And here we go again. Another year down.

Jerry Van Dyke continues his attempt to outlive me; he turns 80 today. Tenacious bastard, that Van Dyke.

The last couple of times I went in for a doctor’s appointment, my blood pressure has been elevated. I don’t know that it’s serious cause for concern just yet, but it’s a reminder that it’s all downhill from here.

Ironically, I’ve had less to raise my blood pressure lately. While my job will always generate a certain amount of anxiety, crisis mode seems to be on hold for now. And I’ve been enjoying my new stint as producer of Illinois Gardener–relaunched last Thursday as Mid-American Gardener–much more than I anticipated.

I’m getting back into weekly boardgaming, and even resurrecting my Dungeons & Dragons campaign. I’m especially excited about the latter, as it’s an opportunity to use all of those maps and miniatures I’ve been stockpiling. All in all, life is beginning to feel a little less lonely than it had a few months ago.

I’ll be spending my birthday in Indianapolis shopping at the Lego store, eating at the Old Spaghetti Factory and enjoying a free downtown hotel stay courtesy of the Marriott Rewards program. Really, it all sounds pretty nice.

Dave General Jerry Van Dyke, one year closer to death

I’ve always had a soft spot for the ghost-hunting adventures of Scooby-Doo, though I’ve had to admit that–even in their purest, original form–they were never very good.

Yet the characters are exceptionally appealing; 42 years after their debut in Saturday morning’s Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?, people still know Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy and Scooby. Can the same be said for any of the mystery-solving quintets that followed in their wake? Can you name (without looking them up) the kids in Jabberjaw, Fangface or The Funky Phantom?

For four decades, Mystery, Incorporated has been meddling into the schemes of unscrupulous, mask-wearing “ghosts” haunting mansions, gold mines and amusement parks across America.*

But it’s only now that they’ve had a show truly worth watching.

Scooby-Doo: Mystery, Incorporated–which has been airing on Cartoon Network for the past year–is easily the best iteration of the series.** Not only are the teen sleuths characters instead of merely caricatures, there’s romance, legitimate frights, lots of in-jokes and–most surprisingly–a relatively complex meta-plot.

Okay, the overarching story isn’t as complicated as, say, Lost. Still, this is a Scooby-Doo series in which clues and personalities from previous episodes resurface as elements of a conspiracy surrounding the original Mystery, Incorporated: a prior generation of ghost busters who seemingly vanished long ago. Our modern-day heroes find themselves manipulated by hints from the corpulent Mr. E (voiced by comedian Lewis Black) and the sinister talking parrot*** Professor Pericles.

There’s a lot going on in the kids’ hometown of Crystal Cove (“The Most Hauntedest Place on Earth”). Daphne hails from a wealthy family of hot redheads, including four identical sisters. Velma’s folks run the local Spook Museum. Fred’s dad is the mayor, and seems fed up with his trap-happy son’s attempts to debunk the tourist-friendly ghosts. (Or is he up to something else?)

Meanwhile, love is blossoming. Over the course of the season, Daphne has managed to hook her trap-obsessed Freddy into proposing to her. And there’s been an on-again, off-again romance between Velma and Shaggy, of all people. The latter has been complicated by Shaggy’s close attachment to Scooby, and the resulting “triangle” has had the side-effect of making Velma come off kinda mean at times. It sounds like much more of a soap opera than it really is, but again, this is Scooby-Doo; the fact that they’re even bringing it up is remarkable.

If cartoon love stories aren’t your thing, there’s also a lot of humor and in-jokery. Mystery, Incorporated draws on past Scooby lore. Vincent Van Ghoul (from The 13 Ghosts of Scooby-Doo) is a recurring character similar to aging actor/horror movie host Peter Vincent from the movie Fright Night. The Spook Museum has statues of 13 Ghosts co-star and kiddie con-artist Flim-Flam (said to be serving 25 years-to-life), as well as the infamous Scrappy-Doo (about whom they’ve sworn never to speak).

This is a show that has had famous curmudgeon Harlan Ellison playing himself, and has built an entire episode as a parody of the Japanese monster movie War of the Gargantuas, complete with a rendition of its classic torch song, “The Words Get Stuck in My Throat.”

