It's comforting to see that Vic and Blood were sweet and carefree before the nuclear apocalypse. And not so preoccupied with rape.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
It's comforting to see that Vic and Blood were sweet and carefree before the nuclear apocalypse. And not so preoccupied with rape.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Got it in there? Good.
If you're unsure of who exactly Doug Hutchison is, here are just a few of his career achievements:
*Eugene Victor Tooms, the stretchy, liver-eating creep who tried to murder Scully on the X-Files.
*Percy Wetmore, the creepy little prick who set that one dude on fire in The Green Mile.
*Horace Goodspeed, the creepy-haired leader of the Dharma Initiative in the 1970's on Lost (Also the father of supremely creepy Other, Ethan).
*And a whole host of other creeps, degenerates, and weirdos.
Look, my point is, Hutchison has taken his penchant for playing pervert creeps on film and made it a part of his day-to-day real life. I don't care who you are or how high you are on the IMDB cast listing for a movie: if you are over the age of 50--hell, 20--and you marry a teenager, you are a creep. And an idiot.
"But Matt," you might be asking, "isn't it the dream of every old dude in American to get it on with a hot piece of teenage tail?" To you I say, first, why not try a little respect, buddy?! "Piece of teenage tail?" You kiss your grandmother on the mouth with that mouth? Secondly, maybe it is the dream--OK, yeah, sure, it's the dream--but you don't do it. Or, you do do it , then you do your time in prison and then you sign up on your local sex offender registry and then you spend the rest of your life hated and shunned with only your memories of that one time you did the nasty with a high school sophomore to keep you warm at night. But, you know, I'd suggest just not doing it at all. Try that first.
"Doing it" and becoming "bonded in holy matrimony" are two different things however. I get a 51-year-old guy wanting to bang a teenager. What I don't get is a 51-year-old guy wanting to marry a teenager. What could you possibly have in common with a 16-year-old? And don't give me the "she's got an old soul" line. She may have an "old soul" but she's still a "dumb kid." What do Doug and Courtney talk about at the dinner table? When they're driving around town, do they listen to The Rolling Stones or Justin Bieber? Don't they feel weird checking into a hotel together? Won't the prom be a little awkward next year?
And, listen, any 51-year-old man with something--anything!--in common with a 16-year-old girl is not a 51-year-old man you want anything to do with.
My problem, however, is not with Hutchison or his child bride who doesn't know what country music sounds like. It's with the parents. They had to give their permission for this marriage to go forward. As a father myself (I've been dying to say that!), I can't imagine even considering signing my daughter over to some weird, old character actor. Who knows, by the time Quinn is 16-years-old, Doug Hutchison might be done with old Courtney and come sniffing around for some half-Asian action. Ewwwww. I just puked a little in my mouth. And a lot in this trash can.
What do the Stoddens have to say for themselves, huh?
"We are totally supportive of this marriage," Krista Stodden told RadarOnline.com. "Doug is a wonderful man, and we love him."
She added, "Courtney was a virgin when she married Doug. She is a good Christian girl."
She was a virgin, huh? O-K. Papa Stodden, your thoughts?
"Every father can only pray to have such a man behind their daughter," Alex Stodden, 47, told RadarOnline.com. "Courtney is one of the most level-headed girls out there, and I'm not just saying that because she's my daughter. ... Doug is the nicest man I've ever met in my life."
So every nice man you meet gets a free pass to pork your daughter? You weird sicko. And I want to make sure you all saw that Mr. Stodden is four years younger than his son-in-law.
I want to hear the courtship story. I want the details on how this love blossomed and grew. Maybe the public is missing an essential piece of the puzzle that makes this whole situation the opposite of sick and depraved. C'mon, Hutchisons, break your silence and tell us your love story. In fact, tell it to Giant Electric Penguin. I can't pay you anything, but my wife is an excellent cook. She makes delicious cakes and pies. Let me know. I'll be right here waiting.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Doesn't matter whether or not you like Train however, because they like you. They also like wine. And to show their appreciation for both you and wine, they've decided to release a delicious new wine next month--a wine you can purchase from a store and drink! I don't want to step all over the Train boys' excitement though, so here are the deets from guitarist or whoever Jimmy Stafford's press release:
We’ve got some cool news for you today…
We’re so proud to announce that we have partnered with our good friends at Concannon and have created the Save Me San Francisco Wine Company! As you all know well, I like wine, and we figured there is no better way to compliment our Train Wine Club [yeah, that's right, there's a Train Wine Club-ed.] (and my love for wine) than to create our own. It’s been tough to keep this a secret from you, but we think you’ll thoroughly enjoy what we’ve been working on.
