"Let's kick it, Jesus style"

There is bound to be a decent selection of films at your local AMC and Regal theater. But there are many more movies of which the general public might not know exist. Whether they are artsy foreign films or low-budget independent films with little money for advertising and marketing, some films never make to people who aren't film fans in some way affected by the movie.

Whatever the reason, very few people know about the 2004's "Saved!," an independent movie about teenagers attending a Christian high school and their daring to question to what they've thought was indisputable.

"Is that Mary. What's she doing there?"
"There's only one reason Christian girls go to Planned Parenthood."
"She's got a pipe bomb!?!"
"OK, two reasons."

Mary has been a born-again Christian her entire 17-year-old life. She has what she thinks is the perfect life: she's a part of American Eagle Christian High School's in-crowd (The Christian Jewels), her mother is one of the area's best Christian-themed interior decorators, and she has a wonderful Christian boyfriend.

But when Mary and Dean, her boyfriend, tell each other secrets about themselves underwater, Dean says, "I think I'm gay." After suffering a nasty bump on the head, "Jesus to speak to her," telling her she must do what she can to help Dean. Taking "Jesus's" advice to the extreme, Mary loses her virginity to Dean in order to de-gay him. Unfortunately for Mary, AECH didn't start teaching sex-ed classes until after she found out she was pregnant with Dean's baby.

"We have to help Dean. I mean, you're not born a gay. You're born again."

Saved! is a wonderful, quirky movie with an eclectic cast that includes Jena Malone ("Stepmom") as scared and confused Mary, Patrick Fugit ("Almost Famous") as Patrick, the principal's son who likes Mary, singer Mandy Moore as Christian zealot and Christian Jewels leader Hilary Faye, and Macaulay Culkin (as if I had to name a movie) as Hilary Faye's brother and near-total opposite, Roland.

Saved! succeeded in showing the movie goer that Christians are people like everyone else. Despite the overwhelming love for Jesus and the doings of his work, the same things that go on at AECH happen at regular high schools. The popular crowd is adored by most (students, faculty and staff alike). Anyone who goes against the grain will automatically be social pariahs--no matter how much everyone else wants to save that person. When one of the mighty falls, there is always someone itching to take his or her place. And anything that even remotely challenges the system with be looked down up and barely spoken of.

"I don't think Jesus is supposed to be white."
"Of course, Jesus is white. Gosh, Roland, sometimes I think you're retarded too."

Although the last act of the movie gets a tad preachy, I had a fun hour and 32 minutes watching. Watching Mary reach outside her comfort zone, Roland and Cassandra let their guard down without compromising who they were, Tia try her hardest to climb the social ladder, and Hilary Faye pelt Mary with a Bible during an emergency exorcism.

BAM "I am FILLED with Christ's love."

If you haven't already, go see this movie. It might teach you something about tolerance and acceptance. Or it just might make you laugh for 92 minutes. Either way, it's well worth it.

"I CRASHED MY VAN INTO JESUS!"

All Eyes on Jackie Brown.

I Love almost everything about Quentin Tarantino movies. Along with Tim Burton and Spike Lee, Tarantino is my favorite director. But what irks me most about his movies--rather, the receptions of his movies--is how little recognition and praise people give "Jackie Brown."

Tarantino is the best at reviving the careers of actors who seem to have taken up residence in the $5 DVD bin at Wal-Mart. He made John Travolta relevant again in 1994 in Pulp Fiction. He reminded people there was someone in the world actually named Uma in 2003's "Kill Bill." Tarantino brought Kurt Russell out of family-movie hell in 2007 and put him in the driver seat in "Grindhouse: Death Proof."

In 1997, it was Pam Grier's turn. Tarantino took one of the biggest risks of his career (in my opinion, his biggest risk was Death Proof. Too bad it didn't pay off.) when he made Jackie Brown, the film adaptation of Elmore Leonard's book Rum Punch, and cast black people (Grier and Samuel L. Jackson) in two of the film's lead roles.

