My college roommate–who went on to become an attorney–married an Indian woman who worked as a pediatrician. They celebrated their nuptials at a big country club just outside of Washington, DC. He made his entrance riding a massive pale horse. (The grounds of the country club wouldn’t accommodate an elephant.) Both of their families are Indian so the September ceremony stretched for nearly five hours. The club had four different bars, which allowed me to toggle comfortably between college football and the ceremony.  In the course of that wedding day, I ate 40 lbs of food. And, by one conservative estimate, I ingested 11 gallons of curry. Along with seven gallons of bourbon. Also a conservative estimate. At the tail end of the wedding night, I was on the verge of winning $300 in a friendly game of cards. But I had to sell my chips when my other college roommate called me in a panic. He had wandered off very drunkenly from the reception several hours prior and had passed out somewhere on the club’s golf course. He hadn’t sobered up enough to navigate his way out of there and had rang a dozen people from the wedding party before I answered. It took five of us two hours scouring the fairways before we found him. It took all six of us another hour to escape that well-manicured jungle.

There was a different wedding where I “met” a chick at the reception then got “stuck” in a hotel room with her after we both “volunteered” to be bumped from our overbooked return flights. Then there was the wedding that was held at a museum. (I’m pretty sure the Chagall was damaged before we got there.) At another wedding, Fergie–who happened to be the groom’s first cousin–sang a Luther Vandross standard for the newly married couple to dance their first dance to.(*)

I haven’t been to a great many weddings, but a significant number of those I have attended have been…epic. In one way or another. So I feel like I know some shit about how weddings are really supposed to go down. And I feel qualified to declare that weddings–all weddings from this point forward–have been ruined by a movie.

Rachel Getting Married is not new. You may remember it. It came out a couple years back and earned Anne Hathaway her first Oscar nomination. The conceit is surprisingly simple: a recovering addict is released from a rehab center to attend her sister’s wedding which is being held at their father’s Southern Connecticut mini-estate. Rachel, the one getting married, is on the verge of finishing a PhD in psychology. The guy she’s marrying is a musician. We learn that–and a whole lot more–about the two people who are about to make a very happy couple as we watch the sister slash addict–played by Anne Hathaway–awkwardly integrate herself back into the broken family.

Why was it broken? Well…there was a tragic death in the family that ultimately caused the divorce of Mama Rachel and Papa Rachel. The Anne Hathaway character had something to do with the tragedy. And, to the chagrin of some, she was not the one who ended up dead because of it. I won’t say much more about the plot as the flick has been running pretty regularly on pay cable and, since it is very 8-y, you should definitely see it if you haven’t already.

Before the film ruins weddings, it is first an exploration of family. And, as the members of Rachel’s blood and extended families mingle to administer to all the details of the wedding, we get some interesting insight into how a family can function.

On its face, the prospect of being part of a family is good for one’s health and rewarding for the soul. There will be someone to pour hydrogen peroxide over your bloody, gravel-filled knee after you lose control of your bicycle. There will be someone to cheer your name when a diploma is handed to you. And there will be someone who cries joyfully on the happiest day of your life. Between all those big, boldfaced moments on the time line of a family, there are the little moments that, when taken together with the boldfaced moments, raise a larger question: does a family prop each other up or hold each other back?

(There is, of course, such a thing as a dysfunctional family. But that has far less to do with the family and much more to do with the dysfunction. To be frank, that type of conglomeration is a vomitous pile of something that was supposed to taste good, but instead caused a revolt of the taste buds of all involved.)

Rachel Getting Married kinda makes us think “hold each other back” is the answer. As we learn about the addict, her addiction and how her family tried to navigate its way through their own special ring of hell, we see that love is only as valuable as it is intelligent. Blind support or desperate affection is extremely counterproductive–for all parties involved. You probably could pick up any of a dozen semi-crappy romantic comedies to obtain that cliched revelation. What makes Rachel Getting Married a valuable movie experience is the raw way in which each character gets to have their own moment to make the case for “propping up” or “holding back.” As each character does, we find that the truth–as it usually does–lies somewhere in the middle. Families do both. They can’t help it. Smart families recognize when they’re holding each other back and they make the necessary choices to get back to the propping. Those families who aren’t smart enough…well…they struggle together. Or, rather, because of each other. Until the day comes when they figure it out.

