Posts Tagged ‘christopher walken’

Sinister (2012) – Scott Derrickson (Dir.) Ethan Hawke, Juliet Rylance, Fred “I Ran For President Once” Thompson, James Ransone

and

Seven Psychopaths (2012) – Martin McDonagh (Dir.), Colin Farrell, Sam Rockwell, Christopher Walken, Woody Harrelson, Tom Waits, Harry Dean Stanton

This may, or may not, give away the ending of the movie. Thanks, poster. You dick.

Ah, the ‘multiplex’. To us film-loving types, it is a rite of passage. An act of daring. A maneuver of such dastardly elusiveness, only the most capable of cinematic scoundrels can pull it off! Well, that was back in the days of not-being-17 and wanting, nay, needing to see South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut in theaters (Damn you, Wild Wild West for your bloated ticket sales!). Nowadays, the only reason to sneak into a movie while paying for a different one would be because you’re too poor in your post-college life to afford two tickets to two movies you only kinda want to see. Never fear! I did the adult thing! I multiplexed the SHIT out of these movies!…In that I saw one, left, ate some Panera (like a fucking adult) and then paid for the other movie. I be a classy mutherfucker (P.S. my mom reads this – or, as it’s pronounced in England ‘mum’, or, on the rare occasion, ‘boodle-matron’. Just thought you should all know). So, yes, as a busy adult with busy adult things to do, I had to fit these two badboys of movie mayhem into a single afternoon. Armed with a Meg and a Huntsberger, we stormed the beaches of mediocre horror and meta-McDonagh-magic. Now, I could have written two articles…but guess what? I have shit to do. So you get one. But it’s a long one. (That’s what she said. Lucky girl.)

So, what have we here? Sinister, the not-so-awaited follow up to Insidious, and the prequel to Nefarious, which will be, in turn, a spin-off of the series: Iniquitous, Not Very Nice,  and Kind of a Dick, tells the tale of an asshole getting killed really, really slowly by always making the wrong choices (SPOILERS). His name is Ethan Hawke. Well, it’s something else in the movie…but who will ever actually remember? He writes books about murders and then goes to the places where the murders happen and…well, that stuff is boring. The interesting part is that he discovers a collection of ‘Home Movies’ made by a gentleman who could give Rob Zombie some hints on how to actually string a series of scenes together. This guy is, in fact, an ancient Babylonian deity with a penchant for Super 8 film named ‘Bughool’ or ‘Bug Drool’ or ‘Bunghole’ or ‘Not as Scary as The Ring; You’re Trying Too Hard’. This fellow eats children, like you do, and usually dines on the youngest in a family that he then murders in gloriously ritualistic fashion. If you have half a brain, you have to ask yourself, who is going to murder the incessant and egregiously penis-esque Ethan Hawke and what fun way will they do it? I won’t spoil anything…though I already have, but it is fairly amusing.

“Hmm…you’re only paying me how much? I won’t even phone it in for that price. You fuckers are getting a telegrammed performance.” ~ Ethan Hawke, his own agent.

So, after witnessing a good deal of horror movies in the last month and an unacceptable amount during my rather miniature lifespan, it’s become clear that the ‘horror’ well is running a little dry. Yes, every now and then, a delicious cup of water comes up with the bucket, glistening like gems in the light…right before that kid from The Ring turns your face into a Picasso. But, more often than not, the bucket just comes up with sludge. Sometimes you’ll find some lead in there as well, double trouble. Since most of the classic horror beasts were created in the 70s and 80s, people have been attempting to rehash the magic. And, in some cases, they literally rehash what they think is the magic, only to discover that it’s a bucket filled with turd-meat (I’m looking at you, Jason X). The only team that has perhaps come anywhere close would be that of Saw. Like it or not, the ‘Jigsaw Killer’ is now an accepted member of the collective imagination, no matter how hackneyed and painful the later installments may be. Those boys went on to make the gloriously bat-shit movie that was Insidious. Now, beginning screenwriters, you know those rules everyone tells you about structure and tone and dramatic arc? Well, eat those. Regurgitate them. Blend them. Drink them again. And then puke on a computer. That would about explain the narrative arc of that movie. However, it was surprisingly interesting, for the most part. And then, the final act, descends into a realm reserved only for the Marquis De Sade, Salvador Dali and Charlie Sheen. It was a mess of such colossal proportions that even Lindsay Lohan gave it a once over before saying, “Gurl, get it together“.

