THE REPUBLICANS ARE INVADING! RUN!

That seems to be the reaction of everyone at my job. The entire Sales staff, PR/Marketing department, and HR pool informed me last Thursday that they will be in New Jersey this week, in order to avoid whatever chaos is brought about by the Republican National Convention.

Even my supervisor, Odin, said he might take a few days off (He’s still nursing a chronically bad back.) Unlike him, I am not a salaried employee, so I fully intend to be around. No need for self-pity; 95% of the office will either be in Jersey or working from home, so my job as Office Operations Coordinator will be pretty easy. Let’s face it, if nobody is in the office, I probably won’t have much to order in the way of new ink cartridges or paper towels. True, I’ll still have the UPS flat file to deal with, but something tells me NEXT Monday’s will be light on outgoing packages.

But whether or not I punch in at Nautica, that doesn’t change the fact that the Republicans are coming to town. I admit that I was perplexed, even a bit insulted, when I first heard the news. Unless I am mistaken, New York City is a traditionally Democratic stronghold. The last three Presidential elections swung in favor of either Clinton or Gore; Hillary Rodham Clinton is our Senator; and while Mayor Bloomberg is Republican, he was elected into office by the slimmest of voting margins, and I recall his campaign being less about denying a woman her right to choose and amassing huge budget deficits than about making New York City fiscally sound for the future.

What the heck is our current, Supreme Court-deemed president doing giving a speech at Madison Square Garden, the outside of which will likely be vice-gripped by anti-Bush sentiment, instead of at a more hospitable venue, like a prison in Waco, Texas, beside an electric chair?

The eternal optimist in me wants to believe Bush is coming here because he sees all the hostile New Yorkers as a challenge. After all, it would be easy to preach to the converted; much more difficult to change people to his way of thinking. And lest we forget, New York is a battleground state, and Bush needs to convince us that the war in Iraq is a just war, and that he is the better choice to lead this country against its terrorist enemies, if he wants a decent shot at the White House. Still, he could have easily asked Rudy Giuliani to be his political loudspeaker here. His choice to come to this city—the home base of many liberals who dislike him vociferously—in person, is, I think, a really ballsy move which has to be respected.

At the same time, the eternal pessimist in me argues that the only reason the GOP is renting out Madison Square Garden is because Bush wants to milk the September 11th attacks until the teet is withered and brown. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have the guts to go where he isn’t wanted. But the Bush administration didn’t have an identity prior to the destruction of the World Trade Center. As a result, the man must come to the city where those attacks took place, in order to capitalize on his image as our "War President."

Is Bush acting as a gutsy politician, or just a politician? Would anyone really give a damn about the answer, if not for the expectations of traffic gridlock and mass transit delays? What about all the talk of possible terrorist attacks on the news? Not to mention all the talk that all the talk of possible terrorist attacks on the news is part of a right-wing media conspiracy to make Bush—who needs to capitalize on his image as a "War President"—look all the more vital?

All I can say is this: Two weeks ago, I went into the heart of Harlem for "Monroe College at the Apollo," a benefit concert for which I wrote a keynote speech, and helped spread word of to the print media. Harlem is a nice place with really wide streets, but it’s blacker than MC Hammer’s rectum, and just as destitute.

If there’s one thing I learned about Harlem that night, it’s that Harlemites don’t like people who are neither black nor poor. We had quite the gallery of ignorant, peanut-headed Negroes. They loudly booed the Monroe College Dean who brought them over three hours of quality entertainment (including Deborah Cox of "Aida") for a relatively low ticket price; they refused to applaud a clearly-brilliant singer because she dared to cover Aretha Franklin without (gasp!) being black; and they reserved their biggest burst of applause for a spoken word poetess who took a cheap shot at the (not black) woman who claimed Kobe Bryant raped her.

Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t have minded the applause if the poetess had mentioned that Kobe Bryant wouldn’t have been accused of anything if he had kept his cock in his pants. But in Harlem, falsely accusing someone of raping you is a much worse crime than cheating on your wife. It’s this kind of moral rectitude that explains the relatively low percentage of teenage births and single-family households in that part of the city.

For shame on the white woman from a middle-class Colorado family, who dared point her finger at a brotha. And let my ordeal teach something to President George W. Bush: Don’t go where you’re not wanted, unless you’re ready to be made uncomfortable by the response you receive.

