Posts Tagged ‘will smith’

Summer Movie Preview

Part Two – Movies I Will See and Hate Myself

As Orpheus moved from the world of the living down into the depths of Hades, so too do we cross from the land of ‘interesting’ movies into the perpetual torment of ‘meh’. This is the section of the summer movie season that I despise for purely the reason that these films, if one can call them such, are not so much terrible as they are non-events. I love terrible. Heck, I adore terrible. I will purchase a midnight ticket, load up on whiskey, get dressed up in spanks and lycra and giggle until sun-up for terrible. But meh? MEH? What am I supposed to do with meh? I can’t laugh about Meh with my friends. I can’t even get angry about Meh. I just shrug, allow the experience to slip from my skin like some kind of soul-sucking, art-sucking, mind-sucking, suck-sucking oil designed to drive audiences to the point of utter wide-eyed non-beingness. They’re not candy. Candy is fun! Candy is delicious! Yes, it gives you diabetes, but that’s later. This, if this is candy, this category is filled with the Charleston Chews, the Werther’s Originals, and the Orange Starbursts of movies. These are the movies that if some old folk dumped them it in your Halloween basket, you’d make a face, ignore it for as long as possible but, once you’ve destroyed the M&Ms, the Twizzlers and Reeses, you’re going to stick your hand because, fuck it, you’re on a roll. So, if I can’t get angry about the movies then I’ll fucking get angry that I CAN’T get angry about these movies.

And, whew boy, we have a lot this year. Like way more than is acceptable. So many, in fact, that I decided to sort them all into thematic twosomes. That is how mind-bleedingly bullshit 2013 is. I want me money back, Hollywood! I haven’t even spent it yet and I already want it back! Well, let’s stop trying to stave off the inevitable and just chow down on these sugary pieces of digital entertainment destined for the bottom of the bargain bin. Here they are, the movies I will see and hate myself:

SCI-FI MOVIES TRYING REALLY HARD BUT FALLING SHORT

After Earth

No, it isn't a sequel to Dumbo. Their massive ears are simply a coincidence.

No, it isn’t a sequel to Dumbo. Their massive ears are simply a coincidence.

Will Smith is at it again! Not sated with fighting the apocalypse with a dog, he had to drag his son into the mix, bright-eyed and destined for stardom/cocaine addiction Jaden Smith. This is certainly one of the best of the bunch, I will admit. The concept of a journey back to a post-human Earth could definitely be interesting. Or it could be an exercise in Dinosaur-less Jurassic Park. I get that, over time, the creatures of Earth would evolve into human killing beasties…but they’re still just monkeys. I laugh at those things in a zoo. Ain’t no aliens burstin’ outta chests here. Just the well-worn tale of a boy getting stuck in a safari that is actually a planet. They’re going for the father-son angle. Fine. They’re even going for the ‘Fear isn’t real’ theme. Great. Now…wake me up when it gets interesting. I will say this, however, Mr. William “The Freshest of Princes” Smith is probably the only black actor (save perhaps for Jamie Foxx, on a good day) who would ever be cast in a movie on a color-blind basis. No other black actor can waltz into an A-list, multi-billion dollar Avatar rip-off and walk out alive. Which is ironic, because the trailers scream that he’s going to get fucked up in this movie. Just watch. Thems baboons are gonna themselves a jiggy-with-it Smith-skewer. It’s going to be like the first scene of 2001: A Space Odyssey except that it’s actually going to be the part in Congo where Tim Curry bites it…in that a gorilla bites him. So, sure, I’ll see it. And sure, it’ll be just like Oblivion, heart in the right place but, like a virgin on his wedding night, execution everywhere it shouldn’t be.

Pacific Rim

Is it me or does it look like the robot is peeing apocalypse?

Is it me or does it look like the robot is peeing apocalypse?

It pains me to add this to the list. Like, accidentally-slap-yourself-in-the-face pain. Mr. Guillermo Del Toro is an artist. He is. Unlike the rest of the talentless ass monkeys in Hollywood, this Mexican madman has a vision. And, like a director with an eerily similar name, Terry Gilliam, his movies tend to die before they even have a chance to be born. It’s like there’s some kind of artistic hitman out to destroy all that Del Toro touches. At the Mountains of Madness? Dead on arrival. The Hobbit? Stolen and morphed into Franken-Hobbit, a horrifying amalgam of misdirected children’s nonsense and self-importance. The guy can’t catch a break. But finally, he has returned from his dolorous slumber, once more allowed a shot at the spotlight. Sure, he was nominated for an Oscar for the amazing and life-changing Pan’s Labyrinth, and, sure, the Hellboy series has raked in a sickening amount of cash. So, will they allow him to adapt a beloved piece of literature into a horror film starring the still terrifyingly bankable Tom Cruise? Or will they let him adapt a book so fucking easy to adapt it’s almost written in screenplay format and based on a previous intellectual property that’s made more money than Bill Gates consumes for dinner every night (not because he must, but because he can)? Nope? Okay, how about fucking robots fighting Godzilla in the dark? Sound good? Good.

I mean, who thought this was a good idea? Steal the plot of Evangelion, a nonsensical Japanese tale of demons taking over the world and humans scraping together resources from their rectal areas to fight them? Because, you know what I think when the apocalypse is happening? I think, “Well, I sure wish I’d gotten around to building multi-trillion dollar pieces of ridiculous before we got attacked. Fuck it, even though civilization is destroyed, let’s put together the most expensive and complex construction project known to man since the mutherfucking pyramids.” Also, I’m half expecting, since Del Toro hired the voice of GLaDOS from Portal, that all of the robots will turn on the humans and begin ‘testing’ with a side helping of imaginary cake. Best case scenario, Idris Elba yells, things blow up, we cheer. Worst case scenario, it’s like 1998’s Godzilla all over again…except with somehow more Matthew Broderick.

FROM THE GUYS WHO RUINED HORROR FOR EVERYONE

The Conjuring

If they're going for the award for blandest poster, I think they're a shoe in.

If they’re going for the award for blandest poster, I think they’re a shoe in.

Ladies and gentlemen, a hand, if you will, for the glorious and generous James Wan! Who is that, you ask? Oh ho ho, he is the genius, nay, the mastermind behind the ‘New Wave’ of horror. And, no, I’m not talking about the highly revered French film movement in the late sixties. This guy is man responsible for Saw, Dead Silence, Insidious and all other silliness that has spawned from his offspring. Saw III? Yeah, that was because of him. No, he didn’t direct it, just like the Wachowskis didn’t direct those whorish excuses for action movies released the in obliterative wake of The Matrix; all obsessed with not just using ‘Bullet-time’ but overusing it to the point that audiences began puking in the aisles from motion sickness. Mr. Wan is basically the prophet of mediocre brutality tales from his hilariously un-directed and bemusingly acted Saw to Insidious, a movie so scary that it shits its own pants in the final act. Did I say scary? I meant mentally-deranged. It’s not so much that the movies Wan churns out fail on many levels, its that the floodgates he opened have caused horror to turn into the masticated mess it is today. Saw allowed Eli Roth to think Hostel was okay. And Hostel allowed Hostel Part II. And that shit is unconscionable. Even Insidious, which was pretty creative for the most part, spawned the yawn-filled Sinister. And whoever keeps making Paranormal Activity movies needs to suffer a bizarre ice cream accident wherein all of their movie-making limbs are irreparably broken. Nothing terrible. I don’t want to feel bad about it; I just want it to stop.

Now, let me be clear, James Wan isn’t so bad. Insidious, for all of its completely deleterious third act nonsense, had some genuine moments of creep-itude. That face showing up behind Patrick Wilson’s head?I jumped so hard, I think I administered the Heimlich maneuver to myself. Also, the mumble-core psychics were hilarious. His creature design, after the pant-wetting chilliness of the Jigsaw puppet, has been lackluster at best, looks-like-my-grandmother-after-a-perm-gone-wrong-bad at worst. It seems, from the trailers, that Wan has included some of the creepier and more human elements of Insidious (including the concept of casting actual ‘actors’ and not ‘meat puppets’, which is always appreciated) while cashing in on the diminishing returns from Linda Blair in The Exorcist. There will be jumps. There will be creepy stuff. In fact, it looks like a delicious pot of ‘not terrible’ until we see the words ‘Based on the True Case Files of the Warrens’. UGH. NO ONE CARES IF IT’S TRUE. In fact, in the land of horror, those words are the metaphorical katana for the inexorable Hare Kari that the movie will commit in the last act. Either the screenwriter will take some serious liberties with the ‘truth’ forcing me to have the same conversation over and over again with coworkers about the complete-bullshittude of the film’s purported veracity, or it will devolve into a special episode of Ghost Hunters. Well, Mr. Wan, good luck. I hope this is a decent blip on the radar before you return to the inevitable and insipid Insidious 2 (see what I did there?).

