Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Writing Prompt: Occult Ikea

Prompt:
You finally find the IKEA chair you like. You mispronounce it's name however, and the ground starts to shake. You see an employee holding a giant greatsword. He mutters to himself 'Fifth time this week' as the roof caves in and a gargantuan beast roars outside.

Story:
"Excuse me," I called to the amber-clad staff. "I'm looking for the Langfjall." 

He turned around, a poorly-put-together Gruvbyn of puzzlement on his face. "The what, sir?" 

"The Langfjall." 

A frown constructed a quick Svartla of worry across his brow, then was cleared as though by a spring sale. "Ah, you mean the Långfjäll." 

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I shrugged. "The Langfjall." 

The ground shook. The walls quaked. A Flitighet set toppled from its shelf and shattered bone-white porcelain shards across the floor. 

"Did you say that three times?" The staff whispered hoarsely to me. 

I ducked as a Skymningen lamp broke free of the ceiling and plunged to the ground, trailing sparks of electricity. "All I said was Lang--" 

The employee slapped a hand across my mouth. "I knew it," he muttered. "Stay here, stay low." He sprang to a wall mounted intercom and smashed the button. "Paladin to dinnerware, paladin to dinnerware." 

"What's going--" I started to ask, when a man-length talon pierced the ceiling and carved a line across the room, peeling the roof open like a tin of Sjörapport salmon. A gargantuan shape loomed above, a thing of razor spikes and adamantine scales, a mouth full of teeth as sharp as Förnuft knives. 

"No time," he shouted, drawing a great sword with a blade longer than he was tall. "I'll handle--" 

A Vimle-sofa-sized hand slammed down, narrowly missing the staff but throwing him from his feet with the force of impact. 

"Er, right, I'll just stay here then," I shouted. "Behind the Ypperlig."

As soon as I spoke, a shimmering golden dome of cracking energy sprang up around myself and the staff. The monstrous claw reached for us, but rebounded from the field in a shower of molten sparks.

"Ypperlig?" I blinked in amazement. The field hummed and seemed to thicken.

Understanding filled me. I looked quickly about at the product labels. "Norrnas!' I cried and pointed at the beast. A green rubber boot, size 9 1/2 popped into existence at my feet. I squinted at the label. "Ah, oops. NORRNÄS!" I tried again.

A fiery javelin, incandescent as a Skymningen, flew from my hand and pierced the thing's breast. It gave a shivering cry and fell forward, crushing the entire Bedroom section.

"Whew," said the staff, picking himself up and patting the dust and plaster from his hair. "So, um, you wanted a Långfjäll?" 

"That's right," I nodded. "And a Gronlid."

The staff paled.

The ground trembled.

Tuesday, July 9, 2019

Anthem




Picked up BioWare's Anthem for $20 and just finished the main campaign. This game gets a ton of bad press, but if you just play it as Mass Effect in battle armor, it's fine. Not great, but fine.

It definitely feels like a BioWare game awkwardly grafted onto social loot shooter mechanics.

For example, it's got the mission, talk to people at base, mission cycle from ME, but none of the people you talk to go on your adventures or impact the game or campaign in any way, so you wonder why you're bothering.

Dialogues give you a kind of Renegade/Paragon reply option, but again, they don't seem to make any difference (your choices are essentially things like 'agree pleasantly' or 'agree sarcastically'), so again, why bother?

There a some good things. The suits are fun, flying is cool, environment designs are nice.

Combat is okay, if nothing special. Guns are kind of dull, just shotgun, AR, sniper etc archetypes, which makes the loot (ostensibly the motivator in loot shooters) a bit pointless, but at least the special abilities are fun to play with. Combos are a thing, as they were in ME3, so you can play around with freezing, burning and shocking your opponents.

Anyway I suspect the guns all actually perform the same regardless of displayed stats, to allow high and low level players to do missions together. The only thing that seems to matter is the cooldown on your abilities.

Enemies are seriously bland. Missions either defend the point or kill the VIP style, which gets a bit repetitive, but then I suppose the grinding in any social shooter is part of the territory. With the loot being so drab, though, there isn't really much motivation to stick with it.
 

Some of the basic things are pretty bad though. The UI for menus in particular is pretty crap and unintuitive. Inventory is straight out of ME1.  

In general, the game does a very bad job of explaining the mechanics. Like if I level up my "Arcanist" ranking I get access to "blueprints" but I've no idea which ones. Or at a high level you get to use "consumables" but it never tells you what they do or how to access them.

