Monday, December 25, 2006

Don't Believe The Hype. Because The Jews Control The Media.

Rumor Has It
2005, USA
Rob Reiner
DVD



Surprisingly, I once liked Jennifer Aniston. Not because of her performance in Friends, the show that launched a thousand shitty Goo Goo Doll haircuts and made New York women seem like neurotics on helium, but rather because of her pre-rhinoplasty role in Leprechaun. Her Valley-Girl-by-way-of-the-Sinai-peninsula hooknose made her look like she'd maybe spit up gold coins the harder I hit her, like a Semitic slot machine. I always found that combination of greed, anti-Semitism, and misogyny very satisfying, so I decided to follow her career. Sadly, after her plastic surgery, my interest in her waned as the gold fever passed, as I no longer fantasize about mining for diamonds in her genitals, or cutting slices from her tender flesh, is so sweetened by champagne baths and caviar brunches it tastes like sugared Kobe beef. Plus, after that, she kept starring in those romantic comedies marked towards housewives whose husbands take them to Applebee's and a movie on date night once a month, and then come home to have sex in the moments before Sports Desk comes on, still sucking the traces of a baked potato with Cheez Wiz out of their teeth.

In a pinch, it works great as a lubricant. Well, not great, but the whore you picked up at the bus station won't know the difference.

And Rumor Has It hasn't changed my opinion. I was interested in seeing it because it's a sequel of sorts to The Graduate, and I was really dying to find out if Benjamin Braddock got into plastics or not. However, it did seem like it was doomed to failure from the very start, for commercial if not artistic reasons. The only people who liked The Graduate when it was released in 1967 are now spending their time finding their teeth or trying to remember if they have a daughter, not going to the theatre. And people who were young enough at the time to still be coherent now, with enough money available to spend on movie tickets instead of losing it to telemarketing fraud, didn't see the film when it was out. Youths at the time did not like The Graduate. What they liked was trading beads for quaaludes and having unprotected sex while trying to ignore the fact that their partner smells like turned wine and old leather. But, like as the peace and love generation spawned the mercantile avarice of the 1980s, so has The Graduate led to Rumor Has It, a blatant and shamefaced attempt to get my mother and her sister to spend $20 on movie tickets and popcorn.

Everything about this movie has middle-aged woman written all over it, in flowery cursive on scented rose stationary. Kevin Costner's in it, for one, as the grown up Benjamin Braddock, in his sickly jaundiced tan so superficial it seems his smile makes his wrinkles glow white like cracks in meringue. Then, there's Shirley McLaine as Mrs. Robinson, mugging desperately for the camera in between bourbon-laced drinks, with exactly the kind of broad, bland humor that would spice up an episode of Another World and have the whole sewing circle talk about how wild the movie was. Unfortunately, as I am neither a mother nor an unmarried, lonely aunt, all I see is a couple of faces like beef jerky trading barbs so dulled by age they sound like grammar lessons in middle school. Jennifer Aniston plays a young woman engaged to a thunderously boring Mark Ruffalo. She discovers that the novel The Graduate was based upon her family with sher dead mother as Katherine Ross, and her grandmother as Mrs. Robinson. It's an interesting enough premise, I suppose, but it's so lifeless and stale, like old Wonderbread, But then again, this is the kind of film that's marketed to people that feed their children ham salad. Unfortunately, my tastes are a little more refined that that. I prefer Jew meat.

Labels:

Merry Paganmas!


In whatever way you choose to worship your filthy Jewish god, enjoy yourself. I will send an enemy to Valhalla in his honor.

Labels:

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

I Know Son Of Sam Didn't Kill Gay People. But I Do.

Stranger Than Fiction
2006, USA
Marc Foster
35mm

I like a Will Ferrell movie. Did he get better, or did I get dumber? I really hope it's the former and not the latter, because I'm not looking forward to getting to the point where I can't figure out how to work my keys and get impressed by Dan Brown novels. However, if he is getting better, then there might be trouble on the horizon, as bad comedians turned good actors is one of the signs of the coming apocalypse, where the seas will run red with blood and a beast with 10 crowns 10 heads, each doing bad Christopher Walken impressions and bits about programming VCRs, will rule the earth. One fourth of the Earth's population will be ravaged by Jim Carrey, one forth scoured by Robin Williams, and a quarter slaughtered by Jack Black, with the final portion of the population, apparently, falling victim to Will Ferrell as a poisoned star falls from the sky to boil the oceans.


Ferrell's the second from the left.

