For me, in the form of Disfiguring the Goddess' new album "Sleeper" (Big Chocolate does everything ever now I hear. Good for him.)
I'm at least a month late on getting it/talking about it, I know, but it deserves all the praise imaginable. I've had an on-and-off relationship with DTG's music. Listening to it used to be like eating a band-aid; whether you do it quickly or slowly, it's unpleasant, but there's a sort of self-confidence you feel after successfully traversing the challenge. It's like an entry-level feat into maturity, like you haven't really become a god damn man until you try to listen to Disfiguring's slam death. Like an angry, gory bar mitzvah.
Yesterday, I decided (against some better judgement) to listen to their new EP which, by now, is at least a month old. Titled "Sleeper". At seven tracks, it feels like an EP; seven is right on the cusp of distinction between a demo and a full album for me. Anything below seven, often, I won't even bother downloading, because it's like half a meal. Especially when well-established, popular bands with a few albums release little samplers of their new music, I begin to develop a seething, deep hatred that often manifests itself in the form of pulling out my dick and slapping the vocalist of said band on stage. Hard.
But I digress.
Sleeper is, in short, fucking amazing.
Their last album, Circle of Nine, was well-crafted. A lot of what I used to have of them is pre-2011 garbage, and anything older than 2011 is almost exactly that. However, it had a few flaws which were difficult to get over. Most of them were specific to certain songs on the album (Void Leacher, for example, has the most annoying chanting right in the middle. You don't need that. If I wanted to listen to gospel opera, I'd go to church, and if I wanted to do that, I'd just blow my brains out right here and now), still it had a good overall feel, certainly better than any predecessor.
Sleeper manages to bridge any gaps between my musical taste and Disfiguring the Goddess' particular brand of ear candy. On this EP, the inclusion of synth sounds is more frequent, and far more articulate, improving the sound as a whole. I should clarify, I'm not a puss-fest who only enjoys music with a techno edge. On top of that, DTG doesn't apply the use of synth in any sense that would classify it as "techno", or "normal". Imagine someone being bludgeoned with a Chromeo keyboard that was still plugged in. Sample that and throw it into some Sleeper songs and you've got gold. Pure gold. They've managed to be just as brutal (Disfiguring's probably the reason why people use that word to describe any metal ever), but with a sound that's cleaned up; compositional majesty. They even look at breakdowns from a new angle; the entire experience is fresh and I must say I'm pleased.
Go get it.
May 27, 2012
May 17, 2012
The Theatre Bizarre
Was an interesting, fruitful (yet at the same time, mildly disappointing) experience.
The six short films, presented as an anthology and touring the Film Festival (Toronto International, to name one) circuit for the past year - much to my chagrin - finally felt the cold, judgemental embrace my eyes provide to anything that isn't made by Oren Peli or stars Jack Nicholson. The films are very difficult to describe in entirety, since they were largely separate in subject matter and ran the gamut from terrible to excellent. The nice thing about the chronology was that they were evenly spaced; one segment, if it was a particularly emotional or deep trip, would be followed by a more humourous or shocking piece. It kept the entire film light, making sure you weren't stuck in one place emotionally for too long.
I don't like spoiling movies for those who read reviews by explaining or describing them in any great, lengthy detail. I will, however, say that if you're halfway through the set and find your interest waning, hang in there, because they saved the best one of the six for last.
The setting is inconsequential, and therefore I have no problem typing it here; a woman, obsessed with an abandoned theatre across the street from her hovel of an apartment, is shocked to see the doors open and, stupidly, decides to walk in. She's then presented six stories (supposedly true, at least in that world) about six different people in six situations. Sixuations.
Some levity, since this article has been so serious up until this point.
Once again, without giving too much away, I was pleased to learn that the stories were so wide in variety. Many deal with every day issues; mortality, relationships, life after death, etc.. but they do so in very fresh and unique ways. A few of them are even twisted and disturbing, pleasantly enough to keep me around through the whole sequence (since that was what I initially had thought I signed up for).
One in particular was especially well-done to me, because the reality it was set in was very concrete. I really hate it when a main character is thrust into a world that they're unfamiliar with, full of customs and normalcies that they haven't encountered and subsequently reject. Many of these stories operated on the principle that everyone involved was accustomed to the way things were. Nobody was shocked, like, "Oh my god, you keep children as pets until they're old enough to have their own? That's awful! Everyone's awful (This is an example, and it has nothing to do with any of the films)!" Then they're exiled or tortured or something because they can't get with the program. I don't enjoy watching that. Instead, each person involved in each story was fully aware of how that world worked and was fine with it. It was a welcome change.
Of the few issues that did arise for me, the largest would have to be the pacing of the films as individuals. It was kind of awful. Firstly, there's a difference between building atmosphere and dragging out a conversation to fill a time deadline, figure it out. Sometimes I got the idea that the directors didn't sit down to judge the length of time passing between lines or actions. A couple of the films were downright boring, right up until their climax. This is a problem. If I'm at the circus, it's cool that the bear's riding a unicycle. After watching that for twenty five minutes with the only difference being whether or not he rides clockwise or counter, I begin wondering what I'm going to have for dinner tonight. Then, by the time the handstand tightrope walker comes out, I don't really care, and he has to do an extra backflip to get me interested again. I found myself wondering whether or not it would be beneficial to skip through the first scenes of some of these pieces.
That's not to say the delivery at the end of the films wasn't sharp. In fact, two or three in particular became easy favourites for me because of their endings alone. It was odd, seeing a movie and thinking "I'll never watch this again", right up until the last bit, and feeling your thoughts change to "I'll watch this entire movie three times just for that four minute part." If that's what you were going for, director sir, kudos.