And if you're planning to make a stop in Harlem, Mr. President, you better not have accused Kobe Bryant of raping you.

HERZOG’S "NOSFERATU:" DREAD WITH MINIMAL RED.

I’m in the process of completing a Top Ten Movie List for 1979 (The year I was born in.) Having just watched Werner Herzog’s "Nosferatu," I am now only two movies short. Readers: Commence recommendations!

As for "Nosferatu," I actually liked it quite a bit. I’m neither a vampire nor Herzog buff, but I do appreciate a well-made movie, and am always game for a good suspense flick. "Nosferatu" is both those things.

Not your slick, hyper-edited, American-style vampire movie, "Nosferatu" is European in pace (meaning unhurried), and has a contemplative tone that reminded me of Wim Wenders. Like many of the best European directors, Herzog stuffs his film with plenty of beautiful, vibrant, poetic imagery: A silhouette of Count Dracula slowly walking towards us, lit from behind by a small circle of blue light; pale Lucy standing on a beach alone, dressed in white, framed in a foreground shot.

There’s also many cool shots that may not seem as poetic, but are really, really cool! The backwards tracking movement as Dracula attacks Jonathan Harker in his castle; the door to Lucy’s chamber opening and closing by itself (as she watches in her mirror); the opulent banquet peopled by fashionably-dressed young men and ladies, who behave as if oblivious to the swarm of rats gathering at their feet; the hundreds of rats devouring the same tabletop later.

Visually, this movie isn’t as overblown and ribald as Francis Ford Coppola’s 1992 "Dracula." But I think I like Herzog’s version better. I am surprised, looking back on the film, at how little blood there actually was. A small cut on Harker’s hand; the bloody tip of a wooden stake. Compare that to Coppola’s vampire movie, where he seemingly severed a hundred arteries for every scene.

"Nosferatu" is very creepy, and very effective. If I have any gripe, however, it’s with the ending. The somber, somambulant tone of the rest of the movie is awkwardly inverted for comedy dialogue that seems to be borrowed from Mel Brooks.

*SPOILER WARNING!*

Von Helsing has just killed Dracula in Lucy’s bedroom. A magistrate and a townsperson enter the house, and find him still clutching the bloody weapon. The magistrate tells Von Helsing, "You’re under arrest."

Von Helsing replies: "Killing Count Dracula was justified."

Magistrate: "The courts will decide that."

Townsperson: "Um, sir. All the judges are dead." (Killed by Dracula’s curse, a.k.a. the plague.)

Magistrate: "Then lock him up until we can find a new judge."

Townsperson: "But, sir, there’s no one to guard him." (All the policemen, bailiffs, etc., were also killed by the plague.)

Magistrate (Pointing to the Townsperson): You! I am ordering you, as a citizen of this town, to arrest this man!

Townsperson: Alright! … But where do I put him? (He receives no answer; nonetheless, he leads Von Helsing away.) I’m taking you someplace I don’t know…

As far as tone is concerned, this last bit of silly dialogue is inconsistent with the rest of Herzog’s film. I would go as far as to accuse it of being distracting. However, throughout "Nosferatu," Herzog seems to mock modern man’s stubborn adherence to what they perceive as "rational." His Von Helsing is still a man of science. But he is also a thoroughly bland character, who ignores all of Lucy’s claims that the plague has been brought down by supernatural forces. He always insists, with a dull face, that scientific explanations can be found for everything.

So perhaps the ending is Herzog’s way of poking fun, one last time, at those who hopelessly cling to rationality. After all, the entire town has been decimated by Dracula—the town no longer exists! But these two guys still try to make everything they encounter conform to the town’s rules.

Or maybe Herzog is just a jerk, and this is his way of screwing with his audience. I leave it to others more familiar with his work to make that judgement.

MY BOSS IS ON HIS BACK, SO HE CAN'T GET ON MINE.

Jeez, that sounds mean-spirited, given that Odin, my supervisor, really is suffering from excruciating back pain. It was so excruciating, in fact, that he called me when I got in and said he could not come in to work today.

It's a recurring problem of his. He has a herniated disk, and must not lift heavy objects. Apparently, he spent the weekend lifting heavy objects. On the bright side, since he had to stay home today, he could not interrupt my intermittant naps--which he is wont to do--with his usually outrageous demands that I do some work instead of sleep.

