Results tagged “zach galligan” from Guest List

Summer is typically a pretty solid time for books, music and movies. Here are some I'm looking forward to, regardless of quality.

Movies:

The Dark Knight: Christopher Nolan's first crack at Batman was so strong, I'm kinda dying to see
how he's going to up the ante. Plus, how could you not want to see the late, great Heath
Ledger's final performance?

Hancock: Maybe the trailer is just superb, but Will Smith really picks his material well. This superhero as anti-hero popcorn flick looks to be more original than 99% of summer flicks, and it also stars the exceedingly talented Charlize Theron and Jason Bateman.

Step Brothers:This foul mouthed Will Ferrell -John C Reilly comedy, again about two overgrown man-children, made me laugh out loud, which is saying something.

Books:

The Monster of Florence by Douglas J. Preston, Mario Spezi

This true crime thriller sounds pretty amazing. Douglas Preston and his family moved to Florence, Italy in 2000 to live the good life and provide a great atmosphere in which he could write. Soon, Preston finds out that a grotesque, notorious murder was actually committed years ago on his new property. He teams up with Spezi, solves the decades old crime, and finds himself suddenly under suspicion for perjury and Spezi accused of the crimes themselves.

Ghost: Confessions of a Counterterrorism Agent by Fred Burton

From the Barnes and Noble overview:

For decades, Fred Burton, a key figure in international counterterrorism and domestic spycraft, has secretly been on the front lines in the fight to keep Americans safe around the world. From battling Libyan terrorists and their Palestinian surrogates to having facing down hijackers, hostages, and Hezbollah double agents, Burton found himself on the front lines of America's first campaign against Terror.

Music:

Weezer - The Red Album:
Rivers Cuomo returns with a new batch of clever, hummable pop. The first single, Pork and Beans, is typical Weezer, and that's a good thing.

Judas Priest - Nostradamus:
C'mon, a double album from the Priest all about the famous French seer and his prophecies? How metal is that? If first single Visions and the operatic title track are any indication, it's going to be simultaneously brilliant and amusing.

Miley Cyrus - Breakout:
Miley kicks out the serious jams in this breathtaking...oh, never mind.

Patti Smith - The Coral Sea:
Live album, which could be iffy, but almost everything Ms. Smith does is golden in my book.

_

It's pretty amazing how quickly the month has flown by. I feel as if I just started to scratch
the surface and, alas, it's over. I'd like to thank Raquel Bruno, Elektra Gray, Jessie Carter,
Melianthe Kines and Kent Rees for their invaluable assistance while I toiled away on this
glorious labor of love. Have a great summer, everyone!

I live in Manhattan and take the subway practically everyday. Over the past year or two, as subway ridership has reached record levels, I have noticed a pattern of behavior among a certain group of fellow strap hangers (OK, the strap is long gone, but the cool nickname remains) that is typical of Type A New Yorkers. I'm sure other people have noticed this behavior as well, but I haven't seen it discussed in any detail.

I'm talking, of course, about Door Blocking and Subway Sprinting. Let's begin with the more common affliction, Door Blocking. You are a commuter, and you go to work every morning taking the NRW trains from 49th street to, say, 23rd street, a short but rather common trip. Since you do it every day, you know to get on the last door of the second car in order to be EXACTLY in front of the turnstile exit, and thus get out of the Subway first, before the crush of the other, slower people leaving the train.

The problem is that other Type A commuters have figured out the same thing, so at any given moment (usually between the 34th and 28th street stations, in my case) there begins to be a small group of people hovering around and/or outright blocking the doors in order to obtain Position. I have actually had people wedge into a tight 4-inch space between myself and the door in order to obtain this crucial strategic linchpin.

Ten years ago, when I saw Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, I was impressed with an unknown actor named Jason Statham. He seemed raw, yet had an undeniable charm and, yes, that indefinable quality, charisma. He displayed it again in his next Guy Ritchie film, Snatch, playing Turkish, the sketchy boxing promoter who gets pulled into the criminal underworld.

Soon, I began to see commercials for something called The Transporter, and there, again, was Statham. Not being much of an action film buff, I passed. As I flipped through the cable channels a few years later, the Italian Job remake was on, and I noticed Statham again, this time playing a character called Handsome Rob. I changed the channel, and bingo, more Statham, this time in a small part in Collateral. Two channels later, a commercial for a film called Crank, starring, of course, Statham. Wow, I thought, this guy is working like mad.

