!

Jesus Christ, could there be a more irritating movie than Mama Mia! 

Everybody! Was! Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

I don't know exactly what went wrong. Fans of the movie guaranteed satisfaction, if not mild entertainment, to those who enjoy Abba's music.  While I do not consider myself a fan of their music, I do find them tolerable bordering on likable, and yet I got neither satisfaction nor mild entertainment. In fact, the key takeaway of the movie for me was grating annoyance. Could it be that the pedestal I built for IKEA had me pegging other Swedish-related products on a stratosphere beyond the reach of reasonable expectations? No, that would be silly. 

Besides, I already mentioned that I am not a fan of Abba.

But while the music did nothing against my sensibilities, the over-the-top, hyper-sensationalized histrionics jarred me to my core. As I watched Meryl Streep gyrate her geriatric hips in front of the camera with what I can only assume to be a medically-induced exuberance, I kept asking myself: Why? why? why?

Why is someone of her acting calibre debasing herself, er, happily like this? Why did my auntie's friends enthusiastically recommended this movie? And why in God's name did it become the best-selling dvd in the UK for 2008? 

Of course it has to be over-the-top, you say. It's a musical. It can't merely be larger-than-life--it has to be Adam Lambert excess. 

It would be unreasonable to expect for each and every film to live up to what I deemed to be its quintessential representative in that particular genre. But I can't help but wonder how less irritating Mama Mia! could have been had it been Baz Luhrmann's pet.

God, get back to me on this. 

Goodbye, Scrubs

Scrubs is Ithaca, circa 2006. Those many afternoons I have spent at H's apartment, alone, waiting for him to come back from his classes. There was no TV and we were living as close to an ascetic lifestyle as what was permitted in an urban setting. But there was internet and we did have a portable multimedia device and so the familiar strains of Lazlo Bane's "Superman" frequently blared from it as I happily whiled away the time with JD's inner monologues and Cox's protracted rants.

Scrubs is "Our Love" by Rex Smith, "Dreaming of You" by Coral, "Good Time" by Leroy, "Winter" by Joshua Radin, "Hallelujah" by John Cale, "Question" by the Old 97s, "Light and Day" by Polyphonic Spree, "How to Save a Life" by The Fray, "Tell Her This" by Del Amitri and most recently, "The Book of Love" by Peter Gabriel.

Scrubs is goodbye, so long, don't ruin your perfect ending.

39 Steps

H and I have been on a roll lately, in terms of exploring the world beyond the four walls of our apartment. We are trying to reverse the degeneration of our socializing skills, and by we I mean, me. Under the present circumstances, I still exhibit recluse-esque behaviour which will not bode well for me when it's time to go back to school (more on that later).

So on a whim one slow Thursday, we booked tickets via telecharge.com for 39 Steps. My only foray into Broadway had me sat through what most veteran broadway patrons had presumambly sat through: The Phantom of the Opera. As I recalled, it was a approximately a couple of hours of live entertainment that I didn't dislike. And with this glowing recommendation, H was sold.

Helen Hayes Theatre is among those nondescript theatres that line up 44th Street. The inside exudes old-world glamour reminiscent of La Dolce Vita. Ornate carvings, red carpets, deep crimson curtains and grand chandeliers are some of the accouterments that imposes on your visual senses as you take in your surroundings.

As my luck would have it, I was seated next to an auntie who was an incarnation of the dratted American fixation on small talking. About 10 minutes prior to the start of the show, I was volleying "No, have you" to her "Have you seen this before? Have you been to this theatre before? Have you seen abc show?" I must say, she tried really hard to keep the conversation going but one can only do so much with pithiness. 

Fortunately, the show started on time and H and I were soon treated to a visual display of innovative hilarity. Between four stage actors, there were 139 roles to be portrayed which called for quite a stretch at resourcefulness and ingenuity from the cast. Coupled with a sparsely appointed set and props, imagination was definitely among the major characters of the show. Chase scenes from atop a moving train and aerial shots of airplanes buzzing near the ground were stripped down of any special effects, leaving the audience to fill in the gaps.

Hitchcock lovers would enjoy the many references to other Hitchcock movies woven into the story, most notable of which was the shower scene from Psycho replete with din-din-din sound effects.

The play tend to drag a bit in the middle, especially with the Irish part where the routine was a little overdone. But it eventually picks up to maintain its verve as it rollicked through 100 minutes of "fast-paced fun and thrilling action."

Catch it if you can. 