While his absence has forced management to give me some Odin-esque tasks to perform in his stead, I did not find any of these new duties to be particularly challenging. The most arduous thing I had to do was walk around the various showrooms twice, and record the temperature readings of the thermostats onto an Excel worksheet. I could not believe this is Odin's job when he is actually up and about. The man has a Business degree from Boston College, and he has to read thermostats.

Hopefully, Odin will be back at work tomorrow. In the meantime, it's about 3 in the pm, so I'm going to try to squeeze in a nap before going home.


POSITIVE THINKING = ~(NEGATIVE THINKING)

(ALTERNATE TITLE: "MISFORTUNE AND THE VICIOUS CYCLE")

Could it be true what they say, that attitude goes a long way in determining one’s lot in life? I started wondering that last Wednesday, when a situation that would normally have ended in heart-crushing failure resolved itself in a totally different light.

See, I’d resolved to take some evening classes at a particular University, courses that lead to a particular program of study, which I already have a speculator’s interest in. Got clearance from the faculty adviser to sign up, received an "appointment" time for 9 a.m. sharp. Was online, and on the site, at the appropriate time. Even had the 4-digit course numbers for a few alternative sections scribbled down on a pad.

So there I was in front of my computer at 9 a.m. I entered the codes for my primary choices, then clicked the icon to process them. I get a message stating that I’m only cleared for one course, since the office doesn’t have my immunization record. Now, I had no idea the college even needed my vaccination background; I could understand them requiring it if I was matriculating as a full-time student, but when I took two classes at NYU SCPS last fall, the only paper that school required was a check for $1500.

I could get a copy of my immunization record by calling the NYU Health Center, but the problem was, this was a special section, with a registration period lasting only two days. If NYU could fax my record to me, it would make my life easier. But a quick phone call at 10 a.m. rendered that a no-go. No way would they fax anything, and I didn’t have time for snail mail.
My only option was to take off during my lunch break and pick it up from the office myself.

Naturally, no R train pulled up to the 42nd Street station for twenty minutes, so by the time I got to the NYU Health Center, I was already due back at work. Amazingly, there was not a single person in the waiting room at Vaccinations, so I sincerely thought I had caught a break. Fat chance. You won’t believe this, but the woman working the counter entered my SS# into the computer, clicked enter, and the very next moment—the network crashed.

The entire office, as well as all five floors NYU occupied in that building, suddenly lost all computer support. Faxes, phones, printers, all petrified into collective impotence. And worse, the woman working the counter couldn’t bring up my immunization record. After struggling with the useless phone receiver, she just looked up at me, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Sorry. I can’t do anything right now."

I couldn’t believe my ill fortune. I tried to explain to the woman my dilemna, tried to explain that I needed the immunization record right away, tried to explain that I had called earlier and was told that I must pick it up in person, and tried to explain that coming down to pick it up in person was very inconvenient to me. The way I saw it, leaving work to go to the NYU Health Center required a great sacrifice on my part, and now that I was being denied the record I so desperately needed, I deserved some kind of explanation above, "Sorry. I can’t do anything right now."

Worse, when I reiterated what seemed like a modest request, that the office fax over a copy of my immunization record, the woman cut me off before the end of my sentence with, "No. We can’t do that." And when I tried to calmly explain that this might be viewed as an unusual circumstance, warranting an exception (After all, hadn’t I gone to the Health Center as requested? Clearly, the inability to produce the record was the fault of their office, or possibly God, but it couldn’t be blamed on me.) the terse woman simply got up and walked silently away, replaced a short time later by a person I presumed was her superior.

This new intermediary handed me a clipboard. She told me to fill it out, then promised, once the network came back on-line, that she’d call me, so I could make the same trek down to the office again. I couldn’t see any other option except what the second woman suggested (though I thought about tracking down the nearest physician and paying for another Rubella vaccination), so I took the clipboard. As I sat in the waiting room, filling out the damn thing, I became very inwardly upset—not only because I was being brushed off, but the timing of the network meltdown seemed like such an impossible coincidence. Surely, I thought, some Almighty Being has a hand in my present misery.