The Purge

If all crime is legal, then why mask your identity? I have questions...

If all crime is legal, then why mask your identity? I have questions…

While The Conjuring is a direct descendant of the Saw patriarch, The Purge is the random kid allowed over to the house for Thanksgiving Dinner. No one is really sure how he got there and no one wants to ask the grinning little bastard to leave. This bad boy was invited to the party by “The Producers of Sinister and Paranormal Activity“. Awesome. The guy responsible for me watching Ethan Hawke get drunk and make terrible choices and the security tape of two boring people sleeping. Fucking tits, man. Can’t wait! Not to mention, this is brought to you by a greenhorn director who is famous for writing the movie Jack. You remember Jack, the one where Robin Williams plays the kid who grows at 4 times the rate of other children? That absolutely absurd tale of…but then…he just wants to be a kid, but he’s forty and at graduation he’s like 80…don’t cry, Andrew, you can do this…

Ahem. Yes, it has Ethan “I’ll Try if I Really Want To” Hawke and Queen Cersei sporting a rather fashionable bob. It tells the tale of an America where there is no crime and unemployment is at a record low because of the titular ‘Purge’. It is one night where there is no law and people can do whatever they please. So, naturally, they kill every mutherfucker they can…because that’s…what people do…? I don’t know about y’all, but I just wish I could turn my life into the fucking Hunger Games once a year. Anyway, the Hawke-meister and his Queen (watch out for the backstabbing!) hold up in their super-fortress of a suburban home to drink away the night. But then their dumbass kid was audacious enough to show ’empathy’, the little bitch, and saves a man’s life. Then people try to kill them. Basically, it’s Assault on Precinct Ordinary People. Seeing as this guy also wrote the Ethan Hawke remake of Assault on Precinct 13, I find that both worrying and calming. At least he’s done this before…except, last time, it really sucked. Oh well. This movie could go one of two ways: 1) it could be a clever, if slightly schadenfreudistic, look at the interactions of the 1% and the 99% and the distance between the haves and the have nots in a time of crisis or 2) it could be a nihilistic piece of torture porn wherein every angry white kid from the suburbs can cheer as the parents get blunt objects shoved where the sun don’t shine. Who knows? I can almost guarantee we will forget it almost immediately.

COGNITIVE DISSIDENCE BETWEEN TALENT OF CREATIVE TEAM AND THE QUALITY OF THE TRAILER

The Lone Ranger

Is that a dead bird on Johnny's head? Yep. Nothing wrong here.

Is that a dead bird on Johnny’s head? Yep. Nothing wrong here.

This is possibly the saddest and most confusing segment of this post. This is the place where terrible people somehow create something decent and great film artists make choices that probably should have been left on the cocaine-dusted backside of the hooker where it was conceived. The Lone Ranger is the latter. I have had a minor-to-massive crush on Mr. Gore “Really, That’s Your First Name?” Verbinski, especially during his frequent forays with Johnny “Put It Back in Your Pants, Ladies” Depp, since the advent of his mind-bending blockbuster tour de force trio Pirates of the Caribbean and solidified it further with the trippiest-cartoon-to-ever-win-an-Oscar Rango. The pair of them have the most bizarre and tickling sense of humor I’ve ever discovered in a mainstream movie. Well, sometimes those giggle-butts go a little too far and decide to do The Lone Ranger. *FACEPALM* Okay, guys, you’ve already flaunted the fact that you can turn the most absurd basis of a movie, a fucking ride at Disney, into an amazing seafaring romp. Yes, you proved you can stick it to Wreck-it Ralph with bizarro Clint Eastwood references and Bill Nighy as a snake with a gattling gun (no fucking joke, you need to see Rango; it’s insane). But racism? Guys, seriously. Yes, I know, Mr. Depp is some non-existent fraction of Cherokee that, to real mathematicians would round down to naught. But it doesn’t count. That’s like Tiger Woods saying “I’m half Chinese so I can dress up in my red dragon-enbroidered robes, stick in some buck teeth (not that I need them) color my face yellow and squint while saying ‘me so sol-lee’ over and over”. It just…isn’t…kosher. (Disclaimer: Well, if a rabbi blessed his racist meat then technically, yes, it is kosher).

We’ve got the knucklehead writers of Pirates back (not the amazing and low-budget, midget-stabbing-men-in-the-face porno, the other one), Armie Hammer, the adonis with abs so nice, they cast him twice…in The Social Network, as well as a host of beloved character actors. The action will be awesome. The jokes will be weird. I just can’t get past the red-face. And I’m not talking about Rush Limbaugh after going up a short flight of stairs. I’m talking about the Wounded Knee, Trail of Tears, totem-touting “Kimosabe” faccent coming out of Depp’s mouth. I get it. The show wasn’t exactly the Rosa Parks of Native American mainstream artistic perception, but come the fuck on, it was the 50s. That was the time, if you were a white man, you could slap a black man in the face, a woman, of any race, on the behind and then call the local police station and claim that both assaulted you. You know, the golden age of America. Why couldn’t we cast an actual Native American in the part? Or, better yet, change the plot of the movie to not include Native Americans. Or, even better yet, not fucking make a movie of a television show whose last surviving fans are currently eating mushy peas through a tube while still discussing ‘The Negro Problem’ and make something fucking new, you lazy assholes. Ah, that felt good to finally get out in the open.

Man of Steel

Man-of-Steel-poster2-610x904

Superman, now equipped with portable backlighting!

And then…the other side of the coin. Here we have a movie trailer that actually, shockingly, looked kind of alright. From the operatic score, the heartfelt yet dour imagery and the haggard face of Kevin Kostner relocated to the unfairly manipulative setting of a farm (fucking Field of Dreams flashbacks!) to the slick and gritty fight scenes and the promise of Michael Shannon screaming the Superman equivalent of ‘cunt punt’, this thing hits every note a summer blockbuster requires. There seems to be a unified aesthetic for this next outing this, what the fuck is it, prequel? Sequel? Remake of Smallville? Prequel to the Superman Returns remake-quel? Perhaps we’re stuck in a brutal cycle of alternate Superman universes wherein the filmmakers and actors responsible are constantly losing careers left right and center? Whatever. If you have to replace Terrence “I Eat Bricks for Breakfast” Stamp with anyone, Michael Shannon is not only the perfect choice, he is the result of cooking Pinter-ian quiet fury, batshit second amendment insanity and a host of cartoon-cereal mascots in a paint tin for two days and then shoving it in a mixer for two hours. Mutherfucker is nuttier than squirrel turds. And he’s amazing. Well, turns out we have Christopher “Bat-Penis” Nolan producing, teaming up once again for the infuriatingly oxymoronic David S. “No, I Have Not Forgotten About Blade Trinity” Goyer after destroying the world with some damn good Bat-outings. Thus far everything about this movie, save for the fact that it includes the most boring superhero of all time (other than, of course, Board-Man…with the power to…well, who fucking cares. I think it has something to do with card tricks and Jenga. Eh), seems utterly perfect. I wonder who’s directing it…

Oh.

Zack. Fucking. Snyder. Some of you might not know, most of you might not care, but I have a box of voodoo dolls with that dumbass’s face plastered on each and every one. Yes, he made a wonderful, if bone-headed and paper-thin splash on the scene with the raucous Dawn of the Dead remake. But then his penis decided to meld with his brain stem. We next received the repugnantly and confusingly homophobic/homoerotic 300, the filmic equivalent of that guy who sits in the weight area of the gym with his legs spread wide in order for him to watch his own throbbing boner and shrunken testes as he pumps iron. Yes, this is if Arnold Schwarzenneger and Sylvester Stallone had a freak test-tube baby, it would have been 300. But with less brain cells. Whatever, it was funny. We laughed. We wept for humanity a bit. At least Mr. Snyder was only shitting on history, there’s no way anyone would ever let him do that to a beloved graphic novel with a fanbase more rabid than a dog pound after national ‘Dog-Bite On the Face Day’.

Oh wait.

