so sad when people can't distinguish their good ideas from the
who recognize it's a great idea to go up to the Wyoming border
and buy a shitload of firecrackers and bottle rockets, but think
it's equally brilliant to the try to impress the folks at the
Arvada Tavern by shooting one off from his asscrack. Or, it's
a great idea to tell the cop who shows up to investigate the
tree that caught fire in the Town Square that you just got there,
but it's not as smart to also tell the officer to check the
bottle rocket stub for shit to use for DNA testing. Especially
if you're not wearing pants and have burn marks on your buttcheeks.
what I'm trying to say is not so much that it's sad, but I sure
do feel fucking sorry for myself. Man, there are so many times
I get halfway to being a rich genius and I forget what the hell
I was trying to do when I started. Just last week I started
inventing a new sunscreen that would completely protect you
from the harmful rays of the sun, but let in the good ones.
I was making it out of ingredients you can find around the house.
By that, I don't mean all that old gas and fertilizer I have
in the closet from my failed attempt to overthrow my landlord.
I mean regular shit, like normal people without paranoid delusions
through the process, I decided the sunblock should also be edible.
Think about it: you go to the beach or pool or just lay out
on the front lawn of your apartment complex, and get a nice
tan, no burn. Then, whenever you feel a bit peckish, you just
lick yourself all over for a nice snack. Apply another layer
of my sunblock, and tan some more. I thought I had two great
ideas married at the altar of genius. After some mixing and
concocting, though, I tested my first batch. On the hottest
day of the year, I slathered it on thick, head to toe, and laid
out on the dead lawn in front of our apartment.
what I did was reinvent mayonnaise. And not only did it not
prevent me from burning to a near-fatal crisp, it started stinking
like vomit and drew flies that find the Harelip too clean for
their tastes. Oh, plus, it's not edible after it's been out
in the sun for three hours. Unless, edible means you can scrape
the flies off and lick it up, but it's gonna make you shit blood
for three days. I don't know how the FDA defines that word,
so maybe it is.
a point to my story, beyond just asking you to both feel pity
for me and marvel at how damn close to the Sun I can fly. I
can't remember what it is, though. In its place, let me just
point out that it's sad when people like me get good and bad
ideas mixed up because we only hurt ourselves. It's nowhere
near as sad when the grassfuckers in Hollywood do it, because
we have to pay money to watch them screw up.
is a perfect example. The great idea of a superhero who's down
on his luck, bitter and drunk could be a pretty damn good platform
for subverting the superhero genre, or at least saying something
new about it. Not every superhero can be so well put-together
and altruistic, right? Some of them must be insufferable assholes.
After all, 85% of everyone I meet is. Will Smith's Hancock starts
out that way. He's an alienated, sour man with supernatural
powers. He stops trains about to hit cars and beats up bad guys,
not so much to save lives as to piss people off. His rescues
end up costing Los Angeles millions in damages. He gets juiced
and sleeps on bus benches. The movie never says where he gets
the dough to buy all this hooch. But, hell, this movie doesn't
bother to explain much of anything.
a wishy-washy Jason Bateman, a public-relations man with a heart
of gold, and a massive, fancy house in the Valley, too. I have
no idea how someone so damn hellbent on charitable work affords
a mansion like that, or a mint BMW 2002, but probably neither
does Director Peter Berg. I think the vintage BMW is supposed
to suggest Bateman's character has a personality. But, you know
what I find does that better than arbitrary objects? Actually
giving him a personality. Hancock doesn't do that. After
Smith saves Bateman's life, the PR man wants to rehabilitate
Smith's image. He buys him a gay crimefighter suit and talks
him into going to jail for his past crimes, so Los Angeles can
discover how much they really need him.
where a pointless and uninspired pursuit of a great idea goes
really bad. See, Smith really is lonely, in the schmaltziest
of ways. He wants to be loved and willingly rehabilitates himself.
He has a cornball backstory where he carries a little tin with
tickets to Frankenstein from 80 years ago. He kicks a
serious drinking problem in about a week behind bars. And wears
the gay, leather suit. Soon, the police chief asks for Smith's
prison release to stop a crime wave. Smith saves the city with
almost no tension or thrills, but makes enemies with the bad
are like potato chips in Hollywood: one is never enough. So
Smith discovers he's not the only supernatural being. In fact,
Bateman's wife, Charlize Theron, is the other, and she used
to be his wife. There is a convoluted and retarded backstory
about how they've been together for 3000 years, but when near
each other, they become mortal again. This shit makes absolutely
no fucking sense, and is brought into Hancock in the
last thirty minutes, after the movie runs out of steam on its
first tired-ass story line.
ass. It feels contrived and as corny and lame as the backstory
for any other superhero, which is almost always the weakest
part. You know, where they try too hard to convince you someone
really could carry cars or see through walls. Plus, it's just
the sorry-ass way that Smith is vulnerable. Of course, he has
to be vulnerable so there can be a big showdown at the end that
actually has his life on the line.
the problem is that nobody with half a brain in his head will
ever think Smith's life is in danger in the first flick of what
the studio hopes will be a franchise. That's about as likely
as me being sober on a Thursday night. Or a Monday morning,
for that matter. So, the movie ends with a drab, dull climax
where the bad guys that Smith has put behind bars break out
and try to kill him, and his proximity to Theron makes him vulnerable
to their bullets. It all takes place in a big rain storm, of
course, because lazy, unimaginative directors need those as
much as they need really well-stocked craft tables.
of the problem is how much fucking action there is without any
of it having a point. The movie says absolutely nothing. Smith's
plight is pathetic and hard to care about. Theron's character
and its plotline is ridiculous enough to draw boos from a crowd.
Bateman is the richest guy you'll ever meet who doesn't ever
have paying gigs, and he's just soft and spongy. Smith is never
very curmudgeonly, just a slight sheen of it over a hulk of
doughy sappiness that comes out rather quickly.
also feels like maybe three or four different ideas all crammed
together. The main villain is generic when captured by Smith.
Later, however, he's an Old Testament, speechifying, oversized
baddie in the Batman villain mode. There is no trajectory
between these. The end, which takes place in a hospital, feels
so formulaic that it didn't raise the stakes at all. In fact,
with people strapped to gurneys in a hospital while the fighting
goes on, it probably should have been played for laughs, not
as serious heart-string dopeyness.
It's a bad
fucking movie, with a great idea buried somewhere inside. I
sure as hell lost interest in digging for it. Two Fingers
to tell Filthy Something?