I’ve had more conference calls in the last week than in the previous (mumble) years of my life, which is to say: Two. And they weren’t even for business. After failing to learn our lesson last year, our little troupe of Mickey-and-Judy amateurs is entering another 48-hour film challenge. This one. Possible genres: Buddy Film, Comedy, Detective/cop, Drama, Fantasy, Film de Femme, Holiday Film, Horror, Mockumentary, Musical or Western, Romance, Sci Fi, Superhero, Thriller/Suspense. Lord save us. If we don’t like any of these, we can reject them for one from the wild-card pool, which contains such agony as Martial Arts/Stoner, Silent, Tragedy. And so on.
Well, it is a challenge, after all.
For those who care, I’ll be tweeting the experience, with pictures when I can, which will update my Facebook status. It starts at 7 p.m. July 24 and ends 48 hours later.
Lately I’ve been thinking about the Mockumentary idea, probably because “Bruno” is all up in my grill wherever I look. The New York Times has a story this morning about male shaving, and reports that Sacha Baron Cohen had to endure “repeated waxathons” to get hairless enough to play his gay Austrian character. We know what his natural state is, so I hope he had Jackson-strength drugs to help him get through.
The story references the Gillette videos we discussed here a few days back; once again, NN.c commenters surf the wave first. I didn’t watch the one on male armpits, and it’s a good thing, too, because I don’t care what funny reason they give (“an empty stable smells better than a full one”), a man with shaved armpits is an abomination to women. Men should be men.
We don’t have a Sacha Baron Cohen for our movie. But we do have a female ventriloquist who can sing and has 22 dummies. I’m hoping we draw Horror. Nothing like a singing ventriloquist dummy for maximum creeps.
A lot of bloggage today, so let’s hop to it:
Not long ago a journalist of very close acquaintance, ahem, had to participate in the destruction of many, many copies of one of the sections he helps produce, because somehow a photo slipped through, in which an extremely sharp-eyed reader might notice that one of the people in the photo was wearing a T-shirt that read “Go Straight Edge or go fuck yourself.” They don’t do that in Nashville, evidently.
I posted this on my Facebook yesterday. It’s a story about the latest Little Photoshop of Horrors, a picture essay in the New York Times Magazine that turns out to have been substantially tinkered with. This has happened before, and it will happen again, and for the life of me I don’t understand why, but then, I never understood photographers.
Short version: Photographer Edgar Martins has an assignment — to travel the country and document the subprime meltdown. So he sets out, and finds some lovely pictures (which you can’t see, because the NYT yanked them all off the website), but he cannot resist tinkering with them. Now he and the paper stand embarrassed if not disgraced, having handed their enemies a big fat stick to beat them with. And for what? Some symmetry. Like I said, I never understood photographers.* *Although I do appreciate them.
Think of an American visiting France who believes that if he just speaks louder, he will be speaking French. — the sublime Dahlia Lithwick on Sarah Palin.
Man on dog? A Fox News host tries to explain how Americans “marry other species.” I see so many of these Fox & Friends clips on Gawker, I’m starting to think they’re angling for the publicity. Funny.