My hatred of the Watchmen movie is so pure and unadulterated, it could be bottled to fuel interstellar travel. When I see that movie playing, even for a moment, blood begins rushing from my earholes and I begin spewing pee-green soup. There might be some mild crucifix-masturbation. It’s hard to tell after I blackout. Well, Mr. Snyder then tried to make amens, or something of the sort, deciding to craft the woefully misguided and unintentionally ultra-mysogynistic Sucker Punch. *HEADDESK* There aren’t enough curses in the world to describe how much I vitriolically despised that ‘movie’. Perhaps there will be an article down the line. It’ll be a Clockwork Orange-esque evening of rancid torture with an entree of  Snyder and a side plate of titties.

So, Snyder, the dullard who ruined Watchmen. The prick with the prick behind Sucker Turds. He’s taking on Superman? Well, take your best shot, buddy boy. Oh! And I see you’ve brought Russell “I Will Never Forgive You” Crowe for the ride! I hope he dies. And since he’s playing Jor-El, there’s a very good chance of that. Bitch is going down harder than a concrete porcupine soufflé. It’s a match made in Satan’s butthole.

Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe Snyder has learned a little about filmmaking since Sucker MAKE-IT-STOP. Maybe Nolan has taken him under his wing and ceremoniously yanked the dick from his ear. Maybe not. This summer will show all. Bring it, Snyder-Meister.

THE PREQUEL AND THE SEQUEL TO A PREQUEL

Monster’s University

Wow, Oberlin College is far more attractive and less freakish than I remember.

Wow, Oberlin College is far more attractive and less freakish than I remember.

Oh Pixar. My dear, dearest, sweetest Pixies of the Ar. How glorious you once were, soaring above the plebeians, dousing us once a year with a golden egg seemingly sent from the muses of heaven. You made us weep like children, giggle like idiots, and feel all of the feels. You played our heartstrings like they were a fucking lute. Now… where have you gone? Other than the charming yet mildly mediocre Brave, you sprinkle us with sequels and prequels and pointless rehashings of worn out IPs. Finding Nemo 2? Check. Cars 2? Ugh. Check. Of course, the argument against this cynicism is the excellent Toy Story series. Sure. That charted the progression of childhood, from wide-eyed discovery, to fear of rejection, to eventual loss and the lessons needed to let go. It was fucking brilliant and, yes, I wept like a newborn child in the aisles, hugging my popcorn against my chest calling out the name of my lost teddy bear from my childhood crib (which was difficult, because I never actually named him).

Now, Monsters Inc., sweet as you were, you barely grazed the tip of the Up-ian iceberg of emotions Pixar has explored. Kids are cute. John Goodman and Billy Crystal are funny. Is that it? Is that where we’re headed? Now, it wasn’t quite as vapid as Cars, but, guys, it wasn’t Up. Yes, I know the execs want to boost toy sales and, shit, a universe of fluffy mildly threatening creatures is a toy maker’s wet dream. But can’t we have more? Can’t we have a new intellectual property? Can we eschew the fanboy cries for more Incredibles and a sequel to A Bug’s Life. Of course they want more! They’re fanboys! They’re like dogs, you can keep feeding them until their fucking nerd-guts burst open Seven-style. Look at Star Wars. They don’t know how amazing you can be.

Unless…the magic is gone? Maybe Pixar isn’t quite the soaring eagle I had always assumed. Perhaps they’re just the goose whose golden eggs have dried up. Well, if this continues, I say we have a good old goose-that-laid cook off! Michael Eisner, you get a wing. You asshat.

The Wolverine

This is how Hugh Jackman always orgasms. It's not pretty. Unless you have a pulse.

“WHO…TOOK…MY…JELLO…MOLD!?” ~ Wolverine has expanded his culinary aspirations.

Finally, and probably leastly, let’s be real, we have the surreal entry into this year’s ‘middling’ category. Poor Wolverine, he’s been through the grinder over the last decade, tossed from a great director’s hands into the butter-and-moron drizzled fingers of Brett “Yep, I’m Proud of Rush Hour. Come at me, bro!” Ratner to the utterly incomprehensible claws of whoever the fuck was responsible for the urinal-cake-esque X-Men Origins: Wolverine (in that you can keep pissing on it, but it ain’t going away), to the point that he was in a literal meat grinder at the end of X-Men: The Last Stand. So where the fuck are we now? Post-Singer-verse? Pre-Stuart? After the bizarre misappropriation of Three-Mile Island, but before he got seriously McKellan-ed (yes, that’s a sex move. Disclaimer: much like the eponymous, knighted thespian, it requires a three foot penis)? Where are we in time, space and X-Man-dom? Well, apparently Japan, that much is clear.

This film has been in the works ever since the turd-tacular Wolverine seeped its way across the silver screen all those years ago. You know, that one with Deadpool without a mouth, Taylor Kitsch before his career tanked faster than a Blitzkrieg on the Russian Front, and Will.I.am acting…or something of the sort. It’s skipped director to director, starting with the lethally odd and mind-bustingly delightful ex-Mr. Rachel Weisz Darren Aronofsky, and ending with James Mangold, you know the guy who did Kate and Leopold…and Girl, Interrupted. You know, action movies! Okay, okay, he also did 3:10 to Yuma, which was pretty decent other than Mr. Turd-Face Extreme Puke-asaurus Rex Russell Crowe in it. Did I mention I hate him and his stupid egg-shaped face? Sure, the movie will probably be utter crud. Its fight scenes seem bland and overly-cgi-ed, a hold-over aesthetic from its near-mentally-challenged predecessor. I’m sure it will yawn onto screens and then blah-blah its way out. I’m sure we’ll forget it as quickly as we forgot that one movie…from last year…you know, the one…with the people…and explosions? Whatever, I’ll figure it out eventually.

I think I would have enjoyed Aronofsky’s The Wolverine. After all, he and Jackman have worked together before on The Fountain. I can see it now: The Wolverine is a prequel, but it’s also a sequel in that the entirety of the film takes place in the moments before he kills Jean Grey at the end of X-Men: The Last Stand. We have Logan hurtling through space on a fragment of his own brainmatter, thrust through time, rushing after a lost love, never managing to catch her, unable to die and unable to rest, caught in between infinity and a flash of nothingness…and then Craig David appears out of nowhere with a double sided dildo and screams “Ass to ass!”. Oh, and he turns into a bird while dancing Swan Lake and stabs himself. With the dildo.

The winds of a distant winter are rising. Cold fronts, like chilled custard, are gradually consuming the Midwest and with it Chicago. Those summer dresses that make ladies seem so dishonestly ephemeral are quickly disintegrating to the temporal safety of jeans and sweatpants. The summer is coming to a close and, as Ned Stark would say if he had an issue with premature ejaculations (referring specifically to the archaic definition pertaining to elocution), Fall Is Coming. Finally, I’m able to cast aside my vibrant colors in favor of dour earth tones. I no longer need to repel the incessant whines of “Andrew, you should try shorts, you’d look adorable” because it wouldn’t be adorable, it would be as horrifying as looking into the Ark of the Covenant, doesn’t anyone understand I AM EXTREMELY INSECURE ABOUT MY PASTY LEGS.

Well, for a Summer of Film, like any good night of sex, there is a shit load of build up and anticipation, a middling execution with some high points (and seriously low ones) and finally a required and sleepy denouement. This is that sleepiness. A decomposition, if you will, a digestion, that special walk that you take after Thanksgiving Dinner in the hope that burning about fifty calories will offset that Herculean gorge-fest that was that five course monstrosity. Perhaps these will take the form of awards and, if they do, they will be more important than the fucking Oscars (because, honestly, what isn’t?). Perhaps they will take the form of rants. Perhaps the form of an elaborate and labyrinthine puzzle, dragging you through the depths of your own psyche, revealing grotesque truths about the human condition before finally revealing what I actually thought about a shitty film franchise. Perhaps. I haven’t decided yet.

Oh Summer of 2012, what a beast you were. You had such dazzling highs and such confounding lows. You were filled with aimless, drunken wanderings through the streets of Chicago, ending with confused mornings waking up in puddles of Dunkin Donuts breakfast sandwiches (true story). You were riddled with dates and drunken make-outs. Midnight showings and Bat-a-thons. You were epic and understated at once. Much like my fifth grade math teacher, I entered you a boy and a left you a man (not a true story). I have gained some loved ones, and lost some (you will be missed, Donnie. New York doesn’t deserve you). I went from living with four wonderful and crazed souls to living alone. And I saw both The Dark Knight Rises and Prometheus. I will be forever changed. So, now that I’ve arbitrarily decided to structure this like a rewards show, lets get this thing on the road. Without further ado…here are…

ANDREW’S SUMMER MOVIE AWARDS 2012!

