It takes something special for a film to literally get better with each viewing. That's exactly how I feel about Larry Clark's Bully (2001), a "based on real events" study of Florida youth wasted, polluted, and turned homicidal that maintains such a hypnotic hold from start to finish that I don't feel iffy in calling it "great." It's not for everybody, depicting its teenage characters in such a disgusting light that there's hardly a redeeming quality to leave with. Aside from some pretty dynamic, fearless acting and a plateful of energetic, trippy visual and audible style from Clark (who also directed Kids, another film of this topical ilk).
Bully just finished on basic cable a few moments ago, and of course I watched from end to end. I wrote about Bully on this here blog in the past, but this time I'm in a different space. I've decided that the film's climactic setpiece is officially one of the most intense, visceral, pulse-kicking scenes I've ever witnessed, one that (like the movie itself as a whole, like I said at the gate-opening) somehow manages to elevate in wonderment every time I see the thing.
Bit of plot round-up first, in case you have no idea what Bully is about---Marty (played by the late Brad Renfro) is best friends with Bobby (Nick Stahl), and Bobby is the epitome of scumbag. Out of his own hidden insecurity, he treats Marty like pure shit, basically turning Marty's life into a breathing nightmare. As Bobby continues to emotionally terrorize everybody around Marty, including his new spaced-out girlfriend and her stoner, deadbeat friends, they all decide to kill Bobby. Enough is enough. They hire a pseudo-"gangster/hitman" and then drive out to a far-off swamp, and then this happens.
Here's that unbelievably tense scene (if you don't feel like spoiling Bully, then don't watch, but I still suggest you do either way; it's just that crazy):
That bizarre, dizzying music that amplifies over the progression. The blurry shots, back to the shaky-cam nervousness. All of it, equals that "Wow" factor.
In the immortal words of Happy Gilmore: "Now you're gonna get it, Bobby!"
You loved Borat, right? Well, if you didn't then I you must have the sense of humor of Hitler's rotting, worm-housing corpse. Assuming that you don't fall under that distinction, here's the trailer for comedy's walking nerves-and-huge-balls ("Pause," I guess) Sacha Baron Cohen's latest, Bruno.
This is the red band trailer, meaning R-rated, meaning its on some otherness. Just watch:
The fact that Cohen could still fool enough people in this world into thinking he really was this Bruno character and not the star of one of the biggest comedies of the new millenium is a monstrous feat in and of itself. Weirdly, my favorite bit in this trailer may be that all-velcro outfit. This movie is going to kick all kinds of body parts.
Bonus One of Bruno's greatest moments from the egghead-level awesome Da Ali G Show:
If there's a greater joy out there than engulfing your senses in a purely shit film that you hate to love, I can only hope that somebody points me in its direction. That one "feast of banality" can devolve a film lover into a totally blazed pothead minus any actual chronic. A fool suffering from uncontrollable laughter without the presence of a crackerjack stand-up comedian. The guilt never disappears, now, but it's a shame that you permit to wash over you like pig's blood on young Carrie White.
Appreciation for truly awful films seems to be the new black nowadays, and that's just wonderful. Last week, a notoriously terrible movie called The Room (2003) opened in downtown Manhattan for a limited run, thanks to popular demand. I wish I could've caught it; a few months back, there was this great story in Entertainment Weekly discussing The Room's rabid celebrity cult following, stars such as Paul Rudd and Kristen Bell quoting it regularly and namedropping it in interviews. And then there was Best Worst Movie, which premiered out at South X Southwest two weeks ago, which points its light all over 1990's Troll 2, another abysmal piece of wannabe-cinema that even its own cast and crew acknowledge as awesomely-bad.
Bad is all good these days. So with that notion in mind, I've decided to shed some sun on a virtually-unknown little miggle called The Video Dead (1987). The first time that The Video Dead turned me into its tongue-in-cheek slave was back in my late grammar school days. I caught it late one night on the USA Network, when Rhonda Sheer (that lovable party woman with the huge upperbody-knocks) was the host of "Up All Night." If it weren't for the title's "Dead" inclusion, I never would've givent this shit the time of day, but I'm a sucker for zombie films. Can't turn them off, must see them all.
