The reason I’ve never warmed to Anna Faris is because I don’t think playing all those ditzy nutters has required all that much “acting” from her. I think she’s been tapping into a thing that she feels naturally comfortable with, and she’s been enjoying the work and the juice and the money…whatever. But it’s come to the point with me that when Faris is in a film, I pretty much know what she’s going to do. This was certainly the case with her performance in Observe and Report.

Anna Faris at Monday evening’s Observe and Report premiere in Los Angeles.

She’s always been delivered a great anarchic spirit in playing those dingalings, but I’m not sure she can do much else. She’s been playing more or less the same note on the cello since her first Scary Movie in 2000. Wouldn’t she have tried by now to play…whatever, a Sigourney Weaver-like corporation chief with an MBA or a steely Russian assassin in a spy film by now if she had it in her? Where would Dustin Hoffman have been if he’d done nothing but play variations on his preppy Benjamin Braddock character in The Graduate from ’68 to ’77?

Kal Penn‘s decision to quit House (with his Lawrence Kutner character committing suicide) for a gig as associate director in the White House’s office of public liaison is admirable. He seems like a good guy. I never had it in for him personally. But I still maintain that in some…no, several of his films (the Harold and Kumar and Van Wilder pics but also in Mira Nair’s The Namesake) Penn was extremely convincing as a dumb-ass.

The way I hear it, Quentin Tarantino‘s Inglourious Basterds is currently clocking at 2 hours and 45 minutes. No official confirmation — just information from a guy in a position to know. But this shouldn’t be surprising to anyone who’s read the 165-page script. A minute a page, right on the button.

Because of Joe Leydon‘s South by Southwest review, I went to Observe and Report last week expecting some kind of semi-bold game-changer — Seth Rogen as a twisted but mordantly humorous Travis Bickle, certainly no Paul Blart Mall Cop (and perhaps even a kind of anti-Blart), and maybe even a “comedy” without laughs that goes in a much darker and twisted direction than any 21st Century laugher has before.

Well, it’s darker and creepier, all right, and I suppose it deserves a point or two for not shovelling the usual dumb-ass shtick. And yes, Rogen’s Ronnie Barnhardt, a psychologically distressed mall cop, represents a new level of myopia and malignancy in big-screen comedy. And so yes, Jody Hill, the director-writer, has certainly avoided the usual b.s.

Except he doesn’t in the end. Or in the beginning and the middle, for that matter. Observe and Report is my idea of amateurish, sloppy, and even cowardly crap. I didn’t completely hate it, but I was constantly scowling and seething at Hill’s flaunting of the absurd unreality of it, and I never laughed once. Sorry, but take away the shock value and it’s a deplorably bad film.

I blame the SXSW critics for building it up too much. If I had gone to this thing cold I might have come out feeling a bit more accepting or at least forgiving. But to say that Hill’s film is coming from a similar aesthetic or stylistic zip code as Martin Scorsese‘s Taxi Driver shows appalling judgment. And to express serious excitement about it means…I don’t know, that certain critics have been bored with recent films and are lunging at straws?

There’s no way you can listen to guys like New York‘s David Edelstein (“earns its cathartic climax”) or Cinematical‘s Scott Weinberg (“a wonderful freakin’ thing”). Trust me, they’re jerking themselves off.

Observe and Report is basically absurdist shtick with no investment in any kind of human behavior you can even begin to half-believe. Which Hill had to sell in order for the twisted-Ronnie stuff to kick in to any degree. The lesson for me is that Hill lacks even rudimentary skills in the building of story or theme or verisimilitude. He obviously thinks he’s on to something here because he’s nervy. Which he is — I’ll give him that. But there’s a lot more to this game.

It’s one thing to make a stupid comedy with idiotic occurences that could never happen in real life, but Observe and Report is trying to do something else here — to look with some degree of semi-comic honesty into the enraged and diseased heart of a lonely fat bipolar nerd (Rogen) who was brought up dysfunctionally and creepily by an alcoholic and once-promiscuous single-mom (Celia Weston).

Observe and Report has instead persuaded me that Hill is a copout compromiser who lacks the courage of his interests and instincts. He’s made a semi-dark nerd-psychopath comedy and (just to be safe) a moronic, logic-free, dumb-ass Paul Blart comedy with an ending that…I’d better be careful here. I could certainly call it radically un-Bickle-esque. Unless you believe (like me) that everything that happens in Taxi Driver after the Lower East Side shootout is Bickle’s fantasy.

I found the Observe and Report finale infuriating for a film that is supposedly delving into the dark side and dealing with human derangement with at least a semblance of bluntness.

I haven’t time to get into the performances (need to be in the city to deposit a check)…later.