As for Stranger Than Fiction, the film is high concept without being either confusing, like Primer, or nerdy, like Adaptation. Ferrell plays Harold Crick, a tax agent for the IRS who discovers he's a character in Emma Thompson's new novel. He discovers this because he's hearing her narration as she writes the story, which is something like being able to read the script of the TV movie of the week based on your life. For the record, mine will be called To Walk The Night: The Ash Karreau Story. It will star Mark Paul Gosselar from TV's Saved By The Bell as yours truly, with Tiffany Amber Theissen as the love interest, and Eddie from Frasier as the dog that tells me to kill people. The police detective on my trail will be Richard Greico, and he will loudly proclaim, without irony, "he's turning this into a game!" about 45 minutes into the first hour. Un, where was I? Oh, yes, Stranger Than Fiction. It's good, surprisingly. It's actually fairly intelligent, and playfully raises a bunch of interesting questions about both narrative and fatalism, in a way that's charming without being so gay a dog has to tell me to shoot it.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Monday, December 18, 2006

Too Stoned To Conjugate. The Tenses Are Melting.

Night of the Living Dead 3D
2006, USA
Jeff Broadstreet
35mm



I'm not sure what's more frightening, zombies or stoned idiots making movies. One will eat your brains, and the other will, well, probably they’d probably eat your brains too, if they were made of tofu or organic produce. The only thing worse than aging hippie is young grassroots activist hippie. I'm not sure which one of them had a hand in this, but someone was way gone on Jamaican Blonde when they wrote the script for this, probably on the back of a cigarette package half torn up for filter paper. For crap's sake, how can you fuck up a 3D zombie movie? By remaking Night of the Living Dead and turning most of the gags into people blowing pot-smoke rings at the camera. People always talk about how hard drugs ruin lives, but how about how soft drugs ruin movies? Dazed and Confused would be a great movie to watch if the rep theatres playing it didn't smell like an ashtray at a Phish concert. Sean William Scott would be tending bar in the lounge of a university he could never attend if it weren't for pot culture, and video stores would be able to save shelf space for good movies if they didn’t have to stocking quite so many copies of Half Baked and How High. If it weren’t for drug culture, I could rest assured that Jack Black would never make another movie, and Will Ferrell would be relegated to bit parts and cameos on Saturday Night Live anniversary shows. The entire cast and crew of That 70s Show would be executed for crimes against intelligence, and Adam Sandler's head would be on a pike outside a walled city, warning of the dangers a little brain damage can have on the humor system. The city, of course, would have walls and battlements constructed from the pressed bones and gristle of lamb, chicken grown in horrible captivity, and all kinds of small animals that are way too cute to eat if you're high and own a Morrissey CD. Within the city, we would feast on veal and the corpses off all those that worked in vegan co-ops, and spend the night not dancing to trance music, and avoiding pulling out an acoustic guitar to strum Redemption Song around a bonfire. In this paradise, Sublime CDs will be burned for warmth, as will Grateful Dead fans and all copies of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (both print and film), and anyone with a hemp necklace will be transformed into bio-mass fuel in the crematoriums. Public assembly of anybody who believes in tarot, astrology, or the power of the universe will be forbidden, in case their hysterical babbling feeds back upon itself and starts breaking the windows of the showers where we gas mushroom-heads and people who drink fair trade coffee from independent retailers. And no, hippie, it's not nitrous gas. Every night, we will drink the blood of ex-Doors roadies and current Dave Chapelle fans, while everybody who gets stoned on Sunday evenings to watch The Simpsons spends all night sifting through oil sand fields with their bare hands. Any one over the age of 12 who has a poster of either the Mona Lisa or a Gray alien smoking a joint will be sterilized and forced to work in the Styrofoam factories, or surf the internet deleting any references to Ween. Flames will consume the writings of Jack Kerouack, Timothy Leary, and Naomi Klien, and the smoke of their burning will clog the air with the thick black cloud of reason. Huff that for medicinal purposes, hippie.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Talibanic Terror.

Saw 3
2006, USA
Darren Lynn Bousman
35mm


There are no such things as snuff films. However, there is plenty of footage floating around of people who have fallen down elevator shafts or lost their face in a mortar attack. And, like a heavily made-up transsexual in a New York bar at last call, in a pinch those will do the trick. All this is to say that if you need to masturbate to someone dying, there are better ways that watching Saw 3.


I'm pretty proud that I got from Saw to this in less than 200 words.

The relationship between violence and sex is not an undeveloped one, and it's long been used by conservatives to forge a link between pornography and sexual assault. The mix of endorphins and adrenaline that rush through the system when violence is presented is very similar to the one most people get during sex, or I experience when I ejaculate into my clenched fist and then punch my 3 year old son. So, it must be an enhanced state of arousal that prompts people to make and consume films like the Saw series. Empty of anything but a confused sense of Old Testament morality and an insatiable blood lust, this series must be the product of inflamed genitalia and subsequent brain damage from blood loss. It can only be a culture that reduces women to objects and sexualizes children that must relieve itself through glorification of cruelty and debased torture. There's clearly no other message here, since the series has devolved from punishing drug addicts and rapists to tearing out people's tongues for spitting on the sidewalk and mispronouncing "schedule". Jigsaw, the film's villain, has devolved from a sort of Puritanical avenger to what would happen if the Punisher took offense at moving violations, and his triviality extends itself throughout the film, which is more obsessed with set-design and mechanical torture contraptions than anything resembling a plot. If this were a porn film, it would be 20 minutes long and comprised entirely of gaping vagina close-ups edited together to a Drowning Pool song.

