Some Great Movie Reviews
From http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28317061/:
“Pathology”: Corpses used for ventriloquism-based jokes, Alyssa Milano with armpit stubble, group-sex blood orgies in morgues, brain-tossing, senior citizen hookers with grandson pimps, that same grandson pimp being hacked to death, a pedophile inhaling liquid nitrogen, people having sex on the floor right next to the now-dead, liquid-nitrogen-filled pedophile, vivisection, autopsies that lead to lesbian make-out moments, crack-smoking, dead children in the service of booger jokes. I could fill up my word count limit on this movie. Because that’s like not even HALF of the super-insane, barely describable action. The rest is waiting for you. Patiently. In the dark. Sickest movie of the year, hands down. I recommend it to everyone I know all the time.
“The Spirit”: When Gabriel Macht as The Spirit isn’t talking to himself about himself, he’s talking to himself about other people, or he’s talking to other people about himself. Or he’s talking to himself and talking to the camera at the same time. And at those times he’s really talking to you about how he’s talking to himself. Then sometimes he’s talking to bad guy Sam Jackson about himself. Or to bad guy Sam Jackson about Sam Jackson. Then he talks to The City, which is his one true love. I think. Then he gets shot a lot by bad guy Sam Jackson (who’s wearing a lot of really rad frosty-blue eyeshadow) and falls into the muddy black goo. Scarlett Johansson struts her rack around in a Nazi uniform, too, giving Woody Allen nightmares. It all becomes sort of hypnotically dizzying and trance-inducing. And I know you probably won’t be able to duplicate my viewing experience, but when I saw it I was sitting right in front of director Frank Miller and he coughed on the back of my head for 90 minutes. OK, not really. He coughed into his hand. But I know at least some of those fame-germs got on my head.
“The Women”: In this post-apocalyptic horror film, a future dystopia where feminism never happened becomes the setting for a Thunderdome-like frenzy of gore and rage. The women mutilate themselves as offerings to an angry Shoe God and only Debra Messing survives. It’s like “10,000 B.C.” But FOR THE LADIES Y’ALL!
“Hounddog”: A gloopy, corn syrup-clogged, artery-hardening tale of drunk daddies being hit by lightning and turning simple and drooly, dirty-bare-feet Elvis superfandom, pre-pubescent rape at the hands of a teenage milkman, magically soul-healing African-American besties and mommy abandonment in the Deep South. That Ashley Judd somehow managed not to take part in this film remains a mystery. If this is how Dakota Fanning’s parents are helping to navigate her career, then I think it’s time for Jodie Foster to be given full custody.
“88 Minutes”: In my fantasy life, I think about Al Pacino starring in various infomercials. My favorite one lately is for the pan that turns every kind of food into a convenient, eat-on-the-go, half-moon-shaped pocket sandwich. I keep imagining Pacino replacing the lady who hosts the 30-minute spot and all the goodies he makes with the super-pan, which he then hands over to swooning 19-year-old pocket-sandwich-craving nymphs. In turn they coo over his kitchen prowess and his next-stop Phil Spector hair. That this loopy, lurid thriller is pretty much a Cialis ad for aging forensic-inspector-genius types being stalked by serial killers means Pacino's already halfway there.
“Pathology”: Corpses used for ventriloquism-based jokes, Alyssa Milano with armpit stubble, group-sex blood orgies in morgues, brain-tossing, senior citizen hookers with grandson pimps, that same grandson pimp being hacked to death, a pedophile inhaling liquid nitrogen, people having sex on the floor right next to the now-dead, liquid-nitrogen-filled pedophile, vivisection, autopsies that lead to lesbian make-out moments, crack-smoking, dead children in the service of booger jokes. I could fill up my word count limit on this movie. Because that’s like not even HALF of the super-insane, barely describable action. The rest is waiting for you. Patiently. In the dark. Sickest movie of the year, hands down. I recommend it to everyone I know all the time.
“The Spirit”: When Gabriel Macht as The Spirit isn’t talking to himself about himself, he’s talking to himself about other people, or he’s talking to other people about himself. Or he’s talking to himself and talking to the camera at the same time. And at those times he’s really talking to you about how he’s talking to himself. Then sometimes he’s talking to bad guy Sam Jackson about himself. Or to bad guy Sam Jackson about Sam Jackson. Then he talks to The City, which is his one true love. I think. Then he gets shot a lot by bad guy Sam Jackson (who’s wearing a lot of really rad frosty-blue eyeshadow) and falls into the muddy black goo. Scarlett Johansson struts her rack around in a Nazi uniform, too, giving Woody Allen nightmares. It all becomes sort of hypnotically dizzying and trance-inducing. And I know you probably won’t be able to duplicate my viewing experience, but when I saw it I was sitting right in front of director Frank Miller and he coughed on the back of my head for 90 minutes. OK, not really. He coughed into his hand. But I know at least some of those fame-germs got on my head.
“The Women”: In this post-apocalyptic horror film, a future dystopia where feminism never happened becomes the setting for a Thunderdome-like frenzy of gore and rage. The women mutilate themselves as offerings to an angry Shoe God and only Debra Messing survives. It’s like “10,000 B.C.” But FOR THE LADIES Y’ALL!
“Hounddog”: A gloopy, corn syrup-clogged, artery-hardening tale of drunk daddies being hit by lightning and turning simple and drooly, dirty-bare-feet Elvis superfandom, pre-pubescent rape at the hands of a teenage milkman, magically soul-healing African-American besties and mommy abandonment in the Deep South. That Ashley Judd somehow managed not to take part in this film remains a mystery. If this is how Dakota Fanning’s parents are helping to navigate her career, then I think it’s time for Jodie Foster to be given full custody.
“88 Minutes”: In my fantasy life, I think about Al Pacino starring in various infomercials. My favorite one lately is for the pan that turns every kind of food into a convenient, eat-on-the-go, half-moon-shaped pocket sandwich. I keep imagining Pacino replacing the lady who hosts the 30-minute spot and all the goodies he makes with the super-pan, which he then hands over to swooning 19-year-old pocket-sandwich-craving nymphs. In turn they coo over his kitchen prowess and his next-stop Phil Spector hair. That this loopy, lurid thriller is pretty much a Cialis ad for aging forensic-inspector-genius types being stalked by serial killers means Pacino's already halfway there.
posted by CP @ 10:14 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home