Alright, I'll try to keep this short, but before we get started- do not read this until you've seen the movie. And if you haven't seen it yet, what the hell's your problem? It's been out for a fuckin' year! Frank Miller translating one of his greatest creations onto the big screen, not to mention the most amazing assemblance of B-list talent I've seen at one time since Robert Blake's trial. Robert Rodriguez, who blasted his way into my cinematic awareness with Desperado (if anyone says "Once Upon a Time in Mexico" I'm going Marv on your ass); Benicio del Toro (Fear and Loathing, Usual Suspects, Way of the Gun, need I say more?); Bruce Willis, who has at this point cornered the market on the "burned out, disgruntled, bitter old cop," a near-perfect extrapolation of Mel Gibson's Detective Riggs; Jessica Alba, who although awesome as Nancy, risks tarnishing her performance here with the guaranteed embarrassment of this summer's Fantastic Four; Elijah Wood (outstanding as the vicious Kevin, although he'll always be my sweet little Frodo); Mickey Rourke, in a role he was born to play; a surprisingly good Clive Owen, reminiscent to me of the fearless determination he displayed as the professor whilst pursuing Jason Bourne; Powers Booth, who hasn't been this spiteful since Tombstone; Rutger Hauer- that's right, Rutger fucking Hauer! Are you kidding me? I dragged Sherri to see the first showing on opening day.
Which brings me to an important point (if I may steal from one of the greatest icons of our generation): First rule of Sin City is- you do not take your wife. The second rule of Sin City is- you DO NOT take your wife. Now that we've made that clear, let's go. From the opening scene, you know you are along for the ride on perhaps the single-most stylistically creative movie ever to grace the theatres. That's right, it's so visually stunning that you have to spell "theater" with the "e" at the end: theatre. But don't be fooled, it's not THAT kind of movie. It's as if Rodriguez spliced a video feed into his brain and read the comics, projecting his visions onto the screen. The movie is so true to the stories that it's ridiculous. The guy even resigned from the Director's Guild so he could get Miller a co-director credit on the damn movie! That's dedication. The violence was not toned down at all, though much of the blood was white, and quite a bit was yellow. No need to explain that last part, I hope. The visuals were amazing, like the comic book literally just leapt up onto the screen.
Having read all the books, and knowing exactly what was going to happen, did not at all detract from one of my most enjoyable moviegoing experiences of the past year. Even Michael Madsen's horrifically cringe-inducing over-acting (don't get me wrong, I love Madsen. He was Vic Vega for fuck's sake) didn't really bring the experience down. I mean, in a movie like this you almost expect some over the top moments. But trust me, he was so over the top he would've beaten Stallone in an arm-wrestling match. Seriously. That kid who played Stallone's son would've been all "C'mon, dad! Over the top!!" And Stallone would be all "I can't do it this guy is way more over the top than me!" Mickey Rourke, on the other hand, was brilliant. He was so perfect as Marv, he was basically Madsen's polar opposite as an actor; Rourke was John Belushi to Madsen's Jim. Definitely the toughest guy on screen since... I don't know, Travis Bickle? The guy jumps off a building like he thinks he's one of the Boondock Saints, gets shot more times than a rap star, and gets run over repeatedly (and no, I'm not going to do a Paula Abdul joke). And that's at the start of his story. He could whoop ANYONE'S ass. The scenes where he's "asking" people about Goldie, he puts Sargeant Hartman to shame. (Yeah, lots of pop-culture references in this review it's been awhile, I've got to make up some lost ground.) And the way it's filmed, you never doubt for a second how realistic it is.
That's the great thing about Miller's stories, the tough guys are fucking TOUGH. That, and there's lots of strippers. The "Old Town" story is great, Clive Owen is tough as hell, and the strippers are even tougher. Brittany Murphy was even bearable in her brief screentime, which is saying a lot. The only real distraction that took me out of my make-believe world in which it's possible for an old, grizzled, washed-up 60-some year old man to get out of prison after 8 years only to find that a hot, 19-year-old stripper wants to hump his brains out... whoa. Sorry, got a little lost there. Anyway, as I was saying, the zorro-stripper (or were they hookers? I'm not sure) was kind of goofy. But it's such a minor point, what the hell am I complaining about? That's like saying the new Mustang is stu-fucking-pendously cool, except for that lame-ass speedometer design.