By the time I left the NYU Health Center empty-handed, I was in a real funk. I was already late getting back from my lunch break, so I crossed the street to Pizza Mercado and ordered the special—the one I always ordered when I was a student. Sure, it was irresponsible of me, but by that time, I was both sad and hungry, and no way was I going to clock back into my drone job without alleviating one of those two problems.

As I sat there in Pizza Mercado, munching pizza and drinking soda, I pondered what seemed to be my unending string of mind-bogglingly bad luck. Especially every time I tried to enter a graduate program. Read past posts of my blog if you don’t believe me! But the longer I sat there eating, drinking, and sulking, the sooner I realized that there was no point in trying to eat, drink, and sulk away what I perceived was bad karma. Maybe I was suffering from a curse—one that had prevented me from attending graduate school each of the past two summers, and threatened to derail this September’s prospects as well. But if that was the case, would intense self-pity and boo-hooing change anything? No, it wouldn’t!

The only thing I could do was fight the best fight possible. I told myself, if the network is down today, maybe it won’t be down tomorrow. If it was still down tomorrow, and there was truly no hope of getting my immunization record processed in time, then I’d laugh about it over beer and soda, whilst marveling at those unseen forces greater than myself, which held sway over my life. But I could not let misfortune kill me!

"Things happen in our lives for a reason," I said to myself. "And if I’m not meant to go to graduate school, then I can accept that. But let the gods spit in my face themselves, if they must. I refuse to hock the fatal lougee for them!"

I wolfed down the crusty remains of my pizza, then marched back up the Amalgamated Insurance Building to the Vaccinations Department of the NYU Health Center. I looked the woman—the first woman who I’d spoken to—squarely in the eye, and asked if the network was still down. She answered in the affirmative.

Then I poured many a honeyed word onto her, thanking her for having patience with me earlier, apologizing profusely for any ill-temper I displayed, and hoping, if I had behaved in such a heartburned manner, that she had not taken offense.

The formerly-terse woman was clearly surprised. My politeness incited her to equal cordiality, and she replied that no offense was taken, as someone in her position could empathize with the dilemna of a person in my position, who had found himself unexpectedly thwarted at what should have been the moment of victory. So soft and kindly was the woman's ’isposition now, that she seemed more like a nurse than a clerk, and I ventured once more, with cautious step, of course, for that small favor which would help alleviate my sharp pain.

I let her know in the most polite of terms, that if she could, once the network returned, fax over my immunization record to my workplace, it would make all the difference in the world for me. But I quickly added that I understood how the rules of her workplace tied her hands, and she might not be able to acquiesce. "This is true," the lady replied.

"Then let us speak of it no more," I said. And I thanked her once more for her previous patience, and reminded her that she had my contact information on a clipboard. "Please call me once you’re back on-line," I said. "I will come down right away. I am certain it will be either later today, or tomorrow." Then I left.

I took the subway back to my job (No one noticed I had been missing.) I threw myself into my labors, and before I knew it, two-and-a-half hours had slipped silently away. It was now after 4 p.m.; I held out resolute hopes of yet acquiring my immunization record that day.

The woman at Vaccinations recognized my name right away. I asked if the network was back on-line, and she replied, very pleasingly, "Yes." I told her I would leave work early, and could be at her office, the same one I had visited just a few hours previous, before five. But the clerk would have none of it. She told me (Her tone almost like that of a friend) that, as her supervisor wasn’t in the office, she could do me the favor of faxing over the valuable document. After all, she said, I had gone to the trouble of visiting the office that day. I would have gotten the document I requested, if not for a shock of inexplicable bad luck.

"Oh," I said, in my most modest manner. "I don’t believe in calling it bad luck. I mean, networks crash from time to time, don’t they? That’s why God created network technicians."

A few minutes later, I was holding in my hands a warm facsimile of my immunization record, fresh from the office faxer. Within fifteen additional minutes, another warm facsimile of the same document lay flat in the hands of clerks in the registration office of my prospective school. Another quarter of an hour later, I was cleared to register for the last of my primary choice of classes. By 5 p.m., I had forgotten all about sitting in Pizza Mercado lamenting bad karma, as I had proof of the exact opposite in my immediate destiny.

