The Price Is WRONG, B*tch!

Has anyone watched "The Price Is Right" since Bob Barker quit and Drew Carey took over? Well, I hadn't yet.

Until today.

I forgot how awesome capitalism is! ESPECIALLY DURING THIS GREAT RECESSION! The poor folks who made it onto the show looked more crazy with envy than ever, and the rich folks, who won and clearly didn't need the prizes, looked more smug and punchable than ever, too! :)

I saw this lady shaking while she tried to win a bed, a trailer, and something else I forgot already (a $60 toaster, maybe?). Guess what? She lost. HOWEVER, she got $0.95 when she went to go spin the wheel. Then? Some younger (and obviously richer) girl spun the wheel and landed on the 100 (that's $1.00). Of course, if you do that, you win $1000 and get to spin the wheel again to win EVEN MORE MONEY!!! And then advance to the Showcase Showdown Round where you win EVEN MORE PRIZES!!!


I bet the girl who spun $0.95 and lost probably disagrees... And to that I say: The Price Is WRONG, BITCH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Here's lookin' at you, Adam Sandler ;)


Young @ Heart - May The Old Folks Teach Us How To Live!

I've decided to let go of "Greeple" just long enough to laud this little documentary, Young @ Heart. I watched it in 3 separate sittings, which is why I have so little to write, but this film spoke for itself anyway. A group of elderly folks come together and build a community - that would not exist otherwise - around rock and roll music. Guess what? Life didn't stop. Mistakes were made. People died. But the music always lived on! For some reason, these folks - not one of them under the age of 80 - found a way to live life better than they ever had before: through each other and their new community.

Watch it, love it, laugh at it, and don't be afraid to cry. This receives my stamp of one of the most touching films I've ever seen. Enjoy!


Lars And The Real Girl: What Bologna.

Part of me felt compelled to take this movie seriously, but I can't. When you make a film with such a bizarre concept like Lars and the Real Girl, why would you play by the rules set forth by average Hollywood drivel?

Check it out: socially inept sweetheart (Lars, played by Ryan Gosling, the motivational crackhead teacher from Half Nelson - still a less ridiculous premise than Lars and the Real Girl) buys a plastic sex doll named Bianca to become his real life girlfriend so he can exit his brother's garage and rediscover what it's like to have a life. Suffering from a delusion (or, more accurately, post-traumatic stress disorder from his mother's death that he displaces onto Bianca, the 'girlfriend'), Lars wheels his plastic sex doll girlfriend around in a wheelchair to family dinners, church, a party with coworkers, childhood memory sites, the doctor, and even calls 911 when he thinks Bianca is unconscious and dying.

(Yes, paramedics arrived and took her away without a hint of irony.)

The alarmingly naive (read: unrealistically desperate) real girl, Margo, (Kelli Garner), who falls for Lars, creates a fake relationship with a real person to get Lars's attention. Meanwhile, the community at large is aware of Lars's delusion - so what does the community do? Act like there isn't a problem - like the plastic sex doll Bianca is a beautiful, talking breath of fresh air (who willingly fucks the craziest of guys (Lars)).

...That is, a plastic sex doll who also happens to do volunteer work, like read to little children in a classroom.

I'm not kidding. That's actually a scene in this movie.

...So is the scene where Lars's brother and his brother's wife give the sex doll a bath and debate whether or not it's funny. We'll say it's "meta-funny." It's also the most sexual scene in the entire movie. The filmmakers must have thought that sexualizing the guy who bought a SEX DOLL would make him too creepy to be a sympathetic character, but I dunno. I'm naturally inclined to sympathize with creepy dudes who buy sex dolls off the internet. Aren't you???

And did I mention that Lars and the Real Girl played out like a family friendly Christmas movie - minus the tree - and not like a John Waters comedy? But all along, the other characters say shit like "Is she flexible?" and look up her skirt to find (what I imagined to be) a big scary anatomically correct plastic vagina.

Anyway, you've seen this movie before: it's ET and There's Something About Mary with a splash of Weekend at Bernie's rolled into a (failed) attempt at making the Next Great American Movie. So, it wasn't a bad movie, but now that I'm writing about it, I almost feel like I'd better serve my time ordering a plastic sex doll from the internet and then having lots of sex with it.

Or ya know. Washing dishes. I think I'll go wash some dishes now.


