Guess Who's Going to Bed?

Nobody tells Sidney Poitier when to go to bed

In honor of Elizabeth Taylor's death today yesterday, I dampened my cheeks to the stylings of Katharine Hepburn in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.

The movie was enjoyable and I even laughed out loud a few times, which is rare (ask my biographers that follow me everywhere and never have a good tip on a horse). Sidney Poitier was dashing, aggressive, and effective. Katharine Hepburn killed several monologues and the rookie from Connecticut, Katharine Houghton (Hepburn's niece, whom you might remember from her recent performance as Katara's Grandma in The Last Airbender), was the one who made me laugh the most.

Spencer Tracy, on the other hand, reminded me way too much of Robert DeNiro in a comedy, which is a polite way of saying he turned in a poor performance, but unfortunately one not as poor as those of Scott Baio in Arrested Development, which are so poor they come back around again to be funny and are therefore unique and redemptive.

'Maggie the Cat' indeed

If only Most Hideous Man Alive® Bruce Vilanch hadn't stolen my copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof I might have cut a more respectable figure this evening as four of the world's leading massage therapists worked me over in the screening lounge aboard my jet and my biographers scribbled wildly. Blaming him for everything that went wrong is so fun these days, especially when the accusations are true.

As it was, the only movie of Ms. Taylor's I had lying around was Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and even though she knocks that role right out of the galaxy it isn't exactly how anyone would like her to be remembered.

In your honor, Liz, I am going to bed with this image on my brain instead:

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The Classics Revisited

Sometimes it's easy to be brilliant--all you have to do is have a great idea that is simple to execute and go ahead and do it. So go do it, Internet! For the kids, so they understand where we came from.

Thanks for the simple brilliance, Videogum/Internet--put another fur in your cap and keep up the good work.

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A Man and a Woman, Indeed

Although he's been directing movies for almost fifty years, I had never heard of Claude Lelouch until the other day, when I rented a movie he made called A Man and a Woman (1966). This exquisite romance was nominated for four Oscars® during the 1966 season and declared Best Foreign Film and Best Screenplay. Not exactly a lightweight.

Much like Michaelangelo Antonioni, Lelouch was a documentary man who found success in art films, although it appears he did not find as much success as good ole Antonioni. Despite having only seen one (1) film of his, I feel comfortable saying that for two reasons:

1. I had never heard of him before the other day and I heard of Antonioni before I uttered my first word (almost).

2. Despite a prolific fifty-year career, he appears to have only made two movies of enduring quality: A Man and a Woman and the 1981 musical Les Uns et Les Autres (aka Boléro). The fact that a 23 year-old Sharon Stone has a bit role in the latter film only piques my curiosity and fear not--it is already on my Netflix queue.

Please do not think I mean to belittle Lelouch's contribution to the world of art, however. Anybody who contributes one exquisite book, painting, poem, photograph, motion picture, building, or sculpture to the global treasure trove can hold their head high in my book.

We should all be so lucky as to be responsible for the crafting of something enduringly beautiful, something strangers the world over can enjoy indefinitely, something that never would have existed without their unique efforts.

In other words, Joseph Heller can rest easy after 38 years of painful (trust me) failure post-Catch-22 and Claude Lelouch certainly has no reason to be ashamed of his cinematic hit ratio.

A Cinematic Revolution in Sleep Technology

Congratulations, The Lincoln Lawyer; not since 2006's The Wind That Shakes the Barley has the mere title of a movie made me slip into deep REM sleep with such immediacy.

Even if Matthew McConaughey were naked the entire movie and I was a raging homosexual with only McConaughey on the lower brain I would still avoid this movie like the plague.

Who needs to pay for a nap these days? Even if you wanted to, would you choose to take that nap while upright in a chair next to an old woman who smells like diapers? Don't answer that, perverts; you probably would.

In case you think I'm being too harsh, here is the one-line synopsis that elevated this turd from the page to the (now even more tarnished) silver screen:

A lawyer conducts business from the back of his Lincoln Town Car while representing a high-profile client in Beverly Hills. 

(courtesy imdb)

Hahaha! I get it! It has nothing to do with Abraham Lincoln at all! What a curveball! He just works out of a Lincoln automobile! A really old one, from back when they actually had personality! And it's still running really well because in Hollywood things always go according to plan!