Welcome, welcome ladies and gents. It’s been a wacky and wild roller coaster this summer, hasn’t it, Jane?

(Insert painfully unwitty, overly-enthusiastic response from once-pretty co-host whose face looks like it’s had more nips and tucks than a fucking French pastry)

Hilarious, Jane. You’re so on point. Well, let’s get to it!

Most Mediocre Movie I’m Glad I Missed

Winner: The Amazing Spiderman; Runner Up: The Borne Legacy

OH NO! MECHA-GOJIRA! Nope…my mistake. It’s just boring.

So, I know these were both on my list of “Movies I Will See and Hate Myself“, but guess what, other than a few noted exceptions, this was not a summer of self-harm. I read reviews of Spiderman. My friend told me it was, and I quote, “Totally Fine.” You know what? Fuck totally fine. I don’t want totally fine. This is the summer. If I want ‘totally fine’, I’d be in January. This is the time for RPX/3D/IMAX/ VHS/ADHD/CPS/SIDS to melt your mutherfucking face off. If I’m not feeling some facial phase-changes, then it has no business being in the summer movie line-up. I like Andrew Garfield, but it was so infuriatingly clear in every ad, clip and interview he was trying to be a total badass. You know what? No matter how many times you shove a lightning bolt up a corpse’s ass, you don’t get reanimation, you just get the suffocating smell of cooked, rancid meat and charred hair. My Peter Parker will always be the animated one that awkwardly fought the Green Goblin on Saturday mornings…and then got all weird and sexy with Madame Web and…well…let’s not talk about that. Also, The Borne Legacy, I heard Jeremy Renner was wasted. For that, I say, you deserve a penis in the ear. That is the one place no one likes a penis. Well, I’m sure someone does. Anyway, it’s invasive and unpleasant. You’re welcome.

Most Pissed Off I Got That Nobody Would Drink a Fifth of Jack With Me and Watch

Winner: Battleship, Runner-up: Piranha 3DD

YOU GUYS, IT LOOKS SO GOOD! SERIOUSLY! YOU GUYS!

Seriously, like, seriously guys. Why would NOBODY watch Battleship with me? Of course it’s moronic. Of course it’s about as worthy of sense as Gary Busey on the third day of an acid binge. Of course Liam Neeson will cash a paycheck. But still…COME ON. I heard there was an old person montage! And Rihanna acting! And Tim Riggins on a Boat! (For the record, I do not know, nor do I care, who Tim Riggins is. He has a cool name. Discussion over). I tried, time and again, to Shanghai someone to sneak a bottle of bourbon into the movie theater with me and drink every time someone said the words “Ship”, “God” or “Hey, isn’t that the guy from True Blood?” This summer has been seriously lacking some Transformers, over-the-top, misogyny-riddled, nonsensical action and I need my shit-fix. Why did you all abandon me? WHY?

Piranha gets honorable mention because, honestly, it’s a Piranha movie and those cannot be missed. At the same time, I heard it sucked massive elephantitis-balls. Like, globe-sized, Jack-and-the-Beanstalk-style giant testicles. And not in the good way. More in the, “just got back from rowing the Atlantic ocean and am suffering from about 12 different fungal issues in the nether-regions…do you still want to do this?” way.

Most Forgettable Movie of the Summer

Winner: I can’t remember; Runners-Up: Men in Black III, Brave

It’s that one movie…with the thing…and that guy, from that other movie…

It’s only logical that the least memorable movie was one that literally forgot its existence. This has happened numerous times. Some of the more memorable least-memorable films would be…um…that one with the cops…a black one and a white one…maybe the one with a scary thing in the something or other…or when that one person was on trial for something and somebody was trying to do something with the…it was by John Grisham, I know that. So, here’s to you, the least memorable movie of the summer! I might have written an article about you. Maybe. Maybe I didn’t because you were so fucking forgettable that my brain forcefully rejected your existence the moment I left the theater/my living room. Not because you were bad. No, bad movies deserve remembrance. You have committed the worst crime of all existence: you have stolen time out of my life that, not only will never be returned, but I cannot recollect. You’re a black hole of blandness. A vortex of vapidity. A nebula of nebul-‘eh’. So, movie that was positively pointless, thank you.

The other two runner-ups are nearly as blameful. Men in Black III was fine, without a capital ‘f’ because it doesn’t deserve such frills. It was a movie constructed by the corporate machine, placed in the hands of jaded, half-spent celebrity and given nothing to do other than make a really amusing joke about Andy Warhol. Otherwise, the film was so inoffensive and uninteresting that I literally forgot I saw it until I looked back at my articles written for this summer. And, Brave, you just stick that fucking bear tail between your legs (do bears have tails? I can’t remember. NOT THE POINT). You’re a Pixar, not some poxy by-the-numbers bullshit excreted by Lionsgate. You have a legacy to uphold! Now, yes, I enjoyed the film just fine (there’s that word again! I know grammatically the sentence is incorrect, but the issue is the same. Oh US parlance.) Semantics aside, Brave attempted a few things and succeeded. The issue was one of scale. I return to the face-melting essential nature of summer film. Wall-E fucking sublimated my entire head. Up transformed me into a sobbing, weeping, sniveling husk of mush. Brave? Brave made me shrug my shoulders and go “It wasn’t terrible.” Fuck that noise. I expect more from you people. I expect my very dreams to be haunted with your cartoonish mugs. I expect my bowels to loosen during the opening credits. I expect…

Holy shit. I just remembered what the most forgettable movie was. It was…wait…gone again. Oh well.

Most Good Movie Until a Super-Zombie Showed Up

Winner: Prometheus; Runner-Up: Um…Prometheus?

This is much more accurate depiction of that movie: people doing things that bear no relation to other things

You know how it is in the morning. You wake up, make yourself a cup of coffee, discover an alien planet that probably instigated all of evolution on planet earth, take off your fucking helmet because you “think it’s oxygen” and everything is forgivable and fine until a fucking SUPER ZOMBIE jumps out of nowhere and wrecks every non-named character? Know what I’m sayin’? No? That’s never happened to you? Well, Prometheus, I would like to thank you for obliterating the last twinkle of hope I held for modern science fiction. Thank you for taking such a deliciously dense, fertile, deep and compelling premise and the injecting it with Michael Bay cinema-herpes-riddled spunk. Much like the chaos-black stuff that infected and fundamentally transformed your characters, so did this Bay-Semen attempt to latch its genetic material onto yours. And, in self-same fashion, instead of becoming stronger, better and more interesting, you just became a fucking super-zombie, roaring like an idiot, throwing people this way and that, and eventually being crushed under the wheel of good fanboy taste. Yes, Prometheus, you are a dumb asshole. Not only that, but you built my hopes, you promised so much! And yet, as I drew back the veil, ready to place a ring on that finger and pledge my love to you, I instead discover the whale-vaginal, made-up visage of Guy Pearce peering back, Charlize Theron forgetting that human beings are capable of lateral movement and a big white dude giving forced fellatio to a crustacean.

It breaks my heart. It really does. Well, Prometheus, I really want you to be happy. Just…not with me. Bu-bye now.

Most Batman

Winner: The Dark Knight Rises; Runner-up: Moonrise Kingdom

Surprisingly Batman

This was a difficult category to decide. The list of contenders was long and contentious. We were offered an entire platter of Bat-films. Who could forget when the Dark Knight helped that family in Dark Shadows beat the evil witch’s curse? And when Bruce Wayne traveled back in time to help the Union get the silverware past the vampire threat in Abraham Lincoln: I Still Can’t Believe They Made This Movie. And, in one of the more memorable moments of summer film, who would ever lose sight of the iconic scene where the caped crusader gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to Judy Dench after a fatal Over-British-Dose in The Best Exotic Marigold HotelUndoubtedly, however, the award for Most Batman goes to The Dark Knight Rises, fearlessly having Batman in as many as six scenes! They did so well to make sure the cape and cowl had its due, featured in a whopping more than three action sequences! It takes a lot of strength, determination and creative prowess to offer so much screen time to an icon of the common imagination so immensely awesome that it naturally eclipses and obscures all sense of nuance and depth. But they did it.

