A Total Eclipse of the Brain: Movie-post 1

Doomlund admits to being a sucker for movies. But not just any type…

 

Sometimes when you’re at the movies, you leave the theater with a feeling of having discovered something new. A really good, well-written and well-produced movie can make you look at the world differently. It has the power to make you reexamine your life and your choices. Think about your fellow man or even the well-being of mother earth. From time to time it may even change you fundamentally and for good.

As in my case, however, it might also bore you so hard that you seriously contemplate choking yourself on popcorn within the first five minutes.

I hate serious movies. The movie-format is a stupid medium with a stupid demographics and an even more stupid output. If you want contemplation, existential problems and ultimate enlightenment, read a damn book! However, if you can accept the movie-medium for what it really is – a retarded cousin of the performing arts – then we’re on the same page.

 

Doomlund’s biggest heroes are Ernest Hemingway and Leatherface
 

I love hack ‘n’ slash and blood ‘n’ gore! The more guts that are spilled the happier I am. Why? It’s very simple actually. Slasher-flicks fulfill a primeval desire in us to witness the destruction of our own species. A fascination of and drive towards – yes, you’ve guessed it – death. Man is a stupid creature with stupid delights so this can hardly come as a shock to anyone.

A couple of days ago I saw a flick that met those exact requirements – and thrilled me beyond belief. It’s called “30 Days of Night” and it features vampires and Josh Hartnett. Now, I usually hate both (vampires because they’re always portrayed as gothy, Tim Burton-like wusses and Josh Hartnett… Well, that really goes without saying), but in this movie it all worked out for the better. The vampires were tough as nails, face-deformed-like-freaky-mongoloids russian type guys with blacked-out eyes, animalistic demeanors and razor-teeth. They we’re totally on top of everything – slaughtering an entire Alskan village during a winter black-out where the sun is absent for a month (and that’s the entire plot-line right there). Josh Hartnett leads a small group of survivors as they struggle to wait out the darkness and thus escape when daylight returns. Fortunately the vampires succeed in butchering most of them, so only a couple of clueless idiots survive. The beauty is that Josh Hartnett isn’t one of them.
 

Retarded vampires rule!
 

I really liked “30 Days of Night” and here’s why: This movie doesn’t pretend that it’s better than me. It’s not up it’s own ass with messages, and instead of trying to have a point beyond showing in impressive graphics how you decapitate people with a rusty axe, it admits to being a total whopper of a brain-drain (Josh Hartnett couldn’t be deep if his life depended on it). This movie is the quintessential movie because it fits the medium so brilliantly. If Hollywood would make it over and over again and just change the scenery and cast a little we wouldn’t need any other movie.

In conclusion: Thumbs up to Russo-Alaskan mongoloid vampires and Josh Hartnett’s pitiful acting skills. “30 Days of Night” is an adaption of a graphic novel by same title written by Steve Niles and illustrated by Ben Templesmith. It’s good stuff and comes highly recommended.

 

I also saw another movie the other day, called Indiana Jones and the something something. Here’s a list of things that I found amusing about it:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sincerely, waiting for you by the popcorn-vendor,

TD.

The Identity Post

In this week Doomlund ponders the very fabric of his own existence

 

Who are you? Who am I?
Actually just forget about the first question (I don’t really care); the latter however, now that’s interesting!

From time to time (usually when I’m not watching TV ) I get in an existential mood. I think about why we’re here, what the grand purpose is and whether or not man will ever evolve to a physical state where it’s possible to fellate yourself without having to remove part of your ribcage (which is a painful procedure!).

A couple of weeks ago I found myself packing up all my stuff because I tricked my girlfriend into letting me move in with her (she thinks I’m joking when I tell her that I’m probably the worst roommate in the universe). Because I’m a slob by nature and posses about as many organizational skills as a mongoloid on heroin I had previously piled up all my personal papers in a huge, intimidating stack of receipts, paychecks and random crap accumulated over the past fifteen years. In short, the paper-version of me was an image of total chaos.
Needless to say I spent the following five hours cleaning everything up and organizing all my papers. “I don’t know what the hell to do,” I called my girlfriend and said. “It’s a mess up here. You know that final scene in ‘Platoon’ where everyone gets blown to bits? Well, this is worse.” My girlfriend, being the sound rational pillar of strength that she is, told me to calm down: “Go to a super market and pick up one those plastic briefcases they sell. You can easily store all your stuff in one of those. And when you’re there pick up a bottle of organic orange juice as well, will you?”.

Quite ingenious idea, I thought. I rushed to the market and back again and started organizing everything. And as it turned out it had quite a therapeutic effect on me. I didn’t understand why, but the more papers I slid into that thing the more grown up I felt. Like I was really on top of things – a smooth cat who handles himself with poise and enough self-confidence to wipe out a small African village. As if organizing things around me meant that I was somehow organizing myself. Composing my identity in a miniature file-cabinet. For a second it felt like I had it all together.

As I left my former apartment I ended an era. I had moved in to that place as a pimply-faced, insecure adolescent whose life was randomly piled up in a corner-stack of papers. But I was leaving it a man. And it was all due to that little briefcase in my hand. In it I had my passport, my insurance policy, my tax papers, my apartment lease contract, my BA diploma, my high school graduation diploma, my sailor’s permit (I took the course one summer when I was thirteen and bored of my ass), my drivers license and every paycheck I’ve ever received. In short, I was in-fact hauling around a portable identity.

That and a bottle of orange juice.

 

It occurred to me that who you are isn’t really a solid structure of ‘you-ness’. There is no ‘I’ except the one you choose. Once you’ve organized your paper-based identity in a small plastic briefcase you come to that exact realization: that it is just that. A plastic briefcase full of paper.
I guess, it really all comes down to you and your decisions and what image you want to create yourself in. But the prospect of total freedom in that regard can be truly terrifying. If you don’t know who you are then who does?
At the end of the day I choose to remain optimistic (for once). For what it’s worth at least I know I’m the guy who brings my girlfriend organic OJ.

 

Yours truly, optimist in a blink of an eye,

 

TD