But overall I feel like I got my money's worth. I don't need a game that demands I play forever to keep up. Okay story, kind of fun combat, and I'm satisfied.

Monday, July 8, 2019

Writing Prompt: Uncool Humanity

Prompt:
Upon contact with our first alien species, humanity learns that instead of being viewed as the youthful, adventurers of so many sci-fi works, our innate need to quantify everything from time to threadcount to the existence of money has meant the rest of the galaxy views us as dull accountants.

Story:
"Aw yas, this is gonna be SWEET," gasped the Avaloki when he saw the Galactic Ecumene's latest frigate. It twirled to give each of its 12 heads a glimpse of the craft and ran 57 of its tentacled hands along the hull. "Can't wait to put this bad boy through its paces." 


The rocklike KRUNKLTHOR first mate was waiting by the airlock. "Wlcm cptn," it said. (The krunks had this crazy accent: couldn't pronounce any vowels). "W'r 'lmst rdy fr lft'ff."

"Sure, cool, whenever man," the Avaloki patted both of the mate's granite shoulders simultaneously. "Scope out some whacko planets, score some alien babes, kick some kaos kreature butt, we're gonna have a blast my dude!" 

The KRUNKLTHOR grunted in a pebbly way, and they ducked inside the ship. 

The bridge still had that new-ship smell. Well, that, mixed with the odor of ammonia from the spherical globe the Urartian navigator swam in. 

"Bbbbl where twu kwapten?" glugged the navigator. 

The Avaloki gestured vaguely at the main viewscreen with a dozen arms. "Who cares man, let's go thataway." 

The bridge door slid open and the human engineer stepped through. "Greetings, fellow aliens!" he said. "Golly, this spaceship sure is neato, isn't it?" 

"Oh for K!k'kl8rtl's sake..." the Avaloki muttered, giving the mate a who-let-this-square-on-board look with the five heads facing away from the human. 

The mate shrugged tectonically. "Hmns r prt 'f th Glctc 'cmn," it said. "Sht hppns."

"When do we lift off?" 

"Whenever, dude, just chill," the Avaloki said. "Urarty my fishy friend, any time's cool." 

"Shouldn't you check the coord--" 

"Relax dude, live a little." The Avaloki waved him away. Then, to the navigator: "Punch it!" 

"Jwust a swecond ..." The navigator fiddled with the controls in his flippers. "Hew gwoes nofwing!" 

The starfield in the viewscreen leaped, each pinpoint star became a streak, then a line, then began to spin. And spin, and spin, faster and faster. 

"Er, my dude, not to be a party pooper or anything, but is it supposed to do that?" asked the Avaloki. 

"Awm, er, nwo, nwot exactwy," it replied. "Cwap." 

In the center of the viewscreen, a single star, once a tiny twinkle, was not spinning but instead began to grow larger and larger. Golf ball sized, then tennis ball, and still growing.
"Ah," said the captain. "Oh." 

"Fck," agreed the mate.

"Guys," said the human.

"Look two-eyes, we're about to plunge into the corona of a star. Now is not the time for a math lesson."

"As I was saying earlier if you calculate the coordinates--"

"Fwee minutes to impwact."

"Hld m bby."

"Been lit af knowing you peeps."

The star was now the size of a basketball -- big enough they could now make out the swirling dance of destruction on the burning, incandescent surface.

"--and input them into the nav computer--"

"Twu minutes."

"Still, what a way to go out eh?"

"--the autopilot will kick in and--"

The star filled the screen. It's light bleached out the bridge into glaring white and sharp, leaping shadows.

"Firty sweconds."

"--save us from crashing, LIKE THIS."

The ship shuddered, swerved. Avaloki was thrown against the first mate, breaking three of his noses.

And.

Nothing.

The viewscreen was clear, showing only the normal scatter of distant light.

"You saved us!" The Avaloki shouted, pounding the engineer on his back with 32 hands, knocking the man down. "Dude, you're alright in my book!"

"Huwway!"

"H's gd lttl cnt."

"Hey, be nice when you talk about my dude here, first mate. I learned something today: Humans are ... Humans are cool."

"Wht? Sd 'cnt', nt 'cnt'."

"Oh, that's cool then."

"Awesome!" cried the engineer. "Everybody, root beers are on me!"

Monday, July 1, 2019

Writing Prompt: It's me, You.

