Avengers: Endgame: Fine Entertainment for Humans … Like Me

 

Avengers: Endgame: Fine Entertainment for Humans … Like Me

Reviewed by Graktar the Terrible Max Human for HumbleHeckler.com

(Editor’s note: The following review contains content the author attempted to redact by using his Word program’s strikethrough function.)

The new filmed entertainment Avengers: Endgame is a sequel to a film about a giant purple space monster who wipes out half of all life on Earth with a snap of his fingers—and yet it isn’t as funny as it sounds. In fact, many of the Earthlings seated in close proximity to me were actually excreting ocular fluid from their cranial orbs in spasmodic flailings of emotion. The estrogen sack (or female) reclining next me was even blubbering. Go figure. You’d never see Queck the Conqueror, Primary Overlord of Invasion my friend Dave acting like that in a public place. Strangely, I must confess that listening to the grinding sounds made by this woman’s obstructed sinuses in concert with the occasional bout of intestinal distress brought on by her overconsumption of nachos did soothe my dorsal mantle cavity nerves, which as you know, decelerates production in my venom glands is good. And that warm feeling always reminds me of my youth, playing in the Zircon fields on Kakadonia 12 baseball.

Anyhoo, this filmed entertainment stars the Second Robert Downey as a man who has engineered some sort of intelligent armor that gives him command over an arsenal of advanced weaponry as well as the power of flight, giving him a tactical advantage in almost any combat situation. He’s also dating a hottie. Large Blond Man plays Thor, some sort of God. From the context provided by the film, I assume he is the God of Hammers. There’s a man who turns into a green monster when he’s annoyed. There’s a black-leather-clad female assassin. And then there’s—oh, I don’t know, something like 60 other “heroes” or something. It’s almost impossible to keep track of all these characters. After all, my training focused mainly on World Conquering and Obliterating Inferior Life Forms math, not cinema. So cut me some slack, okay.

I suppose, as an overall entertainment experience, Avengers: Endgame isn’t terrible. It’s certainly better than having your tentacle pustules lanced by a smoldering plutonium-charged blade Alf. Although I have to admit that the three-hour runtime placed nearly unbearable stresses on at least three of my bladders, not the mention the damage I could’ve done to my acidic bile ejector. But then again, it’s probably my fault for buying the big Pepsi.

All in all, the film works as a fun, escapist thrill ride. The actors do a fine job of pretending. However, the so-called “action” scenes are laughably naïve. Don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything important, but let’s just say, if these heroes and this technology is the best Earth has to offer as resistance to a full-scale invasion … well, then, I suggest you go out and see this film before your world is reduced to towering piles smoldering ash and every Earthling’s physical vessel is rendered a quivering goo puddle. Also, the effects are neat.

All hail Queen Xlylonia! So go see it and have a ball.

(Avengers: Endgame is rated PG-13 for the incessant whining of fleshy humans, a few profane utterances, laughably simple scenarios of destruction, and adult situations.)

End communication. Thanks for reading.

 

 

Shazam! is Amazeballs!

Shazam! is Amazeballs!

Reviewed by Ozzy the Easily Amazed Critic for TheHumbleHeckler.com 

Shazam! is the perfect title for this thrill ride of movie, and not just because it’s the name of the film’s hero. First of all, you just gotta love titles that end with an exclamation point. How cool is that? You almost never see that. And then there’s the word itself: Shazam. I mean, even without the exclamation point, that is one hell of a title. And then there’s the font they chose for the title. I don’t know what that font is officially called, but it’s like—BAM! That font just screams “Hey, man, check me out. I’m a seriously cool title.” And that’s just how the movie starts.

This sucker starts to rev its engine as soon as it begins. The story is so faced paced; it’s like—POW! The story rocks so hard it melted my face within two or three minutes, and then I was, like, whoa … cool. As for the special effects. Well, it should come as no surprise that the effects were like—KAPOW! It’s like, you’ve seen other movies before, and you think you’ve seen really good effects, but then you see this, and it’s like—WHOOOOOP! There’s was one action scene where I was like, “no way!” but the film was all like, “uh-huh, dawg. Just breathe, bro. We’ll get through this together.” Thank God for Mountain Dew Code Red, ’cuz, trust me, bro, after a few of these action sequences, you’re gonna need a drink, and probably a quick nosh. Too bad movie theaters don’t make tater tots. Ah, man, this movie with tots would be like—PLADOW!