One final point before I cut this short to go see it again: the intersecting-trilogy-storytelling (well, there's the hired killer story that bookends the movie, but I don't know a fancy word for "four stories."). At least as cool as Pulp Fiction in that regard. I won't even get into how bad-ass Michael Clarke Duncan is, or how Miho is so deadly that she might even (I said "might") be able to kill the Bride, or how inspired the Dead-Jackie dialogue is, or how Miller's not afraid to kill off his best characters, or that Marv is truly a bad motherfucker in fact, I think Jules should give his wallet to Marv. The guy amputated all Kevin's limbs and fed the rest of him to a dog; who's more of a bad motherfucker than that? The baddest motherfucker I know carries a black-jack around for the hell of it and gets in fights for fun. Maybe he could make it in Sin City I think I should stick to SoCal.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Freddy vs Jason vs free movie tickets
So I had a free pass to the movies, and some time to kill (not to be confused with Kahlil Gibran's "time to live"; this movie is not your friend- unless perhaps you were friends with the dorky neighborhood kid who's just too creepy (albeit unintentionally) for anyone to truly like, and even then, it's a friendship of (in)convenience, which brings us back to the film in question). "Freddy vs, Jason" (incidentally, how did the Brian Bosworth of slasher flicks get top-billing over the godfather of the genre?) beckoned to me from the electronic marquee, like a copy of Warrant's Greatest Hits, shining like a diamond in the $1 junkheap at a flea market- you know it's horrible, and yet you can't help but be drawn to it by some sort of twisted loyalty, an almost perverse attraction: just as much a gateway to your lost youth as a pathetic symbol of what used to, incredibly, pass for "cool". It screams with potential, a scream so distinct (yet equally star-crossed) that it drowns out the feeble voice of reason trying so desparately to steer me towards something more worth-while. Fortunately, it was a slow week for movies.
Yes, it could be a tremendous film- all the ingredients are there: two archetypal icons of the now-laughable horror world (arguably the highest two in the entire hierarchy, possibly only matched by the formerly respected Michael Meyers), together in an orgiastic display of gore never before even dreamed of- imagine the '85 Bears vs the '72 Dolphins in an H G Wells Superbowl, or John Holmes and Jenna Jameson in a mind-boggling ultimate porn. As I tricked myself into believing that someone finally got it right, I imagined how entertaining the movie could be, from a purist point of view. It was as if someone ultimately realized that the public doesn't want to see Jackie Chan act, they want to see him fight Bruce Lee for 90 minutes. Hallelujah! As I strode into the semi-dark theatre, I chose the exact center seat, bracing myself for what must surely be the epilogue to a tired format, the final salvo of the horror movie. Though it was certainly a bad omen, I was curiously pleased to be the only person in the entire theatre.
I feel the need to interupt this review to comment on a preview that was presented before the feature (perhaps unwittingly setting the tone for the experience to come) for a movie called "The Highwaymen". You must see this movie as soon as it opens. Not to enjoy it, but to relive the reckless wonders of your distant teen years. Round up your most obnoxious, loudmouth, smart-ass friends, smuggle in a few 40's of Busch, and prepare to let fly all the juvenile, sarcastic movie comments that you have long ago relegated to your own inner monologue- wasted now as they are on the movies you watch at home from your couch. This movie promises to be the bomb that demands you return to the delightfully annoying practice of yelling at the screen in front of scores of others. Take the sublimely improbable inanity of "The Hitcher" and run it through a 200 watt Marshall amplifier, replacing the bizarro-cool of Rutger Haur with neo-Friends-ish uncool of James Caviezel (who?).