Tyson and Gonzo: Two Documentaries, Two Wild And Crazy Guys!

When I told friends I wanted to watch the Mike Tyson documentary, Tyson, they were all like, "Why??" Not so when I watched Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. They were like, "You haven't seen it yet?" In retrospect, I don't know why. If I hear a doc is good, then I want to see it and don't care much what it's about. Someone was passionate enough about his/her subject to create new art examining it. Pending who you talked to, both Tyson and Thompson were monsters, but more folks would go to bat for Thompson because of his written word. In other words, Thompson became famous for his intellect (respectable), and Tyson gained fame for knocking people unconscious (barbarism).

I wanted to know what drove this Tyson dude to knock so many other dudes unconscious. And luckily, the man told me himself. James Toback's entire 90 minute documentary is an interview with Mike Tyson, cut with clips from his life and career. Tyson's voice? Still hilarious, but less high-pitched and shrill, and he's 40 yrs old now. With a tattoo on his face. Which...

You know that tat wrapped around his eye? Kinda bad ass and tribal and what not? Appropriate for a dude known for knocking dudes unconscious? Guess what he originally wanted tattooed on his face. If you guessed hearts, you are correct. Swear to god, straight from the man's mouth. Best part of the documentary.

(His tattoo artist talked him out of it.)

Anyhow, the man turned 40. According to Tyson, he never thought he'd live this long, and he'd lived his life accordingly. Trained by a man named Cus D'Amato, who saw excellence coming from Tyson, he learned discipline and controlled himself and had a stand-in father figure that loved him. In an interview with the two in the 80s, D'Amato said that Mike was the reason he was still alive, training him and watching him grow into the best fighter in the world. Mike was a son to him, and he left his son and the world behind before he trained Mike how to be a man without him. A 40 yr old Tyson, no longer a child, cried, reminiscing on the only good influence his life ever had.

We know the rest of Mike's story: fights, more fights, arrests, rape charges, Evander Holyfield's ear... He denied the rape charges for which he was imprisoned but admitted to forcing sex in circumstances for which he'd never been charged. And I didn't know he bit Holyfield's ear twice, the bout continuing after bite #1!

Tyson, now humbled by four decades of life, admitted his fear and distrust of everyone who was not Cus D'Amato. Every last motivation of Tyson's was inspired by fear. I'm sure Tyson lied about plenty of things in this doc, afraid of what image could be portrayed of him this time, but he did not lie about his fear. He can't hide it anymore, and his drive to beat people up has left him. He said he'd never box again after losing to Kevin McBride in 2005.

I never got into boxing, but I knew Mike Tyson ruled enough to get his own bad ass video game, Mike Tyson's Punch Out for Nintendo, but that was it. Watching Mike fight in these clips really was inspiring. I've seen lots of dudes slug it out since Mike's heyday (big MMA fan), but I've never seen anyone punch like Mike during his prime. He was fast. I understood why the man had ever been considered special, and why his life of tragedy shouldn't be forgotten, but mourned. I'm not saying I like the guy, and I don't care to defend his crazy actions, but what if he continued to channel his rage into sport? How long before he would've been stopped?

Without Cus D'Amato, he couldn't help himself. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before Mike Tyson went insane. Perhaps the same could be said for Hunter S. Thompson, the inventor of gonzo-journalism.

In director Alex Gibney's Gonzo, Hunter's funeral montage was, dare I say, perfect. We've all got a friend who wanted Tenacious D playing live at his funeral, or fireworks, or a coffin shot out of a canon, or something asinine. (Maybe I should contract Rivers Cuomo to have tomatoes thrown at him while playing a solo set of Weezer's Make Believe album at my funeral, and then end the set, covered with and bruised by tomatoes, with "Butterfly" from Pinkerton.) Anyway, sure enough, Hunter dreamed up a fantastical funeral of his own, explaining it all on camera as a younger man, and we watched it unfold - for real - as he explained it. No one less than Hunter Thompson would go to these lengths to have such an asinine funeral actually feel poignant, like nothing less could have possibly sufficed. Nothing would have.