Our runner up may seem like a surprise, especially with movies such as The Avengers which are simply blatant love notes to the amazingness that is Batman. I mean, they deliberately put all these mediocre characters together in an attempt to make some sort of kind-of-decent Comic-Book Voltron, composed entirely of Stan Lee’s penis inner neuroses. And they were completely and utterly successful in their attempts to show that the Dark Knight does indeed rise above the rest. However, Moonrise Kingdom takes the proverbial cake for second-place Most Batman. In fact, it’s one of my favorite origin stories of all time. X-Men: First Class was a campy/sexy mess; Batman Begins only scratched the surface; and Spiderman was about as subtle as a bottle rocket tied to my scrotum. Moonrise Kingdom charts the unlikely tale of a young Bruce Wayne, his family killed before the film even begins, falling for a young weirdo outsider whom we have to assume is Rachel Dawes (again played by Katie Holmes who really looks like she’s aged a lot since the end of TomKat) and running away from his captors (Ed Norton as a pre-police force Commissioner Gordon and Bruce Willis as Mr. Freeze before earning his PhD in ‘cold things’). I tell you, casting Bill Murray as Clayface was inspired and Frances McDormand as Harley Quinn was a stroke of genius. So, I thank you Wes Anderson, for filling in the missing pieces of Bruce’s journey. 

Least Batman

Winner: The AvengersRunners-up: The First Half of Dark Knight Rises, Magic Mike

This movie poster is still dumb.

Ok, I lied about The Avengers being a love note to The Dark Knight Rises. It was, instead, the Beethoven-esque, ovary-busting overture celebrating the eventual and glorious birth of one Mr. Joss “Fucking Finally” Whedon, a man that has been flirting with commercial greatness and total fangirl vomitoria for years. Throughout his career we have been fed tasty morsels of wonderment, from the episode Hush in Buffy season 4 to Serenity. We’ve also been plagued by Alien Resurrection and Joss Whedon fanboys (I’m not going to make any friends saying this, but if ANYONE begins singing Dr. Horrible around me, I will personally gag them and mail them to Nicaragua). The bald/ginger behemoth of pure nerdom has been gestating in a womb of ridiculous female caricatures and self-referential nonsense for years, only to bloom into a snarky, badass epic ball-buster that was The Avengers as well as the beautiful and hilarious send-up of horror films that was Cabin in the Woods. This was, in no uncertain terms, the summer of Whedon. I shall award him the honor of Least Batman because, contractually, the is no fucking way Batman can appear in the Marvel universe and, more importantly, the overall manic tone of The Avengers couldn’t haven’t been further from the Dark Knight’s noir necropolis. So, well done, Avengers. You did us proud.

The runners-up are slightly less Least Batman. First of all, the first half of The Dark Knight Rises does an incredibly admirable job of pretending to be about Batman and yet teasing us constantly with the fact that the caped crusader doesn’t show up for about THREE FUCKING HOURS. Yes, I understand pathos and that this is the first ever Batman movie that is actually about Batman. But c’mon! I want bat-antics (you know what they are because they’re labeled!)! I want gadgets! I want action scenes! I want to see Batman do something that makes my fanboy panties need a serious deep-clean on the ‘Teenage Boy Without a Girlfriend’ Cycle. The other runner-up, a film I did not see, seemed extremely not-Batman. Because, if the sixties taught us anything, there is nothing gay about Batman. Magic Mike looked super homo. Also, Matthew McConaughy is like anti-Batman. Not in that he’s something awesome like the Joker. No, he’s like buttered toast that falls on the ground butter-side down. He’s like getting a hang-nail while cutting lemons. He’s like Halle Berry’s Catwoman.

Very not-Batman indeed.

Best Movie of the Summer

Winner: Moonrise Kingdom; Runners-up: The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises

So surprising. Yes, it was the best. Deal with it.

Commence ‘Serious Face’ (TM). Yes, my favorite movie of the summer was indeed Moonrise Kingdom. Honestly, that movie cut me deeper than anything I’ve seen in some time. Deliriously funny, oddly dark and so whimsical that my testicles almost bloomed into Mumford and Sons and played a pop-folk concept in the middle of nowhere. It is probably the most entertaining modern tale of what it’s like to be a child I’ve seen in years. It was truthfully the most affecting thing I’ve seen in a while, both due to its examination of the child’s experience and because it makes you REALLY uncomfortable about how close to naked the little girl gets. *AWKWARD* That aside, thank you, Mr. Anderson, for serving us the same dish every single time and that same dish is absolutely fucking delicious.

Honorable mentions go out to the already lauded and fellated  The Avengers and Dark Knight Rises. So, yes, congrats, good movies. You’ll probably be the best movies I’ll see for a while. Unless someone FINALLY watches Battleship with me.

Movie I Wish I Had Been Drunker For

Winner: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, Runner-up: Men in Black III

This poster is the most disconcerting thing I have seen since…well, this movie.

Seriously. My head was already fucking spinning, like that silver-coated axe wielded by our less-than-fortunate-looking 16th President of ours. So many things branded into my memory would have been offered the forgiving haziness of Jack Daniel-instigated inebriation. Perhaps Dominic Cooper’s horrific accent wouldn’t have pained me so. Perhaps I would have chocked up the absurdity of certain scenes to my waning control over basic motor skills. Perhaps I might have excused the nonsensical nature of the, well, the everything. Maybe Temur Nab-I’m-Not-Going-to-Look-up-How-To-Spell-it-Cus-Fuck-That-Guy-bakov would have been praised in my review for creating Inception-like complexity within his work. Instead, I had to watch it with a shitty Starbucks Latte in one hand (sorry for the redundancy of ‘Shitty’ and ‘Starbucks’) and my crumbling self-worth in the other. At least I had candy, but that can only do so much.

The runner-up here was Men in Black III solely because, if I had created a drinking game where the only rule was ‘Drink every time Will Smith is purposefully non-threatening to white people’ I might have been so drunk by the final scene that I might have involuntarily slept through the utterly hackneyed, inorganic and confusingly weep-tastic conclusion. But, hindsight is 20/20.

Movie I’m Really Upset I Missed

Winner: Beasts of the Southern Wild, Runner-up: Battleship

Come back! I can see Battleship another weekend!

So, I heard Beasts of the Southern Wild was one of the coolest, prettiest, most exhilarating films of the year. Its trailer had me crumpling my blanket in shoving into my mouth in fear that I might swallow my tongue due to a sudden wave of Cute-Black-Child-itis. Of course, I can’t really write anything about it and I don’t have a good reason for why I didn’t see it. I suppose time simply slipped away from me. Hours flew by, days even, and soon the only screen in Chicago playing its beauty allowed it slip away, quietly into the cinematic aether. And here I am, complaining about pieces of shit portraying presidents as Sarah Michelle Gellar’s only claim to fame and missing movies starring Rihanna as, well, a human being. Here I am missing true art and complaining that everything is decomposing into a massive stew of imaginative fecal matter. Here I am. I wish I had seen it, experienced it, written about it. Perhaps I’d be a different person, instead of a bitter jerk fuming over Michael Bay’s legacy. Perhaps. Lessons for the future, I suppose. A cautionary tale how lamenting about the terrible clouds our understanding of the good. Aye me.

The runner-up is Battleship. All pathos aside I REALLY WANTED TO SEE BATTLESHIP.

Most Hilarious Response to One of My Reviews I Have Ever Received

Winner: Fahrenheit 451; Runner-up: Batman Returns

So, this is the Internet. Though it is filled with wonderful things such as my blog, the blog of Raving Mad Scientists (check those ladies out, they are awesome), Netflix and every porn site ever, it is also home to less savory things. Like Goatsie (google it) or /b/ or every porn site ever. In expanding my writing to the World Wild Web I have braced myself for accidentally tapping into the vein of anonymous hatred that sneaks surreptitiously between sites, and allowing a deluge of trolling and nastiness. Luckily, I have not actually experienced any of this…yet. I have had a couple of amusing moments. My favorite of which was in response to my severely uninformed (and openly so) analysis of Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451:

“Well….I guess you gave it a good college try. You missed it on some of the facts (Wikipedia isn’t the end all and be all of information). Actually, Truffaut had originally set Werner to play the role of the captain (eventually played by Cyril Cusack – father-in-law to Jeremy Irons). When Stamp bowed out, Werner did not want to take over the role of Montag — but Truffaut pleaded and cajoled (they had worked so well together in Jules and Jim). Werner (in real life) experienced Kristalnacht in Vienna and saw more than his share of book burning. He had a hard time with the way he felt Truffaut ‘triviliazed’ the book burning scenes. Half way through filming, the two would not even talk to each other and had to use go-betweens to get their messages across. Werner wanted to add more sympathy to the character of Montag than Truffaut did, etc. etc. I completely agree with you about how miscast Julie Christie was. Unfortunately, at that time, she was the biggest thing in box office and the film would not have been funded without her in it.” ~film fan

Thanks for the info, ‘film fan’! I do take your criticism about lack of research beyond Wikipedia and offer, in return, a gif!