Jackie (Grier) was as 44-year-old black flight attendant working in the shittiest airlines (her words, not mine) thanks to prior legal troubles. Making some extra money on the side, she brought in large sums of cash from Mexico to gun runner Ordell Robbie (Jackson). When Beaumont (Chris Tucker) snitches to save his own butt from jail time, Department of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms agents arrest Jackie and threaten her with with the same fate that Beaumont eluded.

What makes Jackie Brown, a movie mildly laced with Blaxploitation references, my second favorite movie from Tarantino, is the fact that this is the realest movie he's ever done. Kill Bill, Death Proof, and, yes, even Pulp Fiction required huge stretches of the imagination. But Jackie Brown, showed the viewer a real black woman, forced to work a horrible job just to keep her rent paid. Showed how scary it would be for someone her age to lose the best job she could manage to find in the only industry in which she has worked.

Although there is no fight scenes, car chases or face shooting, I was on the edge of my seat, hoping this downtrodden woman could actually charm, befriend and or deceive her blood-thirsty gangster boss and the law enforcement agents looking for a conviction.

My fears vanished when Jackie, intended to meet the same end as Beaumont(SPOILER ALERT: Ordell kills Beaumont), pressed the barrel of a stolen gun into Ordell's shaft and balls and bitterly whispered, "Take yo hands from around my throat...NIGGA!" I saw in one scene what made Pam Grier such a bad ass B during an entire decade. Jackie commanded the room. Grier commanded the scene. And from that moment, I knew that she could hold her own against zealous cops, Ordell, and Ordell's beach bunny girlfriend and ex-con accomplice.

But the best part of the movie was Jackie's relationship with Max Cherry (Robert Forster, another actor whose career was drastically revived by this movie), a bail bondsman tired of writing bonds and chasing bailed-out absconders. After bailing out Jackie, and subsequently having his gun stolen by her, Max and Jackie talk the morning after Ordell's visit. That scene is, in my opinion, the greatest scene in the movie. For five minutes, you see, hear, and experience how tired these two old people are and begin to see what each might be prepared to do to alleviate their fatigue. Romantic sparks are also ignited between the Max and Jackie, but you find yourself wonder if Jackie, proven to be great at playing people, is setting up Max for the okie-doke.

Free of Samurai movie references, guys with colorful names, and guy-on-guy ass raping, Jackie Brown is a Tarantino movie non-Tarantino junkies can get into. It's real, gritty, suspenseful, romantic, witty and a host of other adjectives. It might be a tad long, but your time will be well-spent. If not for the great actors involved (Grier, Forster, Jackson, Robert De Niro, Bridgette Fonda, Michael Keaton, and Tommy "Tiny" Lister a.k.a. Deebo), for the amazing soundtrack. Try not loving a movie with the music of Minnie Ripperton, The Delfonics, The Grassroots, Foxy Brown, and Bobby Womack and Johnny Cash playing in the background.

And try not loving a movie where Pam Grier yells, "SIT YO RAGGEDY ASS DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BWA1T78WpI

Chronicles of the Dreads: Gone like N*Sync

What took two and a half years to create was eradicated in 53 minutes. After careful consideration, I decided to get rid of my Earthy ebony locks (the Cherokee curls, as Yewande likes to call them).

I had been thinking of doing this for a while, and when I had some free time in my schedule and some money in my pocket I decided to quit thinking and start doing. Well, let someone else do it for me.

This decision wasn't made all willy-nilly like; there are numerous factors that made me come to this choice. Anyone who knows me well enough will know I'm not a high-maintenance person, but having dreads--dreads that look nice--requires me to sit in a chair for two and a half to four hours every two weeks while someone ( on numerous occasions, someone with an attitude) pulls and twists the shit out of my hair and then throws me under a dryer for another half hour. Every time I want to take a shower, I have to put on a Du-rag and a shower cap to keep any trace of moisture from my head. And to top all that off, I have to sleep in a Du-rag, bandanna, bonnet, etc.