Never brushing over Hunter's lunacy, Gibney's Gonzo reminded us the importance of that which we often care to ignore or discount. If a man's crazy, then he's crazy and who cares if anything brilliant resulted from his 'crazy' mind? Hunter's wives, past and final, knew about his suicidal fantasies. He took his life in his home in the comforting presence of his family having dinner in another room. Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his last book, A Man Without A Country, that too often, we don't stop and appreciate how nice things are sometimes. When things are nice, he challenged his readers to step back and say, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." After watching Gonzo, I blamed Hunter less for his suicide. Why not leave this Earth feeling nice, at peace (which he was)? Unfortunately, that's not to say it wasn't selfish. And that's to say that America needs the insight of his 'craziness,' filtered through his written word, more today than ever.


Watchmen vs. Synecdoche, New York: Guess Which Won... Also, Bond Franchise Fizzled. Again.

I saw Watchmen many weeks ago and thought it pretty dumb. Still do. This week, I watched Charlie Kaufman's latest foray into the psyche of an artist, Synecdoche, New York. I dunno. I suppose it's possible you thought since Watchmen is all about ass-kicking, it kicked Synecdoche's ass. But there's a problem. A movie about ass kicking - in my estimation - should also kick ass. I think Synecdoche, New York kicked Watchmen's silly ass even as a film based on a graphic novel (note: I did not say Synecdoche, New York was based on a graphic novel, because it wasn't. Burn!).

Whenever someone asked me what I thought of Watchmen, and they saw my brow furrow as my mouth prepared a stream of vitriol, they'd ask, "Did you read the graphic novel?" And I'd reply, "Get FUCKED, buddy!" Actually, I said, "No." They'd cite this as the reason I didn't like Watchmen. That's fine.

But here's my problem. If you're going to recreate a work of art, it needs to stand on its own, and Watchmen did not. As with other adaptations, film is not the same medium as the graphic novel, and too often in "strict" adaptations of other works, the adapter fails to consider this.

The movie started. They killed one of the... ugh, superheroes? Anti-heroes? Crime fighters dressed like idiots? We’ll go with vigilantes... The vigilante called The Comedian was murdered at the beginning - and God did director Zack Snyder wish he had Robert Downey Jr. to play him (found a lookalike in Jeffrey Dean Morgan, but not a comparable actor by any means) - Snyder told The Comedian's back story (he's a giant asshole!), and I never had reason to care about his character again, assuming he'd been compelling enough to care about, which he was not. So...whatever. Instead of nailing each character this way, let's say none of these vigilantes were compelling, with the exceptions of Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley), Nite-Owl (the one that looked like Batman, played by Patrick Wilson), and the elder Silk Spectre (Carla Gugino).

If any character was a protagonist, it was Rorschach. Delightfully mysterious, voice gruff as hell but not comically so (take notes, Christian Bale), highly motivated and highly misunderstood, strange, a shape-shifting mask... I couldn't ask for much else from a compelling comic book character, and Haley brought this one home. Nite-Owl and neither generation of Silk Spectre were characters I particularly cared about, but Wilson and Gugino didn't bore me to tears. Silk Spectre's daughter, Silk Spectre II (Malin Akerman) did, however, bore me to tears (I'll get to her only worth while scene in a moment). Wilson's got acting chops, proven in Angels in America, and Gugino's got'em, too, but I'm gonna go ahead, be an honest pig and say I could stare at Gugino in her oh so skimpy Silk Spectre costume all day long. Goddamn! I can't believe she played an old, haggard has-been for most of the movie. Gugino gave the haggard has-been what depth she could, but I would've rather watched her purr at the camera instead of Akerman. Akerman's hot enough, I guess, but no Carla fucking Gugino. Goddamn.

Oh, there was one performance that never failed to steal the show, and that would be the dangling of Dr. Manhattan’s electric-blue penis. Just when I was ready to take Dr. Manhattan (an underutilized Billy Crudup) seriously, the camera zoomed out, and whoop! ELECTRIC-BLUE PENIS. DANGLING. My buddy wanted to congratulate the special effects team on giving the blue penis its... swagger. It was believable! Someone spent time on that! They had to! Hahaha, oh dear. Dicks. Seriously though, I’m sure that blue cock was less distracting in the graphic novel, because no one created a program to make it jiggle around correctly. He was just naked and anyone could accept that, if they’re willing to accept that he’s blue. But adding a CGI jiggle made this guy giggle.

