Last night's film was The Deer Hunter, the story of how Vietnam shattered more human psyches than even the nationwide release of Mariah Carey's Glitter. (Don't click on that link unless you want to lose every bat in your belfry di di mau.)

The film? Epic in scope. Poorly edited in execution. BRUTAL IN MY EYEBALLS. There's scenes where soldiers meet the business end of flamethrowers, peopley-parts are eaten by pigs, rotten track marks munch on people's forearms, and compound fractures in the legular region are lovingly ogled by the camera. Oh, and then there's the five thousand rounds of Russian roulette in the movie. I found myself at times wondering, "Self, there's a lot of people's heads being shot off in this flick. How much of the special effects budget do you think they spent on ground beef and fake blood?"

The movie had its intended effect on me, namely that it made me want to change my name to Peacedaughter Starchild and go jam daisies into the barrels of AK-47s while humming Phish.

The boon in the boondoggle was that the acting in The Deer Hunter was fantastic. Robert De Niro was at the top of his game as Mike, the archetypal protector and wise man figure in the film. In the role of Alpha Male turned traumatized veteran, he covers a lot of emotional territory. Oh, and he gets nakey around Hour 1.
Very young Meryl Streep was painfully gorgeous, haunted, and (of course) perfect in her role as the girlfriend of the tragic and handsome romantic hero of the film, who was none other than ...

Christopher Walken.

I know, right? I couldn't believe it either, but back in the day, not playing a weirdo? Total 'Tiger Beat' material.

I mean look at the broodiness, the bone structure, the pucker! This is the kind of face that would launch a thousand fourteen-year-olds' most heartfelt, hormonal MySpace posts. Go ahead, kids; tape a picture of Young Walken to your pillow and practice not getting his tongue stuck in your braces.