Category Archives: Movies
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
I enjoy the Terminator franchise. Alright, “Rise of the Machines” left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could stand it. Many a person via comments section, blog, or pointless water cooler discussion wax philosophical about the Terminator Universe. How many possible timelines are there? What was the Catherine Weaver T-1000 planning? If Kyle Reese dies after Judgement Day would it really matter? Would John Connor cease to exist or would that timeline just play out? I don’t care a bloody bit about any of these questions. I just want to know why the bloody hell John Connor insists on making the same shit mistakes. Isn’t he paying attention?
I am not really complaining about the versions of John Connor in the first three movies or in the television series. Those incarnations seem to have their collective shit together. Well, the John Connor of T3 was a whiny little bitch. I would embrace genocide if he were the only hope for mankind.
The worse offender is the John Connor of “Terminator Salvation.” Wait. Stop right there. Don’t complain that I’m late to the party with this one. Yes, the film came out an eon ago. It’s been playing non-stop on the premium channels. So keep your smart ass comments about my timeliness to yourselves.
Seeing it so many times got me to thinking that this John Connor is not a man groomed his entire life to lead the human resistance against the holocaust-happy machines. This bloke has seen, fought, and been pursued by these rampaging killbots before. So why the screaming fuck does he act like this is his first rodeo? Things like:
If one thing has been hammered into our heads repeatedly, it’s that the terminators don’t sweat small arms fire. Shotgun blasts? Sure, it will damage their pretty faces, but it won’t really phase them. What about rifles or machine guns? It depends on the calibre. It’s painfully obvious that your basic beer can shooting rifle isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss the metal harbinger of death off. Something attached to the side of a military-grade aircraft will do the trick. We know this. The terminators know it. Why does JC keep forgetting?
In the first few scenes of T4 we see John-John crawling out of an over-turned Huey. Then, WHAMO; a T-600 (or T-700; it’s all a little dodgy) with its legs blown off starts throwing him around. What’s the first thing Johnny does? He shoots it in the bloody head with a wimpy pistol. Seriously? You essentially grew up with virtually indestructible man-shaped machines and you still pull this bollocks? Someone didn’t pay attention during terminator school.
The Savior of Mankind tries it again toward the end of the film. He kicks his firearm up a notch to a relatively small calibre automatic rifle… expecting different results? Or, did he just say “sod it,” and figure he needed to use the ammunition anyway. Waste not want not. The little woman back home may be cross if Johnny Cakes comes home with leftovers.
2. He keeps trying to hit, smack, and punch the terminators
Right, then. This makes even less sense than #1. Toward the end of the film, after the prototype T-800 bursts from the cell and wreaks all sorts of havoc upon Connor’s person, an unbelievable thing occurs. He bitch slaps the CGI Arnold with the butt of his rifle. Isn’t this the equivalent of punching your concrete floor? At what point during his life did he learn that the Achilles Heal of the murder-death-kill bot was a stiff slap to the face? Was that a deleted scene in the second film?
With all that God-like knowledge J-to-the-C has about… well… everything, you would think he would remember this basic principle. Sissy-slapping the machines only makes your inevitable beat-down more pathetic. I’m not saying that he should just lie there and accept that his skull is about to be crushed like a peanut shell underneath Herman Goering’s patent leather jackboot, mind you. It’s just that this method of defense is slightly less effective than launching a barrage of “Yo Mama” jokes.
3. EVERYTHING is a trap
Is your young-adult father on a SkyNet kill list? Has a bloke who’s really a prototype infiltration unit shown up out of nowhere to help? Resistance Command hand you a foolproof plan to turn off the machines? Congratulations! You’re about to be buggered. You don’t need to be Admiral Akbar to realize it’s a trap.
Everything‘s a trap. JC knows this. Mama Connor told him via outdated audio cassette tape. The machines are cold, calculating sods. Come on, Johnny Appleseed! You’ve been fooled a few times before. Remember your injured mom calling out for your help in the smelting plant? TRAP. Remember the T-850 in “Rise of the Machines” telling you it was able to get close and kill you because of your emotional attachment to the model? TRAP. This isn’t news, John-a-ling-a-ling. What are the odds of a SkyNet built and programmed machine practically delivered to your door is going to help you rescue your pop without it being a trap? So what are you supposed to do? “He has to save his father or he’ll never be.” Firstly we don’t really know that. That’s using “Back to the Future” temporal math. If you use Star Trek Mirror Universe math, killing off dada while Connor is an adult may not effect things at all. JC already exists. There’s nothing written in stone that he HAS to send pops repeatedly back in time to protect and bump uglies with mother. For fuck’s sake, he already knows all the bloody moves the machines are going to make.
But, I suppose if you want to play it safe Connor-mania could launch an all out search mission for daddy, then lock him in a closet for ten years. Here’s an idea, call for him during one of your fireside chats. Tell him to meet you at the burned out Starbucks. Too risky? Well you know he lives in Los Angeles. There are three people left in that burned out husk of a city. Kyle isn’t going to be hard to find.
4. If you can’t blow the bloody thing up, just run
As I covered in #1, anything short of a 80 calibre or a Howitzer isn’t really going to do jack. Sure, it may make you feel like you’re accomplishing something, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just wasting everyone’s time.
Here comes mechanized death. You have an axe, lead pipe, and nunchucks. What do you do?
A: Break out your finest Bruce Lee moves.
B: Smack its head around with the lead pipe and hope it gets dizzy and has to lie down.
C: Use the axe to smash your way through the door and get the hell out of there.
If you chose anything but C, you are destined to die a horrible, painful death. It makes as much sense as starting a fight with a motorcycle club armed with a juice box and fuzzy dice while wearing ONLY a speedo.
Run! Don’t think. Just run. Unless you have a portable rocket launcher and/or a small thermonuclear device, just beat cheeks out of there. There’s no shame in it. You’re a pansy if you run away from a bee. You’re just being realistic when running away from a soulless killing machine that wants to rip out your spine.
