WARNING: The posts below are purely fictional. They never happened, and were not posted by real people. Any similarities to anyone, including myself,WARNING: The posts below are purely fictional. They never happened, and were not posted by real people. Any similarities to anyone, including myself, are purely your imagination. Even the posts posted by real people were not posted by real people.
Any similarities between this thread and reality are entirely coincidental. But, that scary picture of the blond guy crying? Oh, that's real. That's so sad, and so real. ...more
I have a confession to make, goodreads. You might want to sit down.
I've been seeing other literary social cataloguing websites.
No, wait, put that plat
I have a confession to make, goodreads. You might want to sit down.
I've been seeing other literary social cataloguing websites.
No, wait, put that plate down. It wasn't because I really wanted to see anyone else. . . it was for my grade. *dodges plate* Wait, wait, let me explain! The thing is, I'm doing a big project on book reviews.
I'm analyzing the rhetorical differences between online book reviews and those published in print.
From meta-reviews to highly negative reviews, to reviews that are discussing the process of reading the book instead of the actual book itself, I'm searching for every kind of trend that's developing. Including the brilliant one-sentence reviews.
How many have I been seeing? Uh, like four. Probably six by the end of the week. *dodges a lamp* But I'm not reviewing with them, goodreads! I'm just there for the . . . well, you know . . . if I want my project to say anything, I need to know the lay of the land, don't I?
But, more than just literary social cataloguing websites, I'm also looking at other parts of the internet: online-only reviewers, amazon.com book reviews, and on and on. The project itself will be specifically about reviews on goodreads, but I'm going to do some comparisons to see why our reviews are better than theirs. Because they are, and I love you the best.
I'm saying all this because it would just be the cat's pajamas if anyone knows a website I should check out, article I should read, or even a specific review that you think of as a "must read."
And I raise the question: is it even a book review if the book is never mentioned, nor any issue about the book's subject matter raised?
Catherine: Oh, Henry, I do so love you, and I hope you don't tire of me. I'm going to do my best to be a good wife for you. I am doing well, aren't I?
Henry: You couldn't be doing better, my love. I can't imagine what I'd do without you.
Joy: Pardon me while I puke under the table.
Michael: Try not to get any on my shoes.
Waiter: Could I interest you in any appetizers?
Michael: Sure. What kind of animals are in your sausage?
Waiter: Ummm . . . I'm not sure, but I can check.
Joy: No, don't worry about it; we'll have the queso dip.
Catherine: Order for me, Henry, I want whatever we choose to please you.
Henry: Okay. We'll have two more bourbons and the chicken fingers.
Joy: *looking at Catherine, makes whipping noise, and does the accompanying arm gesture.*
Catherine: What does that mean? That thing you just did?
Joy: Thing I just did? Whatever do you mean?
Catherine: You went. . . *makes whipping noise, does the accompanying arm gesture*
Joy: I most certainly did not, and I don't know what something like that would mean.
Catherine: Well, I'm confident I saw you do it.
Joy: I had a thing on my arm. I was shaking it off. Maybe I sneezed at the same time, I can't remember.
Henry: It was good of you to invite us on this double date. I've just returned from the war, and I'm glad to be out with friends again.
Michael: Don't mention it, Henry, it's my pleasure. I always like having dinner with fictional characters. How is the war going?
Henry: Not so well. It's over, actually, and Italy lost. The two of us are living in Switzerland now, getting ready for the baby.
Michael: How long will it be?
Joy: That's what she said.
Michael: *punches Joy in the arm*
Joy: *Slaps the side of Michael's head*
Henry: Another two weeks. We can't wait.
Catherine: We're simply dying for the baby to be born.
Joy: *Whispering* Well, that was tasteless.
Catherine: What did you say?
Joy: Oh, nothing.
Catherine: *glaring at Joy* I get the feeling you truly don't like me, Joy. What on earth did I do to you?
