What movie was that...?

23 June 2010

Back to the Future

directed by Robert Zemeckis

It’s the heaviest of all time travel films, according to Marty McFly, but it’s also one of the most well known and most triumphant of its kind. Michael J. Fox is iconic as Marty, slacker son of a timid father and drunken mother, a typical youth who just wants his band to make it and play the school dance. But the school board has News for Marty (wow, BC. That’s some gentle comedy and one hell of a vague musical reference…): no dice on the dance. It seems like the heart of rock and roll is terminal, but Marty hardly has time to sulk before his kook bud, Doc Brown (a loony and priceless Christopher Lloyd), wakes him up to show him his newest invention. I’m talking, of course, about the time machine, a tricked out DeLorean that can go where no cars go (OMG, BC! Enough with the weirdo musical references.), into the past! The Irish bug accidently launches himself back to 1955, where his mom thinks he’s dreamy, his dad’s a sci-fi geek and his whole existence is at stake! Does he get out of his temporal pickle? Yes, and the success of the film spawned two sequels. Back to the Future II was righteous, and III was okay, though very much for the kiddies. It’s a necessary evil as it rounds out the story and makes all right with the universe, Kill Bill style, but the first one is still as awesome today as it was when it came out. Lloyd is perfect, Lea Thompson is sugar sweet with a delicious edge, and legendary oddball Crispin Glover delivers in- what’s higher than spades?- as George McFly, slacker dad who proves his mettle against Biff (Thomas F. Wilson is tough shit, high school badass incarnate. Bravo). Back to the Future is a classic that will only get better with age, like the finest Caduceus from Maynard’s severe vineyard (that’s not even clever. Jeez, why am I reading this?).

22 June 2010

Dear Wendy

directed by Thomas Vinterberg

While I definitely feel that this film has its weak points, Thomas Vinterberg’s film about the gun crazy trials and tragedies of pseudo small town America is worth watching, if for no other reason than to glimpse another example of this vacuous America that, though he has never experienced firsthand, Lars Von Trier feels compelled to relentlessly criticize. Though the phobic filmmaker has never set foot on US soil, much of his work focuses on what he must see as the nasty and brutish land of opportunity, an opinion that burns brightest in Dogville. In Dear Wendy, Von Trier hired his script out to Thomas Vinterberg, who in turn transformed the already surreal and, in many ways, ludicrous story into a surreal and hypnotic film. The flourishes are wonderful in the way that Dogville’s lack thereof was powerful, and Vinterberg finds a rhythm that works against Von Trier’s Zombies infused soundtrack and gun worshipping teenagers. Jamie Bell is remarkable as Dick Dandelion, loner and general oddball who forms a strange bond with a pistol he names Wendy. With his “partner” in tow, Dick befriends other misfits and forms a sort of gang, dubbed The Dandies, and the members select partners of their own. It all leads up to an unconvincing crescendo, but the journey is still worth it. If nothing else, the sequence in which The Dandies brandish their partners as Time of the Season plays is bad as all get out.
Note: Why all the hate for America, Lars? It’s easy to scrutinize and insult from the comfort of your own home, but things look awfully different up close. My house is wide open if you’re up for a little couch surfing. I’ll take you around Detroit and you can check us out in real life. I’ll be sure to stock up on vodka and wine.

20 June 2010

The Devil and Daniel Johnston

directed by Jeff Feuerzeig

Hipsters, audiophiles and the outcasts who know and love Daniel Johnston loved and will continue to love this film even if it was shit on a plate. Luckily for you, film lover who may not recognize the name Daniel Johnston, the name that has become synonymous with intensely honest, revealing and heart bending music, the doc about this manic depressive who has created some of the most interesting music of the past half century is not shit on a plate. In fact, it’s quite the opposite: a gripping and devastating portrait of an artist as a young artist, an artist struggling to reconcile his obsessions, oddity, compulsions and fears through any means necessary. Jeff Feuerzeig’s doc opens with an aging, overweight Johnston singing one of my favorite songs (Devil Town), then slowly takes the audience into a world of paranoia, anxiety and pure artistic flourishes that bewilder as much as they inspire. Daniel Johnston, like him or not, is a true artist who makes art for himself and no one else, much like Jandek or Johnny Dowd. Artists who create as catharsis, who seem to say “If you like it, great. If not, no skin off my back,” seem untethered by convention, able to drift as far as they wish from the axis of normality, and the result is overwhelmingly fascinating. But what I love about Johnston above the aforementioned is the utter honesty. The blood on the page sans any pretext sincerity of such hurt, fear and loss is enough to break your heart if you didn’t feel so damn close to it. You have to listen to Johnston in context of Johnston’s canon; you can’t just pluck a song out of the ether and evaluate its merits. It will either click or it won’t, but my guess is that, with an open mind, it will click with a vengeance. If you haven’t delved into Johnston's strange world before, use the doc as a springboard. It will help.