In conclusion, as I said after watching The Theatre Bizarre, the movie was a decent expenditure of my time. I'm glad I watched it. I'm especially glad I hunkered down through what I didn't enjoy. Honourable mention goes to the human-puppets who introduced each film; they are successfully the creepiest dolls I've ever seen in my life.
I no longer rate movies on a 1-to-10 scale, because I find it to be very confining. Read the review and take from it what you like.
March 30, 2012
The Anti-Facebook Race
I don't have a Facebook.
I don't have the need nor the desire to update the entire world every time I have a decent bowel movement, or when my (non-existent) baby doesn't urinate all over my waist for once and therefore find Facebook unnecessary. Myself and the others who share this philosophy - ALL of them - are competing to see who can successfully exist longer without a Facefuck page.
There are strict qualification rules in order to even and minimize the playing field. Eligible competitors must:
- Have a computer with internet access. This automatically disqualifies most third world countries, including but not limited to Africa (and most of France, because aren't French people always like "hawhawhaw, what is le internet? Baguette croissant"). Which is good really, because if they can go weeks without food and still manage to crawl to the stagnant, near-dry watering hole for their daily allowance of liquid, just imagine how long they can keep from "poking" each other.
Side note: Air quotes kind of piss me off. Is it just me?
- Be under the age of 50. Now, I understand that there are some (maybe five) competent seniors who understand and may even have Facebook already. I'm not being prejudiced, it's just that they have the added advantage of knowing how to work a rotary phone and send messages through morse code. Plus, a lot of their friends are extremely easy to reach, because they're either four doors down at the home or neatly packed into a jar on the mantle.
- Be able to type coherently. This automatically disqualifies most people under 18, since a lot of you either can't or refuse to form a proper sentence and probably should stick to the macaroni pictures of your divorced parents that somehow make their way onto the fridge even though there are more important things like, for instance, shopping lists, on there. If you need to abbreviate words that are already one or two syllables, you should either be kept away from the computer entirely or electrocuted after each offense.
- Know what Facebook is. Anyone who doesn't understand what a proper social networking site is (you'll find most of them on MySpace) is immediately cut from the running, and should return to your rock, the depths of which you gelatinously emerged from. The decision to separate yourself from Facebook has to be conscious and informed, unlike the rest of your life probably.
Since this criteria narrows the playing field down significantly (to about twenty people worldwide), it should be a short race. Wish me luck.
I don't have the need nor the desire to update the entire world every time I have a decent bowel movement, or when my (non-existent) baby doesn't urinate all over my waist for once and therefore find Facebook unnecessary. Myself and the others who share this philosophy - ALL of them - are competing to see who can successfully exist longer without a Facefuck page.
There are strict qualification rules in order to even and minimize the playing field. Eligible competitors must:
- Have a computer with internet access. This automatically disqualifies most third world countries, including but not limited to Africa (and most of France, because aren't French people always like "hawhawhaw, what is le internet? Baguette croissant"). Which is good really, because if they can go weeks without food and still manage to crawl to the stagnant, near-dry watering hole for their daily allowance of liquid, just imagine how long they can keep from "poking" each other.
Side note: Air quotes kind of piss me off. Is it just me?
- Be under the age of 50. Now, I understand that there are some (maybe five) competent seniors who understand and may even have Facebook already. I'm not being prejudiced, it's just that they have the added advantage of knowing how to work a rotary phone and send messages through morse code. Plus, a lot of their friends are extremely easy to reach, because they're either four doors down at the home or neatly packed into a jar on the mantle.
- Be able to type coherently. This automatically disqualifies most people under 18, since a lot of you either can't or refuse to form a proper sentence and probably should stick to the macaroni pictures of your divorced parents that somehow make their way onto the fridge even though there are more important things like, for instance, shopping lists, on there. If you need to abbreviate words that are already one or two syllables, you should either be kept away from the computer entirely or electrocuted after each offense.
- Know what Facebook is. Anyone who doesn't understand what a proper social networking site is (you'll find most of them on MySpace) is immediately cut from the running, and should return to your rock, the depths of which you gelatinously emerged from. The decision to separate yourself from Facebook has to be conscious and informed, unlike the rest of your life probably.
Since this criteria narrows the playing field down significantly (to about twenty people worldwide), it should be a short race. Wish me luck.
March 13, 2012
Veil Of Maya's Eclipse is Damn Good
I'm definitely a bit late on this one.
I've liked deathcore since I found out about it in the tenth grade, showing my friend Sam the first As Blood Runs Black video (My Fears Have Become Phobias) instead of doing any actual work in my Multimedia studies class.
It wasn't a big deal, though, because our teacher was more lenient than a sugar cane in gale winds. That is so say, he bent and swayed with our grades like Michael Phelps' coach does with weed intake.
Pot joke.
Anyway, one of the few bands that I've been following from the beginning of my stint into the more destructive side of the musical spectrum is Veil of Maya. They've been consistently heavy while still managing to keep me interested with technical, melodic riffs and original material since their demo.
The first time I heard their "debut", full-length album (The Common Man's Collapse), the orgasmic and sexually confusing love was immediate. Since then, few bands have been able to match their talent, at least in my eyes, and still they remain one of my favourite bands to date. I even mailed away for a shirt; I haven't done that since I bought my own from my store (this isn't a shameless plug and I'm not fucking my own mouth but in case you're curious here it is).
Their newest album (circa 2012 for your late ass if it's late), Eclipse, has managed to deliver with the same intensity as the past three, while managing to keep a fresh sound and slowly adding more and more melody into the lines between the songs (reading is for losers, listening is for bosses).
If I had to criticize one element, it would be that the low, guttural exhales from the vocalist seem to be higher than in the past, which by comparison is weak, but on its own still very, very strong and independent.
I'm a big fan of guttural exhale, and a proprietor of the low inhale (among three or four others on the entire planet; believe it or not, if it sounds good, anyone who complains is a whiny puss who is trying to impress the people AROUND them and not themselves). For that reason, I've stuck to pig squeals longer than just about every one of my friends.