Joy: You're just so fucking submissive, Catherine! How do you ever expect to be happy if Henry never gets to know the real you?
Catherine: What do you mean, the real me? He knows I was a nurse during the war, and that I love him . . . what else is there to know?
Michael: But don't you have any hobbies? I mean, do you like French movies? Do you like gardening?
Henry: Wait a minute. Why would you require a greater depth of character from my wife than you get from me? I'm not an especially complex person, either.
Michael: Well, not especially, but we know you have a fetish for sports, and you dig fishing and stuff. So, that lends a greater realism to your personality than Catherine has.
Catherine: *blushing* This is hardly polite conversation.
Joy: Sorry, Catherine, but you asked.
*The waiter delivers appetizers. They begin eating.*
Michael: This is good queso. Good choice, babe.
Joy: As usual.
Michael: So, you two read any good books lately?
Henry: *ignores Michael's question* I object to the way you're talking about my wife. She might not be the most complex person, but she's still admirable: like my own sacrifice--fighting in the war--Catherine is going to make a great sacrifice when. . . well, you know.
Henry: Nothing, dear.
Joy: AAAH, so YOU make a sacrifice by voluntarily going off to war. She makes a sacrifice by getting knocked up and dying during childbirth. You defend the country and come home safely, while she dies trying to poop out a baby.
Catherine: What? I die during childbirth?
Henry: I thought we weren't going to talk about that.
Michael: Well, it IS kinda the elephant at the dinner table.
Henry: We both show equal courage in the face of hopeless adversity, and neither one of us have a false sense of optimism!
Harold Bloom, from the next table over: I'm sorry, but NOBODY would say that. That's just bad dialogue.
Michael: Fuck off, Harold. Go find some Dickens to stroke off to.
Harold: Well, I never. . .
Joy: Yeah. Go pick your wick. And, in response to your unrealistic dialogue, Henry, here's what I think: she might be brave, but she only does three things, really: take care of wounded men, love a man, and have a baby. You and half the lit crits in the world can try to convince yourself that she's a 'feminist' character in some context, but it's like when Intelligent Design people try to re-explain scientific findings so they'll agree with a predetermined worldview.
Michael: THAT'S realistic dialogue.
Henry: Oh, god, do we have to talk about politics?
Catherine: Why not? We've already talked about how I'm going to f______ die!
Michael: It's the year 2010 now. You don't need to censor your swearing anymore.
Henry: Good. You two are cocksuckers.
Michael: Do you wanna walk out of here or get carried out, soldier boy?
Henry: Try me. Just try me.
Distressed customer #1, from across the restuarant : Help! Help! Is there a cynic in the house?
*All four characters raise their hands.*
Michael: I've been waiting my whole life for that to happen.
*Henry rushes toward the distressed patrons, but Joy trips him and pushes him down. The other three rush over to find a customer hyperventilating on the floor.*
Dying Customer's Fiance: He just proposed to me, and when I said yes, he started hyperventillating! I think he's on the verge of dying from sheer happiness!
Michael: What is this world coming to?
Catherine: Don't be so happy. You'll inevitably give away your youth, vigor and passion as a sacrifice for the generation coming after you. And YOU *pointing at the fiance* just be careful about using birth control.
Joy: *crouches over the dying man* And, anyway, women are genetically designed to seek out other potential mates once they've found a man to take care of their children, so she'll probably cheat on you with every bad boy she meets.
Michael: Not to mention, even if things somehow work out, what do you have left? Fifty, sixty years? And that's counting all those shitty years, where one of you will be living in a nursing home and dragging around a colostomy bag, wondering why the hell your grandkids aren't visiting. And that's the LUCKY one of you who doesn't die first. Honestly, buddy, you're probably gonna die in your mid-seventies, then SHE'LL head off to the nursing home, and maybe meet some hot old guy who she had an affair with twenty years ago, get remarried, and that old fucker will inherit all your money.
