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infra-dead · 6 years

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Hello I know you've said you've received hella messages about this, but I was just wondering if inspiration hit you for Doublethink? The fic is beautifully written, and I would love to see more from it. I am reading your other fics, which is why I ask. I just love the way you write! New favorite author. :)

hey there cutie!

honestly i’m always surprised whenever i get asked about this just because the readership seems small but y’all are… making me REALLY wanna go back to playing phantom pain LOL. (i’m like two trophies from platinuming it so… it’s VERY likely!) i do have bits of the next chapter in progress though; i’ll put it under a read more here for ya, involving some ocelot/reader… ;^)

thanks for dropping in! :^)

The first step Ocelot takes towards mending your salvaged relationship involves a mixtape left on your suspiciously non-dusty desk back on Intel.

Aptly named Mixtape #1, you’re led to believe that any particular gift left for you by Ocelot of all Mother Base staff screams trouble on its own. In one way you can see it as a romantic gesture, which you presume is what Snake wants you to take it as. On the other hand it could easily be more boring debriefing of FOM and light readings that Ocelot’s prepared to bore you with.

So you bite the bullet and eject your current tape, popping in Ocelot’s carefully made gift with hopes and dreams that it’ll be Wham! or Queen’s new album funneling through your headphones instead.

The only other reason you’re listening to it at all is that the purveyor of your generous gift is standing across from you, a hand on his hip hanging beside the holster at his front. Despite the easygoing look on his face, you take a few cautious liberties to study him and whatever surprise he’s got waiting for you, though he only eases out a teasing chuckle when your finger lingers on the play button.

“Go on,” he goads, watching as you attempt to comfortingly place the foamed cup against your ear. “Give it a listen.”

The second the tape begins to reel he paces languidly over to the opened balcony, gazing off at some crane in the distance moving around raw materials of cargo brought in for refinement. Behind him your lips part, studying the slow feed of the reel from one end to the other and listening as the words pass through your ears in a similar fashion.

It’s not Prince or Bruce Springsteen or even Depeche Mode, artists you’d be surprised Ocelot would even bothered to culture himself with. Lord knows this man generously spends too much of his free time watching spaghetti westerns to get that gaudy accent down right, and if he isn’t doing that he’s probably in Room 101 on Command Platform.

You’ve never been in there yourself–ever since Ocelot’s arrival and the lackluster number of Diamond Dogs at the time, you never had much of a role outside of providing detailed information for field agents from base. Enhanced interrogation is his technique; any new recruits the Boss balloons back has to go through Ocelot for gentle persuasion first before they ever get to even see you.

But the voices on the tape are anything but new recruits, FOMs, weather reports or berating you for stealing D.D. from under his nose again. Even Code Talker’s lecture tapes are more rewarding than this.

But I didn’t do anything!

You know that voice. Remember bringing him coffee out in the Caribbean Mother Base as he watched the sunrise. Pushing his wheelchair back inside when it came time to get back to work. There might even be a photo someone snapped somewhere of you posing alongside him during a birthday party, all bright smiles and worries gone.

You have to believe me! I didn’t know!

Kaz’s voice is filled with malice, coarse and rough and dangerously low. And yet you’re the only one who came out unscathed. Because Huey Emmerich lost everything in comparison to you all. He didn’t have to dive into the burning sea to save any drowning MSF soldiers. Not with those legs. Didn’t have to wait all these years to protect a comatose lover, a legendary soldier. Didn’t have to pick up the pieces after you’d returned back to the call, something that had started off as just you and an intact Miller.

I’m the victim!

Your thumb cruelly mashes the stop button.

Ocelot looks like some exotic picturesque postcard standing there, arm leaning against the wall, hand on his hip still as he gazes at you over a shoulder. “What do you think?”

You scowl, tearing the headphones free and tossing everything onto the side of the bed. “Persecutory delusion; classic victim complex.”

In other words, he’s a fucking liar and you know it.

Whatever lasting evidence you had is buried in sand and seabed, drifting and dragging through cool waters. It’s not like you were in charge of security detail back in MSF but you were part of Intel damn it; espionage and clandestine operations were supposed to be your forte. The fact that a slippery bastard like Emmerich could even best you under your nose is a sucker punch too soon. The guy can barely even walk much less run.

Even your most professional side can’t seem to stomach the thought of him, still trying to fathom that he’s even back on the safest place you can be.

The heels of your palms dig into your eyes as you flop back against the covers, heavy sigh of frustration imminent.

To think you’d have your morning coffees and swap ideas with this traitor once.

“God, I hate that guy.”

Ocelot makes a sound of understanding, unbeknownst that he’s studying the lines of your body, legs dangling off the bed. “So I hear. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?”

You peek at him under your fingers with half-lidded eyes. “Don’t start with me.”

“I might finish with you.”

He meanders on closer when he sees your cheeks pinken, smirk on his face as the touch of his smooth leather suddenly graces the exposed skin of your hip. Downtime and the privacy of your own quarters allows you to break uniform protocol–untucked and unbuttoned shirt be damned.

Weight on the bed makes it dip to accommodate, the warmth of Ocelot’s palm flush against your skin. He’s seated at your side, upper body turned to fully appreciate you, eyeing that elongated wisp of a scar beneath his fingertips. Sometimes it’s hard for him to remember that you’d been a field agent and soldier before the promotions, absentmindedly tracing his index softly against it.

To his surprise you turn your head away abashed, fingers wrapping around the wrist against you not to yank him away, but in some sense of hesitance–comfort, even? It’s like you’d planned to politely pry him off but the touch of him there, of someone is enough to pacify you and leave him be.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about Emmerich right now?”

“What, talking about revenge and traitors doesn’t get your libido going?”

“Well, maybe for you…”

#asks #my fics #wip #lemme know if you had any other questions about the fic #i don't mind discussing it at all! <33 #anonymous

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ryanmeft · 6 years

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Three Movies That Deserve Criterion Editions, 5-27-2018

Crime films are among the most popular genres. Yet, while slick, stylish fare like the Ocean’s series or Fast and the Furious draw the greatest share of box office revenue, real-world crime is more often ugly, vicious, and not the least bit sexy, something this week’s films know all to well. Note that my predictions for whether these will ever be on the Collection are based entirely on my own gut feeling.

A Simple Plan (1998)

A morality play about the corroding effects of money on the souls of men, Sam Raimi’s sadly forgotten crime film owes a debt to Fargo and Of Mice and Men. It strikes its own identity by setting a tale as dark as night against wholesome midwestern living in a winter wonderland backdrop. A bag of money literally falls out of the sky, and three men, two of them brothers in fact and two others in blood, make a pact to ensure they keep it. Predictably, things go wrong. One of Raimi’s genius touches that sets this apart is in casting the wonderful, too-rarely-seen Bridget Fonda as someone you think will be a cliche womanly voice of reason, but turns out to fall quite as easily as the men. Between the performances of her, Billy Bob Thornton, and the recently late and greatly missed Bill Paxton, this shifty, bloody story without a shred of the relieving dark humor of the Coen’s masterpiece is a disquieting look into nature’s scariest animal.

