Saturday, April 20, 2019

Do yourself a favor - stay away from this one.

Outside of Event Horizon where I swear the temperature of the theater was set to abandoned spacecraft degrees, the most physically uncomfortable movie-going experience I've ever had was seeing The Descent on the big screen. That movie was so goddamned suffocating, I remember feeling genuine relief when exiting the theater. Like, thank God we made it out of there, you know? I can finally breathe.

But let's be real - can we? Ghost ships are one thing, freezing theaters another, but seriously WHO THE F--K GOES IN A CAVE? Those f--kers are terrifying enough before the monsters show up.

I didn't know what I was getting into with 2014's As Above So Below, but I recall it made an appearance at my local theater awhile back, thereby catapulting it miles, um, above most of the 'short horror' available to stream on Netflix. Had I known it was a found footage flick, I might not have pressed play, but even with a tired delivery method and a moderately goofy premise, I'm not all that mad that I did.

A fine-ass archaeologist named Scarlett Marlowe is on a quest to find the Philosopher's Stone, an ancient relic that supposedly grants eternal life. Being that Scarlett is um, super hot, she rather easily assembles a crew of dudes to not only accompany her, but to also film her as she embarks on this obviously foolish journey. See, this Philosopher's stone isn't buried in the bowels of Hogwarts, but instead hidden within in the catacombs of Paris. 

While that may not completely sound like a terrible place to go-go-go -go on an adventure- once they saw what that meant firsthand, everyone should have said f--k this and headed to a café to romantically share a baguette with Gerard Depardieu. Sorry, I don't really know anything about France.

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Y'all scared of a family?

In the not too distant past, I caught a compelling story on NPR about everyone's favorite group of people - the top 1%. Seems these ultra-rich dudes were looking around at the post-election state of affairs and collectively deciding they needed to get ready. Like really ready.

For what you ask? While some would say the apocalypse, others might call it the revolution, but however you want to phrase it, the idea was simple: if the economy collapsed the extremely wealthy would be targets. The less fortunate (aka the other ninety-nine percent) would come after them and it wouldn't be pretty. Their solution? High-end luxury fortifications.

Deep underground.

While Us might actually be an allegory about an entirely different topic, I couldn't help but think that somewhere along the way Jordan Peele had heard or read a similar story. Maybe it was before he wrote the script, or maybe it was while buying his own abandoned missile silo, either way I'd like to think this disheartening example of the separation between rich and poor was on his mind. I mean, after reading the bible and watching tons of classic horror films, that is...

After getting lost as a young girl on the boardwalk of Santa Cruz, we meet a now grown-up version of Adelaide Wilson (the impeccable Lupita Nyong'o), quietly dreading a return visit with her well-meaning husband and two kids. She's beyond hesitant, but agrees to go along as long as the entire family returns before nightfall. Her husband agrees, and after a slightly harrowing moment where they couldn't find their young son Jason,  they make it back to the house in one piece. Phew.

Turns out, that relief was incredibly short-lived, as four strangers show up outside of the vacation home and do the worst thing imaginable. They just sort of...stand there.

Oh, f--k me.

Thursday, April 11, 2019

Most people don't feel like heroes deep down.

Regardless of what it says about my moral character, I still think I'm taking invisibility. Flight's cool, but c'mon - I could just sneak onto a plane. Super strength would be rad, sure - but I'm already pretty f--king jacked.


Fine, I might not exactly be ripped (or have any real muscle definition whatsoever), but I sure felt that way walking out of Shazam!. Not necessarily because of the movie, mind you, but, thanks to Fandango, because I had just seen a major movie release two weeks early. Who wants to f--king touch me?

Knowing nothing of the character beforehand, my son and I hustled into DC's latest armed only with the information afforded to us by that badass trailer. After some mysterious, uh, occurrence, some young orphan kid is granted great powers. But instead of the accompanying 'great responsibilities', the kid and his friend do the two things that any teenage boys would do: jack and shit.

When we meet Billy, this punk-ass jerkface is messing with the cops...seemingly, for the millionth time. While he looks to initially to be your run of the mill douchey teen, turns out this dude's on a mission to find his mom. Aw? See, back when he was just a wee one, young Billy got separated at a carnival and hasn't seen his momma since. And even if the resulting foster homes are actually kind of nice, Billy ain't having it. He needs to find his mom. Drop the question mark: Awwww confirmed.

