Posts Tagged ‘geoffrey rush’

Quills (2000) – Philip Kaufman (Dir.), Geoffrey Rush, Kate Winslet, Michael Caine, Joaquin Phoenix


Mystery Men (1999) – Kinka Usher (Dir.), Ben Stiller, Hank Azaria, William H. Macy, Greg Kinnear, Geoffrey Rush, Janeane Garofalo, Paul Reubens, Claire Forlani, Tom Waits, Eddie Izzard

"Girl With the Pearl Earring" this is not.

“Girl With the Pearl Earring” this is not.

Welcome back, y’all! Some of you might remember, but most of you won’t…in fact I’ll be amazed if you do, but my girlfriend and I began a new film watching club back in the day. The concept was that she would show me a movie I’d never seen and I’d show her something new in return. A “I’ll show you Geoffrey Rush’s peen, if you show me more G-Rush dick” situation, if you will. Due to our inescapable penchant for PTOFing like champions during even the most exciting of films, we named this little group the Narcoleptic Society of Film Watchers…or NSFW for short. Our first outing was a leap into Some Like it Hot and Die Hard. This time, however, the lady Vanderbilt took the reigns and got me to sit down and watch Quills with three words with such gravitas that they have their own solar system: Geoffrey Rush’s Penis. Well, what do more do you need? If one could only review movies based on the presence of aged thespian peen, I would. That’s the only reason I went to see McKellan’s Lear (fun fact: that man is PACKING. They had to give a disclaimer to the audience “First three rows will get wet”. No joke). Well, there was some mention of Kate Winslet’s boobs, but, I mean, when has Kate Winslet not shown her boobs? A movie with Ms. Winslet but without nip as like a one-handed clap, or a tree falling in an empty forest, or McKellan’s 16-foot trouser snake without a salivating audience.

Before we get into the article proper, yes, this article’s title is massively misleading. Much like Quills. Ever since I was a wee theatre major (yes, that’s ‘re’ not ‘er’ because I need to hold onto my dissolving dream of theatrical pretension with the last ounces of rigor mortis left in that corpse of a career-future), I had heard tell of the infamous Quills. It is, of course, the tale of the Marquis De Sade, France’s dirtiest, most outspoken bastard until Nicolas Sarkozy took office. The Marquis, after hopping from prison to prison, was famous for his sexual deviancy and obsession with scatological pursuits. Eventually, he was committed to the Charenton mental asylum…which is odd to me because, in France, I assumed obscene sexual deviancy was synonymous with ‘breakfast’. But I suppose he violated one sensibility too many. Quills is the utterly fictionalized and not-nearly-as-dirty-as-it-thinks-it-is film charting the last days of the loony libertine portrayed by an unbelievably extraordinary G-Rush. After the Marquis manages to sneak out a particularly grotesque tale of female pleasure, innocuously entitled Justine, France’s most eponymously complex monarch, Napoleon, sends Austin Power’s father (Michael “My name is Michael Caine” Caine) to sort the man out. Armed with torture devices and a rather posh top-hat, Caine takes over the asylum currently run by softy mc-loves-a-lot Joaquin “I Used to Be a Decent Actor” Phoenix. De Sade apparently is allergic to not being published (I know his pain) and goes to every length to set his sullied thoughts on the page…or on his bed sheets, or clothing, or walls… Eventually, you guessed it, he bites it. Literally. But you have to see the movie to know why that’s funny.

No, this doesn't end in an orgy. And for that, I am upset.

It’s like if the Mad Hatter was a dildo specialist.

Now, My thespian cohorts in college told me myths about this movie, larger-than-life fables charting the horrifyingly subversive insanity of this iconic shit-shoveler. This included, but was not limited to: anal sex, flopping dongs, boobies everywhere, Michael Caine, feces…and, well, lots and lots of feces. Thusly, when I sat down with my girlfriend to drink in these horrifying extremities, I was sorely disappointed. I mean, readying for this review, I charted my mental thesaurus for as many fecal references as I could muster…and trust me, I came up with some good ones…only to have my dreams dashed by cinematic prudishness. Poop? You say your movie has poop? IT’S IN ONE SCENE. THAT’S IT! AND IT’S ONLY ON THE WALLS! Guys, I’ve hung out with two-year-olds. Poop-covered walls is bush league. When I see a grown many urinate into his own mouth, I might wince…might. You say this man is sexually deviant? The most grotesque act in this film is watching a 17 year old bride wipe her mouth after performing an off-screen blow job. Where are the threesomes? The S&M? The awkward, wig-based cosplay (which, back then, was known as ‘sex’)?