Even the acting in this movie was hella tight, dawg. It stars that dude that was Chuck on that show with the hot chick. The kid actors were also stylin’, which came as shock, bro, cuz usually dem young’uns suck it hard. There’s this one kid who’s all banged up and needs crutches and whatnot, but that kid is funny AF; there were even a few times where I was laughin’ so hard I almost squirted Mountain Dew Code Red out of my nose, bro. I laughed so hard, it was all like—BANGOW! At one point the dude sittin’ next to me was like—WHAAAAT! He turned to me, all surprised and whatnot, and I was like, “I know, right?” and then he was like, “Right?”

Basically, you can’t go wrong with this movie. The music was like—GAZANG! The girlies was poppin’. A few of dem hotties was like—KAZOW! The action was all—FLOMP! The story was like—TANG! The cinematography was downright—CARAAACK! And the production design was full-on—WHAZOW!

This movie punched me in my nuts, then mellowed me out like a breezy day on the beach with my best girl, my tunes, and some ice-cold Mountain Dew Code Red. So throw your money at the chick who works at the box office, like—Fladow! and demand your ticket to Shazam! Sure, the film may be thematically reductive, creatively bankrupt, uninspired philosophically, derivative of much more important films, lacking in voice and vision, and created solely to benefit from the ongoing popularity of superhero cinema that is completely devoid of artistic integrity in order to serve a faceless corporate master whose sinister intentions include, but are not limited to, world domination through the dumbing-down of the population through the propagation of numerous commercial entertainment properties—but it sure goes down easy with some nachos and a nice, tall Mountain Dew Code Red.

I give Shazam! a righteous fist bump, a bro hug, and 10 stars out of a possible ten.

(Shazam! is PG-13 for comic book violence, adult themes, some gun scenes where there’s lots of like—BLAM! and a few emotional scenes that make even grown men feel like—DAMN!)

 

Pet Sematary (2019): A Strange but Effective Adaptation

Pet Sematary (2019): A Strange but Effective Adaptation

Reviewed by Simon Johnston for TheHumbleHeckler.com. 

(Editor’s note: One day before attending the screening for this film, critic Simon Johnston was kicked in the head by a rogue mule during a family farm outing. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)

Adaptation is a fickle art form; delicate in its intricacies, and merciless in its ability to expose the film’s every flaw. Most adaptations fail … miserably. Adaptations of beloved best-sellers have an even lower batting average. And Stephen King adaptations almost always suck. The problem with adapting any popular work is that there are no rules, no guidelines, no lifeguards on duty to warn screenwriters away from treacherous waters. Therefore, I tend to be as openminded as possible when reviewing adaptations, particularly when considering films that already occupy exalted status in the popular culture. And for Pet Sematary this is doubly true, as the ’80s have already gifted us with a popular and beloved novel and a film adaptation whose status among horror fans continues to not only endure but flourish. So this 2019 version of Pet Sematary has to slake the thirst of moviegoers as both an adaptation of classic novel and as remake of a classic horror film. Or is this actually a reboot? A soft reboot? Don’t know, don’t care. What I do know for sure is this is one of the strangest, most liberal interpretations of known material I’ve ever seen. These filmmakers really went out on a limb with this one.

As most of you know, Pet Sematary is based on the 1983 Stephen King classic novel Christine, only this time, instead of a 1958 Plymouth Fury, Christine is a big ole 18-wheeler with an appetite for human flesh. The story begins when the Creed family leaves the hustle and bustle of Boston for the fresh air, quiet, and low-stress environment of the Maine countryside. But things aren’t as bucolic as they seem. Christine, now a massive truck, regularly terrorizes the backroads of this quaint little New England town, looking for fresh victims to run over and then somehow bring back as zombies or something … I think in this version Christine is a Native American spirit that buries dead pets (and, unfortunately, people) somewhere spooky, then they come back as killer trucks, too. Something like that. Anyway, it’s nothing like the Stephen King novel or the original film directed by John Carpenter, which took a more traditional approach to adaptation, casting Christine as a killer car and leaving the Creed family out of the story altogether.

