how's the whoring?
Fast and the
Furious is "Thumb's
Atlantis is "Thumbs up!"
Tomb Raider is "Thumbs up. I liked the
movie. I was grinning (like a big fat idiot) all the way through
Randy Shandis Enterprises. All rights fucking reserved.
"This is getting to be a broken record"
Guess who's back. If you're like me, you hate when someone
asks you to guess shit. I'd rather you just tell me because all
that guessing seriously cuts into my quality of life. It makes
me feel stupid when I guess wrong. But enough about what I like.
Guess who's back.
Stop and take some time to guess before you read on.
Did you guess Dipshit Suzanne, the world's worst video store
owner and the human equivalent of a potato sack loosely packed
with bone-in pork? If so, give yourself a prize. She thinks that
being skinny and only smoking crystal meth recreationally is
a healthy lifestyle. But as Dipshit Suzanne proves, it's possible
to be skinny and still be a fucking disgusting pig. I'm in no
position to extoll the virtues of health since the only exercise
I ever get is when I fight Scooter for one of her slobbery dog
toys. But a woman who crams her loose-skin-over-bones-and-flab
into hot pants and vests with no shirt or bra repulses me. And
attracts me a little bit, too.
So, Dipshit Suzanne is back. The pain-in-the-ass has been
leaving messages on the answering machine again, and that's a
big fucking problem because I hadn't told Mrs. Filthy I got canned
yet. I would rather it came from me than the Dipshit, because
I would have lied. But the real problem is with the sheer volume
of messages. The God damn scabby whore won't shut up. First she's
mad because somebody fucked up her Patrick Swayze section at
the First American Video. Somebody swapped tapes so anyone renting
Point Break ends up with Fisting of Fury 7: Slits Wide
Shut. She thinks I'm somehow to blame just because I still
have a key to the place and I never let a day go by where I didn't
comment on what a loser Swayze is. Jesus Christ in a Hot Pocket,
who doesn't? Then she's calling because she wants the fucking
store key back. Fuck that, we all knew I would get canned and
if she didn't want me to have access to the store she should
have thought about that before she hired me. Finally, the calls
late at night started coming. These are the ones where she alternates
between sweetness and screaming into the phone about wanting
me to come back then saying she's so fucking glad she fired me,
then asking if I will come back.
There's no fucking way I'm going back to work in that pit.
No way in hell, I'd have to be a fucking lunatic. I might do
it, if I can't get my lawn business started because all the jerks
around here think I should supply my own mower. But I don't think
there's any fucking way I will.
I wonder if Jeffrey Katzenberg ever leaves long, crystal meth-fueled
tirades on Steven Spielberg's answering machine. I would guess
probably he does, and if he doesn't, you know that Geffen guy
does. Except that they're all fucking rich, so they probably
don't even have machines; they hire Ecuadorians to write down
the messages in their own blood. I wonder if they had left a
few messages when he was making A.I. Maybe a few that
just said, "Hi, Steve, just going through the script and
wanted to let you know it's self-indulgent and sloppy. See you
at the orgy tonight."
A.I. is somehow supposed to be a joint collaboration
between Spielberg and the very dead Stanley Kubrick. I'm not
really clear on how the two of them collaborated, but I'm sure
they must have because those upstanding citizens in Hollywood
would exploit a corpse just to give a movie a pedigree. I'm sure
that Spielberg would never take a half-baked idea that he and
Kubrick talked about a few times and turn it into his own movie
while claiming it was both their work. No, that sort of prestige-grubbing
and grave-robbing would never happen in a town known for its
Academy Awards and John Wayne beer commercials.
There is an element of Kubrick in A.I., and that's
his love for taking a ten-pound story and stuffing it with fifty
pounds of deep shit. It's the kind of hazy intellectual crap
that gets NPR listeners all gooey in the pants because they can
go to their microbreweries and coffee houses and act all smart
while they stroke their goatees and pick pills off their angola
sweaters. If two of them hit it off during their stimulating
debates, they might get lucky and go home to share their feigned
interest in Riverdance and their sincere delight in doing it
up the ass. But, all that talking artsy-fartsy about Kubrick
will get you at the Arvada Tavern is your ass kicked.
