Kittens inspired by kittens.

The best minute and a half you'll have all day.



"I'm her mom."

"No, she's not."

(tip: Meri)

Two words.

Penis Parade.

That answer was worth one "oh hell, give it to them" point in tonight's trivia contest. The correct answer was Penis Panic. So close.

"Sleepfucking," while not too far off from another answer they were looking for, was, sadly, not awarded a "good try" point.

In honor of one of the round's themes, Conan O'Brien, I give you one of the funniest segments in the history of his show. I stumbled across this recently and was reminded of just how funny Norm MacDonald is. Stick with it to the end. Enjoy.

The Precedent of the The President.

President Obama has just concluded his address to Congress about the state of our economy and the general direction toward which he plans to lead this nation. In spite of a few stumbles, and in spite of the incessant applause which has always struck me as excessive and phony---like a high school pep rally---his speech tonight was, to me, as momentous as one this country has seen in a very, very long time.

Actions will ultimately speak louder than words, of course, but there's little doubt that this President is one with real vision. With a keen self-awareness that wasn't often evident in the way President Bush comported himself, Obama seemed to know all too well why his stimulus plan has not been welcomed by everyone. Put simply, he gets it. His policies and plans are not going to resonate with everyone, in some cases even with myself, but you have to take great comfort in knowing that he clearly does not live and work in a bubble. If he's surrounding himself with a bunch of "yes" men, I'm not seeing it. What I am seeing is someone who seems willing to grasp for a future beyond the next election cycle. In politics, the "future" is only measured in 2 or 4 year increments. His words, if not his hoped-for deeds, seek to radically redefine that standard. Amen.

Some of his ideas are exceedingly ambitious and, of course, are destined to meet with varied success. Time will tell. But what I saw tonight---no, what I felt tonight---was a renewed sense of, yes, I'm going to say it...HOPE. Quite frankly, you can't shortcut your way to a better tomorrow. Hard problems require complex and difficult solutions, and for too long we've been held captive by an overly partisan Congress that sought victory more than it sought progress.

While I often gave President Bush the benefit of the doubt, perhaps even long after he deserved it, this is the kind of speech Bush could NEVER give. It's not that Bush was lacking in vision. The Bush Doctrine is one which I have never, in principle, disagreed with. Like some of Obama's ideas and pledges, it, too, was a radical way to re-envision American foreign policy. Where Bush and Obama glaringly part ways, however, is in their ability to convey a deep understanding of what it takes to achieve a radical change. Whereas Obama tried his damnedest to make sure nobody should expect overnight victory, Bush always tried his damnedest to make it seem like victory was already at hand---whether it be in Iraq, Afghanistan, in New Orleans, in our schools, or in our homes. Bush was either unwilling or unable to admit that sacrifices must be made to achieve genuine change. If wishful thinking alone could have changed the world for the better, Bush would have ended up on Mount Rushmore.

I was moved tonight. That's no easy task. We shall see what comes next, but tonight we were spoken to as adults by an adult. If the deeds come anywhere close to matching the words, we're gonna be alright.

Movie #41: Futurama - Bender's Game

Bender's Game, the third Futurama movie (and second to be reviewed here---see Movie #11), suffers from similar problems as the first two---mainly, it just doesn't work well as a feature-length film. With a runtime of 88 minutes, it's the equivalent of watching four episodes consecutively, but with only enough good jokes to cover one of them. I'm not sure why Futurama keeps having this issue with their made-for-DVD movies, but after three of these mediocre efforts I'm about ready to throw in the towel and content myself with its far superior half-hour reruns.

Bender's Game attempts to mine humor from the world of Dungeons and Dragons and other fantasy realms, a subject rife for comic skewering. While there are some funny moments to be sure, the plot is all over the place and feels like it was written to get the characters from point A to point B to point C in such a way that simply occupies time. I can almost imagine the writers...

Writer #1: What do we have them do now?

Writer #2: How's about they get sucked into a bizzaro D&D universe? That'll kill about 20 pages.

Writer #1: Done.

The fourth Futurama movie gets released on Tuesday. I won't be rushing out to watch it this time.

