December Case Load

And with that, November had snuck out the window like the pool boy in the night. December was upon the Global Op, bringing along with it the usual suspects of year end movies.  He'd done the legwork, kept his ear to the ground. He knew what he was up against. By now, only a crafty few had managed to evade the searchlights of the press. He'd listened to the predictions, the reactions as they floated through the smoke filled air of the internet speakeasies. Now the case files lay upon his desk, overwhelming in their chaos. "Rats", he muttered to no one. All morning he had searched for a diversion, would have even taken on a missing cat case, but none had come, and now it was raining out.

Left with nothing else, he unfurled his fingers from the fist that they all too often adopted out of habit and self preservation and picked up the rocks glass that had been sitting in wait all afternoon. So armed, he slumped into the slatted chair and began to work.

Most Wanted

There were a few each year, those few, those precious few whose cases he would take for free. They were the reasons he had become a private eye in the first place, the ones who still took pride in their craft, brought something new, got him to smile, to think, to feel. They were the ones who didn't just walk into the nearest 7-11 with a gun and a mask. They were the dreamers, the ones who went for the big scores, and he damn well respected them for it.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
 Even without the advance buzz, it would have caught his eye. It was a professional crew at work here. A classic combination, a group of old masters: Gary Oldman(Sid and Nancy, The Professional, The Dark Knight), Colin Firth (King's Speech, A Single Man), John Hurt(Alien, Hellboy, The Proposition), paired up with young talent: Tom Hardy (Inception, Bronson), Benedict Cumberbatch(Sherlock). When done right, it was hard to beat. The masters would play it cool and low, sinking into their roles, while the proteges add a bit of flash, still trying to leave a mark, talented for sure, but not yet disciplined enough to let a job go by without leaving a calling card. Style and substance. And then there was the job itself, Cold war espionage. Spys. Double Agents. Places called the Circus, men called Control. It was a world, the Global Op would happily spend a couple hours in.

Tyrannosaur*
Another UK film. Coincidence, probably, but then again he didn't really believe in coincidences.  This one had teased him all year. With each thing seen and heard, he had grown more and more intrigued. The job exuded the grit of realism, it seeped out of its poster, out of its trailer(Watch Here). It promised to take him down into the streets and turn his gaze upon those people all too often ignored. Ignored because they were too average, the ones treading just enough above the point of drowning that no one had to give them any thought. Yet unlike so many films, it didn't appear to be unpleasant for the sake of being unpleasant. It didn't scream out to be noticed, just quietly went about its business. So it drew him in, enticed him, even as he could guess at the weight and meditative sorrow that it would bring.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol
He shouldn't be excited. The list against it was convincing: the job wasn't new, wasn't original, was too slick, too smirking. No one else was excited. No one was even talking about it. Only about that hot little opening act(Bane Prologue ). Yet, whoever had put this thing together had done at least one thing right. They had coaxed Brad Bird(The Incredibles, Iron Giant) out into the flesh and blood world. Whether or not he could work his magic with live actors was yet to be seen, but the Global Op was intrigued for now.

The Adventures of Tin Tin
There was no way around it, the motion capture animation still repelled him like the sight of a cuckolded husband crying on his desk. It was unnatural. Someday they might get it right, and maybe Tin Tin was that day, but he was wary. Then there was the presence of Spielberg. The Global Op knew cops like him. Guys who busted up a couple big cases back in the day and had been coasting on them ever since. But there was hope. Advance word had been strong. Already released overseas, the movie was a hit. And having Edgar Wright (Scott Pilgrim, Shaun of the Dead) and Joe Cornish (Attack the Block) on board as writers certainly went a long way. So despite his reservations, he was looking forward to it. Sometimes you just needed to ignore history and listen to your gut.

Pays the Bills
Fur coat cases he called them. These ladies would wander into the office, necks buried in fur more expensive than his last car. They all had a story, and sometimes it was legit. But he'd seen enough of them by now. 9 times out of 10 the story wasn't real. You would take their case only to come out the other side realizing that it was just another lonely rich old broad looking for attention. Sure, you were blinded by their prestige, their confidence, but you should have known better. Instead, you were left yet again with a hollow feeling in your soul and a collection of fancy names to drop on everyone who didn't know any better.

