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Feels weird to give a rating to what's essentially a series of eulogies, so I'll just say that I loved this. Pushes the medium places I've not seen it go; certain I'll return in times of trouble, not only for the laughs, but for the honest-to-goodness sage advice. Oh and stick around through the credits. Completely bewildered by the fact we witness Jeff Ross a part of something beautiful.

I realize I've been on here raving about Marvel ts a lot recently, so just so you know that I don't love everything I see, I also watched Brave New World and decided to remain quiet, there not being much nice to say... But this, wow. The first fifteen may be among the studio's best work—a hazy nostalgia page post of a summer you're sure you lived, but that seems so far away that it's just as surely a dream. This gives way to a flurry of confused (and very well executed) action, wherein the children appear to know more than we do, hinting at the tragedies that will be revealed. Finally, we're visited by distressing spectres, and shown pictures of stolen innocence—a funeral procession of a montage set to a haunting Nirvana cover. It all fucking works, and while the movie gets away from that stuff every once in a while (I could do without a lot of the floating base part, and reminders that the Avengers will [did?] return), it maintains a firm grasp on the relatively intimate story at its core.

Take for example the long stretch about halfway, when the family reunites. It's painfully relatable, despite the fact that everyone's stuffed into leather jumpsuits. I forgot I was even watching a superhero movie; the Budapest set-pieces were cool, but there was something infinitely more engaging in Natasha setting aside Melina's failures as a mother to her as a fellow woman, Natasha knowing her struggles all too well (the Red Room can be interpreted as any number of horrors that women are made to endure). It's a deeply human scene, which gives us a reason to care about the superhuman climax, you know? Even the banter benefits from the familial focus, Johansson and Pugh's relationship feeling so natural, and providing countless charming moments, like Pugh's stiff mocking of the Widow pose, and the jabbing about the vest.

And of course I'd be remiss if I didn’t highlight Pugh as the very best thing this universe (Marvel's, though the statement could also be broadened to mean our universe at large) has going for it.

Thunderbolts reminded me how well these can work, so I wanted to go back to the last one I felt really succeeded at what it set out to do. I love this movie—its warmth (aesthetically, and with regards to the relationships between its characters), the sense of fun engendered by the time it's set (I don't care how on the nose the music choices are; No Doubt works perfectly for that fight, the steady opening riff like Carol learning to walk powers-wise, before things pop off and Stefani's defiant sarcasm is channeled on-screen in stuff like Carol's reply to the one dumb dude ("Don't make me do this" "Ok 🙄" *BLAM*), and the emotionally resonant themes concerning the perception and treatment of refugees, and sexism (Jude's character is such a clever embodiment of this issue, his mentor role getting at the idea also suggested in the flashbacks, that we hinder young women [inadvertently or otherwise] from the start, with the limits we impose under the guise of manners, safety considerations, etc.). Like Thunderbolts, it's just a superhero t with more on its mind, trying to reach people who may feel hopeless and alone, and inspire them to keep going (goosebumps every time I see the versions of Carol rise in turn). It provides ample spectacle, too, but that neither element comes at the expense of the other is laudable, and what places this alongside Thunderbolts as two of the very best individual pieces of this monumental undertaking, in my humble opinion. Larson's also just fucking cool—higher, further, faster, baby.

Jude fights like Choi Min-sik (raising him a couple tools) and fucks like Cronenberg (Crimes of the Future calls surgery "the new sex," but apparently they were doing it like that all the way back in 2010 [I was reminded of ancient art depicting positions you'd think were more modern]); the Abbott's on hand to watch Whitaker the Ghost Dog demo his very real martial arts skills again; and the DVD menu represents the Unrated Version option as a bio-mechanical heart—where the filmmakers' true ion lies—while the Theatrical Version option is a kidney, presumably because they had to filter out "waste" (as the studio deemed it), like the lingering shot of Braga sticking a barcode scanner deep inside Jude's chiseled midriff, even though the vague setup shot where you can't see what's actually happening is much more provocative with the right imagination. ALL OF THAT'S TO SAY, I love this, and I'm sad to see Sapochnik's only other movie is about Tom Hanks taking care of a dog?

I thought I would just do my usual shtick and talk about how Bucky on the bike looks like those insane AI images the white house has been posting, if they'd done one of JD in M:I 2 to mark Final Reckoning coming out, or how my shame room is me rotting at home, sweating through my T of sasquatch climbing the space needle, because I opted to watch a shitty torrent alone over what probably would have been a transcendent experience seeing Pugh's exquisite visage and hair in air-conditioned IMAX with other awestruck onlookers, but honestly, this thing moved me in ways I wasn't prepared for, even if its genre still necessitated punching and kicking a deeper sort of problem; if Coppola can have Justice personified double over in defeat, then Schreier can have depression be pseudo Ben Foster from Last Stand and Hostage flying around (incidentally, give Coppola a Marvel origin tale centered on Boner Arrow*). Stuff like Walker's scene really hit me; while my experience isn't exactly the same, I can certainly relate to the sudden, distressing conflict that arises between persistent personal issues and new parental responsibility—tough to be the best for someone when you're not ok, you know? Anyway, oscillating between crying and clapping (at the fun interplay between combatants during the action scenes) as I did, I now have a headache, but feel a bit better otherwise. More like this, please.

*The New Hawkeye

The other day I asserted that I am, "a big fan of movies that don't necessarily work as cohesive wholes artfully delivering engaging narratives, but do succeed in spades as collections of, 'Huh, wouldja look at that' stuff," of which Megalopolis has got to be The Godfather (1972); pretty wild that the guy who gave us The Godfather is also the one who gave us that Voight scene. I guess on that note, if I were to genuinely credit Coppola with anything, it'd be the humor here. Love the bit when Shia chucks his hat on the ground in a show of power, then all his hangers-on do the same in succession. As for the rest, I don't know, if I'm being honest. I don't give myself a lot of credit either, and thus assumed this would all be way over my head, but it's actually fairly simple, bordering on stupid(?) upon reflection, with famous quotes spuriously suggesting something more profound, like the lyrics I'd put in my MSN Messenger status—not to imply that Coldplay's comparable to Marcus Aurelius. But there's no denying it's full of heart, which has gotta count for something in an industry driven by money, right? Like, this was clearly never about selling tickets, unless I missed the marketing highlighting Plaza's scenes—Wow indeed. I don't regret watching it, but I am glad I didn't spend $100 on the French blu following the news that Coppola had pulled it from streamers to tour it like Wiseau does with Big Shark or something. Re: that decision, I was initially surprised, but this is a Room-level sincere swing and massive miss, so perhaps the Wiseau business model is best. Also, considering he ventured onto their digital turf, I'll repeat something else I said before: "the Wachowskis make better movies than Coppola."

