Just when I think i'm out...

Jeez, has is really been has it really been five months since my last post here? Time really flies when you're suffering from blogger burnout.

Following the culmination of the extremely LONG 2008 baseball season, which ended with the Red Sox suffering a devastating seven game ALCS defeat at the hand os the the upstart Devil Rays, who subsequently went on to lose one of the most craptacular World series in recent memory, my creative juices were flowing at an all time slow. Couple that with the gut-punch season-ending injury Tom Brady suffered in the first quarter of Game 1 of the 2008 NFL season, and it's easy to understand why my blogging battery was empty.

But if there's one thing that can always bring me out of the off-season doldrums, it's the Oscars.

That's right, the World series, the Super Bowl, the election of America's first African-American president and the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression couldn't bring me to contribute one measly post in the past five months, but roll out the red carpet in front of the Kodak theater, and I'm all in.

Let's be clear, the reason I'm inclined to write right now is not because I'm a sappy sucker who gets all goo-goo eyed at the sight of pompous and pampered celebs patronizing the ticket buying public as well as each other by pretending to be more important than the president for one evening a year (who am I kidding, they think they're more important than the president EVERY other evening, too). No, the reason I reentered the blogosphere is because I can't stand the arrogance of the voting Academy, which every year ignores obvious candidates for the major awards and selects films and stars based soley on & promises, politics and posturing.

Now I realize this is not a new practice. Obvious winners have been getting snuubbed for decades, starting with Citizen Kane in 1941 and including dozens of movies, actors and actresses which were either nominated and didn't win, or more embarrasingly, never nominated at all.

Which brings me to the point of this piece (finally). Before Hollywood hands out the hardware for the 81st time tonight, I wanted to go on record with my five nominations for Best Picture, based on films I have seen and regardless of genre, box office gross or pedigree. Remember, these picks are based on the films I've seen, and any omissions I may be guilty of are not due to purposeful slight, but from lack of sight.

-Slumdog Millionaire 11 noms including Best Picture & Director
Even if you still haven't seen this year's entrant from the "little movie
that could" category, chaces are you've heard about it. A lot. The small- budgeted ($15 mil) indie with the funny name and all-Indian cast from director Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, 28 Days Later) has been gaining momentum for months, garnering major wins at the Golden Globes, SAG and nearly every other critics choice awards across the country.

But there's a funny thing about this familiar foregin fairy tale turned feel good story of the year - it actually deserves all the accolades and its status of Best Picture frontrunner.

Unlike former indie Best picture darlings Little Miss Sunshine and Juno, Slumdog takes a woe-is-me plot (boy from the tough streets of Mumbai with a hardscrabble upbriniging) and turns it into the feel-good movie of the year. Viewers happily go along for the ride as Jamal (Dev Patel) braves every conceivable obstacle to be reunited with the love of his life, the radiantly beautiful Latika (Freida Pinto), including making it to the final round of India's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Boyle's directing is superb, the cinematography, blending modern Mumbai with its dark, dirty roots, is mesmerizing, and the performances from the cast of unknowns will have you on the edge of your seat until the breathtaking final answer. Everything you could ask from a BP nominee and more, this slumdog is destined to rule the streets on Hollywood's biggest night.

-The Curious Case of Benjamin Button 13 noms, including Best Picture, Actor & Director

If ever there was an appropriate title for a film come Oscar time, this is it, for the case of Button going from Best Picture frontrunner to near-guaranteed also-ran is a curious one indeed.

Featuring an all-star cast (Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett, Tilda Swinton, suppporting actress nominee Taraji P. Henson), an esteemed director (David Finchter, Seven, Zodiac) and a respected pedigree (a screenplay adapted by Forrest Gump screenwriter Eric Roth from an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story), plus a huge marketing campaign, Button had all the makings of sure-fire Best Picture winner.

But a strange thing happened along the way to immortality for the big-budgeted ($150 mil) Button - it got trounced in the pre-Oscar parade of awards and suddenly found itself losing all of its momentum to the upstart Slumdog in the court of public perception. Sure the tale, about a man (Pitt) who ages in reverse, has all the elements of a BP fave - star power, schmaltz factor, boffo box office, lengthy run time - but suddenly all those factors meant nothing as the Slumdog espress kept gaining momentum.

Bottom line is Button is a fine movie, filled with awe-inspiring visual effects, terrific performances and tender moments, but it does not lift the spirits and  tug the heart like the Mumbai millionaire does. That has left Button destined to finish as a distant runner-up when the hardware is handed out.

-WALL-E 6 noms including Best Animated Feature and Original Screenplay

Here is where I start to differ from the stuffed shirts that make up the voting members of the Academy. If a film is good enough, emotional enough and well made enough to both inspire and entertain, why should it be penalized from being included in the Best Picture race simply because it is animated?

For the simple reason that the voters don't believe animated films are deserving of such high praise, evidently.

In the 81 year history of the Oscars, just one film has been deemed worthy enough of such a distinction, Disney's Beauty & the Beast in 1991. Not the Incredibles, not Finding Nemo, not Shrek, not even Bambi, has been able to sway the stodgy voters to see the light that animation can elicit the same emotions and reactions in viewers that live actions films do.

And if ever there was a film to break through that technicolor barrier, WALL-E was it. Like Slumdog, WALL-E takes a simple premise - love and the things people, errr robots, will do for it - and turns it into a magical mystery tour full of harrowing moments, awesome visuals and good old fashioned fun.

Except that isn't good enough for inclusion into filmdom's hierarchy, according to the Academy, because those backward thinking buffoons believe anything that's drawn must be considered kiddie entertainment.

I say that's bullshit, and anyone who has seen WALL-E (and who hasn't) will probabaly agree with me. The time has come to get out of the dark ages and let these amazing animated achievements of cinematic beauty take their place among the Academy's elite. I mean any film that can make a cockroach lovable has to be considered great, right?

-The Dark Knight 8 noms including Best Cinematography & Supporting Actor 

The same setbacks and sterotypes that the Academy applies to the animated genre also fits the superhero/ action/blockbuster realm - these popcorn flicks are too simple, too silly and too...flashy to be considered for Best Picture nomination.

Except the latest installment in director Christopher Nolan's resurrected Batman franchise not only puts those antiquated theories to rest, it turns a whole genre on its ear by making superhero blockbusters not just fun, but respectable forms of entertainment.

Sure the film has its share of flaws, and it's filled with enough mayhem and explosions to make the Unabomber giddy, but so did the Godfather, no? But the fact is the film is the second-highest grossing picture of all time, has shattere demographic guidelines and transcended the traditional audience of fanboys and males aged 13-56 and features one of the most memorable villians in cinematic history, Heath Ledger's Joker. Shouldn't that mean the movie should be considered on of the year's best? In my opion the answer is an obvious 'yes'.

-Tropic Thunder 1 nom, Best Supporting Actor

Another snub due to genre, this hilarious inside Hollywood spoof from director/star Ben Stiller mangaed to turn a slew of genres on their ear while remaining well-acted, directed and intentioned.

