We don't all have claws.

If I asked you to name the comic book character most faithfully realized on the big screen, who would you choose? It's Batman, right? Likely followed by Superman or Spider-Man, I'd think. And while I feel each of those characters have kicked all kinds of cinematic ass, I'm throwing them all out on a technicality, as only a super nerd (who um, doesn't read comic books) would dare. Each of them has been played by more than one person, muddying the waters. With my newly instituted/highly arbitrary criteria, we're down to two: Iron Man and Wolverine. While I'd go to bat for Robert Downey, Jr. anytime, when I think about, there can be only one.

Hugh Jackman has been playing Wolverine for almost fifteen years. Ridiculous. And throughout that span, Jackman has dusted off the CG claws again and again and held down major roles in four films, and even had a kickass cameo in a fifth. His latest entry, and certainly not his last, is The Wolverine.

I'll tell you up front, I've never seen X Men Origins: Wolverine. I heard that it basically sucked and have somehow managed to never catch it on FX, where it's seemingly on twice a day. That said, I had every intention of watching it prior to seeing the latest Wolverine flick, but it wasn't in the cards. And being that my wife was due the day after this one released, I honestly thought I'd never see this one either.

Clearly, I ended up catching this, and perhaps less obvious, I'm glad I did. Even if, overall, the film lacks action, I firmly believe you simply can't go wrong with Jackman. Watching him growl each line, occasionally stab a bad guy in the neck, and generally skulk around like an aging gunslinger, the guy is Wolverine. Even in a medicore-at best summer action flick.

Don't play the angles, George.

Of all the kids I have taught, there was this unforgettable young man I had early in my career, Jules. Jules was a pudgy, extremely introverted 6th grader at the time, and barring any setbacks, academic or otherwise, should be headed to college in the next few weeks. Jules never said a word, and always appeared to be diligently working. The thing is, all he ever did was draw. Shapes, lines, letters, cars, ninjas, whatever - Jules would put his head down and get completely lost in his art. Initially this frustrated and infuriated me, as Jules failed to complete anything. When I would question him (or even step in his direction), he would furiously erase whatever he had drawn. Even when I kind of accepted it, and eventually encouraged it, Jules would always apologize and say Sorry, Mr. Brown. I'll start my work. I'm sorry, while vigorously erasing/ultimately decimating his paper.

I didn't know it then, but I now know exactly what Jules needed to help him snap out of it. In fact it's the thing that gets most of us (in and) out of trouble.

Jules needed a girl.

If you weren't that kid who couldn't quite function in school, it's likely you knew him. The Art of Getting By, from writer and director Gavin Wiesen, tells the story of George, a high school senior. George, played by Freddie Highmore, is a relatively shy oddball, who despite being pleasant and well-mannered, can't get his shit together. He's not a bad kid, he just doesn't seem to care. About anything. And while part of you just wants to grab him and shake him endlessly, there's something frustratingly intriguing about him, too. I'm telling you, Jules was this kid.

As so often happens, the tiny world that George is possibly okay with gets knocked on its ass by a pretty young blonde named Sally. In a typical guy-move, George covers for this girl, despite likely never having even said a word to her in his life. Luckily, she rewards his misguided chivalry with some awkward conversation and the two become friends. They hang out, skip school, do typical cool-kid New York movie bullshit, and things seem to be going fine. Foolishly, and in a maneuver that too many guys have unsuccessfully attempted, George shuffles along claiming nothing more than friendship. This f--king guy isn't passionate about anything, except maaaaybe his artwork. Even that he seems ultimately indifferent toward.  But then friends, things change. That blonde friend of his? That blonde female friend of his? Well, she decides to start hanging out with another guy. They might even be having sex. Ol' passive, drifting-through-life Jules George? Well, I'll let you guess what he does.

This parenthood thing. Oh, it's a disaster.

If it ever comes up, I'll say that I applied to two colleges, though I might be exaggerating that tally by one. If I remember correctly, everybody in my graduating class (of thirty-three) had to apply to the nearby University of Hawai'i, whether we intended to go there or not. It was a lone piece of paper, where we checked some boxes and signed our names on the back. Seriously. Where it went after that, who the f--k knows, so, let's officially label that one as a possible application. The other one? Well, I was accepted right away. And clearly, it's worked out for me. I mean, I write a blog.

As our first movie since my wife delivered our daughter Violet, I thought Admission was going to be perfect. Since day and night have blended into she pooped again? my original plan was to Redbox the shortest friggin' movie in the machine and pray to Jeebus that I could finish it. But as the sweet smell of freedom/gasoline swirled around me at our local Royal Farms, so did the feeling of guilt. I had to include my wife, even if I knew there was no way in Hell she would finish it. And who better to entertain my hero than her hero, right? Well...