I feel like the main criticism levelled against ostensible cash-grab movies is that they don't have their own identities, beyond a bunch of shallow allusions to the sources. Considering this, A Minecraft Movie is kinda the best adaptation one could hope for? For the neutral, anyway; can't comment on how faithful it is. Like, they went out and got a guy known for his distinct filmic voice, and actually let him do his thing, because make no mistake, this is a bizarro Hess t, right down to the colorful Idaho weirdos populating it despite the thing having shot in New Zealand. Imagine we'd gotten the Levy version... Now that would have been flavorless swill. But as it stands, AMM is big and bright—chock-full of genuinely funny gags and performances (Momoa's scream got me every time), and the most Miranda July lookin ass kid you've ever seen. I had a gd blast.

I swear, Ortega and Rudd together are like the 2 horns unleashing that staggering wave of cosmic good vibes; I was wholly bought in from their first scene on the plane, which made me cry (there's no feeling like your child resting their head on you), made me laugh (the dead weight drop onto the armrest, holy shit), and told me everything I needed to know about these characters—such clever and economic storytelling. And the writing! Poulter may be the MVP in of his delivery of the material, but again, the dialogue between Ortega and Rudd, which I'd describe as Daria-esque (big plus), was so funny and relatable (Rudd: "Whatever this is just get it out of your system before we get there" Ortega: "Are you talking about my personality?"). Anyway, so with the emotional foundation/family dynamics firmly established, I then had a gd blast watching the filmmakers build this crazy monument to medieval fantasy and the exact types of movies I'm always lauding on here, like The Lost World—the best JP, and I'll hear no arguments to the contrary. Love the design of the unicorns, too, which have a real weight to them (man, do people get merked). Idk, it's just a great fucking time? Not sure what's not to like; if we'd gotten a killer unicorn movie in the '80s we'd all be spending $50 on the boutique blu now, so perhaps some time just needs to ? Maybe I'm wrong, but whatever. I'll continue to enjoy this one.

Evocative of those Jody Hill ts or Cable Guy, stuff marketed as comedies that while good for a laugh mostly have as their aim exploration into certain human conditions, be it toxic masculinity as it relates to authority, the effects of media on the mind and relationships, or, here, the limits of morality, and if at a certain point it must either be upheld—possibly through violence—or forfeited.

It's also a quintessential Aykroyd vehicle, permitting him ample opportunity to expound philosophies and conspiracy theories, and sit perched by his attic window as I imagine he does nightly, though instead of looking for lights in the sky, he's observing Jack Lemmon, whom he believes to be a nazi war criminal. Lemmon, for his part, ably charms, casting enough doubt on said suspicion that Aykroyd's characteristic neurosis can manifest, from which most of the comedy is derived.

I don't know. It asks interesting ethical questions and made me laugh throughout, but I suppose I'm not surprised that it's been nearly forgotten; it's always fun to watch skeptic Peck get dunked on in Ghostbusters, but swap him out for a pair of dumbass Holocaust deniers and, well, things become considerably less fun.

I know I've been a militant Adkins er in the past, vehemently condemning his underuse, but if you're not going to have him really fight (punchy shootouts with lots of action and detail in the master, though, and Adkins does kill a guy with an antler, which isn't nothing), having him skid to a stop on a motorcycle, revealing an "Eat Shit" decal while a Yelawolf needle drop hits goes a long way towards atonement. I also appreciate the business that seems to have gone on here, whereby letting rap country guys posture with guns meant that their music could be featured on the soundtrack. And because I'm a big fan of movies that don't necessarily work as cohesive wholes artfully delivering engaging narratives, but do succeed in spades as collections of, "Huh, wouldja look at that" stuff, Adkins jacks one of the American Pickers' bikes, and Zane is still in full-on Brando mode, physically, to the point that he could honestly consider a career like that Robert Bronzi guy who just makes Bronson flicks. Anyway, 2nd best movie called Day of Reckoning that Adkins is in.

Paul didn't get to rip off George Miller because Mulcahy had the wheel on RE: Extinction, so it's only fair that he now gets a turn, with the source material updated to a later entry in the Mad Maestro's dystopian desert opus, Fury Road, and with a little bit of Paul's own original sauce, in the Mortal Kombat-esque way the (surprisingly good) music hypes the action, and the reverence he shows the weaponized train, reminiscent of the Dreadnought in Death Race (which was also derivative of Road Warrior, but whatever). There being only one Miller, though, the sands of Namibia are subbed off for some crazy green screen stuff. Still, Jovovich navigating said stuff in search of a werewolf pelt so a badass queen can make a cuckold of what's implied is a limp-dicked groomer is alright by me, and just about offsets enough of what's missing in comparison to keep this enjoyable. I also appreciate how people fall under Jovovich's magic spell by looking into her eyes because same.

Good, dumb fun.

One of the richest revisits I've ever experienced, the movie having completely overwhelmed me initially, as evidenced by my first, joke review that really says nothing. This time around everything clicked. I don't know if Cronenberg has been through a serious illness (himself, or alongside a loved one), but the authenticity of his stand-in Viggo's performance leads me to believe that one or both of these guys have. It's an incredibly realized character—that I'm crediting the two with because it likely began on the page—Saul Tenser perfectly embodying this sort of noble suffering I've seen first-hand, where seeming anarchy and emptiness, such as cancers that strike at random, are made more—art that can inspire, to paraphrase the filmmakers.