Like horror, animation and action, comedies traditionally get no respect when it comes to Oscar time, as if funny movies can't be as great as dramas. But Stiller's film combines many elements - action, comedy, satire, drama - and turns them into one heck of an entertaining film.

While Robert Downey Jr's portrayal of extreme method actor Kirk Lazarus garnered the most attention and the film's sole nomination, the truth is that the whole movie contained enough excellent performances, sidesplitting moments and social skewering to al least earn Stiller a screenwriting nod. But perhaps the Hollywood upper crust does not think highly of the stabs Stiller takes at the types of people who make the decision to nominate such flicks.

Besides, any film that can get Tom Cruise to make fun of himself, and be hilarious at it, should receive special attention, shouldn't it?

No matter. We know how good these films are, and until the Academy decides to get in on the joke, it will forever be considered the butt of such snubs.

Happy viewing.

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Movie Review: Iron Man

Robert Downey Jr and Jon Favreau create a modern-day marvel that trumps all the other recent comic book heroes

I believe I can fly; whether by car, plane, or space-age superhero suit, Robert Downey Jr does indeed soar as Tony Stark, a.k.a. Iron Man

Iron Man
Starring: Robert Downey Jr, Gweneth Paltrow, Jeff Bridges, Terrence Howard
Directed by: Jon Favreau
Rated: PG-13 for violence, adult language and adult themes
Running Time: 2 hours, 6 minutes

What does the war in Iraq, a comic book legend, a former '80s star turned drug-addled has-been and a guy best known for making one of the most hilarious post-date phone calls in cinematic history have in common?

They all combine to form one of the best comic book big screen adaptations ever as Iron Man not only delivers as an action packed summer blockbuster but succeeds in doing something none of its predecessors has done before it - humanizing the main character.

And make no mistake about it the driving force behind this flick, directed by Jon Favreau, the actor (Swingers; Made) turned director (Elf; Zathura), is the main character.

Not Iron Man, but Robert Downey Jr.

Downey rose to fame with his ground breaking performance as a drug addict in Less Than Zero and then fell victim to life imitating art as his own troubles with substance abuse derailed his career and led to stints in jail and rehab.

But he carries this film as Tony Stark, a millionaire arms inventor who undergoes a crisis of conscious after being captured by rebels in Afghanistan.

To say Stark (and Downey) is not your typical action superhero would be akin to saying Paris Hilton likes media attention.

Like Batman's alter ego Bruce Wayne Stark is a rich industrialist, but unlike Wayne Stark lives life to the extreme by bedding various women, blowing off appointments scheduled by his trusty assistant Pepper Potts (Paltrow), driving very fast in his Audi R8, and drinking scotch every chance he gets.

In other words he's just like we would all be if we were millionaires.

While he is drinking and driving (as a passenger in a 'fun-Vee') in the Afghan desert his convoy is attacked by terrorists, using his own weaponry no less, and Stark is taken prisoner by a group demanding that he build a version of his latest super missile system for them.

Every one knows the engineering genius is going to blast his way out of there, but of course there's a catch: Stark has shrapnel embedded in his body that would make a bee line for his heart if not for a magnetic device embedded in his chest, placed there by a friendly fellow captive, Yinsen.

What those of us not addicted to comics don't know is that not only does Stark blast his way out, he uses a crudely constructed metal suit to do his dirty work by blasting through his captors with an array of weapons, including a gnarly flamethrower, before escaping on the propulsion system intended for the rockets.

Thus a superhero is born.

Freed from his near death experience and disgusted by the knowledge that his weapons are not just being used to protect his country (evidently he's a bit naive, too), Tony decides to take Stark Enterprises in kinder, gentler direction, hoping to develop a larger version of the mini-reactor that allows him to live to provide an alternate power source for mass consumption.

Not so fast, metal man.

Stark's business partner and former confidante to his father, Obadiah Stane (a nearly unrecognizable and thoroughly menacing Bridges) doesn't quite agree with Tony's new agenda, especially since he's the one supplying the terrorists with Stark's weaponry, and Stane quickly moves to have Stark removed by the company's board before he ruins all the fun.

For us that's when the fun starts.

Stark sets to work on the technologically advanced version of his metal suit, which is when we get to witness the cool gadgets that line his workshop, not the least of which is his collection of exotic cars, as well as the complex boss-aide relationship he and Potts enjoy.

The rest of the movie is mostly by-the-books superhero stuff: with the iconic suit under his control Stark/Iron Man attempts to avenge his capture and defeat his new arch enemy Stane, who has now transformed into the mega machine Iron Monger, all while providing plenty of laughs with a little romance on the side.

Downey juggles all of these tasks with aplomb, switching from lothario to lovesick with ease while eradicating the bad guys without spilling his beloved scotch. He is at once simple and complex, predictable and erratic, loathsome and lovable.

However the one thing he never is is boring.

Be sure to stick around past the closing credits to get a sneak peak at what the future holds for Mr. Stark and this franchise-in-the making.

What you didn't think there'd be a sequel?

Mr Downey's magnetic performance made sure of that.

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Movie review: No Country for Old Men

"Don't ever make fun of my hairdo again"

Starring: Javier Bardem, Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, Woody Harrelson, Kelly Macdonald
Directed by: Joel & Ethan Coen
Rated: R for graphic violence, adult themes and language
Winner: Best Picture, Director(s), Supporting Actor (Bardem), Adapted Screenplay
Running Time: 2 hours

The Coen brothers' Oscar-winning masterpiece sends chills up the spine and keeps the viewer on the edge of their seat until the very (peculiar) end

Leave it to the Coen brothers, the masters of offbeat and off-putting modern cinema to craft a film so simple yet so complex, so tension-filled yet it seems to take longer to unspool than a Texas drawl, that the reviews run the gamut from "the best film of all time" to "possibly the most over-rated movie ever made" (actual IMDb comments).

And after finally viewing the 2008 Best Picture winner last night, I can see the arguments for both sides.

On the one hand, the story is so simple and straightforward -- a hunter stumbles upon a drug deal gone bad and absconds with the $2 million in cash as a psychotic killer hired by the druglord tracks him down -- and unfolds in such an unhurried, matter-of-fact way that some viewers could be lulled into thinking not much is going on, eliciting a "what's all the fuss about" mentality that always seems to follow slower-paced films.

But on the other hand there is much more to this adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's classic novel than meets the eye, as the lines between good & evil and right & wrong begin to blur, and the only reason the saga develops so slowly is because the pace mimics the setting, 1908s Texas, which apparently was about as laid back and backwater as you can get.

Josh Brolin plays the aforementioned hunter, Llewelyn Moss, who while out on the plains stalking game comes upon a scene of a bloody massacre in the middle of nowhere; vehicles and people riddled with bullets, a huge stash of heroin in the bed of a pickup, and a lone survivor who claims he has no idea where the last man standing has taken off to.

Moss tracks the man to a nearby tree, where he too has perished, but the case full of cash lay at his feet. Sensing the severity of the situation, Moss high tails it back to his home, where he hides the cash under his trailer while he thinks of a plan so he and his wife (Macdonald) can disappear and enjoy the fruits of his lucky find.

