us v. them, over and over again.

(Every time I do one of these reviews, I feel like Jim Gaffigan in this bit.  That said, here's a review of District 9.)

Whether or not you like District 9 is almost entirely dependent on whether you feel the movie accomplished its central aspiration to be something more than a competent sci-fi thriller. The movie takes place in a perpendicular-universe version of South Africa, where an alien mothership essentially ran out of gas above downtown Johannesburg.  The ship's inhabitants, a very gooey bunch of insectoid aliens nicknamed the Prawns, are found within and given safe haven in the city below.  Due both to xenophobia and the Prawns’ repulsive nature, the Prawns are soon cordoned off in the eponymous District 9, a sprawling shantytown filled with impoverished, desperate Prawns and Nigerian warlords trying to exploit alien technology.

The obvious apartheid allegory is made much stronger by the choice to make protagonist Wikus van de Merwe – well played by Sharlto Copley in his first professional role – an incompetent bureaucrat rather than a traditional hero.  Sent into District 9 to evict the Prawns from their homes so that they can be moved to concentration camps well outside of Johannesburg, Wikus presents a complex and darkly funny illustration of the banality of evil argument.  Putting Michael Scott (or David Brent, really) into an Adolf Eichmann role is an inspired decision, and Wikus’ character arc -- from stupidity and casual xenophobia to humanity and heroism -- is a much more satisfactory examination of the nature of racism than the other observations in the movie's world. 

The movie’s greatest shortcomings lie in its lack of depth, as the slick documentary-style opening explaining the human-Prawn relationship sacrifices a lot of detail for breadth.  Once we get to know some of the Prawns, we understand their motivations, but not how they expect to accomplish their goals.  The movie attempts what all great sci-fi tries to do, which is immerse the audience in a new world.  What prevents District 9 from reaching the level of, say, an Aliens, is that it lacks the detail necessary to convince the audience of its fantastic conceit when they take a break from the movie's relentless pace.

But yowza is this movie exciting. As a piece of visceral filmmaking, it’s basically flawless. It reminded me a lot of the remake of 3:10 to Yuma, another flawed yet extremely entertaining genre movie. The gore is intense, but you get used to it pretty quickly; by the last fifteen minutes of the movie, I gave a little fist pump when a Bad Guys Inc. sniper’s head exploded.  Also like 3:10 to Yuma, there are some nagging questions that emerge upon reflection, and resentment at some of the sentimental gimmickry (in this case, our utterly guiltless, sympathetic good-guy Prawn) the movie employs.  That said, you don't think about any of those things while you're watching the movie; you're too busy staring at the screen, hoping our boys make it out of there alive.

Grade:  B+

and if i'm sewn into submission, i can still come home to this.

--A few weeks ago I wrote down a to-do list of albums I still needed to listen to, consisting of the dozens I picked up this year and a dozen or so that I needed to revisit.  I just counted them up, and I've got 140 total.  I've listened to 20.  Every road, single step, and so on.

--I should've said something about the Finals last week, but didn't.  Suffice it to say that I'm the kind of masochist who enjoys games like Game 7, with its epic tension and incredible defensive performances.  As great as the Celtics' D was (particularly Garnett, who played with a truly legendary, life-or-death intensity reminiscent of the 2008 Playoffs), the way the Lakers rotated and communicated in the 4th quarter was magnificent.  Once I got past the sad realization that Garnett and Ray Allen would probably never have another shot at the title, I couldn't resent the Lakers' victory.  That team was just so damned good when it counted.

--I mention Garnett and Allen in particular because they're the most likely to get moved in this offseason, in my opinion.  Allen especially has been linked to trade talks, and on a team that asks less of him on defense (like, say, I don't know, the Cleveland Cavaliers), Ray will still be a lights-out shooter.  Garnett, meanwhile, has a mondo contract, and the Celtics are very much at a crossroads regarding his contributions vs. the team's future.

--In other sports news, the World Cup went ham on the collective American imagination, and it's been awesome (occasionally).  I was rooting especially hard for Cote d'Ivoir in the interest of Africa having something to cheer for, but Brazil took a big ol' dump on that dream.  Luckily, the US Mutant Ninja Turtles have performed well beyond my expectations, lucking into a 1-1 draw with England, a 3-2 draw with Slovenia, and a 1-0 win over Algeria.  I still think Landon Donovan's an alien, but I have to like him now.

talk on the phone. finish your homework. watch tv. DIE!

