Haywire: Punch, Kick, Choke - Repeat!

Does Haywire welcome Gina Carano to the illustrious pantheon of Van Damme, Norris and Segal, or is it just The Girlfriend Experience with fists? Carano, an ex-MMA fighter and American Gladiatrix, is Mallory Kane, a highly competent private contractor. And as anyone who's seen an action movie in the past forty years, or even read the news, knows what happens to the competent. They get set up. So, from the opening scene, when Mallory sits down in a roadside diner, we know things will go wrong. Coffee cups will be smashed. Arms will be broken. And more, as Mallory choke-holds her way to the truth. This involves tenderizing such illustrious co-stars as Michael Fassbender, Ewan McGregor, Channing Tatum and Antonio Banderas. Carano might not be able to match their acting. The further out she is from imminent physical contact, the flatter her vocal delivery becomes, until she starts to sound like Sasha Grey. But she tops them in the action. Soderbergh keeps the camera fairly steady during all of the fights, so the chain of cause and effect between motion and outcome is always clear, and the natural ability of Carano's body can be appreciated. It's worth it for those scenes, even if the story seems slight and the retro-genre-fantastic score overstates the case.

A few random notes: First, I appreciated the scene where Mallory took off her ridiculous formal heels in order to fight. Second, I didn't realize how few actresses this movie had, apart from its female star, until I started to list her co-stars. Apart from some random extras in some scenes, Mallory/Gina Carano is the only woman in this movie. She works with men, under a man, who is hired by two other men. She hijacks a car from a male hostage, and she has no mother, just a father. Perhaps the key to all this is what her boss says in an important scene - that it would be a mistake to think of Mallory as a woman. Whatever her sex, the movie shows a world in which she's somehow gendered as male, for all of her conventional female attractiveness. Finally, in a post on Haywire's trailer, a friend told me that Gina Carano is the Danica Patrick of the MMA world. Ouch. I'll concede that she may be. After all, I don't watch MMA and won't start until either the end times come or I start caring about baseball. However, even if she's not the most-skilled fighter out there, she still seems strong enough, flexible enough and muscular enough to do what she does in this movie.

Video Bin: Black Sheep

I have a phobia of zombies. So you would think the zombie trend, still shuffling on despite its advanced age, would bother me. Instead, I view it as a repulsive, terrifying opportunity. Here's my reasoning. If I watch or read as much zombie media as possible, I won't be scared of them anymore. Or, at worst, I'll still be scared, but at least I'll also know what to do (aim for the head!) when the dead rise. All of this explains why I picked up a used copy of 2006's Black Sheep a few month's ago. It was a dollar. There were zombies. Rarely has research seemed so frugal. Having finally watched it, I can say that my appreciation for Shaun of the Dead is even stronger. Black Sheep is about genetically-modified sheep who turn into flesh-craving ghouls. That this movie is from New Zealand should explain the object of its obsession. And that it's about zombie sheep should also indicate that it's not a straight horror movie. It's a comedy/horror hybrid, like Shaun or Zombieland or Splice. Unfortunately, in spite of some amusing scenes of gore, Black Sheep misses something crucial. Nothing is ever seriously at stake in this film. Not even the dogs, who, having barked their orders for too many years, would be the expected early victims of a woolly vengeance. Horror comedies need to balance the humour with genuine threat. Every laugh should start out as a scream, or else they'll never be as enjoyable.

The Back-Up Plan

If the rest of my life doesn't pan out, my backup plan is to open a dive bar. Not an ironically divey bar, where plaid-shirted types of a certain name - rhymes with tipster - can find their own kind.  Nope, the decor will strictly be wagon wheels and promotional beer coasters. There shall be no bourbon cocktails. Actually, if you ask for anything but a rum and coke - even a gin and tonic - you'll be shit out of luck, son. Beer options will include some good ones (Tankhouse) and Molson Export, as a tribute to the bar near one of my Montreal apartments that seemed to only serve Ex. In bottles. With the decor and drinks taken care of, only the question of music and food remains. The food: I may be prevailed upon to offer you pickled eggs, or even stale nachos made in a toaster oven, but only if I like your face. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy sneaking in rotis from down the street when I'm not looking. Music will be a medley of Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn songs, because it isn't a dive bar until you can cry at the bar, shamelessly.

Look forward to Protagitron's, opening in 2014 at a questionable street corner near you!

A Thursday of Packing and High Anxiety

Although this is a personal blog, a medium mostly conceived for the airing of woes, I generally try to keep my fine whine in the cellar and off my site. Today, I'm making an exception. So stop here and appreciate the cute dog if whinging gives you hives. Don't worry, crafts and beer will return next week.

