I'm not that guy anymore.

If you broke into my house and beat the shit out of me, that would be pretty f--king uncool. As long as it was just me, we might have to have some pretty strong words, after that. You know, after I got out of the hospital and learned to talk again.

If you broke into my house and killed my dog, Dodger, well I'm fairly certain I'm going to bury my beloved pup in a tear-filled blur, likely delirious for the next decade of my life. And then I would proceed to murder you and your entire family, possibly even your close friends and acquaintances, too.

But if you walked into my house, was denied my assistance in an important matter, and proceeded to then blow my residence straight to f--king Hell, well, you'd basically be forcing my hand, you know? I mean, you're going to get, like, the biggest hug ever!!!!

See, I f--king hate where I live, both the house and the location, so do me a favor, Italian Crime Lord Guy, and blow this place the f--k up. In John Wick: Chapter 2, however, the whole house leveling isn't an act of kindness, but instead a declaration of a very low-key war. Kind of. And while this second chapter isn't as good as the one that preceded it [review], it's still a Hell of a ride.

Taking place a few days after the first film, it seems John can't escape his violent past. This time around, his dog is safe (thankfully), but after his home is destroyed, it would appear that Mr. Wick basically has nothing left. Except a debt.

A giant f--king debt.

See, when John got out a few years back, he apparently called in a pretty big favor to do so. The guy who granted him his release from the shadowy world of elite hitmen, Santino D'Antino, has come calling on John for payback. And his request/demand...is a pretty tall f--king order. John must not only infiltrate the underground organization he's desperate to leave behind, but he's to assassinate a very high-ranking official. If he succeeds, he'll be wanted by every fellow hitman skulking around the world. And if he fails, well, he'll be dead as f--k. But what if he just says no, and tells D'Antino to f--k off? Yeah...about that...

All of this is wrong.

Though it's rare, sometimes it can simply last too long. At the beginning, everyone's excited and things are rapidly progressing to a state of nervous euphoria. The end might be the best part, but nothing you necessarily want to rush into, right?

But then, for whatever reason, it just...keeps...going, and going, and arriving at a satisfying conclusion goes from something you desperately want, to something you absolutely need. Like, this shit has gone from all kinds of fun, to something resembling manual f--king labor. 

You're exhausted in every conceivable way, wondering what exactly you need to do to make it through. And just when you think it's over...it isn't. And you're thinking, f--k this. I'm throwing in the towel.

Christian, did you have something to do with this?

It's so f--king easy to judge other people, isn't it? Especially when it comes to, well, f--king. Like whatever you do behind closed doors is your business, sure, but let someone find out about it? It's open f--king season.

Maybe you like to role play in the bedroom, perhaps? Say some real vile shit to one another. Maybe you've got some toys or something, right? The ol' nine iron and ice cubes approach. Or, Hell, maybe you simply liked to be tied up (or down) and spanked like you stole something.

Whatever floats your boat (or tickles your pickle) is fine by me. Honestly. Personally, I'm not really into any of that stuff. I try to keep it simple, you know?  I jump through enough hoops to get to the f--king bedroom, so you can save that circus shit for another time. But,between you and me, occasionally, like, every once in a while...

...I like to get f--ked. Hard.

In a room full of strangers.

Yep, once again, in an auditorium filled with people I hope to never see again, my wife and I squirmed our way through E.L. James' second cinematic anal bead, Fifty Shades Darker. While not quite as foul-smelling and oddly crusty as the first flick [review], the latest chapter of Intermittently Sad Girl and her Giant Wooden Dildo still falls woefully short of anything other than unintentional comedic masterpiece. I'm assuming this isn't the intent of the alleged worldwide phenomenon, but clearly, as evidenced by how I spend my free time, what the f--k do I know?

After the events of the first one, all of which I couldn't give an angry f--k about, Fifty Shades Darker picks up with a more independent, more confident version of Anastasia Steele. Apparently, after being um, erotically paddled into sexual liberation (she was a virgin, right? Ah f--k it...who cares), Anastasia has blossomed into quite the confident young woman. She has a job now, and even a desk to sit at. Occasionally, she gets to stand up and talk to people. About books. It's all very fancy (though I will award 9,000 bonus points for Darker not having the workplace be super-quirky, which it easily could have been) and so...mature.

Anyway, Anastasia seems to be doing fine, despite her boss looking like the default template every sketch artist uses when penciling out a previously unseen date rapist. One night, ol' Ana heads to an art gallery to see her friend's show, and two things happen: 1) half of the show is giant pictures of her doe-eyed face, seemingly pondering whether or not to fart, and 2) Christian Grey shows up, looking like a constipated shark that feeds exclusively on vaginal meat. Even though Anastasia has like, so moved on, she reluctantly decides to have dinner with him. In Hell. 