So why horror? As a viewer, you could—and this is certainly true of most movies in the genre— take horror movies as only cheap thrills, and the Final Destinations of the world wouldn’t hold it against you. The opposite side of the same notion is watching horror for gore-by-numbers, the torture porn of a Hostel or a Saw that, for all their violence, end up being an oddly sterile chore. You might also call watching horror a cathartic experience, embracing and ultimately expunging fear.  The prevalence of the “last girl standing” trope, best represented by The Descent, shows that at its heart, great horror thrives on trying to tap into its audience’s basic survival instincts.

As a director, horror makes sense largely from a financial point of view; while creature effects (and, certainly, CGI) can get very expensive, the majority of the horror canon—Romero’s Dead movies, Alien, Psycho, et al.—was assembled on a shoestring budget. For very little input, a horror movie, even one of very limited quality, can enjoy a highly successful second life on DVD. Moreover, the deluge of utter shit that’s oversaturated the genre, combined with a general critical abstention from genre films, has rendered standards so low as to be nonexistent. With so little cost required and so little in the way of expectations, why wouldn’t the enterprising young hack dedicate himself to horror and a lifetime of Syfy Originals?

Ti West’s involvement in horror comes from a different, more genuine place. Last year’s The House of the Devil, which West directed, wrote, and edited, reveals an earnest affection for the tropes of the genre and the 80’s slasher films of his youth. The plot, set in the 80’s, centers on Sam (the awfully pretty Jocelin Donahue), a penniless college student who reluctantly takes on a babysitting job for obvious creep Mr. Ulman (Tom Noonan, one of the movie’s many 80s throwbacks). The situation is weird from the get-go, and only gets weirder when Mr. Ulman reveals that Sam will be babysitting his invalid mother, not a child.

After bargaining with Ulman for four times the original amount of money, Sam is, reluctantly, left alone in the house. Though she tries to kill time by listening to her comically huge Walkman and meandering around, we know that it’s just a matter of time before she finds, as she wanders from room to room, the horrible secrets that the house has waiting for her. The tension, punctuated by a sudden (and thoroughly shocking) act of violence in the movie’s second act, is absolutely stifling, and might be my favorite example of the adage, “It’s what you don’t see that scares you.”

Along with the suspense, the movie’s most rewarding aspect is how fully it immerses itself in both horror movie standbys and in the 80s. Traditions like the false alarm, the “based on real events” disclaimer, the last girl standing, and the dark staircase are all embraced and riffed on with surprising affection. Moreover, holy shit is this movie 80s: there’s plenty of feathered hair, stonewashed jeans, and flannel to go around. There are countless signs in the direction (West is particularly enamored of slow zooms, a la Rosemary’s Baby), casting (Tom Noonan was a go-to sympathetic villain in the 80s, and plays a very similar role here), and editing choices that The House of the Devil is a labor of love for West.

And, in Hitchcockian fashion, West is more concerned with the slow boil of anticipation than he is with the movie’s big reveal, which is a little disappointing. The fun of the movie is following Sam as she discovers just how big a mistake she’s made, and watching the obvious joy West takes in filming it. While the end result is somewhat predictable (and prompted a lot of negative reactions to the movie), people looking for more than instant gratification or heaps of gore will have found something far better: a masterful and just plain fun homage to 80s horror, and a bona fide auteur working in genre film.

Grade: A

are you a man, or are you a bag of sand?

--After complaining about a slowing sports news cycle, yowza did we get some news.

--First off, it's been real, Big 12.  I kind of resent that the SEC looks like it's going to get stuck with Texas A & M out of the Big 12 South, but when Mike Slive said that he wouldn't let the SEC be anything less than it is, I believed him.  The conference cannibalism has just begun, I'm sure; my bet is that the SEC (along with its equal payment and ridiculously lucrative TV contracts) will be letting Clemson, Georgia Tech, Miami, and Florida St. what it's all about sooner rather than later.

--Also, tell me how it tastes, USC.  The NCAA absolutely kerploded any chance of a successful beginning to the Lane Kiffin era at Southern Cal; how long do you think Galippo, Kennard, et. al. will stick around with no chance of winning a championship, and no penalty for transferring?  What about Barkley?  Between this and his version of Scott's Tots, Bush is somehow even more of a douchebag than I'd begrudgingly accepted to be the case.  USC will still keep the 2004 onepeat, and hey, at least someone's keeping this all in perspective.