Chances of seeing it: 50%. This one is hard to say. The only time I can find mention of Raimi at Criterion’s site is pondering whether he saw the early camp horror film Equinox before making Evil Dead. The Collection has quite a few overlooked noir classics from the heyday of the genre, and it’d be great to add in a more modern take, as well.

The Proposition (2005)

“...plays like a western moved from Colorado to Hell,” said the late Roger Ebert. He wasn’t blowing smoke. American westerns in the good old days always had to have a clear good guy and a clear bad guy, and even the darker spaghetti westerns popularized by Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood weren’t quite as blood red as advertised. John Hillcoat’s film about a savage outlaw sent to kill his savagely deranged older brother so that his mentally challenged younger brother might be spared the rope is, to put it mildly, not fucking around. Set in late 19th century Australia, this is a place populated by the merciless, idiotic, delusional and cruel, but never in any measure the heroic. The protagonist participated in a crime so heinous that to portray it in anything but the sporadic glimpses we get might make even the strongest stomachs sick, but at some point you realize he is simply one of many terrible results of a world that seems run by demons. Guy Pearce, Ray Winstone, Emily Watson and Danny Huston give performances tinged with terror both experienced and inflicted, we get a small-but-wonderfully-touched role from the greatly missed John Hurt, and the entire thing is backed by a moody, dusty score from Nick Cave and Warren Ellis.

Chances of seeing it: 50%. This one already has a Blu-Ray release, but given you’ll never see anything else like it from the typically tradition-beholden western genre, it deserves to be on the Collection, rather than languishing away on an edition most will likely never come across. Oh, and Criterion, if you do this? See if you can get the soundtrack as a supplement. It’s amazingly gorgeous and haunting for such a bleak film.

Hard Eight (1996)

Unless you were actively looking for it, chances are slim you’ve seen Paul Thomas Anderson’s first feature film. Unlike most of his later filmography, it does not attempt to analyze human nature or break the rules of movies. Instead, it’s simply---and I use that world lightly---an update of the classic noir formula made appropriate for the much less idealistic 90’s. Just as The Proposition took westerns and truly made good on their promises of bleak and hopeless worlds, so Hard Eight does with noir, taking out any semblance of a hero---even Jake Gittes would be a hopeless romantic here---and in their place giving us pimps, hookers, pushers, an all-around soot-blackened rainbow of desperate people. From the moment a stranger offers a drifter a leg up in life, the film never quite zags the way you expect. Even in this, his first outing, the strength of Anderson’s talent managed to attract a cast any director would envy, including John C. Reilly, Samuel L. Jackson and Philip Seymour Hoffman. The standout performances, however, belong to the severely underrated Philip Baker Hall as an altruistic old man with a secret, and to a pre-Goop Gwyneth Paltrow playing hard against later type as a drug-addicted hooker. It would be almost two decades before Anderson again made a film about such “ordinary” subject matter, but as proven with last year’s Phantom Thread, ordinary is such an elusive word when here applied.

Chances of seeing it: 80%. I’m rolling the dice here. Do you know why? Because after spending years in limbo, Anderson sort of kind of said he was working on a Blu-Ray release in an AMA about Phantom Thread. Someone in the conversation even asked if it was going to be Criterion, and it damn well better, because after a half century of waiting they’re just about the only ones who can do this thing justice.

That’s all for this week, guys. I have no teases this time for anyone who might like to predict these, as I haven’t decided what I’m going to cover next time yet. It’s a toss up between the best of Michael Bay and the Star Wars Christmas Special. See you next time.

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talesmaniac89 · 7 years

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The Mexican Standoff

Summary: Reader & Winchesters (Friendship). The reader sets out to prove to the Winchesters that she’s the most badass hunter in the bunker.

Word Count: 2872

Triggers: None

Y/N = Your name

---

It was time.

The “Annie get your gun”-esque verbal battle of anything you can do I can do better had gone on for far too long and it was time to find out which one of you were the actual undisputed champion of ass kickings. Which, of course, was you… The boys just didn’t know it yet.

For the last few weeks Dean, Sam and you had taken turns basically bragging about your skills with a weapon and all three of you seemed to believe you were the true reincarnation of Billy the Kid, with the two others just being cheap souvenir shop imitations. Sure you knew that you were the ultimate fucking badass, but the Winchesters seemed to need a refresher course. So yeah, it was definitely time.

That morning, fueled by the almighty power of one-upping and a cup of coffee so strong it was a miracle it didn’t burn through the cup, you’d snuck out of the bunker to collect the three weapons you’d stashed outside two days earlier. Dropping by the all night diner to get your victory meal for later whilst you were out. ‘Cause there was no better way to rub your victory in the Winchester boys’ faces than to do so with powdered donuts.

Before even Sammy had deigned it a reasonable time to get up, you’d placed a colourful Nerf gun and a handful of bullet darts outside of each Winchester’s bedroom door. Accompanied by a nice little note made from newspaper cutouts telling them, quite poetically if you’d say so yourself, to “Bring it bitches”. Ooooh yeah, it was definitely time to set the record straight.

You’d been planning your little wild west standoff for a few days by then. The two brothers you hunted with were just as ready to one-up each other as they were you. But being brothers they also stood up for each other. Meaning that usually it was your shooting skills that were pulled into question. Even though both of them kept dropping their damned guns during hunts and you had an iron grip on yours. And so, you’d developed this little plan to whoop their asses and once and for all show them that you were the ultimate gunfighter, up there with John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.

You’d even found the perfect place to put your trophy, ‘cause of course you’d bought a trophy. Bragging rights were good and all, but they weren’t as visually pleasing as a big ass trophy that pronounced you the ultimate ass kicker. Sure, the trophy was one of those cheap plastic ones, and the only one in the store that fit was a soccer one that said “best shot”, but hell.. You’d take it.

After ninjaing your way over to their doors and leaving your little love note/challenge letter, you’d snuck back into your room like you were a goddamn cat burglar to get ready for what promised to be a day of you kicking Winchester ass.

Hell you’d even gotten the Rambo look down by adding a headband to your dark jeans and tank top combination and using your makeup to add just a touch of warpaint. Warpaint stripes were after all the new blush, Vogue just hadn’t caught up with the times yet.

Sneaking back into the library you found yourself a spot where you could easily spot any incoming enemy attacks, yet still safely retreat to another room when necessary. And then… Then you waited.

---

“Hey! No shooting before I’m ready Dean!” Sam’s grumpy voice echoed through the hallway and over to where you were still hiding. Ok, so at some point you’d gotten up and grabbed yourself a bite to eat and something to drink, cause the boys had slept in, but you’d mainly been lying in wait. Crouching down you smirked as you listened to the slightly muted back and forth as the two boys decided on a momentary truce until they could get out of the exposed hallway.

Oh, it was on.

