Unplanned Blog War: Cloverfield

The anti-Frank response can be read here


What do you get when you combine a monster with a bad case of lice, five douches in their 20's, a couple of crazy Black (this detail will become relevant later) kids and one really angry audience member? You get the 9:20 showing of Cloverfield at Lloyd Cinemas.

So in case you didn't know I am one of those crazy obsessed Lost people. I also watched most of Alias and of course Felicity so me and J.J. Abrams are practically old friends. J.J. is capable of some shitty stuff but I felt I owed it to him to go see this movie. I hadn't read any reviews and didn't really have any expectations (probably a good idea). The whole apocalyptic NYC concept is getting pretty old. I kept expecting Ben Affleck to jump out and announce he was going to save this "great fucking city." I feel that Cloverfield could have been so much more effective if it had taken place in Kansas City or Sacramento.

This film could have been a lot more compelling if I wasn't pulling for all the characters to die within 30 seconds of appearing on the screen. It reminded me of going to frat parties in college and always feeling like I didn't belong because I was surrounded my mindless ass holes who wanted to fuck and party. Yeah I wanted to fuck and party but with people who knew the difference between Simon and Garfunkel and Simon Cowell. Lucky for me they did ALL die in the end, though I wish I could have seen them get bitten and explode like Marlena, no contamination sheet needed.

Now to the most likable character of the movie, the Monster, who I will lovingly refer to as Frank. You see Frank had the least amount of character development. I don't know if he came from the Al Qaeda's secret ocean bunker or Rosie O'Donnell's ass, but he was pretty awesome. The best thing about this movie was despite a giant Frank overtaking the city, no one really focused on where he came from. I know you say, how could they think about Frank's origins when they are fighting for their lives? Well if you look back you will remember that all these jerks dragged their asses to midtown just to get Beth. That takes some thought process. I don't understand that process because I am a save yourself type of girl. Now if it was Gael Garcia Bernal I might consider turning around but something tells me no one would be accompanying me. Anyway no one, including all the news anchors said, "did that come from the Lost island? "

Now to the Black part. So as me and Harry and my BFF (though I didn't know he was in the theater. STALKER!) intently watched the film, there was a bit of a commotion. Several teenagers in the theater who had pretty much been talking the whole time and running back and forth like fucking lunatics, got a little too loud. Right when Frank becomes apparently clear to all audience members, they get whack. Then this crazy guy in one of the front rows stands up and starts screaming at them (his words escape me now). To make a long story short, a fight came close to breaking out, I witnessed the biggest pussy security guard ever and everyone got their money back but me because I went out the wrong exit to see seven fucking police cars because everyone knows Portland cops have nothing better to do on a Saturday night. So I was thinking, your Black, you're watching Cloverfield, where there are NO Black characters and your in Portland, full of crackers. This is society breaking you down, so you might be a little ADHD during the movie right?

Fuck if I know. Wish I had got my money back. I want a Frank action figure for my birthday.

The Blog War Continues-There Be Blood (Clever Double Meaning)

That's right it's a blog war!

After you are blown away by me, you can read my BFF's not as awesome response here.

It’s hard for me to come to any concrete conclusions about this film because part of me is still thinking "wtf?" from the last fifteen minutes. Just about every actor in this movie blew my mind. I didn’t think that films were capable of the type of cinematography that TWBB showcases. I was made to feel like I was covered in oil and had grown a mustache. However, I still can’t consciously say it was the best film of the year or it changed my life. If anything, it bothered me on a lot of levels. I could go on about the father-son relationship, the switch of narration from Sinclair’s book or how long Daniel Day Lewis’ torso is, but I won’t.

Daniel Plainfield is one of the most vividly disturbing/compelling characters I have seen on the screen in some time. I wouldn’t go as far to say I have a soft spot for him but every now and again there is this dichotomy of an evil vengeful man and a sad guilt-stricken man. There is a part of Daniel that seeks redemption but when he does get it, it comes in the form of unwillingly accepting Jesus into his heart in exchange for land. Because he is a greedy, angry man, Daniel’s guilt for abandoning his child will never fully diminish.

