Nothing gets a guy's attention like violence.

You probably shouldn't get mad, like, genuinely upset over a film you have no financial stake in (and if you think the cost of your admission counts, you need to re-evaluate every aspect of your life), but apparently we've all lost our damn minds, and announcing your outrage publicly seems to be, quite literally, all the rage.

I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, but, please, the prettiest of pleases, when you decide to lose your mind and publicly denounce a movie (and everyone involved in its creation)... do us all a favor...

...and see the f--king movie first.

I need to uninstall Twitter in the worst way, because according to that dumpster fire (the one I can't seem to stop staring at, mind you), Birds of Prey is a monumental failure that should be avoided at all costs. But, being the a-hole I so clearly am, I left [not] my mom's basement to see it on the big screen, rather than take the collective word of a bunch of douchebags. Turns out? It's not the worst thing ever. Between you and me, *whispers* I thought it was pretty f--king awesome.

While shacked up with the Joker, Harley Quinn was afforded the ultimate get-out-of-jail free card. Arm and arm with The Clown Prince of Crime, Quinn could basically do whatever the Hell she wanted. But when they split, the seedy underbelly of Gotham places a giant target on the back of Ms. Quinn, and it's basically open f--king season. Not, F--king Season, which sounds like something I'd watch while my house burned down, but more of a...uh...invitation. To kill.

Leading the charge against the mallet-toting vixen is some dude named Black Mask (not the Jet Li one, thank f--king Christ). This loveable goofball, when not singing about love on top of an elephant or having the faces of his enemies sliced the f--k off, is one of Gotham's biggest crime bosses. He was fairly pissed at HQ before, but after she breaks the legs of one of his henchmen (in spectacular fashion, by the way), welp, she's gotta go. Now.

You should've considered my happiness too.

Whether it's my wallet, Matty's water bottle, Violet's you-name-it (do all six year-old girls have a million items in two million locations), my wife can locate anything that anyone needs at any time. If tasked to make a list of what I like about her by a dick-sucking mediator, this uncanny ability of hers to remember the location of everything would certainly make the cut. Uh, among (many) other things.

But me? Dad? I can be standing in the fridge and totally unable to find the f--king milk. 

It's staring me right in the goddamn face, but even with my eyes wide open...sometimes? 

I still can't see it. 

Yeah, that's f--king cool as Hell.

As a last ditch effort to see all the Best Picture nominees before the Oscars last Sunday, my wife and I amicably decided to watch Marriage Story together. Written and directed by Noah Baumbach, this Netflix exclusive is an exhaustive (and exhausting) look at the end of a marriage. Sounds fun, right?

Actually, it is, kind of, as seeing Adam Driver do just about anything is a good time. Combining a forlorn Kylo Ren with two-plus hours of peak ScarJo is straight-up dream casting. Frankly, Marriage Story is an exceedingly intimate film that would have been nothing short of tedious without such a stellar cast.

Driver plays Charlie, a stage director on the cusp of breakout success. Charlie's play is getting rave reviews, and his genius is readily apparent, but some of that success can surely be attributed to his leading lady both on-stage and off, Nicole (Johansson). Years ago, Charlie and Nicole were probably the couple everyone wanted to be (/do [I mean, c'mon]), but when we meet them, the wheels have fallen off their marriage and Nicole is looking to head west with their young son, Henry. Charlie is blindsided by her heading to California, but you get the sense that everything that happens outside of the play is news to him.

No peaches at our house. It's a forbidden fruit.

F--k the rich. F--k those smug devils in their perfectly bleached buttholes. I hope they all drown doing the backstroke in their f--king money bins. That's how we're supposed to feel, right? Even if they worked hard, they can eat shit and die, those arrogant pricks.

Okay, fine. Not the ones that give back, they're cool. Well, assuming they give enough back.

While we're at it, f--k the poor, too. Those lazy do-nothings, mooching off everyone else. I hope you jobless shitheads choke to death on those lobster dinners that my tax dollars paid for.

Well, not all the poor. You guys out there struggling to get by, but trying to make ends meet? You guys are okay with me. Uh, assuming you're trying your absolute best.

Honestly, rich? Poor? *sniffs the air* The whole f--king thing stinks.

