What Got Me in That Darjeeling Limited Seat

By: KillerDollie

What gets a moviegoer into a seat at the movies? What gets them into a certain one?

I didn’t see any previews for The Darjeeling Limited, but heard about it from a friend who saw it at a screening. All he said was it was a road movie and he liked it. Road movie, that’s enough to make me want to go see it. When I got a chance.

Friday night I get the urge to go to the movies, so I check the showtimes and see what’s playing in the next hour or so. There’s lots of good stuff out there and since I’m not going alone, I must get the opinions of others.

Using the internet we look at about thirty choices. Many we’ve already seen. It’s down to these titles:
Thirty Days of Night
Across the Universe
Things We Lost in the Fire
The Darjeeling Limited

Darjeeling wins out because that is what I really wanted to see all along. It’s a road movie set mostly on a train in India. Three brothers who haven’t spoken in the year (since their father’s death) go to India on a spiritial journey.

I won’t spoil anything for you here, but just want to say I came back completely satisfied. It’s got a lot of funny moments, in fact it was really funny for a while and then BAM, something totally unexpected happened and I swear, the audience who had been laughing at least once per minute were quiet for a full ten minutes after that incident. I love it when a movie does that, takes you by complete surprise and makes you choke on your popcorn.

To write this movie, Wes Anderson, Jason Schwartzman, and Roman Coppola did actually go on a journey through India with their laptops. Some of the script was written before they hit the tracks, but much of it was written as they travelled.

Swartzman also played one of the brothers alongside Owen Wilson and Adrien Brody. The performances were exceptional.

So, what got me in there was word of mouth, convenient showtime, the reputation of the actors and director, and the exotic setting of the movie.
Having a great plotline was probably the biggest pull, the thing that swayed me the most.

Hope you go see it.

Dentist Horror Script

It’s funny how you get the weirdest script ideas when you are at the weirdest places. Up till today, it has been only the super market and my car for me. I never expected a visit to the dentist would indulge me into the magnificent world of script outlining.

It was a simple, typical visit for a cavity that had to be filled. It turned out to a root canal which I did not welcome. To have the dentist’s fingers stuck in my mouth, mercilessly messing with my teeth and gums is not what I usually have in mind when I describe a good day. So, I was sitting on the dreaded chair, the light painfully hitting my face like I’m put under interrogation, the deafening sound of the dentist’s tools digging for gold inside my mouth. A sudden impulse to bite down hard…

And there it was. My idea for a new script. A brand, new idea, brilliant to its birth, unique as never before. It’s about a patient, who visits his doctor. The doctor (the mean and equally dangerous antagonist) takes pleasure of the protag’s pain. The more the pain, the bigger the grin on the dentist’s face. The protag has to fight with his inner self, he has to overcome the excruciating pain, he has to defend himself against those agonizing voices inside his head that scream “Bite. Bite. Bite” ruthlessly. The dentist derives instant pleasure; he drills and squeezes and digs and drags even harder as he observes drops of sweat coming down the patient’s forehead.

The main character is strong. And determined to not allow the dentist to manipulate him any longer. In a sudden move, he spits all tools out of his mouth. He catches the mean dentist off guard. Traps the dentist’s fingers between his teeth. Now it’s the patient’s turn to enjoy the pain he is capable to cause when he’s under attack. He watches the dentist taken aback. Slowly tightens the teeth-grip on the dentist’s fingers. The latter is uncomfortable. In pain. He tries to free his hand from his patient’s strong jaws. In vain. The more he tries, the more the teeth bite harder on the fingers.

The dentist suddenly pulls his fingers out. He smiles. An arrogant smile. He believes that he won the battle. Until he realizes –

The patient has the exact same smile on his face too. A bigger one. A brighter one. A victory smile.

The dentist gets alarmed. Looks down.

The patient opens his mouth. He leans on his own palm and pushes something out of his mouth.

The dentist stares at his own hand. Two fingers are missing.

Those two fingers which are laying on the patient’s palm.

“We are done for today”. I snap out of my dream. This is me still on the dreaded chair. And that was my dentist’s elegant voice. My first reaction is to take a look at her hands. I count. To ten. A sigh of relief as she still maintains all fingers on both hands.

