Mr. Cranky Rates the Movies!

Dracula Untold

Fri, 17 Oct 2014 16:25:20 -0400

You know, I kind of always thought Bram Stoker had taken care of the "Dracula" origin story and all. And it's not like Hollywood hasn't churned out enough Dracula stories to keep some kind of cable channel in business for eternity, yet still we have somebody like director Gary ("I have no other movie credits") Shore and the dipshits at Universal who realized like twenty years too late that comic books are really cool and look how well that fucking Avengers movie and everything related to it did and why can't we do that?

So now we have to watch another "Dracula" movie. Not only that, but Dracula is now a hero. Not an anti-hero, mind you, but a full blown hero. Luke Evans, who was in The Hobbit, plays Vlad the Empaler, who has to save his people or some such nonsense and makes a devil's bargain with Charles Dance who, as everyone knows from watching "Game of Thrones" should never be trusted. Apparently Vlad has never seen "Game of Thrones", which makes him unlike every person on the face of the planet past, present, and future. Incidentally, if I hear anyone say anything else about the stupid nerd show, I'm going to suck their fucking brains out myself.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, so now every classic story has to be some kind of loud, action movie. Stick a fork in any sort of literary sensibility. Really, not just a fork, but shove some kind of giant pole up your rectum because the days of intellectualism are so far gone, Fox News can air stories about Ebola coming from outer space and any conversation around such garbage now passes for cultural consciousness. Such is also the case with "Dracula Untold". There's no longer a need for reading Stoker's original, just watch this big piece of shit and you can hold a conversation with some other dumbfuck about what Dracula means.

To even swallow this film, in fact, you have to reject everything you might have known about the original. Knowing or understanding the original actually puts one at a serious intellectual disadvantage because you mention that very fact in the context of something like "Dracula Untold" and you're immediately seen as being out-of-touch. It's like a perfect microcosm of American society. Those who have some historical context to share or actual knowledge are marginalized to the point of ridicule.

"Hey, did you know there's an actual book called Dracula and it has nothing to do with this shit you're watching?"

"Oh, really? Shut up and mind your own business."

"Hey, did you know there is actual science behind climate change and it's a real thing that you should take seriously?"

"Oh, really? Shut up and mind your own business."

See how it all works?

Sherlock Holmes - A Game of Shaddows

Fri, 16 Dec 2011 13:35:05 -0500

Hollywood has always had a favorite ethnic group to pick on, depending on the decade. In the 80's, if you needed an instant group of 'bad guys' you just threw together a random assortment of gentlemen from the Middle East, gave them assault rifles and mowed them down as quickly as possible. In the 90's, it was Asian gangs, with the Hong Kong aesthetic horribly perverted by hackneyed directors who could ape the scenery but not the soul of a successful crime movie.

The 2000's, however, posed somewhat of a challenge for racially-profiled cinematic villainy. Political correctness gripped the studios so tightly that they struggled to find set of stereotypes that could be exploited as evil without being buried under an avalanche of hate mail from special interest groups. It wasn't until 2011's "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows" that a solution was finally found: gypsies.

Yes, that's right - gypsies. These baby-stealing ne'er-do-wells are murdered with aplomb throughout director Guy Ritchie's latest shit-take on the once-popular set of detective stories. Nary an on-screen moment goes by where a gypsy isn't somehow being shot, stabbed, blown up or otherwise abused for the simple crime of having no soul. The title character in fact surrounds himself with a veritable army of gypsy men and women, using them as sub-human shields as he fumbles his way across Europe, Watson at his side, succumbing to their magic spells and falling into trances as they weave a magic that is apparently completely ineffective at warding off bullets, but extremely good at making me wish I were deaf and blind.

In fact, so many gypsies are slaughtered throughout the course of "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows" that it forces me to wonder if Guy Ritchie has some kind of secret vendetta against this traveling race of European mystics. Or is it simply that gypsies are the new zombies, reanimated folklore that can be disposed of at will in order to disguise enormous plot holes and characterizations that wouldn't withstand the scrutiny of a 22 year old liquor store clerk staring at a fake ID? Either way, Noomi Rapace's botox-inspired performance as their fortune-telling leader is a compelling argument for the onscreen extermination of these rag-clad vermin - or the walling off of Scandinavia. I can't device what would be more effective.

Ultimately, perhaps the greatest tragedy of "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows" is the fact that this film is so unrelentingly awful and horrifically unfocused that the Queen of England actually had the corpse of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle exhumed so that they could physically remove his knighthood. Apparently the process involves an orphan, a bath tub full of magnesium and a bag of opium. And by 'apparently' I mean 'allegedly.'

A Very Harold and Kumar 3D Christmas

Sun, 27 Nov 2011 17:05:25 -0500

Remember how easily something goes from "cool" to "drool" the instant that you catch your parents trying to do it? Think about windsurfing, facial piercings or ironic sweaters. Now think about "A Very Harold and Kumar 3D Christmas," because it's exactly like all three of those things.

If there's one thing that the "Beverly Hills Cop" franchise proved, it's that you can never get tired of hearing, seeing or laughing at the same jokes over and over and over and over and over until Tackleberry dies far too young. I wonder who will be the first in the "Harold and Kumar" franchise to bite the dust before they stop churning out lamentable carbon copies of gags that were vaguely amusing the first time and indescribably torturous after the 93rd re-telling. Will it be John Cho, simultaneously killing the reborn "Star Trek" series of features? Will it be Kal Penn, bringing disgrace to the Obama White House? Or will it be Doogie Houser, proving that no matter how young they make you a doctor, you can't cheat the Grim Reaper?

"A Very Harold and Kumar 3D Christmas" trots out many reliable comedy chestnuts for our approval:

1 - Smoking weed is always very, very funny (unless you aren't smoking weed too).

2 - Interracial marriages never work.

3 - Stunt casting is alive and well in the 21st century (Danny Trejo as the world's toughest dad? Latino butts in the theatre seats? SIGN ME UP!)

Let's get back to the fact that this is actually a Christmas movie. Unless your holiday film stars Jimmy Stewart, Madonna or Billy Bob Thornton, your Xmas movie sucks. These flicks are churned out exclusively to provide family-friendly fare to keep the tots busy during the holidays so that mom and dad can catch a little Z-time in between avoiding their own parents and trips to the mall to return the bread-maker that the cat got trapped inside of. Weed, Latino Heat and Danny Trejo's face are definitely not warm and fuzzy, and all of the fake snow and glittering tinsel in the world aren't going to change that - no matter how many times you shoot Santa in the head. (Yes, that actually happens. Mostly off-screen. But the surgery to bring him back from the dead? Oh yeah, right there in glorious 3D).

I guess my point is, the era for quality madcap movies based on the flimsiest of premises has come and gone. There will never be another "Porky's," another "Look Who's Talking," or another "A League Of Their Own." There will, however, be at least three more "Harold and Kumar" flicks, which is why I weep for the children.

50/50

Sun, 27 Nov 2011 17:03:23 -0500

It's how so many successful comedies have made it to the silver screen - a meeting between where a writer pitches a producer with "hey, let's make a funny movie about cancer." And at first brush, it seems like a solid idea. After all, there weren't too many laughs in "Brian's Song," or that movie about whatever Lou Gehrig died of. The category is wide open! Think of the potential for a series, or at least, a pseudo-series starring new and different leads bringing their fascinating terminal diseases into our hearts and making us crack up at the weird medications and the strange changes to their bodies that go along with it.

"50/50" is a perfect example of the kind of comedy you don't ever want to see made, let alone watch in the theatre. I think by now we're all tired of Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen trying to make it as serious actors. In fact, the only reason I got up off of my ass and plopped down my $12 to see "50/50" was because I thought I was going to get to watch Gordon-Levitt suffer for two hours.

How wrong I was. The main character's bout with cancer throughout "50/50" was nothing compared to the mental anguish I was forced to deal with as the 'plot' of this misguided medical morass unfolded before me. Here's a clue that your protagonist is insufferably boring: he works in public radio. Here's another hint: he's best friends with Seth Rogen, which is the relationship equivalent of dipping your balls in a boiling vat of oil while Sandra Bernhardt reads out Amy Winehouse's drink order in a falsetto. Too soon?

