Thor (Australian super-hunk Chris Helmsworth) is the arrogant, portentous son of the Norse God Odin (Anthony Hopkins, only man in the world who is allowed to play ancient patriarch Gods). They live in the world of Asgard – a universe running parallel to our own Earth. Think of Asgard as Discworld combined with Middle Earth, strewn with black holes, portals and runic teleporters. We’re not clear on what Thor’s superpower is (aside from being an obnoxious Asgardian frat-boy), until he is bestowed the power of Mjolnir, a hammer he wields with great tenacity that makes him even more of a frat-boy. Long story short, he disobeys his all-powerful father (that’s hubris right?), and as punishment gets sent to Earth, where he learns how to be a true hero thanks to persistent storm-chaser and love interest Jane Foster (Natalie Portman in her 30th movie of 2011). His brother Loki (Tom Hiddleston, played with malice but looking like a cast of Harry Potter with his pasty skin and oily hair), sets up some very serious hurdles along the road to redemption. Add explosions, frost giants, giant robot automations, and capricious FBI types and stir.

Along the way were some stellar performances by Kat Dennings as the well-timed comic relief, Stellan Skarsgard as Natalie Portman’s mentor figure, and most notably Idris Elba as the stoic gatekeeper Heimdall. These characters don’t get a whole lot of screen time, which makes each moment all the more enjoyable. Chris Helmsworth’s arrogant pomp entertains: His presence in a sleepy American town brings out the laughs, whether demanding more coffee or looking for an acceptable steed.

One of the drawbacks of an origin story is the pacing. In comic books, it’s usually acceptable to go through a few issues, but translating it to the big screen can be an ugly task (look at Ang Lee’s Hulk). Branagh and co could have spent half the film in Asgard, expanding the Nordic mythos, hampering the pace. Luckily, Thor switches from Earth, Asgard and the Frost Giant realm of Joutenheim reflexively, using Thor’s personality change as an anchor to the movie rolling at a steady pace.

My only gripe is the screen resolution in the film. I know 3D films are considerably better at drawing profits than the standard definition, but the price they pay with screen brightness is particularly irksome. Joutenheim is already a dark and dank place, you can barely make out the CGI’d blue villains in one fight scene. I am, however grateful that there were no cheesy ‘hammer to the screen moments’.

Of course it wouldn’t be a Marvel movie without the fan service. Servings such as the first appearance of Jeremy Renner as Hawkeye, possibly the best Stan Lee cameo, and a location that looks all to familiar to last year’s comic event Siege. Thor is a fun summer blockbuster that lives up to its hype. If Captain America: The First Avenger were this good, then Marvel will be the prime powerhouse in the superhero movie genre.

My Grade: B+

Thor
• Directed by Kenneth Branagh
• Written by Ashley Miller, Zack Stentz & Don Payne (Story by J. Michael Straczynski)
• Starring: Chris Helmsworth, Natalie Portman, Anthony Hopkins, Clark Gregg, Tom Hiddleston
• Runtime: 114 minutes

It’s undeniable: Bradley Cooper has become Hollywood’s main draw when looking for charismatic leading men. With the sudden surge in popularity since The Hangover, one would hope that hes upgraded from the alpha-male routine to playing somebody with a bit of substance. Sadly, It misses the bar in Neil Burger’s Limitless.

To be fair, Cooper is more than capable throughout the entire film. It’s hard to justify this when the pace barrels through like a freight train, but stopping so abruptly, you’d wonder what was the point of all that build up in the first place. The film starts off in a manner that is reminiscent of Fight Club: we have a protagonist, facing his impending doom on top of a tall countless-storey building. The vague and seminal narration reveals next to nothing, but we know it’s going to be crucial later on (Sadly, it isn’t), until the scene rollercoasters through with some snazzy special effects and an electric soundtrack, ending the opening credits.