But, as weird as it may be, Pet Sematary is still a really strong movie in its own way. Jason Clarke does a fine job in a dual role as Louis Creed and as Christine. Amy Seimetz also makes a stellar impression in her dual role as Rachel Creed (Louis’s scaredy-cat wife) and as the woman who sold me a Coke. But it’s newcomer John Lithgow who steals the show, playing the nicotine-stained denim enthusiast Jud Crandall as well as giving life to the role of Winston Churchill, the family cat (a role he’d already played to perfection on the Netflix series The Crown). There’s also a little girl who does some stuff, but her character is ultimately unimportant to the overall plot. And then there’s a little boy who just wandered onto the set by accident and for some reason they made him the Creed’s son, Gage.

Speaking of the plot: it’s a hot mess. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some really good stuff here. I was enthralled with everything concerning Winston Churchill (they call him Church, for some reason) becoming a serial killer. Every scene that focuses on Church as he selects, stalks, tortures, and eventually kills his many victims (he kills 431 people and one big-ass rat in this film) is riveting. But these scenes are also absurdly gratuitous. For example, in one sequence Church decapitates a hitchhiker with a chainsaw, then we watch as he methodically skins his victim, filets his flesh, and meticulously prepares the corpse for his dinner—which we then watch him eat. In its entirety! None of this is necessary. There are also entirely too many fart jokes. In my humble opinion, horror and fart jokes are not compatible. There’s an actual scene in which Ellie (Louis and Rachel’s daughter) farts on Church, who in turn vomits on Gage, who in turn vomits on Jud, who already has diarrhea, so he poops his pants, which make louis sick, which makes Ellie laugh so hard she farts on Church again. Is this supposed to be scary? Funny? To be honest, at this point in the film I zoned out for a while and focused my attention on an order of concessions-stand nachos. I flat-out destroyed those bitches, then hit the bathroom for some sweet relief.

When I returned to the theater, the film had undergone a serious plot twist. Louis was now a man in a red suit with a lightning bolt on it who calls himself Shazooki or something. Gage was now a paraplegic teenager who regards his father more like a friend than a parent. The whole thing was so incredibly confusing I had to consider that I may have walked into the wrong theater after leaving the bathroom. Either way, there was still just way, way too much farting.

Pet Sematary may not be the scariest movie you see this year. That is all.

I give Pet Sematary 4.683 out of 10. I would’ve rated the film higher, but there’s just so much farting. I mean, really, people. Come on.

(Pet Sematary is rate R for adult language, graphic violence, graphic depiction of surgery, fish taunting, unsupervised tire swinging, threatening weather, superfluous gasoline usage, and one fart joke after another until you just want to smack someone.)

Five More Misleading Movie Titles That Will Ruin Movie Night

Five More Misleading Movie Titles That Will Ruin Movie Night

By Frank Wellspring for TheHumbleHeckler.com

In the spirit of honesty, I will begin this article by admitting that I sometimes make the mistake of taking movie titles a bit too literally. However, that does not excuse studios and filmmakers from doing a poor job of naming their films. Ambiguity is the enemy when selecting a movie title. I mean, consider a title like Slumber Party Massacre—nothing ambiguous about that. And guess what features prominently in films like The Mist, The Fog, and The Stuff. Luckily, you don’t have to guess. Do you think a movie called Gremlins might be a creature feature? If you do, you’d be right. The Birds is actually about killer birds; Peeping Tom tells the tale of a psychotic voyeur; and Silent Night, Deadly Night is precisely what you think it would be. So why in the name of all that’s holy and pure do so many movies have titles that seem to exist only to baffle, confuse, or mislead? It just makes no sense, but people continue to do it; therefore, people like me will continue to call them out when they do it. So, here are five more movies (shout-out to fellow critic Clark Savage, who penned the initial list of five) with titles so misleading they’re bound to ruin Movie Night.

(1) Monster-in-Law (2005): As a lover of horror films, particularly creature features, this movie ranks among the most disappointing ever, based on the title alone, anyway. The story of a possessive mother trying to sabotage her son’s burgeoning relationship could’ve provided a fantastic springboard to cinematic thrills and chills. Unfortunately, Monster-in-Law isn’t scary at all—not even accidentally. Sure, the make-up effects are terrifying. Jennifer Lopez’s turn as a soulless, demonic, life-sucking she-creature is the stuff of nightmares. And Jane Fonda will make your skin crawl as an ancient bony-faced hag whose stare rivals Medusa’s in its power to turn those who gaze upon it to stone. But the presence of two scary monster-women ultimately isn’t enough to generate the requisite terror to give modern horror fans the heebie-jeebies.

