It has been almost two decades since I last dined at MyJoy. Kids, I don’t expect you to know that this chain was originally called MacJoy (a portmanteau of Big Mac and Jollibee’s ChickenJoy), or that McDonald’s was not amused with the infringement on its trademark (it sued, hence the name change). I certainly don’t expect you to remember that MyJoy once served killer grilled pork belly. You won’t know it from what comes out of their kitchen these days.
It’s not a beautiful sight. The pork is cardboard-thin and smothered in gooey sauce. And tough. The palabok looks like something my dog has regurgitated. Too, I’m sure their taco of old did not come drizzled with remoulade smacking of sweet chili sauce — with emphasis on the sweet. I have to warn Middle Sister about that. She’s scheduled to visit this month and apt to embark on a nostalgic food trip. I don’t want to be around when she sees the crime perpetrated on her favorite treat.
The mango-and-sago dessert looks better. I would not mind having more of the vanilla ice cream, and wonder if it’s made in-house. But I really hate the bowl: it has a sloped lip and the contents spill over with each incursion of the spoon. The staff must spend an inordinate amount of time just cleaning up spills. I almost feel sorry for them. Until I get to the tapioca pearls, which look sorrier sitting in a clump at the bottom of the bowl.
Then I decide: What the heck — let’s spread the misery all around.
Directed by Chad Stahelski
Hoping to drive the memory of dinner out of my mind, I decide to see a movie. I settle for John Wick, the latest Keanu Reeves exercise in poker-faced mayhem. It’s that or Beauty in a Bottle.
The movie waltzes through its backstory and pulls its assassin-hero out of retirement before I can even warm my seat. It is so serious about getting down to business, it’s almost a relief to see a certain character die so Wick can dig up his weapons cache — and I’m not talking about his wife. She dies, too. I call it The Curse of the Action Hero. Really, the basic premise is nothing we haven’t seen in a Luc Besson potboiler. I am about to nod off when Michael Nyqvist shows up. He plays Viggo, Wick’s ex-boss, and he saves the movie from smothering itself in starch. Rare is the Russian movie gangster possessed of a sense of humor. Or mortality. Nyqvist is master of the false bravado (see his Mikael Blomkvist in the original Swedish Millennium/Lisbeth Salander trilogy). Here his villain is scared out of his wits, and yet he knows there is no use running away. He’s so screwed he has to laugh. It’s the only thing that rings true in the whole movie, that laugh. And it’s not the least bit funny.
Simply put, John Wick is RED (2010) without the self-awareness. In the small world that is the movies, Viggo’s son (Alfie Allen, Theon Greyjoy in HBO’s Game of Thrones) makes the supremely arrogant mistake of taking on the wrong person. Guess who? Thing is, Wick turns out to be a legend of sorts. Everyone knows him. Except Junior, of course, who may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but is it too much to expect him to know his Mob 101? His old man must have been too busy to sit the lad on his lap back in the day and regale him with tales of the criminal who’s who. So Viggo’s a negligent parent. Does this excuse the son? Judging from the way the audience cheers his demise, I think not.
“What happened, John?” Viggo asks when it’s his turn to go (that’s not a spoiler, is it?). “We were professionals once. We were civilized!” I laugh out loud at that one. The film is extremely violent for its R-16 rating, and Wick racks up an impressive body count. Otherwise it is hard to care past a point. There is a scene at a crowded disco where the bad guys are in identical suits; they sure make for convenient targets. At least the fight scenes are solidly choreographed and edited, and do not resort to gimmickry or obvious CGI work. It’s refreshing to see an action movie these days with an average shot length exceeding Kris Aquino’s attention span.
I heartily enjoin my handful of readers to go see John Wick, if only to jump-start Keanu Reeves’s moribund action career and keep him away from Nicholas Sparks adaptations. Poor man knows jack about acting; there’s a scene here where he supposedly gives vent to his anguish — a scene so disconcerting for the complete lack of emotion in his eyes; I doubt even the Star Magic workshop can inject life into his countenance. No problem: the dogs take up the slack. They’re born performers. Too bad one of them had to die. Violently, of course. She deserves special mention. Without her, there would be no movie. Now there’s your spoiler.
By the way, a friend informs me that MyJoy has better grub at its IT Park branch (I ate at Ayala Mall). Maybe, but I still feel betrayed. So, kids, if it’s a tried-and-true Cebuano gastronomic experience you crave, proceed to the nearest AA BBQ. Or Larsian. Their food hits the spot every time.
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