Paul Blart: Mall Cop

At 5:30 AM, sitting in a mountain-themed airport bar, desperately waiting for the magical 6 O’clock hour to roll around so we can restart the drinking most of us only stopped a few hours earlier, our conversation turned to possible in-flight entertainment.

Son of Rambow

It’s the early 1980s and First Blood is awesome.  And I’m not the only one that thinks so.  Two British school lads have my back on this one.  Will Proudfoot (Bill Milner) is shy and reserved.  I should also mention that his family is part of some wack-a-doo sect called the Brethren, and his mother has headscarves in every shade of bland known to human kind. 

Will is not allowed to watch TV, have outside friends, or do anything that even remotely resembles fun.  There is, however, a little rebellious streak somewhere deep down inside.  He makes flipbooks out of his notebooks, and the pages of his bible are covered with drawings of fantastic creatures and brilliant colors.  It’s there; it just needs to be developed.  Enter resident badass, Lee Carter (Will Poulter).  He’s the worst kid in school—think Bart Simpson but without those wussy pangs of guilt or remorse when he does something really fucked up.  Lee Carter steals and lies and uses his older brother’s video equipment to pirate movies.

The Wrestler

It seems appropriate that Bruce Springsteen wrote a song for the end credits of The Wrestler, since the entire movie feels like a Nebraska era Springsteen song come to life.  The entire movie is drenched in sorrow and defeat, and you squirm in your seat as you watch characters that have no hope of ever getting out of the swamp that is their life.  The town is bleak, and so is the outlook.  It’s about as sunny and cheerful as Darren Aronofsky’s earlier smile-fest, Requiem for a Dream.  Thanks for the pick me up, Darren, I’m going to go kill myself now, but kill myself in the best possible way.

The Host

I want to hug Korea. There are a couple of reasons for this uncharacteristic burst of touchy-feelyness, but today I specifically want to wrap my arms around them and squeeze because of The Host.

Taken

As someone with an undying love and devotion to the cinema of ass kicking, I have a rather large problem with so many of the new jack action movies hitting the multi-plex. Here is my issue, at no point through the entire length of these films does the audience ever for a single moment think that the protagonist is in any danger whatsoever, nor is there ever a question that he will reach his goal and save the day. There is no tension, none. I loved Casino Royale, but Daniel Craig’s second turn as Bond, Quantum of Solace, bored the living shit out of me.

Demolition Man as Post-Marxist Nostalgia

I've been in Mexico for the past month, hence no posts (not that anyone is out there in TV land anyway). Here goes.

For my money, Demolition Man, Sylvester Stallone’s 1993 sci-fi epic, is Sly pretty close to the peak of his game (obviously the Rambo and Rocky movies are on another level entirely, but this is every bit as badass as Cobra, Tango and Cash, and Over the Top—yeah, I said it). He plays John Spartan, late twentieth-century super-cop, who is wrongly convicted of blowing up some civilians and sentenced to a stint in cryo-prison. A few decades down the line, super villain Simon Phoenix (Wesley Snipes), who actually blew up all the innocent civilians Spartan was blamed for blowing up, is thawed out and unleashed on the metroplex of San Angeles, a peaceful, pussified new world, where violence is a thing of the past and everyone is a raging sissy. Since Spartan is the one who put Phoenix away the first time, and the cops are totally useless and unschooled in the way of ass kicking, they thaw out our good buddy Stallone and much mayhem ensues.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Aliens? Why the fuck is it aliens? The only thing I hate more than “it’s aliens,” is “oh, it was all just a dream.” I can even stomach the biblical mythology from Raiders and the Last Crusade, but this is going way too far. Thanks George Lucas for fucking up yet another of the treasured cinematic memories of my youth. Don’t worry, I didn’t give anything away, the movie starts out at “Hanger 51” in the Nevada desert, so you have two hours to think about aliens and fume.