This review is posted at OK.
There’s this new documentary out, called Drive Angry 3D. No doubt recorded with a system of hidden cameras, surveillance film and superbly drawn animation by eyewitnesses, it tells you exactly what it’s like to be Nicolas Cage for 104 minutes.
As you’d expect, much gunfire, sex, gunfire during sex and catchphrases spoken during sexy gunfire are included. And it’s all in 3D, which may sound cool but is actually a flaw because Nicolas Cage experiences everything in approximately 8D.
Amber Heard is around, because it is written that wherever danger and sexy shorts are, there Amber shall be. Don’t be grossed out that Heard is about half the age of Nicolas Cage, because they’re not romantically linked. While it may sound like an oxymoron to say that Cage and any other woman on the planet are not romantically linked, take it from me that it’s the truth. The only explanation for this anomaly is that the animal attraction between Heard and Nicolas Cage is so overwhelmingly strong that it inverts into a supernova that results in them just being cool crime-fighting teammates. Sort of like Batman and Robin, only without as much sexual tension.
For the entire movie, Heard and Nicolas Cage do nothing but kill, race and kill some more. To ask why they are doing this is as unnecessary as to ask why Rocky swallows egg yolks or where all the Kardashians come from. And even though it is unnecessary to ask, these questions all share the same one-word, all-caps answer: BECAUSE.
Nicolas Cage has many enemies in the movie, two of which survive long enough to not have their knees immediately shot off or to be impaled onto walls. These enemies are a cult leader played by Billy Burke and an accountant played by William Fichtner. To say Burke and Fichtner are Nicolas Cage’s enemies is as laughable as to say an ant is the enemy of a factory of Raid, but you just have to suspend disbelief for a while and go with it, knowing in the back of your head that if Nicolas Cage decided not to toy with them, the movie would last only a few seconds. Nicolas Cage is nothing if not a sportsman, and wants to put on a good show for all the kids in the room.
To judge a Nicolas Cage movie is presumptuous enough of an offense to be blasted in the face by Nicolas Cage’s Close-Up Gun (so named because whenever it’s shown, it’s always in close up), so I will not do so. But before I depart I must applaud the 3D in the movie. While thoroughly 5Ds short of the awesomeness of Nicolas Cage 8D, what Ds are there are D-lightful. Nary a scene goes by without some object, person or bodily fluid launching out at you and threatening to dive straight into your corneas, which is as it should be. For the life of Nicolas Cage involves much ducking, dodging and cornea damage, as well as 8D shootout sex with everyone but Amber Heard.
Starring Nicolas Cage, Amber Heard, William Fichtner and Billy Burke. Written by Todd Farmer and Patrick Lussier. Directed by Lussier. 104 minutes. Rated R.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Review: Just Go With It
This review is posted at OK.
Being a fan of Adam Sandler movies is a lot like being a fan of the Baltimore Orioles. They let you down every year without fail, yet you retain your fandom and optimistically give them shot after shot due to ingrained loyalty based on fading childhood memories that – at some point in time – they were actually good.
It’s with this mindset that I found myself overjoyed that Just Go With It isn’t as much of a disaster as last year’s Grown Ups or that 2005 remake of The Longest Yard. Sandler’s newest romantic comedy, which amounts to an over-40 sex symbol fantasy camp due to the presence of bikini-sporting co-stars Jennifer Aniston and Nicole Kidman, is adamantly mediocre while always watchable.
I’ll easily forgive that the plot is based on the extreme idiocy of every character, some of whom are holding eye-gougingly dumb secrets from the others, but it’s tough to be at peace with the painful lack of laughs. What’s even tougher to stomach is having to watch Sandler pull out an inspired bit of lunacy only to repeat it three more times, running it into the ground so hard you’d expect it to strike oil.
Sandler plays a womanizer who hangs out at bars wearing a fake wedding ring, which gets women to let down their guard and become one-night stands. He’s secretly been in love all along with his single-mother assistant (Aniston), but decides instead that he wants a relationship with his latest fling (Brooklyn Decker), a rare woman he seduces without his wedding ring trick. When she finds the ring in his pants pocket, he decides to craft an elaborate lie that grows into him being on the verge of divorce with Aniston and father of her two kids. Sandler coerces Aniston and the kids to lie to Decker, and so begins the ill-fated charade.
This leads to a Hawaiian vacation, for no good reason except for the fact that Sandler has no doubt longed for another paid vacation there since making 50 First Dates. There, Aniston runs into her former sorority frenemy (Nicole Kidman), to whom she feels she must prove she’s married to Sandler in order to seem happy and successful.
There have been many episodes of Full House that packed in more funny moments per minute than Just Go With It. But there are just enough touches of the old Sandler – the one who was such an outrageous crack-up throughout the 1990s – to keep you halfway-eagerly coming back to whatever nonsense he creates next year. There are also more than enough finger-gun-to-the-head moments to make you resent the fact that you had to fall so hard for Sandler in his five good movies that you’re willing to suffer through his 10 bad ones.
Starring Adam Sandler, Jennifer Aniston, Brooklyn Decker and Nicole Kidman. Written by Allan Loeb, Timothy Dowling and I.A.L. Diamond, based on a French play adapted by Abe Burrows, originally by Pierre Barillet and Jean-Pierre Gredy. Directed by Dennis Dugan. PG-13. 150 minutes.
Being a fan of Adam Sandler movies is a lot like being a fan of the Baltimore Orioles. They let you down every year without fail, yet you retain your fandom and optimistically give them shot after shot due to ingrained loyalty based on fading childhood memories that – at some point in time – they were actually good.
It’s with this mindset that I found myself overjoyed that Just Go With It isn’t as much of a disaster as last year’s Grown Ups or that 2005 remake of The Longest Yard. Sandler’s newest romantic comedy, which amounts to an over-40 sex symbol fantasy camp due to the presence of bikini-sporting co-stars Jennifer Aniston and Nicole Kidman, is adamantly mediocre while always watchable.
I’ll easily forgive that the plot is based on the extreme idiocy of every character, some of whom are holding eye-gougingly dumb secrets from the others, but it’s tough to be at peace with the painful lack of laughs. What’s even tougher to stomach is having to watch Sandler pull out an inspired bit of lunacy only to repeat it three more times, running it into the ground so hard you’d expect it to strike oil.
Sandler plays a womanizer who hangs out at bars wearing a fake wedding ring, which gets women to let down their guard and become one-night stands. He’s secretly been in love all along with his single-mother assistant (Aniston), but decides instead that he wants a relationship with his latest fling (Brooklyn Decker), a rare woman he seduces without his wedding ring trick. When she finds the ring in his pants pocket, he decides to craft an elaborate lie that grows into him being on the verge of divorce with Aniston and father of her two kids. Sandler coerces Aniston and the kids to lie to Decker, and so begins the ill-fated charade.
This leads to a Hawaiian vacation, for no good reason except for the fact that Sandler has no doubt longed for another paid vacation there since making 50 First Dates. There, Aniston runs into her former sorority frenemy (Nicole Kidman), to whom she feels she must prove she’s married to Sandler in order to seem happy and successful.
There have been many episodes of Full House that packed in more funny moments per minute than Just Go With It. But there are just enough touches of the old Sandler – the one who was such an outrageous crack-up throughout the 1990s – to keep you halfway-eagerly coming back to whatever nonsense he creates next year. There are also more than enough finger-gun-to-the-head moments to make you resent the fact that you had to fall so hard for Sandler in his five good movies that you’re willing to suffer through his 10 bad ones.
Starring Adam Sandler, Jennifer Aniston, Brooklyn Decker and Nicole Kidman. Written by Allan Loeb, Timothy Dowling and I.A.L. Diamond, based on a French play adapted by Abe Burrows, originally by Pierre Barillet and Jean-Pierre Gredy. Directed by Dennis Dugan. PG-13. 150 minutes.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Money Crashers reviews Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel
Money Crashers came through with this great review of my book. (Yes, I am still out there bugging people to review it). An excerpt:
This book is listed as a humor book – and rightfully so. The author seems to take advantage of this classification especially in the last third of the book, which consists of some hilarious frugal tips that are “gross, mean, and oh so wrong.” I would not lend power tools to anyone who actually puts any of these into practice.
This book is listed as a humor book – and rightfully so. The author seems to take advantage of this classification especially in the last third of the book, which consists of some hilarious frugal tips that are “gross, mean, and oh so wrong.” I would not lend power tools to anyone who actually puts any of these into practice.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Review: The Mechanic
This review is also posted over at OK.
I don’t have much solid proof, but I’m pretty sure Jason Statham is Batman. No, not the Batman in the movies, but a genuine Batman who has yet to be discovered by the media and runs about in a cape, fighting crime, stopping bad guys and rappelling from buildings just because.
After watching him in approximately 10,000 action movies over the past decade, there is no other possible conclusion to which a reasonable man can arrive. In The Mechanic – which is totally different than The Transporter because he beats up and kills millions of bad guys without getting into car chases rather than getting in them – Statham is at his best. Which is to say, he’s exactly the same as he always is. Batman, after all, isn’t big on variance. He’s got the same intensity whether he’s taking on a gang of thugs or brushing his teeth.
Providing pride to all those affected with male pattern baldness, Statham’s job, as always, is to run around and kill people for no discernable reason. In The Mechanic – which is totally different than Crank because he engages in death-defying stunts not because he’s controlled by criminals who command him to do so but because criminals pay him to do so – Statham treats the screen as though it’s asked him “please, sir, can you tear me a new @hole?” And Statham being a polite and proper British gentleman, is only too willing to comply.
