Groggy Musings

I was planning to review Anatomy of a Murder today, but watching it was like another day at the office. God knows I deal with enough obnoxious lawyers in my job... maybe later this week.

The past few days have put me in a nostalgic frame of mind. Those of you who'd rather not read something personal can wait patiently for me to see Captain Blood later this week. Or check out Tim's review of Black Narcissus here. This blogger has a few things to vent.

The most awkward confession first: lately, I've been listening constantly to Taylor Swift's Fifteen. The song's specifics I can't relate to, having never been a teenaged girl. In generalities though I can certainly relate to a young adult frustrated in romance and unsure of their place in the world. While my taste in music is reputedly deplorable, Ms. Swift's song dovetailed nicely with a few other things.

On Friday I watched A Man for All Seasons for the umpteenth time. As a teenager I fell in and out love with films, TV shows and books on a weekly basis. They became an all-consuming passion before burning out interest completely. Aside from Flashman and (on a much lower level of intensity) King of the Hill I've grown out of this habit since high school. A Man for All Seasons still resonates strongly if only for the memories attached to it.

If I wrote about my senior year I'd use Man as a framing device, or at least a macguffin. I lived, breathed and ate Robert Bolt's play throughout 12th grade. I studied it for English Lit. with two of my best friends, Alex and Beth. I remember Mrs. Gordon's drama class, wearing a "Harry Potter" robe and a self-made chain of office as I debated Deutoronomy with classmate Anthony. I read it to myself in between scenes of our senior class play. When our Scholastic Scrimmage team reached the State finals, their TV cameras filmed me performing the Tower inquiry scene, a piece I'd done for the Forensics speech team. I spent hours trying to imitate Paul Scofield's remarkable baritone, with markedly less success than my Alec Guinness impression. I signed friends' yearbooks with quotes for God's sake.

High school's now a dim memory but there are still points of light that shine through the gloom. Senior year redeemed a lousy high school experience, with its plays, forensics meets, great classes, debates, awesome teachers (and a few awful ones), disastrous driving tests, unrequited crushes, friendships old and new. As much as I enjoyed college it never topped the sheer fun I had 2006-2007 at Somerset High School. "I didn't know who I was supposed to be" which is why Sir Thomas More so resonated with me. But mostly, I enjoyed it too much to care.

When Paul Scofield passed in early 2008 I wept like a baby. Usually when a celebrity dies I feel a pang of sadness and then move on. But Mr. Scofield's passing brought about a far more intense reaction. All the hours I spent watching his remarkable performance as Sir Thomas More, feeling his warmth, intelligence and quiet intensity, imitating his acting style, worshipping his character's integrity and strength - all a memory. I felt it almost as keenly as a close friend. I've suffered far worse, infinitely more personal losses since then, but Scofield was the first bit of high school to pass away. I still can't watch More's trial and execution without tearing up.

Finally, this past Saturday I made it up to Pittsburgh. Despite some minor driving mishaps (I nearly got in the wrong lane on the Turnpike - yikes!) and the ever-present threat of bombs on campus it was a pleasant trip. I caught up with my friends Havilah and Dan, including Qdoba, a trip to the Homestead Waterfront and of course, watching Leprechaun in the Hood. "Strangely entertaining," Dan called it, clearly flummoxed by the experience. A nice capper on a pleasant day, I felt.

It's been almost a year since graduation. My college experience was mostly positive, if unremarkable. I had an interesting freshman year figuring things out and putting up with a hard-partying roommate. Sophomore year saw my first girlfriend, horrible classes and a nervous breakdown. I prefer to remember as little about that as I can. Senior year was mostly noteworthy for living a half-mile off campus and having to hike to and from class (or work, or what have you) multiple times a day.

It's junior year I remember most fondly. I met two of my best friends, Cathryn and Havilah, in an elevator and an annoying computer class respectively. I had a memorably weird Model UN experience, including food poisoning, dogs in hotel rooms and near-sex with a girl from Georgetown. There were several more missed romantic opportunities in inimitable Groggy style, one which dragged through most of spring and summer term. Then there was the madness of the G-20 summit, where I was trapped in the library while a full-fledged riot raged just outside.

Then there's spring term. It's still close enough in time to vividly remember the choice bits. Two history classes with the same awesome professor. A class on Islam with much spirited debate and a fun teacher. Missing a week of class due to Snowmageddon. A Waterfront trip in a blinding snow storm with a then-huge $100 shopping spree. Painstakingly crafting a paper for my History seminar (more fun than it sounds). Discovering Flashman. A ridiculously-botched Relay for Life event that somehow turned out okay. Reading Conscience of a Conservative on the Schenley Lawn a gorgeous March day while attractive co-eds lay out in the grass. (They've built an eyesore of a restaurant there now, bastards.) Spilling water on my laptop and trying to desperately to dry out the keyboard. Hiking down Mt. Washington with my RA and friends because one of them got their ID confiscated. Joe's 21st birthday at the Waterfront.

More general memories come to mind too. Long nights working at the library. Coming home at 3 A.M. Monday to watch King of the Hill before plopping into bed. Reading entire books, cover-to-cover, on endless Tuesday nights. My Friday night Taco Bell orgies complete with David Lean film. Dinners with Joe and Dan, coffee with Havilah and Elizabeth, looking for a crepes restaurant with Cathryn. Being able to go to Phipps Conservatory or the Carnegie museums for free. Trying to watch films on Netflix, hoping my laptop didn't overheat first. Desperately scrambling for internships. Qdoba.

It's a shame these moments will soon be in the ashcan of memory along with losing my first tooth and my fourth grade field trips.

Looking back, I regret not doing more networking or internships that could have landed me a decent job on graduation. A year ago I would never have thought I'd be typing up court cases 60 hours a week to keep out of debtor's prison. I've never been good at big picture thinking which has certainly come back to bite me. On the other hand, there isn't much I would have changed. Returning to Pitt provided a brief but welcome reminder.

In my current pits of humdrum banality, it's nice to have nostalgia as a temporary escape. Then my boss hands me a stackful of pedophile cases to transcribe and nostalgia evaporates. Hooray Mondays.

Back to films soon.

You know Warwick Davis is the Real O.G.

Yesterday I was browsing Wikipedia and came across news that Lionsgate and WWE are teaming up for a "reboot" (God I hate that word) of Leprechaun.

Sadly this isn't an early April fool's joke. Apparently Hollywood is so desperate for ideas that they think rebooting direct-to-video Warwick Davis vehicles is a good idea.

The best part of this article is this comment by a tone-deaf, double-speaking executive:

As for its deal with Lionsgate, Luisi said: "We have been looking for ways to continue our relationship with Lionsgate and we saw 'Leprechaun' as the perfect opportunity to take a well-known franchise and put a modern-day spin on it. This is a property that we believe our audience will respond to and we continue to look for ways to surprise and engage them."

Oh, they'll "respond to it" all right.

As for the "modern spin": this is a very valid concern, inasmuch as cheapo horror films about avaricious Irish goblins made in 2003 date very quickly. Are they going to have the Leprechaun Tweeting or complaining about Obamacare? Ooh, handy!

Plus, having the WWE on board makes casting fairly simple:



So color me excited. By excited of course I mean mortified beyond belief.

I Taught Him Everything He Knows!!!

Here's something amusing. Check out Wikipedia's page on The Searchers, and you'll see Footnote 14 is from a most peculiar scholarly source:



This is almost as odd - and strangely flattering - as the time someone contacted me via Facebook last year to help with a T.E. Lawrence museum exhibit.

Still, this bodes well for my career as a critic. Now you'll all be able to cite my brilliant commentary on Leprechaun in the Hood in your upcoming thesis paper. And my Earth-shattering, epochal critique of Howard the Duck will surely be as revered by future cineastes as Pauline Kael's review of Bonnie and Clyde is today.

Groggy Dundee: Wikipedia Approved! Now if that's not a ringing endorsement...

I WANT ME GOLD!

Let us consider Leprechaun movies, and thereby bring about the Apocalypse.

In 1993, Trimark Pictures made Leprechaun, starring a then-unknown Jennifer Aniston and Warwick Davis, the English dwarf actor best-known for his star turn in Willow. It concerned a Leprechaun (Davis) summoned to the present day by some foolish, greedy mortals finding his pot of gold; and this Leprechaun kills the unfortunate greed-heads in rather a gory fashion. Initially intended as a horror film for kids, it was decided, somewhere along the line, to amp up the gore and make it a straight slasher film. Thus, a misbegotten franchise was born.

Leprechaun and its first sequel got limited theatrical releases; further sequels were direct-to-video. While the original Leprechaun was mostly straight horror, the sequels went for humor, becoming increasingly outlandish, bizarre, tasteless and self-aware with each installment. The exact connection between each film was extremely tenuous, with different rules for the Leprechaun's destruction, etc. By Leprechaun 3, there was no pretense to quality, and the cheese was whole-heartedly embraced.

