From a distance, Michael Rooker looks like Tom Hanks, though he sounds like Tom Waites with throat cancer. And Tracy Arnold looks like Meg Ryan, only slightly more swollen in the jowls. So, in essence, this movie is You've Got Mail with knives. And somehow, that makes it more romantic, like Bonnie and Clyde, or Badlands, except with more dead prostitutes filled with broken glass and stab wounds. And Rooker's cold, unfeeling performance as serial killer Henry Lee Lucas is so good, that coupled with John McNaughton's uncomplicated, flourishless direction and loosely structured script, Henry: Portrait of A Serial Killer is what all romantic comedies should aspire to be: humorless, empty, and full of repressed rage and rape fantasies. Just like real romance. Case in point:
True love.The Wedding Singer
would have been much better had Drew Barrymore been a serial killer. Not her character, but Barrymore herself. And her victim profile should have been boorish, talentless frat boys whose sole marketable ability seems to be to make stupid voices.The Holiday
. The only part of Cameron Diaz I would pay to see is her insides. And Jude Law looks creepy enough to pull off a young Hannibal Lector. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, and all the British sound either like aristocratic serial killers or debaucherous poets, and Law doesn't seem like he can rhyme.When Harry Met Sally
, he didn't cut out her eyes and inseminate her brain. But he should have. Maybe then the orgasm would have been real.
As you can see, romance isn't dead. But it does keep killing, until the crawlspace gets full and it's time to dump some love into the river.
Labels: Horrific misogyny.