Heathers

directed by Michael Lehmann

It’s black comedy at its finest, and Michael Lehmann’s Heathers is friggin ridiculous, and friggin awesome, at every turn. Script genius Daniel Waters later tapped the Batman myth for Tim Burton’s underappreciated Batman Returns, but his stride is most apparent in this tale of high school popularity gone batshit. Winona Ryder is a snide and snarky miracle as Veronica who, along with outcast BF J.D. (Christian Slater, doing his best Nicholson impression- oops. Sorry Mr. Slater. I forgot that I wasn’t supposed to bring attention to your “technique”), takes down a ring of attention whores (all named Heather, BTW) through a series of murders that the pair disguise as suicides. Too bad for them that the “tragedies” not only make the Heathers seem more appealing, but the act itself becomes a trend. This premise has been done and done again, and no other attempts have been as wildly fun and wickedly poignant. There’s a moral there, you just have to hack through the razor-bladed forest of the film’s wit to get to it. Have fun.

17 June 2010

Get Even

directed by John De Hart

Call it what you want. Get Even. Road to Revenge. It’s all the inexplicable product of one Mister John De Hart, director slash lead actor slash producer slash soundtrack artist(?) who crafted the trash classic that features cops, ex cops, devil worshippers and people who come back from the dead. De Hart filmed most of the film in 1992, and actually shelled out a few dollars to hire B film and television pros William Smith (Strelnikov from Red Dawn and my favorite, Captain Devlin from Hell Comes to Frogtown) and Wings Hauser, then returned to the film a decade later to add to it. Those of you looking up in the air and trying to figure out why the name Wings Hauser sounds familiar, let me give you a hint. His son is the Cole Hauser, who rocked as Benny in Dazed and Confused and rolled as Billy in Good Will Hunting, not to mention Pitch Black. Anyway, De Hart’s tale of love and revenge hardly qualifies as competent; De Hart’s acting even less so, but salty dogs like Hauser and Smith carry the film in ways that make it almost more ludicrous than such excellently terrible films like The Room or Birdemic. Part of the beauty of The Room is its universal incredulity, the uniformity of its awfulness, but the surreally strange combo in Get Even keeps your eyes fixed on the bizarre happenings on the screen. Hell, from a technical standpoint, some of the film could almost be construed as acceptable. What’s unacceptable, however, is De Hart’s wardrobe. In how many social situations are leather pants not a good idea? Give Get Even a look for the answer to that question. One of my favorite costume elements comes in the beginning of the film when De Hart, Hauser and Smith are preparing a raid on a drug den, and each of them are wearing leather jackets with the letters LAPD clearly spray painted on the back. Of course, I can’t simply avoid commenting on the scene in which De Hart gets on stage at the local bar to sing his signature song, Shimmy Slide. If you can make it through that sequence without looking away, then congrats, because from then on no social situation will ever seem too awkward to endure. Personally, I am partial to the dentist drill duet called I’ll Be There, also painfully warbled by De Hart.
The Burton will be replaying this film soon, so those of you itching to join a film cult will have an opportunity to get in on the ground floor. If James Nguyen can grow a following for Birdemic with a bloody van and a dash of optimism, then we Detroiters can grow a following for a far superior trash treasure. Let’s get our cult film on, people! Get out there and Get Even, you son of a biiii…!

