LIVE BLOGGING THE 2012 OSCARS

The snarkiness commences at 8:30

8:29 - "Mirror Mirror" looks fucking awful.

8:30 - I hope Al Green is enjoying the royalties from two consecutive commercials featuring "Let's Stay Together"

8:35 - Is Justin Bieber playing an underage male prostitute?

8:39 - James Earl Jones now looks like Admiral Ackbar from "Return of the Jedi"

8:45 - ROBERT RICHARDSON? AGAIN? No love for Lubezki?

8:54 - No Cruel Intentions in the kissing montage?

8:55 - This montage should be titled - "Remember When Movies Were Good?"

8:58 - "The Artist" for best costume design? He only had to work with two colors.

9:00 - BOOTY BATTLE!!!!

9:01 - Are they seriously getting all the technical awards over and done with up front? And why are they having all the directors and actors explain how great the techies are rather than letting them speak for themselves? Bad form!

9:08 - I want Sandra Bullock to play an evil Nazi kommandant.

9:09 - Congrats, Iran! We'll be bombing you next week.

9:13 - Berenice Bejo - hot.

9:15 - The opera boxes are reserved for sexy lady musicians.

9:20 - ABC's "Missing" - Because Ashley Judd can't open a movie anymore.

9:27 - Dragon Tattoo for editing. Didn't see that one coming.

9:29 - Sound editors are hilarious.

9:30 - Filmmaking runs on Diet Coke.

9:40 - Cirque Du Soleil - ummmmm.....

9:42 - Oscar Nominee Deathwatch 2012: Plummer vs. Von Sydow

9:43 - I love Chris Rock!

9:55 - Emma Stone is drunk.

9:56 - Oh, it's a bit.

9:57 - Hugo for visual effects... over Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Yup, Hugo's gonna win best picture.

10:01 - Kenneth Branagh is annoying.

10:02 - Sorry, Mr. Von Sydow. You're gonna have to stay alive and keep acting for a while.

10:19 - BRET MCKENZIE!!!! GO NEW ZEALAND!

10:22 - Popcorn whores!

10:27 - Angie's going for the Jessica Rabbit stance.

10:29 - I saw Nat Faxon perform at the Groundlings a while back. He was awesome. Congrats!

10:21 - Woody Allen over Kristen Wiig. Sigh.

10:40 - Milla Jovovich is perfect for the Nerd Oscars. All those techies have spent years fantasizing about her.

10:46 - Iran, Northern Ireland, Pakistan... Is your nation troubled? Make a movie. You'll probably get an Oscar.

10:53 - Michel Hazanavicius - Your name sounds like a sneeze.

11:01 - Yay! Death Montage coming up! Bring out your dead!

11:10 - No applause during the Death Montage? Bad form!

11:16 - "I've never had any of those feelings." Billy's best line so far.

11:17 - Jean Dujardin - Not sure you deserved it, but at least you didn't go The Full Benigni on us.

11:24 - Okay, I take it back. The Artist is gonna get it.

11:32 - Meryl!

11:35 - She's classy. You gotta give her that.

11:38: - The Artist - It was good. The Descendants was better

11:41 - When the biggest surprise of the night is that Meryl Streep won an Academy Award, it's a clear sign that things need to be shaken up a bit.

CANADA, EH, and MERRIE OLDE ENGLAND

There were nine goals that I set out to accomplish by the end of 2011. Only four were fulfilled to completion. Most of them were the cheaper endeavors, but I double-dipped on “Set foot in a foreign country,” which put me over the hump according to my selective logic. 

The first country was Canada. I had been to Canada before (if Toronto counts – it’s basically American City Lite - half the blight and even less flavor), but not to the French part. My buddy Scott lives in Burlington, VT, which is just a quick hop from Montreal. On a brisk April weekend we headed into Le Grand Nord Blanc. Once we had settled into our hostel, we stopped into a frozen yogurt shop for some treats. Besides all the French being spoken, the other obvious indicator that we had left our Puritanical homeland was a very NSFW song being played on the radio whilst I enjoyed my maple-licious dessert (enjoy Enrique Iglesias’ total lack of subtlety in the song's video posted below). There were plenty of kids around and no one seemed offended. Vive le Québec libre, I always say.

Do not underestimate Canadian Winter. She’s a tough old broad who doesn’t know when to quit. Montreal in April is akin to Boston in March – cold, wet and unpredictable. Just as Scott and I reached the picturesque summit of Mont Royal, the heavens opened and blasted us with wind, snow and sleet. As they say, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes. Too bad I had left my winter coat south of the border. Damn it. Thankfully, Scott and I wandered into Café Bistro El Mundo not far from McGill, where the world’s loveliest barista (we call her Coco) made us the best Irish coffees we’ve ever had. Merci beaucoup, Coco. You are the enemy of Canadian Winter. Also, our hostel, Auberge de jeunesse de Montréal, served up a hell of a breakfast for just a few loonies. Take heed, travelers.

Other Montreal highlights included stumbling into a free art exhibition (lots of fashionable people sipping wine), Biodôme de Montréal (a groovy indoor zoo with five climate zones), and Le Sainte-Élisabeth Pub Européen (where the barmaid bought both of us a shot after she realized that she had falsely accused us of neglecting her tip – so polite, those Canadians). The very French neighborhood of Old Montreal was nice and atmospheric, but the weather was so nasty it made it hard to enjoy. Next time, I’ll bring a parka. And a camera (sorry, no pics).

Surprisingly Sunny London

My other international jaunt was to Merrie Olde England. Many of my best traveling buddies hail from Old Blighty, and I was dying to see them and their homeland. If nothing else, I wanted proof that my backpacker days were not a hallucination, and that these great people were still out there living their lives across the Atlantic. I was not disappointed.

London was very good to me. 

My first day was a fantastic, blurry marathon. I took the redeye to Heathrow and was greeted at the tube station by my buddy Zanda and his Kiwi girlfriend Michelle. I hadn’t seen Zanda since the Queenstown days and it was great to catch up. Our first stop was a pub in Chiswick. That it was high noon GMT (07:00 by my internal clock) didn’t stop me from having my first English pint. Room temperature brews took some getting used to, but the sun was shining and I’d just made a long journey after a killer week at work. It was all good. If that had been the whole day, it would have been a nice, busy memory, but we had many miles yet to cover. 