It's been tough to keep the secret? Man, these hacks really love wine! Jimmy's practically beside himself about it. But what, pray tell, will this wine be called? I don't want to accidentally walk by it at Food Lion next month and forget to pick up a box.
So now that we have a wine company, that must mean there’s wine, right? “Drops of Jupiter” (could it be more fitting?!) will be our first release...
I like to say that the minute you uncork the bottle, the boysenberry fruit leaps from your glass!
He "likes" to say it, but it probably isn't true.
We’ll chat together very soon about the specific ways to enjoy the wine, but just know in advance that it goes perfect with or without food.
I'd say without food if you are planning on listening to your Train records or attending a Train concert. And if you are a super huge Train fan, I suggest without food but with prescription medications. As many as you can cram in your mouth.
Thepressreleaseendswithsomethingaboutpartoftheproceedsgoingtohelpsickkidsblah blah blah.
All you need to know is that Drops of Jupiter isn't just a shitty song that sadly exists, it is also now a grossly named wine for people who love stupid novelty beverages. Thanks, Train.
Read the rest of this article.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
3rd Chance: So, last week I saw this X-Men: First Class movie. Here are the things I liked:
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
But every once in awhile, a commercial comes along that, for lack of a much better term, flips the script. One advertisement can make up for years upon years of soul-crushing commercial interruptions with its simple beauty and appealing cleverness. This is not that commercial:
The balls on the Certain Dri people! This counts as a commercial now? Everything about it drives home the inherent phoniness of the advertising industry. There isn't one real moment in the 15 seconds this spot runs. It is gloriously bad. It revels in its sheer awfulness. Did some arrogant young director film it as a joke, slap it down on the conference table I imagine the people at Certain Dri headquarters have, and say, "Here's your commercial, you capitalist sheep. Now go make your millions, you sleaze merchants" or something? Everything about this commercial feels wrong somehow. And yet, it remains my favorite commercial, possibly, of all time.
This thing is bananas! First, how exciting can this fancy banquet be if the only thing Blondie can think to talk about is her sopping armpits? No guy wants to have a beautiful girl appear in front of him out of nowhere and yammer about her excessive sweat issues. That's gross. But what does our tuxedoed friend do? He takes it all in stride and answers Blondie's original question and then one she didn't even ask:
You: "Those garlic knots were really good, but now my breath smells really bad. Does yours?"
Weird Stranger: "It doesn't. Dentyne Ice."
You: "This booze cruise has been a lot of fun, but if I'm being honest, I kind of miss my kids. Don't you?"
Weirder Stranger: "I don't. Mifegyne."
The less said about our tuxedo-wearing hero's acting performance the better.
I like Blondie's follow up question to Tuxedo's unnecessary verbal product placement: "The anti-perspirant?" No, the 50's doo-wop group! OF COURSE THE ANTI-PERSPIRANT, YOU DIP!
The most believable exchange in the spot comes next, after Tuxedo assures Blondie that, yes, he is speaking of Certain Dri the anti-perspirant--the #1 doctor recommended one, no less--and Blondie retorts, "Don't tell me you're a doctor," to which Tuxedo responses, "I am."
One, why does he take off his glasses when admitting he's a doctor? "I'm a doctor, but I'm not a nerdy one. I'm the kind of doctor that hangs out at fancy soirees and chats up strange women about deodorant." What, are the glasses hiding your secret identity? "When the glasses are off, I'm an anti-perspirant-hocking doctor, but with my glasses on I'm a mild-mannered, hack actor."
And why is it "very cool" that this dork is a doctor? I don't have a joke (that isn't horribly misogynistic) about this, so I'll move on.