The movie has about as much of a story and character motivation as the video game Pac-Man, but that’s OK. All you really need to know is Batman/Statham is the best ninja samurai black belt judo king in the world, he’s pissed, and this time it’s personal.
All right, all right, there’s a little bit more story than Pac-Man. After an early-film mix-up forces Statham to kill his wise old mentor, he’s forced to take that mentor’s son (Ben Foster), who looks like Statham’s more hairy Mini-Me under his wing. Statham’s course in contract killing is a bit more intense and hands-on than what you’ll find at the University of Phoenix’s comparable curriculum. Blasting security guards through double-sided mirrors, spelunking through innards of buildings and seducing 300-pound security guards in an attempt to slip them mickeys are all on the syllabi. And boy, son, do you learn your lessons well.
If you’re in need of a dumb action flick injection, The Mechanic – which is just like Death Race and The Expendables except for the fact that it doesn’t suck – will fix you but good.
Starring Jason Statham, Ben Foster and Donald Sutherland. Written by Richard Wenk and Lewis John Carlino, based on a story by Carlino. Directed by Simon West. 92 minutes. Rated R.
Like this review? Buy my book.
I don’t have much solid proof, but I’m pretty sure Jason Statham is Batman. No, not the Batman in the movies, but a genuine Batman who has yet to be discovered by the media and runs about in a cape, fighting crime, stopping bad guys and rappelling from buildings just because.
After watching him in approximately 10,000 action movies over the past decade, there is no other possible conclusion to which a reasonable man can arrive. In The Mechanic – which is totally different than The Transporter because he beats up and kills millions of bad guys without getting into car chases rather than getting in them – Statham is at his best. Which is to say, he’s exactly the same as he always is. Batman, after all, isn’t big on variance. He’s got the same intensity whether he’s taking on a gang of thugs or brushing his teeth.
Providing pride to all those affected with male pattern baldness, Statham’s job, as always, is to run around and kill people for no discernable reason. In The Mechanic – which is totally different than Crank because he engages in death-defying stunts not because he’s controlled by criminals who command him to do so but because criminals pay him to do so – Statham treats the screen as though it’s asked him “please, sir, can you tear me a new @hole?” And Statham being a polite and proper British gentleman, is only too willing to comply.
The movie has about as much of a story and character motivation as the video game Pac-Man, but that’s OK. All you really need to know is Batman/Statham is the best ninja samurai black belt judo king in the world, he’s pissed, and this time it’s personal.
All right, all right, there’s a little bit more story than Pac-Man. After an early-film mix-up forces Statham to kill his wise old mentor, he’s forced to take that mentor’s son (Ben Foster), who looks like Statham’s more hairy Mini-Me under his wing. Statham’s course in contract killing is a bit more intense and hands-on than what you’ll find at the University of Phoenix’s comparable curriculum. Blasting security guards through double-sided mirrors, spelunking through innards of buildings and seducing 300-pound security guards in an attempt to slip them mickeys are all on the syllabi. And boy, son, do you learn your lessons well.
If you’re in need of a dumb action flick injection, The Mechanic – which is just like Death Race and The Expendables except for the fact that it doesn’t suck – will fix you but good.
Starring Jason Statham, Ben Foster and Donald Sutherland. Written by Richard Wenk and Lewis John Carlino, based on a story by Carlino. Directed by Simon West. 92 minutes. Rated R.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Review: The Green Hornet
This is posted at OK.
Dear Fat Seth Rogen, I miss you.
Your slimmer, clean-shaven doppelganger just isn’t the same. Sure, he’s still got the John Goodmanlike growl as the version of you who cracked me up in Superbad, Pineapple Express and Knocked Up, but he’s just not as endearing. He just doesn’t feel right, like a pair of new jeans that are starched so stiff it makes it tough to walk. You may be fresher and better, Skinny Seth Rogen, but you got no game.
I realized you had to banish your former self in order to play a realistic superhero, no doubt enduring a tough fitness and diet regimen that will add years to your life and improve the way you feel. But gosh damn it, Seth, it’s not about you, but me.
I used to laugh with you because you weren’t a movie star, you were just a guy. You may as well been the dude behind me in line at Subway or the kid behind the counter at Game Stop who tries to convince me to pre-order the next Call of Duty. You were mediocre, and all-too-easy to identify with. You were the fella who caught people off-guard, making them underestimate you with your studiously dopey ways before sucker-punching them with perfectly-delivered one-liners that you yourself wrote.
This Skinny Seth is more Shia LaBeouf than Game Stop kid. He plays a millionaire playboy who decides to become a vigilante when his disapproving dad dies and leaves him his media empire. Skinny Seth teams up with Kato (played by Jay Chou) and pines for his secretary (Cameron Diaz), dispatching masked enemies of the night with the efficiency of a Final Fight character.
Previous movies you wrote with school-buddy Evan Goldberg felt like drunken ramblings concocted at an after-after party during college, but your stuff in this superhero film du jour feels like it fell out of a workshop full of suits. Sure, you’ve got a few zingers that made me grin, but you also muddy things up with dopey expository soliloquies and copious car chases and retread-like action sequences. And the plot twist, that involves the conceit that a single newspaper in Los Angeles can dictate the false perception that the crime rate is down in the city, made me want to slam my head inside my Zack & Miri Blu-ray case.
Your action movie is OK, but Fat Seth, I don’t want OK from you. I can get OK from Shia. From you, I want spectacular.
I miss the younger, hungrier Seth Rogen. And I mean “hungrier” literally.
I’d like to think you’re still out there, somewhere, eating entire bags of Doritos in one sitting, inhaling bowls of pot and watching 1970s sitcoms in his underwear.
With sincere hopes that you Oprah up again,
Your Pal Phil
Starring Seth Rogen, Jay Chou and Cameron Diaz. Written by Rogen and Evan Goldberg, based on the George W. Trendle radio series. Directed by Michel Gondry. 119 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Dear Fat Seth Rogen, I miss you.
Your slimmer, clean-shaven doppelganger just isn’t the same. Sure, he’s still got the John Goodmanlike growl as the version of you who cracked me up in Superbad, Pineapple Express and Knocked Up, but he’s just not as endearing. He just doesn’t feel right, like a pair of new jeans that are starched so stiff it makes it tough to walk. You may be fresher and better, Skinny Seth Rogen, but you got no game.
I realized you had to banish your former self in order to play a realistic superhero, no doubt enduring a tough fitness and diet regimen that will add years to your life and improve the way you feel. But gosh damn it, Seth, it’s not about you, but me.
I used to laugh with you because you weren’t a movie star, you were just a guy. You may as well been the dude behind me in line at Subway or the kid behind the counter at Game Stop who tries to convince me to pre-order the next Call of Duty. You were mediocre, and all-too-easy to identify with. You were the fella who caught people off-guard, making them underestimate you with your studiously dopey ways before sucker-punching them with perfectly-delivered one-liners that you yourself wrote.
This Skinny Seth is more Shia LaBeouf than Game Stop kid. He plays a millionaire playboy who decides to become a vigilante when his disapproving dad dies and leaves him his media empire. Skinny Seth teams up with Kato (played by Jay Chou) and pines for his secretary (Cameron Diaz), dispatching masked enemies of the night with the efficiency of a Final Fight character.
Previous movies you wrote with school-buddy Evan Goldberg felt like drunken ramblings concocted at an after-after party during college, but your stuff in this superhero film du jour feels like it fell out of a workshop full of suits. Sure, you’ve got a few zingers that made me grin, but you also muddy things up with dopey expository soliloquies and copious car chases and retread-like action sequences. And the plot twist, that involves the conceit that a single newspaper in Los Angeles can dictate the false perception that the crime rate is down in the city, made me want to slam my head inside my Zack & Miri Blu-ray case.
Your action movie is OK, but Fat Seth, I don’t want OK from you. I can get OK from Shia. From you, I want spectacular.
I miss the younger, hungrier Seth Rogen. And I mean “hungrier” literally.
I’d like to think you’re still out there, somewhere, eating entire bags of Doritos in one sitting, inhaling bowls of pot and watching 1970s sitcoms in his underwear.
With sincere hopes that you Oprah up again,
Your Pal Phil
Starring Seth Rogen, Jay Chou and Cameron Diaz. Written by Rogen and Evan Goldberg, based on the George W. Trendle radio series. Directed by Michel Gondry. 119 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Roger Ebert Plays Tecmo Bowl In 1989
Since the dawn of time, Roger Ebert has claimed ignorance of video games and questioned their artistic value. Although he's backpedaled on his dismissive stance of video games as art as of late, he did so because he doesn't have enough experience with games to make an informed opinion.
With that in mind, it's quite a surprise to stumble upon a 21-year-old video clip that reveals Ebert is something of an OG gamer. Click "play" to see him get his Tecmo Bowl on, talking smack as he matches wits with Gene Siskel on the NES:
Ebert may not think games are art, but he definitely thought they were fun.
via Roger Ebert's blog
Like this post? Check out my book.
With that in mind, it's quite a surprise to stumble upon a 21-year-old video clip that reveals Ebert is something of an OG gamer. Click "play" to see him get his Tecmo Bowl on, talking smack as he matches wits with Gene Siskel on the NES:
Ebert may not think games are art, but he definitely thought they were fun.
via Roger Ebert's blog
Like this post? Check out my book.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Review: True Grit
This is posted at OK.