I’m disappointed it was just another wild game of my vivid imagination. I’m happy that I managed to map out an entire horror script in just one hour. I’m overwhelmed that I do not write horror scripts.

Posted by HoneyBunny

Bat night

It’s a beautiful night. Everything is quiet. The entire house is quiet. After a long frenzy of three people buzzing continuously around the place to place their stuff in order, husband and mother are tucked in bed and I’m enjoying the last cig of the night in the dark living-room illuminated only by the flashing colors streaming out the tv screen. I love this time of the day (or night. Whatever) when I’m at our village house, when I can stretch my legs on the couch and listen to my own heartbeat and the owls from outside keeping me company.

Only this time I have this strange feeling. Something is not right. That weird hunch I am not alone. You know, like when you can sense a pair of eyes staring at you from a distance, creeping in the darkness though you cannot really see them. I look around. Nothing. I check our bedroom. Husband snoring, check. I go over to the other bedroom. Mother snoring, check. Everything seems absolutely fine. I make my way back to the living room mentally scolding myself for my hyper-energetic brains. It’s just my imagination. Everything is absolutely fine.

Still… the moment I lounge on the couch for a last, mesmerizing whiff there goes the same feeling again. It bothers me. It annoys me. And I know that it’s true. Only this time it’s different. This time I know where those pair of evil eyes watching me like a prey are coming from. All I have to do is raise my head just a little bit. Just so that I can stare on the ceiling, where it connects with the fireplace wall.

At first all I see is a black little ball stuck on the wall. But you have to give me some credit, it’s semi-dark in there and I am not known for my pilot perfect vision. I think it’s weird that a ball should stay stuck on a wall. I get on my feet. No. I get on my trembling feet. And I slowly move closer. Slowly as in a snail would beat me out fast. Because this doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look right at all. I’d swear that those drums I’m listening to, they are not coming from the tv, they are in fact my heart bumping furious and loud like a freaking live hard rock band concert.

One good look. One thorough look. And those evil eyes focus on mine. I can actually see them. Malevolent as bloody hell.

I scream so loud I am sure that the next day’s rumours around the village that a howling ghost had been heard the night before is directly linked to my highness. Hubby and mother bolt off their beds and spring to the living room. I did not give them much choice now, did I? They turn the lights on. They ask what happened. I cannot talk. I cannot even breathe properly, for pete’s sake. I only point. To the monster. To that malevolent monster hanging on our walls.

All I need is a word. By my mother, who I have to add at this point is usually calm and apathetic in situations like these. “It’s a bat”. That’s it. Frenzy. I’m telling you, freaking frenzy. I’m screaming, mother is looking for a broomstick, husband is climbing up chairs and couches to reach it. You guys can do anything you want, I’m out of here. I yank the front door open and spread the hell out.

Mother follows. She is not calm. She is not calm at all. And hubby is still in there. We listen to loud noises, things cracking, hubby cushing. Hubby asking me to go help him. Sorry, honey, I love you to pieces but the only way you can get me back in that house is only if you knock me dead first. A crashing sound and we know that the broomstick is history. I can already see tomorrow’s paper headlines: “Batman-Hubby 1-0: He Sacrificed His Life to Save Wife’s and Mother-in-law’s Ass”. Shit, it’s cold outside.

With the corner of my eyes I see the bat flying in circles. Enraged. Mad. Probably scared like hell. Apparently more frightened than we are. Hah! And hubby chasing it, waving a towel in the air. I’m thinking, what in the hell is he doing? Fanning the beast so that it doesn’t sweat while it’s taken hostage of our house? Shit, Nip Tuck is almost over and I didn’t see the end of it. Damn monster!

Hubby steps outside. Exasperated. Short of breath. He gives me the evil eye. I whisper innocently. Look, honey, isn’t the moon shining tonight? And now what? Shit, it’s cold outside.

Mother proudly states that we need a plan. Plan B, that is, because apparently Broomstick Plan A did not work. I take two steps back. Don’t look at me. Take cover behind a wall. I never said I’m brave, did I?

