There’s Something About Kristen

BAKER STREET | REVIEW

by Eric J Baker

Kristen Stewart’s critics aren’t wrong: When she isn’t being plain old bland, she’s being morose. She’s not an exotic beauty, nor is she the all-American girl next door. Yet still she manages to captivate us. Maybe it’s that half smile she gives up about an hour into every one of her stone-faced performances. It’s like we’ve been given a great, unexpected gift. And the occasional twinkle in her eye would be a full-frontal nude scene from another actress.

Stewart: There’s a happy girl in there somewhere. (Ph: W Magazine)

Stewart brings her weary good looks (imagine her in a movie with Ben Affleck called Pretty, Tired People) to the role of Snow White in Universal Picture’s Snow White and the Huntsman, which opened this weekend. This Tolkien-esque take on the familiar fairy tale involves a serial usurper named Queen Ravenna (Charlize Theron) who, like me, needs beautiful women around to feel young. However, whereas I am satisfied with a charitable smile or the occasional act of harmless flirtation, Ravenna sucks the life right out of these girls.

What Would Arianny Do?

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

A big PFC thank you to the hardworking law-enforcement officers of Clark County, Nevada for arresting UFC octagon girl Arianny Celeste on domestic battery charges this weekend. If not for that event, what the hell would we have for a lead image? Tommy Lee Jones cashing another paycheck?

Arianny Celeste, future dominatrix

The arrest might be a good career move for Ms. Celeste if Internet-user comments can be viewed as a legitimate tool for market research. It seems that millions of men out there are eager to pay top dollar for a savage beating at the hands of the former Playboy model. Ah, America, land of conservative values and Puritanism.

Don and Donna

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

At 9 a.m. this past Friday, Facebook’s IPO was the most supercalifragilisticexpialidocious event ever, worth more than 100 Avengers movies and better than carrot cake on Fat Bitch Sunday. By noon, the whole thing was Snakes on a Plane: A bit of hype and then quickly forgotten. The only thing I want to know is if Bono really made 1.5 billion dollars on the deal, or was that just phantom wealth, like America’s before the real estate crash.

Evans, the poorest person mentioned in this segment.

On the other hand, one Avengers movie was enough for Robert Downey Jr. to rake in a quick 50 million dollars, and that’s money in the bank if Disney doesn’t get too creative with the accounting. Not bad for a troubled ex-con. If I’m Chris Evans, I’m restructuring my deal for Avengers II to bring my salary closer to the double-digit millions. That is an obvious statement, but it gives me an excuse to run another picture of Evans, who’s a click magnet for us.

A Tale That’s Too Shitty

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

It was the best of times, it was the worst of…

Hold on. My editor tells me that opening is taken already. That’s all right; I wasn’t married to it. The construction is passive and the comma should be a semi-colon anyway. I don’t know what rank amateur came up with that clunker, but I’m sure I would have fixed it on my second pass. I’ll start again after you take a moment to enjoy the pretty picture.

Ready?

Humans of the future: Oil slick for clothing, pink hair, and designer booty.

Our world is on the cusp of epochal changes in medicine, energy, and transportation that were dreams of fantastical science fiction a mere 50 years ago. We are truly becoming a planetary society that, within 100 years, will have knifeless surgery, orbiting solar panels beaming down clean microwave power, and superconductors that produce almost no pollution and send magnetic trains cross-country in but a few hours. We will have all-purpose, shape-shifting, one-stop-shop electronic devices that eliminate the need for all other gadgets, and we will enjoy the clean air that comes about when nuclear fusion powers our cities and helps end the tumultuous era of fossil fuels. None of us will be there to experience it, but our youngest children might.

Darling, You Look Marvel-ous

THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW | REVIEW

by Eric J Baker

So I’m sitting there for the first hour of The Avengers thinking, “Where the fuck is Patrick Macnee?” Then the Incredible Hulk showed up and I was like, “Ah… it’s those Avengers.” I ought to pay closer attention to the marketing for these things.

Hemsworth and Evans: Let the slash fiction begin.

Director Joss Whedon’s all-star, $220-million superhero mash-up opened this weekend to surprisingly good reviews for a summer popcorn movie, and has shattered all records with a $200-million-plus opening weekend to bring its global cume to close to $650 million in only twelve days.  In other words, it’ll be profitable, but never officially—Disney’s previous bomb John Carter will see to that.

Sidney Bag-o-Pucks

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

The Pittsburgh Penguins, crowned by most sports writers as presumptive 2012 Stanley Cup Champions, were just smoked by the Philadelphia Flyers in the opening week of the NHL playoffs. Thus proving true the sports writer’s axiom, “That’s why you still have to play the games.” The Pen’s captain, Sidney Crosby, is arguably the best hockey player on the planet. I say trade the bum.