After dumping my luggage at Zanda’s flat, we headed into Central London. We walked across Waterloo Bridge to Covent Gardens, Leicester Square, and Piccadilly Circus. It was a Saturday evening, and vast swaths of diverse humanity were out and about. London has amazing energy – like New York, but closer to the ground. The next stop for refreshment was Waxy O’Connor’s, a fantastic pub in Soho. Imagine M.C. Escher was commissioned to build a subterranean pub, and only given fragments of old wooden churches with which to construct it, and you’d have an inkling of the architecture of Waxy’s. It’s a wonderful labyrinth of burnished wood and craggy stairways to nowhere. Check it out when you can, but don’t have too many ‘cause you’ll have lots of trouble finding your way out.

From Waxy’s we headed to King’s Cross (Ye Olde Whore District) where Zanda’s buddy Marcus assured us there was a house party in full swing. Exhaustion and jetlag were setting in, but I was determined to make it through that party (even if I had wimped out, there was no way I’d have been able to make it back to Zanda’s flat without help). With lots of help from Red Bull, I soldiered on and had a great night meeting fun people from all over the world. We left the party at 2:30 AM. Zanda miraculously guided me and Michelle through two bus rides (which felt exactly like this) and a 15 minute walk back to his flat. At 4:00, we crashed. The only word is “knackered.” Blissfully knackered.

Not a bad first day. I had fourteen more to go. Let’s compress this, shall we?

Other London highlights: Westminster Abbey (the royal family’s overcrowded basement with an audio tour courtesy of Uncle Scar), Buckingham Palace (where people stare through a fence and wait in vain for the Queen to show up) and a bike trip through Hyde Park & Kensington Gardens (if the weather’s good, make use of Barclays Cycle Hire – a great, cheap way to see the city). The Millennium Bridge is also great on a sunny day – a pleasant stroll across the Thames from St. Paul’s to Shakepeare's Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern Museum. Best of all is the amazing Tower of London. It’s got history, horror, guys in funny hats, and the crown jewels – something for everyone. Great stuff! The Underground is easy to navigate once you get your bearings, and I never tired of hearing “This is a Piccadilly Line service to Cockfosters” over the PA system. Tee hee hee!

Thanks to my wonderful English friends, I was able to see more than just London. My southern travels took me to Chichester, Portsmouth, Brighton, and Aldershot. I then headed north to Leeds, Huddersfield, Marsden, York, Barnsley & Whitby. I sped down narrow country roads, wandered the lonely moors, got lost in medieval cathedrals, napped in the graveyard that inspired Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and took a dip in the North Sea. My hosts and hostesses could not have been more warm and hospitable. It was an amazing two weeks and I’m incredibly grateful to all of them for taking me in and showing me around!

Some random observations about England:

- Downton Abbey, it ain’t. In terms of cultural diversity, England might surpass the US - even the smaller cities are melting pots.

- It is impossible to walk around England without thinking of the countless movies and TV shows that take place there

- There is nothing particularly British about The British Museum

- America needs meat pies

- England has surprisingly big fucking spiders

- Hate to say it folks, but the stereotype about British dental hygiene is all too accurate (at least for older folks)

Hedley & Wyche by shundriad

Anyway, it was a great trip and I’d love to go back someday soon. I still have to see Stonehenge, the White Cliffs of Dover, Oxford, Sherwood Forest, Hadrian's Wall, Windsor Castle, Manchester, Wales, Scotland… the list goes on and on. I did, however, catch a glimpse of Susan Boyle at Heathrow while waiting for my flight home, so at least I got to see one sexy British bird!

The flight home took me over Wales and then Ireland. Unfortunately, thick clouds covered the entire length of the Emerald Isle. It was as if my Irish forebears were punishing me for going to England before exploring Ireland – Mick, ye fookin’ bastard! We won’t let ye get a peek of Ireland until you get yer arse here for a proper visit, ye cunt ye! Fair play to them, I say (although I do have some English ancestry, too). I’m sure I’ll make it to Ireland soon enough. I hope that trip will be as great as my English adventure. 

And as a great Englishman once said, now for something completely different: After a year away from the world of social networking, I made peace with Facebook. Yes, yes – I made a much-ballyhooed exit a few months back. Call me a hypocrite all you want, but Zuckerberg & Co. added some sorely needed privacy options of which I have taken full advantage. Starting an account from scratch allowed me to be more thoughtful of what I share and with whom I share it. Not everyone gets to see everything, and it’s a lot easier to keep stupid crap out of my newsfeed. Some people are baffled that I do not allow wall posts from outside parties. Too bad, bitches! Use your own damn wall. For some reason I’ve also signed up for LinkedIn. No idea why.


And here's a few more pics of England. Enjoy!

Yorkminster at sunset

Castle Hill, Huddersfield

Moors above Marsden

Cemetery in Whitby where Dracula bit Lucy Westenra

SUMMER OF '79

Where were the “Super 8” kids when I was growing up? I would have fit right in with J.J. Abrams’ scrappy band of Goonie-esque movie makers. I have no idea how autobiographical this movie is, if Abrams really had childhood buddies willing to do special effects, make-up, and act while he bossed them around from behind the camera. If that was the case, I am extremely jealous. Back in my middle school days, I would have killed to have friends like these. While I certainly had good friends back then, none of them were as obsessed with movies as I was.

My envy extends to the era in which Abrams got to be a kid. Thanks to Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, the late 1970s were a wonderful time to be a young movie lover. “Super 8” is set in the summer of 1979, and its heroes are about thirteen years old, Abrams’ age at the time (my own summer of '79 was spent teething and crapping my pants). These are exactly the kinds of kids who would have been terrified by “Jaws,” thrilled by “Star Wars,” and awed by “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” I grew up on those movies, too, but I saw them all on video a decade or so later. By that time, they were canon. I don’t remember a time when those movies were new and fresh, the way they were for millions around the globe.

Not that I was deprived of pubescent cinematic joy, mind you. In the summer of 1989 alone, at the age of ten, I was completely swept away by Tim Burton’s “Batman,” James Cameron’s “The Abyss,” and Spielberg & Lucas’ own “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” I saw each one of them three times, and each has a special and formative place in my movie-going heart. All were rated PG-13, which gave my ten year-old self the tasty satisfaction of seeing something that was ever-so-slightly forbidden. They were also three very distinct visions – one a fantastically Gothic urban nightmare, another a sunny globe-trotting adventure, and another a plunge into the depths of the ocean, with glowing alien visitors. All very cool. And each movie won a single Academy Award apiece (Art Direction for “Batman,” Visual Effects for “The Abyss,” and Sound Effects Editing for “Indiana Jones”).