--Speaking of Reggie, I had said in the past that the NFL's thank you commercial was probably the best commercial I'd ever seen.  Well, the flavor done changed:  well played, NBA, you glorious bastards.

--The Finals haven't been incredible (thank the refs), but both teams have legitimate paths to victory (getting the ball to Pau for the Lakers, getting the bench involved for the C's) after the Celtics forced a best-of-three last night.  I'm loving Garnett's play (especially on D) and Glen Davis/Rasheed Wallace/Ray Allen's goofy faces.

--I've neglected what's probably the most important sports item of the summer, the World Cup, and sweet, sweet jingoism.  In all likelihood the U.S. is scooting towards another ignominious showing in the tournament, but thankfully Spencer Hall has a highly scientific guide to rooting for someone else pending USA's inevitable early exit.  Cote d'Ivoire (and lots of The Very Best, for atmosphere's sake) is my fallback, and, failing that, I always know who to hate.  (h/t SB Nation for that awesome Dodge commercial).

--The internet is basically just one convoluted episode of Cold Case:  Peeds Edition for pop culture, and the jig is up, Falkor. (h/t Videogum)

--I promised not to get political at the beginning of this blog, but BP is the new Jay Leno, so here's a tremendous Onion article on the OilCane.  It's stuff like the oil spill (and BP's hilariously callous reaction to it) that simultaneously make me feel vindicated for quitting politics while making me want to get involved again.

--I've been on a huge Neil Gaiman kick these last few weeks.  Between this story and his opinion of Alabama, you probably should be too, if you've got a taste for anything fantastical.

--Finally, if you aren't already, you need to be listening to Frightened Rabbit.  Just like in life, sincerity is the most important part of great music, and the Frightened Rabbit is on the same level as Arcade Fire and Neutral Milk Hotel as far as honesty goes.  Their sophomore album, The Midnight Organ Fight, is occasionally excellent, but it's their most recent album, The Winter of Mixed Drinks, that's immediately great.  What an awesome year for music so far.

i'm just a great composer, and not a violent man.

--Sorry for the lack of postage, but I've been surprisingly busy (Starcraft won't play itself) and, to be honest, from a sports and pop culture oddities standpoint, things have been pretty slow.

--One in a long line of totally normal, sane things you see from the Westboro Baptist cult.  The little interview link from that page with Phelps' daughter just keeping it real about Heath Ledger is worth a watch, too.  (h/t AV Club).

--I'm honestly surprised that no one did this sooner, but these kids executed it very well.  (h/t Videogum)

--Kelly Bensimon (of Real Housewives fame and a more general sort of crazy people fame) made an anti-bullying PSA, and it makes me want to take her lunch money and give her a swirly.

--I expected so much more from the mind behind "Ahab the Arab."  A rare miss, Ray Stevens.

--Sports-wise, there's not a lot to talk about.  Even though I don't know much about soccer, I'm eagerly awaiting the US national team to continue its streak of disappointing World Cup showings.  On the NBA tip, Celtics-Lakers is a good, if not ideal, Finals matchup; I would've loved for Steve Nash to get a chance at the big one before the decline really sets in, but the Lakers were really just the better team in that series.  And yeah, watching this was really tough.

--Speaking of tearjerking/audible "awww" moments in sports, Chad Johnson remains the most lovable narcissist in the NFL, and this Kenechi Udeze story is just awesome.

--The Clash, Frightened Rabbit, and the Magnetic Fields have been in heavy rotation for me recently.  Hopefully I can cook up an album review (takes longer than you might think, yo) before I go on my trip to Chicago on Friday.

--In other great music news, how about this band Buckcherry?  I somehow managed to avoid hearing that song for my entire life, and now I feel I'm an irrevocably changed, damaged man.  I don't throw Canadian money at the homeless anymore, laughing and laughing as I drive away in my Porsche; now I gently clasp their hands around hundred-dollar bills and cry a single, manly tear for them.  Thanks to Buckcherry, I now know what it's like to live on the margins of society, in the mouth of madness, amongst the damned.  Also, how's that sweet band name treating you, Buckcherry?  Jesus.

--In conclusion, Lost ended.