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Archive for July, 2011

I haven’t seen “The Other Guys.” Like Wahlberg. Like Ferrell. But the trailer looked hideous. Now, however, I might have to break down if the whole movie is like this scene, which seems to be an exercise in who refuses to break onscreen while Ferrell continues to improvise circles around everyone. The entire scene you can see both guys barely holding it together. I’m guessing oh, fifteen, twenty takes to get this exchange?

Case in point: the “Plums” scene in Eastbound & Down. Robinson and McBride are helpless while Ferrell just has his way with them (NSFW).

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After all of the jargon about “job creators” (the Rich) and “new revenues” (necessary taxes), I defy anyone to watch this full press conference and tell me that this isn’t a man who hasn’t bent over backwards to make an adult, non-partisan deal. From where I’m sitting, John Boehner and his semi-psychotic ilk are playing fiscal chicken with the US economy in the attempts to make the economy nosedive, destroying Obama’s re-election chances. Party first, right boys?

I met a guy last night who said, “I refuse to subscribe to the idea that there’s any sort of class war going to happen.” I said, “Brother, your canary just died, and you’re pretending it’s taking a peaceful nap. This shit is ON.”

 

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Bill Simmons has posted one of the best things he’s ever written on Grantland, “The Movie Star,” which examines both Ryan Reynold’s and Will Smith’s perceived stardom, and the differences with the average fan knowing, definitively, who is or isn’t a movie star. His read on Will Smith seems (for now) spot-on, and I hope the future proves Simmons wrong (and suspect it will).

Simmons on his (and my) complete mystification of all things Kevin James:

I took my daughter to see Super 8 last week … they showed a preview for The Zoo Keeper and she laughed her ass off for three minutes, then said, “I want to see that one!” That’s when the Kevin James Era finally made sense for me. By the way, taking her to Super 8 wasn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had, but it has to rank in the top 10.

I’ve loved Grantland and the Grantland model since its inception- it’s a bold, brilliant move that I think really works: a literary super-team of  writers that sit in their Hall of Typerwriters (they’re all steam-punk and shit with leather codpieces- the atosphere is part City of Lost Children, part Sky Captain) and send out the occasional Mark Twain-style missive that keeps rock bands, NBA stars and terrifyingly aspirational Will Smiths of the world honest. And then, cuddle up in their plasma-ed Man Caves to debate how Pavement’s is the Detlef Schrempf of indie rock albums.

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