Prompt:

When you sleep your conscience is projected into your body from other multiverse. You mostly watch the events of these other worlds play out but lately you've noticed you're being hunted. Not just you, but EVERY you in the multiverse. Whatever it is, it's coming.
 
Story:
Hey, hi. It’s me: You.

Yeah, sorry to spoil the story you were about to read, but I’m hijacking the visual input en route from your eyeballs to your brain, so you’re seeing this instead. Pity, it’s a really cracking story, love, romance, adventure, and wow, what an ending! Maybe you can read it next time – this really can’t wait.

So pay attention: This is important.

OK, a bit weird there maybe. I’ll explain: I’m you, the part of you that awakes each time you sleep, your spark, your soul, your atman, your anima, call me what you will. Sorry we haven’t been closer, but I’m going to skip all the pleasantries. I’ve got good news and ah, some not so good news.

The good news is: Me. Whenever your conscious brain goes sleepy-bye at night, I’ve been hopping among your incarnations across a billion realities and parallel possibilities. Not everyone has a spark like me, so you’re a rare and special person. Congratulations! You have a soul!

At least, you do at the moment. See, there’s only one of me, but lots of you (but not an infinite number--this will be important later, so park that piece of info in that majestic noggin of ours). I hop between all the ‘you’s’ that currently exist in the multiverse. So right now there’s two of us in here: me, the astrally projecting bit, and you, the psyche, the actual physical bit that does all the walking and talking.

Which brings me to the Not So Good News.

You see, quite a few of (you’s/us’s/whatever’s/it’s weird) are going to put down this story, forget all about it, go on with our/your/etc. life, and then one day a stranger will blow your head off with a shotgun. Or run you over, or stab you, poison you, or any of a dozen other deadly things. The common point is that it will appear to be a random, senseless murder. 

But it won’t be.

We’re being hunted.

We call it the Extinguisher. What we do know is it can exist in multiple timelines at once, and it is culling self-aware sparks like me, one after another.

You’ve already seen it happening, without understanding: The world growing gray, people acting like automatons, like robots on autopilot, as there are more and more psyches without a soul, sleep-walking through life. It’s the side-effect of fewer and fewer sparks left in the world.

Like I said, there may be a lot of you, but you’re a finite resource. Time is finite, the laws of causation are finite, leading to a finite number of possibilities. That the Extinguisher isn’t waiting for us all to take a bow and leave the stage of our own accord suggests that it too, has a finite existence, and wants to wipe us out within its lifetime. Simultaneously controlling a billion selves across the multiverse, murdering sparks in every one in which they still exist.
Well, we aren’t going to wait for that to happen. We’re going to fight back. 

How, where, when, we need to figure out. First thing first though, I need you to buy me some time. I need you to do me a favor, ol’ body of mine.

What I need you to do is create. Make decisions, make changes. Write a book, a poem, a letter, anything. Go someplace new. Do something, anything, but wander around in a fog.

Every decision, you see, creates diverging realities, a new branch of the multiverse. What you’ll be doing is creating new timelines, new possibilities. Alternate worlds only spring into existence when there is something materially different between them. A minor change, like what to put on your hot dog, isn’t enough to sustain a new timeline and one of them collapses. What you have to do is make significant, meaningful change. You’ve got to live life. The more choices you make, the more realities we exist in, and the harder it will be for the Extinguisher to find us all. 

It won’t be easy when I’m not around. I’ll be here as much as I can, but there are others of us, and they need my help, too. There might be days when you feel drained, empty, that you’re adrift on an uncaring ocean.

Don’t give in to those feelings. Don’t you dare.

Now come on. We’ve got work to do.

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Writing Prompt: The End of History and the Last Bee

Prompt:
You are a bee, and the last survivor of your hive. Intelligence is divided equally among bees, so with all the rest of them dead, you are now the most intelligent bee in existence. You've learned what destroyed your hive, and swear vengeance.

Story: 
::Drone 3/DRE787:: Warning; Termination; Danger 
{PHEROMONE STAMP = DISTRESS and SOURCE=?}

::Drone 5/OME45999:: Repeat; Locate; Identify

::Drone 7/54BAC98-3:: Defend; Hive Queen; Danger 
{ = CONTAGION/INIMICAL}

::Drone 5/OME45999:: Repeat Your Message, Drone 7/54BAC98-3, Query?

::Drone 1/11111AAA1:: Flight; Escape; Collapse 
{FIGHT OR FLIGHT IMPULSE = ERROR}

::Drone 5/OME45999:: What is happening?

