Let me warn you - this won't be easy.

We needed help. We've got two small kids, and we'd reached a point that something drastic needed to happen. If not, they'd be home alone, eating Cheerios off the floor and essentially raising themselves. So, in addition to me quitting my job, my wife and I summoned a supernatural being from a mystical place, and invited her to our home in Pennsylvania. In other words, my mom moved here from Hawai'i to watch the kids.

Depending on who you ask, my mom isn't scary. The film Mama, from writer/director Andres Muschietti, isn't either. But it was supposed to be. Instead it's yet another shitty PG-13 horror movie, churned out to the delight of twelve-year olds, who likely confuse mysterious with hard-to-see, and terror with just plain terrible.

Let's be fair, even though it fails miserably, Mama had a chance. The idea of (sort of) re-domesticating two kids left to raise themselves had promise. That alone is kind of creepy, I'll admit. Layer in the fact that for those five years some angry (yet loving?) ghost bitch was watching over them and is presumably going to be real pissed when they're gone makes for an interesting premise. If only it had stopped there. If only.

Holy shit, this movie is dumb. Almost to the point where I was offended. And I'm an idiot. But, at the very least, I understand logic and reason, and this movie is completely void of both. Okay, fine, the main character is a ghost, so I should probably let some shit go, but still. I've never been left so dumbstruck by the end of a movie. Never.

But let's back it up, shall we? After a pretty shitty day (three murders with a smidge of kidnapping), some guy crashes his car down the side of a snowy mountain with his two daughters in the backseat. And even though I can use Google Earth to see into the backyard of my childhood home from space, an entire car simply can't be found at ground level. Anyway, the two girls end up in a, get this, spooooky cabin! with dear old Dad. Dad's had enough and despite miraculously surviving the car accident, decides it's time to shoot everybody. And before things take an ugly turn, Mama shows up, kickin' ass and rolling cherries. Okay, this is kind of dumb, but whatever. I'm still in.

Hope you haven't had breakfast.

I'm pretty sure there's something very wrong with me, but f--k it, Catwoman is sexy. I don't care if it's Anne Hathaway or Michelle Pfeiffer, it's a sweet look. All the tight-ass clothes, the purring, the licking, hell, even the scratching. It's all weird as shit, but there's still something oddly alluring about it. Halle Berry needs no help, but throw her in that awful Catwoman outfit and even one of the shittiest movies ever made is watchable. I'll even give you old timers Eartha Kitt, though honestly, that bitch scares me.

Anyway, as much I like a sexy lady dressed as a cat, let me be clear: it's the lady I want to have sex with. Not the f--king cat.

What the f--k is Cat People? Honestly. How does this movie actually f--king exist? I randomly chose this one based solely on the title, and though I knew nothing about it, something still compelled me to press play. And as I grinded it out, I was left with this look on my face that I still haven't been able to shake days later. I can't quite place the expression, but imagine while sitting there on your laptop, you fart and the smell literally surprises you. You expected bad, but what you got was so much worse your face is an unholy mix of disgust and disbelief. That, friends, is Cat People.

But that ain't even the half of it. Let me boil it down for you, okay? I, unlike the makers of this film, appreciate your time, so let's do this in one awful sentence: This movie is about half-leopard siblings dealing with the fact that they can't f--k anyone, till they f--k each other. I shit you not.

The movie opens back in some unknown time period with a group of aboriginal types doing their thing to some groovy eighties synth beats. Some chick heads into the potentially mysterious lair of a black leopard and...just like that, it's 1982. We meet a creepier-than-usual Malcolm McDowell, who basically eye-f--ks everyone he sees. This dude lives with his voodoo maid lady and is clearly a murderous douche. Seriously, this guy oozes date rapist more than probably any other character I can remember. His "sister" shows up, in the form of the fairly attractive Natassia Kinski, and she's basically the early eighties version of Sandy from Grease, except that instead of being an Aussie she's a f--king leopard. Anyway, it's not that she hasn't liked some boys before, she's just never been able to um, fully engage in Summer Lovin'.

Is this turkey paradise?

Christmas for me, no matter how ridiculously childish this sounds, is still mainly about presents. Honestly. Along those lines, Halloween, despite being in my mid-thirties, is still mainly about candy (though there was a time where slutty costumes entered the fray). Thanksgiving, no matter how old I get, has always been about one thing, too: Football. Fine. It's also about family. I guess.

But I'll tell you what it's never been about: turkey. The bird, for me, is the least interesting part of the meal. Who knew that was foreshadowing?

What's strange, is it's also the worst turkey movie of all time, too.

My wife and I took our son to see Free Birds two Sundays ago, but this leisurely family outing felt a lot like work. Uninspired and bland, this latest kids' flick to cash in on a timely holiday crushed our fairly low expectations. We saw the preview, we knew what we were getting into. But somehow, it ended up being worse. But the real kick in the giblets? The only showing we could make it to was in 3D. Well, if you can call it that.

