Movie of the Week: Take Shelter

I remember seeing a preview for the psychological (or supernatural) thriller that is this week’s movie of the week and thinking two things:

1) That looks cool and interesting and

2) Hey that was Kenny Powers’ girlfriend in the preview!

The  movie actually boasts several people from HBO shows – most notably its star Michael Shannon, who plays a hard charging federal agent on Boardwalk Empire.  He is one of the most unique looking people on screens today because his face is a mash-up of strong-jawed handsome and cousin-marrying creepy.   He looks like the James Bond villain Jaws had a kid with a handsome person.  He is married in the film to Jessica Chastain’s character, who based on how many movies she has been in this year she may actually have as much quality time with me as my girlfriend. Seriously, here are the tallies right now for most overused things in Hollywood in 2011:

“How You Like Me Now” by The Heavy – 377 movies, previews and commercials

“Raise your Glass” by Pink – 362 movies, previews and commercials

Jessica Chastain – 1,988 movies

The movie is about Curtis, who is having increasingly frightening dreams of a storm of near apocalyptic dimensions.  He has a wife (played by Chastain) of incredible patience and a deaf daughter who requires a costly surgery.  The movie moves along at a slow, but steady pace as the dreams get more drastic and the Curtis’ actions begin to appear less and less rational.  The dilemmas for Curtis are two-fold. One is that he is a working stiff in America and throughout the film health insurance, bank loans and his employment all become issues that put his family into crisis mode.  The second is that he is increasingly convinced of his dreams as prophecy, despite his knowledge that mental illness runs in his family.

Almost all of the film is centered on the family unit and the acting is excellent.  At times Curtis’ wife seems to have too much patience, but when you realize she knew that she was marrying a semi- scary looking man with mental illness in his family she probably expected things to get bumpy.  Shannon is especially good as Curtis becomes increasingly erratic and volatile because his brain is telling him he is mentally ill, but his soul is telling him something catastrophic is coming.

The end of the film is excellent.  And I will leave it at that.  The movie builds something very interesting as it progresses, but it does build a little too slowly for my taste.  Like my complaint with Moneyball and ESPECIALLY Drive, there was a little bit too much director self-pleasure with lingering shots and other indulgent, artistic superfluities, mostly in the first 2/3 of the film.  Other than that, no complaints.

Final Grade – A-/B+

An Extra Classy Weekend Of Comedy

I had two shows in venues that are classier than the places I generally perform in.  The first was Thursday at Tenjune, a New York City club and then at the Mohegan Sun Casino on Saturday.  Considering the last couple of bar gigs I had, simply the fact that no death threats were involved was a major upgrade.  Here’s the recap:

Tenjune Thursday

The gig at Tenjune, which I believe is an ancient term from the Far East that roughly translates to “douchey ‘brahs’ with loot and coke,” was actually organized by Williams College alumni to highlight the charity work of a couple of alums.  I was the comedy interlude in between the open bar hour and the Tenjune gang rape known as “cash bar.”  I was actually surprised to even get in to the club because I just thought these clubs took place entirely outside.  My experience is that you show up with one or two friends, a large black man (these clubs do not seem to hire white bouncers because black men with freedom are the only thing known to effectively intimidate the merchants of arrogance known as investment bankers), looks at you, notices that you are not famous or accompanied by eight women and then says “nah.”  Apparently these establishments do let people inside.

The event was from 8pm to 11pm so that the club could scrub out our liberal arts college nerdiness before the cool crowd showed up.  I knew I was in a different league when I went to the bathroom.  When I entered the bathroom there was, predictably, a West African man with an assortment of colognes and gums.  He was on his cell phone and standing in front of a urinal.  I said excuse me.  He glanced at me and continued talking into his phone.  I said excuse me again and he finally moved.  I was impressed, “Man these clubs are so cool and exclusive, even their bathroom attendants are arrogant pieces of sh*t!”  Maybe I was not on the list for the urinal.  Or maybe he knew I was a comedian.

After catching up with a few friends I took to the stage aroun 915 and did 20 minutes.  It went great.  I was really happy with the set and even happier to have the club comp me a few drinks because when I actually paid for one I needed a bank loan.  I am not saying it was too expensive, but when I asked one of the bouncers how much a bottle was for a table our of pure intellectual curiosity, he said “Your first born. And $550.”

An even cooler thing than being one-upped by a bathroom attendant happened after the set.  I was talking to some younger alums and a woman from the Class of 2009 (every time someone mentioned a class after 2008 from college I unnecessarily did math in my head to wonder if it was even legal for me to speak to them – worrying signs of both old age and saying perverted things on a daily basis) asked me about my lawyering days (I mentioned being a lawyer in my set as sort of a “this is what can happen if you fu*k up a Williams education/scared straight” sort of message).  I told her my first job out of law school was as an ADA in the Bronx.  She said, “Oh my Dad worked in the Bronx.”  As my slightly impaired mind started to piece it together I asked, “as what?”  She said, “He’s a judge,” and before I could ask (my brain was digging through information 6 years old) she said Judge Barrett.  Here is what transpired next:

Me: Holy sh*t!!!! He was the judge me and my bureau were in front of every day!

Judge B’s Daughter (JBD): Shut the fu*k up (if the Judge reads this she actually said “heck”)

Me: Judge STEVEN Barrett!

Both of us: Shrieking like teenage girls.