Rize

directed by David LaChappelle

From the opening sequences of a riot ravaged Los Angeles to the final moments of youthful exuberance, David LaChappelle’s epic doc beckons all of us to dig deep and find that spirit of hope that refuses to die, ever. RIZE is powerful in the way a spiritual or revelatory experience is powerful, which makes comparing it to other films a difficult task. LaChappelle is at true artist whose strengths rest in visual storytelling (see his canon of photography for fine examples), and his music videos belie an energetic spirit that reflect his photos. His first foray into the world of krump was during the filming of a Christina Aguilera video. A dancer invited LaChappelle to check out the local dance scene in South Central, and from then on he knew that he wanted to tell the story of this style of dance, its origins and its key players. Enter Tommy the Clown, founder of The Tommy Academy and superfly Myagi to a throng of hip hop Danny Russos who utilize the medium to express their frustrations, rage and joy. From its beginnings, a rift developed that seemed to separate two diverging factions concerning the dance style. Enter Lil C, Dragon, Miss Prissy and Tight Eyez, and it is a crime that these names are not currently synonymous with everything that is pure and wonderful about dance. Good for Lil C for making it as a judge on So You Think You can Dance? (the only reason I watch that show, or even give it any credibility), but what about the rest, Hollywood? Bull, that’s what I say. Tight Eyez summed it up when he said the world was waiting for a new youth, a new group of young ambassadors with morals who could be role models. It’s all right there for you; good values, hood edge and raw talent. That’s the most cynical of stances, I understand, and I would hate for it to come to that, but I am illustrating that even by the most vacuous and money grubbing of viewpoints, these kids are like gold. WTF? They should be in everything.
I am officially inviting slash begging all of you (the aforementioned as well as Swoop, Baby Tight Eyez, Larry, Termite, all y’all) to my next birthday party. And by the way, you will always be on my Academy Award short list for best Documentary, no matter what the year.
If you want to read another rant about this absolute must see doc, peep my earlier review. Ugh, BC. Doubling up again? Yes, dammit! Because some things are worth repeating. Like when your dad finished yelling at you about something, then left the room to grab a beer, and when he came back it was like, “And another thing…,” and you knew you were going to get lectured for at least another 20 minutes.

14 June 2010

Pump Up the Volume

directed by Allan Moyle

Right on the cusp of the new decade (the 90s, of course), Allan Moyle’s film about talking hard and how adults just don’t get it comes fully loaded with teen angst, teen cynicism and teen smartassery that just won’t quit. Christian Slater gets his outcast on as Mark, new guy and host of a pirate radio station that rails against the square hypocrisy of the International Adult Conspiracy (nice Pete & and Pete reference, BC!). Off the air, Mark’s too shy to even talk to a girl who works in the school library, but on the air he’s Hard Harry, the perverted, sarcastic and musically well versed source of entertainment for the Arizona youth amongst whom he quietly lives. The proverbial shit hits the fan when a kid calls Harry on the air and threatens to off himself, then does it. Harry faces his most epic decision, yet: continue to talk hard and steal the air, or pack it up and blend in? The soundtrack rocks, and so does the Slater. Pump Up the Volume should be an essential addition to any film lover’s DVD library, nestled snugly between Primer, Pulp Fiction and Ravenous.

Red Dawn

directed by John Milius

The verdict is out on how much justice Dan Bradley’s (stunt coordinator extraordinaire for, among others, Lawnmower Man and Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure) is going to do the original, but the important thing here is to remember that, no matter how badass (or not) the remake is, it has to answer to the master. While there are many other ill-conceived Hollywood rehashes occurring at the moment (the most glaring being the abomination that is The Karate Kid, and most intriguing being Tony Scott’s The Warriors), they all have these original (however flawed they may be) filmic treasures to thank for their good fortune of having fodder to desecrate. The John Milius fear crop that is Red Dawn was harvested in a particular time in our nation’s psyche, existing in the same world as the Alan Moore classic graphic novel, Watchmen; a time when the threat of global conflict seemed absolutely imminent. In Moore’s universe, the world had Dr. Manhattan as a nuclear deterrent. In Red Dawn, the US of A has Jed (Patrick Swayze) and his squadron of teenage soldiers ready to kick some Commie ass. Yes, there are a lot of clichés in the film and yes, there are things in the film that could make even clichés roll their eyes, but there are a lot of credibly complex things going on under the surface as well, which is a credit to the writing. Take the character of Erica (expertly played by Lea Thompson), a girl who speaks very little throughout the film, yet manages to convey volumes about her experience in the WWIII of Red Dawn. Her past is alluded to by her grandfather (note the use of the word “tried” when he opens the trap door hatch, as if he attempts to rewrite history, or maybe just fool himself), and again when Matt (a stoic and powerful Charlie Sheen) asks her “what’s up your ass?” when she refuses to do the dishes, then Erica threatens to actually kill Matt if he ever talk to her like that again. He seems confused, but Toni (Jennifer Grey is always wonderful) explains to him that what he said “was wrong.” Another fine example of good writing takes the form of C. Thomas Howell in the film (who plays Robert), a boy who, early on in the film, barely knows what he is doing in the wilderness, yet by the end mutates into a one man death squad unafraid to kill the enemy or do some local dirty work. The minute the deer blood runs from the corners of his mouth, a transformation occurs that isn’t overly explained, and those are the kinds of filmic transformations I love the most. Mr. Harry Dean Stanton delivers an amazing performance in a tiny role, and hats off to Milius for giving at least one of the Commies a soul. Red Dawn is a time capsule film in that it expresses the anxiety’s that America may have sincerely felt once upon a time in the Midwest, and it’s a quaint reminder of the power of fear as propaganda. Republicans were probably chomping at the bit to get this gem out in theatres, and Reagan was probably quoting it in his Star Wars rally speeches. I joke, but don’t worry, folks, I’m no Commie. My blood comes out actually singing the Star Spangled Banner.

