Charlie’s Angels (DNF)
I couldn’t finish this or muster the courage to watch those Spy Kids movies, but it seems they are all made for nine-year-old people who aren’t ready for the sophisticated characters we find in the Pierce Brosnan spy catalog.
I couldn’t finish this or muster the courage to watch those Spy Kids movies, but it seems they are all made for nine-year-old people who aren’t ready for the sophisticated characters we find in the Pierce Brosnan spy catalog.
Rich, corporate guys feel the economic squeeze and stick knives into each others’ backs and make it really hard for anyone to finish watching because doing whatever it takes to make the stock go up is not good film.
Zack Snyder has certainly found his creative palette and makes effort to tell outlying stories, too bad his execution produces such hackneyed and bland results. I also get the sense that his diet is primarily pornography and Superfriends. Nobody’s perfect.
These movies are getting too complicated for me. So as I understand it: Harry is the chosen one and must avoid the nose-for-a-face guy cause he is super evil powerful, or take vengeance for killing his parents and putting an “s” on his head but only if he thinks he is ready, and everybody really wants to have a Fall wedding in the countryside even though people are certain to die, and that redheaded wally totally wants to get off with the girl even though he would deny it if you asked him. I bet they finally hook up in Part 2 just as Harry is busy wand-battling Rinkledorf at the Stonehenge. Everyone’s happy.
Pretty good.
Really, nobody on the whole plane saw her daughter board or two strangers grab her and jam her into the mini-elevator and lie about everything ever. Foster is a good actor.
Owen Wilson plays a sleazy-childish-husband-dad whose wife lets him out of their marriage for a week so he somehow convinces the most impossibly hot woman alive to screw his burned out, half-unmarried self as part of her bucket list (she’s already bungee jumped), but then he can’t go through with it so he goes home and it turns out his wife had the hots for a softball coach or something. Other than that, pretty realistic.
Kill Bill meets Nic Cage low-renting everything and the Duke boys’ adventures with roadhouse rockabilly and Chevelle Satanism and swearing and dynamite and tits* and losing money at the box office. Confusing.
*Fake plastic beach balls sewn onto skinny frames, not to be confused with breasts.
Conan and his low-wit friend are telling each other about their favorite god and how it is better than the other guys’ and nobody gets really bent out of shape about it. Then they find a town or as they call it “civilization”, and decide it is too crowded and smelly so they go back out to the country like good barbarians.
3 stars for superbly conceived slow motion opening and closing scenes. Then we have the middle where a certain camera operator seems to vomit a lot. Wouldn’t they want to vet the stomach of the guy capturing their grotesqueness, or is this part of the gag (I always intend my puns).
There is a lot going on here that doesn’t belong and, aside from the quickly diminishing Jack Sparrowisms, is quite a tragic film that refuses to end.
The most fucking totally sweet assassin film since Léon: The Professional. No one but Cage could have ever pulled off this massive role with such aplomb. God, I just can’t believe how perfect and awesome the experience was. I am writing this review before the second reel, that is how confident I am. I know you think I am kidding because of the awful trailer, premise, cast, title. The most underrated film of whatever year it came out. Where were the critics on this; Hollywood can be so elitist!
I’m almost certain that using real celebrities in film like Jon Stewart as Jon Stewart, is a distraction and not necessary. Matt Damon is playing a fake person and Stewart isn’t–it’s just weird. I won’t miss the Larry King interviews either–real or fake. Now that he’s retired, Charlie Rose holds the title of most worst mainstream interviewer. An interesting concept thanks to Mr. Dick, tacky score thanks to Mr. Newman, heavy-handed exposition thanks to the screenwriter, and the annoying-to-spell word “bureau” thanks to the French. I recommend watching this with the volume down–it might just work.
You can count the bleach blond heroes on one finger (Wesley); villains, however come in all shades of yellow. It is shorthand for weakness and deception for some reason and we aren’t going to take it any more. Now thanks to Thor we have an enjoyable second sword-wielding, ass-whoopin’, towhead. I didn’t care for the love story, fumbling flirting was far enough, and the galactic costumes were quite embarrassing, but I’d pay to see this again.
This is enjoyable if you are a young boy with a paper route, generously intoxicated, or have extremely low self-worth and no access to any other form of entertainment. (The three previous times in my life that this crap series was enjoyed.)
Those clever people over at Coke–er, Odwalla–are chock full of groundbreaking ideas. (The other side of the same carefully protected bottle.)
A couple gets a divorce; a guy loses his hair and his idealism. Best closing titles I’ve seen in a while (if you can make it that far). At least Black Swan had fun dancing scenes and attractive people making out.
It can be a thrill or a disappointment or uneventful. Or as Mitch Hedberg said: “I was in a band and people either loved us or hated us–or they thought we were just ok.”
Colleen Barrows just sent me the artwork for “Volume 3: From The Belly Of A Woman”, and it is very much not just ok.
A goofy, over-achieving insurance company trademarked the perplexing phrase “official sponsor of the aha moment”. Apparently Oprah created, embodied, and propagated “the aha moment” herself, and nitwits were confusing her with the insurance company (so they claim). Don’t worry, Harpo Galactic Industries sued that shit proper.