Anyway, back to the task at hand ("task" being a more fitting word than "viewing"). The movie that had threatened to be created for years, promising gore and guilty fun, starts slower than my grandparents having sex, and the script- in record time- hits on every single embarrassing horror movie cliche (as well as some good ones: two breast shots within the first half-hour) that had been spawned by the equally embarrassing 80's. Ahhh, the 80's... parachute pants, Warrant...
Sorry, got lost for a second. I could have accepted it's inconceivable ridiculousness had everyone involved in the film not taken themselves so seriously. It was as if they each truly believed that this was their stepping stone to superstardom, picturing this as some sort of Shakespeare in the Park, except instead of Shakespeare it's Wes Craven, and instead of the park it's the state penitentiary. Watching this bastard of a movie unfold was almost funny, but with a definite sadness to it; like watching the fat kid struggle to get one single push-up in 7th grade gym class. The plot had more holes than Ron Jeremy's mattress, and the anticipation I had built up for this classic battle (as eagerly anticipated as a toe to toe, shiv-weilding prison fight between Marlon Brando and Mickey Rourke) was being slowly, painfully bled from me by the theatrical equivalent of a Rosie O'Donnell monologue: painfully incoherent and brutally unintersting. What had once held the promise of being the "Rocky III" of horror (yes, I realize that was the worst in the series (well, maybe locked in a 3-way tie for worst), the "money shot" of Stallone's saga (not at all as classy as you thought, no matter how good of an idea it seemed at the time), but I'm talking about what "Rocky III" could have been without the dreadful Thunderlips debacle, which turned a great marquee match-up (Clubber Lang... you know you thought he was the shit!) into a precursor to Fox Celebrity Boxing) became more disappointing than the daughter you were forced to raise in place of the son you had always wanted.
When the fight finally materialized on he screen before me- about 73 minutes too late to save this monstrous lump of shit- it was actually pretty good. They at least had the foresight to underscore it with a fucking awesome (if metallicaly generic) Spineshank song. Let's get it on! Aside from the fight, a few other bright spots: Danny Bonaducci as a reappearing Freddy victim; seeing Jason (in adolescent flashbacks) as "Powder;" the comforting (if trivial) knowledge that Camp Crystal Lake is a mere road-trip away from Elm Street; and best of all: a poorly imitated and blatantly ripped off Jay wannabe (from Clerks) uttering this destined to be classic line after Jason hacks his way through a high school rave: "Man, that goalie was pissed about something."
Ubiquitously conscious of being the only person in the theatre, I kept wondering if perhaps, as the existence of such a horrible film is definitely one of the harbingers of the apocolypse (another being Whoopi Goldberg in her own sitcom), I'd leave the theatre afterwards only to find that I was the last man on Earth, having been shielded from the 90 minute holocaust to emerge into my own "28 Days Later" (I'm sorry, but it IS cooler than (prepare for blasphemy) "Omega man")...
Overall, the movie did for horror what Dorf does for golf (if you don't get that reference, ask your dad). It's more embarrassing to its' legacy than "Blues Brothers 2000" was to the memory of John Belushi. Almost worth the price of admission, definitely go see it.
Yes, it could be a tremendous film- all the ingredients are there: two archetypal icons of the now-laughable horror world (arguably the highest two in the entire hierarchy, possibly only matched by the formerly respected Michael Meyers), together in an orgiastic display of gore never before even dreamed of- imagine the '85 Bears vs the '72 Dolphins in an H G Wells Superbowl, or John Holmes and Jenna Jameson in a mind-boggling ultimate porn. As I tricked myself into believing that someone finally got it right, I imagined how entertaining the movie could be, from a purist point of view. It was as if someone ultimately realized that the public doesn't want to see Jackie Chan act, they want to see him fight Bruce Lee for 90 minutes. Hallelujah! As I strode into the semi-dark theatre, I chose the exact center seat, bracing myself for what must surely be the epilogue to a tired format, the final salvo of the horror movie. Though it was certainly a bad omen, I was curiously pleased to be the only person in the entire theatre.