The greatest part about Eclipse, and VoM as a whole, is that they've never needed the raspy inhale to be as brutal as those who use it. I don't want to act as the authority on the subject; I'm just as fallible and human as anyone else. I like what I like, and my point is that even without such a staple of deathcore infamy, Veil of Maya manage to bring the pain relentlessly.
I'm proud of Veil of Maya, I always have been. Eclipse has made me even more so.
Keep it up doods.
I've liked deathcore since I found out about it in the tenth grade, showing my friend Sam the first As Blood Runs Black video (My Fears Have Become Phobias) instead of doing any actual work in my Multimedia studies class.
It wasn't a big deal, though, because our teacher was more lenient than a sugar cane in gale winds. That is so say, he bent and swayed with our grades like Michael Phelps' coach does with weed intake.
Pot joke.
Anyway, one of the few bands that I've been following from the beginning of my stint into the more destructive side of the musical spectrum is Veil of Maya. They've been consistently heavy while still managing to keep me interested with technical, melodic riffs and original material since their demo.
The first time I heard their "debut", full-length album (The Common Man's Collapse), the orgasmic and sexually confusing love was immediate. Since then, few bands have been able to match their talent, at least in my eyes, and still they remain one of my favourite bands to date. I even mailed away for a shirt; I haven't done that since I bought my own from my store (this isn't a shameless plug and I'm not fucking my own mouth but in case you're curious here it is).
Their newest album (circa 2012 for your late ass if it's late), Eclipse, has managed to deliver with the same intensity as the past three, while managing to keep a fresh sound and slowly adding more and more melody into the lines between the songs (reading is for losers, listening is for bosses).
If I had to criticize one element, it would be that the low, guttural exhales from the vocalist seem to be higher than in the past, which by comparison is weak, but on its own still very, very strong and independent.
I'm a big fan of guttural exhale, and a proprietor of the low inhale (among three or four others on the entire planet; believe it or not, if it sounds good, anyone who complains is a whiny puss who is trying to impress the people AROUND them and not themselves). For that reason, I've stuck to pig squeals longer than just about every one of my friends.
The greatest part about Eclipse, and VoM as a whole, is that they've never needed the raspy inhale to be as brutal as those who use it. I don't want to act as the authority on the subject; I'm just as fallible and human as anyone else. I like what I like, and my point is that even without such a staple of deathcore infamy, Veil of Maya manage to bring the pain relentlessly.
I'm proud of Veil of Maya, I always have been. Eclipse has made me even more so.
Keep it up doods.
March 04, 2012
Bejeweled 3 Hates You and Your Mom
Thesis: Bejeweled 3 has about as much faith in your decision-making skills as most fathers have in their daughter's claim that she won't get fucked at the drive-in movie she's going to with her boyfriend tomorrow night.
In your car.
Bejeweled and I go way back. Years, probably. I've been playing that 64-tiled love machine since it was free on the internet (yes, I know, it still is, but not the good version asshole), and I continue to play it with as much vigour as a child in a candy store, clutching his last $5 and holding out for what will inevitably be stale regret.
Maybe I'm not explaining well enough.
You see, in my apparent naivety, I like to think I'm fairly decent at thinking ahead. In this case, at the very least I try to plan my tile swaps two or three moves in advance, based on how jewels will look like they're going to fall. I try my best to set up nova gems and hypercubes, and oft it feels like I'm working against the system...Perhaps, however, it's the system that's working against me.
The hypercubes I plan out are always horizontal. They're most often in the middle, because that provides me with the highest probability that I'm going to be able to match that elusive middle gem. Normally I'll fiddle around just above the two pairs that are spaced, ever-so-daintily, one tile apart, in order to line up some sort of vertical match, bringing a group of three new gems raining down upon the rows above. When I get lucky enough, a hypercube is one move away.
Let me now explain how the world vies for my failure in these moments.
I'll even set the scene.
Imagine a standard 8x8 Bejeweled 3 board. Before you are two pairs of red square gems, lined horizontally with a space between each pair for another gem of the same type. Above that space is a group of three blue diamond gems, moved to stack vertically. Once they line up, three brand new gems topple forth, and one (by the gods themselves) is the one you're looking for. It's the second in the group of three, which means you must eliminate the first in order to be able to manoeuvre it into the proper position. Easy enough task, it just so happens that it's a pink triangle and it's one move away from elimination. Ecstatically, you notice that there seems to be no apparent downside to this decision, so you begin to swap it into position.
That's when you notice.
You can't do it.
You can't do it because Bejeweled 3 was created by kamikaze war pilots who survived and are subsequently bitter that they didn't die with honour. Turns out, one of the other two gems happens to line up with two that match it, setting off a chain reaction that drops down a couple other red gems, connecting one of the two pairs you've set up, destroying any chances you've had for happiness since that one time you accidentally copped a feel on a classmate in seventh grade.
Bejeweled 3 does this because it knows that however good your odds are, you'll never do a single thing right. You especially won't be able to fathom the two swaps necessary to make a hypercube in this instance. That's two too many, and Bejeweled 3 knows that everything you do is a mistake. Why bother allotting you some free will, when it could plan your entire life for you before you get a chance to explode from its hideous vortex womb?
Other times, it taunts you with the opportunity for a hypercube, and then causes another chain of hope-dashing events in the same breath, forcing you to watch as your hopes and dreams crumble, silenty laughing. Just loud enough for you to hear.
Don't bother trying to save them, either. Apparently Satan himself has been hard-coded into the game's binary. It'll see you, sitting there, and think, "The nerve of this bag of douches. What's he/she doing, not setting that hypercube in motion? He/she probably can't even see it. I'll fucking show it to you then." Then it makes a group of four, causing the fourth to explode right beside it, taking with it a meager three, maybe four gems of the same colour.