I think about my aunt every day, and the manner in which she carried herself right until the end, and it gives me courage, and strength, and an ittedly morbid, but comforting feeling that there can be meaning in sickness and death, even if it's simply to show how to face it head-on, partially easing the emotional toll on those around you. Of course things are taken quite literally and to the extreme here, but the film permits genuine emotional processing and release, the performance art at the core of the story representing many of our eventual last acts. And may we all have someone like Seydoux's Caprice with us—my god. Again, this relationship has to be drawn from some truth, because it's just so authentic and beautiful, Caprice wholly embracing Tenser despite the grim, difficult aspects of the life he's been handed (because suffering won't always appear noble), i.e. the signature Cronenberg stuff that will frighten and revolt. The way these are presented, though, as a kind of darkness dispelled by Caprice's love and light, if not things that actually make them as close as partners can be, completely exposed before, but nevertheless accepting of one another, profoundly moved me.

Add in some queer elements and a wonderfully weird Stewart performance, and I'm inclined to say that this is an all-timer.

Ok, pardon the rant and thank you for indulging me.

An insomniac Dianels haunts his creaky, old abode like a haggard spectre, as the mystery of his missing wife slowly unravels through phone and house calls. Thoroughly engaging despite the limited location and cast—a sort of Talk Radio-Caveat hybrid, were I to try to sum it up. Lets the uncertainty of whether we're awake or asleep linger, wringing solid tension from long looks into the dark, before ultimately delivering one absolute nightmare image I won't soon forget. Cool flick.

Would definitely be lying if I said I didn't feel the runtime, and that the decibels didn't occasionally grate, but the tonal tightrope act I'd heard so much about really is amazing, and best exemplified when the predator and prey roles are "reversed" (of course Ani is the one actually in trouble, but Baker finds a lot of humor in these big tough guys taking turns learning that they're also in wayyy over their heads), and how someone screaming in the most harrowing manner as Ani was can get one of the biggest laughs, just via the edit. That last scene's a doozy, too; I like that it can be viewed a few ways, though perhaps all of the ways at once is best, neither us nor Ani having had any time to think about everything without the hollow noise of CoD, DMX, or expletive exchanges blasting through our brains, but suddenly the rhythmic wiper sound's this meditative metronome settling our minds, permitting actual contemplation, and shit do the feelings flood in. So yeah, it's super good.

Remarkable craftsmanship everywhere you look and listen, and a profound weirdness, relatively speaking; the film feels transmitted from a bygone era in a faraway land, a little bit Anderson, a little bit Sendak-by-way-of-Jonze, but also so, so unique. Reaches out to its audience—of children, ostensibly—like a German fairy tale would, affording them much more credit and respect than they're used to getting (perhaps to a fault, as Mischa was frightened throughout, but then wild-eyed Dafoe blaring metal will do that), while also critically examining a primary function of folk narratives, i.e. to impart "the truth" as a person or collective has deemed it. In doing this, Saxon highlights the fact that ignorance, fear, and love (things that often motivate the version of reality we're presented) are inextricably entwined, meaning that abhorrent action can have the noblest intention (again, at what stage a child needs to learn this, I don't know, but I appreciate that Saxon isn't just trying to make a glorified toy commercial). All of that's to say, it's brilliant, and beautiful, and one of the best modern entries in its genre, ittedly because it consciously disavows anything resembling modern children's media—apart from an adorable creature, of course.

I was reminded of Godard's La Chinoise—this also being a very stylized, very French film examining the activities of Marxist-Leninist political terrorists—but whereas that one is pretentious and completely inaccessible, in my humble, ittedly stupid opinion, this is pure gd rock and roll, Ramirez hanging dong and igniting the screen as Carlos, a man whose commitment to his various causes maybe, probably came 2nd to his playboy ambitions, permitting Assayas to wholly indulge in his desire to make something that moves and looks cool as fuck and gets all his favorite bands on the soundtrack, without compromising the portrait. The five-and-a-half hours FLY BY, a flurry of firebombing and fingerbanging set to New Order. I loved every second, and also came away with what will surely be a heightened tolerance of modern airport security the next time I travel; I thought people once smoking in airports/on planes was nuts, but these dudes just walked in with an RPG!

Absolutely overflowing with heart and very deliberate in its mockery: Knox and Cox (and Canadian Sinbad) are the butt of the joke. Every other character is delightful, and while I wish the production had included more persons with disabilities in the prominent ing roles (the Farrellys, producers on this one, have also said as much re: There's Something About Mary, which Bobby would later try to correct with Champions), there's still great stuff like Flowers as the progenitor of Rocky Balboa's Mason Dixon, and Barbanell, who, from a comedy standpoint, stacks up against Knoxville in their verbal jousts about as evenly as Butterbean did the jovial jackass—the guy's got masterful timing and delivery. Knox, for his part, is good, selling the guilt and growth, and taking some bumps that'd make Terry Funk proud. Terry Funk is also on hand, btw, along with Jesse Ventura (this apparently being what lies Beyond the Mat), though the former is seen but not heard, and the latter, heard but not seen. Anyway, I get why people are averse to this one based on the premise (even I was reluctant to name it the other night, referring to it as "title 2" when discussing my 4-for-a-dollar library DVD haul), but I think it'll surprise you if you give it a chance; it somehow holds up better than most of the other aughts comedies I've revisited in the last few years.

It’s funny how things that once repulsed you just don’t at a certain point, like how Mischa hurled the other night and midway through using the showerhead to hose off full pieces of shell pasta and veggie dog from her blanket into a drain strainer, I realized that I was totally unfazed, whereas earlier in my life, I’da been barfing, too.

Anyway, I turned to this while I was on puke watch/waiting for the washing machine to finish, and wouldn’t you know it, it didn’t bother me like I ed, despite it having irreparably damaged my standing in a friend group when I suggested we see it over Taken back in 2008. It’s still not nearly as funny as Anchorman, Talladega, or even Blades of Glory—the movies that informed my decision—but it has its moments (the POV of “Ferrell’s” hands throwing the feint and subsequent slap on the bear while his VO goes, “Smack, smack!” fucking killed me), and I’m a sucker for these sports comedies where they kinda eschew the laughs in favor of the drama, since I’m someone who cares wayyy too much about their club (could be that I’m being generous towards this because Liverpool just won the league, meaning nothing can knock me off my cloud); the 2nd unit was the sports coordinator on Miracle, and effectively establishes that kind of tone when the story requires it, sucking you in.