"Is it me, or can you smell someone who is going to destroy their career with a mis-informed documentary by Casey Affleck?" ~ Winslet, shockingly prescient.

“Is it me, or can you smell someone who is going to destroy their career with a mis-informed documentary by Casey Affleck?” ~ Winslet, shockingly prescient.

This dashing of expectation was only the beginning. Mr. Philip Kaufman, the film’s director, worked from a script by Doug Wright, a writer who is a subtle as he is a fucking mongoose. In fact, he is more of a mongoose than subtle because mongoose (mongeese? Mongooses?) are shockingly apt at dredging up crap. It is a testament to Mr. Rush’s impressively seasoned chops (category: metaphors that work for actors and sides of pork) that he can carry off a role of such rikonkulous flamboyance with even a modicum of believability. I think at one point he screeches ‘MY CONSTANT ERECTION!’ Oh yes? If it’s so fucking ‘constant’ why didn’t we see some erect Rush peen instead of a sad and cold flaccid thespenis? Unfortunately, none of this movie is actually as good as it thinks it is. Kaufman channels every director he can get his hands on to emulate any chance of bringing home a golden statuette. We have impressionistic matte sunsets falsely framing the few panoramas we’re offered, ala Polanski circa 1975. We have the natural lighting of Milos Forman’s excessively superior Amadeus attempting to give the world an ’19th Century feel’. We even have Kate Winslet’s boobs (ala Cameron, Eyre, Field, Lee, well, let’s be honest, everyone). However, this is a tale you have seen perhaps more often than a pair of Winslet nips (okay, I’ll stop, I promise). We have the inmate fighting against the system and the system fighting back. In the end he wins but dies, driving his captors to madness or self-reflection. Sound familiar? Yes, it’s basically One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest but with more hairpieces and mentions of labia.

It's as though everyone was given the direction to think about Geoffrey Rush's penis.

It’s as though everyone was given the direction to think about Geoffrey Rush’s penis.

Well, with such a disappointment under our belts, we followed up with a movie synonymous with “career-crushing flops”. With the help of Netflix’s insufferably upbeat and loquacious Siri rip-off, ‘Max’, we were offered Ben Stiller’s pre-Zoolander, post-There’s Something About Mary parody of superhero flicks, Mystery Men. What we discovered was one of the most nonsensical, bizarre, flamboyant, eerily prescient and absurdly esoteric movies I’ve ever fucking seen. I mean, what the hell? I sat on the couch, agog, witnessing this glorious mess of a shit storm. Mystery Men tells the story of three completely incompetent ‘superheroes’, Stiller’s ‘Mr. Furious’ with the power to get really mad; Macy’s ‘The Shoveler’, a man with exceptional abilities in the realm of moving dirt from place to place; and Hank Azaria’s bemusing ‘Blue Raja’, a pseudo-Indian, British-accented man who flings silverware. These three attempt to foil crimes in the shadow of Greg Kinnear’s unstoppable Captain Amazing, a Superman send-up decked out with endorsements and, like a groom’s penis on wedding night, the crushing need to perform. Bored with the paucity of adversarial quality, Amazing frees Geoffrey Rush from an asylum…and his name? CASANOVA FRANKENSTEIN. I shit you not. That is his actual name. Rush struts onto screen, decked in the finest disco-era nonsense, a sharpened pinky knife, and an accent that would make Bram Stoker’s Dracula blush. Within minutes of release, he goes about blowing up buildings and capturing Captain Amazing. It is up to the Mystery Men to save the man and the city. Along the way, they pick up Janeane Garofalo as a hipster girl equipped with a haunted bowling ball; a native American man called the Sphinx who only speaks in mantras; Pee Wee Herman as The Spleen, a man capable to knocking out even the most constitutional of stomachs with a carefully fired fart; and the Invisible Boy (Kel from Keenan et al) who has the ability to turn invisible only if nobody is looking at him.

"When I make this face, the ladies know I'm going to write on the walls in poop." ~ G-Rush is totes method.

“When I make this face, the ladies know I’m going to write on the walls in poop.” ~ G-Rush is totes method.