So, here we have their follow-up. Does it make more sense? Yes. Is it as interesting? No. I’ll give the boys props, Bughool, or whatever his name is, comes off as exceedingly, what’s the word I’m looking for?…It’s like evil, but more baleful. Menacing? No. It’s not ‘insidious’…oh, man, it’s going to bug me. I’ll let you know when I think of it. Anyway, as a villain, he keeps the creep factor in the land of ‘Uncles Commenting on Their 16-year-old Nieces’ Bikini Facebook Pictures’, even if his face looks like if Gene Simmons’ forgot his safeword on bondage night. if you’ve seen any of the commercials, you’ve already witnessed the ‘scary’ bits (the paused image looking at Ethan Hawke, the harem of missing children watching a Bughool movie in the attic, etc.) so the rest of it is just a dude wandering around a house with a baseball bat. What is truly rotten at the core of this otherwise outwardly delicious treat is Mr. Hawke. He does a fine job as an actor. However, his character is so utterly detestable that all you can do for the length of the movie is hope that his demise involves some sort of accident involving testicles in a blender (it doesn’t). When offered night after night of terrifying shit, he still lies to his hot British wife about the fact that they are living in the house where the last victims were hilawkwardly murdered only a few months before. It’s all in the service of him refusing to accept that he’s a shitty author whose fifteen minutes of fame are over. Perhaps the writers were attempting to create some sort of tragic figure with Ethan “I’m a Really Serious Actor, I Promise” Hawke…but he is simply another Horror-Movie-Alcoholic-Dad (TM). And we all know what happens to them. The thing plays out like a parable written by Aesop after a weekend doing heroin with Edgar Allan Poe. There are no shocking turns, no surprises. You can discern the ending within the first twenty minutes of the movie. Thus, when it all comes together in exactly the way you expect, all you can do is leave the theater with a shrug.

“Shh, mister, I can’t hear Slipknot over your loud talking!” ~ Deaf Children

Perhaps the only true moments of brilliance in this melange of mediocrity all involve the found footage (eh? Eh? It’s even in this one!). Bughool’s movies are delightfully sadistic and the true reason for this movie’s R-rating. I don’t want to give any of them away, but my favorite involves a tracking shot on a lawnmower. Each film is beautifully scored with the creepiest of tunes (in fact, the whole movie has an excellent soundtrack, keeping the events tense even if the script isn’t pulling it’s fucking weight. Lazy script. Get a job, you hippie!) and begins with a simple scene of idyllic suburban bliss before cutting to one of four unique bloodbaths. In a sense, these vignettes cut to the core of what film fundamentally is. Here, it’s a disturbing exploration of the art-form’s voyeuristic basis, going so far as to recreate the closest thing to a snuff film you can legally see. Seriously, they go to impressive lengths. It promotes the idea that this violence and these horrid acts are part of a collective evil running through our society, a need to see brutality in it’s purest form, a completely sinister…

THAT’S THE WORD I WAS LOOKING FOR! Holy shit. I’m glad I remembered it. What are the odds of that?

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, Seven Psychopaths.

This is the grossest act of false advertising since McDonalds began their “Kind of Edible!” Campaign.

So, onto a better (kind of) movie. To those of you who don’t know, I have a minor love affair with writer/director Martin McDonagh. His plays The Pillowman, The Beauty Queen of Leenane, The Lieutenant of Inishmoore and The Cripple of Inishmaan are some of my favorite works I’ve ever read. He instills a deep sense of dark Irish humor with British violence and cynicism while managing to tie the package with the neat ribbon of pathos. His first attempt at film, Six Shooter, ended up with an exploding cow and an oscar. His second was the inconceivably hysterical and sad In Bruges, a semi-parody of another one of my favorite plays, The Dumb Waiter by Harold Pinter. So, basically, I’d have his babies. I know I don’t have the equipment, but I will find a way. I vow, here and now.

But then, the balloon was pierced and, instead of popping and scaring the shit of nearby babies, it just kind of wheezes. I attended a production of his new play A Behanding in Spokane in Chicago. Yes, the performance sucked…but what was at the center was a shallow, bland tale that used violence to cover up is completely surface nature. Gone was the Irish longing, the romanticism drenched in modern urban brutality, the deep roots in the art of storytelling. It was just a dude hurting two idiots. So, after seeing that and the trailer to his newest venture, I found myself nervous. Would this be a further descent into the mouth of blandness? Has Mr. McDonagh completed his path to hack-dom? Will Christopher Walken Walken the shit out of this thing?