Oh, man--me and the fellas totally gotta sneak away from the wives to see that on Friday, March 18...unless I can hack into the Lionsgate servers and get my jollies ahead of schedule...though I would still probably wanna see it on the big screen anyway...

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My Favorite Movie of 2010

Although Black Swan was a fantastic cinematic experience--the best ending since There Will Be Blood?--and a just-in-time tour-de-force effort from Darren Aronofsky (I also loved Requiem for a Dream, but that's about it), after watching the vast majority of the movies I wanted to watch from this past year I can confidently state Blue Valentine was my favorite.

Sorry, Clash of the Titans, but I don't need to see you to know you suck and that says a lot about what you are!

Much like the equally-brilliant A Prophet (2009, France), Blue Valentine is gritty, real, and uncompromising. The actors are allowed to breathe in the frame, the camera records the action free of any agenda, the audience feels like intimate participants in a drama with limitless possibilities. There are tears-of-joy-inducing moments of beauty and there are moments that hurt your soul a little bit, irreparably. In short, it is a lot like real life--which is astonishingly difficult to recreate onscreen even when that is your goal.

Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are both reliably-talented actors, but there is something particularly engaging about their performances in this movie, something about the air that exists on-screen between these two fictional lovers that is truly something special.

How was this delicate feat accomplished? Well, an insightful piece from HuffPo Entertainment Editor Katy Hall today--reprinted in its entirety--explains a lot about the method behind such success:

The Best Movie of 2009?

Malik & Cesar, who both deservedly won Césars

Finally watched Jacques Audiard's gritty 2009 2hr35min masterpiece, Un Prophète (A Prophet). Yes, I said masterpiece and I am aware that is not a word that should be used as often as it is.

What made it so good? Well, it's interesting you ask because I was about to tell you...

Let's start with something a lot of reviewers neglect to mention about movies they are discussing: the feel. This movie opens unapologetically in medias res--gritty fly-on-the-wall footage of a young man entering prison for a six-year stretch. The camera lingers, unhurried, soaking up every detail, every expression, every nuance. We don't need to know why he's going there--the point is he is headed to prison and we are going to watch what happens as it happens. The audience is instantly cast as voyeurs who have no idea what to expect, no desire to have their hands held through predictable plot devices, no fear to watch unapologetic and sometimes-gruesome reality unfold in front of their eyes without mercy.

Un Prophète was one of those rare movies that picked me up by the collar and stared deep into my life-force without blinking, without promising anything but a raw, beautiful, visceral experience I will carry with me forever.

I Think I Won't, Thank You

Okay, so longtime friends Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston have paired together for the first time (!!!) in a please-go-to-it-on-Valentine's-Day romantic comedy called Just Go With It.

Could that title be any more on-the-nose?

All you need to know, America, is that Jennifer Aniston, Adam Sandler, and some hot chick in a bikini are in a new movie where some schlub has to decide which sexy woman to marry. Just go with it, buy your tickets, and maybe you'll even enjoy a few parts of it!

"Help! The multinational corporate conglomerates running the studios need your support!" -Corporate Flunky #3102

It is interesting that recent-box-office-dud Adam Sandler (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, Funny People, Grown-Ups), who also exec-produced this turd, chose to align himself with an actress who has the same problem (Love Happens, The Bounty Hunter, The Switch) in what is apparently an effort to make a successful movie.

Or is that not even the goal anymore?

Maybe simply making a movie is enough for them these days, regardless of quality. I mean, they both got paid millions of dollars, right? They got to spend some time in Hawaii on somebody else's dime, eat some killer free food on-set, have a few laughs, feel like they're being productive...it's the little things in life that they are concerned about at their age, I guess.

"Haha--all you stupid people make us rich, America!"

 "There's always gonna be haters, Jen, so what the fuck? Let's just hang out in Hawaii for a while and wipe our asses with 35mm film." -Adam Sandler

"As long as I can bring my yoga instructor, hair-stylist/best-friend, a couple lap dogs, and my scrapbooking supplies I don't give a shit what we do there." -Jennifer Aniston

Jennifer Aniston craps shitty romantic comedies in her sleep and I guess just enough overweight women with cats watch them that her gravy train continues its incremental slide toward the fiery pits of hell. So, what does she care what anybody thinks about them? The 'elitist' critics will always hate on her; jealous women will always hate on her; men will always hate on her; she just needs to persevere and eventually some happy accident will redeem her in the end.