Me: Oh my God – I forgot – Judge Barrett was so nice to me and it was definitely because he told me in my first year that his daughter got into Williams and he was so happy.  It had to be that because I was a shi*ty lawyer!

JBD: And I remember him speaking nicely of this ADA from Williams!

ME: This is awesome! (this may be why people of my ilk don’t get into clubs like this.  No one has ever called anything close to this mundane as “awesome” in a shrine of coolness like Tenjune).

(Contrast this entire exchange with my set three days earlier where I nearly got into a fight to the death at a midtown pub – COMEDY!!!)

We spoke for a little bit more, basically in awe of this tremendous coincidence.  Somehow I brought up Breaking Bad (I have an amazing array of avenues with which to introduce that show into conversation – example: Hey, did you see that Obama’s poll numbers are down?  “Yeah, but you know what’s up – Breaking Bad’s ratings!”) and she informed me that Judge Barrett was a big fan of Breaking Bad.  All I could think was, damn – if I was still an ADA in the Bronx, not only would I have health care paid for by NY, a steady salary,some  pride and a mother who did not worry about me as much, but also ANOTHER thing besides Williams College for Judge Barrett and me to bond over.  Then JBD told me that the Judge was also a fan of Hawaii Five-0 and the good feelings subsided.

So Tenjune went well and like they say the best things in life are free because I did not get paid a cent.  But I was comped three gin and tonics, which according to Tenjune is a $458 value so I guess I made out like a bandit.

Mohegan Sun

Saturday was a trip to Mohegan Sun (via Greyhound/Peter Pan bus lines in conjunction with my endorsement for Poverty) to open for Michael Winslow, also known as the sound guy from Police Academy.  When I arrived to Mohegan Sun a woman at the casino said, “You look just like Dwayne The Rock Johnson.”  I said, “Yeah I get that. And Adam Sandler” And then she howled with laughter.  And I cried inside. Naturally no one would confuse me with either of those multi-millionaires at Mohegan Sun for a number of reasons.  Ballers don’t arrive on Greyhound, don’t make their first meal at the casino a trip to Johnny Rockets and definitely don’t play $5 on the penny slot machine and call it a night.

 

I went to check in and was informed that I was to go to the VIP check in.  I then asked them to send a reference letter to the bouncers at Tenjune to let them know that I am, in fact, a VIP.  I went up to my room, wrote out my set and then soaked up the Mohegan Sun ambiance:

  • I enjoy casinos.  They are like the south.  People are either bringing their A game physically or their F game.  Not a lot of people putting in B+ effort.  That is where I come in.  My fashion line/taste could simply be called B-
  • Asians dominate the casino!  If you love Asians casinos are a great place (I don’t mean if you want to have sex with ironing board shaped Asian women because you “like” tiny, boyish figures i.e. you have not yet come to grips with your homosexuality).  They are everywhere.  And don’t take this negatively.  It is just a fact.  Which I guess means if you really hate Asians, Mohegan Sun is also a great place because you get to see lots of Asians losing money.
  • A Ben And Jerry’s open until 330 am – noted.

So I got to the Cabaret theater, which seemed like it held 400 or so people (much bigger than a comedy club of that same capacity, but the people are not herded together like slaves on a slave ship to maximize club profit).  The crowd was full by showtime which was cool, but Michael Winslow was not there yet.  He arrived at 915 but said the 6 credit introduction I was given to say when bringing him (only a two person show so I was an emcee/feature hybrid) was “too much.”  So he accommodated me by typing up an 11 credit introduction with jokes for me to read before bringing him up.  And he typed with only his index fingers.  So as soon as it printed I ran out on stage with it like it was a Supreme Court order to stop the execution of Troy Davis (too soon?) and the show began.

I did my set and made only two mistakes.  One was a momentum killing new jokes about halfway through the set.  They were warmed up and I sabotaged myself.  It was like DeNiro in Heat when he is about to escape with his girlfriend, but makes the fatal mistake of going after Waingro – success was right in front of me and I took it off course.

I got the crowd back pretty quickly though and then a few minutes later I got the 5 minute light.  Then I made a decision that ruined my weekend.  I opted to end with my Good WIll Hunting bit, which does well in clubs, but for a big theater-sized space was an iffy choice.  It got laughs throughout, but the final line fell completely flat.  And that was it.  For that crowd my Obama closer was the obvious choice and I just didn’t do it.  Part of me thought, maybe I will have time and part of me must have wanted to to take the risk (the House won per usual).  I knew better and yet I closed with the wrong bit.  I felt like the pitcher in this historic baseball game from 2001:

But unlike that scenario no one was clapping when I delivered my final pitch.  They eventually clapped in recognition for the 26 minutes that we shared that were enjoyable but sometimes, like a sporting event, it does not matter how well you played the game if your final play loses the game.

Michael Winslow went up and crushed and I have to say, his sound effects are frighteningly good (it’s been a while since I saw Spaceballs or Police Academy).  After the show some people went out of there way to tell me I was awesome which felt good.  Perhaps they went to the bathroom for my last three minutes.

I ended the night how any comedian living free in a casino for a night would end – by walking around looking at machines and tables that would get me in trouble and then settling on an ice cream sundae from Ben and Jerry’s (at midnight, so my finding out that they close at 330 am was a little over-confident on my part).  I sat alone on a bench while eating it and people-watched while people watched me.  What I realized is that if you are a grown man with a bizarre look of comfort and confidence sitting alone on a bench in a casino eating ice cream people (esp women) will only give you two looks: 1) is that guy special needs? or 2) that guy is the coolest customer in this place.  I got plenty of both.