The thing also achieves real texture in delivering its vision of ‘70s Flint, reminiscent of stuff like Gray’s We Own the Night, which was honestly pretty cool to look at in an age when everything has the same sort of gloss to it.

I don’t know. I bought the dip on some shitty 4-for-a-dollar DVDs that the library was desperately trying to rid themselves of, trusting that they will all go up in cultural value (jk—you’d absolutely think less of me if I mentioned titles 2 and 3, but 4 is the relatively harmless Mr. Deeds [which shares some of its cast with title 3…]), and can definitely see myself putting this one on again the next time someone in the household gets sick or punched in the jejunum.

I was going to say this is like a South Africa-set Ayer, but there are parts of this that honestly make his stuff look like CHiPs. Just one of the grimmest movies I’ve ever seen, where everything good is beaten to death. Of course it has to be, though, its two central characters subsisting in the permanent shadow of apartheid. Whitaker and Bloom are excellent as these haunted men, the former once again solemnly delivering the dramatic goods, while the latter is in full Keanu Street Kings (proto Red Right Hand, as it turns out) mode, trying to emerge from his career-defining franchise cocoon a jacked, greasy butterfly. The story is captivating—there were several occasions when I wanted to turn the TV off, but needed to see what would happen next—and culminates in something quite striking and mythic, going beyond your typical 3rd act shootout (which we also get, btw, if that's your bag). I very much disliked the experience of watching the movie, but it's well made and certainly not trying to charm, and, moreover, seems to want to say something about the horrifying context in which its events unfold, whereas someone else—like, say, Ayer, because I’m already thinking about him—might have simply mined said context to make something more exploitative, you know? Watch it, I guess, but set aside some time to freely feel like shit after.

Kinda plays out like Ernest Scared Stupid in that an ugly folkloric creature previously sealed under a big shaft gets loose and wreaks havoc across a small town, with David Dukes (really important to note the "s" at the end of that name) in the Ernest role—running afoul of local law enforcement, failing to protect the children, and eventually discovering that only a mother's love can thwart the evil (there, milk; here, a little fertility totem wielded by his wife). Not to flex on you guys again (I've certainly mentioned this before, and will continue to), but there's an Ernest Scared Stupid theatrical poster on my wall, sooo... Yeah, I'm into it. Of course Dukes is no Varney, but him occupying an interesting space between Jimmy Stewart and Bruce Campbell (with some John C. McGinley in there, too), he makes for a solid enough lead, mostly succeeding as the man of action historian character, à la Indy, and Langdon, and Gates. The creature is also fun, looking like Barker's other brainchild, Chatterer, if a shaved gorilla had played him. Speaking of Barker, I heard he wasn't happy with how the final film product represented his written ideas, but I do enjoy how weird and horny it is, which you know is faithful; Rawhead loves to show off his nips and chiseled abs, and pees into a guy's eagerly awaiting mouth. Anyway, I had a nice time.

Mischa had seen the cg remake, meaning her attention span was rigorously tested, but I for one loved revisiting this schmaltzy story of Pokémon's thicc Sephiroth. Yeah the emotional climax doesn't really make sense, but Pokémon is still trying to reconcile caring about these things and making them slap the shit out of each other (the series is honestly a pretty good representation of the way people profess to be "animal lovers" while refusing to stop torturing, killing, and eating them, but I should fuck off with my militant vegan agenda, eh), so whatever. Pikachu cries, we cry, then everybody bops along to Baby Spice as the journey continues.

Nobody dialed it down for the new medium, as I understand it, resulting in something so insane and over-the-top that I can't not laugh; Broderick's hysterics, in particular, are so fucking funny, featuring the weirdest reads ("You're gonna jump on meee. You're gonna jump on meee. I know you're gonna jump on me and squash me like a buuug. PLEASE DON'T JUMP ON ME"), and him generally embarrassing himself kinda helps offset the feeling that you shouldn't be watching a Broderick movie. Old School, Anchorman, and The Best of Will Ferrell DVDs having played on repeat during my early teens, I picked this one up shortly after it came out, previously-viewed from Blockbuster, thinking it'd be akin to those. Watching it now, I realized I really only knew the rooftop number, the singing and dancing having probably put young me off, or so I'd perhaps wanted to pretend—can't recall. The silly thing is this is just as crude and stupid (two qualities I still look for in a comedy) as any of the stuff I mentioned, so if my then fragile masculinity had only permitted me to give it a chance, I could have had a dumbo blast. But I'm here now, spurred by Lane guesting on Conan's pod (great listen, btw), and glad to be—even if I can't quite shake the thought that making out with the quasar that is Uma Thurman hardly constitutes justice served. Anywayyy, I should parlay this fresh interest in Lane's work into a Mouse Hunt rewatch.

Lemme tell you about this big dog, brother. He was a working man who'd done some righteous shit. Then there was this other guy who took a girl. Boy, did he look like Mac from Always Sunny, brother. So the big dog swears he'll get this girl home, even if he has to go through a thousand Cirque du Soleil sorts (seriously, Ayer and Stallone seem weirdly suspicious of theatre types, brother; Statham lives like Frankie from Combat Shock, while all these scumbags carry on like they're touring with Gaga's Mayhem Ball). Big dog also sinks his teeth into the mildly vampiric, sadistic hitman duo from The Replacement Killers, brother. And you know Stallone wanted to keep one Mexican, but boy, did people not like Rambo: Last Blood, brother. But see, Sly heard how Anora'd gone over, and folks love a Russian twink, brother. Not Statham, though; you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but the big dog sure has a few, brother, like a Call of Duty cam sight thing for shooting Russian twink halves of mildly vampiric, sadistic hitman duos from cover. Shit's... not so righteous. Kinda anticlimactic, in all honesty, brother. Ain't no force on Earth that'd stop this man, though, and that includes suppressing fire. And lemme tell you, ain't no force on Earth that'd stop me from watching that man work, brother.