To be fair, the Leprechaun's exploits in Las Vegas, outer space and the ghetto were no more outlandish or stupid than any other long-running horror franchise - see the Halloween and Friday the 13th films, which went to truly idiotic lengths to add some new wrinkle to their protagonists' umpteenth killing sprees (or, in Halloween 3's case, cutting him out altogether). And at least the Lep didn't take himself seriously; something like Jason Takes Manhattan or Halloween: H20 is laughably bad, but it's dead serious. You can't say that about Leprechaun in the Hood.

Despite their awfulness, the Leprechaun movies have something of a cult following: everyone knows they're awful, but they're irresistible to certain connoisseurs of movie cheese. Some of the films achieve the hallowed status of Manos: the Hands of Fate, while others are truly abominable drek that isn't even watchable on its camp value. If a movie sucks, it had better be fun to mock.

If there's any real merit to these films, it's Warwick Davis, who clearly relishes his ridiculous part, imbuing it with wicked, self-effacing humor and making the Leprechaun almost endearing. I would say he belonged in a better film, but the Lep clearly belongs here. He's a unique creation, and if nothing else he's far more personable than other, mostly-mute slashers.

But enough jabberwocky - let's get to the films themselves. If you don't feel like reading, check this out.

Leprechaun (1993, Mark Jones)

The film that started it all is a drag. Above all else, it suffers for its seriousness. An obnoxious Jennifer Aniston (redundant, I know) and a cast of stock clowns (hunky hero, dimwitted redneck, precocious kid) are besieged at a North Dakota farmhouse by the Leprechaun, who is, of course, after his beloved gold. There isn't much here to like, aside from the Leprechaun's hilarious fast-motion commandeering of go-karts, wheelchairs, bicycles and pogo-sticks. There's also some weird business with the Leprechaun having a fetish for cleaning shoes, which is never brought up again in the sequels, and the Leprechaun eating a box of Lucky Charms - well, I guess that was inevitable. Lesson learned: Leprechauns are not scary. Next.

Leprechaun 2 (1994, Rodman Flender)

Leprechaun 2 is much more in-line with the Leprechaun image: though still having pretenses to straight horror, it gives the Leprechaun a new location (Los Angeles), a much higher body count, and a cornball yet ghoulish sense of humor ("Finger-lickin' good!" he chortles after ripping the finger off a victim). Also a lot of sexual innuendo involving Leprechaun brides, one of the series' more unfortunate features. On the plus side, it does have the first great set piece in Leprechaun history - namely, the Leprechaun's St. Patty's Day drinking contest with our loser protagonist Cody (Charlie Heath), while being cheered on by a group of festively-attired dwarfs. The surreal hilarity of this scene must be seen to be believed.

D-list celebs Clint Howard (Ron's unfortunate brother), MadTV's Michael McDonald and James Lancaster (Gettysburg, Titanic) have bit parts; the rest of the cast are awful unknowns, who couldn't act their way out of a paper bag. The worst offender is Shevonne Durkin, who plays love interest Bridget like a lobotomy victim OD'd on Prozac. There are a decent number of funny bits, a few gruesome murders (Michael McDonald's surly barista getting scalded to death) and some half-decent Evil Dead-inspired stop-motion, but it's still more dull than anything.

Leprechaun 3 (1995, Brian Trenchard-Smith)

Finally, we come to terms with the fact that a psychotic midget is not scary! (No, I don't like Freaks either.) By embracing its campiness, Leprechaun 3 becomes a perverse work of art. This movie knows it's stupid, and has a lot of fun with that. It's completely awful and tasteless, and revels in it. Some may find it too much, but I, sir, am not one of them.

The lame-o plot has an idiot college student (John Gatins) losing his money in Vegas, and becoming rich using one of the Leprechaun's gold pieces. In this film, Leprechaun gold grants wishes, and the piece finds its way from our protagonist to an asshole magician (John DeMita) to a bitchy barmaid to a pair of Pulp Fiction-wannabe hitmen. Of course, the Leprechaun wants his gold back and cuts a swath through Sin City, having a lot of fun in the bargain. And our protagonist falls for a feisty waitress (Lee Armstrong) and starts turning into a Leprechaun after being bitten by the bastard.

What makes Leprechaun 3 so much fun? All of the characters are hateful imbeciles by intent, and it's fun to see them offed in gruesome ways: particularly the magician getting sawed in half onstage. (The bitch dies a truly bizarre death that I'll not try to relate.) The Leprechaun himself reaches a peak of horrid irreverence, shouting racist jokes at an Indian clerk, flipping birds left and right, dressing up like a Nurse (clearly inspiring a scene in The Dark Knight), and in a truly inexplicable scene, impersonating Elvis. It's offensive, awful and in very bad taste, and it's fun, in its own perverse way.

Leprechaun in Space (1997, Brian Trenchard-Smith)

Okay, this is taking it too far.

The Leprechaun goes into outer space for God knows what reason, and finds himself squaring off with a gaggle of meat-headed space marines, a deformed mad scientist (Guy Siner) and a seductive alien princess (Rebekah Carlton), and whatever, who cares. Think Aliens with a Goddamned Leprechaun doing a John Wayne impersonation.

This movie transcends awful. It's not so much that it's distasteful - though it's that in spades - as it is painfully, skull-crushingly idiotic. This movie defines trying too hard; it's silliness and childish black humor are just grating rather than fun, and the movie is literally painful to watch. The Leprechaun becomes giant towards the end, and... well, if you like giggling at penis jokes ("Big is good!") and giant, disembodied bird-flipping, this Bud's for you.

But really, what the Hell were you expecting from a movie called Leprechaun in Space?

Trivia note: Debbie Dunning, aka Heidi from Home Improvement, plays one of the space marines. Huuuuuuuuunh?

Leprechaun in the Hood (2000, Rob Spera)

Leprechaun in the Hood is either a high point in cinema history or an abomination like no other. You judge.

This time around, the Leprechaun is in possession of a magic flute that gives its owner amazing musical ability. This comes in handy for our protagonists, a truly awful trio of wannabe rappers led by Postmaster P. (Anthony Montgomery), who decide to kill bullying record artist Mack Daddy (Ice-T) and end up a) awakening the Leprechaun, b) taking the flute and kick-starting their career. So the kids are faced with both the Leprechaun and Mack Daddy's righteous vengeance.

The movie starts with Ice-T pulling a baseball out of an Afro, and doesn't let up from there. In this installment, the Lep doesn't restrain himself to just bad puns and raunch, though there's plenty of both; he speaks almost exclusively in hideous rhyming couplets ("I'll take it from you, homie, you'll see, cause you know da Lep is the real O.G."), enslaves a trio of Zombie Hos to do his bidding, gets high on marijuana, and raps. This is the Lep at his funniest and most off-the-wall, resulting in some all-time unintentional humor points.

This is the series' high point for "great" lines and set-pieces. While the stuff with the rap group is pretty boring, and the movie makes some puerile, out-of-place satire of religion and hip-hop culture, the scenes with the Lep and Mack Daddy are reverse-brilliant. From the Leprechaun's bizarre visit to an old lady's house to his encounter with a flirty cross-dresser, it's an endless parade of random, inexplicable weirdness. Good taste? Quality? What's that?

And Shakespeare only wished he could write lines like this:

"Midget Midas motherfucker!"

"A friend with weed is a friend indeed, but a friend with gold is the best I'm told."

"Lep in da Hood, come to do no good!"

"It's Chucky on crack! Shoot that motherfucker!"

"We need to change a few things. I ain't with that "save the fucking hood" bullshit, "treat your girl right", that shit is wack. All right? This label, we rap about Uzis, blowing motherfuckers' heads off. Know what I'm saying? "Smack your bitch up", "Shoot your motherfucking homeboy in the face", type shit. All right?"

"We be like Robin Hood, only we're robbin' in da hood!"

"I've caught you now, you thieving hoods - you've got more loot than Tiger Woods!"

"Now find me gold in record time, or you'll suffer a bloody hideous crime!"

"Hey shorty, you ain't even as big as my dick!"

"All kidding aside, it's time to die."

"I hate to resort so soon to magic, I haven't been laid in so long it's tragic."

"I didn't come to play with fruit - I came to find me magic flute."

Poetry for the soul.

On the other hand, the movie reaches an all-time low when our protagonist, cross-dressing as part of some scheme, almost gives the Lep a blow job. Thanks for that, movie.

Also, Coolio (remember him?) has an inexplicable walk-on. On the basis of evidence presented, he was wandering around LA and was lured on set with the promise of cheap weed. It's hell being a washed-up one-hit wonder.

Oh, did I mention the rapping? Allow me to present...

The Greatest Scene In Movie History!

PS: Director Rob Spera pointedly refuses to acknowledge this film on his website. What masterpieces have you made since, exactly?

