You know All-Star Superman, that absolutely amazing Grant Morrison/Frank Quitely Superman Comic I've touted the virtues at least on two separate occasions? Well, hot on the heels of the Jason Todd-unearthing, Watchmen-referencing Batman: Under the Red Hood (which I have not yet seen) Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths, which is partially based on a different Morrison/Quitely story is All-Star Superman ...the movie!
Like all the other post-DCAU films, the film has a modified DCAU style and, once again, all new voices. I'm not quite sure why this keeps happening, but, hey, Christina Hendricks is Lois Lane and that's a good enough fit for me. It seems like they're going to take out all the storylines that don't directly involve Superman and Lex Luthor -- I somehow doubt any of the Bizarro stuff, which is really the icing on that series' cake, will make it in -- but hopefully it will be better than nothing. I'm trying to stay positive, although I have to agree with CJ when he said that he "can't wait for this to be decent but not amazing and therefore awful." All-Star Superman is just that sort of a book and unlike other adaptations which can stand beside the original material, this movie will have to prove itself worthy to stand in its shadows. Fingers crossed.
Thanks to Arthur Wyatt for the heads-up.
I'm at a loss as to how to introduce, explain or comment on this particular video. It's from Jackie Chan's 1993 film City Hunter. That's all I've got:
Due to technical difficulties, the rest of this week will be fueled by my good friends and fellow bloggers who have kindly obliged me by filling in while I take care of personal matters.
See you next week, folks!
I rode the wrong train home, adding an eight block-long walk to my odyssey from Brooklyn's hip north end. As I plugged away at retaining consciousness on the preceding line, a headful of red wine shifted my attention away from the conductor's garbled announcements and toward the bored young blond sitting across from me. My shirking faculties robbed me of heed for the proper transfer and I boarded my second-choice train, which arrived with a merciful expedience.
It was the wrong end of five in the morning when I came to and debarked – staggered off – at the correct stop in my neighborhood. This was a laudable accomplishment in itself; I was afraid that enjoying a drink and living in Brooklyn's southern boondocks would, yet again, add up to a firm rise-and-shine prodding, indelicately administered by a police officer walking the graveyard terminus beat at Coney Island. I had originally planned to sit out the night, made timid by the radio's apocalyptic pronouncements of the upcoming weather. Fortuitously, the snow had lingered long enough for my night to resolve itself, and lazily tumbled from the stars as I plodded home through the orange silence which descends hand-in-glove with every nocturnal snowfall.
Parenthetical Girls - This Regrettable End