Godzilla

REVIEW: ‘Godzilla’ Is a Gripping Shadow Play

One of the benefits of not reading about a film before I see it — or not remembering much about the original on which it is based — is I get to discover the intellectual subtleties as they unfold on screen. There are few subtleties in movies this time of year as the blockbusters roar onto the screen and devastate my mood. Don’t get me wrong: Gareth Edward’s Godzilla isn’t the cerebral delight that Under the Skin is; still, I was delighted that it engaged me on a sensorial level and managed to pop in an amuse bouche or two of thoughtfulness for my mind to chew on while I wiped the extra popcorn butter off my fingers.

‘Subtlety’ must have been the operative word that Edwards and his team carried with them into this epic production — that’s why I’m calling it a shadow play. It is the suggestion of devastation and its aftermath,

Giancarlo Esposito and Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad

Is ‘Breaking Bad’ Bisexual?

The wonderful thing about Reddit, aside from introducing me to the wild ‘n wacky mind of the computer hacker (I mean, programmer), is that the threads often closely follow my own trains of thought, no matter how obscure or obvious.  And one of those trains was a post the other day comparing Breaking Bad to The Wire, the police procedural set in Baltimore that ran from 2002 until 2007.

If you haven’t seen it, I would urge you to watch at least one season of The Wire.  It is widely considered to be the best TV show ever, but that is assuming your tastes run towards hyper-realistic dramas, not campy fantasies riddled with vampires and the fairies who love them.  I see both as the equivalent of the opposite ends of a Kinsey-type scale of TV drama preferences.  When I visualize that scale, I see a petulant, girly Filipino twink wearing a Madonna t-shirt grabbing the remote and aiming it at an episode of The Wire, saying, “Enough of this shit.  So depressing.  I wanna watch True Blood.  Alexander Skarsgaard, he’s so hot.  SOOKIE!!! I love you!”

My Mecca

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

As an Eastcoaster, the minute Labor Day ends, you think summer is finished.  Your mind prepares for siege mentality against the onslaught of that horrible cold and wet.  “Winter is coming,” is the Stark family motto in Game of Thrones.  That sense of doom is, of course, ridiculous if you’re living in Southern California.  We’ll get a light dip in temperature somewhere at the beginning of December, and it will rain a bit, maybe a total of twenty days between then and the end for February.  Winter will never really come.

"I know meth heads," states Jesse Pinkman from "Breaking Bad," played by Aaron Paul.

The LA equivalent of the February Blues, which make the winter-weary on the East Coast and in Europe suicidal with ‘seasonal affective disorder’ (an ailment invented by pharmaceutical companies if there ever was one, just as Valentines Day was conjured by Hallmark), is something called June Gloom, when this city is overcast until it burns off at midday.  I heard one buxom bunny say to another while they were heading into pilates class earlier this summer, “I’m just so totally bummed this morning.  Must be, like, June Gloom or something.”  Then it burns off by, like, 1 p.m., along with your death wish, and there’s just nothing left to be unhappy about.  La-la-la.