Sam “Amateur Hat Enthusiast” Rockwell

Well…it’s complicated. I enjoyed this movie greatly, with my healthily guffawing theater friends flanking me on both sides. From the opening where we witness the incomparable Michael Stuhlbarg and the DSLicious Michael Pitt get randomly murdered by a guy wearing a parka, you know you’re in for something a little…well…screwy. And screwy it is, folks! The entire first half of flick builds up the belief that this is some kind of Quentin Tarantino/Robert Rodriguez/Pineapple Express action comedy where all the ‘psychopaths’ get into place for a final, fatal, self-fellacious showdown. But the second half is extremely not that. To some, it might disappear up its own ass. To others, something a little more subtle is going on.

Marty, Colin Farrell (and the name of the author? Hmmm. I see what you did there), is a screenwriter who’s been stuck on the same title page of a script for months. Every night he drinks and every night he does little more than piss off his shrewish and inexplicably Australian girlfriend, Abby Cornish. At the same time, Sam Rockwell steals dogs and returns them to owners for a profit. Chris Walken is, well, the most fucking Chris Walken I have ever seen. In fact, the levels of Walken-ness are so relentless that you eventually stumble from the theater with a randomly broken speech pattern and the completely shocking ability to softshoe. Woody Harrelson is a vulnerable and homicidal mob boss with a penchant for losing his temper. Tom Waits is a dude with a rabbit. There’s also a Vietnamese priest talking to a hooker. And then Harry Dean Stanton shows up in a story as a tenacious and murderous quaker. There are so many disparate elements on display that its almost impossible to predict how they’ll all slot together.

“What are you in for?” “Being in Joe Dirt, you?” “White Men Can’t Jump.” ~ Actor jail.

And then Mr. McDonagh cheats his fucking ass off. Now, that sounds bad, I know. But it isn’t. Well, unless you don’t like meta. If you don’t care for references within references within references within Leo DiCaprio making that squinty face within references, don’t see this movie. However, if you can handle a little self-reflexive media (let’s be real, unabashedly and unremittingly self-reflexive media) then you should. It’s like Adaptation with more grievous bodily harm. It’s as though, as I did, Mr. McDonagh examined his career, his body of work, and noticed a few glaring issues. First: he relies on violence far too much. He uses his flippant tone to whittle his characters down to nothing more than meat fodder. Second: his female characters have gradually evaporated from his repertoire, reduced to nothing more than whores or saints about to be butchered or simply cut from the story. Third: the love is gone. His earlier works are soaked in a dark reverence for the odd inhabitants of Gallway Bay, where he spent his childhood summers. Gradually, culminating with A Behanding in Spokane, he has lost all affection for his subject matter and that which seemed endearing parody has become ruthless ridicule. Seven Psychopaths is his literary path towards dealing and overcoming each and every one of these problems, while simultaneously engaging in them entirely.

We have Mr. Farrell, as a stand-in for McDonagh, at the center of two opposing ideologies. On one side we have the chucklicious and unhinged mind of Sam Rockwell (who I don’t think was given lines, he simply made it up as he went and the result is delightful), proposing to end their tale with the cliched and overwrought gunfight, a shower of titties and a veritable gore-bath. On the other, we have Mr. Walken, who has a strong love for the human condition. We see McDonagh’s/Farrell’s struggle with the compassion for these psychopaths and the frustration with trying to end the tale with love. How they do it is perhaps my favorite aspect of this film and terrifyingly similar to Naughty Sinister. They tell tales. Fairytales, folktales, horror stories, fables and all the rest. From the frightfully excellent Tom Waits telling his narrative of a vicious love story that hadn’t yet ended to the arc of Mr. Walken, we get some incredible links from pure sadism to touching human emotion. The movie is no conclusion and, for the most part, is surprisingly messy. And that’s fine. It has its shoot-outs, its chortlifying moments of dark comedy etc. But, like Sinister, the miniature vignettes stand out as beautiful deconstructions of their form. Sinister solely serves to study cinema as it’s seen, while Seven Psychopaths scrutinizes the skill of spinning a story.