Right? Well, that's what she's hoping for, no doubt. Let us ruminate on what that happy accident may be, shall we?

Possible entertainment-rag quotes from the future:

At age 56, Jennifer Aniston has finally found her niche--and Oscar gold--as a bronzed, sultry, embittered Miss Havisham in Baz Luhrman's dramatic retelling of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. With a guaranteed 14-year contract on Broadway and a traveling ice-capade in the works, Miss Aniston finds it bittersweet that the secret to her happiness lies in the glorification of the loneliness that has dogged her for what seems like centuries.

Former actress Jennifer Aniston, 52, was spotted dining at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills over the weekend. As always, her characteristic printed-silk Gucci bandages obscured her entire head but there was no doubt in anybody's mind as to who was living it up with Jesse Eisenberg during a jovial four-hour martini-and-painkiller lunch. Was having acid thrown in her face by Angelina Jolie the best thing that ever happened to her? Probably. Her besties freely admit "we've never seen her happier."

After a marathon 14-day bidding-war cage-match atop the CAA Death Star, Jennifer Aniston, 68, has finally outlasted the competition and secured the rights to Angelina Jolie's unfinished autobiography. Who will play Hollywood's most notorious vixen, who took her own life as soon as she showed sign of aging? Why, Jennifer Aniston, of course. "I'm thinking no make-up on this one," the wrinkly old actress quipped.

Regardless of how things turn out for Jen in the end, one thing is certain: Just Go With It will suck and you should probably hang out at the mall next weekend to intimidate/eliminate anybody interested in purchasing a ticket. After all, a tragic opening weekend box office tally is the best way to ensure this sort of bunk won't tie-up our silver screens in the future.

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Elton John Spends a Scary Amount of Coolness Currency Date-Raping "Gnomeo and Juliet" into Existence

Despite whoring himself out to Rush Limbaugh for $1 million and not releasing a good album for a hundred years or so, Elton still has enough coolness currency left over from his seven consecutive number-one albums in the United States and putting the Pope in his fucking place to deserve his place in the sun.

Barely.

Where did he spend all this coolness in such a hurry? On this giant smelly turd:

For those of you not in the know, this regrettable project has regrettably been in development for an eternity. Many, many years ago somebody got stoned at one of Elton John's castles (probably) and he became fixated on the idea of doing a version of Romeo & Juliet with animated gnomes--for which he, of course, would do the music and win another Oscar/Grammy/knighthood.

Flush with coolness, Elton had no problem forcing the project onto Disney Feature Animation while it was roofied on the couch in his pool house, but when Disney bought Pixar (in order to release good movies again--SNAP) John Lasseter greatly increased his own coolness reserves by calling a turd a turd and kicking Gnomeo out the back door without so much as a how's-your-father.

Say "Ahhhh" Harvey. And yes, Bob--you can watch.

So Elton did what anybody in his enviable position would do--he climbed up on Harvey Weinstein's solid-diamond desk and shoved good-ole Gnomeo down Miramax's throat with ease. After all, Elton still had plenty of coolness left to spend [More than one could ever spend in a lifetime. We think. -Ed.] and he was not going to let this brilliant idea die on the vine, goddamnit!

But then Miramax never woke up from the Gnomeo-induced coma, went bankrupt, and the project was dead and buried...until a recent full moon, when that zombie climbed out of the grave, walked over to Burbank incredibly slowly, and put the blocks to Disney's Touchstone Pictures while it was on acid and totally distracted by some water dripping out of a faucet.

Starring the voices of every whore who can do a British accent (sorry, Gwyneth!)

And so now here we are--unrecyclable Gnomeo & Juliet ads coat the town and a bunch of stupid gnomes will grace silver screens all over the country on February 11th. [Bad movie junkies should wait until said gnomes are available for much, much less at Big Lots starting February 12th. -Ed.]

How bad is this movie? Well, let's just say it has NINE credited writers (plus the Bard himself) and that is never a good thing. There were probably, what, fifteen writers who didn't want their names anywhere near this slithering turd that vomited thousand-pound notes all over Hollywood for 15 years?