Anyway, the story, I suppose, at least had potential, for a (non-Pixar) kid's movie, anyway. After receiving the ceremonial presidential Thanksgiving pardon, a young turkey named Reggie appears to be living the good life. By this, I mean he's eating pizza all day and watching telenovelas. Harshing his vibe is Jake, a manly turkey destined to travel back in time and take turkey off the Thanksgiving menu. Apparently, the President resides directly on top of some top-secret time travel device, so these two turkeys make the typical unlikely duo. Had potentially hijinks ensued we might have had a decent 70-minute flick. In and out, easy-peasy, please recycle your 3D spectacles on your way out. But no, we veer off into turkey lore and turkey love and 91 minutes later I felt like I had just finished eating Thanksgiving dinner: I was tired and full of regret. And I didn't want to think about anything turkey related for at least another year. If not, ever again.

How bad could it be?

Most horror movies are very straightforward, maybe even to a fault. Their plots often revolve around the simple concept of revenge. Sure, there's the occasional sick f--k who kills for no apparent reason, but typically in this genre, people need to be killed/raped/tortured because some other person was killed/raped/tortured in the past. And even that creepy bastard who does this for no reason? Well, ideally, he'll get his too, eventually. Those are the rules.

I'd like to exact revenge on pretty much anybody associated with The Big Bad, a flick I had the misfortune of renting last week. I'm thinking I'll go eye-for-an-eye, you know, hurt them the same way they hurt me. Maybe something along these lines:

For about twenty minutes, I'm going to just walk around and ramble incoherently. It won't make any sense, and it will literally be so boring, one or two of them will probably just take their own lives. But for the next fifty minutes or so, I will simply shit all over everyone. I will shit in their eyes, in their ears, and somehow into their soul. It won't be fatal, no. It will simply be the worst looking event to have ever taken place and will leave everyone involved wondering the same thing: Good Lord, why did that happen? Am I bad person?

This family's in trouble.

Since Halloween has just recently passed, it's fitting that the last movie I watched centered on something that absolutely terrifies me. The idea of being locked in a giant metal contraption, barely in control, for hours and hours is overwhelmingly maddening. But worse, the thought of consistent loud, sharp noises and awful smells surrounding me, only compound one of my deepest fears. Obviously, I'm talking about one of the greatest, slow-death torture scenarios found on this planet: the family road trip.

This poster couldn't represent the movie any better. Honestly, it's perfect.

The road trip in Transit, much like everything else in the movie, is utterly ridiculous. A father decides that his family must reconnect (for some initially unclear reason), and so they head out on a long car trip together. On the docket? Incessant whining, camping and familial bonding. Fair enough, I suppose. But when four increasingly generic and incompetent criminals show up, and fully beat the shit out of Mom, you'd think maybe Wally World can wait until next year, huh? Wait, wait, wait. Did you just think? You better cut that shit out now if you even plan on enjoying this one.

The flick opens with a pretty typical armored car heist, complete with your standard double crossing of masked individuals (you know, where splitting it five ways becomes four because someone gets shot in the face). Cut to Miserable Family, where Dad is insisting that This trip will be good for us! The bad guys are on the run, and stay with me here, must ditch the money because there's a roadblock and they're checking everyone's cars. Seems like the only logical plan is to hide the money with the family and simply follow them to where they're going and murder them and grab the cash. Hmm. The cops are stopping everyone, but if they don't have the money on them, apparently they'll be fine. 

You gotta be strong to survive out there.

Last week, I quit my job. I prefer the term resigned, but I guess it really doesn't matter either way. While I'm 99% sure I'll have another job in just a few weeks, the timing was, personally speaking, perfect. Not only did my wife's maternity leave expire today, but the school I was working for ultimately appears doomed. Our charter has not been renewed and the school district is shutting us down. And while I'm hoping it works out for the dozens of teachers (including some of the best people I've ever met) still there fighting the good fight, their fate is likely already determined. The ship, it seems, is starting to sink.

In my new career path, ship captain was never considered. Sure, there's the whole not at all qualified thing, but honestly, after seeing Captain Phillips last Saturday, the main reason is fear. Not just ooh, that looks kind of scary uneasiness, but full-on I'm never going on a boat again level of fear. Seriously, Jaws ain't got shit on Somali pirates.

Captain Phillips is an excellent movie. The acting, the cinematography and direction, the score, everything really, all effortlessly coalesces into something so compelling and so tense it's almost hard to watch, even if you can't turn away. And that's presuming you know the ending beforehand (I'm assuming you do). It's truly an incredible story.

And there's the rub, huh? The story. I'm not really interested in debating the facts, as I will personally never know what happened over those days in 2009. What I do know, is that director Paul Greengrass is a brilliant filmmaker. I also know that Tom Hanks is one of the greatest actors of all time. Everything else, it seems, is debatable. For my money, the greatness of their collaboration is not.