What seemed like it was going to be a nonsense romp through a slew of outdated references, proved to be something far more incredible. It seems as though Mystery Men was released a decade too soon. With the prevalence of superhero movies saturating the market, now would be the perfect time to lampoon the il-logic of these mega-blockbusters. Right now, all we get to rely on are the misfortunate slew of Kick-Ass movies. Usher’s film attacks specifically Schumacher’s Batman movies, mimicking camera moves, shots, lighting and going so far as to even film on some of Batman Forever’s sets. The satire is so perfectly crafted that it would be easy to mistake it for incompetence. And don’t get me wrong, this movie is largely incompetent. Usher seems to have stumbled onto genius by accident. I mean, what intellectual merit can a movie aspire to with a scene where a skunk humps the leg of a man who’s magical power is flatulence? Based on a Dark Horse comic, there is a good chance that the truly subversive aspects of the script are due to the source material. Firstly, H. Macy’s family is black. When was the last time you saw a biracial family in a movie? Think about it! On top of that, the entire inciting incident comes about due to pressure to provide companies with advertising opportunities. How can you not see the link between this movie and the questionable morals of the news media conglomerates, idiots subsisting on the constant flow of international tragedy for ratings? Without even trying, this movie has made the same thematic point as The Dark Knight without even trying…heroes create their own villains.

Ultimately, after Tom Waits shows up with an arsenal of non-lethal weaponry, Greg Kinnear turns into a human representation of an Munch painting, and Eddie Izzard attacks Garofalo with self-igniting hair spray, we are left with a tale of outsiders and underdogs fighting the status quo and succeeding despite themselves. There are references upon references upon references, some obvious (Captain Amazing’s alter ego hides behind glasses a la Superman) to the utterly bemusing (Garofalo makes fun of how William Shatner once argued with a director about the way he says ‘sabotage’…WTF?)  Granted, this thing is horribly made. If I had a seizure for every time there was a close up with a fish-eye lens…oh wait, I did. Now I’m dead. Seriously, though. As Mel Brooks once said, “comedy is tragedy in a long shot”. There is precisely ONE long shot in the entire film. Guess what? It’s the best joke in the movie. The rest of it is an exercise in nausea and chromatic dissidence. And not in a fun way. It’s like a one-eye trip through a Rob Zombie fun-house. But with more neon.

There is no caption necessary for this picture. Just drink it in. DRINK IT.

There is no caption necessary for this picture. Just drink it in. DRINK IT.

So, where are the connections between these two bizarre little ditties of cinema? Well, Geoffrey Rush and his member aside, it’s really about the expectation of subversion. Quills set out to be an Oscar movie. It has every ingredient: a tour de force performance by an old white man, Kate Winslet, Kate Winslet’s boobs (okay, okay, one more), fighting the system, accents, wigs, shocking material handled ‘tastefully’, biography etcetera ad infinitum. Unfortunately, the parts surpass the quality of the whole; what could have been a truly eye-opening examination of deviant sexuality and its relationship to literature turns into a dandy of a smut-fest with extremely problematic examples of mental health issues. On the other hand, Mystery Men is the strangest cobbling together of disparate elements that somehow coalesce into a mild stroke of brilliance. Rush’s ridiculous Casanova Frankenstein is perhaps the most hilarious of all his characters and a damn-side more devious than De Sade. What’s more terrifying? A French author with slightly distressed views on ink quality, or an insane madman with a sharpened pinky knife and an obsession with disco. I think we can all agree that The Beegees trump all things in the ‘horror’ department.

I will leave off with a final thought: originally I was going to link Quills to Children of Men, a movie known for its graphic violence and bleak views of humanity. In the UK, Children of Men is the equivalent of an ‘R’ rating, soaked in blood and swearing. On the other hand, Quills, with its tepid showings of actor schlong, is rated ‘X’. What is so horrifying about penises that even the presence of a flaccid dong is considered an unviewable travesty? I think this video says it all.


Les Miserables (2012) – Tom Hooper (Dir.), Hugh Jackman, Russel Crowe, Anne Hathaway, Amanda Seyfried, Eddie Redmayne, Sasha Baron Cohen, Helena Bonham Carter, Samantha Barks

This poster brought to you by the monosyllabic factories of Stuttgart, our motto: "GOOD"

This poster brought to you by the monosyllabic factories of Stuttgart, our motto: “GOOD”