The Coen brothers are so good at Westerns that anyone else who wants permission to make one should have to get their written permission. Their characters don’t talk, they spit bullets. Their photography doesn’t dazzle you, it opens up and swallows you into its desolate prairie maw. And their stories don’t resonate, they grab you by the scruff of your neck, sit you on their collective knee and spin you a tale that sets your eyes agape with wild wonder.
Drawing on the same earthy, rawhide-tough feel of No Country for Old Men, the Coens take a legendary Charles Portis novel, toss it into the air and shoot eight holes in it before it hits the ground. The movie is so good I the original True Grit has to be considered a crappy premake.
The 1969 version of the film, for which John Wayne won a best picture Oscar, starred Glen Campbell, Dennis Hopper and Robert Duvall. The new film boasts an equally impressive lineup of actors, not the least of which is 13-year-old Hailee Steinfeld, who stands toe to toe with physically imposing, magnetic performers such as Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and Josh Brolin with commendable authority.
Steinfeld plays 14-year-old Mattie, who is out to set her family’s affairs in order following the murder of her father by a slow-witted outlaw (Josh Brolin). The Coens imbued their dialogue with a David Mamet-like speed, letting Steinfeld thoroughly own scenes in which she negotiates the price of her father’s casket and verbally whips down a conniving horse salesman.
In a world of his own as Rooster Cogburn is a fattened-up, eyepatch-sporting Jeff Bridges, who growls his way through pitch-perfect, oatmeal-thick colloquialisms, making like that scary great uncle you always tried to shy away from at Thanksgiving. A marshal who puts his services up for hire for the right price, Rooster accepts Mattie’s offer of $100 to track down the varmint. Mattie insists on tagging along, pulling her weight through an endless series of shivering nights, grueling horse rides and mystifying run-ins with folks on the trail.
Sometimes joining in as a delightfully awkward third wheel is Texas Ranger La Boeuf, played with grisly angst by Matt Damon. A lout who leers at Mattie and lashes out with insipid rage at inopportune moments, the mysterious lawman hides heroism beneath layers of dangerous buffoonery.
What seems like a boilerplate story comes alive through the passionate performances and finely tuned narrative, which sinks its hooks into you then drags you on a ride that grows increasingly wild, panic-ridden and beautiful. Characters bond and drift apart, bad guys show their softer side, making you feel guilty for cheering the heroes to blow them away, and every line of dialogue sings like soliloquies out of a 19th century poetry slam.
Starring Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Josh Brolin, Hailee Steinfeld and Barry Pepper. Written by Joel and Ethan Coen, based on the Charles Portis novel. Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. 110 minutes. Rated PG-13.
The Coen brothers are so good at Westerns that anyone else who wants permission to make one should have to get their written permission. Their characters don’t talk, they spit bullets. Their photography doesn’t dazzle you, it opens up and swallows you into its desolate prairie maw. And their stories don’t resonate, they grab you by the scruff of your neck, sit you on their collective knee and spin you a tale that sets your eyes agape with wild wonder.
Drawing on the same earthy, rawhide-tough feel of No Country for Old Men, the Coens take a legendary Charles Portis novel, toss it into the air and shoot eight holes in it before it hits the ground. The movie is so good I the original True Grit has to be considered a crappy premake.
The 1969 version of the film, for which John Wayne won a best picture Oscar, starred Glen Campbell, Dennis Hopper and Robert Duvall. The new film boasts an equally impressive lineup of actors, not the least of which is 13-year-old Hailee Steinfeld, who stands toe to toe with physically imposing, magnetic performers such as Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and Josh Brolin with commendable authority.
Steinfeld plays 14-year-old Mattie, who is out to set her family’s affairs in order following the murder of her father by a slow-witted outlaw (Josh Brolin). The Coens imbued their dialogue with a David Mamet-like speed, letting Steinfeld thoroughly own scenes in which she negotiates the price of her father’s casket and verbally whips down a conniving horse salesman.
In a world of his own as Rooster Cogburn is a fattened-up, eyepatch-sporting Jeff Bridges, who growls his way through pitch-perfect, oatmeal-thick colloquialisms, making like that scary great uncle you always tried to shy away from at Thanksgiving. A marshal who puts his services up for hire for the right price, Rooster accepts Mattie’s offer of $100 to track down the varmint. Mattie insists on tagging along, pulling her weight through an endless series of shivering nights, grueling horse rides and mystifying run-ins with folks on the trail.
Sometimes joining in as a delightfully awkward third wheel is Texas Ranger La Boeuf, played with grisly angst by Matt Damon. A lout who leers at Mattie and lashes out with insipid rage at inopportune moments, the mysterious lawman hides heroism beneath layers of dangerous buffoonery.
What seems like a boilerplate story comes alive through the passionate performances and finely tuned narrative, which sinks its hooks into you then drags you on a ride that grows increasingly wild, panic-ridden and beautiful. Characters bond and drift apart, bad guys show their softer side, making you feel guilty for cheering the heroes to blow them away, and every line of dialogue sings like soliloquies out of a 19th century poetry slam.
Starring Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Josh Brolin, Hailee Steinfeld and Barry Pepper. Written by Joel and Ethan Coen, based on the Charles Portis novel. Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. 110 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Review: How Do You Know
This is posted at OK.
How do you know when you’re watching a bad romantic comedy? When the male lead has to resort to tumbling down the stairs during a phone call to get a laugh, that’s a start.
When Jack Nicholson pops in to overact for a few scenes to punch his time card before he can go hit the Laker game, there’s another piece of evidence.
When the normally adorable Reese Witherspoon contorts her personality into an unrelatable heroine, you’re getting warmer.
And finally, when you long for the exit sign more than you do for the characters to sweep each other away in a victorious, violin-swelling embrace, you know that you are not only a redneck and dumber than a fifth grader, but are, in fact, watching a bad romantic comedy.
James L. Brooks, the once mesmerizing writer/director who delivered Terms of Endearment and As Good as it Gets, shows with this half-hearted, lifeless affair that he’s capable capable of a magnificent feat. Somehow he squanders the talents of a screen legend in Nicholson, a surefire cut-up in Wilson and one of the most reliable comedic linchpins in Paul Rudd.
Witherspoon has been off her game for years now, unable/unwilling to reclaim her romantic comedy throne after becoming a Serious Actress in Walk the Line. Here she plays Lisa, an elite softball player who’s forced into retirement following her inability to make the national team.
Little does Brooks seem to know that the joke is really on Lisa’s teammates, since softball has been eliminated as an Olympic sport.
Despondent, Lisa tries to get her life back together the only way a girl can – by latching on to whatever guys amble across her path, thus validating her dwindling sense of self-worth. Basically, this amounts to a horror movie for feminists.
Lisa spends the entire movie bouncing back and forth between Matty (Wilson), the curiously old baseball player who is said to be the best in the game, and George (Rudd), an executive who has lost his girlfriend and home because he’s being investigated by the federal government. Nicholson plays George’s father, whose purpose is to hang out and wave his arms for a while so there’s another name to slap on the poster.
You’re supposed to root for Lisa to dump Matty and hook up with George, which she does, before moving back in with Matty. Then you root for her to do it again, and she complies. This process is every bit as exciting as it sounds.
As the movie plays on, you grow more and more jealous of Nicholson’s character for staying out of it as much as possible. You long for the camera to switch to whatever he’s doing, even if it’s just sitting around doing crossword puzzles and making crank calls to Diane Keaton.
How do you know you’re watching How Do You Know? When you start dreaming of crossword puzzles and Diane Keaton.
Starring Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, Owen Wilson and Jack Nicholson. Written and directed by James L. Brooks. Rated PG-13. 115 minutes.
How do you know when you’re watching a bad romantic comedy? When the male lead has to resort to tumbling down the stairs during a phone call to get a laugh, that’s a start.
When Jack Nicholson pops in to overact for a few scenes to punch his time card before he can go hit the Laker game, there’s another piece of evidence.
When the normally adorable Reese Witherspoon contorts her personality into an unrelatable heroine, you’re getting warmer.
And finally, when you long for the exit sign more than you do for the characters to sweep each other away in a victorious, violin-swelling embrace, you know that you are not only a redneck and dumber than a fifth grader, but are, in fact, watching a bad romantic comedy.
James L. Brooks, the once mesmerizing writer/director who delivered Terms of Endearment and As Good as it Gets, shows with this half-hearted, lifeless affair that he’s capable capable of a magnificent feat. Somehow he squanders the talents of a screen legend in Nicholson, a surefire cut-up in Wilson and one of the most reliable comedic linchpins in Paul Rudd.
Witherspoon has been off her game for years now, unable/unwilling to reclaim her romantic comedy throne after becoming a Serious Actress in Walk the Line. Here she plays Lisa, an elite softball player who’s forced into retirement following her inability to make the national team.
Little does Brooks seem to know that the joke is really on Lisa’s teammates, since softball has been eliminated as an Olympic sport.
Despondent, Lisa tries to get her life back together the only way a girl can – by latching on to whatever guys amble across her path, thus validating her dwindling sense of self-worth. Basically, this amounts to a horror movie for feminists.
