Laser focused with a half thought-out plan.

I'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it. - Mitch Hedberg,

There are a lot of stands to take these days, as the world, on a daily basis it seems, is becoming an incessant us vs. them cage match. I can't think of anything I've ever been staunchly opposed to, as I tend to roll with my good buddies, indifference and sarcasm. I'm not proud of this way of living in the least, but the things I love and the things I hate are so blatantly obvious, it would seem frivolous to make a stand one way or the other.

But if you believe in something, and it means a lot to you? Well, I support that.

As long as it's for the right reasons...

I 900% support the boycott of Sony Pictures' Peter Rabbit, but it has nothing to do with allergy bullying (I guess that's...a...thing...). The real reason parents should march against this film is because it's just short of f--king abysmal. I'd rather have a catastrophic allergic reaction induced by a small woodland creature shitting down my throat, than to ever see a single minute of this movie again.

Fine, maybe I wouldn't exactly line up for a squirrel to take a nutty dump in my face, but at least it'd make for a better story than the abomination that is Peter Rabbit. What I recall was a rather charming (if ultimately boring) series of books, has been bastardized into the most unlikable children's movie I've ever scene. And trust me, I see a ton of them.

Peter, voiced by the moderately douchey James Corden, is a total prick. Living in a picturesque little garden with his sisters Floozy, Boozy and Swampass (possibly not their names), this rat bastard harasses some codger named Old Mr. McGregor (the still [somehow] awesome Sam Neill) to f--king death. Literally. Cue McGregor's f--kwit nephew, Thomas (a severely demoted General Hux), fresh off getting shit-canned for being an asshole, to move to the country and into the old man's house. Thomas hates the rabbits, the rabbits hate Thomas, and me, well, I f--king hate everybody.

Until...

It's me. I'm a mess. I need to get my shit together.

As a former frequent flyer of the friendly skies, I've certainly had my share of delays, cancellations and missed flights. They totally sucked at the time (holy shit, now I would kill a bitch for some unaccounted hours), sure, but looking back, there was always a silver lining.

Ten hours in Brussels? Ate a waffle out of a vending machine.
Eight hours in Minneapolis? Rented a DVD player and watched American Pie [so 90s]
Stranded overnight in Honolulu...on Christmas? Ate a burger (and two scoops of rice) on a picnic table. At midnight. With my dad.

But, honestly, I would have traded that greasy burger, Nadia and all the Belgian waffles in the world for one thing, and one thing only:

William H. Macy.

Turn the box over, and all the hardcore scenes are on the back.

Well, okay, not the actual f--king guy or anything (nice as he may seem), but rather the entire premise of the last film Macy directed, 2017's limp misfire, The Layover. 

Enthusiastically pissing in the face of anything resembling women's progress, The Layover tells the story of two impossibly beautiful women, seemingly of the BFF variety, shredding all forms of human decency in an effort to f--k the shit out of a guy with a severely bent dick.

What, that's not what you were expecting? Here's another shocker: I f--king hated every single minute of it.

Once again, my love of wondrous bosoms Alexandra Daddario ruined what should have been a nice evening, as The Layover fails on every front imaginable. It's boring, stupid, decidedly female ass free, and worst of all, painfully unfunny. I'd rather watch an eighty-eight minute version of a typical in-flight safety video than ever see this bullshit again. Like, please, please Flight Attendant Lady, show me again how to buckle a f--king seat-belt. I totally missed it the first time.

Blogathon '18: Mt. Rushmore of Movies

Where it used to be a triennial celebration around these parts, with our latest commander-in-chief behind the button (not to mention that nervous dude in Hawai'i sending out false alarms), I'm not sure we can wait once every three years. So, grab a handful of pink and red M&M's, dump the dead roses in the trash and take a shot of the dirty water they were sitting in, because Two Dollar Cinema is once again choo-choo-choosing you.

Like, I want them to participate, Gary, but not like this...

In honor of President's Day, yep, that seemingly random February Monday we have off for no reason, I'm once again politely asking/totally begging you to participate in a little blogathon known as 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 ridiculous(ly fantastic) monument you concoct will be accepted, so feel free to get a bit loose with it. Pour some wine, change out of those stuffy work clothes, grab whatever tools (ahem) you need, and let's do this.

Whether you want to do a Mount Rushmore of Marvel Cinematic Universe characters, the top four Noose Rooster flicks, or a tribute to the most shocking endings of all time, embrace the madness and run with it. Four selections may seem like a lot, but depending on the topic, those spots can fill up quickly. Four years ago, some crazy bitches went wild with their monuments [take a peek here], and last year was more of the same [really]. Let's see if the 2018 can follow suit.

And of course, the business end of this thing I'm not paying you for:

1. I'd like to have all posts done by Friday, March 2nd (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 honestly don't mind.
2. Send me a heads up/steamy nude pic on twitter @twodollarcinema , reply in the comments below, text me, e-mail me (twodollarcinema@gmail.com), fart in my general direction, whatever you want, when you've finished, okay? That would be mighty kind of you.
3. In your post, please use the rad banner my wife designed when she should have been working.
4. Share the announcement with every single person you've ever met. Or being that we're all bloggers, you're digital friends.
5. Be awesome. And if you're here, already know that you are anyway.

And even if it's way ahead of time, thanks to everybody who participates, and even to those people who inevitably wished they had/could give a f--k about this nonsense. 