I'd consider myself (even back in those immature years) somewhat of a "zombie film expert," so the fact that I'd had no clue that something called The Video Dead even existed was my first red flag, but, alas, I jumped aboard. From the opening scene, I was under its every command, every beckon. The flick opens up with this random old television set arriving at a humorless writer's house, and of course the dumbass signs for it. And then, in a great bit of character development, he talks to himself, declaring, "I don't even watch TV!" Screenplay written by I HateSubtlety Jones. The box only plays one program (the fictional Zombie Blood Nightmare), and within minutes the film-within-this-shitty-film's walking corpses come through the TV thanks to some special effects that look as if Gore Verbinski could've used the scene as a reference point of exactly what not to do when he shot that awesome ending for his The Ring remake.
Three months later, two annoying, cardboard, very-'80s-looking teenage siblings move into the house, prepping it before their parents arrive. The boy is introduced with a such a lame sight gag that I'm only reminded at how brilliant Shaun of the Dead is for executing a similar touch flawlessly----we see a pair of worndown sneakers shuffling aimlessly through the woods, so we're "supposed" to think that its a zombie, when, TaaDaa!, its our protagonist, Jeff (played by a corpse of an actor, Rocky Duvall, in his worst Corey Haim impersonation).
Let's make a deal: If you can watch this clip in its entirety, I'll buy you a drink, whoever you are, whenever you desire.....sound good? I'm confident that you'll tap out right after Jeff is revealed.
Jeff is hands down one of the least compelling film leads of all time----lifeless, unsympathetic. His sister, Zoe, is slightly more likeable, but not by much. Which makes their impending zombie-triggered conflict all the less interesting. A threat that, I must note, only includes five zombies. Maybe six, I could've missed one. But no more than six, total. My guess, they couldn't afford any more makeup or prosthetics, nor the $100 a day it must've taken to pay for a couple more zombie-actors.
But then, writer/director Robert Scott does something transcendent......he manages to make The Video Dead so inept, so lacking in brain cells, that the film becomes an overachiever without even trying. For somebody who can't appreciate a crap-film, The Video Dead could very well be the slowest, least-magnetic movies ever. Nothing ever happens, except for sluggish exchanges between the siblings, cold-as-ice flirtations between Jeff and the even-more-vapid blonde next door, and an appearance from the most unqualified bounty hunter/hero character Robert Scott could have ever (under)developed. I've seen The Video Dead about five times now, and during each time I've repeatedly questioned myself, "How the hell am I sitting throught this? I can literally feel my intelligence bein insulted, as if that educated side of my brain is either Bart Simpson or Millhouse and this movie is Nelson."
Really, explaining any more of the plot is pointless, since, like I said above, nothing effective ever fucking happens. The following scene is all that needs to be seen for proof: After puffing some of that green stuff, Jeff notices that the robotic buxom blonde on his TV, who is trying to evade "The Garbage Man" killer (who looks like a sloppy, larger Mickey Rooney) in some movie, starts talking to him, seducing him with her non-existent sexual charm. This chick then enters his bedroom and puts the moves on Jeff, who responds like a 12-year-old discovering his first Playboy. Then, she's killed by Sir Garbage, who provides some useless survival tips, needlessly holds the final "R" on "Mirrorrrrr!" and he's never mentioned in the film again. Enjoy this spectacle of divinity:
In a rapturous world, The Video Dead would receive its just due, just as The Room and Troll 2 have recently. I totally understand why it never will---at least those two films aren't paced with the quickness of a turtle addicted to downers. You can have some effortless kicks watching those, thanks to rapid-fire randomness; The Video Dead, on the flipside, moves along at an unbearable clip. You either have to adore zombie joints or cheesy horror, or suffer from insomnia and require a foolproof means of insta-sleep.
I fall into both categories. Thus making The Video Dead a slice of heaven atop my shoulders.