Well, two months ago, my wife and I went to see The Bank Job, a pretty entertaining heist film well directed by the crafty vet Roger Donaldson, and I was struck, as I watched Statham portray Terry Leather, with a strong sense of deja vu. Who did he remind me of? The answer seemed so obvious, and yet I couldn't place it. Then, during one of his closeups, as he stood there, perfectly still, his character listening intently yet seemingly perfectly relaxed, it hit me.

Jason Statham is rapidly becoming the British version of Steve McQueen. Maybe he's not fully there yet, but he's well on his way.

In order to make sense of this story, you need to know a few things.

First of all, my wife likes to shop for shoes. Often. Usually she exercises restraint, but every now and then, given the time, money and inclination, she can make Imelda Marcos seem like a rank amateur. So, when I happened to have a little cash lying around - maybe a couple hundred bucks - I would slip it in an envelope and put it in the cutlery drawer, just in case she or I needed a few dollars.

Soon, however, I began to notice that the money was disappearing more quickly than usual, and the number of shoes belonging to my spouse began to increase exponentially. Realizing that drastic action was necessary, I took whatever cash was remaining from my pilfered funds and began to store it in a single white sock in my sock drawer. This seemed to ameliorate what was threatening to become a precarious situation.

On to the second item, which will initially seem to be unrelated, but will eventually become quite crucial to our story. I often stay at my sister's house on Eastern Long Island, sometimes without my wife, who remains in Manhattan studying for her business school finals. One weekend, while I was buying lunch at the local deli, my eyes fixed upon a warmly familiar object: a can of Chef Boy Ar Dee Overstuffed Ravioli. Although some people find canned ravioli repellent, I, on the other hand, experience it as edible nostalgia. Without hesitation, I bought a can.

Which brings us to the final piece of crucial information: my wife, quite rightly, tries to improve my diet, and will sometimes question my caloric decisions. So, after being unable to find the time to consume the ravioli, I returned home from Long Island with the contraband pasta packed discreetly in my carry on bag. The question, then, was where to hide it from the disapproving eyes of my spouse until I could find a quiet moment in which to devour it. Since my cash supply had showed indications of stability, I chose what I felt was clearly the safest place: namely, the sock drawer.

Sitting here in front of the computer, still reeling from the pulse pounding American Idol finish last night (totally, deeply kidding), I am mildly surprised. For the first time in nearly three weeks, I don't feel a pressing need to write about one specific topic. I'm not in the mood to be introspective, deep, or even vaguely thoughtful. Instead, I would rather talk about a bunch of random stuff, the mental bric-a-brac that tumbles through my head without warning and, more often than not, reason. So, in no particular order:

White Beer: I'm not much of a beer drinker, and I've never liked dark beer (like Guinness, for example - blech), but my friend hipped me to Hoegaarden, the Belgian white beer with hints of coriander and Curacao orange peel, and I'm totally hooked. Another excellent brand is Hitachino White Ale, a Japanese white beer that's expensive but really delicious.

I tremble as I begin to write this - not out of excitement, but out of rage - because even though the topic has been discussed to the point of exhaustion, the problem just seems to be getting exponentially worse. No, I am not talking about bedbugs (although they're pretty horrendous) or the Bush administration, but the plague that threatens to destroy us all as a civilization.

I'm talking about cell phones and the way they are used by - or inflicted upon, depending on your point of view - society at large.

Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Most people use cell phones in an extremely self absorbed, what-do-I-care-I'm-never-going-to-see-your-face-ever-again kind of way. It's all about THEM, without the slightest regard for anyone nearby. It's as if they're in a narcissistic bubble in which only their whims, desires and concerns exist. The level of ego displayed by cell phone braggarts (both male and female) continues to grow and astound.

In August of 2006, I received an odd e-mail. It was a short, somewhat rambling message, but the crux of it was that a 23 year old NYU Film Grad named Jonathan Blitstein had written a screenplay entitled Let Them Chirp Awhile and, apparently, was offering me a role in the picture. Inwardly, I groaned, because I had read a cornucopia of screenplays that had been sent to me, either for my opinion or possibly my involvement, and generally they were pretty poor.

As I started to read, however, a smile crept across my face. The script was pretty darn good, and the character of Hart Carlton (the small but juicy role I'd been offered) was so quirky and loathsome, I felt I could do it justice. I e-mailed back the next day that I was in, and we quickly worked out a deal.