(2) Saturday Night Fever (1977): This is a confusing film, thanks in no small part to its unfortunate title. The film focuses on the outbreak of a deadly virus—a virus that inevitably leads the poor souls who become infected to suffer from a condition known as Saturday night fever. According to the film, the virus spreads almost exclusively among young people. The most obvious symptoms of Saturday night fever are: the inability to speak in grammatically correct sentences and rhythmic spasmodic flailing of the limbs whenever an infected person is exposed to disco music. It is also arguable that Saturday night fever impacts the region of the brain responsible for fashion choices. Do not watch this film if you are expecting an engrossing medical thriller concerning the outbreak of an infectious disease thrust upon an unknowing population. The basic suspense/thriller plot points are all present, but the film’s execution is woefully inept, leaving the viewer with too many questions for the film to succeed at creating a significant measure of suspense. For example, the narrative never even bothers to explain the source of the virus, the Patient Zero, if you will. Although, to be fair, there are noticeable hints sprinkled throughout the film that subtly suggest this particular virus began with The Bee Gees.

(3) Juice (1992): This film is a bit of a mixed bag. Mostly, the film succeeds as an urban crime drama depicting the harsh realities of life for a group of young men growing up in a tough neighborhood, where life and death decisions are made on a daily basis, and the specter of Death is ever present. But then again, the film completely fails as a biography of O.J. Simpson, which is what the title would have you believe is the film’s true subject. Is it possible that this title was chosen to purposely trick Simpson’s fans into theaters? Possibly. It certainly isn’t beneath the Hollywood marketing machine to intentionally deceive the public. I mean, what’s next? Am I going to find out that the TV series Chuck isn’t about legendary rocker Chuck Berry?

(4) Rain Man (1988): I take no pleasure in saying this, but Rain Man is, without hesitation or hyperbole, the worst superhero film ever made. Dustin Hoffman stars as Raymond Babbitt, a man whose alter ego, Rain Man, does not—I repeat does NOT—have the ability to make it rain whenever he wants. But that’s just the beginning. Other than the ability to instantly count matchsticks that have fallen to the floor and to cheat at blackjack, there really isn’t anything all that impressive about this guy. And get this: There isn’t a villain anywhere to be seen in the entire movie. Rain Man just goes about his life, without any supervillains threatening to reveal his true identity or anything. Not one car chase. Not one explosion. Not one gun fight. What the hell, man?

(5) Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958): This is an emotionally effective film that, in my opinion, eventually buckles under the weight of too much metaphor. Based on the title, you’d expect the film to work as a treatise on the mistreatment of animals, and that’s exactly what it is; however, this message is buried beneath layers and layers of muddled symbolism. While on the surface the story appears to be about alcoholism, a marriage under strain, and generations of family pride and secrets bubbling to the surface with disastrous results, in reality this is all just a thinly veiled metaphor about how leaving a kitty on a tin roof in extreme heat could be bad for the kitty’s little paws. Sure, the film can be heavy-handed at times, but that doesn’t make the message any less important. Cats really shouldn’t be left on hot tin roofs for any reason whatsoever. And yet, I just wonder if we really needed to go to such dramatic lengths to make such an obvious point.

 

Five Things You Couldn’t Possibly Know About Star Wars (1977)

 

Five Things You Couldn’t Possibly Know About Star Wars (1977)

By Henry Bernice for TheHumbleHeckler.com   

(Editor’s note: Film critic/historian Henry Bernice has been struck by lightning seven times. Keep this in mind when reading the following article.)

Star Wars (1977) is arguably the most important movie in the history of the American film industry. That’s not to say that it is the best or most important work of cinema ever created (after all, it is a relatively simple fantasy/adventure tale that luxuriates in rather well-worn tropes concerning good versus evil); however, one could reasonably contend that no other film has had a greater impact on the way movies are made and marketed. Star Wars is, and will always remain, a touchstone in blockbuster filmmaking and an indelible pop culture hallmark. No film has ever inflamed so much passion in so many movie lovers. For decades the most rabid of all fan bases has continuously picked through the minutia of the Star Wars series, finding relevance in even the most trivial of facts. And yet even the most hardcore believers in the Force don’t know absolutely everything. So, without further ado, here are five things you couldn’t possibly know about Star Wars (1977).

