The Fast, Furious, And Frustrating

 

Latest Script For Overblown Franchise Leaks; Fans Horrified

Los Angeles (AP) Be careful what you wish for. It's an old expression, and a hard lesson learned. Director Louis Leterrier has been busy prepping the eleventh film in the Fast & The Furious franchise (twelfth, if you include the spin off Hobbs and Shaw). Series star Vin Diesel has been vocal about one condition for the next film being that "Brian has to return." This, despite the fact that Paul Walker, who played the character, died during the production of Furious 7, with his role completed with the cooperation of his brothers Cody and Caleb for that film.

The studios have been tight lipped about how to approach that even while assembling the cast. Would the Walker brothers rise to the occasion and play their dead brother's character again, helped with some CGI? Would a dummy be used, a la Weekend At Bernies? Would Walker himself be resurrected from the grave in a voodoo ritual?

Now it appears to be too late to keep the secrets. A copy of the script has leaked online.

The film, slated to have a budget of 150 million dollars, will follow the ragtag team of racers (family, according to Diesel's Dom Toretto) who started out racing cars and ended up in globe trotting adventures with high stakes and no regard for gravity. The leaked script reveals that the film will be a short one, with all of the characters involved in a friendly stakes all out car race in Death Valley- a race that will end with all of them dying in a horrible crash.

And if that isn't bad enough, it gets worse. The entire group will find themselves coming to in hell, and standing there before them will be their old friend Brian O'Conner, former cop turned racer turned criminal turned retired criminal turned... whatever. The point is, all of them will be dead, stuck in hell. And despite the history of the franchise in getting characters out of bad places implausibly, this will be the end of the line. Once they all see Brian, the screen will fade to black, and the franchise will end.

"Look, truth is, we're all tired of this," Michelle Rodriguez said. "We're tired of the franchise, of the nonsense, of the lack of attention to physics... we're just tired. So it's time to move on and do something else. And yes, maybe that script might have gotten leaked by one of us. Or all of us. Or maybe none of us. The point is, this whole thing should have been called to an end seven movies ago."

Jason Statham, playing Deckard Shaw, agrees by concession. "And I didn't get into this until the second half. How long do you keep this up? You can't. So giving it the finality of all of us in hell... well, that's something I can live with."

Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was in agreement. "There's only so many times you can go flying two hundred feet from one car to another onscreen before your audience starts with the 'yeah, I'm not buying that' logic. And I say that as a guy who used to be a wrestler. Or maybe still am. What day is this?"

The studio is running damage control. "That's not the script!" spokesperson Callie Drake promised. "And the cast are just playing a prank, pretending that they're tired of the franchise! Everyone loves working on Fast & Furious! Look, we'll get to the bottom of whoever released that completely fake script, because it's fake. Fast & Furious is going to go on forever!"

The last word belongs to the franchise lead. Vin Diesel had this to say. "It's about family. And fast cars, and big stunts, and oh my god how did they do that moments. And family. Did I mention family? And everyone loves family. And that's what we are. And that's what we do. So of course we're gonna keep comin' back. And back some more. And back again after that. Because there's no way this franchise will ever run out of gas. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta see someone about a voodoo resurrection spell."

Santa Claus And The Russian Nukes

Director Plots Christmas Themed Movie; Reporters Horrified By Prospect

Los Angeles (AP) Reporters were summoned once more to the offices of Digital Domain this week, the personal playground and headquarters of Michael Bay, a filmmaker who offends the tastes of anyone with anything remotely resembling taste. Real reporters found themselves outnumbered by entertainment reporters, who were busy gushing over whatever sort of announcement might be coming from the man himself. This reporter, doomed by a spiteful editor who (editor: shut up! Don’t even get started with that nonsense! I hate you!)

