Worst Frostbite Ever: Dead Snow

How do you react to the phrase "nazi Zombies?" If you're indifferent, go home and get your pulse checked. You might just be one of the undead. But if you're a God-fearin', SS-hatin' man or woman (and the God-fearin' is entirely optional) read on.

Here's a prediction: Tommy Wirkola's Dead Snow will be the best nazi zombie movie you'll see all year. Okay, so it's not like competition's tight in that category. For a genre so potentially rife with social critique, or at least exploitative gore, there really hasn't been anything of note since 1978's Shock Waves. But it's still a fun bit of campy fluff with some delightfully gruesome kills.

The film starts off strong with a moonlit chase that comes with a squelching finale. Unfortunately, the movie gets bogged down for about twenty minutes so we can meet our meat, a group of videogenic Norwegians who've made the classic mistake of heading to a secluded, wintry cabin for fun. The med students drink, fuck, drink some more, discuss pop culture and go snow tubing in a few interminable scenes that might have you digging around in the snow to sic the zombies on them.

But soon enough, a creepy old man is on the scene to insult their domestic skills and hint that the snowy hills might be holding some frozen Germans. Then the friends realize the girl who was supposed to meet them there still hasn't come and get their first hint that, as one of them ends up yelling later on, they should have gone to the beach instead.

Soon enough, the undead are marching with revolting rotting flesh but surprisingly natty uniforms. Don't get too attached to any of the students, because pretty much everything the creepy old man warned them about in the beginning from holding your guts in your hands to getting a limb torn off, happens to one or more of them. As the kills become more baroque and entertaining (particular favorite: zombie meets snowmobile engine) the film gives up any actual creepiness for hard gore laughs.

It's the kind of zombie comedy that's more like the bloody slapstick of Brain Dead than the verbal play of Shaun of the Dead. Or maybe it was like Shaun, and the verbal jokes just didn't translate from the Norwegian. A horny med student deciding there are just some body parts he can't amputate does work though, and a Nazi ghoul getting clotheslined by a tree is just plain classic.

Wirkola doesn't care about making a Romero-like statement. No connections are made between the Nazi invasion of Norway, facism and general and the zombie attacks. The only thing I could salvage was something along the lines that all the enlightened institutions the West clings to as markers of civilization (mandatory non-combat military service, higher education) are actually frigging useless when it comes down to survival. And a guy's lack of Molotov cocktail throwing skills. But then again, the reason why these Germans turned into zombies is never explained either, so maybe ideological coherence isn't Wirkola's biggest concern.

It's the splatter that counts and Dead Snow delivers, particularly on the intestinal trauma front. Zombie purists might not like how speedy these ghouls are, but any true gorehound won't care. It just means they'll meet the chainsaws that much faster.

Go, Go Sonia

Oy. Those Sotomayor hearings. Sometimes I forget how prevalent racism still is, and then I see a Latina woman being questioned on whether her identity will influence her decisions on the bench. I don't remember anyone asking John G. Roberts how his blinding whiteness would affect his rulings, y'know.

When I haven't been reading snippets of that coverage (translation: making myself livid with rage) I've been working on a special writing project and checking out Dead Snow at FantAsia with friends. And feeling oddly tired. I hope I'm not coming down with something, because I have to volunteer at a music festival this weekend and camp outside. God knows I don't need to add illness-induced crabbiness to my usual post-sleeping bag bitching. Time to start chain drinking the Neo Citran just as a prevantative measure.

Hot Gimmick: Secret, Sexy Shame

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON HOT GIMMICK.

Forgive me, goddesses of feminism, for I have sinned. Again. The latest way in which I've fallen off the wagon doesn't involve my job, but the sweet, sexy allure of girly manga. I should really learn to look a gift bag in the mouth, as it were. See, before I left the bookstore for my current writing gig, I was given the chance of picking through a box of free manga Viz had sent over. Since I'm not exactly a Manga fan, but I can't say no to free books, I pretty much picked them for the lolz. Incest? In the bag! Magic words and white rabbits? Sure! A blend of bloody battles and romantic comedy set in Edo Japan? Er... okay. And one where a chick goes out to buy a pregnancy test for her sister and is blackmailed into being some boy's slave? Why, I think I remember a soap opera story line just like that.

Basically, that's the worst way to pick out Manga because you'll end up with unreadable bullshit like Angel Sanctuary. And completely addictive bullshit like Hot Gimmick. Between the normalization of abusive relationships and the hideous street fashion, this series offends me on many levels as a feminist and a woman with eyes. Our main character's name is Hatsumi, and the rivals for her favours are:

• Akane: Her childhood friend, and the stereotypical boy with a heart of gold and lashes by Maybelline... until we find out he's out for revenge on Hatsumi's father. Which he tries to achieve by getting his model buddies to rape her.
  
