Sunshine Blogger Award (2016 edition)

Awww...flowers? You shouldn't have. No really.
What the f--k, man? I hate flowers.

Sati, my dearest friend and head-honcho at the insanely rad blog, cinematic corner, recently dropped ye' old 'blogger award' on ten quality blogs...and Two Dollar Cinema. 

The catch, and there's always a catch, is that you can't just shake hands, thank the other nominees and head backstage to do some blow off the back of an overpriced hooker. Uh, no. There are rules for accepting it. Like, you gotta know the password or something. And it isn't fidelio. I already tried it.

Actually, it's a lot less complicated than that.

As given, every award has a set of tiny rules for accepting it, here are the ones for Sunshine: 

1. Post the award on your blog
2. Thank the person who nominated you
3. Answer the 11 questions they set you
4. Pick another 11 bloggers (and let them know they are nominated!)
5. Set them 11 questions
6. Don't feed them after midnight

Against the Crowd '16: BLOGATHON

My main man Dell (and his co-host KG) is once again hosting his annual Against the Crowd blogathon, and even though I'm very much up against the deadline, it's impossible for me not to participate (at least without being an asshole in the process).

Everything you need to know is in the title (and banner), but just in case, they explain the rules here.

But as I just said, I ain't got time for that noise, so here's the abbreviated, moronic version of the whole thing:

1. Pick a movie that the world f--king despises and let every single person on the planet know how absolutely stupid they are for feeling that way.
2. Pick a movie that the world has a giant boner for and dragon-punch it squarely in the twig and berries.
3. Lose all credibility in the blogging community, seek refuge under a bridge.

Let's start with utter cinematic perfection, masquerading as a stupid action movie starring Jenny from the Block. 

There's a dead woman in this house. And you let her in.

In addition to the required elements of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, I'm utterly convinced that my family tree was also fertilized with a generous scoop of utter f--king insanity. Swinging from the branches with dead-eyed smiles on their faces, there are a host of unstable folks littered throughout my esteemed lineage. Fine, they're not total f--king psychopaths or anything, but we've definitely got some real...weirdos.

And while that should be rather unnerving, the older I get, the more I realize that just about everybody is going to end up crazy in some way. And since I'm a guy, mine is likely going to be some silently inward thing that is generally acceptable, or at the very least, tolerable.

But the ladies? My goodness. Their crazy is often this all-consuming force that drives the regulars to the brink of madness. Yes, bad things have happened many years ago, but do we have to dwell on them all of the current days? I mean, we're all haunted by demons from our past, sure, but at some point, you've got to move on and let them go.

Especially the literal ones.

With my last (summer) Bargain Tuesday staring me in the junk, the only movie I was able to finagle my way into (and still manage an on-time pick up of Matty) was director David F. Sandberg's horror flick, Lights Out. I'd like to say that nothing can be too terrifying on a weekday morning, but that was before I overheard that the next screening of Nine Lives was totally sold out. *shudder* Apparently, where I live, people love cheap pussy.

Lights Out opens exactly where you'd expect it to, a poorly-lit, mostly-deserted, textiles factory. Yep, that old place. And as yet another day of making...uh, textiles, ends, it's clear that shit ain't right. At all. Lurking in the shadows is some evil demon-thing, apparently pissed as a motherf--ker. Maybe her scarf came in like, regular black, not Satan's Heart. Whatever the case is, this lady, made entirely of the absence of light totally kills some f--king dude with her shadow hands...and we're off. Sort of.

Turns out this demon chick, (the extra dirty) Diana, is the best friend of definitely single/definitely crazy mom, Sophie (the always reliable Maria Bello). Sophie might have an old cheerleader uniform in the attic that she'll put on and show you her bushy old pom-pom, but as the mother of young kid named Martin, she ain't exactly getting it done. Unless, of course, when Diana isn't terrorizing the f--k out of ol' Marty, she's heating up Bagel Bites and checking his math homework. If only there was another, (possibly sexy) family member that he could also be haunted with go stay with. If only.

The great beyond is bullshit!

If the only thing that awaits us at the end of our lives is certain death, it's fairly reasonable to say that we should all just be cool to each other and enjoy the ride, right? But if ultimately, we're totally f--ked anyway, there's also the notion that how we treat one another doesn't really matter. At all. 

In other words, being a nice guy isn't any better than being a giant douche in the grand scheme of things.

Well, f--k me, then. (I wonder if there are any comfy railroad tracks around here?)