So thanks to the Williams College alums at the show, the people with kind words after the Mohegan Sun gig and the Ben and Jerrys folks.  They helped make yet another week of comedy a fun and interesting experience.  Just kidding, comedy is still misery.

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Movie of the Week: Moneyball

A movie that combines the excitement of baseball with the excitement of statistics was most certainly a tough pitch.  That may explain why Moneyball movie was a struggle to get made.  But it finally got made and is well-acted, pretty well-written and way too long for its subject matter.

The movie is based on the Michael Lewis bestseller that chronicles Billy Beane, the General Manager for the Oakland A’s, who in an effort to make the cash poor A’s compete with franchises like the Yankees, ushered in a statistics-heavy form of scouting for baseball, commonly referred to a sabermetrics.

The writer and director do a pretty good job of making this seemingly boring story watchable for about 90 minutes.  Unfortunately, the movie is 126 minutes long and by the end feels like a three hour epic.  The movie is a treat for Brad Pitt fans since he is on the screen about 98% of the time and he bulked up to play Beane, who was described in the book as a fitness freak.  But Moneyball ends up feeling closer to a George Clooney-level vanity project (or in Hollywood speak – a “passion project”).  Jonah Hill is in top cardiac arrest, Type II diabetes form as the Yale grad geek who helps open up Beane’s eyes to the value of using statistical analysis in fielding a successful, but cheap team.  Jonah Hill has proven adept at exactly two things in acting right now – loud vulgar screaming or dead-eyed, lifeless dramatic acting (not saying I don’t enjoy some of his work, but let’s not start hailing his versatility as an actor).  Guess which of the two he uses here (he is given some good lines that do make his character more engaging than the performance, which is basically a slightly less creepy version of his performance in Cyrus).

Like any sport films, the construction of the band of misfits is the most enjoyable part of the film and the recap of the A’s record 20 game winning streak gives the movie a rare jolt of actual sports excitement and drama.

So the movie is pretty well done, but does anyone want to spend 2+ hours for something slow moving, basically about statistics?  In other words, like baseball, it is nice to watch, full of intricate details, and way too long for its own good.

Final Grade – B

Pub Pummelling – When Comedy Goes Very Wrong

Last night I went three blocks from my house to go watch the consistently solid weekly show that Phoebe Robinson runs at Manchester Pub at 48th and 2nd.  I had no intention of performing.  Just wanted to watch and relax with some of the free nachos that Phoebe gets for the comics from the bar.  The show was set for 7pm but when I arrived at 6:59pm I saw no other comedians.  As it turned out, because of the UN doing UN things this week, and Obama doing Obama things, midtown east side was and is a mess.  So Phoebe was unable to make it past Park Avenue and the other comedians were coming late.

Rather than let the show be cancelled I figured, I will host the show and do some comedy community service.  Granted the crowd did not seem at all inclined to hear comedy, but all comedians have worked reluctant audiences.  That audience had an interesting cast of characters worth noting:

THE GOOD

  • 3 regulars sitting close to the stage, fairly tough guys and good supporters of the show.  If Manchester Pub is Altamont and the Comedians are the Rolling Stones, these guys would be our Hells Angels
  • A pair of women who did not seem to want comedy, but importantly were open to comedy. These are the swing audience members who will join in to whatever vibe the room adopts.
  • The comedians: Harriet Hallway, Ryan Johnson, Andrew Schwartztol  and Alex Carbano

THE BAD

  • Group of three men talking loudly near the stage – European
  • Group of three men talking loudly in a foreign language in the back – Asian

THE UGLY

  • Ginger dude and his chubby friend with sunglasses on the crown of his head in the back of the bar

I did 8 difficult minutes where half of the time I could barely hear myself and the other half getting individual laughs that were drowned out by all the talking.  I brought Harriet up first and she tried valiantly, but like all efforts last night, failed to shift the room’s attention fully to the stage (with the exception of when she mentioned porn, which apparently is the universal language to men, both domestic and foreign).  Ryan went up next and cut his time about two minutes short.  Then Andrew went up and a show that was a shaky ride at best turned into this:

Before Andrew went up I asked the crowd to settle down and that the show was going to be very short.  All we needed was 15 minutes of their attention and they might even end up enjoying the remainder of the show.  Andrew got up and the crowd was as quiet as they had been all show.  But then the European table started chatting loudly again and Andrew broke off what little momentum the show had built and did a touch of crowd work with that table.  They ignored him, as they had everything else that was not a comment about porn from a female comedian.  And then the chubby dude from “THE UGLY” group interrupted.

For back story, to give you an idea of how physically intimidating Andrew Schwartzol is – imagine Woody Allen banged Ellen Degeneres and they had a kid.  Pretty easy prey for a heckler, especially in a show that is already fraught with difficulties.  As Andrew worked through a set, with the crowd calmer than they had been all show, a douchebag in the back (sunglasses resting on the crown of his head guy) yelled out, “We are having a drinking game – whenever one of your jokes bombs we have a drink, so we are getting drunk.”

The crowd quickly lost interest as Andrew and Chubby Sunglasses had an awkward heckler-hecklee conversation.  I got back on stage and with only one comedian remaining I thought I could diffuse the situation so I said, “Hey guys we only have one more comedian and don’t worry Andrew, that dude has to leave soon so he can anonymously post hateful YouTube comments at home.”