Filming proceeded apace in October of '06 ( on 35 mm, which was cool), and I was immediately impressed by Blitstein's self assurance, relaxed manner and calm under pressure. He never cracked, hustled mightily, and even survived burning a hole in his stomach with antibiotics( he was rushed to the hospital, but returned ASAP to continue shooting). Additionally, I was surprised at how open he was to improvisation; often, first time writer-directors treat their own dialogue as if it was straight from the Rosetta Stone. I filmed my part in a quick three days, and went on with my life.

Watch the trailer here.

From five to about fifteen years of age - the glory years of childhood and adolescence - I was an avid comic book reader. I thrilled to the exploits of Marvel comics superheroes and Jack Kirby inspired monsters, and breathlessly hurried to the comic book stand at 86th and Broadway with my fistful of change, hoping for the latest issues. In the 60's and 70's, comic book heroes were noble, almost perfect role models for kids, save the occasional self absorption of Spiderman or the suggested alcoholism of Iron Man. There was a cartoonish level of violence, no bad language and the barest hint of the erotic, usually limited to the costumes clinging snugly to the absurdly perfect bodies of the female heroines, like Sue Richards of the Fantastic Four and Wonder Woman.

Well, it's 2008, and some comics (sorry, graphic novels - comics is now too infantile a name) are very, very different. Characters curse, have sex, kill for both moral and immoral purposes, and generally behave like....well, human beings. Does this make for good reading? Or have comics just descended into the gutter, with their innocence lost forever? Well, in one instance, the anything goes, go-for-broke style of today's graphic novels works brilliantly.

If there is going to be a more obvious explosion of musical creativity in 2008, I'd like to hear it. But I'm willing to bet that the second album from Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears will be the sonic supernova that will stay on my Ipod for the next several weeks, if not months.

Combining elements of ELO, Squeeze, Peter Gabriel-era Genesis, Elton John and XTC into a power pop-prog confection that is irresistible and stands up to repeated listenings, Scary and his shockingly solid, terrifically tight band - keyboardist Mike Acreman, drummer Brian Bauer, guitarist Graham Norwood and bassist David Ostrem - rip through a dozen new songs with abandon. The album kicks off with the title track (Part One, of course) displaying multi-layered Jeff Lynne vocals, and then settles into a Chris Squire-esque funky groove with a solid chorus. Venus Ambassador is the Dukes of Stratosphear crossed with the Move, and Imitation of the Sky is a endlessly hummable pop classic (complete with a ripping guitar solo) that is so good it's, well, kinda scary.

The album chugs along, taking us through the multiple time changes and fractured song structures (do I detect Fiery Furnaces ADD here?), but never loses its focus. Some critics have complained that the multiplicity of influences shows that Scary is merely a master imitator and not a true artist. Yeah, sure. And T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland is just a collection of other poets' work strung together. The question is not Scary's influences- all of which I personally love - but what he does with them. On Flight of the Knife, all of the great pop music of the last 40-some-odd years is used like clay, molded into new, inventive creations that are wondrous to behold. Sure, The Purple Rocket has a Robert Fripp Crimson-era section (and a chorus that sounds like the Archies), but what's wrong with that? Critics seem to think it's simple to imitate the Beatles, but if it is, how come we don't get a new Abbey Road every month? I'll tell you why (and so will Scary and, probably, Adam Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood): because it's unbelievably hard to do it well.

The last four songs are just as good as the other eight, and with Mama Waits, the Gentle Giant-ish Son of Stab, the piano driven ballad Heaven on a Bird and the final title track reprise, the album comes to a satisfying close. If you're looking for a record that will leave you shaking your head in wonder - a rarity these days, I can tell you - click on over to ITunes, and go flying.

Great songs are easy to enjoy - they're either the product of 'accepted', hip bands (like Radiohead) or universally praised for their excellence (like U2 ,the Beatles or Kanye West). Loving a cool song is, pretty much, simplicity in itself.

Then there are the other songs, the ones that you sheepishly, grudgingly admit you like. The reasons for their utter wackness are legion - they're too cheesy, poppy, sappy, annoying, feminine (or masculine, depending on your gender), or simply overplayed beyond belief. Whatever the reason may be, you don't care, you still dig them...a lot. But, in all likelihood, you would NEVER, EVER admit that you like them for fear of derision and, most likely, total banishment from the Cool Community.