Sunday, April 7, 2019

I have nothing to prove to you.

There's a difference between being alive in the 90s and growing up in the 90s. Thankfully, I did both.
In fact, I went from 11 to 20 in the greatest decade ever. Not bad, you know? Not bad at all.

Something called the internet was becoming a thing (cue the spine-tingling dial up noise), babies had backs for f--k's sake, and the greatest era of modern cinema was upon us (fight me).

But more important? Hell, most important? I was young. I was impressionable. And I had hair. Lots of it. And it wasn't just me, either, rocking a luxurious mane. Nick Fury had something he could comb, too. Hair he could actually touch. Hair he could actually see.

With both of his eyes.

Though it's been only a few weeks since I've seen Captain Marvel, there's little I actually remember about it. As the twenty-first film in Marvel's endless quest for universal dominance, it didn't exactly do a lot to stand out from the rest, but at this point, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Yet another person with yet another murky personal history, will rise to defeat, well, yet another not so powerful villain. But this time, you guys...there's a cat.

And he's adorable.


Set in the mid90s (though thankfully absent that weird looking kid and his skateboard), Captain Marvel initially takes place far from home, er, Earth, and opens on a beautiful planet named Hala. Vers (a fairly bad-ass Brie Larson) is a young soldier training under the guidance of Yon-Rogg (Jude Law at his most Jude Lawliest), trying to control what appears to be her immense powers. Think Qui-Gon and Anakin, assuming Ani was a bit older, a woman, and infinitely less prone to sounding like a frustrated sexbot.

Anyway, after shit goes sideways on a rescue mission against some shape-shifting a-holes known as the Skrulls, Vers ends up ass-deep in un-rewound copies of True Lies, bringing her intergalactic fight to southern California. There, she meets some government agents no one has ever heard of before, Agent Fury and Agent Caulson, and attests to some impending that's about to go down. Oh, word? Word.

Sunday, March 31, 2019

All you gotta do is trust me.

Before fangirling was a thing (at least by name), as a seventeen year-old man...boy?...dickhead, what have you, I couldn't help but to ruin your roommates bathrobe over the then ubiquitous singer-songwriter Jewel. Oh, it didn't hurt that she was absolutely stunning, sure, but up until that point I hadn't yet realized the power one person holding one guitar could have over me. Even with her small hands, I obsessively scoured the world for rarities and B-sides, and even saw her live on more than one occasion (front row once, too - my goodness). I uh, may have even had a poster or two in my dormroom. Or ten.

Eventually, I would move on to a steady diet of pop-punk and alternative, with multi-year stops in rap and rock. And while I would dabble in electronica, Motown and even bluegrass for a minute or two, there's nothing I've ever loved more than a beautiful woman singing an incredible song.

Well, you know, other than a beautiful man doing the same...

Turns out, after finally seeing A Star is Born, Bradley Cooper was meant for me, and I was meant for him. After two stints as Rocket Racoon (in addition to all his other work), I didn't think it was feasible that I could love Mr. Cooper any more, but after pressing play on Maybe It's Time for the 14,000,605th time, well, here we are. And as much as everyone (rightfully) lost their shit over what Lady Gaga did in this film, it's Cooper's performance that knocked me on my ass.

I mean...holy shit, right?

But as much as I love(d?)  what Cooper did as Jackson Maine, I wanted to love everything else just as much, and perhaps surprisingly, I did not. It was a good film, maybe even a great one, but even though I was completely invested in these characters, for whatever reason, A Star Is Born didn't wreck me like I thought it would. Since I was way late to the party, it was just about common knowledge that this f--ker would leave even the most hardened a-hole in emotional shambles, but here's the thing: I wasn't sad when the movie was over. I was f--king pissed. But more on that in a minute...

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

That's what scientists do.

If there's any person on the planet that knows the feeling of living the same f--king day over and over again, it's a parent. I know you young a-holes out there have your own daily grind, but trust me, until you have kids (that have to be places at seemingly every hour of every day), you have no idea how impossibly repetitive an existence can seem.

