Roswell
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Djb: A | Grade It Now!
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Party over, whoops, out of time
Make no mistake from any snarkiness deployed throughout the course of this recap. I freakin' love this movie. Ah, 1999. The closest thing to an apex of American society as our generation will ever know. Pervasive Y2K anxiety separated the normal from the loony by sending the latter to dwell beneath the earth while simultaneously ridding the supermarket shelves of Spam, Hormel Meat-Like Product, and other objectionable canned non-perishables intended for consumption exclusively by the subterranean Y2K alarmist demographic who took to their bomb shelters the first time a light bulb blew. Quality fare of the Fatboy Slim variety stormed the pop charts, while a young dreamer named Lou Bega fostered dreams of superstardom, bagging groceries in a Pasadena Food Lion -- ringing up can after can of Spam and Hormel Meat-Like Product for the burgeoning race of Earth's mutant mole people -- all the while honing the skills that would cement him evermore as The First Tangible Signal Of Earth's Demise In The Impending Millennium, regaling customers with his off-the-cuff song stylings, "A little bit of Spam in my life. A little bit of Hormel Meat-Like Product in my life. A little bit of…what's this? A record contract? For me? Hey, thanks!" And I, four seconds out of college and mistakenly believing that I still had any chance of remaining cool here in the mid-to-late July of my years, went to see Go at a Manhattan movie theater. For only eight dollars! Sniff. Come come, glorified pre-century rave mentality. Back when ripping off the cinematic structure of Quentin Tarantino wasn't yet a crime punishable by death-by-Hollywood-banishment. Back when being known as "that guy from Party of Five" or "that chick from Dawson's Creek" wasn't exactly the industry poison that such an epithet might be interpreted as today. Sure, Fichtner's sex appeal might have been a bit more of a niche market than it was to become at its height (if, indeed, the height has been reached), but I suspect he knew that would change very soon, and for the better. In a way, I think we all knew. The opening credits roll over shots of E-induced euphoria (not the entertainment network, you chastened post-2K downers; besides, that "E" would have had an exclamation point after it…duh) at some serious kind of rave thing going on. Cut from this shaking of fresh teen booty (you can rewind it all you want…I know I did. Mere description just won't transport you quite the way watching it will) to inside of what looks like a diner, where a ragged-looking, ratty-haired Katie Holmes talks at a healthy clip to another person we'll ambiguously nickname -- for the sake of not giving anything away -- "The Back Of Timothy Olyphant's Head." She half-smiles, "You know what I like best about Christmas? The surprises. I mean, it's like you get this box, and you're sure you know what's inside of it. Y'know, you shake it, you weigh it, you're totally convinced you have it pegged. No doubt in your mind. But then you open it up and it's totally different." Is that what it's like, Katie? Is that just exactly what it's like? Sing us another verse from Bing Crosby's instant holiday classic "Have Yourself a Metaphor Little Christmas," won't you? Instead, Katie thanks the screenwriting gods that the mutant mole people didn't take even a meager ration of plot exposition underground with them and their Spam and their Hormel Meat-Like Product, seeing as they have no need for future exposition (because of the end of the world and all), and also because it spoils as quickly as this rapidly ripening dialogue, so what good could it be to them way down there? And she expositions thusly: "I mean, it's kind of like you and me here, you know? I'm not saying it's anything it's not, it's…c'mon, this time yesterday, who woulda thunk it?"

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Roswell

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