Enter Eddie Morra: a failed writer, who is dumped by his girlfriend (a generic Abby Cornish), hitting rock bottom until he is given a wonder-drug by his seedy brother-in-law, allowing him access to all 100% of his mind. Burger makes good usage of tracking shots of Eddie’s transformation. Seeing Bradley Cooper go from washed up to living a lifestyle that would make Tim Ferriss jealous (read: tropical islands with Generation X’ers and working for about, say, four hours a week). Eddie makes it big on the stock-market and draws the attention of billionaire maven Carl Van Loon played by a very screen deprived Robert De Niro.

All of a sudden, Eddie is dealing with duplicitous Russian gangsters, a ruthless, enigmatic assassin ala No Country for Old Men, and Van Loon’s Wall Street-lite antics. There is a scene halfway through the film where the drug accelerates Eddie’s brain power to the point where he cannot keep up with his own actions. It’s a pivotal point in the movie: Things are moving too fast for Eddie inside his own brain. The entire movie functions like this – fast paced shots with little or no explanation as to how it happened – audiences are dragged from the beginning of a plot, right to the end with no middle ground.

I tend to think about what the direct/writer is trying to comment on society. Mid-way through the movie I conclude that this is most definitely an extreme of how our Generation Y need to be gratified with instant millions – the Mark Zuckerberg culture. Or how the over-exertion of barely legal drug use has deprived society.

Unfortunately, like a cheap second-hand car, Limitless splutters and breaks down in the last arc. The finale does not commit to the level of urgency played throughout the film. The conclusion is weak, and critical plot points are explained disappointingly. Nothing gets resolved, which for a movie which plays the perils of intentional drug use, is not the least bit consequential at all.

My grade: C+

• Limitless
• Directed by Neil Burger
• Written by Leslie Dixon (based on the novel by Alan Glynn)
• Starring: Bradley Cooper, Robert De Niro
• Runtime: 105 minutes

Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known. – Oscar Wilde

I had never heard of David Rakoff before but what he said in that interview stuck to me. As a writer, I relate intensely to what he said.

I really do like being listened to. I think part of me is egotistical to the point where I don’t mind when people start non-versations* with me. Speech is the art of organising your brain farts, somebody told me. So my cranium must be pretty gastric.

David wakes up every morning and he stares at a blank page, so it’s starting from scratch again. Any athlete usually has muscle memory stored into their systems ready to recall it when they need. A writer only has their extensive vocabulary and at best, a clear brain. Other than that, it’s an exercise in futility.

As much as I would like my writing on the top of my priority list, it’s wedged between work, university, training, and finding more work because I have this uncontrollable habit to spend more than I actually earn. Then there are friends to commit to, sleep to be had, and peasant food to be made.

When there finally is a moment where I don’t do any of the above, I’m here, trying to squeeze any writer’s mojo out from my tired, and mostly battered brain. It’s quite enjoyable really.

So today’s post is about absolutely nothing. Sometimes it’s just fun to put pen to paper. For those who read this – you’ve inflated my ego just that little bit.

*Feigning interest while the other person (me) rants usually about celebrities and Twitter and whatnot.

It is a Sunday. I’m in Sydney’s Acer Arena packed to full capacity: all 18,000 seats are filled.

In the centre of the arena is an octagonal structure, akin to a boxing ring, but with two metre chain-linked walls enclosing the entire thing. Inside is where the two titans are unleashed.

From the cheers and  roars at the reception of his name, the tall, olive-tanned man was the arena favorite. He had after all, had his roots in this nation.

Armed with nothing but years of kickboxing and jiu jitsu experience held together by meager six-ounce gloves and an iron will, our champion does his best to overcome his competitor: a pale and stout musclebound German.

This is the Ultimate Fighting Championship, where trained martial artists all across the world for our entertainment. The spirit of the Roman Gladiators, resurrected and modernised to fit the contemporary man.

Four minutes into the first round, the German fighter delivers a left hook that sends our Aussie in the floor. Dazed and on his back, he plays the defensive until the bell rings.