Even if you don't have a major personality conflict with either of the male leads in "50/50" there's plenty of other reasons to hate this terrible movie. Anyone who's ever been to a court-ordered therapy session will cringe at the touchy-feely, "I'm gonna fall in love with you and say fuck ethics" vibe broadcast by Anna Kendrick's portrayal of a mental health professional. At least in my world, the only time a therapist reaches out to caress my face is when we're both locked in weekend detox. Then there's Anjelica Huston's overbearing mother, a woman who takes her Alzheimer's-afflicted hubby with her everywhere she goes like some kind of over-medicated good luck charm. Oh how I envied his ability to forget - something my alien abductors promised me, but never delivered.

My recommendation to you is to skip "50/50" and make friends with someone who actually has cancer instead. The suspense involved in not knowing whether they will live or die, and then the pain of having to say your final goodbyes will undoubtedly be far less of a letdown than having to sit through this turd.

In Time

Tue, 15 Nov 2011 12:35:13 -0500

Towards the end of the 1990s it seemed like there was a mad rush to produce as many derivative sci-fi action flicks as possible before the impending millennium made all of our futuristic dreams a reality and therefore no longer marketable. Andrew Niccol, the director of the absolutely appalling "In Time" seems to have spent a full week cramming in every single one of these under-budget, cliché-ridden celluloid missives in lieu of using anything resembling an actual script for his own forgettable entry into the time-honored cannon of shit.

I guess we shouldn't be surprised when the man at the helm of such classics of the near-future genre as "Gattaca" and "S1m0ne" (the first movie this iteration of the Cranky One ever professionally reviewed, by the way) serves up another half-baked helping of the worst kind of scientific clap-trap. Imagine a world where, instead of money, everyone gets paid in "time." Oh, and the Earth's citizens are all genetically programmed to die at the age of 25 if they don't get their "time fix." And everyone just agreed to this, so it makes total sense.

Forget the disturbing scenes between star Justin Timberlake and his mother (played with inappropriate levels of hotness by Olivia Wilde). Divert your attention from the fact that everyone in the future drives a 60's muscle car whose electric engines feature roaring V8 soundtracks. And ignore the concept that somehow the world economy is somehow able to avoid teetering on the edge of insolvency as billions of people get through the day with just a few hours of lifespan left written on the convenient, Casio-inspired digital clocks flashing across their forearms.

Forget all of that because "In Time" nothing more than a heavy-handed morality tale that bludgeons us over the head with the by-now tired refrain that RICH PEOPLE exploit POOR PEOPLE and that the MEGA RICH NEED TO BE EATEN before they escape to Mars in their opulent space-yachts. "In Time" is the kind of movie the 99 percent would have made if they weren't busy moving through the fourth year of a 10-year anthropology independent study program at their local liberal arts college. Or camping out on Wall Street. Or whatever it is that poor people do, Mr. Cranky doesn't know. What Mr. Cranky DOES know is that no one is interested in transparent sci-fi allegories that don't involve Charlton Heston shaking his fist at some damn dirty ape.

If I had only a few hours to live, would I waste it by watching Amanda Seyfried in a miniskirt while she robs "time banks" and acts sullen? No, I would almost certainly slip in my DVD of "Chloe" and watch her own personal cookie cradle get robbed au naturel instead. But your mileage may vary.

Martha Marcy May Marlene

Tue, 15 Nov 2011 12:32:58 -0500

Raise your hand if you haven’t been indoctrinated into a cult at least once in your life. That’s what I thought. Now that the Rapture has come and gone a half dozen times over the past few years and the Branch Davidians lie slumbering peacefully under a pile of alcohol, tobacco and firearms, America’s fascination with cults and their charismatic leaders has shifted to politics and its…charismatic leaders. This is part of why “Martha Marcy May Marlene” feels like an anachronistic throwback of a film, the bachelor uncle that you only ever see during the holidays or when dad has to sign some kind of consent form for the next stage of his/her gender re-assignment surgery.

Adding even more gloss to the “Martha Marcy May Marlene”’ retro sheen is the decision to cast Elizabeth Olsen as the lead, or as I like to call her, “the forgotten Olsen twin with tits.” Until her debut in this film, Elizabeth Olsen was perhaps best known for being the only member of her family not implicit in the death of former actor Heath Ledger, but now she can add “softcore skin sensation” to her resume. It’s kind of creepy seeing a topless Olsen sister, because you expect Bob Saget to come around the corner at any moment with his pants off holding a bucket of Crisco. Still, since we never got Candace Cameron, and since John Stamos is too pretty to be photographed without a leather jacket, I suppose the Olsen That Time Forgot is an acceptable consolation prize. Think of her as the fresh-faced do-over for all of your stunted 90’s fantasies.

As for the movie itself – well, there’s nothing new here. Hugh Dancy reminds us all what Sean Penn would look like if he moved to the Catskills and lost 75-lbs, while the rest of the cast is simply more of the same dysfunctional family bullshit that drove most of us to consider joining a cult in our youth in the first place. Compared to the frigid reception Olsen’s character is given by her rescuing sister and her green card husband, it’s no wonder that she spent two years preferring the comfort of her sister wives and the questionable personal hygiene that upstate New York seems to serve up so well.

Instead of wasting your money on “Martha Marcy May Marlene,” I recommend breaking out some of your old home movies and getting re-acquainted with the people who used to be your family before you alienated them by getting a nose piercing and pledging your soul to Jah in college. At least the pain of all of those lost years pretending you loved reggae will help dull the eye-searing effect of your questionable teenage fashion choices.

The Thing

Sat, 29 Oct 2011 01:49:06 -0400

Mr. Cranky hates remakes, but Mr. Cranky hates it even more when cult films get recast as big-budget flicks that strip any vestige of what might have been cool out of the original and then set it on fire in front of you so you can watch your childhood memories burn alongside the $15 you paid to get into the theatre. This is exactly what happened when they decided to shit all over John Carpenter's grave and put out a new version of the horror classic "The Thing."

Ok, so Carpenter isn't dead yet, but I'm sure if he attended a screening of the new "The Thing" he would immediately slit his own wrists and bury them deep in the corn popper outside in the lobby. I mean, that's what I almost did and I had no part in bringing his original masterpiece to life in 1982.

No one liked Carpenter's version of "The Thing" when it originally came out because everyone was ooing and ahhing over fucking "E.T." which offered a kinder, gentler kind of alien that didn't fucking rip your face off, assume your identity and kill all of your friends. No one likes the remake of "The Thing" because it sucks harder than Bea Arthur taking a bong hit at Jimmy Carter's ranch.

Where to start? How about we ignore that joke about a president no one remembers and instead focus on the fact that genius director Matthijs van Heijningen decided to punish the world for the fact that it took him until the 4th grade to learn his name by removing any and all traces of the mystery from the concept of "The Thing," making it a straight-ahead, by-the-numbers horror flick. Imagine if they remade "Jaws" and instead of being a stealthy killer the shark was instead actually driving the boat and on-camera for 90 percent of the film having a few beers with Quint and crew. That's the kind of ham-fisted storytelling audiences are treated to in "The Thing."

The entire situation is made even worse by the fact that the movie has no characters. Oh, there are humans populating the Antarctic research station where what I am hesitant to refer to as a "story" unfolds, but they have all of the depth of the teenage girl you took to senior prom when you were 23 years old. They say that one day CGI will be able to replace human actors in almost every motion picture, and after watching "The Thing" it's clear that whenever that happens, it won't be soon enough. The fucking soulless, demonic Tom Hanks golem from "The Polar Express" had more of a back-story than the husks devoured by the alien in "The Thing," which really made it hard for me to care which cast member was going to be eviscerated next.

I will say this: "The Thing" is probably going to do hella well in Japan, simply based on the number of tentacle-related penetrations per second throughout the film's most intense sequences. I suppose American pervs will also enjoy "The Thing," because there's nothing sexier than watching Norwegians die while you standby and do nothing. Well, I guess masturbating isn't "nothing."

