This time, instead of Brendan Fraser as a caveman, it'll be a WEED MOVIE about some amazing 30,000-year-old cannibis hidden by a hesher squirrel.
(This 2,700-year-old marijuana stash was probably some bamma shit. The movie would have to be about kush of biblical quality.)
At the end of the video for Butch Walker and the Black Widows' "Synthesizers," the legendary Wooderson (Matthew McConaughey) slips into the ladies' room with a wink and a whiskey.
I think we all need to be open to alternative interpretations of why he's going in there.
Best movie ever about the pineal gland:
But -- if I can verge on spoilerishness -- I think the conclusion of The Black Swan needed one more bit of exposition: It should've featured the Mila Kunis character seriously eyeing up that bloody glass-shard wound, y'know? Just to complete the cycle.
She wouldn't have to, y'know, do anything to it.
I'd been avoiding it since Oliver Stone shat it upon us more than a decade ago. Dunno why. Anyway, can't say I enjoyed it. Can't say I savored it as an artifact, either. But Billy Bob Thornton's performance amounted to something-or-other, perhaps because he kinda represents the audience. Surely Stone didn't do that on purpose.
Or, at a minimum, I kept imagining that it was David Cross playing Billy Bob Thornton playing Darrell. I would pay to see that. Not sure who gets to play Sean Penn playing Bobby Cooper, though. Dane Cook?
... I beheld this dude:
His raps, I say, must be permitted to speak for themselves.But I'm thinkin' I like him better as a crooner. Raw, yo:
NOTE: It's up to you, Cesspool Nation Kids, to find the other gems. Or maybe they're all gems. Get the full load -- like 2,800 uploads! -- at his YouTube joint. Chief topics: soccer, Lakers, Twilight, Twitter, Karate Kid, love.
PRIMER: Ebert's review of the film.
DATA: "RHNY" Season 3 bios.
SUGGESTED ORDERING FOR HUMAN CENTIPEDE:THE HEAD: LUANN
THE NO 2: SONJA
AT THE FRONT OF THE MIDDLE: KELLY
NEXT: JILL, THEN BETHENNY, THEN RAMONA
THE TAIL: ALEX
For Yer Poppa, it's been a life of dooks, dookies, duchesses, droppin' ducats, dukin' it out and bustin' some duke-diddly-ookies. But seriously, until I beheld what a crap movie this Marmaduke appears to be, it had never occurred to me that a "marmaduke" could be a "huge shit." Thank you. It'll be there when you need it.
I considered spiders, scorpions, beetles and ants. But the wasp? Oh so nice. Quote: "And that is a very important stage in the development of the social life. In fact, it's the very basis on which all the great insect societies are built. This species of wasp, however, is still at the stage of working alone."
By Monday, as your happiness freezes in a giant snow drift, you will seek comfort in opiates.
From EW's Feb. 5 issue, in an article about why nobody has bothered to do another Fletch movie:
Gregord Mcdonald created the character of Irwin Maurice Fletcher while working as a journalist for The Boston Globe. The Harvard-educated Mcdonald joined the paper in 1966 and was given what sounds like the best job in the world -- or in journalism at least. "Go and have fun and write about it," his editor instructed him. "And if you end up cut and bleeding on the sidewalk, call the office." Over the next few years, Mcdonald reported from both sides of society's suddenly chasm-like generation gap, writing about John Wayne, war protesters, Vietnam vets, and On the Road author Jack Kerouac, with whom he went barhopping.
1. People used to get a paycheck for that? Shit, the '60s were a fuckin' fantasy land.
2. Which editor decided that EW readers need to be reminded who Jack Kerouac is?
The Finn called suddenly last night to say, "if you turn on FX right now, within the next 5 minutes you'll hear the greatest line of film dialogue within the last 10 years." I flipped it on, but I got sidetracked by Poppa obligations. This is what I missed:
Word, bitches. In a broader sense, I think "xXx" is officially one of those movies that should be on the TV in the background at your local ironic rock club. At a minimum, those blue-heavy club scenes look like Something -- like maybe the retarded cousin of "The 5th Element." And, y'know, The Vin Diesel is kinda fascinating if the sound is turned down.
Doctors presumed he was in a vegetative state following a near-fatal car crash in 1983. They believed he could feel nothing and hear nothing. For 23 years. Then a neurologist, Steven Laureys, who decided to take a radical look at the state of diagnosed coma patients, released him from his torture.