And that's where things start to get interesting.

Hot on the trail of the missing money is Anton Chigurh (Bardem), a monotone, mop-topped menace of a man whose weapons of choice include a air-compressed cattle gun and a shotgun with a silencer the size of a can of corn. Chigurh values life about as much as Paris Hilton values privacy, and at times the decision between killing someone and letting them live comes down to a mere flip of a coin for him.

Moss sends his wife to Odessa to stay with her mom, and he takes off for Del Rio with the cash in hand and Chigurh just a few beats behind him, thanks in part to an old-fashioned homing device placed in the case (gotta love these old-style gimmicks in this age of high-tech gadgetry.)

Meanwhile the small town sheriff, Tom Bell (Jones) stays home and tries to piece the perplexing puzzle together, neither particularly wanting to nor capable of figuring out how this whole mess of a situation ended up in his lap in the first place.

The hunted soon becomes the hunter as Moss transforms from a man running for his life to a man who will do anything to fight for what he believes is rightfully his, based on the old 'finders keepers' principal, and as the bodies pile up and the two man race to see who will come out on top, the viewer gets sucked in by the overwhelming feeling of depression and dread, knowing that no matter which man wins, the outcome will not be pleasant.

"No Country" is simply a mesmerizing film from start to finish. The acting is superb, from the always excellent Jones to the Oscar-winning Bardem. The Spaniard became the first from his country to win the Best Actor trophy, and it was rightfully deserved. Never has a man in such a foolish wig who spoke in such a soft, sensible manner inspired such fear and fascination as Bardem's beguiling bad man. His character is the stuff nightmares are made of, and Bardem's seemingly effortless portrayal is one that will go down in cinematic history.

Brolin, in my wife's & I's opinion, was criminally overlooked for a Best Supporting Actor nom; its amazing that he continues to do his best work now after 20+ years in the biz.

Macdonald, a little-known Irish lass, was terrific as Moss' naive-yet-supportive wife Carla Jean, and even the long lost Woody Harrelson turns in a fine performance as a hit man sent to stop the crazed killer Chigurh; he delivers some of the best lines in the film, especially this spot-on description of his rival: "You don't understand. You can't make a deal with him. Even if you gave him the money he'd still kill you. He's a peculiar man."

Aside from the acting, the cinematography, from the sweeping vistas of the Southwest to close quarters shots of hotel rooms and AC vents, is outstanding, and the score, as subtle and understated as most of the film, lets the sense of dread build without knocking you over the head with drama-signifying crescendos.

The one problem people who love the film might have is with the ending, but let it be known that the scene is taken directly from the final page of McCarthy's novel, thereby preserving the integrity of the story while possibly pissing off viewers who wanted a bit more...closure.

But in this film the only closure comes from knowing that evil works in mysterious ways and comes in many forms.

Therefore if you ever see a lumbering man in a Beatle haircut carrying an air canister and an eerie look, please run.

And whatever you do, don't take his money.

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Jeffrey Ross at the Tampa Improv

So the wife and I went to see Jeffrey Ross at the Tampa Improv on Saturday night, and two things struck me first about the legendary roast master:

1.) he's a lot shorter than he appears on TV (as you can tell by him standing next to me)

2.) he's not nearly as funny, either

Perhaps it was the fact that he was on the third night of four in a small-time "city" like Tampa, or maybe because it was the early showing and he hadn't swilled his quota of liquid laughter yet, or maybe he's just not on top of his game unless he's skewering D-listers, but for whatever reason he just didn't kill it like we both thought he would.

Sure he had a couple good lines, like when he talked about having to unbutton his jeans after a meal: "I've got those button fly jeans, so it's one button for dinner, two buttons for dessert, three buttons for Hannah Montana..."

If that topical zinger didn't get an "oh my God, he didn't" reaction out of ya, then his combining of the tween sensation and the Oscar winning film "There Will be Blood" certainly would have.

But other than those edgy insults it was a pretty disappointing show. Ross plowed through the requisite comedian checklist with the attitude of a man on anti-depressants, ticking off the common elements we've all come to know and loathe from comics:

-airline jokes? Check

-witty banter with the victims in the front row seats? Check

-attempting to interject local landmarks into the shtick.? Check.

-mispronouncing said local landmarks? "Mods Venus" Check.

The best part of the act was when he had a few locals come up on stage and play a little background music while he read some of his "poems", as a girl at her bachelorette party and an old dude in suspenders provided more comic elements than the comedian himself could produce.

Following one of the old guy's many attempts at humour, Ross replied "Keep it up, you might even get some pussy tonight"

"I already did" the man shot back, eliciting a sly smile from Ross while delivering perhaps the best line of the whole night.

Sure didn't see that coming.

For some of what I expected to see from Ross, check out this classic clip from the Pam Anderson Roast. Maybe the guy just needs a celebrity around to be funny. Oh, and if you're at work, you want to turn the vol way down.

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2008 Academy Awards: Best & Worst

Now that the hype has died down, it's time to look at who the real winners and losers were at the 80th annual Oscars

No beating around the bush here. This is my assessment of what went right and what went wrong at the Oscars Sunday night. (Note: click on post title to properly view all links)

Best Appearance, Women
(not just best dressed, but encompassing the whole she bangs)
1.) Katherine Heigl
I don't think the Grey's Anatomy hottie ever really looks bad, but she nearly set the red carpet on fire with this stunning old Hollywood glam look
2.) Kristen Chenowith
Didn't really know much about her before the ceremony, but now I know one thing: I'm going to start watching that quirky "Pushing Daisies" show from now on. Va. Voom.
3.) Marion Cotillard
Many people have trashed the Best Actress winner for this mermaid-meets pillow top gown, but I give her credit for being one of the few actresses to try something daring; she also gets bonus points for being drop dead gorgeous
4.) Laura Linney
She's not a glamorous young starlet, or an eye-popping show-stopper, but she's cool, she's clean, and she's classy. Nothing wrong with that.
5.) Jen Garner
I'm normally not a fan of this mousy maven, with her uni-lip and chest of a 12-year-old boy, but this might be the best she ever looked. Perhaps it was because she was sans Ben?

Best Appearance, Men
(as always, this list was compiled with help from the wife)
1.) The Rock
He's big. He's brawny. He's got an impeccable smile. Did I mention he's big? Cause the women sure did it enough!
2.) George Clooney
Although he was snubbed for his portrayal of Michael Clayton, he was on nearly every expert's "best dressed" list
3.) Patrick Dempsey
While the chicks continue to swoon over Dr. McDreamey, I still can't get the image out of my mind of him as the scrawny star of terrible teenage coming-of-age flicks. But I guess now he's the Woo Woo Man.
4.) Steve Carell
He just looks like he was made to wear a tux. Maybe it's the Michael Scott side of him.
5.) Javier Bardem
The wife chose P. Diddy for her 5th pick, but I say "Xavier" went a long way towards making people forget about that horrid Anton Chigurh hairdo, so he gets my vote

Worst Appearance, Women
1.)Tilda Swinton
This was the no-brainer of the night. What is this chick thinking? I mean she's ugly enough when she tries to look good, but was she purposely trying to look like a cross between Carrot Top and Steve Buscemi?
2.)Diablo Cody
Just saw Juno and it's a great flick, but please, you're not a stripper anymore, so drop the tawdry togs and tasteless tats and try to get a bit of what you obviously haven't found yet-class. Oh, and it was just a matter of time before these leaked out. You know what they say, you can take the girl out of the strip club...
3.)Rebecca Miller
I guess you can't really blame her since her husband's one of the worst dressed as well, but isn't the woman supposed to have better taste than the guy?
4.)Jennifer Hudson
As if last year's foil wrap wasn't bad enough...
5.)Kelly Preston
Look I love this woman--met her once and she was beautiful just wearing a sweatsuit--but she went from a leopard print to an apricot. Dial it down, Kelly, and you'll be fine. Maybe try the sweatsuit?

