Thoughts on Iron Man 3 (spoilers)

I could not have been happier with Iron Man 3. Heck, even the end credits felt like a sweet, precious bonus. Like I'd stumbled upon a really choice fan video. Anyone who actively disliked this movie, I say thee nay! Get thee hence, forthwith. This was the consummate comicbook film. It's not often that you feel a solid tone throughout a trilogy. They nailed it.

When our Tony realized the harm that his weapons were causing, he put an end to it and let nothing stand in his way. He made it personal. He became a protector. Perhaps this is just me, but that is the theme that I saw carried through to this third installment. That epic "Everybody lives" sequence clinched it for me. The destruction wasn't wanton and faceless. The enemies were given motivation and backstory you could make sense of. These are the types of approaches that keep me picking up a comic every month, and it is absolutely what I want in a Hollywood adaptation. A personal, character driven heroism. Action that doesn't get cluttered or gratuitous, turning into so much white noise. No, but like for serious, in a different action film Heather the flight attendant wouldn't have survived. She wouldn't have had a name. She would have been on screen for a second, sucked out of the plane, never heard from again. This is what I'm saying.

Interestingly, one could compare Tony's new anxiety struggles with what Barbara Gordon has been dealing with lately. (The Bat books are kind of epic right now, especially on a human level.) The callback cameo in Switzerland made my heart sing, and the death of Dummy lit within me the fires of VENGEANCE. To say nothing of the pang when Jarvis had to shut down. And Tony's ability to make do with the materials at hand shone through MORE than once in this one. Which is important, because that's how he became Iron Man in the first place. The kids in this were adorable and he was actually super sweet with them. And maybe you people find kids annoying, but deal with it. Super cute.

Ok, I thought of the one thing that could improve this: MORE SCIENCE BROS. Anyhoo, I was extremely concerned that they would use The Mandarin in a movie like this, today. I actually LIKE not guessing plot points. I prefer to just experience the thing. Aww, I'm not even sure if they telegraphed this one. I'm just completely PLEASED with it! Ha ha! And he was watching my boys. I died. YNWA!

Oh my God, what was up with the bunny? What was that?! I don't even. Tony. TONY. Why she puts up with you, man. D'aw. There were some fierce ladies in this one. I enjoyed that. Poor science lady. I loved her piece about that rocket dude whose name escapes me. It was actually perfect for her.

Wow. This has been a ramble. But I needed to get this out.
SCIENCE BROS!!!

How I Conquered Your World: Episode 2

Sadly, a drop in quality from VEDA since this was filmed with the old camera. But none the less hilarious and insightful!
Professor Enigma vs. Questionable content

V.E.D.A. time!

Somewhere in a secret lair in Canada, Professor Enigma is attempting the Vlog Every Day in April challenge! Which is good, because she discovered some big problems with the new camera that needed solving... WOO!
VEDA 4/3/13
VEDA 4/4/13

How I Conquered Your World: Episode 1

Tired of moping around in her secret Canadian lair, Professor Enigma begins a new project reviewing webcomics. She starts her crusade of culture with College Roomies From Hell by Maritza Campos.

http://blip.tv/hicyw/hicyw-ep-1-professor-enigma-vs-crfh-6548996 

Nonsense Novel, Part the Second

            A wastrel. I mean, wasteland. Hem! Forethought had not deigned to visit upon this moonraked plain. Fallen crumbs of civilization’s midnight rarebit punctuated a once clean slate. It was an abysmal landscape of broken dreams and discarded aspirations, the emerald city viewed sans its magically tinted Raybans. Knuckles Umbergrint knew the sight all too well. He sighed a rumbly sigh. Connors and all his amorphous ilk would be found in such a place. Totally.

            Whether to press onward, to seek the wretched-yet-seekable, this he turned over in his thoughts. He breathed deep the strangely musty open air, tinged with… something. Change on the wind. A twinkly sort of glint came to his eye. Whistling a stark opposition to his surroundings, he continued forth. The soundtrack swelled as it will when a righteous warrior sets his mind. Into the red sun, on to glory or doom. Aw yeah.

            Exterior, a public house. Our hero, if so he can be named(indeed it may be too soon to call), approached the establishment of frivolity and broken days with all the subtlety of a freight train. In burst he, our own Gandalf Springsteen, the bearer of perplexing tidings. “It’s monstrous! I need- someone must-” The depth of the problem was nigh unpronounceable. “Something must be done, stopped! I can pay the man brave enough-!”Gandalf attempted to catch his breath as a patron deigned to provide an answer.

“You’ll be wanting ol’ Cloakroom McGraw.”

"Cloakroom?"

"Tha's his legal naem," Clarence Staven McGullicuddy snickered. "Right on his berth certificate."

"But he'll know? He'll help?"

"I shouldn't see why not."

“Where do I find this man?”

“Hang on, boyo.” Clarence downed the last of some foul brew. “Ah! Where were I? …If yer value yer gizzard stuffing, you’ll need an introduction.”

Gandalf popped his metaphoric monocle. “Friendly, is he?”

“Long story, but magic.”

Gandalf blinked. “What?”

Clarence paid him no neverhow. “Come to the turnstile when the time’s stuck, and I’ll bring you to Cloakroom. Cross examination aside, yer on yer own.” There was the unmitigated sense that the conversation had terminated. Perplexed, Mr. Springsteen took once again to the molassed street corners, the question of temporal halt-grinding on his mind. 