But this wasn’t supposed to be a rant about families, now, was it?

In the movie, Rachel Getting Married, the coolest wedding proceedings imaginable unfold casually and carefully. We start with what appears to be the rehearsal dinner. There’s no nervous walk-through followed by slightly tense interactions between families and friends who wil be forced to share at least a part of each other. Instead, there’s a concert. Or, to be more accurate, a series of performances. By a dope electric guitarist. A dope spoken word artist. A dope jazz ensemble. A dope comedian. A dope choir. In short, the whole shit was dope. (The groom was actually played by one of the dudes from TV on the Radio, I think.) And then they sat down for dinner where everyone took turns giving speeches about the bride and groom. Both of the Moms. Both of the Dads. All of the Siblings. Both of the Best Friends. A number of the not-so-best friends. And…I kid you not…Fab 5 Freddy.

Yeah. THAT Fab 5 Freddy.

And that brings us to the ultimate lesson from Rachel Getting Married–the one that ruined weddings forever moving forward.

You and I have both been to some pretty amazing weddings where some outrageous characters have done some exceedingly memorable things. You’ve probably seen some crazy drama from an evilbitch bridesmaid or dumbass dude who can’t hold his liquor. (You may have performed in one or both of these roles.) Since weddings all need to accomplish the same thing–to legally tether two people to each other–they all kinda have to exist within the same framework regardless of the richness associated with any particular tradition.

Since we know the ultimate spoiler to every wedding proceeding–the groom will kiss the bride and they’ll march off happily into the ever after–wouldn’t it be cool if all the players who make up the scenes that comprise the wedding could be cast instead of invited? And wouldn’t it be cool if you could write those scenes yourself rather than conforming to some overused script?

Like, instead of some random cotton-topped dude sitting at Table 7 trying not to stare at the cleavage of the 19-year-old blonde at Table 6, why not have Fab 5 Freddy chomping on a cigar and teaching the assembled children how to properly tag a subway car? Or telling stories about crazy nights spent in some Jamaican shanty town? Or doing whatever Fab 5 Freddy does to be cooler than 100 polar bears’ toenails?

Maybe you wouldn’t cast Fab 5 Freddy–if you wouldn’t then you should probably unfriend me everywhere on and off the internet–but there’s gotta be someone you could dream up to be a guest star at your wedding who would be far more interesting and entertaining than your co-worker from two jobs ago who you haven’t talked to in a year.

Going back to the movie, Fab 5 Freddy was just one of several elements that pushed the proceedings several stages past epic. There was a whole lot more music on the actual wedding day. A samba troupe. A folk singer and his band. A Jamaican dance hall singer. An alt-rock band. A DJ. And maybe a couple others I’m forgetting. The ceremony itself borrowed from Hindu and Judaic traditions and was executed with surprising simplicity. Mr. and Mrs. Rachel exchanged original vows which each ended with a simple phrase, “Thank you for marrying me.” The bride’s vows quoted her father. Most of the groom’s vows consisted of him singing a verse from a Neil Young song. When it came time for the officiant to make things official, he asked both the bride and the groom, “Do you?” When it was time for food to be served, the bridal party–even the dolled-up Rachel–tied on some aprons and delivered plates piled with meats grilled by an unnamed uncle to the hungry attendees. Also, there was an actual Wedding Czar played by the wildly entertaining poet Beau Sia.

So there was much more to the nuptials in Rachel Getting Married than just a bunch of dope artists. There was an aura of mutual compassion, an element of service, a subtext of humility and an eagerness to celebrate the genuine love two souls share for each other.

Your friends and family may love you, but are they truly worthy of being cast to perform in your wedding scene? More importantly, what kind of wedding scene can you dream up? Who cares if your family is Chinese and her family is Irish Catholic? What’s the coolest possible thing you could say to your soul mate in front of a room full of people? Cumbersome white gown or comfortable purple sari? Do you really need cake? Or would you prefer to leap into a pool filled with chocolate pudding? Do you have to have a priest or would you rather have an emcee preside over your loving shenanigans?

