Happy Valley News Hour

From Ben Joseph over at McSweeney’s comes excerpts from his rejected script Alien vs. Predator Save Christmas (AVPSC).

Here’s an excerpt from the excerpt.

EXT. NIGHT THE CANDY CANE FOREST

(A red glow shines in the near distance. SANTA approaches it.)

SANTA: Rudolph? Is that you?

(PREDATOR decloaks, revealing the glow to be his targeting laser!)

SANTA: Gulp.

(PREDATOR fires, hitting an ALIEN right behind SANTA!)

SANTA: Maybe I can put you on the “Nice” list after all.

PREDATOR: Thanks, Santa. Also, I talk now.

(SANTA and PREDATOR shake hands.)

PREDATOR: Let’s give these aliens what for.

(RUFUS [street-smart elf with "urban" flair] pops out from behind a candy cane.)

RUFUS: Damn, son! This shit just got real!

Based on the 13% rating the real Alien Vs. Predator: Requiem got at Rotten Tomatoes, maybe they should have gone with this script. But then let’s face it, the Alien series has been going downhill ever since they passed on William Gibson’s script for Alien III. AVPSC reminds me of another movie — this one terrifyingly real.

The idea for this post was lifted from writer John Scalzi’s great blog Whatever. Last year he published his list of Ten Least Successful Holiday Specials of All Time. My favorites are “Ayn Rand’s A Selfish Christmas,” “A Canadian Christmas with David Cronenberg,” and “Christmas with the Nuge.”

Inspired by John’s example, I came up with my own list.

Happy Valley News Hour Presents Least Likely Christmas Specials

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1. The Five Stages of Christmas: A Kübler-Ross Holiday Special

Let Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, author of On Death and Dying, walk you through the five stages of Christmas:

Denial: This is going to be the best Christmas ever! My family is totally functional! All of my unmet childhood needs finally will be fulfilled! Hurry up, Christmas morning, hurry up and arrive!

Anger: Wrong color? Wrong color? Are you aware that Daddy bought that sweater in Hong Kong? That’s right. And since the thieving bastards Daddy works for are too cheap to upgrade him, Daddy has to fly coach to Asia, which means Daddy sat with that uncomfortable pile of wool between his feet for 16 hours. So maybe you should take another look at that sweater and answer a simple question. Do you like the color now? Well do ya?

Bargaining: Ruining Christmas? Oh really? Well then how about this? Daddy will stop drinking when this family learns the meaning of the word gratitude.

Depression: Daddy will be out in the garage until January first.

Acceptance: Only 364 days til next Christmas!

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2. Alexandr Solzhenitsyn’s Christmas Comes to the Gulag

Join Prisoner Щ-723-58 and his crew of counter-revolutionary merrymakers as they celebrate Christmas in the Sevvostlag Corrective Labor Camp in the beautiful Kolyma region of Siberia. Anticipation is high at the gulag as the prisoners work day and night to complete a particularly challenging stretch of the Kolyma Highway (aka “the Road of Bones”) in preparation of a visit from “Old Whiskers” (played as always by Joseph Stalin). Join these enemies of the state as they enjoy a Christmas dinner of lukewarm gray water and play traditional work camp games such as

• Hide Your Valuables;
• Keep Warm;
• What Disease is This?; and
• Who is the Informant?

Will the workers meet their production quotas? Will their endless labors please Uncle Joe? What will they receive in their stockings? A lump of coal would be too much to wish for, but will they at least earn additional food rations, medicines, or perhaps a thin blanket? Join us to find out. One thing is certain — with a temperature outside of -70 degrees C, it’s sure to be a white Christmas!