Take Shelter

Sat, 29 Oct 2011 01:46:26 -0400

The sad thing about crazy is that if your parents were born crazy, or went crazy, or did crazy shit in a cabin in the woods that you were forced to witness as a child, then chances are you'll end up crazy too. It's just a matter of time. This is the concept explored at-fucking-tedium by the film "Take Shelter," which is about a dude losing his mind and digging a big hole in the ground to compensate.

Hole-therapy is an accepted psychological treatment that also doubles as a great way to alienate yourself from your best friend, your wife (who is too hot for you anyway) and your deaf daughter, whose disability will probably condemn her to working the hottest and noisiest of jobs as soon as she is old enough to lift a hammer. Telling everyone that a huge storm is coming and that they are all going to die, and that your hole in the ground is the only safe place in the world is another great way to accelerate your separation from the rest of society.

"Take Shelter" attempts to walk the line with a "is he crazy or is he having visions from God" plot, but the problem with that line of reasoning is, anyone who is having visions from God HAS TO BE CRAZY TO BEGIN WITH. So really, a movie that could have been an awesomely scary battle between a single man and a pack of killer tornados actually ends up being an excessively dull choice between two types of crazy, neither of which is all that interesting and both of which can be experienced simply by going to any 24-hour Wal-Mart at 2:30 in the morning.

Why can't Hollywood make a single "man versus nature" movie that is actually interesting to watch? Why couldn't the protagonist in "Take Shelter" have invested in building some kind of home-made nuclear weapon to take out the upcoming tornado before it got the chance to do the same to him and his wife? Why couldn't his crazy mom have foreseen that he would have turned out equally insane as a boy and smothered him with a pillow, saving us all in the collective audience from the guilt of realizing that this dude actually talks to his batshit schizo mother more than we do our own?

"Take Shelter" poses a lot of questions that are frankly too boring to answer. Think of it as the S.A.T. of tornado movies. No Helen Hunt, no Bill Pullman and no nudity = lots of staring off into space and wondering how much of what you see in front of you is actually real. Or as I call it, people watching at the Salvation Army.

Real Steel

Wed, 26 Oct 2011 05:19:08 -0400

Giant robots. There was once a time when I naively thought that Hollywood just couldn't fuck up a concept as awesome as giant robots. Then along came Transformers. Followed by the other Transformers movie. And then that third Transformers movie. By the time I emerged from the theatre, beaten to bloody pulp by the smoldering remains of my original robotic ideals, it was time to see "Real Steel."

"Real Steel" has been advertised as the "robot movie with a heart," which I guess was a campaign put together by a studio anxious to cash in by combining the audiences of "WALL-E," "Short Circuit" and "*Batteries Not Included." I can assure you that "Real Steel" is absolutely nothing like any of those three films, unless you saw a Bollywood remake where Johnny-5 who was forced to become a pit-fighter in order to support his rusting family.

No, "Real Steel" is pretty much like any boxing movie you've ever seen, only with robots instead of humans, and a little boy instead of an annoying girlfriend. Some washed-up former pugilist who now goes from town to town with his robotic circus freak show gets one last shot at metal-on-metal glory by advancing through the ranks of ironclad robo-e-robo combat. This would have made a decent premise for a video game - at least until they introduced the 11-year old boy who somehow discovers the robot boxing prodigy that will become their meal ticket. Remember the last time you found something at the junkyard that, instead of giving you tetanus, made you the champion of the world? No, me neither.

"Real Steel" was executive produced by Stephen Spielberg, and it continues not only his tired theme of a missing father figure, but, more disturbingly, his willingness to abuse and torture synthetic beings. In "A.I." we were treated to hyper-realistic scenes of android torture. "Real Steel" amps that up to eleven and makes it the entire premise of the film. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that Spielberg has a secret sex dungeon somewhere with a Japanese pleasure-both chained to the wall. With half its face burned off by a curling iron.

In my mind, there will only ever be on robot boxing movie, and that is "Robot Jox." "Jox" had it all - early 90's hair, a weird subplot about genetically-engineered hotties and the fate of the world resting on every punch. "Real Steel" offers a robot that fights a cow. I'll let you decide which is more entertaining.

Please don't pick the cow.

The Ides of March

Sat, 22 Oct 2011 05:00:23 -0400

"The Ides of March" trades on the surprising premise that powerful men in politics are notorious for fucking anything that moves. Interns, sheep dogs, the waitress at Denny's, distant cousins, you name it - there's a senator or a governor somewhere who's been inside of it.

The most surprising aspect of "The Ides of March" is the idea that anyone is actually interested in watching a long, slow and ponderous film about this very subject. After all, if I wanted to see video of a politician finger-banging his high school gym teacher on the subway, I'd just turn on Fox News. Let's face it - it's really hard to compete with the 24-hour news cycle when it comes to political scandals, one of the few areas where truth is often just as dull, repetitive and tired as fiction.

"The Ides of March" tries to get around this by pulling that time-honored trick of a fast-cut trailer that somehow manages to confuse the viewer into thinking that the plot is much more complex and intriguing than it actually is. Honestly, I have yet to meet a single person who had a clear idea of what this film was going to be about prior to viewing, and after having seen the languid mess that unfolded before me on the screen I feel foolish to have been suckered in by the promise of a political story that somehow wasn't all about sex, in the end.

"The Ides of March" is sort of like the "Star Wars: Attack of the Clones" of the boring dudes in suits genre. You get a trailer that makes you think it's all going to be light saber battles and spaceships but in the end it's a bunch of guys sitting in a room talking about the most tedious aspects of government policy. You could have replaced Ryan "Baby Goose" Gosling with a CGI Yoda and had exactly the same film. In fact, it might have even spiced up the sex scenes between his character and Evan Rachel Wood. After all, she dated Marilyn Manson, so she's gotta be into all of that weird shit, right?

To be honest, I have the feeling that these types of political dramas are kept around by Hollywood bosses who owe favors to overweight character actors looking for a believable role. This is probably the only explanation for how Paul Giamatti and Philip Seymour Hoffman continue to get work. It's either cast them as political advisors or Major League Baseball managers, I guess. Can't wait for Zach Galifianakis to show up in a Reagan bio pic.

Moneyball

Wed, 28 Sep 2011 13:04:21 -0400

Remember what made "Field of Dreams" so successful? I do. It was that fat nerd in a suit droning on and on about baseball statistical analysis while a man in a stained Puma track jacket who looked suspiciously like Brad Pitt ate a Twinkie. Oh wait a minute - that's not "Field of Dreams." That's "Moneyball." And it sucked.

I do know one thing. If I was an obese baseball geek who had finally lured Brad Pitt into my dungeon in the basement of the Oakland Athletics baseball stadium, I wouldn't be talking to him about ERAs and late-inning doubles. No, I'd be greasing up my chunky body and making him spell my name backwards while I beat him across the chest with a Slim Jim. But honestly, no one asked me how the plot of "Moneyball" could have been improved by tweaking the relationship between main character Billy Beane and his whale-like assistant manager sidekick, which is maybe why the film failed to connect with me in any way I could describe without using hot dog mustard like it was finger paint.

Let's be honest. No one wants to see movies about math. Especially jocks. All of the baseball fans who were duped into buying a ticket for "Moneyball" and who expected to be treated to something with the class and cultural delicacy of "Mr. Baseball" instead ended up riding Mr. Beane's Algebra Express all the way to Dullsville. It's not a good sign when the movie's main character DOESN'T EVEN WATCH THE BALL GAMES. Yes, that's right - this is a baseball movie without the baseball, sort of like "Dances with Wolves" without the wolves, or "Red October" without the submarine (or Connery's beard). It's just two guys sitting in an office for the better part of two hours, talking about stats and at-bats and making you regret ever signing up for that fantasy baseball league at your office that you never win yet consistently pay $50 to enter.

Guess what? The Oakland A's never won anything, either. Does that make me feel better, knowing that there are professional losers out there who are paid millions to achieve what I have already accomplished before I eat breakfast in the morning? No, of course not. Nothing makes me feel better other than a combination of Oxycontin and cobra venom, a habit I picked up during my brief career as a professional cricketer. What's cricket, you ask? Go ask your parents.

