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“No one reads the Internet on Fridays” — a nugget of wisdom coined by one Sean D. Francis, author of The Savvy Life, The Stygian Labyrinth, The Savvy Stygian Life, and other projects too numerous to recount. In general, I’ve found this to be true — Friday is the day people are getting out of work early, packing up, leaving town, having hot threesomes with supermodels — well, whatever they’re doing, they’re not reading the Internet, that’s for damn sure.

In the spirit of this, I offer a brand-new “feature,” No One Reads Fridays — the central gag of which is my writing something so casual and devoid of substance, that I don’t care whether or not you read it — which you won’t, because it’s Friday! Now, I know what you’re going to say. How does this differ from any other blog entry? Oh, you’re a laugh riot. I’ll tell you how — because this one has a cool name, Carlos Mencia. A name that breaks down to the acronym NORF.

The defense rests. On with the show.

The Science of Sleep

Last night — which was a bit of an early weekend for me — I watched no less than three movies: Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams, Darren Aronofsky’s Pi, and Michel Gondry’s The Science of Sleep. The first two films were fine offerings — Dreams was a bit slower than I would have liked (and this coming from the man who sat through Broken Flowers three times), and Pi was as good as I remember it being, with a little late-Nineties nostalgia added into the mix. (Is it really time to be nostalgaic for the Nineties already? It doesn’t seem possible.) The Science of Sleep, on the other hand, will heretofore be known in my personal lexicon as The Science of Pissing Me the Fuck Off.

I’ll just say up front, no one is more disappointed than me about this. I have a really high tolerance for quirk. I enjoy the collected films of Wes Anderson, have a huge crush on Charlie Kaufman, and gave exceedingly high marks to Little Miss Sunshine, a film some have accused of lethal quirk levels. The Science of Sleep, however, just tried my patience — and then broke my patience over its knee like a piece of cheap balsa wood and hurled it at a passing bicyclist.

The story, if it can be called that, revolves around a young artist, Stephane Miroux (Gael Garcia Bernal) who moves into an apartment in Paris, has a lousy job, and falls in love with his eccentric neighbor, Stephanie (Charlotte Gainsburg). Stephane has a rich fantasy life, and his dreams seem to frequently spill into reality, which means that crazy shit can, and will, happen at a moment’s notice. Stephane notices this about halfway through the film, but it makes absolutely no difference in the narrative, since the same amount of crazy shit happens after this realization.

The entire movie is dreamlike in tone and structure, which is interesting (and even charming) for about half an hour, but when you’re two hours in and people are still saying random, nonsensical things that have no substance or meaning, the movie begins to feel like walking through quicksand. Gondry apparently felt that making a movie about dreams meant never having to bother with conflict, resolution, or even integrity of character — all the characters in the movie behave in a completely random fashion, their very personalities changing from scene to the next. It doesn’t help that the protagonist is a whining, cryptic dope who never comes close to growing or changing throughout the film. I tend to really like flawed characters in movies, but Stephane Miroux is a young man deeply in need of a good prison shanking.

Granted, there are quite a few moments of genuine visual brilliance in The Science of Sleep, and a few ideas that I found genuinely charming. Overall, though, it’s been years since I’ve seen a movie I literally wanted to punch in the face, but The Science of Sleep made the cut. I think the last film I hated this much was probably Titanic, or maybe Armageddon. Even Gilliam’s deeply flawed, garishly surreal Tideland was miles better than The Science of Sleep. I really wanted to love this movie — regrettably, I can’t even come anywhere near recommending it.

State of the Onion: Battlestar Galactica

The season finale of Battlestar Galactica‘s third season is rapidly approaching, and I’m trying desperately to care. Watching the last three episodes of this season, I’m reminded of the Deep Space Nine cycle of storytelling, wherein the audience was treated to one low-budget morality play after another, in order to “save up” for the huge space battle that would come at the season finale. Well, let me tell you, this better be one impressive fucking battle.

When it comes to televised sci-fi, I’ve never gone so rapidly from enthusiasm to indifference as I have with the third season of the new BSG. Even when Babylon 5‘s massive story arc ended prematurely, taking away the Shadows and leaving us with gay telepathic circus act Byron, I wasn’t nearly as disappointed as I have been with this season. I understand that the theme seems to be “man vs. himself,” as the Cylons have all but disappeared and left the crew to squabble over union dues and love triangles, but seriously, what the fuck? Starbuck has a spooky vision and plows it in? Apollo gets fat, slims down, and becomes a lawyer? The amazing story of Grizzled Space Lawyer and his Awesome Oakley Sunglasses? I keep waiting for Patrick Duffy to step out of the shower and tell us that this was all some terrible dream.

I want to stay loyal to BSG, because it’s one of the last genuinely good shows Sci-Fi has left (I mean, Eureka, for Christ’s sake?). But this season has tested me repeatedly. I was okay with not one but two Tyrol filler episodes in a row. I was even moderately okay with Adama having the most irrelevant flashback episode ever. But the tail end of this season is starting to feel like the third act of Ocean’s Twelve. It’s lost all direction, all dramatic thrust, and is just wallowing in its own crapulence at this point. Someone needs to toss out their series bible and make a fresh start in a big fucking hurry.

Here’s hoping the season finale proves me spectacularly wrong.

Rome: Tales of the Shitcanned

Hey, you know what series just discovered? Rome! It’s totally awesome! Oh, and by the way, it’s cancelled. I guess this means I shouldn’t get really excited for The Tudors, then, huh? It looks to be pretty much the same formula — boobies, public executions, and more boobies — but, you know, with doublets instead of laurel crowns. Meanwhile, BBC America’s new Robin of Sherwood series is a juvenile piece of treacle, and therefore will run for eighteen seasons.

Thanks for not reading!