Lisa spends the entire movie bouncing back and forth between Matty (Wilson), the curiously old baseball player who is said to be the best in the game, and George (Rudd), an executive who has lost his girlfriend and home because he’s being investigated by the federal government. Nicholson plays George’s father, whose purpose is to hang out and wave his arms for a while so there’s another name to slap on the poster.
You’re supposed to root for Lisa to dump Matty and hook up with George, which she does, before moving back in with Matty. Then you root for her to do it again, and she complies. This process is every bit as exciting as it sounds.
As the movie plays on, you grow more and more jealous of Nicholson’s character for staying out of it as much as possible. You long for the camera to switch to whatever he’s doing, even if it’s just sitting around doing crossword puzzles and making crank calls to Diane Keaton.
How do you know you’re watching How Do You Know? When you start dreaming of crossword puzzles and Diane Keaton.
Starring Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, Owen Wilson and Jack Nicholson. Written and directed by James L. Brooks. Rated PG-13. 115 minutes.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Best Movies And Games Of 2010
TOP MOVIES 2010 (Note -- I will update this if and when I see The King's Speech)
1. Toy Story 3
2. Inception
3. The Social Network
4. True Grit
5. The Fighter
6. Black Swan
7. 127 Hours
8. Shutter Island
9. Nice Guy Johnny
10. Solitary Man
11. Megamind
12. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
13. Somewhere
14. Rabbit Hole
15. Shrek Forever After
WORST MOVIES OF 2010
1. Sex and the City 2
2. When in Rome
3. Killers
4. The Bounty Hunter
5. Letters to Juliet
6. Waiting for Superman
TOP GAMES 2010
1. Tecmo Bowl Throwback
2. NBA Jam
3. Red Dead Redemption
4. Heavy Rain
5. Picross 3D
6. God of War III
7. Limbo
8. Alan Wake
9. Super Mario Galaxy 2
10. Halo: Reach
11. Super Scribblenauts
12. Bayonetta
13. No More Heroes: Desperate Struggle
14. Mass Effect 2
15. God of War: Ghost of Sparta
16. Super Street Fighter IV
17. Blur
18. NBA 2K11
19. Metal Gear Solid Peace Walker
20. Monopoly Streets
21. Pac-Man Championship Edition DX
1. Toy Story 3
2. Inception
3. The Social Network
4. True Grit
5. The Fighter
6. Black Swan
7. 127 Hours
8. Shutter Island
9. Nice Guy Johnny
10. Solitary Man
11. Megamind
12. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
13. Somewhere
14. Rabbit Hole
15. Shrek Forever After
WORST MOVIES OF 2010
1. Sex and the City 2
2. When in Rome
3. Killers
4. The Bounty Hunter
5. Letters to Juliet
6. Waiting for Superman
TOP GAMES 2010
1. Tecmo Bowl Throwback
2. NBA Jam
3. Red Dead Redemption
4. Heavy Rain
5. Picross 3D
6. God of War III
7. Limbo
8. Alan Wake
9. Super Mario Galaxy 2
10. Halo: Reach
11. Super Scribblenauts
12. Bayonetta
13. No More Heroes: Desperate Struggle
14. Mass Effect 2
15. God of War: Ghost of Sparta
16. Super Street Fighter IV
17. Blur
18. NBA 2K11
19. Metal Gear Solid Peace Walker
20. Monopoly Streets
21. Pac-Man Championship Edition DX
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Review: The Fighter
This is also posted at OK.
The Fighter is about a real-life dude whose life was a remake of the movie Rocky. David O. Russell directs, Mark Wahlberg stars and Amy Adams Adrians.
Wahlberg’s character is Boston pugilist Micky Ward, the only boxer in history – other than Rocky – to discover the secret to winning all boxing matches is to stand there and get the snot beaten out of you for the entire match before pummeling your tired opponent at the last second for a dramatic ultimate victory.
Micky has got it rough. He lives in the part of Boston so bad, you can major in one of only two subjects: boxing or crack. Micky’s older brother, Dicky (Christian Bale), chose boxer, before changing his mind and going with crack. Bear in mind that if you want to be both a boxer and crackhead in the same lifetime, you pretty much have to do them in that order. So in a sense, Dicky is excellent at prioritizing.
The rest of Micky’s support structure is hardly more effective. There’s his mom/manager (Melissa Leo), whose knowledge of the sport matches that of a mediocre Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out player, and a pack of seven sisters who are useful only when forming mobs to chase down Micky’s girlfriends.
I have to say, Micky’s name weirded me out, being the same as Rocky’s trainer. Whenever someone would say something like “Hey, Mickey’s coming!” I’d get all excited and expect to see Burgess Meredith rise from the grave to take one last crack at training Rocky for the title, but alas, I was let down each time.
That’s about the only way in which the movie disappointed me. It’s a story that could have been schmaltzy in lesser hands, but somehow not only hits every note just right, but bludgeons every note with a right cross that bloodies the note’s eyes and dislodges its nose. Chief among reasons the movie works is Adams, whose version of Adrian – here a spunky college dropout bartender – isn’t the “oh please oh please Rocky stop fighting Adrian” from Rockys 3 through 5, but the badass, “you’d better win or else you’re sleeping on the couch” Adrian from the earlier movies. Adams is such an adept performer that she displays layers of nuance and heartbreaking sentiment in one scene, while bending over in front of the camera as other characters snidely evaluate her ass in another.
Bale, looking more Joker than Batman, is astounding as Dicky. So convincing was Bale as a crackhead that I didn’t even realize it was him until the end credits rolled. I expected the screen to read “Dicky…. Played by ACTUAL CRACKHEAD” but sure enough, it said Christian Bale.
One could easily determine that the title not only refers to Micky, but Bale and Adams’ characters as well. As well as myself, as I continue to duck and cover, insisting to myself “This isn’t as good as Rocky! This ISN’T as good as Rocky!” Only to speculate that if I let down my guard at the end of the fight, this stubborn palooka will floor me and convince me otherwise.
Starring Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale, Amy Adams and Melissa Leo. Written by Scott Silver, Paul Tamasy and Eric Johnson, based on a story by Johnson, Tamasy and Keith Dorrington. Directed by David O. Russell. 115 minutes. Rated R.
The Fighter is about a real-life dude whose life was a remake of the movie Rocky. David O. Russell directs, Mark Wahlberg stars and Amy Adams Adrians.
Wahlberg’s character is Boston pugilist Micky Ward, the only boxer in history – other than Rocky – to discover the secret to winning all boxing matches is to stand there and get the snot beaten out of you for the entire match before pummeling your tired opponent at the last second for a dramatic ultimate victory.
Micky has got it rough. He lives in the part of Boston so bad, you can major in one of only two subjects: boxing or crack. Micky’s older brother, Dicky (Christian Bale), chose boxer, before changing his mind and going with crack. Bear in mind that if you want to be both a boxer and crackhead in the same lifetime, you pretty much have to do them in that order. So in a sense, Dicky is excellent at prioritizing.
The rest of Micky’s support structure is hardly more effective. There’s his mom/manager (Melissa Leo), whose knowledge of the sport matches that of a mediocre Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out player, and a pack of seven sisters who are useful only when forming mobs to chase down Micky’s girlfriends.
I have to say, Micky’s name weirded me out, being the same as Rocky’s trainer. Whenever someone would say something like “Hey, Mickey’s coming!” I’d get all excited and expect to see Burgess Meredith rise from the grave to take one last crack at training Rocky for the title, but alas, I was let down each time.
That’s about the only way in which the movie disappointed me. It’s a story that could have been schmaltzy in lesser hands, but somehow not only hits every note just right, but bludgeons every note with a right cross that bloodies the note’s eyes and dislodges its nose. Chief among reasons the movie works is Adams, whose version of Adrian – here a spunky college dropout bartender – isn’t the “oh please oh please Rocky stop fighting Adrian” from Rockys 3 through 5, but the badass, “you’d better win or else you’re sleeping on the couch” Adrian from the earlier movies. Adams is such an adept performer that she displays layers of nuance and heartbreaking sentiment in one scene, while bending over in front of the camera as other characters snidely evaluate her ass in another.
Bale, looking more Joker than Batman, is astounding as Dicky. So convincing was Bale as a crackhead that I didn’t even realize it was him until the end credits rolled. I expected the screen to read “Dicky…. Played by ACTUAL CRACKHEAD” but sure enough, it said Christian Bale.
One could easily determine that the title not only refers to Micky, but Bale and Adams’ characters as well. As well as myself, as I continue to duck and cover, insisting to myself “This isn’t as good as Rocky! This ISN’T as good as Rocky!” Only to speculate that if I let down my guard at the end of the fight, this stubborn palooka will floor me and convince me otherwise.
Starring Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale, Amy Adams and Melissa Leo. Written by Scott Silver, Paul Tamasy and Eric Johnson, based on a story by Johnson, Tamasy and Keith Dorrington. Directed by David O. Russell. 115 minutes. Rated R.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Christmas Letter 2010
Dear Christmas Card Recipient, Mail Thief or Recycling Industry Sorter,
I'm happy report that 2010 was an excellent year for my subset of Villarreals, meaning that nothing catastrophic happened. No job losses, hospitalizations, robberies, car explosions or locust plagues crossed our paths the entire year.
We added a dog, subtracted a truck and welcomed a Honda Odyssey into our garage. It's a smooth Swagger Wagon, equipped with eight seats, 18 cup holders, electric doors and thousands and thousands of dollars of debt.