• Ryoki: The boy who was blackmailing her about the pregnancy test, who constantly belittles her intelligence and tries to enslave her into banging him. Oh, and he likes to whack her upside the head when he's displeased.
  
• Shinogu: Her brother. But, hey, turns out he's adopted so it's all okaa... wait no, that's still max creepy.
  

Basically, I'm reading a book where the least problematic is the quasi-incestuous one. And it's going down like strawberry-flavored Pocky, as I scroll through the scanlation I found online. I keep on trying to justify my consumption by saying that at time it shows a surprisingly realistic and gentle handling of teenaged sex at time between the Code: Fuchsia levels of drama. And that the author still keeps a critical distance of Ryoki. But honestly, I'm just hooked because it's absolutely batshit crazy. Every 2 pages there's some sort of dramatic development. I feel like only a few days have gone by and Hatsumi's already gotten drugged, sexually harassed, changed boyfriends, had her brother mysteriously move out and been shunned in the apartment. It makes All My Children look like Bergman.

And maybe there's something oddly charming at this strange but relatively staid juncture in my life about running around Tokyo in outfits of ever-increasing ugliness, gazing goggle-eyed at one of the 3-plus pretty guys in my life, screaming "I choose love!" and generally being a person who doesn't have to worry about taxes, loan repayments and being alone. Or maybe I should just stop eating so many Japanese snacks with dubious ingredients.

Femmeday the 13th

Damn it, Diablo Cody. One of my friends had just finished guilting me into tolerating you again, and now you make this movie. I'll wait until it's released to judge too harshly, but usually Megan Fox is enought to make me pre-emptively hate a movie. And it looks like you sacrificed effective horror for twee jokes, too, so you could make a film with all the clever gender critique of a "Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them" shirt.
But watch the redband trailer here and judge for yourself.
Well, at least I can always watch Ginger Snaps when I need a wickedly smart and feminist horror film. Thoughts on whether this will suck or be totally rocking?

BELLLLLLLLLL!!!

Sorry it's been so long. I moved, with all the myriad joys that come with it. Insufficient boxes, lost movers, schedule friction, unpacking and of course, the Internet move. Which, when you're dealing with my arch-nemesis Bell, ends up taking an extra week and a half. Don't trust them because they are all lying lies who lie all the time, and now I must wait for one of them to come and fix my Internet so I can Facebook stalk all I want.

I've been limited in that shady endeavor by the personal Internet use I'm allotted at work, which means 2 15-minute breaks and a little bit at the beginning and end of my lunch. Which is not enough for adequate Facebook stalkery in the slightest, much less actual blog posting. So here I am at the library, explaining why I was gone and checking out which quizzes my friends have taken on Facebook. Oh Internet, how I miss you.

Bonne St.Jean/ Hooray for Baptist Day!: A Quasi Rant.

One of the many, many benefits about living in Quebec is the existence of the St. Jean Baptiste holiday, aka today. Maybe I just like it so much because, as an ex-Ontarian, I tend to forget about it until it's actually upon me, and an unexpected holiday in the middle of the week feels like manna from heaven. Or maybe because it inevitably leads to some kind of franco vs. anglo dramz that entertains.

This year was the English band controversy. If you're not reading this in Quebec, you've probably missed the whole dumb ting, so here's the rundown. A couple of bands slated to play at one of the many SJB shows were English, which meant they sang in English (gasp!) and so were summarily disinvited. This, of course, led to a minor media kerfuffle which led to them being reinstated.

Now, I did see Lake of Stew when they opened for the Sadies and John Doe, and I liked them fine. For the first song. And then I realized that I was in for a whole set of bluegrass songs about NDG, which I really thought only had enough material for half a bottle of Jack Daniel's and maybe a quarter of a bluegrass song, but no matter. So I wasn't particularly invested in seeing their performance as a victory for anglo rights or anything.

But I did think this whole controversy was frigging stupid. Nations like Canada or Quebec are made up piecemeal of a bunch of different cultures and grafted onto the boneyard of colonialism. Trying to govern them so they're monolithic and legislate them so they're monolingual (or at best, bilingual), is a dangerous mix of ignorance and reactionary tribalism. And kind of a losing bid anyway.