Worst Appearance, Men
1.)Daniel Day-Lewis
This regular Oscar contender and 2-time winner is also a perennial lock for this list. Bonus points for clinching the Worst Dressed Duo award with wife Rebecca Miller
2.) Viggo Mortensen
He looked like he forgot his role as a mean Russian mobster in eastern promises was just a character. The beard, the coat, the horror!
3.)Johnny Depp
It's not even fun to make fun of his look anymore. Like Day-Lewis, he obviously enjoys looking like a wacko/geek
4.)John Travolta
The tux was okay, but this man-kissing Sino was rockin the worst 'do this side of a chia pet. Maybe his follicles will make a comeback like his career once did
5.) Tilda Swinton
Wait, she wasn't trying to look like a dude? Never mind.

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80th Academy Awards Recap

The annual gala was dominated by Old Men, Blood, foreign actors winning golden statues, and a sea of red.

DO NOT make fun of this man's hair

It was only fitting on a night in which storm clouds hovered over the venue and rain soaked the red carpet that the 80th annual Academy Awards would be dominated by a couple of dark films in front of an audience clad primarily in crimson.

While it appeared that the majority of starlets got the internal memo to blend in with the most infamous rug this side of Howard Cosell, two films that dealt with the darker side of life took home the most coveted awards.

The early oil industry saga "There Will be Blood" helped Daniel Day-Lewis earn his second Best Actor trophy in the least surprising outcome of the evening, while Joel & Ethan Coen's tale of a deranged killer with a horrendous hairdo, "No Country For Old Men", was the big winner, garnering statues for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor (Javier Bardem), Best Director(s) and Best Adapted Screenplay.

The telecast was strangely devoid of excitement and surprises for the most part, with milquetoast host Jon Stewart playing it safe on the heels of the writer's strike, while the stars were apparently just happy to be able to play dress up and attend an event after the aborted fiasco that was the Golden Globes.

Ironically despite all the testosterone and griminess it was the fairer sex that provided most of the intrigue on the evening.

First carrot-topped Tilda Swinton swiped the Best Supporting Actress trophy from front runner Cate Blanchett and sentimental fave Ruby Dee for her portrayal as a powerful woman with a closet full of insecurities in "Michael Clayton", a victory that took even Swinton off guard judging by her "what, I really won?" expression upon hearing her name announced.

Then former stripper-turned screenwriter Diablo Cody "shocked the world" by scoring the Best Original Screenplay hardware, not so much for her penning of the tender reality check flick "Juno", but for her decision to wear a slitted, sleeveless leopard print frock that exposed her tacky stripper tat to the stodgy Hollywood upper crust.

But the biggest surprise was newcomer Marion Cotillard winning the Best Actress award for her portrayal of troubled singer Edith Piaf in the French biopic "La Vie en Rose." Cotillard, a stunningly beautiful actress who had never been in a hit movie in the States, beat out Hollywood heavyweights Blanchett, Julie Christie and Laura Linney in winning America's premier acting award.

Plus she wore the most evocative dress, had the best acceptance speech, and sung at the post-show presser. Hard to top that.

Her win combined with Bardem's (Spain), Day-Lewis' (England) and Swinton's (England) made it a clean sweep for foreign-born actors in the 4 major categories for the first time since 1964 and only the second time ever. Bardem's win marked the first for a Spaniard, and Cotillard the first by a French woman since 1960.

As Swinton succinctly put it in her speech,"Don't tell everybody, but we're everywhere - that's what Hollywood is."

Who said our country's foreign policy was a mess?

Coming tomorrow: The Best & Worst of the 80th annual Oscars

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Oscar Nominee Review: Michael Clayton

Michael Clayton
Directed by Tony Gilroy
Starring: George Clooney, Tom Wilkinson, Tilda Swinton, Sydney Pollack
Rated: R for adult language & themes

Running Time: 2 hours

Nominated for: Picture, Director, Actor,(Clooney), Supporting Actor (Wilkinson), Supporting Actress (Swinton), Original Score, Original Screenplay

George Clooney and Director Tony Gilroy shine in the feel-good "movie" of the year

First I want to preface this review by stating that I haven't had a chance to screen most of the major Oscar nominees this year. Whether it was a case of a lack of interesting contenders (Sweeney Todd, Atonement, La Vie en Rose, this means you), the late release of front runners such as There Will be Blood, or a lack of interest due to the possibility of the writer's strike cancelling the ceremony, my wife and I just weren't as into the whole process as much as in years past.

We were able to catch Viggo Mortensen's chilling portrayal of a sinister Russian killer with a conscience in Eastern Promises a few weeks ago, easily recognizing it as an Oscar-worthy performance before the nominees were announced, and we also witnessed Ruby Dee's heart wrenching turn as the mother of a corrupt American killer in American Gangster last summer, but that's about it as far as the major players go.

But thankfully we did watch 7-time nominee Michael Clayton last night, and as far as I'm concerned the quality of that film more than made up for the lack of quantity we suffered from missing most of the others.

That's because Michael Clayton is a true movie lover's movie, one devoid of shootouts, car chases, contrived plot twists and foul-mouthed dialog that's too witty for its own good.

No, Clayton is a stylish, subtle and understated legal thriller, one that doesn't spell out its agenda in the opening scenes, yet keeps the viewer engrossed enough to follow the narrative through all the way to the intense final frame. It's a thinking viewer's movie, one that relies on the powerful dramatic chops of the actors involved and the polished guidance of a first-time director to lead the viewer through a straightforward plot that manages to astound and impress without beating the audience over the head with what it's trying to accomplish.

Clooney plays the title character, a legal "fixer" at a large and prestigious law firm in New York who has suffered through numerous obstacles in his life while trying to navigate a road to riches & success, with just the right amount of gravitas and severity. He's a divorced father of a grade-school aged son with a gambling problem and an addict brother who convinced him to invest in a local restaurant that ended up going belly-up, leaving Michael with a $75,000 debt and facing the eternal question of "what am I doing with my life?"

When the chief litigator at his firm, Artur Edens (a superb Wilkinson) goes berserk at a deposition in a $3 billion dollar class action suit for agricultural giant U-North, Clayton, who has been a close friend of Edens for many years, is called in to handle the situation and bring the rogue lawyer back to reality. That's when the slow-starting film takes its turn into mesmerizing, memorable cinema.