Grade: 4/10

Movie #40: Man on Wire

With the Oscars just a few hours away, it seems apropos to review Man on Wire, a film heavily favored to win for Best Documentary. The titular man in question is Philippe Petit, one of those rare personalities who people seem willing to gravitate towards even though he's arrogant, difficult and selfish. At the time Petit walked between the World Trade Center towers in 1974, he was 24-years-old. Now, 58, Petit's youthful exuberance is largely unchanged. He's truly the embodiment of an overgrown child as he recounts the meticulous planning (and good fortune) that went into pulling off one of the most breathtaking endeavors in performance art history.

While the dramatic recreations are standard fare for a contemporary documentary, the movie is priceless for the archival footage of Petit on the wire. While 9/11 is not mentioned or indirectly referenced, the odd beauty of a single man juxtaposing himself against the Towers gives a chilling gravitas to something that might otherwise have been dismissed as a cheap stunt. Petit, thankfully, is no David Blaine. Like all great art, what you see isn't as important as what you feel. Petit on the wire arouses a compelling mixture of fear, wonder, jealousy and tranquility. Conceptually, wire-walking is absurd. In action, with such great stakes, it's genius.

It may or may not be the best documentary of the year, but I'm certainly glad that a detailed account of this fascinating moment in history performed by a fascinating artist has been memorialized forever.

Grade: 8/10

“CC couldn’t care less about the dots.”

I'm a sucker for any story about punctuation and grammar, and this article about how new Yankee pitcher CC Sabathia lost the dots from his name is no different:

CC Sabathia tale is a period piece

TAMPA – CC Sabathia now comes in pinstripes, but he’s still without the dots.
For the 7½ seasons he pitched for the Cleveland Indians, Sabathia always was known as “C.C.” Then last July 7, he was traded to the Milwaukee Brewers, and the dots after the initials disappeared.

The New York Yankees paid $161 million this winter to sign Sabathia as a free agent, but that wasn’t enough to buy them punctuation. The Yankees’ spring roster lists him as CC, and apparently it’s going to stay that way.

Irwin v. Erwin. Ooops.

I have a strange job at times. It's the kind of job that allows me to have casual conversations with Tony Bennett on occasion. It's the kind of job where I have elevator doors slam on me whilst in the presence of Brangelina. But it's also the kind of ridiculous job that allows me to embarrassingly confuse little-known character actors---to wit, I give you the Bill Irwin versus Bill Erwin debacle.



That's Bill Irwin on the left, and that's Bill Erwin on the right. Both are actors you probably recognize. Both are still alive, though Irwin is 59 and Erwin is 94. Hearing the name over the phone, I jumped to the conclusion that "Erwin" was most likely the correct spelling---a conclusion that was immediately validated by a Google search with prominent results. Further research revealed Erwin graduated from the University of Texas at Austin in 1935...a full sixty years before I graduated from UT. Once I learned he had graduated with a journalism degree, I thought to check when Walter Cronkite had attended UT's School of Journalism. Sure enough they both attended school at the same time! I couldn't help but share my enthusiasm with the venerable actor from Honey Grove, Texas and ask about the experience.

I think you know where this is heading...

I'll only say that I should've been more suspicious of a 94-year-old man being able to open email attachments. That was a dead giveaway.

Awwwkward.

Oh, you silly Pirate, you.

The Pirate® just stopped by with his week's supply of booty. After I picked through the Museum-related DVDs and the ones featuring my boss (he was quite prolific last week thanks to Lincoln's b-day), I got to the good stuff. Or in the case of The Pirate®, the weird stuff. He usually brings new movies (Vicky Christina Barcelona last week), but the reason I love The Pirate® is because you just never know what to expect with this guy. This week's surprise...The Majestic. And not just one copy, but rather two. Because you can never have enough copies of a bad Jim Carrey film from 2001. As strange a film choice as this was, it doesn't quite eclipse his offering of Flashdance. Silly Pirate®.

Movie # 39: Hancock

Returning to the deep backlog of movies awaiting review, we pick up with Hancock, Will Smith's big-budget superhero-with-a-bad-attitude flick. Directed by Peter Berg, someone whose gritty, hand-held style of film making has become readily identifiable (gritty inasmuch as a film with a $150 million budget can be called gritty), Hancock looks and feels mostly authentic. One scene has Will Smith carrying a car so effortlessly, that I actually had to rewind it for a second look. I am constantly amazed at what special effects artists are able to do these days. I am less amazed, however, with what screenwriters are able to do.