But still, as much as those movies from ’89 resonate for me personally, they don’t seem to evoke the same transcendent cultural nostalgia as do the early works of Spielberg & Lucas. Some will say that they’re just not as good as those older movies. A fair and arguable point, but every movie fan has rose-colored goggles for the films that first got him or her excited about cinema. Thankfully, I had big sisters who, like Abrams, were old enough to experience those Old School Spielberg movies first-hand on the big screen. When they were kids, home video was not an option, and online streaming was as sci-fi as a tricorder. If they wanted to see a movie a second, third or fourth time, they’d have to seek out the local second-run theater. When VCRs emerged, they thankfully educated me in the “Lucasberger” classics, but I still wish that I got to see those movies when they were new. The Big Screen mattered more then, and that is a vital part of why those movies are so beloved.

Back to “Super 8.” The screening I attended was at 8:15pm, on the movie’s third Saturday in theaters. It was projected on one of the multiplex’s mid-sized screens, and the place was packed, with many people struggling to find a seat after the lights went down. Interestingly, for a movie primarily concerning the plight of middle-schoolers, more than half of the audience members were in their forties. These are the same people who were awed by Spielberg as children. My guess is that they were all feeling nostalgia for those early days at the movies, when fantastic things emerged from summer night skies and your best friends were there to witness them with you.

Eventually, I did find my own band of “Super 8” kids at a summer filmmaking program when I was seventeen. And like the kids in the movie, we used monster make-up, fake blood, and stolen shots to make our own goofy visions. We had a lot of fun doing it, and many of us still do it today in one way or another. “Super 8” remembers what it is like to find your tribe, however unusual it might be, and how wonderful it feels. I hope all my movie freak friends go see it.

LIVE BLOGGING: A VERY FRANCO OSCARS

Here goes, my first attempt at live blogging. I'm not gonna bother with the red carpet crap... just the Oscarcast itself.

This year, it's personal. As an uncredited production assistant from the Cambridge shoot of "The Social Network," I am unashamedly rooting for myself. I've see seven of the ten Best Picture nominees. Many of them are very good, but my movie is better than all of them. My guess is that the boring old fuddy duddies of the Academy will give Best Picture to "The King's Speech." Whatever. My hunch is my boy Fincher will still squeeze by with Best Director.

If nothing else, we'll have the glorious goofiness of Franco as our co-host for the evening.

See you at 8e/5p.

8:38 pm - You can't lose with Franco in a bear suit.

8:40 - Morgan Freeman really needs to start having more fun with his soothing voice over persona.

8:43 - Franco missed a golden opportunity - he really should have come out with a bloody stump of an arm.

8:45 - Gone With The Wind Sucks. Scarlet O'Hara was a whiny, slave owning, gold-digging bitch.

8:49 - Art Directors shouldn't speak.

8:50 - YAY! WALLY PFISTER!!!!!

8:51 - It's official. This is the year of The Stammer.

8:55 - Kirk Douglas has gigantic earlobes. And he's still horny. He must really love his daughter-in-law.

9:00 - Poor Melissa Leo. She'll be the last person to see Kirk Douglas alive. And she'll have hefty fines from the FCC.

9:05 - Mila's Kunises are trying to escape from her dress. And that's okay.

9:09 - Yeah, yeah, Pixar rocks... snooze.

9:13 - Screenplays! Go Nolan and Sorkin!

9:14 - YAY!!!! I have officially worked on an Oscar Winning Movie!

9:18 - You know The King's Speech is a movie for old people when the writer can't find the microphone to give his Oscar speech.

9:24 - Leave Hugh alone!

9:25 - Franco in drag. It was just a matter of time.

9:32 - Yay! That's two Oscars for actors who successfully pulled off Massachusetts accents!

9:43 - Trent Reznor just won an Oscar!


9:51 - I'm glad I saw Inception at the Imax theater with vibrating seats.  That's Oscar-winning taint stimulation!

9:56 - "That's gross." I love you, Cate Blanchett.

9:59 - Colleen Atwood. Moley, moley, moley.

10:02 - Obama?

10:09 - Shut up, Adrien Brody. Stop making commercials.

10:12 - Short films = I gotta pee.

10:17 - I actually want to see the Facebook Autotune Musical. Go JT!

10:18 - Oprah's boobs are each bigger than her head.

10:27 - Billy Crystal should still be given the option to host.

10:32 - You rock, Downey.

10:35 - Yay! Even though they left me on the cutting room floor, congrats to Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall!

10:43 - Country Music's newest star... Gwyneth Paltrow? The fuck?

10:47 - Best acceptance speech - Randy Newman

10:52 - Ahhhh, the death montage featuring Celine Dion. Their hearts didn't go on.

10:56 - And the award for the hottest dead person goes to Lena Horne.

11:03 - Tom Hooper. Whatever. Your Mums got your movie for you.

11:14 - I'm getting some Winter's Bone for Jennifer Lawrence.

11:21 - Sandra, you've made some crappy movies, but I still love you.

11:23 - Waaaaaah! I'm the King of England. Waaaaaah!

11:25 - Franco would've given a way better speech.

11:33 - During the Best Picture montage, Dayna and Paul's cat decided to lick her vagina in front of the television. It kinda stole the king's thunder.

11:36 - The King's Speech. Whatevah.

11:38 - You know that you haven't won the crowd when a Best Picture winner has his speech cut off by the band.

11:39 - These kids didn't need to lip synch.

11:41 - Again, whatevah. 

REDRUM

THE SCENE:   FRAMINGHAM, MASSACHUSETTS, USA




THE PLAYERS:   MUM, DAD, AND ME

THE FORECAST: BLIZZARD WARNING, STATE OF EMERGENCY DECLARED IN MASSACHUSETTS, 8 TO 16 INCHES OF SNOW, POTENTIALLY DAMAGING WINDS, CONSIDERABLE BLOWING AND DRIFTING OF SNOW

WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

PRAISE, I THINK

"Mike's the kind of guy you WANT to fuck your mom." - My manager, 4 days after I got a raise.

