There's
Oh and you can't forget this:
And of course there's also
to keep in mind.
(Note: there is no missing content in this post.)
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
You Need To Read This Comic
This one.
Obviously this dude needs to be writing graphic novels. I'm sure he knows this, and worked on his comics stuff all along when his girlfriend was bringing in all the money and getting pissed at him. But now he's forced to work at Wendy's. Hopefully that comic will get him some attention.
At the very least, the guy deserves a callback from the port authority that gets him in on a trainee program or something to become a foghorn one day.
Obviously this dude needs to be writing graphic novels. I'm sure he knows this, and worked on his comics stuff all along when his girlfriend was bringing in all the money and getting pissed at him. But now he's forced to work at Wendy's. Hopefully that comic will get him some attention.
At the very least, the guy deserves a callback from the port authority that gets him in on a trainee program or something to become a foghorn one day.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Fate
I'm not sure whether or not fate exists and God or the universe sends you signs of things you need to be doing. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's not the way things work. I think fate can only be described retroactively. But I think people do best if they act like there's fate, and see what's presented to them as though it's there for a reason and find a way to make the best use of it at the time.
So if you find out about an audition, interview or some other opportunity and are drawn to try out for it, despite the fact that logically it would disrupt and ruin a lot of things in your life if it all panned out, you really should go for it anyway. Because who knows, maybe I'm wrong and fate did put that opportunity in front of you for a reason. That would be the case if you were actually a character in the movie The Adjustment Bureau and just didn't know it.
So if you find out about an audition, interview or some other opportunity and are drawn to try out for it, despite the fact that logically it would disrupt and ruin a lot of things in your life if it all panned out, you really should go for it anyway. Because who knows, maybe I'm wrong and fate did put that opportunity in front of you for a reason. That would be the case if you were actually a character in the movie The Adjustment Bureau and just didn't know it.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Things That Are Exactly The Same
Trumpets and cornets.
Dolphins and porpoises.
Turtles and tortoises.
Cameron Winklevoss and Tyler Winklevoss.
Ken and Ryu.
Macs and PCs.
Droid and Droid 2.
Worcestershire sauce and soy sauce.
Ice cream, sorbet, frozen yogurt and gelato.
Every kind of pasta.
720p and 1080p.
North Dakota and South Dakota.
Lockouts and strikes.
Madden NFL 07, Madden NFL 08, Madden NFL 09, Madden NFL 10 and Madden NFL 11.
Billiards and pool.
Bush's budgets and Obama's budgets.
Nikes and Adidases.
Diet Coke and squirrel urine.
Dolphins and porpoises.
Turtles and tortoises.
Cameron Winklevoss and Tyler Winklevoss.
Ken and Ryu.
Macs and PCs.
Droid and Droid 2.
Worcestershire sauce and soy sauce.
Ice cream, sorbet, frozen yogurt and gelato.
Every kind of pasta.
720p and 1080p.
North Dakota and South Dakota.
Lockouts and strikes.
Madden NFL 07, Madden NFL 08, Madden NFL 09, Madden NFL 10 and Madden NFL 11.
Billiards and pool.
Bush's budgets and Obama's budgets.
Nikes and Adidases.
Diet Coke and squirrel urine.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Review: Arthur
This review is posted over at OK.
I’ve got a 40 in my hand, and I’m pouring it out on the pavement in remembrance of the indie sensation that was Greta Gerwig.
Her proverbial sellout starring role in the halfhearted Arthur remake, following a harbinger supporting turn in No Strings Attached, means Gerwig as we know her is dead, another life lost to the harsh, ghetto streets of Hollywood. Now she can no longer be hailed as the mumblecore princess of Hannah Takes the Stairs, Nights and Weekends and Baghead. In those films she played pretty much the same character, a misunderstood, somewhat neglected hipster girlfriend type who would melt your loins with her smile and mutter likely improvised dialogue that made her seem impossibly intelligent.
In Arthur, playing a bohemian tour guide caught up in a bad romance with a billionaire playboy, she recites trite, likely workshopped dialogue with a polite disdain that brings to mind a high school drama teacher plowing through a monologue penned by her student. Either she’s disinterested or a poor actress, but either way she’s about as effective and convincing as Survivor’s Colleen Haskell in Rob Schneider’s The Animal.
