Wednesday, November 22, 2017

This was never a beach-side puzzle.

In Utah, assuming you've perpetrated a horrendous crime, you can choose, yes, you can opt into, the right to be executed by a firing squad. Like, right now. Twenty-seventeen. But only because they're currently all out of lethal injection drugs.

Wait, what?

Apparently, there are five volunteer shooters (all trained) that carry out the execution, but only one of their guns is loaded with an actual bullet. The other four are firing blanks. Perhaps obviously, no one knows who has what gun, so the person who ultimately kills the murderous bastard remains a mystery. 

Imagine.

A bunch of seemingly random people getting together in the snow-capped mountains, with the collective intent to kill a killer. 

Don't judge me, but I loved the trailer, too.
I've never read (or seen) the works of Agatha Christie before, so please forgive me for enjoying Kenneth Branagh's updated take on Murder on the Orient Express. Apparently, this movie sucks hard, and is significantly worse than the film version that came before, but I was more or less captivated for the hour-and-fifty-four-minute runtime. And being that I'm obviously a moron, I didn't see anything coming. And quite frankly, I'm not sure how you could.

Hercule Poirot is the world's greatest detective, and though the competition is stiff, he also just might be my favorite dick on the planet. See, Poirot's gift is totally his curse, as his insane attention to detail consistently robs his life of joy. When we meet Poirot, he's just publicly solved a case at the Wailing Wall, and is looking for little rest and relaxation (and, if I'm being frank, time for a little Dickens). Unfortunately, fate ain't exactly interested in all that, and throws Poirot an Oliver of a twist, routing him back to London to solve an urgent case instead. Lucky for him, there just so happens to be one seat left on the most regal of locomotives, the exquisite and opulent Orient Express. Should be a relaxing ride to London, right? Well, it could have been, had Edward Scissorhands not been stabbed to death along the way.

Monday, November 20, 2017

If you have to go, go. But it would be really great if you stayed.

I don't remember what the priest said exactly (he went way rogue during, the ceremony), but I'm sure the whole in sickness and in health thing came up. I mean, it's part of the rules, right? You pledge your life to someone, you can't f--king bail on them when they get sick, right?

But what if you're not married yet? Hell, it took me seven years to propose. I was already being enough of an asshole. If she had gotten sick, I wasn't going anywhere.

Okay, dickhead. Try not to pull anything patting yourself on the back, okay? What about if you're not even dating? What if you've already broken up?

Uhhhhh....about that.

Being that I'm a moderately-functioning consumer of moving pictures, it goes without saying that of course I had heard about The Big Sick prior to watching it with my wife the other night. Of course I knew it was based on Kumail Nanjiani's real-life relationship with Emily Gordon, and how their relationship persevered through her life-threatening illness.  And of course I was going to love the shit out of it, because, well, it's not like I'm a f--king heartless prick, incapable of joy and basic human empathy.

Uh, so Kumail, at least, is a good dude, amusingly struggling through life a burgeoning stand-up comedian
(and Uber driver). After a show, as I'm sure is so often the case, this funny dude meets a seemingly lovely young woman and they hit it off. Turns out this chick is, you guessed it, Emily, and after a quick check on the guy your mom married, she heads the Hell home. Clearly Kumail wants a little more than a one night stand (wait, what?), and the inevitable game of cat-and-mouse begins. The catch? Kumail's family are some pretty traditional Pakistanis, and are desperately trying to arrange his marriage. To a fine Pakistani woman. Ain't nobody got time for some white chick and all her bullshit. If he's going to pursue Emily, he's gonna have it covertly.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Watch out for his fingers...they make sparkles.

My son has been having a rough go of it lately. Awful nightmares, sleepless nights...rough mornings.

My wife questioned him at dinner the other night, and he immediately broke into tears. Red face, head in his hands, quiet sobbing - the whole bit. Of course, she looks right at me, equally saying/staring to me, What did you take him to? What was the last movie you two saw? (Could that be it?) 

Instantly, I put my hands in the air. No, hun. I promise. There's no way that movie could have given him a nightmares. No. Way.

I mean, that movie? The last movie we saw together?

It was a dream.


Loki is basically a massive dick on this poster.
Thor: Ragnorok was everything I/we hoped it would be...and more. Maybe a little too much more, in fact. Me and the boy had been waiting patiently to see it on the big screen since that rad trailer debuted months back, and it's safe to say, it didn't disappoint either of us.

Miraculously caught on opening night (we had to be ready to give up our seats if someone, er, (st)rolled in), the third Thor flick opens with the God of Thunder in the worst hammock ever, captured by some giant lava-monster thing, likely planning on world domination. There's some witty banter, a few extremely solid jokes (the spinning!), a few moments before Thor frees himself and kicks all kinds of ass. It's funny, cool as Hela to look at, and is a perfect five minute snapshot of what will happen in the next two plus hours.

