With some amount of trepidation Mr. Husband and I went to see the movie R.I.P.D. – Rest in Peace Department last night. Hence the title to this post: Some things, once seen, cannot be unseen. My apologies to all of those who put their heart, soul, time and wallet into this movie, but it was BEYOND BAD. Horrible, gross, disgusting, boring, dry heave inducing….I can’t come up with enough negative adjectives without doing a web search and I’m not going to put that much effort into it. We managed to wring a few chuckles out of it, but I think that was out of desperation, trying to make a bad experience better.
Five minutes into the movie I was ready to walk out and say “let’s just not do it and claim we did.” But I hesitated because I was afraid that I might be in one of those slightly manic moods where everything annoys me and I didn’t want to ruin the Hubman’s night out by stomping out of the movie in a fit of outrage. But looking back on my moods spectrum yesterday, I was fine until the first 5 minutes of this God awful movie. I was on the verge of not only demanding my money back but insisting that I be awarded damages for pain and suffering.
I don’t know exactly what they were aiming at with Jeff Bridge’s character. I think they were trying to produce a Texas lawman, but what they ending up with was a person who was trying to talk through a set of very bad dentures, or maybe a mouth full of marbles. Ryan Reynolds spent the majority of the film with a sort of deer in the headlights look on his face. My theory is that he was thinking “oh my God, I can’t believe how bad this movie is going to be.”
One trend that has been developing in Hollywood movies is a heavy reliance on CGI (computer generated images) and other special effects to the detriment of an actual plot and character development. I think all the creators of these movies should have to go to a court mandated Alfred Hitchcock 101 course. Hello, leave something to the imagination. What happened to suspense? The only thing to look forward to is that it’s going to get worse….a lot worse. Peeking through your fingers isn’t good enough anymore.
After last night I’ve seen enough blood, guts, vomit, dripping slime, food encrusted beards and all other sorts of yack inducing special effects to last me the next 5 lifetimes. It’s high time for a reality check. And also meditation on the theory of just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should do it.
Got my eagerly awaited copy of Silver Linings Playbook in the mail today. I’ve been waiting see what Hollywood’s latest take is on mental illness. It’s a story of a man, Pat Politano (played by Bradley Cooper), who is fresh out of mental institution. He was there for 8 months as a plea bargain for assault. He came home early from work and found his wife naked in the shower with a co-worker and beat the crap out of him. Yea he went nuts – extreme stress will do that to you if you are already on the edge with an underlying mental disorder.
I was wondering if they managed to capture a bit of how it feels to be labeled as bipolar. How it feels to have some force reach down in and rip your life out by the roots and throw it out the window. Pat has lost everything at this point; wife, house, job, friends. It was pretty much spot on. I also found it interesting that the movie managed to capture how mental illness can run in a family.
Pat grapples with not wanting to take medication and not wanting to accept that he is ill. Not long after coming home Pat has a spectacular middle of the night breakdown that ended up in a brawl with his father. Not long after this he decides to go back on medication. When he was standing there at the kitchen sink looking at the pills in his hand I felt like I had a brick in my throat. God is sucks to look at these little pellets in your hand and try to believe that they are what is keeping you sane, or “normal,” keeping you out of the hospital or jail, and able to interact with other people. And not wanting to believe it at the same time. Maybe it’s just too much for one mind to accept.
There was one scene that was so funny that I choked on my water. He was lying in bed in his parent’s attic reading, sat up and yelled “what the f@@k?” then threw the book out the window. The scene cuts to the yard and you see the book smashing through the window glass of the attic and splats in front yard. He was reading Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms. Oh my God, I so identify. When reading becomes your only solace, a bad ending can so absolutely enrage you to the point that you want to destroy the book. I’ve thrown books I’m mad at across the room, into the fireplace, even broken the spine and tore them in half. Somehow deleting them off my Kindle is not as satisfying. I’ve even been tempted to buy a hard copy of a book I hate just so I can destroy it.