Blogathon '17: Mt. Rushmore of Movies

Now that we've all finished pretending to actually love someone (other than ourselves) with dead plants and delicious heart-shaped poison bites, let us shine a spotlight on a holiday that means, well, a lot less (or a lot more) than it ever has in the history of the United States.

Today we celebrate our Interdependence Day.
(it's true...I need you)

I'm talking about President's Day, or as the rest of the world calls it: the third Monday in February. 

And in honor of this...uh, wondrous day, Two Dollar Cinema would like to announce our triennial blogathon, the Mount Rushmore of Movies. 

To participate, simply choose the top four of anything cinematic and explain why they should be carved into the side of a mountain forever. Remember, these are real people carved into imaginary rock - so choose wisely!

Whatever brilliant monument you concoct will be accepted, so feel free to take a break from being so damn serious all the time and have some fun. Let down your luxurious hair, maybe unbutton that shirt a bit, and have an adult beverage or two. Because we've got some stone to carve, dammit.

Whether you want to do the Mount Rushmore of Friday the 13th death scenes, the top four Ed Harris movies, or a tribute to Disney villains, pick something that interests you and run with it. Three years ago we had some wild submissions [check them out here], so I have very little doubt you sexy cinephiles can do it again.

Now the business end of things:

1. I'd like to have all posts done by Friday, March 3rd (where I'll create a master list, linking back to all of your, er, both of your sites), but it's cool if you finish way before that. Or later. I'll update as they come in.
2. Send me a heads up on twitter @twodollarcinema , reply in the comments below, text me, e-mail me (twodollarcinema@gmail.com), smoke signals, Bat-signals, non-verbal cues, Beastmaster handshakes - whatever! when you've finished, okay? Cool.
3. In your post, please use the rad banner my wife designed after forcing me to do the Truffle Shuffle. Okay, she would never do that...but still. 
4. Share the announcement with the good people you know. Hell, the bad ones, too. Anyone can (and should) participate.
5. Be awesome. 

Thanks to everyone that gives this a shot, and even the people that don't. No, I mean it. I'd even like to thank those heartless bastards, too.

It takes a village. Not a Batman.

In our current political climate, there's not a lot of arguments I willingly want to be a part of. Especially really stupid ones.

Lately, however, it seems I've been unable to avoid one particular point of contention. One nagging, unanswerable question. It's bad enough it pops at work (at a middle school, ugh), but now it's happening at home, too (my son is seven, and if there was such a thing as a nerd mustache, his is awkwardly coming in as we speak). But let's be honest, there's only one answer that makes any sense.

Well, unless you're Zack Snyder...'cause that dude's not helping anyone. At least...

...not on purpose, anyway.

Obviously, Superman wins in an actual fight, but with The LEGO Batman Movie the Dark Knight wins...uh, everything else. Again. Aided by the constant missteps of the DCEU, yet again some of the best stories and biggest laughs around are built with tiny, plastic bricks. It may not reach the heights of The LEGO Movie [review], but man, this movie is awesome.

Like he's done countless times, Batman, shocking no one, saves Gotham from utter catastrophe. But when he heads home, the enviable mirage of his playboy lifestyle is totally nuked by the spinning lights of his microwaved dinner. For one. Luckily his city needs him.

Until it doesn't.

Commissioner Gordon is retiring and his daughter Barbara is set to take over. Her vision of Gotham doesn't exactly require the Caped Crusader, and Batman is relegated to something resembling McGruff the Crime Dog. Worse, all the city's villains turn themselves in at the same time, leaving Batman even more alone. Good thing he has Robin, around right?

Wrong. It's a great thing.

Always remember the basement.

It all started with recess. Instant relief ensued.
Then it was the ice cream truck, making my adolescent mouth begin to salivate.
Hell, even though I'm not religious, the ones from the church always made me feel...at peace.
And sure, he's annoying as f--k, but the Salvation Army Guy at least lets you know Christmas is right around the corner. There's a certain enjoyment in that annoying f--ker, you know?

Yes, I've heard lots of bells ringing in my lifetime, and many if not all of them have signaled something good was moments away, but never, ever anything like this. Never did they make me double check to see if the door was locked. Never did they make me think about my old high school girlfriend. And never, never did I think about those bells and tell myself, if only I could lovingly place them inside of my...vagina.

Until now.

Ring-a-ding-aling, we have a winner! I'm not exactly sure what the contest was, but regardless, Chan-wook Park's The Handmaiden wins in a landslide. Endlessly intriguing, breathtakingly gorgeous and unrelentingly sexy, this sordid tale is unlike any movie I've ever seen. But then again, I usually don't click on the girl-on-girl stuff...anymore.