Some of us changed. Luke evolved from a 2-year-old who made train sounds that drove his mother crazy all day into a 3-year-old who made continuous heavy metal guitar riffs that drove his mother crazy half the day (she earned a 4-hour daily respite by retreating into the calm, quiet recesses of part-time middle school science teaching).
Emma transformed from a screaming, tiny ball of disapproval of all our actions into a slightly less tiny ball of crudely worded disapproval of all our actions. Chief among Emma's list of Disapproved People was one Santa Claus of North Pole, Arctic Circle, who accosted Emma twice in Williams, Ariz. -- first when he requested that she sit on his lap and ask for presents, then again an hour later on a train ride when he crudely handed her a jingle bell. Emma twice screamed at the overbearing clod with sharp fury, prompting Luke to ask "Mommy, why is Santa Emma's greatest enemy?"
Our new dog, Murphy, adopted us from a Human Rescue society. He makes up what he's missing in a fourth leg by producing 35 times his bodyweight in black hair. We can only nod politely when complimented on our new black shag carpeting that complements the tile we had installed by the gentleman Emma refers to as "UhShawn."
On the job front,
-I made a major advance in my chosen field of demolition by volleyball spiking the life out of our TV while playing a video game.
-Jessica really accomplished nothing, at best. She spent half of the year as a stay-at-home mom -- what do those people do all day? And the other half as a part-time teacher in our pathetic failure of an education system that is but a roadblock to the shining success of charter schools, which will not only turn all our children into geniuses but allow us to one day defeat Ghana in the World Cup. But public school teachers, with their exorbitant salaries, cakewalk jobs and evil agendas of filling kids heads with evil lies such as global warming, evolution and the periodic table, are to be reviled and destroyed. Luckily we've put a state legislature in place that will do just that, as quickly as possible.
-Emma prepared for a future in the federal government by beginning a hobby in which she hunts down loose change to throw into the trash can.
-Luke finally settled down on a career choice. After insisting he'd be a farmer, astronaut, Laker, Cardinal, racecar driver, Army man, Joker, dragon and builder, he decided he would become a rock star. "I'm going to be on your iPod, Daddy," he said firmly. "And you better play me loud." Please join me in congratulating the boy in choosing a field that's more stable than that of his father.
So now you're all caught up. Take care, enjoy life and when things get tough, just be thankful you're not the Arizona Cardinals' quarterback coach.
I'm happy report that 2010 was an excellent year for my subset of Villarreals, meaning that nothing catastrophic happened. No job losses, hospitalizations, robberies, car explosions or locust plagues crossed our paths the entire year.
We added a dog, subtracted a truck and welcomed a Honda Odyssey into our garage. It's a smooth Swagger Wagon, equipped with eight seats, 18 cup holders, electric doors and thousands and thousands of dollars of debt.
Some of us changed. Luke evolved from a 2-year-old who made train sounds that drove his mother crazy all day into a 3-year-old who made continuous heavy metal guitar riffs that drove his mother crazy half the day (she earned a 4-hour daily respite by retreating into the calm, quiet recesses of part-time middle school science teaching).
Emma transformed from a screaming, tiny ball of disapproval of all our actions into a slightly less tiny ball of crudely worded disapproval of all our actions. Chief among Emma's list of Disapproved People was one Santa Claus of North Pole, Arctic Circle, who accosted Emma twice in Williams, Ariz. -- first when he requested that she sit on his lap and ask for presents, then again an hour later on a train ride when he crudely handed her a jingle bell. Emma twice screamed at the overbearing clod with sharp fury, prompting Luke to ask "Mommy, why is Santa Emma's greatest enemy?"
Our new dog, Murphy, adopted us from a Human Rescue society. He makes up what he's missing in a fourth leg by producing 35 times his bodyweight in black hair. We can only nod politely when complimented on our new black shag carpeting that complements the tile we had installed by the gentleman Emma refers to as "UhShawn."
On the job front,
-I made a major advance in my chosen field of demolition by volleyball spiking the life out of our TV while playing a video game.
-Jessica really accomplished nothing, at best. She spent half of the year as a stay-at-home mom -- what do those people do all day? And the other half as a part-time teacher in our pathetic failure of an education system that is but a roadblock to the shining success of charter schools, which will not only turn all our children into geniuses but allow us to one day defeat Ghana in the World Cup. But public school teachers, with their exorbitant salaries, cakewalk jobs and evil agendas of filling kids heads with evil lies such as global warming, evolution and the periodic table, are to be reviled and destroyed. Luckily we've put a state legislature in place that will do just that, as quickly as possible.
-Emma prepared for a future in the federal government by beginning a hobby in which she hunts down loose change to throw into the trash can.
-Luke finally settled down on a career choice. After insisting he'd be a farmer, astronaut, Laker, Cardinal, racecar driver, Army man, Joker, dragon and builder, he decided he would become a rock star. "I'm going to be on your iPod, Daddy," he said firmly. "And you better play me loud." Please join me in congratulating the boy in choosing a field that's more stable than that of his father.
So now you're all caught up. Take care, enjoy life and when things get tough, just be thankful you're not the Arizona Cardinals' quarterback coach.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Review: Black Swan
Deep inside every great artist, there is a lesbian ballerina stalker who wants to drug you and take your job. To attain greatness, you’ve got to stab her in the stomach and toss her into a bathroom stall. But not before getting it on with her. Because life is too short not to.
This is the main lessons I learned from Black Swan. Well, I guess it’s not right to say that I learned the lesson, because I’ve always known it, but I just needed the movie to remind me of the great truth.
Oh, and another thing I learned that I already knew: Director Darren Aronofsky is a frikkin’ genius.
Black Swan is a labyrinthine head trip that spelunks through the messed-up mind of an artist in the most fascinating way I’ve seen outside Federico Fellini’s 8 ½. I’m not one for superlatives, but as ballet movies go, this is even better than Center Stage.
By not only making a movie about ballet interesting, but somehow making that movie one of the best movies of the year, and furthermore by making a movie in which Winona Ryder is only the third hottest actress in the movie, and furtherermore having those two actresses make out, Aronofsky proves to be a true master of his craft.
Through just a few films, just about all of them masterworks of the finest order, Aronofsky has established a distinct, powerful voice so strong and probing that every time he releases a new film, it should be regarded as the cinematic holiday of Aronofskoliday. As time passes and euphoria fades into detached contemplation, Black Swan may prove to be his best work yet. It’s got the inner obsessive torment of Pi, the hopeless derangement of Requiem for a Dream, and lonely psychological struggle for redemption of The Wrestler. Most importantly, it’s got none of the sucky pointlessness of The Fountain. But even though The Fountain was terrible, Black Swan is so good I pretty much want to change my mind and like that movie from afar just as a way of paying tribute to it.
I’ll say little of the plot, only to share that it takes the story of Swan Lake, twists it around with psychosexual drama, and makes it seem resonant and exciting. Natalie Portman plays a ballerina who fears she’s nearing the end of her career, exuberant that she has the chance to replace a fading star (Ryder), while carrying on a dysfunctional romance with the company leader (Vincent Cassel) while trying to fend off a challenge from the mysterious new girl in the company (Mila Kunis).
OK, halfway through that last paragraph, it occurred to me that Black Swan, like Burlesque, is pretty much an exact copy of Showgirls. And while the Showgirlsness of Burlesque made me hate that movie, the Showgirlsness of Black Swan is amazing and perfect. Does that make sense? Well, if it doesn’t, don’t worry, because neither does the ending of Black Sawn on the literal level.
The beauty of The Black Swan is that it transcends the realms of logic and contrivance to make perfect sense on a metaphysical level. You watch the movie, recover from the gut punch of an ending and think, “Yes, that’s just right.” Then you gulp down some egg nog, open your presents and start counting down the days until the next Aronofskoliday.
Starring Natalie Portman, Mila Kunis, Barbara Hershey, Vincent Cassel, Winona Ryder. Written by Mark Heyman, Andres Heinz and John J. McLaughlin, based on a story by Andres Heinz. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. 107 minutes. Rated R.
This is the main lessons I learned from Black Swan. Well, I guess it’s not right to say that I learned the lesson, because I’ve always known it, but I just needed the movie to remind me of the great truth.
Oh, and another thing I learned that I already knew: Director Darren Aronofsky is a frikkin’ genius.
Black Swan is a labyrinthine head trip that spelunks through the messed-up mind of an artist in the most fascinating way I’ve seen outside Federico Fellini’s 8 ½. I’m not one for superlatives, but as ballet movies go, this is even better than Center Stage.
By not only making a movie about ballet interesting, but somehow making that movie one of the best movies of the year, and furthermore by making a movie in which Winona Ryder is only the third hottest actress in the movie, and furtherermore having those two actresses make out, Aronofsky proves to be a true master of his craft.
Through just a few films, just about all of them masterworks of the finest order, Aronofsky has established a distinct, powerful voice so strong and probing that every time he releases a new film, it should be regarded as the cinematic holiday of Aronofskoliday. As time passes and euphoria fades into detached contemplation, Black Swan may prove to be his best work yet. It’s got the inner obsessive torment of Pi, the hopeless derangement of Requiem for a Dream, and lonely psychological struggle for redemption of The Wrestler. Most importantly, it’s got none of the sucky pointlessness of The Fountain. But even though The Fountain was terrible, Black Swan is so good I pretty much want to change my mind and like that movie from afar just as a way of paying tribute to it.
