by Brett Sheats
I have just watched the "Fight of the Decade" between Iron Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis, and the taste left in my mouth is acutely described as quite bitter. Promoters, along with cable's usual extended onslaught of boxing "experts" (and I do use that term loosely) billed tonight's bout to be the heavyweight match of my lifetime, but instead it turned out to be a mismatch of an excellent technical fighter versus a bully whose time passed long, long ago.
I am left to ponder, "Is this as good as it gets for boxing in this day and age?" And my answer to that question is a resounding NO! There is a fight above all others that today's young and urbane audience demands. Yes, my friends, I speak of the fight of all time, the fight between the newly revered Heavyweight Champion of our era, Lennox Lewis, and the upstart scrapper whose heart exceeds even the greatest Philadelphian, Rocky Balboa. I speak of the one, the only, Little Mac.
Little Mac, whom I have personally witnessed overcome the gamut of fighters from Glass Joe to the unscrupulous Super Macho Man, possesses the will and the drive to defeat any titan that stands in his way. Outclassed by Lewis' superior reach? No problem, simply hit START and he will unload his mighty uppercut. Battered and bloodied by the Champ's left jab? It's OK, press back on your directional control pad and Little Mac will block even the mightiest of blows, excluding only Bald Bull's charging uppercut. Between rounds you can count on the fact that Little Mac is going to receive great advice including, "It's OK Mac, subscribe to Nintendo Power today!!!"
Who exactly is this challenger, you Nintendo neophytes may ask. His past is shrouded in mystery, but what little is known is that he was a young boxing prodigy led by masterful corner management and conditioning. Witnesses such as young Mary Ann Moser of Queens, NY remember Little Mac being a tireless trainer. "I used to relax on Ellis Island on the weekends, and I remember looking across the water to Liberty Island," said Ms. Moser, "and one thing that I could count on to be as regular as the ferry itself, was the sight of Little Mac, in full sweat gear, running beside his bicycle-riding trainer. After several months, I knew this kid was serious." That rigor spawned from his gaining of the Minor Championship Belt versus one-time champion Piston Honda. Honda reminiscences, "There no stopping him! He dodge my powerful combo! My chin no match for his mighty blow! Lay out flat on a big bopper he go-a me boom!" Go-a him boom in a second round TKO, he did indeed.
Little Mac then moved into competition for the Major Belt, where his competition increased in quality greatly. He was met by the up-and-coming Don Flamingo from Spain, and the equally mysterious King Hippo, with his notorious legion of fans, the "Hippo-drome." Little Mac remembers, however, that his toughest match in the Major division was against the magically delicious Great Tiger of India. "When the jewel on his turban started to flash, I knew that hell was about to spawn its fiery wrath within the ring," Little Mac remarked in a rare 1992 interview. "I just blocked all those punches and waited until I could counter while he was momentarily stunned." That strategy worked to perfection as Little Mac catapulted himself into the limelight with a third-round TKO and a shot at the Major Championship. Keeping his undefeated record alive, he beat Bald Bull in 3 rounds to capture the belt and moved into the most elite league of boxers after another period of off-time filled with tireless pink jumpsuit training.
Many boxing experts felt that Little Mac's small size would count against him in versus the most experienced and talented fighters, but their fears were allayed quite quickly when Little Mac dispatched the well respected Soda Popinski, who hails from the former Soviet Union. In the three-round epic battle, patriotism abounded, but the partisan Russian crowd was won over by Little Mac's resolve and sheer willpower, eventually cheering out "Mac! Mac! Mac!" Even Popinski was heard to say to his corner between the second and third rounds "He is not human! He is a piece of iron!"
But even young Mac's career was not sheltered from scandals that have plagued boxing in the past few decades. After a rematch against Don Flamingo, police arrested Flamingo as he was leaving the ring on charges of Child Pornography. Mac's only loss occurred in his next match, a three round decision for Mr. Sandman, where Mac knocked down Sandman six times in the bout while only falling to the canvas once himself. The bizarre decision by the judges resulted in riot after the match, and six people were killed by the angry mob. People close to Mac said that this loss was devastating to his ego and Mac turned to the bottle for salvation. But like he had done with so many demons in the ring, Mac won his battle with alcohol and now even runs Knock Out Alcohol!, a program for troubled, young alcoholics.