So, is it true? Have I discovered the best worst commercial of all time? Is Certain Dri anti-perspirant so baller it doesn't need flashy graphics and competent acting to move product off the shelves? And what kind of food is being served at this party? Is the party a benefit for diseased children or endangered wetlands? Do I watch too much TV? Is anyone still reading this?
No. No, it is not art. Not even close to art. In fact, the quite substantial dump I deposited in my home toilet following my morning cup of coffee last weekend is closer to what I would personally consider art than the modern art I've forced myself to pay to see in the past few years, and not simply because I adorned it with glitter. No, my bowel movement was a thing of quiet beauty, organic and poignant without being pretentious. My crap deserves a place in a rich asshole's Hall of Paintings, which I assume every rich asshole has somewhere in his or her house. If I'm wrong, rich assholes, let me know. (I'm probably not wrong.)
If not being able to look at "modern art" without chuckling uncontrollably makes me some kind of Philistine, so be it. Who am I trying to impress? You people? What are you doing with your lives? You're reading a movie review blog maintained by a complete nobody, that's what you're doing. And I thank you for that.
Richard Stanley's Hardware asks the question, "What if all that horrible modern art stopped just sitting there making us laugh and came to life and tried to kill us?" And follows it with the question, "And what if it tried to kill us in a post-apocalyptic setting?" And ends this line of questioning with the question, "And what if the resulting film was nearly impossible to watch?" And Hardware was born!
Hardware takes place in "the future." The United States is mostly desert with the occasional nuclear power plant, smog factory, and huddle of dilapitated skyscrapers. The cities are filled with homeless butchers (Seriously, why is every single hobo in this movie chopping up meat? They don't even have any customers waiting! They're just slicing up weird pink meat for no one. It's sad when you think about it.) and metal band frontmen who have been forced to pilot water taxis in this sad new America born out of nuclear war, so much nuclear war, in fact, that the sky is permenantly stained orange and the air is mostly toxic. Not only that, but 80s-style music is all the rage and FCC regulations have been thrown out the window. That's right. In the new, poisoned American you can watch live torture on television and listen to a radio personality named "Angry Bob" (played by Iggy Pop) shout vulgarities all day long. And GWAR is still around! Yes, that GWAR!
Oh, and the government is preparing to enact a non-voluntary sterilization program. Apparently, citizens lucky enough to have survived the nuclear holocaust are so filled-to-the-brim with radiation poison, the government has decided that procreation is no longer a viable option and those who disagree will be fined, jailed, and forcibly sterilized. That's some heavy shit you're laying down, Richard Stanley. It's forcing me to take a look at what's going on in my own time. The paralells and the similarities and whatever. Pardon me, but I'm just in utter awe of your insight, sir.
Stanley creates a pretty compelling world for his goofy characters to inhabit, but everything he sets up comes crashing down spectacularly when Hardware goes from a thoughtful, post-apocalyptic object lesson to a schlocky gross-out dark ride. But, hey, don't get me wrong: I love a good schlocky gross-out dark ride, keyword "good." Moses Baxter--Moe to his friends--survives in this new desert-world by collecting, well, garbage and selling it to that fat asshole Burglekutt from Willow. Remember that guy? He was such a little jerk-off. Remember when Willow made that bird magically take a shit on Burglekutt's face? That was awesome! Anyway, that's who pays Moe for all the garbage he pulls out of the sand.
As the movie opens, we meet Moe and his British friend Shades, named so because he sometimes wears sunglasses, as they attempt to sell some useless crap to Burglekutt, or Alvy as he is known in this particular film. As they wait for the diminutive scam artist to return from the back room, a mysterious drifter enters the shop with his own burlap sack full of trash, or more specifically, various robot pieces. Moe buys the bag from the dude for 50, I would assume dollars, but who knows what they use for money in this topsy-turvy, post-apocalyptic world.
Anyway, Moe gives the bag of robot bits to Burgle...sorry, Alvy, taking a robot head for himself. "I'm gonna give this to Jill for Christmas," he smiles. "She'll love it." If you haven't already guessed, Moe is a total ladies man. Women love rusty robot heads, especially at Christmastime. Good call, Moses!