Mother’s Plan B is simple and brilliant: switch all outside lights off and leave the inside lights on, so the bat that has hijacked our house flies out. I like it. I’m not gonna be the one to step inside and turn the freaking lights off, but I have to admit that her plan is simple and brilliant. Hubby gives me the same look again and murmurs something which, though I do not get, is not really flattering for his loving wife. Shit, it’s cold outside.

My saving hero strolls inside and turns the outside lights off. And we wait. We wait. For that horrible monster to realize that our house would never make a nice nest. Shit, it’s cold outside.

And we wait. And wait. And wait some more. Did you know that bats can be persistant? Well, I didn’t either. Till it finally decides that our house is boring like a chess game. And I listen to hubby shouting “You can come in now, supergirl”. I ignore his sarcasm, let mother go in first, inspect the area and let me know whether coast is clear. It is. I hurry in. Shit, it was cold outside.

We still haven’t figured out how that awful, bad, malevolent creature found shelter in our house. I guess we never will. Not that I’m so eager to find out. I only know that that was the end of my beautiful village nights. From that day on, they will never be the same again.

Did I mention how cold it was outside?

Posted by HoneyBunny

300 Times Three

What a big mistake, not seeing this one in the theatre. It’s not something I usually go for, sword and sandal flicks, so I finally saw 300 on DVD Friday night. It was so good, I watched it again Saturday night and then again on Sunday with the director’s commentary.

Stylistically, it is a beatiful film. The colors are softened or bleached out except for the reds. Red is the archetypal color representing blood, life, passion, lust, fury, or suffering. While all these elements are explored in the film, they are emphasized visually. Especially when blood is spilled (yes, I did notice no blood ever hits the ground).

Gerard Butler’s acting is phenomenal. The emotions he displays with mere facial expressions are mesmerizing.

Someone told me that while she was watching 300 at the theatre, a latecomer wandered in. While climbing the steps looking for a seat, he looks back at the screen and says, “I’m not sure if I’m in the right place, what movie is this?”
Someone from the audience gets up, yells “THIS IS SPARTA!” and kicks the latecomer down the stairs…

I think my buddy is full of shit, but I like her story, anyway.

Posted by: KillerDollie

Write Music

Some people must have absolute quiet to write. I feel like that sometimes, but not too often. Most of the time, I have to have music while writing. Not just any music, it has to match the tone of what I’m writing. The wrong background music is just as distracting as a television or someone talking to me.

Like today. My husband was listening to Smashing Pumpkins. I was trying to hash out a new character and it just wasn’t working. I found myself pacing and then finally mumbling, “Queen, Queen, It’s got to be Queen.”

So I had to go set things up outside and work out there. But I got the character on the page.

Do you listen to music while writing?

Posted by: KillerDollie

Stats Like a Heart Attack

I have another blog, it is more of a personal journal although it did start up as a place to write about my writing journey.

It just didn’t stay that way for long, I told family and friends about it and the thing took off as just a personal journal. Which I really needed. Then I found that writing about writing was not a good thing to blog about there because of the readers I had there. Many of them have no idea I even write. Or don’t give a shit.

So, a couple of writer friends and I created this place. Kept it separate from the people who visited our other blogs. We learned a lot from the other blogs and just wanted a different crowd.

I, being careless, went on a blog visit and accidently left a comment with this identity. I knew it before my finger even came up from the enter button. That was still a moment too late. I blew my cover to the very person who thinks “writing blogs” are completely boring.

The other authors of this blog were unavailable to discuss the critical sitch. I put Pimped into a coma. Shut it down to invitation only. Then (seriously) left the country for a week.

By the time we all got to discuss the situation, the blog had been down almost a month. Stats were flatlined at zero.

After running the thing through our committee, we decided to do a little CPR and bring it back to life.

Looking at the blog stats just a few minutes ago was a complete shock. Flatline, then a spike, a dip, and a nice little bump. That is exactly what a heart attack looks like on an EKG. I know, I used to work a trauma unit at a hospital. Oh the irony.

Anyway. We’re back and here to stay. If you have a blog about writing and would like to be on our blogroll, let us know and we’ll check it out.