In the city of _______, the end of the world is quickly approaching, instigated when a/an _______ gets stolen. Genero, the undistinguished protagonistIn the city of _______, the end of the world is quickly approaching, instigated when a/an _______ gets stolen. Genero, the undistinguished protagonist, all of a sudden discovers a new world when he's ________ by a ________ and then rescued by a ________. It then turns out he is a hero sort, a necessary element of the battle between a ______ and a/an ___________.
Jeff Vandermeer: Alright, Mieville, the name of a city.
China Mieville: This will be a London sometin'.
JV: Alright *writes it in* Now, we need a noun.
CM: Ah. . . squid?
JV: Sure. Why not. *Writes it in* Verb?
JV: Past tense?
JV: *taps forehead with pen* You know, Mieville, I kind of like the idea of basing our next books off of Mad Libs, but I can't help but feeling like this particular storyline is just unavoidably plain. I mean, you could use this framework to generate The Dark Is Rising, or Un Lun Dun, or-
CM: I AM CHINA MIEVILLE. I WILL MAKE IT WORK.
CM: Uh. . . gangster.
JV: *Writes it in* The Lord of The Rings, even. I mean, this looks kind of Tolkeinish in its framework-
CM: I'M CHINA MIEVILLE, BITCH.
(1 year later. . . )
JV: Hey, China, congratulations on Kraken!
CM: Did you like it, Jeffy?
JV: It was quite funny! Collingsworth was a terrific secondary character. And when you brought in that guy who figured out how to teleport, man, that was vintage. And so was the Tattoo.
CM: Cheers, Jeff!
JV: The idea of competing armageddons is a fun one. And you have the detectives over here, the friend over there, the protagonist here, and they all meet up at the end . . . it's a terrific way--
CM: Yeah, thanks--
JV: Of getting around a fair-to-middling plot.
CM: . . . . .
JV: And a dull, flat main character.
(Mieville turns, looking out of the review at the reviewer.)
CM: Where do you get off judging my book and giving it a star rating? Not to mention impersonating me, and claiming I said inane things.
Michael: *Leaps back from his computer, startled* Uhh. . .hi. I'm a big fan.
CM: Fuck you, a big fan! "Big fans" appreciate the elements that work in a book, they don't spend time nitpicking because it didn't reinvent the genre. You're docking me two bloody stars because it's a hero's journey?
M: . . . First off, I don't give five stars to anything that didn't stun me with its brilliance. So, that's kind of like an "extra credit" number of stars. So, really, I'm docking you ONE for the hero's journey thing.
CM: But you gave five stars to "The Monster at the End of This Book."
M: So I did. Did you read Keely's review of Kraken? Did you pick on him?
CM: He didn't call himself a big fan.
Jeff Vandermeer: Do you still need me? Can I go home now?
M & CM: Shut up, Jeff!
M: It's just that I expect a lot from you. . . That's all. The Bas Lag books were technically speculative fiction, but they surpassed that, and I think qualified as literary fiction. Kraken is pulp fantasy, isn't it?
CM: You say "pulp" like it's a bad word. I wanted to have some fun with the genre of fantasy, and write a humorous book, and I did both.
M: Good job! Doing that gets you three stars from me.
CM: WTF! Not that I care about how many stars you give me on your social networking site. What have you written?
M: . . . .
M: You don't have to shit on my self esteem just because I gave you three stars. We can still be friends.
CM: Feast on my dung. I'M CHINA MIEVILLE, BITCH. I REST MY CASE. *Returns to his blog.*
JV: *Shrugs* I don't know what to tell you.
M: Somebody's having a bad hair day. I mean, you can't fill your book with stock characters who never develop, follow a traditional pulp storyline, and expect to write something that moves your readers deeply. He HAD some good ideas in the book that made it a very entertaining read. But I can't give him extra credit for being China Mieville, right? You see what I mean?
JV: Last time you wrote a review with me in it, you had me murdered. Don't expect sympathy here.