Whatever you do, don’t forget to invite Fab 5 Freddy. You can no longer have a proper wedding without him.

* 87% of the three introductory paragraphs is completely true. But I can’t remember exactly which 87%.

This is pretty much the best idea going. The Alamo Drafthouse (along with jeans-maker Levi’s) is showing nine different classic flicks in (or around) the locations where they take place. Some settings are more spot on than others — Jackie Brown in LA’s Del Amo Fashion Mall is perfection — but the whole concept is just fantastic.

I believe they have done this in past years as well, but this is the first I’m hearing of it and, I believe, this is the most ambitious, nationwide tour. (The 2008 lineup, for example, was all pretty local to Tejas.)

Here’s the full list of movies (each of which got one of the sweet “alt posters” shown above), dates and location:

August 6 JACKIE BROWN, at Los Angeles’ Del Amo Fashion Mall

August 7 DIRTY HARRY, at San Francisco’s Washington Square Park

August 8 THERE WILL BE BLOOD, at California’s Kern County Museum

August 8 CONVOY, at the Ft. Davis drive-in in Las Vegas, N.M.

August 13 THE BLUES BROTHERS, at Chicago’s Joliet Prison

August 14 ROBOCOP, at Detroit’s Russell Industrial Center

August 19 ROCKY I-III, at the Philadelphia Art Museum

August 20 ON THE WATERFRONT, at Hoboken’s Pier A

August 27 THE GODFATHER PART II, on a Manhattan rooftop near Little Italy

I’ve seen all except Convoy (which is playing in a double feature with Red Dawn, which is horrible) and would probably go to see any of the others if they were local. Rest assured, I will definitely be enjoying The Godfather II, easily one of the finest ten movies ever made, atop a roof in Little Italy. Vito-style.

Hell, I may even break my personal code of ethics and step foot into New Jersey to watch Marlon Brando fail at being a contender.

* … and Red Dawn

What’s incredibly refreshing about this film is that the star is not Mr. DiCaprio, but the movie itself. It’s a wild ride through one man’s tumultuous psyche; one that will continue to raise questions upon each repeated viewing.

As a few million of you might know, Inception opened this past weekend to the delight of many and the derision of a few who expected a summer movie to be a masterpiece. Please note: there is no “second coming” in the summer. If you’re privy to the recent heat wave that has blanketed the Northeast, summer movies are prime excuses to pay someone else to run their air conditioner for a few hours. Thus, my unfortunate viewing of Ang Lee’s Hulk in 2003.

I believe it was a Thursday in the month of June – one in Jaimaca Estates where the faux-mercury of thermometers broached the ninety-five degree strata, fermenting the airborne smell of curry so that I might never eat samosa again without tasting bile in the back of my throat, and boiling the sidewalks of Highland Avenue to such an extent that the crack-dealing ice-cream-truck drivers began stealing Icee Pops from the local bodega to sell them to children and sweltering junkies looking for a raspberry fix.

Clearly, I digress, and more on the awesome entertainment value of Inception will be tackled in a later post, but for the time being, here’s a brief look at the theatrical experience leading up to the feature presentation.

After arriving forty five minutes before the showing, I realized I should have arrived an hour prior once I saw the four-line queue that occupied the area in front of Union Square’s Theater 4 and the adjacent theaters. Deciding that sitting in the front row of a movie theater might be one of the biggest wastes of thirteen dollars I could come up with – aside from last week’s decision to sit in the center of the theater and watch the incomprehensibly lame and unoriginal Predators – I trekked to Theater 4’s balcony and found a much shorter line.

6:45 arrives and my line crawls forward; burgundy clad, flash-light toting ushers make sure the queue remains one and no one decides to bum rush the theater door. Stragglers who sent shills to hold their places emerge from the auction house of a concession counter, fully equipped with hydrogenated popcorn swimming in yellowish-dyed oleo byproduct that tastes faintly like butter with an intriguing petrol bouquet.