Grabbing your gun you focused on the door. Watching and waiting until Sam came in the door. Dean was nowhere to be found however. Most likely the older hunter probably decided to head off to another part of the bunker. Staying patient you waited until Sam was more or less out in the open in the room and looking around with the Nerf gun in his hand resting by his hip instead of raised into firing position. Easy shot.

Straightening up a little you fired a quick shot at the hunter. Unfortunately just missing him as the big guy somehow was graced with the reflexes of a cat though at his size he shouldn’t have been able to move that quickly and smoothly. Diving behind the couch Sam groaned as your laughter filled the library.

“What’s this all about (Y/N)?” Sam called out behind the couch. Ah, cute little Sammy, always the negotiator. Wouldn’t work this time though, oh no… This was deadly serious.

“Proving a point Sammy,” You sing-songed as you kept low and silent, moving slightly for Sam to not have a clear feel of where you were hiding. With your eyes on the couch where the big guy was not fully hiding you kept the brown mop of hair that peeked out on top in your line of sight as you moved silently towards your next hiding place. “You’ve been makin’ fun of my skills with a gun for too long. Payback’s a bitch and I’m her right hand woman,”

“Alright, fair point, though we all know I’m the actual best shot in the bunker,” Sam’s voice lost the tired lilt it had held and you could hear the grin in his voice as he accepted the challenge head on now that he knew the stakes. “But why did you have to give me the pink gun? And why are you dressed like Rambo?”

“‘Cause I thought it’s match your pretty hair Sammy, and the Rambo look suits me,” You purred, laughing and rolling out of the way as the hunter tried to use your voice to take aim and shoot in your direction. Missing you by a mile. Rolling back onto the balls of your feet you ran around the corner and headed straight for the garage, that place was a damned labyrinth of old classic cars. And most likely where you’d find Dean.

As you rounded the corner you knew Sammy had the same idea and could hear him follow you on those unfairly long legs of his. Making a split second change in your plan you slipped into one of the more or less unused and dark rooms in the bunker and plastered yourself up against the wall until you heard the big guy hurry past. No need for you to be shot in the back that early on. The battle for supremacy had just begun.

Your little change in plan and strategy seemed to pay off almost immediately as you heard Sammy groan from down the hall. Followed by Dean’s childish laughter as it bubbled over and echoed against the concrete walls of the bunker.

“Traps are against the rules Dean” Sam’s voice made the big guy really sound like the whiny little brother as he raised his voice to be heard over big bro’s laughter. Choking back a laugh you snuck closer to the open garage door to have a look at what had happened.

Keeping close to the wall to keep out of sight, yet get a clear enough view of where Sam was half hiding behind a car, you took in the scene in the garage. The space in front of the door was a mess of overturned cans and wrenches littering the floor right next to where Sammy was hiding.

So, Dean was playing dirty. Good to know.

“There’s no rules in war Sammy. Survival of the fittest,” Dean laughed back, making it easy for you to pinpoint the hunter’s location behind the classic Camaro further into the garage. Damn it, he was just out of your range. But maybe…

Taking advantage of the brother’s bickering you managed to sneak around the edge of the door and follow the line of cars parallel to where the guys were acting like, well, brothers… Damn, screw Cat Woman, you should get your own movie and action figure combo. You were killing it at this whole sneaking around like a ninja thing.

Reaching your desired location you allowed yourself a quick peek over the hood of the car you were hiding behind to ensure that the two hunters hadn’t moved. The back of Dean’s head was in clear view. Smirking you raised your gun and took aim, missing by just a few inches. Damn it.

“Hey! Sneaking up on me like that is unfair (Y/N)!” Dean called out as he realised he was surrounded on both sides by his brother and you. Crouching lower so that you could no longer see his head.

“No rules Dean, you said so yourself!” You called back with a happy laugh. Before relying on your speed to get you out of what could end up being a bad situation and sprinting towards the other door in the large garage, easily avoiding the dart bullets the boys tried to hit you with until you were finally out of their reach. “Three hits guys! First to get three hits in wins!” You called over your back before sliding in behind the car closest to the other garage door.

---

After close to two hours of playing acting war in the Men of Letters bunker you each had two hits under your belts. The boys and you getting more desperate by the minute to get that final shot in and win the battle. Which was what had brought you all into the library where you’d ended up in the current situation.

It was a real Mexican standoff, like something ripped straight out of a typical spaghetti western, as the three of you stared each other down doing your best Clint Squint impression with Nerf guns aimed in a triangle formation. Your gun pointed towards Sammy, whilst Sam had his gun aimed straight at Dean, and Dean, in turn, had you in his sights. Sure, you knew things could either stay in the damned standoff for ages, or, both boys could choose blood over friendship and aim in your direction. Unfortunately, with the latter being a very likely option you knew you had to act.

Though you knew you still had time to formulate a plan. After all, neither Winchester wanted to give up the chance to win the fight, and whichever dart hit you first would be declared the winner if they did turn on you. Yeah, it was a bad situation, but you’d been planning for days and had of course thought of a way out of situations like this. You just needed to get the boys talkin’ first.

“So, it’s come to this,” You held back the childish giggle that threatened to follow the movie cliche out of your mouth. With a raised eyebrow and a practised smirk you let your eyes travel from Sam to Dean without taking your gun off of Sam.

“It sure has, and it’s ending now,” Dean played easily into your hand with a grin as he kept his gun aimed at you without pulling the trigger.

“Shoot me (Y/N) and I’ll shoot Dean, it’s all down to who has the fastest reaction speed,” Sam shot in, not one to be outdone as his eyes flashed to you before refocusing on Dean.

“Why don’t you boys just put your guns down, I think we all know who’s going to win this little fight,” You teased, knowing your words would have the opposite effect on the two hunters. Pride and stubbornness were occupational hazards and often the best weapons in your arsenal as hunters. Kept you alive just about as often as if got you into trouble anyway.

“Oh no sweetheart, I could stay here all day,” Dean winked at you as he changed his grip on the gun, as if the little move was supposed to underline his ability to stay in the locked down fight the whole day.

“You forget darling, I was up before you. I’ve eaten, had a rest and and all the time in the world to grab a coffee or two. You could get tired, thirsty or hungry… All I know is, one of you will give up way before me,” You teased back as you put your hand down by your hip, careful to play it off as sassy self confidence to throw the guys off of the scent of what you really had planned. True, you’d had time to eat, and to plan. You’d even had time to prepare an extra little hidden surprise in your waistband. But they didn’t need to know that.

“Food is for the weak, slows ya down,” Dean shot back to murmured agreement from his younger brother. Neither Winchester seemingly reacting to your hand on your hip as their eyes stayed locked on the colourful plastic weapons that were aimed their way.

“Oh honey, I wasn’t just talking about food and caffeine. I was talkin’ about time,” You grinned. Your words were designed to be vague enough to confuse the boys yet put them on the defensive as you stood your ground. To let you take your time to ensure you could easily get your little trump card out without fumbling with it as well as use your surroundings to your advantage without tripping .