Contagion

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 21:45:21 -0400

“Contagion” is a movie that sets out to explore what it would be like if PBS were ever given a feature film budget and asked to tack a variety of human interest stories onto one of the hottest pop-science topics of three years ago. Have you ever been curious to find out what would happen if a multi-national company’s encroachment into an Asian rain forest disturbed some kind of combination bat/bird/pig flu virus, which then infected a cast of completely lifeless cardboard cutouts? If so, then “Contagion” is for you.

In fact, judging by the virulence of the disease that wipes out tens of millions of people in a couple of weeks time, “Contagion” is essentially for everybody. Especially if you are Matt Damon’s cheating wife (played by a suitably sickly Gwyneth Paltrow) or a dedicated CDC researcher (Kate Winslet). In fact, this virus is so popular that even Jude Law pretends to catch it so that his blog will get more readers. Yes, as stupid as it sounds, in the world of “Contagion” infection = hits, which is a philosophy no doubt adapted from Jenny McCarthy’s inoculation = brain damage business model. Neither of which have found a wide audience.

And speaking of the audience, unfortunately neither you nor anyone you love will contract a fatal virus during the course of watching “Contagion.” Which is tragic, really. How I wished during the course of my exposure to this tepid pool of pus that some mysterious bacteria would creep into my body and quickly erode the connections between my synapses to the point where I would find a Gwyneth Paltrow autopsy scene entertaining. Why hasn’t medical science advanced to the point where each print of “Contagion” could ship with its very own Captain Trips, a disease so powerful that by the end of the trailers half of the row in front of you has had its facial flesh completely devoured? If the “Twilight” series can somehow unbalance the hormonal systems of an entire generation of tween girls, then surely “Contagion” can at least give me a runny nose, or an uncomfortable itch.

Ultimately, the failure of “Contagion” can’t be pinned on its inability to make me upchuck the boogie or the squishy remains of Paltrow’s brain tissue. “Contagion” sucks because it has absolutely no characters in it. When the disease that’s wiping out mankind has more of a personality – and a back story – than a crying Matt Damon or his uncomfortably immune daughter, then your script has a problem. I can’t wait for “Contagion 2,” where the President confronts the angry virus on Air Force One and has to make a difficult decision regarding his official policy of not negotiating with microbes.

Your move, evolution.

Captain America

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 21:43:56 -0400

Superhero origin stories suck. I didn’t used to feel that way, but after watching nearly every single comic book-based movie tell the same tired histories over and over, I came to the realization that directors and writers are far too frightened to take any risks and actually have their heroes do anything other than become themselves ad nauseam. Who needs fanboys filling the Internet with their fat, blubbering digital sobs over some perceived departure from canon when you can instead rigidly adhere to the words and ideas committed to ink by some impoverished creative soul in between ether binges 40 years ago?

Not anyone currently involved with Marvel Films, that’s for sure. The latest costumed sap to be trotted out and paraded in front of a masturbating audience of frat boys and four-color nerds is “Captain America,” a film so devoted to exposition that it’s not until the end of the flick that you realize the so-called Captain never actually gets the chance to confront his purported nemesis head-on. That’s right – the Red Skull and the Captain do manage to trade a few barbs, and there’s a half-hearted chase scene or two, but what “Captain America” really boils down to is a tedious examination of Steve Rogers’ boring career as some kind of “support the troops” cabaret act.

Sure, he’s strong and shit, and yeah, science made him into some kind of super soldier, but hey, the Army decided he could best serve his country by reading from a script in front of a microphone while leggy chicks danced the can-can in the background. The only action that Captain America gets to see happens when he just fucks off and decides to take on a squad of elite Nazi soldiers on his own, a sequence that comes about four hours into this five hour film and which lasts a good 15 minutes before El Capitan finds himself waking up from a fucking COMA 75 years into the future.

Spoiler Alert?

Let’s wrap things up, then. “Captain America” is a movie where nothing really happens until just before the very end, when the director accidentally filmed a few action sequences but made sure that the main bad guy wasn’t involved whatsoever. Then nothing happens, again, then roll credits. Why didn’t they just give this move an accurate title, like “Captain America – Part 1” or “The Avengers Prelude” or “Origin Story #67 That We Will Be Retelling In Eight Years After Third Film In Franchise Forces A Reboot.” Hell, they could save themselves a lot of cash on that last entry in the trilogy and just hire Renny Harlin to helm the second flick. Geena Davis tells me he’s available.

Fright Night

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 21:41:52 -0400

It’s finally happened. Hollywood has run out of new ways to stick its fangs into our wallets and suck out whatever petty cash we might have had earmarked for the undead. Yes, the “vamps out of water” category has become completely saturated, with only a few remaining concepts (vampire crossing guards, vampire lunch ladies, vampire pawn shop owners) remaining unexplored. With the knowledge that the end of the current wave of interest in those of a certain washed-out pallor is at hand, studio heads have turned to what they know best: dragging out the corpses of decades old franchises and reanimating that shit for the least amount of money possible.

This is exactly why we have been treated to this summer’s “Fright Night.” You might remember this film from 1985, when it was called “Fright Night.” Yes, the powers that be are now scraping the bottom of the remake barrel, casting their net as wide as possible to snag titles that people vaguely remember from their childhoods in order to lure them into theatres before bludgeoning their senses to death with explosions, blood and maybe some PG-13 T&A. I can’t hardly wait for “I Can’t Hardly Wait – Again,” or “Jaws IV Redux,” do-overs that are undoubtedly crouched in the wings, ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting public. (I hear in the new version, the shark is a migrant farm worker just trying to provide for his family. At least according to TMZ).

But back to “Fright Night.” The entire premise revolves around a vampire moving in next door in a suburban housing tract somewhere in some state no one cares about because it’s full of fucking vampires, I guess. Some kids try to kill it (and by “it” I mean “Colin Farrell”), and of course they fail because children are incapable of accomplishing anything, up to and including fulfilling their dreams. However, when you “fail” in the vicinity of a vampire, you either end up eaten or a vampire yourself, so you can easily see where the plot of “Fright Night” is headed well before the first grope session between the pimply-face protagonist and his achingly willing girlfriend.

This being a connect-the-dots horror remake, there are of course gaping holes in the story that are large enough to stuff a legion of charismatic vampires and their collection of soggy panties. No one reports a housing blowing up in a sleepy neighborhood where even skateboarding is a crime, for example. Not only that, but nary a police officer finds it odd that a blood-soaked “accident victim” driving a stolen car needs to be housed in a hospital room full of crosses, or that the unaccompanied minors who dropped her off at said medical facility are themselves bleeding from about a dozen wounds curiously shaped like the hickies on Jessica Biel’s neck.

Oh, and I personally was surprised that Criss Angel didn’t sue the movie’s producers for about a billion dollars after they directly lifted his entire personality to use as the basis for the only other adult in the movie who isn’t a ghoul. I guess he just haunts their dreams instead. I know he haunts mine.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:48:54 -0400

Let me be the first to say it: you can't have a realistic monkey movie without someone having their genitals horribly mutilated and possibly a face or two chewed off completely. In this sense, "Rise of the Planet of the Apes" fails on almost every level. Yes, we've all heard about how "real" the lead "character" seemed to "audiences." Apparently, this is because they managed to find some motion capture "actor" who was "genetically gifted" when it came to "playing a chimpanzee." Unfortunately, even a cursory viewing of "Rise of the Planet of the Apes" by a fan of monkeys who understands the violent, uncontrollable rage that lives inside of each and every one of them reveals that this Hollywood hack has never himself eaten a bowl of dicks in a fit of passionate anger, nor torn the eyes out of a child who made the mistake of trying to reach through the bars at the zoo.

Can hardcore monkey movie fans get past this glaring omission from the full spectrum of simian emotions and find room in their hearts to enjoy "Rise of the Planet of the Apes?" In a word – no. Not since my days as a professional rugby player have I found myself cheering as fervently from the sidelines for an act of aggro emasculation. "Shear his scrotum," I found myself muttering with alarming intensity. "Tear his taint." The other moviegoers around me, far from being disgusted, soon joined in my rhythmic chant of mutilation, adding in their own surprisingly spicy descriptors for the male and female reproductive systems and urging the on-screen monkeys to cast aside the animated bonds of falsely-imposed human morality.

