Tuesday, March 22, 2011

I gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud...

At the risk of everyone thinking I'm absolutely insane (but really, who doesn't think that already?) I'm going to do what shall henceforth be known as a Random 2 AM Blog Post That I Will Later Regret (or a R2AMBPTIWLR...which is almost as much of a mouthful as the actual statement, come to think of it...). This is the result of listening to Hinder, Josh Groban, and Maroon 5 for two hours straight, of watching Toy Story 3 and Dragon Tales because I feel like being a little kid, and having an unrequited crush (trust me, it's not the first time).

If you pie-charted my brain activity right now, this is about how the percentages would work out:

Thinking about The Boy = 50%
Thinking about sappy quotes (which I will share momentarily) = 25%
Trying to choose a college = 10%
Thinking about sleeping = 5%
Wishing that I hadn't eaten sooo much ice cream at dinner = 5%
Wondering what in the hell that noise is = 5%

Honestly, this is what happens at two AM in my house. Unless I'm sleeping (which actually does happen sometimes, I swear) I am up and at my computer, writing and thinking about things that I really should not be thinking about for another twenty years, at least.

The inevitable Have I wasted my life? question comes every freaking day. I don't know why. I do know that an eighteen-year-old girl should not ask herself this question every night. An eighteen-year-old girl should be out with her friends, putting off her homework, watching bad movies, listening to soulless popular music and denying it later, eating pizza and ice cream at every meal, and checking out every cute guy who walks by her friends' table at lunchtime.

An eighteen-year-old girl should not be asking herself Have I wasted my life? when, really, her life has barely even begun.

I also know that I have gone from baring my soul at Coffeehouse (which, really, everyone does, so it's not that big a deal) to baring my soul on my blog, which I happen to know for a fact is frequently checked by some people who a) do not really need to know how my mind works, and b) will make life extremely difficult if they discover how my mind works. I don't know why I choose to deliberately make myself extremely vulnerable this way, whether I'm doing it on my blog or at a Coffeehouse. I don't know what it is about telling people this kind of thing that makes me feel better.

I had a long conversation with my parents earlier about Japan, and whether or not relief is getting to the people who need it. At the moment, things are looking bleak. We can all donate as much as we like, but the truth is, that money is not getting where it needs to go. I want to help, but I want to be smart about it; I don't want to randomly drop quarters into donation boxes when I know that 90% of that money is not going to be used to help people who were left starving and homeless by the earthquake and tsunami.

In 2005 I donated clothes and shoes and toys to the Hurricane Katrina victims. I was twelve years old at the time and could not comprehend the disaster that had affected so many lives (and taken so many lives). I could not understand what it might feel like to lose everything. I recall now that as an innocent twelve-year-old, the prospect of making someone's day was intoxicating. And so when my mother told me that there were people who had lost everything in the hurricane and were ecstatic to get a baggie containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and bar of soap, I jumped at my chance to make someone happy and donated a pile of my outgrown clothing, hard as it was for a sentimental, sensitive child like me to give up things that held emotional value. I considered myself a heroine of sorts for doing this.

Now, at eighteen, I know that I am selfish, as are we all--but the difference between a "bad" person and a "good" person is not whether or not they are selfish. The difference is that a truly good person knows how to master that selfishness and tell themselves "no," while others allow themselves to fall victim to that selfishness and give in to that little imp inside themselves that says, "Me first!"

Of course after saying this, I have to jump into a pity party...

There's this boy. How many stories start out this way? There's this boy, and he is perfect. And we are "just friends." I want to be selfish and go after him. (And if he reads this blog, I'm in trouble.) I won't, of course, but you should know that almost every "sappy quote" at the end of this blog post has been inspired by thinking of him (and listening to far too many songs that remind me of him). I've told myself before, "I love [insert name here]" and been hurt. I've told myself that I was "in love" with someone, only to realize with the next fling/crush that I was not "in love" and that person was replaceable.