While there may be perfectly logical reasons behind this sudden change of fortune, I like to imagine that my decision to trade in a pessimistic attitude towards life, in favor of a more optimistic one, was the catalyst. Now, please don’t think I’ve found religion; I’m too pragmatic for that. But I did get what I needed by not being an asshole, so one never knows.

PHIL TO THE BRIM WITH GIRLISH GLEE.

Well, I finally accomplished something that had been lingering on my "To Do" List for about three-and-a-half years: I watched Mike Leigh’s "Topsy-Turvy." (1999) A magnificent film, totally worth the wait.

In case you never heard of him, Leigh directed such acclaimed flicks as "Naked," (1991) "Secrets and Lies," (1996) and "Career Girls." (1998) While the protagonists of his films are often working-class English people, they find themselves in situations that scream, "Only in the movies." In his best flick, "Secrets and Lies," a middle-aged white woman who works in a factory is reunited with the daughter she gave up for adoption. The daughter, now in her twenties, turns out to be black, which is a complete shock to her mother.

While that plotline might sound outrageous enough for Pedro Almodovar (Or a Steve Martin comedy), in Leigh’s hands, it serves as a jumping-off point for profoundly human drama, which is always firmly grounded in realism. In "Secrets and Lies," the existence of a black daughter isn’t the least bit of a scandal for the middle-aged white woman. On the contrary, since her other daughter is grown up, and in the process of leaving the nest, the discovery is a life preserver that the mother eagerly grabs onto.

No matter how outrageous the scenario ("Career Girls" gives us enough contrived coincidences to make Tom Tykver protest), Leigh’s films work because he focuses on the human side of the story. For him, it’s the characters first, with the ensuing drama emerging organically from them.

"Topsy-Turvy" tells of the falling-out between British operatic giants William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan. This dissolution precedes their coming back together to write and compose "The Mikado," which is considered one of their most enduring works. Those two sentences encompass the entire plot of "Topsy-Turvy;" the film’s enormous entertainment value, however, stems from everything in-between (Like hearing Gilbert's witty rhymes coupled with Sullivan's giddy symphonies.)

Watching "Topsy-Turvy," I was reminded of an Altman movie; there is a large ensemble cast, which includes Gilbert, Sullivan, the many actors and singers of the Savoy Theater, the managers of the Savoy, Gilbert’s wife and parents, Sullivan’s girlfriend, etc. All characters are sharply defined, and the movie gives each of them room to breathe and exist. Plot mechanisms are secondary. The real fun is coming to an understanding of everyone’s personalities early on, then watching as they mingle, clash, and react.

Leigh has an amazing eye for detail, and while the characters may be static (Like an Altman movie), the 1885 London setting comes to life before our eyes. Whether we are watching Gilbert negotiate an early version of the telephone, or a young Scottish actor protest the absence of a girdle in his Japanese costume, we always get the feeling that this is how people living at the time would behave.

Part of the effect, no doubt, is derived from the naturalistic performance of the actors. Leigh’s well-documented style, derived from his stage background, involves getting his actors to "become" the characters they are playing, then rehearsing heavily and allowing them to improvise. Leigh writes the ensuing dialogue based on these sessions. "Topsy-Turvy" is incredibly verbose, almost excessively wordy, but there’s not a single lazy, tossed-off line anywhere.

For anyone who saw "Shakespeare in Love" and concluded that an actors’ life must be nothing but fun and glory, Leigh’s movie is the right antidote. It presents the theater as a microcosm of drudgery, hard work, bad pay, and necessary drug addiction. These Savoy blokes are as working-class desperate as the gents in other Leigh films. One gets the feeling that many of the characters, if they were to displease the head writer badly enough to get kicked out of their current post, would probably have little recourse besides factory work or prostitution.

And it’s very tough to keep William Gilbert, notorious perfectionist and impulsive revisionist, happy. One of the best scenes in the film involves a non-dress rehearsal for a scene of "The Mikado." The actors do their best, but Gilbert seems to have a snide comment at the ready for every line recited. The scene goes on for a very long time, but there's so much intricate choreography and interplay amongst the characters that you wish it went on even longer. It probably would have been shredded if anyone but Mike Leigh had directed "Topsy-Turvy," so it’s a good thing he’s at the helm.

IF THIS IS INTERNMENT, LOCK ME UP AND THROW AWAY THE KEY.