That would’ve been totally uncool.

“Time?” The question had barely left Sam when you saw your chance to turn the battle around of the guys. Bringing your foot out you hooked it into the closest library chair and pushed it towards Dean as you pulled the little water gun out of your waistband and soaked the two guys with a happy laugh before jumping out of the way as two Nerf darts came zooming past you.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Sam called out as he wiped water from his face. Gun clearly aimed at where you were crouching behind the couch.

“And water guns don’t count. Y’ still have to shoot one of us one more time to win,” Dean shot in, clearly not ready to concede the battle to you.

“All is fair in love and war boys, oh and, Sammy, be a sweetheart and do me a favour... Look down,” You purred as you stayed hidden behind the couch with your two guns at the ready. Hell, it might be cheating, but you preferred to call it street smarts. No one went into battle empty handed after all.

“Shit,” Sam’s groaned curse was enough to let you know that the Nerf dart you’d shot towards the guy at the same time the water gun had gone off in his face had hit it’s target and was resting by Sam’s feet. Yeah. The battle was yours. “That was a cheap shot (Y/N),” Sam complained from behind the couch.

“Doesn’t matter, I won and the trophy is mine,” You laughed as you went to stand up from behind the couch now that the battle was won and you’d come out victorious like you knew you would.

“Wait? There’s a trophy? If I knew there was a trophy I would’ve taken this much more seriously,” Dean whined as he looked at you, Nerf gun still raised even though the battle was clearly over. “I demand a redo! Best out of three!”

“Come on now Dean, no one likes a sore loser,” You laughed as you walked over to the guys again with a shit eating grin. “I won, fair and square… Well, maybe not fair, but who cares about semantics anyway,”

“I agree with Dean. There should be a rematch. And no extra guns this time (Y/N),” Sam backed up his big brother as they both stares at you with fake anger softened by the childish glee in their eyes.

Neither man seemed ready to give up on your game of war, and hell, they might be sore losers, but they were your losers, and you loved them enough to give them a few more chances to get their asses kicked by you.

“Alright, alright boys. I can see you’re aching to be utterly humiliated by my awesome gun-toting skills,” You chuckled as you crouched down to pick up your discarded Nerf gun dart. “But! Let’s eat first. I picked up doughnuts when I was out this morning, and I need another cup of coffee. Whaddya say?” You interrupted the back and forth your words would’ve started with a laugh as the two Winchesters looked at each other with a shrug.

“Ok, a truce for powdered sugar and coffee, but then it’s deadly serious (Y/N),” Dean agreed as Sam nodded along, both boys probably starving after running around for two hours.

“Oh, bring it sweetheart,” You grinned as you jokingly pushed into the hunter on your way past him to the kitchen. A quick brunch break for sugar and caffeine, then it was time… Again.

That cheap plastic trophy would be yours.

Forever tagged: @auszimbo @upon-a-girl @gallifreyansass @mogaruke @skybinx-blog @delisp

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thismoviefucks · 4 years

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THESE MOVIES FUCK - JANUARY 2020

I watched ten movies this month. Let me tell you what I thought.

Once Upon a Time in the West (1968, dir. Sergio Leone) is a movie that tells you who it is right up front. The opening 15 minutes of this legendary spaghetti Western are paralleled in their perfection only by the other 150, establishing the tone for the whole movie; an excruciatingly slow, tense and beautiful crawl through the arid, picturesque blank slate of the desert. There is very little action in this movie, and not much in the way of dialogue. There doesn't need to be. Sergio Leone's direction, Ennio Morricone's music, and the subtle performances of a young Charles Bronson and a playing-shockingly-against-type Henry Fonda, among others, all congeal into a movie you could probably watch and love even if the dialogue wasn't there at all.

A Fistful of Dollars (1964, dir. Sergio Leone) is one of those movies that's more influential than it is good. It's undeniable how massive of an impact this movie left on film, from practically inventing a lot of what became the Spaghetti Western to launching the career of a young Clint Eastwood, but in my eyes this is a pretty weak movie. A low-budget remake of the classic Kurosawa jidaigeki picture Yojimbo, there's definitely a lot of charm here -- you can already see Sergio Leone's style in its infancy, and Clint Eastwood is as fantastic as ever in his portrayal of the Man with No Name here -- embodying that classic mysterious drifter archetype seemingly effortlessly -- but to my eyes there's just a lot missing here that makes it a sort of drab experience, unfortunately. Still worth a watch, and still very much recommended if you're interested in the history of low-budget film or the history of the Western in general.

Rambo: Last Blood (2019, dir. Adrian Grunberg) is a movie that left me massively conflicted; on the one hand, I want desperately to love the unapologetic throwback to '70s exploitation cinema (in particular, vigilante movies, low-budget spaghetti Westerns, and good old-fashioned splatter) that this movie clings to -- but on the other hand, it fully embodies all the worst elements of those movies and combines them with a pathetic excuse for a plotline, underdeveloped characters, and shoddy effects work. When I think Rambo, I think "Sylvester Stallone in the jungle, mowing down hordes of nameless mooks; this movie, conversely, feels more like a Chuck Bronson Death Wish movie than any of the previous Rambos, and carries all the baggage of that wave of '70s vigilante movies, the good and the bad. The way this movie portrays Mexicans makes me think it was written by a Fox News boomer, and given that Sly is in his 70s it totally might be; to be slightly fair to him this movie was apparently written before the excellent fourth Rambo movie, and its already-tired-in-2010 plotline has aged like milk since then. Not to mention the women characters in this, which are little more than props and only serve to give John Rambo a reason to kill everything in his line of sight, and have no personality beyond "morality pet for 70-year-old veteran guy". So I'm not sure how I felt about this movie on first watch. It is a love letter to all the great low-budget cinema that made loose cannon cowboys and renegade cops cool again, but doesn't seem to have learned at all from the 40 years since then.

For a Few Dollars More (1965, dir. Sergio Leone) is, for my money, the definitive spaghetti Western. Lee van Cleef and Clint Eastwood turn in classic performances as the quintessential badass bounty hunters kicking ass on the Mexican border. I love, love, love bounty hunter stories, and this is one of the great bounty hunter stories of all time -- though, don't try to follow the plot too closely, as it is definitely a bit of a mess, though it's at least a fun one. The first hour or so of this movie is basically all setup, whether that's setting up Clint Eastwood's character, setting up Lee van Cleef's character, them meeting in the bar, them trying to one-up each other, etc. But, once the plotline does kick in, it's a great time, with the villain El Indio being played by the great Gian Maria Volonte (who was also in A Fistful of Dollars), a giggling madman who leads a gang of bank robbers and has a brutal quickdraw hand. The scene in the church, where El Indio murders a man's wife and baby offscreen for selling him out and then forces him into a quickdraw duel, is one of the truly great scenes in Western history; this, also, is where you can see the classic elements of Sergio Leone's style begin to play out -- the extreme close-ups, the drawn-out tension, and of course the bombastic score by Ennio Morricone. And that, finally, is another thing that needs to be noted: this has perhaps one of Morricone's greatest scores; the main title theme is a classic piece of spaghetti Western music, up there with his similarly-incredible scores for Leone's next two pictures. To put it simply: if you like cowboys, if you like Clint Eastwood, or if you just plain like badass motherfuckers doing badass shit, this movie is a must fucking watch. Highly recommended.