I hope that I'm lucky and that this is just another crush. But, I have to ask myself...if it's just a crush, what is it worth to me? Is it worth giving him up, for the sake of not destroying my friendship with him? Is it worth telling myself, over and over, "Be strong, be strong, don't chase him, be strong..." because I don't want to alienate him? Is it worth going against my friends' advice and listening to my parents? (My parents read this blog; maybe I shouldn't write that...) Is it worth being unselfish?

In a word: Yes.

Come on, I'm not the only one who has done this, right? I'm not the only one who has insisted, "I'm in love," only to realize they weren't...but, wow, when you did think that, wasn't it amazing? Isn't it so much fun to make yourself pretty before you leave your dorm, just because you might run into that person? Isn't it so much fun to dance around your room singing "Nine in the Afternoon" at the top of your voice? Isn't it so much fun to flash a flirty smile in their direction and wait to see how they respond?

And then reality hits: It's not going to happen. Or, even worse, before you have a chance to find out if it's going to happen, you move on or you forget them. Ouch.

I remember a year ago, at this time (or a little earlier) I was crying over a summer camp boy who had randomly stopped writing to me. I swore he was to blame for every problem I had at school, every problem I had in my dating life. I swore I was in love with him and that I could not live if he did not care about me. I swore he was my first love and that I would never love another boy.

*facepalm*

Now, a year later, there is another boy. And, seeing as this is not medieval times, which means I am not of prime marrying age, I am willing to bet that a year from now there will be another.

Where am I going with all of this? Good question. I think I'm trying to talk myself out of doing something stupid, such as giving him a shout-out on this post or writing him a long, soul-baring email (a waste, considering that I'm already writing a long, soul-baring blog post), or worse, calling him.

I won't. I will stay strong, and I will tell myself that this is just another day, another boy. And I will tell myself that the depression of seeing snow pile up outside my window IN MARCH (really, Michigan? REALLY?) will abate, and I will go shopping for shorts and tank tops in a week, and I will go on my college visits and decide where I will spend the next four years, and in two weeks I will see my friends and I will be happy again.

But for now, all I can do is share my sappy quotes, many of them lyrics, and go to sleep...before my mother comes into my room demanding to know why in the heck I am awake at two...no, now it's three...in the morning.



"Our lives are better left to chance, I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance."
~Garth Brooks

"When it gets cold outside and you've got nobody to love, you'll understand what I mean when I say there's no way we're gonna give up here."
~Maroon 5

"If you're a hand grenade, I'll pull the pin."
~The Almost

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."
~Eames from Inception

"Shaking from the pain that's in my head, just want to crawl into my bed and throw away the life I've led, but I won't let it die, I won't let it die!"
~Secondhand Serenade

"We'll set it right...Just let them try to stop us."
~Lyra from The Golden Compass

"Beat but I'm not broken, guide me through with your light. Breathe with your words spoken, show me how to listen."
~Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

"No other road, no other way...no day but today."
~Mimi from RENT

"I'll put his picture down and maybe get some sleep tonight..."
~Taylor Swift

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The War at Home...or Interlochen (WARNING: This is serious [s-word]!)

So these are a few pieces I wrote in Writing About War...they're dramatic, they're dark, they're creepy...and some of them require a bit of explanation. All of these will probably be in my class portfolio by the end of the year, so if anyone wants to tell me what they think I'd love some feedback.

SEVERANCE PIECE

(Prompt: There is a theory that after a person is decapitated, they are not only still capable of thought and feeling, but they can think up to 160 words a minute. They can do this for about one and a half minutes after their decapitation. Write what you think you would be thinking/feeling just after your decapitation.)

