Good Will Hrunting

The future of cinema was begat some time ago, with the filming and release of Stephen Spielberg's seminal Summer Blockbuster, Jurrasic Park.  Being the first of its kind, with fully realized computer generated effects, the movie was enthralling for the cinema audience and has had lasting effects among the entire industry to this day.  It could be argued that Pixar is the original pioneer, but this application of generated effects interacting with environment and actors was revolutionary.  You could say the film is the precursor to such modern fare as the Star Wars prequels and the Lord of the Rings trilogy.  Directors have managed to push things even further with the onset of these trilogies by exploring picture quality, generated backgrounds, and have managed to even squeeze pathos from motion capture generated characters.  It's no surprise then, that these movies are becoming more and more popular and now we have a new entry to the field in Beowulf.

This film is not Robert Zemeckis' first foray into the animated field.  The most high profile being "The Polar Express" starring a lithe representation of Tom Hanks as a conductor.  Personally, the onscreen look is a bit too hyper-real for me, but I have to say that what they've accomplished with Beowulf has made me somewhat of a believer. 

Completely computer animated, Beowulf is based on the epic poem, of course, but stars a heavy blend of powerful actors amid a grand guignol of monstrous adventure.  Ray Winestone is the titular hero, dispatched to dispose of Crispin Glover's well-animated and pathetically distraught monster, Grendel.  Seeking revenge, Angelina Jolie plays the character only known as Grendel's Mother.  Anthony Hopkins and Robin Wright-Penn round out the cast in fine fashion as royal stalwarts in the Danish tradition, with John Malkovich and Brendan Gleeson in supporting roles.  Each of these actors relish there lines and deliver them with both gravitas and brio, depending on the role.  Most effective, however, are the horrific action sequences.  The first appearance of Grendel assaults the view in a chokehold of limbs and blood-curdling screams and never releases its grip from then on.  I can only imagine what the experience was like in 3-D, but it must have been incredible seeing as the two-dimensional experience was enthralling.

My biggest complaint has to be the gratuitousness of it all.  From the mead-hall hedonism and overall gore to the enhancement of Ms. Jolie's terrifying seductress, the film oozes testosterone.  It could be a bigger complaint, but coming from an age in which such masculinity was rampant, it's not unfound.  This movie pulses with the beat of a taskmaster's drum from the opening scene to the somewhat blurry closing credits and here I am saying that we have not seen even the cusp of what technology can offer to the cinematic experience. 

Hail Beowulf!

Overall Score: 4 out of 5 stars.

Writings on Parade - Post Game Wrap

I promised a post-game wrap, and instead I post about sandwiches.  Not horrible, but I know it made me quite hungry.

Whatever, I figured I'd talk a little bit about "Drawn and Quartered" a bit, to try and talk myself through the process of what I consider to be a minor success and failure.  Here are the five parts in total:

Drawn and Quartered - Part 1
Drawn and Quartered - Part 2
Drawn and Quartered - Part 3
Drawn and Quartered - Part 4
Drawn and Quartered - Part 5

Before going anywhere, I have to admit that I initially had formulated most of part 5 before even writing the rest of the story.  In my attempt, I decided that part 5 actually worked best as a closing scene rather than an introduction.  I had started writing part 1 as Joseph re-entering the kitchen.  try reading it the other way around with half of part 5 excised and you'll have an idea of what direction I was heading.  Yea, not so good.

In the end, I feel the story really meandered quite a bit and I fell into a trap that most amateur writers fall into: overwriting.  I believe that the story could be served by elimination of a few descriptive paragraphs and instead of attempting textual gymnastics, I could instead focus on storytelling.  Even so, I feel there are positives to be gleaned from the experience, including part 4 of this story, which I consider to be the strongest section.

What it comes down to, for me, is this exercise really stretched me in terms of figuring out pacing, plotting, a little more in the realm of dialog (do all characters have a unique voice?) and taught me that what I need most is discipline.  In that, the story is a success.  In the fact that the story itself seems rather pointless, it is a failure.  It could work as an opening chapter, it could be served to have a little more background applied to the supporting character of St. Stephen (a cypher, maybe?), and I probably could have mentioned Ruth a bit sooner in the story. 

Alas, that's why I write these things in the first place:  to learn.  I'll keep going though, so if anyone's at all interested, watch this space.

Break for Lunch!