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3. Unreal Tournament Yuletide Team Deathmatch

Hope you put gibs on your Christmas list, because you’ll be getting ‘em by the bucket here at the Unreal Tournament Yuletide Team Deathmatch! We’ve assembled four of the North Pole’s meanest, most insane UT04 clans — Sniper Claus, Donner Stag, Die Blitzen Kore, and Wicked Rüdolph — and we’re tossing them all into a very confined space in what promises to be a high octane, no-holds-barred Nativity fragathon! It most definitely will not be a Silent Night (though it may prove to be holey — for the losing clans, that is). So pack the sleigh with your pulse gun, your flak cannon, your minigun, and your Ripper and meet us at the spawn point. Santa says you’d better come, or he’s gonna climb down your chimney and frag your sorry ass!!

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4. Larry Birkhead’s Paternity Test Christmas

Who is the real Father Christmas? Only the DNA lab knows for sure!

Come celebrate this most blessed holiday with Anna Nicole Smith’s lawyer (Howard K. Stern), her photographer (Larry Birkhead), her bodyguard (Alexander Denk), and Zsa Zsa Gabor’s husband Frederic von Anhault (how did he get in the picture?) as they all anxiously await the test results that will identify one of them as the father of her inheritance, er, I mean baby!

After Santa delivers the wonderful news (it’s Larry Birkhead!), watch as Larry pulls together an elegant, last minute Christmas dinner from whatever happens to be in his refrigerator (turns out to be Chinese takeout, six kinds of prescription medication, and a jar of mustard). He’ll also show viewers how to make a functional diaper from paper towels and masking tape, and share what he remembers from the very special night when he made a baby with Anna Nicole!

Hear Larry’s heart-warming holiday greeting: “Everybody, I hate to be the one to tell you this - but I told you I was the one who was going to bring you a very merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!”

Photo: Anna Nicole Smith and her baby daddy; photo credit: Splash News (www.splashnews.com)

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5. I’m Dreaming of a White (Power) Christmas

Join the Grand Wizard and his merry Klansmen at their annual Solstice Klanvocation!

All are welcome! (Unless you happen to be Jewish, Catholic, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, or Sikh. Or black or Hispanic or gay. Or a gypsy.)

Over the course of this hour-long special, the Grand Wizard will present his Alternate History of Christmas.

Some of the highlights of his presentation include:

• Jesus was not a Jew
• Really, he wasn’t
• I’m serious. His father was a Roman centurion and –
• Bear with me here — his mother was a member of an ancient Aryan tribe that swept south from the Frankish Empire to occupy the Holy Land
• Really. Not a Jew.

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6. Sweatshop Christmas

Join the wacky kids of the Number Six Glorious Dragon Toy Factory and Iron Ore Foundry in the Guangyun Industrial Zone, Guangdong, China as they work their little fingers to the bone churning out Christmas toys for the good little girls and boys of the United States of America! These plucky kids would be dishonored if American consumers had to pay a penny more for their molded plastic toys! As a special Christmas bonus, the plant manager has agreed to cut the work week to just 70 hours for workers aged 11 and under, and raise the wage to an incredible 2.25 RMB per hour (US$0.30). He’s also arranged a very special treat for Christmas morning: a glimpse of daylight!

Saw the new biopic Control, which tells the story of Ian Curtis, singer of the British band Joy Division (see my review here). It got the Kamper mulling over what other bands of that era may be deserving of a full on musical biopic.

(Props to Dan, Mat and Susan for their suggestions.)

Least Likely Musical Biopics, 2007

Hey Mickey: The Toni Basil Saga

Ssss-Aaaa-Ffff-Eeee-Tttt-Yyyy: The Men Without Hats Story

Too Shy? The Incredible True Story of Kajagoogoo

So Far Away: A Glimpse into the World of A Flock of Seagulls

The Tin Machine Era - Feel the Excitement of Mid-Period Bowie!

Back on my Feet Again: The Inspiring True Story of The Babys

Whose Sharona? Meet The Knack All Over Again

In the Name of Love: Meet the Thompson Twins

Lawnchairs ARE Everywhere: The Prophetic Vision of Our Daughter’s Wedding

The Hüsker Dü Story: Grant Hart is a Junkie (Bob Mould Authorized Version)

The Hüsker Dü Story: Bob Mould is an Asshole (Grant Hart Authorized Version)

The Hüsker Dü Story: Please, Please, Just Get Me Out of this Band (Greg Norton Authorized Version)

Glitter: A Vanity Project for Mariah Carey

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Join the Fun! Post your suggestions in the comments.