Tonight will be the season finale, and I’m psyched for it. Which, again, is pretty remarkable.

*As a kid, it bothered me that the classic Scooby-Doo formula inevitably involved a phony ghost. Not only because I felt that a show about ghosts and monsters should have “real” supernatural elements, but because even then it struck me as very unlikely that anyone would repeatedly encounter villains who believed that the best smokescreen for their crimes was to put on a rubber mask and chase teenagers. Maybe once…

**An admittedly low bar.

***Yes, I wrote “sinister talking parrot.”

Dave TV Scooby-Doo, War of the Gargantuas

I’ve always been a DC Comics kinda guy. Growing up, I preferred the square-jawed do-goodery of Superman and Green Lantern to Marvel Comics’ angsty superheroes. To this day, the sum total of Captain America, Thor and Iron Man issues I’ve read could be counted on the fingers of a single Infinity Gauntlet.

And that is what I find so frustrating about the current state of the superhero genre on film. It used to be that DC–which squats under the same corporate umbrella as Warner Bros.–enjoyed blockbuster adaptations of its books while Marvel suffered the indignities of grade-Z filmmakers.* Now DC founders, with flagship characters such as Wonder Woman and the Flash stuck in development hell, and the long-in-the-works Green Lantern feature film seen as a flop. Meanwhile, Marvel is engaged in an audacious, multi-year plan which will culminate in 2012′s The Avengers.

Some have criticized the Marvel movies for sacrificing too much of their own identities in service of the so-called “Avengers Initiative,” but I personally cannot help but be impressed with the way that the Iron Man, Hulk, Thor and Captain America flicks have formed a single meta-franchise. I’m very much looking forward to next year’s all-star team-up.

In general, Marvel has been having a heck of a year at the cineplex. Thor was an entertaining summer opener which saw director Kenneth Branagh (Kenneth frickin’ Branagh!) reproduce comics artist Jack Kirby’s designs with extreme fidelity. Excellent central performances and a cool ’60s vibe made First Class arguably the second-best installment of the X-Men series. And Captain America may have been the most entertaining of them all.

Granted that Captain America was in the dead-center of my wheelhouse, what with its ’40s pulp feel and its awe-shucks heroics. I love this brand of period adventure.

Setting events during World War II was the best possible move. Not only was it faithful to the character’s idiom, it made the his intrinsic, over-the-top patriotism less risible for a modern audience. Even within the context of the story, the Captain America concept and costume was initially treated as ridiculous. It’s only Cap’s own earnestness and bravery that made it laudable.

Though I’m not much of a Marvel buff, I know enough about that particular universe to have gotten a kick out of appearances by such characters as villainous scientist Armin Zola and derby-wearing soldier “Dum Dum” Dugan.** It was a hoot to see the fictional terrorist organization Hydra in action, complete with its trademark salute, “Cut off a limb and two more shall take its place! Hail Hydra!”

Captain America wasn’t Raiders of the Lost Ark, but it was one of the most enjoyable two-fisted, Nazi-fighting escapades I’ve seen. And when Cap joins up with Iron Man, the Hulk, Thor, Nick Fury, Black Widow and Hawkeye next summer, this staunch DC Comics fan will be there for opening weekend.

*The nadir was the 1994 version of The Fantastic Four. It cost a mere $1.5 million and was made for the sole purpose of retaining movie rights to the property.

**Though I mostly associate Dugan with his Godzilla-fighting days.

Dave Movies Captain America, Marvel Comics, reviews

I wish to doff my Sorting Hat on the occasion of the opening weekend of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, the purportedly final* installment of the film series. It’s a remarkable achievement: eight big-budget fantasy flicks released over a ten-year period. Despite this rapid-fire production schedule, the movies improved in quality over time as both the storylines and the young stars grew up.

As I hoped, splitting J.K. Rowling’s seventh book into two installments makes for a tense, exciting second half. With all of the tent-sitting out of the way, there is plenty of time for a spectacular Battle of Hogwarts featuring hordes of dark wizards, giants, spiders, mugwumps, gorbats, smumpsmumps and  kitchensinkasauruses.