Here's a little intermission before I hash out the post-game talk from the previous five or so posts.  Thanks to one Mr. Bill Franz, I have been inspired on this most inane of posts:  The Sammich Post.  Yes, believe it!  Here are a list of the ultimate sammiches and the ingredients that make them special:

Ultimate Tuna:
Tuna Salad on Pumpernickel with Bean Sprouts

Ultimate Ham:
Ham and Meunster on White with pickles and a thin layer of mayonnaise.

Ultimate Turkey:
Turkey and Havarti on sourdough with avocado and dijon mustard.

Ultimate Club:
Maple Turkey and Honey Ham with Applewood smoked bacon on buttered whole wheat.

Ultimate Pastrami:
Pastrami, provolone, and sauerkraut on toasted rye with dijon mustard.

Ultimate Panini:
Steak and arugula with a bleu cheese spread on French bread.

Backup Panini:
Prosciutto and Salami with provolone and pickles on Italian bread.

Ultimate Sammich:
The Thomas Keller Special - Applewood bacon, arugula, provolone, tomatoes, and a fried egg, on toasted peasant bread.

Writings on Parade - Part 5

It's the Last Portion! Feel free to leave any thoughts, comments, or suggestions.  I'll probably post up some thoughts of my own on the process and results tomorrow if I can manage it.  Truth be told, it's been interesting...

Drawn and Quartered - Continued

The turbulent electrical hum of the vending machine involved itself into Joseph's thoughts of the year's disasters. Thumbing through quarters and nickels, he perused the vending menu and knew where he'd gone wrong. It wasn't the limply prepared leek and potato whip oozing from the bottom of a generously portioned and crispy monkfish, nor was it the loss of his sous chef, Laurent, abruptly spitting in his face and quitting in a beet-stained shower of epithets that ruined the synchronicity of his kitchen. Joseph resigned himself to accept that it was in fact his own hubris that had doomed him. 

The glinting silver slugs enveloped through the grinning coin slot punctuated themselves with the smooth coin rail slither and thump of transaction. "I've been reduced to pretzels." Joseph's fingers flicked through the buttons of his grease-stained chef's jacket as he peered upwards into the oil-slicked sky. 

Joseph's back met the cement wall and he resembled a step-ladder. He peeled his crushed toque from its cranial perch and blanched his mind between mouthfuls of salty bread. 

"It wasn't your fault you know." 

St. Stephen opened the back door of the restaurant and leaned in the doorway, a blue light cutting through the eggplant black of the alley.   

"She's quite good."  Stephen said.  "Shame about our stock of rabbits though, it's the biggest order we've seen for specials in quite some time.' 

"Quite."  Joseph's bag of pretzels went from pillowed storage to rubbish sphere and he tossed it aside. 

"I'd known for a while you know." 

"Known?" 

"Well, Ruth hired her when the Examiner ran that piece on you last year." 

"If I hadn't finished these pretzels, you'd be giving me the Heimlich." 

"Well instead I'm just giving you the news, and I'm giving my notice as well." 

"You really shouldn't have to, Stephen." 

St. Stephen stepped over the jamb and onto the pavement.  "Why not?  We built this place together with Ruth's money.  We've always been a package deal." 

"Perhaps, but this package?  I think it's gassed." 

"Hardly.  We've still plenty of life left in us." 

Joseph placed his hand upon his friend's shoulder.  "Please, go back inside.  Ask for your job back." 

"Your eyes, Joe.  I don't think I've…" 

"Just, please." 

St. Stephen paused.  St. Stephen turned and did not look back as he returned to the kitchen that had been Joseph's and was now Helen's.  He did not close the door, but it whined shut in the breeze.  It was a slight wind, but strong enough to carry the door shut and to carry with it the scent of the night's forgotten kitchen debris rotting away in the garbage bin.

Writings on Parade - Part 4

Now it continues after a nice weekend hiatus.  Posting the parts piecemeal seems to read better than the actual story as a whole, but I really don't mind.  The exercise is good, I just wish I'd have written much better.  Ha.

Drawn and Quartered - Continued

A 15-year old butcher block sits proudly on the north side of the Joseph Abrams kitchen.  During peak ours of the night, when the sauciers cannot be bothered to reduce remains to velvety caramel gravy and the sous chefs themselves are encumbered with diner's complaints of tepid prime ribs and underdone shanks of lamb, Joseph would peel back both sleeves, freshen his kitchen towel, and dig himself a fox hole based on this great mass of tree.  Uninterrupted and confident that his sous chefs could keep everyone in line, he could concentrate on completing any task, great or small, that held his kitchen behind.   