The Kamper ventured out into a veritable Winter wonderland Wednesday night to attend a showing of Control, the new biopic of Ian Curtis. For those junior kampers out there who may not be up to speed on their post-punk iconography, Ian was the troubled lead singer of the British band Joy Division. He hung himself in 1980 at 23 years old, having released just one full studio album, Unknown Pleasures, with Joy Division (their second studio album, Closer, was released posthumously). The three remaining members of Joy Division went on to form New Order.

Before we get to the fictional Joy Division, here’s the real thing, from September 1979. That Dylan-looking dude at the beginning of the clip is performance poet John Cooper Clarke, who appears as himself in the film. His website is here, his Wiki page here. Trivia note: those oh-so-bored looking Mods directly in front of the stage (visible at 1:15) presumably were there to see The Jam, who played on the same show.

Good clip, that. The movie, unfortunately, is another story. That’s right, Control did not thrill the Kamper, or his kronies: I saw it with three other people, two of whom are Joy Division fans and two of whom are (or were) unfamiliar with the band. Not one of us enjoyed the movie. The director, Anton Corbijn, is primarily known as a photographer, and it shows. The movie is shot in beautiful black and white but it’s inert, lifeless. A big part of the problem is the source material — Control is based “Touching from a Distance,” a book by Deborah Curtis, Ian’s widow, and she’s listed as a co-producer on the film — so the story focuses primarily on Ian’s teenage marriage to Deborah and its inevitable disintegration as his fame grows. Will Ian remain faithful to his long-suffering wife, who has believed in him from the very beginning, or will he go with the fetching young groupie? Which will it be, Deborah or Annick? Will he choose the safe, conventional life or will he instead kick out the jams?

Here’s your answer: Who cares? I mean, really, who gives a crap? The romantic travails of people in their early twenties are inherently tiresome, and the choice is obvious from the get-go to everyone except Ian and Deborah. It doesn’t help matters that Ian endlessly drags it all out, first cheating with Annick, then pledging his fealty to Deborah and breaking up with Annick, then splitting with Deborah to be with Annick. Hamlet is more decisive than this guy.

But we could look past the domestic angle — we could forgive every agonized late night phone call, every teary confrontation, every hastily scrawled apology note — if only the movie had something, anything, to say about how any of this informed the creative process. How did his personal torment inform Ian’s song writing? What were the sessions like for these seminal recordings? What kind of give and take occurred between the bandmembers? What were the various cliques and factions? How were the songs written? How were they arranged? How did they evolve? For that matter, what’s the deal with the band’s adoption of all its overtly fascistic imagery? You will find the answers to none of these questions in this movie. The actors portraying the various bandmembers enter the studio and play the songs exactly as they appear on the albums. Control has no insight to offer into what made Joy Division unique from the hundreds of other bands gigging around the Greater Manchester metropolitan region circa 1979. I do know from the movie that Ian lay on his bed smoking pensively while listening to David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane and then got up and danced around in front of the mirror, but that’s about it.

Here’s an example of what passes for the creative process in this movie: Ian is sitting on his couch. Ian is trying to write. Ian faces the white page, pen poised. Ian touches pen to paper. He’s writing something! What is it? We glance over his shoulder, voyeurs at the moment of profound artistic creation. Ahh, he has written, “She Lost Control” in block letters. Wow. That’s almost the name of a Joy Division song. But wait, his pen is moving again. Ian has gone back and added an ’s, amending the line to “She’s Lost Control.” Oh my God! That changes everything, because that is the name of a Joy Division song! End of scene.