You call that a playoff beard?

In 2009, Crosby led his Penguins to a championship (above) and months later won a gold medal for Canada, all by the time he was legally able to order a Miller Lite in a bar. He is a gifted athlete who can turn crap into a goal while the guys on the other team are standing there wondering who pulled their jock straps over their heads. He’s five seconds ahead of everyone, as only the most elite players can be. He’s tenacious, and he’s a winner.

Oh yeah. Everybody hates him.

Giants, Goblins, and Girls Named Melanie

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Indie-rock’s elder statesmen They Might Be Giants put on a free concert in Princeton yesterday in honor of National Record Store Day, a concept I can get behind emotionally, if not rationally. After all, celebrating the record store in 2012 is a bit like prehistoric animals throwing a Dinosaur Appreciation Festival two years after the asteroid hit.

John Flansburgh and John Linnell: They Might Be Secret Agents. (Ph: S. Anderson)

But we can pretend iTunes doesn’t rule the music world, and no question the Giants are one of my all-time faves, so I’ll take the free show. The stage was set up at Hinds Plaza on Witherspoon Street and was sponsored by The Princeton Record Exchange, the historic town’s second most venerable institution (the most venerable one is busy trying to unlock the secrets of nuclear fusion and could not appear in this story). More on PREX, as they call themselves, in a minute.

Scotty, I Need More Bass!

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Poor bass players. What’s it like to be invisible in plain sight?

I liken the bass player in a rock band to Scotty on Star Trek. If Captain Kirk is the lead singer – arrogant, full of swagger, and always bagging the chicks, then Spock is the guitar player – the guy who the cocky singer doesn’t realize is actually the star. Dr. McCoy, naturally, is the drummer with all his charm and humor. Meanwhile, poor Scotty the Bassist is off camera in the engine room, futzing around with dilithium crystals and never getting any credit.

Zombie Girl of Russian surf horror band (!) Messer Chups is the world’s sexiest bass player.

A lot of casual music listeners have said to me over the years, “To be honest, I can’t even hear the bass guitar.” That right bassists: Outside of prog rock and fusion nerds (and your fellow musicians), people don’t even realize you are there. Unless your name is Geddy Lee, all those cool bass runs you came up with seem to fall beyond the range of average human hearing. When most people think of bass, they think of teenagers driving around with 15-inch subwoofers in the trunk, rattling Precious Moments figurines off their shelves with grating low-end thump that, embarrassingly for you, isn’t created on a bass guitar.

A Week Late and a Titan Short

BAKER STREET | REVIEW

by Eric J Baker

When did B movies become 150-million-dollar epics? Wrath of the Titans has all the qualities of one (including the casting of semi-big stars in small parts to lend faux gravitas) but at 25 times the price. At least with B movies, whatever money the filmmakers have usually ends up on the screen. And if you spend wisely, 150M buys you a lot of Wrath.

Kronos shows Sam Worthington how to emote, unsuccessfully.

This film resumes the exploits of Greek demigod Perseus (Sam Worthington), last seen in the Clash of the Titans remake two years ago, as he travels to the underworld to rescue his father, Zeus (Liam Neeson), who has been imprisoned by Hades (Ralph Fiennes) at the behest of their father, Kronos (good to see the Balrog getting work again). At its heart, Wrath of the Titans is a tender drama about everything getting smashed to fucking pieces or blown up, though these moments are contrasted nicely by whatever’s left collapsing on itself in a mushroom cloud of annihilation. In a clever subplot, lots of punching and stabbing happens.

The Great Spider Invasion

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

I always crack up at Shaun of the Dead when Ed (Nick Frost) tries to kill a zombie by throwing an Electro record at it and Shaun (Simon Pegg) shouts, “Hey! That was the second album I ever bought!” No matter how forgettable the recording, music lovers will always elevate their early favorites to legendary status. In my case, though, no rose-colored glasses are needed. The first album I ever bought is a certified classic.

Bowie's space oddity-ness began with the mismatched pupils of his eyes.

It must have been around 1979. I remember carrying my 10 bucks into a ratty box car of a music shop called Graymat (perhaps the worst name in the history of stores, at once evoking a drabness and a laundromat), selecting my vinyl, and plunking the cash on the counter. The manager was a chunky, stone-faced guy with all the expressiveness and charm of Darth Vader. He intimidated the hell out of me, so this coming-of-age moment was tempered by a case of jangled nerves. I was sure glad to be out of there with bag in hand.