3 Suckas, 3 Rulas

Wow. Counterpoise has experienced difficulty in publishing our Suckas and Rulas of the week column since the holiday season and the recent "Noreaster" storm have been in effect. (by the way, why is it not a "Northeastern" storm; is the abridged term intended to convey some sort of regional accent?) Here are the make-up assignments.

Ann Coulter is probably the most consistently hateful participant in mainstream political discourse. Ann combines the most caustic of Fox News style right-wing punditry with a sort of generic, corporate blonde sex appeal. Her omnipresent vitriol is so overwhelming that it often seems to cause her to include in her arguments crude asides and baseless hyperbole that many others who possess her sharp wit and legal training would wisely avoid for the sake of persuasiveness. Some examples of her remarks include her statement after September 11, 2001 that "[w]e should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity", and her dire warning just prior to the recent presidential election that a John Kerry win would mean "the end of the Republic". Some of her sputum is archived here; the factual errors in her book, Slander, are well chronicled in Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars that Tell Them. If her goal is to provoke emotional responses from her critics, she is certainly accomplished. It was in this interview with Chris Matthews concerning her newer book, Treason, the thesis of which is that the Democratic Party and "the liberals" are generally traitors, where Matthews demanded an explanation for her knock against arabs: they smell really bad. As she often does when confronted in televised interviews by intelligent arguments against her far-reaching published positions, she shrunk from her bile and brimstone, resorting to snarky, legalistic evasion and hedging. I am hard-pressed to find someone who is a bigger Sucka than Ann Coulter.

Look at the man to Ann Coulter's left in the book shill picture above (in terms of a political spectrum, I believe most people who are not militia members are to Coulter's left). That's Sean Hannity, Clear Channel radio fixture, co-host of the Fox News shout-show Hannity and Colmes, and the perpetually smirking, Long Island Irish face-boy of binary variable, intellectually shallow conservatism. There is a memorable segment from Hannity and Colmes included in the film Outfoxed, where Sean disagrees with a former CIA expert regarding the military's capacity to conduct simultaneous campaigns in Afghanistan and Iraq. The CIA dude discusses diverted air-lifting assets; Sean, clearly drawing upon a robust, relevant body of knowledge, responds "we can walk and chew gum at the same time". Generally, Sean speaks more simply than Ann. He likes to make rantings containing the essential message "Freedom is Good, Liberals and Terrorists hate Freedom, George Bush Loves It". "Freedom" can mean the freedom of corporations to benefit from from government largesse, the freedom to conduct preemptive war, the freedom to deny others the freedom of electing an abortion, or the Bush Administration's freedom to torture people. "Let Freedom Ring", says Sean. "Sean, you a Sucka", says I.

Since we are behind schedule, why not go for a FNC Sucka trifecta? Bill O'Reilly. "...then I would take the other hand with the falafel [sic] thing and I’d put it on your pussy but you’d have to do it really light, just kind of a tease business."-Quote attributed to O'Reilly in legal briefings filed in sexual harassment case.

Rulas, real quick:

For escaping political upheaval a la Pol Pot, opening the first Cambodian restaurant in this nation, The Elephant Walk, and unveiling the splendid secrets of once endangered Khmer cuisine to anglophones in a related cookbook, Longteine "Nyep" de Monteiro rules.

Since his 1969 Pulitzer Prize reporting of the My Lai massacre, Seymour Hersh has been at the forefront of investigative journalism, blowing up spots Republican and Democrat alike, and he is still at it, recently writing in The New Yorker about Ministry of Peace chief Donald Rumsfeld's designs on Iran.




Johnny Carson, RIP.

Cops: Bad Girls-Answers

1. C, F
2. A, B, C, E
3. B
4. E
5. B
6. B

Film Review: Million Dollar Baby

The finest major studio film of the year, "Million Dollar Baby" is a release from Warner Brothers Pictures. Director Clint Eastwood brought us a similarly affecting film last year in "Mystic River" garnering Oscars for his stars Sean Penn and Tim Robbins. This film will bring nominations, if not wins, for its director (Eastwood) and stars: Mr. Eastwood, Hillary Swank, and a one-eyed Morgan Freeman.