M: Yeah? Well, my reviews are sometimes violent. It wasn't personal.
JV: *Shakes his head and goes back to Ambergris*
M: I guess there's a downside to being a meanspirited cynic who disses books all the time. I mean, really, books are my closest friends. Because real people are such assholes.
Harold Bloom: Maybe you're just using book reviews as a way to avoid working on your real writing project. Perhaps you're afraid this novel will turn out to be less edgy than you hope for, and that fear is making you find ways to avoid working on it. Perhaps your rough treatment of China Mieville is really the result of your own insecurities.
M: Goddamn you, Bloom. If this is going to become a review of ME, I'm fucking leaving. ...more
(Since Goodreads doesn't have much info on this, I'm gonna have to be non-meta for a moment and mention this is a biography of the poet Arthur Rimbaud(Since Goodreads doesn't have much info on this, I'm gonna have to be non-meta for a moment and mention this is a biography of the poet Arthur Rimbaud.)
*Is it you?
***Umm, you'll have to be more specific.
***(Laughter) Ah...no. Sorry. Seances can't communicate with the spirits of living actresses. Actually, this is YOU. Twelve years from now. Hi.
*That's bizarre. How do you know who I am?
***Because, twelve years ago when I was 17, I held a seance with some friends and tried to communicate with Christina Ricci. It didn't work.
*Ah. That makes total sense. Let's not analyze that any further. So, 29-year-old Michael, what can you tell me about my future?
***Without fucking anything up? Probably nothing. But we'll test our luck. First off, unless you start doing even more stupid shit than you're doing right now, you're gonna make it to 29.
*That's a bit of a surprise. Will I be a famous published writer?
***Nope. You'll be writing in your free time while you work at a bank.
*Oh, god. A bank?
***Yep. Out in Arizona.
*A bank in the desert?
*Will I be part of a commune in Arizona? Like, growing my own food, brewing my own beer, writing nature poetry?
***Uhh . . . No. You will eat organically, though.
*That sounds totally lame. I sound like. . . well, I sound like The Man. The Establishment.
***Well, you won't be nearly as infatuated with Jim Morrison or Arthur Rimbaud. Self-destruction won't seem like a valid way of NOT BECOMING The Man. You'll end up thinking Jack Kerouac is a bit of a hack.
***Oh, yes, young Michael. Yes. Think about it: are you more interested in Rimbaud's life, or in his poetry?
* . . . .
***That's what I thought.
*That doesn't mean his poetry isn't brilliant!
***You haven't even READ most of it. But you've read complete biographies of his life, and written reports on him.
***Think about it this way: Rimbaud ends up throwing in the towel and getting a job, doesn't he?
*Well, yeah, he sells out!
***What does that even mean? Are you a sell-out?
***You work at Kay-Bee Toys, stocking shelves. You live at your parents' house, and you write a lot of poetry. Granted, you have big dreams of ridin' the rails, and taking peyote, and becoming some kind of mystic . . . instead, you'll go to college, get some poetry published, switch to fantasy fiction, fall in love, get married, and . . . be happy.
*I'll be happy?
***Yes. Eventually, you'll discover they have drugs that make you feel better.
*Hmmm. Zoloft isn't very badass.
***Speaking of "not very badass," you're also going to quit smoking.
*Fuck, man, you're gonna make me cry! I mean, the "happy" part sounds good--
***Suddenly, when you hit twenty-one and realize your age doesn't stop going up, and it really sinks in that you are going to get older, you'll realize you don't want to be Jim Morrison or Rimbaud. You don't want to be strung out at thirty, not to mention that isn't really a valid way to fight the system.
*Then, how can you fight the system?
***Political activism. Knowledge. Being a contrarian, and never believing something just because it's what you've been told. Or trying not to, at any rate.
*That sounds too much like dad.
***Maybe he knows more than you think he does.
*Just SHUT UP! Holy shit!