Okay, now the stuff I couldn't wait to start bashing... the soundtrack and Zack Snyder, the "visionary" director. So ZACK, I guess it'd be brilliant to play a song called "The Times They Are A-Changing" during your opening montage that spanned many, many years, yeah? Some might even say "visionary," right?! By God, you're a genius! I was intrigued to hear Bob Dylan's jam at first, honestly. Perhaps I'd underestimated Mr. Snyder and his capabilities, and what his Watchmen would have to offer... Then I heard "99 Luftballons" by Nena as Silk Spectre II met Nite-Owl for dinner (both not 'costumed'). The song faded to the background, and then the scene ended. That's it. Now, let's think about this... First, here's the song. Listen for about 45 seconds to get to the bass line that permeated this scene:

I wish I could tell you what they discussed over dinner, but I can't, because that fucking bass line is distracting as all hell and belongs only in an 80's night club scene or some ironic action sequence or something - anything! - aside from a casual dinner. Not very "visionary," brother. Also, "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel during a funeral scene? Whoo-eee, never saw that one coming! There were other soundtrack doozies, I promise, but the one I'll leave you with is Silk Spectre II's only worth while scene ('cause she's naked, breathing heavy, moaning, and not reciting dialogue that made my head hurt). She's nailing Nite Owl on some ship to somegoddamnwhere while "visionary" director played Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" over the scene in order to get a laugh, I guess. Sex = hallelujah. Hilarious! Look out Judd Apatow, you've got competition. No - you know what really could've been hilarious? A reprisal of "99 Luftballons," and it also might have actually MADE SENSE, thrusting in time or some shit.

When you recreate something, especially in a new medium, you want to bring a new audience or a new perspective to something that is already great. If lovers of the graphic novel have to defend the movie by saying you need to read the graphic novel, then Snyder failed. If he did such a strict adaptation that it didn't translate to film well, Snyder failed. Visionary my ass. Go make 300 again. Oh wait. You are. Visionary goon...

No, you want visionary? I give you Charlie Kaufman. I give you his directorial debut Synecdoche, New York. I give you his main character, theatre director Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman). Let's take a look at all of them together, because they fit cohesively (see antithesis of Watchmen).

I'm not going to pretend like I understood everything that happened, or what it all meant: Cotard's wife Adele (Catherine Keener) left him for Berlin with their daughter in tow. Cotard won the MacArthur fellowship, funding his most ambitious project to date: the city of Manhattan, staged. Literally, buildings and all. Working tirelessly on his show, mapping it against the background of his own curious life, he learned frightening things of his daughter, 4 yrs old last he saw her: she'd become tattooed, started modeling, discovered her sexuality through his ex-wife's friend Maria (Jennifer Jason Leigh, a pleasure to watch here, so bizarre)... Caden accused Maria of raping a 4 year old child, but she corrected him. She's 11 now. Doesn't make Maria any less of a sexual predator, but it shocks Caden enough to step back.

Here's a good opportunity to explain what I didn't understand. Time is very ambiguous in Kaufman's movie (perhaps more specifically Cotard's world?) and there's an awfully weird thing going on with gender, too. In his 'real' life, Cotard pretended to be "Ellen" for a while, Adele's cleaning lady, and later he recast his "Ellen" for his play as himself. Role reversals galore ensued with the real life/play versions of people. I'm not even sure Kaufman knew what to do with all the role reversals and gender confusion and time ambiguity in his film, but... actually, I'm sure he knew what he was doing. But as a viewer, not understanding all this did not stop me from enjoying the film, as there's plenty else to grab at aside from confusion.

Cotard continued his life with failed romances and a play that had gone into two decades of pre-production with no end in sight. Scenes he’d written about his life for the play started messing with his life. After all, he’d married his lead actress (Michelle Williams) and loved his assistant Hazel (Samantha Morton) most of his adult life. So Hazel had to become a character in the play! And where’s the line between reality and the play?! And, and...?!

See, it all got very confusing. But Kaufman’s movies do not rely on plot to tell a story, or else he really would be the craziest son of a bitch writer in Hollywood. Even as I found myself lost in details, I’d find a theme to latch onto, a concept, a moment, a feeling... Kaufman’s films are cohesive but never traditionally so, making him one of the most creative artists in Hollywood today. Synecdoche, New York could be a very difficult film to digest if you get lost in the bizarre plot. Hopefully cues like Hazel’s house remaining perpetually on fire (literally), and the same people addressing Caden as Caden, Ellen, and as a homosexual with little to no concrete plot explanation will discourage that attention to plot detail.