What is at the outset a simple boxing film built of sweat and grit, rather carefully becomes one of the more emotionally balanced pieces I have seen in quite some time. Remarks in other reviews have drawn comparisons to "The Shawshank Redemption". This rings true not only because Mr. Freeman is the honest and dry narrator, but also because it is a "shop" piece, it looks intimately, if romantically, at the world of boxing. State prison was given similar treatment in "Shawshank".

But let us leave comparisons to other films there, "Million Dollar Baby" is not destined for so many countless showings on the TNT, it is palateable to a much more patient and connective viewer. Though there are elements of the film that could easily slide toward the realm of cliche', it ultimately redeems itself in spades.

Hillary Swank, in her strongest performance since "Girls Don't Cry", is a western Missouri hick who knows she is white trash and only wants to be a fighter. Eastwood is a gruff boxing trainer running a grey downtown L.A. boxing gym called the Hit Pit. When he is not bantering dry with his parter Scrap (Freeman) he reads Keats and is trying to learn Galic. A familiar "come on coach train me...I don't train girls" sort of relationship ensues.

Once we are beyond the compulsory period of resistence and stubborness that seems to be a prerequisite of an Eastwood character, we find a quietley broken man in need of everything his relationship with Swank can provide. We are in a world of men with short names and buzz-cuts, there are cigars and hats, people called Sal, Frankie, and Scrap. Because of the overall simplicity of the film, any further plot description is counterproductive to a viewing.

There are several interesting Catholic threads to the film; an honest and acerbic priest, questions of guilt and destination, and gold crosses galore. For the most part implications are left (refreshingly) to the viewer. The mellow piano score of the film is from Mr. Eastwood as well, who, at 74, is an excellent classical and blues pianist, not to mention one of the most accomplised movie people of our time. "Million Dollar Baby" is his 25th film as a Director, his 58th as an actor, and will be his third Oscar, and fifth Golden Globe nominee for direction.

Rated PG-13 for blood, broken noses, and general intensity.

Recent Screens: Zissou

Although I had wanted to avoid such influences, I stumbled across a few other reviews of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou when I was seeking some background for this article. For all that might otherwise be said about the varying tastes of the portly authority, Roger Ebert really was on to something when he explained (paraphrasing): "this is the damnedest movie. I can't recommend it, but I wouldn't tell you not to see it either."

In the interest of abating the tendency for tangential remarks, let us try simple pro and con, in reverse order.

Con: As for my own basis for comparison, though obviously inferior to Ebert's, I have seen (and enjoyed) all of Wes Anderson's movies, and I believe The Life Aquatic to be the least impressive. That being said, I really enjoyed Bottle Rocket, possibly the most of all, and favored The Royal Tenenbaums by a slim margin over Rushmore, which I gather is somewhat unorthodox for fans of Anderson's bag.

The half-serious tenor of the central character dilemma of The Life Aquatic (the mid-life crisis of a tired, stoned underwater adventurer loosely based upon Jacques Cousteau is a subject which easily evades gravity) left its supporting characters somewhat lifeless and vehicular, as they attempted to fit inside the cramped quarters of the ship's cabins, as well as the lethargic thematic architecture surrounding Zissou's slowly declining stature as an oceanographer. The sad resignation which pervades Bill Murray's character, and which filters down through the hierarchy of his shipmates to varying degrees, cannot find an emotional foothold amidst all of the colorful whimsy that surrounds them. In short, the continuous, vividly depicted absurdities that Anderson crafts into restrained, yet compelling comedy undermines the earnest reach for tragedy that the film ultimately attempts.

Also, I struggle to accept that an infatuation with retro-kitsch can play such a prominent role in a movie. In Zissou, there are tons of reel-to-reel recorders, early 1980's PC's, Carolina and royal blue warm-up suits, and, in a moment of probable commercial placement, a close-up shot of custom-made Zissou Adidas sneakers. Despite the ostensible reason for the vintage gear (Zissou's funding having dried up a decade prior), I couldn't help but feel that the film at times was set in an Urban Outfitters catalogue; I think the great attention paid to this hip bric-a-brac satisfied the self-indulgent tastes of the filmmakers at the expense of their caring for other elements of the film. Of course, we know that the fine details of props and costumes are highlighted in Anderson's past work, so it couldn't surprise me, and I probably would have enjoyed it more had a sense of holistic balance been established, as in his past two features.