Leprechaun: Back 2 tha Hood (2003, Steven Ayromlooi)

Leprechaun: Back 2 tha Hood is the series' laziest entry. The series wrung pretty much every offensive stereotype and fish-out-of-water gag from the Lep's first ghetto trip so why the return engagement? Think of the lost opportunities: Leprechaun on Spring Break. Leprechaun Cruise. Lep in da Retirement Home. Leprechaun of Arabia. Citizen Leprechaun.

What really sinks Back 2 is Lep scarcity. The movie wastes too much time on its boring human cast, with the Leprechaun not even making a proper entrance for half-an-hour. When he finally appears, Warwick Davis is just a prop for dumb sight gags: See the Lep smoking a bong! See him engage in phone sex! See him get shoved in a fridge and massage a fat lady with his feet! Suffice it to say this vein of "humor" runs out really fast. Even his catchphrase ("What's up ninjas?") lacks the appropriate sparkle. "Lep in the Hood, Come to Do No Good" is Noel Coward in comparison.

And with that...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

New Years' Resolutions

Welcome to our second full year of Nothing is Written! For the eight or so of you who ever read this blog, thank you for your continued support. I hope you will continue reading my semi-legible scribblings until I die of exhaustion or run out of movies to review. I've already rewatched A Fistful of Dollars today, and TCM is obliging me with showings of The Informer, In Which We Serve and Notorious later this week - plus my first World Film History class on Wednesday! I hope to see either The Young Victoria or Avatar in theaters this week if my schedule permits, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It's a New Year (and decade for that matter), and like most people, I'm making resolutions. I'm not bothering to make resolutions involving my weight or spendiness, although I hope a new girlfriend may be in the works, but for my faithful readers, I'll do my best. Just be warned that I'm no more apt to keep these promises than any in real life.

Here are some things you will hopefully see this year.

- I don't think I'm going to bother trying to see all ten Best Picture nominees this year; that's just too much of a goddamned hassle, especially with my classes and this weather, and in all honesty only a handful even look worthwhile. I'll see whatever looks interesting to me, which means you probably won't see a review of Nine any time soon. Whether I'll even watch the Oscars this year is open to question, but that may be the basis for a rant so I won't say too much.

- I'm finishing my film minor (no longer a major) with World Film History. I will try to review every movie we watch if it's interesting enough to review. If nothing else you'll see big, long essays turn up in early March/late April. I won't guarantee essays on A Trip to the Moon or assorted avante garde crap though. Let's just hope these bastards let me sit through an entire Eisenstein film this term...

- David Lean Quest 1.5! Which means that I'm going to back track, rewatch, and review the David Lean films that I missed during my previous quest. This shouldn't be too difficult; I own Bridge on the River Kwai on DVD, Summertime can be instantly watched on Netflix, In Which We Serve will be on TCM this week, and the Dickens films are at the Hillman for whenever I have time. I hope to do the same for Sergio Leone and Stanley Kubrick, time permitting.

- More John Ford and Alfred Hitchcock reviews than you can shake a stick at!

- A super-big omnibus article of the masterful Leprechaun franchise - if I can be bothered.

- More rantings about human stupidity! Because there's nothing people like better than seeing a loser 21-year-old spout off at blocks of text posted on teh Intrawebz!

- 1000% more IMDB!

- I would love to solicit recommendations for reviews/articles from my readers, if any of you are willing to contribute.

- Hopefully I can twist Analee's arm to have her provide another review. That's entirely up to her, of course.

Failure to live up to any of these promises will lead to my summary execution. I'm counting on you to hold me to this promise!

I just got done shovelling the driveway, so STAY COOL!

The Curious Case of Armond White

All evidence to the contrary, I generally try to be open-minded towards other opinions on film. I may ridicule the idea that everything is subjective and that there's no distinction between a fan of Transformers and a fan of Citizen Kane, but I'm willing to accept reasonable debate. After all, a gentleman who dislikes There Will Be Blood and Barry Lyndon can't be too stuck up on this issue; film is an art and no two people will agree on everything. However, there are limits to which I'm willing to accept this, and a point where opinions go from acceptable to just plain dumb.

Which brings us to Armond White. The film critic for the New York Press has gained a great deal of infamy for his bizarre, contrarian opinions. Recently, none other than Roger Ebert wrote an article defending White's iconcolasm - only to retract it and admit he is a "troll". He is a figure of ridicule all over the Internet, even having a (now-defunct) blog devoted to lambasting his writings. Where White sees a brilliant, unique and controversial contrarian, most people see a race-baiting, self-aggrandizing, tasteless (and gormless) imbecile.

Lest you think Mr. White is being unfairly lambasted, let's look at a few of his reviews over the past few years:

- In his review of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen - universally panned by critics, but embraced by the popcorn blockbuster crowd - White says that director Michael Bay is "a real visionary" with "a great eye for scale and a gift for visceral amazement". If by amazement one means incredulity at a film's slack-jawed, effects-driven mindlessness, then I think he has a case.

- The much-beloved and garlanded Slumdog Millionaire is, in White's estimation, "pandering to liberal sensibilities while entertaining safe, middle-class distance", "absolving the white man’s burden with game-show flash and shrillness", and calls director Danny Boyle "a poverty pimp with an Avid". (Give him this much: if nothing else, White knows how to turn a phrase.)

- The towering comedic masterpiece Little Man "zeroes in on our culture’s usual infantilization of the black male, satirizing it as a literal form of bastardization". Funny, I thought it was an awful movie with a Wayans brother's face CGI'd on a child's body. Similarly, Eddie Murphy's Norbit is "a spoof on American gentility which Murphy then integrates with explosive caricatures" and is "enough to confirm his status as the most brilliant comic actor in America", even better than the late Peter Sellers!

- There Will Be Blood is, in White's eyes, a film which "personif(ies) everything that’s wrong in American character: greed, selfishness, stinginess and unchecked ambition", claiming that "Americans are meant to identify with Plainview for the worst aspects of themselves". Fair enough, as I'm not the biggest fan of the film myself, But, he does praise Daniel Day-Lewis' performance as "is the most remarkable movie performance since Eddie Murphy’s Norbit trifecta", so that's good.

These are just a few of the more obnoxious examples. Here's a quick chart to help you further break down Mr. White's decidedly eclectic taste.

The point is not that White simply strays from the critical consensus more often than most. There just doesn't seem much point to it; it doesn't seem his genuine opinion so much as an esoteric intellectual exercise. The late Pauline Kael, the matriarch of modern film criticism, brought snooty contrarianism to an art form; in White's hands, it seems like an erudite film student spouting off jargon to impress his professors. Or is it? Is he perhaps a master satirist, deliberately eschewing film criticism for all to see?

It's really difficult to gauge White's seriousness. His article on Little Man is critical analysis at its absolute worst. You could read a message of black society into Little Man, but you're much more likely to find it a juvenile, idiotic bodily function comedy. This is pretty close to the Jacques Rivette line of shit that Monkey Business is a masterpiece just because it's a Howard Hawks film. He seems to praise lowest common denominator trash as a challenge - either an attempt to see just how far you can possibly take film analysis, or as a massive joke on his readers. Certainly the archaic verbiage and compulsion to name-drop literary, philosophical and filmic references into every review wreaks of parodying a blog written by a wannabe film student. The results are devoid of any intellectual or critical merit - but, one must admit, extremely entertaining, in the way that Billy Jack is entertaining.

White is also preoccupied with issues of race, which I suppose is fair enough, if this obsession didn't manifest itself so obnoxiously. This article on Eddie Murphy suggests that anyone who dislikes his films - except for the despised-by-him Dreamgirls, Murphy's one post-Beverly Hills Cop performance most everyone can agree is good, but which White sees as "soul-rotting" - is a racist. That includes the universally-trashed Norbit and Meet Dave, which he claims contain insightful messages on the state of race relations in America. He wrote a similar article on marginally-funny black comic Tyler Perry, asserting roughly the same. Sometimes a spade's a spade, or a bad comic a bad comic, and race has nothing to do with it. Even more oddly, though, he spends an inordinate amount of time slamming Samuel L. Jackson, Will Smith and Spike Lee, presumably for "selling out to the Man" (track those reviews down yourself).

In this regard, White seems a parodic caricature of critics who read completely spurious "insight" and analyses into everything - the "Marxist", "Feminist", "Queer" and "Post-Modern" critics which every English, Theatre and Film student must suffer through at some point in high school and college, reading everything from Moby-Dick to a Geico commercial through the narrow prism of their personal obsession (and then writing a 25-page essay on it). (I will never forget the bottomlessy-stupid essay I once read on how Sense and Sensibility is a metaphor for female mastrubation.) I have to admit that I doubt it's intentional. If it is, though, White is a satiric genius.

Whether Armond White is serious or taking the piss out of his readers is unknowable. Either way, he's a dope who writes some of the most unintentionally hilarious reviews out there. God bless Mr. White, the Leprechaun of Film Critics; I hope to be ridiculing you for some time.