Mother Lover (Uncensored) - watch more funny videos

THE ANTISOCIAL NETWORK

The photo above was taken on a night on the town back in early 2009 in Perth, Western Australia. I’m the douchebag in the stupid “Drunk Chicks Think I’m Hot” t-shirt (truth be told, that shirt was a great icebreaker at the pubs). The young lady in the photo? We’ll call her Julie (not her real name). Julie was a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. If memory serves we shared a few drinks, danced a bit, mugged for the camera, and parted ways. My friend Anthony (pictured on the right, whilst texting) tagged me in this photo on his Facebook page. I promptly de-tagged myself from the photo, but have now resurrected it to make a point – the world needs to see FEWER photos of me like this, not more. In all likelihood, I will never see Julie again since she lives on the other side of the planet. I wish her well. However, I don’t need for all of my Facebook “friends,” including co-workers, 12 year-old cousins, and Mom, to see unflattering images of my fleeting shenanigans from a long time ago, in a country far, far away. For that reason, and more, I am quitting Facebook.

I know what you’re gonna say – Mike, why don’t you just adjust your privacy settings?

Here’s why - There are 173 photos and 4 videos in which I am currently tagged, and I never uploaded a single one of them. They are how the world sees me, for better or worse. I don’t have the damned patience to go through each one of my 335 “friends” and decide who is worthy or unworthy of seeing this photo or that video. That an image can be tagged and put on semi-public display without a tag-ee’s prior full consent has always been my main quibble with Facebook.

Another gripe (although it’s not really Facebook’s fault) – Some people put interesting links and intelligent comments in their status updates… and some others don’t. Actually some others put up unbelievably mundane crap about their lives about which absolutely no one needs to know. No, I don’t care if the baby wouldn’t let you sleep! No, I don’t care how many calories you burned in your aerobics class! No, I don’t care about your hangover! And no one else cares either! Just because something is up on a computer screen doesn’t make it amusing or important! Get back to work and shut the fuck up!

Phew! Okay… calming down.

Speaking of work, Facebook became a major sucker of time and productivity for me when I was unemployed. Many days when I could have been aggressively job hunting, writing, or educating myself, instead I was nostalgically (read: voyeuristically) looking in at other people’s more interesting lives rather than improving my own. It was my own damn fault for getting sucked in, but how many millions of others are doing the same thing? No wonder the economy’s in the crapper.

A big question… If I stayed on Facebook, what would happen to my page after I died? Someday all 500,000,000 of today’s Facebook users will be dead. Will our descendants care that we “liked” Waffle House or thought that the Patriots played a shitty game one day back in 2010? When he’s having a quiet day in the Oval Office On The Moon, will Michael Moran III check out old photos of his namesake and Julie and wonder - if things worked out a little differently, could that Australian chick have been my Grandma? I dunno. It’s all a bit creepy. (I didn’t mean you, Julie. I meant the concept of a digital pseudo-autobiography that lives forever in cyberspace was creepy… not you. You're just fine).

Oh, but Facebook has its good points, too. If it had never existed, Betty White might never have hosted SNL, and I might never have gotten to work for (cue shameless namedropping) David Fincher. One year ago, I was working as a production assistant on the “The Social Network.” The movie turned out great and I am proud to have worked on it (although it is difficult to prove that I actually did work on it, as my name isn’t in the credits). So, thanks for that, Facebook. Also thanks for re-connecting me with one of my best childhood friends and for vindicating my theory that the girl I had a crush on in 3^rd grade would grow up to be a stunner. But in the end, the bad stuff outweighed the good for me and I’m pulling the plug.

Among many great lines in “The Social Network,” one that stands out is “The Internet isn’t written in pencil; it’s written in ink.” If so, I’d like more control over the pen. So, I’m regressing back to a time when if there were embarrassing photos of me floating around, I was blissfully unaware of their existence, as were my family, friends and casual acquaintances – a time when it took a bit more than sharing a beer at that party that one time to qualify as my friend – a time when people didn’t feel the need to inform everyone they know that the baby just farted. Ahhhh.... 2005! It's good to be back!

So folks, if you have something to share with me, do it as nature intended… with a letter, phone call, email, text message, or - ahem - blog comment. And please, for the love of Gawd, “follow” my blog. I still crave some attention!


AN AMENDMENT (11/01/2010): In case I offended any parents of babies on here, let me clarify my point of view. Maybe "shut the fuck up" was a little harsh. I have absolutely no problem with parents taking cute photos and videos of their children and showing them off to close friends and family on Facebook. Nor do I mind it when people write things like "Junior said his first word today! It was 'platypus!'" in their status updates. That stuff is fine and good. I love kids, especially my adorable niece and nephew and I cherish every photo that their parents send me. Its when parents (particularly new parents), write down every single detail of their progeny's development, no matter how trivial, (ie "the baby cried all night, the baby won't eat peas, the baby has diarrhea") and broadcast it throughout the world that I get annoyed. Someday, those kids are going to grow up, and not all of them are going to like the fact that their childhoods were on display, especially if their parents were complaining about how irritating they were or are. I am not yet a father, so I cannot speak to the joys and frustrations of parenthood. Facebook allows parents to share those joys and vent those frustrations. I just wonder who's really listening, and who might get hurt. 

THE CURIOUS CASE OF MATT DAMON

Damon in "Hereafter"

Matt Damon kicks ass. As a fellow Masshole Libra who likes good movies, he inspires. 

I haven’t seen “Hereafter” yet. It looks pretty good. Rumor has it that Damon’s character is able to commune with the dead. Judging from the movie’s poster, he must also be capable of time travel, specifically to 1992 where he stole his headshot from the set of "School Ties," returned to 2010 and gave the photo to the Warner Bros. marketing department.

Damon on the poster for "Hereafter"

Damon's only 40. He's youthful, but he's not that youthful. The movie was directed by Clint Eastwood, a man who has proved time and time again that bad-assery knows no age limit. Why does Damon have to look like an undergrad to sell this flick?

Just sayin…

"I'm 80 years old and I'll kick your fucking ass, you little pissant!"