He takes my hand, the man with black hair and wild eyes and he pulls me up and I leave myself behind and we’re alone, and no one can hurt me now so I feel nothing but joy and in this black castle, with shimmering ice for windows we look at what we’ve created and I laugh, this is all I wanted, pure beauty, a world of art and creation, with my angel by my side
But when I look down I see a boy with hazel eyes, and a girl with a pocketwatch around her neck
And the boy looks up to me and suddenly I want to be in his arms, because I never felt him hold me
And I have magic now, but all the magic in the world and I still can’t take him back
He never held me, I’ll never touch him again
The girl, I’ll never tell her again that I admire her, that I wanted to be just like her
And they are looking for me but they will never find me, I’ll never come home to them again, I’ll never feel him hold me and I’ll never see if she becomes a famous poet
And I realize the only angels I ever needed, I left behind
I just wish I could tell them I love them, tell them
Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong…


INVASION PIECE

(Prompt: Write about an invasion of any kind of fantasy creature, about wishing to become a fantasy creature such as a werewolf, the creation of a real-life zombie by a witch doctor, or a diary-style invasion of fantasy creatures like one read in class.)

“Gotta love the local news: The one time their sky-is-falling, apocalypse-evident alarmist report would be right, they’re too busy being turned into cotton candy to go on air.”
After three days of hiding in an edit suite, living on decades-old candy that has probably been in my backpack since summer camp, trying for the life of me to protect my best friend, this is all that I can say. Well, actually, I can say quite a bit more than that, but I don’t want to because I know I’ll scare him, and trust me, neither one of us needs to be scared right now…well, not more than we already are, anyway.
Three days ago, aliens landed on our campus. DON’T LAUGH, I swear to God it’s true. They landed in a spaceship shaped like a circus tent, armed with guns that shot popcorn-like bullets and rays that turned people into cotton candy. Following them were little green guys with huge brains, and ray guns that could incinerate us. And the weirdest thing—they’re only attacking Interlochen. I’ve been looking online for days now—when I’m not hiding under the desk from huge, creepy clown aliens—and no one else has been hit. I don’t know why. All I know is, I’m scared.
When I whisper to my best friend about the reporters being turned into cotton candy he laughs shakily. I smile and reach over to squeeze his hand. “It’s going to be okay,” I assure him.
Yesterday, just before my phone battery died, I called 9-1-1. I doubt they believed me—but maybe after enough of those calls come in from Interlochen students, just before they are incinerated or turned to cotton candy, the operators will believe someone, and come to the rescue.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed. For him, at least. Honestly, I don’t have much to lose, here; after a few more weeks I’d probably have been expelled anyway. But if he gets killed—if he’s turned into pink fluff or shot with popcorn bullets or incinerated, and no one ever finds out what happened to him—if those stupid aliens drag him back to their ship to experiment on him—and if I’m saved, and he’s not—it’ll be my fault. My fault, because I couldn’t protect him. Because I made him laugh at the wrong moment, when aliens were outside our door. Because we didn’t hide in time. Because 9-1-1 didn’t believe me.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him again, and then we hear footsteps outside the door and we pull ourselves under the desk as quickly as we can. I hold my breath. The door opens…
“Is anyone in here?” a male voice calls, and I nearly cry in relief. It’s a policeman, a state trooper, someone who can save us.
“We’re here,” I say, pushing myself out from under the desk—
—just in time to see the man hit with a ray that melts him into a sticky, fluffy ball of cotton candy.
We’re screwed.


VIOLENCE PIECE

(Prompt: Write a scene in which violence is implied, but not explicitly stated.)