Running away from this = PUSSY
Running away from this = SENSIBLE
IF there’s a sequel to “Salvation” I do hope they put together some sort of Idiot’s Guide for fighting terminators and other machines that want you dead. These little facts are like the laws of physics. They do not change. They cannot be changed. You look like an asshole attempting to change them.
Fame does some pretty strange things to your head. Look at Madonna, for example. She was the definition of popular music and made being a “material girl” acceptable. Now, she speaks with a faux British accent, aggressively adopts/shanghais African children, and became an out and out caricature of herself. Not in a funny way like Charlie Sheen or Steven Seagal. In a tragic, sad way like Drew Carey.
We miss you, Mel. Remember all the good times we had? Mad Max? Thunderdome? Lethal Weapon 1-3? We stuck by you in your low points; Dying Young, What Women Want, Maverick. That’s because we knew you were going to bounce back and give us something like Payback or Ransom or We Were Soldiers. So, we got Signs. I mean, it was OK, for a Shamalan flick. It could have been 45 minutes shorter and the antagonists probably shouldn’t have been able to be killed with water (how much of the surface of the Earth is water, again? That’s just poor planning). But, that wasn’t your fault, Mel.
Everyone has the right to go nuts once in a while. Shit, Russel Crow still has a career. The key is to bounce back long enough for your fans to be able to defend you. OK, Russel Crow threw a cell phone at someone and punched a few dozen people in the face. But, he was in Gladiator and…. come to think on it, that’s really the only Russel Crow movie I liked. A Beautiful Mind? Come on! Who hasn’t had a university professor that wasn’t completely batshit nuts?
But, I digress. The world loves its eccentric actors. The world loves impossibly tanned douche bags from New Jersey. They all know their boundaries, though. Sure, Alec Baldwin verbally abused his daughter in voice mail. The public is willing to let that go, because he’s on 30 Rock. That and was only one recording lasting only a few minutes.
I’m not sure when it all went downhill for you, Melvin. Some say it was The Passion of the Christ. I wouldn’t. It was an interpretation of a story four books of the Bible told in different ways that WAAAY too many people took too seriously. Both the devout and cynical spent too much time dissecting the damn film and making it fit their personal views. After several months of this shit, I just wanted everyone to shut the hell up. No one was outraged by The Hottie and the Nottie and that was an outright punch to the collective nuts of humanity by Satan.
It didn’t take a cinema expert to figure out that you were working through some major issues while filming Passion. Maybe you were having a crisis of faith. If Michael Moore can use movies to make an attempt to choke people with the fat of his opinions, why not you? It was therapeutic; I get that. But, this seems to have been the last vestige of your sanity. After making an opus for such a personal subject AND raking in almost $612 million bucks, I’d probably call it a day and swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck.
Then the other shoe dropped, Melbert. A story started to circulate about your drunken, antisemitic rampage. What? No way! After making a blockbuster movie centering around the most famous and arguably most revered JEW in history you start cracking wise about the Jewish community? At least you waited until after the flick already made the rounds in theatres. That would have been shitty PR, otherwise.
This was utterly baffling to your fans. But, after some thought, we chalked it up to drinking sour mash on an empty stomach and crippling emotional issues. Who among us hasn’t gotten shit faced and launched into a racist tirade? It might as well be part of the warning on the label.
- According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.
- Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.
- Consumption of alcohol may induce a flood of racist remarks that TMZ will immediately broadcast the next day.
Surely, this was the sign of a very troubled man. We wanted you to get help. We took pity. For God’s sake, David Hasselhoff managed to maintain (and increase) his following after his “eat the burger off the bathroom floor” booze fueled escapade.
We were bummed, but at least you haven’t sunken to the Andy Dick level of drunken dipshittery.
HA HA! Oh, Andy. He may have indirectly caused the murder of Phil Hartman, you know.
Things seemed to die down. We thought you were getting the help you needed. You know, before you made a smoking crater where your career and reputation were. Ah, shit.
Now, I won’t bother recanting every action packed, domestic violence chalked, racist soliloquy. But, in case someone has cut themselves off from society for decades and just now decided it was time to catch up on all the celebrity gossip, this article in the Guardian will fill them in. Why, Mel, why? Didn’t Nixon teach you anything? NEVER put yourself in a situation where you could risk being recorded.
According to this expert who has been involved in the super sophisticated career of creative forensics and crime busting, there is a good possibility that your soon-to-be ex-wife doctored those tapes . They were just too perfect. In a nutshell, the audio is just too clear and you can almost hear the editing in some of the clips. Let’s be realistic. If I can pick these anomalies out, then actual professionals must be having a field day with them. She wants a payday. So that’s something, isn’t it, Mel?
Yes, it’s something, but just not enough. Even if what’s-her-face had a team of recording engineers at MIT split and re-mix the calls, the indisputable fact is that those are your words, Mel. That was your voice pushing racial and sexist epithets like a crack dealer on third graders at a playground. The finished product may be just that; a product. But, the content is 100% Mel. We want to help you. We’ll do what it takes. Chamomile tea? A five year stint at Betty Ford? Shock therapy? Lobotomy? Everything’s on the table. We just want our quirky Mel back.
Above it all, that funny, cheeky, action star we see above was oh, so charitable. You and Glover were the stars, but you let another sweep us off our feet. We have never been the same since.
Is any of this getting through to you, Mel? You’re a step away from Gary Busey level insanity. You can still turn it around; drop out of the public eye for a few years, then come back better and stronger than ever! Look what that plan has done for John Travolta. The John Travolta Pulp Fiction and Face/Off era that is. The rest of it is just a shame filled diaper that Hollywood occasionally shoves in our faces.
Okay, Travolta isn’t a very good example these days. Stallone! Yeah! Sylvester Stallone! He did it, Mel. Granted he was just accused of popping human growth hormones like Tic Tacs, not of threatening to bury his woman in a rose garden. However, Stallone dropped off the face of the Earth for years, came back, for some reason made Get Carter, ran away, then rocked us all with Rocky Balboa. Sure, he struggled with the most recent Rambo atrocity, but he bounced back and made The Expendables. Sly managed to get the world to forget about Cop Land by uniting the single most badass group of 80’s and 90’s action superstars. No, there are no recording of Stallone dropping the N bomb or hexing someone with gang rape, but he has struggled against the handicap of having Frank Stallone as a brother.
