By: Iris P. Concepcion
A fellow scribbler, a chip off her mom's cookie jar, a google on the skidding toes, indirectly praised a cob for being a movie snitch. Not exactly a reel squealer. None of that blah.
He took pleasure from reading her reviews. Her mind is a series of celluloid blimps and cuts and zooms. According to him, she makes the pro blush, similar to that Bette Davis' eyes song. That is how far her mind can recollect the lyrical montage of visual clips and sentences.
I can certainly empathize with this creative dynamics.
First off, my peripheral engagement with a screen event is to find myself at the autumnal, spring-like, brainiac-vortex of the director. I no longer am sitting in that darkened room like a duck critic waiting for a scene to happen. I am watching films with an invisible camera on hand myself.
How would one film the Grapes of Wrath? Difficult.
Thus, I watched Gulliver's Travels where Gulliver did not actually travel but talked in musical allusions, splicing School of Rock with hoodwinkry. And two elderly couple (viewing mates), out of nowhere, muttered the now evolving word of the century: "Tsu". This served as a buffer to my viewing space when invaded by women in E-cups. My Galahads. It was weird.
Actually, I am already taking on movies for their opulent sceneries, yachts, furniture, cars, jewelry and gowns. They are hot stuff, similar to the news item I had read earlier about fact-finding missions used as junkets for incessant travels abroad. There is your lush, lush, lush script genesis.
If Jack Black is developing a character who is closer to the national radar, it takes a little time to improvise and "we" make do with unnerving lines and upfront familiarity. Witness the operative word "we." I am part of the process not as a viewer but as a sparkplug to that colorful, visceral blitz. Even letters are color coordinated now. Sample on a graffiti by the riverbank: Limp(black) Wet (blue).
Hehehehehehe.
Who started this?
Since I am on this, I truly, genuinely thank the mall owners who suddenly opened their halls for offbeat, quirky ideas and art installations. They are fun and true to the original constitution of mall spirit (Article One: Thou Shall Not Be Boring). My cheeks enlarged when I saw an exorcised woman with boobies the size of Neptune brought forth to life outside one of the cinemas I had recently visited. It is not staid. Shocking as it may sound, I am appreciative of the risks taken to have these young 'uns show their wares instead of the pre-approved murals that lack life, the very onus of buying stimuli itself.
Even their rejected copy ads are gobbling spaces in huge splashes. What an archaeological find! They are better than the existing ones! They should be worth millions of pesos!
Mall owners: Thank you for taking that creative curve.
I would not be surprised if these creators were giving them away for free.
That is how "our" circus works. Wink.
Thus: Jack Black removed his shoes on top of his luggage as if saying: "Hey, I act better when sleeping." If this were a dream, just head to the airport. It is one huge, sprawling Cinemax.
No, this was not in the film. It was acted in a living, breathing theater.
And if by chance you have not seen The Tourist, watch it. A mesh of Bond-like thriller and espionage done tastefully. It could rattle some nerves but that is the keypoint to the theme. The visuals are worth dying for.
(My apologies to the 8th wonder of the world for missing the lunar landing on the wall and the immense amount of grins spread in the neighborhood of hits and misses and subdued eccentricities. I go there for coffee. The elite club of the flying troubadours. I love this group very much.)