But that doesn't matter because Elton is happy. He still has just enough coolness currency to skip to the front of the line at Starbucks, he sold the same movie at least three times, he got to be Executive Producer and do the music, his boo (David Furnish) got to be a producer, and some poor team of handsome young PAs got to be fondled while managing Elton's treasured bobblehead collection.

The bottom line here is that if Elton John doesn't become President of Haiti and clothe the entire nation in sequined jumpsuits and velour top hats for a fast-motion, single-take-helicopter-shot music video within the next couple years he might not only have to forfeit his spot in Princess Diana's tomb, but I might also have to leave him off my Christmas card list and get in on some of this Bieber Fever action that's been going around...

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It's Hard Out There for a Pirate

The ongoing saga of the Pirates Off the Horn of Africa (soon to be a best-selling trilogy of books/movies/video games aimed at the tween market, followed closely by a Broadway musical/traveling-ice-capade tandem to milk the parents dry until the remakes begin production) has just gotten a tad more interesting with the introduction of the sexiest thing in the world: lasers.

This just in from my contacts in London:

Sailors may soon have a weapon in their battle against sea-borne raiders: an anti-pirate laser.

BAE Systems has demonstrated its new laser system, which can temporarily blind would-be attackers. The system would prevent pirates from being able to aim their weapons at targets, BAE claims.

At distances of more than of between 1.2km (0.75 miles) and 1.5km (0.85 miles), the laser beam acts as a warning signal, letting the pirates know they've been spotted, said Brian Hore of BAE.

"Today's pirates tend to be opportunistic. If they know they've been spotted, they're likely to look for an alternative target," he told BBC News.

(courtesy BBC)

"At closer ranges, the green laser beam will dazzle them, making it difficult for the pirates to use weapons of their own" and rendering them physically unable to avoid dancing energetic ethnic steps to a John Williams score as Navy SEALs swoop in to gather the best performers in large canvas sacks to be airlifted to Central Casting in Los Angeles for further study, according to Brian "Dirty" Hore of BAE.

But the real question here is: are Somali pirates dazzled by lasers as sexy as vampires?

We aren't sure...

This is a valid concern and one which at the very least requires further taxpayer-subsidized research at entertainment think-tanks across Los Angeles and Orange Counties.

Can we lazily plug pirates into the age-old "star-crossed lover" routine with the same success evinced by the aristocrat/peasant, business heir/rival business heir, North/South, one religion/another religion, and vampire/mortal dynamics of years past?

Well, let's have a shot at the pitch and see what happens:

A Donkey for Best Supporting Actor?

The Oscars are not that far away, guys. What I'm trying to say here is that before all you nerds go home to fill out your Oscar pools this weekend while laying low with mud facials, martinis, and pre-awards-season bacne treatments, I think you should keep in mind this hot little tip: a donkey should have at least been nominated for a Best Supporting Actor Award in 1966, but tragically was not even credited in the film.

The performance in question was written and directed by Robert Bresson, and the uncredited role of Donkey Saint was portrayed flawlessly by the brilliant but chronically unappreciated Balthazar.

Was dear Balthazar's performance too realistically donkey-like to be considered acting? Was he too method for the voting audience? Were all the other actors jealous enough to blackball him? Did he run away with beautiful Marie and just not give a donkey's cuss about getting his name out there?

We may never know--just like with the Oscars this year. Somebody will win the awards and some people will think other people (or donkeys) should have won them instead. Sigh. What can you do, right?

Ladies and gentlemen of taste, I'll tell you what you should do-- make Au Hasard Balthazar the extremely slow but clever and memorable movie you watch this weekend while most people in this country satisfy their baser urges with fast food, fake butter, and the nonagenarian antics of Robert De Niro and Ben Stiller.

You deserve a treat, after all, in these tough times. And so does Balthazar.

Paid for by the Campaign to Posthumously Nominate Balthazar the Donkey for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar (CPNBDBSAC)


[Incidentally, 1966 was a rich year for movies--The Blow Up, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Alfie... -Ed]

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Vince James?

 Who knew these guys both had such perfect skin?

A mere glance at the poster for the new Vince Vaughn/Kevin James waste-of-time The Dilemma on my way to the sulphur mines this morning confirms what I have feared for a while now--Kevin James and Vince Vaughn have fused their hands together and are spinning around in circles laughing at each other's stale jokes as crumbs tumble from their bespittled lips, their jiggly centers of mass gradually moving closer to impact.