Ralph Fiennes’ Lord Voldemort is in full-on “kneel before Zod” mode, which makes his ultimate comeuppance even more satisfying. There are several “fuck yeah” moments, with our audience reserving its applause for the star turns by supporting players Neville Longbottom and Molly “not my daughter, you bitch” Weasley.

The trouble started when Voldemort was a child. Someone said, "Got your nose!" and never gave it back.

The movie improves on the book in a couple of ways. The business over the Elder Wand’s true ownership left me puzzled at a crucial point in the original narrative; here, the explanation is saved until the dust settles. Co-conspirators Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, who were married off to random tertiary characters in J.K. Rowling’s post-novel interviews, instead make a more satisfying love connection with each other. (Though I still think Luna and Harry would’ve been a better pairing; one of the major disappointments of the books was that Rowling went with the entirely predictable choice of Ginny “hi, I’ll be your love interest” Weasley.)

I’ll be honest with you, I teared up during the “19 years later” epilogue. I’m going to miss these kids and their world. They’ve been among the few bright spots of the last decade.

*At least, until they make Luna Lovegood: A Spell of Murder. Luna is a tabloid reporter turned private investigator who, with her Crumple-Horned Snorkack named Erasmus, specializes in Muggle mysteries. Call me, J.K.

Dave Movies Harry Potter, reviews

Okay, I may be a little bit defensive about my movie choices.

What it comes down to is that I don’t like being made to feel as if the ways in which I choose to squander my precious hours don’t meet the approved standard of time-wastery. The truth is that I’ve watched more of my life tick away trapped in pointless meetings during a given week than I’ve given over to Michael Bay in my entire life. If I want to blow a couple of hours watching the Chicago skyline collapse, what’s it to anyone else?

Recently, my friend Dave pointed out a blog post by Leonard Pierce that decried “the allegedly anti-’snob’ pseudo-populism that acts like it’s scoring some valuable critical point by making fun of straw-man ‘hipsters’ who only like indie movies.” Pierce’s argument was that “it’s a bullying cultural attitude…a triumphalist mainstream movement grabbing for the throats of a tiny minority of dissenters just because they can.” He added, “The kind of people who love blockbuster movies, conversely, have totally and completely won.”

I come away with a completely opposite view. I live in a college town, and I’ve spent enough time around not-at-all-straw-men hipsters, feeling belittled because I deigned to see Batman Forever or Tomb Raider. That tiny minority can seem awfully large when it’s sitting across the table mocking you.

So, yeah, I’m kinda sensitive.

I also disagree–in part–with the assertion that the blockbuster crowd has “won.” Yes, the lion’s share of resources are devoted to summer spectacles, not just because that’s where the money is, but because that’s what it takes to make them. No one would–or should–spend $150 million on My Dinner with Andre. Yet, despite the best efforts of Transformers and Pirates of the Caribbean, indie films and prestige pictures continue to exist. Industry types like making them, and love giving each other awards for them.

I’d argue that the people who love blockbusters have about three months out of the year to enjoy them: May, June and July. August is usually given over to would-be tentpoles that didn’t turn out as well as the studio hoped. September and October are fallow months of minor comedies and medium-budget horrors. You get some big films in late November and December, but it’s mostly Oscar bait season. Then comes the long, cold winter of January to April, the elephant’s graveyard of Hollywood. (Yes, there are exceptions, and blockbuster fodder is starting to creep into early spring.)

After Harry Potter and Captain America open later this month, there’s nothing I’m excited about until December 16 and the Sherlock Holmes sequel. Don’t tell me that I’ve won.

I find it strange to be in the position of defending Michael Bay–especially in light of my searing hatred for Armageddon–but I honestly don’t see a great deal of difference between the likes of Transformers and the Saturday-matinee fodder that a lot of us old-timey sci-fi fans cherish. For every truly great film like The Day the Earth Stood Still or Forbidden Planet, there were a hundred more empty programmers like The Land Unknown or The Deadly Mantis. Did people attend George Pal’s War of the Worlds or When Worlds Collide for the characters, or to see state-of-the-art movie technology employed for the sole purpose of blowing shit up? Did anyone really care about the talky stuff going on between effects sequences in a Ray Harryhausen flick? (The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad excepted.)

