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Movie Review: The Day the World Stood Still

Keanu Reeves.

That very name is a statutory warning of a movie's quality. Case in-point, The Day the World Stood Still. It's entertainment is in the harried discoveries and disturbances of the first half; it's watchability caves the moment Reeves wants screen-time. What could have served as clever homage to the 50's film, or even in the subdued vain of Contact, relegates all engagements of your imagination to Klatu's (Reeves) powers. Dialogues are crippled, dying ever more after intermission while the Earth is being "rescued". That Dr. Benson convinces Klatu "We Can Change" is a classic example of the touchy-feely deus ex machina - the human heart transcends all logic - that would make the Archies proud. That Jennifer Connolly can't convince the audience of that same is a different, more definite tragedy.

For every Hollywood exemplary piece, at least one throw-back to direct-to-video days of yore is needed - where thin story and CG destruction cuddle together on your dead brain. The Day the World Stood Still isn't even that. It pretends to be smart, neither catering to nor satisfying any real audience. If you crave hardcore destruction porn, watch Die Hard 4 or Transformers. If you want destruction with brains, revisit Jurassic Park or even The Day After Tomorrow. This movie could've been worse, but that's just a euphemism for stale quality.

Rating: Not worth it.

Return to LJ? hmmm

It's been way too long since I did anything with blogging that didn't concern my job. Ganita has been here this whole time; so have the High School no Jutsu comm, RPers of the highest caliber and patience (though i haven't opened that account, so no idea of the number of threats accumulated).

A couple of on-goings in my life:

1. Working for www.split-screen.com. Gaming blog. Some features fun, some excrutiating to write and boring to boot. Cash makes the pain go away (on the note: misplaced Rs. 1000 today).

2. College is in the second year thus far. Camera classes are occupying my time, along with a workshop with a famous Portugal film-maker/director of photography. Forget his name but will see if i can obtain an impromptu interview with him.

3. I'm making plans to use a blog (any blog) to post real journalistic stories; I have no desire for being biased and blowing my time; nor is a solid portfolio to wave in a company's face. Simply a means for becoming the earning journalist tomorrow through the busy college student of today.

4. Love life still 'meh' and dangerously teetering closer to 'heh' with a tinge of 'hello, Clarice'. Looks are now like a pair of socks for me - wear the same for a while, and when the odour becomes too irritating, clean it a good five or ten times, begin pattern anew. "Bringing sexy back' on crack, sounds like a good euphemism for looking like the recreation of Resistance's ending.

5. The band Dead or Alive has fucking scarred me for life; the journalistic juices that permeate in the wake of witnessing one Ed Burns raping my eyes are yet to be surpassed.

6. No internet connection yet; should be remedied by the end of the month.

Am I really and firmly back on LJ? Can't hurt to try.

Of RSI and One Winged Two Wingers...

So tendinitis has finally taken a strangle-hold on my life (for the writer in me, my hands are pretty much my life-- until I finally learn how to use voice-recog software). The dominant hand's in the nice little solid, plaster brace (Edit: I ripped the leech off; I think I could hear it talking to me in my sleep), the intermittent sessions of dipping the appendage into really cold water first and then some hot water after some time (pretend it sounds crazy, but is actually ecstasy, and that's the way it's meant to be appreciated) are underway, and have been cutting down on writings, but that won't stop me from blogging or updating my fanfic stories. At least, not by much.

Oh, and apparently, the end of the world is being written by monkeys on type-writers. I repeat: Freakin' monkeys with freakin' type-writers.

A little free-writing extract to share with one, all and sundry, is a little “analysis” (for lack of a better word) on one of my college and class mates. Two versions exist, the first being comparatively closer to the whole concept of free-writing mixed with the understandably veiled sexual frustration of the 21-year old in me. The second isn't much different; for the family-friendly, it resides in a different galaxy compared to the former. If a few of my so-called beta-readers/college friends/philistines (we're talking those who didn't even read the whole thing before proclaiming ire and “asshole” upon the author) didn't offer their moral diatribes, it wouldn't have been such, but readers are still readers, hence the changes. Enjoy.


An angel's wings are everything. The strength of their connection with the body determines the confidence one has when using them. The number of feathers they shed outlines the purity of her numerous thoughts as they touch upon soiled hands in solid form. Their shade illuminates their silhouette against the sun. Their structure and aerodynamic design aids in navigating harsh winds and cruising easy breezes alike.”

Her hair flows down, straight and unscathed, like a waterfall. It's divided neatly into 2 straight waves, with a deep trench forming somewhere in the roots' terrain. At one instance, commanding respect.

At another, conveying innocence.

In yet another, suffering in loneliness.

In still another, accepting of all she sees.

The cheeks she uses to smile are worn and dimpled?

Small digits of nimble laboring ability conclude the long stretches of hairless ivory. Right-handed; seven extra years. Shoulders, even and odd, length and stature respectively, solder the immense weight of thoughts into her pride. Her shoulder blades extend into two narrow smooth clavicles, below which a multitude of pairs of symmetrically equal yet opposing ribs lay, adorned by her strong scarless sternum. Still lower is her navel; even lower still, her solemnity. “Temple of Love”, “Goddess' Gift”, Divine Recreation”-- such stereotypes of stereotypes adorn its identity.

Such blank eyes.

Her eyes are one's entry to her mind-- the entry to one's thoughts, derisions, desires, memories, hate, nightmares, idiosyncrasies, euphemisms, horrors, jokes, happiness, emotions-- but there's a divide between them. Tracing down her forehead, through her neck bones, through the ravine in her chest, ending, then extending back through the hips, traveling along the spine, between the shoulder blades, creeping up her neck, cell-deep in the silken fabric and arriving once more at her forehead.

There are no distances, only journeys.

Only two in her mind:

Her and them, her and him, her and her.

There is only observation to be made:

Isolation, obscurity, rejection, solitude, contemplation, domination, discomfort, denial, abstinence, divinity, quintessence, obsolescence, shyness, misdemeanor, non-committal.

Only one observation; yet many are the misleading jargons and analysis.

An angel's wings are, indeed, everything.

However, most important of all, they determine how high she can remain, beyond the reach of the Earth.”

An angel walking amongst the streets of Man.

No wings on her back.

Only wings on her heart.

The cheeks she uses to smile are worn and dimpled, but then, from what?

...There's definitely more to her than meets the to-be-continued tag.


Yes, there was meant to be a second part but couldn't get around to it with all the other stuff on my butcher's block, so it'll have to wait. Here's to the next couple of months in rehab...or not..