Some kinda magic at work seeing Justice Smith bathed in purple light like in my favorite flick, and all these adorable guys I grew up with after school, beautifully brought to life and possessing real weight in the way they interact with the human actors—which would have absolutely blown my brain out my ass when I was 10. Mischa's been getting into Pokémon, wanting to play the Arceus game I ostensibly bought for her (I've been obsessed with it, spending hours and hours roaming Hisui while she sleeps), and bringing home the Essential Handbook from her school's book fair unprompted (we read a few entries every night before she goes to bed, after which I continue to utilize it in my furtive midnight quest to catch 'em all...), so she was primed for this. Unfortunately she HATED Reynolds replacing Pikachu's "cutie voice," but I thought he did a good job, and enjoyed him playfully roasting every loveable little freak he encountered. Then of course Mewtwo's always good for some cinematic gravitas to counterbalance the series' lightheartedness, but this time he's aided by some other genuinely unsettling stuff like a nightmarish, beady-eyed (but immaculately dressed) Waterhouse Ditto, whom I love and fear. I surprised Mischa with a Pikachu stuffie holding the DVD this morning because it was 4 bucks at work, but I honestly think this one warrants a 4K copy for me, to watch ad nauseam while my addiction manifests in my spotlit face screaming at our Switch Lite in the dead of night because a berry I threw to lure a bunch of Kricketot away from the hitherto elusive Pichu I need for my Pokédex hit one of the bug bastards and everyone lost their shit and bailed before I could get an ultra ball in there, fuck. Realized I must be doing something right after Mischa said, "It's no big deal, Dad! 🙂" when I told her about it. Entertained the notion that perhaps I'm doing something wrong after I then thought to myself, "Yes it is..."

I hate to be crude but in the interest of giving credit where it's due, there's a part where Lynch ranger rolls Quan into a fireman's carry then F-5s him onto a kitchen island, sending Quan tumbling to the other side where he takes a superman punch from Eriksen that scorpion spikes him back onto the kitchen island, allowing Lynch to catch Quan's legs (still arched above his head, forming the scorpion's tail) over his shoulders and Alabama slam him into the ground, after which I needed to change my underwear. Granted, there's a lot of time spent doing things that aren't the above, but those half dozen or so fights (involving 4 or less people—Quan v the big group of masked stuntmen was kinda flavorless and underwhelming) that we get are so fucking cool, and chock-full of beautiful details like Shakir's eyes... and blade that slides out of his boot and onto his forearm guard in one fluid motion, i.e. my new kink. I don't know. The good is great and the "bad"—were I to judge this solely as an action vehicle—is honestly still pretty cute, with Shakir and Tipton being particularly sweet together. It's no more cloying than Novocaine, anyway, and the action is way better, so 4 stars!

So grateful for flicks like this and Drive-Away Dolls, because spending these double act comedies of escalating hijinks in the company of loud schlubs (you know, your Rogens and Hills, etc.) was getting pretty old (a cinematically emancipated Maude Apatow featuring felt appropriate). Palmer and SZA, conversely, have this incredibly fresh energy and dynamism, which coupled with the propulsive nature of the plot made this a stirring shot of life, and the best way I've started a day in some time. I think I smiled the whole way through—except when the stakes got real, of course (which never came across as contrived, btw, something that can't be said of many of its genre fellows)—and, moreover, found my eyes welling up at nearly every emotional beat because I'd been made to care so gd much about these brilliantly realized, fleshed-out characters THAT ARE ACTUALLY LIKEABLE. Cripes, you wouldn't think that'd feel novel, but when the working-class hero analogs elsewhere are Dante and Randal, it really does. I love Dreux and Alyssa, and would gladly trade just about any existing comedy universe if it meant theirs could expand. Hell, give me more of Berniece, too—she was so fucking cool, and could easily sustain a Ridley Scott crime saga or something; Palmer's, "Shit, it's a damn villain's lair..." and those isolated, suspenseful piano plinks into the Doechii drop and chase sequence totally underscore her Denzel-level don't fuck with me quality. Obsessed with her. Anyway, fantastic film, and almost certainly one of the best we'll see this year.

Honestly one of my favorite Views Askew. Considerably darker than anything else in their catalog, with the signature banter distracting our loser heroes from the fact that they're being dragged on a Fitzcarraldon death enterprise, and the expected surreal elements constituting symptoms of a mental health crisis. It'd be too easy just to call it post-grunge Singles with sasquatch, but that about sums it up. Functions so well as a Smithian dramedy that I think—and I'm sorry if this is blasphemous (I do mostly love his work)—Smith probably should have involved Ingram in Amy, if not handed over the reins entirely... I know, I know, Smith is a good guy whose heart was in the right place, but it seems Ingram had the more delicate, nuanced touch (at least at the time), which that one would have greatly benefited from. Anyway, do track this one down if you want a Clerkslike with something different. And if you don't, Mewes is also here doing his thing, fyi.

Chappelle does a segment his first season where he (facetiously) remarks on it being questionable that Antwone Fisher should be allowed to write his own biopic, considering our natural inclination to tailor our image—often at the expense of reality. I thought about that a lot while I was watching this movie based on Jerry Stahl's book, wherein said guy who wrote 3 episodes of Alf is shown sleeping with women played by Maria Bello, Elizabeth Hurley, and Connie Nielsen.

Stiller's pretty good, though, and there's the kind of scared straight stuff I watch these nightmares for, most memorably Stiller and Zed from Pulp Fiction smoking heroin and hurling themselves at the window of an empty high rise office while The Prodigy blares, which was harrowing.

It's interesting as a curio, for sure, with the presence of people like Wilson and Garofalo evoking all those other Stiller ts, placing this one in stark contrast. But again, it's also just kind of a self-suck despite the grim elements. Circling back to the Chappelle point, we are wont to misrepresent ourselves; I mentioned Zed from Pulp Fiction as if I don't actually know Peter Greene from The Mask (I saw that cooler title to drop while I was googling him to find out if his name has an "e" at the end). Everyone’s fronting, but this feels particularly egregious, you know? Like, Hurley, only one year removed from Austin Powers, with this pretentious Alf dude? Whatever you say...