The world of a bitter, cynical place. War, pestilence, death, and that other one that nobody cares about. You know, where you're really hungry. At the epicentre of the chaos, on a throne of gore, sits Bejeweled 3. Plotting its next maniacal chess move. "Eventually," it says to itself, "you'll break. And when you do, I'll be waiting."
Bottom line? I can't get a god damn break, guys.
In your car.
Bejeweled and I go way back. Years, probably. I've been playing that 64-tiled love machine since it was free on the internet (yes, I know, it still is, but not the good version asshole), and I continue to play it with as much vigour as a child in a candy store, clutching his last $5 and holding out for what will inevitably be stale regret.
Maybe I'm not explaining well enough.
You see, in my apparent naivety, I like to think I'm fairly decent at thinking ahead. In this case, at the very least I try to plan my tile swaps two or three moves in advance, based on how jewels will look like they're going to fall. I try my best to set up nova gems and hypercubes, and oft it feels like I'm working against the system...Perhaps, however, it's the system that's working against me.
The hypercubes I plan out are always horizontal. They're most often in the middle, because that provides me with the highest probability that I'm going to be able to match that elusive middle gem. Normally I'll fiddle around just above the two pairs that are spaced, ever-so-daintily, one tile apart, in order to line up some sort of vertical match, bringing a group of three new gems raining down upon the rows above. When I get lucky enough, a hypercube is one move away.
Let me now explain how the world vies for my failure in these moments.
I'll even set the scene.
Imagine a standard 8x8 Bejeweled 3 board. Before you are two pairs of red square gems, lined horizontally with a space between each pair for another gem of the same type. Above that space is a group of three blue diamond gems, moved to stack vertically. Once they line up, three brand new gems topple forth, and one (by the gods themselves) is the one you're looking for. It's the second in the group of three, which means you must eliminate the first in order to be able to manoeuvre it into the proper position. Easy enough task, it just so happens that it's a pink triangle and it's one move away from elimination. Ecstatically, you notice that there seems to be no apparent downside to this decision, so you begin to swap it into position.
That's when you notice.
You can't do it.
You can't do it because Bejeweled 3 was created by kamikaze war pilots who survived and are subsequently bitter that they didn't die with honour. Turns out, one of the other two gems happens to line up with two that match it, setting off a chain reaction that drops down a couple other red gems, connecting one of the two pairs you've set up, destroying any chances you've had for happiness since that one time you accidentally copped a feel on a classmate in seventh grade.
Bejeweled 3 does this because it knows that however good your odds are, you'll never do a single thing right. You especially won't be able to fathom the two swaps necessary to make a hypercube in this instance. That's two too many, and Bejeweled 3 knows that everything you do is a mistake. Why bother allotting you some free will, when it could plan your entire life for you before you get a chance to explode from its hideous vortex womb?
Other times, it taunts you with the opportunity for a hypercube, and then causes another chain of hope-dashing events in the same breath, forcing you to watch as your hopes and dreams crumble, silenty laughing. Just loud enough for you to hear.
Don't bother trying to save them, either. Apparently Satan himself has been hard-coded into the game's binary. It'll see you, sitting there, and think, "The nerve of this bag of douches. What's he/she doing, not setting that hypercube in motion? He/she probably can't even see it. I'll fucking show it to you then." Then it makes a group of four, causing the fourth to explode right beside it, taking with it a meager three, maybe four gems of the same colour.
The world of a bitter, cynical place. War, pestilence, death, and that other one that nobody cares about. You know, where you're really hungry. At the epicentre of the chaos, on a throne of gore, sits Bejeweled 3. Plotting its next maniacal chess move. "Eventually," it says to itself, "you'll break. And when you do, I'll be waiting."
Bottom line? I can't get a god damn break, guys.
February 21, 2012
Dante's Inferno: Darksiders With Some God In It
I'm not even complaining, because so far it's great.
There's something about killing minions of hell that gets me hard like no "real man" ever could. After a particularly involved cutscene wherein you watch the main character sew a cross into his chest with a tapestry of what is apparently his shitty, treacherous life story, you're thrust immediately into the killing of innocent men dressed in old Arabian garb.
Then you die.
Then you kill death, take his scythe, and presumably shit on his face/neck/up his nose so that if he ever does come back, he will have to smell it forever.
You make your way into hell itself to rescue your wife because she, in typical woman fashion, made a deal with the devil behind your back, probably to assert her independence as your spouse, because she never gets to do anything "with the guys." You're out fighting the holy war with her brother and she's stuck at home cleaning your crusted over ham and cheese omelette off the plate you left by the couch. This inevitably damns her soul, which is what she gets because she took on a job that only a man should handle.
Along the way you meet several very real forsaken individuals from very real points in history (except for a couple that you really only have the bible to reference, so it's like a Robert Munsch book because you're thinking maybe this actually does happen somewhere but you've never heard of it except on paper), and you have the choice to "punish" or "absolve" them. One gives you holy points while the other gives you unholy points for being a bad, bad man, which you use to unlock attacks and defenses depending on whether you want to be righteous or evil. These skill trees are fairly balanced, although I hear tell that the final boss is easier with the god almighty buffs that the holy side gives you.
Dante's Inferno does a very good job of distancing itself from Darksiders. Here, you're just a man...a really strong man with a huge dick that probably would kick the shit out of War with strategically-placed mushroom slaps. Some enemies are similar, however overall more varied and original (I just got through a room full of babies with blades for arms, hopping around on them like coping polio victims), and have been tied in well to religious origin. Although the mechanics and controls are essentially the same, the attacks are quite different. The holy skill tree is also exclusive to this one.