Eventually, Mac avenged his only boxing loss with a third round KO in the rematch. The result was a shot at the championship title against the brutally vain Super Macho Man, whose man-boobies were so big that he could shake them in time to the music while entering the ring. Dodging the Champ's patented Super-spin punch proved to be Mac's biggest challenge to date. In the end though, youth triumphed over beauty and Little Mac scored a TKO of Super Macho Man just before the final bell. The undisputed Champion of the World was the young Little Mac, and there was much rejoicing. What would Mac do now? Move to the WWF? Take Hollywood by storm? Insiders in Tinseltown have admitted that Mac was their first choice for the genie in Kazaam, but the part instead went to Shaquille O'Neal when Little Mac was sidelined with bronchitis during shooting. Mac's lasting legacy was to be found elsewhere, in one more fight that would decide once and for all who was the dominant fighter of the decade. It was official: Little Mac was going to fight Iron Mike Tyson.
And the match to end all matches lived up to the billing: it was an epic struggle, almost biblical in scope. In the end only one man was left standing, and that man was Little Mac. The first round, in which Iron Mike did not connect on a single punch that he threw, only highlighted Mac's third round TKO. Lucky for Mac, because those uppercuts were thrown with such ferocity that even one hitting the petite chin of the challenger would have spelled disaster. There was a new sports legend born that day, evidenced by the framed box of Wheaties that hangs above Mac's mantle in his swank Beverly Hills mansion.
Mac is older now, but reportedly still in top shape. Would he even consider taking on the Champ of the new millennium? Sources say the Mac camp is mum on the idea, but that Mac himself has started training again for 'unknown reasons.' Analysts question Mac's ability to go toe to toe with Lennox Lewis for 12 rounds, as all of Mac's fights have been just three rounds or less. "I take Lewis in four!" says former boxing star Evander Holyfield. "That damn Mac wouldn't be in my superior Evander Holyfield Boxing for the Sega Genesis!" Sounds like jealousy to this sportswriter. No matter what the pundits say, there is no doubt that the fans deserve to get what they want: A Mac/Lewis fight to decide who truly is the greatest fighter of the past two boxing eras. Although some in the boxing community say that Mac will need several tune-up fights to get ready for Lewis, others claim he will simply use a pass code to go directly to the belt holder. When he does decide to get in the ring and this legendary battle begins, you can bet this fan will be in the front row, close enough to heckle the Ref Mario.
Saturday, October 19, 2002
Hello Anzengruber! Discovery of the World's most outgoing and well-traveled Brachiosaurus
by Stephanie AndersonOne day, during a unlucky streak which included being unemployed, breaking a window, contracting tonsillitis, being kicked out of a flat, doused in boiling water, and 3 pianos falling on my head, I was on the No. 62 Streetcar in search of somewhere to live. There was a scuffle under my seat (which can probably be attributed to me tripping over my own feet) and a small dinosaur popped his head out.
As this Brachiosaurus was already strapped into his leash and with no owner to be found, I decided I had better take him for his walk (I mean really, who knows the last time he had been out?). As we strolled up Anzengruberstrasse towards a potential dwelling, I christened him after that very street.
Since then, Anzengruber has had many adventures, made many friends and traveled the world. He has gone swimming in Switzerland, hiking in the Alps, and shopping on Vienna’s chic-est street: Karntnerstrasse. His sixteenth birthday (determined by carbon dating and the year stamped into his plastic stomach) will be celebrated this weekend by friends around the world.
Please stay tuned for Anzengruber’s life and times to come.
Plitvice National Park
by Stephanie Anderson
Plitvice National Park, in inland Croatia not far from the Bosnian border, is a wilderness of sixteen crystal blue, terraced lakes. Between these lakes cascade countless waterfalls, constantly changing with time and the landscape. Rough wooden walkways have been laid as scenic paths along the lakesides. Stairs abruptly leave the pathways and lead to high viewpoints from which one can survey the grander scene. The water is so clear that even from 100 feet above, one can still see the forms of swimming fish. Electric ferries quietly carry visitors across the lakes from one trail to another.
The argument that this is one of the most beautiful places in the world need not even be made. The fact is granted. It has even been named a "World Heritage Site" by the people who name such things. What this title means is a bit mysterious, but the magnificence of the area must have something to do with it.
Obviously, everyone who has heard of such a tranquil wonderland wants to go there, and if they harbor a doubt, even one inadequate photograph would sell them completely. So how has this park not been inundated with swarms of people on their around-the-world Disney tours? Because getting there is no light task. The nearest train station, 1.5 hours from the park by bus, is in Zagreb. Zagreb is seven hours by train from Vienna, the easternmost city of the West. Most people's travel plans sadly do not include even one day in Zagreb (which is a beautiful city), and thus do not allow for this bus connection.
