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Thursday, 08 March
March Of The Prejudgments
Well, the Oscars are over, and we're nowhere near May. So you know what that means! It's time for Hollywood to clear out the fridge and dump out all the fish heads, rubber carrots and skinned-over stew and put it where all that crap belongs: into the theaters!
Frankly, I love this time of year. If there's nothing quite as awesome as hooting at horrible movies, hooting at advertisements for clearly horrible movies comes in a close second. If the fall shoulder season is the time for dismal weepers, then pre-spring is the time for unleashing its appalling flaccid comedies. Fall is Life As A House. Spring is Cosmonauts Vs. Porky's.
Oh, God! Who ordered this?
The majority of my friends all screamed, "Bill Macy! What are you doing?" when the ads for this radioactive zombie turkey came out, and it's still kind of a wonder, given the nightmarish quality of the rest of the cast, featuring drained batteries like John Travolta and Martin Lawrence alongside odious people such as Tim Allen and the incomprehensibly still-living Sklar brothers; Ray Liotta and Marisa Tomei are also skulking around in this thing, no doubt thinking about that few weeks or so when everyone wondered, "Maybe they don't stink," a grace period that ended, well, here.
BONUS: It also features Jill Hennessey, who owes all of her comedy chops to her stint on "Law & Order," where, I have to admit, she was hilarious.
THIS! IS! SCHPOTTA! I swear that's what the guy screams in the ads right before he kicks the other dude into a well. Then the bearded guy triumphantly turns to his cadre of nearly-naked compatriots, selects the beefiest, hottest one, and joyously ejaculates onto his chest. Those Greeks!
All kidding aside, it's refreshing to see an openly homoerotic movie about a small group of highly athletic, gorgeous half-naked white guys who are willing to sacrifice their lives to fight against an unstoppable invading force of foreign, occasionally nonwhite devils who have no honor. I get so tired of "issues" flicks.
Blades of Glory
A proud greenskeeper in the twilight of his years (Morgan Freeman) unexpectedly finds love on the links when he meets Helena (Helen Mirren) while mowing the back nine at Greensboro Country Club, only to find himself in conflict when news arrived that his estranged son (Dave Chappelle, in a surprisingly moving dramatic turn) has contracted lupus . . .
No, just kidding, it's just another fucking formula comedy with Will Ferrell and Jon Heder, two of our finest comedic actors who achieve consistent success by steadfastly refusing to play anything other than Will Ferrell and Jon Heder.
Movies like this fucking dogsack just irritate me. Wigs = funny! Sure, they're a step up from ghastly heart attacks like Date Movie or Epic Movie or, and I'm sure it's coming soon, Sad Movie, but that's a lot like saying krill is a step up from plankton.
This purported screamer from the same sadists who are responsible for the Saw franchise dares to ask the question, "Is anyone using these old props from Magic?" The answer, sadly, appears to have been, "No, go ahead!" Even the tagline is pathetically lazy: "You scream. You die." How novel! I'm so tired of those lame horror movies with deafmutes being silently slaughtered.
We'll probably never get tired of tales of the vengeful dead; this one seems to be about a murdered ventriloquist. That's okay by me, really, as I am a bad horror movie enthusiast, but someday maybe some courageous director will have a film where the dead person comes back and says things like "You know what I miss? Gum. Do you have any?" or "I'd sure like to play some cards."
I can't even figure out the awful rhyming tagline that this movie's ads chant: is it "she'll rip your tongue out at the seams" or "she'll rip your tongue out at the scene"? On the other hand, I don't care.
Must be March. Tune in next week when I report on my own real-life horror experiment: the wife and I are taking a trip on the Spirit of Washington Dinner Train!
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I am enthusiastically supporting the re-birth of the Evil Dummy subgenre in bad horror movies. Mostly because Making Contact traumatized me as a child, and I feel that sort of wrong should be passed on to the next generation.
The dinner train truly is an experiment. I've been on it multiple times and it can be a horrific experience, or it can be marginally good. There's nothing special or romantic to me about taking a train through the industrial areas of Renton packed in like a bunch of sardines. The entire thing hinges on whether or not you sit by reasonable people, since the tables seat 4 or more. Your best bet is to always bring another couple or you risk sitting across from two complete strangers who squabble about the rocking of the train, the eccentric food, or the cost of the whole thing. All in all it can be a pretty miserable experience if you're not careful. If you're lucky you'll get off the train and go, "Meh...well we can say we did it at least."
Aw man, I got all excited for a moment that maybe Dave Chappelle did some actual acting...
You know, on BBCAmerica there is this show Hex, which I'm not going to claim you'd like. However, the show has a friendly goth lesbian ghost who craves potato chips (er, crisps) and the ability to change her outfit. Honestly she might be my favorite television character ever, with big boobs and an accent to boot.
For some reason she can only wear the clothes of dead people so she goes to the morgue one day to steal... well all in all that episode was a thinly disguised "Hey! What the fuck! We can't have this lesbian ghost wearing the same party dress for the show's entire run!"
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