And then there were the costs of keeping up this look. Get out your calculators folks because it's time to go to school...and math is my weakest subject. I cost me $70 to initiate the dreading process, $50 every time I wanted to get them re-twisted (which should have been every two to three weeks), $20 to get them unprofessionally re-twisted, $7 to get lined up, $5.99 each for three packs of clips to hold my hair during the twisting process, $3.99 every time I brought more locking gel, and about $2.99 every time i bought hair ties. Being the cheap son of a saint that I am, I'd much prefer to only shell out $10-$15 every two weeks for a hair cut.

Having locks got in the way of me being me. Whenever I hung out by the pool, laid on the beach, or almost died on some God-forsaken river in Marianna, Florida, the first thought that always came to mind was that I needed to keep my head above water so I won't mess up the four hours that went in to twisting that mess.

And quite frankly, I have been in a horrible mood for close to a month. I wanted to do something to myself and for myself, something drastically different and attention-worthy. I don't have enough money saved for the tattoos I want. I haven't grown enough balls to get that penis piercing people keep telling me to get. So why not cut the drapes?

I just got out of the barber chair about an hour ago (big ups to 2G), and already all the things I missed about getting hair cuts game back to me. I miss being able to feel the breeze and sun on my big ass dome. The tiny hair shavings, rather than long and curlies, that litter my shoulders. The stranger's hands that are on my hair for an undetermined about of time that somehow is acceptable so long as it's for hair cutting purposes. I might keep it like this. The only think I regret is not seeing ALL of my female relatives' reactions in person. Except for Mia. I think she actually liked the dreads.

Before anyone asks me the inevitable question, let me answer it for you.

Countless people: "Why did you spend all that time with sub-par looking dreads if you were only going to cut them off after two years?"
Me: "Because I could."

Sincerely,
B.rand

P.S. How many fucking (Sorry mom, Darryl) pair of jeans can two people wash. And why does the laundry mat have free Wi-Fi and HBO?

Remember "Summer School"

It was 1987. Colors were bright. Kirstie Alley was under 150 lbs. And movies about the not so real high school experience were hot. But most, if not all, 80s high school movies took place during the school year. But what happened when June rolled around and the school year ended? Did they shut down production of high school movies during those beautiful summer months? NO! Why not have a movie that delt with the happenings of summer school classes? And while we're at it, let's name it "Summer School."

Summer School is a highly over-looked 80s comedy about high school slackers who completely bomb a language skills standardized test and are forced to take remedial English during summer school in hopes of passing the test on the next try. Carefree P.E. teacher Freddy Shoop (Mark Harmon) gets suckered by the bag of douche vice principal into teaching said class. Shoops has a school boy crush on the not-so-single history teacher (Alley), who happens to be dating the aforementioned bag of douche. And hilarity ensues.

Loads of 80s high school cliches can be found here. All the 16, 17, and 18 year olds were actually played by actors in their 20s. Although the class consists of about 20 students, only 10 of them speak and do important things. Bright and pastel colors are everywhere. There is a wise-cracking black person. And there are enough obscure 80s songs to half-way fill your "80s Monster Jams" playlist on your iPod.

Summer School is a run-of-the-mill 80s comedy about 26-year-old high school students and the slightly older slacker teacher who knows he's way too good looking to be doing anything as trivial as teaching remedial English. But the movie makes up for its mediocrity by having an extremely funny cast of actors playing the students. They aren't big-name stars, but they were hilarious in their various roles, rather the role be an underaged male stripper, a dislexic PYT who can't drive, a geek who surprising doesn't make As, or two guys who love the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre very very very very very very very very very very very much.

So if you are stuck inside on a rainy day and Summer School happens to come on TBS, or if you find it for $5 in a grocery store like I did, watch this movie. I can't recommend it highly enough. People fall in love, dumb students improve, and you get your chuckls all the while. Oh, and see if you can spot actress who played Austin Powers' love interest, Alotta Fagina, ten years later.