Howard the Duck

On Thursday my family watched that towering cinematic masterpiece, the George Lucas-produced Howard the Duck (1986). Why has it taken me three days to get around to reviewing it (besides my general laziness)? I'm glad you asked...



Any more questions?

I've reviewed many terrible movies for this blog before, and after sitting through the Billy Jack films and Batman and Robin you would think there's nowhere for me to go but up. However, the Universe always finds a way to prove me wrong, and it seems every month or so I'm able to find a new standard of bad by which to judge movies.

Howard (voice of Chip Zien, played by innumerable little people) is a duck living on a duck planet where ducks are like people (get it?). Then he's blasted across time and space to a truly hellish new world - Cleveland, Ohio. He meets up with scatter-brained, friz-haired rocker Beverly (Lea Thompson), who seems to fall for Howard (no kidding unfortunately) and is determined to send him back to his home planet, enlisting her impossibly geeky, chillingly Eddie Deezen-esque lab assistant friend (Tim Robbins) to "help". Things grow more complicated when scientist Dr. Jenning (Jeffrey Jones) becomes possessed by an alien calling itself the Dark Overlord, who has plans to take over the world (MWAHAHAHAHA!). Ultimately, Howard is forced to decide whether he should go back to his home planet or save the Earth - and the audience is left with an even bigger question: Why should we care?

There's always something particularly obnoxious about utterly awful, big-budget stink bombs. Low-budget flicks like Ed Wood films or direct-to-video slasher sequels can be excused to an extent by their format and budget. It's certainly fun to pick on something like Bride of the Monster, but in a sense it's like kicking a crippled kid who's fallen out of a wheelchair. Stuff like Howard and the aforementioned Batman flick is a whole other level of bad. There's no excuse of a miniscule budget or lack of access to good actors and crew or even lack of ideas; the fact that it's failure wrought on a huge scale makes it even more obnoxious, and the idea that a major studio and hugely successful producer thought this material was filmable in the first place. The only response is a big, incredulous, Troy Steele-inspired What.

It's not a question of talent either. I'm not the biggest Star Wars or Indiana Jones fan in the world, but George Lucas showed in those films he knows (or knew) how to make entertaining movies. The film was written by Gloria Katz and directed by William Huyck, who worked on Lucas's pretty good American Graffiti. So what the hell convinced George Lucas that making a movie about a wiseass talking alien duck was a good idea? Did he happen to read the comic book while high and thought it would be a bitching film? Or was he just walking through the park one day, saw a duck, and got an idea for a film? (This would also explain how Willow came to be - he was walking through Hollywood and ran into Warwick Davis.) Either way, this movie is, if nothing, ample evidence that there is a danger inherent in a studio giving a successful director or producer carte blanche. Because that day they have an inexplicable brain fart or do drugs can end up sinking $100 million of your studio's money into a ridiculous project doomed to failure.

It's really hard to see how this film is meant to appeal to anyone. Howard is an obnoxious, anthropomorphic duck who spouts off lame puns ("No more Mr. Nice Duck!") that not even a four year old would find amusing, along with a lot of painfully obvious fish (duck?) out of water humor that was old in the Three Stooges' era. His frequent swearing and sexual innuendos would (theoretically at least) rule out a younger audience, but it's doubtful that a mean, cranky midget in a duck costume would appeal to any adults either. The action scenes are just plain pathetic, lacking in inventiveness, tension, suspense or quality. The movie really stops cold, however, when Beverly mock-seduces Howard. It's surely one of the most repulsive, disgusting scenes in film history; the fact that it's meant as humorous only makes it that much more obnoxious and disgusting. Any chance of audience enjoyment goes out the door with that scene - though the film nearly tops it with a climactic rock number almost as bad as the end of Leprechaun in the Hood.

I don't see much point in analyzing the film's technical aspects. The direction is perfectly adequate given the atrocious material. The special effects (particularly the stop-motion on the Dark Overlord) are done reasonably well, but as the saying goes, one is upset to find it done at all. Lea Thompson seems completely unable to account for her presence in the film, Jeffrey Jones (Amadeus) chews scenery with reckless abandon, and Tim Robbins gives a singularly annoying performance, almost on the level of the theater douchebag in Silent Night Deadly Night 2.

In the end, Howard the Duck is just a huge question mark of a movie. There's no reason at all for it to exist, least of all as a mega-budget would-be blockbuster. I can't even think of much fun to poke at it; it's just bad. Stay away, or if you must watch it, let the film speak for itself.

Rating: Goose egg out of 10

It's All Subjective

If I'm going to devote any time to bashing moronic opinions, I might as well mine the fertile fields of IMDB's Film General board. I spend way too much time prowling that board, and while there's much interesting discussion that happens there, too much time is devoted to asinine off-topic sniping. Some of these threads and flames are entertaining - ask any veteran about the Mounty-Slurry Feud - but most are just annoying, petty childish bickering. However, such childish vendettas are nowhere near the that results when board members attempt to debate issues of art and philosophy...

Today there were several trollish threads of users sniping incessantly at each other, per usual. One thread, involving a user named "McFlyin" complaining about how he gets no respect for liking Transformers 2, degenerated into a lengthy slugging matching about Film General's pet topic: subjectivity in art.

Some brief excerpts to give you an idea of what we're talking about here:

Matt Velvet (aka Trolling Streetcar):

There's a point where taste stops being subjective and becomes fact. Roger Ebert wrote a great article about this.

Watchmen being better than The Love Guru is not an opinion. It is a fact. Watchmen took much more effort to make, it is much more intelligent and complex, and it is much more entertaining. Thus, it is a better film. Fact.

...

If you think Step Brothers and Transformers 2 are better than The Godfather, you are wrong. That's all there is to it. You are wrong

.

A-ha, but Independent Thought Alarm (among others) takes issue:

Pull your head out of your ass. Effort and complexity do not make better films. Intelligence and entertainment level are purely subjective. If he thinks Step Brothers and Transformers 2 are better than The Godfather ... then they are better films to him and that's all there is to it. You can still consider The Godfather better, and that opinion is equally valid. Stop being such an arrogant jerk and let him have his own taste. I agree with s-bui, that is nothing but elitism. You have no better taste than McFlyin, just different taste. Now get over it.

You see? That settles it. It's all subjective.

Seriously, though, this seems to be an issue that FG just can't keep away from. A recent article by Roger Ebert also addressed this issue, in response to bitching from Transformers 2 fans (my, they're a surly bunch!) about his acid-laden review of the film. To wit,

We should respect differing opinions up to certain point, and then it's time for the wise to blow the whistle. Sir, not only do I differ with what you say, but I would certainly not fight to the death for your right to say it. Not me. You have to pick your fights.

You tell 'em, Rog!

Though FG seems to enjoy kicking this issue around more than most, it's certainly an argument I've heard many other places, both online and in real life. Where does the line between fact and opinion end? (A corollary, similarly self-defeating argument is: What is art?) Is it right to dismiss someone who likes, say, Billy Jack or Terminator Salvation as a blithering idiot? Is his taste worse than me, who considers Lawrence of Arabia and The Godfather Part II as some of his favorite films? Here's my two cents, so hopefully I'll never have to opine on this idiotically self-defeating argument ever again:

The whole argument is really self-defeating, and, not to be ironic, subjective. Everyone has their own comfort zone, their own point up to which we can accept the other guy's point-of-view as valid, just as personally-defined as our taste in movies. I may accept that many people think The Reader is a brilliant masterpiece while I think it is absolute crap, for instance. It's a movie that has artistic merits that can be argued, even if they elude me. Is it fair, though, to say that something like 300, which shows virtually no skill other than replecating the page of a comic book, is completely devoid of merit? In my opinion, yes. Regardless of objective technical worth, not all films are equal; Silent Night Deadly Night 2 is not "objectively" the same as Citizen Kane, and for me it's foolish to try, for the sake of some esoteric, up-own-arsed pseudo-philosphical argument that three people on the Internet will ever read, to argue otherwise.

As an actual, real-life young man between the ages of 18 and 25, I enjoy a good dumb action movie on occasion, like Die Hard or Speed, but I would never argue they are cinematic masterpieces. Reasonable people can disagree on films, and I might not even mind a coherent, well-reasoned argument on why The Dark Knight is an all-time masterpiece. But the dope teenager who likes Spider-Man 3 and whose opinion is limited "omg that movie rawx", I do not accept as having the same validity as mine. You may think that douche-ish; I would tell you to get a fucking clue and to get your swollen head out of your ass.

To reiterate an obvious point: Objective fact and quality are virtually non-existant in human society, and this should be an obvious point to every sentient being. However, in this case - arguing that there is no difference in quality at all between two films, even if it's Leprechaun in the Hood versus The Godfather - it seems to be taking an argument to an extreme and rendering it completely pointless. It is a pointless exercise in circular logic to argue otherwise.

I guess a summary of my view is, You're entitled to your opinion but I don't have to respect it. I may be willing to listen to a defense of Transformers but so far as I'm concerned that's just so much wasted effort. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. If that makes me a snob, so be it - I am what I am and that's all that I am.