All rabbits grow up believing that if they’re naughty, they have to spend an eternity living with Tom Waits and all of his REALLY hipstery fans.

I left Seven Psychopaths thinking hard about who I am as an artist. It takes a lot of balls to spend millions of dollars to tell the journey of a man stuck in his career’s mid-life crisis. Luckily, this guy knows how to make ’em laugh. Truly, though, the stories of a man avenging his daughter’s death, a Vietnamese priest avenging his murdered family, and Mr. Waits avenging his wife’s past are all deeply touching in their own, twisted fashion. So, in a way, Mr. McDonagh has found it again. Let’s hope, in the coming years, that he manages to dig his way out of his own ass and create something new. For now, we’ll let him wallow in his filmic colon because, you know what? His excrement is a damn side more artistic than half of Hollywood on a good day. 

Batman Returns (2012) – Tim Burton (Dir.), Michael Keaton, Christopher Walken, Michelle Pfeiffer, Danny DeVito

It’s a totem pole of emotional disorders!

The date was set. The players had returned. We converged, a rag-tag bunch of sarcastic assholes ready to ridicule, jeer and jest once more, all the while bleeding our useless opinions across the the Twitter-scape. And, much like any Hollywood sequel, it was surprisingly difficult to coax the original cast members back. Kevin (The Giggle) got stuck on a bus. Ryan (The Dragon) had to very un-dragonly wake up at 6am. Meg (The I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck) didn’t really, well, give a fuck and Huntsberger (Poop in a Vault) was ‘busy’. However, with coaxing, promises of sexual favors (regular roommate stuff), the stage was ready. The double-sided DVD was in the player and two bottles of white were ready for consumption.

Let me preface (as I am like to do): I had only seen Batman Returns once back when I was about 12. It scared the shit out of me. Specifically the part when the Penguin is eating raw fish and bites a dude on the nose. So, like a claustrophobe clambering into an elevator with a bunch of fat people, I charged back into the fray ready to take it on. Firstly, this movie is fucking AMAZING. I was all ready to go with all these goofy jokes about the early nineties, seeing as the first movie was a bunch of steaming 80s-Prince-infused mess. I came up almost entirely short. Apparently, between the two films, Burton descended back into his cave to gestate, emerging a fully grown goth-butterfly. This movie is a Burton film to the extreme. Soap-Operatic Danny Elfman score? Check. Insane art direction that makes no logical sense but is pretty as that girl who always serves you coffee and you’re pretty sure you’re in love but she probably isn’t into it? Double check. Dreariness that makes its way into your very soul? Triple check. Paul Reubens? Um…well, a little bit. Just enough, I feel.

PLOT SUMMARY! So, there’s this guy. He looks like Albert Einstein and he talks like he is constantly having a stroke. Turns out, it’s Chris Walken, settings up to UBER-WALKEN (a notch above Super-Walken and a notch below SUPREME-BEING-WALKEN. I’m still waiting for that last one to occur. I believe it’s the third sign of Ragnorok). He’s a douchebag business man? I guess? Doesn’t matter. Well, he decides to adopt crime king, orphan and Humpty-Dumpty impersonator Oswald Cobblepot and help him become mayor of Gotham. In doing so, he pushes Michelle Pfeiffer out a window. By the magical power of cats having sex on her, Pfeiffer comes back from the dead, shifting her sexy settings from Vespa (fun to ride but you don’t want your friends to see you on one) up to “Um, I have to change my pants”. Stuff blows up. Pfeiffer whips things (whips them good). Circus performers murder people. Danny DeVito BITES SOMEONE IN THE FUCKING NOSE. Oh. And Batman is in it too. A little bit.

“Just the pussy I’ve been looking for” ~ The Penguin making everyone feel uncomfortable.

So…this movie is hilarious. Every single line that escapes Pfeiffer’s amazing and man-making lips after she goes from World’s-Greatest-Twilight-Fan to Please-Murder-Me-With-Sex is a one-liner. And she delivers every single one perfectly. This movie is made of goof. Macabre, well-designed goof. But seriously, when have you ever seen a giant present explode and homicidal stilt-walkers attack a city? Or when the Penguin murders the fat clown? This thing as more goof than a fucking Disney-Dog convention. However, in no way is it a bad thing. While the first was confused with it’s cutaways to Nicholson doing unspeakable acts all the while looking like he wants to urinate on your face for sexual purposes while listening to Prince, this had a beautifully aligned aesthetic. It’s fucking crazy. But it’s ALL fucking crazy. Nothing in it dares take a walk on the wild side into ‘sanity’. Nope, pure, uncut, Columbian bat-shitness all the way through. You think, this can’t be as insane as it seems all the way through, and yet, frame after frame, its coated in a thick layer of delicious bat guano. Do not get me wrong. It’s AMAZING. I genuinely laughed out loud multiple times at actual jokes. Burton made funnies! Like when a random woman says of the Penguin, “He’s like a frog who grew into a prince!” and another dude says, “No, he’s more like a Penguin.” That amused me.