(1) In George Lucas’s original screenplay (called The Star Wars) the character of Darth Vader was originally called Darth Kenny. It wasn’t until Gary Kurtz (one of the film’s producers) saw the final script that the idea of a name change was considered. “I just didn’t think Darth Kenny was the kind of name that would strike fear in the hearts of moviegoers,” Kurtz told Sci-Fi Celluloid Magazine in an interview conducted in 1980. “At the time I was really interested in what was happening in the world of video games. A friend of mine in Japan named Tomohiro Nishikado was developing a new game called Space Invaders,” Kurtz said, “so when George asked me to suggest a new name, I thought the choice was obvious: I suggested we call our villain Darth Space. George loved it, but John Williams (composer of the film’s score), who just happened to be in the elevator with us at the time said, ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, why don’t we call him Darth Elevator since right now we’re in an elevator.’ Strangely enough, George (whose ability to sniff out sarcasm was severely lacking) loved the idea—until he met a waitress at Denny’s whose last name was Vader.”

(2) Harrison Ford originally auditioned for the role of Princess Leia. Ford was looking for something a little different after playing more masculine roles in films like American Graffiti and TV shows like Gunsmoke. “I don’t know, Han Solo just seemed like a bit of a dick,” Ford told The Cleveland Alfalfa Journal in 1981. “I’d done the whole tough, macho, charismatic thing to death. I really wanted to spread my wings as actor and play a gutsy broad.” Ford actually screen tested for the role and won unanimous praise from Lucas and a number of producers. “It was amazing,” said Lucas to Starfire Magazine in late 1979. “That dude really looked like a chick. Sounded like one, too. No kidding, I was this close to asking him out for a drink before I remembered it was actually Harrison under all that hair and makeup.” When Ford was officially offered the part he was ecstatic, but his enthusiasm waned when he attended his first costume fitting. “It was the hair, man. I just couldn’t get past the hair. For some reason George was married to that style, but it made my head look like my ears exploded or some shit, so I was like, screw it. I guess I’ll be charming … again.”

(3) The infamous Mos Eisley Cantina scene was shot illegally, guerrilla-style, without permits or formal permission at an actual bar called The Landing Strip, located just down the road from Newark Liberty International Airport. Therefore, the wacky cast of outrageous monsters and space creatures were actually just a congregation of Newark regulars mixed with a smattering of air travelers who decided to have a drink while waiting for their flights. Lucas snuck in his actors along with a small crew and just started filming everything. “We really hit the jackpot with that place,” Lucas said in a 1982 interview with Spandex World. “The place was so bizarre and everyone in the joint looked so tired and haggard that we didn’t need to use one drop of paint to dress the set or one drop of makeup on any of the extras. We just stole a crap-ton of footage and booked it outta there.” Lucas may be content with the footage, but a number of the extras are not. Not one of the bar patrons was paid for the film’s use of their image. There is still a lawsuit pending in the state of New Jersey.

(4) R2D2 was originally voiced by James Earl Jones. It’s hard to believe but those now-famous metallic-y blips and blops were initially delivered in a much deeper, much more stentorian register. The great James Earl Jones dove into his R2D2 voice recording sessions with an impressive amount of gusto. “I really loved being that little guy,” Jones told High Fashion Weekly in 1991. “When I heard that I’d been replaced I was really upset. That role meant a lot to me.” Eventually the role would go to legendary R&B/soul singer Barry White, who, for reasons unknown decided to remain uncredited for his performance.

(5) When the film was released in Japan the title had been changed from Star Wars to Happy Space Monster Ray Gun Vader Joy Joy Hour America Yes! As a result, this particular Japanese movie poster has become the holy grail for Star Wars collectors the world over. First printings of the poster are said to sell for as much as 4 million dollars. In 2016 a first printing sold at a Sotheby’s auction for more than 9 million dollars to a collector named Byron Toodles, an investment banker who loves movie paraphernalia. “It’s so stupid looking,” Mr. Toodles said in an impromptu press gathering outside of Sotheby’s auction house. “It’s such a freakout to look at this thing, man. It’s gonna make my cat york up his Meow Mix.”