Pro: As expected from an Anderson script, the best investment of thought seemed placed in the dialogue, which was continuously amusing, while still advancing the story. Anderson is masterful with subtle insult, a broad catalogue of sub-reference, and also possesses a deep knowledge of humane sadness and familial conflict. It is quite an achievement just to keep the audience engaged in the emotional possibilities of the film amongst so much silliness.

As for the cinematography, I was initially concerned that the cross-hatched model ship set and Yellow Submarine aesthetic, coupled with frequently geometric, rigid camera framing, would make the whole affair look like a comic strip. However, early on we are relieved by actions shots and various wide angles featuring beautiful Mediterranean seascapes; I think still-young Anderson (35, four solid films) broke important new ground in that respect.

The music was dope. Seu Jorge ("Knockout Ned" from City of God) whose character is called "Pele dos Santos", played many David Bowie compositions in the soothing bossa nova style, singing in Portuguese. The jolting overlay of Iggy Pop's "Search and Destroy", which begins as Bill Murray breaks free from restraints and engages in a 1-on-many shootout with Filipino pirates, stepping gingerly through gunsmoke in flip-flops, bathrobe open and belly jiggling, was a high point of the film for me.

3 stars, of a possible 5.

2 Suckas and a Rula

Feliz ano nuevo! The Counterpoise staff was given a vacation for the x-mas weekend (with the exception of The Mirt, our embedded reporter who continues to wade for gators in the swamps of the Sunshine State) and thus, no Suckas or Rulas surfaced. However, we realized that we also failed to nominate a rep of Suck from the previous week (although we are particularly proud of the research behind Alex Rocco's piece from that period). So, to set shit straight and up-to-date:

Counterpoise continues to exchange snappy letters with HBO over a proposed deal for free cable access, intended for strictly journalistic purposes. Until agreement is reached, we may continue to miss out on their consistently excellent original series programming. Thus, we only recently discovered The Wire, a dramatic series characterized by engaging realism, idiosyncratic detail and unorthodox plot development. The Wire is the creation of David Simon. Simon began investigating the notoriously violent drug game in Western Baltimore in the mid-1980's for the Baltimore Sun, wrote two books and two television series concerning or based upon this work, and proceeded to collect various awards and accolades.
With The Wire, which recently concluded its third season, Simon is executive producer, series creator, and writer. Viewing the pilot episode with retrospective DVD commentary elucidates Simon's unique approach to the series. He explains that he consciously broke from dramatic television's typical focus upon episodic story arcs and conceived of the first season as a cohesive story spanning several hours; this enabled him to layer the screenplay with "intimacies and ordinary moments of life" that enrich the viewing experience and allow precision injections of his nuanced street knowledge of the Western District's 5-0's and hustlers. Simon describes sitting for hours with veteran narc cops and recording eccentric stories on cocktail napkins.
Simon's commentary does not conceal his tangible disgust with cop show cliches, and he proudly announces that he will not use musical cues to alert the audience to dramatic tensions and plot thickenings, nor glorify the exploits of cops-n'-robbers beyond the assessments he culled from his objective journalism.
For his unabashedly eluding the pitfalls of trite TV in a well-mined genre and providing compelling scripted realism in the age of "reality" shows, David Simon is a Rula in the game.


The original concept of a Sucka of the Week presupposed a human being, or at least a social institution of human origin. This week, we first attempted to blame SUV drivers, malfeasant bureaucrats, proponents of global inequality, producers of "Who's Your Daddy?" or other transcendental miscreants, but were left with no one to point the finger at but a devastating megathrust earthquake occurring at 7:58 AM local time on December 26, 2004 centered at 3.316°N, 95.854° E and caused by the release of tectonic stresses that develop as the India plate subducts beneath the overriding Burma plate. Suck the pipe, tectonic bitches! I think the India plate is the real cockblower; subducting muthafucka! But that greedy pig-ass Burma plate just had to keep overriding didn't it?

Helping the victims is relatively easy and tax-deductible.


While we're on the boob-tube tip, how about those producers of "Who's your Daddy?", another predictably tasteless, window-dressing-for-advertising trash show from Citizen Murdoch. Suckas, all of you.