And in not quite close second, after my Batman Returns piece:

“Burton himself has said that Catwoman wasn’t meant to be supernatural but ambiguous and have that whole 9 lives vibe and motif going on. When she is pushed out the window (a brilliant scene “actually, it’s a lot like that!”) she hits at least 2 awnings and falls into a mount of snow. And she only falls about 6 stories (Jackie Chan did a similar stunt for real in Project A). After this she has a pyschotic break and develops a new personality not bound by morals or society. A force of nature. The cats wander around her as they live in the alley and are suspicious and hungry. The backflipping and martial arts skilled are explained in an earlier draft when she tells Bruce about how she was a gymnastics champion as a kid and took many self defence classes but her teacher told her she wasn’t any good as her mind wasn’t clear. She replies that it’s clear now.

But a great review, I enjoyed the read.”

That was from the enigmatically monikered ‘G’. Thank you for the compliment, it will not be forgotten. But seriously, that is some serious Burton-Knowledge. All I can say is:

In all honesty, thank you for reading, all of you. I love comments. Of all kinds. I met my internet friends that way. And seriously, we all know these blogs are an attempt to find people throughout the universe that aren’t related to you who might like something you wrote. Fleeting passes of digital connection, helping us avoid feeling the crushing weight of loneliness if only for a moment.

Also, if you want to call me on my shit, bring it. I HAVE SO MANY GIFS TO WHIP OUT.

Well, now we must wait for the Oscars to collectively jerk off our tear ducts in an attempt for studios to garner those self-congratulatory golden dildos. Get ready for movies with Abraham Lincoln not fighting vampires. Movies that make you cry, though you keep telling yourself that you’re watching trite nonsense. Also, The mutherfucking Hobbit. I’m only entirely excited. And now…a contentious list of megachiroptean action movies from best to worst.

All Batman Movies Ranked from Best to Worst with Comparisons to Things that Get you Drunk

The Dark Knight – Like an aged Scotch, smokey, mysterious and surprising. With a dead guy in it.

The Dark Knight Rises – Hendricks Gin. Solid, delicious and makes a summer night worthy of enjoyment.

Batman Returns – Maker’s Mark. Makes you say hilarious things and surprisingly delicious. With hints of Walken.

Batman BeginsA wine. Not fine, but tasty and good with a helping of Neeson. You drink it before it’s done breathing. Like an idiot.

Batman: The Movie – Tequila. Gets you fucking drunk. And maybe a little homosexual.

BatmanAbsinthe (sans Wormwood). You think it’ll be more fun than it was and it tastes vaguely of something made in the mid-eighties but without the fun.

Batman ForeverAbsinthe (con Wormwood). Should be illegal in the States and makes you feel like you are tripping balls. Jim Carrey might appear wearing all green and torment your worst nightmares.

Batman and RobinHomeless Person’s Vomit. Self-explanatory. And it might give you a staph infection.

Men in Black III (2012) – Barry Sonnenfeld (Dir.), Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, Jemaine Clement, Michael Stuhlbarg

Hey, remember when Will Smith used to sing the theme songs to every movie he was in? Nor do I. Let us agree to never remember.

Who the fuck is Barry Sonnenfeld? And who the fuck does he think he is? Who the hell has the audacity, nay, the wrecking-ball sized testicles, goolies of gold, the brass balls to create both Men in Black and Big Trouble, quite possibly two of the most underrated weird-ass comedies of the late nineties/early naughties, as well as Wild Wild West, RV and Men in Black II, a trio of such repugnancy that even the suggestion of a giant metal spider in my presence brings about blinding rages. But seriously, who is this guy? Who gets some of the best acting talent alive in America today, you know Oscar-nominated Will ‘He Was a Rapper Once?” Smith, Oscar-winner and professional modern-day cowboy Tommy Lee Jones, as well as Josh “The Iron Chin” Brolin and Oscar-winner Emma Fucking Thompson (That actually is her middle name. Google it) and has them running around blowing up aliens, squawking like freaks, jumping off of buildings, leaping onto space shuttles and chasing Jemaine Clement through 1969 Queens on that really homosexual device called ‘It’ Mr. Garrison develops in South Park. Who is this guy? God? A professional Hollywood blackmailer who has them all by the ovaries? A demon of such deviousness that early in their careers he offered each of the aforementioned infinite talent and success in exchange for one day having goop spat up on them by CGI Chinese space fish? It’s a conundrum.

Men in Black III is the entirely unnecessary, bizarro, timey-wimey third and final (? Yeah, let’s be real. There’ll be another) installment of the only still living remnants of Will Smith’s 90’s movie career. As he has delved into the pretentious depths of Oscar-bating bullshit like Seven Pounds and the poorly advised remake of I Am Legend,  Mr. Smith has all but evaporated from the Hollywood scene. Well, now he’s back in the suit, back in the smile and filling little chilluns hearts with joy, employing that special blend of street-wise smarts and non-threatening blackness that Chris Tucker never seemed to manage. It’s charming as fuck, just like that Roguish Han-Solo smile Mr. Smith so effortlessly busts out every thirty seconds. It’s goofy. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. It’s the perfect piece of summer fluff, a puff of cotton candy that lasts in the mind as long as that saccharine pink sweetness lasts on the tongue before dissolving into a fleeting memory of childishness.

Jemaine…I think you have some H.P. Lovecraft on your face…

It has a plot, in theory. Apparently, back in 1969 Agent K, the chisel-faced (in that his face looks both like a chisel and the craggy piece of rock out of which someone attempted to carve him) put away Boris the Animal (a superbly miscast and utterly mind-blogglingly odd Jemaine Clement of Flight of the Conchords fame. All joking aside, watch that show. Jerks) Well, using a cake and a pair of boobs attached to a woman, Boris escapes from a maximum security moon-prison to exact his revenge on Mr. Jones. How does he do it? By going back in time and killing K in the past. Sure. Why not? In the process, his hetero-life mate and proof that he isn’t racist, Agent J (William Huntington Smith III) suddenly gets chocolate-milk craving headaches and is the only person in the world who remembers his time-erased pal. How? Who knows. True love. Maybe. They certainly hint at it. It’s like a new-age sci-fi Driving Miss Daisy. So…J literally jumps back in time, running into young Agent K (Mr. Josh Brolin, of course), Andy Warhol and a whole lot of racism. That was amusing. Especially when he gets pulled over for being a black man in a suit. Comedic genius.

There is so much oddity packed into this thing, it’s like a furry sex party (google it). You almost need a safe word. In between Chinese slug-aliens with a dozen arms and a dude that looks like if a Vietnam vet. raped Cthulhu, you really will spend a good deal of the film going ‘Huh?’ And this not new for the series. In fact, remember back to the first one. For a summer blockbuster, it had giant space cockroaches regurgitating Tommy Lee Jones and the living Picasso that is Vincent D’Onofrio’s face. Both of which are primally horrifying. Perhaps in the vein of The Fifth Element there’s a certain degree of bat-shit that works its way into the time-tested formula of money-making turdery. Sonnenfeld, I suppose, attempted this again in my white-whale-of-my-film-criticism-career Wild Wild West. In place of a giant cockroach wearing man-skin, we have a double amputee Shakespearean actor using a giant spider to take over America in the 1800s. Fuck that movie.

One Eyed Willy will rue the day the Goonies came to steal his treasure. Tommy Lee Jones will murder you all.

Perhaps the true codification of this peculiarity is Mr. Stuhlbarg as Griffin, a fifth dimensional being capable of seeing every single possible outcome of the universe as well as the pathways of causality leading us to each one. It’s frighteningly genius. That character in this film is like unearthing a Rembrandt in a 2nd grade art class. You see it and you must burn the place down because such beauty and intelligence could have only ended up in this montage of adolescent uselessness by way of nefarious means. Not only that, but Stuhlbarg performs the awkward, nebbish being to such perfection you just want to hug him and take him to meet your mother. He’s just so damn cute.

I saw Stuhlbarg as Hamlet onstage once. Not much to that story. I just did. After the show, I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman congratulate him while looking like a fucking hobo. That guy is a badass. A hobo, Oscar-winning badass.