So, there you have it, Star Wars aficionados. There’s five more things you can use to impress people at sci-fi conventions. You’re Welcome.

Star Wars 8 is a Real Knee-Slapper

Star Wars 8: The Last Jedi is a Real Knee-Slapper

Reviewed by Cooter Jenkins-Dixon for TheHumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: This is film critic Cooter Jenkins-Dixon’s first review for TheHumbleHeckler.com since being recruited from the Arts & Leisure section of The Shadypork Hollow Gazette. The following review contains words and phrases that some readers may find offensive or baffling.)

Let’s just start by sayin’ that Star Wars 8 is one entertainin’ sumbitch. Hell, I was laughin’ and jumpin’ and clappin’ and squawkin’ so much I dern near split my denims—and I was wearin’ my good Duluth denims, so I weren’t spectin’ there’d be any concern for splittin’. Anyhoo, this here flick was directed by Rian Johnson, and let me tell ya’, that sumbitch surely earned whatever them Hollywood people done paid him for this one. The action sequences were slicker than a polecat’s corn hole after a mud bath. Hell, some of them scenes were so excitin’ I didn’t even realize my mouth was hangin’ as wide open as a BBQ pit before ya’ add the hickory chips. There was even a coupla times when I was white-knucklin’ it so hard my chew slipped out my mouth and hit the floor. At one point my buddy Clem refused to take a run to the bathroom cuz he didn’t want to miss anything, and the crazy bastard ended up gettin’ a surprise visit from his pork-and-bean lunch in the form of an unwanted mud pickle in his denims. Sad thing is, Ida done the same thing.

Let’s talk a bit about the actin’. Overall, I’d say the performances was believable, mostly because they was subtle as a breeze on a moonless August night in Georgia. I was pleased as punch to see that good ole’ boy Mark Hamill back as Luke Skywalker. Damn, that boy can swing a saber! To be fair, all the actors was real good, especially the little fella they got to play BB-8. I don’t know his name, but any flesh-and-blood human that can be that believable as a robot deserves to have an Oscar named after him and a lifetime supply of free root beer.

Now, I ain’t supposed to say nothin’ about the story or the characters or the endin’ or anything like that, so I guess I’ll just go on ahead and put a bow on this here review by sayin’ that Star Wars 8 might not be the prettiest Star Wars movie at the barn dance, but she’s still worth a twirl. I’d say Star Wars 8 is the movie version of a fried chicken dinner with plenty of gravy on the taters, because it tastes as good as it looks, you walk away from it feelin’ warm and satisfied, and you’ll find yourself thinkin’ about it for the next few days every time you have to squat and fire—that’s right, your turds will smell like Star Wars.

I give Star Wars 8 my highest ratin’ yet: A whole pen full of healthy hogs and one more Christmas with Maw-Maw Jean.

(Star Wars 8 is rated PG-13 for a few rough patches of violence involvin’ spaceships and ray guns and whatnot. I don’t think there was any cussin’, but I don’t remember for sure. It’s hard to remember much of anything since Maw-Maw Jean’s donkey, Bo, done kicked me in my head. Also, no one was naked and no one performed any lewd acts or nothin’. I thought I seen that big ole’ Wookie snort coke off a switchblade, but now that I really think on it, it don’t really seem in keepin’ with the whole Star Wars philosophy, so maybe I can blame that one on Bo. Did I mention that sumbitch done kicked me in my head?)

Kingsman: The Golden Circle: The End is Nigh

Kingsman: The Golden Circle: The End is Nigh

Reviewed by Mick Gastineau for TheHumbleHeckler.com.     

(Editor’s note: Film critic Mick Gastineau is known to lapse into prolonged periods of extreme despair and anxiety. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)

Well … it was bound to happen eventually. Director Matthew Vaughn has screwed us again.