After the seventh time he comes to school looking like a train hit him, it’s abundantly clear that the injuries are not occurring at soccer practice. Hell, I don’t even think he plays soccer.
The first time he told me he fell down the stairs, the second time, he told me he had a rollerblading accident. The third time he tried to distract me by joking—told me that aliens had kidnapped him and used him for experiments. I let it go then, but now I know better.
On Thursday he edges into school with a black eye, limping on an ankle that is visibly swollen (those high-top Converse don’t fool anyone; I don’t know who he thinks he’s kidding), and I don’t have to look to know that he’s been hit with a belt or burned with a cigarette or something so horribly cliché it would be laughable if it were a Lifetime movie. Unfortunately, this is not a lifetime movie; it’s just plain lifetime.
We settle into our routine. The lunch bell rings and we meet in the student commons. I steal a paper towel from the bathroom and a handful of ice from the lunchroom, and we go into the courtyard. We sit down on one of the stone benches and brace ourselves—he braces himself for the pain; I brace myself for the sight of my best friend covered in burns, bruises or whatever—and I lift his t-shirt.
Today it’s burns, and I cringe at the thought of what caused those burns. Not a cigarette, that’s for sure. An iron, perhaps? No, they’re the wrong shape. Burned wood? No…that can’t be it. I don’t want to think about it, but I keep guessing. What was the instrument of torture, and what did he do that allegedly earned him these burns?
Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I ask him: “What happened?”
He doesn’t look at me. I continue applying the ice and wait for him to answer. Finally he inhales sharply and tells me, voice flat and emotionless, “I failed the history test on Monday…the one we got the grades for yesterday.”


BAD WAR WRITING

(Prompt: List the challenges of writing about war, and then write a "bad" war story based on those challenges.)

Challenges of writing war stories:
lack of realism
inexperience
offensiveness
inconsistency
too subtle or not subtle enough
cliché
too vague
too explicit

Example of a "bad" war story:

During the harsh battles of World War II, many young men were killed. One young man, Jim, left behind his sweetheart Amy to fight for his country. When he went into battle, he always carried her picture with him for strength. Meanwhile, she waited for him on the home front, growing her Victory Garden and hosting scrap drives, praying every day that he would come back for her.
The war was half-over when Amy met a man named Ted and began to fall in love with him. On the other side of the world, Jim struggled through battles with her picture in his pocket, believing that she would never abandon him. But the trials of war were starting to catch up to him, and he was caught off-guard one day and thrown into a prison camp.
Prison camps were terrible, but in different ways than people can possibly imagine. Men died of starvation because prisoners were either ignored or tortured. Jim was one of the men beaten for information, which he refused to give. When they beat him he thought of Amy, and of her beautiful eyes, and how gentle and how sweet she was, and how he was suffering for her, to protect the country that she lived in.
Meanwhile, back in America, Amy was engaged to marry Ted after six months of secretly seeing him. She wrote Jim a classic “Dear John” letter, telling him that she had found someone else. In prison camp, life was terrible enough—but when a man got a letter saying, “Sorry, darling, but I don’t love you anymore,” it was downright unlivable.
The camp was invaded by Americans and liberated less than a month after Jim received that letter. But those twenty-five days were the worst of his life. When the jailers beat him he had nothing to think about, no woman to live for. He screamed when the men beat him, rather than stay silent and strong. He never betrayed information about the American army, but he had no reason to maintain the cold dignity that behooved a soldier.
When the prisoners were freed most of them went home to their sweethearts or wives. Jim had nowhere to go, and so he threw himself back into army life. The war was nearly over when he was killed in battle. Amy heard of this and felt a deep sense of regret—how could she have done this to him? How could she have kissed him off like that? Now she realized she had never loved Ted, now her husband, and she would never see the man she loved again, even if he had been alive he would never have wanted her after the way she treated him.
Jim’s family and friends were devastated, but none more so than Amy. Every day she wondered, What if I had waited? and was forced to live without her question ever getting answered.


PAIN PIECE

(Prompt: Write about pain without using cliché language or hackneyed metaphors.)