The least Gerwig could have done was to have fun selling out, like her co-star Russell Brand, who seems content to make a career of channeling Johnny Depp channeling Keith Richards channeling a lifetime of chemical abuse. Brand as Arthur, the careless, womanizing drunkard who’s an heir to a giant corporation, is a young Jack Sparrow, happily skipping off the plank into banality.
The remake of the 30-year-old comedy that earned Dudley Moore an Oscar nomination may just earn Brand a Razzie, but damned if he wouldn’t probably attend the ceremony to claim his award with a drunken grin. His assignment in the film is to open his eyes wide, act like he’s slizzered and try to rescue as many dud lines of dialogue with his cutesy British parlance as possible.
Helen Mirren is the only one in the movie who actually bothers to act, but even she detracts from the package because she makes her character seem as though she’s accidentally wandered in from some other, more important movie playing on the next screen over. She plays Arthur’s nanny who dutifully shepherds him out of one drunken mess after another, first urging him to comply with his arranged marriage to a corporate sociopath (Jennifer Garner), then gradually starting to push him Gerwig’s way.
The movie made me laugh more than it had any right to, sometimes due to Brand’s twisted delivery, and others by the simple appearance of Luis Guzman as his pathetic assistant, but goes on way past its welcome and rarely coalesces into something more entertaining than a baseball game in which you care about neither team.
In college I knew a guy named Arthur. He was a drunken idiot like the movie Arthur, although not as rich. People called him Artie, Artie, the One-Man Party, and he mistakenly took the nickname as a compliment, oblivious to its implications that it meant everyone else just sort of tolerated his presence but kept looking at their watch, wishing he would leave. There’s a reason this movie reminded me of him.
Starring Russell Brand, Luis Guzman, Jennifer Garner, Helen Mirren and Greta Gerwig. Written by Peter Baynham, based on a story by Steve Gordon. Directed by Jason Winer. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
I’ve got a 40 in my hand, and I’m pouring it out on the pavement in remembrance of the indie sensation that was Greta Gerwig.
Her proverbial sellout starring role in the halfhearted Arthur remake, following a harbinger supporting turn in No Strings Attached, means Gerwig as we know her is dead, another life lost to the harsh, ghetto streets of Hollywood. Now she can no longer be hailed as the mumblecore princess of Hannah Takes the Stairs, Nights and Weekends and Baghead. In those films she played pretty much the same character, a misunderstood, somewhat neglected hipster girlfriend type who would melt your loins with her smile and mutter likely improvised dialogue that made her seem impossibly intelligent.
In Arthur, playing a bohemian tour guide caught up in a bad romance with a billionaire playboy, she recites trite, likely workshopped dialogue with a polite disdain that brings to mind a high school drama teacher plowing through a monologue penned by her student. Either she’s disinterested or a poor actress, but either way she’s about as effective and convincing as Survivor’s Colleen Haskell in Rob Schneider’s The Animal.
The least Gerwig could have done was to have fun selling out, like her co-star Russell Brand, who seems content to make a career of channeling Johnny Depp channeling Keith Richards channeling a lifetime of chemical abuse. Brand as Arthur, the careless, womanizing drunkard who’s an heir to a giant corporation, is a young Jack Sparrow, happily skipping off the plank into banality.
The remake of the 30-year-old comedy that earned Dudley Moore an Oscar nomination may just earn Brand a Razzie, but damned if he wouldn’t probably attend the ceremony to claim his award with a drunken grin. His assignment in the film is to open his eyes wide, act like he’s slizzered and try to rescue as many dud lines of dialogue with his cutesy British parlance as possible.
Helen Mirren is the only one in the movie who actually bothers to act, but even she detracts from the package because she makes her character seem as though she’s accidentally wandered in from some other, more important movie playing on the next screen over. She plays Arthur’s nanny who dutifully shepherds him out of one drunken mess after another, first urging him to comply with his arranged marriage to a corporate sociopath (Jennifer Garner), then gradually starting to push him Gerwig’s way.