ROBZ N THE HOOD: A QUICK REVIEW

This movie should have been titled "Nottingham Origins: Robin Hood." That's not a compliment. What we got here is a grim war movie that serves as prelude to Robin Hood's heyday in Sherwood Forest. Problem is, I don't much care how Robin Hood became Robin Hood. I'd rather he just got down to business. Russell Crowe is already pushing 50 and looks it. If this is a setup for a Robin Hood franchise starring Crowe, we're in trouble and so are his knees. As with any Ridley Scott flick, it looks great, can be gripping at times, but isn't exactly fun. Cate Blanchett does what she can to liven things up, as does Oscar Isaac as Prince John The Swarthy, and if the whole movie were anywhere near as cool as the animated end title sequence, we might have had something here. But is isn't, and we don't.

So there.

ROBZ N THE HOOD

Someday, I will make The Ultimate Robin Hood Movie, or at least, My Version of the Ultimate Robin Hood Movie. I am hardly unique in the desire to bring this medieval tale to the big screen. Moviemakers have been visiting and revisiting Sherwood Forest since the silent era, and with good reason. Everyone likes Robin Hood. He’s a dashing, charming rogue with mad archery skillz who robs the rich, feeds the poor, and gets the girl. What’s not to like?

As with all timeless tales, each generation gets the Robin Hood they deserve. The story works fine on its own, allowing filmmakers to highlight the concerns, styles and trends of their own particular eras.

In 2010, we are about to get Ridley Scott’s version. Judging from the trailer, it looks epic, humorless and violent, with curiously mature actors filling out the leads. With all due respect to Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett, I have always envisioned Robin Hood and Maid Marian as passionate young lovers rather than 40-something Oscar-winners. Sir Ridley continues the ironic tradition of casting a non-Englishman as that most English of heroes (weird, isn’t it). I have my concerns (a shiny-armored Maid Marian riding into battle?). But hey, it’s still a Robin Hood movie, so I’ll be sure to check it out. But before I go, I felt that I should look back on some earlier cinematic versions of the Robin Hood tlegend, and see what they could tell me about their time periods.

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) Directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley

Ever seen a Bollywood movie? For the uninitiated, Bollywood is India’s film industry, the world’s most prolific, which produces hundreds of movies each year. Typical Bollywood productions are fanciful extravaganzas filled with music, chaste romance and bloodless adventure made to appeal to vast swaths of humanity, including millions living in wretched poverty. With its dazzling colors and innocent romanticism, The Adventures of Robin Hood could comfortably share a double bill with the latest offering from Bombay.

If you want evidence as to why the Hollywood (with an “H”) studio system peaked during the Great Depression, this movie could serve as Exhibit A. It is relentlessly cheerful, optimistic and colorful in ways that are laughable for a modern American audience, but it must have picked up the spirits of the impoverished back in the day. With athletic swagger and wise-ass quips, Errol Flynn bounces through every scene like a gazelle (albeit a bright green Bedazzled™ gazelle). His band of Merry Men aren’t so much a forest-dwelling guerilla squad as a bunch of good-humored drinking buddies who swing on vines in goofy outfits whilst redistributing wealth to the masses. What downtrodden Hooverville resident (or Slumdog) wouldn’t want to join these scamps in their quest to stick it to The Man? Olivia de Havilland is every inch the damsel in distress, and her own goofy outfits range in style from Sparkly Habit to Sequined Swiss Miss. “England” never looked as sunny as it does in this movie. It all seems rather cartoonish today, but America needed a cartoon back then, just like India does now.

And speaking of cartoons…

Robin Hood (1973) Directed by Wolfgang Reitherman

Walt Disney died in 1966, and with him went the lush, vivid, and expensive animation style that made his studio famous. Lots of animation buffs see the years following Uncle Walt’s demise as a lackluster time for the studio. I respectfully disagree with them. Sure, movies like The Aristocats, The Rescuers and The Fox and the Hound may not have the same dazzling production values of the Disney “classics” of old, but they also lack those films’ pretentiousness. The Disney movies of the 1970s have a shaggy charm about them. Rather than grandly executed fairy tales, they are modest bedtime stories more likely to give you a good chuckle than to inspire awe. And Robin Hood is the best of the bunch.

Ooh De Lally, would I like to know what they were smoking during the Robin Hood brainstorming sessions (it was the early 70s, after all)! I imagine the pitch going like this: “Okay, so we’re gonna do Robin Hood, but with animals instead of people. And it’s gonna be a Western. And there’s gonna be a hoedown in Sherwood Forest. And drag humor. And boob jokes.” And that’s exactly what they did. The choice to make each character an animal underlines their personalities in a playful and effective way (Robin Hood is a sly fox, Little John is a big-hearted bear, Richard the Lionhearted is, uh, a lion). The dialogue is hilarious, particularly the banter between Peter Ustinov’s Prince John and Terry-Thomas’ Sir Hiss (name me another Disney flick with memorable comic repartee, besides Aladdin), and the songs are terrific. The whole movie feels like it was made by a bunch of good-humored hippies who had just watched M*A*S*H. And that’s a good thing.

Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) Directed (more or less) by Kevin Reynolds

I know it’s hard to believe, kids, but twenty years ago Kevin Costner was the hottest star in Hollywood. He was on a massive winning streak – The Untouchables, Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, and his personal best Dances With Wolves all came out in the space of four years. He was the All-American Movie Star with two Oscars to boot. So when the chance to star as Robin Hood came along, he wasn’t going to let his limited acting range and unmistakably Californian accent stand in his way (to be fair, Errol Flynn wasn’t the greatest of actors either). Thus, the world was given Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. I loved this movie when I was twelve. Back then, I didn’t much care that Old Kev-bo sounded more like a surfer than a Saxon nobleman. The action was good, the settings were appropriately gritty, and Alan Rickman made a hilarious and kick-ass Sheriff of Nottingham.

Now that I am old and jaded, however, the film’s flaws are easier to spot. It was a notoriously rushed and difficult production, and it shows. Tonally, the movie is all over the place and its oh-so-1990s stabs at political correctness come across as half-assed. Morgan Freeman’s exotic and educated Moor helpfully introduces the Merry Men to the wonders of telescopes and gunpowder, yet has no wants or ambitions of his own other than protecting the hero’s life. Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio’s Maid Marian is introduced as a masked warrior who nearly cuts Robin to pieces, and is then stuck as a vulnerable damsel for the rest of the movie. Worst of all, when the Sheriff attempts to rape her (!), it seems to be played for laughs. Yuck!

