Satirical Movie Reviews: Autumn/Winter ’17

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.)

It (2017): A Review or Whatever

Reviewed by Janelle Palmer for TheHumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Janelle Palmer, a 17-year-old high school senior, is filling in for her mother, Janette, one of our resident film critics, who is currently recovering from a mild case of amoebic dysentery.)

Okay … so … anyway … I got stuck reviewing this movie because my mother’s sick or whatever, so just, ya’ know, bear with me and whatnot, ’cuz I haven’t reviewed a movie since I did The Shallows, like ten million years ago, so try not to be dicks about this, okay?

So, anyway … About five days ago my mother tells me that I have to review this clown movie or something called It. So I say fine, whatevs. But get this: my mother suggests that I read the novel they based the movie on before I see the movie, as, like, preparation or something. But the book is, like, a gazillion pages or something, so I was like, “No, thank you,” and my mom was all, “That’s not very professional” or something, and so I was like, “I’m not a professional, you are,” and then she was all, “I give up” and then she walked off in a huff. So I didn’t read that stupid book, which was written by that old guy who wrote that thing about the ugly chick with spooky powers who totally trashed the prom. I looked him up online. That dude’s written, like, a thousand books or something, including that one where there’s a creepy cemetery where, like, the animals bury their owners and whatnot … and the other one where the hotel makes people hit stuff with axes or something. Anyway, he writes a lot, so … Nerd Alert! Am I right?

So, anyway … It is about this evil clown thingy with gross hair that, like, totally hates kids and is super hungry and decides to, like, kill two birds with one stone and eat the kids that he hates so much. The clown thingy, btdubs, is called Pennywise, and for some reason he digs hangin’ out in the disgusting sewer. It turns out that Pennywise is an alien from some other country or something. I guess that’s really important. I mean, I think the whole “alien” thing is meant to be, like, some kind of metaphor about immigration or something. (See—I can think of cool, critic-y things to write, too, so suck it!)

The rest of the movie is about Pennywise totes screwing with this group of kids who refer to themselves as The Losers Club—which is the perfect name for this collection of kids, btdubs. I mean, they’re not very cool, they have zero—and I mean zero—fashion sense, and they ride around on bikes—bikes! I mean, why not just draw a big nerd target on your back already? I mean, ever hear of Uber or Lyft? How losery are the parents that brought these sad sacks into the world? I saw this movie with my friend Taylor, and she said that these kids are so uncool that she could actually feel herself getting less cool the longer she had to watch them. Preach on, sister. I can’t speak for most people, but I was totes rooting for Pennywise to eat these A-hole kids already so I could get over to Pinkberry for a smoothie before they closed—I know, I know, smoothies have, like, a ton of sugar in them and stuff, but it was my cheat day, so I’m allowed to have a G-D smoothie! Get off my back, already!

I’ve been told not to, like, give away the ending or reveal any spoilers or anything like that, so I won’t. But I will say that everybody dies—just kidding. I honestly don’t even know how the movie ends ’cuz I started talking with this lady who was sitting next to me who was wearing, like, the cutest top I’ve ever seen. Her name is Deandra, so … shout out to Deandra! She’s super cool. Love her. You should see her nails—per-fec-tion.

Okay, back to the movie. All in all, I guess I would say this movie gargles balls. I suppose if you like the idea of an ugly sewer clown terrorizing weird, bike-riding kids in the stupid ’80s, then It is gonna totes light your fire. But, if you don’t completely suck as a human being, you’ll find this movie as turdish as I do. So, in conclusion, clowns suck, kids are A-holes, sewers are gross, bikes are uncool, and Pinkberry rocks.

There … Happy now, Mom?

I give It one star out of a possible of, like, a gazillion stars. And the one star is for Deandra with the cute top, not for the stupid movie. Even the title of this movie blows serious chunks. How lame is It for a movie title? Why not call this movie The or An or To? Here’s the title I would’ve chosen: Why?

(It is rated R for, like, super-gross clown violence and bad language and stuff. The clown drool is gross enough to get an R all by itself. I mean, what’s the deal with the drooling? Ever hear of a bib? Or how about just closing your mouth, moron. You’re supposed to be this all-powerful being from another dimension and you can’t even go, like, five seconds without drooling all over the place. Pa-the-tic.)