And who's to blame for this pornographic orgy of violence? Women, probably. I mean, if they didn't dress so provocatively, audiences wouldn't be forced to sublimate our sexual urges into cheap, exploitative, judgmental trash like Saw, and I wouldn't go through quite so much GBH. The cruel moral tone that the film takes, blatantly glorifying the killers' Draconian moral code, could only be a response to seeing Janet Jackson's breast at the Super Bowl 2 years ago (check date). Ever since women got the vote, they've been showing more and more ankle in public, and that bare skin is no doubt to blame for filth like this, born of pent-up arousal and swollen genitalia. All those 17 second Britney Spears blowjob videos, Lindsay Lohan nipple reveals, drunken Tara Reid panty shots, and looped sequences of the rape scene in The Accused have reduced our culture to rabid, oversexed perverts whose only outlet for repressed arousal is watching someone get their eye blowtorched as punishment for passing gas at a dinner party. After all, it’s fine, moralistic movies like this that show us how wrong it is to be human, and how fun it is to punish people for it. Consequently, as films like Hostel and the Saw series have taught me, the only way to end such sexuality-cum-graphic-violence is to staple women's vaginas shut and cut the skin off their cheeks so they don't look so pretty no more. That way, we can take violence off of the screen, and save our children from being traumatized and scarred. Well, our male children, at least.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Labels:

Thursday, December 07, 2006

Vacation In the Sun, Covered In My Own Blood.


Well, I'm off to the murder capital of Canada. Wish me luck. I'll be back soon, or possibly never.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

American Film Critic.

American Psycho
2000, USA
Mary Harron
DVD

Everyone likes American Psycho, but not usually for the right reasons. Most people just think it's a damning criticism of the dehumanizing materialism and selfishness of the cocaine-fueled 80s, which revolves around the inability of even a vicious serial killer to make an impression in his world. Most call it the very definition of a mordant satire, a comedy so black it abandons its moral center to make the humor all the more biting. But most people are missing the higher point of the film, the true meaning behind the superficial incisive social commentary and formal experimentation, which is that I get an erection when women die. You may have missed this subtle nuance in the film, because you didn't go to film school for five years, but you can trust me on this. I'm a film critic, and I know way better than you unwashed masses.


Not only did American Psycho set the standard for all serial killer films to come, with its shameless acceptance of the killer as anti-hero and morbid black humor, but it also set the standard for all serial killers to come. No longer can I hope to distinguish myself by stuffing a young co-ed's vagina with dirt and twigs and leaving her by the highway, or sodomizing a toddler with a scalpel. I'll have to come up with something new and inventive to set my self apart from the pack, maybe involving boiling water and a turkey baster. I don't know. It's kind of depressing, actually, that I will never kill anyone as well as Patrick Bateman can. But regardless, it's the subtle touches, probably lost on simpler film viewers, that really make the film, like the gracefulness with which Bateman, played by Christian Bale channeling only a touch of Jim Carrey, selects a coat hanger for a hooker lobotomy, or the hint of a sparkle in his smile as he bites a chunk out of a live woman's leg. You really have to be trained to pick up on that kind of subtlety, and that kind of training you can only get in a 17th or 18th nationally-ranked film studies program.

My graduation photo.

That's why you need people like me. Because, on your own, you won't pick up all the intricacies of the more complicated films like American Psycho, which rely on sub-text and subtlety to make their points. If it weren't for perceptive critics like myself, the lumpen-proletariat would have no idea that Natural Born Killers was a media critique, or that Mission Impossible 3 was the thrill ride of the summer. It's our job to ignore the obvious, to peel back the layers and reveal the essential truths beneath; buried so deep only our uniquely perspicacious and intuitive abilities can sniff them out. It's our job to point out the nuances that inform graceful, complicated meditations on society like American Psycho, xXx: State of the Union, and The Librarian and the Spear of Destiny. It's our job to point out how smart we are by finding the homoerotic subtext in Brokeback Mountain, and the Christian overtones of The Passion of the Christ. It's our job to justify our existence with patronizing attitudes and overly intellectual analyses regarding the most simplistic and obvious of cinematic statements. After all, if we don't find the core of meaning, of deep, inviolable truth at the heart of the American Psycho s, the Original Gangstas , and the King Kong Versus Godzillas, how are we going to justify five years of sleeping through Tarkovsky movies? You should be thankful for the service we provide, lest be forced to pick up all the intricacies of American Psycho all by yourself. In a time when film critics are being fired and re-assigned left, right, and center in favor of wire reviews from the major markets, it's time for all you film fans to rally together and support your local pretentious, whiny, maggot-pale film critic, so you can be told why you should like a movie, and all about my erection.