There really isn't much of a plot to Hancock, and for much of the movie that's just fine. The titular character is an interesting subject and, simply looking in on how he treats the world and how the world treats him, is surprisingly satisfying. His friendship with Jason Bateman's character, an idealistic PR man, is the real highlight of the movie. The third act of the movie, however, is mostly a disaster. There's a major reveal about midway through the movie that, while it makes sense, isn't terribly fun to watch played out. Add on to that twist the remnants of the weak main plot---such as it is---and you get an overblown and uninteresting climax.

Hancock is exceedingly watchable and, at times, emotionally involving. All three of the leads, Smith, Bateman and Charlize Theron, are flat-out likable. The final result, however, is a movie that gets caught between its desire to be daring and different and the inevitable pressures to be conventional and familiar.

Grade: 7/10

Monkey Business

The above cartoon appeared in today's New York Post and, not surprisingly, has raised more than a few eyebrows. Although the cartoon is obviously spoofing the recent "news" story about the rampaging chimp in Connecticut that police were forced to shoot and kill, the caption reads "They'll have to find someone else to write the next stimulus bill." I'm not the most p.c. person in the world, and I generally provide satirists with an excessive degree of latitude, but this one strikes me as indefensibly offensive.

Sam Stein over at Huffington Post says, "At its most benign, the cartoon suggests that the stimulus bill was so bad, monkeys may as well have written it." Even if you assume this was the cartoonist's intentions, what an absurd and clumsy juxtaposition of two stories. The cliche of monkeys doing human tasks isn't about the monkeys being stupid or doing bad work, it's about the simplicity of the tasks being performed---as in, "that's so easy, even a trained monkey could do it." The cartoon simply doesn't work on that level. So maybe that's all this is...a stupid cartoon that seeks to capitalize on a sensational news story (the chimp). Its only crime is being unfunny and ill-conceived.

Except...except it really works well as a racist cartoon. The author of the stimulus bill, although put together by dozens, if not hundreds of people, is widely recognized as Obama. One of three things must, therefore, be true. Either the cartoonist (1) intended his readers to view Obama as a rabid monkey---a classic, racist stereotype; (2) the editors at the NY Post are blissfully unaware that such a cartoon, racist intentions or otherwise, would be offensive; or (3) the editors of the NY Post were completely aware of how the cartoon would be perceived and chose to run it anyway. Here's how the NY Post has responded thus far:

"The cartoon is a clear parody of a current news event, to wit the shooting of a violent chimpanzee in Connecticut. It broadly mocks Washington's efforts to revive the economy. Again, Al Sharpton reveals himself as nothing more than a publicity opportunist."

The Sharpton reference is because the good Reverend was one of the first to criticize the cartoon---though his criticism was hardly one of his usual jump-to-conclusions diatribes:

"The cartoon in today's New York Post is troubling at best given the historic racist attacks of African-Americans as being synonymous with monkeys. One has to question whether the cartoonist is making a less than casual reference to this when in the cartoon they have police saying after shooting a chimpanzee that "Now they will have to find someone else to write the stimulus bill."

"Being that the stimulus bill has been the first legislative victory of President Barack Obama (the first African American president) and has become synonymous with him it is not a reach to wonder are they inferring that a monkey wrote the last bill?"

So, rather than acknowledge some very real concerns that Al Sharpton and, now, countless others have over the nature of the cartoon, the Post simply attempts to marginalize Sharpton as a publicity-seeking narcissist. Okay. True. He's a publicity-seeking narcissist, but he's one with a point this time. One which will be widely shared, no doubt.

The Perils of Blu-ray.

Now that I have a PS3 with Blu-ray capability, and now that I have a high-def flat-screen television capable of making said Blu-ray discs worthwhile, my default option on my Blockbuster-by-mail program is set to Blu-ray---natch. The problem with that is that the current demand for Blu-ray discs far exceeds the supply. And the problem with that is that it wrecks utter chaos on my not-so-carefully-selected queue.

I just returned from a long weekend in Chicago to find my two newest DVD arrivals---both of which have been festering near the bottom of my queue for almost two years. The first is the 2007 remake of The Hitcher, and the second is the bonus disc from the 3rd season of 24. The BONUS disc. Of a show I pretty much loathe. The worst part is that I'm mildly OCD when it comes to DVD extras. Even though I rarely like the "making of" segments that accompany almost all DVDs, I can't bring myself to mail it back until I've actually spent some time with it. Jesus.