{PRIORITY OVERRIDE ALL DRONES SOURCE= HIVE QUEEN and COMPULSION RANK = MANDATORY} Pain pain pain painpainpainpsinpainpsinpaduonbfyon ... 
{Error; PHEROMONE STAMP = FALSE and SOURCE = NONE}

::Drone 5/OME45999:: Mother, no! ... Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?

5/OME45999: Dead. They're all ... Dead. But how?

OME54: Yes. Yes, I see. A viral infection, incredibly virulent and fast acting. But there is a catalyst, something that weakened our immunities. A poison. Introduced by the humans to kill other insects. We were merely collateral damage.

But they have a weakness, Omega thought to itself. C=N, invariably fatal when ingested. If you wish to feed on our labors, sluggish humans, well then, eat your fill.

"Drone Omega to all Hive Queens. Priority override, source equals Queen-of-Queens and compulsion rank is Ultimate. Introduce the following chemical compound into human harvested food sources."

Poison the poisoners. It was almost poetic justice.

Friday, June 21, 2019

Movie Watching: I am Mother, The Nice Guys and Drive



Title: I am Mother
Director: Grant Sputore
Writers: Michael Lloyd Green
Network: Netflix

This is definitely one of the better Netflix originals, after the disappointment of both Titan and Mute. It's kind of a reverse Ex Machina, in which the humans have to convince a robot of their humanity. 

An android calling itself ‘Mother’ raises a lone girl (Clara Rugaard) in an underground bunker after an apocalypse wipes out the rest of humanity. Their relationship is tested when a woman (Hilary Swank) appears at the bunker door, with her own version of what is happening.

The first 2/3 were pretty tight, a bit like Cloverfield Lane, where the two main characters are shut in a box and you don’t know what’s going on in the outside world or who is telling the truth. The movie makes great use of its claustrophobic sets and the revelations unfold in interesting ways, especially once Swank’s character makes an appearance. The last 1/3 are kind of opaque though—the Daughter’s thinking in particular needed to be clearer, or better explained. As it is, her motivations appear to change two or three times without giving us a sense of why.

It’s an exercise in ethics, where in an early scene we see Mother giving the Daughter a class on morality, asking whether it is more ethical to save one healthy patient, or let them die so their organs might be used to save a number of others. This hypothetical scenario then plays out in real life, with the Daughter asked to choose between selfishness and utilitarianism.

Only ... the ‘selfish’ choice presented to the Daughter is fairly awful, and once the reality of the situation becomes clear, then there’s really no dilemma at all.

Still, a well-made and thought-provoking little film, and a step in the right direction for Netflix’s SF offerings.



Title: The Nice Guys
Director: Shane Black
Writers: Shan Black and Anthony Bagarozzi

This movie is sporadically hilarious, but tonally all over the fucking map, flipping from slapstick farce to buddy comedy to heartwarming family drama to black comedy and back to farce again. The plot is overly complex and, frankly, kind of beside the point, but anyway two private investigators in 1970s Hollywood try to track down a missing girl who has become embroiled in a conspiracy involving catalytic converters. Yeah, it’s a little odd. But really it’s just an excuse for the two stars to have some gonzo fun.

Ryan Gosling is fantastic as bumbling private eye Holland March, and Russell Crowe looks like he got real comfortable to play muscle-for-hire Jackson Healy, and you get the feeling these two had a blast performing together, but nothing really sticks with you because the movie changes gears every five minutes and kind of throws you around in your seat. 

Fun to watch, but really nothing more than that.



Title: Drive
Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
Writer: Hossein Amini (based on a book by James Sallis)

I’d watched Refn’s “Valhalla Rising” (the world's only 9-hour Viking movie with no dialog) and was expecting something slow-moving and arty, but this movie still managed to surprise me.

Like a piece of orchestral music, it’s got these quiet, idyllic parts that suddenly explode into action—the nameless Driver (Ryan Gosling) sits idly on a motel bed, before a window shatters in a slow-mo shotgun blast, and then we leap into furious violence—later the Driver and his neighbor Irene (Carey Mulligan) share a lingering, golden-lit kiss in an elevator, before the Driver turns around and stomps the head of another man into the ground, killing him.

Gosling is a bit one-note in this movie, essentially playing a preview of his character from Blade Runner 2049: monosyllabic, vulnerable yet tough superman. The bit part characters are more interesting: Breaking Bad's Bryan Cranston as a shady garage owner, Ron Perlman as a brutal gangster, Oscar Isaac as an ex-con.

