You will never be good enough.

EXT. IMPOSSIBLY WELL-LIT BEDROOM- NIGHT

After dinner at his parents house, GUY and GIRL lay in bed together, but facing in opposite directions.

GUY

Hey, what's wrong? Look at me. 

She turns, and it's clear she's been quietly crying.

GUY

Are you still thinking about what my mom said? She was drunk.

She turns away.

GUY
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.

FADE TO BLACK

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. 

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.

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.

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.

They're no dummies.

My dad was just in for his annual/semi-annual visit to the mid-Atlantic. Cooked a bunch, finished my basement, played an infinite number of games of Hangman with my daughter. Good times, indeed.

For as long as I can remember (but much more so in recent years), politically speaking, he's been incredibly involved. Consumed, even. No matter the topic, all roads lead to some massive injustice perpetrated by a sinister government on its innocent people. While there's a level of shame in discussing any of these crimes with my father, turns out there's a bonus level. The fact that I, his son, knew absolutely nothing about these terrible, terrible events.

What do you know about Cambodia? You know about Laos, right - what happened there? Do you know what the United States did to ________________? I either shrug, sigh, or go silent.

Because, me? I haven't really been the best student of history - especially U.S. History. But, uh, not to brag or anything...

...I do watch a lot of movies.

Vice, the latest cinematic dick punch from director Adam McKay. Packaged and sold as a movie, as in something one would enjoy with popcorn, Vice ends up being one of the most amusing/f--king dreadful two hour history lessons to hit the theater since McKay's previous effort, The Big Short [review]. Imagine your favorite person alive...giving you the worst news of your life, and you might be on the right track.
It was only fitting that I took my dad (and my wife) to

Just short of shadowboxing my way into the theater (and wearing a white towel with a hole cut in it for a shirt), I felt incredibly confident heading into our evening showing of Vice. At 39, I'm old enough to have a solid recollection of the depicted events, theoretically meaning I wouldn't sound like a bigger moron than usual during the post-watch breakdown we were bound to dive into. Also, there was a good chance I would be the only who stayed awake the entire time, so, advantage m.brown.

Here's the thing, I honestly can't tell you, if knowing more (in this situation), can really be framed as an advantage - a positive. When the house lights came on, as much as I enjoyed my time in the theater, and letting the people flanking me know who snores louder, this depiction of the Bush-Cheney Administration absolutely gutted me. Vice, and the era that it portrays, is nothing short of an absolute f--king nightmare. Maybe the current administration has made some us long for the Dubya days, but seeing this film not only shatters those rose-colored glasses, but then it picks up the shards and jams them in your eye. I think this tweet sums it up the best:

Let's do it.

I don't mean to brag or anything, but, uh, back in high school? I pretty much saved the Pacific Ocean.

See, I spent the better part of a fairly-humid afternoon walking around my hometown spray-painting the words Dump No Waste, Goes to Ocean in front of all the storm drains. There was even a little outline of a humuhumunukunukuapua'a chilling there in the middle, so you could clearly see the adorable victim of your potentially reckless dumping. Killing any fish was bad enough, but our state fish? You stay lolo fo' ac' li' dat. (translation: you're a crazy douche, for such actions)

Remember, this was 1995 - an environmentally conscientious Hawaiian kid with a can of spray paint and stencil was, like, incredibly intimidating. Even if he didn't have luxuriously long hair, green eyes, and well, all the muscles.

As little faith as I had in my own efforts to protect the ocean that day, quite frankly, I had even less some two decades later that anybody could make a good Aquaman movie. How would the majority of a film that takes place underwater even be possible? *James Wan clears throat* Fine. The film looks and sounds incredible. But Aquaman? Really? Good luck making that character cool. *Jason Momoa stands, flexes, and winks*

I'm sorry...what were we talking about again?

I'm not going to bullshit you and say that I absolutely loved Aquaman, but I don't think that anyone can deny that it's pretty f--king impressive. Visually striking from the first frame to the last, James Wan's latest is eye-candy to the nth degree. And that's before you get to the visual effects.

As far as origins stories go, I'm pretty sure you've seen this one before. Badass Hero Guy, who came from mysterious/humble upbringings, is called upon, despite his general lack of interest, to reclaim the throne that's rightfully his, more or less because it's good for the people. Take a generous helping of The Lion King, with a side of Black Panther [review], garnish it with the slightest bit of Avatar, and preheat the oven to 400. Now, soak that f--ker in saltwater, add Amber Heard's heaving bosom...and you're good to go. Just don't leave it in too long, or you might dry it out and end up with a Bad Batch.

I am disappointed in this threesome.

In the last few holiday seasons, there's been an alarming (and entirely unwelcome) trend threatening to make me swear off Christmas forever. No, not the ugly sweaters or freezing my nuts off to see some a-hole light a f--king tree in the town square. Those, it appears, I can actually suffer through. No, what really roasts my chestnuts is this idea that I, yes me, need to provide the absolute perfect f--king present for each one of my children...FROM EACH ONE OF THEIR GRANDPARENTS. 