Content with rather solid seats, those in the balcony occasionally approach the railing to the main house of Theater 4 and wait for carnage to ensue. Nothing really happens, though when the doors below open, viewers flood in like pigeons spotting an old woman with a bag of Wonder Bread in tow, bodies bumping into each other, respective heads bobbing forward and back, looking left, right, ahead and behind as not to overlook any seats they pass that will accommodate their six companions who are using the bathrooms or finishing a final pint at the corner bar. As soon as one person sits, he or she immediately begins pulling items from bags, strewing clothing, water bottles, baseball caps, and shoes, to save seats and create a perfect illustration of a Buzby Berkley bacchanal.

The echoing “are these seats taken?” wanes, the lights dim, and the previews begin. Two film trailers with Zack Galifianakas are shown – Dinner With Schmucks and Due Date – both of which could be pretty funny. The first includes Paul Rudd and Steve Carell while the other co-stars Robert Downey Jr. The only downside to these two films is that Galifianakas may soon fall prey to the overuse of an actor and become a caricature of himself. The Hangover 2 is also coming out, and he may be forever enshrined as Alan.

These two previews generated a fair amount of laughter from the audience, but fascinatingly enough, the biggest laugh came during the next trailer – one for a horror-flick set in an elevator, Devil. Admittedly, I was drawn into the original premise – though it seems the filmmakers have shown their hand already inasmuch as they establish two certain red herrings in the first fifteen seconds of the trailer, one being a bearded, hoodie-under-a-corduroy jacket-wearing guy who thrusts his arm through the closing doors of the elevator so that he might not miss it and have to wait another thirty seconds for the next one. Anyone who is clearly portrayed as being the least professional of the characters shouldn’t be so frantic about catching a lift, unless of course he is the demon incarnate. That said, the filmmakers also show a sweet red-haired older woman, but making her the Devil just seems a bit too derivative, and truthfully – if that’s the way they are going – they should have gotten Betty White. She’s so hot right now.

At the same time, the movie looks pretty suspenseful and creepy – kind of like Quarantine – and if the filmmakers didn’t cross the eighty-five-minute mark, they should be able to keep the audience enthralled for the better part of the “which one of these people is the Devil?” deduction.

However, despite its promising start, this movie was doomed by the end of the trailer. Crimson text on a background denotes “One of these five people is not who they appear to be” … “From Universal Pictures” … “Comes a new nightmare,” but then… Well, then all suspense is obviated and the air is sucked from the theater and into the lungs of each and every viewer so that they might in unison release a rogue wave of laughter that overtakes the suddenly heavy laden score replete with metal clanging that portends to mimic the vibration of steel elevator cables that threaten to snap at any moment, providing white-knuckle entertainment.

But this potential is neglected. The suspense will never happen because the audience has read the no-longer ominous crimson text, but the vapid Crayola-red of “From the Mind of M. Night. Shyamalan,” words that augur horror shtick and the misremembered nostalgia of The Sixth Sense, a movie only watchable once for the – admittedly – surprising twist, but what many people seem to forget is that the pacing of the 1999 film is so viscous that the twist simply jars you from your slumber and makes you wonder what you missed.

Perhaps it was the scene in which Malcolm Crowe (Bruce Willis) is present in the same room as Lynn Sear (Toni Collette) so you believe they had to have had a conversation, or perhaps it was … well, that was it.

I can admire Mr. Shyamalan’s tenacity here, and quite frankly, it takes a lot of guts to keep making movies that people apparently dislike five eighths of – which perhaps makes him a true artist – but crediting a story’s conception in the “mind” of a man who has consistently provided predictable and rather mediocre story lines shouldn’t be a selling point. Honestly, I’m almost betting on the old woman to be the Devil. Or, it could be the young woman who is attacked first because … well, just seems like something that would be too farcical and misdirecting to really be considered.

Pretty simple

Head over to his original post to see the graphs for Scorsese, the Cohen Brothers, Tarantino, David Fincher, Ridley Scott, William Friedkin and the Wachowski Brothers. All are muy neato.

