Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Watch out for his fingers...they make sparkles.

My son has been having a rough go of it lately. Awful nightmares, sleepless nights...rough mornings.

My wife questioned him at dinner the other night, and he immediately broke into tears. Red face, head in his hands, quiet sobbing - the whole bit. Of course, she looks right at me, equally saying/staring to me, What did you take him to? What was the last movie you two saw? (Could that be it?) 

Instantly, I put my hands in the air. No, hun. I promise. There's no way that movie could have given him a nightmares. No. Way.

I mean, that movie? The last movie we saw together?

It was a dream.


Loki is basically a massive dick on this poster.
Thor: Ragnorok was everything I/we hoped it would be...and more. Maybe a little too much more, in fact. Me and the boy had been waiting patiently to see it on the big screen since that rad trailer debuted months back, and it's safe to say, it didn't disappoint either of us.

Miraculously caught on opening night (we had to be ready to give up our seats if someone, er, (st)rolled in), the third Thor flick opens with the God of Thunder in the worst hammock ever, captured by some giant lava-monster thing, likely planning on world domination. There's some witty banter, a few extremely solid jokes (the spinning!), a few moments before Thor frees himself and kicks all kinds of ass. It's funny, cool as Hela to look at, and is a perfect five minute snapshot of what will happen in the next two plus hours.

Honestly (/annoyingly, I know), if I have any gripe with Taika Waititi's kickass entry into the MCU, it's the fact that here, in the third Thor flick, this sumbitch is over two hours long. I enjoyed my time in and around Sakaar (can something be sexily downtrodden?), but I think I would have been cool if Mr. Waititi hadn't added those thirty-plus minutes after Comi-Con. Unless, those minutes belonged to Korg, of course. Cause that motherf--ker's like, mandatory.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Everyone was warned...but no one listened.

There are many great mysteries in life. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Who is responsible for all of this?

Sometimes, these questions overwhelm me - freak me out a bit. So I go to the movies to escape the infinite emptiness of life (and have some popcorn, let's be honest). But when I sit down...the questions? ...They return.

Why am I here? What's the point of all this? And most pressing...

...WHO THE F--K IS RESPONSIBLE FOR ALL THIS?


In the case of my latest trip to the cinema, it's quite clear the butler did it. Yes friends, our old pal Leonidas, Mr. Gerard Butler himself, has again given  us the ol' One Two straight in the greasy dick of good taste, by starring in the 120 million dollar shit-fest, Geostorm. I've always assumed I'd be bummed out by the end of the world, but if nuclear death means I'm unable to see the next great/totally shitty disaster film, sign me up. Somebody grab Little Rocketman by the p-ssy, asap.

Actually, for about three, maybe four seconds, Geostorm was kinda cool. See, in the near future, the world's climate has gone to Hell and major storms have killed countless f--kers. A team of scientists, whatever those are, creates a massive system of satellites capable of neutralizing any weather-related threat. Say a major hurricane is forming directly over your house. Well, whatever the perfect conditions are for that f--ker, these satellites, known for some reason as Dutchboy (the finger in the dyke kid, if I recall correctly), beam down the opposite requirement, immediately negating the shit-storm that was about to ensue. And since this system was a joint effort of many nations, it seems the world has found itself...relatively peaceful. The only real titty-twister apparently, is who gets control of Dutchboy next. The USA was steering the ship...but in just a short time, it's time to pass the Dutchie on the left hand side, know what I'm saying? 

Yeah. Me neither.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Somebody's gonna kill me tonight.

Wake up. Begrudgingly.
Shower. Stoically.
Put on one of the same five outfits...
...drive the same 32 miles. Hate job, hate life...for eight hours. Drive those 32 miles in reverse...
Come home, kiss my wife, hug my kids, momentarily feel like a person. Eat. Workout.  Go to sleep. Then, guess what?
Wake up. Begrudgingly... 
Aw, a cake? Really? You shouldn't have.
Oh, and also, murdering me later? Too much! Stop!

To a degree, we're all living our own version of Groundhog Day, but the trick to repeating our days over and over again...well, it's living to see the next one. In Happy Death Day, Tree Gelbman has found herself in the unenviable/aforementioned spot of living the same day again and again, but unfortunately for her, she keeps dying at the end of it. Like, actually dying...not just a tiny piece of her soul every twenty-four hours, like the rest of us.
If I remember correctly (and I probably don't), Phil in Groundhog Day was doomed to repeat his day for the rest of his life, while young Ms. Gelbman seems to have an infinite number of tries. See, when she wakes up in the morning, she feels the ill effects of her murder the night before. She doesn't look like she's been flattened by a bus during a sexy catfight (redundant, no?), but she certainly feels like it. Basically, she's gotta find the f--ker who keeps killing her before he does it...again. Good thing the list of suspects is about yay long *makes grand gesture toward crotch*.
While this flick isn't anything more than a tame/lame ripoff of the 1993 Bill Murray classic, it's surprisingly unoffensive. It's been almost 25 years since Ned Ryerson got hilariously punched in the face (also redundant, I realize), but clearly, we've got bigger cinematic fish to fry, bigger Hollywood injustices to be concerned with. Hell, one of the characters flat out states that this story is a rip-off of Groudhog Day, but Tree's a college girl. She's never f--king heard of that movie (a moment that made me smile like an a-hole). So let's all chill the f--k out, you know?