Even worse than that, I just reviewed my queue and the bonus disc for Inland Empire is perilously close to being selected---dangling like the Sword of Damocles.

The latest in cupcake-related news.

It's been too long since a cupcake-centric post, so here's one Morgan sent me that combines cupcakes, Obama and Lincoln which, now that I think about it, is pretty much the entire focus of this blog (and my life).

Obama and Lincoln Cupcake Mosaic

2 Presidents.

5900 cupcakes.

Bob the Builder. On-time and under budget.

I'm writing to you from downtown Chicago this afternoon, from the business center of my friend's 65-story sky rise condominium. I'd prefer to use my friend's laptop, but his computer is locked with a thumbprint ID and I neglected to make a latex copy of his finger before he left this morning.

Though not unexpected, this long weekend getaway is not quite the boozy, video game, DVD, poker-filled vacation I had hoped it would be. He's a new father, you see, and that means lots of singing and hopping around like bunnies. Babies like this sort of thing, evidently. They also like eating, sleeping, and crying...which explains why they like me. We're kindred spirits.

The young lad, just over 3-months-old now, is undeniably cute. But while I seem to have a magic touch for making him smile and laugh (nobody lays down the baby-centric freestyle rap tracks like I do), I have to confess that all this baby-raising work is...a lot of work. They eat 7-9 times a day and relieve themselves of said meals just as often. They cry for no obvious reason, and they like Barney the Dinosaur without even a hint of irony. Worst of all, for those in possession of a child, this cycle doesn't really end. It just repeats itself. Over and over. And over. And over.

I guess what I'm saying is, I'm willing to father a child...and I'm willing to hop around like a bunny...and I'm willing to watch Bob the Builder be the only contractor who gets his job done on-time and under budget...and I'm willing to change diapers some of the time...and I'm willing to have baby vomit on my nice sweater, but...

Oh, hell. Sign me up anyway.

This Is Why You're Fat

Where repulsion meets attraction and your heart explodes.


http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/

Bacon donut.

Corn dog pizza.

(tip: David & Brian)

The Texas sun makes you do crazy things.

Like take steroids, evidently. In a revealing interview with Peter Gammons today, Alex Rodriguez surprisingly came clean about his positive test for steroids in 2003. Sort of. Although he admitted to taking a banned substance, and although he apologized with tear-stained eyes to his "millions" of fans for his stupid behavior, there were plenty of curious comments which leave me unsure what to believe. First, the interview:



Let me give A-Rod some much deserved credit here. He admitted it. Pure and simple. Even when caught red-handed, almost all of the other baseball greats who used steroids refused to acknowledge or take responsibility for their actions. A-Rod, by coming right out and saying he's guilty of taking performance-enhancing drugs, now has an opportunity to achieve some form of redemption, something that Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire will never be able to achieve. And, as his tear-stained eyes seemed to indicate, A-Rod seems sincere and appropriately remorseful. I also LOVE the fact that he didn't read some script prepared for him by his agent. He was clearly speaking extemporaneously and it didn't feel as though he was a puppet who was having his strings pulled. This was A-Rod speaking, not Scott Boras. I respect that.

That said...

Since when in the fuck is Texas the most pressure-filled destination in baseball? I know the contract he received was beyond epic, but we're talking about a guy who ultimately wanted to play in New York, a city whose bright media spotlight shines, oh, just a wee bit brighter than in Arlington, Texas. Texas has never fielded a winner and its fans have never really demanded one. There is no easier place to be a stud hitter than Texas. Also, why is he complaining about the hot summers in Texas when he grew up playing baseball in the Dominican Republic and in Miami, Florida? Weird.

There were a few other things in his "confession" which bothered me as well, most notably his demonstrative effort to keep his legacy with the Yankees intact. It may be well and true that he has not been on the juice since coming to the Yankees, but A-Rod has plenty of motive to be less than forthcoming on this point. With headlines like "A-Hole" splashed across the NY tabloids this morning, A-Rod is understandably desperate to rally some support. He's a Yankee and he's going to stay one, so his only chance at surviving the vicious attacks he's going to be subjected to by his own fans is to give them some small reason to believe he hasn't tarnished Yankee pinstripes...only Ranger blue. That part seemed a bit over-emphasized, a bit too self-aware.

