Sarcastic Movie Reviews

Hot on the heels of “Grizzly Man” comes another movie about a troubled urban soul who gives everything up so that he can die horribly in the wilds of Alaska.

I’m sure the Gnome tourist bureau is THRILLED with these movies.

“Come watch the Northern Lights and leave a rotting corpse for hikers to find.”

“Into the Wild” is the true story about “Christopher McCandless”  who burned his money, and wandered the streets on American calling himself “Alexander Supertramp” for 2 years until he promptly starved to death in the middle of Alaska because he didn’t pack enough food.

“Alexander Supertramp?!!”

He didn’t even pick a cool 70’s band to name himself after.

I guess it could have been worse. He could have called himself “Doobie Kiss” or “Johnny Meatloaf.”

I can empathize when a soccer team has to eat their coach to survive, but it’s hard to muster up any sympathy for a guy who buys a book on edible plants from Ebay and figures that he’s going to make tossed salads out of tree bark and moose dung. Maybe a practice run in the lobby of a Chinese buffet would have been a good idea. You know, just in case that fern isn’t going down as well as it sounded on page 36.

To add to my growing reluctance about even attending this film was the fact that Sean Penn wrote and directed it.

Normally anything that Sean Penn touches makes me recoil in horror (and that includes Madonna), but I gotta hand it to him. He’s made one of the finest films I’ve seen in years.

You don’t understand. This is kills me.

It’s like waking up one morning to discover that O.J. actually found the “real killers” and you’re Ron Goldman’s dad.

I HATE Sean Penn.

This is a guy who goes to some war torn country for a weekend and then lectures the world about an atrocity that he knows nothing about while rolling a fresh cigarette in the cancer ward of a hospital.

And yet, there it is.

Somehow over the course of the movie you actually go from rolling your eyes to choking back tears and I have no idea how it happened.

Maybe it’s like some CIA torture thing.

By keeping me strapped in my seat for two and a half hours he’s brainwashed me into caring about the characters using the Stockholm Syndrome.

It’s a LONG movie, but somehow I didn’t seem to mind.

I think he could have chopped half an hour out of the film (honestly the whole Vince Vaughn character was a waste of time), but Sean is crafty.

If the movie had lasted 20 more minutes I’m sure that I would’ve ended up buying him a fresh tin of tobacco and would be scrubbing the spittoon in mansion.

I still say that Alex was an idiot and got what he deserved, but this is one of the most profoundly touching movies I’ve ever seen. 

4 out of 5.

3 stars out of 5.

I saw the future last night and it went something like this:

“Daddy Day Care 3” starring Clive Owen

Forget cancer, I think researchers need to pour every available resource into finding the cure for career suicide.

It’s too late for Cuba Gooding Jr., but maybe we can prevent Benicio Del Toro from driving a precocious 7 year old girl and her St. Bernard puppy across the United States when she is inadvertently left behind by her forgetful parents.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m actually talking about the Clive’s latest film “Shoot ‘em Up.”

Calling this film ill conceived is like pointing out that Pamela Anderson is a slut.

Show me another movie in which a man dispatches at least 3 villains using fresh produce. I’ve seen lots of things done with carrots (usually on the internet), but I never realized that you could actually drive one through the back of a man’s skull until now.

Just imagine what he could do with asparagus!!

Basically Clive stumbles across a pregnant woman who is being pursued by a heavily armed group of bad guys. Unfortunately the woman in question is killed after delivering her baby and when Clive realizes that the infant’s was the actual target he takes it upon himself to protect the child.

How bad is the dialogue in this film?

Uh, stunningly bad. 

So bad that staring at the sun to cure your cataracts seems almost good in comparison.

For example, once Clive escapes with the baby, Paul Giamatti utters the following classic line:

“Find me every lactating prostitute in this town!”

If that doesn’t appear on T-shirts worldwide in time for Christmas then it’s a cultural crime. Imagine how much time would be saved if Japanese tourists could come to New York and simply point to their T-shirts on Times Square!! At the very least there should be an international symbol for this. Maybe a cow with handcuffs, or baby bottle in stiletto heels.

As bad as that line is, imagine the phone call that went out to actresses from their agents asking if they wanted to play the role of the “Lactating Prostitute”?

Nothing says “European Actress” like “Lactating Prostitute.”

Hell, I think in Germany they have a special award that give out every year to exceptional acting in the role of “Lactating Prostitute.”

Thank God they found an actress who’s mastering of the English Language is so complete that every line of dialogue she utters sounds like dyslexic, retarded, stuttering pharmacist trying pronounce the word “oxycontin.”

Forget method acting. Phonetic acting is where it’s at!

I wonder if Monica Belluci actually knows that she’s playing a “Lactating Prostitute”?

They probably told her that she’s playing a young Margaret Thatcher in a BBC drama about the Falkand Islands.

One sure sign that the script is trouble is when the protagonist doesn’t have a first name and so people keep referring to him as “Smith.” 

Just to make sure that you understand this, they repeat his name ad-nauseam in almost every sentence.

Yes sir, nothing says natural dialogue like the following:

“Smith, I told you not to come here anymore.”
“Smith, you’re no listening to me.”
“Smith, I need you to take me to the Blacksmith, because I left my Smith and Wesson beside the Smith’s CD.”

In the history of cinematic dialogue the only word that has been used more than “Smith” at one time is the word “Smurf” and technically that was at the end of the cartoon when the credits were rolling.

You’d think that I couldn’t be any more disgusted with this movie wouldn’t you? Ah, well you see that was before the scene in which Paul Giamatti (for reasons unknown) has the dead mother propped up in the back seat of the limousine beside him with her breasts exposed and then decides to give the corpse a fondle. Wait, I’m not done yet. Then she smells his hand!!

Should I discuss the shootout scene beside the neon lights that spell out a dirty word depending on which letters get shot? It’s very clever. It rhymes with yuck foo.

Nothing in this movie makes sense. Clive Owen can’t take a piss without 50 armed men swarming into the bathroom stalls with guns blazing but the really great part is that he will vault over tables, jump through windows and fall 3 stories onto the ground while holding the baby with one hand. This newborn baby has neck muscles like an NFL offensive lineman.

Now, some people are going to say that clearly this movie is not to be taken seriously (duh, REALLY?), but Quentin Tarantino uses colour and style in his over the top battle scenes.

What would you rather watch, a woman in a yellow jumpsuit fighting 100 guys in Lone Ranger masks or a guy squeezing the breast of corpse?

1 out of 5.