This reporter, sent by an overly cranky overlord who might have gotten their start as an intern at Mount Doom (editor: what did I just tell you?) was among the ranks of the real reporters. Indeed, this reporter was condemned by that previously mentioned cranky overlord to take assignments like this for no other reason, aside from the fact that the cranky overlord hated him with a vengeance. And so there we all were, outnumbered by entertainment reporters, who at their best are very dimwitted, after all.  Everyone was assembled in the facility’s auditorium, where finally a spokeswoman came out onto the stage, where a full length mirror had been installed near the podium. She called for everyone’s attention, and the room quieted down. “Ladies and gentlemen, give a big welcome to the one, the only, the legend... Michael Bay!”

The entertainment reporters broke out into wild applause and cheering. The real reporters looked at their watches and rolled their eyes. The director came out on stage, looking as he usually does- dressed in jeans, a denim shirt, and sports jacket, his hair in its usual dishevelled manner, his face framed with three or four days of beard stubble. And of course the usual vacant eyes and big dumb grin (editor: stop insulting Michael Bay! I love his movies!).

He strode up to the podium, waving as he went, stopping before the mirror to admire himself, and winked at himself. Then he faced the crowd again. “Hello! How wonderful to see you! It’s great that you came to bask in the magnificence that is me!” This reporter rolled his eyes, hearing the collective sighs of other real reporters. Bay, oblivious to reality, continued. “You know, I’m a busy guy, with lots of film projects underway and lots of things to occupy my attention. But I got to thinking, and you know what I’ve never done? Something that’s appropriate for this time of year. A heart warming Christmas holiday classic. Something that will surely take its place as the greatest of all Christmas movies. And so, of course, having had thought of that, I knew I had to make one. Which is what we’re all here to talk about today.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the real reporters, dreading what was to come. A remake of A Christmas Story featuring little Ralphie wanting a nuclear bomb for Christmas? A new version of It’s A Wonderful Life with George Bailey trying to outwit the evil banker turned mad bomber Mr. Potter and save his home town? A desecration of the Nativity story? Meanwhile, the real reporters were already applauding. Bay was grinning like a mad man. Which, for all this reporter knew, he probably was.

Bay continued to speak. “I thought of an old classic film. Santa Claus Conquers The Martians. Now there are some people out there who think that’s a bad film. Well, you know what? I don’t care what they think. Now I’m not going to remake that. No thanks. I don’t want to touch that classic. But it got me thinking of others who Santa might end up in a fight with. And I decided to use a familiar adversary. So in my Christmas film... it’s going to be Santa Claus against... are you ready for this? Because it’s really really good. Santa Claus versus Mother Russia!”

The real reporters all rolled their eyes collectively; this reporter felt a headache coming along. The entertainment reporters broke out into more wild applause. Bay grinned like the demented idiot that he is. “Thank you! Thank you! You love the idea! How wonderful!”

“You’re making essentially a Cold War Christmas tale?” a Reuters correspondent asked.

“No, a hot war,” Bay claimed. “Think of it this way, because here’s the premise. A despotic Russian autocrat who looks exactly like Vladimir Putin launches nukes against the world just because he’s pissed off. Maybe it’s that he’s no more than five foot four and has to make up for it by staged photo ops with his shirt off. Maybe he was born pissed off and it just got worse from there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the only person in the world who can stop him is the big guy with the magic sleigh and reindeer capable of going tens of thousands of miles an hour. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Santa Claus. He’s the hero the whole world needs.”

The real reporters were now shaking their heads at the very concept. Bay was  completely oblivious to their disdain. He kept carrying on. “And so without further ado, let me introduce you to the guy playing our St. Nick... and that’s appropriate given his name. My friend, my pal, the one, the only.... give it up for Nicolas Cage!”

The actor came out on stage, wearing a Santa suit, except for the fake beard, and drunkenly waving around a bottle of scotch. “Ho ho ho! Have you been good boys and girls this year? Santa Nicky knows if you’ve been bad or good, and I don’t want to put coal in the stockings of anyone who gives me a bad review!”