No, really. Thanks. For nothing. Ya bastard. That's real presidential of you.

Trust me, once you go down there...you wouldn't wanna come back up again.

Everybody who grows up in Hawai'i has a shark story. Sure, it was probably a dolphin while you were surfing with your cousin, but it sounds way f--king cooler if it was a shark.

I guess I should have started this post with the word almost, because despite growing up in the middle of the Pacific, I routinely found myself in the middle of a movie theater. But one with a great view of the ocean. 

Turns out I don't have a shark story, let alone a good one, unless I tell you about that time Samuel L. Jackson got eaten by a great white mid-f--king sentence! Or when that lady from Open Water was totally naked for absolutely no reason.

(Sorry, I don't watch a lot of shark movies)

And after catching 47 Meters Down on Netflix with my wife the other night, safe to say I won't be rushing out (or in) to see anymore. While The Shallows [easily one of my favorite reviews] was f--king awesome a few summers back, Mandy Moore vs. a Shark is anything but. Good thing, like an actual shark attack, it's all over faster than you can yell Barracuda!

When we meet Lisa, the tall one (Moore), she has just been dumped by her boyfriend. Fiancee? Tennis Instructor? F--k, I don't know, someone she was previously in a relationship with. Apparently, she never let her hair down (anybody?), and homeboy had to cut her loose. So instead of non-alcoholic margaritas and super-protected missionary, this Mexican getaway is gonna be a pity party.

Filling in for the guy is Kate, Lisa's flirty younger sister. While Lisa is looking to wallow, Kate's looking to swallow. Sea water, you silly goose.

Anyway, after meeting two dudes who look like they might cut out your organs while you're sleeping, Kate plays the be a little adventurous card to Lisa, and basically double-dares her to go shark-diving with the fellas. What's a boring, overly-cautious, perpetual party-pooper gonna do? Well, like me pressing play on 47 Meters Down, something woefully against her better judgement.

You have a choice. Scream. Or don't.

I know it was 2004. October.

The Red Sox had just won the World Series for the first time in 86 years, and the Friday night before the victory parade, I dragged my cousin to the movies. Sure, Friday night at the movies was something we'd done a million times, but a Sox World Series parade was something we assumed we'd never see once. As we were both in the early stages of our careers in public education, we left the last almost-midnight screening f--king exhausted. Bleary-eyed ain't the half of it.

So tired, in fact, on the ride home we silently decided it would be a terrible idea to get up in a few short hours, drive a hundred miles north to Boston, only to freeze our balls off along the parade route cheering for Damon, Manny and Millar and the rest of the guys..

To be clear, we didn't go to perhaps the biggest f--king sporting event in our lives (up until that moment, anyway)... because I insisted we go see a f--king low-budget horror film the night before.

And they thought the 2004 Red Sox were idiots.

Saw and I didn't exactly get off on the right foot (I think there's a joke there) over a decade ago, so I'm not sure what would compel me to check out 2017's Jigsaw. I actually abandoned the series after the second entry, so jumping back in to part...carry the three...part eight probably wasn't the best call. But the wife was out of town, and the kids were at my mom's. What's a grown man supposed to do in that situation.

Not fall the f--k asleep. Which is why I rented the shortest movie they had. And still fell the f--k asleep.

As far as my dim recollection goes, Jigsaw stays pretty close to the winning formula of the previous films. Terrible people awake to find themselves in even more, uh, terribler situations, and we get to gleefully squirm our way through each grisly demise.

Here, the crux of the film concerns itself with five a-holes chained to the wall of an extremely elaborate death chamber. Jigsaw, who apparently/supposedly died a decade ago, has channeled his love for OK Go videos, and created a seemingly endless (and super f--ked up) version of Mouse Trap. And unless you confess to all the sins you've committed in your mostly-shitty life, well, you gon' die. And it ain't a laundry basket that's coming down on your head.

It's a...well, it's a...it's a f--king laser.

He's happy to see me. Every time. Every day.

I'm a fairly nice guy, not physically imposing in any way. The only thing scary about me? Probably how handsome I am. And that I occasionally lie about my appearance.

My point? I've never considered myself a monster.

But I just might be, you know? Turns out, I'm a pretty big fan of hard-boiled eggs. I definitely enjoy a swim. And if you fall asleep on me, there's a good chance I'm sneaking out to the movies. And if you're not careful?

I just might eat your p....

You see...while the bones of The Shape of Water felt pretty familiar (it's basically a super f--ked up/inverted version of Shrek), it's the relentless attention to detail and dream-like nature of the film that elevates Guillermo del Toro's latest offering to something bordering incredible. Imagination and reverence damn near fly off the screen. But while I can't imagine it'll actually win Best Picture, I'd totally have its (scaly) back if it does. 

Set against the backdrop of the height of 50's US/Russia paranoia, The Shape of Water tells the (sorta fairy) tale of Elisa Esposito (the always lovely and often alarmingly naked Sally Hawkins), a seemingly mild-mannered cleaning woman. Elisa works deep in the bowels of a top-secret government facility in Baltimore, pushing a cleaning cart alongside her perfectly sassy best friend, Zelda (Octavia Spencer, doing that good thing she does so...good). Not only have they cleaned some shit at work, but they've seen some shit there, too (we all have, right?). But these ladies are smart, dig? They ain't saying anything about it. And in Elisa's case, literally, as this poor woman's been mute for as long as anyone can remember.