After two and half-hours, Paul Thomas Anderson seems to give up on the film, plot and characters. Daniel is no longer fighting within himself over who he is. Suddenly he is a complete and total bastard. He tells his grown-up son (who I didn’t believe for a minute) that he is actually an orphan and then bashes Eli Sunday’s head in after reminding the pathetic preacher that he drinks his milkshake. "I drink your milkshake?" Excuse me? Remind me not to give my academy vote to Anderson for best screenwriting. Did they even have milkshakes back then? They didn’t even have cow’s milk just goat milk.

Daniel’s relationship with Eli Sunday is the most compelling of the film and yet it could have been so much more amazing. With Johnny Greenwood’s epic-creep-you-the-fuck-out soundtrack, I expected something absolutely prolifically satanical to happen. Ok, maybe no crucifix up the vagina but with Eli’s crazy preachin’ I did have higher expectations. But just when things are getting good, he jumps on a train. Sure his head might get bashed in at the end but I like to pretend those scenes never happened, as they were completely POINTLESS.

I would like to go back to the scene where Daniel Plainfield and his half-brother are laying on the beach, reveling in their accomplishments. They both lie their heads in the warm sand and close their eyes. Daniel sighs and you almost get a hint of a smile from his lips. Then there is a loud "plop!" Daniel looks up and the camera takes his eye view. From the sky comes a large dark green reptile and bounces off his forehead. Heavy droppings of green frogs followed by loud "ribbets" fall on Daniel and his brother. The two men stand up and look at each other in awe. As a frog slides off Daniel’s head and onto his shoulder, he looks at his brother and says, "I drink your milkshake." THE END.

The Shortcomings of Bloggers

You can read the other (wrong) opinion here

99.9% of people who write about music, do it for the wrong reasons. These hipster douche bags possess high trafficked blogs for one purpose. They want to be the tastemakers. These were the kids in high school who sat in the corner picking their noses, had their first sexual experience at 25 and still own an Atari. Lucky for these freaks, unattractive traits are now dubbed "cool."

Then there is me. Heather "the one" Nordeen. My awesomeness is not transmitted by a 3,000-word essay on the technical innerworkings of Grizzly Bear’s new single. No! I am here to pull the reproduction shag rug out from under all the ass holes who think they are making amazing music and in turn, remind the music blogging community that we have a responsibility to blog the bad.

This isn’t about YOU, the blogger and how extraordinary your music tastes are. This is about outing all the artists and bands who are taking us down a very dark road.
They are forcing my peers and I to be remembered with the same disdain as the disco generation. This is the red scare and I am Joseph McCarthy.

I have been on many a first date where things are going well and then after too many vodka-crans I ask the infamous question, "Who are your favorite bands?" Soon a small about puke wanders its way up my throat as the person in front of me responds with "Jens Lekman, Xiu Xiu, MIA, Deerhunter, Animal Collective. You know." I suddenly realize the person who I was considering sleeping with is absent a brain and a walking Stereogum blog.

As bloggers, we must remind these impressionable idiots that there is such a thing as your own opinion in music. Yes its possible you might loose some of your "hipster cred" (which some people I know hold on a pedestal) but at least when Brooklyn Vegan posts about how great Ashlee Simpson’s new album is you will be able to stop and say NO! This is wrong!

We can’t continue to allow these bloggers to let their narcissistic music picks dictate our lives. Of course some of the bands that these blogs say are wonderful, are wonderful. But I am not here to say "good job!" I am here to tell Brandon Flowers he is a Mormon douche obsessed with early Springsteen. God has put me on this earth to remind people that just because a band has an animal in its name does not make it groundbreaking.

You can call me a hypocrite and say I am no different than the rest but you are wrong. What separates me from the music-nazi bloggers is that I am never wrong. I am amazing. I am Heather "the one" Nordeen and my criticisms are as good as the word of God.

Blog WAR

If my rantings on musical blasphemy aren't enough conflict for you, the blog of all blog wars has begun between my #1 BFF and myself. Though he may present some sort of challenge I have confidence that I shall come out as the winner of each and every entry. There has been some misgivings about how this conflict originally began. Though he may have impregnated me with Satan's offspring, I believe the issue started in the recovery room after his unfortunate accidental sex change. He couldn't seem to find humor in having his genitals removed instead of his tonsils. His lack of regard for this amusing situation forced me to start the blog war, as a means to help him cope with the loss. Though I may hold some sympathy, I will crush him. Let it begin... And one more thing...who the hell is Ben Goots?