Particularly galling is the movie’s portrayal of the other members of Joy Division (Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook and Stephen Morris), who come off as utter ciphers. Based on the evidence in this movie, a viewer would be amazed to learn that the remaining members went on to play in a wedding band, let alone going on to form New Order, one of the most influential bands of their era.

Speaking of New Order, here’s clip of them from BBC Studios in 1984, doing one of the Kamper’s all-time faves. (As a side note: I feel Bernard deserves major props for having the courage to appear in public in these shorts. Give him a break, though, it was the eighties. More puzzling still is why Gillian is wearing a nightgown.)

Another of the film’s curious blindspots is how it treats Martin Hannett, who produced all of Joy Division’s music. I won’t go into his whole CV here (check out his Wiki page here), but suffice it to say that he was largely responsible for Joy Division’s sparse, haunting sound. He’s scarcely present in Control, which is akin to making a film on sixties girl groups and leaving out Phil Specter.

To be fair, it’s not accurate to say that I gained no insight whatsoever from Control. I did learn that Ian was a highly conscientious worker at his day job at the unemployment office. This guy was good at his job! In fact, given how things turned out, he probably should have stuck with the day job and given up on all this rock and roll nonsense.

Ian Kevin Curtis — Unemployment Officer Extraordinaire!

The strangest aspect of Control is how unnecessary it feels. There’s already a terrific film about Joy Division and the Manchester scene during that era, Michael Winterbottom’s 24 Hour Party People (2002). It focuses on Tony Wilson (founder of Factory Records, Joy Division’s label), played hilariously by Steve Coogan. Check out a clip below. There’s more insight into the band in this four minute clip from 24 Hour Party People than in all of Control’s two plus hours. The clip beautifully captures the fertile but essentially hostile relationship that existed between Martin Hannett and the members of Joy Division. And here’s some trivia for you: Sam Riley, who plays Ian Curtis in Control, played Mark E. Smith, lead singer of The Fall (another great Manchester band) in 24 Hour People, but his scene was cut and only appears in deleted scenes on the DVD.

Granted, deriving bemusement from Star Wars fans pushes one perilously close to shooting-fish-in-a-barrel territory, comedy-wise, but the Kamper could not resist submitting this video for the latest installment of Beyond Satire. It’s from those mad wags at Boing Boing. Does the Kamper need to be the one to point out that if light sabers actually functioned in real life as they do in the movies very few of the people in this film would still have limbs?

I can’t embed the video, but you can find it here. Go take a look.

PS: It’s all well and good to make merry jest at the expense of Star Wars geeks, but don’t you dare start in on Lord of the Rings or its noble and dignified fans. Some things are sacred.

On a day when Major League Baseball was responding to the Mitchell report on steroid usage, which alleges “a serious drug culture within baseball, from the bottom to the top,” the normally copacetic world of Ultimate was dealing with its own burgeoning doping scandal. “We’ve received credible reports that many Ultimate players regularly indulge in performance-mellowing drugs,” said Misha “Hootch” Rebecky, president of the Intercollegiate Ultimate League. “Such imbibing may be occurring before matches, certainly after matches, even, shockingly, during matches.”

Critics allege that the use of these performance-mellowing drugs may allow players to achieve the preternaturally mellow mental state necessary to excel at Ultimate. Rebecky said, “We’ve had reports — anecdotal, granted — of players using these drugs to actually create an ‘holistic communion’ with the disc, effectively allowing them to predict where that disc will be at a future point in time. I know this information may blow your mind, but it’s 100% true.”

Nonetheless, Rebecky urged caution until the report could be fully investigated to determine whether its allegations are schwag or indeed the Chronic. “Obviously, this news is a harsh toke of reality for the Ultimate community, and we intend to investigate it rigorously.” In fact, Rebecky revealed that he had already formed an exploratory committee that would meet this weekend to contemplate the report for many hours, while listening to the Dead live at the Filmore West 4/15/70 or possibly from the Maples Pavilion 2/9/73.