Great DJ

My taste in music is different to say the least. Quite a few of my friends know I am currently involved in a love affair with The Ting Tings. Katie might not be the world's best singer. There might only be two people in their "band." But they make great music to which I cannot stop listening. I haven't been to a concert since I went to see Bobby Brown, Mary J, and TLC in 1993 (I fell asleep shortly after TLC performed), so live music was definitely in my plans this year. So when I saw on their MySpace page that they would be playing in Tallahassee March 31, my mind was already made up.

March 31 was Tuesday, and since the other two closers in my department have school on Tuesdays, I had work until 9 p.m. Club Downunder, where the Tings were to perform, opened its doors at 8:30, the concert started at 9:30, so more than likely, I was going to miss the concert due to work.

FUCK. THAT. SHIT.

I shut down that deli like I was late on the light bill, moving with quickness normally reserved for olympic runners and convenient store thieves. Although I normally leave work most nights after 9:15 p.m. most nights, I left W/D behind at exactly 8 p.m. Deciding me getting to the club on time was more important than me not smelling faintly like fried chicken, I skipped the shower, put on a button up and my new black shoes (I was very overdressed it seems), and hopped in Alberta.

On my way out of the complex, I saw a naked man running as fast as he could away from the house across the street, almost as though he had no business there. I'm not sure, but i think that naked man was forboding for the events to come. After parking and almost sprinting in the rain with an umb-buh-rella that I'm 87 percent sure is too small, I visually found out I'm not the only Ting Tings fan in the Tallahassee area. The line stretched around three or four corners and had more than about 400 people.

Praying to any god who'd answer, I silently called out for help getting inside. I was told there was only room for 350 people, and things were looking bleak. The line moved and moved, and right before I was to turn the last corner, a skinny, tattooed club worker told us they'd reached compacity although they were trying to fit in as many people as they could without the fire marshal knowing. I got five people away from the door when Skinny Tattoo Magee posted a sign that read "Absolutely No More Entries."

I was hurt, y'all, but since the doors were mostly glass, I stayed and watched my favorite band at the moment perform. I couldn't even properly hear them because Downunder kept the doors closed. But after the line dwindled down to about 30 people, many people left the club, endless pleading and flirting from the hot girls in front of me, and about 45 minutes, the bouncer let us in. All praises be to fat Buhdda, blue Krishna, long-haired white Jesus, and whomever the Hindus worship. I didn't get to hear all wanted to hear, but I damn sure heard "Shut Up and Let Me Go" and "That's Not My Name."

If a video of me at this concert ever makes it to YouTube, my family will be ashamed of me because I was rhythmlessly rocking out with my cock out (figuratively speaking). Below is a link to The Ting Tings performing "That's Not My Name" in Tallahassee. All you have to do is copy and paste it. Thank God I'm not in this video. Well not clearly in it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YKeYfAyZ1Q

B.Rand

A Closer Look -- "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency

I love movies, TV and music. And I love random, old, and sometimes obscure movies, TV shows and music. I also love writing, but it wasn't until a friend suggested I find something about which to write--and do it on a regular basis--that I decided to write about all of my aforementioned pleasures. With my Closer Look segments, I want to shed light on forms of entertainment I think are undervalued, have been unnoticed, or are worth a view just so people can judge it for themselves.

After HBO's "The Wire" ended, the network has been missing their token critically acclaimed show starring 90 percent or more black people. In my opinion, "The Corner," "Oz," and "The Wire" were no mere place holders. From what I've seen and read, those shows were great, providing smart, insightful entertainment all the while providing work for hosts of minority actors. But when I saw Jill Scott and Anika Noni Rose in advertisements for "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency," I had mixed emotions.

On one hand, we had and abundance dark skin and natural hair back on HBO, a network renowned for its high-caliber productions. On the other hand, there was forced acting and even more forced African accents (nawt the duddee = not the daddy). There were perfect-pitch notes: the show was actually filmed in Botswana. And notes that fell flat: a song by The Cardigans playing throughout the commercials. Imagine listening to "Love Fool" while watching the trailer for" Amistad."

But knowning how misleading commercials can be, I turned to Channell 14 Sunday night to judge show for myself. "The accents won't be that hard on my ears once I see the whole show," I told myself. "Playing The Cardigans during commercial for a show about Africans in Africa is just a way to rope in more white viewers. The show will be good."