I’ve “wasted” an awful lot of my life watching dumb-stupid crap like The Angry Red Planet, Queen of Blood and Crack in the World. Today I spent my afternoon off with my DVD of The Last Dinosaur, featuring Richard Boone, Joan Van Ark and a rubber tyrannosaurus. I’m sure that someone would argue that these low-budget movies of the past are somehow more pure than the modern blockbuster, but I know in my heart that junk food is junk food.

And some days–most days, to be honest–I just want an exploding Twinkie.

Dave Rant

This week it’s fashionable to chastise American moviegoers for dropping $180 million on Transformers: Dark of the Moon, never mind that the rest of the world seems equally willing to spend 154 minutes watching robots explode. It’s an easy target for sneering hipsters who resent the masses for not sharing their love of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.

Look, folks. Transformers isn’t hurting you. It’s not going to emerge from your closet in the middle of the night and belt you with a sockful of quarters. It’s not going to hold down Wes Anderson and mercilessly pummel him until he promises never again to pick up a camera. It’s not going to launch whipping mechanical tentacles to drag you out of your free trade coffee bar and force a pair of 3-D glasses onto your head.

Which is my way of saying that, yes, I saw Transformers: Dark of the Moon. And shut up.

I was pleasantly surprised by Michael Bay’s first Transformers film. It was fluff to be sure, but well-produced and enjoyable fluff. I skipped Revenge of the Fallen, partially because of its minstrel-show automatons, but mostly because even the people who like movies about exploding robots said that it didn’t have enough exploding robots.

This was not a problem with Dark of the Moon. The final third of the movie was a running battle through the streets of Chicago. And I’ll admit that the chief appeal for me was the opportunity to see Chi-Town take its lumps for the sake of the summer blockbuster.

3-D suits Michael Bay. It not only plays to his visual strengths, but it forces him to eschew hyper-active editing in favor of establishing spacial relationships. And, of course, it allows him an additional dimension in which to fetishize his female stars. The very first shot in the modern-day section of Dark of the Moon is a lingering embrace of Rosie Huntington-Whiteley’s panty-clad hindquarters. Walking up a flight of stairs. Bay knows what he likes.

One thing that I liked about Dark of the Moon was the lengthy alternate-history sequence that saw the ’60s space race recast as a struggle to capture the remains of a Cybertronian spacecraft. (Amusingly, the real-life Buzz Aldrin showed up too.*) Between this, X-Men: First Class‘ mutant spin on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and Doctor Who‘s own Apollo 11 moment, it’s been a summer for divergent timelines.

Another famous spaceman, Leonard Nimoy, lent his gravelly voice as Sentinel Prime, former leader of the Autobots. And there were not just one, but two references to The Wrath of Khan, including a wicked twist on Mr. Spock’s classic “needs of the many” quote.

The human characters in Dark of the Moon were a strange lot. What I’m saying is that John Malkovich was in it, and he wasn’t the weirdest person on the screen. He would’ve needed a tiny John Cusack inside his brain to match up against the Bizarro World scenery-chewing of Frances McDormand, Alan Tudyk and Ken Jeong.

Yet the most off-putting person had to be Shia LaBeouf as ostensible hero Sam Witwicky. I don’t know what happened to Witwicky in Revenge of the Fallen, but Dark of the Moon had him pissed off and put upon, even though he managed to swing a huge Washington, D.C. loft apartment and a second smoking-hot girlfriend. I find myself wondering whether Michael Bay made a deliberate, subversive choice to make the good guy a douchebag, or whether LaBeouf showed up on the set that way and Bay said, “I can work with this.”

But, let’s face it, no one is going to see Transformers for the humans. Some days, you just want to watch Chicago blow up. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Don’t look at me like that.

*Yes, from the Apollo 11 mission to chatting with Optimus Prime.

Dave Movies hipsters, reviews, shit blows up, Transformers