V: Taking Over

Look, here's the thing. I thought this idea would be a fun lark, but it's really not working so far. While it is still fun to watch a terrible movie every now and again, it turns out writing up every single event in said movie is not really all that enjoyable (How is it to read?). So after a lot of thinking about it (Seriously. How long has it been since I wrote one of these?), I have decided to man up and admit it. If you're at all interested, right now some indeterminate Asian man is performing kung-fu in front of a pagoda. I am not. To give you the full background, here's where the idea came from. I used to live in Park Slope, a nice neighborhood in the oftentimes terrifying Brooklyn, New York. This area features approximately two bodegas per square foot, which presumably decreases profitability significantly. So to compensate for this, one of the bodegas on the way to the subway evidently rented out their window as advertising for Dragon Wars, with a poster featuring two dragons (Which are Chinese dragons, meaning they really just look like oversized snakes. Lame) snarling at each other over the ruins of a city. Needless to say, this made me rather excited. And when the movie came out, my fellow awful film afficionado Robert Fliegel (Hereafter referred to as Bob. Because that is what he goes by) took the initiative to both rent this cinematic masterwork and invite myself and Sir Nicholas Managanananananan, along with our significant others, over for a night of Masterpiece Theater and Malt Beverages (By the way, the next time we are in the same city, the film of choice is going to be Outlander, a movie about a man from outer space whose spaceship crashes in 8th century Norway. He then has to team up with Vikings to fight a monster that escapes from the ship. I am excited). About halfway through the film, two of the others retired to any room in the apartment not showing Dragon Wars, with only the Official Girlfriend sticking it out for the fair sex. Afterward, she mentioned how bad the movie was. Now, I clearly had to defend its honor, so I countered her false accusation with the demonstrably true statement that it was, in fact, the best movie ever made. And, barring occasional references to it in the months that followed, I figured that would be just about the end of that.

And then she bought the movie for me as a Christmas gift.

Now what was I to do? What started as a bit of a laugh on Terrible Movie Night had turned into a game of one-upsmanship, a game which she evidently had mastered on the sly without telling me. So I began this series of blog posts as an attempt to raise the stakes even higher, but sadly it looks like this is one game I'm going to lose. So I guess I might as well tell her and oh my god, that's a dinosaur with a rocket launcher. I cannot even begin to tell you how awesome this is. The time-honored 'Period after each word' strategy does not even begin to do it justice. G.r.e.a.t.e.s.t. i.d.e.a. e.v.e.r. Think of the most awesome thing you can possibly think of. Now think of that thing getting blown up by a dinosaur wielding a rocket launcher. Not that I am necessarily calling the rest of this film the greatest thing ever (Though it's certainly moving in that direction now), but that is a reasonable approximation of what is happening on the television at the moment. In a movie as uninspired as this one, where did this genius come from? Well, let's start at the beginning.

Much as there are 55 dramatic situations usable by authors the world over, for years there have been attempts to precisely codify the possible animal-weapon combinations. As with most things, this began with Miguel Cervantes, who introduced the world to the concept by arming a horse with a lance-wielding buffoon in Don Quixote. And while this was certainly a ground-breaking beginning, there was clearly work to be done. This would be continued by Thomas Jefferson, who, in an attempt to better protect the populace, gave all Americans the right to an armed bear (Congress, feeling this could be dangerous, changed bear to buffalo, something that completely fails to help people now that the species has dwindled). Henry David Thoreau chimed in with Turtle Chainsaw Massacre, a book whose title he changed to Walden upon having it pointed out to him that it was unclear whether the turtles were the massacrers or the massacrees (It was the first). But scholars generally agree that the definitive work on the subject was provided by Carolyn Keene (Who knew? (Also, I'm not going to say who she is. You have Google. Look her up)) in 1951, when she officially submitted two lists to the world for consideration:


Finally, writers everywhere knew what options they had. By combining an entry from column one with one from column two, every possible animal-weapon combination was literally on the tip of their pen, waiting to be brought to life for consumption by the masses. And while I mean no disservice to Carolyn, one of these combinations is clearly better than the rest, as measured in sheer awesomeness. And it is sitting on the TV screen in front of me. And thus I shall boldly press on. Bravo, Dragon Wars. Bravo.

Mike Versus the Fine Arts: My Night In Baltimore

Firstly, let's deal with the title of this post. That's right, I live in New York City and go to Baltimore for my exposure to the arts. If any of you want to stop reading now, I don't really blame you. For those of you still here, last weekend I packed up a bag of random things (65% of the weight of which was composed of books) and took the Chinatown bus down to the B-More, which is eternally beloved by BOB (And yes, I do realize Cindi is the only person who will understand that). A few words on the Chinatown bus(es): It is great. Many of these buses have sprung up making routes around the East Coast in direct competition to Greyhound, whose incompetence is legendary in my personal brain. These companies typically charge $35 for a round-trip ticket to the city of your choosing, and then after you pay this ridiculously low fee the bus goes directly to your city. Express. They actually get you there when they are supposed to. This is awesome. All you have to deal with is the knowledge that they are probably smuggling crack or weapons-grade plutonium or Charles Manson or something in the cargo hold. But for a $35 ticket anywhere on the East Coast, I'll try to smuggle Charles Manson across the border on a Big Wheel® while smoking crack. I'm not proud.