So maybe, one weekend, you mix it up, you know? You drop the kids off at your mom's house, and you go see a horror movie on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe you could use a good scare, right?  Just to mix things up.

Uh, about that...

Being that I didn't want to see Happy Death Day 2U alone, and also that I'm not (yet) That Guy that takes way too young kids to horror movies (what's with these dudes?) I needed a wingman. So after badgering her endlessly, my wife not only caught up with the first one [review], but then Mrs. Two Dollar Cinema even provided me with fairly solid recap of the first one. Sweet.

If you don't know, in the first flick, sexy-ass Tree (as in Teresa?) was stuck in a time-loop, where she was dying in hilarious fashion over and over... and over again. Good thing she solved the mystery, and moved on with her, uh, life.

Well, it was, until she wakes up, yet again, in this sequel, somehow back in the infinite f--king death loop again. But she ain't even close to being disappointed about this, no. She's f--king furious.

This time, and stay with me here, instead of reliving the same day again and again, Tree (and her tight-knit squad) is reliving a different version of the same day again and again. If only I could embed the Tom-from-Blink WTF gif right here...

Turns out, Tree's (eventual) boyfriend' a bit of a science nerd and has been developing a, you guessed it, quantum reactor, nearby on campus. And instead of being sucked back into the same day, Tree's been sucked back into the same a parallel universe. 

Go ahead. Hurry up. Pick up those eyes that just rolled right the f--k out of your head. Aw, jeez. At least wipe them off on your shirt first...

Monday, March 11, 2019

I'm more of a Keaton guy myself.

Turns out, everything was awesome.

I don't even know exactly how long it's been since I took the kids to see The LEGO Movie 2: The Second Part, but that damn catchy-ass song from Rent seems about right. Uh, I think. Anyway, while not necessarily five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, it's been a long time regardless. And honestly, being that I really didn't give a damn about the movie the second I left the theater, it's been exceedingly hard to give a damn about writing the review. But here goes.

And at the end of the first LEGO Movie [review], the father and son had reconciled their brick-based differences, and were now seeing eye-to-eye on how to play with LEGOs (dad was a normal person, who wanted them built once, the right way, then glued forever, while the son, clearly under the direction of Satan, thought it was more fun to just build whatever you want). The catch, and there's always a catch, is that the sister was now allowed to play, and she was bringing her whack-ass Duplos to the table. Got it? Good/who cares.

When the sequel gets going, things in LEGO-land have gone to Hell, and it appears the sister is taking pieces and doing whatever the Hell she wants with them. Some of the gang is kidnapped, and taken to this weird place that kind of resembles a little girl's room. Shocking no one, the haplessly nice Emmet it left to save the day. Wait, the timid guy needs to step up and save the day? What a novel idea? Heck, it's so good, THEY PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE USED IT IN THE FIRST ONE.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

The Mt. Rushmore of Movies '19 LINKS

In a shocking turn of events, the Mt. Rushmore of Movies blogathon had a better showing this year, than it did in 2018. Better being open for debate, as the number of participating websites went up, but the quality of what we've all produced ...


Fine, not all of us typed our entries with one hand, but a certain degree of perversion seemed to permeate throughout the majority of the entries. But, hey. That's what handsome men do to girls like us.

Wait, what?

Even though I kind of feel like those poor bastards sweeping up Time's Square at 12:15 in the morning on January 1st, no matter how much (sexy?) fun we've all had, this party is just about over.
But before we fill the dumpsters with confetti and Trojan wrappers one last time, let's sharpen our chisels and erect some scaffolding in honor of cinema's finest ______________.

Click on the banners below to visit the sites!

created by: Steve
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Cinematic Bosoms
Materials: Underwire and Overexposure
When visiting: If your visit longer than four hours, please contact your doctor or physician immediately.

created by: Sonia
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Marvel Abs
Materials: The presence of weights and the absence of shirts
When visiting: Watch your step, as the trail can be rather slippery. We're not sure if that's ladies' drool, or the tears of men, but either way, you should probably sign a waiver just in case.

created by: Getter
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Man-Butts
Materials: Take what mamma gave ya, then you shake it
When visiting: Please refrain from putting your fingers in any of the cracks.