The majority of travelers in Croatia are on the coast, and many of them come by boat. These logistics leave really only one option besides a long bus ride: Rental car. Driving in Croatia is not the European Autobahn racing of legend, rather, the roads are two lane and twist through the mountains. Passing is hardly ever an option, and chances of getting stuck behind a cattle truck are high. But it can be done, and parking around the park is adequate and the road passing through the region is lined with rooms for rent and restaurants nightly serving creatures roasted on an open flame spit.
Though the scars of war are still obvious in her landscape, Croatia is a beautiful country, more than worth a visit. Plitvice makes the struggles and atrocities of recent Yugoslavian history seem to belong to another world.
Greetings from Uzbekistan
by Ellie Shirly
I'm finally here in an Internet cafe in Tashkent having searched for several hours on Saturday and an hour today for an open computer that actually connects. Among the six Internet cafes I visited on Saturday, three were filled with boys playing video games and the other three mysteriously did not connect to the Internet at all.
I'm now officially a member of the Mirakmedov family of Durmen, Uzbekistan (a small town about a 20 minute bus ride from Tashkent). I live with a father and mother in their mid-30's, an 8 year-old girl named Iroda, a 5 year-old girl named Zioda, a 3 year-old boy named Murakbar, and the grandfather who we all call Bobo ('grandpa' in Uzbek). In addition, we have about 7 cows (all of whom I've nicknamed 'Hamburger'), 2 sheep who were chased out of the garden last week when Bobo started yelling and throwing rocks, several chickens, and 2 cats with fleas. The house itself is built in an L-shape, with each room opening onto a courtyard garden in the middle. We eat all of our meals outside in the courtyard on a raised platform that contains a long, low table we all sit around on soft blankets.
The meals are truly a family event, everyone eating out of one huge plate in the middle with our individual spoons. Its kind of makes me feel like part of a team - if I don't eat the stuff nearest my side of the plate, everyone yells 'Oling, oling!', which means, 'Take it, take it!', and they watch as I shovel another spoonful down my throat. Hospitality is taken very seriously here. If I don't gain at least 10 pounds, I think my family will feel like they failed me.
All in all, family life has been pretty blissful in Durmen. When I get home tonight, I'll do my Uzbek language homework while Iroda does her English language homework, Zioda looks through my copy of Glamour magazine for the hundredth time (always giggling at the page where there is a lotion advertisement showing a naked butt), and Murakbar listens to Micheal Jackson on my CD player and dances around the room. Later, I will inevitably play UNO with the kids and my host mom - we have a running total starting last week of how many games each person has won. I'm sure i'll give the kids my UNO deck as a going-away present when I leave because I definitely will never want to play UNO again.
At 9 tonight, I'll be dragged into the TV room to watch 'Esmeralda', a Spanish soap opera to which everyone in Uzbekistan is inexplicably addicted. I don't even think you are allowed to live in this country if you don't watch 'Esmerelda'. Naturally, it has Uzbek voice-overs, so I won't understand anything and after a few minutes I'll claim I'm tired and go to my room.
As far as host families go, I think mine is pretty much the best. We can't talk much to each other, but we play a lot of charades, and we smile and laugh awkwardly and then move on when something just can't be communicated. Last Saturday, my first full day in my new family, they treated me to a real cultural experience by taking me next door- to a circumcision party! I'm always up for a circumcision party (who isn't?), and here in Uzbekistan, circumcision and marriage are the two biggest events in a person's life, each requiring a gigantic party. The live band (made up of many shrill horns and drums) started playing for the party at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday. I know this because I was attempting to sleep next door. Parties here sometimes last several days and occur in various shifts of separate men's and women's events. So after the males had their rice-eating gathering from 4:30 to about 8 in the morning, everyone took a break before the main event began around 11am.
Four young boys were celebrating their circumcisions together. Each was dressed in a blue-velvet and gold-embroidered Turkish-looking outfit, complete with hat and jacket. Two boys at a time were led into the house from the street riding on a horse, which was draped in colorful fabrics and skittered nervously through the narrow paths surrounding the courtyard of the house. All of this ritualized parading took about an hour. Then, I was ushered home to eat for a while before returning for the women's party that afternoon. (Note: I don't think the actual circumcisions were part of the party events, though I cannot be certain as I was gone for over an hour.)
