Tag Archives: movies in bed
Post by Josh Zinn.
Walking home today I passed by a woman, no more than forty, weeping over the loss of her beloved sock monkey. I knew it was a knitted primate her tears were shed over due to the fact that she kept exclaiming wildly, “My monkey! My sock monkey! It’s gone!” as she buried herself in the bosom of a friend whose grimacing face conveyed the fractured duality of concern and annoyance that frequently accompanies the consoling of friends. It was like a scene from Beckett—had Beckett ever tackled the all-too-common personal catastrophe known as “Sock Monkey Bereavement.”
The loss of innocence, as you well know dear readers, far exceeds just the complicated conundrums of sayonara sock simians. In an age when colony collapse disorder is robbing the world of honey whilst Honey Boo Boo showers the world with sass, it can be difficult to ascertain what truly matters and why, in the end, we’re supposed to care at all.
Thank goodness, then, for “Rosemary’s Baby!”
Really, think about it: Compared to the miseries that befall Rosemary Woodhouse as she unwittingly sets down a path that will lead her to give birth to the son of Satan, is an overdue electric bill or a missing monkey THAT big of a deal? Sure, it can be a bit of a pain to spend your afternoon on hold, listening to Phil Collins plead to be taken home while the winter’s darkness envelopes your frigid studio apartment, but it’s not as if your husband and a coven of witchy senior citizens secretly made you bring forth the antichrist. It’s all about perspective.
A classic of horror cinema, Roman Polanski’s “Rosemary’s Baby” takes the idea of forced demonic birth (typically a bummer) and uses it as a metaphor for the inability of our reality to always match up with our hopes and aspirations. Rosemary may think that she’s got the ideal life she always dreamed of, what with her fancy Vidal Sassoon haircut, actor husband, and enormous apartment on the Upper West Side, but the fact of the matter is that the woman has severely underestimated the tenant requirements in her snazzy new co-op. Needless to say, it pays to read the fine print when Beelzebub is on your building’s board of directors.
As you can imagine, life quickly becomes a nightmare for Rosemary as the forces of darkness conspire to give her morning sickness. What’s worse, while she is suffering—saddled with the upheaval of both her dreams and last night’s dinner—her husband is engaging in nefarious games of paranormal pinochle with the witches and warlocks down in Apt. 6B. Where is the humanity!? Alas, life, it seems, is a losing game for Rosemary, with the cards definitely stacked in Ol’ Scratch’s favor.
While it may seem unfair or unmerciful to compare a stranger’s overwrought reaction to the loss of their sock monkey with the bringing forth of the apocalypse, this contrast serves to highlight how all-too-easily we allow the small things in life to dominate our emotions. While the importance of possessions (demonic, sock monkey, or otherwise) should never be underestimated, it’s hard not to imagine a beleaguered Rosemary, cloven-hoofed child nestled against her breast, telling this maudlin monkey mother to go and, “put a sock in it.”
Post by Josh Zinn.
The street signs of Sleepy Hollow have headless horsemen on them. So do the police cars, garbage trucks, and natural gas meters. In fact, I’m sure a myriad of public utilities take part in celebrating and cashing in on the famed decapitated equestrian whose midnight rides of terror helped transform their humble hamlet into the Halloween haunt of the Hudson hinterlands. Perhaps Washington Irving hadn’t imagined his creepy creation would one day come to signify the call to arms for the men and women working for Sleepy Hollow’s sewage system, but crappier things have happened in the name of public works—just ask the folks who named Flushings.
If one were to ask the Headless Horseman himself—hey, he might know sign language…even though he doesn’t have eyes—what moments in his fictional life truly felt like a misappropriation, however, he’d probably tell you about the time I purchased a key-lime flavored latte (complete with crunchy graham topping!) from a Sleepy Hollow coffee shop. Or the Mexican restaurant named after him that served my friend and I a salad consisting of a HEAD of lettuce alongside a terrine of “bloodied” French dressing. Oh yes, and then there was the time Bing Crosby came to town…
Disney’s animated version of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” starring Crosby as beleaguered schoolteacher Ichabod Crane, is a milder take on Irving’s allegory of foreign-bred superstition and tradition mingling with the bravado, boldness, and greed of the then-new America. By milder, I mean that Ichabod spends much of the cartoon either singing sweet dulcimer notes to the local housewives in an attempt to lure them of their chicken dinners or by balladeering Katrina, the beautiful daughter of the wealthiest man in town, in order to fill his pocketbook. Horror only exists on the outskirts of this Sleepy Hollow, with creepiness taking a backseat to Crosby’s crooning.