created by: Brittani
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Thorgasms
Materials: Really impressive... hammers.
When visiting: Drink plenty of liquids, as your leg muscles might get a little...shaky. And keep the Zeppelin down to a reasonable volume, thanks.

created by: Margaret
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Zac Efron Movies
Materials: Blue eyes, Red shorts, a love of the gym, a hatred of the library
When visiting: Even if there isn't a cloud in the sky, trust us, bring an extra set of dry clothes.

created by: Katy
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Hot Beards
Materials: Long nights and Impending fights
When visiting: Best to leave your razor at home. And your wife, too.

created by: Dell
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of (Cult) Movies About Running Out of Time
Materials: Ticking clocks and beating hearts
When visiting: Nothing matters, just f--king hurry up, dammit.

created by: Birgit
Monument: The Mt. Rushmore of Legendary Women
Materials: Brains, Longevity and Control
When visiting: Mind your P's and Q's, buster. These ladies ain't playing around, see.

Monday, March 4, 2019

Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?

Don't let the Disney inspired logo fool you...
There's only one way to end this.

Five years ago, I wanted to honor my blogging friends, and I did, with the Mt. Rushmore of Clutch Neighbors.

Apparently, that little spark of (non-perverted) creativity was rather taxing, so I took two years off to gather myself and come back with something legitimately important to say.

Of course, it was a monument to boobs, because, as they say, write what you know/obsessively think about when you should be PAYING ATTENTION TO THE ROAD. From there, in 2018, I decided to enshrine the biggest dicks in the history of cinema. But not the kind you're probably thinking about. 

What started with Fisti's monument to wanking it, has blossomed into a blogathon, more or less, mostly about sex. And while I'm more than all for it, for me, in what will likely be the last time I ever create a Mt. Rushmore of anything, I think it's about time I just straight-up bottom out. And while I wish that was code for the Mt. Rushmore of Great Asses, though heavily (/desperately) considered, it isn't. Instead, I'm going to fight all the sexy, with something decidedly unsexy.

May I present to you, dear reader(s?), with the Mt. Rushmore of Horrible Sex Scenes.

(and if you haven't figured it out by now, well, this one ain't exactly for the wee ones)

Thursday, February 21, 2019

Hooker who can't afford hooks.

Did you ever play the video game Sega Bass Fishing? Or more importantly, the sequel Sega Marine Fishing? It's so good, you guys. So. Good. You throw the thing in the water, the fish bites it, you jerk the controller around, pound some buttons, and boom! You catch a fish. A…um, virtual fish.

And while maybe this isn’t something I should admit publicly (f--k it, I’ve admitted to much worse), I played the absolute shit out of these games. But as much time as I’ve spent with these, uh, fishing simulators…

…I never made it to the level where I got to f—k Diane Lane. For money.

As much as I would have preferred to just aggressively mash my genitals against this keyboard for a half an hour, instead, I’ve decided to attempt something much more painful – to produce a coherent review of Serenity, the French Bulldog of modern cinema.

Somehow existing when it absolutely should have died off years prior, I’m still utterly baffled top-to-bottom regarding this (not at all steamy) piece of science/pulp fiction. I was so shaken afterward, upon arriving home I curled up and went to sleep like the older brother in Hereditary [review]. I mean, Matthew McConaughhey’s career was just trying to get some fresh air, you know?

*major spoiler(s) to follow…sort of*

Ten seconds into Serenity, you can feel it in your soul that this will be an absolute shit-show. The film opens with a tight-shot of a teenager’s face, and the camera swooshes deep into his eye, seemingly entering his adolescent brain. While that alone is the reddest of red flags, I’m assuming the filmmakers felt like they owed us this from the outset, as each of the next one hundred and three minutes is even more f—king bananas than the one that preceded it. And the only possible thing that could possibly explain any of it? Is that some d-hole kid is imagining whatever is on screen, while, one can only assume, masturbating vigorously.

But more on that in a bit. The imagination part... not the, uh... anyway.

Monday, February 18, 2019

Blogathon '19: Mt. Rushmore of Movies

A lot of people take shots at Valentine's Day, you know? It's not a real holiday. It's something made up to sell candy and overpriced cardboard. I can't believe you fell asleep. Again. Fine, but if we skip over Valentine's Day, you know what's next on the calendar don't you? Uh huh.