Turns out Admission isn't that good. Kind of at all. Despite starring two incredibly likable and talented people like Tina Fey and Paul Rudd, there's something incredibly off about the entire flick. Frustratingly, we spend too much time with characters we don't really care about (I'm looking at you Mom), and not enough time with those we do (Rudd). Fey, who can be hysterical, rarely gets to let loose as she plays the straight-laced tight ass, Portia. Whenever she finally explodes, it feels forced and surprisingly, extra ridiculous. Potentially the biggest offender however, is the the fact that the whole damn movie, revolving around someone who is a f--king wizard with forms and applications, allows a typo (or a smudge?) to knock everything on its ass. Maybe that's the point of the whole thing, or maybe the whole thing doesn't have a point.

Call 911. We got a problem.

In my list of awful jobs, one of the worst had to be the few months I spent working in a call center. Imagine you worked in some office, and you went to make some copies, and the f--king copy machine was broken. You could do what pretty much everyone else does and find another machine, or you could do something about it/be a real asshole and call someone. Oh, that poor bastard on the other end, the one you arbitrarily blamed for your shitty day/life? Well, that was me. And I hated every minute of it.

Shockingly, I didn't feel the same way about the 94 minutes I spent in a different call center, however, with March's The Call. It kinda helps when the employees look like Halle Berry, even if she's got Justin Guarini's haircut. Though the 911 operator uniform is sadly cleavage free.

Anyway, this flick actually surprised me. Sure, it's ridiculous and ultimately not very good, but I went in expecting utterly terrible and was sort of bummed when it wasn't. It's simply a below-average thriller elevated to mediocrity by talented leads and able direction. In fact, it's far better than the shit show I was looking forward to, trust me.

I'll assume you saw the same horrid trailer that I did, but if you didn't here's the plot, as told by an idiot: A 911 operator quits her job after inadvertently being responsible for the death of a young girl. After some time off, she comes back, but only as a trainer, as she's still tormented by memories of that tragic day. In a twist that absolutely no one saw coming, she's thrust back into action when it happens again. Holy shit, I'm nervous just typing this. I mean, how's this going to end? I'm assuming she f--ks up again and the girl dies, right? I mean, there's no way she faces her fears and completely redeems herself. No way that happens.

People like you don't have friends.

-336.91.

That's what it said on the screen. Years ago, I had attempted to withdraw twenty bucks from my Webster Bank account so I could get food on my lunch break, but apparently I didn't have any money. Shit, no money would have been a goal at that point. I owed bitches. Lots of them. Worse? I worked at f--king Webster Bank. That's some bullshit.

Much like how some ratf--k piece of garbage went into my bank account too often, I went to the Melissa McCarthy well more than I should have, too. To be fair, I only overdid it by one. I didn't take every dime some poor bastard had rendering him totally f--ked for a week while they investigated the alleged wrongdoings. I just Redboxed a movie. A not-very-good one.

After laughing my ass off throughout much of The Heat [review], I had high hopes for Identity Thief. Sure, that sounds pretty frickin' ridiculous now, I get that. But as the Universal logo spun around that globe, me and my lady friend were looking forward to a good time. Keeping with the trend of this post however, it would appear our fun would be crushed by some nameless, invisible force miles away from my current location.

Despite a slew of talented, likable people involved, Identity Thief feels like it's missing something. And that might be putting it mildly. There are a few laughs, some so-so action, and a somewhat inspired setup, but it doesn't amount to much and never really comes together. The reason? As unfair as it may be, is likely McCarthy. Not so much her personally, but her character Diana. This lady might be the most unlikable bitch ever put to screen that we're supposed to like.

There's nothing wrong with me, Chet!

Ben Johnson, Marion Jones: Track and Field.
Floyd Landis, Lance Armstrong: Cycling.
Every single baseball player: Major League Baseball.

In certain sports, the use of performance enhancing drugs seems so commonplace, that it barely even registers emotionally when somebody new gets busted. These athletes risk long-term health by juicing their bodies with chemicals simply for a shot at momentarily dominating their sport. Sadly, in the summer of 2013, the list continues to grow. And this final name really hurts, not only for the kids in Milwaukee, but for youngsters all over the world.

Theo: Snail Racing.

Dreamworks' Turbo has the misfortune of coming to theaters mere weeks after established animated franchises raked it in (Monsters U [review] and Despicable Me 2 [review] are both top 5 in dollars earned this year). While racing snails are probably interesting enough to entice the little ones, Turbo, sadly, is nothing we haven't seen before. And judging by the opening numbers, we probably won't see again.

Box-office numbers and animation saturation aside, the real problem is  familiarity. Turbo is essentially a retelling of Cars with snails and people, instead of...well, cars and more cars. Throw in a smattering of Rookie of the Year and you've seen this movie already. You know what's going to happen and you sure as shit know how it's going to end. But, it's certainly enough fun along the way, especially if you're sitting shotgun to an almost-four year old, and merrily stuffing your face full of cornbread popcorn. Ain't nothing wrong with that.

You ain't even dark-skinned.