Set in a 1930's Japanese-occupied Korea, the initial setup is quite simple. A young girl named Sook-hee is hired to be a handmaiden for an eccentric heiress named Lady Hideko. Sure, Hideko is a little, uh, troubled, but that's to be expected when dealing with the (soon to be) insanely rich and (currently) aloof.

Initially, we're let in on the fact that Sook-hee is actually a trained criminal, and that seems like it may be the most scandalous and secretive thing this film has to offer. However, as more and more information is delicately revealed, any little thing you thought you could count on isn't what it seems. At all.

But what is readily apparent, however, is the immediate sexual tension between Sook-hee and Lady Hideko. Yeah, maybe one of them is pretending to be something they aren't (math might not be my strong suit here), but the latent heat firing between various lady-parts is 900% truth. It starts as a bit of a curiosity, sure, as both ladies dip their toes in each other those soapy murky waters, but eventually it's going to reach quite the, uh, climax. If you don't find yourself aroused even a little bit, you might want to make yourself an appointment...in Hell. 

Hope ain't a tactic, Doc.

I wanted to open this post with these five words: Because I give a f--k. 

Because, deep down, I actually do. Well, I'd like to think that I do. But, between you and me, there are times when I'm at work, where I think f--k this. And quietly don't complete something that was asked of me, or do just enough to get by. I justify this laziness (or at best, indifference) by telling myself whatever task I didn't bother to tackle, likely didn't matter anyway. It was just busy work pushed down by another person sharing a zest for bureaucratic horseshit similar to my own. They didn't care...so why should I?

While that's all potentially a long-winded way of saying I'm terrible person, which is entirely possible by the way, the corners I cut almost always involve paperwork and the checking of boxes that have zero to do with my actual job. That shit? Couldn't care less. 

I only care about the people in front of me and their families. All the higher ups?

Sorry, these are my f--ks.

I should probably apologize now for such a toxic level of ignorance, but I didn't know that Peter Berg's Deepwater Horizon was about the 2010 BP oil spill, aka the worst environmental disaster in American history (uh, so far, anyway). I knew the film was inspired by real life events, knew that it starred Dirk Diggler, but was sadly unaware of the greater context the damn-near real-time film takes place in. 

More importantly, I also didn't know the extent of the systemic carelessness and selfishness of entirely too many f--king yes men scurrying from rock to rock in the oil industry. Instead of giving a f--k about the hundred plus men and women aboard the massive rig (in addition to say, the rest of the f--king planet), these c--ksuckers routinely ignored any 'costly' measures and forged ahead into an unmitigated disaster. Berg's film isn't really concerned with these real-life super-villains, but instead focuses on the heroic efforts of a few brave individuals.

Connecting the thrilling images of a (momentarily) feel-good Hollywood production to that awful underwater camera feed showing thousands and thousands of barrels of crude oil blasting into the Gulf (that video is seared into my brain) made for a rather hollow movie-watching experience.  

It's gonna take two flushes!

Sometimes, if the stars align (if it's Tuesday and I've got coverage for the wee ones), I just have to go. Regardless.

I wish I could come up with a clever name, or at least something not stupid, but when I know the film I'm about to see is a dog, I take solace in the fact that no matter what happens in the next two hours, three things will make it all worthwhile: previews, popcorn and...peace.

Maybe I could call it Triple P.

---

Nah, that sounds f--king stupid.

Just breathe in all that awesome.

While Triple X, (or XXX, I suppose) may not exactly sound f--king stupid, it more or less is f--king stupid. Gloriously so, in fact. xXx: Return of Xander Cage, the third film in a trilogy that no one ever asked for, cranks the moronic action to eleven. It not only rips the knob off, but takes a Mountain Dew flavored piss all over it, too. Take off your (sleeveles) shirt, grab your balls, check your brain at the door cause it's raining satellites, motherf--ker.

Wait, what?

Yeah, apparently some sort of doomsday device known as Pandora's Box is in the dreaded WRONG HANDS, allowing its owner the impossibly stupid power of raining down fiery death by, you guessed it, crashing satellites into them. While maybe shooting that person in the face instead would be way less EXTREME!, someone walking planet Earth decided that flaming garbage from outerspace was a better option. Oh.

And while the government and its infinite resources should probably be able to track down the aforementioned device (which looks like a case for the most futuristic dildo ever) without using a tattooed freak pushing fifty, they instead happily recruit the long-lost legend known as Xander Cage, aka xXx. When this dude isn't barreling through the Brazillian rainforest on a dirtbike, unnecessarily backflipping the entire way, apparently he's a badass super-agent. But, get this. He plays by his own set of rules, motherf--ker. And rule number one? There are no rules. 

Except his. And he doesn't have any.