And then there is Kev-bo’s monstrous ego that radiates through every frame. Rumor has it that he and the producers took over the editing of the film, and man, does this movie love Kevin Fucking Costner! When he gives what is supposed to be a rousing speech calling the Marry Men to action, he comes off more like a schoolyard bully bending the weaker kids to his will than a charismatic leader of men. And that damn waterfall scene! Maid Marian stumbles upon a nude Robin taking a dip and gazes longingly at his manly physique (well, partially his physique – a stunt butt was employed). Even in his heyday, I don’t recall Kev-bo being known for his sexy bod. Hell, that very summer a couple of doors down in the multiplex, Brad Pitt was putting all mankind’s bodies to shame in Thelma & Louise, so that lingering gaze on Marian’s face is just a bit much. Get over yourself, Kev.

Such was the way of the world in 1991. How quickly the times change.

So, on Friday I will be off to see Ridley & Russell’s take on the Sherwood Bandit. Of course, it will never be as good as My Version of the Ultimate Robin Hood Movie, but it could be pretty awesome, nonetheless. I am always willing to give Robin Hood the benefit of the doubt, and I’ll be there. With tights on.

LAZY BLOGGING PART IV, WITH JAMES LIPTON

I promise to do some real writing soon. Until then, here's something to make you giggle.

THE SECRET OF GREAT ACTING

I have a Love/Hate relationship with Inside The Actors Studio. On one hand, James Lipton coaxes some great interviews out of his guests. On the other hand, many of those guests get mind-blowingly pretentious about "The Method" and "Their Craft." Sure, there are some great actors out there and just as many ways to conjure up a good performance. But at the end of the day it's all just... well, I'll let Sir Ian McKellen explain it.

THREE YEARS GONE

Today marks the third year anniversary of the day I took of for the Southern Hemisphere. As I look out my window, I see the same autumnal colors that bade me farewell back then, and its impossible for me to not get nostalgic. I can still picture the mist rolling over the mountains of New Zealand as my plane made its way into Auckland. The excitement of living on my own in a new country was raging through me. Yes, I did and saw some amazing stuff, but it all would have been pretty empty if I weren't sharing the experiences with some awesome people. And I miss those people terribly and it pisses me off that I can't just meet up with them at John Harvard's tonight.

I'd give you more of my Backpacker's Withdrawal Spiel, but thankfully Australian blogger Ben Groundwater sums my mood up perfectly in the article below, so I can go back to being the lazy American blogger that I have become. Enjoy.

THE WORST THING ABOUT TRAVELLING

I used to know a tour bus driver who loved telling people he was "world famous".

"I know people all over the world," he'd tell his latest bunch of wide-eyed tour passengers, "so I reckon that makes me world famous."

The guy was no Bono, but he had a point. He did know people from all over the world, fellow travellers he could call his friends - as could most people who've spent a bit of time overseas.

We've all got the odd mate in England, friends in Germany, people we could call on in the US, a couple of Dutchies we'd like to hang out with again, some South Africans who said we should come stay some time...

And you know what? It sucks.
Some people might like the idea of having friends all over the world, but I'm not one of them.

I don't want to know that I could go stay with one of my friends for a few nights if I ever found myself in Los Angeles. I want to know that I could go to the pub with them right now.

I don't want don't want friends on other side of the world - I want them on the other side of the street. I don't even like having to cross Anzac Bridge to see my brother.

There are plenty of downsides to a life of travelling - lack of money, career etc - but that, for me, is the worst. You meet these amazing people, have incredible experiences together, and then you bid them goodbye.

Sure, you swap emails, look each other up on Facebook, try to keep in touch ... but you both know there's every chance you'll never see each other again. And that sucks.

I used to work for a tour company in Europe, and without doubt the best part of the job was being presented with a new group of 30 or so people to get to know for the next three weeks. That was fantastic. The worst part of the job, without doubt, was then waving them all goodbye when those three weeks were up.

You tend to forge some pretty amazing friendships when you're travelling, not just on group tours, but just going about the everyday act of getting from one place to the next.

You're always more open to meeting new people when you travel. And through shared experiences like eating strange food, comparing bed bug bites, trying to speak a different language, or just the sheer act of living life in another country, you forge close friendships very quickly. And then you go your separate ways.

Some of those people, you'll never see again. They'll just be a funny character you'll tell bored mates about when you get back home. Others, you'll hook up with again at some other time, in some other place, and you'll find the magic's just not there any more. There'll be this weird moment when you realise that for all the fun you had together overseas, you really don't have much in common.

Others will become friends for life - only from the other side of the world.

The internet's made it easier than ever to keep in touch with the people you meet when you're travelling. All it takes is a couple of quick clicks, and few minutes of reading status updates, and you can tell what, say, Jorge from Argentina is up to now.

There's also a new website, Trip Reunions, where old tour passengers can register and get back in touch with the people they travelled with all those years ago. Some groups organise reunions, where you all get together to drink a few beers and reminisce about that crazy Kiwi bloke who always took his pants off when he was drunk, or the girl you could have sworn you saw dashing out of the bus driver's cabin one night.

It's all good fun, and you'll have a great night, but it's just not the same.

Some people might like being world famous - but I'd prefer it if all my friends lived here.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

THERE AND BACK AGAIN

I am a naughty, Naughty, NAUGHTY Blogger! Sorry for the delay. Spank me... I dare ya!
Last you all heard from me, I was working the streets of Perth convincing strangers to fork over monthly donations to charity. I ended up spending nearly five months in Perth, my longest stretch anywhere in Australia. To be sure, it’s a nice place - great beaches and lots of fun young people. My job worked out well and I made some great friends, but I needed to hit the road back home as my visa was running out. After several farewell shindigs, I hopped on the Nullarbor Traveller. It was a terrific 9-day bus tour that took me all the way from Perth to Adelaide, a distance of about 2,400 miles. The bus was populated by myself, three German girls, a Scottish lass, and Lachy (rhymes with “hockey,” short for Lachlan) our Aussie driver. Not a bad ratio there! We camped almost every night and saw lots of awesome stuff as we made our way eastward. Cape Le Grand National Park was particularly cool. We did some nice hikes, the best being Frenchman’s Peak. There was also the gorgeous white sand of Lucky Bay. It was already a bit too late in the season to go swimming, but it was stunning, nonetheless. Along the way, we also saw Wave Rock (It’s a rock that looks like a wave), lots of stunning coastline, fantastic caves, and many, many miles of flat treeless land along the Nullarbor Plain. One of the best spots was the area around Coodlie Park on the Eyre Peninsula. We stayed there for two nights and did all kinds of cool stuff. There was a moonlight 4X4 tour of the farm where we saw kangaroos and wombats, side trips out to spectacular caves and rock formations, and sandboarding down massive dunes. From there we departed to Baird Bay where we went snorkeling with dolphins and sea lions – probably the best thing we did on the tour. Our group went out on a little pontoon boat, donned wetsuits, and jumped right into the water with those crazy critters! Being wild animals, the dolphins didn’t really do much but swim by us very quickly. The sea lions were much more fun! They are like friendly, playful dogs that can swim. One was repeatedly putting his nose right up to my facemask. I stayed in as long as I could, despite the freezing water. So much fun!