Eventually--I give it maybe two years, tops--their ever-enlarging torsos will collide, their bodies bursting into millions of pieces that will continue to orbit Hollywood along the same path until these little turdlettes coalesce into one larger, more formidably awful superturd that will indubitably acquire several sycophantic moons in the Brett Ratner mold and reign over a large swath of Hollywood for many years to come.

A bone-chilling reminder that the continuing evolution of the universe is not always a good thing; in fact, the creation/destruction cycle puts our odds at only 50%.

Happy New Year, Planet Earth!

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He's Back, Baby!

Yes, this is a real movie--directed by Jodie Foster, no less (discuss).

Yes, it was shot before (some of) that shit went down.

Yes, the notecard says something else on the real poster.

Yes, much like the man himself this project was a bad idea from the instant it was conceived.

Yes, you will probably see it with your family this holiday season and/or receive it on BluRay from a friend as a Valentine's Day gag gift.

Yes, you all should be ashamed of yourselves.

Aside from the movie crew's community-saving bribes to dozens of unemployed+underwater homeowners near the shooting location pretending to mow their lawn every day, probably the only good to come of this debacle is all of the anti-fan art out there on the web.

Viz:

Probably a direct quote as he walked to craft service for a handful of Peanut M&Ms.

I would much rather see THIS movie.

Probably an accurate assessment of what Gibson's golden years would have been like

if he didn't have $400 million in the bank and a team of parasites that live off him.

For even more anti-fan art, check out the endless comments on the post that inspired mine at Videogum.

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Just the Facts, Ma'am

Fact: The Colored Bartender in The Palm Beach Story was played by a man who called himself Snowflake.

For this and many other reasons, I find it hard to imagine what it would have been like to be alive in 1942. Others reasons include having to wear a wool suit all the time, hats, hair oil, the everpresent cloud of cigarette smoke, propriety, World War II, racism, and the absence of rock'n'roll.

Only in a truly fucked-up world would a black man rise the ranks of the entertainment industry as a performer named Snowflake, parlay that modest success into the dream role of "bug-eyed black man in a white tuxedo getting shot at by wasted wealthy white hunters on a private train car from New York City to Palm Beach" in one of the biggest comedies of the year, and then have this article written about him in the paper:

Inside Job

I have been covering the financial sector for quite some time now, as the sole correspondent for Tell It Like It Is News, so the facts, figures, and villains on display in Charles Ferguson's Inside Job were hardly new to me. I know what happened, I know who did it, and I know exactly why--greed.

With that in mind, there were a few moments I felt the movie dragged (1h45m felt like 2h30m), but overall it was a surprisingly slick production chock-full of beautiful visuals and some highly-entertaining gotcha moments that make it well-worth watching.

And, as an added bonus for the ladies out there, Matt Damon's voice is also on display for at least twenty minutes in total. Although I am so manly I shave the bottoms of my feet, I got chills everywhere whenever he spoke. Money well-spent, Sony Pictures Ltd Intl Inc Megacorporation Nation-State.

Much like the villains in this tragedy have always claimed, there will be plenty of people out there who will hem and haw and tell you everything isn't black and white and it's really complicated but actually rich people getting richer helps poor people somehow.

If you believe these people you are dumb and you know it, which strikes at an important point of similarity that people in the media never seem to point out:

Just as the financial market demolition expert (aka 'Investment Banker') gets his conscience to swallow enormous lies in a series of more easily digestible incremental white lies, truth-bending, and questionable justifications, the Average American engages in a similar series of incremental lies regarding their limited exposure to ruin, the volatile nature of the "free-market" economy, the trustworthiness of those in power, the priorities of the rich, and the extent to which pure evil has permeated our society.

In other words, just as the banker knowingly swallows the lie that he is not evil, his victim also swallows the lie that the banker is not evil.

And so, whether he realizes it or not, the victim is kicked down another rung on that great big ladder from serfdom to Lord, forced to scramble to make ends meet, cut back on spending, get another job, get deeper in debt, etc, until the house of cards ultimately crumbles--at which point he is hopefully old enough to die.