Remember back in 2014, when the obnoxiously loud, aggressively stupid bloodbath known as Kingsman: The Secret Service was unleashed upon an unsuspecting public? I know I can’t forget it. Remember the clichéd characters, the preposterous-yet-predictable story, and the relentlessly superfluous violence? I’ve tried everything from hypnotherapy to smacking myself in the head with a ball peen hammer to forget. Remember the cheap anal sex jokes and the objectification of women for even cheaper laughs? I’m sure my sisters do. Remember the incessant product placement and how insulted you were by it? Like, for example, the dinner scene in which Samuel L. Jackson and Colin Firth have McDonald’s food served to them on a gleaming platter, and then the different sandwiches are actually pointed out and named on camera. (I was surprised that Ronald McDonald himself didn’t have a cameo in this scene.) Remember that crap? Huh? Do ya? Well, unfortunately, those were the good old days, because, believe it or not, Vaughn and company are back with a sequel that manages to sink to even greater levels of crapitude.

This time the Kingsman spread their particular brand of idiocy in America, because, you see, in a narrative innovation worthy of Joyce or Thackeray, the Kingsman’s base of operations is blasted to bits by a criminal organization called—you guessed it—The Golden Circle. Once in the Land of Liberty, this band of morons with big guns joins forces with the American version of the Kingsman, an organization called—get ready—the Statesman. Isn’t that clever? But wait, that’s nothing. Check this out: the Americans have amazingly clever names. Halle Berry plays a character called Ginger Ale, Channing Tatum is Tequila, and Jeff Bridges is Champagne. I’m not kidding. Be on the lookout for Elijah Wood as Sex on the Beach, John Goodman as Bud Weiser, and Charlie Hunnam as Jack Daniels With a Splash of Coke and a Wedge of Lime in the upcoming product placement bonanza/sequel Kingsman 3: The Golden Arches.

After sitting through this marathon of good-looking people in expensive clothing slaughtering hordes of other people in a CG orgy of balletic stunt work featuring buckets and buckets of gore and copious amounts of product placement less subtle than a Super Bowl commercial, I wasn’t sure how exactly to go on with my life. I mean, what’s the point? If Kingsman: The Golden Circle exists, then surely God does not. Why did I bother going to college or exercising regularly or watching what I eat if, at any time, I could end up in a movie theater watching something like this? Is this some kind of punishment? Did I die in my sleep and this movie is now my personal hell? Was I Hitler in a previous life or something? I just don’t get it. After watching this movie, the only thought I have is: Why? Why is this happening to me? To movie audiences? To the world? What have we done to deserve this? And what in the name of all that’s Holy and Good can we do to stop this from ever happening again?

The terrifying truth is … I don’t know. But I do know this: This movie broke me. I haven’t eaten in three days. I’m wearing adult diapers—or diaper, I haven’t changed the first one yet. I can’t think of a reason why I should. To be clear, I’m not the only person who feels this way. The guy sitting next to me pulled out almost all of his hair. The woman sitting directly behind me tried to slit her wrists with her movie ticket and cried herself to sleep when she failed. I overheard another woman say, “How do I explain this to my children?” Sadly, her question went unanswered. The Catholic church down the block from the theater was deluged with scared, confused visitors from my screening within minutes of the film’s end. As for me, for the first time since I was a child, I wept. I wept openly in public until my ribcage ached and my eyes turned as red as Satan’s sack.

And now, somehow, I must find the strength to go on.

I’ve decided to move to Montana. Maybe I’ll find a little cabin somewhere quiet and remote, somewhere where Matthew Vaughn can never hurt me again, somewhere where clunky expositional dialogue and lazy product placement doesn’t exist. Ah, heck, maybe I won’t find what I’m looking for, but, dammit, you can’t hit homeruns if you never swing for the fences. I’ll spend my days in quiet solitude, just me and Mother Nature and my new dog, Old Blue. It’ll be tough for a while. But nothing worth doin’ isn’t tough at the outset. As for the rest of you … well … I wish I had something more positive to pass along to ya’. Guess you’re all just gonna have to get up each morning, put one foot in front of the other, and do your best to forget and to move forward. Always remember that Matthew Vaughn only has power over you if you let him have it. So don’t let him. You hear me! Don’t You Dare Let Him!

I give Kingsman: The Golden Circle a dejected shake of the head, and I mourn the death of the world I knew before this abomination let loose its wrath.

(Kingsman: The Golden Circle is rated R for adult language, sexual situations, graphic violence, and for making me try to kill myself by shoving popcorn up my nose while questioning the necessity of my existence.)