Now, on a scale of 1-10 of cruelty, that insult was a 3 at best.  But apparently it was enough for sunglasses’ ginger friend to start making “you wanna go” faces.  So I asked Ginger was his problem was, since his friend was being a “piece of sh*t.”  Ginger and I had the following exchange (approximation:

Ginger: Why don’t you try sounding out anonymously?

J-L: Why are you guys being assholes?  So the show is not going well and you decide to be jerks?

Ginger: Your show is going terribly and then you start talking sh*t to my friend?

J-L: Your friend interrupted the show you idiot!

Ginger: Just keep trying to say anonymously.

J-L: This has no place here, but I have a law degree from Georgetown so don’t talk down to me like your are smarter than me because you are not.

Ginger: Well my Dad was a DA in New York so your law degree doesn’t impress me.

J-L: Wow – dd you just play the “My Daddy is an important man” card?  What is this fifth grade?

After some more mumblings and curse words I brought up Alex to close the show.  He did his best to interact with the crowd and change the tone, but people had completely given up on the show by then.  So I got back on stage and ended with the following speech, worthy of Henry V:

“Well thanks to everyone for almost listening.  We are here every week and the shows aren’t usually this awkward, but hopefully we don’t have the two fu*king pieces of sh*t sitting in the back next week. (brief interruption by Ginger) You are lucky this is not my show and better yet, not my bar, or else I’d cut your fu*king face open with the broken end of a bottle.”  And on cue the three tough guys who support the show and look like swarthy pirates in modern day clothing yelled in support of me, “We love it – we got your fu*king back!”  Now nothing happened and one of the guys tried to make amends afterwards (I think on seeing me too close for comfort) and I just told him to have a modicum of respect for people trying to entertain.  Of course I was disappointed the evening did not go like this (though verbally I played the role of both DeNiro and Pesci – I guess Andrew would have been Ray Liotta):

I told Andrew after the show I am no fighter, but I am big and a comedian, which means I can cause damage and have nothing to lose.  Comedy, ladies and gentleman.  Comedy.

Cafeteria Comedy

Last Friday I had a big pay day.  I had a gig at Holy Cross, a Catholic college in Worcester, Massachusetts.  This was a big show for me, not just because of the pay, but because it was a chance to finally exorcise the demons of Medgar Evers, which is the worst show I have ever been paid for (I have had to make this paid distinction because of a non-paying bar show I did in Park Slope, Brooklyn in late August of this year.  The Medgar Evers show made me want to kill other people, whereas the show in Brooklyn made me want to kill myself).

Joe Pontillo, who I asked to open for me, picked me up in midtown at 3:30 pm which the GPS calculated would get us to Worcester a few minutes before 7pm.  With the show at 10pm that would be plenty of time to eat, prep my set and be creepy around college girls for an hour or so.  Unfortunately thanks to New York traffic and one of the worst traffic slow downs I have ever seen, which we encountered in Connecticut, we arrived at 9pm in Worcester.  It actually could have been a lot worse, but Joe actually drove on the shoulder of the highway, passing approximately 100 cars, while I hid my face muttering “we are such assholes.”

So we arrived at the Holy Cross campus and my contact was a kid named Matt, who was a very nice fellow.  I asked him what my content restrictions were (an e-mail I received informed me that I would be told of some minor restrictions) and they were” no priest abuse jokes” and “no contraception jokes”.  I was ok with that since I was never abused by a priest and don’t believe in condoms either.  I have no jokes on either (but I assume the spirit of the restrictions and did not tell any abortion material – even though Catholic teaching is that that is more murder, not so much contraception).

My information was that I was performing at Hogan Ballroom. Sounded very promising.  When I walked in to the building I saw the Hogan Ballroom and it was a massive, elegant room, that was already full of people (apparently it was Homecoming weekend so there were lots of events and extra people).  And then, like in the movies where someone is excited about something elegant, only to have it revealed that there item is actually the dirty thing next to the elegant thing, Matt said, “OK, well let’s head downstairs.”

We descended several levels of stairs and entered a lounge/cafeteria that had a stage and chairs set up.  Another student liaison named Mike hooked me and Joe up with his meal card and we got some dinner down there.  While waiting for my chicken fingers, two guys came up to me and asked if I had been a DA.  I found this interesting and flattering that someone had seen me on a flyer and I guess had researched me.  Of course he and his friends ended up sitting far away from the stage talking, but they did not disturb the show so I guess I broke even.

The show went well.  We were competing with a very loud gathering at a pub area directly outside the cafeteria.  It was loud because the doors were open and as Matt said to me, “I have never seen those doors closed” when I asked if we could close the doors. That was enough of an ominous statement that we left the doors open.  There were probably 40 people in the vicinity of the show paying varying degrees of attention, mostly very good.  Joe opened and did yeoman’s work wrangling the crowd to attention for 13 minutes.  I then did 50 minutes to a pretty strong response, but I will be the first to admit that transitioning from 30 to 50 minutes is not as easy at it seems.  I have an abundance of material, but doing different lengths of time is not merely the act of adding on minutes – it is a different pacing and intensity.  I would compare it to being a great 200 meter runner and then running the 400 meter race.  Unless your name is Michael Johnson, it is a transition that requires some practice and training.  I was still fairly happy with the way the set went and I only counted 7 gasps and looks of judgment on sexual topics.  The post show reactions were what really defined the show though:

  1. 0 CD sales
  2. 0 facebook friend requests
  3. 0 twitter followers added
  4. One kid came up to me and looked at the CDs and said, “Oh sweet, just take one?” Yeah kid, just sign up for this credit card – get the fu*k out of here!
  5. My high school friend Scott, who I have not seen since 2001-ish, works near Worcester and came to the show.  He said to me post set, “I don’t think you’ll be back here, but if you are ever performing around here again I will get my friends and co-workers out.  You were hilarious.”