It used to be you could walk down almost any alley in New York City and pay a carnie with one eye two shillings to watching a gorilla eat the scalp off of a homeless drifter's sweaty, tear-stained skull. Now I can't even get virtual satisfaction from the fifteen bucks I spent to watch hyper-intelligent monkeys denying their true selves in the name of family entertainment. It's almost like 20th Century Fox wants to support black-market documentaries about barbaric religious practices – or that underground circus that operates out of the abandoned high school on Rte. 9 that offers full-service de-manning by the ape of your choice for the low, low price of a pint of blood.

There's a movie in there somewhere, I just know it.

30 Minutes or Less

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:45:20 -0400

When I first saw the trailer for "30 Minutes or Less," I was confused. Was this a secret documentary that had been produced about my life, without my knowledge? How did they know so many details about my dead-end job, empty personal relationships and slick 1990 Ford Mustang GT fastback?

After watching "30 Minutes or Less," I came to the realization that this movie wasn't specifically about ME – it was actually sort of like attending my 10-year high school reunion. You have the pale, shiftless wiener (played by professional dork Jesse Eisenberg) who worked just hard enough to pay for weed, booze and gas each and every week. You have his ethnically diverse roommate (Aziz Ansari), doomed forever as a small American town's only non-Caucasian to suffer from the culturally-blunted explorations of equally cramped minds. You also have the local bully (Danny McBride), empowered by his family's wealth and stirred to the boiling point by his own raging impotence, and his idiot sidekick (Nick Swardson) who is desperately happy that the overwhelming nature of his bromance means he never has to develop a personality of his own.

But were does that leave us, the audience? How can we identify with a pizza delivery boy who's had a bomb strapped to his chest in a plot that steals the absolute worst parts from films like "Heat," "Speed" and "Speed 2: Cruise Control"? The answer is, we can't – not even a little bit. Honestly, who cares if the guy who sat beside you in home room has his brains splattered all over a jumbo meat lover's? It's not like he ever responded to your clumsy sexual advances, or wrote back to the anonymous email account you setup so that you could tell him how beautiful a two-backed beast you could make together in your mom's Ford Aerostar.

Bullies always get what they deserve in the movies, so it's no surprise that it's McBride, and not Eisenberg who gets blown up in the final reel. That being said, it's hard to tell who actually suffered a worse fate. Sure, McBride's character is dead, but Eisenberg has to face up to the fact that he's 1 – a loser, 2 – unemployed and 3 – possibly moving to Atlanta to live with his best friend's sister, until he fucks that up too. Although he probably won't use anything as dramatic as a bomb, the next time. He'll probably just get her pregnant. Or become a child murderer. It's hard to tell where Atlanta's winds are blowing this time of year.

Cowboys & Aliens

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 17:45:54 -0400

Cowboys & Aliens is the worst movie Harrison Ford has starred in since the last time he played a grizzled old man setting out on one last adventure to save the world from aliens. That's right – Ford's agent must only be sending him screenplays where he gets to wear a big hat and fight poorly-defined extra-terrestrial bad guys in the middle of nowhere, because that's exactly what happened in both the last Indiana Jones movie and this pathetic excuse for a comic adaptation.

What makes Cowboys & Aliens so incredibly terrible, exactly? Is it the fact that we are expected to believe that a race of super intelligent beings from another world are completely incapable of defending themselves against a rag-tag posse of cowboys, Native Americans and children on horseback? Well, that's a start. All they would have needed, really, were some smallpox infected blankets, a bar of soap and an endless supply of Old Grand-Dad. Or how about the idea that Daniel Craig's outlaw character, a man who without question never went to school past the first grade, is somehow capable of operating weaponry that is not only completely alien in its technology but also probably requires a master's degree simply to find the on button. Yeah, that was pretty hard to believe, too.

But the worst part of Cowboys & Aliens? Absolutely nothing happens. For like, two hours. Sure, some cows get fried by energy weapons from space and a bunch of filthy, dirty western townsfolk get scooped up into the sky like so many plush toys in a mechanical claw penny arcade, but other than that this movie is essentially a first-person shooter adapted for the screen. Forget the original comic book – Cowboys & Aliens has no room, nor even a need for a storyline. As long as there are ugly ET's to kill, sacrificial settlers to be slaughtered and pretty girls from another planet to save the day in the final reel by transforming into an energy weapon of unbelievable power, this big piece of shit is all set, thank you very much.

Think of Cowboys & Aliens as the wet spot on your mattress after a night of questionable passion. Everyone knows who MADE the wet spot, but no one wants to own up to it. Everyone knows that SOMEONE is going to have to sleep in the memories of your coital explosions, but no one wants to be that person. Cowboys & Aliens KNOWS you don't want to really be subjected to its endless parade of explosions and bovine assault, but it ALSO knows that you don't want to be at home drinking alone on yet another Sunday night. It's lose, lose, really.

Thanks, Harrison, for having the star power to get this shit made, and I hope you sent Daniel a very nice card apologizing for Aykroyding his career.

Conan the Barbarian

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 17:37:40 -0400

Very few Oscar-winning motion pictures start with a scene where a mother has her barbarian child cut from her womb on the battlefield while blood trickles from her mortally-wounded mouth. I don’t know why Conan The Barbarian decided to buck with tradition and just go with the whole "war fetus" motif, but if I were to venture a guess, I would say that it’s because director Marcus Nispel is all about artistic integrity.

That’s right. Nispel doesn’t care about your precious Hollywood hardware, your star-studded galas and benefits or concepts like "bankable franchises." This trail-blazing filmmaker who brought us such original remakes as "Friday the 13th" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" set his sights on destroying what was already a pretty shitty series of 80’s films originally helmed by right-wing maniac John Milius – and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Conan The Barbarian is exactly what you would expect from a swords and sorcery masterpiece put together by the genius creative talents at the SyFy network. Everything about the flick is just so surreal, starting with Morgan Freeman’s absurd narration, moving on to a teenage Conan's profoundly uninteresting formative years, ridiculous ponderings on "the mysteries of steel" and of course action sequences that spring out of nowhere to service a plot that bounces from one poorly-choreographed fight scene to another like so many rats scurrying around the inside of an active pinball machine.

By the time Conan reveals to the audience that "I live, I fight, I love, and I am content," we are no longer shocked at the revelation that this particular turn of phrase is more than enough to get him into the pants of a girl who spent her entire life sequestered at a monastery with some white-bearded pervy cult leader. The resulting sex scene, and the fact that although Conan has undoubtedly impregnated her with his mega-seed her character is still considered to be "pure" enough to participate in some type of necromancy – yes that's right, necromancy – is just icing on a really shit-tastic cake.

The weirdest part of Conan The Barbarian, for me, was probably the implied incest between the main bad dude whose name I completely don’t care about, and his witchy daughter. Apparently, she was played by Rose McGowan, but given that McGowan had her face surgically removed, botoxed and then re-applied by doctors in Uruguay sometime between her time on “Charmed” and “Conan,” I didn’t know this fact until after the credits rolled. If their on-screen relationship had progressed past subtle groping and perhaps included some kind of split-screen full-on fucking alongside Conan’s previously-mention conquest, then maybe I wouldn’t have rubbed myself raw to original production stills of Arnold wearing his barbarian gear from back in the day.

But who am I kidding.

Larry Crowne

Sun, 31 Jul 2011 22:04:32 -0400

"Larry Crowne" attempts to romanticize that old dude who sits at the back of your community college art history class, the one wearing a polka-dot tie, horn-rimmed glasses and an enormous high school ring. You know, the guy that everyone avoids making eye contact with at the holiday party at the end of the year, and the man whose answers to every classroom question seem to have been dredged out of the Nixon era and sprinkled liberally with terms he doesn't understand overheard from the kid who sells him pot at the dog park on the weekends.