The game has a linear play style, there is very little emphasis on any open world aspects. However, sometimes you'll have to stray from the obvious path i order to find whatever secrets are hidden around. For example, sometimes a hallway will have two branching corridors that you can choose from. The obvious downside here is that with a 50/50 chance, sometimes you'll pick the one that advances the story, and often it won't let you backtrack to go the other direction. You literally have to wait until your second playthrough to get some of the secrets you've missed.
The mini-bosses are, so far, all different and entertaining. If anyone reading has ever played Bayonetta, they'll know what I mean. It's like the complete opposite though; Bayonetta fights all these gods from ancient texts. Dante here is killing demons. The most hilarious thing about being in hell is that all around you are half-dead, eternally damned corpses just screaming up a storm. The atmosphere is very active, and dank.
The "Lust" stage just makes you feel dirty, like a rapist who targeted an old lady for lack of any more appealing talent. Like you satiated your sexual thirst on a chick in a wheelchair because her arms weren't buff enough to push as fast as you can run. Seriously, everything is shaped like a vagina, and gross vagina beasts spew forth like the wall-vaginas are on their wall-vagina menses.
It's awesome.
It's a hard ass game, despite all that. I just got through the third stage of what I think are ten, and it took me like an hour to pass both bosses. If you like merciless, hearty prison rape from time to time, be sure to pick up this title, because it delivers a whole lot of it.
8/10
There's something about killing minions of hell that gets me hard like no "real man" ever could. After a particularly involved cutscene wherein you watch the main character sew a cross into his chest with a tapestry of what is apparently his shitty, treacherous life story, you're thrust immediately into the killing of innocent men dressed in old Arabian garb.
Then you die.
Then you kill death, take his scythe, and presumably shit on his face/neck/up his nose so that if he ever does come back, he will have to smell it forever.
You make your way into hell itself to rescue your wife because she, in typical woman fashion, made a deal with the devil behind your back, probably to assert her independence as your spouse, because she never gets to do anything "with the guys." You're out fighting the holy war with her brother and she's stuck at home cleaning your crusted over ham and cheese omelette off the plate you left by the couch. This inevitably damns her soul, which is what she gets because she took on a job that only a man should handle.
Along the way you meet several very real forsaken individuals from very real points in history (except for a couple that you really only have the bible to reference, so it's like a Robert Munsch book because you're thinking maybe this actually does happen somewhere but you've never heard of it except on paper), and you have the choice to "punish" or "absolve" them. One gives you holy points while the other gives you unholy points for being a bad, bad man, which you use to unlock attacks and defenses depending on whether you want to be righteous or evil. These skill trees are fairly balanced, although I hear tell that the final boss is easier with the god almighty buffs that the holy side gives you.
Dante's Inferno does a very good job of distancing itself from Darksiders. Here, you're just a man...a really strong man with a huge dick that probably would kick the shit out of War with strategically-placed mushroom slaps. Some enemies are similar, however overall more varied and original (I just got through a room full of babies with blades for arms, hopping around on them like coping polio victims), and have been tied in well to religious origin. Although the mechanics and controls are essentially the same, the attacks are quite different. The holy skill tree is also exclusive to this one.
The game has a linear play style, there is very little emphasis on any open world aspects. However, sometimes you'll have to stray from the obvious path i order to find whatever secrets are hidden around. For example, sometimes a hallway will have two branching corridors that you can choose from. The obvious downside here is that with a 50/50 chance, sometimes you'll pick the one that advances the story, and often it won't let you backtrack to go the other direction. You literally have to wait until your second playthrough to get some of the secrets you've missed.
The mini-bosses are, so far, all different and entertaining. If anyone reading has ever played Bayonetta, they'll know what I mean. It's like the complete opposite though; Bayonetta fights all these gods from ancient texts. Dante here is killing demons. The most hilarious thing about being in hell is that all around you are half-dead, eternally damned corpses just screaming up a storm. The atmosphere is very active, and dank.
The "Lust" stage just makes you feel dirty, like a rapist who targeted an old lady for lack of any more appealing talent. Like you satiated your sexual thirst on a chick in a wheelchair because her arms weren't buff enough to push as fast as you can run. Seriously, everything is shaped like a vagina, and gross vagina beasts spew forth like the wall-vaginas are on their wall-vagina menses.
It's awesome.
It's a hard ass game, despite all that. I just got through the third stage of what I think are ten, and it took me like an hour to pass both bosses. If you like merciless, hearty prison rape from time to time, be sure to pick up this title, because it delivers a whole lot of it.
8/10
January 26, 2012
"We Need To Talk About Kevin" is Effective, Lacks Delivery
My movie reviews aren't traditional, in that I don't waste time explaining what the movie's about. I'll cut to the chase:
That one crazy woman from Constantine gives birth to a psychopathic kid. The entire movie cuts between her life before and after he massacres the student body of the high school he's enrolled at.
I'm not going to spoil any of the movie for you either. What I said above can be inferred from the first ten to twenty minutes of the film. The kid's a big asshole and the fat guy from Step Brothers (to clarify, John C. Riley...Will Ferrel's no spring chicken) performs surprisingly well, given his secondary role as "Dad who means well but is generally oblivious."
The child acting in the film is well-done and convincing, as opposed to in-for instance-The Omen, where the little brat doesn't say or do shit, making it easy as hell to play. The characters are convincing, although somewhat dumb, a term which here means, "in any competent household, this kid would have been submitted for psych evaluation probably around age eleven or twelve." Constantine Woman is believable in the role, due largely to her physical appearance (tall, emaciated women always strike me as very emotionally patient and accepting, and Mom here gives her crazy son too many chances to do right, although in this case it's mostly the fault of the father that all the shenanigans went unnoticed).