Honestly, I thought it wouldn't ever hit the movie world, but I guess I was just living in my often-all-too-comfy dreamworld. I've long subscribed to the theory that seeing a film, whether it be a dollar-sign-packed blockbuster or a frugal independent exercise, on the big screen in a packed movie theater is the best way to experience cinema. That's why I'm known to see flicks that I love multiple times in theaters, regardless of the money spent. And every time I try to sit down at home and watch a DVD with family or friends, I'm constantly in a state of unease, knowing that the slightest cell phone ring or growling stomach will beckon my co-watchers away instantly. Short attention spans, be damned. In a theater, though, it's just you, darkness, and that massive projector.
Obviously, I'm in the minority of thought. Earlier today, some crafty scoundrel leaked a clear-quality, DVD-pictured copy of X-Men Origins: Wolverine onto the Internet. The problem: the film doesn't hit theaters until May 1, and it's this summer's first major tentpole entry. This is unheard of, quite possibly the most significant example of cinematic piracy ever. Or at least in recent memory. This is the exact early-exposure leakage catastrophe that has sent the music industry (namely on the hip-hop side) into its current downward spiral. But up until now, Hollywood has been practically immune. True, movies manage to appear online not long after their theatrical release dates, but never an entire month prior.
Several theories are floating around. There's little doubt that somebody got their hands on a screener copy that was being circulated amongst studio heads and other must-see-people, post post-production, but as for exactly "who," some ideas are out there. One speculates that the person who uploaded the film did so as a "fuck you" to Wolverine's distributor, Fox; Fox is the company that nearly sabotaged the release of Watchmen for Warner Bros. when they took Warners to court over a decade's old rights issue. A second notion, this one hugely paranoid, thinks that the film was deliberately leaked by Fox themselves, as some sort of defense mechanism against a film (Wolverine) that they fear will be tank financially and be met with scathing, negative response. By leaking it themselves, they can gauge people's responses early, and turn this fiasco into a "woe is me" scenario is the movie flops. There's a heavy fear within the movie realm that the film is going to blow, but this theory seems to be a bit too conspiracy-ish for my tastes.
Me? I'm guessing that it was some overzealous asshole who was involved in the screener-disc handling process, with an axe of some kind to grind. Whatever the case, I have zero intentions of finding the online copy and watching. X-Men Origins: Wolverine isn't high on my must-list in the first place, so my curiousity factor isn't as high as most. But regardless, even if I were to see the film, I'd want to check it out on the large screen, not the tiny, grainy laptop one I'm looking at now as I type. I'd want some overpriced popcorn and a Slushee within my grasp, not a watered-down Bud Light that's been sitting in my fridge for weeks already. Especially considering that this is a special effects orgy of a film----imagine watching Cloverfield for the first time on your laptop. Or, hell, T2: Judgment Day. Or Transformers. This same stance applies to why I never buy or watch bootlegged DVDs that heads buy in subway stations. I want to see a film in its best possible sense. What do I know, though? I'm the same obsessed movie-lover who watches two DVDs a night just on carnal instinct alone.
His middle finger must be the only one sticking upward today.
Will this X-Men Origins: Wolverine leak signal more of its kind, resulting in a domino slide for future films and ultimately a similar meltdown like that of the music industry? My better sense says "Nope." I'm confident that the majority of folks are smart enough to realize the difference between downloading a movie and dloading music----regardless of whether you bought a CD or pirated mp3s, you're just going to listen to them on the same machinery; but with movies, there's always the option of seeing a film larger than life in a theater. It's a matter of whether you feel the necessity to drop $12 on the richer experience. I know I am, now and forever.
Of course, if it were, say, Sam Raimi's Drag Me To Hell that leaked, or, imagine this, Scorcese's Shutter Island, would I be reacting with the same won't-watch defiance? Shit, no. I'm man enough to admit it. But I'd still pay to see those movies in a theater on opening night. That's the difference between film and music for me these days. I haven't bought a CD in over two years, yet I've downloaded every damn album out there during that time. Yet I'd act in totally different, money-dropping fan fashion if Inglourious Basterds sprung a regrettably premature leak. No monetary questions asked.