This Thursday is pretty domestic, but not in a crafty way. Instead, events in my life are forcing me to contemplate what it is, exactly, that would make yet another furnished apartment feel like home. Specifically, how many books it would take. I have a desert island mentality when it comes to packing. Even if I'm just taking the VIA into Montréal, I'm convinced that I'll end up stranded in the middle of the ocean. And then I'll really regret taking that fourth book out of my suitcase, when I'm barely 50 pages into my first. And let's not forget a second knitting project. And some wine gums. I'll need sustenance on my island.

At least fixating on how many books I'm packing, and whether they'll be enough, keeps me from thinking about my real anxiety. I'm worried that I'm making another mistake. In the past two and a half years, I've made two serious decisions about where to move and where to live. And they've both turned out to be duds on the balance. I know that doesn't sound self-help book approved, and la-dee-dah-another-door-opens-when-one-closes etc etc etc, but sometimes it's just an error in judgment, straight up. Sorry that doesn't look as uplifting in raised type on a cheap paperback. That shitty track record is why I'm not feeling very confident right now. Am I making the right decision? I hope so. I hope six books will be enough for the next few weeks. Because the box is full, and I need to go.

Running Up That Hill Times Three

My love for Running Up That Hill is a love without end. It's the song that I would skate to if I ever had to come up with an emergency figure skating routine for the Olympics. It's also the song I would dance to if I was ever auditioning, against all odds, for a place in the American Ballet Company, though both my toe shoes and I came from the wrong side of the tracks. Much like the rest of Kate Bush's oeuvre, it lends itself well to dramatic hand gestures, is what I'm saying. So, it shouldn't be a surprise that I usually have three versions on my iPod.

Original Recipe Kate Bush:


This Placebo Version, Which I Feel Used to End Up on TV Shows A Lot:


And The Chromatics, A Band Also seen on the Drive Soundtrack:


If I have to choose one - Really, I can't just keep two, and throw the Placebo cover overboard? No? - I suppose I'll go with the divine La Bush. I like The Chromatics now, but I know that Ruth Radelat's breathy vocals will fade away. However, I'll always be a drama kid adrift in the city, with Kate Bush's wailing to call me home. So why bother to keep the other versions? I know some people hate covers furiously, but if I liked the original then I'll usually appreciate the cover. Even if it doesn't replace the definitive version, sometimes it shifts things just enough that I'll find something I missed. And it stops me from getting bored with my favourite songs.

Book Pile for January 20

This month's pile seems to have a healthy appetite. Next month maybe I'll slim down with nothing but novellas and chapbooks. From top to bottom:

1. Recently Completed Novel: Nowhere Man, Aleksandar Hemon
2. Novel that Makes Me Feel Bad I Totally Blow at Chess: The Queen's Gambit, Walter Tevis
3. Highbrow Cred Novel: Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
4. Keeping My New Year's Resolution Non Fiction: That Infernal Little Cuban Republic, Lars Schoultz
5. Graphic Novel/Brick for Beating: Habibi, Craig Thompson (seriously, this thing is thick)

Domestic Thursday: Short 'n Sweet 'n Lagered

 

Pattern: Short and Sweet by Angela Best, in Stitch 'n Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker
Yarn: Mission Falls 1824 Cotton, "Musk"  
Hook size: 5 mm

 

Here it is, my Short and Sweet, all finished. I was worried that this bumpy, rustic cotton yarn would create a stiff piece of fabric, and that every time I slipped it over a sundress I would feel like an extra in a Lady Gaga video. But it blocked out nicely, with just enough drape to avoid the dreaded "power shoulders." Sigh. Now I'll have to send that laserdisc player back.

 

Also, my mom found this awesome vintage Mary Maxim pattern. It's got a Cowichan thing going on with that shawl collar, but that diamond pattern, maybe in brightly dyed yarn, would hopefully avoid any accusations of cultural appropriation. Should I knit it? I think I should!

 

And, finally, beer. This is Beau's Lug Tread Lagered Ale. Beau's comes from Vankleek Hill, Ontario, and is noted for doing all sorts of endearing and/or socially-conscious things like getting home brewers to plan beers for Beau's to brew, and partnering with Operation Come Home to bring Beau's to Ottawa-area doors. The difference between ales and lagers is mostly in the yeast. Ales feed at the top, and lagers at the bottom. But lagers are also usually aged at colder temperatures and conditioned for longer. Lug Tread bridges the gap by using ale yeasts, but finishing it off like a lager. It's their figurehead product, and what you're most likely to see in bars and LCBOs. But they also make stranger brews - beers spiced with peppermint and orange peel, beers made in bourbon barrels, and beers that use bog myrtle instead of hops. Lug Tread's taste isn't quite so bizarre as those concoctions. But it's a lovely, bready-tasting ale if you're looking to bring your lite beer-loving friends over to the side of taste and decency.