The film is well-paced (mostly), and disturbing, but for the wrong reasons. Namely, instead of leaving the viewer with an unsettling feeling, I found myself skipping forward through one or two scenes in particular that only really had one way of ending (surprise surprise, I was right), and spent too much time trying to pull me in. You know that part when a guy's trying to pick a chick up in romantic comedies, and he brings out some long-winded, unnecessarily impressive and ultimately ineffective speech about some dumb shit like his job at the stamp factory or how many genital diseases he's fought off with sheer power of will, and the woman at the other end says, "You had me at 'Hello'"? That's this movie. I was drawn in and involved early on, so the shock-value style that the movie had at times for that purpose weren't worth sitting through.
The other main qualm I had with the film as a whole was its climax. It lacked. That's not to say that there wasn't a decent ending, because there was (until the last twenty seconds, but I'll touch on that shortly), it just didn't deliver. The director drew out a couple scenes that he should have kept short, and left crucial elements out of some sections that would have made them more powerful. Also, the ending is lackluster, in the sense that everything that had happened is supposed to be justified in a big, pivotal realization, which in the face of the rest of the film, doesn't stand up.
This movie is, in its entirety, very half and half. Great atmosphere, acting, good pacing, poor delivery.
If your movie's about a school shooting, I damn sure want to see one, asshole.
5/10
That one crazy woman from Constantine gives birth to a psychopathic kid. The entire movie cuts between her life before and after he massacres the student body of the high school he's enrolled at.
I'm not going to spoil any of the movie for you either. What I said above can be inferred from the first ten to twenty minutes of the film. The kid's a big asshole and the fat guy from Step Brothers (to clarify, John C. Riley...Will Ferrel's no spring chicken) performs surprisingly well, given his secondary role as "Dad who means well but is generally oblivious."
The child acting in the film is well-done and convincing, as opposed to in-for instance-The Omen, where the little brat doesn't say or do shit, making it easy as hell to play. The characters are convincing, although somewhat dumb, a term which here means, "in any competent household, this kid would have been submitted for psych evaluation probably around age eleven or twelve." Constantine Woman is believable in the role, due largely to her physical appearance (tall, emaciated women always strike me as very emotionally patient and accepting, and Mom here gives her crazy son too many chances to do right, although in this case it's mostly the fault of the father that all the shenanigans went unnoticed).
The film is well-paced (mostly), and disturbing, but for the wrong reasons. Namely, instead of leaving the viewer with an unsettling feeling, I found myself skipping forward through one or two scenes in particular that only really had one way of ending (surprise surprise, I was right), and spent too much time trying to pull me in. You know that part when a guy's trying to pick a chick up in romantic comedies, and he brings out some long-winded, unnecessarily impressive and ultimately ineffective speech about some dumb shit like his job at the stamp factory or how many genital diseases he's fought off with sheer power of will, and the woman at the other end says, "You had me at 'Hello'"? That's this movie. I was drawn in and involved early on, so the shock-value style that the movie had at times for that purpose weren't worth sitting through.
The other main qualm I had with the film as a whole was its climax. It lacked. That's not to say that there wasn't a decent ending, because there was (until the last twenty seconds, but I'll touch on that shortly), it just didn't deliver. The director drew out a couple scenes that he should have kept short, and left crucial elements out of some sections that would have made them more powerful. Also, the ending is lackluster, in the sense that everything that had happened is supposed to be justified in a big, pivotal realization, which in the face of the rest of the film, doesn't stand up.
This movie is, in its entirety, very half and half. Great atmosphere, acting, good pacing, poor delivery.
If your movie's about a school shooting, I damn sure want to see one, asshole.
5/10
January 20, 2012
Old Movies Suck.
I feel like I shouldn't have to say that.
I recently skimmed an article - I say skimmed because there's no part of me willing to put the time and/or effort into more than perusing this subject matter - discussing the restoration amd re-release of Hammer Films "Classic movies" on Blu-Ray. Seems that standard and HD DVD are so yesterday that film companies are once again wasting money trying to adapt grainy, scratched film relics, with stains reminiscent of faecal waste put through a wood chipper and sprayed onto 32mm film strips, for the minuscule population who gives more than three and a half fucks about Blu-Ray while simultaneously giving just as many to flicks that have been bad since 1984.
I'm going to give you five names.
1. Grace Kelly
2. Marlene Dietrich
3. James Stewart
4. Kim Novak
5. Doris Day
Be honest with yourself, how many of them have you heard of? Two, three maybe? Now, how many of their movies have you seen? That's what I thought. I'm trying to illustrate two points here:
Point 1. Whether or not you're a memorable actor/actress has little to do with the movies you're in. It has to do with your performance on and off the screen, and your stay value. In other words, everyone knows who Boris Karloff is, and less than half of you have seen the original Frankenstein. I haven't even seen it, because I don't give a fuck. Everyone knows who Audrey Hepburn is, because nobody stops talking about how nice of a woman she was. If she was a bitch, people would say "She was good in movies" and then probably flip off her ghost for being so crusty.
Point 2. Films don't need to be adapted for young audiences, because if someone is genuinely interested in either the history or the performances in said films, they're going to watch them regardless of the video quality. Collections of Alfred Hitchcock originals sell by the boatload, none of which are adapted or remastered. Real buffs don't care.
"People want to see these movies because they want to see innovation at work. Hammer Films revolutionized the horror movie industry." See point 2.
"But regular DVD players won't be available forever, and Blu-Ray is the new wave in video technology." Okay, sure, and by the time that happens, every single one of these movies will be public domain and available online, or more importantly, in a library anywhere.
This move is about money and nothing else. I'm not going to be a liberal piss hole and whine, moan and period all about exploitation of cinema or consumers, companies sucking money out of the layman, etc. My larger point is, if people are more like me, without a Blu-Ray player because Sony is the devil incarnate, or legitimate vintage film enthusiasts, or (once again like me) understand that old movies are like old books and old people, meant to be locked away to collect dust and taken out only when you really want to hear a bunch of farfetched, poor quality, hazy stories, the whole adaptation concept is a waste of time and money.