The movie made me laugh more than it had any right to, sometimes due to Brand’s twisted delivery, and others by the simple appearance of Luis Guzman as his pathetic assistant, but goes on way past its welcome and rarely coalesces into something more entertaining than a baseball game in which you care about neither team.
In college I knew a guy named Arthur. He was a drunken idiot like the movie Arthur, although not as rich. People called him Artie, Artie, the One-Man Party, and he mistakenly took the nickname as a compliment, oblivious to its implications that it meant everyone else just sort of tolerated his presence but kept looking at their watch, wishing he would leave. There’s a reason this movie reminded me of him.
Starring Russell Brand, Luis Guzman, Jennifer Garner, Helen Mirren and Greta Gerwig. Written by Peter Baynham, based on a story by Steve Gordon. Directed by Jason Winer. Rated PG-13. 110 minutes.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Review: Source Code
One of the ways Call of Duty is superior to life is its respawn feature. When you die, you’re just right back at it a few seconds later. A little wiser and more aware of your surroundings, and a whole lot more driven to assault-rifle the 15-year-old who talked about your momma as he blew off your head and teabagged your virtual corpse.
Source Code takes the respawn and runs with it. Jake Gyllenhaal stars as an Army pilot stuck with a mission to identify a terrorist on a Chicago train. His mysterious commanders implant his consciousness into the mind of a schoolteacher, giving him eight minutes to flirt with Michelle Monaghan, assault passengers at his whim, surf the internet with slow-loading smartphones he swipes from passers by, dart his eyes around in frantic worry and, if he has any time at the end of all that, try and find the guy who destroys Chicago.
Under no circumstances is Gyllenhaal to rescue Monaghan or the other doomed passengers. The technology, dubbed Source Code, is only meant to dig up info that can prevent crimes, not alter the past. But little do the Source Code masters realize that Gyllenhaal is a bad boy who plays by his own rules.
There’s plenty working against the film. There’s no drama to the proceedings because there’s nothing really at stake since Gyllenhaal is allowed infinite continues. The only way the movie can possibly end is by Gyllenhaal succeeding. On the other hand, you know he’ll fail for the first few dozen times, otherwise the movie would be about as long as a Looney Tunes short. Thus the film amounts to watching a person who’s very bad at a video game and not all that interested in completing it just sort of muck around until he lucks into success.
On top of all that, the plot dynamics make little sense, avoiding important metaphysical questions such as where the consciousness of the teacher goes when Gyllenhaal is at the controls or how creepy it is that Vera Farmiga, Gyllenhaal’s commanding officer, looks so much like Jake’s sister Maggie.
Despite everything working against it, Source Code works. It’s partially because of Gyllenhaal’s determined yet befuddled performance, as well as the star-crossed chemistry he generates with Monaghan, and partially because of all the secrets and contradictions the film has little intention of exploring or explaining. Director Duncan Jones, whose last effort was the equally confounding Moon, just has a knack for this kind of cinematic mindgame.
Either that or he owns and operates Source Code technology that lets him go back in time and tweak his films again and again until they convince you that they make sense and are more cohesive and compelling than they should be.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Source Code takes the respawn and runs with it. Jake Gyllenhaal stars as an Army pilot stuck with a mission to identify a terrorist on a Chicago train. His mysterious commanders implant his consciousness into the mind of a schoolteacher, giving him eight minutes to flirt with Michelle Monaghan, assault passengers at his whim, surf the internet with slow-loading smartphones he swipes from passers by, dart his eyes around in frantic worry and, if he has any time at the end of all that, try and find the guy who destroys Chicago.
Under no circumstances is Gyllenhaal to rescue Monaghan or the other doomed passengers. The technology, dubbed Source Code, is only meant to dig up info that can prevent crimes, not alter the past. But little do the Source Code masters realize that Gyllenhaal is a bad boy who plays by his own rules.
There’s plenty working against the film. There’s no drama to the proceedings because there’s nothing really at stake since Gyllenhaal is allowed infinite continues. The only way the movie can possibly end is by Gyllenhaal succeeding. On the other hand, you know he’ll fail for the first few dozen times, otherwise the movie would be about as long as a Looney Tunes short. Thus the film amounts to watching a person who’s very bad at a video game and not all that interested in completing it just sort of muck around until he lucks into success.