I'm sorry, what didn't people like about bad ass Lohan using cyberware and psychic powers to take down an Eli Roth reject? I honestly think 2000s TMZ just fucked us up to the point that we could no longer empathize, and instead willed this thing's failure into existence because it made a tabloid saga juicier. Anyway, we suck and I Know Who Killed Me is good, and I'm serious when I say I'd choose it over Suspiria '77 100 times out of 100. Also, pretty sure Wright ripped this off for Soho...

Buddy beside me was snoring like a buzzsaw, but I can't blame him—this is honestly one of the most boring movies I've ever seen. Still, I enjoyed watching these guys sit around and talk mob politics; felt kinda like being a kid sleeping a thin door away from the card game table at our cottage, where the dads and uncles and grandpas would play, talking about whatever stuff I didn't understand. It was just comforting knowing they were there, and I like knowing Bobby's still trying to be a tough guy at 81 (mercifully, the physical element required for the role is veiled behind a back-lit bedsheet, sparing us any more cringey, uncommitted [because he can't without hurting himself, to be fair] Irishman kicks). Then there’s the other half of his dual performance, an openly elderly guy who only wants to garden and walk Debra Messing's little dogs, sleepily realized, for sure, but isn't that suitable? I don't know. What I do know is that Cosmo Jarvis gives one of the best goddamn neck performances of all time, and I'm not being facetious. It's incredible, the thing seemingly constricting and bulging at the top when his character's forced into a packed courtroom to face an attempted murder charge, and spilling out in waves when he's relaxed and riding with the boys through farm country, enjoying some of that Pileggi banter. It's D'Onofrio in MiB level stuff, I shit you not. You gotta see it.

Anyway, Unforgiven deconstructed the Western and all, but it was still a pretty damn cool Western. You really want to raze a toxically masculine genre to the ground, have its paradigm shakily hold a couple of lap dogs in mink coats. Legit, this is the Joker: Folie à Deux of gangster movies.

I sort of love it for that.

I enjoyed how Gadot's fits and faces were very Lady Gaga-like (as well as her big musical number, which was somehow so Abracadabra on SNL), to the point that I think Gaga would have actually crushed the role. But the last thing I want to do is contribute to the maddening discourse around this thing's casting, so I'll shut up. Gadot is campy fun and Zegler's visage is a great canvas for big Disney princess emoting; I was charmed by everything she was doing. Burnap also seemed to be channeling a bit of Thomas Haden Church, pleasing this George of the Jungle junkie. Pretty small-scale and by-the-numbers as far as medieval fantasy films go, but I dug that? We already have those Sanders ts, and the quiet, warm-lit woodsy stuff kinda made me think of Oblivion—something that's always welcome. And lastly, while this is completely unique to my experience and probably doesn't bear mentioning in a review, Mischa's tiny hand reached over and held my hand and I could have started belting out that hand-holding song. Love my little bud.

Beowulf's technically an epic and all, but wouldn't it be more epic if we added Molly Mounds from the end of Armageddon and approximately 6,000 flips? And if the Old English oral tradition didn't include an EDM backing track, they were doing it wrong! I talked a lot of shit about Lambert yesterday, but I'll it that I sure ate crow when they naturally backlit him raising dual crossbows after a suit-up montage. Also, it's crazy how much of The Mummy Returns and Resident Evil (2002)—2 of my all-timers—is in this, considering it predates them by a few years; Grendel's mom (again, Molly Mounds from the end of Armageddon [can't get over that]) goes full-on cg arachnid Rock, and Grendel is a wall-crawling Licker. Patricia Velasquez is even here! I mean, are you trying to get in my pants, director Graham Baker? Because I'm about to throw myself at you like Grendel's mom played by Molly Mounds from the end of Armageddon does all those dudes getting done in by their stupid dicks.

Love this one.

The movie's presented to us as a story that an old man is telling his grandson, which makes the part where Lambert makes out with Brook pretty funny.

On that note, ngl, I watched this for Brook, who I'd never seen before Piranha 3D, where she certainly made an impression. She's of course radiant here, too, especially opposite Lambert, whose character is visibly suffering from the late stage of a deadly virus, and who in reality suffers from jarring late-career Thomas Jane face, even in his "prime." I just don't buy him as a leading man; he can't act and he doesn't have a cool screen presence, which might have made up for the former, as was the case with early Arnold. How'd he become a thing? But to give credit where it's due, I don't ever get the sense that he's phoning it in. Failure can be interesting, if not commendable when it comes after earnest effort.

Anyway, the movie's ok. It kinda touches on the opioid crisis, but could also easily be adopted by anti-vax idiots, so do be sure to watch Absolon with your kids, in case they have any questions—and don't skip the make out part, which our reliable and horny narrator deemed important, and so must we.

I mean it's wish-fulfillment bullshit Kick-Ass stuff for white teenagers and twentysomethings whose dreams never materialized then, who now find themselves in their 30s working boring, dead-end jobs. "It can still happen for you!" this movie encourages, aaand... it kinda worked for me. Of course having a famous dad like 2 of the stars here would help, but young Quaid does a good enough job playing a dorky everyman that I bought into the fantasy, and entertained the notion of my life maybe having meaning someday too. There's even an "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" montage. I vividly recall blaring that en route to see Starsky & Hutch (2004)—my MOST anticipated movie at the time—which is to say that I am the white, media illiterate loser this movie's intended for, so do take this recommendation with a grain of salt.