He then goes down to his parent’s bedroom at 3:00 am to rant about Hemingway and bad endings to books. Yup, poor impulse control. He demands a personal apology from Hemingway. I wonder why it is that bipolar mania seems to catch us at 3:00 am, the most wicked hour of the day.
Throughout the story Pat is struggling from the obsession or delusion that he can somehow get back together with his wife. That’s a little tricky because his wife and the school he worked for have restraining orders against him. He is not allowed to come within 500 feet of his wife and is forbidden to communicate with her in anyway.
Enter Jennifer Lawrence in her Oscar winning role as Tiffany, a broken young widow who is struggling with her own demons. She agrees to help Pat contact his wife via letter in exchange for him helping her with her dream of entering a dance contest. The beginning of their relationship is so awkward that it’s cringe worthy. But, really how many relationships start off smoothly and always go according to plan.
I’m left with a sense that some things that are broken can never be fixed. And too much time is wasted trying to fix unfixable things. Maybe life is more about learning to coexist with lunacy.
Official synopsis via Google: What if everything you love was taken from you in the blink of an eye? “The Host” is the next epic love story from the creator of the “Twilight Saga,” worldwide bestselling author, Stephanie Meyer. When an unseen enemy threatens mankind by taking over their bodies and erasing their memories, Melanie Stryder will risk everything to protect the people she cares most about – Jared, Ian, her brother Jamie and her Uncle Jeb, proving that love can conquer all in a dangerous new world.
Warning: If your knee jerk reaction is to tear you hair and scream “I hate Stephanie Meyer and that damned Twilight Saga – now is your chance to go get some coffee and come back tomorrow when I will be talking about something else entirely. 🙂
I loved the Twilight Saga and I really enjoyed the book The Host. So yesterday I went to see the movie, by myself. I didn’t drag Hubman along this time. I made the mistake of pitching a fit and making him come with me to see Twilight Saga-Breaking Dawn –Part 2 and it was a huge mistake. He huffed and puffed, sighed and laughed at parts that weren’t supposed to be funny. I learned my lesson. Never drag a friend or lover to see a movie with you when they obviously don’t want to. It will go horribly wrong.
I loved the movie over all. It followed the book pretty well with a few forgivable shortcuts and plot deviations, because no matter what, it’s tricky fitting an entire book into a 2 hour movie.
The story is sort of an “invasion of the body snatchers crossed with teenagers in love trying to save the world.” I know the book was classified as a young adult book aimed at teeny boppers.
However there was 1 facet of the movie that sort of grated on my nerves even armed with this expectation. This was the voices of the 2 heroines trapped in the one body. The voices were just TOO juvenile. I found myself wanting to ground them both and send them to bed without supper. At times they took on a whiny tone of 2 – 14 year old girls arguing over what color nail polish to wear.
That being said I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I even got the sniffles in a few of the finals scenes. What can I say? I’m a big marshmallow when it comes to love, regardless of the age of the lovers. I may even go see it again while it’s still in the theater because I have an ongoing love affair with the silver screen.
Make note of you dreams. Even when they are nightmares. Sometimes I beat myself up thinking I’m not creative enough. What the hell does that mean anyway? Maybe not creative in the particular way I want to be at a particular moment. If I want to write, instead the brain comes up with a new coat design or a necklace. If I’m knitting, suddenly I want to write a story about mockingbirds gone bad.
I proved myself creative again in a nightmare last night. Mr. Husband was sure that seeing all that gore in that damned movie The Immortals would cause nightmare. He was right, again. I just hate it when that happens. Turns out I can cook up quite a long and involved tale of horror.