Cage stumbled over to join Bay, who seemed oblivious to the whole nearly falling over drunk thing the actor was doing. The director just kept talking. “And playing his wife, give it up for an actress I haven’t worked with before but was excited to get to work with this time. She’s a ravishing bombshell you all love, and she’s ideally cast in this role. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Pamela Anderson!”

The actress, if one wants to call her that, came out on stage. Never exactly known for her range in the acting department, Anderson was better known for plastic surgery enhanced looks, but a life of hard living has taken its toll on her- she’s not quite the vacant headed bombshell she once was. “Hey there!” she called out, striding over to the others. “Say, Nicky, how about you share some of the scotch?”

“Mine!” Cage snarled.

Bay was still oblivious. “For the next member of our cast, one of my favourite actors, and I know he’s one of yours. Playing the earnest State Department official and reluctant sidekick to the big man, here he is, the one, the only... Shia LaBeouf!”

LaBeouf came out on stage, waving. “Hello there! It is good that you have come to see Shia today! Shia is pleased!” He walked over to join his colleagues. Anderson was  busy eying the Scotch. Cage was busy clutching it close.

“And playing our big bad, while I must admit, I wanted to cast someone very short for the role, unfortunately Verne Troyer, who you might remember as Mini Me, isn’t available, what with telling me to go **** myself. And Tom Cruise is just too weird. So I went the other way. Mind you, I’ll be using digital effects to make him look half a foot shorter than he actually is. But this is a guy I’ve never worked with, and I’m sure he’ll be perfect as the Russian president. Even if he’s having problems ditching his British accent. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Jason Statham!”

The actor, known for tough guy roles and glaring at the camera, came out on stage, sneering at everyone. “Look, I’m only working for this ******* because I’m gettin’ paid twenty million bucks for the job, all right, guvnor?”

Cage looked confused. “Wait a minute, you’re paying him twenty million bucks? I’m only getting fifteen.”

“Shia is only getting ten!” LaBeouf protested.

“Hey! I’m just getting paid in vodka!” Anderson yelled.

Bay looked slightly flustered. “We’ll sort all that out later. Ladies and gentlemen, give this wonderful cast a big hand... you’ll be seeing them soon in Santapocalypse Now!”

The curtains closed on the director and his actors. The entertainment reporters were busy applauding. There was some racket from back stage, and Anderson screeching. “Give me that Scotch right now, Cage, or I’ll poke your eyes out!”

That was promptly followed by more noise, a shriek, and Cage yelling, “My face! My beautiful face!”

Bay came out from behind the curtains and looked out at everyone. “Say, I don’t mean to pry... but is there by chance a doctor among you? No? Okay. Um... well, would someone please call for an ambulance?”

This reporter sighed in dismay, and walked out with a couple of colleagues. A bottle of Scotch sounded like a good idea right about now, particularly with cranky editors back at the office... (editor: one more word out of you and they’ll never find your body)

Pet Peeves And Random Thoughts

Every once in awhile, a thought or a complaint runs through your head that you might like to blog about, but it really doesn't seem to be enough for a blog in and of itself. Hence it does seem to be a good idea to gather these ideas all together into... well, a pet peeves and random thoughts blog. And so without further ado, let us begin...

There's a certain shop in a certain downtown mall (oh, why bother being evasive? It's the BOSE electronics shop in the Rideau Centre) that I've passed many times. It sells electronics, home entertainment systems, you know the type. The largest screen in there is a big one, and every single time I pass that store, the Adele concert film is on. I've heard some of her music, and it's okay... but playing it over and over again must drive the store employees bonkers. And I feel like I've seen the whole concert already.

Erotica is an eyebrow raising genre, but what do you suppose would happen if a big name author who wasn't known for writing it gave it a go? Dan Brown, the fellow behind The Da Vinci Code, has written sex into his previous books, but would it end up having his main character describing the inner secrets of the Kama Sutra while in the middle of reaching their... happy place?