Reviewing Parasite (2019, dir. Bong Joon-Ho) without spoiling it is pretty much like holding a hand grenade in your bare hands, so I am going to keep this as short as possible: This movie is at once hilarious and tragic. This movie is a sometimes-brutal satire of capitalism that pulls very few punches. This movie has convinced me that I need to watch Bong Joon-Ho's other stuff as soon as I can, and finally the important part: This movie deserves all of the hype it's been receiving. Highly, highly recommended.

I recently rewatched Kill Bill (2003-04, dir. Quentin Tarantino), and while it definitely isn't one of my favorite Tarantino joints, it's aged pretty well over the last 15, almost 20 years. A doting pastiche of all the '70s exploitation classics Quentin has made a living off his love for, everyone knows what Kill Bill is: A wedding rehearsal in Texas gets shot up -- massacred, in fact. 4 years later, the Bride rises from her coma and decides to get revenge by killing every one of the people that did it: members of an elite assassination team, led by her ex-lover Bill. There's a lot to love here: arterial sprays, limbs flying, white-bearded asshole kung-fu masters, entire scenes in Mandarin, the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique, and all the rest. There's also copious amounts of gratuitous shots of Uma Thurman's feet (because, you know, Quentin Tarantino is a bit of a creep), and some absurdly campy dialogue writing (Uma Thurman calling everyone "Bitch" is the big one, it sounds so unnatural) that I can't quite tell whether it's intentionally or unintentionally cheesy. But overall I think this movie is still worth watching in 2020. It's at least as good a use of four hours as Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet is, and unlike Hamlet this has a decapitation in it.

Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood (2019, dir. Quentin Tarantino) may not be my favorite Quentin Tarantino film, but it's almost certainly his best one. It's unlike pretty much anything he ever did, a slow-burn character-driven drama that barely has a central plot at all. Some people say this movie is "about" Charles Manson, but that couldn't be further from the truth; largely, this movie consists of a slice-of-life examination of the late career of an "aging" (read: in his thirties) actor and his best friend and stunt double, played by Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt respectively. Manson and his acolytes only figure into maybe 25 minutes of the movie, 15 or so of those being the climax of the movie where the only real "action" in the movie takes place. I think the slow, low-key nature of this movie plays to Quentin's strong suits far more than just about any of his other movies do: he is at his best when he's writing conversations between the characters he puts so much love into creating, and as far as that goes I'd say this movie puts him in the same league as Mamet. So, if you have 3 hours spare, I'd say this is worth your time and attention for those 3 hours. Check it out.

The Lighthouse (2019, dir. Robert Eggers) is one of those movies that I really am going to need to watch again, but just on first watch: This is abjectly horrifying, and one of only a few movies to genuinely make me uncomfortable and uneasy watching it. To call this movie "scary" would be sort of a misnomer: I'm not "scared" watching these two men going insane, but I am filled with a deep and utter sense of dread as the whole thing proceeds. The atmosphere reminds me most of Vargtimmen, Ingmar Bergman's classic psychological horror masterpiece, with some definite Eraserhead elements thrown in the mix too, along with the period-accurate linguistics and creeping unease of Eggers' last movie, The Witch, which was his debut. We live in a damn great time for horror cinema if people like Robert Eggers and Ari Aster can put out their first two features and have all four of the movies be the magnum-opus level masterclasses in misery and terror that they are. There's clearly some stuff hidden deeper in this film's cracks and crevices that I couldn't glean from my first watch, but even without the stuff I inevitably missed, I highly recommend this movie.

The Irishman (2019, dir. Martin Scorsese) is Scorsese's masterpiece (I think I *like* Goodfellas more, but this is clearly the better movie), and possibly the greatest gangster movie, full stop. At turns an epic, a subtle, quiet drama, and a crushingly dark portrayal of the Mafia, I have never felt more tense watching a movie that isn't trying to scare me in my entire life. There is no romanticisation or pulled punches here. The violence in this movie is few and far between, and it is always, always shocking. Gunshots in this made me tense up and jump, a reaction that I cannot say I've had to guns in any other movie. And the last hour of this movie -- chronicling the demise of Jimmy Hoffa and its repercussions -- is the best thing Scorsese has ever put to film. An unbelievably beautiful work of film. Highly, highly recommended.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (1966, dir. Sergio Leone) is not the perfect masterpiece I expected it to be, but is certainly a damn great film nonetheless. There are some who would call this the greatest Western ever made, and I certainly can see some reasons why that would be the case: fantastic performances from Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef and Eli Wallach, an iconic and classic soundtrack by Ennio Morricone, and one of the greatest final 20-30 minutes of a movie of all time. The hype kinda overblew it for me, though, because even with all the great stuff going for it, this movie has some slightly damning flaws that bring it down a little bit for me, namely the second act being as sluggish as it is; this movie is 3 hours long, and it starts to drag a little bit during the second act. Additionally, I thought it was a strange choice to not develop any of the characters other than Tuco beyond a few key aspects: Clint is calculating, stoic and the fastest gun in the West, and Lee is a sadistic, greedy monster. Tuco (Wallach), at least, gets some more character development, in the scenes where Eastwood and Wallach are at the church nursing Eastwood back to health. I'll definitely need to see this one again sometime soon, but in my eyes I'd rather watch either Once Upon a Time in the West or For a Few Dollars More than this one. Still though, undeniably massively influential and still definitely worth watching. Check it out.

There’s my opinions. See you next month with ten more.

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recentanimenews · 5 years

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The Good, The Bad, and the Shiraishi: Golden Kamuy is a Western?!

With the lure of mysterious, life altering riches hidden away by a criminal mastermind, a post-war soldier looks to turn his misfortunes and woes around by finding the gold… or die trying! Along the way, he meets up with some mysterious outlaws, tussles with soldiers unwilling to let the glory and carnage of war go, and befriends an indigenous girl who he decides to help recover the gold and find her missing father while learning to survive in the wild from her. If you read that and started thinking of Golden Kamuy, you’re obviously right, but if you read any of that and thought it sounds kind of similar to stories like Red Dead Redemption, Shane, A Fistful of Dollars, Unforgiven, True Grit or Once Upon a Time in the West, you might be onto something: Golden Kamuy is a Western! And not only that, but we think Golden Kamuy is the GREATEST anime Western of all time! Saddle up and get ready to ride into the wild Hokkaido yonder!