People ask me how I ended up the Communications intern at a non-profit organization uptown. The truth is, I talked to a stranger. Call it a happy accident, like the time I shot my testicles off with that .38. Stupid me for sticking it in my drawers without clicking the safety on. I remember thinking it was a real bummer when it happened, but then that chick I barely dated told everyone I was the father of her baby, and I was like, "Hell no, bitch! Ain’t no way that kid is mine, and I gots the proof floating in a glass jar on my nightstand."

The way the internship happened was, I had purchased a round-trip ticket from New York to Miami. In my haste, I selected LaGuardia Airport as my return destination, instead of Kennedy, which is closer to where I live. This upset me at first (Like losing the testicles, but I mentioned that already), but while I was sitting in the lobby at Ft. Lauderdale Airport, for that return flight to LaGuardia, I struck up a random conversation with a middle-aged woman sitting nearby. We hit it off; she told me about the non-profit she’s Executive Director of, and when time came to board the plane, it turned out we had adjacent seats in the same row! We talked for the entire flight back, and by the time the tires hit the runway at LaGuardia, Queens, she handed me a business card and offered me the internship.

I don’t make any money at this internship—not yet, anyway. What do I do for the organization? Mostly, I write. We’ve spent the last month organizing a major benefit concert at Harlem’s World Famous Apollo Theater, and my job was writing all the press releases. I do other stuff, too, of course; I compiled a list of press contacts (print only), and I’m in the process of completing a fifth (sixth?) rewrite of a second draft of the keynote speech for "Jackie," Executive Director and the woman who offered me the internship. I think this one’s good to go. Come Monday, over a thousand people at Harlem’s World Famous Apollo Theater will get to hear claptrap that yours truly wrote. These are truly heady days.

By the way, would anyone like to attend a major benefit concert and student talent showcase at Harlem’s World Famous Apollo Theater this Monday? Tickets are still available by phone. R&B by people who are supposed to be genuinely talented! I’ll give you a voucher for one free speech if you go!

"ALIEN VS. PREDATOR, THE REVIEW;" OR, "I CAN’T BELIEVE I ACTUALLY MISS JOSS WHEDON."

* WARNING! SPOILERS AHEAD! *

I’m going to give this movie a complete review. That’s awfully generous of me, since I don’t think Paul W.S. Anderson gave me a complete movie. I saw it on a bargain matinee at a theatre in Brooklyn. The previews started at 1 p.m. sharp, and the end credits were still rolling when I left at 2:35. Does this mean "Alien Vs. Predator" was only 95 minutes long AT BEST? If so, wouldn’t that give it the shortest running time of any Alien or Predator movie?

The strange thing is, everything seemed to be going really well. We had the Xenomorph queen being revived; we had Predators landing in Antarctica, slaughtering anyone holding a weapon; face-huggers were sprouting from gelatin-covered eggs and planting their offspring into unwitting human hosts; stomachs were exploding as aforementioned offspring emerged.

We even had a pitched, hand-to-hand battle between an Alien and a Predator, which was clearly meant to please the fanboys. And am I the only one who was impressed that Anderson kept the last Predator faithful to its species’ nature? Only when Sonaa Lathan proved her worth by killing a Xenomorph was he willing to take her as a partner. And the weapons he made her out of an Alien’s head and tail—those were cool!

Then the movie went to complete and total hell. Sonaa is newly-armed, and it looks like she and the Predator are going to have to fight their way out of a booby-trapped temple, which is patrolled by several drones and an angry, giant Queen. But that never happens! Instead, there’s an intervening scene where they blow up a room full of face-hugger eggs, and that’s it! Next scene: Already out of the temple. As Call in "Alien Resurrection" said: What the fuck?!

Is it possible the theater skipped a reel? Maybe W.S. Anderson simply ran out of money? The filmmakers did a good job building the tension, and then instead of resolving it with some exciting Alien vs. Human + Predator action—which is what the audience was expecting, I’m sure—it’s as if Anderson threw up their hands and said, "Fuck it. I’m out of ideas. Let’s just cut to somebody running from an explosion."

The film certainly does cut to a scene of somebody running from an explosion. Actually, it’s more like a sequence. It is a long, boring sequence, that seems to go on and on interminably. Of course, even after the explosion ends, the movie doesn’t, because it’s connected to the Alien franchise, which always has extra thrills. It’s a tradition, going back to Ridley Scott’s "Alien," which was made twenty-five years ago.