It's President's Day.

And if you think celebrating love is a waste of time and money, shit, what about honoring forty-five(ish) predominantly white guys that a large percentage of people would have never f--kin' voted for in the first place? That doesn't sound like too much fun, either.

Two Dollar Cinema, I'm asking you to help me celebrate President's Day (with a dash of Valentine's Day love) by joining me in the Mount Rushmore of Movies blogathon.

It seems only fitting that the guy who played Two-Face...
...also played the President of the United States.
So you know what I'm going to do? I'm taking it back. I'm taking 'em all back. For the fourth(ish) time in the esteemed history of this blog, I need help. Your help.

The rules are simple:

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 dream up will be straight magic, so by all means, let your freak flag fly.

Whether you want to do a Mount Rushmore of Oscar snubs, the top four Zac Efron shirtless scenes, or a tribute to the quintessential films of the 90s, embrace the madness and run with it. Four selections may seem like a ton, but once you get started it can get a bit dicey narrowing it down. Last year, things got a touch ... hairy [seriously], so fingers (and legs) crossed that 2019 will keep it flowing, er, going.

Alas, both the nitty, and the gritty:
  1. I'd like to have all posts done by Friday, March 1st (where I'll create a master list, linking back to all of your lovely sites), but it's cool if you're an overachiever and finish early. Or not at all.
  2. When you've finished, send me a heads up/dick pic on twitter @twodollarcinema , reply in the comments below, e-mail me (, make circles out of black smoke that Amy Adams will decode, Hell, cut a note out of old newspaper headlines, I really don't mind. Just let me know that you're in and that I love you so much. 
  3. In your post, please use the rad banner my wife designed in eleven minutes.
  4. Share the announcement, if possible. I don't really know anyone, uh, except you. 
  5. I just want to tell you both good luck, we're all counting you.
I think she was mad at me this time.
I'll be on a week-long field trip with middle schoolers starting in the morning, so I may be a bit out of the loop. Well, even more than usual. And while I probably be wishing I was dead, know that your participation is what will keep me alive in the darkest of dark days ahead.

So, yeah. No pressure. 

Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Learning is always a painful process.

*turns on the news*
*talks to another human*

*reads own blog*

Yeah, maybe 10% is being generous.

Late July of 2014? I opted for 22 Jump Street instead.
Not only did I take the time to watch Lucy, but I also took the time to purchase Lucy, the latter decision still haunting me days later. Because outside of personally suffering a traumatic brain injury that impairs judgement and reason (even more so, assuming that's possible), I couldn't imagine a scenario where I'd find the need and/or desire to watch this f--ker again. But didn't you assume that before you bought the movie, a-hole? There you go, showing off that moderately functioning brain of yours.

In case a super drug culled from expecting mommies has burst open inside of your body and you've been travelling the world as sexy energy ever since, let me break down Luc Besson's 2014 flick for you the best I can.

Even if you already know everything about it.

As played by the infinitely sexy (/ gloriously jiggly) Scarlett Johansson, Lucy, even before her, um, transition, initially appears to be a bit of an odd bird. We find her hanging out in Taiwan with some guy who looks like he's saving up for a moped, and luckily for everyone involved, he's immediately killed. As often is the case when your sketchy boyfriend is brutally murdered, Lucy is whisked away and immediately offered a job. Despite zero bargaining power, she politely declines, a brilliant move on her part, and wakes up with a bag of umbilical cord pills sewn into her stomach. Yeah, that ol' outcome. But even worse, her current captor wants to get it on with her sexy post-hasty surgical self, and when rebuffed he punches her in the gut. Not cool, bro on multiple fronts, which sends the drugs spewing into her body, transforming her into, you guessed it, Neo from The Matrix.  


Friday, February 8, 2019

This will be my final evaluation.

Seeing a great movie, with a bunch of people? That's an A night.
Seeing a decent movie...alone in a mostly empty theater? When you're my age, that's a B night.

And seeing a movie where you demand some sort of earth-shattering twist ending? Yep, you guessed it.

That's an M Night.