***Don't worry: you'll never be conservative. Just remember that it's easy to feel like a rebel when you drink yourself stupid and idealize self-destruction. But it's cowardly, when you get down to it. What did Jack Kerouac accomplish? He wrote one book that people remember the name of.
*It was the IDEA of Jack Kerouac that really mattered, though.
***Thanks for proving my point.
***Image is nothing. Thirst is everything. Remember that.
*Is that supposed to be a joke?
***Take my advice and skip the next few years of your development by realizing that you don't get closer to reality by taking chemicals that alter your brain chemistry.
*I'm sorry, but I'm done listening to you. I can tell you aren't really me. You're some malicious spirit, prank-seancing me.
***Ah, so that's why this doesn't cause a butterfly effect . . .
***Oh, nothing. Anyway, good talking to you, younger me.
This Dave Barry book, titled (PUT SPECIFIC TITLE HERE) was quite funny. I very much enjoyed the booger joke on page 37. Numerous parts, including theThis Dave Barry book, titled (PUT SPECIFIC TITLE HERE) was quite funny. I very much enjoyed the booger joke on page 37. Numerous parts, including the (TRY VERY HARD TO REMEMBER ONE SPECIFIC PART) part, were especially funny! I laughed aloud! Haha!
At the end of the book I was left with the sense that, although I'd just been entertained for an hour and a half, that I'd basically been doing the literary equivalent of shoving peeps up my nose. Peeps the candy, not the slang word for acquaintances.
Dave Barry is almost as funny here as he was in Dave Barry Turns 40, which means quite a riot! Haha!
You're right, I haven't read this one since I was about 15. How did you know? ...more
*Updated, now with an additional McCarthyized section of the Bible, moved up from the comment section.*
Here's what I'm thinkin.
THE CORMAC MCCARTHY PRO*Updated, now with an additional McCarthyized section of the Bible, moved up from the comment section.*
Here's what I'm thinkin.
THE CORMAC MCCARTHY PROJECT
Ever since reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I've been considering the possibilities of revisiting the classics and, um, reinterpreting them. Butchering? Yes, you're probably right. Butchering them. That's the right word.
Anyway, since Cormac McCarthy has the most distinctive and powerful voice of any modern writer (that I've read recently)(in my opinion), I pose the question: what if Cormac McCarthy were to revisit the classics of the English canon? What if McCarthy had been the author of The Great Gatsby? How would it have ended up? I think this is an important enough question to begin a new writing project, or, at the least, write a Goodreads review pretending I'm going to.
First, we have to establish these new versions of the classics will be stylized after McCarthy's Western Novels, starting with Blood Meridian and ending with Cities of the Plain. Characteristics include:
1) No punctuation other than periods and question marks. 2) No indication of who is talking during dialogue, although you can always tell. 3) Poetic descriptions of barren landscapes which often reflect the callous indifference of nature to the plights of humanity. 4) Untranslated Spanish dialogue. 5) No hint of the characters' internal dialogue; all characters are revealed only through action and conversation. 6) Gratuitous and unexpected acts of horrendous violence. 7) During casual conversation, characters frequently say incredibly profound shit.
Although there's more to his style than this, we can take this as the most bare-essential aspects of what is necessary to properly "translate" a novel into its McCarthy version.
As an example, let's take a certain scene from Pride and Prejudice. How about the one where Lady Catherine is quizzing Elisabeth about whether D'arcy has indeed proposed to her? They're alone, walking in the garden (although in the McCarthy version, they would be walking upon a windswept moor). Here we go:
Dust clung to their boots and the tall grass shuddered on the frigid wind. A raven perched upon the fallen branch of an elm and watched them with one jet eye. Lady Catherines hands grasped nervously at nothing as she looked across the moor.
Young women of unfortunate birth shouldnt attempt to reach beyond their station.
Don't pretend you don't know of what I speak.