I’ll say little of the plot, only to share that it takes the story of Swan Lake, twists it around with psychosexual drama, and makes it seem resonant and exciting. Natalie Portman plays a ballerina who fears she’s nearing the end of her career, exuberant that she has the chance to replace a fading star (Ryder), while carrying on a dysfunctional romance with the company leader (Vincent Cassel) while trying to fend off a challenge from the mysterious new girl in the company (Mila Kunis).
OK, halfway through that last paragraph, it occurred to me that Black Swan, like Burlesque, is pretty much an exact copy of Showgirls. And while the Showgirlsness of Burlesque made me hate that movie, the Showgirlsness of Black Swan is amazing and perfect. Does that make sense? Well, if it doesn’t, don’t worry, because neither does the ending of Black Sawn on the literal level.
The beauty of The Black Swan is that it transcends the realms of logic and contrivance to make perfect sense on a metaphysical level. You watch the movie, recover from the gut punch of an ending and think, “Yes, that’s just right.” Then you gulp down some egg nog, open your presents and start counting down the days until the next Aronofskoliday.
Starring Natalie Portman, Mila Kunis, Barbara Hershey, Vincent Cassel, Winona Ryder. Written by Mark Heyman, Andres Heinz and John J. McLaughlin, based on a story by Andres Heinz. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. 107 minutes. Rated R.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Review: 'Tangled'
I am going to blab on and on, as I always do, but the only review you really need to hear about this terrible movie comes from my 3-year-old son, Luke:
“Daddy, can we leave?” he said in the middle of the endless movie. When I shook my head, he added the death blow: “I never, ever want to see this show again.”
This from the kid who can watch the same episode of Special Agent Oso four times in a row.
If not for the reinforcement by my offspring, I might have cut Tangled more slack out of concern that maybe the problem was more mine than the movie’s. The trailers made the movie out to be an irreverent, Shrek-like deconstruction of a famous fable, oozing with snark and in-jokes. The actual product packs about as much subversive punch as a Hallmark card.
Maybe the problem rests with the Grimm brothers story itself. There are only so many ways you can go in a tale about a girl with long hair stuck in a tower, and this Disney take seems like a bitter Pictionary player who’s stuck with a clue that’s too hard to describe so he ends up drawing a character that looks like a hybrid between a turtle and a question mark, then stares ashamedly at the ground until the timer runs out.
Mandy Moore voices Princess Rapunzel, who was kidnapped as a baby by a cruel old woman who uses the girl’s magical hair to replenish her youth. The king and queen miss Rapunzel so much that they set off an annual display of floating lamps to commemorate her birthday, but don’t yearn for her return so much that they have a search committee check all the towers in the region in which locked-away girls stare out the windows with longing abandon.
Zachary Levi voices Flynn Rider, the con artist adventurer who happens upon Rapunzel’s tower as a hideout, then through a twist of contrivance ends up agreeing to take her to see the floating lamps on her birthday if she’ll hand over a stolen artifact that she stole from him after knocking him out with a frying pan.
Yes, the movie proves that it is possible to get a brain freeze without eating ice cream.
No matter how silly and overly complicated the story, the movie would have been fine had it managed to generate any sense of rhythm – comedic, dramatic or otherwise. The film lacks any soul or purpose, much like a Jersey Shore castmember. But unlike a Jersey Shore castmember, it’s incapable of punching people in the face at random for your entertainment.
When I got home from the movie and put my son to bed, I just had to tell someone about the horrors I’d experienced. So I dialed up my dad, and told him “I never, ever want to watch this show again.”
Starring the voices of Mandy Moore and Zachary Levi. Written by Dan Fogelman, based on the fairy tale by Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm. Directed by Nathan Greno and Byron Howard. 100 minutes. Rated PG.
“Daddy, can we leave?” he said in the middle of the endless movie. When I shook my head, he added the death blow: “I never, ever want to see this show again.”
This from the kid who can watch the same episode of Special Agent Oso four times in a row.
If not for the reinforcement by my offspring, I might have cut Tangled more slack out of concern that maybe the problem was more mine than the movie’s. The trailers made the movie out to be an irreverent, Shrek-like deconstruction of a famous fable, oozing with snark and in-jokes. The actual product packs about as much subversive punch as a Hallmark card.
Maybe the problem rests with the Grimm brothers story itself. There are only so many ways you can go in a tale about a girl with long hair stuck in a tower, and this Disney take seems like a bitter Pictionary player who’s stuck with a clue that’s too hard to describe so he ends up drawing a character that looks like a hybrid between a turtle and a question mark, then stares ashamedly at the ground until the timer runs out.
Mandy Moore voices Princess Rapunzel, who was kidnapped as a baby by a cruel old woman who uses the girl’s magical hair to replenish her youth. The king and queen miss Rapunzel so much that they set off an annual display of floating lamps to commemorate her birthday, but don’t yearn for her return so much that they have a search committee check all the towers in the region in which locked-away girls stare out the windows with longing abandon.
Zachary Levi voices Flynn Rider, the con artist adventurer who happens upon Rapunzel’s tower as a hideout, then through a twist of contrivance ends up agreeing to take her to see the floating lamps on her birthday if she’ll hand over a stolen artifact that she stole from him after knocking him out with a frying pan.
Yes, the movie proves that it is possible to get a brain freeze without eating ice cream.
No matter how silly and overly complicated the story, the movie would have been fine had it managed to generate any sense of rhythm – comedic, dramatic or otherwise. The film lacks any soul or purpose, much like a Jersey Shore castmember. But unlike a Jersey Shore castmember, it’s incapable of punching people in the face at random for your entertainment.
When I got home from the movie and put my son to bed, I just had to tell someone about the horrors I’d experienced. So I dialed up my dad, and told him “I never, ever want to watch this show again.”
Starring the voices of Mandy Moore and Zachary Levi. Written by Dan Fogelman, based on the fairy tale by Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm. Directed by Nathan Greno and Byron Howard. 100 minutes. Rated PG.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Review: Burlesque
Burlesque writer/director Steve Antin was watching the movie Showgirls one night and thought, “Man, this is a great flick, but it would even better if I added Cher and subtracted the nudity!” And thus Burlesque was born.
The scenario in the above paragraph may have been completely made up, but it’s better than other possible explanations of how this movie was made, including “on a dare,” “by Mad Libs” and “on accident.”
I don’t want to say Burlesque is bad, but you know all those movie theaters in New York that are infested with bedbugs? Word has it the creepy-crawly parasites have abandoned the establishments for fear of having to be subjected to the movie.
There’s a chance you’ll like the film. Perhaps if you’re Christina Aguilera’s mom or the spirit of Sonny Bono reincarnated as a person who can tolerate awful movies. Or maybe if you’re drunk or high and hanging out with friends and in the mood to laugh at something, Mystery Science Theater 3000-style, for 100 minutes.
Let’s set the stage: Christina Aguilera plays NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali, a desperate, lonely Midwestern girl with no family or prospects who lands on heading west to make it to the big time. Being a woman of modest means, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali has a loose definition of what constitutes “the big time.”
When she steps into a 1930s-influenced hole in the wall that’s so awful its patrons tolerate a lip-syncing Kristen Bell as its lead attraction, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali decides that she will dedicate her life, Rudy-style, toward one day being able to sing and dance for minimum wage on that magical stage for a crowd of 15 people. Or make the Notre Dame football team. Whatever’s easiest.
A rational Midwestern NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali might see such a place as a brief steppingstone to something better – maybe a gig as a greeter at Chili’s or something. But to the movie’s heroine, this burlesque club is living the dream.
Understandably, the joint is losing money, much to the despair of its owner, played by Cher, and her gay best friend (Stanley Tucci) with whom she once hooked up back in the day, as revealed by a story that’s about as believable as Cher’s plastic surgery.
An evil land developer wants to buy the club for way more than it’s worth and turn it into something less of an affront to society, such as a bedbug incubation farm, and he’s also dating the Bell character. But then NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali starts singing and shaking it like a genie that’s spent far too much time in the bottle, and he wants to rub her the right way. But the bartender guy likes her too, and so there’s a love tri… uh…
Since I stopped caring about the plot midway through the last paragraph and Antin stopped caring even before he wrote it, I won’t trouble you with any more setup. Just know that the high points involve Aguilera busting out that fantastic voice of hers, the low point involves Cher’s one ill-advised song, and Rudy not only makes the team but gets a sack on the very last play. Oh, and Christina Aguilera is every bit as good of an actor as she was on the Mickey Mouse Club. OK, not quite as good. But she does have boobs now.
Starring Christina Aguilera, Cher, Stanley Tucci, Kristen Bell, Cam Gigandet and Eric Dane. Written and directed by Steve Antin. Rated PG-13. 100 minutes.
The scenario in the above paragraph may have been completely made up, but it’s better than other possible explanations of how this movie was made, including “on a dare,” “by Mad Libs” and “on accident.”
I don’t want to say Burlesque is bad, but you know all those movie theaters in New York that are infested with bedbugs? Word has it the creepy-crawly parasites have abandoned the establishments for fear of having to be subjected to the movie.
There’s a chance you’ll like the film. Perhaps if you’re Christina Aguilera’s mom or the spirit of Sonny Bono reincarnated as a person who can tolerate awful movies. Or maybe if you’re drunk or high and hanging out with friends and in the mood to laugh at something, Mystery Science Theater 3000-style, for 100 minutes.