After setting the theater ablaze with the twist ending of 2016's kickass Split [review], writer/director M. Night Shyamalan's tying up loose ends with Glass, (what may or may not be) the final entry in his brilliantly subversive superhero trilogy. Starting (cue LaBamba) in the year two-thoooooooouuuuusand with Unbreakable, this trilogy, is equal parts incredible and inexplicable.  And while I may have been just a tad disappointed with the end of this story, I'm more than psyched at could be next. 

But more on that in a bit. 

After the reveal of The Horde near the end of Split, Glass opens with an even more grizzled David Dunn patrolling the streets of Philadelphia. He's looking for whatever the Hell The Horde is, and would like to find him/it before four missing high school cheerleaders are served up to the beast as breakfast, lunch and dinner (and fourthmeal, I suppose).

Unfortunately, after tracking down his arch enemy and freeing the girls, the ensuing brouhaha spills out into the streets, and both David and Kevin/The Horde are captured and taken to a psychiatric facility. Along with an totally incapacitated Mr. Glass who's already a resident, all three will serve as involuntary subjects in a hush-hush medical study. The goal? To fix people who share the same seemingly psychotic belief that they are anything than more than regular a-holes from Philly. Meaning? Dr. Ellie Staple, the program's director, wants to de-super these superheroes.

Thursday, January 31, 2019

You will never be good enough.

After dinner at his parents house, GUY and GIRL lay in bed together, but facing in opposite directions.
Hey, what's wrong? Look at me. 

She turns, and it's clear she's been quietly crying.
Are you still thinking about what my mom said? She was drunk.

She turns away.

It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, okay? I love you.

They kiss, and despite GIRL never removing her bra for some odd reason, they have passionate, fulfilling sex on a bed larger than the square footage of a normal person's entire living room. And after, no one  has to awkwardly flee the scene and go to the bathroom. They simply lay there. Forever.


Oh, Movies. You're so silly. All these years, you've been telling us that all you need is love, but let's cut the shit, right? Love's pretty rad, sure, but it ain't shit without peace. And the only way to ever get it? Well, you're going to need something stronger than love and peace combined. 

You're gonna need Mom. (and a way better screenplay)

There have probably been ten thousand movies that tell the same story that Crazy Rich Asians does (controlling mother initially tortures son's unsuspecting girlfriend for no good reason whatsoever, but ultimately it's because, despite having everything, she's a miserably empty person void of joy and human feelings but who'll naturally come around in the end) but that doesn't make the story any less enjoyable. In fact, for a film that was released just last year, Jon M. Chu's smash hit feels like something that could have been churned out by Old Hollywood, except thankfully no one's in f--king yellowface

In case you've never seen a romantic motion picture, here's Crazy Rich Asians, as boiled down by a moron: Rachel and Nick are young and in love in the only place where such a combination is allowed, wondrous New York City. Nick's about to be the best man in a wedding back home, and invites his gloriously beautiful/borderline perfect girlfriend to accompany him to Singapore. Turns out, as handsome as Nick is, he's also rich as f--k. And somehow, not only did Rachel not know this, but his sizable fortune is major f--king problem for just about everyone involved. Aw, that sucks. Good thing my wife married a penniless troll. 

Tuesday, January 29, 2019

She's happy, though.

It's almost embarrassing, honestly.

I think about her constantly. I laugh at all her jokes, even if they don't make any sense. I'll drop just about anything I'm doing if she calls. And she calls all the time. Between you and me, on most nights? I even help brush her teeth for her.

And on the off-chance that she ever mentions that she wants to see a particular movie, well, I can't get us there fast enough. Oh, don't worry, it's not like I'd ever let her take the wheel. I mean...

...she's only five-and-a-half.

As soon as she saw the trailer again (the first time it startled her), my adorable daughter Violet let it be known, rather loudly, that she reallyyyyy wanted to see the Bumblebee movie. Being that I'll oblige just about anyone who's requesting a trip to the cinema in my presence, it was an absolute no-brainer that I take my little girl to the theater...even if it's to see the sixth frickin' Trasformers movie.

But, uh, whatever your name is, I've heard this is the best Transformers movie yet...! It just might be Voice of Reason, but if you line 'em all up, one of the times I, uh, crapped myself has to be the best time, feel me?