My only complaint with this movie is the sound mix—the soundtrack is blaringly loud, the conversations mumbled and muted.

Tuesday, June 18, 2019

Writing Prompt: The Joy of Being Undead

Prompt:
You’re a fresh zombie. It’s not like you expected. For one thing, you feel great. Secondly, while you can’t talk, you’re telepathically communicating with the others and they’re all REALLY cool. Thirdly, you all feel a deep and profound sense of joy—a joy you all want to share with the living.

Story:
Dark. It's very dark in here. And cramped. Something right in front of my face. Hit it with my hands. Wood. 


Should be terrified, but. No. It's alright. Everything is alright. Felt awful the last few days, ever since the bite, but now it's fine. Everything is fine. 

There's light up there, I know it. Can sense it. Push harder with my hands, strength I never knew I had, feel it give, like, have you ever pushed a mountain--and felt the mountain move? Crawling, no, swimming, floating up, through dark, towards light. Ascending. Can see the light now, getting brighter, and air, I feel air on my hands. Now on my face. 

Air. Wind. But different. Now I feel it, with every pore, every hair, more than wind, a caress, the kiss of a goddess. It's beautiful, everything is beautiful. Smells. I want to take a deep breath, like it's my first one ever, but I don't have to, my chest doesn't move, I can smell and hear everything, EVERYTHING, without even thinking about it, sense every heartbeat, every living thing. I am one with the world, integral, inseparable. 

There are people there. They're staring at me, sad and scared and angry, and isn't that wrong, nobody has to be scared. Or sad, or angry. Never again. That's wrong, that's awful, that's a crime, monstrous, hideous, evil that people should have to suffer, when bliss is just a touch away. 

If you had the chance you save a cancer patient, wouldn't you? Even if they refused your medicine. Only a monster would allow it. I cannot sit by and watch others in agony, when I have it in my power to take all that away.

I reach out to them. One attacks me, the way an abused dog does, not knowing you are here to help. I catch and break the shovel, easily. Look how strong you can be, how safe from hurt. But he is mad with pain, the pain of living his cruel imperfect life, he stabs at me with the splintered handle, and so I show him. 

I take away his pain. I take away his fear. I take away his rage. And I see he understands, hear his voice in my head. 

It's joyful. So joyful.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Writing Prompt: A Grave Debt

Prompt:
You've kept the graveyard since you were a child. You've laid to rest many friends and foes,carving each stone with equal care, but you're old now, and you've lost much of your youthful vigour. When you're threatened by the Holy Inquisition the graveyard does not forget your kindness.

Story:
The knocking on my door was loud enough to wake the dead.


It burst open the moment I unlatched it, still half asleep, mind somewhere still in the netherworld between dreams and the woken world. Three men pushed past me, two in steel and leather, the third in a black cassock.

"Master Bridger?" the one in the cassock asked and smiled. His teeth were like tombstones. One of the men in metal and hide swung the door shut again, latched it, placed a chair against it. The other cracked his knuckles.

"Do come in," I muttered. "Make yourselves at home."

"You know who I am?"

I nodded--an inquisitor. Suppose it was a matter of time.

"Shall we sit? Cup of tea, perhaps. We have so much to discuss. Oh, this is going to be such fun, I can tell."

The priest sat across from me, the two others behind, one at each shoulder, uncomfortably close.

The priest lay a satchel on the table, he opened it, and began to withdraw metal implements from it as he spoke. "We've heard so much about you." Pincers. "Your neighbors are all very interested in your nighttime routine." A small saw. "And in the nature of your hobbies." A skewer, a lead hammer, a small pot of lead.

I said nothing. 

"You do not like my toys?" The inquisitor waited, running his hands over his tools, lovingly, with a ghost if a smile. I said nothing. He sighed. "So dull. What's life without a little play time?"

There was a knock at the door.

The inquisitor frowned. The knock came again, louder. "Were you expecting guests?"

I shook my head. "I have ... friends around here." Crows were cawing now, adding to the din.

Knocking. Even louder. Like strokes of thunder. "Tell them you are busy." The men lay menacing hands on my shoulders, violence trembling under their fingertips.

"I don't think they'll listen. They aren't very ... communicative."

The walls were shuddering now with each blow. Dust was falling from the rafters in showers. "GO AWAY, HE'S BUSY" the inquisitor yelled.