Fists fly early into the second round from both fighters. The crowd chants“Let’s go Georgie, let’s go!” and jeer at the German. Three minutes in this round, our Aussie lands a clean right straight to the jaw of his adversary, rocking him.

The final round was a desperate five minutes of our Aussie trying to wrestle the German to the ground.

It is Rome, AD79 again. The perfect representation to describe the cacophony that follows:

We roar at each valiant takedown.

Much to the disappointment of the spectators, the German seemed impervious to any and all attempts.

We yell in disdain.

Previous fights, the crowd howled for blood. Now, the arena is electrified with a combination of hope and frustration.

The final bell goes.

The judges rule George Sortiropolous as the loser of the fight, but we cheer just as loudly. It’s the perk of having modernised the Roman bloodthirstiness: there’s a high possibility that you get to live to fight another day.

Gracious in defeat, but clearly devastated George Sortiropolous is an icon. In the Roman times, the primus fight would be the event where two of the very best fighters clash for the title of Champion. At this day and age, the coveted Lightweight Championship belt fashions exactly the same statement. George will no doubt be there in the foreseeable future.

PART ONE of TWO in my magical, fantastical journey into Hong Kong

The first few days of a holiday is like waking from a nonsensical dream. There’s a series of events, but you don’t really know how you got to where you are in the first place – only snippets of it. I can’t remember much about the flight-in. See, the only thing I could remember was this bad joke I made about a well placed and meaningful airport sign (see, caption below) – everything else is a blur, which makes me retelling this narrative awfully convenient.

Hey, what did Ahmed say to - oh no! STOP! NO! YOU CAN'T...

Neon signs hang off sides of buildings, and the streets are always crowded with bustling people. Billboards shouting out brand names; Cartier, Hermes, Rolex etc, plaster the streets with robust, doctored faces of celebrities – Western and Asian alike endorsing them. Some of these billboard-plastered buildings are vined by cheap, decaying bamboo just to add to the irony. As if that wasn’t enough, buses, and trams are decorated with even more brands and slogans.

The whole nation is dictating what to buy, right to your face, whether you can afford it or not. I feel like such a country bumpkin.

But this place is incredibly pretty, I have to say. I’m going to dedicate the rest of this post to pretty snippets of pictures I’ve taken. As much as I love wordly paragraphs as the next writer wannabe, this fortnight’s going to have some literary downtime.

A gigantic cruiser, in the middle of the street, turned into a shopping mall

If imitation was the greatest form of flattery, then I'll have to say NEEEWW YAWWWKKK

Concrete jungle where dreams are made of?

These lights will inspiiire youuu

This was just outside the place I was staying at. Apparently it's a quieter part of Hong Kong, too.

As you can see, my photography is nowhere near as great as my writing skills, and I was equipped with just a phone camera. With 12 megapixels, but sadly just a phone camera nonetheless.

Moral of the story: Hong Kong is a shiny place.

Also, don’t forget to check out Project Popeye to laugh at all the bland food I am eating to prepare myself for my Thailand Kickboxing trip at the end of the year.

A highlight reel of January 2011 – Dedicated to Future Peter

That's 46kgs of luggage from Hong Kong to Sydney. Booyeah.

Fast forward to the middle of January and I’m spending a whole week seeing one of my best-est broes (I’m a writer. I write however I please) heading off to Queensland to study medicine for four years. I realise I have this inability to internalise unresolved attachment issues to people.

Blink through another week and I’m at the Enmore Theatre in Newtown. The 1920′s art deco style of the Enmore makes home for Lupe Fiasco – one of my favorite rap artists of all time. I thank God that I was made like a handsome, hairless hobbit that allows me to worm my way into the front row behind the metal divider.

A rapper caught in a rockstar pose. Because Lupe pulls it off

It was one of the most intimate concerts I’ve been to. He has literally an unlimited amount of energy that amps up as the show goes on. Youtube videos will be uploaded soon.