For a moment there, I was actually considering the task of writing a “review” of sorts on Fast & Furious, which I was able to check out a couple of weeks back. My outline was in place, positive and negative points spread out over the course of what would’ve been an inevitably overlong six paragraphs. Some puns and one-liners were waiting in the vocabulary wings. But as I started writing the outline into a fleshed out piece, a brutally-honest fact dawned—there is absolutely no point in putting together a critical analysis of Fast & Furious. It’d be a waste of time. Words hanging in thin air, unable to influence or deter. Purely futile.
Four films into the franchise now, the Fast & Furious series is well established. You’ve either been waiting impatiently for this new entry, or you could give to shits less. The gear-heads and adrenaline junkies can’t get enough of the terrible dialogue, subpar acting, over-the-top CGI car chases, and gorgeous Latin women wearing miniskirts and midriff-bearing tank tops. I’m partial to that last aspect (and, trust me, the female sexiness is amplified in this new flick), but otherwise these films don’t do much for me. Was I quite entertained by Fast & Furious? Yes, but that’s only because I’d made a mental decision prior to the ludicrous opening setpiece that I’d go shamelessly along for the goofy, glitzy ride. As Vin Diesel, Michelle Rodriguez, and random newcomer Tego Calderon attempt a three-car takedown on an oil truck in the Dominican Republic, the ridiculousness is set in motion before the film’s title even appears.
If that opening sequence, complete with enough computer graphics to have Michael Bay cheering, doesn’t make you laugh, then the rest of Fast & Furious should please. Besides, you’ll have plenty more chances to giggle at the film’s stupidity. My favorite moment of idiocy? There’s a part where Vin Diesel’s character literally beats Paul Walker’s face in for a good two minutes, but once Diesel stops his pulverizing, all Walker has to show for it is a drop of blood under his nose, which he quickly wipes off. Just Incredible. And asinine. Or, just ass.
Enough of about Fast & Furious itself, though. Like I said earlier, I really don’t see any purpose in a critique. This is one of those films that caters specifically to its demographic and cares about nobody else. And I’m all for movies that know their roles. Just as I know my role—I’m the furthest thing from a car lover, or a grease monkey. Admiring Michelle Rodriguez’ chiseled hotness far outweighs whatever model of automobile she’s driving. I couldn’t even name one car type featured in the film.
While watching, however, I couldn’t but think of some random car-starring scenes from much better movies that I love. Which brings me to this list—--my four favorite film scenes prominently featuring cars. Some are from legitimate auto-centric films, and others merely use the wheels as window dressing. Last week’s “Based on a true story” list was my first-ever of its kind, so I admit that I overlooked a couple films (David Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers and Greg McLean’s Wolf Creek) and suffered a few other kinks. I’m working on that. Hopefully this list is a step in the right direction.
[In no particular order]
Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry’s Open Road Race Against the Police Chopper (1974): Admittedly, I had never even heard of Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry before seeing Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof. Ever the cinephile, Tarantino gave his nearly all-female cast a vast knowledge of cinema, specifically of the “car chase films” 19702 subgenre. Days after seeing Grindhouse, I purchased both Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry and Vanishing Point (1971) just off the strength. This one is mostly a forgettable bore, unfortunately, wasting a super-cool leading man (Peter Fonda) in a stew of sluggish exchanges and too few actual car chases. Two huge redeeming moments in the film’s concluding act manage to salvage some of the wreckage, at least. There’s the abrupt, tragic “shock” ending (which I do love), and then there’s an all-real-machines pursuit that’s pretty awesome. Our three criminal protagonists continue to flee from the law in their lime-green whip, even as the coppers amplify the pressure with a chopper that hovers mere feet above. The sheer ballsiness of the scene alone makes it worth a peek.