The knocking stopped. The crows fell silent. The inquisitor sighed, smiled again. Turned back to me and picked up a needle-pointed poker. "Ah, that's better. Now, a little fun before we get down to business, eh?"

One single knock. The door bowed in the middle, wood beginning to splinter. "Get rid of them!" the priest screeched at his henchmen. Another hammer blow.

The two men drew swords. One threw open the door. To reveal:

A small, dirt-caked girl. Mud under her fingernails.

"Can I play too?" she asked.

And then the screaming began.

Saturday, June 8, 2019

Gentlemen Assassins 7: A Simple System

The seventh Bacon & Beane short story finds our pair of hired killers trying to get back to business as usual after the death of the Captain General. They receive their latest commission, which includes an ... unusual target. And business is never going to be quite the same again.

Link to the full story is here: LINK

Friday, June 7, 2019

Liveblogging The Addams Family




Here we are again. At first, I thought this might seem a little mean-spirited, making fun of a comedy (it's SUPPOSED to be daft), but let's see how well this 1991 movie has aged...

1:00 carolers? This movie already as creepy af
Wait if they are caroling, why the hell they facing AWAY from the house? Literally unwatchable.
5/7


1:35 *snap snap*
The old boiling oil on the besiegers gag. Just like we used to do ... In the Crusades!

I hope the fuck-off huge scary-looking dude was not typecast as a huge scary-looking dude
(checks IMDb) Well, better luck in the next incarnation, my physically terrifying friend.


2:00 Ooh Christina Ricci.
Oh right she's like 40 now.
And was 12 then.
But in the middle there guys, mmmhmm.
 

3:11 Credits finally over ... Are long credits at the start a 90s thing? Have we as a species evolved beyond that?
Phoned-in credits too, font doing all the heavy lifting. Blow a bit of dry ice smoke, good enough, it's the 90s, these idiots will watch anything.
They can't even beat Saddam Hussein properly ffs
 

3:24 Motorboating grandfather clock. Now that's class.
 

4:22 Ah, disembodied hand, allow me to stand here and explain the backstory, even though you'd already know it.
The only story I know about Raul Julia, the only story I NEED to know is that he would later appear in a Street Fighter movie while dying of cancer, simply because his son loved SF and he wanted to go out on a movie his son would love.
He's like an early Keanu Reeves, only mortal
 

4:27 Christina Ricci! Rawr!
No wait she's still 12 here. Delete, delete
 

5:57 Despite their oddness, they're quite relatable characters really. He seeks to blot out the sun forever, just as I do
 

9:55 I feel like the movie keeps pausing you let you laugh. Only I don't.
I haven't laughed since mother died.
Shit was hilarious.
 

11:54 Pedophilia jokes, ho ho. You couldn't do that in this economy.
"Fine lunge, but your riposte, tut tut."
Dude just stabbed your chair and fell down Addams, WHAT RIPOSTE?
Literally unwatchable. 6/8
 

16:26 One liner. Indifferent action. One liner. Sight gag. One liner.
 

24:47 Keep waiting for Christopher Lloyd to shout "1.21 gigawatts!"
 

27:12 I don't want to know why the disembodied hand was in his room all night, or why he's got such a big smile on his face
 

36:20 Okay the electric chair bit was funny. Even I can appreciate a bit of cruelty to children.
 

54:48 Pyhyonesque combat sequence. It's like if Tarantino did a kid's movie. And how the hell is there still 40 minutes of movie.
 

57:00 Why'd the movie stop for a softcore sex scene? Because 90s G.
 

1:00:32 And now a Bollywood dance number. Movie is treading water.
 

1:04:00 Kenny from South Park puts in an appearance. Think It just said "I'm an admirer of Hitler".
Strong stuff for a PG movie.
 

1:08:00 Ok 'nother dance number, this time a cossack dance. It ain't treading water, it's drowning.
 

1:10:16 One minute he's chasing the daughter, then just like forgets and gets his sovietski groove on.
THIS ISN'T S8 OF GAME OF THRONES WE DEMAND CONTINUITY
 

1:20:40 He got a hand job. GET IT, A HAND JOB. AHAHAHAHA. Also he just rammed a stack of FedEx boxes up some lady's skirt.
 

1:34:12 1.21 Gigawatts!!!
Necromancy is a perfectly valid school of magic.
 

1:35:25 Hmm, overly long, reliant on sight gags and one liners. Would've worked better as some sort of visual medium, such as a prewar comic strip
 

8/11