But it wasn't good. It wasn't even average. There werent many things wrong with the show, but the things that were wrong were massive. I'm not that cunning of a linguist, but I know those accents can't be acurate. Anywhere close to accurate. Jill and Anika's accents sounded so forced that I thought they watched Halle Berry in "X-men" and elaborated on her shaky Kenyan accent. And the accents weren't the only things that were held at gunpoint. Anika's acting was so over the top. It was like an African-themed drag queen contestant on a new RuPaul show.

But my biggest issue regarding the No. 1 Ladies is that is boring. Very, utterly, painfully boring. I respect anyone who takes on a task as arduous as adaptive screenplay writing, but the premier episode could have been cut by 45 minutes and it would have been a much better show. I don't believe in rushing things just to satisfy short attention spans, but I also don't believe in drawing out an episode to approximately one hour and 45 minutes.

Did I like the show? Not really. Should you watch the show? Yes, just to make up your own mind. But I will tell you now, if you were looking for the next great HBO minority-driven show, this is not it. This show and these ladies are not my No. 1.

Green: not just for envy.

Greetings all.

I haven't written in a while, mostly because I only want to write about something notable, funny, ironic, etc. that I've been fortunate enough to witness. But so few times in my writing--and in my life--do I take the time out to simply kick back and enjoy the day. Even rarer are the times that are I take the opportunity to reflect of such a display of awesomeness. And today, March 10, 2009, was a flippin' awesome.

I didn't win anything. I didn't magically lose weight. I didn't even have sex with eleven international movie actresses like I do every other day. Today (technically yesterday; woop woop for the night owls) was slightly above ordinary, accented with sprigs of delight. Here's why...

*I was off today. Enough said.

*I got to sleep in even later than I normally do, and Ike and Tina next door didn't even wake me with any early morning domestic shenanigans. Nor did anyone's over-audible vehicular music festival rattle my walls.

*The weather was perfect. After venturing to http://thefuckingweather.com, I learned it was 81 degrees and that it was "fucking hot...yet not hot enough to warrant wearing a Speedo." All day long, I marveled at the clear blue sky, basked in the radiant sun, and then cut the shit and turned on my car's AC.

*I had on a completely new fit. Since it was the first clear, warm, beautiful day in a while that I've been fortunate enough to witness, I decided I should dress to celebrate Spring's slightly early arrival. My grandma kicks ass and buys me clothes when she can manage to do so. But don't tell my mom or aunts because "they don't need to know." I put on the denim shorts accented with green threads she bought me during winter and the green shirt she got me some years ago but i never wore because I was afraid of how that much green would look on me. But naysayers be damn, today was the day.

*I (along with some co-workers) helped out a friend who REALLY needed it. I'm not ballin' by any means, but when I have a little bit to give to someone who is in desperate need, I try to help. Seeing her so elated by other people's generocity put a spring in my step. Now I see why Oprah gives aways cars and humpback whales on her shows.

*I did my laundry...Everyone needs clean underroos.

*I got lined up. The dude at the barbershop edged me up nicely and gave me a great goatee. It's just too fucking bad that these simple proceedures took almost one hour because he got too involved in a barbershop debate about rap music, its artists and their influences. Nonetheless, the whisker grooming makes me look better, so I felt better. If only I had those green Chuck Taylors.

*I ate dinner with a friend and had a good conversation while doing so. And earlier in the day, I talked to my newly married friend who just returned from his honeymoon in Spain. Needless to say, he's a happy man.

*I saw The Watchmen. The movie was average at best, but, since I hadn't been to a full-price movie in quite a while, and I vowwed to see this movie ever since watching its trailer before The Dark Knight, I had my face in the place at 9:05...

*Three hours later, I am home enjoying a Whataburger "medium" chocolate milkshake that I am pretty sure started out as vanilla and made the ever-so-obvious transition into chocolate.

And now I'm chillaxin at my house watching one of my newly-favorite movies, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Still wearing my green.