Far as I can tell, all this "thought-provoking"
horseshit in A.I. is supposed to be about "what it
means to be human." That sounds more like a good topic for
phony therapists on "Oprah" than anything I want to
debate about. Besides, if we do come to some conclusion about
what being human means, can we kick the assholes out of the race?
Worse still is Spielberg's biggest contribution to the story.
Rather than leave the question open, he tacks on a sappy, vomit-inducing
answer that forces a happy ending on us and also tells us "We
in Hollywood think you're too stupid to understand, so we'll
spell it out for you now." It's some cockeyed bullshit about
weepy futuristic beings and how to be human is to feel. I fucking
hate Hollywood's infatuation with its own answers.
A.I. takes place in some vague future, after all the
terrible things the phonies in Hollywood keep predicting will
happen if everyone but them doesn't start conserving energy.
As a result of all the ecological waste, people aren't allowed
to reproduce like Mormons and Catholics anymore. To give potential
mothers some reason to put "My Child is an All Star"
bumper stickers on their minivans and treat everyone else's kids
like second-class citizens, a scientist creates a robot boy,
Haley Joel Osment. Osment is different from all the other robots
in the world because he is capable of love. He is placed with
a couple whose real son is in a coma, and the grieving mother
quickly adopts the robot as her own. When the real son comes
back to life, he torments Osment and forces him to wonder whether
he is loved by the mother in return. After being tossed out of
the house, he goes on a quest for the Blue Fairy, the pixie who
turned Pinocchio into a real boy, because he thinks becoming
real will win his mother's love. He is joined by Jude Law as
a sex robot on the run, and they go across the country, not really
encountering much of anything.
Spielberg ain't no artist. He's more a technician, and he's
almost technically perfect. With the exception of one really
stupid sequence called the "Flesh Fair" which just
looks like an overpriced demolition derby, the movie looks really
pretty. But Spielberg is so fucking interested in his pretty
images that he undermines everything else to achieve them. Everything
has to be sun-dappled, or underwater, or glittering with neon,
never mind that it makes no sense how the story got to that point.
Forget that it dilutes the point because it looks so fucking
The story starts slower than a 400 meter race at the Special
Olympics. You sort of want to shake the participants and yell
"Go that way and speed it up!" Spielberg is trying
to get us to love this robot, but it's impossible because 1)
he's Haley Joel Osment and 2) he's a fucking robot. No matter
how weepy and melodramatic the godawful soundtrack gets, Osment
himself makes it perfectly clear that he's a machine and he can
just sit quietly for all eternity. Spielberg spends a dull hour
showing us every fucking "humorous" or "scary"
thing that can go wrong with a robot. All that does is reinforce
that it is not a boy, and that we have no more reason to care
about him than we did for that little bastard in Short Circuit.
The story continues to plod for a total of two-and-a-half
hours. It is like a very tedious "thought-provoking"
movie was spliced together with a cheap Blade Runner ripoff.
The thought-provoking movie has lots of quiet parts and narration
where something VERY IMPORTANT is being told to us fucking morons
in the audience. The bad sci-fi movie looks great, but features
shit like "Rouge City" full of neon gams and futuristic
vehicles, a wisecracking robot teddy bear sidekick, sex robots
in Devo New Traditionalist pompadours, and the ridiculous "amphibicopter"
which is a helicopter when the story needs that, and then is
able to travel under water when that is needed. The whole mess
is taped together with convenience and lazy contrivances, not
a logical plot.
In fact, Spielberg bulldozes logic and forces the story to
fit his pretty storyboard. He knows what neat shit he wants to
show us and he knows where he wants to end, but he really doesn't
have any idea how to match the pieces up. At one point, Law and
Osment have to ask "Dr. Know," a corny oracle gimmick,
in order to get the information that will push the story forward.
At other points, Spielberg just abandons logic, like when Osment
is somehow able to see a statue in Brooklyn from the base of
a Manhattan skyscraper, or how the power in one particular building
is working when a city is submerged and abandoned. These are
minor points, but the story is littered with them like cigarette
butts on the Arvada Tavern's floors. It's just sloppy story-telling.
I'm sure we'll all hear plenty about what a great fucking actor
Osment is, but the kid just creeps me out. I don't like him.
Otherwise, everything is visibly restrained, trying very hard
to be quiet, except Law in a totally gratuitous role.
Two Fingers for Spielberg's latest attempt to be considered
to tell Filthy something?