Mel, we love you. You’ve just taken a bad turn. Well, a bad series of turns. I guess it’s safe to say you’ve crashed the car, set it on fire, then ran face first into a brick wall yelling racial slurs. But for logic defying reasons, you keep getting back up and launching yourself back into the brick wall. I guess I’m asking that you take a breather, invest in some seriously aggressive therapy, and STOP slamming yourself into that goddamn wall. One of these times you’re going to collide with it so hard you’ll open a rift in the space-time continuum and obliterate Mad Max and Martin Riggs. At this point, Mel, they’re all you’ve got.
Every few years, Hollywood comes out with a new fad based on decades old technology. New sounds, special features, inventing a media format, then making it obsolete by inventing another one the next year. Blu-Ray can suck sweaty shaft!
Perhaps, the flavour of the year is movies in 3D. It supposedly “enhances” the movie watching experience. The only enhancements I want at the theatre is butter substitute MIXED throughout my popcorn (enough of this dumping it on the top shit) and a means to silence bullshit slack asses who pull wondertardery during the film. You know those fuckers. They text each other, don’t turn their cells off, and conduct loud ass conversations as the movie progresses. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe each seat is over a trap door. Once a douche bag starts cracking wise, the seat falls into some sub- basement where all of his kind are trapped. Forever. I’m envisioning a room that looks like the sub-basement bathroom from Saw.
Some of you may not be old enough to remember when black and white movies with sound were state-of-the-art. I don’t. How old do you think I am? Well, when the glorious break through of COLOR came into the picture, movies were more vibrant, which allowed for more creativity. Then, some douche bag (Ted Turner, maybe) thought it would be a great idea to colorize everything that has ever graced the silver screen. Well, not everything. I’m relatively sure “Birth of a Nation” is still in black and white. Come t think of it… that’s sort of funny. The KKK can either stick with the current version they show at bake sales and club sheet washing day and be forced to live with a BLACK and white film. See how black is all up in the craka’s face? The alternative is to colorize it. That’s right, COLORIZE; adding COLOR to the klan. Can’t a person get killed for bringing color to the group?
In the past year or so, movie directors and a large segment of movie nerds have been pissing in their pants over 3D movies. Oooooooooooo! 3D! People are convinced that it adds depth and dimension to the film. We’ve got news for you; if a movie’s plot sucks complete and utter sweaty platypus scrotum making it all pretty in three dimensions and whatnot isn’t going to make it any better. For fuck’s sake, Jaws 3 was in 3D and that piece of shit all but caused eye cancer. The only thing that made it bearable was the cinema viewing atrocity that followed it and subsequently killed the franchise.
OK, so adding a third dimension is supposed to add “something” to the experience. This shit really started picking up after Avatar stomped a mud hole in everyone’s ass. Blue cats! Now there’s rumor of George “piss all over the original Star Wars movies” Lucas is contemplating the re-working and re-release of the first three Star Wars movies (episodes 4-6 for the retarded) in 3D. Whooooohooooo! Now we get to see Greedo shoot first in 3D! Maybe they’re right and a third dimension will add another layer to the films. Another layer of suck, that is.
No matter how hard you try, most movies won’t be any better with an added third dimension. Some of them may even be worse. Don’t believe me? Well, how about:
1. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)
Few movies exemplify suck as well as The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Here was a Bill Murray vehicle that was advertised as a quirky, ironic, and funny film. I fell for it. Lots of people did. Instead of quirky, ironic, and funny you got low grade version of Yellow Submarine , a baffling role for Jeff Goldblum, and Owen Wilson’s bullshit.
The only thing that could possibly make this theatrical barf bag worse would be if some smart ass with too much time on his hands turned it into a 3D shit sandwich. Why, with 3D you can see the indifference and trippy kindergarten art leap off the screen. The “action” scenes (read: horrible play acting) would slap the audience in the face with red hot mediocrity! When I say “audience” I mean that one guy asleep in the back of the theatre. Nevermind, don’t wake him. It’s best if has no memory of this pile of monkey spank.
2. Kazaam (1996)
If we, as a society, ever lost the words, “shit” and “abortion” Kazaam could go to bat for both. It is both a pile of fly drawing shit and a cinematic abortion the likes rarely seen since the beginning of film. If you’ve read any of the FWTC articles, you know that we like formulas. They just seem to put everything in perspective. Our scientists worked hard and came up with this mind-blowing, award-winning formula for you.
Shaq + complete inability to act + no-name cast + magic boom box – any semblance of talent
A film not even the Nazis would use on prisoners
So what is there, exactly, to 3D? Is Shaq the kind of person we want to add a third dimension to? If you said yes, I want you to bean yourself in the head with a shoe. Right now. NO! If anything, this piece of camel dung needs a dimension taken away. This bastard needs to be downgraded to 1D. That can be done, right?
If only Kazaam was this good.
3. Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966)
Servo and Crow start losing it at the 5:50 mark.
4 Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot (1992)
If you’re too young to remember this movie, considered yourself blessed. You see, about 100 years ago, there was an action star named Sylvester Stallone. Fuck it. Rocky. Remember Rocky? He was the slightly functionally retarded boxer from Philadelphia. He both lost and won to the best name any boxer, fake or real, could ever have. Apollo Creed. Damn it, why can’t that be someone’s real name? It’s completely wasted in today’s society. Before you spout that little ice skating douche, Apollo Ono, I urge you to shut the fuck up. I’m not going to the trouble of repeating myself on this issue. Re-read, A Canadian on the 2010 Winter Olympics: AKA Televised Suck.
All that is beside the point. This was a “star vehicle” capitalizing on Stallone’s ever fleeting stardom and Estelle Getty’s, um… Golden Girls fame? That doesn’t sound right. Who the hell came up with this idea? Pairing an action star with one of the Golden Girls. Alright, I can definitely see Bea Arthur in an action movie; considering she had bigger balls than Stallone. In fact, why wasn’t that a movie? Now, I’m pretty pissed. That would have rocked hard! Damn it! I just high-fived my computer monitor due to the sheer awesomeness this movie would have created.
