Get Shorty came out, the movie to which Be Cool is a sequel,
it worked damned well. It was one of those seemingly rare
instances where so many things came into place and allow a
certain magic to happen. John Travolta's career had just been
reborn (again), a great cast and director had been lined up,
and a great screenplay had come from a great novel. It's a
lot like having the right ingredients for a really great beer.
now here we are ten years later. Travolta hasn't put out a
decent movie in a few years now and his career is about to
spit out yet another death rattle. The cast is so contrived
and unbelievable that it's almost like watching every episode
of "The View" simultaneously.
lacks all of the quirks that Get Shorty had and, worst of all,
Be Cool violates my rule of sequels-if you wait more than five
years to follow up, you shouldn't bother. If The Godfather and
Star Wars can't pull it off, Travolta sure as shit isn't going
Cool allows me the opportunity to gloat victoriously. It's
pretty much a rehash of Get Shorty which was plausible because
a film buff/loan shark turned film producer was plausible.
You could buy it, leave it at that and enjoy the film. But
there's really no indication aside from his experience with
dealing with gangsters as to why Travolta's character Chili
Palmer would want anything to do with the record business.
He meanders through the plot (or lack thereof), working the
situations and ensuring that all will work out in the end.
as for this big dance scene with Uma Thurman that's supposed
to be the highlight of Be Cool, it's more like being at a
dive in Cheektowaga on dingus day. It falls flatter than Debra
Cool is a yawn and a snore all rolled into one. Oh sure, some
of the actors have their moments, namely Vince Vaughn as the
wigger manager who's entertaining for a few scenes before
he decides to go over the top, but the crap-to-compensation
ratio doesn't justify the price of a ticket. Get Shorty was
like a really tasty India Pale Ale that you wanted to savor.
Be Cool is like a metallic-tasting Coors that's made mostly
out of three-year-old recycled beer.
(Actor plays himself, likable thug, talented actor makes,
it wasn't abundantly clear that Vin Diesel was gunning for
the title of Arnold, Jr., it's flat out obvious with The Pacifier.
a Kindergarten Cop knock-off where the human antelope plays
a Navy SEAL protecting the family of a scientist who has invented
an encryption key wanted by kidnappers/terrorists. (Oh my
God! Can I say terrorists!?)
When Diesel came onto the scene, he made some smart choices.
Saving Private Ryan and the underrated Boiler Room made the
missing link hard to read. He looked like he was going somewhere.
But as far as his career is concerned, quality was bested
by quantity and now he's just fodder for the masturbatory
fantasies of fat chicks with no taste and gay men who may
or may not have taste. I've never had a penis in my mouth,
so I can't comment on the comeliness of Mumbles the Jarneck.
I can comment on is the fact that this was one of the most
terrible movies ever conceived, let alone made. There's a
scene where Diesel directs a school play and another where
he battles girl scouts. And the whole obligatory warming-up-to-the-kids
aspect of the story gets even more unbearable every time I
you know of a kid who wants to see this movie, you should
tell them you'll take them to Disneyland instead. Drive to
a burned down warehouse, and watch them cry. Let the little
bastard off the hook after a few hours and tell them that's
what they get for having no taste or sense.
(Actor plays self, evil genius, simplistic, nauseatingly cute,
glorification of law)
there has to be one recurring theme in the film industry (and
I know that there are many), it has to be that of rehashing.
I think it was Keith Richards who once said something to the
effect that there only being maybe seven original songs and
everything else being a rip-off. The same is true of movies.
the same is true of The Jacket. You've got a worn out, troubled
military vet teetering on the line dividing reality and imagination.
Of course he falls into menacing situations that again, may
or may not be real. Sounds a lot like the Tim Robbins film
Jacob's Ladder to me.
Brody plays the emotionally mangled vet this time out, and
he's actually good. He acts mostly with his scarecrow-like
frame and longer-than-an-Oscar-ceremony face. And it's always
a pleasure to see Kris Kristofferson, who shows up as a sadistic
doctor, also with his weathered face. And as for highlights,
that's about it. The Jacket bounces around like a superball
on crystal meth with the time travel aspects of the plot and
it tries really hard not to annoy, but quits attempting sooner
yourself can achieve what The Jacket tries to succeed in with
some cheap cold medications and three bottles of MD 20/20
on an empty stomach. If you're up for some somewhat solid
performances, it's worth checking out, but if you're looking
for some genuine scares, keep looking.
(Impossible science, special effects, mind fuck, talented
of the House
type of film that an actor stars in is usually a pretty good
indication as to where they're at in their own personal life
and/or career. If someone's in something of quality, you can
tell that things are probably going well for them. Common sense,
also works the other way, too. If an actor does something
that shows promise (or at least they think it shows promise)
and it turns out to be a Gigli or an Ishtar, it may not apply,
but when you open an envelope with a script in it and it smells
like someone mailed you a piece of gopher shit, you have no
excuse. Or you need to money.
Man of the House, all I could think and wonder was WHY? Why
would an actor who has proven that he is definitely adept
at his craft star in a movie about a twitchy Texas ranger
who has to protect five cheerleaders that witness a murder?
Now I tell you the plot, and you think that the ranger will
become less spastic and the cheerleaders will each go through
some sort of issues like bulimia, emotional abandonment, and
popularity through promiscuity.
knew the score before I walked into the theater. I have no
one to blame but myself. I've been down this road, people.
I've stared into the abyss and sat so close to it that I felt
its icy breath in my face. And it gave me a look that chills
me to this very day.
you haven't figured out how I feel about this movie or what
I think about it, let me put it this way-if someone were to
force me to watch this Man of the House or plummet several
hundred feet to my death, I'd probably watch the movie. That's
just kind of dumb. But I would smash whoever made me watch
it right in the mouth once the credits rolled.
(Actor plays himself, evil genius, simplistic epiphany, glorification
of law, likable thug, talented actor makes, noble retard)
of a Mad Black Woman
Darren Grant, director of Diary of a Mad Black Woman,
are my hero. I don't know how you did this sir, but you have
earned my undying respect.
one question remains:
did you do it? How in the hell did you convince a studio to
give you an obscene amount of money with the intention of artistically
wiping your ass with it? Did they know right away that you were
going to fuck them over or did you wait until the first screening
to surprise them?
a first time director and you have opened a door for other
first timers trying to get their foot in the door. You have
allowed them in their pitch to say, "It won't be Diary
of a Mad Black Woman."
You are going to put the alternate ending on the DVD when
it comes out, right? The one where Ashton Kutcher pops onto
the frame and tells the audience they just got Punk'd?
fuck, chick flick, dramatic embellishment)
film's title refers not to some sort of affliction to the
movie's characters, but rather to the wallet of anyone who
forked over money or spent time on it.
to the industry that allowed this movie to be made.
is directed by Wes Craven, which leads you to believe that
it's going to be scary, even if it's not that good, but it's
not either. Cursed could have been good, but the emasculation
of the movie in order to get a PG-13 rating has sacrificed
a copy & paste version of Scream (even to the point of
sticking a "Happy Days" cast member in there), minus
the balls. I had my suspicions that it was going to suck,
so I wasn't that disappointed when it actually delivered in
that respect. But the thing that did disturb me about this
movie was how sickly Christina Ricci is looking. The once
lovely and voluptuous angel has caught the skank bug and is
now wasting away.
like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue...
(talented actor makes bad, noble retard)