Western movies are not fairly popular today, but they used to dominate the Hollywood landscape, influencing filmmakers from around the world, and in turn being influenced by them! Sergio Leone’s great Spaghetti Westerns could never really have taken shape without influence from Akira Kurosawa’s Yojimbo, and the Magnificent Seven drew heavily from Seven Samurai. Films like The Searchers and Once Upon a Time in the West became classic films, cementing many Hollywood actors into legendary stars through their roles. Other actors, like It’s a Wonderful Life’s Jimmy Stewart, got their start and fame through Western movies, while resident Ronald Reagan rode his Western acting roles to fame and later the presidency.

While the Western has a stereotype of being linked to being an “American-only” genre, their conventions are broad and universal: lost souls searching for meaning in a new land, wild gunfights without the rules of society to hold them down, lawlessness and law fighting one another, exploring the untamed and vast wilderness, and of course, lots of gold! Even the idea that Western movies are just about dusty cowboys shooting each other at high noon is a misunderstanding; many Westerns ventured into mountains, plains, frigid climates, and even outside of America itself! Anime has had a small share of Western titles in the past, most notably Cowboy Bebop, El Cazador de la Bruja, and Trigun, many of which added sci-fi or semi-futuristic flair to fill out their world. But there aren’t many ‘traditional’ Westerns set during the turn of the 20th century, featuring a ragtag band of survivors and outlaws looking for fame and fortune… until now!

So what makes a Western? Well, there are so many various types that it can be hard to pin down! There are Westerns devoted to pastoral, romantic images of settling the untamed wilderness, Westerns about scoundrels and gunslingers, and Westerns about the realities and harsh nature of life in the West; there are even Western comedies and parodies. That said, a Western usually features a lone protagonist who either ends up searching for lost riches, fighting bands of roving bandits and thugs, or otherwise trying to make a living in the wild west. Many of them tend to be either mysterious wanderers, returning soldiers, guns for hire, or otherwise unattached individuals who seem to have nothing left to lose, and everything to gain! In Golden Kamuy, this rings true for Sugimoto, who upon returning from the Russo-Japanese war is simply looking for a way to earn some money so he can return to his dead friend’s wife, Umeko, and pay for her eye treatments in America. Sugimoto is haunted by the demons of war, keeping to himself the things he saw and experienced in order to come back alive, preferring to storm forward as much as possible rather than look back. Like most Western heroes, Sugimoto is serviceable with a gun, although not quite the crack shot that other characters are! Sugimoto’s grit and determination to succeed are what really fill out his role as a Western hero; you can’t kill an immortal, after all!

Sadly, many classic Westerns today are marred by their less-than-ideal depictions of indigenous Native Americans, usually relying on stereotypes and massive mischaracterizations of the realities of American expansion into the West; even Westerns that attempted realism or less idealistic stories tended to still cast “Indians” in disparaging roles. In this circumstance, Golden Kamuy surpasses other Western-style stories in its depictions of the Ainu, particularly through the character of Asirpa. The Ainu are depicted humanely in Golden Kamuy, and the show goes to great lengths to portray their culture and traditions authentically, from food to language. Asirpa is a strong-willed and capable hunter, determined to find her father and the Ainu gold, and while younger than the rest of the cast, happens to be one of the fiercest and battle-ready companions Sugimoto has. Westerns often feature duos working together, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Sugimoto and Asirpa are a deadly and heartwarming pair of friends committed to seeing each other succeed.

Of course, Westerns also have their fair share of rascals, rapscallions, and bandits, and the escaped convicts of Abashiri Prison are almost too outlandish in their dastardly ways. While some, like Hijikata, are seemingly more normal and noble, the rest of the lot are a mixture of murderers, serial killers, thieves, and other dangerous types that would easily fill out any rogues gallery. But one thing Western films do well is make these types of characters loveable and endearing in their weird, rough, outside-the-lines of society ways, and Golden Kamuy does that to a T, making even the likes of serial killer Henmi oddly charming. The main crew of convicts that circle Sugimoto’s group are the most eccentric, as if coming to life from a grindhouse Western film, with the likes of “Professor Penis” Ushiyama Tatsuma, a man with hardened bones in his body that make him nearly impervious to bullets with a physique to match, Ienaga, a woman who has... interesting... taste in dietary trends to keep her beauty at the cost of other’s lives, and of course the lovable (or detestable) idiot Shiraishi, a man with no brains but the ability to escape any situation except his own idiocy. The Abashiri convicts add a layer of outlaw flair to the series, as Sugimoto becomes a bounty hunter of sorts, looking not to bring them to justice, but to collect their tattoos!

Many classic Westerns are set not just in the rolling wilderness of the west, but also following the end of the American Civil War. Following the divide of the country, the West became a refuge for the lost and the damned, of those fleeing persecution, and of those hoping to start fresh. In Golden Kamuy, the Russo-Japanese war has just ended, and while Japan wasn’t in a fractured civil state, the outcome of the war left numerous soldiers lost and without a cause or reason to do anything but look for new wars. The soldiers of Golden Kamuy fit into these similar roles as many Western films, from the crazed and war obsessed Lt. Tsurumi and his fanatical 7th Division--men looking to start and continue endless war as the only way to rationalize their existence in the world--to Sugimoto, a man with survivor’s guilt and PTSD looking to atone or find a reason to keep going.

Then there are men like Ogawa, a devilish and cunning sniper who may just be playing all sides against each other in order to see who comes out on top… so he can replace them! Tanigaki is another man called to war, who finds his role following the fighting to be one where he looks to reconnect with his roots, finding solace in the Ainu, similar to his own Matagi. That says nothing of the old soldiers in Hijikata and Shinpachi, men who perhaps lived too long and, while their desire to reclaim Japan’s glory days may seem impossible, fight with the fury of a thousand men to see it brought to fruition!

Of course, no Western would really be complete without, well... the West, and Golden Kamuy uses its setting of Hokkaido to take advantage of this. Many Western stories took place across the vast stretch of land west of the Mississippi, meaning not every story was a desert tale, but instead featured vast and diverse terrains including forests, grasslands, and even the cold north of Alaska and Canada. Golden Kamuy takes the wild very seriously, as the characters not only learn to survive off the land due to Asirpa’s hunting skills, but they also learn that nature can be a furious and untamed power, capable of easily felling the strongest men in a single blow! More pastoral Westerns would focus on the beauty and calm of the untamed wilderness, and Golden Kamuy has its share of that too, featuring the then not yet developed forests, mountains, and other areas of northern Japan’s wilds. The cooking and food elements of Golden Kamuy are not out of place here either, as many Westerns described how wanderers, natives and settlers learned to eat, live, and survive off the land, developing unique mixtures of food cultures and new ways to prepare and eat wild animals.