On top of all that, the plot dynamics make little sense, avoiding important metaphysical questions such as where the consciousness of the teacher goes when Gyllenhaal is at the controls or how creepy it is that Vera Farmiga, Gyllenhaal’s commanding officer, looks so much like Jake’s sister Maggie.
Despite everything working against it, Source Code works. It’s partially because of Gyllenhaal’s determined yet befuddled performance, as well as the star-crossed chemistry he generates with Monaghan, and partially because of all the secrets and contradictions the film has little intention of exploring or explaining. Director Duncan Jones, whose last effort was the equally confounding Moon, just has a knack for this kind of cinematic mindgame.
Either that or he owns and operates Source Code technology that lets him go back in time and tweak his films again and again until they convince you that they make sense and are more cohesive and compelling than they should be.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Review: Red Riding Hood
This review is up at OK.
Amanda Seyfried’s eyes are so big that when she confronts the Big Bad Wolf, he’s the one who says “What big eyes you have!” They are so big that they’re visible from the moon, and when Seyfried looks toward it, the microbes that live in the water droplets there mistake the eyes for full moons, turn to werewolf microbes and behave as though they’re starring in awful movies that are like Twilight but not as good.
And in a curiosity of the cosmos, the same thing has happened here on earth, so there’s this movie called Red Riding Hood that’s like Twilight, only not as good.
Consider that statement for a bit. Like TWILIGHT, but not as good. That’s being like Muammar Gaddafi, but not quite as tactful at handling protesters. It’s being like AT&T and dropping more calls. It’s like being like Ke$ha only not so classy.
Movie magician Catherine Hardwicke, who did such a great job with Twilight that she wasn’t brought back to make any of the sequels, manages to pull off the impressive feat, completing a cinematic axis of evil that also includes The Nativity Story. Billions of years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Larry King had just filed for his AARP card, Hardwicke was a promising director, who made the coming-of-age classic Thirteen.
Perhaps she’s discovered that there’s a lot more money in telling low-quality, condescending stories rather than socially relevant indie tales. I can’t blame her for selling out, given the fact that I would gladly perform a one-act play based on the life of Count Chocula for $100 and a few boxes of cereal – or best offer – but it’s sort of sad to see that Hardwicke’s standards are as low as mine.
At least she had good taste in choosing mega-eyed Seyfried, who plays the title character, somewhat disappointingly named Valerie. She lives in a dank village in the 16th century or so, before PETA was around to discourage citizenry from killing off the last of an endangered species – known to scientists as the Poorly Computer-Animated Werewolf.
Partial to a red-hooded coat that a werewolf hunter played by Gary Oldman hilariously refers to as “the harlot’s robe,” Valerie juggles the loves of two upright, devoted boys – one for each gigantic eye – stares downward and delivers monotone lines in the patented Bella Swan tradition of misunderstood teen angst.
I applaud the movie for its historical accuracy. Back in the 1500s, villagers didn’t speak English as we know it today. They instead used a dialect that consisted of vague British accents and employed King James Bible-speak to form passive-voice sentences that consisted entirely of plot exposition.
If you’re not won over by that fascinating love triangle, also a Clue-like mystery at hand as to which of the villagers is actually the werewolf in disguise. The key to solving the riddle is to keep an eye on Col. Mustard and the candle stick, especially when he nears the parlor. I congratulate the movie for making me guess wrong, as well as for managing to erase the reflections of the cameramen and crew from Seyfried’s humongous eyes.
Here’s hoping Hardwicke can top this masterpiece with her inevitable adaptation of Jack Jumps Over the Candlestick.
Starring Amanda Seyfried, Gary Oldman and Billy Burke. Written by David Johnson. Directed by Catherine Hardwicke. 96 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Amanda Seyfried’s eyes are so big that when she confronts the Big Bad Wolf, he’s the one who says “What big eyes you have!” They are so big that they’re visible from the moon, and when Seyfried looks toward it, the microbes that live in the water droplets there mistake the eyes for full moons, turn to werewolf microbes and behave as though they’re starring in awful movies that are like Twilight but not as good.
And in a curiosity of the cosmos, the same thing has happened here on earth, so there’s this movie called Red Riding Hood that’s like Twilight, only not as good.