Alright, let’s get this out of the way. Deep breath…




*pant, pant*





*pant, pant*



Hugh Jackman as Daniel Day Lewis as Hugh Jackman as Orson Wells as Valjean

Hugh Jackman as Daniel Day Lewis as Hugh Jackman as Orson Wells as Valjean

Holy fuck. Thank you, disembodied internet-hand. I needed that. Yes, it is true, I’m almost not ashamed to admit, that I am a Les Miserables fan-girl. From the moment the score swelled and the chain-gang took to their turntable on a lonely stage in New Haven, CT, like a fish too stupid to tell the difference between a worm and a piece of sparkly plastic on a string, I was hooked. My little highschool self became drunk on Thenardier’s bombast, Valjean’s strength, Javert’s straight-laced don’t-fuck-with-me-fuckery. The next year, we performed the show, fresh off of the touring stage. Our budget was nothing! Our talent was limited! Our cast was mainly boys who were too afraid to play sports and girls who were trying to sleep with all the hot gays! But what we lacked in pretty much every department required to put on one of the most over the top productions since Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Michael Bay’s Transformers! The Musical, we made up for in heart. And, you know what, we kicked ass. At least, that’s what my mother said. (But she’s british so it was more, ‘It was the dog’s bollocks!’)

So, now, years later, I am confronted once more with my deepest of demons, my darkest of secrets, my squealiest, most infuriating, most utterly weepy self: Les Mis Mooney. *Facepalm* Try as I did to stave it off, every fucking time that fucking trailer with Anne fucking Hathaway came on the fucking screen and sang I Dreamed a Fucking Dream I’d become a weeping sack of musical theater nerd mush. I was excited for this film. So excited that I did battle with my mother for a solid month before finally convincing her to make this our ‘Boxing Day Movie’ (Mooney Family Tradition, we don’t fuck around). So, the question is, did Tom Hooper pull it off? Did I spend 3 hours squirming with sappy glee in my theater seat? Was I launched back into post revolutionary France to stand atop the barricade and fight with all my might against the coming horde of the Parisian military?


Was the movie terrible? No. Was it good? No. Did I cry? Kinda. Was Russell Crowe a rotting sack of shit that rained over everyone’s parade and completely ruined every modicum of film that he marred? Abso-fruitly. But I’ll get to that.

"Come, my darling, let me eat your soul."

“Come, my darling, let me eat your soul.”

First, let me say, that when attempting to corral the Mooney clan towards a movie theater, grandmother in tow, on the day after a massive film release in the middle of Connecticut, buying tickets early isn’t enough to guarantee seats. When we arrived five minutes before show time, the entire place was literally bursting at the seams with autumnal-yeared bourgeoisie. My lady friend and I were relegated to the only seat in the house with ‘restricted view’ and the inability to hear any dialogue seeing as this craphouse hadn’t figure out how Dolby works. Finally, we conceded, after I decided to sit on the floor to get a semi-decent view, to sit in the second row aaaaaaall the way to the left. We were probably 10 feet from the screen so every frame, every second was a wash of dour color and beads of digitalized sweat. Bear that in mind; I’ll come back to it.

So, who has the brass balls, the iron-clad testicles, the Steely Dans, if you will, to take on the task of adapting this emotionally-rich and utterly over-the-top display of operatic theater-nerd crazy from the West End and adapt it for the silver screen? Enter Mr. Tom “Fish-Eye Lens” Hooper. You might remember him from the 2010 Oscar-Grabby Old-Man-Acty-Acty Royalty Porn that was The King’s Speech. Now, for months I staved off the horde from forcing me to sit down and indulge in all two hours of Mr. Darcy being taught by Bellatrix and Captain Barbossa to speak right. But, in the end, I broke down and scoffed on the mass of royal toe-sucking that makes up the highest grossing revenues of all British exports. And it was good. Like really, fucking good. Suddenly, all preconceived notions of its shrewd award begging evaporated and I was offered a heart-warming tale of small victories and family issues. Now, let’s transport that grimy and realistic view of Blitzed London to post revolutionary France. Mr. Hooper, during that import, seems to have loaded up on the HD close-up cameras, Steady-Cams and fish-eye lenses (OH THE FISH-EYES!). Because, honestly, how does one transmogrify a play that, beside the fact that everyone’s singing, attempts with its very core to convince you that it is anything other than a play, into something that is a movie that doesn’t want to be a movie but wants to be a movie? Apparently, the answer is close-ups. SO MANY CLOSE-UPS. Seriously, if I had a migraine for every close-up that happened…oh wait, I fucking did. It got to the point, only ten feet from the screen, that I almost attempted playing a game of ring toss with the fake wrinkles around Wolverine’s eyes. Yes, Hooper does an excellent job of fucking up peoples’ teeth, spreading the grease through their hair like they just returned from a New Orleans deep-fry off, and covering the extras in so many topical diseases you’d think they were all going to a Keith Richards costume party. In retrospect, that was my favorite aspect of the movie. Out of all the Les Mis adaptations, including the hilariously truncated but eminently watchable Liam Neeson/Geoffrey Rush Fugitive remake in the mid-Naughties, this is the only one that actually has shit in the Parisian sewer. It was gross. It was vile. And it was a delightful touch.