Unless, of course, there's something more out there. Something that could pick us up and restore our faith in the world and the (potentially awful) people that inhabit it. But not just some thing. If only there was...some place. Some place we could go every week together for a few hours and hear amazing stories crafted by divine individuals that would speak to what's good and true in our own lives. Some place like...

...the movie theater.

It's almost a week later and I still can't wrap my mind around the animated what the the f--k-ness? of Sausage Party. Caught on a busy Saturday night with my wife in a sold out theater, Seth Rogen and his crew have delivered another raunchy, laugh out loud, stoner comedy...in the form of a religious allegory of all things.

Wait, what? The f--king movie with the talking hot dogs is a morality tale? Uh...yes? Yes it is.

Hold on a second. See, before you put on your Sunday best (for me, that's my nice t-shirt), or inexplicably bring your f--king children to this, let me be clear: it's primarily about guys wanting to get high and get laid, okay? But when these tasty treats realize that waiting for them in the great beyond is actually a brutal f--king death at the hand of one of their gods (uh...us), everything totally changes. For some of them.

I will readily admit the whole concept is rather clever, and I certainly laughed my ass off at times, but between you and me, I was kind of expecting more. Yes, I realize that expecting um...much/more?...out of a movie with that poster and that concept is probably as logical as eating half the shit I willingly consume (what adult eats Chicken McNuggets?). But when early word got out about this one, I was half-expecting something utterly f--king transcendent, you know?

Something I'd bring my kids to. 

You're pretty good at whacking guys off, bro.

Founded by Peter Jackson in the late nineties, the island nation of New Zealand is one of my (current) favorite places on the planet. Oh, I've never been there, and know absolutely nothing about it, but in all seriousness, it's the current epicenter of shit that I find cool as f--k.

And if you can't trust the opinion of a guy in his mid-thirties who watched human beings judging dancing horses on television today, then who can you trust, right? While I don't know if New Zealand competed in f--king individual dressage or not, I do know that with Hunt For the Wilderpeople [review], they've already won the gold medal for my favorite movie of the summer.

But what's even more shocking? They might have just won the silver, too. 

I didn't really know what I was getting into when I cranked up 2015's Deathgasm a few nights ago, but it took all of ten seconds to know that I'd made the right choice. Recommended to me by Brittnay Brittani over at Rambling Film [her rad post], writer/director Jason Lei Howden's feature debut is an absolute face-melter.

After his mom gets locked up for trying to blow a department store Santa, young Brodie is totally Harry Pottered and forced to live with his uptight uncle who's balls deep into Jesus. Even worse, is his douchey cousin, who may or may not be dating the hottest girl in his new school, who always feels the need to give Brodie shit.

Initially, Brodie handles all the the adversity well, and after meeting Zakk, a fellow metalhead, the two even start a band named Toothed Vagina Murder Boner  Deathgasm. It's literally a garage band headed nowhere, until Brodie and Zakk stumble upon some ancient lyrics to something known as the Black Hymn.

This epic song, apparently, is the equivalent of saying Beetlejuice three times in a row, and after a pretty f--king rotten day at school, Brodie hastily decides to play it and inadvertently unleashes Hell upon their small town. And while undead residents making the streets run red with blood totally f--king sucks, Brodie's got even bigger problems.

Zakk, it turns out, is a total f--king a-hole.

For two sweet seconds, I had hope.

I've spent the better part of the last week driving in one massive f--king circle. I've driven in torrential downpours, immense fog, utterly blinding lightening storms and I damn near killed a dude who was probably playing Pokemon Go (might have done that guy a favor, honestly). Hell, I (knowingly) went the wrong way in a parking garage just to get the f--k out of it.

And, no bullshit here, I swear to you, I almost hit motherf--king Big Bird doing ninety miles an hour on the Massachusetts Turnpike (seriously, somewhere John Hammond is missing a prehistoric gull).

Why would anyone put themselves through that level of aggravation? Why would anyone give up their precious time in the summer to do something they know is going to be an absolute f--king disaster?

You know the answer, but I'll tell you anyway: to see family. Oh, sure, it's basically the same f--king people every year, just different versions of familiar faces. You know how it's going to end, even before you leave your house. But, you go anyway. Because you have to. You'd regret it if you didn't.

But the hardest part about the whole thing? Is getting home to realize you did all that...and only a few of them even made an effort. The rest of them? F--king useless. Shit.

Well, at least I heard a lot of a good songs along the way...

I hope who ever designed this falls off a mountain.