10 June 2010

Little Monsters

directed by Brian Greenberg

Richard Greenberg’s Little Monsters has got everything you need all rolled into one cultish 80s fav: excellent 80s lowbrow humor that you just can’t get away with in a modern “kid” film; the OG world of Monsters, Inc; one of the obligatory thespian cash cows (in this case, Fred Savage) and that magical alchemy of youthfulness, edge and colorful imagination that has simply been lost on this new generation of Ipod rocking, Adderol infused social media whores. Savage plays his trademark snarky youth, this time named Brian Stevenson. Turns out, the area beneath his younger brother’s bed is a door to another world in which monsters sneak into bedrooms and scare the piss out of little kids. When Brian traps one, the monster in question (a nutso and excellent Howie Mandel) takes him into the world beneath our feet, a world of indulgence, impulse and pleasure. What more could a kid ask for? Things get darker when a monster named Boy (excellent character name. Very sinister.) holds Brian’s little bro hostage, he has to find a way to right things and get back to the human world, but the film is still a great throwback, a great conversation piece and a great source of nostalgia. I can guarantee that many of us got some killer practical joke ideas from watching Mandel and Savage screw around in Little Monsters. Reclaim what we’ve lost. Go check it out. 

The Wizard

driected by Todd Holland

Todd Holland has been a TV guy most of his directorial life, and this is not a bad thing or an insult. It simply illustrates his experience with the medium in a way that served him well in The Wizard, a brilliant 1980s feature length commercial for all things Nintendo. BTW, check out GIFAZINE.com for a primo throwback GIF. Back to the matter at hand: Fred Savage is Corey Woods, general wiseass kid who aids his younger brother Jimmy (Luke Edwards) in a west coast bound runaway odyssey that may help Jimmy exorcise some demons (California!). As the pair pick up sassy scam artist Haley (Jenny Lewis), Corey discovers that his little bro is some kind of Nintendo wizard. I mean, he got 50,000 on Double Dragon, for shit’s sake! After that, Corey and Haley decide that Jimmy may have a shot at winning Video Armageddon, a massive gaming competition in which the finalist have to face off against each other while playing a never before seen game. Can you guess which game it is? I’ll never tell- okay, it’s Super Mario Brothers 3! As they hustle poor kids out of their allowance money, the posse is tracked by a sleazy private eye and Corey’s dad (Beau Bridges) and older brother (Christian Slater). Ah, there it is. No 80s money maker worth its salt was complete without a Corey (either would do, but the pair was like gold), a Savage or a Slater, and Christian rasps his way through another excellent performance. If there was a cult actor family tree or hierarchy, Slater would definitely belong in the upper echelons, alongside Stephen Dorf and Brad Douriff. I love The Wizard. It’s so bad.
P.S. Peep the uncredited Tobey Maguire at Video Armageddon, flexing his trademark vacant expression in kid-sized form as a member of the legendary Lucas entourage. Look closely.