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Give 'em heck.

It's not easy being in a relationship with a woman. Especially when you're a f--king jerk.

I've been with my wife for over sixteen years, and I have done many stupid and selfish things. Nothing major, mind you, nothing to kill our relationship, just a repeated pettiness akin to death by a thousand cuts. Oh, she's not perfect either, but I know, deep down/rather obviously she's a wonderful, caring person, willing to sacrifice anything for the people she cares about. Including...

...me. Someone who's basically a f--king idiot, more or less drifting through adulthood like a giant child, occasionally charming enough to be considered...likable.

It's like, sometimes, I think we might be direct opposites of one another.


Even though I wanted to drag her to Blade Runner 2049, I knew my wife would be way more interested in writer Simon Beaufoy's Battle of the Sexes. We had caught the real-life retelling of Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs' famous tennis match on her favorite TV show, CBS Sunday Morning (did I mention she has the television viewing habits of an out of touch grandmother?), so a quick plot synopsis as we drove kid-free to the theater was very reassuring for her. A decided lack of flying space cars, a 6:30 start time and a smuggled in piece of cake (if only I were joking) essentially guaranteed one of us was going to enjoy ourselves.

About that...

While the real-life event must have been a spectacle in its day, there really isn't that much fight in Battle of the Sexes. Featuring a perfectly charming cast, an infinitely fascinating story and an early 70's setting presented in all it's awful glory, it was somewhat surprising that, for me, the whole thing didn't amount to much. Clearly/sadly, this story is as relevant as ever, but simply being timely isn't enough. A little urgency would've been nice.

Thursday, October 19, 2017

It's America at it's f--king finest.

I've never done anything illegal.

Not really.

Hell, I've driven too fast, probably gone a place or two I shouldn't have, but all bullshit aside, I've lived thirty eight years on this f--king planet without getting into any trouble. You'd think an impeccable conscience would be a good thing, right?

You'd think.


Not that I'm looking to be on the run from the law and/or various factions of international drug cartels, but holy f--k American Made presented living a life of crime nothing short of scintillating. Directed by my teenage hero, Doug Liman's latest is an absolute blast from beginning to end. And Tom Cruise? Well, f--k me sideways, but this might be one of his best...ever? (shit, lately seemed like faint praise...).

Starting out in the early 70s and rollercoastering through the mid 80s, American Made tells the brilliantly twisted tale of Barry Seal, a one-time TWA pilot turned government reconnaissance pilot/international drug mule/CIA operative/jack-of-all-trades. Karl Malone can politely f--k off, because it's Barry Seal that always delivers.

Generally, I'm a real bitch about these incredible true stories, but even if only a tenth of this shit happened, Seal's story is so f--king rad I'm gonna go ahead and embrace any embellishments. And seriously, as much fun as this movie is, why the Hell wouldn't you?

As the preview so perfectly captured, Barry's a good pilot flying the friendly skies for TWA. Apparently he was their youngest pilot ever, and when he's approached by the quietly mysterious Schafer to work for the good guys, Barry isn't asking too many questions. You got a job? He'll take it. More work couldn't hurt for a young dude with a young family (and a lovely...lovely, young wife).

Sorry, I'm drooling for some reason.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

This isn't science. This is pseudo-science.

I'm not saying she doesn't earn it, but when my wife falls asleep moments after we put the kids to bed, let's just say it's...disappointing. She'll sometimes sleepily say something to the effect of, no, no...I can make it...and I just nod along, like I don't know exactly how this story ends. Maybe one minute after her pledge, she's basically dead to the world.

I could do just about anything (aw jeez, not that) and she wouldn't even remotely come back to life. She's just frozen in place, and I'm left wondering, now what the f--k am I going to do? You know, other than sulk for the next day and a half...

Anyway, I've figured out a solution. And it's a good one. When she grabs a blanket, I grab my keys.