I feel the need to interupt this review to comment on a preview that was presented before the feature (perhaps unwittingly setting the tone for the experience to come) for a movie called "The Highwaymen". You must see this movie as soon as it opens. Not to enjoy it, but to relive the reckless wonders of your distant teen years. Round up your most obnoxious, loudmouth, smart-ass friends, smuggle in a few 40's of Busch, and prepare to let fly all the juvenile, sarcastic movie comments that you have long ago relegated to your own inner monologue- wasted now as they are on the movies you watch at home from your couch. This movie promises to be the bomb that demands you return to the delightfully annoying practice of yelling at the screen in front of scores of others. Take the sublimely improbable inanity of "The Hitcher" and run it through a 200 watt Marshall amplifier, replacing the bizarro-cool of Rutger Haur with neo-Friends-ish uncool of James Caviezel (who?).
Anyway, back to the task at hand ("task" being a more fitting word than "viewing"). The movie that had threatened to be created for years, promising gore and guilty fun, starts slower than my grandparents having sex, and the script- in record time- hits on every single embarrassing horror movie cliche (as well as some good ones: two breast shots within the first half-hour) that had been spawned by the equally embarrassing 80's. Ahhh, the 80's... parachute pants, Warrant...
Sorry, got lost for a second. I could have accepted it's inconceivable ridiculousness had everyone involved in the film not taken themselves so seriously. It was as if they each truly believed that this was their stepping stone to superstardom, picturing this as some sort of Shakespeare in the Park, except instead of Shakespeare it's Wes Craven, and instead of the park it's the state penitentiary. Watching this bastard of a movie unfold was almost funny, but with a definite sadness to it; like watching the fat kid struggle to get one single push-up in 7th grade gym class. The plot had more holes than Ron Jeremy's mattress, and the anticipation I had built up for this classic battle (as eagerly anticipated as a toe to toe, shiv-weilding prison fight between Marlon Brando and Mickey Rourke) was being slowly, painfully bled from me by the theatrical equivalent of a Rosie O'Donnell monologue: painfully incoherent and brutally unintersting. What had once held the promise of being the "Rocky III" of horror (yes, I realize that was the worst in the series (well, maybe locked in a 3-way tie for worst), the "money shot" of Stallone's saga (not at all as classy as you thought, no matter how good of an idea it seemed at the time), but I'm talking about what "Rocky III" could have been without the dreadful Thunderlips debacle, which turned a great marquee match-up (Clubber Lang... you know you thought he was the shit!) into a precursor to Fox Celebrity Boxing) became more disappointing than the daughter you were forced to raise in place of the son you had always wanted.
When the fight finally materialized on he screen before me- about 73 minutes too late to save this monstrous lump of shit- it was actually pretty good. They at least had the foresight to underscore it with a fucking awesome (if metallicaly generic) Spineshank song. Let's get it on! Aside from the fight, a few other bright spots: Danny Bonaducci as a reappearing Freddy victim; seeing Jason (in adolescent flashbacks) as "Powder;" the comforting (if trivial) knowledge that Camp Crystal Lake is a mere road-trip away from Elm Street; and best of all: a poorly imitated and blatantly ripped off Jay wannabe (from Clerks) uttering this destined to be classic line after Jason hacks his way through a high school rave: "Man, that goalie was pissed about something."
Ubiquitously conscious of being the only person in the theatre, I kept wondering if perhaps, as the existence of such a horrible film is definitely one of the harbingers of the apocolypse (another being Whoopi Goldberg in her own sitcom), I'd leave the theatre afterwards only to find that I was the last man on Earth, having been shielded from the 90 minute holocaust to emerge into my own "28 Days Later" (I'm sorry, but it IS cooler than (prepare for blasphemy) "Omega man")...
Overall, the movie did for horror what Dorf does for golf (if you don't get that reference, ask your dad). It's more embarrassing to its' legacy than "Blues Brothers 2000" was to the memory of John Belushi. Almost worth the price of admission, definitely go see it.
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