Eliza spat and turned away. She walked into the doorway of a church. Inside dozens of bodies lay heaped upon the floor. Blood hard and dried like clay caked upon the stone of the floor. Flies traversed upon the eyelids of a child that stared blankly at Eliza who turned away.
Los Muchachos estan muerto.
Eliza brushed her hair back. All of the constrictions you place upon mans actions are nothing to the ineffable stretch of the world which knows that all is war. No system of morality is anything but pretense which the least of gods vile beasts can shatter simply through the act of killing for its survival. Morality holds no water when it stands eye to eye with stark reality.
Lady Catherine spat and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Its damn cold.
Wait which of us said that?
I wont promise I would never accept a proposal if I dont think its ever to be given. Nor can I swear as to what I would do in a situation that Ive never known myself to be in.
Well arent you a contrary little whore. Lady Catherine spat. Ill not forget how youve treated me this day. Her finger moved closer to the knife that hung at her hip.
And here's one of the Bible's more memorable passages, McCarthyized:
19:1 From out the dark sky over all Gods reckoning the two drifted like fallenleaves downward as Lot tipped back the widebrimmed hat, rubbing his thumb over stubble and spat on the grounddirt. Raising heavy to his feet and stretching he ambled forward dust raising an etherial plume in the nightair like ghosts of sinners dwelling on the threshold of the dark. the untamed past hovered there in the darkness by Sodom.
19:2 Come in ifn you want.
We don't mind sleepin outside.
No really I got plenty room. Cmon in.
The angels came in bare feet on the packed dirt covered with indescribable years of footprints crisscrossed into an impossible to fathom reckoning of feet stretching back through indescribable years. So many feet and such a dirty floor.
19:3 He cooked bread. They warshed up and ate.
19:4 Out the window shadows encroached from the jet locustridden expanse of Sodom. Figures in stillness, nooses dangling from withered hands and that dust rising like the dead pounding from the other side of eternity trying to return trying to be unforsaken from the temporal purgatory the men dwelt in. Who them men we saw with them white robes.
19:5 Gone home, Jenkins, he said.
Not til we know who them fugitives is you harborin. They aint niggers is they.
Didn't you see they white robes. They aint no niggers.
Lot walked out the house into that humidity the wind like the word of God drifting with threats of retribution and reckoning. Tell you what, men, you better get back on home and mind ya damn business. This aint no affair of yourn.
The Willis boy had a strapon fixed to his forehead pointing up accusingly at the heavens an erection of defiance. He wore that collar that said Slave as always. He was danglin handcuffs from his hand like like a hypnotist without a pocketwatch. We just wanna see um. We just wanna meet um. Maybe have a little fun with um.
19:7 Lot spat a wad of nasal discharge loudly upon the earth and glanced back at the house. Tell you what boys. I invited them men into my house and I wont have them mistreated but I got them two good fer nothin daughters. You leave my visitors alone Ill bring them on out.
19:8 Willis nodded, that plastic tusk swaying in the nightair. What fer.
Whatever yall find fittin. It aint fer me to say. Just leave my visitors alone.
Okay, apparently it's not easy to write in Cormac McCarthy's style without sucking. I suppose the only way THE CORMAC MCCARTHY PROJECT can be effectively carried out is if McCarthy himself were to actually write these translations. So, if anyone runs into Cormac, let him know about this project, and how important it is for him to get to work right away. After all, there are lots of classics. I believe he lives in New Mexico. So, if you're wandering through a dark, dank cave and hear the sounds of typewriter keys pounding away, you've probably found his lair. Approach slowly, and don't make eye contact.
I suppose, while I'm at it, I could say something about Blood Meridian. FUCKING AMAZING! I hate giving five star ratings, probably because I'm so curmudgeonly. But, for the third time, McCarthy is making me give him one. I just can't find anything to fault here, and the story is different from any I've ever read before. The writing is amazing, the characters are good (although the Judge fits a certain fiction stereotype, he's a very memorable version of it), and I was startled by the horror of it all . . . until I became numb to it. Which was the intention, or I think it was at any rate.