You've seen him. We've all seen him. And now we get to watch a movie about him. Have you ever wondered about the secret life of the 60-year old man who tries to cheat off of you in Economic 101? Of course you have. According to "Larry Crowne," it involves sleeping with Julia Roberts and attracting the attention of the resident campus Manic Pixie Dream Girl so that she can give him the kind of spiritual makeover that will bring him out of the Paleolithic era and introduce him to concepts like "manscaping" and "women voting."

Also, his neighbor is Cedric the Entertainer, who must be at least somewhat disturbed to know that the only reason he's getting these roles is because Bernie Mac is dead. Cedric runs a perpetual yard sale in a city where it never rains and where homeowner's associations are as limp and powerless as Hugh Hefner's aged penis. See what I did there? That's called topical humor. Because nothing is more topical than a re-animated millionaire's genitalia.

Is there anything real about "Larry Crowne" other than the money I spent to see it? Probably not. Star Tom Hanks also directed this interminable slice of life, his first movie since "That Thing You Do." I hope no one was holding their breath during that 15-year period waiting for Hanks to helm another major motion picture, because if so, well, I'm sure someone's found your lifeless, decomposed body by now. If not a human, at least your cat. Or cats, plural. In fact, I'd wager that an entire feline society has sprung up in the lonely apartment that contains your corpse, with monuments built out of your incomplete Adult Ed calculus homework and that weird macaroni sculpture you made in Anthropology that no one understand. Well, sometimes genius goes unrecognized.

Horrible Bosses

Sun, 31 Jul 2011 22:01:52 -0400

"Horrible Bosses" is nothing more than a vehicle for the stealth misogyny that has by now permeated almost any studio production that focuses on the relationships between men and women. It's also loaded with the kind of racist stereotypes that defined 1980's action movies like "The Punisher," where Dolph Lundgren was seemingly only allowed to kill Asian gang members during his quest for justice.

No justice here in "Horrible Bosses," however. Just three of the least-likable actors in Hollywood (Jason Bateman, Jason Sudeikis and Charlie Day) paired up with three total has-beens (Kevin Spacey, Jennifer Aniston and Colin Farrell) in an over-long, convoluted rehash of every "I hate my boss" plotline that you've ever seen. Except all of the funny ones. Like "Office Space."

Remember how creative Mike Judge was in creating a world where we could literally feel the life seep out of our own bones as we watched the poor slugs onscreen lurch through their shadow lives under the corporate thrall? Well, imagine that movie re-shot for bigots and sexist assholes, filled with piss jokes and then swirled around in the community toilet at the local park and you've got "Horrible Bosses." Who needs snappy dialogue when you can spray someone's crotch with water? Who needs engaging characters when you can just pull out a set of tits every few minutes?

It's the "Porky's" school of filmmaking, which worked great 30 years ago when movie audiences were still learning that it was ok to both laugh and cry at a Woody Allen movie, but in our much more sophisticated modern world where we only regurgitate the emotional responses that the media has impressed upon on fragile child-brains since birth, it just doesn't cut it. I need more stimulus! I need fewer cock shots!

Maybe the problem with "Horrible Bosses" all comes down to casting. Replace Spacey with Harvey Keitel, and all of a sudden everyone's a lot more scared to come to work in the morning. Replace Farrell with Ferrell and maybe it's not so bad to have a coke habit and wear kimonos with tigers on them. Replace Aniston with Betty White and BAM! Everyone's got an erection and is forced to question everything about their sexuality.

If you hate your boss, quit your job and come work for me – I can't give you benefits, but I can make you realize just how much better you had it wherever you were putting in time before you made the horrible mistake of giving me your home address and Social Security number. If you hate your brain, go see "Horrible Bosses."

Beginners

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 00:20:03 -0400

"Beginners" has a very simple premise: what it would be like to have your dad come out to you as being gay at the tender age of 75. Well, unfortunately, the tender re-engagement between father (Christopher Plummer) and son (Ewan McGregor) imagined by director Mike Mills is about as far away from reality as you can possibly get. How do I know? Because it happened to me.

Ok, so maybe my dad wasn't 75 years old when he came out to me, and maybe he didn't so much "come out" as "pass out with a dick in one hand and a copy of Flesh Pistols in the other" on the floor of our shared RV in my senior year in college. But whatever – the effect was the same. Once the cat was out of the bag my dad started venturing beyond primary colors in his daily wardrobe, hanging out with some of our local truck stop's more talented artistes, and of course shaving his legs with greater regularity than my mother ever had before she passed away from what doctors were eventually able to pin down as a "slot machine overdose."

Other key differences include the fact that unlike the central figure in "Beginners," my dad didn't wait for my mom to pass on before indulging in his non-hetero antics. I had long suspected that his weekly knitting circle and bull riding club were code, but it wasn't until someone started leaving a black rubber fist on our front steps every morning that I knew my intuitions had been correct. You can only burn a rubber fist so many times in the small bathroom of a Winnebago before the neighbors eventually call the fire marshal, forcing you to move under the bridge and deal meth to teenage mothers who need the energy to pull third shift at the local emergency room / Denny's.

I sort of went off on a tangent, there. But then again, "Beginners" tapped into so many emotions and so many memories for me. It was sort of like a fleshy time machine, with the acrid smell of melted PVC blending with the screams of my high school principal the night I walked in on him and my dad "getting me an A" in the back of the local Legion hall. Thank you, "Beginners." Thank you for the rose colored glasses, the very gay senior citizen, and for reminding me that dogs can keep secrets, too.

Bridesmaids

Thu, 14 Jul 2011 10:04:31 -0400

Hollywood operates as a fundamentally sexist boys club that goes by the maxim "nobody cares what women talk about amongst themselves, unless they're talking about men." With that truism firmly in mind, on occasion the puppetmasters behind the scenes allow a movie like "Bridesmaids" to be released, a film which at first appears to subvert Tinseltown's macho image but in reality just further illustrates the enormous pale thumb female thespians find themselves under.

The biggest problem with "Bridesmaids" can be derived from the title: absolutely every interaction between women in this film revolves around men. Marriage, break-ups, fuck-buddies, stalking – "Bridesmaids" covers the full gamut of The Only Things Women Are Good For On-Screen. The film's female-dominated cast is entirely wasted by a script that refuses to acknowledge that chicks might occasionally have other topics of conversation than how exactly they need to alter their lives so as to become more appealing to those who possess a penis.

Of course, this fact is obscured by Kristen Wiig's breakthrough role that proves there is more than one way to fail after starring on Saturday Night Live. Instead of descending into tragic self-parody like Michael Myers, or only saying yes to movies that allow for the employment of talentless hangers-on like Adam Sandler, Wiig has elected to become a male chauvinist lapdog. Yes, I realize that by forcing you to read that last sentence I have transported you visually to a place where Alex Baldwin gently strokes Wiig's head as she cries big blubbery tears all over his $60,000 tuxedo, but there's nothing I can do about the twisted path that your mind has chosen to take on its way to the truth.

I find a helpful instructional tool for ferreting out the sexism inherent in "Bridesmaids" is to imagine what the film would have been like had it been directed by Michael Bay. As the man is incapable of subtext, every character with a speaking role would have been employed at the same strip club, which would have been owned by the oldest female character in an insulting attempt to convince women that free will is within reach. Of course, since it's Michael Bay, the head Madame would have to be digitally aged using CGI effects, as there is no way he has ever even spoken to a female human being over the age of 26. Also, something about exploding breast implants and a robot that has been programmed to give blowjobs when not transforming into a combination foot stool / golf ball washer.

Bad Teacher

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:26:48 -0400

None of the bad teachers that I had in high school wore fuck-me pumps and mini-skirts. Instead, they all seemed to be sporting rumpled sport coats, unruly ear hair and the uncanny ability to finger you from across the room using only their eyes. This disconnect from reality is apparent throughout the movie "Bad Teacher," which seems to equate cussing and dressing like a slut with an inability to educate. If that were true, then how do you explain the popularity of Dora the Explorer? Or Jersey Shore? I challenge you to name two television institutions who have done more to advance society.