Today’s entry in the Beyond Satire category comes to us courtesy of those hardscrabble, working class guys and gals at Vassar.

PS: Tuition at Vassar = $46,140 per year. (Hey, that includes room and board!)

Democratic Response: “Now They’ve Gone Too Far”

Already responding to recent revelations that the CIA destroyed the videotaped interrogations of high level terrorist suspects, CIA director Michael Hayden dropped a fresh bombshell Sunday on NBC’s Meet the Press when he revealed that the agency had also destroyed the entire third season Saved by the Bell.

Faced with unusually intense questioning from MTP host Tim Russert, Hayden defended the decision as tough but ultimately necessary. “The actor’s faces were clearly visible on the tapes,” Hayden said, “and we couldn’t risk al-Qaida retaliating against these hugely talented young people. Remember, we’re talking here not just about Elizabeth Berkley, who portrayed the straight-laced but plucky Jessie Spano on the show and went on to star in Showgirls, but such consummate actors as Lark Voorhies, Mark-Paul Gosselaar, and Mario Lopez. Considering all that these brave kids did to lift the spirits of America from 1989 through 1993, we felt that this was the least we could do in return.”

Hayden did not reveal details of the covert program beyond confirming that agents destroyed the show’s master tapes and all existing copies, as well as scripts, props, sets, and memorabilia. “As far as we’re concerned, season three of SBTB never existed,” Hayden said. Tim Russert asked the usually reticent director why the Agency opted to destroy only the third season while leaving the first, second and fourth seasons — not to mention the entire run of Saved by the Bell, the College Years — intact. “Those seasons were deemed to be less vital to America’s national interest,” Hayden said. “And the College Years? Come on.”

But Democrats are having none of it. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, appearing Sunday on Face the Nation, was blunt. “Now they’ve gone too far. We simply cannot have rogue elements of the US intelligence community taking it upon themselves to decide which of our nation’s sitcoms are preserved for syndication. Along with the rest of America’s TV-viewing population, we Democrats mourn the tragic loss of these 26 episodes, including such classics as ‘Fake IDs,’ the searing ‘No Hope with Dope,’ and the heartwarming season-ender ‘Home for Christmas Parts 1 and 2.’”

She vowed that the Justice Department, in cooperation with AFTRA (the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists), would begin an immediate investigation into the matter. And she urged Americans to remember the incident come November. “Voters should ask themselves which party will be there to protect our precious national heritage.” Her voice rising, Pelosi said, “First they came for Saved by the Bell and I said nothing because I never really liked Saved by the Bell. They came for Growing Pains and I said nothing because Kirk Cameron always kind of got on my nerves. When they came for Full House I said nothing because that was the one with the Olsen twins. By the time they came for Diff’rent Strokes and Married . . . With Children there was no one left to speak up.”

Saved by the Bell, Season Three — Never Forget!

Now I’m no fancy pants literary scholar, just an average working stiff who has dedicated himself to reading his way through the classics of Western literature. But I’ve got two eyes and a brain behind ‘em, and I know when someone is trying to pull the wool over my eyes.

So I’ve got to say, I’m on to you Mr. Marcel Proust! Or should I call you Mar-SELL OUT Proust?!

But let me back up here, because I’m getting ahead of myself. When the library lady recently recommended Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” for my reading program, I was plenty excited, let me tell you. I knew from reading his first book, “Remembrances of Things Past,” that Proust was a writer who knew how to keep you turning pages late into the night. As anyone who’s dipped into this book knows, ROTP is a rip-roaring yarn, a no-holds-barred potboiler that grabs you by the throat on page one and doesn’t let go for six volumes and 3,400 pages (it reads like 2,500). He puts you right there in bed with the unnamed narrator as he rolls over for 30 gripping pages. Will he finish rolling over? Will he fall out of bed? No spoilers here, you’ve got to read it yourself! And nobody in the lit biz — and I mean nobody (I’m talking to you, Leo Tolstoy) — can skewer the foibles and eccentricities of the landed aristocracy the way my boy Marcel can. The dude is freaking fearless! The dinner parties, the social engagements, the hours and hours of strolling on the beach, thinking about . . . well, things — it’s all right there in the pages of this book. I sure would hate to have been a member of the turn-of-the-century nouveaux riches French aristocracy when this book came out! Ka-ching!! That’s gotta hurt!