Turns out Edens has not just suffered a relapse of his manic-depression caused by his failure to stay on his meds, but he has discovered, via a long-buried interdepartmental U-North memo, that the company knew it was pumping cancer-causing agents into the wells of unsuspecting farmers for years, choosing to bury the revelation at the risk of spending millions of dollars to rectify the problem.

At the urging of the firm's founder, Marty Bach (co-producer Pollack), Clayton is instructed to reign in the rogue partner or the company's proposed merger with a London-based firm could fall through, not to mention cost the firm millions in legal fees it is owed for the 6+ years of billable hours it has put in on behalf of U-North.

Trouble is Clayton has enough issues of his own on his plate, namely the $75k he owes for his failed business venture, which combined with his years of gambling losses has left him near penniless and on the verge of emotional collapse himself.

This conundrum faced by the lead character, who could have been portrayed as a suave, slick legal eagle with a Fortune 500 portfolio and a stable of sexy mistresses, combined with the laid-back direction of first-timer Gilroy, best known as a writer of the Bourne trilogy and producer of Proof of Life, makes for fascinating cinema, and witnessing how Clooney handles this crossroads in his character's life is what makes Clayton one of the most absorbing films to grace the screen in a long time.

There are two scenes that best exemplify the subtle yet powerful punch the actor and director provide, and although they are mere minutes in length and are not pivotal to the overall plot, they serve as crystal-clear reminders why this is one of the year's best films.

The first is a scene involving Clayton and a trio of wild horses, which we witness both in the beginning of the movie as well as later when the story comes back to where we joined it. Brilliantly shot with just the right amount of silence and background illumination, it leaves an indelible impression on the viewer's mind, and not because of the single explosive scene in the film that comes afterward.

The second is a quiet yet gut-punching monologue with Clayton and his young son in the car. After leaving a family function in which Michael's deadbeat brother shows up as they are leaving his sister's house, Michael tries to explain to his boy that not all men turn out to be drug-addled losers like his brother. Watching Clooney wrestle with emotions as his eyes well up and his brow twists in knots is by far one of the most heart-wrenching, emotional three minutes of film I've ever seen an actor produce, and I couldn't help but think as the scene ended that he could have won the Oscar based on that snippet of cinematic excellence alone, the rest of his brilliant performance aside.

Of course his is not the only great acting job turned in, as Wilkinson is at the top of his game as the hot shot lawyer who either has had a moment of epiphany after realizing that the people he has been fighting for all these years are really the true enemies in life, or he has just finally snapped following years of legal wrangling in which people's lives are destroyed, his own included.

Tilda Swinton also turns in a terrific performance as the chief litigator for U-North who has to appear calm and confident in front of the stuffed suit millionaires she represents, but underneath the facade she is merely an insecure woman on the verge of a breakdown herself. All the other roles are deftly handled as well, from Pollack as the money-grubbing chief partner, to Clayton's son Henry, played by Austin Williams with just the right mix of child-like naivete and grownup smarts.

All in all Michael Clayton is one of the most satisfying movies for fans of real movies ever made. The acting is top notch, the directing is first rate, the cinematography is attention-getting with out being over the top, and to top it all off it has an ending that will leave you with goose bumps and still smiling at the same time.

What more can you ask of a film?

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Catching up: Chris Benoit, the NBA draft and Entourage

Hey, remember me?

I know it's been a while since I've posted, but having a blog devoted to a baseball team really takes up a ton of time during the baseball season.

Who woulda thunk it?!

Since my return from New York there have been a few topics I've wanted to cover, and I know I might be coming late to these stories, but hey, it's my blog and I'll post what I want to.

Or something like that.

Just bear with me. I'll try not to slack off so much in the future.

Benoit tragedy highlights the real dangers of steroids
Everytime I hear another news item or police reveal another sick & twisted detail of the horrible crimes the former wrestling star committed, I start to tear up and feel mortified; yet, I cannot stop reading about it.

What took place a week ago in the Benoit home in suburban Georgia played like a ghastly storyline straight out of one of Vince McMurder's retarded WWE scripts.

The 40-year-old Benoit reportedly bound his wife Nancy's feet and hands on Friday and then suffocated her; he waited a day before strangling their seven-year-old son Daniel in his bed sometime Saturday night, perhaps after the pair viewed a Pay-Per view match Benoit was supposed to take part in, and then hung himself with a weight machine cord on Sunday.

To absolutely no one's surprise (except McMahon's & his WWE lackies), he investigators found anabolic steroids present in the Benoit household in the ensuing investigation.

Of that revelation I have just one thing to say to US legislators: forget about Barry friggin Bonds and his pursuit of a meaningless home run record and start focusing on the real dangers steroids present to the American population, namely how the side-effects of the muscle-enhancing hormones are killing men, women & children.

While Bud Selig and George Mitchell hunt Bonds for his obvious use of performance-enhancing drugs to reach Hank Aaron's sacred career homer record of #755, and pro football players, cyclists, tennis players, and even golfers are now being accused of rampant use of synthetic steroids in hopes of achieving maximum (earning) potential, that tells me it's time for Congress to start an all-out investigation as to how, why and where these drugs are making it into the marketplace, and start a crackdown akin to the "Say No to Drugs" or anti-Mafia campaigns of decades past in order to put a halt to all the death & destruction these drugs are causing.

After all, what's more important--finding out how a hulking home run hitter broke a significant sports record, or preventing another geeked-out musclehead from murdering his family for no damn reason?

Celtics blow another draft, yet Ainge & Rivers enjoy long-term security
How can a couple of men fuck up a historic franchise as badly as Celtics president Danny Ainge and coach Doc Rivers have? Yet, both men sit back secure in the knowledge that neither one of them is leaving the Causeway St. offices of the C's anytime soon?

The list of laughable draft picks (Marcus Banks & Kendrick Perkins instead of Boris Diaw & Josh Howard?), terrible trades (Antoine for Raef LaFrentz!) and silly signings (Brian Scalabrine!!) Ainge has made over the past few years is so lengthy and prolific that he has succedeed in turning the once-proud Green Machine into the laughingstock of the league in under four years.

Rivers, meanwhile, coaches like he's trying to lose his job, with a turnstile rotation, players playing out of position, and patchwork lineups right out of a bad Martin Lawrence movie, yet he just signed a one-year extension in May despite guiding the team to a 102-144 record in three seasons.

Did I mention he's led teams to not one but two 19-game losing streaks?

The latest magnificent maneuver by Ainge was to trade Boston's 2007 first round pick, slotted at #5 thanks to some unfortunate ping pong balls, to the Seattle Sonics for aging, ailing shooting guard Ray Allen.

Hmmmm. Trading a potential building block/solid complimentary starting player like Jeff Green, whom they selected for Seattle, or Brandon Wright for a guy who will turn 32 in three weeks and is coming off of double ankle surgeries that caused him to miss 27 games last season seems like a hair-trigger move at best and a recipe for disaster at worst.

I choose the latter.