Jump to to early February and I’m having a very uncomfortable conversation to my manager. I’m going to quit the job I’ve had for five years now. Farewell. Adieu. What I imagined was far worse than what had happened. Relief.

This is when I realise what I’ve been holding on for so long was just a crutch for me. Now I don’t have to worry about financial stability because I am not earning much but I’ve never felt more wealthy, because my wealth comes from time. Like my bro living in Queensland now, I am not confined to live a reality that does not have my dreams in it.

However, I am as poor as Oliver Twist, and I cannot survive alone on unhealthy peasant food, especially if I want to continue my other dream of being a cage-fighter. I plan a disciplined diet that involves eating a strategic amount of proteins, fats and healthy carbohydrates. My staple food become canned beans and spinach.

Follow Project Popeye here. Technically, it’s still peasant food.

Sometimes we just have to let go of our inhibitions to drive through to what we really want in life. It’s gonna involve a lot of hard work, self-discipline, and taking risks. Let’s take this gentleman for example:

I meant the 50 Cent doppelganger.

As the little-known drummer for Lupe’s little-known supporting act, he wasted no time after his set to join the crowd. As the most famous person on the floor allowed him countless vanity pictures – and picked up two African chicks he so blatantly gamed on. Well played.

Moral of the story is. You never know until you try.

One night back in 2006, I was heading back home from a house party in Burwood. Being young and impressionable (read: immature and retarded), I had proven my worth as the Alpha Male in the party by consuming an unhealthy amount of alcohol and vomiting all over my impressionable teenage clothing. This made my chances of boarding a cab pretty slim. However, a cab pulled up on the main road I was waiting and I hopped in.

I’m greeted by the stench old Indian take-away. I don’t mean to stereotype here, but the smell was so overpowering, I lost scent of my own nasal nuclear disaster. Not my proudest moment, but I didn’t have any issues getting rejected due to a lack of personal hygiene.

Moments later we were on the road. I’m sitting in the front passenger seat. The driver was a bald middle aged Indian man that looked like Ghandi if he were overweight. For the sake of this story, he will be known as ‘Stan.’
In my inebriated state, I decided to humour him by fabricating as much of my own life to a complete stranger. I wanted to see how well I could lie believably.

I told him I was employed at Ernst & Young in the City, a major accounting firm. I had started off being a caddy for an golf course, and one of the managers decided to hire me to be his PA. Funnily enough, Stan bought it and laughed in agreement and proceeded to tell me a story even more bizarre. Apparently back in Pakistan, Stan used to be a limousine driver to rich aristocrats and executives. While the job was normal enough, Stan admitted to me that he had a habit of going through their belongings.

He told me that it was very common for many passengers to leave prescription drugs behind, and claims to have found a bottle of Viagra once. I laughed and encouraged him to go on.

One golf bag he opened, as he proclaimed, contained a large assortment of sexual paraphernalia. He continued to explain each object in gleeful detail. There was a sick enjoyment to Stan’s face. I was going to throw up again.

Stan told me he that he could take what he wanted, because everyone would be too embarrassed to claim missing luggage of that nature. Then it got weirder. He proceeded to offer to sell me a whole bottle of Viagra. I politely declined.

“Are you sure?” He asked in his thick Indian accent.

“I’ll throw in a few vibrators too. Good deal, you won’t get it anywhere else.”

On the 26^th of May 2010 at approximately 9:15AM excitement and drama stirred in the normally quiet and routine suburb of Campsie. I was inside the warehouse of Cincotta Chemist doing menial tasks when Dominic G. – my boss, rushes in claiming that a robbery went on just up the road. The details weren’t precisely clear yet, but it involved somebody getting shot, the po-leece and all sorts of testosterone driven entertainment!

So fifteen minutes later, I did what every self-indulgent, self-made investigative journalist would do in a situation like this:

Well what would you prefer - zucchini or money?