I've loved standup comedy as long as I can remember. As a little kid, I stayed up late watching An Evening at the Improv. In high school, it was MTV's Half Hour Comedy Hour and Def Comedy Jam. In college, I had to take it even further. I needed to see it in person. At school, we had Frank Caliendo, Norm MacDonald (booed off stage because he was f--king shitfaced) and even Wayne Brady show up. Back home in Hawai'i, I actually paid money to see Howie Mandel over Christmas Break (he was actually pretty funny). One night, years later, some friends and I braved an epic snowstorm and saw the perfect show: Mitch Hedberg, Dave Attell, and Lewis Black. It was f--king  hysterical.

As a much older man, with slightly more money and significantly less time, it appears the only way I'm going to see standup these days is to head to the theater. The movie theater. So obviously, I was pretty psyched to catch Kevin Hart: Let Me Explain and rekindle my long dormant love. Running under (!) eighty minutes, this was the perfect flick to see theatrically on a hot summer day. It was so short, I think I saw it under the guise of Yeah, I'll be right there after I get gas and grab some things at Target. Pathetic Awesome, right?

Anyway, though I didn't head into this the biggest Kevin Hart fan, it's safe to say this guy is a funny dude. While some of his jokes tend to meander, his delivery is so intense and so earnest, he commands your attention regardless. He's honest and easy to relate to. He's also pretty friggin' smart.

This flick starts off almost like a traditional movie, albeit an incredibly low-budget one. Hart and his crew are celebrating their success at a huge party in New York City. The vibe of the party begins to take a turn against him and he decides he needs to get some things off his chest. He insists he's going to head across town to the Garden and he wants everybody to come with him. One of his guys, Nate, really doesn't think he can pull it off. He's pretty sure the Olive Garden isn't open this late.

I didn't ask for it. And I don't want it.

Sometimes, the only thing better than a great movie is a shitty one. If the stars align, and it's the right kind of awful, a really bad movie can be a really good time. Even better, is when you realize that the person sitting next to you feels the exact same way about the flick. Especially when it's someone close. As my wife and I settled into our latest (and last?) Redbox offering, there was magic in the room. No one was secretly gutting one out, nobody took one for the team. We loved this movie. Wait, let me clarify. We loved hating this movie.

You know shit when you find shit, too.

I actually think I loved Safe Haven. Really, no bullshit. It lets you know how bad it is probably thirty seconds in, and it doesn't ever let up. It remains laughably absurd the entire time and actually ends with a record-setting level of ridiculousness. Our son wasn't home, so I was able to immediately burst into the out-loud version of the Are you f--king kidding me? routine I usually just keep hidden behind my rolling eyes. And shockingly, and perfectly, Mrs. Two Dollar Cinema was right there with me.

Domestic violence. Losing a spouse to cancer. Children in peril. Alcoholism. Murder. None of these topics should be hilarious, but in the deft hands of director Lasse Hallstrom and this silly script, even life's most gut-wrenching moments translate to comedic gold. The melodrama is so thick, the acting so forced, and each allegedly tender moment so incredibly contrived, Safe Haven is remarkably terrible. It's as if M. Night Shyamalan directed the longest tampon commercial ever. That description is so good, they probably should have put it on the poster. Just sayin...

The hardest part to deal with is the silence.

I was never Andy from Toy Story. When I played with my toys, I used very little of my imagination. I would try to recreate scenes from the cartoons or movies, hell, maybe even the commercials themselves. But I never crossed streams, never mixed genres. Even when allegedly having fun, I wanted things to be authentic. He-Man never fought Optimus Prime. The dudes from M.A.S.K. never tangled with the Turtles. Those kind of battles would never happen and were ridiculous. I mean, what's next, Godzilla fighting Voltron?

I don't know why, but I just want to yell Roooooobot Jox!

I didn't even have to see a preview to know that I needed to see Pacific Rim. If I remember correctly, when I asked for a plot summary, I believe a certain husky-eyed friend of mind placed his hands on my shoulders and bore his eyes directly into my soul. Dude, he said. It's f--king robots, fighting f--king monsters. So, we're seeing it in 3D, right?

Months later, there we were. 3D, IMAX - the whole bit. And while he left with noticeable back sweat (true story), I left pleased, if slightly underwhelmed. And no, I just checked. There's no vagina down there. Promise.

Look, whenever a giant-ass robot is fighting a giant-ass monster, I was all in. Even leaning forward. But for the other half of the movie, the parts where people are talking about their feelings and explaining their actions, I kept all of my f--ks, relinquished none. Outside of some of the best action sequences I have ever seen, the whole thing reminded me of a less-ridiculous Independence Day. Seriously, it's basically the same story, except Will Smith is now a handsome white guy and Bill Pullman is now a handsome black guy. And instead of the sexy rack of Vivica A Fox, we get the unholy face of Ron Perlman. Though I love that guy so much that might be an upgrade, honestly.