5. The Piano (1993)
The Piano is a chick flick that made me want to drill a hole in my head, but that’s not why it’s on the list. Stated plainly, no one wants to see Harvey Keitel’s junk in 3D.
6. Battlefield Earth (2000)
I don’t even know where to fucking begin with this genocide of a movie. Battlefield Earth was a Scientology suck-fest created to be a cinematic circle jerk for the followers of the all mighty L. Ron Hubbard. Shit, that just probably got FWTC and me on some sort of international Scientology hit list. That sort of shit has happened before.
They might have to invent a 4th dimension for this movie to suck any less. I’m not even sure what the hell that is. With our luck, it will involve smell. Nothing propels a shitty cult movie to stardom like being able to actually smell Barry Pepper’s pit stink. A 3D image of a rotund Forrest Whitaker isn’t going to do this film any favours. Moses smell the roses! I’m pretty sure this tard-a-thon is classified as illegal by the Geneva Convention.
6. I Know Who Killed Me (2007)
There used to be a time when Lindsay Lohan was hot. Think about it. When she was in Mean Girls she was supremely bangrastic. [I can say that, she was 18 when this movie was filmed. Therefore, that statement wasn’t creepy at all]
Then, I Know Who Killed Me was released. What the fuck happened? No, the change wasn’t gradual, but I expected some sort of movie magic to revert her to her former, hotter, healthier self. CGI that fucker! Nope. What we saw on the screen was a half step away from the Lindsay Lohan tabloid crotch shot or mug shot of the week.
Shit, I think I’m changing my mind. Maybe producing this in 3D would help. Not for the entire movie, but just the stripper pole scenes. With the sound muted. And all the non stripper scenes cut.
7. The Hottie and the Nottie (2008)
NO! Fuck this! I refuse to write anything remotely connected to Paris Hilton. This is bullshit! This article is over!
I guess humans, as a species, have a predilection to do things that do harm unto themselves. Smoking, drugs, bull riding, and shopping cart jousting are but a few examples of this biological programming.
I bet you thought I was making this shit up.
I, too, suffer from the sucktitude that is our self destructive DNA. Sure, I’ve done all the shit I listed above, but none of that compares to what I found myself doing a few nights ago. It’s something I’m not proud of. It’s something a girl would never let her parents discover. Porn? No, dude I wish! I’d be the fucking porn queen of the Pacific Northwest! But, only the classy shit. None of that cable guy coming by to tighten my connection bullshit. Movies with real plot and soul. Movies that explore the depths of the characters’ being before the 30 minute long fuckapalooza. My porn would be so good, it would go mainstream. 100 years from now, the Academy will still be talking about that Irish porn star who won every Oscar that record setting night. Somehow, I would have gotten the award for best foreign film. It doesn’t matter how! Point is my shit would sweep the Academy awards and, probably, the Emmys.
Where the fuck was I going with this? Oh yea. I found myself doing something the other night I wasn’t proud of. There I was, on the couch, in the dark… watching Con Air. I’m sorry Mom and Pop! Your little girl is ashamed. Despite all you taught her as a child, she still lost her way and drifted into the shameful life of watching a movie with Nicholas Cage, John Malkovich, John Cusack, Ving Rhames, Steve Buscemi, Chief O’Brien from Next Gen/DS9, and Danny Trejo. Danny motherfucking Trejo!
I was channel surfing around 2 in the morning. Going through the channel guide aimlessly, I saw that Con Air was being played AGAIN. For reasons unknown, one of the premium movie channels has had a Con Air hard on for a month. The bastard is on no less than twice a day. I joke about it. I make fun of it when I notice it’s on. But, before I knew it, I was pressing “ENTER” on the remote to watch it.
I figured I would just watch it while I continued to scroll through the program guide. Scroll, scroll, scroll… holy monkey fuck! There’s nothing on! It’s been so long since I’ve seen this movie. Hey, the entire first act is complete shit. Why am I watching a movie as lifeless as the eyes of a bored stripper?
I forgot that, in order to get to the more important story lines, Jerry Bruckheimer raced through the entire set up. One minute Cage is wearing an Army uniform , sporting a receding hairline with short hair. The next minute he’s wearing a wife beater, sporting a receding hairline with long hair. I’m going to let the whole muddled, ear rape of a Southern accent thing Cage has going on pass. It was as annoying as sand in your ass crack, but if Keanu Reeves got away with his shit-tasticly horrific “British” accent in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Cage can slide on this one.
With a case of Samuel Jackson.
I can’t tell you exactly why I was stuck in the Con Air tractor beam. It’s like a traffic accident, except you rubber-neck for an hour and a half. Maybe it’s more like 2 Girls 1 Cup. The whole thing is bile swallowing terrible, but you can’t stop watching it. And you can’t help but make others watch it with you.
Part of the magic of movies is to make you care about the characters. We want Sherlock Holmes to foil the dastardly plot while managing his own batshit crazy personality. For the first time in my relatively short history as a human being, I cared about Will Ferrell. OK, that’s exaggerating a bit. I cared for Harold Crick in Stranger Than Fiction. When I watched Patriot Games I felt for the characters, deeply. OK, I sympathized with the IRA in the movie. Does it matter? The point is that I was under the movie’s spell to feel for these people. Does the movie magic work for Con Air? Magic 8 Ball, guide us in our quest for truth.
I don’t give a three year old yak shit about anyone in this movie. I’m not emotionally invested in this heaping pile of angry stereotypes. Well, maybe the plane. That poor thing didn’t as for this. It didn’t ask to be the sound stage of a movie only drunk people at 2 in the morning watch. What? Yeah, I was drunk too. You gotta issue with that? I was drunk and on the couch watching Con Air in my undies. You have a fucking problem with that?
Back to the point, I felt sorry for the plane. It sat there while cinematic gems, like these, were vomited out in front of the camera.