Of course, I wasn’t satisfied with waiting until the seven o’clock news, so I did some digging around myself.  As a disclaimer, I never actually left the warehouse; I used others who were in contact with potential witnesses, so technically their truths may be obscured already – but why would a Store-Boy and Bread-Man lie*?

The first recollection came from Dominic himself, as mentioned previously. He said :

They blocked off all of Evaline St. There are choppers in the sky and this guy got shot trying to rob the fruit market! Why on Earth wouldn’t they rob them! Think of the weekend trading, and all the money there. Did you pull out all the Aisle 1 stock yet?

Around lunch-time, my valued food barterer and all around lovable store-boy Nick came back with another testimony. This time it was from the (least nice**) lady working at Charcoal Chicken: The Best Chickens and Chips on Earth. Now, bearing in mind Charcoal Chicken is right across the road from our store and at least half a kilometre away from the incident. She said:

These guys parked their car vertically across the road, stopping all traffic and shot at the fruit market. God was obviously working his miracle magic all the bullets managed to hit the rear wall of the fruit market (which in rough estimation was about 10+ metres into the store, not including obstacles) leaving nice, round bullet-holes.

All of a sudden I’ve got my very own Rashomon Effect happening. It’s when, according to Wikipedia, observers of an event are able to produce substantially different but equally plausible accounts of said event. But the story continues – or just changes.

Later in the day Nick goes to the National Australia Bank which is adjacent to the fruit market, and is designed to have open three glass walls with the tellers facing directly into the street. So when he came back from the bank, he gives me another recollection – this time from the teller. Now with the description above, she must have the best possible vantage point as a witness, right? Well, read on:

These two guys came out of their car in the middle of the street – then all the four doors of the car opened. The police came right after and they started shooting. The two guys took refuge behind the car doors, shot back for a while – then promptly drove off.

My final recount came early next morning, when Adam, the nocturnal Bread-Man told me the take from the fruit shop owner’s perspective:

This car stopped in the middle of the road, and all of a sudden police came out of nowhere, I heard gunshots so I [commando rolled] into a crate of fruit.

Of course, nobody covers the story better than the SMH, here’s the full account of what actually happened:

http://www.smh.com.au/nsw/police-open-fire-in-sydney-shopping-street-as-gang-ambush-backfires-20100524-w6kf.html

However, if I, Peter Chi, was an investigative journalist, and I had just heard first hand recounts mentioned previously – then my story would have gone a whole lot more awry:

Moral of the story is: If Peter Chi becomes a reporter, don’t give him stories to do with any slight amount of guns, violence, Campsie or smooth criminals.

*I give full operational trust in Nick and Adam’s objective recounting skills. Yesterday, Nick was taught the meaning of faux pas, and is using it to great credibility. Adam on the other hand sleeps at 8PM every single night. That’s sign of a trustworthy person right there.

**Out of the three ladies that work there, she is the indignant one about serving sizes. The other two are pretty awesome.

Do you ever imagine yourself at some point into the future? How far? Are you the type of person who sees every little step involved like a progressive series (you know, A to B, B to C all the way down to Y to “oh me in the future”) or do you shoot blindly and hope it goes somewhere (Like the A to Z, “but it’ll happen eventually”)? Or are you somewhere in between.  Give it some thought.

Unfortunately, I am the blind shooter. I can visualise the cool things in life that might happen:

“Picture this, Peter Chi in New York; gorgeous wife and kids; successful screenwriter; mentored by Quentin Tarantino; has lunch with Edward Norton every Thursday; gets calls from James Cameron about script direction; and rolls deep with his entourage.”

I kind of regret typing that, because there is drool all over my keyboard and my heart is beating vigorously for some reason. And no, the future gorgeous wife didn’t do it.

But I can’t keep giving myself that tease of a fantasy any more. I needed something concrete; something real to work with.