The purpose for this excursion was to attend a dance-based extravaganzical evening entitled 'Singing the Body Electric,' organized by a friend who shall remain nameless for no good reason unless I forget and type her name out (I've now finished writing this, and not mentioning names did not at all work. Unfortunately, my delete key is malfunctioning. Her name is Cindi L'Abbe). So I attended. Now, I know some people out there know many things about dance. I happen to be one of them, as there was this one time in college I consumed a substantial number of root beers, which affected my mood and/or fine motor control to the point that I found myself swaying in what was presumably a rhythmic fashion (I can't remember) to music that did not technically exist outside of my own head. Armed with this formidable background, I got a beer (Oatmeal stout, brewed in Maryland. Fairly impressive) at the bar (Yes! They had a bar at the dance show! Awesome!) while the dancers warmed up backstage. Once I and the rest of the audience (Okay, just me (Further note: The place was packed. Not bad)) were suitably warmed up, the lights went out, revealing the three randomly-placed pieces of glowing tape onstage. I like shiny objects. Then the lights came back on and the dancing commenced.

A little bit of structure here (About the dancing. There's no hope left for this post). The evening was arranged in two acts of six dances apiece, with an intermission between the two and six different people handling the choreography (It's a bit like the book of Revelation with a different favorite number). The music was a mix of canned and live, with one original composition (More on that later) (Unless I forget). The dancers generally worked with a single choreographer, allowing for minimal time spent setting up. Which was nice, because it meant the show moved right along. I would have felt weird about walking in front of everyone to rebeer during a dance.

Now, I suspect a lot of people have a preconceived notion of dance as some sort of pretty means of expression through movement. This is not the case when Cindi is choreographing. Her dances can best be described as ugly. This is not to say they are not watchable. Far from it. Just that they will not be mistaken for a revival of Swan Lake anytime soon. Cindi's style of choreography has much less in common with Tchaikovsky than with Compton's Most Wanted, in that you go pop pop pop and watch the sucker hit the floor. Act 1 featured a trio of choreographers providing two pieces, with Cindi starting things off with a new piece featuring original music from the generically-named David Ross. Quite frankly, I find myself having a hard time remembering specifics from this dance. There were some excellent visuals, including a wonderful image that sticks with me of Cindi hoisting a fellow dancer on her back while she (not Cindi (while we're on the subject, what was her name exactly?)) continued to make leg motions akin to pedalling a bicycle; as well as several hops, which are rapidly becoming a sort of signature move. Trying to focus on the music, the dancing and my beer proved a bit much; and I am left with more a series of dreamlike images than anything concrete. As the piece is entitled Wake Me When It's Over, this may have been the point all along.

From this entertaining beginning we rapidly went south. Now, let me first state that my opinion of dancing offers little more than random whims in terms of actual opinions and analysis. I come from a background much more of music than of movement, and a poor choice of audio can ruin a piece for me quicker than any on-stage stumbles. Disclaimer done, the two dances choreographed by Reggie Cole were somewhere between bad and awful. Don't get me wrong. Reggie seemed like a wonderful dancer, and has absolutely phenomenal body control (and, I have been told, is one of the most surprisingly married men out there. Yeah dancer stereotypes!). He is awesomely graceful on stage. And I wish he would stick to dancing at others' direction. It's possible his placement in the program did him a disservice, as following the intellectually challenging first piece with a puff piece that would not be out of place on So You Think You Can Dance© was a bit more than jarring. Factor in that he chose to assault the audience's ears with some unholy combination of Herbie Hancock and Annie Lennox and this rapidly became unforgivable. His second work was set to the strains of what sounded like an Evanesence knock-off and ended with both dancers making the shape of the cross onstage. Nothing to see here, folks.

In between these two was a dance that I recall liking at the time, but in my memory it is reduced to the opening 45 seconds being repeatedly run. This involved two dancers offstage running out towards each other, doing a sort of do-si-do and returning to where they came from behind the curtain. I spent most of the time this was happening thinking about how awesome it would be if they ran into each other (intentionally), fell down and then lay in the middle of the stage for a minute or two as the music continued to play. This is why it is a good thing that I am not a choreographer (other ideas I had: dancing on bubble wrap and dancing while wearing velcro™, with the audience throwing things at the dancers in an attempt to get them to stick). There was a Cindi-choreographed trifecta of duets, complete with couples who progressively liked each other less and fun with plastic props. Also, somewhere along the line there was a sixth dance. I know because the program tells me.

Moving along in a strictly linear fashion, we (collectively) reached Act 2 after an intermission. this consisted of six dances, among which were Reggie redeeming himself a bit by taking my suggestion from earlier and just dancing twice, and one other bit that sticks out. Now, let me state that I wish to do this [searching for perfect word] thing full justice, so I shall hereby report only facts.

Fact: An upright piano was wheeled onstage, with two cymbals and a bell sitting on it.
Fact: A vocalist came out next to the piano.
Fact: Two dancers came out and sat in rocking chairs, facing each other.
Fact: I thought this writing format would be a lot more fun than it is.
Fact: The vocalist then sang single words from nursery rhymes repeatedly. When she finished, the pianist would play while the dancers ran about the stage.
Fact: Sometimes the cymbals would be crashed to emphasize an especially dramatic point.
Fact: This point was nearly always "London Bridge is falling down."
Fact: I will never have to watch this again in my entire life. And am not overly saddened by this.

The final dance also happened to be the best of the night, Cindi's dance spinoff of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I'm not even going to attempt any sort of summary here, as I feel incapable of doing it justice (Also, this got really long sometime when I wasn't paying attention. I feel like Joe Posnanski right now). So this will have to suffice: I have used a lot of colons in this post. Also, Cindi manages to dissect the internal workings of Raskolnikov well enough that I feel I alomst know his character just as well from the dance as I do from reading the book, and with quite a bit of time saved (wish I'd known about this dance before I read the book (THAT IS A LIE)). The night's performance ended as one always should, with a pile of bodies freshly strewn across the stage (Actual quote from later in the night: "We love performing that one because if we slip and fall it looks like part of the dance"). And really, isn't that what dancing is all about? No, I'm really asking. I have no idea.