So thanks to the people who did watch and laugh and hopefully the check doesn’t bounce.  Hopefully I will prove Scott wrong (either by going back to Holy Cross or finally deciding that I am not funny).

Top 10 Summer Movies – 2011

For anyone who reads my blog because they enjoy my movie reviews here’s my top ten from this Summer.  Sorry fans of Bridesmaids – I gave it a decent review, but I liked these 10 movies better.  So get out to a theater or re-order your Netflix queue for these:

  1. Rise of the Planet of The Apes – Tea Party’s idea of Evolution, which I assume is why they oppose it
  2. Crazy Stupid Love – Best romantic comedy since 500 Days of Summer
  3. X Men: First Class – washed away the stain from X Men 3 and X Men Origins-Wolverine
  4. Warrior – a thoughtful, emotional movie about MMA, which is presumably why MMA fans did not see it
  5. The Help – lesson I took away: White women are horrible racists, except for the white woman with big breasts
  6. The Trip – I may be biased because I am a comedian, but I loved this road tripping movie about two comics
  7. Captain America – Benefited greatly from not being Thor (which was not terrible) or having Ryan Reynolds in it
  8. Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part 2 – bye bye Potter.
  9. The Debt (3rd two-word “The” movie on the list) – brought a little high class to the Summer season
  10. Midnight in Paris – I prefer Woody Allen being cynical and depressing, but this fairly positive movie was pleasant

The biggest loser of the Summer – Ryan Reynolds.  Had the worst movie of the Summer, Green Lantern, and received such bad reviews for The Change Up that he actually broke my streak of seeing movies with Jason Bateman.

Movie of the Week: Drive

This week’s movie of the week is another sneak preview provided by the New York Times’ Film Club.  So me and my old, liberal, hardcopy-of-newspaper reading Jewish friends sat down for the Ryan Gosling action vehicle Drive.  The movie co-starred Breaking Bad’s Bryan Cranston, Sons of Anarchy’s Ron Perlman and Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks so not one, not two, but three television transitions to film depend on Gosling (granted Perlman has already found some success as Hellboy).  To sum up this movie, those three should not quit their day jobs (both because they are great on their television shows and because this movie is not going to make them movie stars).  Like a girl’s first period this movie is bloody, confusing and messy.

 

First off Ryan Gosling is having a tremendous year.  He has been an indie film darling, but between nailing Eva Mendes, and starring in Crazy Stupid Love this Summer and The Ides of March with George Clooney next month he is officially making the move from indie star to possible A-list Hollywood leading man in 2011.  Drive was meant to be an action vehicle for him to show some versatility I am guessing, though it looks more like it was a relaxing paycheck where he could take a break from actually acting.

Gosling plays a Hollywood stunt driver who moonlights as a getaway car driver.  Seems like an intriguing character.  Unfortunately none of the character is developed.  He is a mystery man in terms of his origins and what drives him (pun intended), but we simultaneously know so many other facts about him that it feels peculiar to not know why he is the man that he is.  I think they were aiming for man of mystery cool with Gosling’s character, but he ends up just seeming like someone with poor social and verbal skills.  The opening scene of the film is the highlight and raised the bar for what I expected from the movie.  However, it falls short for the next 90 minutes.

Gosling lives next door to a mom whose criminal husband (not a bad guy criminal, but more of a looking-for-a-second-chance criminal) has just been released from prison.  Of course Gosling has a whole week before the husband returns to become a surrogate father figure and a platonic husband figure to the woman, played by Carrie Mulligan.

Well, once the husband returns our hero must help him do a job in order to keep his wife and son safe.  That is when the movie, both for the characters and the audience, goes off the rails.  It becomes an incredibly violent bloodfest.  Gosling is a stone-cold killer, which is never explained how or why he became like this (not even a suggested hint), and every gun shot or stomping if offered in incredibly grotesque visuals.

If I was going to describe the music of the film, as well as the motif, I would say imagine the techno-synth atrocities that made up the songs of Scarface with Al Pacino.  Now imagine Adele were singing those songs.  Pretty interesting.  It is like poetic, terrible sounding music, which is exactly how I would describe the movie in general.  There is definite effort by the director (partly through excessive slow motion) to make an artistic action movie, but it just isn’t as good as it could have been.  Fortunately everyone in the project has other, bigger things to fall back on.

Final Grade – C+

 

Baton Rouge Journal Part 3: The Fedora & The…

So Saturday night seemed like it would be a tough night, following a very strong Friday night of shows. LSU had their first home game of the season Saturday night, which I feared would mean that the only crowd we would get would be disgruntled LSU fans, sort of resembling.  It turned out that the 8pm crowd was fantastic.  The material killed and the incredibly high percentage of plus size women (they were so plus-sized I thought about referring to them as multiplication sized women) were very forgiving of me mocking them.