Brash Young Cinema

In college, my friend D and I went to this "underground" cinema which featured indie and classic films. My first film in this hastily set-up, stodgy living room cum renegade cinema was "Twelve Angry Men." This someone's living room soon became a part of my personal revolution against Hollywood formulaic films and my orientation into its anti-thesis.

My frustration with formulaic films collided with three disconnected developments: after-class discussions with a film professor, befriending an indie films dvd supplier and the discovery of a renegade cinema, which inevitably culminated into the fine-tuning of my film preferences. In that period, I was schooled in the fim noirs of Orson Welles and Dario Argento. I saw sci-fi films as how David Cronenberg interprets them, not only in "The Fly" but also in "eXisTenZ." The dark comedies of Jean-Pierre Jeunet before "Amelie" made Jeunet more accessible. The wrenching stories of Guiseppe Tornatore whom I previously reckoned to have made only porn. Same with Kubrick. And Wong Kar-Wai became more than just a wonky name.

I judiciously saved up for "Trainspotting", "Requiem for a Dream", "Pi" and "Monty Python" dvds. I searched the video rentals for "Blade Runner", "The Usual Suspects" and the "Seven Samurai". D and I hotly discussed "In Realm of the Senses" as though we would be quizzed on the subject any time.

Suddenly, movies weren't predictable and I didn't bother who the actors were on the screen. I saw new camera angles that I never thought possible much like new cortotions I never thought the body is capable of. I was not spoon-fed of the plot; key points in the narrative did not zoom pointedly to the center of the screen but instead subtly hinted at. Endings were not always clear-cut and often, the story continued to unfold in my head long after the movie has ended, redefining what "twist" meant. In short, I was treated as a discerning, intelligent movie-goer and I liked it.

Despite the exposure, my film preferences are not as refined as that of a bona fide cineast. The first few minutes of "2001: A Space Odyssey" I found utterly boring and I had a hard time validating the very graphic scenes in "A Clockwork Orange" although I suppose they were not meant to be validated. I know the book only equalled if not surpassed its lurid details. And then there was "Salo: The Last Days of Sodom", arguably one of the most challenging films to sit through to its entirety, which rendered itself to the stereotype of how art films are merely glorified pornography and made me question if a distinguishing line exists between films like Salo and a Ron Jeremy special.

I also had a hard time seeing past Benicio del Torro's paunch in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." Of course, Johnny Depp was hardly acting; he was in his natural element surrounded by his er elements. Nonetheless, I was less than enthralled by the film.

And so, my film snobbery may not be as comprehensive as I'd hope but good enough to recognize little-known film such as "Don't Look Now" (at least I've never heard of it) as a gem, and open-minded enough to give "Slumdog Millionaire", independent of the hype, a chance.

I don't know what happened of Brash Young Cinema. Before senior year, I stopped going there. The last I heard of my professor, he was part of the production management of a television network. My dvd supplier has long closed shop.

But the "revolution", continues.

So this is how outside world looks like

Been living in a cave the past few months, venturing out only for minor annoyances such as Jollibee and grocery shopping, that it was refreshing to be reintegrated into society once again. I had almost forgotten the heart-warming abrasiveness of New Yorkers and the pee-tinged scent of the subways.

H and I caught Lily Allen's last show on this side of the world. Apart from Jars of Clay, I have never been to a concert before so it was tad disappointing that an attention-starved, teetotaler pop tart was the one to initiate me to it. I am familiar with only one song of hers and as my charmed-life would have it, was performed second to last. So the hours passed in a blur of cheating boyfriends, and other sappy but cheeky love songs until I could finally relate. Her fans, in particular the girl in our vicinity, embraced every anecdotal segeues with squeals of "What! It was about her MOM! I THOUGHT IT WAS ABOUT HER EX..." which reminded both H and I that we missed the bus for the whole concert/club/moshpit culture years ago.

Regardless, I wouldn't dismiss the show as a total waste. Especially when H, whose cussing rival the most foul-mouthed sailor on the planet, stood appalled as the crowd raised their middle fingers in the air, whilst enthusiastically singing "Fuck you, fuck you very very mucchh" along with Lily. Yeah, like mc/bc'ing all the drivers on the road is any less vulgar.

H on the other hand, didn't grasp much of it although he didn't outrightly say so. But in describing the whole experience as going to a garden variety bar with live band music, I drew my own conclusions. Besides, Lily didn't sing from her nose, which is quite a departure from the kind of music he enjoys.

In the end though, it never really mattered who it was on stage, not when everybody else was intent on karaoke-ing with the artist. With all that racket going on, who gives a hoot about music?

It's all noise.