Moving on, it's nice to see Cameron Diaz transitioning into roles where she can rely more on her foul mouth rather than her increasingly age-lined face. Really, Hollywood just doesn't write for women in Diaz's awkward demographic, where she's too old to play "hot," but too young to play "Patrick Stewart." In order to avoid slipping into that nefarious middle ground that has consumed actresses as talented as Pamela Anderson and Catherine Zeta-Jones, Diaz has been forced to reinvent herself as sort of a rail-thin shock comic who can still sort of pull off being sexy even when she's playing high.

It probably helps if you're high too when checking out "Bad Teacher," as that might help you get through the film's excruciating lack of plot, combined with a cast of characters that might as well have been lifted directly from every single fucking movie about a school ever made, ever. You've got eager beaver over-achiever teachers, dumbass phys ed burnouts and a principal who's obsessed with dolphins. That's right – dolphins. You can't expect me to believe that an administrator with a five-foot crystal dolphin statue in his office wouldn't be instantly brought before a grand jury within days of the school year starting, but there it is.

All-in-all, "Bad Teacher" could have been saved from its own lack of inertia if at any point someone on either side of the camera had said "hey, maybe we shouldn't have cast someone from Saturday Night Live." Honestly, that's the kiss of death for any movie. It used to be just Dan Aykroyd, but now making the mistake of employing anyone even peripherally associated with the most painful two hours on television is akin to setting $40 million on fire on a barge in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. Just ask Tracy Morgan.

Midnight in Paris

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:23:46 -0400

Alert! Woody Allen has found the keys to Michael Jackson's transmogrification machine and can now insert his neurotic spirit into any willing vessel within striking distance. It looks like Owen Wilson picked the wrong weekend to attend one of Allen's father/daughter orgies, because his unlucky body has been forced to bear the bespectacled-one's tedious intonations and pointless musings on the meaning of life through yet another 100 minutes of wasted celluloid called "Midnight in Paris."

Time travel plots should really only involve indestructible cyborgs sent by an unfeeling sentient computer network to change the future for one special lady. Unfortunately, Allen didn't get that particular memo from James Cameron and decided to write a film around the conceit that driving in a really old car through the streets of a foreign capital at speeds well below 88 miles per hour is all it takes to enter the realm of yesteryear.

The weird part about the advertising for "Midnight in Paris" is that it wasn't at all presented as some kind of time travel fantasy, which meant I left my aviator goggles and opium ampoules at home. Theatre popcorn was not nearly enough to insulate me from the funny dress, putrid personal hygiene and failed cameo performances intended to evoke long-dead celebrities writers, painters and sculptors that absolutely no one remembers. It's almost like "Midnight in Paris" was scripted during a drunken turn-of-the-century magnetic poetry slam, which sounds exciting until you realize that at the end, everyone involved dies of tuberculosis.

Alas, I was not lucky enough to myself succumb to the wasting death, and I was forced to sit through Wilson's mumbled dialogue and feigned interest in the film's plot that is almost certain to earn him a nomination for Best Animated Character In A Live Action Film. Rachel McAdams is completely wasted in her role as the shrewish high society wife, and her token presence was clearly meant only to satisfy Allen's bizarre desire to cast at least one tiny blonde actress of questionable emoting ability in each of his productions. I assume that next on the list will be the ghost of Elizabeth Taylor, or perhaps Ryan Reynolds.

There's nothing new to see in "Midnight in Paris," as Woody Allen continues to mark time before he is found dead with his pants missing inside the monkey house at the New York Zoo.

X-Men: First Class

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:19:40 -0400

What do you do when you fuck up a movie franchise? Go back in time. This is the strategy that was used by 20th Century Fox with the production of "X-Men: First Class" in an effort to make us forget just how shitty that Wolverine movie really was.

Trouble is, if you can't make a decent film about arguably the most popular character in the series, then what chance do you have when it comes time to delve into the undoubtedly fruity beginnings of Professor X and Magneto? It would seem as though giving everyone Beatles haircuts, short skirts and a token black superhero who gets killed almost immediately after being introduced wasn't quite enough to save "First Class" from being anything more than a rehash of tired genre clichés and poorly-paced directing.

First of all, the flick suffers from too-many-powers-itis. I guess it's cool to shoot lasers out of your chest, or but who really fucking cares about a stripper with dragonfly wings? Honestly, those wings would have been torn out and pawned for meth money by the time she was 17 years old anyway, so that totally took me out of the movie. And what about the guy with the mutant feet that are oh-so-horrific that he has to risk everything by drinking some kind of secret potion that inevitably makes things worse. Are you trying to tell me that the stigma of huge feet was so powerful in the 60's that it was plausible to present it as the worst possible mutation out of the bunch? I guess it was a different time.

Second, what's up with Kevin Bacon. It seems the he has entered into that awkward "child molester" phase of the aging process, where no matter what role he takes his demeanor and wardrobe choices present him as some kind of playboy pederast. I almost expected him to be followed by a crowd of 10-year old boys, stay just out of reach of the terrible anger of his drunken rage. Instead of playing up the pedophilia angle, director Matthew Vaughn instead chooses to focus on Bacon's posh private submarine, which in my opinion was a mistake. History will judge who was right.

History will also judge how good of a decision it was to cast a soulless supermodel non-actor as a lady mutant who can transform into pure diamond (fantastic) and a somewhat chubby, always frowny-faced blonde as a shapeshifter (terrible). Seriously, if you could pick any form you wanted, why would you pick the girl-who-looks-like-she-had-an-eating-disorder-and-could-suddenly-gain-50-lbs-in-two-days-at-any-time? Is the reason she looks so worried because she is deathly afraid that her fantasies will get the better of her and her hands will transform into Snickers bars, forcing her to self-cannibalize in front of everyone?

Maybe the answers will be found in "X-Men: Third Class, No Carry-On." Or maybe not. Maybe I will go to my grave wondering about chocolate hands and Bacon's proclivity for little boys. I'm comfortable with either scenario.

Super 8

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:13:35 -0400

The year is 1979. It's small-town America. And you're bored. For the next two hours, this is your fate, because you had a moment of weakness and bought a ticket to see "Super 8."

Let me get this out of the way: I hate all movies starring kids. It doesn't matter how old they are, the simple fact is toddlers, tweens and teenagers are all mega-fucking-annoying when placed in front of a camera as anything other than background scenery. But you know what's even worse than kids? When auteur director's try to relive their own shitty childhoods through the magic of derivative sci-fi plots starring cookie-cutter aliens.

Apparently, if you crashed-landed your ship on Earth and ended up in 1970's America, the first thing you would do is steal 30 fucking microwaves, because everyone knows that this is exactly where General Electric has been hiding weapons-grade photon accelerators and dilithium crystals since they managed to fill up warehouse at Area 51 in 1968. It would also appear that director J.J. Abrams didn't have time to concoct a believable-looking alien of his own, so he just rented "Starship Troopers" and stole Paul Verhoeven's fever dream spider-creatures, even copying their ability to communicate as touch-telepaths. Of course, Abrams left out the mega-cool weaponry, mildly disturbing co-ed shower scene and surprisingly soap opera-friendly cast that made "Starship Troopers" an instant classic, opting to instead replace those elements with acne-ridden teenage fatties, little girls with daddy issues and a dead mom.

Sounds like a winner, right? Well, yeah, in the sense that lying in a pool of your own piss and vomit is a winning strategy when you pass out behind the shed at your old high school Saturday night and your friends abandon you to the coyotes. That is to say, it's not really a "winning" strategy but rather the "only" strategy when you don't have the tools to escape the hand life has dealt you. It's actually surprising that producer Steven Spielberg didn't descend from his hovering ivory palace and slap Abrams in the face for blatantly stealing so many of his original concepts and then making them suck. I guess after working with George Lucas for so many years, you just kind of expect that to happen.

The Hangover 2

Tue, 31 May 2011 17:19:16 -0400

"The Hangover 2" is yet another in a long line of Hollywood Mad Libs comedy sequels, only this time the film drops any pretense of originality. That's right – "The Hangover 2" is a fill-in-the-blanks photocopy of "The Hangover," with all major plot points intact and only the window dressing changed so that the suckers in the theatre seats don't feel too stupid about having shelled out $20 for a ticket, popcorn and a half-gallon of questionable cola that comes in a jug shaped like Zach Galifianakis' head.

