The Guest (or, Don't Ruin the Fucking Movie)

Here's a fun story.

I know some people who, during a movie, will complain about the lack of realism in a particular scene. "He wouldn't be able to walk with that leg wound" - "nobody could survive that fall". What nobody mentions, however, is that if there is someone enjoying a film for what it is, there is no iota within them that gives a hot shit about whether or not anyone believes it to be true, and I'll tell you why.

Unless you're aiming to portray a story realistically, or stay true to real-world source material (ie. military films which are based heavily on true events, or stuff like Before Midnight, or human dramas which rely more heavily on accurate emotional representation), it doesn't matter that the gun's magazine holds too many rounds or that the main character shouldn't have used whiskey to clean her arm gash.
If you go into many action, thriller, or horror films, expecting to be dazzled by how real they are, you've come to the horribly wrong place.

Film is a storytelling medium. Realism is largely unimportant, provided that the story is well-told. That's why fairy tales exist. Leprechauns aren't real, but that doesn't make it any less fun to chase the end of a rainbow.
If you moan about realism during the movie, and I'm there watching and enjoying it, you're shitting on my rainbow.

This wouldn't be so bad if it weren't such a tectonic shift in the viewer's thinking. I don't mind when individuals, who are clearly displeased about the choice of entertainment, express that displeasure consistently and with meaning. But usually, when someone points out that something is terribly fake, they haven't complained about anything up until that point, when there is likely very much that should've irked them. Suddenly, the moviegoer has noticed something that they've selectively isolated as a film-ruining mistake, and needs to make sure the world knows that they're no longer on board. Why? It's unlikely that a room, or theatre (for the worst offenders) full of people will share in that very specific element of the experience that made you so upset. You've essentially singled yourself out, and for reasons about which you only care.

However, it doesn't end here. Although the person in question believes that their complaint is valid, this is very seldom the case; more often, they choose to take issue with something that either is universally impossible, or of no consequence to anything else. Do you really think that there's a Rambo somewhere in the Kenyan badlands who can magically avoid thousands of bullets, being shot by hundreds of men, simply by running really fast and licking his biceps a lot? Would you prefer that he die in the first fifteen minutes of the movie, in order to conform with your idea of how it should've happened? What kind of movie is that, and why are you such a jerkoff?
If I'm watching a movie about ghosts, and there's a ghost, and you say, "Look at that awful CGI! that ghost is clearly not real", not only have you made yourself look idiotic (by assuming that anyone thought that was a real ghost), but you've somehow created the most unnecessary expectation within yourself. Was the director supposed to hold a seance, summon a spirit, and then negotiate with it for a film contract? In what world do you live, where that ghost could be real, and therefore evokes such great disappointment in you when it doesn't look real enough?
Usually it's an unspoken understanding that we're all here to watch a story being told, no matter how farfetched it is. It wouldn't be a good story otherwise, you dick fucking face. If I wanted to watch a documentary, I would've put that shit on.

Recently I watched a movie called The Guest, which is one of the best things I've ever seen in my life. Potentially, this utopia in which I exist, where this film is a masterpiece, could be ruptured by someone who expects it to be an accurate portrayal of real life. If you are this person, I feel terrible for you, because you've missed the boat completely. You know a filmmaker is good when he understands that it is his vision. He can make his own rules, and create a universe wherein anything can happen if he thinks hard enough.

You can't make your own personal rules for art, and be subsequently perturbed when others don't abide by them.

Don't shit on my rainbow.

Why aren't I updating?

Because you're in trouble and you're grounded
Gosh, parents are the worst

OKAY I don't have anything important to say yet so here's this

That's the original thumbnail I was going to use for the video I uploaded which corresponds to the date of this entry.

Alright so paintballs are painful. I was hit about five times, possibly more in that video so I consider myself an authority on the subject. Through vigorous and forced experimentation, and with little to no regard for adequate scientific procedure, I have concluded that paintballs are painful.

That almost rhymes, so you know it's true.

I'm just...letting it all hang out, aren't I. Now that I've put further consideration into this image...it's a fucking embarrassing position to be caught in. 

You know when internet folk pause vlogs on a random frame and screencap it if the person they're watching makes a terrible face mid-sentence? I think I've just discovered an equally humiliating practice for stunt videos. Perhaps I shall embark on a quest to find the most awkwardly-positioned screencaps of my poor self flailing in agony, awash in a sea of helpless pain.

That got really bleak for a second.

Ostensibly, I try to distance this blog from my YouTube while maintaining some slight relation in subject matter or cadence so unless there are interesting events occurring in my life outside of videography, I don't usually have much to discuss. But I'm trying god damn it.

Home Invasion

For my partner and I, the procedure is routine. We case a one-storey house for several days to ensure that there's only one homeowner and few-to-no visitors. Somewhere rural, where the houses are a few minutes' drive from each other. This time, it's a middle-aged man. He leaves his house alone, and returns alone, for hours each night. He carries large containers which appear to be very heavy from his door to an old, poorly-maintained truck, and back again. It's during one of these trips that we start our work.

I sneak up behind him while he's on his way to the vehicle, and knock him out with a crowbar. The large cooler he's carrying spills onto the ground; in the country darkness, I can't see its contents, but they sound wet. My partner breaks a window and we climb inside. We turn on some lights and begin loading our bags with anything of value. Lots of women's jewelry. We split up to cover more ground; I find the stairs to the basement, and upon descending them, discover a large, locked metal door. Jackpot. I call for my partner to help me open it, but he doesn't answer. Whatever, we're running out of time. The guy outside will wake up soon. I'll do it myself.

I jimmy the crowbar into the crack, near the doorknob. It's taking a while to pry. We're running out of time. I pull harder, with my foot on the door. We're running out of time. I'm straining against the lock. Suddenly, the door gives, bursting inward, unleashing light from inside, illuminating the stairwell, revealing its horrifying interior.

Human arms and legs, heads, midsections. Hanging from the ceiling, suspended by meat hooks. I'm immediately aware of the footsteps behind me.

It doesn't sound like my partner.