Surviving Christmas, Movie Review

Though "share the warmth" is the movie's tag line, this awkward but occasionally amusing Christmas comedy will likely leave more discriminating audiences out in the cold. It stars Ben Affleck as Drew Latham, an advertising executive so slick he could "sell whale steaks to Greenpeace." Preposterously enough, Drew finds himself alone for Christmas when Missy Vangilder (Jennifer Morrison) -- his ordinarily Cartier-craving girlfriend -- is inexplicably insulted by his gift of two first-class tickets to Fiji.

With nowhere to go but crazy on Dec. 25th (apparently Drew doesn't have many Jewish, Muslim or Hindu drinking buddies), on the advise of psychiatrist Dr. Freeman (Stephen Root, Office Space), Latham returns to his childhood home with a list of grievances he's instructed to literally burn. The act is to free him of his loneliness and thereby forgive those who've made his holiday a living heck. But the chateau of his youth is now occupied by the Valcos, a blue-collar family on the brink of their own ordinary madness, a condition that is only increased by pyro-boy Ben Affleck playing with fire on their front lawn.

Before Drew can introduce himself, he makes the acquaintance of Tom (James Gandolfini), the family patriarch, who familiarizes the back of Latham's head with the family shovel. As Tom, Gandolfini delivers his lines as if he were Tony Soprano living in exile in the Witness Protection Program. Entertaining, but hardly a stretch for Gandolfini, who could seriously use some stretching, and some cardio wouldn't hurt either.

Cue Christina Applegate as Alicia, the Valco's daughter and the movie's mistletoe interest. Director Mike Mitchell could certainly do worse than Miss Applegate, though the audience (well half at least) would much rather see Christina in a micro-mini-skirted reprise of her "Married with Children" alter ego, proto-bimbo Kelly Bundy, than the super serious Little Miss Grinch she plays here. A character virtually interchangeable with the similarly uptight career babe she portrayed in last summer's Will Farrell-fuelled guffaw fest Anchorman.

Though not top billed, Catherine O'Hara deserves mention as Christine Valco, the family's downtrodden mother, who secretly dreams of being a 1980s video vixen. In one of the more surreal sequences, Drew convinces Mom she deserves a gift to herself, an outlaw biker-style glamour photo shoot, complete with raccoon makeup, fishnets and no shortage of MILF cleavage. When the pouty pictures end up as ads on an internet porn site that her boned-up, broadband-addicted teenage son Brian (Josh Zuckerman) just happens to surf upon while doing his homework, he leaves the house in shock. Thus, Christine truly puts the ho' in "ho, ho, ho."

Not likely to replace heartwarming holiday favorites like Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol, or Silent Night, Deadly Night, Surviving Christmas still manages to deck the halls, albeit just barely and may help the ever-affable Affleck shake the ghost of "Giglis" past. The movie manages to be weird without looping into David Lynch territory, surprisingly funny in spots without teetering into Ben Stiller/Owen Wilson territory and just schmaltzy enough to get your inner Grinch into the holiday spirit. Despite its implausible premise, Surviving Christmas is a fun holiday treat, but like a bowl of spiked eggnog, once a year is plenty, and a side effect of slight indigestion is possible.

Overnight, Movie Review

I've never been a big believer in karma, but there has rarely been better proof that what goes around, comes around as in Overnight's 82 minutes. Not for the feint of heart or virgin of ears, Overnight is an insightful and instructive debut documentary from Mark Brian Smith and Tony Montana, depicting the bar "rags to riches and back to bar" saga of Hollywood king-for-a-day Troy Duffy. Duffy, an obnoxious bartender from Boston, becomes an even more loudmouthed and loathsome writer/director after Boondock Saints, his first script, is bought by Miramax's head honcho Harvey Weinstien, who then, as a bonus, buys Troy the bar where he tended and wrote the script during breaks. Mr. Duffy's Midas touch appears unstoppable when Troy's band is signed to record the Boondock soundtrack as part of a multi-album deal for Maverick records with ex-Doobie Brother Jeffrey "Skunk" Baxter as producer. It would seem, especially to Duffy, that he could do no wrong in Tinsel Town. Not quite. Some argue that absolute power corrupts absolutely; others insist that authority only brings out the true nature of the individual, for better or worse.