Here is the biggest issue. Film is a medium that avoids Suspension of Disbelief like the plague. It offers levels of realism unparalleled by any other form of artistic expression. And so, when you have this sprawling epic in vibrato forced into ultra-realistic cinematography, peppered with spoken lines to help fill in the blanks that the stage play just doesn’t give a fuck about, you have to ask yourself…why are you singing when you can talk? Surely that’s an easier form of communication? Thus, we have the patented Square-Peg Conundrum. Les Miserables is a wonderfully square peg, beautifully constructed and soaking in the loins of teenage fans in heat, but Mr. Hooper is attempting to force it into the round hole of cinema. No matter how hard you lean on it, it ain’t gonna fit, buddy. What you get is a higgedly-piggedly mish-mash of actors not knowing what movie they are in (is it an understated comedy? A romance movie? A jailbreak? A concert film where all you do is stand still and sing because you are contractually obligated to at least show up? (Fuck you, Russell Crowe)). Honestly, there are only three stage musicals that have been adapted into film that I think work. First, West Side Story because one, duh, it’s Sondheim and Bernstein and two, it knows it’s a play. It has the sets, it has the dancing, it has the everything. It defines its rules and it sticks to ’em. Second, is Reefer Madness because, well, it’s fucking ridiculous and I love it and never-say-anything-bad-about-it-ever-or-I-will-come-to-your-house-in-the-night-and-let-a-bear-loose-in-your-bedroom. Lastly, and probably leastly, Chicago. It’s not my favorite musical nor is it my favorite movie. BUT. It understands why the play is a musical and why it loves the format in which it was crafted. It’s about over-the-top sizzle, sazzle, jazz, pizzazz and other misuses of the letter z. When people sing, they are teleported to a disembodied stage in the middle of MUSICAL-TOPIA and it becomes clear that these songs are more inner-monologues, thus weaving it together in a sensical package. Sometimes it really works in Les Mis. Pretty much everything at the barricade and involving the lovers makes sense and is fucking great. Sometimes it really, really, really, really doesn’t (I’m looking at you everything-Hugh-Jackman-does). So…speaking of Wolverine…

Oh the cast. There is a wonderful paradox when it comes to casting a movie musical. Anyone who doesn’t really give a shit is waiting to see what Hollywood starlets believe they can belt and so they charge forth to witness either their edification onto the fast-track to Oscardom (Renee Zellweger has an Oscar Nomination. I ask you, is there no other greater affront to humanity than that?) or the complete and utter dismemberment by way of unrelenting ridicule. Those who do give a shit demand Broadway stars who only the most nerdy of the nerds might recognize. It’s naive and incorrect to think there is anyway a no name will be installed into the lead role of any massive budget shit show like this, so the argument never, ever holds water, disregarding talent altogether. So, here we have Catwoman, the enervating and delightful Anne Hathaway, with a widescreen camera almost lodged in her vocal cords, plugging away and sealing up an Oscar faster than Meryl Streep can say, “I think I’ll make another movie”. She hits her notes, she cries her tears, she dreams a dream of days gone by. Good job. Then we have the chilluns and the clowns. Amanda “Light of God Encapsulated in Human Form” Seyfried plays Cosette, the role she was literally concocted in a lab to play, and kills it. We even having the surprisingly buxom Samantha Barks trouncing those solos as Eponine because, well, she’s famous for singing things well. Next, Borat and Ms. Lovett create a love story that makes you question French dentistry with completely unexpectedly underplayed performances. Seriously, I played Thenardier in high school with a gusto that would have made Roger Ebert cry blood, but this is so absolutely opposite and hilarious that it provides something that you wouldn’t expect…a reason for this movie to exist. Bonham Carter and Baron Cohen, these dually-surnamed beasts of comedic timing, create characters you wouldn’t see on stage. Thank the Jesus. Finally, on the ‘good’ side of things, we have the otherwise blissfully unknown powerhouse that is Eddie Redmayne playing Marius. Where the fuck did he come from? Did he crawl out of some kind of secret lab where the Brits are trying to construct the perfect man but accidentally hit the ‘freckle-icious’ button? I have always hated Marius, the wimpy, whiny little sod. This is the first fucking time ever that he comes off as a warrior, believably smitten, and a PTSD survivor. Holy shit. When he sings ‘Empty Chairs at Empty Tables’, redundancy of the title aside, he delivers a solo that would make Orpheus rethink

The Thenardiers, shockingly good hosts, if you don't mind Syphilis.