Golden Kamuy isn’t just a Western, though, it’s the best anime Western ever! Golden Kamuy takes everything that makes a great Western story, and cranks the dial to eleven! Sugimoto isn’t just a brooding loner, he’s a loud, determined, potentially crazy soldier hunting down some of the most dangerous (and easily just as crazy) criminals in order to take their skins, find the hidden Ainu gold, and hold up the promises he made to his friend before he died and to his partner Asirpa. Sugimoto’s weird gaggle of supporting characters range from a cannibalistic serial killer to a man too stupid to live, and Asirpa turns a lot of Western stereotypes on their head and kicks them right in the butt with her amazing hunting, cooking, and survival skills. And where most Westerns focus on robbing banks or finding stores of gold, Kamuy’s level of gold is so huge that it could topple the Japanese economy, putting any who have control of it into a potential bid for starting their own army, let alone taking over a country! If you enjoy Westerns, there is a lot in Golden Kamuy to love, and if you’re itching for a show to scratch that Western itch after playing Red Dead Redemption 2, Golden Kamuy has what you’re looking for! And while there aren’t many cowboy hats to be had, this anime does have its fair share of interesting headwear...

As the second season of Golden Kamuy moves forward, we’ve already met a cast of new and exciting characters, had the tease of Asirpa’s father’s identity, and even potential promise of visits to Russia itself! Golden Kamuy shows no sign of slowing down in its high paced action, and no one character is truly safe from maiming or even death, meaning that the body count is likely to rise before Sugimoto and Asirpa find what they’re looking for. And if Westerns have taught us anything, it’s that these adventures sometimes have a bittersweet ending… But hopefully, the Immortal Sugimoto will prove that wrong in the end! So saddle up, get your favorite camping mug full of coffee, prepare yourself some osom--er, miso flavored chitatap, and settle in for the rest of Golden Kamuy’s wild adventures!

Have any favorite Western style Golden Kamuy moments? Let us know in the comments!

Haven't watched Golden Kamuy yet? Don't delay and watch Golden Kamuy today!

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Nicole is a features and a social video script writer for Crunchyroll. Known to profess her love of otome games over at her blog, Figuratively Speaking. When she has the time, she also streams some games. Follow her on Twitter: @ellyberries

By: [email protected]

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

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flauntpage · 6 years

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DGB Grab Bag: NHL Awards Are Exactly What We Want, Getting Old, and Doughnuts

Three Stars of Comedy

The third star: Jack Campbell – This may have been the only legitimately funny moment from the NHL Awards.

And yes, we'll have more on the Awards in a bit. Sit tight.

The second star: David Leggio – The veteran minor league goalie had some thoughts on golf.

The punchline, of course, is that Leggio's trademark is cheating like hell in a vaguely legal way. It was kind of his thing.

The first star: Kelly Cohen – She's a political reporter in Washington, DC. She's also apparently a Capitals fan, and found out about Barry Trotz while she happened to be at work—and on live television.

Somebody make sure there's a camera on her when John Carlson signs for $58 million.

Be It Resolved

The NHL draft begins tonight, and it will be a mildly depressing event for us old-timers. This is it—the draft in which most of the kids taken won't even have been alive for the 20th century. We're officially into the 2000 cohort. We are all so, so old.

But every tragedy brings opportunity, and we can find some here. For years, NHL stars have been choosing jersey numbers based on their birth year. Sidney Crosby was born in 1987, and he wears No. 87. Connor McDavid was born in 1997, so he wears No. 97. Other examples include Patrick Kane's No. 88, Vladimir Tarasenko's No. 91, Evgeny Kuznetsov's No. 92, and Jesse Puljujarvi's No. 98.

But this year's draft class won't be able to do that, because the NHL doesn't allow players to wear No. 0 or No. 00. It used to—John Davidson, Neil Sheehy, and Martin Biron all wore either zero or double-zero during their careers. But at some point in the late 90s, the NHL decided to outlaw the number, apparently because it was causing some sort of database problem.

I don't know what kind of database the league was running back in the 1990s, but I'm guessing it's had an upgrade or two since then (although anyone who's tried to use the league's stats site might wonder). We have self-driving cars and virtual reality now; we could probably come up with a database that can handle a zero.

So let's do it. Let's use this year's draft as an excuse to bring back the number zero. It would give players a chance to show a little bit of personality. Not much, granted, but in today's NHL, every little bit helps.

This will actually be the second straight draft in which most of the players picked won't be able to do that. Last year, most of the top prospects had been born in 1999, and the NHL retired No. 99 league-wide when Wayne Gretzky played his final game. That was the right call, and nobody would want the pressure of wearing the Great One's number (except maybe Josh Ho-Sang). There's a good reason not to allow players to wear No. 99, so we should stick with that rule.

But No. 0 and No. 00? They're not hurting anyone. Let's give tonight's draftees some options. And who knows, maybe a few established NHLers would like to show off their inner Al Oliver. It would be kind of fun to see which player would want to be patient zero of, well, zero.

So be it resolved: Databases be damned, let's break out the doughnuts. There was a time when the league wasn't shy about offering those. Let's bring those days back.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

The Sabres will make the first overall pick in tonight's draft when they officially add elite blueline prospect Rasmus Dahlin to the organization. It's the third time in franchise history that the Sabres pick first, and the first since they picked Pierre Turgeon back in 1987. The only other time came in their very first draft, way back in 1970. That was the year that saw the expansion Sabres and Canucks forced to rely on a novelty roulette wheel to figure out who would get Gilbert Perreault.

The Sabres eventually won the spin and made Perreault the first draft pick in franchise history. But as important as it is to nail the first overall pick, true contenders are built in the rounds that follow. So for this week's obscure player, let's go with the second player ever picked by the Sabres: winger Butch Deadmarsh.

Deadmarsh was a power forward who was coming off a strong junior season with the Brandon Wheat Kings. He was known for his physical style, not to mention his kickass name. ("Butch" was actually a nickname; his given name was Ernest, which admittedly wasn't quite as intimidating.) He'd play ten games for the expansion Sabres that year, but didn't record a point. He'd get 46 more games over the next two seasons, scoring just twice, before a 1973 trade sent him to Atlanta for Norm Gratton. He was also drafted by the WHA's Cincinnati Stingers that summer, but stayed in the NHL and was slightly more productive in Atlanta, scoring a career-high six goals during the 1973-74 season. That was enough to attract the attention of the expansion Kansas City Scouts, who picked Deadmarsh in the expansion draft—the third different way he'd been drafted in his pro career.

He'd play 20 games for the Scouts in their inaugural season, which by this point was his third different stint with a first-year NHL expansion team. That would end up being his last NHL action, as he'd head to the WHA and spend four seasons playing for five teams, including a 26-goal year with the Calgary Cowboys, a team whose entire roster-building strategy seemed to consist of acquiring players who sounded like characters in an old Spaghetti Western movie. (In addition to Butch, the Cowboys also featured names like Wally Olds, Pat Westrum, Danny Lawson, and Wayne Wood.)

His final NHL totals were 137 games, 12 goals, 17 points, and approximately zero craps given. And if the name sounds familiar, he's the second cousin of former NHLer Adam Deadmarsh.

Outrage of the Week

The issue: The NHL Awards were handed out on Wednesday, which means we got to watch the league's annual attempt to be hip and funny: The NHL Awards show! The outrage: It was terrible. Embarrassing. Cringeworthy. You know, the usual. Is it justified: No, dammit, and I will fight all of you over this.