Gary Daniels plays a plaid-clad lad who's none too glad that... uhh... his partner got ventilated in the Los Angeles River. Just about the most clichéd LA cop t you'll ever see, but boy is it comfortable as a result (ACAB for sure, but I spent a huge amount of my formative years in a DVD box set, bouncing around La La Land with Riggs and Murtaugh [and yes I will nest this further acknowledgment that the man who gave us Riggs is trash; trying to come to with the fact that most of what I like sucks, and cleaves my head in two if I think about it for even a second]). Daniels gets to DROP a bunch of stunt performers, who don't just eat shit, but feast, folding up, wedging under dumpsters, and paying a visit to licensed safe house chiropractor, Dr. Chair Back. Nakajo is also pretty cool, getting into some light Brother (2000) type stuff, striking an interestingly discordant image in his smooth, impeccable suits, set against a very textured, living LA backdrop. And while I'm on the subject, Daniels' tucked white T under long plaid unbuttoned button-up under short leather jacket look is sooo gd good; I occasionally wear this jacket that my shirts show from, and while I was worried that I look like a slob, now I know that I look like a guy who does low spinning leg sweeps, and will absolutely miss meeting my neglected girlfriend's parents for the first time because I'm sworn to stew over a cup of coffee down at the precinct, and bathe in my superior's spittle as he dresses me down and poorly conceals that he's crooked, which I'm indefensibly oblivious to, along with my girlfriend's needs. You know, a hero.

Tough experience to rate because on the one hand, the content of his films makes me think Aja is a grody (though ittedly talented) piece of shit, but on the other, there's no denying that the way this bacchanalian celebration of the human body—well, women's bodies—becomes a nightmarish practical effects reel is highly effective, evoking a degree of disgust that I haven't felt while watching a movie in a long time. I guess that's ultimately what guys like Aja and Roth have as their aim, so I'll chalk this up as a success and give it the 3, but let the lack of a heart serve as a raised eyebrow in said dudes' direction.

Gibson in that stupid cape trying to kill Trejo is exactly how I imagine the activities of those Hollywood ambassador assholes, so Trejo then flamethrowering his face plays pretty well. That Gibson's also an evil tech oligarch adds to the catharsis, though this is of course offset by an appearance by his character's real-life counterpart, which made me want to hurl. But speaking in of the film's balance, for every jerk rearing their shithead (Gibson's one of the few people who could make you miss Seagal), and creepy foot favor Rodriguez (Robert) is clearly doing for his lecherous pal, Tarantino, you get Gaga holding a gun sideways (and upside down), and Zaror (playing a guy named Zaror!) actually getting to show his stuff after an infuriating swerve near the start when Trejo immediately and effortlessly guts him; his shotgun acrobatics later are sick. All things considered, I'm inclined to say it ultimately tips the way of being fun.

Also—and I know this is a pointless observation—Rodriguez (Michelle) gets the Depp Once Upon a Time in Mexico treatment, violently losing both eyes but continuing to fight, and it's Heard she's up against... Like, it's kinda interesting, right? No? Ah. Sorry to have wasted your time then.

Love that Bong Joon-ho looked around and thought, “Hmm, there are more and more people nowadays who won’t understand that Starship Troopers is about fascism, and that we’re the bad guys in it… Better dumb it down for them,” then updated the space nazis to space maga weirdos to boot—what a legend.

Was totally drawn into this meticulously-designed world and the prospect of a threesome that’s two-thirds Pattinson, Bong having also ostensibly thought, “Hmm, High Life’s kinda hot, but wayyy too dark for people to get off to… Better lighten it up for them.” Again, legend.

What I'm saying is, this movie rules.

I’ve watched this twice in a few days and initially I thought it was strangely unimaginative for a movie about a child’s reveries, e.g. extension cord enemies, but this time around, the elements of Max’s mundane life that manifest in the dream world made more sense, and seemed congruous with the sort of dream logic that’d be possessed by an innocent mind. All of that’s to say, it’s a kids movie, and a charming, sweet one at that, partly owing to it ostensibly being by kids for kids (Rodriguez directed it but his son's stories apparently served as the framework), like those Dav Pilkey comics. Sure, Rodriguez might not have "caught the big fish" for this particular film, to borrow Lynch’s description of dreams as the impetus of art, but I’m glad he didn’t throw it back. Plus buddy had nothing to prove anyway, having already hung the Mexico Trilogy and Sin City up on his wall. Why not spend 50 million bonding with your boy?

I like Pollux Troy as Rhino because he's smart and strong and wears a little backpack. A few days ago I was razzed for wearing a little backpack, only it didn't have a catheter I could pull out to animorph, just snacks and a Nintendo Switch, which would have made things worse. Anyway, I've decided to devote my life to supervillainy because that one person said something kinda mean to me, like my hero, Pollux Troy as Rhino.

So, so dumb but this action-loving vegan (with a high tolerance for movies widely considered "terrible," it should be mentioned) isn't going to turn down 2 hours of sexy, shredded Aaron Taylor-Johnson scorpion spiking poachers and shit. That he also serves hot coffee in a modern rustic tiny home with a lot of natural light is doing it for me, too.

In closing, Fred Hechinger has it in him to be the new Caleb Landry Jones, and I fully him in this endeavor.

I know the source material predates all of it, but to my broken brain that can only view a movie in relation to other movies, this was Sleepy Hollow (1999), Sommers' Mummies, and The Lost World: Jurassic Park packed into a finely detailed little locket that I just can't stop sniffing. Also—and I'm sorry to say it—the final image kinda evokes the husk of spent Bobby in Scary Movie (Regina Hall also had the shaking down in 3 before Lily-Rose Depp here, though she is very good, too). But I mean, really, this isn't as far removed from Scary Movie as you might think, at least in of its horniness and goofiness, the latter being less pervasive, of course, but it is there, e.g. those sudden cuts to the guys standing around after something crazy like, "Shit, eh." Anyway, delicious in all respects.

Absolute sob machine. Treads similar ground to Flow but resonated so much more (kinda felt that one would have been a better game than movie, but also that I'd played that game a few times already), which I guess I'll chalk up to Nyong'o's fantastic work and the way she completely sells the character's change. Of course anyone who has experienced said change (this is a movie about parenting, if you weren't aware, and boy is it unflinching ["CRUSHING OBLIGATION!"]) will likely get that bit extra out of it, but it does everything so well that it'd take a hard heart indeed not to be at least a little stirred. So gd good.