Even with the inspired and completely unintentional exploration of the nature of causality (Etan Cohen, the writer, is an alumnus of Beevis and Butthead. Yeah, that’s fucking pedigree), there are notable glaring issues. Mr. Brolin, who plays an eerily perfect Lee Jones, plays a 29 year old. In real life, he is 44 fucking years old. Not sure if my math is correct, but those are not the same thing. At all. However, the impersonation is spot-on, leading me to believe that there is a market for retro-fitting Jones’ classics with Brolin. Also, vice versa. Who wouldn’t wish to see Josh Brolin tell Harrison Ford he doesn’t care if he killed his wife. Conversely, I think Mr. Jones would bring a level of gritty gravitas sorely lacking from The Goonies. Get on it, someone. The other big problem: the time travel is bullshit. Like…a herd of steers with IBS after raiding a chili cook-off levels of bullshit. There’s a part (spoilers) where Will Smith gets shot like four times and then turns time back to before he gets hit and is totally fine. Wait…so, by that logic, when he goes back in time to 1969 initially (in exactly the same fashion) he should regress to a fucking nine year old. I call shenanigans. SHENANIGANS! Nobody gets time travel right.

Um…does anyone else feel uncomfortable about this?

Don’t get me wrong. I really enjoyed this movie, perhaps way than I had any right to. It was a blast. However, back to intelligence and whatnot, if there is one, the final thought would be this: there is no thought. None. Yes, they attempt to inject this bizarro-fest with some human emotion near the end and they fail miserably. It just doesn’t make sense. Like a dog walking on its back legs, it’s cute…but attempting to be something its not. Eventually it will have to fall on all fours and start licking its balls again. This movie famously began shooting without a script. What the hell were they doing? Just filming Mr. Smith wandering around NYC cracking wise while Tommy Lee imitated a gravel garden? How can you expect to find a deeper layer of the human condition if you’re going to leap to the sex without beginning with a kiss? Come now. But it is fun. It’s candy. Pure, uncut Costa Rican white gold. Glucose of such divine emptiness that it’s sweet on the lips and you never need to worry about it ever again. It’s a perfectly enjoyable blockbuster. A relic of the summer that won’t make it into anyone’s scrapbooks. No one will look back on 2012 and think “holy shit! That was the time I saw MIB III! Good times.” They’ll just remember having fun, a couple of laughs and enjoying themselves.

And that’s the point right? I hope so. Otherwise we’re all wasting our fucking time.

by Andrew Mooney

Well, we have the movies I’m actively excited about. This list, well, this list is not that. This is the stuff in the middle. The pudgy flab, that isn’t quite ab, isn’t quite a gut. It’s just there. Neither negative nor positive. The purgatory of summer film, if you will. These are the movies that, when you witness the trailer, everything about the flashing lights and moving shapes pummels your body with messages of “YOU WILL BE ENTERTAINED” and yet, you come away with a resounding ‘Meh’. And that ‘meh’ has power. It can come from a place of frustration, the collective sigh of a civilization yearning for more and yet settling for less. These are those movies that, yes, they’re not perfect but they have their pros and their cons. Yes, we can wait until the perfect film will come along and fulfill all of our desperate needs, or we can find Mr. Right Now: The Movie. We can settle for a fling. It doesn’t bring any closure. It doesn’t even bring decent climax. It just passes the time.

For this section, I have rated each film on the internationally standardized ‘Meh’ scale. It ranges from ‘Meh’: nothing too offensive, finely constructed, yet it didn’t build any expectation that it would be anything other than what it would be, to ‘MEEEEEEEEEH, ugh, Meh!’: You know the people here are talented, they have ideas (or had) and yet this thing is a bunch of forgettable by-the-numbers crap. Don’t you remember when you were hot? Young? Ready to take on the world. Now you’re just a haggard mess of an artist, scraping what’s left at the bottom of the molded barrel, searching for that lost youth. And yet, every year it slips ever-more steadily from your grasp until you are nothing more than a husk. Taking up space. Useless. Wasted.

So, here they are:

MOVIES I WILL SEE AND HATE MYSELF

Men in Black 3

Oh Will…you fill me with such…respect. Guys, I said respect. That’s what I meant. No, I’m not blushing!

Alright, let’s get real for a second. I enjoy Men in Black. Let’s get even realer. I even, wait for it, didn’t mind Men in Black 2. There is something so effortless about Will Smith. About his finely trimmed mustache. About his smile that’s just the right amount of trickster, mixed with the perfect dash Han-Soloian sexiness, sprinkled with just the right of ‘black-person-white-people-aren’t-afraid-of’. I will watch him in pretty much anything. Even Wild Wild West. That’s like a Vegan saying that there’s a sauce so good, they’d eat horse-penis with it. This movie has a few things going for it: Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin as a freakishly accurate Tommy Lee Jones and…well, that’s about it. What’s against it? They started shooting without a script. That’s beginning to cook without a recipe…or ingredients…or pots and pans. You’re just some jackass switching a stove on and off.

I’ll see it. I’ll shrug. I’ll say ‘Meh’. Maybe I’ll laugh…I probably won’t cry. It will be effortlessly forgettable…as effortless as Will’s roguish charm. Okay…this is weird. Now I’m blushing. Moving on…

The Dictator

I imagine Baron Cohen has one of these above his bed where he sleeps with Isla Fisher every night. Bastard.

So. Sacha Baron Cohen made a movie. It was called Da Ali G Movie. It was a movie. About Ali G. It had characters. A plot. It had actors in it, many of them good. My 13-year-old self loved it. It loved the gay jokes. It loved the boob jokes. It loved the hilarious misunderstanding of youth/rap culture relegated to London suburbs. As I have previously discussed, my thirteen-year-old self was an ironically sexually frustrated/fucking idiot. That movie is nine levels of awful, each level being a hell of Danterian horror, wrought with the souls of those too far-gone to salvage. We had Albus Dumbledore as the Prime Minister, toiling in a mess of gay/black jokes, stumbling around after drinking marijuana-laced-tea. We had Shakespearean thespian Charles Dance dressed in drag and tied up with leather straps. We had Rhona Mitra…well, we had Rhona Mitra’s breasts. She might have been present, though my thirteen-year-old memory is clouded with a mammary-clogged haze. It was bad.

And then Borat arrived in theaters. Now an immigrant myself, I appreciated the crass dissection of American xenophobia and bigotry. It’s characters were one-dimensional, its humor, like an Israeli brothel, specifically semitic/genital-based. What helped it surpass its basal subject was its use of actual Americans spouting some of the most hateful things I’d ever heard…until the next presidential election. Somehow, Cohen’s schtick managed to unearth the harsh underbelly of American racism, especially at a time where fears of middle eastern terrorists were at a peak. And it had a naked jew-fight in the middle of a conservative convention. I laughed. I cried. I tried to wash the sight of hairy taint from my mind by inserting bleach into my ear. I needed surgery. But it was worth it.

This has parodies of terrible people, Kim Jong Il, Gaddafi, Hussein…you know, dead guys. It’ll explore the hilarious excesses of people drowning in the belief that their very testicles are the second and third coming of Christ. Or whoever. Someone apocalyptic. It also makes light of the US murdering foreign enemies with precision robot strikes (yeah, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to unironically write that sentence during my lifetime…Sky Net is coming). And that’s fine. But it has a plot. And characters. This doesn’t seem to be Baron’s forte. Like a dog with a bone, Cohen plays with his narrative structure, knowing that he needs it, and it’s important, so much so that he has to keep it safe. But fuck if he knows what to do with it. This gets a “meeh”. A light shake of the head and face produced usually by the presence of passed gas.

Snow White and the Huntsman

“Yes, I have special powers. I bite my lip. And I pout. Well, it worked on the American public, so go to hell.”

A few summers before this, while I was still burgeoning with optimism for my life once released from the shackles of my undergraduate degree, I stepped into a movie theater and witnessed a little movie named Star Trek. I’m sure you’ll hear me rant about that film another time. The point is this: the opening to that film is one of the most unfairly affecting pieces of short sci-fi you’ll see gracing the multiplexes any time soon. Captain Kirk’s father, Cameron (this isn’t true, but how hilarious would it be to see Kirk Cameron yell about Jesus in space? Copyright, bitches), sacrifices himself to save his wife and son then becomes the aptly named ‘Captain’. I wasn’t really paying attention to the details because, seriously, this is Star Trek. Give me Han Solo and humanity’s inexplicable ability to understand every language over Spock any day. Anyhoo, sidetracked. The guy playing the Kirk’s dad was a pretty lad named Chris Hemsworth. He was also in Cabin in the Woods  and he was fucking great.