Run this segment at random. Go ahead. Fast forward, hit play, whatever. The fucker is 10 minutes long. I guarantee that each and every word the actors spat at each other caused rivets to pop from the plane. By the end, if you look closely, the C-123 was praying for death. Each time Ving pushed out a monotone “Grrrrr grumble grumble” the plane would cut its proverbial wrists just a little deeper. Shit, not to mention all the paint peeling body odor and, what would later be know as, the leaky bean farts of 97. I’m so sorry plane.
Then, for some reason known only to the functionally retarded kid making script changes, the characters of DEA agent Duncan Malloy has an unprovoked, misplaced, tacked on loathing for US Marshal Vince Larkin. There’s no rhyme or reason for it. As soon as they meet, Chief O’Brein starts shitting all over Martin Q. Blank from Grosse Pointe Blank. Why? Did Larkin sleep with Malloy’s wife? Are they childhood chums gone bad? Someone tell us that there is more to this dynamic than random chest beating cock waving!
Nope. There’s nothing deeper.
And then there’s the whole bunny scene. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be funny or ironic. Maybe it was supposed to break up the colon clenching action. No, I’m pretty sure some fucker just tacked it on as a joke and no one noticed until the screening. I’m also pretty positive that killing people over a child’s toy is common place during the holiday shopping season.
Still, somehow Cage manages to take this “funny” scene and give it the Hershey squirts.
At this point in the movie, I was pretty pissed at myself for watching it. What the fuck is wrong with me? Jumping Irish Jesus now Cage is under a truck talking to himself? Exactly how the fuck did a dozen or so prisoners pull a full sized C-123 out of the sand? Does being shirtless help?
Oh, yeah. Then Cage does the whole “I’m running from an explosion and flip through the air in a way that gives physics the finger” thing.
Because, as we all learned in school, fire is slow and can be easily outrun.
Somewhere between when Chief O’Brein’s car being destroyed and the mid-air fire fight, I just accepted it. I was watching Con Air. It’s too late now. I can’t turn the channel, I have too much invested in it. I have to see it through. I have to see every last fudge sacking second, now. Besides, this movie makes menstrual cramps feel awesome in comparison.
Yippie! The plane crashed and people die. Someone or another gets cut in half by an engine prop blade, someone else, I don’t know, gets killed in some way. I guess the lamest part was when Nick Cage and John CuSACK jump on police motorcycles and give each other a “let’s get ’em” look.
Awwww. They even finish each other’s sentences.
So, in the end, the bad guys are punished, destroying the Las Vegas strip is completely OK, and Nick Cage gives his on screen daughter a soggy, dirty stuffed bunny. Way to go, Poe. You gave the daughter you’ve never met typhoid.
I blame myself. I was drunk enough to get trapped into watching this movie, but not drunk enough to forget about it. At least it wasn’t Short Circuit 2 this time.
Jesus. This is like the third week in a row I’ve been the author of a FWTC article. Is it because I am just that damn good? Or is it because the other three columnists are lazy fucknuts hazing the new kid? Guess which one I think.
·Something like this, except no where near as hot. Suddenly I’m all tingly.
I’ve noticed that Jeremy Piven is all the rage these days. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. He was an absolute genius in PCU! I love that friggin movie almost to a fault. Alright, I was 10 when it came out. But, it made me laugh then and it makes me laugh now. What red blooded American college student didn’t want to be Piven’s character, Droz? Shit, I know a couple of real life Drozs who wore the fact that they had three sophomore years like a badge of honor. No, like a FUCKING badge of honor. I could never get it right. I kept passing my courses and wanting to get the fuck of out Dodge. The rampant keggers, sorority tickle fightes, casual sex, and occasional coke parties got in the way of my Droz emulation. Although, I did share certain traits with my film college hero.
Shit, now all I can think of is sorority girls in tight little tops and ridiculously short skirts. Where was I?
Was it about this? Hot blondes in football jerseys in the snap position?
… maybe it was a bunch of sorority girls in nighties?
No one rocks a plain green tee like Droz.. NO ONE!
I’m sorry. I digressed the proverbial shit-ton. Piven was the Superman of understated funny. Even his cameo in Singles stole the show. I remember being all like “Holy shit! That’s the dude from PCU!” Then, just as quickly as he came his bit part faded away like the career of Hootie and the Blowfish.
The dude was hilarious. Yeah, he tended to play the same character: PCU-> Singles-> Judgment Night (got his ass thrown off a roof, though… which was a new direction for him). But, it worked. The sarcasm, the dry wit, the male pattern baldness. It all worked. Here’s another formula for you:
I’d tap that ass.
No. I mean this Ellen.
Then Smokin’ Aces came out. We were all the victims of TV commercial fraud. It looked like it could be an American version of Snatch. Oh, why wasn’t it an American Version of Snatch? Instead, it was a heaping turd of a movie that left you with that “Why the fuck did I spend money on this instead of porn” look on your face. It was bad. This isn’t just personal opinion. The iron clad Internet proof (contradiction in terms?) can bee seen on Rotten Tomatoeswhere it has all the freshness of a decomposing corpse. What’s the general consensus of the learned reviewers about this used tampon of a movie?
Consensus: A violent mess of a movie, Smokin’ Aces has some Quentin Tarantino’s style but not much of his wit or humor.
Translation: Ben Affleck can turn any movie into a cinematic Kristallnacht.What else needs to be said about such a motion picture abortion whose prequel is going straight to DVD?
So what? Piven had ample help from a cast of cooche napkins to torpedo this movie. It’s more than that. I’ve noticed a trend. I’m sure you have too. What’s different about Piven these days? Other than the fact that he lost the funny. But, why?
In a reverse Samson and Delliah, Piven’s power weakens with the “growth” of hair. I’m guessing his funny strength is solar powered via storage cells in his scalp. The more hair he… um… grows, the less fuel his funny battery receives.
There’s more. Much more. Piven has gotten buff. Hey, I get just as wet as the next girl for a hard bodied hunk with a six pack (of Guinness), but, there’s something so… off about it. It looks forced. He was never a fat load, but he wasn’t Carrot Top jacked either. Look, all I’m saying if you’re going to pose for a Men’s Fitness cover with a cocky “I went from not to hot” smirk, some things have to be sacrificed.