In any case, isn't it subjective whether or not something else is subjective? From my point-of-view an issue may be subjective, but from someone else's it may be concrete fact. Ergo, post-modernism, where nothing actual exists actually - in my personal opinion/perception of course. Oh my God, I've become one of them...

Ultimately, having endless arguments on the issue of subjectivity and opinion vs. fact is futile and pathetic; the same arguments are trotted out ad nauseum without end. It would be nice if FG could stop boring the world and twisting brains in knots, but it ain't likely to happen in this lifetime.

Rant over. I'll try and have a new review up for you tomorrow.

Go Ahead and Hate Your Neighbor: The Billy Jack Saga

Because I determined there was too much joy and happiness in my life, I gave a rewatch (yes, a rewatch) to the third installment in Tom Laughlin's Billy Jack saga, the untouchably bad The Trial of Billy Jack. Never has a film so personified excrement. You can take your Leprechauns and Manos: the Hands of Fate and Batman and Robin, this is the worst movie ever.

Rather than review each film in-depth, or rewatch them all (God no!), I'll provide a brief overview of the Billy Jack saga. For an insightful review of these films, I recommend Jabootu's brilliant albeit ludicrously in-depth analysis here. Otherwise, here is a fairly succinct overview of the adventures of that half-breed (yeah, right) ex-Green Beret-turned-fighter for Indian justice we all loathed in the Seventies and shake our heads at in disbelief now.*

Born Losers (1967)

Born Losers (1967) is a pretty typical no-budget 1960's AIP exploitation flick. It's a product of James Nicholson and Samuel Zarkoff's infamous schlock factory, which started out with Z-Movie horror schlockfests (It Conquered the World and other assorted MST3K fodder), then moved on to the Annette Funicello/Frankie Avalon Beach Party films, and biker flicks like Hell's Angels, all starring up-and-coming actors like Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda. If AIP can be credited with anything, it's tapping into the heretofore ignored teen market. This piece of drek came at the tail-end of the late '60s biker craze, starring struggling actor-turned-director Tom Laughlin.

Billy Jack, if anything, is a secondary character here, spending much of the running time trying to mortgage his land and truck with a crooked bank. The real focus is a series of rapes and other crimes committed by a sleazy biker gang led by Danny (Jeremy Slate) in a small town; the nominal protagonist is Vicky (Elizabeth James), a spoiled little brat largely ignored by her rich parents and yearns for excitement. She finds it alright, and when the cops prove unable to stop Danny's thugs, Billy Jack has to step in do what's right.

The movie has little to connect it to subsequent installments, although Billy's scrapes with the indifferent and crooked law and occasional "bad ass" moments (my favorite: Billy roughs up a biker, douses him with gas and threatens to set him ablaze), not to mention a complete lack of resemblance to a Native American are already well-established. The movie is mostly memorable for its disgusting misogyny: most of the rape victims either enjoy the rapes inflicted on them or are simply traumatized, with Billy basically saying that the parents deserve to have their kids raped by the bikers. Real class act, Laughlin.

Born Losers is just trashy biker exploitation, not without its moments of camp silliness, but with little to recommend it. Don't worry though, soon enough we'll be in camp classic territory.

Rating: 2/10

Billy Jack (1971)

With the success of Born Losers, Laughlin financed the sequel largely out of his own pocket. Here he blends his butt-kicking loner character with lots of loopy left-wing politics and digressive nonsense. The film is undeniably dreck, but it's so full of ridiculous, head-scratching scenes that it's an unparalleled kitsch classic. If nothing else, it's fun to tear into a la MST3K, or to just sit back and enjoy the madness.

Here we meet the characters we'll be stuck with for the rest of the franchise. The Freedom School, a glorified hippie commune somewhere in the Southwest led by Jean (Laughlin's real-life spouse Delores Taylor), teaches kids to "do their own thing" and express themselves. The local townspeople don't like it none, especially land boss Mr. Posner (David Roya) and racist deputy Mike (Kenneth Tobey), whose daughter (Julie Webb) ran away to the Freedom School. There are inevitable clashes between the school and the powers-that-be, as well as much racism directed at the local Navajo Indians, forcing Billy to take a stand.

From the first frame, with Coven's infamous One Tin Soldier ("Go ahead and hate your neighbor! Go ahead and cheat a friend!") blaring on the soundtrack as a gang of rustlers attempts to round up wild stallions, you know what kind of film this is. Laughlin comes across like a lousy, albeit martial arts-knowledgable Clint Eastwood clone, but his complete lack of talent makes Clint look like Marlon Brando. The politics are hamfisted to the extreme, mixing an interesting view of government persecution of Native Americans (an interesting topic, to be sure) with incoherent ranting about the Kennedys, Civil Rights and Vietnam, uniformly atrocious dialogue and acting (obnoxious teen Barbara is hysterically funny), and endless digressive scenes of Freedom School students performing terrible songs. Then there's the lengthy guerilla theater segments led by Howard Hesseman, ranging from mildly amusing to unbearably obnoxious.

What really makes the film, however, is its dead seriousness. Everything (save the deliberate comic relief) is presented without a shred of irony or self-awareness, and it's clear Laughlin and Co. earnestly believe every word they say. The audience, however, need not share their sentiments. In fact, we may well find them ridiculous beyond belief.

Needless to say, audiences disaffected by the upheaval of the Sixties and the bitter fall-out of the Nixon Administration ate this film up, making it a huge box-office success. It came out at just the right time, and Laughlin made his name (and a bundle of cash) off it. Unfortunately, it also "entitled" us to two further sequels. The movie's biggest influence, however, is on the action genre. Billy's martial arts ass-whuppins provided the clear inspiration for Chuck Norris, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Dolph Lundgren, and most egregiously Steven Seagal, who even aped Laughlin's mystical pseudo-philosophy in several films.

Billy Jack, whatever its innumerable shortcomings, is a wonderful piece of '70s kitsch. It's easy to see how it's become a cult classic. (It's a bit frightening to contemplate how many people take it seriously, though.) This is the one to watch for camp fun, because we're about to delve into indescribable terror. You've been warned...

Rating: 5/10

The Trial of Billy Jack (1974)

Everything that was "fun" about Billy Jack goes down the crapper in The Trial of Billy Jack. The phenomenal success of Billy Jack removed even more of Laughlin's restraints, and Laughlin goes full bore with this insipid, asinine and tremendously insulting 171 minute "epic." It's full of ridiculous subplots that go nowhere but drag on forever, plus insane political ramblings. This film isn't just bad, it's the embodiment of shit - the standard by which the Troll 2s and Leprechaun in the Hoods of the world must be judged.

The horribly organized plot concerns the fall-out of the original film. Billy is imprisoned for killing a Deputy, and Jean builds up the Freedom School. The authorities find themselves threatened by the School's increased "power", as they broadcast their own TV network and publish a newspaper that "exposes" corrupt both local and national. There's also arguing about Indian land rights, racism, and a showdown with the National Guard. There are the usual Laughlin digressions, with lengthy set-pieces and musical numbers (but no Howard Hesseman, thankfully), all theoretically fitting under the umbrella of a general plot, but resulitng in a cornucopia of incoherence.

At 171 minutes long, the breezy camp fun of the previous two installments evaporates. All that's left is pretentious, painful bloat and neon-sign preaching. It seems Laughlin didn't feel a need to cut a single frame of film from the finished project. That would certainly explain the endless subplots and digressive set-pieces that go on and on without actually contributing to the story.

Billy's lengthy vision quest is the camp highlight. Painted red, he travels into a spirit-occupied cave, encounters demons masquerading as cobras ("No cobras in this country, my friend!"), bats that screech like alley cats, and an Indian spirit guide who makes him punch Jesus in the face (!). This scene lasts half an hour and has nothing to do with the rest of the film. Whatever lessons Billy learns about peace are eradicated minutes later when he kicks the holy Hell out of some rednecks. Ain't that always the way?

But this epochal silliness is overwhelmed by mountains of truly wretched and discursive material. Billy's trial (which lasts maybe ten minutes), the lengthy rescue of two Indians trapped on a mountain, the internicine conflict within the Freedom School about dealing with the authorities, and the abused, one-armed child taught to love and care by the Freedom School students are unbearablu obnoxious. In all, the movie has about sixty subplots and sidestories that only vaguely tie together. Trying to craft a film of epic complexity, Laughlin only creates the greatest muddle ever committed to celluoid.

Laughlin's propaganda is childishly blunt throughout. We see Vietnamese civilians huddled into a trench and shot en masse by soldiers (including the summary execution of a crying baby), in an extended flashback scene. In perhaps the worst scene in cinema history, a National Guardsman (William Wellman Jr.) reluctant to fire into a crowd of student protestors is forced to at gunpoint. Not surprisingly, his very first shot hits a one-armed crippled boy holding a bunny!!! Talk about deck-stacking: this is shooting the dealer and stealing his wallet.

