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?)