Today, crowds were Mr. Bruce’s friend. Among the surging souls, one small smirking figure safeguarding a suitcase was insignificant.  He tired of these alliterations. Just as he reached for his watch, the person he awaited conveniently appeared. One Horace Grumbly. This tall disgruntled shell of a man made his murky way to his uncherished appointment.

“Mr. Bruce.”

“Mr. Grumbly. Right on time.”

“Did you expect otherwise?” A grumbly harrumph.

“Not at all; thought the perishable. Shall we get on?”

            Horace rummaged inside his jacket. Mr. Bruce wandered in the heart of his mind’s eye, imagining a litany of secrets that might be hidden within that pocket. Myths, fanciful creatures, the true purpose of aglets.

At long anticipatory last, a secrety packet was produced. “Here, then,” quoth Grumbly. “Though I don’t know what good it can do you. Meaningless trivia to add to the heap. Doubtful anyone keeps track anymore.”

"Oh, I keep track, Mr. Grumbly, I keep very good track."

"That's very well for you. What about our interests?"

"Which interests are you referring to, Mr. Grumbly?"

"Don't you trifle with me, Mr. Bruce. Nor parfait, nor turnover! This isn't finished between us!"

            Mr. Grumbly swanned off, leaving crumbs in his wake. He would marshal his next attack, and return when the time was right. Blast that Mr. Bruce. Blast his infernal calculations and machinations and… gentrifications! Maybe? BAH! To the devil with him.

Mr. Bruce secured his prize away and did at last check his timepiece. No ticking. No motion of cogs. Resignation shuddered through the wayward envoy. Inconvenient, but no matter. He was, Mr. Bruce, as yet 3 steps ahead. It was his nature and vocation.

            But omniscience yet eluded him. Had he but turned at that moment, a curious sight awaited his pondering eyes. Mister Springsteen stumbled unsteadily onto the scene. Turnstile. That much he comprehendified. And if the great churning innards of that pale blank face high above them had not ceased their motion, he were an avuncular primate.

            “Yeh found the place!” Clarence Staven McGillicuddy crowed in his ear. “And why’s the clock stopped? a body might wonder. A trade secret to be sure, boyo. Shall I tell yeh?”

  To Be Continued...

Hockey Man

I finally uploaded this animation I did for the 11 Second Club. It took me longer than I'd have preferred, but it's done. That's the main thing. Working on something new as we speak. Fingers crossed, gang.

A glimpse into my Nonsense Novel

If you haven't had a chance, indulge in "Wizard People, Dear Readers". A clever gentleman created an alternate soundtrack to the first Harry Potter film. He inspired this project, God help us all. I'd like to share it with you guys as it comes together. So! Part One:

            Prague. Dusk. Amidst the musically curling fog, a symphony of moisture, a lone figure emerged. He was a snow bank of a man; immovable, merciless, frigid, and somewhat dingy. His purpose this night was truly wicked awesome and top secret. Forward he trudged, as only a paragon of curmudgeoned tenacity could do.

            The town's worn masonry embraced his arrival in a perfunctory, greeting yet another obscure relation sort of way. The fog warrior did not care. Errant thoughts of past weather patterns, crushed energy drinks, rampant Easter bunnies and the like were waved away like once-buoyant paper aero planes. There was work to be done.

            How had he come to be here? On foot, obviously. But what chain of events, what inevitable flashback through the corridors and occasionally dead-ended alleyways of time, had called forth this mercenary to his own ego? I was hoping you’d ask. Muhahahaha.

            It began with a word. And a man who was not meant to read it. A man called, to his misfortune, Gandalf Springsteen. Or sometimes even more unfortunate epithets. Today no one seemed to notice him. If they had, there was something to see. The man started. He read it again. It was a misprint. It was impossible. If’t t’were true, … everything changed. Not a misprint. A key. A big, heavy, shiny in some places and all tarnished into strange colors in others-type key.

            This visual cacophony was too much for him. Indeed, it would have shattered the psyche of a lesser man than he. Like so many poorly eavesdropped half-truths, this wizened Tobey Maguire's eyes were a crossword puzzle of emotion. It would take Merriam Webster herself to decipher them. But a single thought grasped him. A lifeline. A time comes when one knows what is needed, and that they are the one for the job. It was now, and Gandalf could not doubt that. With that solitary hope, he pulled his heaving mind ashore.

            An individual of impeccable skullduggery was vaguely aware of a narrative coalescing. He didn’t care for it. As pretentious as a masterclass in the flossing habits of Méliès, as torturous as an all male production of Annie. Shaking the cobwebs of necessity from his gnarled, snarky frame, he arose. Pretense forgone, the singular goal of flakey goodness his only compass.

            His oracle peered into the lackluster depths of steamed milk. “You have one option. Er, two.” The rogue tore into his croissant with alacrity. “One, caramel sauce. The other, swift retaliation.”  A jingly noise denoted the advent of more mundane patrons. The oracle glowered.   

             “You speak of revenge?”

            “No, fool. Had I meant revenge, I’d have said ‘revenge’. I speak of action. Not served cold, but struck when the iron is hot. One moment, sirrah.”

            But here, good gentles, we change our scene. And you may well regret it.