Marvel shows off extended Avengers 2 trailer

I am loving these extended Avengers trailers, and I think it's mostly because of James Spader. That voice is distinct. It grabs me by the testicles like a vice, doesn't let go until I am screaming like a school-girl, and then when you see Ultron at the end. He looks creepy as hell-- glowing eyes, menacing pose as if the view is looking up at him. It's demonic, but also fun.

In this trailer we also get a longer look at the Korean actress, Claudia Kim, and a few more lingering shots of the party and Ultron's speech. It was posted by JoBlo this morning. No one seems to be quite sure it's origin beyond that. Here it is:



I am excited for this movie. Marvel and Disney have sold their soul to the devil. They can't seem to do anything wrong. Tell me what you think below.

Man tells woman to shut up in Theater, man gets maced

You are part of the problem. We all are.


image obtained from tumblr.

Mashable is reporting that a man was maced at point-blank range at the TCL Chinese Theater in Hollywood after asking a woman to politely put her phone away. Most of us have been in this situation-- the glow of some douche-canoe's screen intruding on our vision. It's annoying, to say the least, especially when you paid money to see a film you are attempting to enjoy despite all the other monkeys in the theater throwing their figurative 'screen poo' into your line of vision...

The article, written by Josh Dickey, continues:

"He was saying 'Excuse me sir, could you please turn off your screen'" over and over, the eyewitness tells Mashable (he had apparently mistaken the woman for a man). After repeating himself several times, and without a response, the man then tapped the woman on the shoulder.

The woman reacted angrily to being touched, and "flipped out" on him, the eyewitness said. "She stands up and starts cursing, saying 'You hit me, you hit me, I'm going to call the police." She then turned the phone's flashlight function on and pointed it directly at the man's face.

The awkward standoff lasted for nearly a minute, the witness said, and she continued shining the light even as people all around implored her to turn it off and sit down. As the man was calmly defending himself, she then told him she had mace and started digging in her bag.

Without hesitation, she took the cap off the bottle, pointed it directly in his face and sprayed him at point-blank range. The man and the woman sitting next to him sat for a moment in shock as she sat back down. As the couple left, the man slapped the woman on the arm and said something to her, the eyewitness said."

Apparently the women then preceded to watch the movie for another 20-or-so minutes before being escorted out by management.

This harkens back to earlier this year when a man murdered another during the previews because he wouldn't turn off his damn phone. I can't say I agree with his intentions but I got to admit, I got a little sympathy with the shooter, Curtis Reeves (who was, by the way, 71 years-old and a retired police officer). We've all been there, haven't we?

Because it's shit like this that makes some of our shitty opinions on our fellow man justified. "Crikey, kids today feel like they are owed something even when they ain't," is what I would belch out if I was a wrinkled porch-sitter from the South. Being rude to people sucks. It creates a chain reaction where everyone ends up being more miserable because of one rude step. Be nice. Be respectful. And most of all: put your phone on silent in the theater and in your pocket when the movie begins. Isn't that why you came out and spent the exorbitantly high fee? To watch as the spectral actors appear before you in a faze, pretending to be someone they are not for two hours as you make-believe along with them? Some might call that an initiation bordering on the eleusinian mysteries... and many of you are failing at it.


image obtained from tumbler.

David Edelstein, from Vulture, wrote about his experience with a rude couple in a movie theater:

It was like this. These two … persons, a man and a woman (God, I’m so angry I wanna just go LN26IRTUV3C55CUXWX11111!!!!!11#$%Y###%$#W ####SDGZ) who happened to be sitting behind me decided to keep up a running conversation during the film — a lyrical, meditative, exquisitely photographed portrait of the Brooklyn-based Nigerian community and what happens when a young wife is unable to conceive a child.

Maybe you can shut out the sound of two idiots yapping at a Roland Emmerich film, but much of Mother of George is wordless — or would have been if the Ugly Couple hadn’t filled the silences.