Let’s set the stage: Christina Aguilera plays NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali, a desperate, lonely Midwestern girl with no family or prospects who lands on heading west to make it to the big time. Being a woman of modest means, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali has a loose definition of what constitutes “the big time.”
When she steps into a 1930s-influenced hole in the wall that’s so awful its patrons tolerate a lip-syncing Kristen Bell as its lead attraction, NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali decides that she will dedicate her life, Rudy-style, toward one day being able to sing and dance for minimum wage on that magical stage for a crowd of 15 people. Or make the Notre Dame football team. Whatever’s easiest.
A rational Midwestern NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali might see such a place as a brief steppingstone to something better – maybe a gig as a greeter at Chili’s or something. But to the movie’s heroine, this burlesque club is living the dream.
Understandably, the joint is losing money, much to the despair of its owner, played by Cher, and her gay best friend (Stanley Tucci) with whom she once hooked up back in the day, as revealed by a story that’s about as believable as Cher’s plastic surgery.
An evil land developer wants to buy the club for way more than it’s worth and turn it into something less of an affront to society, such as a bedbug incubation farm, and he’s also dating the Bell character. But then NomiMaloneWhoopsIMeant Ali starts singing and shaking it like a genie that’s spent far too much time in the bottle, and he wants to rub her the right way. But the bartender guy likes her too, and so there’s a love tri… uh…
Since I stopped caring about the plot midway through the last paragraph and Antin stopped caring even before he wrote it, I won’t trouble you with any more setup. Just know that the high points involve Aguilera busting out that fantastic voice of hers, the low point involves Cher’s one ill-advised song, and Rudy not only makes the team but gets a sack on the very last play. Oh, and Christina Aguilera is every bit as good of an actor as she was on the Mickey Mouse Club. OK, not quite as good. But she does have boobs now.
Starring Christina Aguilera, Cher, Stanley Tucci, Kristen Bell, Cam Gigandet and Eric Dane. Written and directed by Steve Antin. Rated PG-13. 100 minutes.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Review: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; Part I
Like University of Kentucky basketball players, Harry Potter and his pals have decided they can’t wait to finish school before going pro. You can’t really blame them for leaving Hogwarts early. Not only do shoe contracts and multimillion dollar paychecks await, but -- oh yeah – Lord Voldemort and his gang of evil, genocidal sorcerers want to kill them and they’ve installed the guy who killed the school’s previous principal as the new headmaster.
So there’s that. Don’t try and talk to Harry, Ron and Hermione about the importance of earning degrees and enjoying their fleeting childhoods. They’ve got to go get theirs – “theirs” in this case meaning hidden charms called horcruxes that transform into monsters that display smokey underage sex shows and double as Voldemort’s resurrection portals to boot. To destroy the horcruxes, Harry and the Harriettes must find a hidden magical sword that Harry may or may not need to ice-fish out of a random Antarctic lake in the middle of the United Kingdom.
And no matter how efficiently the kids do their convoluted job, they won’t be able to finish until next year, when the other half of their 5 hour movie will apparate into theaters.
The first few paragraphs are my way of complaining how convoluted and ineffectual the plotting of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I is. And despite its silliness, insanity and Blue’s Clues-like insipidness, it’s still a fast-paced, fascinating film that’s better than all 32,000 previous movies in the series combined, times two.
Harry Potter flicks have always suffered from a narrative akin to a sugared-up kindergartener who tells you pieces of a story without linking them together or explaining context. “Harry flew in a magic car and then he smiled at Hermione and then Dumbledore came in and showed them some magic and then…”
While the routine holds true in the 32,001st movie in the series, at least now there are real consequences and some chances for the not-so-young-anymore actors to strut their chops. To put it bluntly, I like this movie because instead of whining about possible death at the hands of Voldemort while barely any of the threats come to fruition, this is the film in which Voldey finally gets to pull out his nine and bust some caps. If you happen to be an irritating CGI character, you’d best not make reservations for the premiere of Part II. And oh yeah, retroactive spoiler alert for that sentence.
It’s just fun to watch wizards kill each other, shooting spells like bullets and throwing knives through magic wormholes that come out the other side and continue to get their stab on. I could watch this stuff all night, and practically did since the movie is so needlessly long.
I was actually impressed with the acting. All that time spent making love to horses on the British stage has clearly paid off for Potterboy Daniel Radcliffe, who now displays a full range of emotions rather than the bewildered false modesty that’s been required of his character for the first 32,000 films. The same goes for Emma Watson and Rupert Grint, who by now must be so sick of their roles they’d take just about any other job, including head coach of the Dallas Cowboys, just to break typecast.
Well, let’s not get carried away. No one in their right mind would coach the Cowboys because Jerry Jones is a meddlesome owner who sets employees up to fail. But they’re definitely ready to star in softcore Showtime porn or play substitute teachers on Glee. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for them, but before the future I need one more wizard slaughtering movie, pretty please with a horcrux on top.
Starring Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson and Alan Rickman. Written by Steve Kloves, based on the novel by J.K. Rowling. Directed by David Yates. 145 minutes. Rated PG-13.
So there’s that. Don’t try and talk to Harry, Ron and Hermione about the importance of earning degrees and enjoying their fleeting childhoods. They’ve got to go get theirs – “theirs” in this case meaning hidden charms called horcruxes that transform into monsters that display smokey underage sex shows and double as Voldemort’s resurrection portals to boot. To destroy the horcruxes, Harry and the Harriettes must find a hidden magical sword that Harry may or may not need to ice-fish out of a random Antarctic lake in the middle of the United Kingdom.
And no matter how efficiently the kids do their convoluted job, they won’t be able to finish until next year, when the other half of their 5 hour movie will apparate into theaters.
The first few paragraphs are my way of complaining how convoluted and ineffectual the plotting of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I is. And despite its silliness, insanity and Blue’s Clues-like insipidness, it’s still a fast-paced, fascinating film that’s better than all 32,000 previous movies in the series combined, times two.
Harry Potter flicks have always suffered from a narrative akin to a sugared-up kindergartener who tells you pieces of a story without linking them together or explaining context. “Harry flew in a magic car and then he smiled at Hermione and then Dumbledore came in and showed them some magic and then…”
While the routine holds true in the 32,001st movie in the series, at least now there are real consequences and some chances for the not-so-young-anymore actors to strut their chops. To put it bluntly, I like this movie because instead of whining about possible death at the hands of Voldemort while barely any of the threats come to fruition, this is the film in which Voldey finally gets to pull out his nine and bust some caps. If you happen to be an irritating CGI character, you’d best not make reservations for the premiere of Part II. And oh yeah, retroactive spoiler alert for that sentence.
It’s just fun to watch wizards kill each other, shooting spells like bullets and throwing knives through magic wormholes that come out the other side and continue to get their stab on. I could watch this stuff all night, and practically did since the movie is so needlessly long.
I was actually impressed with the acting. All that time spent making love to horses on the British stage has clearly paid off for Potterboy Daniel Radcliffe, who now displays a full range of emotions rather than the bewildered false modesty that’s been required of his character for the first 32,000 films. The same goes for Emma Watson and Rupert Grint, who by now must be so sick of their roles they’d take just about any other job, including head coach of the Dallas Cowboys, just to break typecast.
Well, let’s not get carried away. No one in their right mind would coach the Cowboys because Jerry Jones is a meddlesome owner who sets employees up to fail. But they’re definitely ready to star in softcore Showtime porn or play substitute teachers on Glee. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for them, but before the future I need one more wizard slaughtering movie, pretty please with a horcrux on top.
Starring Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson and Alan Rickman. Written by Steve Kloves, based on the novel by J.K. Rowling. Directed by David Yates. 145 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Somewhere Out There Is A TV That Will Love Me
As you may have heard if you've encountered any video game site in the entire world in the last few days, I discovered the hard way that HDTVs are less than capable volleyball opponents. While they are excellent at blocking shots at the net, they can't take a hit and quit playing like crybabies, making you out to be the bad guy by crying rainbow unicorn tears as the world laughs at you.
So as things stand, I'm in the market for a new TV. And no, just to clear things up with those who asked, I wouldn't accept a replacement from Microsoft if it offered because that would unleash an ethical bag of monkeys I'd rather not spank. I will be buying my new TV, hopefully with as little money as possible.
Here are my requirements. If you happen upon a great deal that fits these parameters, leave a comment.
Size: 46 to 55 inches.
Kind: 1080p LED LCD. I would slum it for a plain LCD, but only if it's 55 inches or larger. Plasmas have nice pictures but too much glare and DLPs seem nice and all but I don't want to be buying new lamps every other year.
Price: $900 maximum.
HDMI inputs: 4.
Have at it, army of new readers. You're my only hope.
So as things stand, I'm in the market for a new TV. And no, just to clear things up with those who asked, I wouldn't accept a replacement from Microsoft if it offered because that would unleash an ethical bag of monkeys I'd rather not spank. I will be buying my new TV, hopefully with as little money as possible.
Here are my requirements. If you happen upon a great deal that fits these parameters, leave a comment.
Size: 46 to 55 inches.
Kind: 1080p LED LCD. I would slum it for a plain LCD, but only if it's 55 inches or larger. Plasmas have nice pictures but too much glare and DLPs seem nice and all but I don't want to be buying new lamps every other year.
Price: $900 maximum.
HDMI inputs: 4.