Try Not to Analyze the Hype

SOPA would be a terrible, terrible thing. My friend Max thinks so, and I believe him. If you're Canadian, you can sign this call to action. If you're American, sign this petition or contact your congressperson directly. The pressure seems to be working, so keep it up. Plus, it's always fun to make Rupert Murdoch angry.

The past week has been a bad one for two people. If, in fact, they are people, and not just constructs built by the online commentary-critical complex to suits its needs. In the sporting world: Tim Tebow, mediocre quarterback, Jockey spokesman, litmus test for your thoughts on religion/the universe at large. From the music sphere: Lana Del Rey. One got spanked 45-10 by Tom Brady and the Patriots, ending the playoff run of the Denver Broncos, while the other mumbled her way through an SNL appearance. I can't say that I bear any personal ill will to either of these fine young Americans - well, maybe Tebow, a little, based mostly on that Super Bowl anti-choice ad - but I was glad as the implosions played out.

In a few months, Lana del Rey generated the kind of media studies analysis Madonna writhed around for years to make possible, and Tebow hit that sweet, sweet intersection of sports, religion and the American news cycle. Klosterman wrote about him, the New Yorker wrote about him, even Canada discovered him and wrote about him, but the article was kind of awful, so let's ignore it. With both of these kids, I resented the constant churning of the explaining machine. My response to them is not a mirror of my feelings on larger issues. And why concentrate on religion, or "authenticity," when the question of whether Tim or Lana are decent at what they do should be tackled first. Actually, in Del Rey's case, WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THOSE LIPS ought to be issue number one. At the height of Tebowmania, the NFL produced photos of what Tim Tebow's babies would look like with various celebrities. Using the same cutting-edge technology the NFL has at its disposal - that is, a free site - I have created Lana Tel Bow. Because clearly, they belong together.

I majored in cultural studies, I have my license to analyze, but there's a difference between that which illuminates, and that which strives for profundity but only gets page views. Here's to getting a break from the latter.

Domestic Thursday: Mugs and Steam Whistle Pilsner

It's long been a dream of mine to see the beaches of Cyprus. A less cherished, but more achievable wish had been to own a mug with an octopus on it. As they say, shoot for the moon, because if you miss, you'll land among the stars. But, as I say, aim for the octopus mug and you'll at least have something to drink from.

Although I had been stalking cephalopod-related Etsy listings for a while, they were out of my price range. So, a few months ago, I went to Play with Clay with some of the folks from the All Strung Out knitting group and painted the mug on left. But the Octomug was lonely. And I had painted him on the far side, so while others could gaze upon his tentacular greatness, I could not. Thus, the Squmug was born.

The Squmug has a submarine on its backside. I repeat, a submarine and not a fish.

This week's Ontario beer is one of my favourite choices when it comes to - MOM STOP READING - all-night drinking. As much as I like bitter IPAs and robust stouts, I can't handle a whole night of them without praying for antacids from heaven. So, when I have to make it through a whole football game, I reach for the Steam Whistle. The company only makes one beer, and that's a pilsner. Pilsners, along with their parent class of lagers, are tough to make, and I respect anyone who can make one that's well-balanced and flavourful while remaining crisp and clear. Steam Whistle is just that, with an interesting roasted grain flavour, almost like cornflakes without the corn. So, calm down, craft ale people. They're also a beer company that's pretty jacked into local culture, hosting art shows at their brewery, concerts for unsigned musicians, and so on, image-making that's extended to their excellent package design. Check out that red bottle cap. Ain't it adorable? If you want to learn more about how some Ontario lagers are made, by the way, The Grid has a handy flow chart.

Haywire and a Real Female Action Star

I'm happy to hear that Haywire, Steven Soderbergh's coming attraction, will star Gina Carano, a retired mixed martial arts fighter. Supposedly. I can't verify that she was a fighter, since I'm not a big MMA fan - every time I see it in bars I hope that it's really energetic gay porn and then I'm disappointed when it's not. But I like the idea of having a female action star whose ass-kicking credentials are legit. I'm a lady who loves action movies, but that is a love nurtured despite the fact that most of their women are either damsels in distress or practitioners of what TV Tropes calls "waif fu." That is, the trope of having painfully thin starlet using her perfectly toned leg to kick a guy in the face, all while wearing heels some strippers would find impractically high. Gina Carano is clearly still a conventionally attractive, thin, white woman, but at least she's one with muscles and a winning bout record. Plus, although she takes down Michael Fassbender in a formal dress, at least it seems that she's kicked off the heels to do so. I'll buy a ticket to the movie, two if Soderbergh can guarantee that it's better than The Girlfriend Experience.