So needless to say, my expectations were sky-high when I cracked open Proust’s new book, “In Search of Lost Time.” Right away there were signs that all was not well — it has a similar title to ROTP and it’s also told in six volumes — but I figured, hey, Marcel is just revisiting some familiar themes here. When something works you stick with it, right? Besides, many of the greatest writers have returned to the same themes over and over, such as Shakespeare with his Dark Lady, Milton with his Satan, or Stephen King with his Gunslinger.

But having just finished ‘In Search of Lost Time,” I have to say: Been there. Done that.

Marcel, I hate to break this to you because you’ve obviously put a lot of effort into this new book, but you cannot just tell the same exact story all over again! It’s like “A Nightmare on Elm Street Part Two: Freddy’s Revenge,” and at least in that case the screenwriter bothered to change the sex of the main character even if everything else was pretty much the same. As for you, Marcel, you even threw in the bit with the cookie again. I mean, dude, come on, that’s just lazy.

The good news is that all is not lost. Marcel, you’ve obviously got talent. So sharpen up a few pencils, hit the old writing desk again, and this time do something totally different. Do something wild and crazy! Tell a pirate story or maybe start a detective series. Hey, how about this idea? You’ve already critiqued the aristocracy, how about taking a shot at poor people? Don’t they ever do anything that drives you absolutely bonkers? Or what about lawyers? They’re always good for a laugh. My point is, do something new.

And let me know the minute it’s finished. I need a good book.

Marcel Proust, a pretty good writer

Like Jennifer Love Hewitt, I’ve sat in silence long enough. Jennifer was prompted to speak out this week on her blog when supposedly unflattering pictures of her showed up on the internet. You can see the pictures in question here. And here. And also here. Oh, and here too (in hi-rez).

Now it’s no secret that the Happy Valley Kamper likes his ladies like he likes his peanut butter: chunky. So let me first say, Jennifer, don’t you spend one more precious minute worrying about the size of those glorious mudflaps. I believe Spinal Tap said it most eloquently when they offered the view that “the bigger the cushion, the sweeter the pushin” and “the looser the waistband, the deeper the quicksand.”

But I can relate to your frustration and anger, Jennifer, truly I can. Your statements this week have given the Kamper the “kourage” to finally speak up about my own body issues. You see, it’s no secret that the old Kamper has packed on a few extra pounds over the years. It’s been caused by a variety of factors, I suppose: having kids, having a desk job, having access to peanut clusters, etc. And just like you, Jennifer, some unflattering bikini pictures of the Kamper were published a while ago on several unscrupulous websites (don’t expect links from me — you bastards know who you are!). As an act of self-emancipation, I have reprinted the images below.

Like you, Jennifer, I speak up now not for myself, but for all the bloggers out there who may be struggling with their body images (and if you’ve spent any time on the internet, you know that’s most of ‘em). I speak up now to add my voice to those decrying the pernicious manner in which blogger’s bodies are relentlessly scrutinized, every perceived “flaw” in our soft, doughy forms dissected and analyzed — and heaven forbid if our less-than-perfect blogger bodies fail to meet the rigid standards society seeks to impose on us! Finally, I speak up now to call out publicly those supposed internet wits and wags who would seek to attack us bloggers in the most base and disrespectful manner — in particular one commenter going by the name of skippingjay352, who had the temerity to call my black bikini bottoms in the above photos “whale canvas” and “jumbo butt floss” and “supersized stink string.” Well, Mr. Skippingjay352, you can have back your shame and your unrealistic body images; the Kamper doesn’t need them anymore.

Jennifer and I are moving on.