Walk to school. Limp. Ignore the throb in your ankle; it’s not that bad, you’ve had worse. Ignore. Walk. Ignore. Already lies are forming in your head: I fell down the stairs. I slipped on a wet floor. I walked into a door. I crashed my bike into a tree.
Limp to your classroom and carefully ease yourself into the seat. Your teacher is clueless. You start to lean back in the seat but when your back touches the chair, heat sears across your skin. Quickly you sit up straight, your sore muscles protesting.
Come on now, get it together, you sternly order your body, we can get through this, we do every day.
You press it out of your mind and force yourself to concentrate on the teacher. Block out the memory of the curling iron burning through your t-shirt, your skin blistering, the smell of smoking clothing, the sound of your step-mother telling you that you will go to hell. You can’t block out the pain, but you can block out the memory.
Your ankle is swelling inside your shoe. It feels like someone is slowly blowing up a balloon that will never pop, it’ll just keep getting bigger until it overwhelms everything around it. You wish you’d worn low-tops today. Between classes you go into the bathroom and take off your sneaker. Your ankle looks like the work of a tortured artist—red, purple, black, gray—swollen, pulsing. The pain shifts, from a dull, almost numb ache to a stabbing throb. When you lift your foot to the toilet seat for a better look, the pain turns to a warning, a notice that the balloon will pop if you’re not careful. You fold the sneaker top over and retie your laces. Thank God your pants cover the bruising.
Someone sees you limping, sees the scratches on your face. Hey, man, what happened?
I crashed my bike yesterday. You wait. Will he catch the lie?
Oh, that sucks. He doesn’t, and you move on.
At lunchtime you escape outside. Technically you are not allowed outside the lunchroom, but no one will look for you in the courtyard. Your best friend follows you, paper towels and ice stolen from the lunchroom in hand. “Let’s see it,” she sighs. You sit very still, bracing for impact.
When she slides your shirt up it doesn’t hurt, but when she touches the ice-filled towel to the burn—that hurts. You know you should feel relief from the ice but all you feel is pain, you feel the burn of the curling iron, yesterday, and now you feel the sting of the ice, and now you can’t hold on any longer.
You forget who you are, and where you are, and the identity of the girl trying to help you. You forget how you got burned, how you tripped when you were trying to escape. All you can think about is the pain, and the sensation that your skin is about to peel off and the balloon—the swollen, twisted ankle—is about to burst.
The ice doesn’t help. It makes it worse. Your lower back, your side, it’s going to peel away and you’ll bleed to death, it’s going to all come apart, you can’t stand it. The balloon is getting bigger and bigger and it’ll explode, you want it to explode, you want it to end. You will do anything, you will sell your soul—what’s left of it, anyway—if it will just make the pain go away.
You squeeze your eyes shut and, for the first time today, let out a tiny whimper, an almost inaudible noise of defeat. A hand curls around yours, trying to reassure you, trying to help you find your way back, but you can’t, you’ve gotten lost, and all you can do is tell yourself it’ll go away, it’ll stop, it’s not the worst thing to ever happen anyway.


POETIC WRITING EXERCISE

(Prompt: Think of something ordinarily seen as ugly or frightening, and write about it in a way that makes it seem beautiful.)

The sky is green, a strange, bronzy green, the color of dirty stained glass. Clouds the color of lima beans make a spiral over the dancing trees. The wind makes water leap out of our pool, but we can't see where the waves hit the already-soaked concrete. Sheets of rain seem to come from nowhere; it seems impossible that something so heavy and destructive can come from something as delicate and pretty as those pale-green clouds. And when the wind cuts through the sheets of rain it creates patterns, like a spiral galaxy, but instead of stars the glittering raindrops make the shape of a little girl's ringlets. And when the green clouds give in to the desperate wind they make a spiral too, and the rain joins the vortex and creates a symphony of violent weather.


TRENCH EXERCISE (In-class)

(Prompt: Write the thoughts of a soldier as he lies in a trench that is currently under attack. Mine was written from the point of view of a 17-year-old American soldier in World War II.)