About 75 women of all ages sat together on one side of the courtyard at long picnic tables that were literally overflowing with food. Every time I thought we must be done eating, more food suddenly appeared. The women were looking their best for the party: many had painted their eyebrows into one long, black line (they are horrified that Americans prefer to have two distinct eyebrows- uni-brows are a sign of beauty here), their gold teeth were glittering (gold teeth signify wealth, and most women over 40 have accumulated an entire row of gold teeth), and they were wearing the large, shapeless mumu-like dresses that are the uniform here. A small dance area had been cleared in front of the tables, and so we alternately ate and danced, with our arms twirling above us, for a couple of hours. The whole experience was really enjoyable, and I couldn't have asked for a more interesting way to be introduced to my neighborhood.
On November 1st, I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin teaching English in Gulistan City. (That didn't mean anything to me at first either, but it is about two hours from Tashkent by bus, and is a mid-sized city, meaning that it might not have the conveniences of Tashkent but will have many things a tiny village would not such as hot water...maybe.) Until then, I am teaching two classes of 13 year-olds on Monday and Thursday at a local school in Durmen, for practice. Teaching is hard work, but it's also fun, especially when I try to ask the kids about their families and go over some vocabulary, and they say to me, "So, do you like the Backstreet Boys?"
I'm finally here in an Internet cafe in Tashkent having searched for several hours on Saturday and an hour today for an open computer that actually connects. Among the six Internet cafes I visited on Saturday, three were filled with boys playing video games and the other three mysteriously did not connect to the Internet at all.
I'm now officially a member of the Mirakmedov family of Durmen, Uzbekistan (a small town about a 20 minute bus ride from Tashkent). I live with a father and mother in their mid-30's, an 8 year-old girl named Iroda, a 5 year-old girl named Zioda, a 3 year-old boy named Murakbar, and the grandfather who we all call Bobo ('grandpa' in Uzbek). In addition, we have about 7 cows (all of whom I've nicknamed 'Hamburger'), 2 sheep who were chased out of the garden last week when Bobo started yelling and throwing rocks, several chickens, and 2 cats with fleas. The house itself is built in an L-shape, with each room opening onto a courtyard garden in the middle. We eat all of our meals outside in the courtyard on a raised platform that contains a long, low table we all sit around on soft blankets.
The meals are truly a family event, everyone eating out of one huge plate in the middle with our individual spoons. Its kind of makes me feel like part of a team - if I don't eat the stuff nearest my side of the plate, everyone yells 'Oling, oling!', which means, 'Take it, take it!', and they watch as I shovel another spoonful down my throat. Hospitality is taken very seriously here. If I don't gain at least 10 pounds, I think my family will feel like they failed me.
All in all, family life has been pretty blissful in Durmen. When I get home tonight, I'll do my Uzbek language homework while Iroda does her English language homework, Zioda looks through my copy of Glamour magazine for the hundredth time (always giggling at the page where there is a lotion advertisement showing a naked butt), and Murakbar listens to Micheal Jackson on my CD player and dances around the room. Later, I will inevitably play UNO with the kids and my host mom - we have a running total starting last week of how many games each person has won. I'm sure i'll give the kids my UNO deck as a going-away present when I leave because I definitely will never want to play UNO again.
At 9 tonight, I'll be dragged into the TV room to watch 'Esmeralda', a Spanish soap opera to which everyone in Uzbekistan is inexplicably addicted. I don't even think you are allowed to live in this country if you don't watch 'Esmerelda'. Naturally, it has Uzbek voice-overs, so I won't understand anything and after a few minutes I'll claim I'm tired and go to my room.
As far as host families go, I think mine is pretty much the best. We can't talk much to each other, but we play a lot of charades, and we smile and laugh awkwardly and then move on when something just can't be communicated. Last Saturday, my first full day in my new family, they treated me to a real cultural experience by taking me next door- to a circumcision party! I'm always up for a circumcision party (who isn't?), and here in Uzbekistan, circumcision and marriage are the two biggest events in a person's life, each requiring a gigantic party. The live band (made up of many shrill horns and drums) started playing for the party at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday. I know this because I was attempting to sleep next door. Parties here sometimes last several days and occur in various shifts of separate men's and women's events. So after the males had their rice-eating gathering from 4:30 to about 8 in the morning, everyone took a break before the main event began around 11am.