Honestly (/annoyingly, I know), if I have any gripe with Taika Waititi's kickass entry into the MCU, it's the fact that here, in the third Thor flick, this sumbitch is over two hours long. I enjoyed my time in and around Sakaar (can something be sexily downtrodden?), but I think I would have been cool if Mr. Waititi hadn't added those thirty-plus minutes after Comi-Con. Unless, those minutes belonged to Korg, of course. Cause that motherf--ker's like, mandatory.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Everyone was warned...but no one listened.

There are many great mysteries in life. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Who is responsible for all of this?

Sometimes, these questions overwhelm me - freak me out a bit. So I go to the movies to escape the infinite emptiness of life (and have some popcorn, let's be honest). But when I sit down...the questions? ...They return.

Why am I here? What's the point of all this? And most pressing...

...WHO THE F--K IS RESPONSIBLE FOR ALL THIS?


In the case of my latest trip to the cinema, it's quite clear the butler did it. Yes friends, our old pal Leonidas, Mr. Gerard Butler himself, has again given  us the ol' One Two straight in the greasy dick of good taste, by starring in the 120 million dollar shit-fest, Geostorm. I've always assumed I'd be bummed out by the end of the world, but if nuclear death means I'm unable to see the next great/totally shitty disaster film, sign me up. Somebody grab Little Rocketman by the p-ssy, asap.

Actually, for about three, maybe four seconds, Geostorm was kinda cool. See, in the near future, the world's climate has gone to Hell and major storms have killed countless f--kers. A team of scientists, whatever those are, creates a massive system of satellites capable of neutralizing any weather-related threat. Say a major hurricane is forming directly over your house. Well, whatever the perfect conditions are for that f--ker, these satellites, known for some reason as Dutchboy (the finger in the dyke kid, if I recall correctly), beam down the opposite requirement, immediately negating the shit-storm that was about to ensue. And since this system was a joint effort of many nations, it seems the world has found itself...relatively peaceful. The only real titty-twister apparently, is who gets control of Dutchboy next. The USA was steering the ship...but in just a short time, it's time to pass the Dutchie on the left hand side, know what I'm saying? 

Yeah. Me neither.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Somebody's gonna kill me tonight.

Wake up. Begrudgingly.
Shower. Stoically.
Put on one of the same five outfits...
...drive the same 32 miles. Hate job, hate life...for eight hours. Drive those 32 miles in reverse...
Come home, kiss my wife, hug my kids, momentarily feel like a person. Eat. Workout.  Go to sleep. Then, guess what?
Wake up. Begrudgingly... 
Aw, a cake? Really? You shouldn't have.
Oh, and also, murdering me later? Too much! Stop!

To a degree, we're all living our own version of Groundhog Day, but the trick to repeating our days over and over again...well, it's living to see the next one. In Happy Death Day, Tree Gelbman has found herself in the unenviable/aforementioned spot of living the same day again and again, but unfortunately for her, she keeps dying at the end of it. Like, actually dying...not just a tiny piece of her soul every twenty-four hours, like the rest of us.
If I remember correctly (and I probably don't), Phil in Groundhog Day was doomed to repeat his day for the rest of his life, while young Ms. Gelbman seems to have an infinite number of tries. See, when she wakes up in the morning, she feels the ill effects of her murder the night before. She doesn't look like she's been flattened by a bus during a sexy catfight (redundant, no?), but she certainly feels like it. Basically, she's gotta find the f--ker who keeps killing her before he does it...again. Good thing the list of suspects is about yay long *makes grand gesture toward crotch*.
While this flick isn't anything more than a tame/lame ripoff of the 1993 Bill Murray classic, it's surprisingly unoffensive. It's been almost 25 years since Ned Ryerson got hilariously punched in the face (also redundant, I realize), but clearly, we've got bigger cinematic fish to fry, bigger Hollywood injustices to be concerned with. Hell, one of the characters flat out states that this story is a rip-off of Groudhog Day, but Tree's a college girl. She's never f--king heard of that movie (a moment that made me smile like an a-hole). So let's all chill the f--k out, you know?

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Give 'em heck.

It's not easy being in a relationship with a woman. Especially when you're a f--king jerk.

I've been with my wife for over sixteen years, and I have done many stupid and selfish things. Nothing major, mind you, nothing to kill our relationship, just a repeated pettiness akin to death by a thousand cuts. Oh, she's not perfect either, but I know, deep down/rather obviously she's a wonderful, caring person, willing to sacrifice anything for the people she cares about. Including...

...me. Someone who's basically a f--king idiot, more or less drifting through adulthood like a giant child, occasionally charming enough to be considered...likable.