Over the next few days we did some more hikes and tours. In Port Lincoln we went out to a tuna farm where I did some more snorkeling. There were massive tuna nets with dozens of big, fast tuna swimming around. I would feed them by hand and they swam with incredible speed right by my face. On the boat we got free samples of their sashimi-grade tuna steak. MMMMMmmmmm… fun and tasty!

One of the last things we did was a quick little surfing trip. I hadn’t surfed since I had left Gisbourne, New Zealand more than two years earlier, and it was great to do it again. One of these days, I gotta get a board of my own.

Oh yeah, we also killed a kangaroo. It was an accident. For all their cuteness and physical dexterity, kangaroos are pretty stupid animals. One evening crossing the Nullarbor, Lachy spied two roos a few hundred yards down the road. He honked the horn and flashed the lights repeatedly, but to no avail. One of the roos jumped right in front of the van and took one for the team. This is not an uncommon occurrence Down Under. The sides of any country road are littered with carcasses. Roos are far from an endangered species, so it was really just Darwinism at work. We were merely thinning out the herd. The surviving roo hopefully hopped back home and told his friends that Steve (as I called him) unfortunately got plowed down by a van, and that maybe in the future he and is friends should jump AWAY from oncoming vehicles, rather than towards them. I’m just sayin’…After disembarking in Adelaide (more like Ade-LAME!), and taking a few showers, I went on yet another tour around Kangaroo Island. It’s a huge island, more than 100 miles across. Because of its isolation from the mainland, it has been spared many of the environmental invasions that Australia has suffered since the Europeans showed up. Its name is no coincidence – there are all kinds of kangaroos all over the island, along with koalas (so cute and dopey!), penguins, snakes, seals, seal lions, and other unique species. Thankfully, none were killed by our tour group. The highlight of this trip was probably the Remarkable Rocks – huge & fantastic rock formations looking out on the Southern Ocean. Millions of years of wind & rain have carved these rocks into bizarre shapes. One can easily conjure up visions of pagan rituals being performed on these things. Very cool.Once that trip was done I returned back to Adelaide and hung out with my buddy Matt from Leeds before flying to Sydney for the long trip back to America. Whilst back in Sydney, my friends from “Wolverine” informed me that there was going to be a cast & crew screening of the movie at Fox Studios Australia on April 26th. Unfortunately, my flight was booked for the 23rd, so I couldn’t make it. Damn! I’m still pissed that I missed that. It would have been a great way to finish up my wacky Australian adventure. But, whaddya gonna do? At the very least, I got to spend my last three days in Australia at Noah’s Bondi Beach, one of my favorite hostels anywhere. Flying home was, well, it was flying home. I fell asleep somewhere over the Pacific and woke up in Los Angeles. I spent a week with friends & family around LA. Lots of Mexican food was consumed and I had a great time catching up with people whom I hadn’t seen in years. It was bizarre to be back in America to have “Wolverine” billboards and posters on every bus & street corner. Sadly, Fox decided that they didn’t need to credit the PAs from the New Zealand crew, so my name is nowhere to be found in the end titles. Still, it was nice to go see the movie on opening night in my hometown, at the very movie theater that I worked at all through high school, and being able to point at the screen and say “I was there for that!”

Anyway, I have had to adjust many things since I got home (chiefly my belt, as home cooking, car travel, and the most consistently bad weather in more than a century have contributed to my rapidly expanding waistline). I’ve had to make up for lost time by going to weddings, birthdays and other events that I didn’t have the luxury of attending over the last 2½ years (they’ve been great, by the way). Some things have changed since I left – Obama is president, Michael Jackson is dead, Massachusetts seems to have a viable film industry, the Natick Mall has metamorphosed into an up-market monstrosity dubbed The Natick Collection, Mom & Dad did some remodeling – and some things haven’t – war in Iraq & Afghanistan, debate over gay marriage, Kim Jong Il acting crazy, Mom & Dad’s busted skylight, etc.

There is no way for me be able to process all the things I’ve done, places I’ve seen and people I’ve met over the last couple years and come up with some grand conclusion, so don’t expect one. All I can say is that it has been a fantastic time in my life. Travel is extremely addictive, and I don’t see myself stopping anytime soon. I’ve had wonderful and horrible days. Though traveling has its hardships, expenses and unexpected speed bumps, it’s just too good to pass up. I may have to stay home for a while, but I know that I will be getting back out there someday. If you really want to do it, save up some cash and just go for it. You won’t regret it. So, dear readers, Moranadu will be reverting (temporarily, anyway) to its roots as a place for me to rant and rave over whatever I damn well please, rather than my international shenanigans. Expect the unexpected. Or don’t. I’ll write what I want, so there.

GONNA MAKE YOU SWEAT!

First off, in case anyone was concerned, I am alive and well and more than 2,000 miles away from the fires in Victoria. They are pretty horrific. Nearly 200 people have died already. Australians aren’t very used to large-scale natural disasters, and this one is hitting home hard. It’s nice to know that my current job has contributed to the relief efforts, but we’ll get to that in a bit.Where were we? Ah, yes. Darwin.