No fair, man. I want to die next.
Look, some of you a-holes might know that I don't give a damn about the quality of films I'll see, but now that I've got a MoviePass, I don't give a damn, shit or f--k. Ten bucks a month? I'll take one ticket to...whatever the f--k you got. Which, combined with my inanimate ladyfriend, is exactly how I ended up at an opening night showing of Flatliners. Not only did the movie suck an entire bag of dicks, but it also sucked the life out of me. I was good for the first hour-plus, then my neck could no longer support my skull.

A remake/reboot/regurgitation of the 1990 Joel Schumacher flick, this updated version fails in just about every way imaginable. It's incredibly bland, entirely nonsensical, and the its biggest sin...it's not even remotely scary. Oh, and it's rated PG-13. No tits. No asses. Nothing. The only thing that gets stiff...is the dialogue.

Apparently, med school is hard and the teachers are super mean and all anyone's got time to do is study (and have sex...offscreen). Things are like, so difficult and demanding, it takes like, an extra mysterious invite to get a bunch of these Doogie Howser bitches to meet in a vacated classroom in the bowels of an all-glass hospital in the middle of the night. Seems Dr. Juno is hard at work on studying the brain...of dead people. Now she just needs a few not very good almost-doctors to assist her in this hush-hush study group. But instead of highlighters and cocaine, all you need to bring is your unsteady hands and a desire to go to prison. See, instead of do no harm, these kids are planning on killing this chick...waiting a minute (or nine) and then bringing her back. I mean, what could go possibly go wrong?

Monday, October 9, 2017

I'm not gonna cry...dad.

Buying them? The best. Shaking the box and imaging the impending possibilities is pure no matter how old you are.

Building them? Even better. Meticulously, feverishly, everything comes together. You step back like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Yeaaahhhhhh. Look what I have createddddd. 

But then there's the third interaction. When you're not exactly sure what to do with them. You just kind of stare at them blankly. So...uh...now what?


Sadly, it feels like all the initial joy and wonder of the shockingly good duo of previous LEGO movies [reviews here and here] might have finally worn off. And there, sitting on the shelf collecting dust...is The LEGO Ninjago Movie. Built with love but ultimately doomed to a Ziploc bag of anonymity, the third go-round with the shiny plastic pieces is ultimately missing a few bricks, to say the least.

I know nothing of the lore of the television show and its (number) year run on (television network), but as any moderately savvy dad of an eight year-old boy, I was at least remotely familiar with the LEGO Ninjago franchise. Color-coded ninjas used giant mechs to stop evil. Uh, and stuff.

The movie (perhaps?) adds a little more to the equation, with team-captain/Green ninja Lloyd, dealing with not only swarms of invaders on a daily basis, but the life-sucking secret that his own absentee father is in fact, their leader. After a few hilarious battles, Lloyd confronts his dad, the delightfully ridiculous Garmadon (Justin Theroux, doing his version of the Will Ferrell-lovable jerkface character), and sets in motion a series of events that will change their relationship forever. Lloyd was on the verge of throwing the relationship with his father away forever, but ultimately couldn't do it. And it's not because his dad never taught him how to throw.

Thursday, October 5, 2017

No. I don't think that's extreme at all.

Going undercover seems like it would be pretty f--king great. Honestly.

Infiltrating some nefarious organization with the hopes of blowing it to Hell from the inside out, would be like, the coolest shit ever. Yeah, it would suck when I'd inevitably end up balls deep, Donnie Brasco-style, and unable to turn off the charade, likely disappearing into the requisite facial hair forever.

But as much as losing everything in my real life would bother me, what would really keep me up at night?

All the goddamn studying. You gotta know f--king everything.



After a relatively compelling preview, I schemed out quite the f--king elaborate plan to catch an opening-day matinee of American Assassin. And after I had arranged all the fringe players (uh, my mom...and my wife, to a degree), clearly defined their roles in the covert operation, I made the soul-crushing mistake of doing a little extra reconnaissance. And by that, clearly I mean I skimmed the early, mostly shit-tastic reviews. 

While I was convinced that no film starring Michael Keaton as a military hardass could be anything less than f--king brilliant, trust me when I say this movie basically sucks. It has all the components to be a competent revenge thriller, but unless you're a thirteen year-old girl (who has never been to the movies), the only thing American Assassin kills is about two hours of your life. Good thing on that day...I had nothing but time.

Though it seems in (extra) poor taste in light of current events, the film opens with a lovely young couple enjoying a vacation at a picturesque beach resort. The dude, Mitch, proposes to his impossibly sexy girlfriend...moments before some terrorist motherf--kers show up and start indiscriminately gunning people down. Mitch gets hit, but he's going to make it. The love of his life? Uh, no. She's gone. And when we next see Mitch eighteen months later, he is too. Instead of that romantic goofball on the beach, he's basically become the f--king Terminator, training to kill anybody and everybody that had a hand in the death of his woman. Aww.