I am a firm believer that the root of most of the problems facing America today is the fact that people don't want to know what is happening in the annals of power. They intentionally ignore the news, ignore the altruistic activists, ignore the canaries in the coal mines, because deep down they know the Warshington/Wall Street elite is so evil they would rather not know the details. Ignorance is bliss, none of my business, everything seems fine, that's just the way things go, the market is cyclical, the Matrix is actually pretty cool, yadda yadda yadda.

Well, to all of you out there who think ignoring a problem of this magnitude is okay because you have yet to be turned out on the street yourself, remember this:

The ostrich with his head in the sand eventually gets bitten in the ass.

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It is the end of August and I feel thirsty.

So, apparently, does the mewling alleycat outside my window, but unfortunately for me, my thirst is not so easily slaked.

No passing stranger of the opposite sex can solve my hydration problem, even if they wanted to, but here this greedy cat will take all comers and get as much as she wants.

Or maybe my perspective is wrong.

Maybe satisfaction looms in the distance, tantalizingly on her radar but frustratingly never within reach. Maybe she is a tormented soul whose thirst, like mine, is bottomless. Maybe we are two of a kind.

Much like the insatiable central characters in the 1976 Japanese arthouse porno, In the Realm of the Senses, which I watched this evening in (mostly) wide-eyed surprise.

Never in my life have I seen so much penis--and I own one.

Never in my life have I seen two people engage in so much public fornication, to such blase reaction. To say the sex is gratuitous misses the point, but still--it is exhausting to watch.

Here is what Mr. Criterion has to say about the movie, for all you bumpkins out there that ain't never heard of it:

SYNOPSIS: Still censored in its own country, In the Realm of the Senses (Ai no corrida), by Japanese director Nagisa Oshima, remains one of the most controversial films of all time. A graphic portrayal of insatiable sexual desire, Oshima’s film, set in 1936 and based on a true incident, depicts a man and a woman (Tatsuya Fuji and Eiko Matsuda) consumed by a transcendent, destructive love while living in an era of ever escalating imperialism and governmental control. Less a work of pornography than of politics, In the Realm of the Senses is a brave, taboo-breaking milestone.
SYNOPSIS: WARNING: THIS FILM IS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT

I wish I could agree with their pornography versus politics angle, but there was so little politics involved in this movie that I was bored stiff. Imagine saying that! I wanted more politics!

What exactly...were the politics? I saw some soldiers march past in one scene, but who knows what that's supposed to mean. What I do know is that the entire movie involves a former prostitute fellating, ravaging, and beating/strangling her master-cum-husband, whom she rapidly turns into her willing sex slave.

I'll put it this way--there is a good reason the narrator feels the need, at movie's end, to reveal the events took place in 1936, because any other movie that took place in Japan in 1936 and even hinted at politics would have found that designation superfluous.

Game, set, match. Verdict: Porno. Sorry Criterion--there was no need to salvage this one.

That being said, if you are in for an initially titillating movie that ultimately makes you never want to have sex again, this 'masterpiece' is for you. Enjoy!

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Oh, Chicago--Don't be so lonely!

I know Chicagoans have it rough, what with everybody either dismissing their city as windy/cold or, worse (?), just flying over them all the time, but has it really gotten this bad?

How bad? This bad:

(link to post)

What? Also, what?! This creepy dude wants "a female" to spend a long time describing--in an email--how her hand moves while she eats cereal? How on Earth would this be enjoyable for anybody who isn't certifiably insane? Is this a last cry for help before RickMoranisRulez spikes his own Tab? Or will he choose to go to work one day with a collector's-edition Rick Moranis mask and a pair of over-the-counter machine guns instead?

Chicago must be real lonely right now. If you know somebody in Chicago, please give them a hug so this craziness stops before it spreads to the entire Midwest and the Pervert Monster gets so big it ultimately destroys both dismissive coasts (who are never paying attention) with a careless flailing of a giant-sized arm--as painstakingly described by LonelyGirl69 in a soon-to-be-legendary email blast.

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What if Spiderman was a chiseled, 35 year-old man with pimples?

Who liked to use his powers to spy on women changing their clothes with the curtains open?

And sometimes had powers he couldn't control...

Especially at night!

Oh, James Cameron--you might have just redeemed yourself for Titanic and Avatar.