Consider that statement for a bit. Like TWILIGHT, but not as good. That’s being like Muammar Gaddafi, but not quite as tactful at handling protesters. It’s being like AT&T and dropping more calls. It’s like being like Ke$ha only not so classy.
Movie magician Catherine Hardwicke, who did such a great job with Twilight that she wasn’t brought back to make any of the sequels, manages to pull off the impressive feat, completing a cinematic axis of evil that also includes The Nativity Story. Billions of years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Larry King had just filed for his AARP card, Hardwicke was a promising director, who made the coming-of-age classic Thirteen.
Perhaps she’s discovered that there’s a lot more money in telling low-quality, condescending stories rather than socially relevant indie tales. I can’t blame her for selling out, given the fact that I would gladly perform a one-act play based on the life of Count Chocula for $100 and a few boxes of cereal – or best offer – but it’s sort of sad to see that Hardwicke’s standards are as low as mine.
At least she had good taste in choosing mega-eyed Seyfried, who plays the title character, somewhat disappointingly named Valerie. She lives in a dank village in the 16th century or so, before PETA was around to discourage citizenry from killing off the last of an endangered species – known to scientists as the Poorly Computer-Animated Werewolf.
Partial to a red-hooded coat that a werewolf hunter played by Gary Oldman hilariously refers to as “the harlot’s robe,” Valerie juggles the loves of two upright, devoted boys – one for each gigantic eye – stares downward and delivers monotone lines in the patented Bella Swan tradition of misunderstood teen angst.
I applaud the movie for its historical accuracy. Back in the 1500s, villagers didn’t speak English as we know it today. They instead used a dialect that consisted of vague British accents and employed King James Bible-speak to form passive-voice sentences that consisted entirely of plot exposition.
If you’re not won over by that fascinating love triangle, also a Clue-like mystery at hand as to which of the villagers is actually the werewolf in disguise. The key to solving the riddle is to keep an eye on Col. Mustard and the candle stick, especially when he nears the parlor. I congratulate the movie for making me guess wrong, as well as for managing to erase the reflections of the cameramen and crew from Seyfried’s humongous eyes.
Here’s hoping Hardwicke can top this masterpiece with her inevitable adaptation of Jack Jumps Over the Candlestick.
Starring Amanda Seyfried, Gary Oldman and Billy Burke. Written by David Johnson. Directed by Catherine Hardwicke. 96 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Review: The Adjustment Bureau
This is posted at OK.
You wouldn’t know it because your life is unimportant and you lack tiger blood and Adonis DNA, but a gang of business suit-wearing agents with magic fedoras keep watch over the populace. They step in to set things right whenever a major historical figure is about to stray off course and create a butterfly effect that will destroy society and make the NFL lockout happen.
In the film they’re called the Adjustment Bureau, but what they really are is the Cock Block Bureau. The fellas really, really, really do not want high-powered politician Matt Damon to introduce Pocket Damon to super-important modern dance artist Emily Blunt, so they stop at nothing to keep the would-be lovers apart.
The Adjustment Bureau pulls out all the stops. They hang around the couple at parties, refusing to leave even after Damon and Blunt drop all sorts of hints, yawn dramatically and say “it’s getting late.” They show up during dates and share Damon’s super embarrassing Rocky Point spring break stories. They even refuse to play the good wingman and hook up with Blunt’s fat friend.
Well, not really. But they totally would do all that, given the opportunity. Acting with all the grace and tact of Steve Urkel, the Adjustment Bureau kills the mood with two methods: stalking and threatening. Every time Damon meets Blunt and gets super-romantic, in comes the Adjustment Bureau to tell him he’s got to dump her with no explanation. Which makes this movie the perfect date movie, because if you ever decide you’ve had enough of whoever you watch the movie with, you can just bail without an explanation and they’ll attribute your behavior to the Adjustment Bureau rather than you being a cowardly dick.
Adjustment Bureau agents have but two weaknesses, shared with Frosty the Snowman and the aliens from Signs. Take their magic hats away and they’re unable to maneuver through a system of doors that connect Yankee Stadium center field with the Statue of Liberty. And place them anywhere near water and they’re as clueless as that Gadhaffi character in Libya. Good thing their boss, the Chairman, whom we’re told over and over again without actually being told is actually God, didn’t place them on a planet that’s 70 percent water where it rains constantly.