Did the show have some less-than-inspiring moments? Sure, maybe it did. There was an extended ventriloquist bit that kind of died. There was a magic trick that went wrong. There was that glorified ad for NHL 19. There was plenty of awkward banter. There was a little kid interviewing players.

Look, let's just say there was a lot.

Some things worked. The treatment of various real-world tragedies were all well done. Brian Boyle's speech was touching. Scott Foster showed up. There was a long Keenan Thompson sketch that never really worked but did feature an old man yelling "Ass Man" for some reason. They got in an "Alexander Ovechkin drunk in the Bellagio fountain" bit, although it lasted three seconds instead of the entire show like it should have.

So sure, a few hits, many more misses. And everyone watching made fun of it, and complained about how terrible the whole thing was.

In other words, it was exactly what it's supposed to be.

I've always been a fan of the NHL awards. Something inside of me just loves the fact that the most boring, traditional league in the world suddenly decides to get weird for one night out of the year. Whether the NHL is trying to be hip or going for the dramatic or trying their hand at sketch comedy, the awards are always fun. Sometimes unintentionally so, but fun is fun. We don't have anywhere near enough of it in this league, so let's take what we can get.

This year was no different. It wasn't second-row guy good, although really, what ever could be? But it was fine.

But that's not good enough for you. You had to talk about how terrible it was. Well I'm not having it.

Folks, we live in a world that has fans, and those fans want to make fun of the NHL. Who's gonna give them material? You? Jay Mohr? The NHL Awards have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for the awkwardness and you curse the ventriloquist. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what they know; that the Stanley Cup sketch's death, while tragic, gave you something to complain about. And Chaka Khan's existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, gave you something to complain about. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about on Twitter, you want the NHL Awards to be terrible. You need them to be terrible. They use words like banter, magic, ass man. Well, ass man is technically two words but you get the point. They use those words as the backbone of a life spent producing terrible awards shows. You use them as a punchline. And that's the whole point, because punchlines are awesome. But Gary Bettman has neither the time nor the inclination to explain himself to a fan who can't wait to make fun of the cringeworthy entertainment he provides, and then questions the manner in which he provides it. He would rather you just booed him and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a deck of cards, and present the Mark Messier Leadership Award For Excellence In The Field of Leadership. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think on the NHL Awards show!

[Checks earpiece]

Right, I'm being told that 90 percent of the people reading this are too young to remember A Few Good Men and have no idea what I'm talking about. We are all so, so old.

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

On that note, let's remember the time Chris Jericho got to present an award.

It's 2002, and our old pal Ron MacLean is here to introduce the presenters for the next award. They're noted hockey fan David Boreanaz, who you may know as "That Guy Who's Always Starring in a Show You've Never Watched but Still Gets advertised During a Football Game," and Chris Jericho, who you may know as the Man of 1,004 Holds. Never let it be said that the NHL can't bring in the big names.

No, I don't know why this clip is in black-and-white. I'm assuming it's just a VHS glitch, but I can't rule out the possibility that the NHL went all avant-garde on us back in the pre-lockout days when we weren't paying attention.

No countdown? No fireworks? No light-up jacket? This Chris Jericho entrance sucks.

Jericho and Boreanaz do a little bit where they act like they want to fight but it's obvious that they really don't. As a result, they were both immediately offered contracts to join the Ottawa Senators in time for their next playoff series against the Maple Leafs.

(Why yes, this entire section is just going to be pro wrestling references and jokes about the Pat Quinn-era Leafs and their rivals. I'm not sure why you would have been expecting anything different.)

After a little off-the-cuff joking about cleaning up somebody else's mess that somehow doesn't include a punchline about Rejean Houle, we get to the award. It's the Selke, and after Jericho and Boreanaz read through some completely natural dialog, we're onto the nominees: Craig Conroy, Jere Lehtinen, and Michael Peca.

I like how the nominees are all just a woman's voice telling us what we need to know, and then a man awkwardly interjecting random facts. The 2002 NHL awards basically invented Twitter.

Wait, Craig Conroy "scored a point in almost every game"? Fact check: Not true.

If you turn on YouTube's closed captioning, it thinks that Jere Lehtinen just earned his fourth "sake bottle." Or, as Stanley Cup champion Alexander Ovechkin calls it, "pre-gaming."

We're told that Peca is "a survivor," which sounds weird until they get to the part where "fans voted him onto the island." Man, even 16 years ago this reference was two years out of date. Was the NHL ever cool? Don't answer that.

We cut back to our presenters, and my favorite moment of the clip, as Jericho starts opening the envelope and then randomly mentions that he's a Flames fan. That's a Grade-A psych out on Conroy, right? He must have already been halfway out of his seat to accept the award when Jericho drops "It didn't work" and announces Peca as the winner instead. He may as well have gone full heel here and told Conroy that he'd never, eeee-ver win an NHL award. (He'd have been right.)

Wait, Chris Jericho is "a huge Flames fan"? Since when? His dad played for the Bruins, Kings, Rangers, and Blues. And Jericho is always parading around in a Jets jersey. He's basically their official celebrity fan at this point. I realize the Jets were between teams back in 2002, but you can't just jump ship to a Smythe Division rival for a decade and then act like it's no big deal. You don't see Bret Hart walking around in an Oilers jersey. Wait, bad example. Man, I'm starting to think that some of the pro wrestlers may not be on the level.

Anyways, Peca wins, and then takes forever to make it from the front row to the stage. If you remember, this was just a few weeks after he had his little incident with Darcy Tucker, in which Tucker threw a totally legal hit and Peca tried to draw a penalty by rolling around the ice, leaving the game, missing the rest of the series, having surgery on his ACL, and missing the first month of the following season. Nice try, Mike!

Which was the better swerve: Jericho turning on A.J. Styles, or Peca signing with the Maple Leafs in 2006 and somehow becoming Tucker's best pal? I'm still stunned that little festival of friendship didn't end with somebody going through a flatscreen TV.

Peca begins his acceptance speech by referring to some "tough years," presumably a reference to his contract dispute and season-long holdout from the Sabres. We also get a Charles Wang sighting and a Mike Milbury shoutout, in case you were wondering if all of this ended well for the Islanders.

"I think we're all here tonight because we've all got great teammates. I want to thank Alexei Yashin for being here tonight…" [record scratch] . I can't tell if this is serious, in which case it's kind of sad, or if Peca is making a joke, in which case it's the greatest moment in NHL awards show history.

Peca closes out our clip with a genuinely nice moment: Wishing his wife Kristin a happy anniversary and saying hello to "My little guy Trevor."

By the way, that little guy was born in 2000, and is now a 6'1" forward who recently committed to the NCAA's Miami RedHawks. Have I mentioned that we are all so old? We are all so very old.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected].

DGB Grab Bag: NHL Awards Are Exactly What We Want, Getting Old, and Doughnuts published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/