Christine, the entire movie (1983): If you’ve never seen a 1980s-made John Carpenter film before, remedy that with the quickness. The Fog, Escape from New York, The Thing, and even the fun-yet-hokey They Live—--they’re all great. The one that is nearest to my heart, though, is the Stephen King adaptation Christine, mainly because it’s one of the few movies my older brother (an avid car appreciator) and I watched together as wee lads. I still see tons of my younger self in Arnie, the nerdy, socially awkward teenager who becomes tragically infatuated with “Christine,” a demonically-possessed red 1958 Plymouth Fury he buys for dirt cheap. Of course, once Christine starts killing Arnie’s bullies with extreme force the comparisons between us cease. But that’s when the film kicks into overdrive, becoming a slasher flick where four wheels replace a machete. You get an annoying fat guy crushed into a wall, and a John Travolta-wannabe chased down a dark, empty highway by an enflamed Christine (a visually-grand sequence). The best scene, though, is much more subtle—Arnie’s best friend tries to break into Christine, when suddenly Little Richard’s “Keep A-Knockin’” starts playing on the radio. Pretty damn clever.
Death Proof’s Fatal Four-Way Crash (2007): Or, as I like to call it, “the best car crash scene ever.” Considering all of the unique touches of creative genius found within Quentin Tarantino’s portfolio, it’s a bit odd that this scene from his half of the criminally-underappreciated Grindhouse has become my all-time top QT moment. “To each his own,” they’ll say. From the moment that Jungle Julia’s requested jam “Hold Tight” (by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich) kicks in and the girls rock out, everything about it gleams like the sinister duck on the hood of Stuntman Mike’s fatality-proof ride. I’ve spent many nights rewatching this scene, taking such a guilty pleasure out of Tarantino’s morbidly-brilliant decision to go for broke and show the deaths of all four women. I swear, there should’ve been a camera on my face as I sat in the theater and basked in this for the first time; the open-mouthed amazement must’ve been priceless (I’m sick like that). The special effects-free car chase that closes Death Proof is also a stunner, but my money rests on the vehicular homicide extravaganza.
High Tension’s Chainsaw-Through-Windshield Massacre (2003): This one requires a stretching of “car scene” preconceptions, since there isn’t any actual moving automobile to be seen. Rather, you get a stalled vehicle that’s excessively sprayed with blood in one of the grisliest kills of recent years. Alexandre Aja’s Haute Tension (known as High Tension here in America) pulled in strong business out in France, so Lionsgate Films awarded the damn-good horror flick a miniscule stateside release. Besides myself and about ten other people, though, nobody had a clue, and it suffered an early box office demise. At least they didn’t just remake it. It’s a shame, really, because High Tension is infinitely better and more ghastly than any American-made horror film of the last five years. A lazy, ill-conceived plot twist almost spoils the film, but that’s all forgiven once the final, show-stopping spot of gore kicks in—our killer jumping on the hood of a poor stranger’s shitty car, cutting through the windshield, and slicing the guy’s chest open. Red stuff rains over our heroine, frozen with fear in the backseat. As if only showing her blood-splattered face wasn’t enough to drive the 50-second-long carnage home, Aja then provides a close-up of the blades ripping through flesh. It’s the small details that mean the most.
Pride may not be the real issue here, but there's a certain amount of stock I hold dearly within my fortitude to handle films that "go there." That leave no image of brutality unseen, drop the gauntlet of good taste down fast in order to leave it shattered on the sticky cineplex floor. My stomach is deep, full of room for such harsh visions. So whenever a movie sneak attacks me and leaves me feeling queasy, I have no choice but to stand up and salute. Wave the white flag in the filmmakers' direction. The only time I can recall actually closing my eyes during a scene was when I first saw Inside at Lincoln Center, specifically the infamous-in-these-parts scissors scene at the end. One eye was half open, the other's lid pressed firmly atop the socket, unable to look away. It was a truly harrowing experience.