I also wasn't thrilled with his trying to mitigate the severity of his choices by insisting that the era in which it happened was more permissive. Was it? Yes. But that's not an argument for him to make. That's an argument for sports writers and fans to make. The only thing he should have been saying was, "I did it. I was wrong. I knew it was wrong. I have no excuses. I take full responsibility for my actions. I'm sorry." Honestly, a prepared statement that says only that much would have been far more compelling and, strategically speaking, far more successful in restoring some of his credibility.

A-Rod's confession does have one important result. It's the final nail in the coffin for Major League Baseball for the years 1992 to 2004. Nothing from that era counts now. Everyone is either guilty or under suspicion, right or wrong. The only players who have any sort of credibility were the fat ones like John Kruk, David Wells, Cecil Fielder and Steve Balboni. These are the new legends of baseball. Fernando Valenzuela never looked so good.

P.S. So, I guess Jose Canseco is the most honest scuzz bucket in the history of the world. Has he alleged anything that hasn't turned out to be true?

Another reason to despise women's basketball.

As if you needed another one.

You've probably heard by now about the Dallas high school basketball game last month that ended in the score 100-0. One team of girls destroyed another team of girls and now the winning coach is out of a job while the losing team gets credit for "not giving up," which is about as perfect a story as there is for illustrating the absurdity of low standards in America. Yes, the losing team is comprised of girls who are learning-challenged and, yes, the losing team hasn't won a game in four years, but I've never understood the concept of "going easy" on an opponent if the opponent agreed to play in the first place. It's not good sportsmanship to put a team on the court that is utterly incapable of even pretending to belong there and then praising them for not bursting into tears and running off the court in the middle of it. Also, it's not as though the winning team won by playing dirty. They won by simply performing that much better.

In fact, were I on the losing side of a 100-0 game, I'd feel insulted if my opponent started to intentionally miss shots or stop trying to perform well. Is there anything more condescending and ego-crushing than making some grand scene out of one's ineptitude by saying to them, essentially, "You poor, poor girls. You are so awful we're just gonna dribble now. It'll be like a little mitzvah." You're probably thinking to yourself, "Oh, Kraig, you and your ridiculous hypotheticals. You can't possibly know what it's like to be on the losing end of a 100-0 basketball game." You're right. But I do know what it's like to be on the losing end of a 76-2 basketball game.

The year was 1994. Forrest Gump was running his way to box office records, my romantic ineptitude was also smashing records, and intramural basketball at the University of Texas at Austin seemed like a good idea. I was young then, naive in the ways of the world---but I was about to get schooled, and not just in Russian Lit. Along with some of my friends, among whom included a mathematician, a nuclear physicist, and a library sciences expert, we formed a team to compete in the annual basketball tourney. It turned out that our unique set of skills was not sufficient enough to be even mildly competitive---though I stand by my belief that we were the team most likely to be able to disarm a bomb should such need spontaneously arise. It did not.

These games were played in a full-court gymnasium with officials, a ticking clock, stands not-so-full of people, and a very visible scoreboard. Our very first game quickly turned into a disaster. Even though we were signed up in the "under six-feet tall" category, the opposing team's players all measured 5 ft 11 in. I, on the other hand, represented our team's second tallest player by comparison. I WAS THE POWER FORWARD. Up and down the court they went. They were taller. They were faster. They were better. They could dunk. THEY COULD DUNK. And I swear one of the guys was on the UT men's basketball team. Was the final result (76-2) embarrassing? Hardly. We were clearly outmatched and there was simply no shame in the demonstration of what everyone knew to be true before the opening buzzer even sounded.

Should the other team have gone easy on us? Absolutely not. They were having fun. WE were having fun. And the two points we scored, courtesy of a long-range jumper from yours truly, are far more significant because they weren't letting up at all. That team ended up winning the whole tournament, and our team ended up being mildly competitive in the other games, meaning the opening result was as much due to some bad luck as it was due to Matt's inability to make a pass without it getting stolen.

Kids are a lot tougher than adults seem to think. Losing 100-0 is not going to scar them emotionally. If anything, it'll make them take better inventory of their own talents. Not everyone can win, and not everyone has a good jump shot. The myth of "you can do whatever you want to do, and be whoever you want to be" is far more damaging than the result of a lopsided basketball game. Also, is there any doubt this wouldn't be an issue were it a BOY'S basketball game?

Indian (not) Giver

11:35pm - 50th Street and 8th Avenue Subway stop

*note to non-subway riders---once you swipe your Metro card, you can't swipe again for about 17 minutes

I approach an MTA employee, a smallish Indian man sitting comfortably behind bullet-proof glass. He looks like he belongs in a Wes Anderson movie. He's simply adorable.