"I'm 100% right and he's 100% wrong" is Duffy's attitude toward everyone from studio executives he's just met, to band mates he's known his entire life. Thanks to Troy's megalomania and people skills that make Saddam Hussein seem like Jimmy Carter, it isn't long before the golden boy's luck turns a fecal shade of brown. And as crucial phone calls go unreturned, multi-million dollar deals fall through, and his place on the Hollywood hot list grows colder than the snow at the Sundance Film Festival, all the audience can do is smile and think, "It couldn't have happened to a bigger idiot."

Overnight should be mandatory viewing for all aspiring Scorceses, Copollas and Bruckheimer's to learn how not to succeed in show business.

As an aside, after watching Overnight, I became curious about Boondock Saints, and managed to track down a copy. It pains me to type that despite Duffy's relentless boorish behavior, he made a hell of a movie, and at half its original $15-million budget. Starring Billy Connolly and Willem Dafoe, Boondock Saints is on par with tough-guy classics such as Reservoir Dogs, Bad Lieutenant and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. In fact, it's easy to see why his script became the hottest property in Hollywood. With Boondocks II supposedly in the works, for Duffy's sake, hopefully he's toned down his badass attitude so the sequel can get the attention its predecessor deserved.

Green Day, American Idiot, CD Review

Four years to make a punk rock album, who do Green Day think they are, Pink friggin' Floyd? American Idiot is Green Day's first CD since 2000's Warning. But the faithful who've been chomping at the punk-rock bit will not be disappointed by the band's return to their Ramones, Clash-inspired, day-glo green-haired roots. Ambitious without being pretentious (don't look for Metallica-like collaborations with the San Francisco Philharmonic), yet catchy as cooties at a pre-school playground comes this effort from Northern California's premiere pop-punk provocateurs.

Like the Yankees to the Red Sox, Green Day's bug-eyed front-punk Billie Joe Armstrong and cohorts show Blink 182, Yellowcard and Good Charlotte who their daddies really are. The title track, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" and the epic "Jesus of Suburbia" rock with the snot-nosed authority of fellow vitriolic veterans Offspring, Social Distortion, Rancid and a handful of other not so new punks on the block. Sure, there's not much new on American Idiot's itinerary, typical Green Day themes of alienation and political paranoia abound, but the tracks smack passionately. This is thanks to a blistering production with guitar sounds as big as Giants Stadium and fat-free song arrangements that hit the chorus faster than the late, great, can't-get-a-date Rodney Dangerfield used to get a punch line. Even slower numbers like the aforementioned "…Broken Dreams" and "Wake Me Up When September Ends" kick in before you have time to take a leak, grab another beer and hit the "next" button. Speaking of next, and American idiots, hopefully it won't be another Presidential election year before Yankee Doodle Dookie's next subversive suburban CD sees the light of day.

Too Fast For Love, Book Review

Heavy Metal Portraits by David Yellen
Introduction by Chuck Klosterman

After a long, hot, sweaty, disgusting New York City summer, ain't it grand to finally have some decent leather weather? And speaking of leather, not to mention spandex and all things leopard print, here comes proof that youth and bad taste aren't just wasted on the young. "Too Fast For Love" is a strangely fascinating photo book of die-hard forty-something fans of 1980s hairspray-holdouts Kiss, Warrant, Poison, Iron Maiden, Slaughter, Ted Nugent, Dokken and Cinderella. The shots were taken during the various groups' summer tours in the early 2000s.

Both haunting and hilarious, the handsomely bound hardcover boasts more scrawny tattooed white boys than a "COPS" marathon, with no shortage of high-mileage harlots a few exits too far down the Highway to Hell. Behold if you dare and try not to snicker in shock and sympathy at color page after page of pouty lip-lined Cinderellas (and in some cases Cinder-fellas), who dared stay too long at the Headbangers ball. But not for so much as a 1/16 note's time do the over-the-hill headbangers give a Ratt's ass what anyone thinks of their choice of music, fashion or ozone-depleting hair products. Proudly they stand, plastic cups of draft beer and Marlboro pack in hand, ready to stare down any and all who would swear allegiance to the arena-rock killer that came to be known as grunge.

But don't be too quick to judge these poodle-heads that time forgot. Assuming you weren't in a nunnery or protective custody for the entirety of the Big '80s, you're bound to recognize a souvenir t-shirt, cut-off denim jacket or naughty-nurse outfit from your own wasted youth. And for those still bold enough to rock and elude the fashion police into their soccer-mom/hockey-dad years, "Too Fast For Love" salutes you. Now, if you'll excuse me, "VH1 Rocks" is on and I've got some spandex leopard skin pants to squeeze into.