One fluctuates between being offended and laughing hysterically. The attempts to tie the finale to real-life campus shootings like Kent State makes it even worse. The movie concludes with equally ludicrous scene where the Freedom School students sing Give Peace a Chance over and over and over for the better part of five minutes. By then, the viewer has long since tuned out, and is praying desperately for the end.

What more can be said, really? I cannot possibly do justice to how horribly obnoxious and terrible this movie is. You'd have to see it to believe it, but that's too high a price to pay for such knowledge.

Rating: -10/10 - Worst Film Ever

Billy Jack Goes to Washington (1977)

The fourth and final installment in the franchise only adds egregious insult to injury, and pisses on a Hollywood masterpiece in the bargain. Billy Jack Goes to Washington (1977) isn't even entertaining as camp. It's a dull-as-dirt political "thriller" that has a moderate budget and some decent actors, and still produces utter shit. Perhaps that's because Laughlin and Co. didn't make themselves scarce.

As the title indicates, this is a remake of the Frank Capra-James Stewart classic Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (Frank Capra Jr. even produces the damned thing!), only with an obnoxious post-Watergate bent. Billy is inexplicably appointed to fill a Senate seat; his predecessor was investigating corruption within America's nuclear program. Billy wants to build a national child's center instead, arguing that the site selected for the plant is unsafe due to fault lines (presumably it would be safe for the children then?). Of course, he finds corruption and indifference blocking his every step. If you've seen the Capra film, you know the story.

By the time of this film, Billy was already an anachronism. Jimmy Carter was President and the painful memories of Vietnam and Watergate were, if not forgotten, then largely put in the past. Oil embargoes and inflation were becoming more important than the corruption of a past administration. In this film, even more than its predecessors, Laughlin comes across as not only outlandish but actively insane, with evil omnipotent government conspiracies that make The X-Files look grounded in reality. Capra's film, granted, was cynical about American politics to a greater degree than he's given credit for, but never did it even approach the lunacy that Laughlin engages in.

But that's not even the worse part. The movie is pretty much a shot-by-shot remake of the Capra film, which makes it all the more painful. Laughlin shoe-horns in a ridiculous action scene (involving "CIA Agents" posing as street thugs) to placate his blood-thirsty audience, then surrounds it with endless political platitudes and simplistic civics lessons. Many are almost verbatim from the original film, such as Billy's inspirational trip to various Washington monuments and his desperate filibuster. The difference here is that James Stewart is being replaced by Tom Laughlin, who can't emote his way out of a paper-bag. The final scenes of him aping Stewart's "You think I'm licked!" speech on the Senate floor is pathetic beyond words. The difference, of course, is that the original film was made by very, very talented people; Tom Laughlin is about as talented as a second-year film student at a particularly bad community college.

The film wastes a respectable supporting cast. Peter Donat (The Godfather Part II) as a reporter, E.G. Marshall (Twelve Angry Men) in the Claude Rains role, Luci Arnaz (yes, the daughter of Lucy and Desi) as the dedicated Secretary Saunders and Pat O'Brien as another Senator are among those lashing their talent to this sinking ship of shit. The movie ends on a reprise of One Tin Soldier, just so you know this really was a Billy Jack movie, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Thankfully, Mr. Laughlin hasn't been able to film his planned fifth installment, for which we can all be eternally grateful.

And that's that. Even if you somehow like the other Billy Jack installments, do not EVER watch this one. If you do, that's your own damned fault.

Rating: 1/10

I hope this experience has been enlightening for you all. I watch these movies so you don't have to, and to let you know that cinema can be worse than you thought possible. Next time your buddy says that the latest big-budget piece of crap (Transformers 2?) is the worst film ever, just shake your head and tell them you know better...

* - I wasn't alive in the '70s, myself, but I don't see how that's relevant.

Let's Kick Some ICE!

God help me.

Today I watched Joel Schumaker's Batman & Robin (1997). It had been quite awhile since I'd deliberately watched a notoriously awful movie without the help of MST3K. I knew from various YouTube videos and word of mouth that I was in for one hell of a ride, but nothing could prepare me for the dumbfounding sight that I witnessed today. While the Billy Jack and Leprechaun movies could at least plead "No budget!", this would-be blockbuster has no such excuse. Other than the Devlin-Emmerich Godzilla reboot, this is without a doubt the worst big-budget Hollywood movie I've ever seen.

Do you really need to know the plot? Mr. Freeze (Arnold Schwarzenegger) is a cold-hearted ex-scientist who goes on a crime spree in an attempt to cure his dying wife of a rare disorder. He's helped by Poison Ivy (Uma Thurman), a pheremone-spewing femme fatale created through a lab accident, burning for revenge against humanity in general. These two spew off bad pun after bad pun like a barrel full of MadTV writers. Batman (George Clooney) and Robin (Chris O'Donnell) strap on their nipple-adorned Batsuits and attempt to stop these guys, only to find themselves at odds with each other as much as their superfoes. Oh, and Alfred Pennyworth (Michael Gough in child molestor mode) has a terminal illness, and his niece (Alicia Silverstone) shows up to help our heroes kick some ice (and, er, leaf).

One comes away from Batman & Robin completely and utterly dumbfounded. I've never been a fan of Batman or superheroes in general, so I'm merely judging it based on basic human instincts. That being said, What the fuck is going on here? Did Schumaker and Company seriously think they were making a good film? Certainly some degree of camp is intentional - you don't write a million puns about ice without hoping at least one of them is funny - but how can one take this film even remotely seriously? With a boatful of A-list stars giving earth-shatteringly bad performances, an unbelievably turgid screenplay that's the stuff Internet memes are made of, a plot that goes nowhere in a hurry, laughably drawn characters, horrendously shot action sequences (with amusingly primitive CGI), and the visual sense of a squirrel on angel dust, Batman & Robin is not only mind-bendingly bizarre and inexplicable, but absolutely worthless as entertainment - even the justly-mocked camp elements are treading on thin ice towards the end.

The film is certainly creative visually, full of giant nude statues, Batnipples (and lots of crotch and butt close-ups), lots of icey and plant-adorned sets, and backdrops and settings that seem to be aimed at a deliberately cartoonish atmosphere. The result is surreal, inasmuch as a fever dream is surreal. Ultimately, it's also about as pleasant as a bad bout of the flu, or eating raw meat out of the ice box. If nothing else, this film provides Exhibit A that creative is by no means a synonym for good. One misses the rote, uncreative banality of a Michael Bay extravaganza here; with its multifaceted plot, large cast of characters, and whacky, drug-induced visual sense, Batman & Robin is nothing if not ambitious - but oh how it fails.

The cast seems to be engaging in a contest to see who can give the worst performance - and believe me, the competition is very stiff. George Clooney is stiff, wooden, boring and completely unemotive as the third '90s incarnation of Batman, and Chris O'Donnell is an obnoxious, utterly punchable prick as Robin. Arnold Schwarzenegger stops the competition cold with a frosty performance, spitting off frost-bitten puns every second that brings in gails of laughter. Uma Thurman trades him punch for punch as Poison Ivy, chewing off an endless string of equally atrocious plant puns in the most insufferable Barbara Stanwyck/Katharine Hepburn impersonation ever. I was expecting this from Ahnuld but damn, I was under the impression that Uma could act. Alicia Silverstone is just unspeakably annoying as Batgirl, and John Glover's brief appearance as Thurman's psychotic research partner surely deserves comparison with the theater douchebag from Silent Night Deadly Night 2 as the most obnoxious one-scene character in film history. In a smaller role, Coolio gives a performance every bit impressive as his turn in Leprechaun in the Hood. Only Michael Gough as Alfred and Pat Hingle as Gordon give anything resembling decent performances.

So, yeah, I may not be The Dark Knight's biggest fan, but after this glacial abomination I've no freezing desire to see more. Unless my ice deceive me, this film is as pleasant as an icicle through the eye, and just as painful. At least there are some laughs to be had, but the idea of sitting through this iceberg again is a chilling prospect indeed. It gives me frostbite just thinking about it...

All right, enough of that. All I have to add is: Vat kilt da dinosaurs?*

Rating: Absolute Zero/10 - Dat Means It's Really Cold... Er, Bad

* - DEE ICE AGE!!!

Happy St. Patty's Day!

Enjoy the wearin' o' the green, me lads!

All That Heaven Allows

"I don't think this is a very flattering picture, Rock. I mean, the lack of color fails to bring out the flannel's true potential."

The last two films watched in our film class, Blonde Venus and Stella Dallas, were not films I had a great deal to say about. Blonde Venus was pretty dull and formulaic, Stella Dallas entertaining but rather forgettable I thought, Barbara Stanwyck's performance notwithstanding. So it is with great pride that I return to my once-weekly film class column with a film decidedly worthy of note: The Deer Story!

Oh wait, it's All That Heaven Allows: A Deer Story. Mea culpa.