Not once have I detected a whiff of substandard sound quality on a Beatles CD. They sounded as good as they sounded on vinyl in the ’60s due to the best sound-recording technology at the time (i.e., not exquisite but at the same time not half bad). And then they sounded a little bit better when they were remastered/enhanced for CDs in the ’90s. But they were never any kind of “problem.” Which makes the coming 9.9.09 release of all 12 Beatles albums in a digitally remastered state seem extremely dubious. It’s just greed, man.

My Dallas-based server, Orbit/The Planet, was attacked last night around 11:30 pm eastern. HE was immediately shut down by this. The problem was fixed sometime in the wee hours, new DNS coding was assigned to all the clients, and it has taken a while for the new DNS to propagate. HE was viewable earlier this morning in both Virginia and Los Angeles, but it didn’t return to my neck of the woods until about 10:50 am eastern. It was still down in Austin, Texas, a few minutes ago. To guard against any further HE wipeouts due to catastrophic attacks, I purchased the services of a secondary DNS server based in Manchester, NH.

This being a fairly dead day, I thought I’d pass along a story about working for the Del Monte bean and pea plant in Markesan, Wisconsin. Fresh out of Wilton high school, five or six of us drove out to America’s heartland to earn a little money and have an adventure. It was fairly miserable work all around. Back-breaking, tedious, soul-killing. We wound up working different jobs and different shifts — pushing cans, operating fork lifts, doing end-of-shift cleanup, hosing down freshly picked peas and beans. Migrants did the actual picking in the fields.

For a week or two some of us were working the 8 am to 5:00 pm shift. We’d clean up, eat and head out for a night of beer-drinking at a local tavern. We’d sometimes go to a place in Fond du Lac called the Brat Hut. And when we got back to the plant around midnight or so we got into a habit — for a couple of weeks, I mean — of taking out our rage at Del Monte.

A friend worked the evening shift atop a wooden chimney-like structure. His job was to clean freshly-picked beans and peas. Every night they were unloaded off trucks and sent up to his area on electrically-powered conveyor belts set at a 45 degree angle. The vegetables were then dropped into huge spinning cylindrical containers made of chicken wire. Our friend operated sprayers that bathed them in steaming-hot water.

The beans and peas were then dropped into tall metal chutes that fed them straight into a stream of open-topped, label-free cans about 20 or 25 feet below — constantly moving, spotless and gleaming. It would take no more than a second or two to fill up each can, maybe less. It went on like this all night, every night, and with a fairly deafening sound.

Each and every night for about two weeks, my beered-up friends and I would climb to the top of the tower, say hello to our friend, and piss right into the chutes that fed the beans and peas into the cans. We figured we hit maybe 200 to 250 cans each night, minimum.

We were anarchic, fuck-all middle-class kids, but we’d been raised by good people in well-to-do homes and weren’t psychopaths. If guys with our backgrounds had the rage to piss into cans of vegetables every night you can bet others have done this since. A lot. Pissing into prepared food containers is what powerless people do to give them the feeling that they’ve somehow evened up the score. Think of this the next time you buy Del Monte.

This story feeds, by the way, into a piece I ran four and a half years ago called Near-Death Trip. Here it is again:

Has a movie or more precisely a DVD ever gotten into your dreams and resuscitated an old nightmare?

This happened to me last weekend after watching James Marsh‘s Wisconsin Death Trip, which came out on DVD last Feburary. It’s an adaptation of Michael Lesy‘s cult book about an ugly-vibe plague that descended upon the Wisconsin town on Black River Falls in the 1890s. Economic depression and a diphtheria epidemic brought about all kinds of horrors — murders, insanity, infant deaths, etc.

Marsh does a decent job of bringing the book to life (so to speak), although I didn’t like the re-enacted footage as much as the old photographs.

A day or so after watching it, I had a nightmare about something that happened to me in Wisconsin when I was just out of high school. It’s funny how memories of this or that trauma sometimes tap you on the shoulder and say, “Hey.”

The scariest thing about this nightmare wasn’t the fact that myself and two friends came close to dying in a car crash that almost happened…but didn’t.

The freaky part was re-living that godawful horrifying feeling as I waited for the car we were in — a 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible — to either flip over or slam into a tree or hit another car like a torpedo, since we were sliding sideways down the road at 70 or 80 mph.

It happened just outside Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. A classmate named Bill Butler was driving, another named Mike Dwyer was riding shotgun, and I was in the back seat. It was 1 am or so, and we were coming from a beer joint called the Brat Hut. We’d all had several pitchers of beer and were fairly stinko.

We were five or six miles out of town and heading south towards Markesan, where we had jobs (plus room and board) at the Del Monte Bean and Pea packing plant. To either side of us were flat, wide-open fields and country darkness.