So after three shows, which I was very proud of under my belt, all I had to do was get through the 10pm show unscathed and I would have
a perfect weekend.  I think you know where this is heading.

The 10pm crowd rolled in and did not look any different from the other crowds.  Decent size and just one drunk big girl who was trying to make the emcee’s set about her.  So I got on stage and felt pretty sure it would go well.

First two jokes – barely a response (admittedly I forgot to try a new one, with local flavor, about how I cannot eat catfish because it feels weird eating something with a mustache that isn’t an Italian woman).  I think one woman laughed really hard at one of the jokes so I said, “Hey everybody, she’s right, just to let you know.  That joke is awesome.”  Then The Bitch In The Fedora started talking (sounds like a companion play to The Motherfu*ker With The Hat) and so did the table which seemed captained by the aforementioned drunk big girl.  At that point it became sort of a war.  The Bitch In The Fedora kept saying things and stepping on punchlines like I actually wanted her opinion.

I should note that women in fedoras are a particular pet peeve of mine.  All women who wear fedoras should be forced to marry all men who wear sunglasses indoors and they should be forced, with all of their offspring, to move to an island which will be called Douchebag Island where their collective delusional sense of cool cannot infect normal people.  When I worked at the Bronx DA’s office if I were receiving a domestic violence complaint I would ask the woman one question: “This is awful, but before we proceed I need to know one thing, were you wearing a fedora when your husband punched you?  Oh you weren’t?  Phew – great to hear!  We will nail that son of a bitch!”

So when you take a dumb and rude southern woman and place a fedora on her head it is as if you have just made me an awful sundae and it now has its cherry.  So the set went on and I won constant laughs from about three tables and stares like I was speaking Arabic to the rest of the crowd (actually if I was speaking Arabic I probably would have at least gotten booed which would have been a reaction of some kind).  I did get one boo from another woman when I mentioned Obama even though I specifically requested no one boo or cheer.

So after my set I went out to the bar connected to the club and watched the locals.  I have said this before, but there is a real degradation of our culture going on.  We are rotting at the core.  Hollywood exports so many ideas and cultural trends to the rest of the country, which now lacks any kind of identity.   The small towns and cities of America truly feel like testing grounds for reality show fashions and trends.  Like instead of testing makeup on monkeys, we now market test the power of The Real Housewives, the Kardashians and Jersey Shore on ignorant small town folk, who are all too eager to adopt someone else’s identity.  I was particularly disturbed by a woman who appeared to be grinding her daughter on the dance floor, apparently trying to entice her daughter’s friends to get with her.  She was very surgically enhanced and appeared physically fit so to me she was just another cougar a/k/a awful parent.  Then the emcee told me something remarkable.  This woman was not the mother.  She was a friend.  She was 31 and her younger friend was 26.  I honestly thought the woman was 50. So on one hand I was happy that she was
not the girl’s mother, but on the other hand I was looking at a 31 year old woman who had literally tanned, implanted and hair-dyed her way to looking like a mash-up of Pamela Anderson and Richard Harris.

But just as I was deep in my analysis of the Benjamin Button of southern whores I was then approached by The Bitch In The Fedora.   She offered me the following gem (while still wearing her fedora):

“Hey, I thought you were good.  But you’re from New York right?  See that’s probably it.  People probably didn’t get you so that is why
no one was laughing.”

I said, “Oh, maybe, yeah ok, well thanks I am glad you liked it.”  That took all of my energy.  90% of my trip was fun and a success (I ate IHOP, I worked with a great headliner, Rahn Ramey, and had three excellent sets), but as comedy can do, the last note was a sour, fedora-wearing one.

I went back to the hotel after that because I had to be awake at 400 AM for my shuttle to the New Orleans train station to take The Crescent – the 30 hour train from New Orleans to New York City.  So after 2 ½ hours of great sleep I made my way to New Orleans for the longest continuous trip in my life.  But unlike my other long train rides, this one I prepared accordingly.  I reserved a roomette, which is basically a closet with two seats that convert to a small twin-width bed and a tiny toilet located in the space where a full size-width bed would end.  It may actually have been possible to take a shit and still be lying down on a majority of the bed.

Just as I thought I would be the world’s most comfortably buried alive person fate intervened.  The door to my roomette was missing a large pane of glass, which means that even with the curtain pulled over people would be able to hear me speaking to myself in different celebrity voices as well as the sound of my sh*t hitting a steel toilet.  Naturally, this was unacceptable so I asked for a different roomette.  None were available, but fortunately a room (no ette) was available.  The rooms are literally double the size and include a separate bathroom as well.  I felt like such a lucky baller that once all my stuff was in my room I immediately went to the peasants in coach and began offering women the other bed in my room (“that’s right I got a bed to spare motherfu*kers” was what I was yelling in the snack car) in exchange for favors of the flesh.  It did not pan out, but I think they at least respected me even if they didn’t outright love me.

For some of you the idea of being in a small room on a train for 30 straight hours may sound like torture, but to a comedian living in a studio apartment it just sounds like another 1.25 days.  So perhaps if comedy doesn’t work out (it’s getting there) I could have a future as a CIA operative in withstanding torture tactics.

So thank you very much to Rahn Ramey, the Baton Rouge Funny Bone, the first three crowds and small pockets of the fourth crowd, and the
people of Amtrak.  And everyone else I spoke of well in the first two parts of this Baton Rouge Journal.  God help the rest of you.