Cary Scott (Jane Wyman) is a widow living in a small town. She is pretty much resigned to her lot in life, with her kids fully grown (and golly gee, they sure are swell at annoying the shit out of everyone in the audience!) and a few friends at the exclusive, gossipy Country Club. But this was before she paid attention to Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson). Yes, Ron Kirby. The quintessential Man's Man. Studly, handsome, secretly gay and always wearing flannel shirts, he's many degrees removed from the high-society types she usually hangs with. Cary falls in love with this younger, flannel-wearing Stud Muffin who is the rugged manly type who doesn't talk much, reads Henry David Thoreau, lives in a shack in the woods, and is so in harmony with Nature that he not only wears flannel (the epitome of Manly Toughness) and pets wild deer, but shoots geese as well. Unfortunately, he's not a member of the Upper Class, and he's younger than Cary, so when she begins a relationship with him, everyone in town from the fuddy-duddies to her obnoxious cildren take issue. Cary drops him like a hot potato as a result, only to find that sacrificing her love for her community ain't all it's cracked up to be. Then there's some contrived, gushy ending which is supposed to make us feel happy and warm, but then makes us laugh so hard our appendixes explode. Er, or something like that.

So, here is a Douglas Sirk film. With a name like Sirk, you've gotta make Crap!

Actually, this is my first Sirk movie, although I've heard a great deal about them beforehand. And boy, I was expecting a cheesefest, but this exceeded my wildest possible imagination. Nowhere in the recesses of my quite imaginative mind, the one who used to watch Days of Our Lives on a daily basis and who willingly sat through 4 Leprechaun movies and The Sound Barrier, could I have ever imagined the Hell wrought by Mr. Sirk.

Here is a movie, quite frankly, that drips syrup out of every frame. Overwrought emotion. My irrational paranoid fears about diabetes are given extraordinary credence after watching this movie; it was so syrupy sweet that my pancreas just died on me. (Which means this may be the last entry for this blog ever. Come back guys, I was just making a tasteless joke.) It's not even the cheesiness that bothers me, really. It's the way the film is made, making everything so bloody obvious to the audience - spelling it out every letter for us. It's not enough to have a broken vase show up fixed - you have to talk about it (and then break it again, and then fret about how much effort went into it before it was broken). You can't have people put down without having them then talk amonst themselves. And certainly you can't have them break up, have Cary experience the emptiness which has occurred from this, and want to go back to him, without having her explain all this to the audience. I mean, really. The only good that comes out of all this long-winded exhortation is the cinematography with its wonderfully florid, exaggerated, almost surreal color palette. Either Sirk is a master satirist, or he's assuming that his target audience were rock-stupid. Maybe both.

The characters are even more fun to think about. Cary is like Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter, only without the accent. And the depth. And the humanity. And the intelligence. And the... Okay, she maintains a bit of dignity, thanks to Ms. Wyman, but she's still a cypher no matter how you slice it. At least she has a sliver of humanity compared to Rod, who as played by Rock Hudson is a wooden stump. He may be hot but he can't act any better than the star of a Coleman Francis film - at least not here. No matter how many tough, manly attributes you wish to give him, he's still just a line on a script. The hysterically obnoxious gossipy associates barely rate a mention, except to say that they're the most realisitic characters in the movie. I've known enough horrible people in elementary and high school to know that bitch Mona is a very frightening reality.

Oh, but her children. Son Doug is just a jackass, pure and simple, who feels that something has come between him and his mother - not Rod, but the door that is quite literally in between them on the camera. (Gee, Mr. Sirk, thanks for making literal that metaphor at the same time you are talking about it!!!) And then, at the end he ditches her for a job in Iran. See, this is what being a good parent gets you: you sacrifice your one true love for the sake of your children, and your son runs off to do wet jobs for the CIA. Nice.

As for daughter Kay? At first, with her thin figure, long brown hair, and dorky glasses, I thought she looked like a mousy Sabrina-era Audrey Hepburn, but after listening to some of her never-ending stream-of-consciousness rants about Freudian psychology (as my friend Troy Steele would say, "What.") in an irritating voice, I realized who she reminded me of...

Okay. Imagine that spouting off Freudian psychobabble for an hour and a half. Yikes.

And then there's that damned deer who pops up at the end. I mean, really, what can you say to that? The entire class laughed at the deer, who conveniently pops up to be backgrounded during our leads' reconcilation. If all we wanted were deer, we'd have watched Bambi instead. I'm sure it's a symbol of romance or Ron's rugged MANLY! nature persona, but it's also stupid. And cheesy. But don't take my word for it:

So, is this movie really that corny, or is it actualy a brilliant satire, a scathing mockery of these very sort of films? I hope it's not out of line for me to say that Revisionist Critics need to get a grip on themselves and stop masturbating over how "original" they are for coming up with such concepts. Because really, they're just being thick clods. For yes, I do truly think that Douglas Sirk intended this movie to be that stupid. You can do melodrama and make it interesting, so I choose to believe that Douglas Sirk just plain sucks. I'm simply too tired to consider other possibilities. Besides, if that were true, I'd have to throw this whole review out and start from scratch, wouldn't I?

(Note: I'm classifying this a bad movie simply because it sucks. I'd worry about pissing off a reader or two, but as there aren't very many around as of yet, I'm sure I'll sleep soundly giving it such a classification.)

Rating: 4/10 - Avoid

GARBAGE DAY!

The cast of Silent Night, Deadly Night II becomes increasingly desperate to escape the film.


Well, the other day I watched Hitchcock's The Paradine Case, a fairly boring courtroom drama with Gregory Peck oddly cast as an Englishman. I had thought of writing a review of that - it would only be natural - but I already reviewed Madeleine this past week, so the idea of reviewing a boring courtroom drama seemed, shall we say, undesirable. Why review a mediocre movie when I could review an utterly atrocious one?

No, this review will be my first excursion (for this blog) into one of the most underappreciated arts: the love of, and appreciation for, really, really, really bad movies. By bad, of course, I don't simply mean banal blockbuster trash like 300 and Transformers, or even middle-of-the-road films that don't quite achieve what they set out to do. I'm talking about movies that are so mind-crushingly stupid, insipid, intelligence-insulting, ridiculous and cheesy that you can't help but laugh your ass off at them. I will concede it's a decidedly acquired taste. Anyone can like a decent-to-good movie, and most people can at least enjoy a great movie, even if they can't or don't appreciate it. No, the true connoisseurs are those who love bad movies. I can't say that I enjoy all "bad movies" the same way - I love Manos: the Hands of Fate, but despise Snakes on a Plane, for instance. I don't know if it's a sign of open-mindedness to embrace every bad movie, or a lack of discretion. But I enjoy my bad movies like, well, not fine wine, but mediocre chocolate: I eat it until my pancreas shorts out and I develop diabetes. (I'll assume that no diabetics are reading this blog, and thus that I'm not offending anyone.)

There are a lot of movies in this category I'd like to write about, from the hilariously inept Leprechaun flicks to the insipid, insulting Billy Jack franchise, to any number of other films parodied by the late, great Mystery Science Theater 3000. Indeed, I'm sure that I'll get around to these old favorites in the not-too-distant future. But yesterday, seduced by a now-infamous Internet meme, I tracked down and watched perhaps the worst movie of all time - yes, worse than The Trial of Billy Jack - on YouTube - 1987's much-maligned slasher film/camp classic Silent Night, Deadly Night 2.

The original Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984) was a controversial (among those fuddy-duddies who care about such things) slasher flick about a kid who witnessed a psychotic Santa Claus killing his family, grew up in an orphanage run by a sadistic Nut Nun, and himself donned a Santa suit before going on a killing spree of his own. Not exactly in good taste, but the movie was worth a few laughs - albeit, not necessarily of the intentional kind. However, it doesn't even approach the depths of laughable terror spawned by its sequel.

The sequel is in large part a recycling of the first movie. And by recycling, I don't mean simply that they recycled plot elements or situations. No, literally the whole first half of the movie (save some bits of narration) was lifted from the original!!! That's right, 40 minutes of an 80-minute movie is footage completely recycled from another movie. That's strike one. (Although, the film does engage in a bit of cleverness by having Ricky and girlfriend watch the first movie in a theater - but that's well after the first forty minutes have ended.) The movie's remaining storyline is simply a random series of events as Ricky (Eric Freeman), the brother of the first movie's antagonist, goes on a seemingly random killing spree, shooting people for wearing ugly football jerseys or mixing their plastics with their paper. None of this makes any sense, although the film belatedly decides that he is to exact revenge on the evil Mother Superior (leading to a hilarious chase scene and showdown between Psycho Santa and cripple knife-wielding Nun). I mean, I would have to be on pot to make up a plot description like that. That's how you can tell it's very, very real. Let me just say, I had a very bad case of the flu last February, which led to lots of insomnia and bizarre, indescribable fever dreams. It's as if someone tried to film these dreams, but their camera broke, so they hired a six year old to write a screenplay based on verbal descriptions, and then shot it on a budget of $6 with a camera phone. And then they lost that and made this movie.