08 June 2010

Near Dark

directed by Kathryn Bigelow

I am still so happy that Kathryn Bigelow got her vindication and the credit she deserves for being one of the finest American filmmakers. And I am still even happier that she trounced James Cameron’s overblown turd, Avatar, and took home Best Picture (even if she did have to take it away from the colossally underappreciated A Serious Man). It’s no secret how much I enjoy the surf action masterpiece, Point Break, but even before that Bigelow was kicking ass and taking names (in the filmic sense, of course). Her first solo feature is a ball buster of modern western meets neo horror vampire awesomeness that rocks just as much as it rolls. Somehow inheriting much of the iconic cast from Cameron’s amazing film Aliens (yes, I will concede that there are a few awesome James Cameron films out there), Bigelow makes them even more iconic as an effed up nuclear family of blood sucking nomads crisscrossing the moonlit American west in search of their next meal. Bill Paxton is smarm incarnate as Severen, loose cannon and general psycho of the bunch, and Jenette Goldstein is sweet as the trash glam wife to Jesse Hooker, a terrifyingly badass Lance Henricksen. And long before he was a Hero on a prime example of a near perfect miniseries mutating into a painful and illogical mess of a series, Adrian Pasdar was perfect as the naive country Casanova who bit off more than he could chew. Or, should I say, had more bitten off of him than he could chew- nevermind. What endures here is the artful and stylish reimaging of a gothic icon (vampires), as well as a uber-grotesque vision of the Romantic landscape we all love (the West). Near Dark and Joel Schumacher’s The Lost Boys represented a modern stance on a much used concept, but the only difference is that, while Bigelow can boast of various other filmic achievements as Point Break, Strange Days, K-19 and The Hurt Locker, poor Schumacher has only The Lost Boys. And maybe Flatliners. And Falling Down (well, maybe just the first half of the film, before it gets too friggin ridiculous). And the latter are by no means classic, just guilty pleasures in which I indulge like a guilt-addled addict. I need help.

Cousins (a Vampire Weekend music video)

directed by Garth Jennings

I’m about to get a little trendy and hipster on that ass, so brace yourself…

When I first heard about Vampire Weekend, I (like all no good hipsters) immediately, and without hearing a note, pawned them off as trendy and lame. I mean, hell, they were on the radio and BS pseudo reality soundtracks like all the other musical blights. Surprisingly (for me that is, because usually this never happens), it was VW’s SNL performance a few weeks ago that won me over. They were just too much fun to hate, like the lovable nephew of The Postal Service (minus the neuroses) and The Cold War Kids (minus the thinly veiled arrogance). Needless to say, I gave them a shot and bought their newest album, Contra. And you know what? That shit is fun as hell, a fantastic blend of electronic geekery and southern slash island flair. That being said, Garth Jennings’s music video for their single, Cousins, is as much fun to watch as VW’s song is to listen to. It’s so ramshackle, so low-fi, but it celebrates its obvious amateurish nature, making it a super excellent exploration of a good time. You can see the dolly tracks in almost every scene, and that is in no way a mistake, as if looking behind the curtain makes the illusion even more fun. The video is electric, vibrant and joyous, just as much as VW’s entire album, and the result is a great little package that leaves you wanting more. As far as the music video’s job is concerned, mission accomplished. The album is pretty friggin badass, too, btw.

04 June 2010

Wholphin

edited by Brent Hoff

Remember that name, boys and girls. Wholphin. It’s like dolphin, with a “wh” instead of a “d,” and it’s that little difference that makes all the difference in the world. Wholphin is a DVD series (and has been since 2007) that compiles rare and unseen short films for your viewing pleasure. And what pleasure it is, from hypnotic slices of life to curious government films to fictional shorts, Wholphin has something for everyone. Try on the first issue, featuring an Al Gore doc directed by Spike Jonze, an amazing Grimm tale animated by Brian Dewan and a truly wondrous Iranian animation entitled Malek Khorshid, among others. You won’t be able to stay away.
What the hell is a wholphin, you ask? It’s a type of aquatic hybrid, the spawn of a bottlenose dolphin and a false killer whale. They can be found in captivity, and allegedly they exist in the wild, though no one has confirmed this.