Baton Rouge Journal Part 2: A Night of 3…

The Comedy Club

Last night were the first two of four Baton Rouge shows and to my surprise they were both great.  I felt like the crowds, which were not much bigger than the small crowds last year, were so much better.  And perhaps I am a slightly better comedian as well.  Either way, fun times on stage.  I received some kind words after the show, but my favorite compliment was after my second set (which was an A- versus an A+ for the first set):

“Hey man – this is the second time I’ve seen you here. They may not have been laughing a lot, but that is cause your wit is so dry.  But I was dying.”  Of course I then drank three gin and tonics and briefly pondered whether I was imagining laughter, like some comedic version of A Beautiful Mind.

Another exchange I enjoyed:

“Oh man – that was hilarious, but I was holding in some of my laughs, you know, cause I’m white.”  Apparently my half blackness is not enough of a validation for my racial jokes about my Dad.  Oh well – nothing like insecure, silent laughter to make a comedian feel good.

So after the show I had a pass to the strip club across the street because I have decided to pursue a WWPSD philosophy for my comedy career: What Would Pauly Shore Do?  So I went to the strip club and gave limp handshakes to people.

The Strip Club

The name of the club is the Gold Club, but apparently they are not affiliated with the closed and indicted club in Atlanta because no one seemed to know what I meant when I kept asking for “the Patrick Ewing treatment.”

I sat at the bar drinking beers watching the women dance.  One of the amazing things about drinking at a strip club in a small city or town is that the drinks are still cheaper than a regular NYC bar or lounge on a Saturday night.  But let’s discuss the main event:

  • These were the least aggressive strippers I have seen.  Granted I have only been to a strip club now three times, but in NYC and especially in Atlantic City you get bum rushed by women.  These women seemed very indifferent.  Then again it may have been my New Balance sneakers that were acting like garlic to bare-breasted vampires.
  • I had the third biggest chest in the club.  There was one stripper on stage whose breasts were so small I think they could have been shown on network television without black bars.  Perhaps the Gold Club could have been called “Great Personalities” – what a great idea for a 377-view J-L Cauvin YouTube sketch!
  • The club played “How You Like Me Now,” officially making that song inescapable –  movie trailers, video games, my iPod and strip clubs.
  • I had one conversation with a stripper (Russian ancestry, of course) who told me she was in grad school for biochemistry.  And I actually believed her (I mean she has to know that education is a turn off for men in her club, though she might have thought I was gay when I quoted and impersonated the views on education of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast to her), probably because I like the idea of being a lawyer and a comedian and still inferior to a woman who shakes her tits for a living.  And like any conversation in a strip club I then walked away and asked “What’s open for eats right now?”  She said “IHOP should be open.”  And that was the first erection I got all night.

The Pancake Club

IHOP was bumping when I walked in.  Packed with fat people of all colors and levels of sobriety.  It felt like a Millionaire Matchmaker mixer for men and women who shop at large size clothing stores.  I sat down and ordered pancakes, bacon and a milkshake.  Apparently my waitress (Michele if I recall correctly) thought I also ordered bottle service for two in a private room because her tone was the most flirtatious I had encountered all night.  She wasn’t a bad looking woman, but there is something wrong when the level of flirtation from your waitress at IHOP is much stronger than that of the women across the street who get paid to get you to put your face between their breasts.  I WANT MY COUNTRY BACK!!!  A place I used to love, where your IHOP waitress was a kindly old lady, like a nice nun in a Church of pancakes, and strippers were aggressive, STD-riddled whores with C section scars and drug addictions.  I blame Obama’s policies which are ruining and confusing these wonderful small business entrepreneurs.

I then went back to my room at the Hampton Inn and fell asleep smelling like pancakes and comedy.  Disgusting.

The third part of my journey will not be posted until September 12th because I will be on a 30 hour train ride from New Orleans to NYC with no wifi.  Yes I let the terrorists win.  And the train was cheaper because it was free with my Amtrak points.  So I guess me and the terrorists win.

Baton Rouge Journal Part 1: Making Friends Despite Fitting…

Yesterday I arrived in Baton Rouge for a second tour of duty at the Baton Rouge Funny Bone – if you missed my first visit last year here is the link to a song inspired by my visit:

https://jlcauvin.com/?p=1950

Naturally, because they agreed to have me back and pay me money I decided to come back down here.  And I am excited to report that I left an impression on a few people, which is pretty cool considering I fit 80% of the profile of a lone wolf terrorist.

Yesterday after I watched Barack Obama channel some of the great speakers of our time (I kept thinking of Denzel Washington in Malcolm X and The Rock c.1999 to name two) I was disturbed to see a breaking news announcement on CNN that there is a credible, but unconfirmed plot for September 11th attacks on Washington DC and NYC.  First Mayor Bloomberg told everyone to go about their business, which felt awkward because I, knowing that I would be travelling on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, opted for a roomette on a 30 hour Amtrak trip from New Orleans to NYC, rather than a 2.5 hour flight back.  I am willing to concede one to the terrorists,  So with a few months of obsessive usage of bottled water immediately after 9/11 and this trip my career record post 9/11 versus the terrorists is approximately 3,565-100.  So sure, I have let them win a little, despite the fact that well-guarded presidents and mayors have explicitly told me not to do that, but all in all, not a bad record. (side note: all other long train rides that I have taken and will take because I have fear and discomfort in tiny 50 seat planes do not count towards Al Qaeda’s total, but rather towards my general lack of courage).