Time for the bad. Throughout the film, with Walken declaring that he’ll push Pfeiffer out of a higher window and Devito looking like he fellated Papa Smurf, I figured out what the issue with Burton’s two movies is: Batman. He doesn’t do anything. Ever. He’s barely in either movie. And, when he is, either he’s entirely nonchalant or he’s MERCILESSLY MURDERING PEOPLE. There is a scene near the beginning of the film where he incinerates a human being. And later, he comes up against a big dude who he can’t hope to take down because, let’s be honest, my 110 lb sister could give Keaton a run for his money. Batman forces a bomb into the guy’s pants and kicks him into a hole where he explodes. Correct me if I’m wrong…but isn’t the point of Batman that he doesn’t kill people? Yet, scene after scene he’s throwing acid at women, running baddies down, kicking them off of buildings and all the rest of it. After a while I just closed my eyes and hoped it would stop. Mommy, make it stop.

I think Devito should try the ‘Flattering Onesie’ look more often. It really brings out his munchkin-ness.

Also, at the beginning of the film, we see Wayne sitting around staring off into space (brooding…I guess? Or just really lonely and sad that the other multi-billionaires didn’t invite him out to play?) and the bat signal comes up. Three, not just one, but THREE fucking bat signal reflectors shift the symbol into his sitting room. Firstly…how does it know where he is in the house? Secondly, isn’t it a ‘secret’ identity? Who comes to Wayne manor, sees the massive Bat-Encrusted signal reflectors and thinks “Hmm. Totally not Batman. It’s just TOO obvious.”

Honestly, though, this has got to be my favorite movie in the Batman canon after The Dark Knight. I won’t call it a Batman movie because the guy isn’t even fucking in it. And he wears an ascot. That alone took my rage sparked by his foray into turtleneck apparel in the first movie and shifted it into the realm of Russell-Crowe-With-A-Phone-In-Hand. However, Devito as a human bowling ball, Walken being a tasty helping of terrifyingly unhinged and Michelle Pfeiffer doing anything at all (those cheekbones could cut diamond. Or my heart… NO Andrew! Don’t fall for Catwoman. She’ll only urinate on you, demand things that you can’t give and hate you for no other reason than the fact that she thinks she’s a cat. Also, there’s no knowing if during sex she won’t suddenly decide that she wants to bite your face off. Fucking cats.) they all come together to make one hell of an entertaining movie. Logic be damned. This was Burton at his best, crafting beauty from his dark-as-dirt imagination, transmuting the horrifying aspects of fringe geek culture into something palatable for the masses. What do we have? A tasty morsel of nightmare, coated in delectable sugar.

Oh Burton. What happened to you? You were so good. Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood are modern-day classics, unparalleled in their use of costume and set design, perfectly crafted to both undercut and stimulate our imaginations. But…sometimes you just need to lay your flowers at the base of the artistic grave of a great, let him go, allow him to rest, even as his reanimated corpse stumbles around Hollywood sinking his teeth into long-dead franchises, hoping to bring them back into life. Yet, as these cinematic abominations lumber across the silver screen summer after summer, we see they are all pale, pallid forms of their former selves, brainless and hungry for yours. The Burton we love is dead. We should just cock our sawn-off shotgun and blow his brains out before he can infect more. It’s what’s best.

*Wipe away tear. Apologize. Pull the trigger.*

The one and only time in Walken’s life where he seems not-insane by comparison.

And now…more tweets!