Might. I'll let you know for sure once I've had a few years to think about it...

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Further Proof People Will Watch Anything If They Have No Good Choices

The Expendables takes the crown two weeks in a row, after FIVE new movies premiered this past weekend? And all it took was a $16.5 million haul in August?

Some shitty spoof of shitty vampire movies came out to no acclaim? A 3D remake of low-budget cult-hit Piranha? Bow-Wow wins the lottery? Some movie about Julia Roberts eating gelato in Italy while looking for herself/a man that middle-aged women don't even like?

What the fuck is going on? Is this the third horseman?

It gets worse: The Nanny McPhee sequel beat out America's Sweetheart(TM) Jennifer Aniston's The Switch. Ha-ha!

Will this undeniably laughable result finally decrease her shitty-romantic-comedy output to less than two per year in the coming decade (until she finally ODs on whatever it is that numbs her), or do I have to sew my eyeballs shut every time I risk encountering a billboard or commercial?

Speaking of Jennifer Aniston (nee Brangelina), I know there are plenty of men out there who would 'put one in her,' but aside from that, does anybody actually care for her at all? Anybody not on her payroll, I mean. Does she have fans? Who are they? Do they not realize how boring and whiny she is, or are they interested in her like somebody who goes down to the Y once a week is interested in some little kid without a dad?

By the way, not all movies made these days are shitty--the ones that are good are usually just really hard to find. For example, when will we finally get to see 2009's I Love You Phillip Morris?

Which 12 old white men running this country from the rec room at the C-Street House do I have to blow like a circus seal during some clandestine pagan ritual in order to get the religious-right minority to back down on this one? Would they even realize the irony in making me do that? How many of them will write me checks for my services because they don't know how to use an ATM?

I'd rather not have to accidentally blow any footsoldiers, so precision is appreciated here, my child; do whatever you need to in order to get me those names.

Love,
Your Mother

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The Michael Cera Problem

First there was Paper Heart, then Youth in Revolt (which, for the record, was disappointing mostly because there was no real romance going on), and now Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, so I think the citizens of moviedom finally have all the evidence we need to justly psychoanalyze the central figure in the imminent crisis known in the halls of power as the Michael Cera Problem, which, incidentally, is soon to be the Next Big Thing once the Looming Commercial Real Estate Crash has its way with us.

With that in mind, please enjoy the following fabulous entry to the research on this cutting-edge topic, from Stephanie Zacharek at Movieline:

I used to worry about Cera as an actor: He seemed like a talented kid in danger of being limited by his own acute boyishness. And I still think that maybe — maybe — smart filmmakers will figure out ways to bring out the best in him. But in Scott Pilgrim his wispy smile and quivery voice aren’t endearing; they’re an affront. In every frame, Scott appears to be begging us not just to love him (which would be bad enough), but to pity him.

I’m willing to suspend disbelief enough to believe that Cera’s capable of playing a character with a sex drive. In fact, Juno handled that aspect of his character astutely: We never saw him trying to get the girl; we simply knew that he had, and that fact alone suggested that maybe this sweet, gawky kid was really quite something in the sack. Sex is, after all, one of life’s great mysteries.

But Cera plays Scott Pilgrim as the kind of guy who thinks that getting an erection is an insult to a girl, damning evidence that he doesn’t just, as we used to say in the ’70s, “love her for her mind.” Men and women alike have plenty of sexual anxieties. But just as men — the good ones — will sometimes tell us women that we don’t need to be Victoria’s Secret models to be sexy, men should know that they don’t have to be Bruce Springsteen — or even, heaven forfend, Mick Jagger — for us to find them irresistible. But they do have to look as if they might possibly be interested in having sex, and that’s a bridge too far for Cera in Scott Pilgrim. So what if he passes the Herculean he-man test the story puts him through? He still has all the sexual charisma of an untied shoelace. And even a woman who likes the soft touch can’t do much with that.

(courtesy Movieline)

I couldn't have said it better myself--after all, without any degree of sex drive detectable by modern scientists, what is the point of getting the girl?

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Sunday is a Good Day for Regret

Anything you should have done differently? Is there still enough time to change every single thing about you?

You have the day off, probably, so why don't you just sit back, take stock of your life, order another couple martinis, and figure this shit out once and for all.

After all, there is still time. For most of you...

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