By the same token, military-techno nut Tom Clancy (back before the quality of his writing took a fast plunge off a cliff) is best known for his spy thrillers, not to mention stopping the narrative so that he can explain precisely where a piece of military hardware is built, how it's made, and so on and so on, frustrating the reader to no end. He's written sex into his books from time to time (and comes off as something of an adolescent when doing so).  Would he end up writing a solo erotica scene where the heroine decides to pleasure herself with a vibrator, and would he feel compelled to describe exactly where it's made, the amount of time it takes for one vibrator to be made, the shift worker putting it together, and what said shift worker thinks about their job and the moral implications of putting such devices together? By this point, of course, the readers would have tossed the book away out of frustration and disgust at how the author isn't getting anywhere...

And while we're at it... would Stephen King, writing erotica, be unable to get away from his horror influences? Would such a passage come across in this way?  She groaned as he plunged into her, thrusting deep. Clarisa dug her fingernails deep into his back, arching her own back in pleasure, driving her body against him. He cried out, but not in the way she expected. The scratches she cast on his back had drawn blood... and fire erupted out of the scratches. He screamed and howled as his body set ablaze...

See what I mean?

We need to round up all of the Elvis impersonators in the world and have them dropped onto a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific so that we won't have to come across a guy with bad sideburns singing Love Me Tender in a really cheesy jumpsuit on the street. Who's with me?

I want to go back in time, find the person who coined the phrase baby bump, and smack them. Then go further back in time and prevent them from being conceived, thus preventing that idiotic term from ever being coined.

Is the sole purpose of a high ranking officer in a Dirty Harry film merely to look like he's about to blow a gasket every time Harry gets to sending a crook on the fast track to hell?

Just what does Ryan Seacrest actually do? And how much blood did he have to shed to become famous? And to whom did he sacrifice said blood to?

The emotional depth of the Kardashian family reaches an astonishing one eighth of a millimetre total.

Is Kathie Lee Gifford secretly a Looney Tunes character (Lady Drinksalot)? Would calling her that be an insult to Bugs, Daffy, and the rest? Would they drop an anvil on me? Hit me with an Acme sledgehammer? Launch me out of an Acme cannon?

What is it about public libraries that draw in morons who like having conversations that others can hear over the music they're listening to on their headphones? Were these morons raised by Neanderthals? No... Neanderthals had better manners.

Memo to Hollywood: please stop adapting Nicholas Sparks novels. And just for good measure, don't let Michael Bay direct another movie ever again.

Since Stephanie Meyer has decided against continuing the infernal Twilight franchise, will she start up another series called The Noon Saga, about immortal succubi? And then would that be followed by  The Afternoon Tea Saga, which would, of course, be about immortal teenaged afficionados of Earl Grey tea?

Often we see videos for sale in a convenience store that we've never heard of, featuring actors who are long past their prime. One of these days I'm expecting to see a film starring Steven Seagal, Vanilla Ice, Pia Zadora, and Carrot Top called Dear God, Buy This Movie, The Loan Sharks Are Coming To Break Our Legs.

Someone needs to muzzle David Foster. Celine Dion wasn't nearly so obnoxious in her early years, then she met Foster, and all of a sudden, every song had to be over the top, over done, and breaking wine glasses. I swear, the man has never heard of being subtle and understated. In his world, a song must have a thousand voice choir and a thousand-violin orchestra accompanying the lead singer, and must outdo every song before it...

Speaking of Celine, I'd like to thank the city of Las Vegas for taking her off our hands. I'd also like to apologize on behalf of all Canadians for unleashing her on the world. Same goes for Justin Bieber. And Nickleback. And Drake. For the record, we do have good musicians.

 If Wizard of Oz were remade with members of the Bush administration, would it work out to the following casting? Dubya as the Scarecrow (no brain), Laura Bush as Dorothy, Dick Cheney as the Tin Man (no heart), Michael "Brownie" Brown as the Cowardly Lion (no spine), Karl Rove as the Wizard, and Hillary Clinton as the Wicked Witch of the West?

Why does Jason Statham insist on playing pretty much the same character over and over and over again?

Finally.... why is a raven like a writing desk?