“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” isn’t a bad film by any means, but in shifting its focus away from the terror of Tarrytown and onto the soothing vocal abilities present in Crosby’s portrayal of Crane, Irving’s supernatural story mutates into a pageantry of phthongal pedagoguery better fit for a USO function. Truth be told, there’s little fright to be found in a film where, for the majority of its length, fanatical females fight for the chance to feed a fair-weather philanderer with the voice of a lounge singer. Sure, the Horseman finally rears his hea… neck near the cartoon’s finale, but until then any pervasive sense of dread has been replaced by questions of whether white Christmases happen even for the headless.
Perhaps, then, the Horseman-emblazoned signs, logos, and salads of today’s Sleepy Hollow are a reclamation of the sinister story that put their town on the map. While there’s nothing wrong with a little Bing to lift one’s spirits, it’s best to remember the spirit at the heart of Irving’s story struck a far more horrific note.
Post by Mark T. Locker.
Listen, I know what you’re thinking: this show is on the CW. I know. I KNOW. But seriously, if you haven’t already squandered three years of your life watching this show, it’s never too late to start! Plus, Netflix just added the third season so if you hurry, you can catch up before the new season begins on October 11.
Here’s where I usually write the summary but where to begin?? Oh, there is so much that happens in this teenage monster drama! So, Elena Gilbert lives with her really annoying brother in Mystic Falls, Virginia. The new boy is mysterious, brooding. Guess what? He’s a vampire! He’s got a bad-boy brother too. Their names are Stefan and Damon Salvatore. They don’t eat her annoying brother, but I wish they would. This town is rife with monsters! Witches and werewolves! Doppelgängers and douchebags!
It’s got all the high school drama and beautiful people of a CW show the supernatural witchiness of the other CW shows. But somehow, once one gets past the sensitive music overlaying melodramatic moments, it’s very difficult to stop watching. Even if Stefan is a little too self-righteous, and Bonnie and Jeremy both stubbornly refuse to be killed off, and the kids seem to often forget to go to school, The Vampire Diaries is fun for all! After all, we are approaching Halloween, so what better time to immerse oneself in monsters!
Post by Mark T. Locker.
As the first leaves start to change and the apples begin to ripen on the trees, I return to my favorite autumnal events. One of such is all things spooooooky! My most recent spooky favorite is the TV series “Supernatural”.
Though, to be honest, I watched this all through the summer too!
For those of you who enjoyed the X-Files episodes that weren’t laden with government/alien conspiracies (there were at least a couple outside of that theme!) and watched for the monsters and beasts, Supernatural is a good surrogate. The theme is simple: brothers Dean and Sam Winchester are the sons of a demon hunter. Although Dean always hunted with Dad, Sam is reluctantly drawn in when their father goes missing. Anyways, that’s how it begins. You know how these multi-season shows go: one premise leads to another until the whole underpinning story is more or less unrecognizable from the original plot line. Nevertheless, it stays excellent. And what for me separates good from really good shows is keeping it from taking itself too seriously. Supernatural is always peppered with a good dose of humor, and actually funny humor at that.
And cheeseburgers. Seriously, don’t watch this if you are on a strict diet. Dean eats terribly; there paper-wrapped burgers being shoved down his maw every episode. And boy do they look good!
Post by Mark T. Locker.
Yes, mum. No, mum. Sorry, mum.
Is that the sound of a child being scolded by his mother? Nope, that’s just how some folks say “ma’am” across the pond! One of those somebodies is Robert Lewis of the Thames Valley Police. You how it is with those working-class Northerners.
I just began watching Inspector Lewis about a week ago, and even though I never seem to find time to watch a full-length movie, I manages three of these 90-minute BBC mysteries in just the past seven days! Paired with younger, best boy, cerebral partner Sergeant James Hathaway, they are the Odd Couple of Oxfordshire.
What I like about these BBC mysteries is they have none of the flash and overwrought special effects. And, best of all, the Who don’t do the intro music. There is the wonderfully subtle British humor, plenty of murder, and lots of English plodding about. It’s great to watch right before bed because it’s not TOO exciting!