Anyhow, Charlie Kaufman fans have another must-see on their hands, and Bond fans have at least a couple more years of grief ahead due to their beloved franchise getting fucked up. Again. Quantum of Solace bored the piss out of me. And it’s not even bad. It’s just nowhere near as good as Casino Royale, which excited me for Bond for the first time since the GoldenEye video game for N64.

For a spy movie, I expect a little intrigue. Don’t you? I expect to fear the characters’ potential futures, like something important is at stake. I want to care about my characters and see them find what they’re looking for in the nick of time. And, a lot of things happened in the nick of time in Quantum of Solace. Too many, perhaps. Why? What for? I dunno. I couldn’t care less.

Daniel Craig silenced many naysayers in 2006 debuting as Bond in Casino Royale. He was cold, hard, intriguing, mysterious, charming, not without the occasional one-liner. He was the best Bond since Connery, perhaps better in some ways, with only a fledgling Timothy Dalton fan here or there to disagree. And I just saw... none of that. It felt like a Pierce Brosnan Bond movie with less kitsch, but extra kitsch would have been a relief from this crap. It’s just... totally mediocre, and a totally unacceptable follow-up to a film that brought Bond back to life.

At least Quantum of Solace had a running time like, half of Watchmen’s, so I wasn’t bored as long. Oh, and a good movie to precede it, too, a great one. Watchmen, on the other hand, had nothing but a screenwriter begging fans to see his crap again and a wiggling electric blue penis.


Ashes Of The American Flag and Me And You And Everyone We Know

Last night as part of CIMM Fest 09, Chicago's Music Box Theatre premiered the new Wilco touring documentary, Ashes Of The American Flag, to a packed house with a only handful of empty seats. Two evening screenings were fans' only opportunity to see the doc on a big screen, and directors Brendan Canty (also the drummer of Fugazi) and Cristoph Green fielded a playful Q & A afterward.

Here's the film's trailer:

Simply put, no one's going to watch this who isn't already a fan of Wilco, I presume (I couldn't find Ashes on an IMDB search). The documentary was awesome when the band played awesome songs, and boring during less awesome songs. Once it's on DVD on April 18th, fans will skip to their favorite songs (uber fans may watch it in its entirety the first time through) and probably skip the often quirky interviews. I know I woulda skipped around a bit, because I hate the material on A Ghost Is Born, am indifferent toward A.M. and Being There, but die for anything from Summerteeth, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Sky Blue Sky. Although I categorized this as a Wilco fan only movie, some candid moments with the band could be enjoyed by any. Guitarist Nels Cline could be found backstage lying on a couch with ice on the back of his neck due to whiplash from live shows. A few vertebrae were dislocating (or something), he explained, because he never thought about his body while playing, let alone hurting it. Drummer Glenn Kotche soaked his hands in ice water backstage as his bandmates explained how he destroyed his hands every night playing drums with such vigor. These little details humanized this alt-country-folk-rock band (or however you care to categorize Wilco) while exposing the bandmates' passion, sometimes sacrificing themselves physically to perform music they love.

That said, if you want a Wilco documentary, check out I Am Trying To Break Your Heart, director Sam Jones's film about the making of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, arguably the band's most renowned and lauded album to date. Chronicling singer Jeff Tweedy and Co. from the songwriting process through recording and record label problems to its much-delayed release, I Am Trying To Break Your Heart is a must see for any supporter of the arts.

Next up, I watched Me and You and Everyone We Know, Miranda July's indie dramedy from 2005. July is Christine Jesperson, an artist who supported herself through a cab service for the elderly. Buying new shoes from a clerk named Richard (John Hawkes) caused her to track him down and get to know him. Richard, divorced, lived life bug-eyed with fear for whatever frightfulness might strike his life next. His two boys had cyber sex chats online at home while Dad's at work selling shoes. The neighbor left notes in his window for two teenage girls explaining what he would do to them if it weren't illegal after they hit on him one day. The girls considered losing their virginity to this guy.

My point is... how could you not be interested in the outcomes of these people's stories? They're all slightly insane, but July takes them all very seriously and all their stories give you warm fuzzies like when you pinch a baby's cute chubby lil cheek. Totally worth 90 minutes of your time on a rainy day.

Oh, and if you wanna know why the mentioning of 'pooping back and forth' will send me into hysterical laughter for months to come, watch this movie. Or, you could probably find it on youtube... but watch the movie instead.