But the three that were the most interesting to me were the three most extreme charts: M. Night Shyamalan (the initial subject of the discussion), Stanley Kubrick and Francis Ford Coppola. Honestly, it pains me to even write those three names in the same sentence, but it makes for a nice comparison when you compare M. Night’s 1929-stock-market-looking graph next to Kubrick’s unassailable career of acclaim next to Coppola’s inconsistency.

Ultimately, however, even though Coppola has made some hot garbage in his day, he will likely always remain in my top five of all time just on the strength of there being no more impressive four-movie run in cinematic history than The Godfather, The Conversation (which I honestly don’t even really like), The Godfather II and Apocalyspe Now. There might be three of the best ten films ever in there. Just unreal.

Along similar lines, good luck to any actor who ever wants to have a cleaner, more perfect IMDB page than John Cazale. Nice resume, buddy.

Also, Marsellus Wallace finds your lack of faith disturbing, Brett. (via Samblr)

Relatedly, Violent J Is John Goodman is apparently (and sadly) no longer being updated, but it’s still pretty great if you have not yet had the pleasure.

I, too, dabbled in pacifism once … not in ‘Nam, of course.

I didn’t learn gluttony from Homer. But I probably learned how to do it better from watching back-to-back episodes of The Simpsons during the early days of its syndication. On the occasion of the US soccer futbol team getting bounced from the 2010 World Cup, I chose to mute my sorrows by engaging in at least one act of gluttony. Fortunately for my liver, that act did not involve quarts of rum. (Only a single quart.) It did involve an incalcuable number of ex-plo-zhe-uns.

This weekend, I bought one ticket to get past the ticket taker at the 48-screen movie theatre near my house. On the other side of that ticket taker, three of the theatre’s auditoriums screened Knight and Day, Jonah Hex and The A-Team, respectively. All of them probably cost a bunch of money to make because each of them overflowed with ridiculous stunts and, you guessed it, ex-plo-zhe-uns.

(Okay. I’m done with that word now. I promise.)

I started my movie marathon with Knight and Day. I’m not sure why that film was titled that way. One character’s real name was alleged to be Knight. As for Day…there wasn’t any plot device I remember that relied on anything having to do with that word. Maybe the title tested well. Maybe some marketing person thought the phrase would be easy to remember. If I were in charge of naming the picture, I would have called it: Two Giant Movie Stars Who Are a Little Bit Out of Their Prime Who Will Do Some Cool Stuff Together for Two Hours. ‘Cause that’s pretty much what that movie was about. Nothing else about the film mattered. Not where the characters come from. Not what their arcs were. Not even whether the story ended happily or not. What you get is a double dose of crazy–Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz–that has almost come to terms with their lack of sanity and still has decent chemistry together. Also, both of ‘em are in really, really good shape. Like, the kind of shape that is a walking advertisement for whomever their trainers are. If I was a kajillionaire with at least four hours of free time every day, I would definitely hire Cruise’s trainer. Although Diaz’s trainer would suffice. Oh yeah…one last thing about the movie…a whole lot of shit got blown to bits.

I wanted to stick around for The A-Team, but it started about an hour after Knight and Day ended so I needed a bridge movie to keep me in the theatre. Jonah Hex wasn’t on my itinerary, but it did span the two flicks I wanted to see. I missed its first 20 minutes or so. And I left before its final reel unspooled in order to see The A-Team. During the hour or so I watched, I saw John Malkovich blow up a Civil War-era train. I also saw Josh Brolin burn down a 19th Century pop-up arena. And I saw not nearly enough of Megan Fox’s body. The short summary of my Jonah Hex experience: some of the dynamite went boom and some of it fizzled.

And that brings me to The A-Team. Did you see the trailer for this one yet? (Hell, maybe you’ve already seen the film itself.) In any case, there’s a scene where a tank is dropped from an airborne airplane. It’s a great, thunderous absurdity. And it was one of several bursting exercises in the ridiculous that made it into the final cut of the movie. Which is the only thing anyone should have expected from that flick. And that’s not a bad thing either. Sometimes, the ridiculous and the absurd is exactly what you need.