*Sigh* I miss Droz.
For instance, sometimes in order to sport a new… well new hair… and hire a personal trainer funny gets replaced with douchy. Somewhere along the line he lost his roots. I’m not saying I don’t like him now. I just liked the old Jeremy Piven a lot more. You know, the funny one. Ever since Entourage, Piven has buried Droz deeper and deeper in designer hair piece hell. He’s become Ari Gold. I fucking hate Ari Gold. I’m sorry, I know there are kajillions of Entourage fans out there, but I just can’t get into it. I’ve had law classes that were more entertaining. Sue me. It’s television aids.
I don’t know if we’ll ever see Droz again. I hope. I pray. Just one more time. I miss him. We all miss him. That’s Okay. I’ll keep the fire burning, the champagne chilled, and my edible panties warmed up for you, Droz, in case you ever come back to me.
I wonder if he ever hears Droz screaming from the inside.
Oh, what the hell. One more pic of hotties I’d totally give a tongue bath to:
They say first impressions are ever lasting. The first time we see a kick ass, no nonsense, kill the bad guy, and save the world/empire/children/universe uber hero it leaves a fist print in our simple brains. We want to cheer. Men leave the theater juiced up and ready to get into drunken brawls, just because the movie’s hero tripled the amount of testosterone in our systems. Put simply, men get a violence boner from movies like Commando, Die Hard, and Blood Sport. We love the stars. OK, some don’t have a strong grasp on the English language. And it’s a sure bet few of them will be called to perform in Hamlet. But, man, we don’t care. They are just plain, unadulterated AWESOME!
But, what if after churning out a bunch of testosterone filled action flicks, the action hero we’ve looked up to so faithfully pulls a fast one on us? The first few times we see him it’s in ninety minutes of blood soaked explosion filled goodness. But the rules change. Whether it’s due to the need to show “range” or simply to be able to pay for their weekly hookers, a few action stars stab us loyal fans in the eyeball and do the unthinkable. They star in a scrotum shriveling comedy or (worse yet) a sappy, vomit educing, ovarian swelling chick flick. From experience, we know it feels like getting punched in the nuts.
I think it’s safe to assume that the first time most of us were introduced to Vin Diesel was in Saving Private Ryan. No, his part wasn’t super bad ass, but he had a gun and killed Nazis. That’s pretty much every young boy’s dream. Isn’t it? Wow. Awkward…..
Vin (not short for Vehicle Identification Number) started popping up in low plot, high action movies like Pitch Black and The Chronicles of Riddick. Neither had a story line that made a ton of sense, but Diesel managed to pile up the bodies and use the same gruff tone of voice in every scene. That’s really all we ask for. Then he moved onto The Fast and the Furious. It had something to do with cars or thievery, or algae.. shit, I don’t know. But, there were a ton of fist fights, explosions and gunfire. XXX gave us, the U.S. action movie aficionado a poor man’s James Bond. Again, not a bit of believable or plausible plot, but lots of things went boom. And there were lots of barely clothed women. That always counts for something.
His Crime: The Pacifier
What the fuck happened here? Someone took our monotone senseless killing machine and put him in a shit eating Disney movie. We went from Riddick, slaughterer of eyeless flying monsters, to diaper changing wuss pansy. One minute he’s racing cars and punching the shit out of pseudo Russian mobsters. The next, he’s chasing around rugrats with goofy comedic music in the background. We call that role castration.
Chances of Recovery: Good
He hasn’t done another Disney movie since and, to our knowledge, he’s never done a chick flick. In fact, he somehow managed to squeeze another Fast and Furious installment into the franchise. I think we’re willing to give him another chance. But, that diaper shit smell doesn’t wash off so easily. He could fall plunge into the depths of straight to DVD releases if he’s not careful. Right, Jean-Claude Van Damme?
2: Hugh Jackman
This man needs no filmography recap. He’s fucking Wolverine! If we formed an international committee to define all the qualities an actor needs to possess to play our favorite feral, claw wielding maniac, Jackman would be at the top of the list in gigantic bold letters. Shit, he’s perfect. True, he’s taller than the actual character. But, come on, how many action stars out there can take and give spectacular beatings on screen and be just 5 feet 4 inches? Only fat pant loads who still live in their mother’s basement will obsess over this and every other friggin detail that didn’t make the transition from the comic to the film series. The rest of us are fine with the discrepancies. Oh yea, and we get laid.
Yes, he had some sort of film career in Australia. Who really gives two shits? It’s Australia. I defy you to name five movies he was in at that point in his career. Now do it without checking out Google. HA! You can’t do it! That’s what I thought. Fucking Australia. It was a prison colony, you know.
It wasn’t Sabertooth or Magneto that killed Wolverine. It was Hugh Jackman. I don’t know what passes as good action cinema in Australia, but here in the good ‘ol US of A we want our action stars killing, maiming, and growling incoherently. Watching Hugh tear through his enemies with Wolverine’s claws in the X-Men franchise makes us feel warm and fuzzy inside. But, oh no; he had to fucking ruin it with a romantic comedy almost right out of the gate. Why, Hugh, why? Ovaries across America buzzed as he filled the big screen with the brain hemorrhage that is Kate & Leopold. There shouldn’t be a soft side to an action star. Kill, mother fucker, kill! My God, man, you can’t go from spine crushing action to a fucking romance flick with Ashley Judd! It both confuses and enrages us. Especially now that he’s staring in the remake of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Carousel in 2010. Why don’t you just do a pirouette on our testicles?
The worst offense to the action hero community was, WITHOUT A SHADOW OF A DOUBT, that eye cancer at the 2008 Academy Awards. A part of us died inside that night. Hardcore action fans everywhere asked “Why is Wolverine singing and dancing?” It floods our nightmares to this day. The tuxedo, the prancing, the sheer horror of seeing him use jazz hands. It’s our Vietnam, man.