Steve McQueen
Having just watched Steve McQueen's unbelievably raw Hunger at the IFC Center, I can now shamelessly say that a movie has left me feeling nauseous like I've never felt before, regardless of the setting or my physical/health state. One sequence in particular had this effect, a single take tour-de-force that places the viewer in the midst of some of the fiercest, most inhuman police brutality imaginable. In a TKTK prison in Northern Ireland, back in 1981 (Hunger is based on true events), the British government has imprisoned dozens of Irish "political terrorists" who refuse to obey the Brits' law. The prisoners are on a "no wash" strike, meaning they're all filthy by choice, the walls of their cells caked in hardened, smeared feces. In an effort to enforce their methods with blunt precision, a slew of cops in full armored suits line in a hallway, shields before them and nightsticks in hand. In a bit of ritualistic pounding, they all begin to beat their sticks on the shields. Then, each prisoner is yanked out of their cells, naked, and thrown through the gauntlet of cops, who all take violent swings with their nightsticks as the nude inmate crawls through for survival. Once at the end of the hell-way, each beaten man is violated anally and then left to rot on the floor.
McQueen shoots the scene in one long take, and it's pretty breathtaking. Until this point, Hunger is a rather subdued, controlled film, moving along patiently with little dialogue and plenty of drawn-out in-cell scenes. That's why this police-imposed, one-sided riot is so unnerving. McQueen swoops the camera from prisoner to prisoner throughout the scene, erratic with his hands. Whatever feeling of ease the viewer has had is immediately swallowed up and spit out as if a T-Rex is doing the oral flinging.
I felt the bottom of my throat give out a bit, and the scene wasn't even halfway over. Crazy.
For a first time filmmaker, McQueen achives nothing short of a gargantuan effort with Hunger. Scene after scene, the film is an exhibition of the man's visual gifts. Directly after that aforementioned prison beatdown setpiece, we follow one of the prison's high-ranking officers as he visits his sick mother in a nursing home. It's obviously an attempt to make the viewer sympathize a bit with the mongrels in blue. But then, like the robber who sucker-punches McLovin in Superbad, we're hit with a point-blank execution that I totally didn't see coming. At all. As a result, McQueen had me second guessing his every subsequent move. I was basically the guy's puppet, a plaything that he could trick and blindside however he pleased cinematically.
Fortunately for my senses, the remainder of the film is devoid of random violence. Well, actually, "fortunately" isn't the right word. While never less than stunning, the final act of Hunger is tough to watch without cringing a tad. At this point, our lead, Bobby Sands (played amazingly by Michael Fassbender, who impressed in Eden Lake and will surely impress in Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds; the guy is one to watch), has decided to kick his freedom-fighting into high gear by organizing a hunger strike within the prison, which 74 other inmates agree to. Now, I'm not sure if what we see from here on out is actually Fassbender, or just some incredibly realistic trickery by McQueen and his cohorts. But if you thought Christian Bale looked sickly in The Machinist, you haven't seen a damn thing yet. Fassbender turns into a breathing skeleton, rib-cage sticking out, every other bone excruciatingly visible. Sands lasted 66 days before succumbing to the emaciation, and if dying of hunger is even half as unbearable and painful as seen on Fassbender here, I'm taking my ass to Outback for lunch tomorrow just to make sure I'm well fed. Damn, does it look like almighty hell.
Michael Fassbender, pre-hunger pains
It's films like Hunger that remind me why I'm so infatuated with cinema, which makes it all the more shameful that it's only playing in one theater in this area. Going largely unknown, looked over, outside of film buffs and critics. Something this delicately made, richly acted, and historically significant deserves a chance, so whenever the DVD streets I highly recommend giving it a go. You might toss up your cheeseburger while watching, but there's no doubt in my mind that you'll finish the film feeling floored. Pedal to the emotional metal.
Put it this way: any film that can turn an overlong scene where a guy mops an entire prison hallway into an intensely hypnotic event isn't fucking around.
There's a scene towards the end of Greg Mottola's Adventureland that rampaged my gut harder than I ever expected the film to, and I've been grappling with "why" since I saw this last week.
It's a heartbreaking moment clearly staged with every intention to ring a few tears from the audience, though let's be clear that I didn't cry, at all (I'm a man, dammit! Actually, that defense is moot, since I recently nearly shed some eye water while watching Dear Zachary, thus proving movies can do it to your boy at times). James Brennan, the film's curly-haired, cool customer despite his somewhat dweebish demeanor (played to the nice tee by Jesse Eisenberg), has learned some world-shattering secrets that bring his summer love Em Lewin (Twilight's Kristen Stewart, here proving that she's a solid actress and much more than what that shitty vampire series makes her out to be). Crumbling inside despite his best efforts to hide the exterior pain, James confronts Em on the street in front of her side-guy's house. The scene, lasting no more than a minute, features some wonderful non-verbal emoting by Stewart, her face cringing and contorting in shame and sadness, while Eisenberg rips into her with PG-13-compatible force.