Let The Right One In, and may The Comedians of Comedy Deliver Us From Evil.

Over a month ago I saw Let The Right One In, a Swedish film that would've been seen by many more people if the mass populace in America weren't enamored with the schmaltz of Twilight, the stupid one of two 2008 movies involving youngins and vampires. But it's not really a fair comparison. Twilight is schmaltz, and Let the Right One In is actually worth a shit.

I got people interested in seeing this with me by running around all like "Who wants to see the Swedish vampire movie!? Have you heard about the Norwegian nazi-zombie movie [Dead Snow]?!" In retrospect, I wish I advertised it differently, because it stopped a friend of mine who can't take scary movies from seeing it. It's not a scary movie. No moments intended to make you jump. But if you pull out the vampire element it sounds like a stupid movie: alienated kid meets alienated kid and they develop a weird friendship and haven't I seen this crap before? No, you haven't. It's not a vampire movie, but the vampirism defines the uniqueness of it... man, just fucking see this, alright? John Ajvide Lindqvist's script managed to make a bizarre situation subtle and acceptable to logic (somehow). Tomas Alfredson's dark direction caused me to assume it's a scary movie, but really, it set a beautiful mood for a dark film. And god, these kids could fucking act, too, Kåre Hedebrant as Oskar and Lina Leandersson as Eli the not-a-girl. And I saw it too long ago to talk it up well enough, but it killed my face and will yours, too, so see it and read on, folks...

Next, my roommate asked me yesterday, "Are you familiar with Zack Galifianakis?" When I said, "Heard of but not familiar with," he turned to our handy Xbox360 (where we can watch Netflix flims instantly and that is awesome) and put on The Comedians of Comedy, a documentary about four comedians touring the U.S. independently at cheap rock clubs to lower the cost of admission. Our comics are Patton Oswalt, Brian Posehn, Maria Bamford, and Zack Galifianakis. Like a rock and roll documentary, we get all the backstage and tour bus antics, but instead of loads of drugs and boobs, they just make fun of each other all the time and it's really funny. Patton has his "Am I crazy or is the world crazy?" shtick, Posehn his "Can you believe how big a dork I am? 'Cause I can't," thing, Bamford her "I'm definitely crazy but do really good impressions" deal, and the Galifianakis wild card. All made me laugh multiple times, but Galifianakis's playing heart felt piano while saying ludicrous things into a microphone bit killed me every time. That alone is worth watching this movie.

So after my roommate and I laughed for an hour and 45 or so, I said, "Hey, wanna watch the most depressing documentary ever made?" I'm sure he would have said no if he didn't have a laptop in his paws to distract him. Regardless, we watched Deliver Us From Evil, Amy Berg's brilliant documentary about sexual abuse in the Catholic church. My friends who were raised Catholic refuse to watch it, and I can't say I blame them. We meet a free Father Oliver O'Grady, deported to Ireland after serving seven of fourteen years in prison in the U.S. for sexually abusing children as young as 9 months. As one victim's father corrected, it's not pedophilia or touching or molesting - it's rape. Not simply raping children, but raping entire families' trust in the Catholic Church, to which they've devoted their souls as long as they've lived. Heartbreaking could not aptly describe the pain one victim's father communicates to the camera, having allowed Father O'Grady to stay with his family to get away from the parish and stress of being a priest. O'Grady read the Bible and said his morning prayers in the living room hours after raping his hosts' five year old daughter all night long. Seeing O'Grady roam free in Ireland, resultant of the Catholic Church cutting a deal with him to keep his mouth shut about who knew what during his trial, and walk past children on the sidewalk might be the most frightening, infuriating image one could ever see. Berg's documentary used O'Grady as one example - one man, one priest - who conceivably raped hundreds of children, and concisely showed how the conspiracy to hide such things went as high in the church as Pope Benedict XVI, who was granted immunity of prosecution by George W. Bush at the request of the Vatican.

Deliver Us From Evil will make your head hurt for sure. My roommate and I beat the shit outta some Rock Band drums until 1am afterwards, 'cause we had to. I also couldn't watch this sober, dear God no. When something this emotionally devastating presents itself to you, is it better to indulge and learn the full extent of it, or acknowledge its rottenness and accept that it will be unbearable and move on to something else?

Gah. I don't know. In other news, Bill O'Reilly flips out - DANCE REMIX.