Oh my god! Pee Wee! Seeing him makes me want to touch myself in public places. #batathon

And so Tim Burton has found his creative penis and he will wave it in your faces, whether you like it or not. #batathon

Who let Alfred out of the house? And who the fuck is he buying presents for? He has no friends. #batathon

Why is Michelle Pfeiffer calling herself a corn dog? Is this going to turn into a porno? #batathon

Walken is the only man who can make unconditional love sound like a watch that’s been up his ass for years. #batathon

“What’s in these presents?” “Oh no it’s herpes!” ~ Huntsberger #batathon

Do you think the penguin put an ad in craigslist for murderous circus performers? #batathon

“I knew those stilt-trippers were a worthy addition to the bat mobile.” ~ Batman, proud of himself. #batathon

Who the fuck is the Penguin’s tailor? Jeffrey Dahmer? #batathon

I think Danny Devito ate the Ninja Turtles. #batathon

Michelle Pfeiffer said ‘bone’. Giggle. #batathon

“How industrious.” ~ Walken. “Baubles.” ~ Walken. No joke. Just truth. #batathon

NEVER TRUST THE WALKEN WHEN HE SMILES! #batathon

There’s one thing cats love, that’s a fresh corpse. #batathon

“Helena Bonham Carter as ALL THE CATS” ~ Huntsberger.

Milk was a bad choice. I mean a great choice. Fuck you all. ~ Catwoman. #batathon

“Rediscover your roots. Lavar Burton. Good friend. Black people. What was I talking about?” ~ Walken. Adlibbing. #batathon

‘Walken adlibbing’ is redundant. #batathon

“When you abandon your child you don’t want to leave a tag with your name on it. It might come back. That kinda misses the point.”#batathon

“Michael Keaton is a small dude. I don’t think he’s a poon dragon at all!” ~ Ryan. #batathon

“I’ll drop her out a higher window” *bow tie fix* YEEEEEAAAAAHHHH. Chris Walken invented David Caruso.#batathon

“Here comes the dirty onesie! Look for the stains!” ~ Kevin.#batathon

That raw fish made me nauseous for the entirety of the 90s.#batathon

NOSE BITE! Rahm Emmanuel does that like twice a day. Get over it.#batathon

Catwoman, backflips aren’t the only way to travel. #batathon

“I brought my pussy, Miss Kitty. Also, my cat, Englebert.”  ~ Catwoman #choices‪ #batathon

“He looks like a fucking Gringott’s goblin. And we KNOW they’re jews.” #batathon

“That bitch knows why the caged bird sings.” Catwoman played by Maya Angelou. #batathon

“He knocked me off a building right when I was feeling good about myself.” #deargodcatwoman #batathon

ANOTHER ASCOT? AND EATING A CARROT???? Batman what have you become? #batathon

Selena looks like she came out the wrong end of Busey Coke Party.#batathon

“That’s not true!” We’re apparently watching Batman Retorts.#batathon

Apparently if your rewire a dildo to an RC control, you can take down the bat mobile defenses. ~ Kevin. #batathon

“Literally, people throw fruit at him. It’s that kinda movie.”~Huntsberger #batathon

Instrumental Superfreak? Did Donald Trump plan this fucking dance? #batathon

“That is the laugh of cocaine.” ~ Meg #batathon

Kids, this is what happens when you eat black licorice. You become Danny Devito. But fatter. #batathon

Dead fat clown. The gift that keeps on giving. #batathon

Now Batman is wearing a RUBBER TURTLENECK. I’m done. I’m just done. #batathon

Only Walken’s third most awkward kiss, after Sleepy Hollow and his the one he gives your mother every night. #batathon

Well, that’s all for now folks. Like a schoolboy who has just discovered that having an older girlfriend means unlimited sex, we’ll be back for round 3 on Sunday. Next time we’ll be playing the Adam West Batman: The Movie drinking game. One rule: Drink every time it’s the 60s. Watch me document my death from alcohol poisoning on Twitter! 9pm CST.

And so, like someone at a southern buffet, we’re back for round 2 of 7. As the giggling face of Jack Nicholson fades into the past, we are presented with the kooky eyes of Christopher Walken welcoming us to the present. Please join the crew: Huntsberger “I’d Poop in A Vault Every Day if I Could”, Kevin “Gigglicious”, Ryan “The Dragon”, Meg “Still Doesn’t Really Give a Shit” and Mooney “Who has two thumbs and is constantly typing? This…wait I have to tweet.” We’ll be beginning the live tweeting of Batman Returns at 9:30pm CST…don’t forget the time difference (if you live anywhere not in the midwest).

Get ready for round 2, bitches.