The Messenger

directed by Oren Moverman

Oren Moverman’s drama about Staff Sergeant Will Montgomery and his crisis of conscience is a gruelingly haunting American portrait and one you aren’t likely to soon forget. Ben Foster, one of his generation’s strongest talents (and time will only serve to extend his ranking amongst the best of various generations) and the high point of several films that missed the mark (most notably, Alpha Dog and 3:10 to Yuma), gives probably his best performance yet as Montgomery, assigned to the Army’s Casualty Notification Service. His new boss is Captain Stone, a tortured soul who copes with the emotional extremity in impulsive bursts. Together, the pair deliver tragic news of loss, death and grief to bereft N.O.K. (watch the film to find out what the acronym stands for). Each notification is a new horror, gut wrenching encounters that make the firing sequences from Jason Reitman’s Crap In the Air seem like surprise birthday parties. Woody Harrelson (Captain Stone) is an enigma to me in that he characterizes a peculiar species of actor. When he isn’t right for the role, it makes me wonder why anyone ever allowed Harrelson to even set foot on a stage. But when he is properly cast, he can become the best part of even the most brilliantly crafted film (see No Country for Old Men for a perfect example of his supreme talent). Interestingly enough, Harrelson scored twice last year, once for his crazed comic turn in the clever Zombieland as well as his role in The Messenger, which earned him a much deserved Oscar nod. It’s a shame at Harrelson’s bad luck: Christoph Waltz had to star in Inglourious Basterds the very same year. Foster and Harrelson mix like nitric acid and glycerin, creating a quietly combustible concoction that rails against the tragedy of the American Dream. Samantha Morton is another of her generation’s brightest stars, from such wonderful performances in films like Woody Allen’s severely underrated Sweet and Lowdown and Jim Sheridan’s magnificent In America, and she finds herself heartbreakingly sincere and real as Olivia, wife of a killed soldier who finds solace in Will’s company. If the trailer for this film didn’t hook you, then you got problems, my friend, but give it a chance. It will stay with you in ways you never expected.

02 June 2010

MacGruber

directed by Jorma Taccone

I have to admit, the SNL skit turned feature film was better than I thought. That doesn’t make it good; it just makes it better than I thought. Jorma Taccone’s filmic debut fares better on a technical sense, but it is in no way awesome enough to overcome the flat writing and painfully dull points that make snails look like quicksilver (remember that Kevin Bacon film from the 80s?). Forte has a ton of fun as MacGruber, Rambo meets Mr. Wizard style military geek who manages to eff up everything he touches, and Ryan Phillippe strikes gold by playing his role earnestly and sans any sense of irony, which makes the performance even more hilarious. Kristen Wiig shines when she is actually utilized, which isn’t nearly enough. MacGrubes needs to stop his nemesis (Val Kilmer is right on) Dieter Von Cunth from launching a nuclear missile. As he fights his way to Von Cunth, MacG leaves a wake of idiotic destruction and (sometimes) inspired lunacy. It’s classic MacGruber, and the plot tries its best to follow in such genius footsteps as Edgar Wright’s Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, or even John McTiernan’s fantastic Die Hard. It falls short, sadly, and the result is an awkward mixture of funny moments, molasses slow and attention-losing “serious” moments and throwback action sequences that will have you daydreaming for a legit Steven Seagal crapfest before the film even ends.

01 June 2010

Sex and the City 2

directed by Michael Patrick King

I remember the time when I could honestly and abashedly say “You know what? Sex and the City is a good show.” Those were the days. Too bad Michael Patrick King has dragged the last few untarnished rhinestones of a once innovative series through the mud of fake feminism, gay jokes, and not in any way veiled racism for an entire culture. The film starts with a simple premise: Someone must have bet King to string together as many gay jokes as humanly possible, and the outcome is the inexplicable wedding of Stanford Blatch and Anthony Marantino, replete with swans, an all male choir who collectively swoon in the presence of Liza (the one and only) and a non-convincing romance between two polar opposites. Next up is a spectacularly ridiculous monsoon of puns, sex, menopause jokes and completely useless plot twists that generate zero tension in the film. Actually, what’s less than zero? All of this takes place against a backdrop of a Middle East that is, apparently for King, ripe for mockery, ridicule and judgement. It’s one thing to ask your audience to think about different points of view and to provide a respectful and sober counterargument, but it’s another thing to arrogantly insult an entire culture. Like we need more shit to make the Middle East hate our guts. Thanks for nothing, King.  
P.S. John Corbett, I thought you knew better. You were Chris effing Stevens, man! Come on, have a little dignity. I heard a rumor that you initially wanted to pass on the film, but finally gave in. The people of Cicely, Alaska would not approve.