I was mistaken.

Me: Hi there. Can you possibly swipe me in? I just swiped on the downtown side thinking I'd be able to cross over to the uptown track.

He stares back at me--unblinking. After a few seconds of silence, I look behind me. Nope, he's staring at me.

Me: Sir?

He speaks with a very traditional Indian accent, his cadence mimicking Apu from the Simpsons. His tone mimics me at my most condescending.

MTA: Tell me. When you go to work every day, if you work on the third floor, do you forget and go to work on the second floor?

I stare back at him--unblinking.

Me: What?

MTA: When you go to work, do you---

Me: Yeah, no, I got that. But, what?

MTA: What don't you get?

Me: Your really bad analogy?

MTA: So you are not able to read signs?

I roll my eyes and exhale demonstrably. I am exactly this kind of asshole.

Me: Yes. Yes, I can read.

MTA: Then why did you go to the other side? If you could read, you wouldn't need my help.

I begin to understand why he's behind bullet-proof glass.

Me: Really? You really want to do this?

MTA: I just don't understand why.

Me: You don't understand why someone would think this subway stop would have access to both uptown and downtown service from each side? Like, you know, 75% of the other stops along this track?

MTA: You are worse than the school children that come through here! Just go. Go. Go. Go!

He swipes me in and I enter.

I have a new nemesis.

Not the Christian thing to do.

By now, I assume many of you have heard the audio of Christian Bale's angry outburst from the set of Terminator Salvation. The rant happened back in July, but the tape--courtesy of the dirt diggers at TMZ.com--surfaced just this week. It's fairly amusing, but mostly it gives me the springboard for my long-awaited assault on the very much overrated Bale. First the audio clip:



It's not that Bale is a bad actor---he's not (sort of). But most people I know seem to adore his talent and would easily consider him one of the top leads today. In truth, Bale is enormously talented...at selecting the right projects to work on, and the right people to work on them with. One of his earliest roles, of course, was as a child in Steven Spielberg's Empire of the Sun. When your first major acting job is the lead in a Spielberg film, the "talent bar" has already been set impossibly high. He would go on to work with directors like Werner Herzog, James Mangold, Christopher Nolan, and Terrence Malick, some of the best in the biz. No wonder he lost his shit when McG's director of photography walked through his line of sight during a scene. Bale is spoiled, and I can't really blame him. I'd be, too, if I routinely worked with the talent he usually gets to work with. I pray his career never gets reduced to straight-to-video tripe, lest he end up murdering a just-out-of-school director who deigns to shoot a scene one more time to make sure he's got enough coverage.

But as good as films like Dark Knight, The Prestige and Rescue Dawn may be, they're good in spite of Christian Bale, not because of him. I'll be blunt about this---Dark Knight is a very good film. A very good film with a fairly awful lead performance. When donning the bat costume, he delivers his lines with something akin to the breathy implausibility of Rocky Balboa as a phone sex operator. The first time he uttered his lines in Dark Knight I had to keep myself from bursting into laughter. Here's an actual scene from the movie. Actual scene!


Okay, not an actual scene. But it captures the essence of Bale's performance, I think.

Here's how not good Christian Bale is: The Prestige, a film which I considered to be one of the very best of 2006, also stars Hugh Jackman and Scarlett Johannson. That it managed to be that good with that cast (and let's not forget Michael Caine and David Bowie for good measure) is astonishing. That it managed to convince me that Jackman is a far superior actor to Bale is unforgivable. Hugh Jackman. The same Hugh Jackman seen lip synching (badly) his way through a Rolling Stones song on Viva Laughlin last year:


The only real difference between Jackman and Bale is that Jackman does stupid shit like agreeing to do Viva Laughlin. That, and Bale is physically bland enough to not be as distracting as the too-obviously-a-movie-star Jackman.

Before I hate on Bale too much, I should point out that I look forward to his movies since he's reliably in good movies. To make a baseball analogy, Bale would be a starting pitcher who wins 20 games, but one who does so with an awful ERA and a lot of run support. He's Jack fucking Morris, and Heath Ledger and Christoper Nolan are Allen Trammell and Lou Whitaker. Of course. He did, however, give me Equilibrium...which I consider to be his perfect game.