Lying in the trench and hearing the sounds of the bombs making the world explode around me, I can only think of one regret: Enlisting in this damned army. I had another year before I could be drafted; I could be home with my family right now, I could be with my girlfriend or my friends from school, but instead I am here, lying in this trench, about to die.
Right now I could be at the movies with my girlfriend, or playing baseball with my friends, or helping my little sister with her homework, or listening to the radio with my parents. Back home it's dinnertime, and my mother is making spaghetti and my father is just getting home from work.
I can almost smell the tomato sauce, and hear the sound of my sister's footsteps on the stairs as she runs to greet my father. If I close my eyes and concentrate hard, I can feel the summer breeze as the door opens, I can hear my father's voice and feel him ruffling my hair, instead of hearing the bombs and feeling the ground shaking as the world seems to end.


And of course, we're going to follow all this serious business with some...

STOLEN DIALOGUE

"That's just taking a detour into What-the-F**k Land."

"Oprah Winfrey is the Justin Bieber of the grown-up world."

"I'm gonna get kicked really hard in the shins very soon."

"Target gives me a consumer boner."

Person one: If I knew you better, I'd poke you.
Person two: Poke me...where?
Person three: With what?

Person one: As a health nut, I really want to eat the placenta of a healthy person's baby someday.
Person two: As someone within earshot...what?

"As a non-theorist cow, I feel obligated to say...moo."

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

And now, fresh out of the "What Not to Do" files...

*Peeks out from behind wall*

Is anyone there?

*shuffles awkwardly out from behind wall*

Oh. Hi. Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised if you've forgotten me, it's been...what...two weeks? Yeah...Hello. I guess I kind of owe some people an explanation. First of all, no, don't worry, I have not been kidnapped/killed/disfigured/comatose. I have been extremely busy with school, midterms (ah, midterms...because it TOTALLY makes sense to cram every important test into two short days), my thesis, and just life in general. So, no, I have not abandoned my blog. In fact I am going to blog MORE over the next couple of weeks, because it will be SPRING BREAK!!!! and I will have more time on my hands. AND I'll have more material, because I will be COLLEGE VISITING!

I will eventually talk about what's been going on around here. But first...well, let's just say I'm long overdue for a film rant. And so, my lovely blog-buddies (if you haven't given up on me yet), I proudly present to you...

THE REMAKE RANT.

Okay. I am a patient person when it comes to remakes. In fact, there have been times when I've liked a remake better than the original (The Karate Kid being prime a prime example of this). However, there is one thing that I can't stand: When an American filmmaker tries to do a "remake" of a foreign film.

THIS. DRIVES. ME. CRAZY.

There is a reason that I adamantly refuse to see Let Me In. I would be sitting there the entire time saying "What the hell, that's not how it's supposed to happen!" no matter how good the film might be, simply because there is no way in heck that I would be able to separate the Swedish film Let the Right One In from its American counterpart--because, hey, let's be honest, no remake of that movie could ever surpass the original.

Rule #1 of a remake: If you're going to re-do something, first pick something that could use improvement in some way or other. Look at The Karate Kid: did it suck? No. Is it a classic, one of those movies that "you just have to see?" Heck yeah. Is it hilarious? Of course. But were there things that could improve? Definitely...which is why I jumped at the chance to see the 2010 remake.

Personally--again, this is a blog, not a film history class; feel free to take my opinions and drop kick them if you feel the need to do so--I think that the remake of The Karate Kid has about twice the soul and personality of the original. People whine about how making the kids younger took away believability--I disagree. I saw this when I was seventeen, saw the original when I was about fifteen, and felt about ten times more connection to Jaden Smith than I felt to Ralph Macchio. Having dealt with both grade-school and high-school bullies, I can happily tell you that I'd much rather be confronted with some obnoxious, too-big-for-their-britches high-schoolers than a gang of kung fu-practicing ten-year-olds. (No, the fact that I studied martial arts for five years has no impact on this decision whatsoever. I swear.)

But I'm definitely digressing. Point is, if you're going to remake something, take something that you think could be improved upon, choose something you want to improve, and go for it. For the remake of The Karate Kid, they took some of the melodrama out of the film and replaced it with genuine emotion, which I think was definitely a big improvement.