I decided, for the sake of inner peace, not to say anything, to try to focus on the screen: inhale count four … hold it count five … exhale count eight … but every so often I could hear people behind them say, “Stop talking!” The couple laughed and went right on. A half-hour went by. An hour. Periodic outbursts of “Shhhhh!” “Stop talking!” They were just low enough to keep the whole theater from turning on them, but just loud enough to keep everyone in their vicinity from becoming suitably entranced. It’s that ability to be hypnotized — to be drawn into the action onscreen — that’s destroyed by talking and/or the eye-stabbing flickers of smartphones.

I finally turned and gave the couple the evil eye, which they ignored.

And finally, finally I said, “SHUT UP!” So, for the record, did the guy next to me.

The woman said, “YOU shut up!”

What do you do in that situation? Make a scene? Go running to the manager? There was no manager or usher in or anywhere near the theater (which happened to be full and then some).

Finally, finally, finally I said, “That’s it!!!!!!” and threw a fit — just lost it. And I’m not proud of that. The person who makes a scene inevitably looks in the wrong, even if he or she is in the right. Because fits are never good. And I’m especially ineffectual. When I say, “Do you know who I am?” they generally say, “No — who are you?” and I say, “Uh. No one. Never mind.” Only in this case I found a BAM publicist, who looked appropriately stricken but had no idea what to do. Another publicist actually went over to the couple and asked them to stop, but the woman waved him off. She actually did that gesture with the hand that says, “Enough of you. Leave.” Then she went back to chattering.

Edelstein later writes in the article if it isn't experiences like these that are playing a role in the death of cinema as we know it. Perhaps it's just easier to avoid others? Going to a movie is supposed to be, at least conceptually, an inherently private experience. Yes, there can be hundreds of people around us, the energy contributing something to the appeal, but at the end of the day, the theater is dark and it's your personal relationship with what is happening on the screen that's going to be the deciding factor on whether you enjoy the film or not-- other people, with their entitlement, can take this away-- this one treat-- this one little thing you were supposed to be enjoying-- gone, because some asshole wouldn't turn off his iPhone.

In related news: in 2011, the Alamo Drafthouse played this message in front of every film they featured:



It's amusing.

But what does this say about our culture? About ourselves? Technology, welfare, the capitalistic instinct of selfishness? Relay your thoughts below.

The screens haven't gone all dark.

I died and went to hell.

The pit consumed me, licking wisps of flame scorching my skin like a blow-torch on egg, caramelizing the white, turning me delicious, pure, crunchy yet oh-so-softy-yummy. It was the best of times and the worst of times in the life of Benjamin Schneidenfreude. A veritable Ā seikō watashi wa dokoda? A land of green, blue, grey.

Anyway, if you don't know I moved from the Gallatin Valley to the dreariness of Rockwood, Oregon.

They tell you you are arriving in Portland, a capital of Hipster smarm, when you are actually in Gresham, meth-head Union City. The residents have that crazed stare, the one where they open their eyes too wide, their faces pot-marked with drug use, the thug walk. The best example I can give of the 'Gresham stare' is the way Conspiracy radio host T-rex, Alex Jones, speaks. It's animalistic, and at first a watcher doesn't know how to handle that amount of pupil. It's freaky. It's manly. It's threatening. In Alex's case, it works. On the streets of Eastern Portland, it doesn't. It isn't uncommon to see a man, hair jazzed-up in orange neon-glow dye, dancing on the sidewalk to silent music only he can hear, chest bared and ribs protruding. I drove past this scene in the passenger seat of my roommate's Chevy Silverado. As the danceur waltz his waltz in the middle of the walkway, a woman, bent-over and head covered in Gypsey veil, neared him. Her face was confused. It read, "fuck my life."

Gresham isn't all bad.

There are nice people here too. I met my girlfriend in Fairview. She is beautiful. A quiet poet.

What I am trying to say is that I am back. I didn't descend to hell after all, and if I did, this isn't the hell they sold me on. Not in my brief interludes at Harvest Church in Billings or Guam's Catholicism. (Not that they talked about the underworld much. I just haven't been to many religious things).

So stay tuned. The fight continues, friends, and the Ghoulies haven't all won yet. The screens haven't gone all dark. Your radio DJ is still playing those old tunes, and the everlasting songs continue as the world collapses into ruin... the last Ghoulie killing the last twelver gazing on the blinking TV screen.