I knew that confessing my songs was going to be excruciating, so I met with a therapist, hoping she could guide me through this difficult, tender and, yes, painful process. The following is a transcript of the session, exactly as it happened.

Often times I hear my students complain about the current President, saying things like 'He's so dumb!' or 'How could we elect a C student as a President?' (Bush's average was a 77 during his stay at Yale). But a quick look at US History (my major at college) will tell you that, given a choice between an obvious intellectual and a simpler, less educated person, America almost always avoids the smarter person. Let's take a look at the last 60 years of Presidential elections:

1948: This contest was between Thomas Dewey, a graduate of University of Michigan and Columbia Law School and Harry Truman, who was a haberdasher who didn't attend college. Winner: Truman.

After talking about movies on Monday and music yesterday, I thought I would chat briefly about the next logical step : movies with music. No, not concert films (with the exception of a few - The Last Waltz and Stop Making Sense come to mind - most are pretty ordinary), but films that have excellent music inextricably woven throughout the story. Here are three lesser known films that fit the bill:

Rockers
Sure, The Harder They Come is a midnight staple all over the country, but the less heralded Rockers stands up better over time. Sporting one of the greatest reggae soundtracks in film (anchored by Peter Tosh's brilliant Stepping Razor), this 1978 cult classic started out as a documentary but morphed into a fictional film once the director Ted Bafaloukos realized he had struck gold casting the lead, drummer Leroy " Horsemouth" Wallace, whose strange yet undeniable ragamuffin charisma permeates the proceedings. The plot centers around a stolen motorcycle (with a nod to Vittorio De Sica's classic The Bicycle Thief), but the real stars are the Jamaican scenery, the extensive cast of real life reggae stars (Burning Spear and the late Jacob Miller make cameos), and the pulsating, phenomenal music.

It's pretty obvious why classic rock radio is so dreary and moribund when it simply doesn't need to be: its
play list is about 50 to 100 songs long. Seriously. Now, I love Boston as much as the next 40 something geeky white guy, but if I hear More Than a Feeling one more freakin' time, I'm gonna turn purple, soil myself, and explode into a thousand pieces.

Speaking of purple, how come all you ever hear from Prince is Kiss and When Doves Cry? The guy has 4.2 billion songs, and those two are practically the only ones they play. It's time for classic rock radio to stop
micro-managing and focus grouping itself into oblivion. Damn, son, be a little adventurous for a change!
Here's a list of great songs from amazing artists that you literally never hear on terrestrial radio (satellite
is much, much better) but should:

Like most people, I enjoy renting the latest films and checking out what I missed (or, usually, didn't) at the local Cineplex. But occasionally, I like to be challenged and entertained at the same time. Sure, it's fun to turn your brain off and watch the latest Jet Li film or formula romantic comedy, but sometimes I like to think, even if it's just for a couple of hours. These three films will definitely leave you pondering this giant thing we call Life. Sadly, you may have to do a little work in order to find them, but, hey, you're up to the task.

The Devils (1971)
You've got to see this film to believe it. Banned in England upon its release, it tells the story of a 17th century deformed nun (Vanessa Redgrave, superb as usual) who becomes sexually obsessed with the local priest (Oliver Reed) with disastrous consequences for everyone involved. I dare not tell you any more of the plot for fear of ruining it for you, but, suffice it to say, the climax is both shocking and memorable. Profane, troubling and, at times, deeply disturbing, the film asks (and answers) a number of questions about repression, religion and its control over the masses,and personal responsibility. The performances are tremendous, the cinematography and production design striking, and Ken Russell's direction is typically, er, exuberant. Remember...you've been warned.

Two weeks ago, my lovely wife Ling and I spent some time in Las Vegas. We were there for the usual reasons - sun, fun, perhaps a little gambling - but our super objective (to use a popular acting term) was to see the Cirque de Soleil/ Beatles extravaganza, Love. She and I had both heard positive things and managed to score pretty solid seats (probably because it was a Sunday night, and Vegas, mercifully, was emptying out), so I would describe the level of anticipation as pretty damn high.

We were not disappointed.

Although I'm sure we influence each other a bit, both of us agreed, at the conclusion of Love, that it was one of the greatest shows - of any kind - that we had ever seen. I, personally, can't think of another entertainment experience that I have enjoyed as much as I did this. It was that good.
I'm sure there are personal reasons why this was - my fierce love of 90% of the Fab Four's catalog and my near total unfamiliarity with the Cirque among them - but I believe that the key factor was simply the overall, breathtaking excellence.

