Hungarian grandmother of some underage teenage girl, who knows. It could actually be an ancient Viking curse.
Case in point: the particular collision of money, politics, and players behaving badly represented by the recent "Sex Cruise" scandal does seem to up the ante on an already inspired history of bad judgment, bad timing and bad luck. You know how it is: it's happened to all of us. You're lobbying hard for a special Legislative session to consider the issue of buying you - a group of gentlemen earning base salaries between 230,000 and 3.25 Million Dollars, owned by a gentleman himself worth 400 million dollars - a new place of business. Your stadium deal is on the ropes. You are running dead last in a three way race for some public stadium funding love that probably, in these troubled times, nobody will get. You are walking narrow line. What do you do?
Why not hire a couple of boats?
And some hookers.
Men and women of Minnesota, I submit to you: this is the sound of Vikings Football.
That is all.
(Bob Barker Horn Vamp via)
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Inspired by Jessica Biel: It's the It's Rome, Baby! Superlative Adjective Noun Week!
On the heels of Esquire's coronation of Jessica Biel as the "Sexiest Woman Alive" the conclusion has been reached that this hyperbolic construction (superlative adjective - i.e. "sexiest" plus noun i.e. "woman" is simply underused. Just think how many things that are the most something are simply being ignored.
We demand that proper nouns be immediately assigned to the following superlative adjective-qualified nouns.
Baddest Robot - Clumsiest Jockey - Fattest Comedian - Grumpiest Puppet - Harshest Dentist - Bumpiest Extraterrestrial - Filthiest Mime - Dullest Transient - Craziest Element - Scrawniest Politician - Shortest Physicist - Mightiest Autodidact - Nastiest Magician - Prickliest Monument - Scariest Pigeon - Saddest Hawaiian - Mushiest Diplomat - Roundest Particle - Surliest Possum - Gentlest Polyglot - Stingiest Ombudsman - Tannest Mayor - Eeriest Tenor - Quaintest Supermodel - Moistest Pundit - Palest Architect - Daintiest Iconoclast - Cruelest Blogger
On a related note, if anyone knows why Esquire refuses to take our calls, please notify Scrivener.
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We demand that proper nouns be immediately assigned to the following superlative adjective-qualified nouns.
Baddest Robot - Clumsiest Jockey - Fattest Comedian - Grumpiest Puppet - Harshest Dentist - Bumpiest Extraterrestrial - Filthiest Mime - Dullest Transient - Craziest Element - Scrawniest Politician - Shortest Physicist - Mightiest Autodidact - Nastiest Magician - Prickliest Monument - Scariest Pigeon - Saddest Hawaiian - Mushiest Diplomat - Roundest Particle - Surliest Possum - Gentlest Polyglot - Stingiest Ombudsman - Tannest Mayor - Eeriest Tenor - Quaintest Supermodel - Moistest Pundit - Palest Architect - Daintiest Iconoclast - Cruelest Blogger
On a related note, if anyone knows why Esquire refuses to take our calls, please notify Scrivener.
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Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Push Lindsay Lohan Back Into the Envelope
Afficionados of deshabillé in the pre-legal-drinking-age set are abuzz with word that musician and actress Lindsay Lohan will be appearing nude on the cover of an upcoming issue of Vanity Fair. It has been reported that Lohan was inspired by a recent semi-nude Paris Hilton Vanity Fair cover to, and we most certainly quote, "push the envelope even further."
Those keeping track may recall "the envelope” being previously pushed by various actresses and icons including Holly Hunter, Annette Benning, Glenn Close, Darryl Hannah, Kathleen Turner, Mariel Hemingway, Natassja Kinski, Julie Andrews, Bo Derek, Diane Keaton, Britt Eckland, Pam Grier, Cybill Shepherd, Jane Fonda, Anne Bancroft, Vanessa Redgrave, Catherine Deneuve, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Picasso's Demoiselles d'Avignon, Manet’s Olympia, Ingres’ Odalisque, and various Venuses (see for example Boticelli -The Birth of, de Milo, and Willendorf).
Conflicting reports suggest that the envelope is actually nowhere to be found in Ms. Lohan’s photo shoot, having last been seen engaged in unsimulated fellatio with Chloe Sevigne in la Ville de Cannes, France.