Perhaps the best thing about the film is its lead actor, giving a performance surpassing even the great Tor Johnson in Beast of Yucca Flats. Eric Freeman inspires giggles every time he opens his mouth, giving perhaps the most hammy, over-the-top performance in the history of humanity (including elementary school plays, Indian rain dances and Daniel Day-Lewis ranting about milkshakes). He makes William Shatner look like Paul Scofield. It's a real treat to watch, as he swallows the scenery whole and chews over such great dialogue as "FUCK OFF!... Doc.", "It sounded like some squirrel getting his nuts squeezed!", and my personal favorite, "You tend to get paranoid when everyone around you gets DEAD!" Honest to blog, that's the real dialogue, and if I quote Juno again feel free to cane me mercilessly. (Not that he needs such dialogue, mind you. Freeman is able to make a line like "I don't sleep!" into the equivalent of Lady Macbeth's "Out damned spot!" rant) You can't make this shit up. You can't get much weirder than that... Oh, wait. Never mind. There might be a few exceptions.

Nah. Just wait until you scroll to the bottom of this review.

It's really, really hard to pick out a "best" scene, because the whole movie - even the flashbacks to the first movie - is so bad it inspires laughter. Not just a snide grin or a chuckle, but hysterical, gut-busting, "Normal View"-inspired laughter (that one's for the MSTies in my audience). Even the footage culled from the first movie is pretty funny - death by antler? A little kid decking Santa Claus? The over-acting silent black guy at the beginning? The annoying heckler in the movie theater singing along with the film's theme song? Death by umbrella? It's gold, Jerry, GOLD! Perhaps the most ludicrous (and thus hysterical) scene is Ricky's infamous killing spree, where an argument with his girlfriend's ex leads to a completely random massacre of an innocent suburb. The scene builds on top of itself, every moment more absurd than the last, from electrocuting Boyfriend with jumper cables to strangling Girlfriend with a car antenna, to shooting a poor man's Barney Fife with his own gun, shooting a car which flips over, lands right-side up, and then blows up (from the inside, it must be noted, not the engine - maybe it was being driven by James Coburn coming home from the set of Duck, You Sucker!), and of course, the moment that everyone remembers:

To those who've seen it, there needn't be anything more said about this movie.

For my part, I'll say just a mite more. This is the best movie of all time, if judging by the sheer number of yuks a minute. Not even The Ruling Class, His Girl Friday or even Prince of Space approach this level of humor. If you feel so inclined, the entire movie is on youtube. Why not give it a whirl? If you're reading this review, it's not like you have anything better to do.

Rating: 0/10 quality-wise, 100/10 for camp value

An Editorial on Pirates 4

Mr. Mercer Sez:

"The deleted scenes from Pirates 3... are under MY command!"

Penrod: Gee, Professor Saunders, I sure enjoyed your lesson on what makes a good film. Now I know who to come for when I want asinine geekiness... er, I mean, cinematic knowledge.

Professor S: Why, thank you, Penrod. If you call me a geek again I will cane you mercilessly - just like last time.

Penrod: Gee, I'm sorry. But came here because I have a question for you.

Professor S: Yes, Penrod?

Penrod: I just heard confirmation that they're making a fourth Pirates of the Caribbean movie, Professor Saunders! With Johnny Depp and everything! What do you make of that!?

Professor S: Well, Penrod, there's an obvious explanation for this: Money. Didn't you see how successful the last two movies were? It's all about the Almighty Dollar for Disney.

Penrod: But Disney is all about family entertainment!

Professor S: Don't be an idiot, Penrod. Didn't you see the beginning of the last Pirates film?

Penrod: My mommy screamed in terror while she was watching that. I couldn't hear what was going on.

Professor S: Puerile Bush-bashing, Penrod, by obnoxious Hollywood liberals. And the murder of children, to boot...

Penrod: Golly gee, Professor, are you trying to slyly sneak a pro-life message into this article?

Professor S: Just a cheap jab, Penrod. You'll learn their value one day, once you read Plato and realize he's full of shit... The point is, Penrod, that the Pirates movies weren't exactly paragons of family entertainment. But in any case...

Penrod: But gee, are you saying that Mickey Mouse is all about the money?

Professor S: If he wanted to, Penrod, Mickey Mouse would come over to your house, kill your family and burglarize your home - and film it, too, so he could edit it into Hannah Montana: The Motion Picture. And then have Hannah say something clever about the Patriot Act!

Penrod: You've got me scared!!! Hannah Montana giving political commentary?

Professor S: Sorry, Penrod. Now, what was your question?

Penrod: About the Pirates movie, Professor S.

Professor S: Ah, yes.

Penrod: Aren't you excited? You did write that lengthy article about the Pirates films a few months ago, didn't you?

Professor S: Yes. But No, I'm not excited.

Penrod: But, golly gee, Professor S! More Johnny Depp and more Geoffrey Rush and more CGI and no Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom and more special effects and more battles and sword fights and action and treasure and...

Professor S: Whoa there, Penrod! You're sounding like a fanboy!

Penrod: HEATH LEDGER FOR BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR 2009!

Professor S: Sometimes I worry about you, Penrod...

Penrod: So, why aren't you excited, Professor S?

Professor S: Well, Penrod, there are a myraid of reasons.

Penrod: What's myriad?

Professor S: A word you don't understand. Now be quiet. First, there's the fact that the last two movies kind of squelched any creativity by sucking the life out of the first movie and blowing it up into pseudo-epic proportions.

Penrod: But, Professor! What about that squid dude! He looked so AWESOME!

Professor S: No he didn't, Penrod. He looked stupid. And in any case, squid-face CGI don't make good movies in and of themselves.

Penrod: But, what about Johnny Depp! He's so funny, and Jack is cool! And all those teenaged girls love him!

Professor S: Well, Penrod, I liked Jack too, but I think Dead Man's Chest proved that even a great character can be sabotaged by a lame movie and a bad screenplay. The character himself can only provide so much amusement, and even with Barbossa around, he could easily be wasted or poorly used.

As for Johnny Depp fangirls, well, I think we know that they'll come see him no matter WHAT he does...



...But I don't think they make up THAT big of a financial base.

Penrod: But Cheez Whiz, Professor S! What about all the money they made?

Professor S: True, and that only helps make my point. But the third movie just came out 16 months ago. People still remember these movies, and many if not most of them don't have fond memories of squid-guys or million-faceted storylines or Jack clones or 50-foot sea goddesses.

Penrod: But they WERE successful, Professor S!

Professor S: Yeah, but how interested would they be in a 4th movie right after the third one came out? Especially given how many people were disappointed by these movies.

Penrod: But, Professor S, not all sequels are bad:



Professor S: No, Penrod, and I said I liked the third one. My point is though: There's only so many times you can go back to the same well and expect to find water. And the last movie only came out last year. Given some of the crap that turned up in the last two films, I can only shudder what Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio would come up with if they were really out of ideas...

Penrod: But Tom Hollander!

Professor S: I do like Tom Hollander, Penrod, but I don't see what that has to do with anything. He won't be in this one.

Penrod: Why not?

Professor S: He died at the end of the last movie, Penrod.

Penrod: He DID!?

Professor: (stares incredulously) Yep. So he won't be back. And neither will Orlando Bloom, or Keira Knightley, or Jack Davenport, or Jonathan Pryce, or Bill Nighy, or David Schofield, or Chow Yun-Fat, or any of the interesting characters.

Penrod: But Keira Knightley isn't dead!

Professor: No, but she said she doesn't want to do anymore Pirates movies.

Penrod: Well, I can understand that. I mean, being trapped on that island alone by herself for ten years... I don't see how she could even make any movies.

Professor: (shakes head)

Penrod: But wait a minute, Professor S! They brought Barbossa and Jack back from the dead!! Couldn't they do that again?

Professor: Yes, they did, Penrod, and I'm afraid of a sequel for that very reason. I'm afraid to ponder the depths to which Disney may sink in order to make a dollar or bail themselves out of a lame storyline.

Penrod: (after a pause) Wait... Who's Tom Hollander?

Professor:

Penrod: Gee whiz, Professor Saunders, you sure made a convincing argument! Now I know why a fourth Pirates film isn't a good idea.

Professor S: Well done, Peabrain!

Penrod: Penrod, sir!

Professor S: I didn't say it was your name.

Penrod: Hmph. Well, anyway, Professor S, thanks for giving me your advice!

Professor S: Good job, Penrod!

Penrod: Thank you!

Professor S: Where are you going after school?

Penrod: I'm going to get in line for the next Pirates movie! Of course...

Professor S: (stares incredulously)

Penrod: See you tomorrow, Professor S!

Professor S: Oh, Penrod. Could you come here a second?

Okay, Professor S! I'll just wait for Valkyrie instead!