Man, do I miss Ridley Scott. And James Cameron. And David Fincher, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Dan O’Bannon, David Giler, Walter Hill, and even Joss Whedon. I give the last credit for this: "Alien Resurrection" at least gave longtime fans something new. Ellen Ripley became a Xenomorph/human hybrid. This new movie, on the other hand, offers nothing but recycled bits of the familiar. We are still waiting for that visit to the Xenomorph’s home planet, we have been waiting since 1992, and we’ll be waiting until Ridley Scott finally gets the project together.

Was I expecting too much from "Alien Vs. Predator?" After all, it was made by the same writer/director behind "Mortal Kombat," "Event Horizon," and "Resident Evil." Anderson hasn’t exactly been lauded for his bold, visual style. Scott, Fincher, and Jeunet, on the other hand, were known for being strong visualists. When 20th Century Fox selected James Cameron to direct 1986’s "Aliens," he had just come off "The Terminator," and fans knew he could deliver a dark, tense, sci-fi action thriller.

What has W.S. Anderson mostly been known for? Movies based on video games—and not very good movies at that. I expect that Alien fans, after watching "A Vs. P," will immediately continue the ongoing debate (begun when Anderson first got the job) over which director should have been chosen instead. Couldn’t Renny Harlin have turned down the "Exorcist" sequel? Why couldn’t they get Gore Verbinski, Martin Campbell, or Tarsem ("The Cell")? Antoine Fuqua seems willing to do anything since "Training Day." Did they even make him an offer?

But that’s being too harsh on Anderson. While "A Vs. P" is probably the weakest Alien movie yet, it’s the best Predator sequel, and it’s easy to figure out why. For the first time in their species’ three Hollywood outings, Predators are vulnerable. That makes them interesting. A Xenomorph can eviscerate a Predator with its bare hands (or tail), can out-cat him with its reflexes, and burn him with its acid blood. In order for Predators to kill Xenomorphs, they have to rely on skill and savvy, not just brute strength. I’m not sure if Anderson manages to convince us that his Predators are the universe’s best badass hunters, but there are enough scenes of them showing off sword moves to make fans demand sequels.

And ultimately, that’s what I think will happen. Until Ridley Scott decides to commit himself to "Alien 6," and take an exploratory journey to where the universe’s deadliest killing machines were originally spawned, that franchise is dead. The only H.R. Giger creation to get a boost from this movie is "Predator," and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I would enjoy seeing future movies where the nemesis of Schwartz and Glover go to alien worlds and hunt deadly monsters. Or Jean-Jacques Annaud can direct them in a quest devoid of any dialogue. I have a plot idea already: The Predators can hunt for the reel of "A Vs. P" that I swear must have been missing.

GETTING BY AIN’T NO PLEASURE, CRUISE

Michael Mann’s new film "Collateral" is about survival. More specifically, it's about the pretenses we put on, the lies we tell ourselves, in order to get through our everyday lives. The movie is also a suspense-thriller, and a very good one. It has a great visual style, and great acting. Outside the bit of Miles Davis trivia that even a non-jazz buff like myself knows, the script is well-paced and never over-the-top violent.

The main character, Max (Jamie Foxx), has been driving a cab for twelve years. But whenever anyone asks him how he likes being a cabbie, his immediate reaction is, "Oh, this? This is just my part-time thing, while I put other stuff together." He’s even lied to his own mother, told her he runs his own limousine company, that he drives movie stars and famous people around.

Why does Max deceive his mother? A more important question might be, is Max also deceiving himself? As an audience, we think "yes." From the first shot of him, wearing a dejected look on his face when he sits down behind the wheel for the start of his shift, we guess that Max doesn’t really like driving cabs. As the movie progresses, we come to understand that his denials are a survival mechanism. That’s how Max gets through life, by convincing himself that he won’t be a cabbie forever, even though he likely will be.

One night, he picks up a fare (Jada Pinkett Smith) who also doesn’t seem to like her job. They wager over the quickest route back from the airport. A friendship develops between them. When he presses the question of whether she likes her job, she sheepishly reacts, "There are some days when I like being a lawyer." We’re not sure whether she’s telling the truth, but maybe self-denial is her survival mechanism, too.