How is this my responsibility? Don't they know I've got my own mostly blank list to deal with? Isn't it clear that I'm the one dealing with lights that don't work on a rickety-ass ladder that may or may not be able to hold me? And if I manage to find a spare minute in my increasingly shitty days...

...don't they know I've got terrible holiday movies to see?

You know we're in a bad spot when Susan Sarandon is the best part of the movie.

Once Home Alone and Elf have been watched (and re-watched), I'm pretty much all set with holiday movies. Mrs. Two Dollar Cinema, refuses to quit while we're ahead and scours the globe for other potential yule-tide cinematic traditions.  Turns out, the only thing seemingly taking place on an annual basis is that she falls asleep during some shitty film she hand selected. 

Cue the 2018 entry, A Bad Moms Christmas, the follow up to the mostly not-good 2016 flick, Bad Moms [review]. And also cue the deadly combo of my indifference and her exhaustion.

The sequel opens with the lovely Amy (Mila Kunis, sexy as always) amidst the tattered remains of what looks like a holiday party. She's alone, and the place is totally f--ked top to bottom. And I'm pretty sure a rented camel just walked through her living room. How we ended up here isn't a mystery (selfish a-holes doing dumb shit should just about cover it), but over the next 104 minutes she's unfortunately going to tell us how it all unfolded anyway. Here's the short version: Her mom is an absolute f--king psycho and pretty much everything wrong in the world is her doing.

While we could all probably give the merriest of f--ks about this movie, I feel compelled to let you in on something resembling a true Christmas miracle. No, I didn't go from living under a bridge in the park and talking to my pigeons to sharing a precious moment with a ten year old boy in the snow and rejoining society, but it was pretty damn close.

You're the best of all of us, Miles.

When I say I hate kids, clearly I don't mean hate them hate them, but like anyone approaching the end of my fourth decade on this planet, being young ain't exactly in my wheelhouse anymore. I look at all aspects of my own youth and when I find something comparable today, I can't help but recoil and immediately trudge away in the opposite direction.

The new version, of just about everything, absolutely sucks. But what pisses me off even more?

Is when it doesn't.

You don't even know how hard I want to shake my (wrinkled) fist at the absolute greatness that is Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. Not only is it quite possibly the best superhero film of the year, there's a good chance it's the best thing I've seen a very long time. My apologies to Toby, Andrew and even the new guy, Tom. But in the race to be the best Spider-Man, you were all beaten by Miles.

Miles Morales is a good kid from the around the way. He's just gotten into a top-shelf boarding school, met a cool girl in science class, and it's pretty clear that expectations are high. And if that ain't enough to deal with, after some epic tagging with his uncle, this kid goes and gets himself bitten by a radioactive spider.

While that story seems beyond familiar, well, it's because it is. Very familiar, in fact. Turns out Miles is just one of many Spider, er, people... as each of the many known universes has their own web-slinging hero. For reasons initially unknown, portals have been opening up all over New York City, and, well, the gang's all here. 

You never get used to the smell.

Ghosts? I get ghosts. Not really alive, just kind of hanging around where they used to live, maybe even being the occasional dick - this makes sense to me. Ghosts...*checks clipboard* welcome aboard.

Monsters - these f--kers rule, too. Hey, you're an friendless abomination, probably hungry as f--k, so it's totally logical that you're killing and devouring everything in sight. What else are you supposed to do - rely on the kindness of strangers? You're a f--king monster. Ain't nobody giving you shit, outside of a bullet between the eyes or a pitchfork up the ass. Go ahead and eat a kid, Monster. F--k it, we can make more of 'em - like that.

But Demons? Man, f--k you pricks right in your upside-down asses. First, you're getting people's religion involved, and murderous f--kwad or not, that shit's just rude. On top of that, you're crass, prone to pissing, shitting and vomiting wherever it suits you, and just generally a bummer to be around. Oh, and a special f--k you to ruining nudity, too, as no one wants to see every curve of your goddamned pelvis. 

And all that's before you start crawling around the floor like a coked-up asshole.

Anybody out there making the argument that 2018 was a great year for horror should grab the nearest crucifix and thrust it repeatedly at The Possession of Hannah Grace. Dumped into theaters unceremoniously a few weeks back, it wasn't Christ that compelled me to catch this janky mess on the big screen, it was Venom. But more on that in a bit.

The Possession of Hannah Grace opens exactly like you would expect it to, mid-exorcism, where a nasty demon has taken control of, you guessed it, a young white woman. Her dad is nearby, and when things head south, he smothers her like a stack of pancakes, assuming instead of syrup, you cover your pancakes with a pillow. Violently.

Cut to three months later, and all of a sudden we're balls-deep in some sexy lady's quarter-life crisis. Apparently she's an ex-cop determined to trade in her metaphorical demons for literal ones. Turns out, there are no other jobs available outside of graveyard shift at the world's most poorly-lit morgue, so even fine-ass Megan Reed  (Shay Mitchell, probably from a show I've never watched) takes the gig. I mean, this is Boston, so it's either schlepping the corpses of dead hobos about or the night shift at a Dunkin' Donuts in Saugus. Either way, for someone prone to wicked flashbacks, this new situation ain't exactly ideal.