I don't consider myself all that athletic, but I avoided Parasite spoilers like a mother--king ninja. After months in fancy theaters filled with bespectacled gentlemen and ladies in short skirts and long jackets, Saturday, February 1st was the second day that Bong Joon-ho's masterpiece was available to be seen in the hellhole I live in. Frankly, I've never been more excited to go to the theater. Ever.

Making something already tasty even tastier, my wife was able to come with me and knew even less than I did. We went in completely blind, but now, along with the rest of the world, our eyes are open. Wide open.

When we meet the Kim family, they appear to be a likable, though severely downtrodden foursome. Content with stealing wifi during gaps of folding pizza boxes for a living, fortune finally smiles on them when brother/son Ki-woo runs into an old friend, Min-hyuk. This dude, not only offers Ki-woo something called the scholar stone, but also a lucrative position as a tutor for a nearby wealthy family. The catch? Min-hyuk plans on asking the girl out when she turns 18, so hit the books, yeah? Just not the sheets.

Seems like a reasonable enough request...

Well done, lad.

Every year, my dad travels from Hawai'i to spend his Christmas Break with my family in Pennsylvania. And every year, him and I carve out two hours or so to go to exactly one film. Typically we leave it up to chance, but this year I knew exactly what the film was going to be.

Two weeks before he was supposed to board the plane, he suffered a major tear in his aorta. Something called an aortic dissection. Not only weren't we going to see a movie, but it felt like we weren't going to see each other. Uh, ever again. It got to the point where I was terrified of my phone, because any chirp, buzz or alarm was going to signal something terrible had happened. Living in a heightened state...ain't really living at all.

Somehow though, he made it. Though he's not likely ever to be out of the woods, this slight progress? Well, we're gonna classify as pure f--king bonus. Because, frankly?

The whole situation is totally f--ked.

1917 is a very simple story, told in the most [technically] complex way possible. Set on April 6th (the day America joined the war), director Sam Mendes' masterclass in film-making is essentially a two-hour journey from point A to point B. And it's un-effing believable.

Given the vague orders of grab a mate and go see the general, young Lance Corporal Blake enlists his friend, the slightly more battle-hardened Lance Corporal Schofield to join him.

What could have been a meeting about something minor, turns out to be one that will have major consequences for both. Their orders are to deliver a message to the Western front, where 1,600 men are heading into a trap laid by the allegedly retreating Germans. If Blake and Schofield don't make it, or are too late, the entire battalion will be killed, with Blake's older brother among the casualties.

From there, like, immediately from that moment, Blake and Schofield are off at an absolute breakneck pace. While there are moments where these two get to discuss the validity of recognition or perhaps share a funny story, otherwise they are, rightfully so, on high alert at all times. But they weren't the only ones. Despite not much happening, I'm convinced that if they had been placed in further peril, World War might have claimed another naive soul.

Mine.

The Dump #4: Christmas Break '19

Christmas Break is one of the best times of the school year. I mean, it's right up there with Spring Break and Thanksgiving Break.

With the holidays comes not only the much-needed respite from hormonal twelve-year olds, but also a break from the drudgery that comes from the daily grind. Practices are cancelled, games are called-off, meeting postponed, as gifts need to be bought, gingerbread men demand to be iced.

Traditionally, I head into the ten day vacation with lofty goals like sleeping more and actually playing my XBOX, but this year I was willing to give up both in the name of watching more movies.

Uh, about that...

Monday the 23rd: While Violet was singing Christmas carols in a local surgical rehab facility (where her great-uncle was laid up, coincidentally), I managed to catch the first 19 minutes of The Rise of Skywalker. Apparently, that wasn't enough big-budgeted buffoonery, as later that night, likely too late in fact, I returned to the cinema to check out Jumanji: The Next Level. Honestly, I wasn't a big fan of the first one [review], but the Rock is great (and sexy) and Gillan is sexy (and great), so why not roll the dice on the sequel? Well...

Shocking no one, it's more of the same, but with someone making the inexplicable decision to have the Rock do his best Danny DeVito for six-plus hours (felt it). Outside of some pretty rad baboon-related chaos, all that I can remember about this flick is that voice. That godforsaken voice. It's not that the Brahma Bull does a bad New York (?) accent, it's just totally overstays its welcome. Good thing Kevin Hart nails it as Danny Glover, which oddly enough may have been my favorite part of the movie. Other than Gillan. Sweet, sweet Gillan...