Everyday, I get bombarded with spam. Just last week, in some kind of coordinated attack, I received well over 50 spam e-mails in a 12 minute period. And this morning, riding on the subway, my phone buzzed, signifying an e-mail, which turned out to be, of course, spam. But here's the thing: I get no service in the subway. Ever. And yet, somehow, the spam found me, like some demon dog from hell forever nipping at my IP number's all too visible heels.

My carrier, T-mobile, is clearly unable to come up with any spam filter that is even remotely effective, and so the crapola wave continues, alas, unabated. Since my mind is ridiculously overactive, I have subconsciously been studying the types and varieties of spam, and have come up with several conclusions:

* People, incredibly, click on the links provided in these bizarre, anonymous missives - it is the only logical explanation for their rapid (and seemingly unstoppable) proliferation
* The spam is clearly created by people (or computers) who do not speak English very well
* There is a shocking amount of erectile dysfunction, and/or dissatisfaction with male genitalia size
* There appears to be a surge of spam on weekend nights, when people would most likely be drunk and/or totally inebriated

No matter what I do, I just can't get it out of my head.

No, not the latest Pitchfork-approved indie rock darling. Rather, the sounds that are clamoring for space in my head are the crunchy, dulcet sounds of hard rock. I don't know which of these events triggered it - reading Chuck Klosterman's Fargo Rock City, getting re-hooked on Aerosmith and UFO, or discovering the 4:56 version of Better (the Chinese Democracy demo) - but I am officially on 1989 time...and I couldn't be happier. I never thought listening to Tesla could make me so content, but I'm pleased (and somewhat embarrassed) by this unexpected development. Every time the power chords and drums kick in for "Be A Man", a huge grin spreads across my demented grill. Def Leppard's Adrenalize reveals new and complex shadings, Black Sabbath's first four records are absurdly good - hell, even Winger sounds refreshing after two decades on ice (OK, that's pushing it). I had almost forgotten just how much fun hair metal could be - probably due to the huge nostalgia rush it creates- and I stand firmly in awe at the mellifluous wonder of the expertly played guitar solo. I'm kinda over the whole hip-hop thing - too much posturing and negativity for continuous listening - and alternative rock is a downer,too.

The YouTube phenomenon has been, culturally speaking, kind of a double-edged sword. For every worthwhile clip (a herd of wildebeest dramatically fighting off a pack of lions, for example), humanity has been deluged with silly snippets of kitties swimming blithely in bathtubs, border collies destroying pumpkins for a Snausage, and mentally unstable fans declaring their undying love for Britney Spears.

That's why I was cautiously jubilant when one of my students (I teach at Stonestreet Studios, a secondary studio affiliated with Tisch School of the Arts at NYU), Chelsey Donn, told me about a YouTube clip called Human Tetris.

The word Tetris doesn't just excite me, it sends waves of gushy nostalgia cascading through my overly sentimental psyche. Suddenly, it's 1991, the year of Metallica's Black Album, Silence of the Lambs, and Super Nintendo. There I am, perched in front of my 32-inch Sony Trinitron, controller in hand, cursing wildly as T and I and L- shaped blocks come hurtling down from the top of the screen, leaving me nanoseconds with which to rotate and fit them into impossibly cramped geometric quarters.

By Zach Galligan

Although I've been an actor most of my life, music has always been one of my greatest loves and, at times, a fevered obsession. I've gone through many phases - the Zeppelin phase, the Dylan phase, the Coltrane phase, the Manilow phase (ok, I made that last one up) - and tried to explore as many different genres as possible. I'm happy to report my fascination with music, both popular and obscure, continues unabated.

Speaking of obscure (or, at least, not very well known), here is a list of ten songs on my Ipod which continue to give me constant pleasure, but, in certain instances, may be slightly difficult to find.

1.Comin' To Get You - Beautiful People
Everyone knows Hendrix - the Mozart of the Stratocaster - but few people have heard of this group of DJs who, in the early 90's, were given access to Hendrix's entire catalog and constructed sonic collages using techno beats, background vocals and other forms of studio wizardry, resulting in thundering dance floor remixes. This track, which drastically reworks Foxy Lady and cross pollinates it with a blistering solo from (I believe) Hear My Train A' Coming is an absolute must hear for electronica aficionados and Jimi fans alike.