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Those keeping track may recall "the envelope” being previously pushed by various actresses and icons including Holly Hunter, Annette Benning, Glenn Close, Darryl Hannah, Kathleen Turner, Mariel Hemingway, Natassja Kinski, Julie Andrews, Bo Derek, Diane Keaton, Britt Eckland, Pam Grier, Cybill Shepherd, Jane Fonda, Anne Bancroft, Vanessa Redgrave, Catherine Deneuve, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Picasso's Demoiselles d'Avignon, Manet’s Olympia, Ingres’ Odalisque, and various Venuses (see for example Boticelli -The Birth of, de Milo, and Willendorf).
Conflicting reports suggest that the envelope is actually nowhere to be found in Ms. Lohan’s photo shoot, having last been seen engaged in unsimulated fellatio with Chloe Sevigne in la Ville de Cannes, France.
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Monday, October 10, 2005
For Great Justice: It's Rome, Baby! on Jury Duty
Yeah, that's right - Scrivener, your faithful It's Rome, Baby! correspondent, has been called upon by the Roman government to serve as a jurist. At the risk of letting hated reality intrude into all the great bubblegum royale upon which our empire is founded, this twist of fate may slow things down for a week or two. Bear with us.
Of course, by the rules one cannot discuss the specifics of said service to the state. As tempting as it might be to court publicity-spawning controversy by flouting the authorities and blogging the assigned case in real time, I will restrict my comments to the following observation from the Minnesota Judical Branch jury handbook, which is entitled All Rise: Jury Service in Minnesota.
(From "The Responsibilities of Jurors" section)
"While serving as a juror, do not drink alcoholic beverages during trial breaks."
Note that trial breaks are the only time that the consumption of alcohol is proscribed.
Further, deponent sayeth not.
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Of course, by the rules one cannot discuss the specifics of said service to the state. As tempting as it might be to court publicity-spawning controversy by flouting the authorities and blogging the assigned case in real time, I will restrict my comments to the following observation from the Minnesota Judical Branch jury handbook, which is entitled All Rise: Jury Service in Minnesota.
(From "The Responsibilities of Jurors" section)
"While serving as a juror, do not drink alcoholic beverages during trial breaks."
Note that trial breaks are the only time that the consumption of alcohol is proscribed.
Further, deponent sayeth not.
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Friday, October 07, 2005
The Spears Federline Holmes Cruise Simpson Lachey Connection
The recent announcement by the artist formely known as Britney Spears and husband what's-his-name, voicing fear of the release of a post-conception, Hilton-style sex video they believe was stolen and duplicated by a member of the AFKA Spears entourage, raised a certain amount of confusion amongst entrenched watchers of the Roman aristocracy. Insiders debated the rationale of airing details when the video's existence was unconfirmed and release was uncertain and potentially still avoidable. More cynical observers opined that, whether the video was real or not, the announcements were merely part of a ploy to counteract the abysmal ratings and DVD sales of the couple's reality teevee car crash Britney and What's-His-Name: Chaotic.
But darker suggestions whispered in the corridors of influence suggested that the conspiracy afoot went much deeper than a little smutty news to prop up a dissapointing media product.
Even stalwarts of the conspiracy set are shocked by the depth and depravity of the rumour mill. Is the sex video announcement really a coded message of warning to reality rivals Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey? Are Britney and what's-his-name actually threatening the release of a video, rather than anticipating it? Does the putative video in question actually reveal Simpson's baffling artificial insemination of actress Katie Holmes behind the grassy knoll, answering widespread confusion stemming from the common knowledge fact that Holmes sweetheart Tom Cruise's testes were replaced with Scientology implants nearly a decade ago, and is it the origin of recent Simpson-Lachey divorce rumours? And what of intimations that the genetic donor was in fact embattled representative Tom DeLay?
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But darker suggestions whispered in the corridors of influence suggested that the conspiracy afoot went much deeper than a little smutty news to prop up a dissapointing media product.
Even stalwarts of the conspiracy set are shocked by the depth and depravity of the rumour mill. Is the sex video announcement really a coded message of warning to reality rivals Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey? Are Britney and what's-his-name actually threatening the release of a video, rather than anticipating it? Does the putative video in question actually reveal Simpson's baffling artificial insemination of actress Katie Holmes behind the grassy knoll, answering widespread confusion stemming from the common knowledge fact that Holmes sweetheart Tom Cruise's testes were replaced with Scientology implants nearly a decade ago, and is it the origin of recent Simpson-Lachey divorce rumours? And what of intimations that the genetic donor was in fact embattled representative Tom DeLay?