I still haven’t seen X-Men Origins: Wolverine yet. Jackman has traumatized me too much. The possibility of Wolverine breaking out into dance and song during a fight scene is just too great. Seeing the man who portrayed a comic icon strutting on stage and twirling around like a show tune singing ballerina puts a little extra umf in the punch.
Chances of Recovery: Good
Despite the atrocities Jackman has committed, the action fans will still flock to his movies. True, Van Helsing was on the retarded side, but Kate Beckinsale’s eye candy factor made it acceptable. He’s just too good of a Wolverine to miss. Still, the twirling….. the twirling…. the horror.
3: Gerard Butler
Gerard Butler must have had some movie roles before the face punching awesomeness that is 300. A quick look on Wikipedia confirms this. But, who cares? Anything that he did before 300 really doesn’t count. His status of brutal action hero was forged against a blue screen with a fuck load of Persians added in post production. He OWNED, the portrayal of Spartan King, Leonidas. He yelled at the top of his lungs, chucked people down a well, impaled soldier after soldier, and chopped off more heads than the French Revolution. He could not be stopped! And, as if he needed to further prove his raw manliness, he rocked Lena Heady’s world before he went out to certain death. He bitch slapped the politicians and gave Xeres a migraine the size of The Persian Empire. In short, he had balls the size of hot air balloons.
For our sake, we’ll ignore the homoerotic subtext that some say the film exuded. A bunch of shirtless men wearing banana hammocks is a disturbing thought. to many That shit keeps me off the beach (as well as my utter hatred for sand, sun, and people). But, give them spears, swords, shields, and an unquenchable thirst for blood, we can let it go. OK? Let that shit go NOW! No one was rubbing suntan lotion on his compatriot. There weren’t any deeply soulful discussions about Sex in the City. And, for fuck’s sake, there was no mincing or prancing (see Hugh Jackman, above). Even if every soldier of the 300 were gay, big fucking deal. It’s not about a person’s sexual orientation. It’s about how many people they can slaughter in the span of five minutes.
This is where the other shoe drops…. right on our throats. Most of us have cable. Most of us flip around during the commercials on TNA Impact, UFC, or some other manly show that makes men everywhere want to run through a brick wall and wrestle a Kodiak bear. A casual pass by shows one of the movie channels that’s having a love-a-thon. It’s showing the heart wrenching chick flick, PS, I Love You. Eh, that makes you no nevermind. Cable is like a mine field; the ground is strewn with chick flick mines that will blow your balls off, if you’re not careful. You’re about to keep channel surfing, but something is odd. That guy, the dead one that for some reason took the precaution of writing letters to his wife before he died or some shit. The voice over. The flash backs. Shit, that actor looks familiar. No. NO! I can’t be. FUCK! That’s Gerard Butler!
Nut Punch Factor 1 to 5: 4
The pain won’t go away just because Butler is a kick ass action hero. He was in Reign of Fire, perhaps the only manly movie about dragons ever produced. But, his involvement in movies about feelings and love will forever leave a bitter taste in the mouths of we action hero fanatics. I’m not talking a slight aftertaste like you would have after a Chinese meal. This is a full force mouthful of cow shit and okra taste. Go on. Keep brushing your teeth and rinsing. It’s never going to go away. NEVER!
Chances of Recovery: Fair
Butler is staring in the soon to be released movie, Gamer. It’s another thin on plausible plot, but lots of shit blows up action movie. That has a fair chance of helping us forget, or at least repress, his chick flick malevolence. But, in true Rochambeau fashion, the gonad withering movie The Ugly Truth comes out two months before Gamer. It’s like following a Mike Tyson caliber punch to the kidneys with with a York Peppermint Patty.
If you have to ask who Arnold Schwarzenegger is or what movies he has done, I want you to hit yourself in the stomach as hard as possible. Seriously. I’ll wait.
What can we say? Arnold has been THE action hero and occasional villain for over 20 years. He practically defined the damn genre single handedly. He IS action. For the love of Billy Mays, the man can kick the shit out of a the entire ancient Mongolian army and make it call him “daddy.” Arnold could have won both World Wars simultaneously, with enough time to put the finishing touches on his walk in humidor; which also doubles as the world’s most extensive gun cabinet and nuclear bunker. Why do you think Bigfoot hides in the forrest like a pussy? He’s afraid. Schwarzenegger could beat him over the head with his own ass.
Shit! This guy can do no wrong. Sure, he’s had some flops like Red Heat. But, what do you expect when someone teams up with Jim Belushi? It gets ugly from here. Even Arnold has kicked us between the uprights.
Not even Arnold is exempt from this shit list. Notice two of the movies above co-starred Danny DeVito. Detecting a trend? Don’t get me wrong, DeVito was great in Taxi and…. something else, I guess. But, I think it’s fair to put 50% of this shit sandwich squarely on his shoulders.
Nut Punch Factor 1 to 5: 3
Arnold comes in at a solid three. He has a great pedigree of skull shattering movies. No one can dispute that. But, for every three or four pancreas grabbing action flicks, there was at least one half assed romantic comedy. It’s equivalent to every third Hershey’s Kiss in the bag being a wrapped up rat turd.
Chances of Recovery: Excellent
The action flick fan will forever forgive Arnold. His action to lame comedic/romance movie ratio is, simply put, amazing. How can’t we forgive him? It’s just not possible. He’s Arnold. He’s the fucking cornerstone of all things action. Not to mention he is THE wellspring for history making one liners that would have made anyone else look and sound like a complete asshat. The Vatican is thinking about adding him to the Bible .
5: Dwayne Johnson (Formerly, The Rock)
It’s hard to want to defend someone who knowingly ditched a he- man studded nickname like “The Rock” in favor of his given name, “Dwayne.” Luckily, Dwayne has a pretty good list of neck snappingly good action movies under his belt.
This man does action well. We like to watch him fight for justice while Rock Bottoming someone’s ass through a pool table. He’s funny, articulate, and can beat the hell out of bad guys with a two by four like nobody’s business. We root for him to win in the most violent way possible.