This night, Joseph's corner shrank from a thick, knotty corner of his own design, to an aluminum-legged kitchen stool, uneven from years of being knocked over, leaned and stepped on.  From this vantage point, Joseph perched like an observant canary, somewhat indifferent, but interested enough. 

This table, under Helen, had become a triage of dead, skinless, and headless rabbit carcasses.  Joseph's challenging chef de cuisine herself had brought out a crimson cutting board of plastic from her kitchen sack and onto the weathered surface of Joseph's table.  Helen's fingers walked along the ebony handles protruding from her open roll of knives.  Little black tombstones, each of them, it was not even two steps from the end for her fingers to draw the traditional chef's knife. 

"You can watch if you like, Joseph.  I could learn you something new about dressing rabbits."  Helen said without looking up from her workspace.  "Most people would start from the haunches and work their way back towards the neck.  I suppose that's where I'd start as well, but in the interest of expediency…"  Yanking the left-most rabbit, rested it delicately – studiously even – and began to work. 

"I first learned to dress a rabbit at the Institute, but learned this technique in Spain."  Helen surgically segmented the front and hind legs of the rabbit and tossed them aside.  "It's terribly efficient for large groups, but somewhat unconventional, maybe.  I tend to like it more for speed, but…" she leaned in and pressed the weight of her arm from shoulder to wrist, flattening the meat just enough to assist her as the knife's blade snaked and snapped the rabbit in two. "It's a tad uncouth." 

Both rose eyes darted in Joseph's direction.  "I can do the rest of these in two minutes.  The balance I saw in the fridge, I could do in thirty."  The knife sunbeamed in the kitchen light and collapsed underneath the ribs, flashing white upon exit.  "What do you say, Joe?"  Helen held a perfect breast of rabbit for him to see before placing it upon a foot's worth of saran.

The sous chefs normally would take an hour to dress their rabbits, being careful not to bruise the meat for tenderness sake.  This first rabbit had taken no longer than thirty seconds for her to dress, but each subsequent preparation appeared no less than an exhale as the rhythmic circles of Helen's knife tangoed.  Within those thirty minutes, what was once a crowded shelf of fridge had been relieved of its population. 

It was then that Joseph knew he was finished.

Writings on Parade - Part 3

It continues!  Nothing to see here folks:

Drawn and Quartered - Continuing

As Joseph told his staff, "Tonight, you will listen to Ms. Louis.  She will be your boss.  Any problems, any questions, you go to her until I give further notice." He looked askance at St. Stephen and nodded. 

Helen set to work straight away.  The normal chatter of the cook's line was lost on Joseph as he focused his eyes on Helen's kitchen mannerisms.  She delegated well, not barking but insinuating her orders from chef to waiter alike. 

"What's the special tonight?"  Helen did not look up from the pink slab of French cut pork loin she was inspecting.  "Stephen, I believe I asked you a question." 

Forearms addressed across his monogrammed chef's jacket, St. Stephen smirked.  "We were saving this for tomorrow, but for you Joseph is making an exception.  Braised rabbit breast served with a goat cheese and beet salad.  The apricot marmalade we made yesterday would normally suffice, but it appears that someone's consumed it during our lunch service."   

"Excellent.  I trust the rabbit has been freshly dressed?" 

St. Stephen's smirk evolved into a snicker and he gestured towards the butcher's closet.  "Unfortunately, the second sous chef would be prepping the rabbit."  Helen followed him through the foggy glass doors.  "Since Laurent is no longer with us, I'd more than likely dress it myself." 

"But…?"  Helen knew her question was simply rhetoric. 

"Unfortunately, again, I'm prepping the usual special for tonight, and you will have to dress the majority of the hippity-hops yourself, Ms. Louis."  The refrigerator light drew a yellow scar across a single shelf, lined with the casualties of a French veldt. 

"Indeed."

Writings on Parade - Part 2

Not sure how the first part was received, dare I post the second?  I think many people are the harshest critics of themselves and I tend to be the worst critic of myself anyway.  At any rate, I still like the exercise of trying to write something new to challenge myself.  This is the first time I've really written something in this vein, so I chalk this up in the "win" column.

Drawn and Quartered - continued

The kitchen's carmine red double doors fluttered with the memory of a head chef tornado. Diners could be heard gushing over the presentation. However, for every obvious satisfied customer, one could see the falling stars of confusion surrounding each half-made and unhappy dish. Green spinach jungles of salads had been slashed and burned, the skyscrapers of pommes frites were condemned and unfit for habitation, and the rolling hills of filet mignon were polluted with the gasoline fires of a disheartening sauté. 