I did watch this again today—after further investigation, I've concluded that Grande is a comedy genius—but I am mostly using this "review" for proud dad purposes, because Mischa was enthralled by the making-of bonus feature on the disc, which she requested afterwards to find out how they made Erivo green. She was also pumped to hear Hunter from Paddington in Peru during a Last Wish rewatch this morning, seemingly first becoming cognizant of a particular actor playing different characters. I should show her Desperado next, right? Anyway, later she was asking about FFVII stuff, specifically why I was attacking my own person. Really hope she goes into school Monday talking about how equipping Tifa with Powersoul and casting Death Sentence on her lets her steamroll enemies for a short period, so Mischa's classmates can go home with something useful, as opposed to the Skibidi shit she picked up.

Self-aggrandizing, sure, but also Tom DeLonge self-aggrandizes just by thinking about your mom.

This isn't great. However, Spielberg and J.J. have never given us enough Spitfire and Toy Machine tats, or Dead Kennedys Ts to go along with our youthful inquiries into the mysteries of the universe, so I mean, really, Tom has just identified a need and filled it. Good business there.

And he seems to have known I'd be a sucker for two people falling in love to what I'm quite certain is infringing on "A Real Hero" from the Drive soundtrack, as the San Diego sun sets *swoons*, so I'm inclined to say I liked the movie overall.

Probably wouldn't recommend it, though.

Chappelle's such a comedy heavyweight that when he punches down, it really feels wrong, and while one could still rightly laud him for his technique, which is second to none, what's it worth when an innocent person gets it on the button? Here he's not yet become the elder statesman SNL dad figure that he is now, though, so it's slightly easier to forgive his youthful carelessness, aaand he does occasionally stick up for the little guy, in his own winding way, of course; so many gd swerves, most of which are pretty clever, it must be said. Chappelle's haughty white guy voice is also very funny, to the point that it just about pasteurizes a few of those jokes others have pointed out as being milk-like in how they've aged. I don't know. I did laugh a lot, but would advise anyone interested to proceed with caution.

Theo James was basically doing Peter Parker and post-dad death Harry Osborn (dude has crazy Franco face), which coupled with Perkins' rainy BC as northern coastal state '90s aesthetic made for a very pleasing watch. The gore's also executed with aplomb, if that's your bag, but you can easily get by on the aforementioned vibes alone, vibes I'd been hankering for more of since finally catching Longlegs a couple weeks ago. I'll be honest, I found stretches of that one to be strangely comforting—just in of the visuals, and not the serial killer stuff, I swear—so it's nice to have something slightly more lighthearted to wallow in, without raising immediate red flags.

The most dumbass ersatz Carnahan bullshit, but dammit if I didn’t have a blast watching. Drew McIntyre shits himself and Adkins just kept making me think of Paddy Considine if he got kicked by a horse and I'm not even sure why. Everything's stupid but that works a treat if you're stupid, or can at least downshift for a hundred or so minutes (the degree to which I enjoyed this suggests that the former applies to me). Actually, you know what isn't stupid, Bautista and Boutella as a couple, which had me pretty invested. Also Bautista playing someone whose line of work warrants concerns re: neurodegenerative disease... Easy to buy that. My Dad and I would have totally owned this on DVD if it had come out in the mid 2000s. Wish I had watched it with him, but this viewing did include brief intermissions at 12:19 a.m., when I texted him about being more into the drama than I'd expected; 12:49 a.m., when I felt compelled to let him know there were exotic dancing assassins (again, this thing was conjuring up hormonal 15-year-old 2005 Dylan); and 12:56 a.m., when I ordered a copy of the movie to his house lol. I don't know. It's got Adkins, Bernhardt, and Zaror ffs—AND Dylan Moran from Shaun of the Dead, randomly (where ya been, bud?), just to further establish that temporal bridge to the aughts, where at least 2 of these stars are likely coming from. Anyway, love this, hate myself, so going to bed in a state of equilibrium.

Equilibrium was sick, too, eh.

It's way too late at night for me to properly articulate what I mean, but this just lacked a certain... vibe, one that is present in those Instagram nostalgia page posts I'm always pushing on here, and in I Saw the TV Glow. I think it has something to do with how you imagine history as having been black and white, when obviously things were just as vibrant as the world around us today. Similarly, when I look back on the '90s and 2000s, it's always tinged with a slight sadness (which isn't necessarily bad, to be clear; feeling sad is feeling something [arguably what life's all about], and that's not always been a given as I've grown older), and what I see are empty spaces. Again, this obviously doesn't represent the sole reality—there were definitely parties packed full of people dancing to Sisqó—but whether it's owing to the relative isolation of adolescence pre-internet era (granted, it had already dawned, but I was late to embrace it), or my youth having been defined by a kind of melancholy (consciously cultivated through the music I listened to, as adolescents are wont to do), this just didn't feel the way I wanted it to, i.e. like I Saw the TV Glow, which I think is the best movie I've ever seen. That's super unfair and stupidly subjective, but that's where I'm at. Wish I could explain it better.

Could just be that I haven’t seen enough of this stuff, and thus am drawing comparisons where there aren’t many, but I was reminded of This Is Where I Leave You—a movie I deeply love—and its similarly complicated bunch of characters and the relationships between them. Like in that one, a very uncomfortable set-up leads to one of the most comfortable things I can imagine, i.e. finally reconciling who you are (what you believe, what you value, what you want) with who you were, something I’ve never really been able to do. There’s a part in Grey Gardens that I think about often, when Big Edie says to Little Edie, who’s lamenting not having done something, “… you didn’t feel then the way you do now. Everybody thinks and feels differently as the years go by, don’t they?” The truth is we erroneously prioritize things, and it's easy to dislike ourselves, or Davis’s character for that, but it’s often integral to gaining perspective and understanding what is important. Then there are times when who we were just isn't who we are, and that person wanted something different, which is ok, you know?

Maybe things between Harper and Riley get wrapped up a little too neatly, but it’s a feel-good Christmas movie, and did I ever feel good seeing everything get sorted out. Until such time that I’m genuinely inspired to deal with my own shit, I’ll take a nice vicarious pleasure.