The dream last night churned up fears of angry men and a zombie apocalypse. What if the zombie turns out to be your husband? You thought you buried him weeks ago after he died from a plague. Now here he is at your doorstep, pissed off because you buried him. And he wants pay back. Allen Alda played the part of my zombie husband. Why my brain picked him, who knows? My God, I liked Mash, but Allen doesn’t blow my skirt up at all. Not even a little. It’s probably best that it wasn’t the real Mr. Hubby. That is just be too weird.
This dream involved guns, and me missing a target at point-blank range. I only blew the zombie’s arm off. Every one knows that doesn’t kill a zombie, it just makes a mess and slows them down a little. It also featured a crossbow with a rope attached to it. The crossbow just happened to be conveniently on my front porch. Right in between a potted plant and the porch swing. With this I shoot the target (zombie husband) and then hop on a riding lawnmower. I drive round and round the tree securing him to said tree. The logic – I won’t have to shoot a moving target. All this accomplished in PJs, bathrobe and bunny slippers.
The dream ended before I finished the job. I’m glad of that. Just too, too graphic. If I ever turn this into a story, the final scene will me sitting on the porch swing sipping tea from a beautiful porcelain tea-cup. I’ll contemplate whether or not zombies make good fertilizer, and be vaguely annoyed that I have to bury zombie husband again. Seems that asking them to bury themselves is just one to many items on a honey-do list.
I read somewhere that the only thing you have to do to succeed in life is just get up one more time than you get knocked down. If that is true, then I’m declaring myself a success. If or when I get knocked down again I’ll get up again.
This past week has been the pits. I feel like a got dragged backwards through a barbwire knothole. My outlet for just about anything is writing. When I sit down to make a post and realize that I’m paralyzed – that’s when I know I’m trouble. When I can’t even write it’s serious.
I started out as a child. Before you panic, I’m kidding. Not going to tell my whole life story to you…just yet. My life is an incredible adventure interspersed with incredible stress and sadness. It’s the nature of the beast when you grew up in the midst of mental illness. Despite what any experts say, insanity is contagious, you catch from your children, or parents, or siblings. Whoever in you life who is nuttier than a fruitcake. It rubs off you in some bass ackwards kind of way. What I’m diagnosed with is clinical depression.
People who don’t know me that well say “What you? You’re the happiest person I know!” Yea Yea. The class clown, the life of the party, the one cracking the jokes, the one being strong when others are freaking out. Mr. Husband reads my posts, so I know as soon as he reads this he’s going to choke on his coffee.
He’s seen the dark side. That person who gets so down that she can’t even figure out what underwear to put on in the morning, let alone make any kind of important decision. He’s seen the person who cries 48 hours nonstop, using up 4 boxes of tissue and 2 bottles of nose spray. He knows that person who only gets out of bed to get a cup of coffee to have enough energy to go back to bed.
That person is me also. Cheerfulness turns to sarcasm and cynicism fast when I’m depressed. Someone says “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Oh? When life gives you lemons you get lemon juice in your eye and choke on the seeds. Someone else says “there’s a silver lining to every dark cloud.” Phoeey on that! If you see a dark cloud, chances are a tornado is going drop down out of it and blow you house away.
When you laugh the world laughs with you, when you cry, you cry alone. I bet Mr. Husband wishes that was true on occasion. When the tears decide to come I’ll cry anywhere, a restaurant, an airplane, the Ferris wheel, zip lining across the Amazon river. OK, I haven’t really done the Amazon thing, but it’s on my list.
My latest dark cloud of doom came in the form of a slew of poison pen letters from my daughter this past week. It ended with going to the funeral of a friends mother. I stood there at that grave and thought to myself, “Self, you have spent your whole life up until now, trying to get love, or even a civil word now and then, from people who are not capable or willing to give it. You have spent your whole life trying to be strong so people can ride you around like a trick pony.”
I’m not doing it anymore. I’m tired of carrying the world around on my shoulders. It’s no damn wonder I have a crick in my neck.
On a happy note, I am managing to keep up my word count for the NaNoWriMo challenge. I’m looking forward to what the story is going to be at the end of November.