Will Allen be able to give captain Paul Pierce relief from the innumerable double-teams he currently receives as the team's only All Star caliber player? Sure.

But a more likely scenario has an uncomfortable (he's a low-key guy who enjoyed playing in the cozy environs of the pacific Northwest) and recovering Allen struggling to adapt to his new surroundings and teammates. I guarantee that he and Pierce both suffer some nagging/ lengthy injury that will force them to miss considerable time during the season, thus ensuring another lottery-bound campaign for the former kings of the hill.

Maybe then these clowns will be ousted from office.

HB-No: Former Sunday Night kingpin rapidly spiraling into oblivion
It was bad enough when we bade farewell to our favorite family drama with a bad Journey song and a maddening, open-ended conclusion a few weeks ago, but ever since the Sopranos swan song, its seems as if the HBO network has made a decision to whack itself.

Once the perfect mood-lightening compliment to the morose and intense Mob drama, the buddy series Entourage has apparently gotten wind of how popular and important it is to the Sunday night lineup, because in its fourth season it has officially jumped the shark.

Premiering just two weeks after the third season concluded the same night as the Sopranos ended, the show's writers took a risk and did an on-location shoot of the boys filming their dream project, Medellin, somewhere in the jungles of South America.

As if taking the big fish out of their little Hollywood pool wasn't risky enough, the creators decided to mock/parody/impersonate another hit series, The Office, by having the main players talk directly to a documentary filmmaker who was supposed to be garnering clips for the DVD version of the movie.

Cute idea in theory, but my wife & I thought it went over like Vince's hideous, Ron Jeremy-like Pablo Escobar getup.

That is to say not well.

The next ep followed the exploits of neurotic but brilliant director Billy Walsh, whose crazy behavior and manic mood swings probably embody many of Tinseltown's directorial elite, but his schtick of tyrannical tics and tawdry tackiness is already wearing thin, and it's just the beginning of the season.

Throw in a new & improved (?) Johnny Drama and Turtle's going nowhere, doing nothing character (he doesn't even smoke a lot, crank rap music and play video games anymore for crissake!), plus the kinder, gentler Ari and not only has the show failed to get me excited for Sunday nights at 10:00, but I've actually started to look forward to the awesome Ice Road Truckers on the History Channel a bit more.

Now there's a bunch of ballsy, non-ironic dudes just being real and having a good time.

And don't even get me started on John From Cincinnati or Flight of the Conchords...

Put it this way, if things don't improve shortly it will be so long, HBO Sunday nights.

Better start opening up that checkbook for Chase & Gandolfini soon.

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The Sopranos finale: It's all over but the bitching

Episode 86: "Made in America"

"And now, the end is near;

And so I face the final curtain.

My friend, Ill say it clear,

I'll state my case, of which I'm certain."

"I've lived a life that's full.

I've traveled each and every highway;

And more, much more than this,

I did it my way."

--Frank Sinatra

With a heavy emphasis on music in the final episode of this thing we loved called The Sopranos, I'm surprised creator David Chase didn't use those fitting lyrics from one of the greatest entertainment/mob connectors in American history, for the words could have been spoken by Chase himself.

Because if there's one thing you can say following the ultimate episode of the series, it's that he certainly went out on his own terms.

In the hours since the Sopranos signed off last night, a tidal wave of heated opinions has flooded the airwaves & fiber optic cables, crashing websites and rippling office water coolers from Parsippany to Palo Alto. And the range of responses has run the gamut from the ridiculous ("I'm cancelling my subscription to HBO") to the sublime ("that was the greatest ending in television history").

But whether you loved the ending or hated it (much like with Jar Jar Binks, there is no in between) Chase found a way to get the entire nation talking about a show that may never grace our presence again.

At least without being chopped up worse than Ralphie Cifaretto by those friggin' bastards at A&E.

The finale, much like the previous 85 episodes before it, was a polarizing entity, galvanizing armies on both sides of the fence. There are both the staunch supporters of Chase's decision to use an open-ended 'conclusion', and a legion of livid longtime watchers who are disgusted with the great 'cop-out' move to end the show without significant closure.

I, for one, am on the "loved it" side of the fight.

Before I go into detail why, let me try to recap what happened and explain how we got to the point where people are ready to send a lynch mob to Chase's Malibu manse and string him up by his Lincoln Log.

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The episode begins the morning after last week's left off, as Tony wakes up in the bed in the safe house with the assault rifle next to him. (note: one of these days I'm going to re-watch this entire season and count how many scenes showed Tony in bed. Plenty of fodder for the "dream" theorists.)

Immediately we cut to Paulie & T. waiting in a van at the edge of an airport runway on a snowy winter night. Turns out Tony has arranged a meeting with Agent Harris, and when he runs to Harris' car through the flurries, Chase had everyone in the "he's gonna flip" camp thinking they had won the office pool.

The snitch that came in out of the cold, if you will.

Well, they were wrong. Yes Tony arranged the confab to exchange information, but not to turn in evidence; he tells Harris that he remembered where the Arabs who frequented the Bing had an offshore bank account, and in exchange for that tidbit he wants Harris to use his Brooklyn FBI connection to help him locate Phil, to "prevent any more members of his family from getting hurt."

When Harris, grumpy from arguing with his wife and exhausted from chasing a terrorist cell lead, balks, Tony suggests the bank account could be used for funding terrorist activities. Unimpressed, Harris responds with a curt "you're reaching", and Tony hastily exits the car, but the agent may have appreciated the info a little more than he let on, as we'll see later.

T. drives to the estate house by the beach that Carm bought where the family is hiding out at, and a soulful rendition of the tune "Keep Me Hanging On" by Vanilla Fudge blares from the van radio, another masterful use of mood-setting music by Chase. There he tries to comfort Carm, who is trying to hold it all together as she pines to return home. "I'm working on it" Tony tells her, and the notion is hatched that they might just live through this mob war.

The Feds watch closely as Bobby's funeral is attended by various members of the families, and at the wake afterwards they do what us Italians do best- eat and bullshit. Paulie, who was fucking priceless in this episode, goes so far as to unzip his pants at the table in front of everyone, including Bobby's pretty young niece, while AJ goes off because everybody is talking about meaningless bullshit like American Idol and the Oscars when their friend had just been killed and our country is at war.

"You people are fucked" he angrily tells them before going on another anti-Bush tirade, but when he's done spilling his guts to the stunned table, the niece replies "you're all over the place, I don't know what you're trying to say." Well put.

At the safe house Tony's captains keep coming back with light envelopes, due to the power struggle, and while watching an episode of the Twilight Zone (another Chase riff-read the episode guide) a mysterious cat appears and takes a shine to the crew, although Paulie is freaked out by it. "Snakes with fur," he calls them. Classic.

The significance of the cat-- was it Christopher or Adrianna re in-cat-nated, or did it constantly stare at Chrissy's picture because it was so adept at spotting rats?-- has been the subject of much heated debate as well, but whatever it represented, it was one freaky feline.