Let's call it The Diving Bell & The Butterfly II: Brussels Awakening, or even better yet, Le scaphandre et le papillon: Réveil à Bruxelles.
Holy shit, it's gonna be better than Avatar.
* Damn, yo, Artcyclopedia.com is ugly, for a Web site about art.
I've never been truly alarmed by the Hollywood-tot-one-minute/total-hottie-the-next-minute thing. It's as old as the hills, and in most cases, it's inevitable. The wee Anna Paquin and the wee Natalie Portman, for instance, just kept working, so when they growed up, yo, my brain was just like, "go find a nice boy, ladies." (What's-her-name from the "Harry Potter" flicks fits the mold, too.) But the re-appearance of Anna Chlumsky is kinda disturbing. It's all like, "ugh, they totally picked you for 'My Girl' because they knew you'd become a hottie, and then you went away, and now you are a hottie, and I have to reconcile these totally disparate images of you."
Side note: Sounds like Chlumsky picked a good, all-growed-up flick.
Actual video: Linkin Park, "New Divide," from Transformers 2.
1. In the end, it's Abrams' statement about how popcorny franchise movies should be made, not about what "Star Trek" should be. If you'd given him "Buck Rogers" or "The Black Hole" or "Moonraker" or "Flash Gordon," it would've come out the same way. And I would've paid to see it.
2. I'm totally down with this dude:
3. Is Glondor a Romulan? Or is Eric Bana actually Glondor?
4. ENUFF WITH THE TIME-TRAVEL PLOTS, J.J. ... DO ANOTHER ONE, AND I WILL PUT A BURNING BAG OF DOO-DOO ON YOUR DOORSTEP.
McG (left): He's a little fleshy in the face. Very well fed. It could mean a tiny cock, though. If that's the case, he's bluffing mightily, with the intention of warding-off an actual dick-measuring contest with Bay -- which, if you think about it, is a low-probability event, unless people like McG and Bay do happen to have dick-measuring contests when they're at the same party or whatever. I don't think McG is bluffing, though. This motherfucker probably has a big, fat, Old World sausage cock, with a set of healthy-sized balls, just for style points. He doesn't have the eye of the tiger -- he has the eye of somebody whose brain is constantly fighting for the blood flow that is otherwise diverted to his schwantz.
Bay (right): That sly grin can only mean one thing: Every possible dick cell in this guy's body goes toward length. His anaconda has a mind of its own, and it's probably chasing your mom down the block right now. Say hi to her for me. And tell her that Bay can't control that thing, even on a good day. Yeah, sure, that long, skinny dick is kinda creepy because it's somewhat limited in the girth department. But this is a cock-measuring contest, which usually implies a comparison of length, not volume.
Verdict: Bay. Meat-man McG shows strongly, but Bay simply lets the snake do the talking.
If I ran a Mexican drug cartel that sold a lot of weed, I'd stop murdering people to protect my business. Instead, I'd get with Hollywood to create a new-generation Cheech and Chong. Because right now, when the American public* thinks of "Mexicans and drugs," it thinks of severed heads in beer coolers, kidnapped politicians and tunnels under the border. So, y'know, the smart PR move -- for the savvy dealer -- would be to shift the paradigm back to "dopey Chicano dudes who just wanna get high." CNN:
* When I say the American public, I mean the people who don't buy weed. When many weed consumers think of "Mexicans and drugs," they are probably just glad to have the hookup, even if the weed is shitty.
Under the Cesspoolian Precepts, a Top 5 list is no good unless it's instant and ephemeral. Somebody was circulating a "dude poll" that asked, "What are the top five guy movie moments where it was okay for a dude to cry?" Brain-spew:
1. "Escape From New York," when Snake Plissken makes it over the wall.
2. The first time Jar Jar Binks appears onscreen.
3. Whenever Jack Elam appears in "The Cannonball Run"
4. (OBLIGATORY "BRIAN'S SONG" REFERENCE)
5. spoiler alert: That shot of the Statue of Liberty in "Planet Of The Apes"
SIDE NOTE: "Ladder 49" busted me all up during a transcontinental flight, but I think I was disoriented and dehydrated.