Four young boys were celebrating their circumcisions together. Each was dressed in a blue-velvet and gold-embroidered Turkish-looking outfit, complete with hat and jacket. Two boys at a time were led into the house from the street riding on a horse, which was draped in colorful fabrics and skittered nervously through the narrow paths surrounding the courtyard of the house. All of this ritualized parading took about an hour. Then, I was ushered home to eat for a while before returning for the women's party that afternoon. (Note: I don't think the actual circumcisions were part of the party events, though I cannot be certain as I was gone for over an hour.)
About 75 women of all ages sat together on one side of the courtyard at long picnic tables that were literally overflowing with food. Every time I thought we must be done eating, more food suddenly appeared. The women were looking their best for the party: many had painted their eyebrows into one long, black line (they are horrified that Americans prefer to have two distinct eyebrows- uni-brows are a sign of beauty here), their gold teeth were glittering (gold teeth signify wealth, and most women over 40 have accumulated an entire row of gold teeth), and they were wearing the large, shapeless mumu-like dresses that are the uniform here. A small dance area had been cleared in front of the tables, and so we alternately ate and danced, with our arms twirling above us, for a couple of hours. The whole experience was really enjoyable, and I couldn't have asked for a more interesting way to be introduced to my neighborhood.
On November 1st, I will be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin teaching English in Gulistan City. (That didn't mean anything to me at first either, but it is about two hours from Tashkent by bus, and is a mid-sized city, meaning that it might not have the conveniences of Tashkent but will have many things a tiny village would not such as hot water...maybe.) Until then, I am teaching two classes of 13 year-olds on Monday and Thursday at a local school in Durmen, for practice. Teaching is hard work, but it's also fun, especially when I try to ask the kids about their families and go over some vocabulary, and they say to me, "So, do you like the Backstreet Boys?"
Friday, October 18, 2002
Road to Perdition
by Stephanie Anderson
Living in Austria afforded me the media protection of having only heard two things about Road to Perdition upon entering the theatre: 1) that it was about gangsters; and 2) that it moved too slowly. The former was true, and thankfully the latter was not. But knowing only the cast was enough to entice me to buy the ticket. Tom Hanks has the luxury of being particular about scripts and he usually does good work (I will forgive him for wasting two hours of my life with Castaway). Jude Law needs nothing more than Gattaca (and his good looks) on his resume. And Paul Newman ate 50 eggs.
All this together makes Road to Perdition your classic, bloody, suspenseful mobster film. I cannot say that it moved to slowly, because the whole time I was clinging to the arms of my chair thinking: "Turn around!... You're gonna get shot... oh no!" Eyes squeeze shut just enough so I can still see through little slits.. "Ooooh gross! He should've turned around."
The plot line is pretty basic gangster stuff: One guy gets killed, another guy has to get killed to cover up the first murder, then someone sees that killing, so another guy gets killed, but then someone gets mad about that guy and wants to get revenge on the killer, but of course the killer isnít a fan of that idea, so he is trying to kill him. Kill, kill, kill, basically. But you would be surprised how riveting they can make that storyline.
Tom Hanks, as suspected, does a good job playing the gangster that we are supposed to empathize with. He changes gears a bit abruptly mid-film, as he starts out as a hard man who doesn't speak to anyone, but then, an hour in, he suddenly develops a sarcastic sense of humor. Jude Law excellently portrays a creepy photographer and part-time assassin. He is appropriately and impressively sinister and scary, almost to the point of being cliché, but it works in the role. Paul Newman is running the show in the middle-America, 1930s gangster scene. Sad to say, he does well in the grandfather/godfather role, because, hey, he's getting old.
The film has a few flaws, one of them being the title, and another the narrator. The title is wrong because it is ridiculously obvious. For those of you without your Webster's handy: perdition: Entire loss; utter destruction; ruin; esp., the utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state; future misery or eternal death. Simply, the title means "The Road to Hell." If this title were not flagrant enough for a gangster movie, the town where Tom Hanks' character is seeking asylum is called Perdition. This overt abuse of destination names has only been successful in one instance: A Knight's Tale (Movie of the Year, 2001). Heath Ledger and his fellow vagabonds ask for directions from a naked Geoffery Chaucer. "Is this the road to Rouen?" (pronounced like ëruiní, for the French minors out there) they inquire, and he responds "That remains to be seen." So clever, but still only one line, hidden in scrolls of an excellent script. Even the brilliant minds that compile movies aimed at a teenage audience wouldn't dream of trying to make one pun line the title of an entire film. Either the town of asylum or the movie can be called Perdition, not both. Then it would be a good literary device.