He was also in Thor, where that fascinating nuance of a beef-head with actual emotions was sorta, well, ignored. In between his hammer hitting’ stuff, and kissin’ all up in Nat-Port’s facial region, he was about as complex as George Lucas’ artistic intentions. So, let’s move onto the film at hand. Hemsworth is back: good. He plays a beef-cake: bad. Already in the trailer we had more shots of him swinging his penis axe and flicking his totally-super-manly locks of gold this way and that. We also have K-Stew who has made an entire career out of lip-biting and acting like a sack of lady-meat.

But there’s also Charlize Theron eating people’s hearts. And that creepy-Matrix-mirror thing. Remind me of my Grimm’s, but I’m pretty sure cave trolls, harpies and The Prodigy’s terrible come-back album weren’t a part of the original text. We all know Bella Snow White isn’t going to die, but what a sweet way to end the saga of Twilight if Charlize Theron ate her fucking heart. I would pay to watch that. Alas, I shall be frustrated, as I am with each film in the glitter-sporting-not-sunlight-fearing whimpy vampire pout-fest when, just before the credits roll, I pray for Wesley Snipes to show up in his Ray Bans and fuck some Cullen shit up. And yet, he doesn’t.

It’ll be pretty (hopefully). It won’t contain Julia Roberts desperately trying to murder her own career with each blinding second of Tarsem Singh’s visual insanity. I’ll watch it. I might heave up a little popcorn. I won’t see K-Stew get viciously disemboweled. Maybe another year when she delves into that inevitable crevasse of her career where she’ll play a murdered stripper trying to figured out who’s semen that was. I might see that.

The Bourne Legacy and The Amazing Spiderman

Dude, Jeremy, I think you need some new blinds. You fucked these ones up.

Alright, alright, neither of these movies look bad, per se. No, both offered the world trailers that actually seemed mildly palatable. Spiderman is taking the darker edge with the tale of Peter Parker’s forays with a radioactive spider (in real life: dead of cancer in months). We get a little of his parent’s history. It’s got Emma Stone (always good even if the film is created in total ignorance of the entire Civil Rights Movement). It’s got Andrew “That’s Right, I ACTUALLY Founded Facebook” Garfield. Also good. It’s even got the wonderfully bizarre, Notting-Hill-dwelling, tight-whitey sporting Rhys Ifans as the lizard. Sure. All of that seems fine. Even The Bourne Legacy has Jeremy “Fuck you, I was in the Hurt Locker” Renner, Joan “Not Rivers” Allen, Rachel “Most Beautiful Woman on the Planet and Sleeping with James Bond, That’s Right” Weisz and Edward “Eh” Norton. It’s even written and directed by Tony Gilroy, the crafter of that George-Clooney-Being-George-Clooney-Being-Someone-Else lawyer-fest Michael Clayton. The pedigree is all there. So, what’s my problem?

Do you remember when original movies used to arrive in theaters? Do you remember the times that the numeral ‘4’ after a title usually meant it was in the malaise-period of the Nightmare on Elm Street series? Do you remember The Fifth Element? That movie was fucking crazy and original. In fact, out of the seventeen movies this year that I’m mentioning, only six are original IPs. What happened? Did Hollywood suddenly go self-human-centipede and begin guzzling its own refuse? We have movies coming out this year based on Battleship. Read that sentence again. And again. Read it until your eyes bleed. One more time.

What makes the abdomen part of the shadow? Garfield is hung like a horse. That’s what.

I have picked these two films to berate, not because they are the worst of the bunch (just wait for Dark Shadows) nor are they particularly egregious. They are boring wastes of time. Spiderman: we already had an entire series of those fucking things about four years ago culminating with the campy-ass-lobotomy-I-will-never-get-back-my-childhood-watching-the-old-cartoon-orgy that was Spiderman 3. And now they’re rebooting it? For what greater purpose? Of course, more money. Of course. But it’s boring. It’s so, so, so boring. Piranha 3DD may be a pile of elephant anus, the likes of which the world has never seen…but it certainly won’t be boring, ladies and gents. Of that, I am sure. Marvel, do something new and good. You’ve done the Avengers. Figure it out.

But you, Mr. Gilroy, you disappoint me. You can write real movies. We’ve seen it. Why settle for a forth-quel? Are you looking to place your work on the same mantle as Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace: How Many Colons Does Lucas Need? What about Saw 4? Or Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides? Or Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Meyers, the movie that killed professional granddad of the year Donald Pleasance? Give us something new, you talented bastard. Give us some meat. We’re hungry and we don’t go for fecal matter like the bottom-feeders running some of these studios.

Both movies will be fine. They might be enjoyable. But they are both a waste of time and energy. So, Meh, with a tongue stuck out, at both of you.

Dark Shadows and Savages

Miss Hayek, blunt bangs are not your friend. Please deal with them immediately.

Hey guys! Yeah, you guys! You directors. Right, the ones with oscars sitting at home and cult classics on the shelf that will be enjoyed for decades after this. Hey, you remember when you were good? And then do you remember when your careers became less good you went one of two paths, down the route of absolute bat-shit-insanity and the route of by-the-numbers uninspired garbage? And then do you remember waking up in the morning realizing that every one of your good years is gone and you only pump these things out year after year because, honestly, its better than staying home and masturbating? Well I do.

Let’s start with you, Mr. Stone. Congratulations, this is a new movie. Not-congratulations on casting Blake Lively. She’s pretty yes, but about as compelling as See Spot Run once you know the ending (Spoiler: he runs). It’s got Salma Hayek (one of my deepest loves) forced out of her natural comedic brilliance and employed to spice up a role that, if it were cast with the dude it was written for, would be completely unforgettable. It’s got John Travolta. I don’t even need to ridicule that one. It ridicules itself. Oliver…you made Platoon, arguably the best way to witness Willem Dafoe die like Jesus (and that includes The Last Temptation of Christ). You made a movie where Charlie Sheen isn’t terrible. You have bent the rules of the universe and created work that isn’t just good, it’s fucking brilliant. What do we have now? W? Wall Street 2? Oliver, I understand that your ‘schtick’ is being an unrestrained maniac…so do something maniacal again. Yes, Natural Born Killers was, to be kind, a hot mess that could eclipse Lindsay Lohan after a long weekend in Vegas. But at least it was ridiculous. Maybe this will be that and the trailers are just terrible. Maybe. I’m hoping, not just for your sake, but for Juliet Lewis’ career. She needs the help, man. Look at her…she’s a scientologist.

Tim Burton: “I want the Addams Family, but less dynamic and more 70s”. Art Director: “So…more color?” Nailed it.

Now onto you, Mr. Burton. Once you were great. You created Edward Scissorhands, the most inspiring biopic of a bondage/hair artist the world has ever seen. You made Beetlejuice, thereby making all children terrified for modern art for the rest of their lives (and bringing the world Winona Ryder, Saks Fifth Ave. aside). When I hopefully have kids, I will force them to watch Nightmare Before Christmas so many goddamn times they’ll be afraid of even asking for Christmas presents, including the pony that, I’m sorry, we just don’t have the space or the income for a stable, I don’t care how much you plea and hug my leg and cry or tell me how you’ll do all the work or that I’m the best dad in the world… Well, alright. But don’t tell your mother. Our secret. Our secret pony.

Sorry. Distracted again. What now, Mr. Burton? Michael Jackson Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Alice in Lord of the Rings Wonderland? Planet of the Apes starring Mark Wahlberg? Okay, seriously, who thought that was a good idea? I want to know. I’m not leaving until I find out. Because I want to slap some sense back into their stupid…

Anyhoo… Now we are reduced to seeing that golden god of a man, Johnny Depp, follow you once more into the heart of darkness. This isn’t just a remake. Or just a remake of a TV show. It’s a remake of a soap opera. Sure, I could see that maybe working out…if you didn’t rely on base, poorly-timed slap-stick. It won’t be bad. It will be totally useless. It won’t piss anyone off. Nor will anyone remember it. It will be blip in the universe, two hours of completely pointless time, spent switching off one’s brain and allowing the world to trickle by. Hundreds of people worked on this thing, artists, people with ambition. And what is the result? Nothingness. Pure nothingness.

When you look back in time, inevitably forgetting each of these films, you think on the days you were young, the days you were in the best of health, the days you could get into raucous hijinks with college friends… And you’ll think…with all those gifts the world gave me, what did I do?

And you won’t be able to remember. You turn back to your kids/grandkids and you simply answer, “I don’t know. Can’t have been that important.”