Now, if you're going to remake a true classic, a work of cinematic art, something likePsycho...well, that's a bit different. You don't just need to find something to improve upon, you need to find your own twist. And no, before we get into this, modernizing something (thinkYours, Mine, & Ours) does not count as a "twist." This is why I was so disappointed with Gus Van Sant's shot-by-shot remake of Psycho...you'd think that colorizing the film would kick it up a notch, but if you're going to remake something like Psycho, for God's sake, do not cast Vince Vaughn. Just don't.

So recently, I watched a film in my Writing About War class called The Experiment, and if that sounds like the title of a stunningly bad work of melodrama, that's because IT IS. I had high hopes for this movie after hearing that Cam Gigandet was in a prominent role. I was even more excited when I figured out that he was probably going to be a villain. Oh, was I ever disappointed.

The Experiment boasts some of the worst directing I have ever seen. Literally. I swear to you, here is how this guy directed his actors:

"Okay guys...here's what we're going to do...when I say 'Action'...everyone make sure you say every single line through your teeth *grits teeth* like this...and then you guys playing guards, you all look really tough, and you guys playing prisoners, I want this half to look defiant and this half to look scared...can we do that? Oh, okay. GO! ACTION!"

In addition to the direction, there was the story. The movie was based on a German film, which was based on the Stanford Prison Experiment. In the actual prison experiment, no one died. All of the participants were college-age. Yes, people went crazy (I think this was expected, actually) and turned from normal civilians into "prisoners" and "guards." But it was not--repeat, NOT--what this movie made it out to be.

As is usually the case with terrible movies, I feel no guilt about spoiling it. The German film,Das Experiment, was absolutely terrifying. You're on-edge the entire time. You actually give a crap about the characters. The Experiment, on the other hand, was a train wreck of the worst kind. This film made me look forward to watching an instructional video on how to clean a DVD player. I felt absolutely no sympathy for the characters, I had no clue what was going on ("Oh, shit, this guy is dying. I'd better go climb a chain-link wall and bite a camera, because THAT will definitely help him live!" "Oh, damn, there's been a prison riot. We all nearly killed each other. Let's go outside and sit on the grass, and everything will be fine!"), and worst of all, I hated the story.

The core of The Experiment is this: A stereotypically shiftless twentysomething (or possibly thirtysomething) man rediscovers religion through a brutal experiment and a pretty girl.

This could be a good concept, if done correctly. But this was NOT well-done. Trust me. The casting was "meh" at best. Cam Gigandet kicks ass as the obnoxiously cruel playboy-turned-prison guard, so stereotypically arrogant that you can tell he's a jerk the second he gets on the screen...but he's about the only one. Honestly, he was the only person who I found to be even vaguely threatening. Every other "guard" made me crack up.

For anyone unfamiliar with the Prison Experiment (and everyone who didn't bother to click on the link), a scientist decided to replicate a prison environment. Out of about two dozen volunteers, a handful were chosen to be guards and the rest were prisoners. In real life this was bad enough--to quote my good friend Mishka, who in the hell would EVER think that this could turn out well?--but in the film it's a nightmare. Two people get killed. Every single person needs medical attention by the end of the film. AND NO ONE DOES ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

The best way I could sum up this film would be to call it Twilight for the macho man. It's essentially torture porn. Every five minutes, someone gets beaten up. A man gets his head dunked in the toilet, gets peed on, gets his head shaved against his will, gets handcuffed to a wall, and gets his ass kicked on multiple occasions. Another guy gets beaten for trying to help a prisoner with diabetes. Several times, Cam Gigandet's character tries to rape a prisoner. And throughout all of this, we manage to NEVER FEEL SORRY for the characters. My thoughts during most of the scenes were not "Oh shit, that sucks, I feel for that guy," rather, my thought process was more along the lines of, "What the flying hell just happened?"