But one of the things they were specifically warning against was the threat of a lone-wolf terrorist, which made me nervous.  Mainly because I think I fit the profile of a lone wolf terrorist.

  • Beige
  • Foreign name
  • Distrust of women – though unlike terrorists this does not come from some lack of contact with them or some religious doctrine.  However, if you listen to my 2nd CD you will see that alot of it stems from relations with a Jew.  So sort of a wash here.
  • Underemployed in my field of choice
  • Relatively young male
  • Just a handful of friends
  • Sitting alone in a Hampton Inn in a small town in America planning on travelling on 9-11
  • Thick, angry eyebrows

I think you get the picture.  However, separating me (and as Comedian Jimmy Shubert indicated should be part of the screening process for TSA) I am funny.  At this point if someone reads a file on me – my comedy reels would be what save me from suspicion (even though I drop videos like Bin Laden did, but with far fewer hits).  I do always have this fear on the road that I will get caught like Michael Clarke Duncan in The Green Mile.  I’ll be holding some dead body after having tried to provide assistance when I came upon it during a journey in the middle of nowhere looking for a movie theater. However, I will be suspected of foul play immediately when they see the size of me and realize that my claim to be a comedian cannot be substantiated because no one has heard of me.  In other words I will be in deep sh*t unless I can heal urinary infections with my bare hands.

So of course when I visit a place like Baton Rouge I always have mixed feelings.  They have a governor of color, but who is radically conservative.  They know how to pronounce my last name, but do not understand half of my jokes.  Its a complicated place.  But I made some friends already so I, as well as the city, can’t be all that bad.

The Old Lady on The Plane

On my Southwest flight down to New Orleans yesterday I got a middle seat, which, given my bulk, is really a scenario where all three of us lose.  I was in Boarding Group C, which in historical terms is like being the guy sitting at the back of the bus that has to get off so that pre-protest Rosa Parks can have a seat.  It’s that bad.

Fortunately I was sitting next to a very nice older lady from Baton Rouge.  Of course I mentioned that my father was Haitian in the first ten minutes of conversation just to avoid any possibility of racial slurs being slipped into casual conversation.  Fortunately she kept speaking to me so I think she was down with the brown (ish).  We had a pleasant conversation and it sort of eased my general terror of flying (if I use the words fear, terror, flying and 9/11 enough in this post I am hoping the government tags my website and boosts hits – even if for a possible investigation. At least my google analytics numbers will go up).

One of her lessons for me, since she recently lost her youngest brother to random cartel violence in Mexico and she and her husband were having medical issues was to live life and not pass up any opportunities.  I then explained to her that I am taking a 30 hour train ride on Sunday out of abject fear, so don’t expect me to go sky diving or sharing needles with Magic Johnson any time soon.

Brad The Van Driver

The next leg of my trip was a 75 minute van ride from New Orleans to my hotel in Baton Rouge.  Trust me – the shuttle cost and Southwest flight to New Orleans is far cheaper than direct flights to Baton Rouge.  It turns out it was my driver from a year ago and he remembered me.  We had a great conversation on football and tennis (which in the macho south is a rare combo I suppose since tennis is mostly for queers and Europeans – hey ain’t they the same thang!!! haahahahahah).  So after that he decided to open up to me on his interracial dating problems (I also mentioned my black Dad in the first ten minutes of conversation).  He is white and the woman he is pursuing is black.  He told me a great story of how they met (at IHOP – the Interracial House of Pancakes) and how he wants to be with her, but she seems uncomfortable with being in a relationship with a white guy (it seemed to be a cultural gap, not a penis issue).  I told him he needs to lay down the law and let her know what he feels and that he cannot be shoved into that friend role that women love to have (because many women are parasitic scumbags) – the guy that gives a woman his love, which validates them, but they return vague, line-crossing friendship and pretend to not be quite sure how the guy feels about her.  I told him he needs to go for broke with her. If it works he has the woman he cares about.  If not, he has his dignity.  And if all this goes horribly wrong and violent I don’t want to say anything further without my lawyer present.

I then met up with Brad and a couple of his buddies to watch the Saints game last night at Chilis.  It really is easy to make friends in this world as long as you get out of the comedy world, which is full of ass-kissing former losers looking to socially ostracize the closest thing to a normal person they can find.  And then of course, getting involved in comedy is a great way to lose your normal friends.  What a business!

My IHOP Waiter

Even though many American towns are starting to blur into the same image for me (strip mall, gas station, fat people, teenage girls looking like strippers, rinse, repeat), I did remember correctly that there was an IHOP across the street from the Hampton Inn in Baton Rouge.  I went once, a year ago, to this establishment, but when I walked in I recognized one of the waiters.  He then recognized me while I was sitting and said, “You’ve been here, right?” “I replied “yep,” to which he replied, “You were reading, right?”  And I had been reading a book last time I was there.  So I was impressed with his memory, but also the fact that in the last year there realistically may not have been one other customer with reading material in their possession.  Amurrrrrica!!!!

But it felt good to be remembered.  So to my two friends and one person who remembered me in Baton Rouge – I dedicate the four shows this weekend to your kindness and friendliness.  Of course I don’t expect the shows to go that well (especially since Saturdays shows directly conflict with LSU’s home opener).  But at least you will be able to tell the authorities that there is no way I could be a terrorist.