Meanwhile Phil places a call to his man Butch and tells him he's irked that Tony has escaped their assassin's wrath. "He shoulda been hit first" is Phil's response to Butch's excuses, and when the little bug eyed dude has the nerve to suggest that they might should reach out to make a truce, Phil barks "we can't go back now, are you fucking crazy?", and in his smug & heartless way, hangs up on him.

Okay, I'm starting to ramble, so I'll speed this up a bit.

While visiting his sister Janice, who's in semi-mourning ("Gotta watch my weight if I'm gonna snag me a new husband"), Tony gets the call from Harris that Phil is using a pay phone in the seaside town of Oyster Bay. Ironically, Harris had to sleep with his "source" to get the info, and as he secretly called Tony after the tryst, Chase continued to show that everyone in this show, even the FBI agents, aren't beyond resorting to illicit or immoral acts to get what they want.

As all this is happening, everybody's least favorite depressed teenager is about to consummate his relationship with the teenage 'sorta model' Rhiannon, parked in his SUV and listening to Bob Dylan's "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)". Except he parked his X-Terra in some dry leaves, and the catalytic converter caused a fire which resulted in the truck being blown sky high.

The near-catastrophic event conveniently shocked the perpetually depressed teen out of his funk and back to "reality", and when a brief flirtation with enlisting in the Army is met with furious disapproval from the parentals, Tony gets him a job as a development executive on a Daniel Baldwin slasher flick, buys him a new Beamer M3 and promises to fund his future nightclub venture, and suddenly the kid is riding high in the saddle with a hot car, a hot (underage) girlfriend, and not a care in the world.

See, Chase knows how to wrap things up neatly.

By now Tony has decided to reach out to George, boss of one of the NY families, to broker a deal with Phil's boys. He agrees to end everything, blaming Johnny Sack for turning Phil into the prick that he is, and when Little Carmine and Butchie both sign off on the truce, all that's left is to whack Phil.

After Paulie's nephew Little Paulie (a.k.a the one who Christopher threw out the window---boy did I miss Chris these past few weeks...) gets a bead on Phil, the Jersey boys conduct the hit in broad daylight as he's leaving his wife & grand kids to make his calls. One shot to the back of the skull, then another in the heart for good measure, and Tony's last obstacle is eliminated.

As they say, he never saw it coming.

The next part everyone saw coming, because Chase set it up for all the carnage-thirsty viewers who were tuning in tonight hoping to see an all-out bloodbath.

As the car rolls out of control with Phil's head lined up with the tire, a crowd of onlookers curiously gathers to watch the inevitable act painfully unfold as if in slow motion. When the wheel rolls over Phil's silver-cropped skull, the sickening noise and (implied) violence causes some of the gawkers to ohh & oahh with approval and others to get sick on the spot.

The implication is Chase saying, "okay, you all wanted blood & guts, well look closely cause here it is", except he didn't even give it to us then, it was off screen, a clear sign of the giant tease that was yet to come.

Now I really gotta wrap this up.

The Sopranos return home and all is right with the world again. Meadow is going to marry Pat and might already have a high-paying job at a prestigious law firm waiting for her, AJ is miraculously healed, with help from a Melfi-esque shrink, right down to the gams, and even Paulie is seeing his life improve when Tony offers him the job of running the Cifaretto crew.

Sure there are a couple of nagging issues for the boss, like the fact that his boy Carlo probably flipped on him; his lawyer Mink informs him he's probably going to be indicted on the old weapons charge, but, after all, "trials are there to be won"; and his Uncle Junior, whom he wants to hate but can't when after a visit to the hospital Tony realizes that he's just a demented old man.

But all in all life is good for the formerly fractured family, and when they all agree to meet for dinner at local hangout Holsten's , it seems, incredibly, as if a happy ending is possible after all...

...or is it?

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The final five minutes of the show is the part that has caused the most ruckus among irate & elated viewers, and the scene will be replayed, dissected and discussed for years to come. It is a tense, gut-wrenching and brilliant exercise in what it must be like to walk in Tony's shoes, to live with the constant fear that it could all end at any time, with no warning, without a chance to say goodbye.

Tony arrives first and he surveys the joint, locates a center booth and takes his seat, facing the door of course. Soon various people walk through the door, and the jingling bell and causes Tony to look up nervously each time.

As faces both familiar (Carm & AJ ) and foreboding (a shady looking Italian guy, a couple of black youths, a scruffy-looking trucker) enter the diner, the viewer is slowly filled with a sense of dread, that feeling of, as Carm so aptly described it, waiting for the piano to drop on Tony's head. I for one was ready to get sick just from the swelling of emotions, and the heart rate was in overdrive.

So when Tony peruses the jukebox and looks through the selections ("This Magic Moment", "Magic Man", "Only the Strong Survive" and "I've Gotta Be Me" are just a few of the titles high on the irony meter) and he chooses Journey's sappy feel-good anthem "Don't Stop Believein'", the whole things starts to take on the feeling of a surreal dream.

"...for a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on..."

As the Italian gets up to use the john (yet another Godfather reference), the three Sopranos eat onion rings (representing the family has come full circle anyone?), and wait for Meadow to arrive.

...don't stop, believin', hold on to that feeellllling.."

As Meadow tries three times to parallel park her Lexus it's like a moment in suspended forever in time, and when she finally gets it parked she runs across the street, and heads into the restaurant to find...

"...don't stop."

Darkness.

As you know by now, the cable did not cut out and the final shoe did not drop. The open ending was at once confusing, irritating, shocking and aggravating, and left millions of viewers around the country either cursing, scratching their heads, checking their cable connection, or, like me, sitting back smiling and thinking:

"Chase you're a fucking genius. An asshole to millions, but a genius to be sure."

Because the ending is never spelled out, it leaves the whole thing open to interpretation.

Was Tony capped by the Italian dude, as many have argued, because of the conversation with Bobby about how it all goes black when you get whacked?

Was the whole thing a dream, as the many bed sequences, dream-related music and surreal quality would suggest?

Or was the family actually dead, and just floating through some netherworld never land, resigned to a life of dining out and going through the motions as a family, a theory that has been making the rounds on the message boards?

That's where the brilliance comes in. Chase was once quoted as saying "I don't think art should give answers. I think art should only pose questions....that create tension inside of you."

He even left a final clue as to how we should think it should end, on the "B" side of the Journey song Tony played:

Mission accomplished, David.

Thanks for the memories.

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Sopranos: The end

The show, and series, just ended, and to steal from the late, great Jack Buck "I don't believe what I just saw!"


What'd you expect, it was going to be wrapped up in a tidy little hangman's knot?


Fahgeddaboutit! says David Chase


Lights out, roll credits, and let the onslaught of debate begin.


For the record, I loved it. The wife--"HATED IT!"


There is no in-between with the biggest mindfuck of a twist since Pam Ewing saw Bobby in the shower.


I've got to sleep on it, watch it again tomorrow, and then figure out how to describe what just happened.


"Don't stop, believing, hold on to that feeellliiiing..."

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Sopranos Finale: T., minused in three hours

Three hours to go until one of the most anticipated series finales in television history.

Woke up this morning, realized one of my favorite shows of all time was coming to an end.