Secondly, the movie begins and ends with the narration of a boy- Tom Hanks' characters' son. Much along the same lines of Grammar School speech classes, this serves to "Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them." To bad they are trying to make a 2-hour film about good, bad, and mortality, rather than a 5-minute speech explaining to 7th graders how to make chocolate chip cookies. Along with being superfluous, the narrator is also too young to be effective. The voice is feasibly only a couple years older than his character in the movie- his voice hasn't even dropped yet. But the scripted narration seems to be written for an old man looking back and explaining his life. Maybe when the producers had the idea they forgot to note that the only reason it works in "The Wonder Years" is because the narrator is obviously a sight more mature than the Kevin Arnold that is dating Winnie Cooper.
The title may be unavoidably cliché, but you can skip the stupid narrator by walking in five minutes late. And otherwise, you will have 2 hours of entertainment about a subject that has not been done justice on the silver screen since Goodfellas.
Living in Austria afforded me the media protection of having only heard two things about Road to Perdition upon entering the theatre: 1) that it was about gangsters; and 2) that it moved too slowly. The former was true, and thankfully the latter was not. But knowing only the cast was enough to entice me to buy the ticket. Tom Hanks has the luxury of being particular about scripts and he usually does good work (I will forgive him for wasting two hours of my life with Castaway). Jude Law needs nothing more than Gattaca (and his good looks) on his resume. And Paul Newman ate 50 eggs.
All this together makes Road to Perdition your classic, bloody, suspenseful mobster film. I cannot say that it moved to slowly, because the whole time I was clinging to the arms of my chair thinking: "Turn around!... You're gonna get shot... oh no!" Eyes squeeze shut just enough so I can still see through little slits.. "Ooooh gross! He should've turned around."
The plot line is pretty basic gangster stuff: One guy gets killed, another guy has to get killed to cover up the first murder, then someone sees that killing, so another guy gets killed, but then someone gets mad about that guy and wants to get revenge on the killer, but of course the killer isnít a fan of that idea, so he is trying to kill him. Kill, kill, kill, basically. But you would be surprised how riveting they can make that storyline.
Tom Hanks, as suspected, does a good job playing the gangster that we are supposed to empathize with. He changes gears a bit abruptly mid-film, as he starts out as a hard man who doesn't speak to anyone, but then, an hour in, he suddenly develops a sarcastic sense of humor. Jude Law excellently portrays a creepy photographer and part-time assassin. He is appropriately and impressively sinister and scary, almost to the point of being cliché, but it works in the role. Paul Newman is running the show in the middle-America, 1930s gangster scene. Sad to say, he does well in the grandfather/godfather role, because, hey, he's getting old.
The film has a few flaws, one of them being the title, and another the narrator. The title is wrong because it is ridiculously obvious. For those of you without your Webster's handy: perdition: Entire loss; utter destruction; ruin; esp., the utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state; future misery or eternal death. Simply, the title means "The Road to Hell." If this title were not flagrant enough for a gangster movie, the town where Tom Hanks' character is seeking asylum is called Perdition. This overt abuse of destination names has only been successful in one instance: A Knight's Tale (Movie of the Year, 2001). Heath Ledger and his fellow vagabonds ask for directions from a naked Geoffery Chaucer. "Is this the road to Rouen?" (pronounced like ëruiní, for the French minors out there) they inquire, and he responds "That remains to be seen." So clever, but still only one line, hidden in scrolls of an excellent script. Even the brilliant minds that compile movies aimed at a teenage audience wouldn't dream of trying to make one pun line the title of an entire film. Either the town of asylum or the movie can be called Perdition, not both. Then it would be a good literary device.
Secondly, the movie begins and ends with the narration of a boy- Tom Hanks' characters' son. Much along the same lines of Grammar School speech classes, this serves to "Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you told them." To bad they are trying to make a 2-hour film about good, bad, and mortality, rather than a 5-minute speech explaining to 7th graders how to make chocolate chip cookies. Along with being superfluous, the narrator is also too young to be effective. The voice is feasibly only a couple years older than his character in the movie- his voice hasn't even dropped yet. But the scripted narration seems to be written for an old man looking back and explaining his life. Maybe when the producers had the idea they forgot to note that the only reason it works in "The Wonder Years" is because the narrator is obviously a sight more mature than the Kevin Arnold that is dating Winnie Cooper.
The title may be unavoidably cliché, but you can skip the stupid narrator by walking in five minutes late. And otherwise, you will have 2 hours of entertainment about a subject that has not been done justice on the silver screen since Goodfellas.
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