Your Thought For the Day

Let’s get something straight right upfront; I didn’t expect Prince of Persia to be good. I figured with a steroid-enhanced, pouty method-actor in the lead, and a Bruckheimer-driven $200 million worth of action, it would be a half-assed James Bond, BCE.

Not high hopes, but I was still expecting a movie, or at least an attempt at a movie. An approximation, even.

Notsomuch. In fact, I’m not even sure lead programmer – sorry, director – Mike Newell was ever told about the movie part. Obviously, he was making a videogame, and if people didn’t like it, they could damned well stay home.

Which, largely, they have. Hurray for small mercies.

It isn’t just the overwhelming amount of overwhelmingly bad CG that makes Prince of Persia feel like a cutscene that’s dragging on too long (I kept wishing for a big spacebar to hit… Get on with the killing, already!), it’s all the elements combined.

Everything in this film looks fake, from the actually fake CG backgrounds to the fake CG camera moves to the real – but wooden – actors. Somehow, everything is processed in a kind of low-contrast mellow brown that leaves the eye wanting something tactile to latch onto. At one point, I even began to wonder if one of the horses was real or Memorex.

Jake Gyllenhaal spends the entire movie trying to look like a charming rogue, casting his puppy-dog gaze up through meticulously tousled hair. Most often, he succeeds only in looking like Tramp from the Disney classic, wishing someone would give him some pasta to snorfle.

I don’t know what happened to Gemma Arterton. I didn’t want to strangle her in Quantum of Solace, but maybe that’s because her part was much smaller and designed to be prim and irritating. Princess Tamina, however, runs the emotional gamut from shrill to cunty, hitting every excruciating beat in between.

However, even after weathering kidnapping, being sold into completely G-rated slavery, and a full-fledged sand storm, her makeup and hair always look perfect. So there’s that.

Alfred Molina, not content with having played Satipo in Raiders of the Lost Ark, reprises John Rhys-Davies’ role as Sallah. Sir Ben Kingsley whips out Generic Villain #72, exerting precisely the minimum effort to avoid having his Oscar revoked, but all the while rocking some amazing eye liner.

Still and all, the worst element was what passed for a “script.” Nothing in this movie connects, or makes sense. Apparently, the largest empire of the ancient world had a terrific highway system because people routinely complete journeys which seem to cover hundreds of miles, on horseback, in a single day. When Dastan has a puzzle to solve at the beginning of the movie, it’s so obviously a game-inspired moment the camera actually pulls back to give us a top-down view of the city as if we’re checking our map during a break in our FPS.

Where most movies have acts (preferably three), Prince of Persia plainly has levels (seven, by my count) complete with level-ups, weapon upgrades and boss monsters at the end of each. When Dastan finds himself facing off against Nizam at the end of the film, Kingsley’s character has suddenly gone from being a simpering pretender to the throne to dual-blade-wielding death-machine.

Apparently he leveled up, too.

There are moments of entertainment. Adrianna & I got several good laughs. Sadly, all of them were at the movie’s expense.

It’s not worth sitting through this giant digital turd to get those few laughs, but I can’t wait for the Rifftrax version.

“Bother,” said Pooh.

Well, pits.

So that’s it for Mischief, the 26-year-old Goth Biscuit.

I guess I’m starting in the middle of the story. For the record, this weekend had ups and downs. Let’s get the maudlin out of the way so we can end on a high note (for once). In addition to the money strains, the aforementioned knuckle-rapping for this very blog, and the inability to solve the truck problems from earlier in the week (fucking holidays), my friend Amber has been having a major relationship meltdown.

Which segues into Mischief.

Understand, I’ve known this girl for less than two weeks, ya’all. We’ve seen each other exactly four times. We haven’t fucked (for reasons she explained to me on our first date, having to do with a promise made to a long-distance conquest who was incoming in June), but we’ve indulged in just about everything else.

This weekend, in a whirlwind of (to my mind) wanton manipulation, her most recent ex, whom Mischief is far from even beginning to get over, appeared like a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky to propose. And she’s going for it.

I know, that was my reaction. But you can’t live people’s lives for them.

I’m not crushed or heartbroken… four dates, y’know? But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. She’s smart, funny, sexy & dirty. You can smell it on her, feel it in her skin. There was potential there, a big, heavy, potent aura of it that both of us were keenly aware of. It’s a shame, but I missed the train this time, and wish her good luck.

Vaya con huevos, kiddo. Go with eggs.

On the plus side, Adrianna & I went to see Prince of Persia on Saturday night, which was really, awfully, hysterically bad. Just soooooo bad.

I’ll get a full review up once Rob & I record our new podcast tomorrow night.

The point is spending time with Adrianna is fucking great. We ate, walked a little to kill time, prowled bookstores, almost missed the movie (what a crime that would have been). We had fun. But. I’m just not sure what the hell we’re doing. I’m not sure she’s sure.

Not that there necessarily has to be a point. We’ve known each other for years, so it might be that, for Adrianna, I’ve gotten wedged into the “friend” drawer next to the stripy socks. For my part, I want to lick the sweat out of her navel. I would drag my dick through a mile of broken glass just to jack off in her shadow.

Too much?

Of course, I’ve always felt that way about Adrianna. Most men — hell, most people — feel that way about her. She just oozes sexuality, even when she isn’t doing anything. Even when she dresses down and tries to hide it. Must be kind of a pain in the ass.

If she gives me an indication she feels anything similar, I’ll send up a flare, have it advertised on the side of the Goodyear Blimp, and print up T-shirts. Watch this space for details.

If not, I’m perfectly happy being her occasional partner-in-crime. She’s a great companion.

Otherwise, tomorrow is a busy day; errands to do in the morning since the entire country closed up shop over the weekend, a new podcast to shoot with Rob in the evening, and somewhere in there, editing before the whole Naughty America machine rolls up again Wednesday.

Maybe I can get to sleep before 5 a.m…?

In the meantime, here is a little gift Mischief turned me onto. A great song about relationships by British comedian Tim Minchin…

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