The Thenardiers, shockingly good hosts, if you don’t mind Syphilis.

his profession…and that’s even with a fucking steady cam assaulting his esophagus.

But then, oh man, then there’s the other half of the cast. Mr. Jackman, Wolverine, bubby, I love you. You’re the sweetest little stardust of a human being to ever flit its way out of Aussie-land. You’re a great singer, a charismatic actor, an uncompromising delight. Jean Valjean, you are not. You try, you try so hard…but there’s only so much a make-up artist can do to make you age from 30-something to 60-something with High Definition Dolby Digital Chromatic-Asshattery sucking on your flaring nostrils. You don’t have the voice, the presence, the age or the latter-day Orson Wells look to play this role. But it isn’t your fault…you’re just miscast. I feel like I should send you a card and beg you to continue what you’re doing. Be Wolverine. Be likable. Be the most charming host the Academy Awards has pulled out of its ass since Johnny Carson died and everyone got sick of Billy Crystal.

There is another card I wish to send. Well, it’s more of a package. It has no writing. Just poop. Stinky, stale, maggot-ridden, I-might-have-had-curry-last-night feces. And it will be addressed to Mr. Russell “Cell Phone in the Face” Crowe (yeah, no one has forgotten that one, bucko). Now, I’m fully aware that if I ever met Mr. Crowe, this next paragraph will earn me a punch in the face because, you know, he does that. I don’t give a fuck. So, here goes:


Good paragraph. But seriously, when I auditioned for this show, when I fell in love with it, when I sang it all alone in my room and my parents quietly questioned my sexuality, I wanted to play Javert. I don’t know what it is about his character, but he spoke to me. He’s a man who lives by a code, much like Batman. He fights bad guys, like Batman. Sometimes he talks about stars and jumps off of high things, like…Batman? His quest to destroy the virtuous Valjean is the emotional through-line that weaves this thousand-fucking-million page novel into something edible for the illiterate public. He is so stalwart in his view that bad is bad and will always be bad, while Valjean entirely undoes his basic understanding of existence. The only option? SPOILERS. Suicide. You know what I just described? A character arc. A tale of emotional growth and destruction that makes sense. Have you seen movies recently? You’ll be so lucky you get anything so worthy. Mr. Crowe, you stumble into this film a blank piece of wood. You sang badly. You look as though this was court-ordered community service. What the fuck? Do you not know what a musical is? What about singing? What about acting? I know you got your Oscar early so the rest of your career is just coasting on fumes, but come the fuck on. Don’t just piss on my favorite character! You are the worst. Just the worst. You know what? Hitler did a lot of bad things (Holocaust, World War II, painting, vegetarianism), you know what he didn’t do? RUIN LES MISERABLES. That’s right, in this specific case, you are WORSE THAN HITLER. You know what? From now on, everything will be judged on a Russell Crowe scale of terrible. Level 1 is Gladiator, where, yes you kill people good and make some speeches, but every scene of you talking to another human being is about as interesting as me scratching my balls for two days straight. Level 5 is Robin Hood. I went through the entire movie thinking you were Little John because, goddammit, lose some weight! Level 10 is going to be the probably terrible Superman remake because, let’s be real, it’s directed by Zack “DERR-I-LIEK-BOOBS” Snyder. Level fucking 50 is Les Mis.

And the award for best Keanu Reeves impersonation goes to..."GO FUCK YOURSELF."

And the award for best Keanu Reeves impersonation goes to…”GO FUCK YOURSELF.”

So, in conclusion, did I enjoy Les Mis? Yes and no. Was it agonizing to sit there for 3 hours? Yes. Will I buy it on DVD? Absolutely. Will it be in Blu-Ray so I can literally count every single pore on Hugh Jackman’s face? You fucking know it. The second it comes out I’m going to have a Whiskey and Swearing at Russell Crowe Party. You’re all invited.