Please copy...

Jason Voorhees is not scary. He's killed countless people in countless ways, but it's all kind of silly. What I saw last Thursday? Now that was terrifying. The thing is, Jason should scare me more. Easily. I mean, at least Jason is possible. The deaths, as ridiculous as they may be could happen. I could have sex in a bunk bed. Unlikely, sure. But it could happen. And after that, an arrow could be jammed through my neck from below. Yeah, it would suck, but I'd manage. At least I'd die in a bed. In a house. On Earth. 

With all due respect, f--k space. F--k everything about it. Those serene shots of the sun rising over Earth? Bullshit. That shit ain't peaceful. That's certain, quiet death. 

I loved every minute of Gravity. Well, not while I was watching it, actually (you can't love something that's choking you), and not immediately afterward, either (my equilibrium was f--ked up). But the next day? Very much so. And while its box-office success is bringing out more and more detractors, I am obviously not one of them. Gravity is a cinematic experience unlike anything else I've ever been a part of. The film literally took my breath away.

From a technical perspective, the film is unquestionably brilliant. But while numerous films have stunned me visually, few, if any, have also packed the emotional weight of director Alfonso Cuaron's Gravity. Not only did I want everyone to make it home safely, I needed them to. 

The story is actually quite simple, and takes place in what feels like real time. After surviving an accident in outer space, astronauts Ryan Stone (a never better Sandra Bullock) and Matt Kowalski (George Clooney, consistently perfect) must improvise a plan to stay alive and get home. The challenges they face are relentless, and the overwhelming emptiness of space exacerbates everything. And making things somehow even worse (though, ultimately, great), the whole story is presented so seamlessly, in these fantastically long shots, you can't help but feel a part of every decision, every catastrophe.

Can we do this again? Like, all the time?

Last Wednesday, I had to take our four-year old to the doctor's office. Dad Doing Official Business is challenging enough, but this instance was even more trying. Matty needed to have blood drawn. See, since birth, the kid's been allergic to milk and eggs, which, unsurprisingly, are found in everything. Well, everything reasonably priced, anyway. Anyway, Matty was slightly concerned that they were going to suck all his blood out. To ease his fears, and award his bravery, I told him that immediately afterward, we'd grab some food and head to the movies. Deal? Deal.

In Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs 2, the characters have the opposite dilemma. Instead of worrying about the food they eat, these unlucky souls are worried about food eating them. Maybe it was the McDonald's prior to showtime (a chicken McNugget Happy Meal is dairy free...just sayin'), but this one definitely wasn't as tasty as its predecessor.

We liked the first Cloudy With A Chace of Meatballs. A lot, actually. Honestly, I suggest we fire up the original more than my son ever does (I will do anything to avoid the Cars films, anything). The initial tale of Flint Lockwood and his FLDSMDFR has just the right mix of laughs and heart. The second one isn't bad, it's just not as surprisingly fun and warm as the original. Outside of catching it in 3D (which is likely pretty sweet), my vote is rental, at best.

Anyway, after the events of the first one, where Flint Lockwood (voiced by the brilliant Bill Hader) made it rain food, the town of Swallow Falls has been evacuated. The displaced citizens want to go home, but otherwise, no one seems to care about their old town. Well, no one except food mogul and master scientist Chester V. (Will Forte, doing that great delirious old man voice that he does so well). His intentions are a little more nefarious.

Please, God. Pull the trigger.

Some actors rise to a level of notoriety that essentially works against them. When we talk of the character, we refer to the actor (Tom Cruise was so pissed off in that one scene...). It gets increasingly difficult for them to truly get lost inside a character like a less recognizable actor (potentially) could. Sometimes they'll transform themselves physically to avert their level of fame, often to mixed results (Gary Oldman in Hannibal being an impossible-to-classify example, um, for example). But for me, even harder to swallow, is when certain actors attempt to change their voice. This can be done well to great effect. But when it's bad...it's really bad. I refer to this as the Halle Berry as Storm phenomenon.

Robert De Niro and John Travolta have very distinct voices. In Killing Season both inexplicably don accents far outside anything we're used to hearing. And like the aforementioned Ms.Berry, neither actor can maintain it for the duration of the whole movie, much to the detriment of the film's effectiveness.

Oh, let's not just blame the accents. Nyet, mye freyend. This flick is just over eighty minutes of are you f--king kidding me? Potentially, there was an interesting story here. And we've got two talented leads. But to quote Mr. De Niro from a far, far better movie, the saddest thing in life is wasted talent. 

Anyway, we're about as far away from the Bronx as possible in Killing Season. Surprising no one, this one takes place in the woods, where Travolta's Vlade Divac Emil Kovac has decided to exact revenge on De Niro's Benjamin Ford. Seems these two have unfinished business from the Bosnian War, and scores must be settled, seasons must be killed.