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Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Nicholas Cage Names Baby After Superman, Prompting It's Rome, Baby! Author Scrivener to File Suit
Actor Nicholas Cage and wife of fourteen months, former sushi waitress Alice Kim Cage, elected to name their newborn son Kal-el Coppola Cage. Kal-el is, of course, Superman's Kryptonian birth name. Yodeling-edge pseudosurrealist quantum-absurdist weblog author Scrivener immediately filed suit in New York. The complaint accuses Cage of "messing with my flavor."
"Recasting the dull pig iron of celebrity culture into an exquisite tracery of illusion is my job," Scrivener explained in a statement on his culture-defining weblog It's Rome, Baby!. "If people like Nicholas Cage are going to just go and dive into pure fantasy and absurdity, I have no choice but to protect my business model."
The suit reportedly demands that Cage immediately rename the infant "something normal, like, from the Bible, or a popular daytime dramatic series," and compensate Scrivener for $8.723194 million in estimated revenue lost because Cage's "naming decision left nothing for the imagination to do."
Asked if the compensatory figure was excessive (It's Rome, Baby!'s cumulative revenue of $4.98 to date was cited), Scrivener asserted that "I strongly feel that the Nicholas Cage Baby series would have been a major financial turning point in the blog's fortunes, if Cage had not committed this wanton and senseless act of real world satire. I guess maybe I could have done something about how Cage and his wife would be subsequently changing their names to Jor El and Lara Kim Cage (seriously, true story, both of them have the middle name Kim. These people are killing me). That's got to be strictly confidential though, or my lawsuit is going into the toilet, and that's my new business model. Wait, damn it," Scrivener added, upon realizing that once again he was thinking in text and then heedlessly publishing it all to the internet.
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"Recasting the dull pig iron of celebrity culture into an exquisite tracery of illusion is my job," Scrivener explained in a statement on his culture-defining weblog It's Rome, Baby!. "If people like Nicholas Cage are going to just go and dive into pure fantasy and absurdity, I have no choice but to protect my business model."
The suit reportedly demands that Cage immediately rename the infant "something normal, like, from the Bible, or a popular daytime dramatic series," and compensate Scrivener for $8.723194 million in estimated revenue lost because Cage's "naming decision left nothing for the imagination to do."
Asked if the compensatory figure was excessive (It's Rome, Baby!'s cumulative revenue of $4.98 to date was cited), Scrivener asserted that "I strongly feel that the Nicholas Cage Baby series would have been a major financial turning point in the blog's fortunes, if Cage had not committed this wanton and senseless act of real world satire. I guess maybe I could have done something about how Cage and his wife would be subsequently changing their names to Jor El and Lara Kim Cage (seriously, true story, both of them have the middle name Kim. These people are killing me). That's got to be strictly confidential though, or my lawsuit is going into the toilet, and that's my new business model. Wait, damn it," Scrivener added, upon realizing that once again he was thinking in text and then heedlessly publishing it all to the internet.
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Monday, October 03, 2005
Demi and Ashton: Your Kabbalah Wedding and You
The kamikaze-style Beverly Hills wedding of actors Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher: the fairytale world of Hollywood romance, the triumph of love over societal prejudice, the union of two lights of modern cinema to found a new Silver Screen family name in the tradition of Barrymore, Huston, and Spelling. But above all, of course, it is the story of a mutual exploration of Kabbalah, the mystical counterpart of Judaism in the tradition of the Gnostics of Christianity and the Sufi of Islam. Demi and Ashton's new life together will be characterized by constant examination of the hidden and mystical truths of the holy Torah, daily meditation in pursuit of Devekut (ecstatic, prophetic union with G-d), and of course, strict and uncompromising adherence to the 613 Torah mitzvot commandments. Their union is thus illuminated by the ten Sephiroth, the divine emanations of G-d, and watched over by the angel Raziel, G-d's emissary of love.
Their holy union exemplifies in life the mission to assert the Neshamah, the higher divine soul, over the lower Nefesh, the soul of desire, instinct and cravings. It is a theme explored repeatedly in movies such as Striptease, Guess Who, Indecent Proposal, My Boss's Daughter, Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, and Dude, Where's My Car.
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Their holy union exemplifies in life the mission to assert the Neshamah, the higher divine soul, over the lower Nefesh, the soul of desire, instinct and cravings. It is a theme explored repeatedly in movies such as Striptease, Guess Who, Indecent Proposal, My Boss's Daughter, Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, and Dude, Where's My Car.
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