Thursday, June 23, 2005
Megalomaniac and megachiropterian in his ways, Bruce Wayne/Batman as a cartoon character has never won my admiration before. And while I can't say Christopher Nolan's "elemental" figure has captured my fancy, it certainly has raised my opinion of the proverbial Dark Knight quite substantially.
A savvy no longer sickening is what Christian Bale brings into the role. Larger than life (but still no better than it), he fleshes out the black suit (yeah, minus the offending nipples) with a convoluted reality that this moviegoer can certainly appreciate. That he gets cuts and bruises and sleeps 'til 3pm is most refreshing. And while his toys are cut in the million-dollar mold, he's only just another boy wanting to bring justice to the world. Really.
As far as I'm concerned, Katie Holmes has been typecasted (eternally and forever) due to a fault entirely her own. She's far too delightfully pretty, too cuddly-cute, to play a serious, hard-hitting (albeit idealistic) district attorney. No one in their right minds will think, even for a millisecond, that she's Rachel Dawes. She will always - always - be Joey. Period.
She's good for one line of dialogue, though:
"It's not who you are underneath but what you do that defines you."
"Life's a bitch, " Catwoman (Michelle Pfeiffer) purrs menacingly. "Now so am I."
Here kitty, kitty...
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
So I saw Episode III with a friend last week (after everyone else has seen it and gone blechhh).
Fifteen minutes into the movie, my stomach started churning (I had tacos earlier). This general discomfort, along with the fact that they were making a gullible invertebrate out of a yummy Hayden Christensen onscreen, left me with a not-so-pleasant impression about the film...
I was no Star Wars fan. Except for a hazy memory of furry Ewoks, my exposure to the hit series ranked a little above nil. Asked about what I thought of The Revenge of the Sith, all I could come up with were some questions: Anakin crossed over to the Dark Side of the Force in the name of Love? Padme, in a world of light sabers and clone armies, died of heartbreak?
Duh-dduhh-d-duh.. *official sound track*
(Note to self: You've decided you want to meet Luke Skywalker, Leia and Han Solo. And the geriatric non-Ewan Obi Wan. So get a hold of video copies. Episodes IV, V & VI. May the--Ohh, you are soo not going to say that.)
Aquamarine is green; sapphire is blue.
When you say chartreuse, jade or viridian, you mean green. Right?
When you say cerulean, cornflower or cyan, you mean blue. Right?
When does keeping things exact
become making things complicated
(When you are a two-bit colorblind wedding coordinator who cannot, for the love of patience and worthless palettes, refrain from impressing neo-sadists a.k.a. couples-getting-married with a lot of artsy-fartsy quasi-knowledge. That's when.)
When zombies drink vanilla milkshakes
Forgive my catatonia, shiro
Somewhere along Katipunan last Saturday, I lost all significant social skills and the ability to appreciate an overpriced cup of coffee with seemingly intellectual testosterone-charged gamers-slash-go-getters. The week that ended and the week that had yet to come both caught up with me... System shutdown.
(Deal with the hand you're dealt, an inebriated stranger once said to me.)
On a different note:
It has never occured to me how DLSU has almost no symbol or significant physical element that could be, uhm, stolen
by, say, wretched blue creatures whose school loyalty more than makes up for an otherwise droll social makeup (I'm talking stereotypes here. Exceptions do exist. *stares blankly*).
Those white corinthian columns are not uniquely Lasallian. The Philippine Post Office building has them, too. There are no statues or icons that ignite the so-called Animo... So while a certain Loyola Heights campus can safeguard the sword of St. Ignatius and a ridiculously large inanimate bird, what else can greenbloods swear to love and protect? (McDonald's Taft? Randy Santiago's collection of eyewear?)
I resolve to try writing poetry.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
When zombies go to church
The music ministry stands up; the drummer cues and the band breaks into a song of praise. Out of my seat, I slowly rise, eyes closed and head pounding. I want to sleep... Tomorrow, everything starts all over again. The music, usually so inviting and warm, seeps into my ear, travelling down my body as I take a deep, deep and tired breath, and trickles out on the stone floor, cooled down by a spirit frosted by fatigue and frustation (yeah, in teen-angst fashion I have once again succumbed to -well what else?-depression). I should be home in bed. I shouldn't inflict my presence on anyone anymore...
In a low voice, someone has said my name. I struggle out of my stupor, my eyelids creaking open. Huhh..? Worship has ended. Oh. The congregation has sat down. Ohh. Except for me.