Jill, of course is Moe's long-suffering girlfriend, an artist of sorts, who lives in a sprawling, junk-strewn apartment like a sexy hermit. Her apartment is run exclusively by shitty, old-fashioned computers connected to a main control panel which also looks like total effing shit. Yes, in the future, mankind has been forced to return to the shitty personal computers of yore, only they can do far more than we ever, ever imagined. Why were we so hard on those little guys?
Moe shows up at Jill's, Jill welcomes him back with open arms--she loves the robot head, by the way--and the next thing you know, Moe is groping Jill's naked ass with his robotic hand (?) in the shower. Nice. In a moment of post-coital inspiration, Jill affixes the robot head to an unfinished piece of crap, er, art, that she has been struggling with. She spray paints the head to resemble the American flag and melts a few baby dolls with a blowtorch to glue around the head. The whole piece is a statement on the government's desire to control society's reproductive habits. Or maybe it's just a bunch of melted baby dolls surrounding a rusty, robot head. I guess we'll never know because the robot head comes back to life, reassembles its body using the various tools strewn around Jill's apartment as well as bits and pieces of her supremely shitty trash sculptures. Then, as things often do in the films I reguarly review on this site, shit gets crazy.
From this point on, Hardware becomes a pretty standard "haunted house" movie. Things go bump in the night, those things just happen to have sawblade arms. Girls scream, blood spurts, robots jump out and say "boo." Blah blah blah. It's fun, but rather pedestrian.
I'd be remiss however if I failed to mention Lincoln Wineberg Jr., the thoroughly repellent neighbor character played by the late William Hootkins. Before Allen of Happiness fame, there was Lincoln Wineberg Jr. Lincoln--his friends allegedly call him Link--enjoys the finer things in life: stalking, dirty phonecalls, Peeping Tomism. Ah, the life of a fat pervert. A life of relavite ease, that is until a robot programmed to snuff out human life bores out your eyeballs and drill rapes your beer gut. Link exits Hardware the same way he entered: covered in sticky stuff. If I was watching Hardware correctly--eyes open, head pointed at the television screen, volume at a suitable level--I think it is postulated by various characters that the robot, known as the MARK 13, is the government's chosen method to "thin the herd." Sterilization is just a lie the TV is reporting. Robots are the real answer. Death: the ultimate sterilization.
And, boy, do some sons of bitches get sterilized. Chief, the man in charge of building security who wears football pads for some reason, is chopped neatly in half by Jill's front door; Link, as mentioned before, is poked to death; Vernon, Chief's chess-partner and second-in-command, in the wrong place at the wrong time, gets shot in the skull; and Moses, our handsome hero, is injected with poison from MARK 13's needle-fangs. Damn.
Here's a question for those of you who have actually seen this film: Why does Moe start slicing the shit out of his arm after MARK 13 pumps him full of poison? And why does a roach crawl out of one of the cuts? I thought Moe was going to be exposed as a robot himself and whoop up on MARK 13 in a thrilling climax that would somehow make Hardware worthwhile. Instead, he dies and MARK 13 is killed by his sworn enemy: the shower. Mustard?
Hardware is not good. It creates an interesting world and presents some thoughtful ideas, but deteriorates into a brainless splatterfest with strobe lights. Can we stop with the strobe lights please? They don't make things "more scary," they just get on everybody's nerves. I walked through a "haunted mental hospital" attraction last Halloween that packed it's last "scare room" with so many stobe light effects I thought I was going to have a seizure. It was awful. I've never felt closer to death. Did it have the desired scare effect? Probably, but I was scared for my life as opposed to scared of the local teenager in the blood-stained lab coat shoving a chainless chainsaw in my face. I'm just saying, leave the hacky strobe effects to Carowinds, Hollywood. You're better than that.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
So, not only are we a nation of lazy microwave popcorn makers, but we're a nation of dummies still impressed with the phoniest of parlor tricks, represented here by the most astoundingly douchey master of parlor trickery, Criss "The Mind Freak" Angel. First of all, if Criss Angel floated down from the heavens and landed on my back porch, the first thing I would say is, "Hi, Mystery from Vh1's The Pickup Artist. What brings you to suburbia this fine evening?" Then after correcting me and barging into my home, demanding that I "come," I'd probably say, "Come in why don't ya," and I assure you it would be both dripping with sarcasm and said under my breath as to avoid Mr. Angel's wrath. He is in league with the Devil after all.