Set in 1987 to the max, Bumbleebee is actually a fairly reasonable origin story. See, long before the events of the first film where Sam Witwicky and his Target brand Strokes t-shirt fought Megatron for the Allspark, a yellow Autobot known as Blink 182, er, B-127, was jettisoned from Cybertron. Turns out the Decepticons were on the verge of wiping out all the Autobots, every last one of them, and team captain/Peterbilt truck/potential future President of the Unites States (nothing would surprise me at this point) Optimus Prime sends B-127 to Earth, in hopes of one day getting the band back together. Unfortunately, the military ain't all that excited to see a giant walking space car, and they attempt to blow him halfway to Hell. Bullets fly, trees explode, John Cena seems mildly irritated, and B-127 fades into obscurity. Or he would have, if it weren't for those damn meddling kids.

Monday, January 21, 2019

I'm so embarassed. I'm not a real person yet.

I will die knowing, Hell, screaming to anyone within earshot that middle school is hands-down the worst stretch of a given person's life. Basically, it's that time when you think you know everything, but you're in fact, a ignorant f--king moron.

But coming in second to eleven, twelve and thirteen, might just be that time directly after college. That segment of life where you realize (or don't realize), that quite clearly, what you used to think was the real world was anything but. You've finished high school, conquered college. You have officially arrived.

At absolutely nowhere.

If something perfectly encapsulates the zeitgeist of a time and place that you f--king loathe...can it be considered a success, a fun time had by all? Because that was my dilemma during each and every black-and-white frame of Frances Ha. Yeah, this is well-made, looks lovely and features Kylo Ren likely on holiday from Jedi Summer Camp...but, uh, f--k this shit, you know? All of it.

I barely made it out of my early twenties as it was, and now I gotta watch a bunch of rich assholes play grabass in Central Park? F--k you, and the unicycle you rode in on.

The story, if you can call it that, is shockingly simple. Frances (Greta Gerwig) is a bit of an odd bird, and after her heterosexual life partner Silent Bob Sophie more or less dumps her to move on with her own life, France's basically falls apart. No, no...not to the point where she's sucking off homeless dudes for busfare or anything, but the poor girl is beyond lost without her BFF. So what's a confused, apartment-less, twenty-something in NYC to do? Not much, apparently. 

The rest of the film follows Frances from house-to-house, address to address as she searches for the rest of her life. For some of you, it may be as relaxing and relatable as running through the park on a warm summer day in the city, but for me, I was clamoring for a lawn I could tell those damn kids to get off of. Outside of Gerwig's relentless positivity, there wasn't much at all I enjoyed in this 95-minute epic.

Monday, January 14, 2019

How did you guys get so lucky?

When it comes to avoiding your impending, violent death, cinematically speaking of course, there are many rules to follow.

Don't speak. (A Quiet Place)
Don't breathe. (um, Don't Breathe)
Don't move. Uh, pretty much everything (all horror, recently-freed T-Rex)
Don't touch. (Contagion? Outbreak?)
Don't...listen? (Pontypool)
Don't place your genitals in/or around someone else's. (It Follows)

Now, we've circled back to Don't look.

And every time I watch a movie where it's going to kill you (Don't grow up in Derry, by the way) there's only one rule I'm hoping the film will abide by: Don't suck.

Bird Box, surprisingly, doesn't suck - but it sure as shit doesn't warrant its momentary cultural phenomenon status. Debuting on Netflix in December, this Sandra Bullock-led thriller has, like the mysterious plague at its core, somehow captivated a portion of the entire planet. Apparently, no one has seen any of the films mentioned above, because all of those did the relentless death thing first, sure, and damn near all of them did it better.

In case the rock you live under doesn't have WiFi, here's what you need to know: some mysterious plague is quickly encompassing the planet, were victims, upon catching it (or being caught by it), kill themselves instantly. Think The Happening, but no one gives a shit about the honey bees.

The hook, outside of the glorious chaos that comes from mass (hysterical?) suicides, is that in the world of Bird Box, one acquires this illness through their eyes. You can make all the noise you want (kind of), inhale and exhale like a champ, and Hell, f--k anything that moves, but you best do all that shit with your eyes closed. Because...if you see it, if you dead. Fine, that doesn't make a lot of sense, but like this flick, just shut the f--k up and go with it.