Along a burnt toast pinewood length of bar riddled with patrons, one woman had obviously set herself apart.  Grease-proof clogs, tightly wrapped auburn hair, and the calloused hands of a seasoned chef; Joseph knew this was his customer. She had the look of an eating woman, cheeks rounded and dimpled, a seat that cut a wide berth between many a doorway, and a dominant stance straddling the barstool, adding more height to her vaulted stature. 

Joseph took a deep breath; he knew it would take more than just words to eject her from his kitchen.  His legs moved forward, but his knees were chicken soup in a bathtub.  The dull rose gaze of her pupils drew blinds twice and she looked in his direction, stood up, and extended her hand. 

"Joseph Abrams? Helen Louis.  I'm afraid you're in need of my services." 

"Seriously?  I had imagined that you'd be needing mine?" Joseph said.  "Have you seen our patio?  It'd be lovely if you stepped outside." 

"Seriously.  You're short one sous chef and I've heard St. Stephen can barely get through an entire night without his little Glenlivet friend."  Each corner of her confident smile peaked, left and then right.  "I've three years cooking for Rolf Phoenix in New York, five years running my own canteen in Midtown West, and one year educating the scrubs at the Downtown Crash Corner.  The Culinary Institute of America was lucky that I left one year early after learning everything I needed to know from their 'chefs.'  I've only returned to your city after six months of studying the Spanish cuisine in Diabloro.  Your foie gras is pasty, your razor clams are more pathetic than a rheumatoid basset hound, and I've seen happier stomachs at the International House of Pancakes, frankly." 

"You think that impresses me?  Did your research tell you you're useless to me?  Did it mention that there's no use for any ego but mine under this roof and in that kitchen?" 

"That kind of attitude is why your kitchen is populated with ham-fisted hash slingers and fry-cooks, Joe." 

"Mr. Abrams, please." 

"Joe."  Helen's eyes narrowed into mail-slots.  "I will take this kitchen from you.  If I have to tear it from your meathooks, it will be mine before the evening's over." 

"Right.  I'm just going to let you take this kitchen.  All this that's been built for the last 13 years and I'm going to hand you the keys to the fridge?"  You show me, then.  You show me you can handle me, and maybe I'll let you take out my garbage.  Maybe I'll let you mop my floors and scrub my grease-traps." 

"Absolutely.  You don't even know what you've done.  Do you, Joe?" 

"I've sent your knives and that double-wide caboose of yours home already."  Joseph's knuckles whitened as he strangled the bar's edge within an inch of its non-life. 

She drew herself to full height, a few inches taller than Joseph minus the toque, persimmon lips revealing square white pearls of malice.  The restaurant air turned vacuous and Joseph couldn't tell if he had left the kitchen on empty, but there was a lead brick suffocating his diaphragm.

Writings on Parade - Part 1

I finally finished working on another little piece of writing which was originally intended for another forum, but unfortunately, I didn't feel it cut the mustard.  Here's the first part of the scrap.  I consider it a decent first attempt.  More to come later...

Drawn and Quartered

Some people talk of kitchens as well-oiled machines or even a buzzing hive mind of sorts. Joseph's kitchen was neither, but had been a finely-tuned operation from sous chef to dishwasher. Under the fist of its chef de cuisine, Joseph, each employee was born and broken in this kitchen. Such it was and had been, but the staff had grown weary.  Attrition was at an all time high.  Dinner suffered.  Lunch suffered.  Now, even the most committed line-cook had begun soliciting mutinous thoughts through gritted teeth. 

Twin stoves' sullen with grease stains smiled greedily as Joseph stepped deftly through a bubbling mixture of Spanish and English. One of his remaining sous chefs, St. Stephen, trailed after Joseph while sampling a fresh and briny batch of brie Hollandaise.  

"We've a cook warming a seat at the bar for you already, Joe." St. Stephen said through a napkin. Smearing the buttery sauce across an empty lamb-less and bone-colored plate. "Word travels much too fast. Laurent's station is hardly cold." 

"You tell him I wasn't ready for any new chefs?" Joseph said. 

"Well, I did." St. Stephen watched Joseph carefully remove two superfluous shallot cloves from his presentation. "But you need to set her straight. She's been gnawing at mine and everyone else's ear who comes in and out of this kitchen." 

Tightening his apron, Joseph narrowed his eyes.  "Better yours than mine. I'll make sure she doesn't want to go anywhere but out the front door."