I’ve seen plenty of films that moved me. Films that explained life to me when I struggled to figure it out on my own. Films I have come to quote like some kind of Dead Sea Celluloid. Films that have become…my friends. Consequently, I know what qualifies as great fuckin’ art. And I appreciate that shit. Like, a whole, whole lot. But art isn’t always necessary. Sometimes, you need a cheap thrill. A cliche, even. Something that’s really big. And kinda dumb. And, hopefully, a little bit of fun.

‘Cause when it’s a million degrees outside and your favorite team lost the most important game of its season…big screen ex-plo-zhe-uns are one of the few things that can make you feel better.

Well, that and a quart of rum. And, possibly, a meatball sub. ‘Cause there’s never a wrong time for a meatball sub. MMMMMMM…meatball sub.

On Friday, July 2, Airplane! will celebrate its 30th anniversary. I personally — slightly — prefer Anchorman, but despite my modern leanings, Airplane! is easily the finest comedy ever made. Its gags, puns and sequencing are all perfectly done, sure, but what really sets it apart is that, unlike many of the other comedies that come off as Airplane! wannabes (as well as Anchorman), the Zucker brothers’ and Jim Abrahams’ comic masterpiece also has a fully realized and engaging plot throughout.

Patton Oswalt sums it up perfectly in this great New York Times piece about the anniversary.

“A lot of comedies in the last 30 years have wanted to be ‘Airplane!,’ ” said Patton Oswalt, a comedian and actor and the voice of the hero in “Ratatouille.” “But most of those movies took the wrong message from ‘Airplane!’ They were gag, gag, gag, gag, where ‘Airplane!’ is really structured, driving the story along all the time. In a weird way it’s like a Beatles movie. It looks like the easiest thing in the world, but there’s a lot of sweat and blood that went into it.”

Comparing Airplane! to a Beatles movie is a little insulting, frankly, but I get Patton’s point.

I really don’t have a lot else to add in celebration of this momentous achievement. If you haven’t seen Airplane!, go do that right now. If you have seen it, you know how great it is. And if you have seen it and don’t think it’s great, I hate you.

One thing I may as well point out for the uninitiated and confused, is that the silly name of this humble blog derives from this comedy classic. You see, during the flick, a young boy comes to tour the cockpit and meet some real-life pilots. And the pilot is really happy about this — something he reveals through a series of increasingly awkward inquiries. And, of course, one of the questions he asks is “Do you like movies about gladiators?” So since this was a movie blog and I had no other title in mind, we just defaulted to this line.

OK, that’s not the best story in the world, but it was a helluva lot better than the origin story you paid to see in Daredevil, so give me a break.

Luckily, the Times piece also offers some actually interesting background for us on how the whole Peter Graves/Joey-interaction thing came to be.

When the creators of “Airplane!” were lining up actors for their rollicking parody three decades ago, some of the straight-arrow character actors that ended up in the cast worried about the harm it might do to their careers. One of the most skittish participants: Peter Graves, the taciturn “Mission: Impossible” star who played the movie’s pilot, a kindly veteran who welcomes a little boy named Billy into the cockpit and asks questions like “Ever seen a grown man naked?”

“His agent got him the script, and he was totally turned off by it,” Jerry Zucker, who wrote and directed the film with his brother, David Zucker, and their lifelong friend Jim Abrahams, said recently during a phone interview with his erstwhile partners. “He thought it was tasteless trash.”

Mr. Abrahams interjected, his voice perfectly deadpan: “I don’t understand. What did he think was tasteless about pedophilia?”

That’s funny … Dustin once asked the cops the same thing.

Also, the fact that the no copy editors at the Times caught the error of this piece calling the kid “Billy” instead of Joey is appalling. Surely, worse than that whole Jayson Blair thing. Probably the yellow cake in Nigeria thing, too.

A copy editor? What is it? … It’s an archaic term for a professional who used to ensure that newspapers had accurate facts and grammar back in the 20th century, but that’s not important right now.