By: KillerDollie

Frankentoo

My husband studies Brazilian jiu jitsu (BJJ). It’s a form of martial arts that is mostly about grappling, not kicking or punching. The goal in BJJ matches is to get the opponent to submit, usually by choking him out. Other times by getting them in a painful position. Same goal, though, submission.

When that happens the guy who is about to pass out from hypoxia usually taps out. Sometimes people are stubborn, would rather see stars. One guy at the gym had his opponent’s arm in an armlock or armbar. An excruciatingly painful position. He refused to tap out.

Fast forward to the end of the match, the guy’s arm is broken in four places. He ended up having surgery and external traction (that is when you have all these screws sticking out of the bone and through the skin).

All this surgery and traction made a mess out of this beautiful foo dog tattoo he has on his arm. So now everyone says he has a “Frankentoo.”
That’s screwed up.

Posted by: KillerDollie

Magic Glasses

My little brother got glasses when he kept coming home from school with headaches. No one explained how that worked. I’d never had a headache and didn’t know there was a such thing as pills for that.

About a month later, I got the flu or something. Headaches and fever so high I had hallucinations. I didn’t want my mom, or medicine, or a doctor. I wanted those glasses. I begged people who weren’t there to go get them. They didn’t even bother to say “no” and would vaporize.

I was going to just have to get them myself. Problem was, my brother kept them all the way across the house, on the tv. This great cure, and he wasn’t even using them.

I’d crawl on my hands and knees, make it a few feet , get weak, and have to return to bed. Every time I’d try, I’d get a little closer to the glasses. By the time I finally did get to them? They didn’t work. In fact, they made me feel dizzy and about ten feet tall. This was not a crushing defeat. As it happens, I was feeling much better already. I got myself across the house.

The thing is, I believed in something, had a goal, and fought like hell for it. There’s no way I’d remember this story if it weren’t for those magical glasses.

Quirky details make stories memorable. Quirky characters, beliefs, or ideas. It’s good to work the quirk.

Posted By: KillerDollie

Graveyard names and flying bloodsuckers

One of my favorite places to find strange names for characters is in graveyards. Every place I go, I visit the local cemetery if I happen to run across one. Then I take a photo of the grave with the good name.

I guess I should tell someone this since my computer is chock full of cemetery photos. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m a creep or something. Or at least just write down all those names in a notebook and delete the pics.

One of the names I ran across recently was “Sceats”. In my head it sounds like “Skeets.”

Which brings me to my present location and problem. I am trying to get some writing done outside so no one inside will bother me. There is a patio table out back which I’ve set up with a mosquito net. Problem is, today, all the mosquitoes are inside the net with me. I got out the Yardguard and blasted them to hell. Now it stinks in here and I can’t breathe.

Perfect conditions for writing horror.

I think I wrote two sentences so far.

I know, wtf am I doing on WordPress…

Posted By: KillerDollie

Payback is payback

I was telling my husband about when I was about fourteen, how this guy who was about sixteen tormented the hell out of me for over a year. He didn’t go my to school, I’ve no clue how he knew my name, I didn’t know his. I’d walk home from school but this bastard had a car. He’d creep up behind me and say these horrible things to me through a loudspeaker he had mounted on it.

Some really horrible things. That i was a bitch, a whore, a this, a that. You name it. Not good things to tell a fourteen year-old girl. My reaction was to ignore him. Someone like that had to be pathologically psycho. I’d dream up in my head a million ways to get back at him. If I could just catch him. He had wheels.

So I tell my husband if I saw that assclown today I might kick him in the crotch for being so cruel to me. He tells me I am sick for wanting to get even after all these years. I tell him that is about as sick as him asking people to pay him back for money he loaned them. Payback is payback.

Being a little vengeful is not a bad thing. Could Tarrantino have written Kill Bill if he didn’t have a taste for revenge?

I probably wouldn’t kick the dude in the balls, after all. Maybe like my husband says he’s turned his life around, helps out orphans and visits the elderly. But I doubt it.

My next villain is going to be passive aggressive just like him. If only I knew his real name. I’d use it. Just maybe that would end up in some movie theater and he’d get to hear in Dolby surround a few things with no chance to yell back at me.

Stupid little things like this give me the energy to pound the keyboard. It wouldn’t be so bad to get some payback on that either.

Posted by: KillerDollie