It's like, sometimes, I think we might be direct opposites of one another.


Even though I wanted to drag her to Blade Runner 2049, I knew my wife would be way more interested in writer Simon Beaufoy's Battle of the Sexes. We had caught the real-life retelling of Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs' famous tennis match on her favorite TV show, CBS Sunday Morning (did I mention she has the television viewing habits of an out of touch grandmother?), so a quick plot synopsis as we drove kid-free to the theater was very reassuring for her. A decided lack of flying space cars, a 6:30 start time and a smuggled in piece of cake (if only I were joking) essentially guaranteed one of us was going to enjoy ourselves.

About that...

While the real-life event must have been a spectacle in its day, there really isn't that much fight in Battle of the Sexes. Featuring a perfectly charming cast, an infinitely fascinating story and an early 70's setting presented in all it's awful glory, it was somewhat surprising that, for me, the whole thing didn't amount to much. Clearly/sadly, this story is as relevant as ever, but simply being timely isn't enough. A little urgency would've been nice.

Thursday, October 19, 2017

It's America at it's f--king finest.

I've never done anything illegal.

Not really.

Hell, I've driven too fast, probably gone a place or two I shouldn't have, but all bullshit aside, I've lived thirty eight years on this f--king planet without getting into any trouble. You'd think an impeccable conscience would be a good thing, right?

You'd think.


Not that I'm looking to be on the run from the law and/or various factions of international drug cartels, but holy f--k American Made presented living a life of crime nothing short of scintillating. Directed by my teenage hero, Doug Liman's latest is an absolute blast from beginning to end. And Tom Cruise? Well, f--k me sideways, but this might be one of his best...ever? (shit, lately seemed like faint praise...).

Starting out in the early 70s and rollercoastering through the mid 80s, American Made tells the brilliantly twisted tale of Barry Seal, a one-time TWA pilot turned government reconnaissance pilot/international drug mule/CIA operative/jack-of-all-trades. Karl Malone can politely f--k off, because it's Barry Seal that always delivers.

Generally, I'm a real bitch about these incredible true stories, but even if only a tenth of this shit happened, Seal's story is so f--king rad I'm gonna go ahead and embrace any embellishments. And seriously, as much fun as this movie is, why the Hell wouldn't you?

As the preview so perfectly captured, Barry's a good pilot flying the friendly skies for TWA. Apparently he was their youngest pilot ever, and when he's approached by the quietly mysterious Schafer to work for the good guys, Barry isn't asking too many questions. You got a job? He'll take it. More work couldn't hurt for a young dude with a young family (and a lovely...lovely, young wife).

Sorry, I'm drooling for some reason.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

This isn't science. This is pseudo-science.

I'm not saying she doesn't earn it, but when my wife falls asleep moments after we put the kids to bed, let's just say it's...disappointing. She'll sometimes sleepily say something to the effect of, no, no...I can make it...and I just nod along, like I don't know exactly how this story ends. Maybe one minute after her pledge, she's basically dead to the world.

I could do just about anything (aw jeez, not that) and she wouldn't even remotely come back to life. She's just frozen in place, and I'm left wondering, now what the f--k am I going to do? You know, other than sulk for the next day and a half...

Anyway, I've figured out a solution. And it's a good one. When she grabs a blanket, I grab my keys.

No fair, man. I want to die next.
Look, some of you a-holes might know that I don't give a damn about the quality of films I'll see, but now that I've got a MoviePass, I don't give a damn, shit or f--k. Ten bucks a month? I'll take one ticket to...whatever the f--k you got. Which, combined with my inanimate ladyfriend, is exactly how I ended up at an opening night showing of Flatliners. Not only did the movie suck an entire bag of dicks, but it also sucked the life out of me. I was good for the first hour-plus, then my neck could no longer support my skull.

A remake/reboot/regurgitation of the 1990 Joel Schumacher flick, this updated version fails in just about every way imaginable. It's incredibly bland, entirely nonsensical, and the its biggest sin...it's not even remotely scary. Oh, and it's rated PG-13. No tits. No asses. Nothing. The only thing that gets stiff...is the dialogue.

Apparently, med school is hard and the teachers are super mean and all anyone's got time to do is study (and have sex...offscreen). Things are like, so difficult and demanding, it takes like, an extra mysterious invite to get a bunch of these Doogie Howser bitches to meet in a vacated classroom in the bowels of an all-glass hospital in the middle of the night. Seems Dr. Juno is hard at work on studying the brain...of dead people. Now she just needs a few not very good almost-doctors to assist her in this hush-hush study group. But instead of highlighters and cocaine, all you need to bring is your unsteady hands and a desire to go to prison. See, instead of do no harm, these kids are planning on killing this chick...waiting a minute (or nine) and then bringing her back. I mean, what could go possibly go wrong?