The moral of this story? Well, actually, there's two: One for the filmmaker, and one for the film viewer.

To the filmmaker: Please, please, please, for the love of all that's decent, have some self-respect and don't take a foreign film and remake it into torture porn. Even if you're trying to make a statement. Trust me, there are better ways to do it.

To the film viewer: Don't watch a remake without seeing the original film. If it's a foreign film, well, there are these lovely little things called subtitles. They're helpful. Use them. And if you absolutely MUST see the American remake, do yourself a favor and see the original film first. Are there occasions when remakes can be good? Absolutely. Is this always the case? Unfortunately not. So please--for the last time--pretty please, with a cherry on top, see the damn original film.


And now for the serious portion of our show...

In the past I have written about the weirdness of film majors, the excitement of NaNoWriMo, the importance of sticking up for what you believe in, the power of a stripped-down performance or reading at the legendary Coffeehouse, the rite of passage that is celebrity worship, the insanity that inevitably occurs when you go to a boarding arts high school, and the massive amounts of complaining that I've overheard/done while at Interlochen. I have been controversial about movies from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to The Godfather. I have blabbed incessantly about how much I love Michael Jackson and how I will assert to the very end that he never did anything wrong. I have quoted everyone from Aly & AJ to Allen Ginsberg.

This is supposed to be one of the few places I have where I can say what I want to say without giving a damn who likes it or dislikes it. (The other outlet I have for this purpose is called "my parents." Isn't THAT bassackwards?) This is supposed to be an online journal, of sorts--just write about what I want, when I want to write about it.

And yet I find myself constantly saying, "Oh crap, is this too much?" and apologizing for what I write, or justifying my opinions. ("I'm sorry that I didn't like The Godfather, but..." or "You can feel free to just disregard my opinion on this, but...") Or, worst of all, defending myself in person to people who comment on my blog. I've been confronted by people and found myself apologizing ("Oh, I'm so sorry you disagree with me on Michael Jackson, I didn't mean to offend you!") or defended my opinion ("Look guys, just because you loved Tim Burton's version of Chocolate Factory doesn't mean that I have to!") all because I'm afraid of what people will think.

No. Sorry. That's not how this works.

This is not a revolutionary rebellious whatever; this is a place where I can express opinions, however strange or random they may be. It's time for me to stop getting defensive and worrying about what people will think/say when they read this. I don't care if I offend you; if you're offended by what I write, then don't read the blog anymore. It's that simple. I'm not out to kick people in the face here; I'm just saying, this is the way I am, and if that bothers you, no one is forcing you to deal with me.

Sorry to sound harsh (damn it, I'm doing it again!! but, in my defense, I actually mean this one), but I'm sick of taking crap from people. As my mother is constantly telling me, "You teach people how to treat you." If I stop taking crap from people, there is the chance that they will, eventually, stop giving it to me.


And now, let's lighten up from this self-evaluation business and get to everybody's favorite...

STOLEN DIALOGUE!

"I'd rather kiss a non-responsive ass cheek than have a freshman slobber on me for five minutes."

"There is nothing classy about moose antlers."

"It's not an 'Oh, come on, administration, REALLY?' kind of suspension, it's more of a 'Give that motherf**ker what he deserves' kind of suspension."

"A cathedral is a hunk of art on a hill with a religion attached."

Person one: If you get up every morning and say "I'm happy, healthy, and hearty," you will get more accomplished during the day.
Person two: And your roommate will think you're insane.

Teacher: "I never cared about grades in school. The only grade I never got was an F, but other than that, man, I hit the spectrum! A's, B's, C's, D's...as long as I learned the material I didn't care!"

"The other day I was at the salad bar and these guys had plates of tofu and peas one of them was like, 'Bro, you're gonna want some sprouts with that.' I'm sorry, but if you're about to eat tofu you should not be saying 'Bro.'"