Like any copy of a copy of a copy, "The Hangover 2" offers fuzzy details within a comfortingly familiar comedy framework that deviates little, if at all from the original blockbuster. Think of it as the Reader's Digest edition of the first movie, melted down to pablum for audiences who can only laugh if the memories of shit that was funny in the past are triggered by a frenetic sequence of almost identical events shown on the screen before them.

Pavlov's audience will absolutely love the parade of familiarity that assaults viewers of "The Hangover 2." Once again, we have Ken Jeong's penis in a starring role, only this time instead of jumping out of the trunk of a car, he jumps out of an…ice machine. Ok. Also, there's a monkey instead of the baby, and the primate licks Jeong's flaccid member instead of masturbating on a hotel patio. Throw in a mute monk to replace the first film's tiger, and we've got the trifecta of identical shit that just feels tired the second time.

We could keep going, of course. You want a celebrity cameo? Guess what, it's Mike Tyson again, and that's probably the most believable part of the movie, because I am absolutely certain that Tyson's calendar is wide open for weddings and bar mitzvah's the world over. I'm honestly surprised that "The Hangover 2" was written and produced by the members of Greenpeace, because it's one of the best examples of comedy recycling seen since the "American Pie" franchise went direct to video.

The saddest part of all is that "The Hangover 2" is set entirely in Thailand, which is like the epicenter for fucked up shit that happens to tourists like the clueless protagonists in this movie. The script completely glossed over wasted opportunities, such as the black market organ harvesting, child slavery and human trafficking and the dirty expatriate beach hippies that infest the most beautiful spots for skinny dipping and videotaping low budget tranny porn that makes Thailand special. Maybe the director's cut DVD will feature a second disk that just follows Paul Giamatti around Bangkok as he smothers one hooker after another with his deadly beard and belly combo. We can only hope.

Priest

Sun, 29 May 2011 13:10:06 -0400

What's sexier than vampires? How about vampires and celibate priests. Scratch that - the answer is obviously celibate priests fighting vampires in a future where personal hygiene is no longer fashionable and massive deserts surround cities that could have been lifted directly out of any Terry Gilliam movie.

Yeah, that's the ticket. Or so director Scott Charles Stewart, who brought us such previous theologically-challenged films as "Legion" would have us believe with "Priest," his latest ode to a very dusty God.

Let's get this out of the way: "Priest" is essentially "Alien 3" if it had been modeled after "West World" instead of set on a prison planet. We've got monks in robes with questionable facial tattoos and the inability to socialize with the opposite sex dueling with vampires that have been sent to the H.R. Giger School of Excessive Saliva and Exoskeletal Excellence (it's a two-year program). There's also a vampire cowboy in a hat and a poncho who lives on a train filled with birthing sacks and sawdust. I don't know where that came from, exactly, but I'm going to chalk it up to the startling originality of Scott Charles Stewart, who apparently has a very firm visual style that isn't completely derivative of Clint Eastwood in any way.

"Priest" attempts to set its vampire hunting film apart from other entries in the genre by insisting that its title characters refrain from using firearms when dispatching their prey. Oh wait, I mean "Priest" is exactly like every other vampire movie where the dude with the badass blades that he throws in the air and then spins around and then catches them again saves the day. Except this time, there's a train – did I mention the train? The train doesn't have any guns either, but then again, no one ever wins an argument with a train, so I guess the point is moot.

I don't want to live in a world where I can't discern whether the vampire eating me is male or female by way of visible genitalia or artfully applied makeup. I also don't want to have to run the risk that the bald guy in the robe sitting across from me on the subway isn't just a Friar Tuck enthusiast or a Jedi-wannabe, but actually a seriously sexually repressed servant of God. "Priest" combines both of these elements, and makes me pine for the 1994 film of the same name, where at least I knew who was going home with who by the time the credits rolled.

Thor

Sat, 14 May 2011 13:37:12 -0400

If America's white supremacists ever got their shit together long enough to make a big budget Hollywood movie, that movie would probably look a lot like "Thor." Norse mythology has long been the province of skinheads and other fine representatives of the scum of society, and with nary a person of color to be found in this over-bleached mess it's easy to see the obvious parallels between "Thor" and the doctrine of Racial Holy War that is fueled by the power of a million meth benders.

The title character – Thor himself – is played by Aryan wet dream Chris Hemsworth, who looks sort of what Triple H in a time machine would look like. That is to say he's got the kind of body you'd expect to see either in a pay-per-view, man-on-man hotel porno or the weight room of a maximum security prison. Those Norse gods don't fuck around, and when Thor isn't Absercizing he's beating down Frost Kings, a thinly disguised allegory for, oh, anyone who doesn't have blonde hair, blue eyes and a big fucking hammer.

Like most Brotherhood members, Thor surrounds himself with a contingent of pale faces, including a preggers Natalie Portman (Aryans like their women to breed) and Kat Denning in a role so fucking insignificant that I'm surprised they didn't just use a cardboard cutout in 90 percent of her scenes. At least then maybe we would have had her glorious rack unleashed for a second or two of screen time, as opposed to it being wrapped up under layer after layer of "uncomfortable-with-her-body-girl" clothes. As it were, the only toplessness we get is from Hemsworth, and while his pecs may be glorious and point the way towards a racially pure future, it wasn't enough to get me more than half-hard.

There's an stupid brother versus brother versus King Dad story running through "Thor" that involves Anthony Hopkins playing a corpse and some British dude I have never heard of putting in time as an obviously evil Loki. Heads up, gods and goddesses: if one of your friends LOOKS evil, then he probably IS evil. Things are pretty straightforward up there in the heavens. Straightforward and boring as shit.

In the end, Thor fights a giant Transformer that shoots death beams from its eyes and finally learns the true meaning of Christmas, which surprisingly allows him to regain his powers after having fallen to Earth. By "regain his powers" I mean "pick up a big fucking hammer and smash stuff," because when you get right down to it, Thor is really just like your dad out in the garage after a few drinks. Only more racist.

Fast Five

Sat, 14 May 2011 13:30:27 -0400

Fast Five just might the most impressive baldness-fetish film of all time. Forget Superman's Lex Luthor, forget anything made by Bruce Willis in the last ten years – if you love big, bald men, then you are going to cream your jeans after seeing Fast Five.

Bald and buff fantasists couldn't ask for more from this collection of explosions, motorized mayhem and sweaty, sweaty men staring each other down with barely disguised passion in their eyes. Yes, it's true: two of the world's most popular beefcake baldies, Vin Diesel and The Artist Formerly Known as The Rock take some time off from their Harlequin Romance cover model jobs and get their grind on in the streets of Brazil for this ridiculous, but unfortunately not final iteration of the street racing epic.

Outside of a skinhead beatdown, men and other men who love ultra-masculine bald boys won't find anything to dislike about Fast Five, other than perhaps the amount of camera time that is devoted to actors like Paul Walker and his shameful head of pretty blonde hair. Even junior baldie Tyrese Gibson gets to put his lack of locks up against the incredible, perspiration-beaded skull crowns of Diesel and Dwayne as they parade through the streets of Rio like some kind of transplanted Fire Island parade.

Maybe you are confused at this point in the review, wondering when I am going to mention the cars, the bullets, the blood and the action that no doubt lurk within Fast Five's more than two hours of screen time. If you were expecting some continuation of the car culture spirit embraced by earlier Fast and Furious franchise entries, then you are in for a huge disappointment, my friend. This series is now all about huge muscles, bulging brains and the foreheads that barely contain their incredible majesty.

If you love men who are bald, bald men, muscular bald men or just enormous muscles topped off by a shaved head that has been tanned by the heat of Brazil's merciless sun, then run, don't walk to the theatre to see Fast Five. If you are an ostensibly normal human being who has no particular aching desire to see the exposed epidermis of a man who not too long ago was oiling himself up before stepping into the ring with similarly greasy steroidal freaks, then what the hell are you doing reading this review in the first place?