Terry loves it but doesn't get why or how there's nothing there.
I first noticed the entity that I'm currently talking about inside of Jack Black in a little movie called Bob Roberts, a Tim Robbins movie about a guitar-wielding asshole-savant whose most famous song is "The Times They Are A-Changing Back", at a small art house movie theater in Hardwick, Vermont, with one Tia, in the winter of '92 or so. (It was Hardwick, wasn't it?) Jack plays a closeted psychotic Young Republican bent on the total destruction of all things not Bob Roberts. You can't help but notice him in the movie despite the relatively small role because it seems he could almost kill you with nothing but his thousand mile stare of death. Almost an anti-Bruno before Bruno was even born. (It's worth noting here at this point that Bob Roberts' campaign manager is also Laura Palmer's father!)
I can live without most Jack Black-driven movies; he has what I call "The Brad Pitt Syndrome", namely, that Jack and Brad are better in movies when their roles are supporting rather than starring. The one exception that proves the condition is Richard Linklater's head-banging love note to those of us who still own all our vinyl. Which makes it nothing short of a coincidence that Jack stars in animated features also starring Brad's future wife. [cue massive head-spinning brought on by euphoric moment of realization]
Got off the bean pole a little bit there. Which only proves that when Jack Black acts, he does better when he plays some twisted version of himself as opposed to some version of somebody else's notion of "Jack Black".
Which begs the question: Just exactly who is Jack Black?
Man. Anyways, Jack Black is what all the lead-singing closeted faggots from the 80's hair bands wish they had been, namely, an Ozzie that can actually sing. Well.*
Casting against a certain type of vocal flexing
*I.e., David Bowie-esque
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
What a night what a night what a night. 2 hours of House, which was nice, although I would have had the entire cast spend the last hour, on camera, in character, filling out insurance paperwork. Look, a guy on stilts just ran by in mime make-up, do I really have to list all of my pre-existing conditions? I mean, the show's over. And, the Webby Awards hosted by the other fat guy from that show. Fortunately, because it's the internet that hasn't yet been hijacked by our government ( that comes in December in Dubai City) the fine folks at the Webby Awards have made available online the highlights of last night's show for people to look at today, or perhaps tomorrow.
"Don't tell anyone you don't own "Blonde on Blonde". It's gonna be okay."
I love Barry. Also, when he and Dick were arguing about which one, Jan or Dean, beefed it on Dead Man's Curve, just perfect. Also, from the Holy fuck you must be kidding Michael! department, the exterior of Championship Vinyl is exactly 60 blocks south on Milwaukee Ave from where I'm sitting right now. I know, astonishing isn't it?
Something of a lifetime supply of Jack Black stories for every one of those kids in School of Rock. He'd did well in that movie too. No easy task working with a bunch of kids.
Post a Comment