For years, we've been trained to think that our biggest fears are aliens and asteroids and terrorists and earthquakes and diseases and robots and creatures and hackers. Fuck that -- if the allegations against Bernie Madoff are true, then it's safe to assume that the underbelly of our macroeconomy is rife with epic-sized bloodsuckers. They are the zombies -- they are takin' the life out of you. We just haven't found 'em all yet. But, alas, there has been no high-finance Jack Bauer or Mulder/Scully or teevee-style CSI unit or [insert hero here] on the case. (It's safe to assume so, because a $50 billion cloud of vapormoney shouldn't condense without somebody noticing.) Do I want a new Elliot Ness or a "FraudFiles" show on CBS? Hell no: I want Madoff -- if he's guilty -- to be locked up like Hannibal Lecter, and then he'll do nothing but explain the ways that douchebags can game the system: Tell us what they've been doing, Bernie. And it'll be on teevee.
I get a few million bucks to make a movie. I hire a writer/director and ask for a story that contains these mandatory details: Stacy London and Sarah Silverman are sisters. They share an apartment. They hate each other. When they fight, they pull each other's hair a lot.
NOTE: Do not make knee-jerk assumptions about whether this is a "fantasy," an "artistic vision" or an "entrepreneurial concept." If anything, the plan officially puts some distance between me and the subject material. Silverman probably would be game; London might require some persuasion.
From my inbox:
This is Nick Prueher writing from the Colbert Report in New York. On Friday, Dec. 12th and Saturday, Dec. 13th, I'll be bringing my national touring show, the Found Footage Festival, to the Montgomery Cinema & Drafthouse and Arlington Cinema & Drafthouse as part of a 2008 North American Tour. My fellow curator Joe Pickett and I, whose credits also include The Onion and the Late Show with David Letterman, are excited to bring our brand-new lineup of found videos and live comedy to the D.C. area for the first time. ... Here's a link to the trailer.The official press release is pasted below. ... Thanks!
Pop Cesspool has a highly unethical payola scheme for promoting this kind of thing. An invoice is in the mail. On good faith, I've provided portions of the press release after the jump:
I haven't done any scholarly, psycho-sexual study of the details of the flick, but as I was watching it last night, the thought occurred to me: WALL-E and EVE are robots, and although humans refer to EVE as a "she" and WALL-E as a "he" (I think), they are not sexual creatures, and therefore sex and gender designations don't necessarily apply. Thus, it's possible that WALL-E could be homosexual -- in one way or another -- at least as far as human culture is concerned. One would assume that robots are less hung-up about such things.
ADDENDUM: EVE has a hole, but you fill it with plants; WALL-E has a hole, but you fill it with garbage.
UPDATE: Somebody already was all over this. I'm not surprised.
A proliferation of raw, raunchy dialogue. An avalanche of verbal filth (and a smaller quantum of the visual variety). There's a lot more raunch in the talk -- the sheer, voluminous, often hilarious verbosity -- than in the action. If you bleeped this movie for broadcast TV, it would sound like a conga line of Iron Men going through a metal detector. The sex talk is dirty and silly. Constant foul language. Quickly curdles into gross-out humor. I don't care that Elizabeth Banks never showed her tits. This leads to several dozen chuckle-worthy jokes that can't even come close to being repeated in a family newspaper. The tastiest in tasteless yuks. It's a raunchy R-rated farce. He also spins vulgarity into some great, mostly unprintable punch lines. I have nothing against the cheerfully crude nature of "Zack and Miri Make a Porno." He's a superbly gifted writer who wields four-letter words as skillfully as George Carlin and Lenny Bruce wielded them, albeit mostly for cheaper, lowbrow laughs.
From the NYT's Sunday Business section:
ON an early Saturday morning about three weeks ago, Barry M. Meyer pulled a sheet of paper from the fax machine in his home office, inhaled deeply and held it up to the light of a nearby window.
The number on the fax was eye-popping: $66 million, plus change.
Ka-ching. The opening-day box office receipts for the Batman film “The Dark Knight” had just set a record. And for myriad reasons — including the late Heath Ledger’s delicious turn as the Joker — the blockbuster is still filling theaters on a pace that may land it just behind “Titanic” on the list of all-time, top-grossing films.
Mr. Meyer is the chairman of Warner Brothers, the Hollywood studio behind “The Dark Knight,” and the film has had its debut at a transformative moment for his studio’s parent, Time Warner. Link
What is this? 1992? I hope the FAX MACHINE holds up well for you, buddy. (Nearby, the newspaper reminds us that Peter Gabriel has gadgets and ideas.)