It's also probably the reason why movies like "Hobo With a Shotgun" exist; nobody's paying any god damn attention.
I recently skimmed an article - I say skimmed because there's no part of me willing to put the time and/or effort into more than perusing this subject matter - discussing the restoration amd re-release of Hammer Films "Classic movies" on Blu-Ray. Seems that standard and HD DVD are so yesterday that film companies are once again wasting money trying to adapt grainy, scratched film relics, with stains reminiscent of faecal waste put through a wood chipper and sprayed onto 32mm film strips, for the minuscule population who gives more than three and a half fucks about Blu-Ray while simultaneously giving just as many to flicks that have been bad since 1984.
I'm going to give you five names.
1. Grace Kelly
2. Marlene Dietrich
3. James Stewart
4. Kim Novak
5. Doris Day
Be honest with yourself, how many of them have you heard of? Two, three maybe? Now, how many of their movies have you seen? That's what I thought. I'm trying to illustrate two points here:
Point 1. Whether or not you're a memorable actor/actress has little to do with the movies you're in. It has to do with your performance on and off the screen, and your stay value. In other words, everyone knows who Boris Karloff is, and less than half of you have seen the original Frankenstein. I haven't even seen it, because I don't give a fuck. Everyone knows who Audrey Hepburn is, because nobody stops talking about how nice of a woman she was. If she was a bitch, people would say "She was good in movies" and then probably flip off her ghost for being so crusty.
Point 2. Films don't need to be adapted for young audiences, because if someone is genuinely interested in either the history or the performances in said films, they're going to watch them regardless of the video quality. Collections of Alfred Hitchcock originals sell by the boatload, none of which are adapted or remastered. Real buffs don't care.
"People want to see these movies because they want to see innovation at work. Hammer Films revolutionized the horror movie industry." See point 2.
"But regular DVD players won't be available forever, and Blu-Ray is the new wave in video technology." Okay, sure, and by the time that happens, every single one of these movies will be public domain and available online, or more importantly, in a library anywhere.
This move is about money and nothing else. I'm not going to be a liberal piss hole and whine, moan and period all about exploitation of cinema or consumers, companies sucking money out of the layman, etc. My larger point is, if people are more like me, without a Blu-Ray player because Sony is the devil incarnate, or legitimate vintage film enthusiasts, or (once again like me) understand that old movies are like old books and old people, meant to be locked away to collect dust and taken out only when you really want to hear a bunch of farfetched, poor quality, hazy stories, the whole adaptation concept is a waste of time and money.
It's also probably the reason why movies like "Hobo With a Shotgun" exist; nobody's paying any god damn attention.
January 11, 2012
My Effed Up Dream
So I'm back in high school (I'm 20. This is unnecessary and humiliating).
I suppose I was picking up classes in order to qualify better for something in University (that has been on my mind lately; I do almost nothing for a good majority of the week in terms of financial or educational success so maybe I should fill that time with a scholastic return). Adam (friend of mine) is there. We're in a Hospitality class - let me be clear now that I would never take hospitality. The last thing I want to know is how to:
A. serve people in a shitty restaurant as a Maitre' d, taking all the flack from uptight, perturbed customers because their steak isn't exactly 140.38 degrees centigrade.
B. Entertain guests at any gathering whatsoever, because I hate people and the less acquainted and polite I am, the better.
Needless to say I don't really belong in this class. The teacher (who looks suspiciously like the father from That 70's show...which is another thing I hate; Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher have a "relationship" like a midget has a "height issue") hands us menus, and we go off into a big restaurant-style room.
There is an asian man here who promptly begins to urinate down his leg, making small stains on the floor as he rushes for the bathroom in embarrassment. We all laugh, but I go to check because apparently in my dreams, I'm a humanitarian. Must be in backwards-land or something. The fellow tells me not to tell anyone that he peed himself; redundant since everyone saw it anyway. But I told him I wouldn't, and tried unsuccessfully to find a stall for myself (they all had piss in them...I might have a problem).
There is a long space here with nothing I can recall. I'm in the hallway of my old school, standing around, waiting for something that probably never came because isn't that always how dreams work. There are several people from my classes strewn about, some for whom I don't give a fuck or a fist. I might have climbed stairs at some point.
We return to the Hospitality room as before. This is after my typical "Can't find my fucking class" routine I go through almost every time I have a dream about high school. It's no longer a bother, because it happens so frequently, so I suppose my dream-self doesn't give his last shit about being punctual anymore. Minutes of me running around the various floors and castle windows (that are native to this sequence and only appear here). The teacher has provided us with a box on wheels, full of smaller boxes that are full of magic tricks. The room is white carpet; we're supposed to be giving some sort of demonstration to other students. The boxes are black with purple designs, stars if I remember correctly. I immediately spill every box onto the floor, and trip over them several times because, naturally, they're invisible unless they're face-up. The professor, in some sort of saving-face moment, ribs me about being unfit for the class; for some reason, it gets to me pretty effectively.
Then I announce that I'm dropping the course. I had thought about it earlier, but I was worried that I had no other classes with Adam, and it has been a while since I've seen him so I wouldn't want to spoil it. Somehow I go from a standing position to on my side, trying to crawl at the door. The teacher, sensing that I'm vexed, proceeds to defame me; he accuses me of "flinging shit" in the bathroom earlier in the day (no doubt because I went in there to check on that asian man) and pistol-whipping another student, which is absurd to me because I don't even have a gun license. He then says "Exactly"; implying that I, in perfect Gang-star fashion, have procured this firearm illegally, as all black people do. This is so frustrating that I grab his pant leg and attempt to knock him over, unsuccessfully.
Then I woke up.
Interpretation is welcome.
