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Judge the movie by its trailer

I am totally beside myself after watching the trailer for Ghost Rider . Never mind the technical errors such as Blackheart being described as "the son of the devil himself" - when he's just Mephisto's son, or that a part of the trailer that is - if I'm not mistaken - grammatically incorrect, or at least could be written better. I still can't wait to see the 1337 leather jacket and 1337 chain, the 1337 bike, and the h0t Eva Mendes. The flaming skull-head could use a bit more work though. Nevertheless, I'm quite sure that I'm going to be one of those lining up to see it come February next year. On a different note, The Devil Wears Prada looks quite promising. Meryl Streep as a soft spoken (in the trailer, at least) but very b*tchy cutthroat EIC for a fashion magazine and Anne Hathaway as her un-fashionable assistant might be the low-of-lows plot wise, but it's the possibility of great, not to mention amusing, perfomances from the actors that I...
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No Rest for the Damned

I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me and wonder what’s next. I let myself get swallowed up by the monotony of office life: wake up, eat, travel, work, sleep; I try to revel in its off-white walls and the cacophony of voices that course through my head like nails scratching a blackboard. Funny, that word – blackboard – like my mood, black and bored, or better yet, like me – a black board. But the human tendency for self-preservation drives me to find things to fill the void; sometimes with fleeting trifles I try in vain to attach meanings to, or sometimes with things intangible and profound, like hope, or faith. But it seems that there is no rest for the dammed. Damned by the reminders of past mistakes, damned by the hollow tedium of today, and damned by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Or it could be that I’m really just bitter, as someone pointed out not so long ago. Not a bad conclusion, really, with me allowing myself to be consumed by memories of failure, or by the bana...
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From Slumdog to Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire has been getting a lot of hype lately, and I, for one, think it deserves it. Set in the slums of Mumbai, Slumdog Millionaire is, simply, a rags-to-riches story of a boy who went from the shit-diving fanboy (watch the movie and you'll understand) to the 20 million-Rupee winner of the local version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire - and gets the girl of his dreams in the process. And to make it truly Bollywood-grade (it's a British film, BTW), there's a dance scene at the end. While some may say that the story is something we've all seen before countless times over and over again (yes, the premise is THAT overused), that's entirely beside the point. No idea is new, they say, the key lies in the way something is presented, which makes Slumdog Millionaire stand out from all the rest. The cinematography for one, is great, and for a movie that reminded me so much of the slums of our own Payatas, of the congestion of this sprawling metropolis we call Me...
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