The Rock/Dwayne outgrew the WWE. His magnificent kickassery couldn’t be contained in the wrestling ring. He moved on to adrenaline pumping movies like Walking Tall, The Rundown, and The Scorpion King. Shit blew up. People were thrown through plate glass windows. Did I mention that he beat the shit out of bad guys with a two by four? I did? Well, it’s important, damn it.
Then, it all went wrong around 2007/2008. So terribly, terribly wrong.
Did I miss something? When did Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson become such a pantywaist? He’s turned into a kids movie bitch. What’s the deal? Is there more money in family friendly films? Does he owe satan? Is their incriminating evidence of him being held over his head?
Nut Punch Factor 1 to 5: 5
The Rock used to be a professional wrestling world champion for fuck’s sake! His transition to super duper action star made a shit ton of sense. His plummet into child comedy movie hell hurts every die hard action fan’s essense. It happend before our very eyes. One day, he was blowing the shit out a South American gang to free its strangle hold on a poor, yet pathetic village. The next he’s playing with dolls and having a tea party with a 5 year old. This isn’t just a punch in the balls, it’s a complete and savage nut demolishion!
Chances of Recovery: Poor to fair
A look at Johnson’s entry at IMDB basically tells it all. In 2010, he’s going to star in the epic sissy kids movie Tooth Fairy. The plot? Let Wikipedia tell you. I sure as shit don’t have the strength.
When a pro hockey player (Johnson), nicknamed the Tooth Fairy for his ability to knock out other players’ teeth, dashes the hopes of his girlfriend’s daughter, he is ordered to serve two week’s hard labor as one of the real Tooth Fairies.
There you have it. Tooth Faries. Yep. Mother fucking Tooth Fairies.
Dear soon to be drunk off your asses celebrators of Saint Patrick’s Day,
Sure, there is a plethora of movies for Christmas, New Years, Halloween, and Arbor Day. What is out there in Net Flix’s already bloated DVD hole for Saint Paddy’s Day?
Or is it?
What can fill that hole? Violence! Violence and Williem DeFoe in drag. Violence, Williem DeFoe in drag, and MORE VIOLENCE! That’s it! That’s what this made up drunken holiday is missing. Saint Patrick’s Day just hasn’t had enough gun violence until this point.
So, in closing (if I ever really opened), The Boondock Saints is THE movie for Saint Patrick’s Day. There are Irish accents… that lends some legitimacy to it, right? OK, there’re Americans using Irish accents, but you have to give me some leeway here. Oh yea, and a sequel is coming out sometime this year. It’s not on Saint Patrick’s Day, but close enough. It might be close to Christmas, which would make it THE Christmas movie.
If all that wasn’t enough to PROVE BEYOND A SHADOW OF A DOUBT that The Boondock Saints is THE Saint Patrick’s Day movie, maybe a little something by the way of Ron Jeremy will sweeten the deal.
P.S.: This Roode note in no way shape or form is due to lifting the idea from Adel while secretly stealing her copy of The Boondock Saints while she wasn’t looking.
So, instead, I just went about my business and didn’t give The Fuse Was Too Cold another thought. I figured that I had enough to do (and nothing really interesting to write about) that I could wait another seven days to get back to my weekly article. I put it out of my mind and set my eyes on entertainment. That’s when the boyfriend put forth the possibility of seeing a showing of “Watchmen” at the cinema.
I’m a girl. I don’t give a shit about comic book movies. But, I did like 300 and I’m sure that had nothing to do with dozens of bare chested, ripped men in capes. Or Gerard Butler’s dreamy abs. Wait. What was I saying?
Finding a showing to attend was an ordeal in itself. After several communication issues and misunderstandings we ended up not getting to the theatre until the 7 o’clock showing. I was trying for the 4 o’clock showing in hopes that there would be fewer mouth breathing teenage tossers in attendance. I deal with the sad future of civilization on a daily basis. I don’t want to deal with them on my own time.
After some simply awesome previews (One cannot go wrong with a bare chested Hugh Jackman) the movie began. I could feel the nervousness from my boyfriend. Dragging your significant other to a movie such as this is a risky venture. You run the chance of her hating it, calling you a fan boy, and kicking you in the bollocks for making her watch grown men and women in capes parade around for over two hours. He had courage, that’s for sure. Every now and again, I could see him glance in my direction to try to gauge my mood. A light, interested expression meant there was a slight possibility he was getting laid. A bored, aggravated look, on the other hand, meant there was a fair chance of a ball kicking. To be safe, he put the bag of popcorn over his manhood in an attempt to shield his own bag.
The truth is, I didn’t really mind the movie. It was interesting and entertaining. I wasn’t checking my watch in an effort to speed up time. The characters were intriguing and I had a pretty good time getting lost in the plot. It wasn’t terribly complex or complicated and I didn’t need to bone up on the graphic novel in order to understand what was going on. This was good for the boyfriend, since the odds of the two of us “boning up” improved.
However, I did notice an unsettling trend throughout the movie. There was a lot of bare ass in it. I mean A LOTof bare ass. I even overheard another patron utter “Doesn’t anyone wear pants in this movie?” Amazing, that very thought crossed my mind.
There was tons of bare ass. There was:
I searched long and hard in my memory to try to dredge up other comic book movies that showed so much bare ass. Batman? No, Tim Burton did us a favor by sparing us Michael Keaton’s whiter than white ass. X-Men? No, I don’t recall a lot of ass shots in that series. Although, I do have this strange need to see Patrick Stewart’s ass.
All that ass didn’t hurt the film. But, it did make one wonder why the director needed so much bare bottom in his work. Is he expressing his need to bare as much ass as possible? Does he have a desire to moon the world with his ass- hearty blockbuster? What about his ass? Is he always pushing it in people’s faces? Come on, Zack Snyder. Is this all a deeply rooted desire to bare your own assets?
Oh. That’s what he looks like? Umm, OK. I think I can deal with that. Go ahead, Zack. Show me your ass. I can take it.
When not attempting to write for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel can be found weeping for mankind’s future during the week and hitting Tresckow on the head with a tire iron on weekends.