Not catchy, I know, but it sums up the situation as the Sopranos is set to sign off tonight after eight seasons, 86 episodes, 1,358,632 cuss words and about 4,289 killings.

Being a cable show, and a provocative, profane and un-PC one at that, will prevent the eight-year-old 'family' drama from pulling in mega closing numbers along the lines of All in the Family, M*A*S*H, Cheers or even that silly piece of claptrap Friends, but as for pop culture impact and sheer influence on how television was transformed, not many shows compare to David Chase's mob masterpiece.

One barometer of how popular a show is and how big a finale this one promises to be is the amount of media attention being given the event. Magazine articles, TV entertainment show stories, and endless amounts of Internet postings and radio chatter has elevated this thing to one of the biggest TV events since the Seinfeld gang said its farewells in 1998.

The only question remaining isn't how Tony will meet his ultimate demise, either by the Feds, Phil, one of his own men, or a fed-up family member, but will Chase give everyone the closure the American public seems to crave from this show?

Or will he just leave us with some open-ended, David Lynch-esque dream sequence, where Tony resides in a sunny, peaceful world, dropping buttons, drinking scotch, and fishing at the lake while Carm becomes a real estate mogul, Meadow a high-powered attorney, and AJ a well-paid substance abuse therapist?

And as the ducks lazily swim by Tony's boat in the lake, the crippled, gnarled hand of Livia reaches up through the placid surface and drags Tony to the depths below, where he can rest with the rest of the fishes.

At least that's one theory.

Tick tick tick........

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The Sopranos: It's going down

Episode 86: "The Blue Comet"

This expression on the train store figure best represented the whole episode

It's taken me a while to post about this episode, perhaps because I have such mixed feelings about it and what it represents.

As the second-to-last episode of one of the best television shows in history, it was a taut, emotional, nail biting affair on par with some of the best eps in the show's history.

But as a reminder that all things are not going to end well in Sopranoland, and that the end is coming sooner, not later, the show left me with a hollow feeling inside instead of being pumped up to find out how it all will ultimately conclude.

These feelings (could it be, depression?) started with the cop-out killing of Christopher. His death was not unexpected, but the manner in which he departed-with Tony's clammy paw squeezing the final breath out of Chrissy's wrecked body-was such a cheap & easy demise for such a beloved cast member that it left many diehard fans wondering what kind of cockamamie calamities were in store for the rest of the family.

Many of those questions were sadly answered this week when not one but two more key soldiers in the Soprano army bit the dust: Tony's kind-hearted brother-in-law Bobby Bacala, and everybody's favorite second banana, T's quiet & loyal captain, Silvio Dante.

Once again, no real surprises here, especially when early on we witness Phil & his henchmen meeting to discuss the destruction of the Jersey family once & for all.

Stating his utter contempt for that "pygmy thing over there", in his icy calm monotone Phil declares that he's "made a decision" regarding the situation, and that decision is to "decapitate and do business with whatever's left".

And just like that, it's on.

Tony gets tipped off to the contract taken out on him & his crew from Agent Harris after a testy conversation between the two at Satriale's. Harris reveals that Tony's "problem with Brooklyn" could be ready to flare up again, and while Tony brushes off the notion, Harris ensures him the threat is real.

T. realizes that Harris' info is legit after Sil informs him that he had to take out one of the guys in their crew, Gene Pontecorvo, because he was "playing both sides of the fence" with Brooklyn and wanted Sil to join him. Sil gave him his answer in one of his best scenes since he clipped Adrianna, choking the rat with a garrote wire in a terrific & tense intro, yet another Godfather homage.

The buddies enjoy a final moment of camaraderie before the walls come tumbling down

Tony tells Sil & Bobby that they need to hit Phil first, and orders a couple of contract killers be flown over from the mother land (no, it wasn't Furio) to carry out the hit. Paulie is given the word that's he's to run the show, but for some sneaky reason he passes off the assignment to Patsy Parisi. Hmmm...

Unfortunately Phil sniffed out the potential hit and went into hiding, and instead the zip guys offed a Ukrainian Phil look-alike and his daughter, a profound error that will come back to haunt at least one if not all of the Jersey boys.

In the meantime Tony's world is crumbling around him. Upon reading the thesis her shrink told her about regarding treating sociopaths, Melfi decides she's had enough of Tony's crocodile tears and narcissistic behavior and dumps him as a patient.

"You're cutting me loose after my son gets out of the hospital for trying to kill himself?! As a doctor I want to say that I think what you are doing is immoral," he tells her as he exits her office for the last time. Pot kettle, kettle black.

On top of that rejection, Carm & T. are unhappy with Meadow's decision to drop out of med school, and although AJ has left the $2200/day psych ward, he still displays signs of depression (like watching war footage on CNN at full volume).

All of this adds up to the stunning conclusion, as Phil's plan gets put into motion to take out the top three guys in the Jersey crew: Bobby, Sil and the don himself.

In another of the series' long line of heart-wrenching scenes, Bobby is the first to go when he is cornered at the train store buying an $8K 'Blue Comet' set for him and his son. Perhaps it was the fact that Bobby was so damn likable, or that at the time of his demise he wasn't plying hookers or doing blow, he was acting like the caring family man he is, or maybe simply that his killing was so harsh (did they really need to shoot him 21 times? message sent, Phil), but for me the death of Bobby Bacala was one of the sadder moments in series history.

As if that weren't bad enough, the next to go is the ever-likable Sil. Leaving the Bing with Patsy, the two are met by another one of Phil's hit squads in the parking lot, and although Patsy gets away and Sil is shot to within an inch of his life, the scene itself really signified more than any other that this whole thing is really about to end.

For good.

As Tony receives word that his mean are all dropping like flies, he informs Carm to take the kids to a safe place as he and Paulie head to one of their safe houses to ride out the storm. "Families don't get touched, you know that," he tells her, and if that is a whopper from the 'small consolation' department, I don't know what is.

After T. drags a regressing AJ out of bed by his head and screams at him to pack up and help his mother through this, Tony & Paulie head to the safe house where they meet Patsy & Benny. The boys order a piazza while Tony heads to an upstairs bedroom, locks the door, and lies on the bed in the dark, fully clothed, with the assault rifle Bobby gave him for his birthday across his lap, finger on the trigger, ready to shred anything that comes through that door.

And so we wait with him for the finale on Sunday, when we will get to see how this saga all plays out. Theories abound on how it will end on the internets, including Paulie the rat telling Phil where to find Tony, AJ knocking off his father for being the source of all his sadness, to a distraught Janice icing her brother just as she had coolly killed Richie Aprile because she feels Tony is responsible for Bobby's death.

The way Chase has thrown curve balls all these years, I'm not even going to speculate how it all goes down. I don't believe that Tony will be alive when the dust settles, but I do know one thing...

...no matter how it all ends, who lives & who dies, the hardest part of all is going to be hearing that theme song for the final time and realizing that at 10:00 pm EST tonight, one of the greatest cultural phenomenons in entertainment history will leave our Sunday viewing schedule forever.

And you can guarantee that it will go out with a badda bang.

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