So my solution for this bullshit next year is to have a St. Jean Baptiste's day concert where everyone sings in any language but French or English. Portuguese, Yiddish, Swahili, Arabic, Italian, Ukrainian, whatever. Go nuts. It's not going to save the world, or even accomplish much in the way of moving past identity politics. But hopefully it will scramble the brains of folks like the Association Culturel Louis-Hébert so much they won't be able to mount an effective response, and Quebec news can get back to getting worked up over road conditions.

Monty, Je T'Aime

First of all, sweet holy hell it is humid in Montreal. Not only that, but it hasn't been sunny in days. It's like I'm being steamed to death in a pot of sadness. Blergh.

Second, my brother brought his special lady friend to visit Montreal today. Apparently, I was in charge with convincing her that it was an awesome city and she should totally want to move here right now. I hope she forgot all about the little falling out Montreal and I had a few weeks ago, when I was angrily cursing Montreal and planning on leaving it in a big wheel. I'm not certain how well I did, but I hope the combo of delicious honey chocolates and the D&Q store reeled her in.

I always find it strange showing off a city to a visitor. I feel like I should come off as being more cool than I really am, the kind of insider who knows where the best espresso place/venue/sock store is hidden. But, I am only human. I go to McDonald's sometimes, I usually get my coffee from the closest place to work and I'm as often at home watching episodes of Spaced as going to a show. But I do know a few good places and, like my ever-dwindling store of anecdotes, I'll exploit them for all the cred I can. Mwa ha ha.

Forever 21

Oh God, it was either the mechanical bull or my friend's couch, but I feel like I've been put through a food processor. It doesn't hurt as much if I bend my arms and tilt my neck at just the right angle though.

So, things I learned last night and this morning: The bad thing about being in your early twenties is that you treat your body like shit and make silly life choices. The good thing about being in your early twenties is that you're not old enough to be ashamed about coming into work wearing the clothes you had on last night and with a freight train rumbling through your head. Woo. Ow.

Back to Box

The good news: I finally found a place to live. I've been waiting to move out on my own for a while. I like my roommates well enough, but at some point you just want to be able to walk around naked, drinking juice from the carton and watching "Commando" at will in the living room. Finding an apartment within walking distance of my new job, which is sort of on the cusp of becoming the Plateau, proved... distressing at best. All the decent places have been carved up by hipsters with their lederhosen and their adorable haircuts, and after seeing one too many cramped shacks priced to move at 800 freaking dollars, I gave up walking to work and/or being trendy.

After tossing my leggings in the garbage, I headed out to Verdun and Hochelaga/Maisonneuve. I've liked living in Pt. St. Charles, but it's way too residential for me right now. I need stores and restos! Well, I found a place out by the Frontenac metro station, almost where Hochelaga/Maisonneuve begins. So, those stores are going to be the Salvation Army, and those restos are going to be strip clubs, but that's kind of awesome. I'll have a 2 bedroom apartment with lots of light all to myself and my cat, and am prepared to learn French or at least valuable swear words to get people to back off.

The bad news: Oh my God, I have to pack. I already junked a whole bunch of stuff, or at least farmed boxes of books out to my parents, but I still have SO MUCH STUFF. Like, I don't even remember *why* I bought some of the things, and I don't know how to get rid of them. I know we live in a decadent consumer society, but the sheer amount of my stationary is still ridiculous.
And, I'm moving on the 1st, so it's been impossible to get a moving truck and I don't get the day off, so it looks like I'm moving on the 4th and couch surfing until then.

12 Things About New York

1. It's so big people can only make sense of it in parts, so it seems like every area has its own name or ridiculous acronym.
2. The Strand Bookstore is like book Mecca, and you'll find biblio worshippers in every aisle.
3. The New York Public Library is so beautiful it will make you burn a TV and take out a book.
4. You always feel like you're in a movie, because about five movies were filmed where you're standing at any time and everyone will tell you about them.
5. For some reason, there's both a Hershey's and an M&M store in Times Square. Is the latter the Kosovo to the former's Serbia?
6. Not only does the city sometimes sleep, it seems to wake up late when you need a carrot zucchini muffin from Amy's Bakery really early in the morning.
7. It has some of the best food in the world, everything's so easy to find and buy that eating well is democratized.
8. The subway system feels at first like it was designed as a brainteaser to go with the Sunday crossword. But it makes a lot of sense quickly.
9. Getting out to the Statue of Liberty is neither free nor liberating.
10. The kids in The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler should have hid out in the Museum of Natural History instead. Then they would have been able to cuddle a stuffed jackrabbit.
11. Central Park is like wild jungle that's going through a Zen phase.
12. This city will win you over and make you want to sell a kidney for some New York real estate.