Butler, a bit of an asshole back then, was going faster and faster. I looked at the speedometer and saw he was doing 90, 95, 100. I was about to say something when the road started to curve to the right, and then a lot more. Butler was driving way too fast to handle it and I was sure we were fucked, especially with nobody wearing seat belts and the top down and all.

But thanks to those magnificent Chevrolet engineers, Butler’s Impala didn’t roll over two or three times or slam into a tree or whatever. It just spun out from the rear and slid sideways about 200 feet or so. Sideways! I remember hitting the back seat in panic and looking up at the stars and hearing the sound of screeching tires and saying to myself, “You’re dead.”

The three of us just sat there after the car came to a halt. There was a huge cloud of burnt-rubber smoke hanging above and behind us. I remember somebody finally saying “wow.” (Dwyer, I think.) My heart began beating again after a few seconds.

Maybe some 17 year-old kid with issues similar to Butler’s will read this and think twice the next time he’s out with friends and starting to tromp on the gas.

Beware of any youngish mainstream director of “big inclusive” family comedies whose films have made mountains of money, who seems fairly satisfied with his life and his work, who giggles and guffaws when he watches his work, who graduated from Yale at age 20 and who seems to be “genuinely excited all the time,” and who believes that making good comedies are “about doing what you love, with people you love, for the fun of it…that’s the point.”

Okay, you needn’t beware, but I hate guys like this. Guys with lovely supportive wives and big homes and a couple of kids and a nice flagstone patio and several wise investments. I despise people who’ve figured out how to get rich (and make their corporate employers rich) by jiggering their movies just so and then covering them with kid-friendly family sauce. I hate pat. I hate nice easygoing movies that look a little bit too attractive. I hate carefully key-lighted hair.

And so I hate movies like Night at the Museum, Just Married, Cheaper by the Dozen,The Pink Panther, etc.

Films like this have their place. They entertain people who aren’t looking for much. They pay for other kinds of movies. And guys who crank them out are not Beelzebub. But they give me the creeps all the same.

I don’t really hate Night at the Museum. I saw it for the first time on a plane, and I was marginally entertained. I watched it without sound, though. It may have played better that way.

I was going to mention this yesterday, but I was driving around Long Beach Island and doing a Lebowski thing.

Few things in movies make an audience think “fake!” as much as fake-looking blood. By this I mean the wrong shade (the blood in the original Dirty Harry looks sort of orange-red) or blood with the right shade but with too much intensity. Most makeup people go with a kind of subdued fire-engine red with a little burgundy or brown thrown in.

I’m mentioning this because real life has recently taught me that real blood (the kind that bleeds from wounds) is significantly more intense than the movie kind. Within the past week or so I’ve seen two older guys lying on Manhattan streets with fairly major head cuts, and both times their blood has looked almost digitally intense.

Both times people were kneeling alongside and offering comfort and whatnot so the good samaritan stuff was covered. All I did both times was lean over for a good look and say to myself, “Wow, that blood color is striking. I mean, it almost looks fake. Except it isn’t.”

I’m off to a film set today with the understanding that I won’t write anything or post photos or anything along these lines. It’s basically “Moscow Rules” — a John LeCarre term that was used in Smiley’s People. Maybe I’ll try to do some writing while I’m uselessly hanging around on the set. Later tonight is a screening of Is Anybody There?, a relationship film with Michael Caine and Bill Milner (Son of Rambow), followed by a small party. I missed it at the 2008 Toronto Film Festival. Big Beach has a limited theatrical opening set for 4.17.

Reportedly whacked Fox News entertainment columnist Roger Friedman has been quoted by the Hollywood Reporter‘s Gregg Kilday as saying that “reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated“?

I took this to mean that (a) Friedman sees himself as a cat who always lands on his feet, and (b) that he plans to keep rolling with another job or a new self-launched website. It certainly doesn’t seem to contradict a statement put out late Saturday by News. Corp., wo wit: “We, along with 20th Century Fox Film Corp., have been a consistent leader in the fight against piracy and have zero tolerance for any action that encourages and promotes piracy. When we advised Fox News of the facts they took immediate action, removed the post, and promptly terminated Mr. Friedman.”

How can the owner of 20th Century Fox and Fox News put out a statement like that and then backpedal? That’s not an option. (Here’s the HE rundown on what happened last weekend. And another story that appeared on Saturday.)

So why isn’t Friedman saying something more particular? He’s handling this thing like Soviet apparatchiks dealing with reports of food shortages in the 1950s. If he hasn’t formulated his next move, so what? No doubt he’s huddling with this and that party, but where’s the upside in freezing out people who’ve reported what’s happened fairly and evenly?