Have at it, army of new readers. You're my only hope.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Yes, I Am The First Moron To Break His TV With Kinect
A public service announcement: Do not under any circumstances play Kinect Sports Volleyball at 1:30 a.m. while standing under a ceiling fan with a dangling chain for a light switch. You could conceivably spike it into your year-old amazing TV, causing it to die with a rainbow LCD teardrop dripping down from the impact wound.
Plus you'll lose the match by forfeit.
Addendum: If you feel sorry for me buy my book, Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel (makes a great Christmas gift) and help take the pain away.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Review: Due Date
This is posted over at OK.
Zach Galifianakis and Paul Rudd are the leading man-whores in the bromance arms race. Neither has any standards, and will give it up to just about anyone who asks.
All either cares about is giving as many different dudes as possible 90-minute sessions of hot, dirty, unprotected platonic bonding.
Galifianakis gets it on with Robert Downey Jr. in Due Date, the latest shot across the bow, not to be outdone after Rudd added Steve Carell to his harem earlier this year with Dinner for Schmucks.
This round goes decisively to Galifianakis, whose film is funny throughout and the only one to include the necessary element of a masturbating dog.
Due Date is a wholesale ripoff of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, with Downey as Peter, the snobby, uptight businessman forced to travel cross-country with the pudgy, slovenly Ethan (Galifianakis). Peter hates Ethan, mainly because as soon as they meet Ethan gets Peter thrown off his flight home to see his expecting wife (Michelle Monaghan). Ethan loves Peter, if only because Peter hates him and Ethan likes a challenge.
Galifianakis is so darned adorable as Ethan that it’s impossible to share Peter’s fury. A hapless lug who carries his recently deceased dad’s ashes in a coffee can, Ethan holds dear to his dream of becoming an actor and one day appearing as a special guest on Two and a Half Men. Kudos to the screenwriters for thinking of such a pathetic aspiration.
Downey is the Larry Appleton to Galifianakis’s Balki Bartokomous, putting hand to the forehead as Ethan engages in all sorts of hijinks, such as flipping their rental car off freeway overpasses, getting Peter beaten down by a cane-wielding Western Union employee and chased by Mexican Federales.
The material may not be as inspired as The Hangover, director Todd Phillips’ last outing, but it never bores and keeps the laughs in the theater so loud you’ll miss enough few follow-up jokes to want to see the movie again.
Now the ball is back in Rudd’s court. He’ll have to top that masturbating dog, perhaps with a masturbating monkey or something.
Starring Zack Galifianakis and Robert Downey Jr. Written by Alan R. Cohen, Alan Freedland, Adam Sztykiel and Todd Phillips, based on a story by Cohen and Freedland. Directed by Phillips. 95 minutes. Rated R.
Zach Galifianakis and Paul Rudd are the leading man-whores in the bromance arms race. Neither has any standards, and will give it up to just about anyone who asks.
All either cares about is giving as many different dudes as possible 90-minute sessions of hot, dirty, unprotected platonic bonding.
Galifianakis gets it on with Robert Downey Jr. in Due Date, the latest shot across the bow, not to be outdone after Rudd added Steve Carell to his harem earlier this year with Dinner for Schmucks.
This round goes decisively to Galifianakis, whose film is funny throughout and the only one to include the necessary element of a masturbating dog.
Due Date is a wholesale ripoff of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, with Downey as Peter, the snobby, uptight businessman forced to travel cross-country with the pudgy, slovenly Ethan (Galifianakis). Peter hates Ethan, mainly because as soon as they meet Ethan gets Peter thrown off his flight home to see his expecting wife (Michelle Monaghan). Ethan loves Peter, if only because Peter hates him and Ethan likes a challenge.
Galifianakis is so darned adorable as Ethan that it’s impossible to share Peter’s fury. A hapless lug who carries his recently deceased dad’s ashes in a coffee can, Ethan holds dear to his dream of becoming an actor and one day appearing as a special guest on Two and a Half Men. Kudos to the screenwriters for thinking of such a pathetic aspiration.
Downey is the Larry Appleton to Galifianakis’s Balki Bartokomous, putting hand to the forehead as Ethan engages in all sorts of hijinks, such as flipping their rental car off freeway overpasses, getting Peter beaten down by a cane-wielding Western Union employee and chased by Mexican Federales.
The material may not be as inspired as The Hangover, director Todd Phillips’ last outing, but it never bores and keeps the laughs in the theater so loud you’ll miss enough few follow-up jokes to want to see the movie again.
Now the ball is back in Rudd’s court. He’ll have to top that masturbating dog, perhaps with a masturbating monkey or something.
Starring Zack Galifianakis and Robert Downey Jr. Written by Alan R. Cohen, Alan Freedland, Adam Sztykiel and Todd Phillips, based on a story by Cohen and Freedland. Directed by Phillips. 95 minutes. Rated R.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Review: "Hereafter"
This is posted over at OK.
If you’ve ever brought together two good friends from different spheres of your life together, only to be stunned at how bored and tedious things got when you all hung out, you know what it’s like to watch a Clint Eastwood-Matt Damon pairing.
It’s exacerbated by how much you like both parties on their own, and how hard you try to convince yourself something lively will come out of the pairing. You try to start a conversation.
You: “So, uh, Matt, you know Clint likes the Red Sox, too.”
Clint: “No I don’t.”
“Oh, well, Clint, Matt starred in a Western just like you used to!”
Matt: “Yeah, I did All the Pretty Horses, but that was a flop and I don’t really like to talk about it.”
You: “Riiight. Who’s up for some Parcheesi?”
After suffering through the solidly made but slumber-inducing Vindictus and Hereafter, it’s clear that the duo go together like peanut butter and jellyfish. While it may well be that the writing on both projects is at fault for the lack of any spark, it’s time to cut our losses and stage an intervention to break this pair up before they start gaining more bizarrely undeserved Oscar success and thinking they’re some sort of Scorsese/DiCaprio unit.
To get a feel for the movie, imagine Crash meets Meet Joe Black with an extra dose of unwatchable. The movie spins three equally uninteresting tales about death, alternating from one to the other before eventually smushing together all three in a forced finale that doesn’t so much tie up loose ends as it does fray them with a blowtorch.
Story one stars Cecile De France as a French newswoman who nearly dies when the tidal waves The Day After Tomorrow barges in on her vacation. Story two features Damon as an all-grown-up Haley Joel Osment whose psychic medium abilities prevent him from having sex with Bryce Dallas Howard. And then there’s a tale of a sullen British boy who struggles through foster care after the untimely departure of his twin brother.
Damon’s story is the closest to amusement the movie comes, if only due to his character’s omnipresent confused scowl and obsession with Charles Dickens. The man is so into C.Dick that he falls to sleep to his audio books. What I don’t get is why he needs those audio books, since he obviously has the power to speak to Dickens and have him personally read his beddy-bye stories.
There is symbolic poignance to those scenes, though. They serve as psychic symbolism for this movie’s eventual fate, as a DVD that doubles as a sleep aid.
Starring Matt Damon, Cecile De France, Bryce Dallas Howard and Jay Mohr. Written by Peter Morgan. Directed by Clint Eastwood. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
If you’ve ever brought together two good friends from different spheres of your life together, only to be stunned at how bored and tedious things got when you all hung out, you know what it’s like to watch a Clint Eastwood-Matt Damon pairing.
It’s exacerbated by how much you like both parties on their own, and how hard you try to convince yourself something lively will come out of the pairing. You try to start a conversation.
You: “So, uh, Matt, you know Clint likes the Red Sox, too.”
Clint: “No I don’t.”
“Oh, well, Clint, Matt starred in a Western just like you used to!”
Matt: “Yeah, I did All the Pretty Horses, but that was a flop and I don’t really like to talk about it.”
You: “Riiight. Who’s up for some Parcheesi?”
After suffering through the solidly made but slumber-inducing Vindictus and Hereafter, it’s clear that the duo go together like peanut butter and jellyfish. While it may well be that the writing on both projects is at fault for the lack of any spark, it’s time to cut our losses and stage an intervention to break this pair up before they start gaining more bizarrely undeserved Oscar success and thinking they’re some sort of Scorsese/DiCaprio unit.
To get a feel for the movie, imagine Crash meets Meet Joe Black with an extra dose of unwatchable. The movie spins three equally uninteresting tales about death, alternating from one to the other before eventually smushing together all three in a forced finale that doesn’t so much tie up loose ends as it does fray them with a blowtorch.
Story one stars Cecile De France as a French newswoman who nearly dies when the tidal waves The Day After Tomorrow barges in on her vacation. Story two features Damon as an all-grown-up Haley Joel Osment whose psychic medium abilities prevent him from having sex with Bryce Dallas Howard. And then there’s a tale of a sullen British boy who struggles through foster care after the untimely departure of his twin brother.
Damon’s story is the closest to amusement the movie comes, if only due to his character’s omnipresent confused scowl and obsession with Charles Dickens. The man is so into C.Dick that he falls to sleep to his audio books. What I don’t get is why he needs those audio books, since he obviously has the power to speak to Dickens and have him personally read his beddy-bye stories.
There is symbolic poignance to those scenes, though. They serve as psychic symbolism for this movie’s eventual fate, as a DVD that doubles as a sleep aid.
Starring Matt Damon, Cecile De France, Bryce Dallas Howard and Jay Mohr. Written by Peter Morgan. Directed by Clint Eastwood. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
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