Then Max picks up a well-dressed guy named Vincent (Tom Cruise), who happens to exit the same building the lawyer works in. After testing Max, and seeing that he clearly knows his way around the city, Vincent offers him six-hundred dollars, all in one-hundred dollar bills, to drive him to five different locations all over L.A. But Vincent, as it turns out, is an assassin. The visits are mob hits.

So Max finds himself in dangerous company, forced to chauffer a man who will not hesitate to kill him if he refuses to help. What is Max to do? Though he has survived the mean streets of Los Angeles for twelve years, he is also a sensitive soul, not duplicitous like Vincent. But a more aggressive, predatory nature, the kind Vincent has in spades, is necessary to survive the L.A. underworld that Max finds himself becoming immersed in. High praise goes to writer Stuart Beattie, for presenting Max with various situations over the course of a single night, where he has to become tougher, more savvy, a better liar, and for raising the cost of failure in each scenario.

For example, early on during Max’s forced tenure with Vincent, cops pull the car over for having a damaged windshield. Vincent tells Max that if the cops search the vehicle (which is hiding something), he will kill them. Max tries to lie his way out of the search, but his attempts seem nervous and half-hearted, and immediately crumble under the cops’ gruff authority. Max will have to try again later. By then, however, it will be his life, not just the lives of innocent bystanders, on the line.

Going back to the theme of self-denial as survival mechanism, Vincent is probably the film's interesting character, because he hires himself out to kill people. What happens to such a person's soul over time? How can they just go around anonymously offing people who probably, as Max points out in one case, have wives, kids, families?

That’s a psychological question Beattie and Mann are smart enough to ask. Vincent shrouds himself in a fog of fatalism. He claims that killing means nothing, because we are all insignificant specks of dust in the universe. As a viewer, however, I got the impression that Vincent was more angry than blasé. Otherwise, explain one of the most fascinating scenes in the film, where a taxi dispatcher, and Max's boss, tries to make him pay for the damage to his cab. Vincent grabs the walkie talkie, then angrily begins to explain the rules of "collision umbrellas" in auto insurance.

On the one hand, it's a scene showing how Max is timid, while Vincent goes for the balls. But if he really thought life was meaningless, then shouldn’t he have just shrugged it off and walked away? Perhaps Vincent’s way of coping with life is to always be the predator, to aggressively attack when slightly provoked. Maybe he's just naturally confident because he knows what an efficient killing machine he is.

Of course, Vincent is a killing machine who utilizes his physical dexterity, and his brains and wit, for money, not to survive. Max, meanwhile, uses his burgeoning survival instincts in order to avoid getting killed. Ultimately, the movie pits those two types of predators against each other, and asks: Which is the more formidible adversary, the one that kills for sport, or the one that kills out of necessity.

Does Vincent really believe that existence is pointless? If so, he cannot hold his own life too dearly, either. He cannot be afraid to die. Beattie and Mann eventually test Vincent, presenting him with a scenario where he has to prove the courage of his convictions. Rather than reveal whether he actually passes the crucible, I will merely reiterate: The filmmakers are smart enough to pose this question.
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In other news, the Thai flick "Last Life in the Universe" opens in New York today. I saw it at the Tribeca film festival, and I highly recommend it. Granted, there are plenty of critics who dismiss it as just another "suicidal librarian/prostitute dream girl/lonely expatriate/obsessive-compulsive disorder/yakuza" flick. But it’s shot by Christopher Doyle, longtime cinematographer for Wong Kar-Wai, and there’s awesome special fx for the scene involving flying books.

The director of "Ishii the Killer" and "Dead or Alive" (movies I’ve heard are great) makes a cameo in the film. Also, there’s an unusual amount of bodily fluid humor, considering that it’s an art flick. "Dumb and Dumber" actually has less.

Before the Tribeca Film Festival screening, Christopher Doyle—the coolest man alive—told us that we might see, "…people inhaling smoke through these little white sticks." He added, "It’s called smoking. I don’t see anyone in American movies do it anymore, so I assume nobody in this country does it."

After the screening, the director, Pen-Ek Ratanaruang, fielded questions, answering all of them with, "That’s a very interesting question. I think the best way to answer it is for you to buy another ticket, and see the movie again. Take all your friends and family this time."