I suppose I was picking up classes in order to qualify better for something in University (that has been on my mind lately; I do almost nothing for a good majority of the week in terms of financial or educational success so maybe I should fill that time with a scholastic return). Adam (friend of mine) is there. We're in a Hospitality class - let me be clear now that I would never take hospitality. The last thing I want to know is how to:
A. serve people in a shitty restaurant as a Maitre' d, taking all the flack from uptight, perturbed customers because their steak isn't exactly 140.38 degrees centigrade.
B. Entertain guests at any gathering whatsoever, because I hate people and the less acquainted and polite I am, the better.
Needless to say I don't really belong in this class. The teacher (who looks suspiciously like the father from That 70's show...which is another thing I hate; Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher have a "relationship" like a midget has a "height issue") hands us menus, and we go off into a big restaurant-style room.
There is an asian man here who promptly begins to urinate down his leg, making small stains on the floor as he rushes for the bathroom in embarrassment. We all laugh, but I go to check because apparently in my dreams, I'm a humanitarian. Must be in backwards-land or something. The fellow tells me not to tell anyone that he peed himself; redundant since everyone saw it anyway. But I told him I wouldn't, and tried unsuccessfully to find a stall for myself (they all had piss in them...I might have a problem).
There is a long space here with nothing I can recall. I'm in the hallway of my old school, standing around, waiting for something that probably never came because isn't that always how dreams work. There are several people from my classes strewn about, some for whom I don't give a fuck or a fist. I might have climbed stairs at some point.
We return to the Hospitality room as before. This is after my typical "Can't find my fucking class" routine I go through almost every time I have a dream about high school. It's no longer a bother, because it happens so frequently, so I suppose my dream-self doesn't give his last shit about being punctual anymore. Minutes of me running around the various floors and castle windows (that are native to this sequence and only appear here). The teacher has provided us with a box on wheels, full of smaller boxes that are full of magic tricks. The room is white carpet; we're supposed to be giving some sort of demonstration to other students. The boxes are black with purple designs, stars if I remember correctly. I immediately spill every box onto the floor, and trip over them several times because, naturally, they're invisible unless they're face-up. The professor, in some sort of saving-face moment, ribs me about being unfit for the class; for some reason, it gets to me pretty effectively.
Then I announce that I'm dropping the course. I had thought about it earlier, but I was worried that I had no other classes with Adam, and it has been a while since I've seen him so I wouldn't want to spoil it. Somehow I go from a standing position to on my side, trying to crawl at the door. The teacher, sensing that I'm vexed, proceeds to defame me; he accuses me of "flinging shit" in the bathroom earlier in the day (no doubt because I went in there to check on that asian man) and pistol-whipping another student, which is absurd to me because I don't even have a gun license. He then says "Exactly"; implying that I, in perfect Gang-star fashion, have procured this firearm illegally, as all black people do. This is so frustrating that I grab his pant leg and attempt to knock him over, unsuccessfully.
Then I woke up.
Interpretation is welcome.
December 26, 2011
YOUR Christmas
Wasn't nearly as good as mine.
It was just a regular Christmas, but it was filled with several retard presents, all of which I love and cherish with the same feeling a stillborn receives when you see its jar all decked out for the holidays.
It's like a warped, novelty love.
These bear slippers are so comfortable, and so hairy, I didn't think they'd fit (because I'm a size 13, also known in Canada as a "gross abomination to science, Mr. Big Feet. We don't make anything in your size because you're the modern jew of footwear."
Among the presents were:
- Fight Club (YEAH my mom pulled through on that one. My Chuck P. collection adds another member.)
- Fat cat mug w/ travel lid (it says right on it that the cat is 30lbs. That's ideal fat cat weight. Borderline diabetic, but you can still pull back if you want.)
- South Park Timmy Bobblehead (it's really sensitive. You can't even jump near it or it YELLS ITS OWN NAME)
- Lizard statue
- Tiki mask (completion of my tiki wall courtesy of Seana)
- Bunch of gift cards
- Epic stocking stuffers (Terry's Chocolate Oranges are my kryptonite. I'd kill your mom, cut her up, splice her genes with your siblings and create a hybrid for an Original flavoured)
- Mortal Kombat 9
- PJs (plaid like a bad man, sprayed with a rad can, made for my legs with the black white and gray brand. That's right, I freestyle.)
All in all, I'd say this year's material possessive marketing of the birth of a random jew boy mess was successful, and I'm glad that some dumb fuck decided to string himself up to ensure that the me's in the world get presents.
It was just a regular Christmas, but it was filled with several retard presents, all of which I love and cherish with the same feeling a stillborn receives when you see its jar all decked out for the holidays.
It's like a warped, novelty love.
These bear slippers are so comfortable, and so hairy, I didn't think they'd fit (because I'm a size 13, also known in Canada as a "gross abomination to science, Mr. Big Feet. We don't make anything in your size because you're the modern jew of footwear."
Among the presents were:
- Fight Club (YEAH my mom pulled through on that one. My Chuck P. collection adds another member.)
- Fat cat mug w/ travel lid (it says right on it that the cat is 30lbs. That's ideal fat cat weight. Borderline diabetic, but you can still pull back if you want.)
- South Park Timmy Bobblehead (it's really sensitive. You can't even jump near it or it YELLS ITS OWN NAME)
- Lizard statue
- Tiki mask (completion of my tiki wall courtesy of Seana)
- Bunch of gift cards
- Epic stocking stuffers (Terry's Chocolate Oranges are my kryptonite. I'd kill your mom, cut her up, splice her genes with your siblings and create a hybrid for an Original flavoured)
- Mortal Kombat 9
- PJs (plaid like a bad man, sprayed with a rad can, made for my legs with the black white and gray brand. That's right, I freestyle.)
All in all, I'd say this year's material possessive marketing of the birth of a random jew boy mess was successful, and I'm glad that some dumb fuck decided to string himself up to ensure that the me's in the world get presents.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)