While I would never say it to any member of my family, I have no problem saying F--k off to David Ayer's latest film, Suicide Squad. Months and months of hype and anticipation, and a trip to the movies that will likely damn me forever (in the eyes of my mother-in-law [I went the night before we left...oops]) have all been in vain, as this flick is a Bat-punch straight to the dick. And remember, this is coming from someone who liked Are You There God? It's Me, Martha [review].

Look, before I really begin, let me just say two things, maybe three. One, outside of a childhood obsession with the Batman movies (Keaton, etc.), I really don't know dick about DC. If you feel the need to enlighten me, go ahead, but know that I'll be painstakingly laying out a massive circle of guns and knives while you do ('cause I'm f--king intense, okay?). Two, I went to this movie wanting to like it, like, like-like it, like, more than a friend. And that was after I heard it was a fistful of shit-covered kryptonite. Three, it's a f--king movie, so if this one means a lot to you, don't take any of this shit seriously, all right? I don't want your mom to have to tape all your Killer Croc posters together again, okay?

How can any man be in love with such a disgusting creature?

As a high-school sophomore in 1995, I took my first film class. Somewhere early in the syllabus, our teacher, Mr. Clarke, dropped The Little Mermaid on us. We were going to examine the underlying messages in the Disney classic. Wait, what?

Not only was this dude my hero, he was also a recent USC film school grad and instantly dove into dissecting the film's themes and symbolism in a way I hadn't even considered possible. His psychotic ramblings sort of opened a door in my mind that was previously only used to poorly quote Clerks and analyze the breast size of my female classmates. 

And while he was talking about Ursula metaphorically raping Ariel and robbing her of her voice, I thought I'm not smart enough to truly understand film in any educated way. And then I thought, man, Ariel is really hot, right? Like I would totally have (consensual, ahem) sex with her...

And that was before she got legs.

In order to break up the crazy string of theatrical releases, I dove headfirst into the murky waters of the deadly abyss known as Netflix. But I didn't swim over to Killer Mermaid with my eyes shut like I usually would. Nope. I actually gleaned a few reviews to make sure this wasn't a huge steaming bucket of shark shit. And guess what the internet said? It's actually pretty f--king good. And guess what else? F--k everyone the internet.

With a nod to old-school slasher films, Killer Mermaid begins with the mysterious murder of two young lovers. See, while these two were f--king on the dock in front of a motorcycle, someone or something showed up and slaughtered them. Aww. Typical mysterious, boner-killing beginning.

And if you've ever seen a low-budge horror movie, you know what happens next. Yep, we cut away from bloody nighttime violence to some beautiful, picturesque scene with two totally different characters. These girls have names, I'm sure of it, but basically there's the Hot One and the Smart One (not pictured). One of them will be killed by whatever the f--k that thing was from the beginning and the other will face her fears and just barely make it out alive. You look pretty smart, so I'll go ahead and let you figure it out.

It's very important that I have Watchers.

I've never been to a rooftop party. I stopped wearing a backpack in fifth grade. And I totally don't have a (possibly gay) friend from every ethnicity on the planet. Though that sounds lovely.

And the people I do know? None of them have fancy mustaches. Or impeccably groomed beards. So who the f--k am I supposed to hit up the food truck with? Who's going to drink all these craft beers with me and eat these mason jars full of honeysuckle flavored bacon. And even if I could find these people...and do all these things? What would I do with all the great pictures we would take, print them out?

Like, I'm not even on Facebook, for f--k's sake. Assuming that's still a thing...

Clearly, I'm not a f--king teenager, or even one of those mega-sized versions known as someone in their late-twenties, so it's safe to say Nerve wasn't exactly made for me. But, unlike the three high school girls sitting in front of us who took selfies during the previews (after some terror alert: red level of incident before that made them file out of the theater for thirty seconds), I stayed off my phone and watched the entire f--king movie. And you know what? Even if it's actually really shitty, it moves so f--king fast I didn't even notice.

Venus (Emma Roberts, all twenty-six years of her) is a 12th grade yearbook photographer stuck in the shadow of her friend Sydney, the head cheerleader at their Staten Island high school. Venus is probably a cool chick, but you'd never know it with Sydney literally flashing her sweet ass all over school. Turns out, ol' Syd isn't simply a giant slut, but instead a coveted player of the hottest underground game around, Nerve. Like many revolutionary cell phone games!, Nerve is simply an electronic rip-off of something that came out years prior. Here? It's truth or dare. Minus the truth. Because no one cares if you've ever looked at your butthole in the mirror, okay? Jesus.