This is the horrifying story of a group who are being paid to hunt down injuns and scalp them. Over time, the bloodlust of the group grows and they begin scalping those they're intended to be saving, and basically everyone they come across. When it comes time to be paid for the scalps, the scalps all look the same anyway. Sothey make tons of money from the indiscriminant slaughter of soldiers, villagers, travelers and everyone else. And, from there, things get uglier.
This is all based on historical events, or so I've heard. I haven't researched it enough to know how closely. But, this is a very dark vision of the "wild west," and the blood that was spilled while the land was still wild. If you have the stomach for it, this is an amazing book. ...more
*bum bum* IN A WORLD . . . *bum bum* . . . FULL OF NASTY MONSTERS . . . *bum bum* . . . WHO EAT PEOPLE AND BREAK INTO CASTLES . . . *bum bum* . . . TH*bum bum* IN A WORLD . . . *bum bum* . . . FULL OF NASTY MONSTERS . . . *bum bum* . . . WHO EAT PEOPLE AND BREAK INTO CASTLES . . . *bum bum* . . . THE BEASTLY GRENDEL LURKED LONG OVER THE MOORES . . . *bum bum* . . . BUT NOW . . . *Cut to scene of monster ripping someone's face off with his teeth*
(silence. black screen.)
*Unknown warriors approaching*
"Who are ye, then, ye armed men, mailed folk, that yon mighty vessel have urged thus over the ocean ways, here o'er the waters?"
*bum bum* . . . ONE MAN . . . *bum bum* . . . ONE LARGE MAN . . .*bum bum* . . . OF NOBLE BIRTH AND LONG, LONG SWORD . . . *bum bum* . . . IS THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN SAVE THEM.
"Hither have fared to thee far-come men o'er the paths of ocean, people of Geatland; and the stateliest there by his sturdy band is Beowulf named. This boon they seek, that they, my master, may with thee have speech at will: nor spurn their prayer to give them hearing, gracious Hrothgar! In weeds of the warrior worthy they, methinks, of our liking; their leader most surely, a hero that hither his henchmen has led."
"To Hrothgar I in greatness of soul would succor bring, so the Wise-and-Brave may worst his foes, -- if ever the end of ills is fated, of cruel contest, if cure shall follow, and the boiling care-waves cooler grow; else ever afterward anguish-days he shall suffer in sorrow while stands in place high on its hill that house unpeered!"
*Everyone looks around at each other, wondering what the fuck he's talking about*
*Exciting symphony, something along the lines of "O Fortuna." combat shown as Beowulf tosses Grendel down, gets Grendel in a headlock, pokes him in his eyes. Beowulf takes his shoe off and starts hitting Grendel on the top of his head with it.*
*Music stops. Shot of Beowulf on the shore, hand on his hilt.*
"Tis time that I fare from you. Father Almighty in grace and mercy guard you well, safe in your seekings. Seaward I go, 'gainst hostile warriors hold my watch."
BEOWULF. PG-13, Parents Strongly Cautioned. Contains Monsters Biting People's Faces Off, Graphic Far-Fetched Violence, and Shots of Beowulf's Bare Chest.
Beowulf is totally the precursor to Conan, and Rambo. He's mothafuckin' badass. And you know how, since the Rambo movies are so old, they come out in boxed sets now? Think of this slim volume as a trilogy:
BEOWULF BEOWULF II: MOMMY DEAREST BEOWULF III: BEOWULF VERSUS A BIG-ASS DRAGON
While often trilogies get worse as they go along, this one actually improves. And it's safe to say that a fourth sequel will never come out about Beowulf after he gets old and out of shape. . . although that might be what BEOWULF VERSUS A BIG-ASS DRAGON is.
If you like football, Stallone, Escape From New York, and can't get enough of Arnold Schwarzenegger, this is THE classic is for you. ...more