So earlier this week, while I was rummaging through my desk to find something (probably an old issue of The Amazing Spider-Man, knowing me) I found scraps of uni work from last semester. I thumbed through sheets of last semester’s class printouts and course guides with indifference, until I came across a worksheet with questions like this:

What sort of job do you see yourself doing in five years?

My response, which was written what looks like a red crayola crayon:

97% of straight women agree that this is an attractive career choice for Peter Chi

I am a combination of amused, disappointed and somewhat regretful that I didn’t take that questionnaire seriously. Because when I read it again it was EXACTLY what I needed to get into focus.

So this week, I decided to spend my time and fill out an abridged, more personalised version of my own (As a HR student, I have the necessary skills to do this. Booer!). You can find a copy of it for your own enjoyment in the link ahead:

THE FIVE YEARS TIME TEST

I finished it on Friday arvo and something struck me like a thousand volts.

I’m probably not an A-B-C-D-…-Z person or even anywhere in close in likeness, but hell, I know what to do now:

http://www.thefilmmakersfactory.com/the-script-factory/

This is something I’m going to do. I’m nervous, excited, empowered, and a little cynical: this better not be a scam to steal my $45.

So if you read this far, thank you. If you want to support this little vision of mine – well, hugs and kisses. I will forever be grateful.

Moral of the day: Edward Norton is possibly the best actor of our generation. He is so awesome at what he does, i have the biggest non-sexual man-crush on him. yeeeeee.

Salutations and mung-beans, ya’ll!

I am glad Hollywood has decided to reverse the role of which type of men get the most women. I believe I’ve got Tobey McGuire to thank for this. Never has geeky looked so appealing to the female masses. But enough of that, Kick-Ass is probably the most refreshing movie of its genre I’ve seen in a long while.

Based on Mark Millar’s comic by the same name, Kick-Ass revolves around David Lizewski, a teenage nobody who decides to put some spandex on, and fight crime. This isn’t one of those generic superhero origin stories either, as the protagonist drones well into the first scene. He’s got no powers, no special training of any kind; he’s just a bored and sexually frustrated high schooler. He doesn’t even have a cool motive.

I loved the original comic book series for its complete disregard for social conventions and the Fight Club style of visceral shock-humor. The movie delivers on the same note, with enough butchering, decapitation, car related incidents and a very generous amount of prop and CGI blood usually followed by a humorously dark pique, all done in beat.

You’ve got to give props to director Mathew Vaughn for following the source material so rigorously. I’m very glad that nowadays, fan input and veracity to the source is crucial for ticket sales as well as a medium to critical acclaim. The late 00’s is a good time to be a comic book nerd.

During one stage of the movie, I instantly recognised Kick-Ass illustrator and co-creator John Romita Jr’s involvement in the animated comic book montage of one of the characters. Major geek-gasm there. Nick Cage’s character also did the ol’ Adam West-1980s Batman voice, which was once again, a tingle to the nerd-senses.

I especially enjoyed Christopher Mintz-Plasse (or Fogell as most would know him), playing the physically challenged, whiny son of the antagonist. His impish nerdiness never fails to entertain. Aaron Johnson who played David played his role well, if not a little unforgettable and I don’t blame him, that whole love story subplot made me think that instead of being in an awesome Mark Millar adaptation, we’re watching a stereotypical teen movie. Boo. It made the whole scheme of things feel so domesticated and cliché.

You know, I still can’t pinpoint the highlight of Kick-Ass. It’s not the well choreographed scenes about a purple haired ten year old girl in a mask armed with ninja swords decapitating mob goons. Although that was pretty cool. It’s not the eclectic soundtrack (John Murphy’s In a house in a heartbeat from 28 Days Later was used here PERFECTLY).

It’s just fun.

Like the comic book, it doesn’t take itself too seriously to the point where things become camp, but while dealing with serious issues as well. With the exception of a few minor gripes, I’d be most gladly to give the movie 4 stars.

And for those curious, the film got an R-rating, because a ten year old girl uttered the most profane word in the English language. Brownie points there for the daring.