And then it's over, and I was left in a state of sorrowful confusion. As if, I was James, and I was experiencing the first catastrophic heartbreak of my freshly-in-post-college-stage life. A week removed from seeing Adventureland now, I'm pretty sure I know why the scene slugged me as harshly as it did, and the answer lies in Mottola's Superbad follow-up's overall success---how he captures that cliched, rarely executed properly "real life" aesthetic. There's no doubt that Mottola himself (he wrote Adventureland, as well as directed) went through a painfully similar emotion-devastation in his younger years, probably not unlike the scene that plays out between his James and Em characters. Every note rings true. So much good will has been earned for the characters up until this point of collision that watching their blooming love crack is akin to helplessly seeing a best friend go through the relationship ringer. James needs a beer, that you'd gladly buy for him, but that's not a possibility. You're stuck in the theater, and he's trapped in that damaging big screen scene.
On the whole, Adventureland is a pleasant surprise. In no way as hilarious as Superbad, but that's the film's biggest attribute, how it goes for the natural laughs over the sophomoric, sight gag types. How the central romance between James and Em tries with very little effort yet is ultimately better and more believably-plotted than any on-screen romance I've seen in recent times. Sure, the great duo of Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig is totally underused, and that juvenile "Tommy Frigo" friend of James' brings nothing more than obvious "sight gags" that are thankfully minimal but always tone-trivializing. Adventureland isn't without its flaws, and those who fall victim to the "from the guy who brought you Superbad" marketing campaign may leave the film a bit peeved that they weren't served any penis drawings or McLovin-like larger than life characters (though Martin Starr's incredibly awkward "Joel" does try his damndest to be that guy). If you go into the film with an open mind and a a willingness to ride shotgun with Mottola down his memory lane, you'll exit with those warm, fuzzy stomach-knots, reminded of that first or second love and all the ups and downs he/she brought with him/her.
As for that breakup scene in the street, I can't help but be reminded of a certain Senior Year high-school heartache of my own. Mine took place on the phone, while lying on the floor of my bedroom, so it wasn't as publicly vulnerable as that in Adventureland. But it sliced my arteries just as much, if not more, for reasons I'll leave to myself, for now. I'm guessing that those who see the film will have love-less, sucky memory of their own drudged up.
You'll have Greg Mottola, Kristen Stewart, and Jesse Eisenberg to thank for that therapy bill.
Whether this is the first official teaser poster or just some other form of slick early marketing for the film is inconsequential, honestly. All that matters is that this first look at Shutter Island (the upcoming Martin Scorcese-directed, Leonardo Dicaprio-starring adaptation of Dennis Lehane's amazing book) is fucking awesome. Proves that Scorcese and company are maintaining the book's permeating creep factor, which gives me those damn butterflies inside.
Yeah, Inglourious Basterds has definitely slid down to my number two Must See Film of '09.
***The folks at JoBlo (where this pic was initially seen by yours truly) made a point to reference Session 9, so being the massive loyalist to that film that I am, it's only right that I also call it out. Shutter Island really doesn't have much in common with Session 9, but their similar insane asylum settings is worth pointing out. Also worth pointing out that if you haven't seen Session 9 yet you should march your little ass down to Blockbuster or on to Netflix and remedy that. JoBlo calls it "grossly underrated," and they're not just blowing smoke.
It was only a matter of time, really. The most quotable movie ever (Anchorman) pilfered by the ever-unimaginative music industry. I'm sure a few rappers have paraphrased our boy Ron Burgundy before (I just can't recall any specific lyrics off top), but never in this way.
Sad part is, I'm not mad at this song. Has "smash" exuding from its mp3 file. A bit too close in tone to "Bust It Baby," but still works.
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