Young Adult
Witty, sharp, wickedly truthful, ruthlessly honest. Each year, there was at least one of them. That case with the slightly acerbic, wholly dislikeable main character. And with it, there would be enough critics willing to jump on board with that same set of accolades that got used the same year before. There was a pattern, it didn't take a P.I. to see it, it's just that no one else wanted to look. These were barbed accolades, the kind that get thrown out to shame dissenters into silence. Those that disagreed weren't quite as hip, were in denial about how the world really worked. He might be wrong, after all the people involved were talented enough, but his expectations were low.

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows
The first one had been entertaining enough. It had amused him at the time, amused him whenever it was on HBO, but like the third card monty game on the corner, it always left him feeling dissatisfied. It was too produced, inorganic in its construction. Its goal was to take your money, providing just enough flourishes of the cards to make you feel only slightly cheated. The Global Op had a theory about blockbusters like this. Any successful franchise should produce at least one popular Halloween costume the following year. People were sheep, never more so than during Halloween. Any blockbuster that didn't result in a slew of uncreative costumed imitators was doing something wrong. He couldn't recall any Holmes costumes after the first one, and he wasn't expecting to see many in 2012.

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
There were those that had loved The Social Network. The Global Op had not. He respected David Fincher. Respected the craft and care he put in. But craft and care were not a substitute for emotional resonance. Musical scores could not substitute as emotional stand ins, guiding and pleading with the audience to feel something that the film itself was incapable of eliciting. He knew this from experience, had tried it with a woman once. The result was a stinging cheek and broken ipod. So yes, he agreed, this had the best trailer of the year. But a huge part was the music. He just hoped that this wasn't another case of a David Fincher film needing Trent Reznor to play the role of emotional dubber.

The Artist
He had plenty of Bogart in him, he had long ago admitted this to himself. Slightly contrarian, all too happy to default to jaded when the winds of public opinion started to blow too strongly. The Artist looked enjoyable. He would always support a big hearted celebration of Hollywood's early days. Where he drew the line was turning this into something bigger than it needed to be. Already with its reception at Cannes, and the NYC film critics giving it best picture, it was starting to get too big for its fedora. He didn't need another King's Speech or even worse, another Life is Beautiful in his life. Some things should be left as entertainment, not 
as prestige.

Red Dresses
What was left of the whiskey in his glass had long since watered down into nothing, matching the pile of cases still left on his desk. Some he just couldn't bring himself to classify. But there were a few that still stuck out. They were his red dresses. Trouble. The bullet scar in his shoulder attested to that. Sure, it was hard to say no to a red dress, but you had to do it. You just had to remember everyone looked good in a red dress, which is why they were usually the ones with something to hide.

W.E.
Maybe it was just his lingering bitterness at Madonna's looming presence in pub trivia games twenty years after she was relevant, but this was one he would avoid. It soothed his conscience that advance word had been pretty devastating, with many suggesting it was a waste of time save for those interested in looking at people dressed in pretty clothing, which most certainly did not include him. (The Global Op liked his clothing like his days: grey, muted, and unchanging). Anyways, he couldn't recall the last time a parallel modern/past romance storylines had worked as a cohesive movie. Which reminded him, it was high time to re-watch The French Lieutenant's Woman....

Extremely Loud and Incredibily Close
A picture said a 1,000 words. Try and tell him differently and he would show you a cabinet full of pictures ready to blab about cheating spouses, corrupt officials, and the true scum of the earth. This picture from the trailer told a story:

It told him him that this thing might as well be subtitled a study in twee.  Then the Global Op made the mistake of turning on the sound for the trailer. It was all there in the audio, the entire case cracked wide open. There was the saccharine child narration, the swelling U2 on the soundtrack, the snippets of dialogue that without fail reeked of cuteness or a heavy dose of emotional syrup. It screamed "Hug me", and all the Global Op could do was look and say "No".


We need to talk about Kevin
The Global Op needed to get something off his chest. He had never seen Ratcatcher or Movern Callar. He should of, he knew. He had been told plenty times to, but both had escaped him. But right now he was ok with that. It freed him from the spell of Lynne Ramsey, freed him from an obligation to go to this out of respect for the director. He had no real reason this case fell in this pile. It just did. He could see the potential for something interesting, but something about it repelled him and told him that there was nothing to see here, to just move on. These things happened sometimes.

The Rest
There were others. Cases still left untouched, things like War Horse, The Iron Lady, We Bought a Zoo. All had their reasons for him to care, but he didn't. Maybe that would change later. Probably. But for now, they would sit unexamined, gathering dust in the fading light of day.