Instead of gazing into one another’s eyes and declaring “Let’s honeymoon at Sea World!” Damon and Blunt partake in a game of cat and mouse that is every bit as much fun to watch as it is to make fun of. Damon is as Bourne-ey as Jason Bourne when he judo-chops hats after Adjustment Bureaueans, and even Good-er than Good Will Hunting when he flings sweet, sweet PG-13-safe flirtations at Blunt, who is allowed to keep her British accent for most of the movie and shakes her groove thing well enough to merit an audition on Hellcats.
Although I liked the movie, I must say I am disappointed that I’ve yet to do anything to merit an Adjustment Bureau intervention. Surely it must be because I’ve lived my life so perfectly, so they just nod and approve of all my actions. Either that or I just spend so much time in the shower that they get bored and leave.
Starring Matt Damon, Emily Blunt, Anthony Mackie, John Slattery and Terence Stamp. Written by George Nolfi, adapted from a story by Philip K. Dick. Directed by Nolfi. 105 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
You wouldn’t know it because your life is unimportant and you lack tiger blood and Adonis DNA, but a gang of business suit-wearing agents with magic fedoras keep watch over the populace. They step in to set things right whenever a major historical figure is about to stray off course and create a butterfly effect that will destroy society and make the NFL lockout happen.
In the film they’re called the Adjustment Bureau, but what they really are is the Cock Block Bureau. The fellas really, really, really do not want high-powered politician Matt Damon to introduce Pocket Damon to super-important modern dance artist Emily Blunt, so they stop at nothing to keep the would-be lovers apart.
The Adjustment Bureau pulls out all the stops. They hang around the couple at parties, refusing to leave even after Damon and Blunt drop all sorts of hints, yawn dramatically and say “it’s getting late.” They show up during dates and share Damon’s super embarrassing Rocky Point spring break stories. They even refuse to play the good wingman and hook up with Blunt’s fat friend.
Well, not really. But they totally would do all that, given the opportunity. Acting with all the grace and tact of Steve Urkel, the Adjustment Bureau kills the mood with two methods: stalking and threatening. Every time Damon meets Blunt and gets super-romantic, in comes the Adjustment Bureau to tell him he’s got to dump her with no explanation. Which makes this movie the perfect date movie, because if you ever decide you’ve had enough of whoever you watch the movie with, you can just bail without an explanation and they’ll attribute your behavior to the Adjustment Bureau rather than you being a cowardly dick.
Adjustment Bureau agents have but two weaknesses, shared with Frosty the Snowman and the aliens from Signs. Take their magic hats away and they’re unable to maneuver through a system of doors that connect Yankee Stadium center field with the Statue of Liberty. And place them anywhere near water and they’re as clueless as that Gadhaffi character in Libya. Good thing their boss, the Chairman, whom we’re told over and over again without actually being told is actually God, didn’t place them on a planet that’s 70 percent water where it rains constantly.
Instead of gazing into one another’s eyes and declaring “Let’s honeymoon at Sea World!” Damon and Blunt partake in a game of cat and mouse that is every bit as much fun to watch as it is to make fun of. Damon is as Bourne-ey as Jason Bourne when he judo-chops hats after Adjustment Bureaueans, and even Good-er than Good Will Hunting when he flings sweet, sweet PG-13-safe flirtations at Blunt, who is allowed to keep her British accent for most of the movie and shakes her groove thing well enough to merit an audition on Hellcats.
Although I liked the movie, I must say I am disappointed that I’ve yet to do anything to merit an Adjustment Bureau intervention. Surely it must be because I’ve lived my life so perfectly, so they just nod and approve of all my actions. Either that or I just spend so much time in the shower that they get bored and leave.
Starring Matt Damon, Emily Blunt, Anthony Mackie, John Slattery and Terence Stamp. Written by George Nolfi, adapted from a story by Philip K. Dick. Directed by Nolfi. 105 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Like this review? Buy my book.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Review: Drive Angry 3D
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)