Darwin was getting way too hot and boozy. Before I left the Top End, I took a three-day tour of Kakadu National Park. I expected to encounter all sorts of freaky Aussie critters, and I was not disappointed. We saw frilled lizards, emus, pythons, crocodiles, dingoes, and wallaroos (too big to be a wallabie, too small to be a kangaroo). But the creatures that I will remember most from my Kakadu experience were the thousands upon thousands of flies that were buzzing around my sweaty head at any given moment. Australian flies crave the salty goodness of human perspiration. It is widely known that I am The Sweatiest Man in the World, and when The Sweatiest Man in the World went to Kakadu, The Sweatiest Place in the World, a perfect storm of Sweatiness erupted. The flies of Kakadu greeted me like manna from heaven. From dawn ‘til dusk, they never left me alone. They didn’t bite. Instead they just buzzed and crawled all over my face, occasionally creeping into my eyelids as I tried to appreciate ancient Aboriginal rock paintings (many of which are sex education literature in hieroglyphic form).Still, Kakadu was pretty awesome. We did some nice walks and took lots of dips in spectacular swimming holes. The highlight of the trip was our first night of camping, when I ate kangaroo meat and played a didgeridoo under a full moon while dingoes howled in the distance – my most quintessentially Australian experience so far. I barely got a wink of sleep and the tour group was kind of lame, but it was still a good time. It was our tour company’s last trip before they shut down for the wet season, and our guide made no secret that he was trying to score an English girl from another tour group at the campsite as a year-end bonus. Not sure if he succeeded.After several farewell drinks with my Darwin friends, I took to the skies and flew to Perth. Flying over the vast expanse of Western Australia was humbling. Gazing out my window, I could see astoundingly little evidence of human development – just miles upon miles of desert punctuated by the occasional mine site or dirt road to nowhere. The in-flight movie was “Mamma Mia,” so many of my future reminiscences of the Outback will be scored not with “Waltzing Matilda” or “Blue Sky Mine,” but with “Waterloo” and “Dancing Queen.” Thanks, Qantas. And for the record, Pierce Brosnan can’t sing for shit.

If Darwin is Australia’s version of a Texas oil rig town, then Perth is an Aussie San Diego – nice weather, great beaches, suburban sprawl, a mellow populous, not a whole lot of character, but still a nice place to live. My buddy Sam got me my current job, which involves me standing on the street and encouraging strangers to donate money to charitable organizations. It’s not as hard as it might seem (I got promoted!). You just gotta learn to deal with constant rejection. If I get four sign-ups a day, I’m doing well. The easiest people to sign up are recent African emigrants, and there are plenty of them in Perth. I’ve signed up folks from Sudan, Egypt, Kenya, South Africa, Zambia and Zimbabwe (I had no idea there were so many white people from Zimbabwe). Black, white, male, female, old, young – the Africans are very charitable and generous. Without a doubt, the hardest demographic to sign up is suit-wearing, white dudes. Shocker.

I suppose that I can’t get through this entry without mentioning the election of Barack Obama. I watched the results come in at The Fox Ale House, one of the pubs I worked at in Darwin where my buddy Carboni was nice enough to let me put on the big screen TV. A girl from California strolled by the pub and watched it with me. As nice as it was to hear Australians cheering and applauding the speech of a soon-to-be American president, it was great to be able to share that moment with a fellow Yank. Hope home is treating you well, Marie! As for the inauguration, I was at a hostel in Busselton where I had to wake up at 1:30 AM to watch live coverage. I don’t think I’ve ever watched a live inauguration, not even for Clinton. I was hoping for some momentous “The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is Fear Itself” quote from Obama, which never really surfaced. But I suppose the fact that such a seemingly decent, intelligent, charismatic and inspiring person who just happens to be a black man became the president of the United States in front of a crowd of millions of proud, hopeful and motivated Americans speaks for itself. America, FUCK YEAH!!!!

Back to Australia…

Perth was Heath Ledger’s hometown. As big a city as Perth is, its isolation gives it a small-town familiarity, and all the locals seem to know someone who actually knew Heath or at least knows one of his family members. His Academy Award nomination for “The Dark Knight” came on the anniversary of his death, and made front-page news here. Assuming (and it’s a safe bet) that he receives a posthumous Oscar, it will be interesting to see how Perth reacts. I wonder what it must be like for his family to walk around Perth, where “Dark Knight” merchandise is inescapable, looking at images of their boy and his now iconic incarnation of The Joker displayed on posters, DVDs and t-shirts in every other store window. If any Ledgers are reading this, you have my sympathies.And if there are any Academy members reading this, how the hell could you not nominate “The Dark Knight” for Best Picture and Best Director? What the fuck is wrong with you people? The movie is beloved by audiences and critics the world over. It has a great story, terrific acting, and superlative technical artistry. It is now the second highest-grossing movie ever made. You gave the film eight other nominations, but just couldn’t see it in your crooked little hearts to give it the big ones, presumably because it is based on a comic-book character and therefore must be kid stuff - incapable of exploring significant psychological or dramatic terrain. That attitude is snobby and retarded. Why does Stephen Daldry have three (THREE!!!) Best Director nominations to his credit while Christopher Nolan has zero? The man has never made a bad movie. You weren’t even this mean to Spielberg in his early days. Wake up, douchebags!

Ah, well, at least some other genuinely decent movies got nominated, and it will be fun watching my former boss tackle the hosting duties.

Perth will most likely be my last major stomping ground in the Land of Oz. My vague plan is to save up money here, see a bit more of the outback (not sure where or what exactly – somewhere ABBA-free, if possible) and then head homeward in April. My big dilemma now is deciding which way to go. Next time you’re near a globe, find Perth and then find Boston. I am nearly as far away from home as the North Pole is to the South Pole. I could go east or west and spend about the same amount of money and travel time. As nice as it is, how the hell did I end up here?

Shameless Self-Promotion Alert!!!!

Click here to view the trailer for "X-Men Origins: Wolverine," the movie that completely consumed my life just a year ago. After all the hard work that thousands of people put into the production, it is hugely gratifying that the trailer looks as good as it does, biased as I am. I was physically present for pretty much every shot that features a motorcycle, helicopter, explosion, mountain scenery and/or Hugh Jackman fighting with Liev Schreiber. When I was a kid and fantasized about making movies, this is the kind of stuff I saw myself working on. The movie will be released on May 1st, and I hope it lives up to the trailer!

In the meantime, dear readers, I hope you all survive the Global Financial Crisis with your life savings intact. For those in the movie biz, try to get gigs on funny flicks – Hollywood thrived during the 1930s thanks in great part to cheaply made screwball comedies. To all my “Pineapple Express” buddies, keep Judd Apatow on speed dial, and please put in a good word for me!