Tag: movies

The Emoji Movie: Animated Poop Gets the Star Treatment–Finally!

The Emoji Movie: Animated Poop Gets the Star Treatment—Finally!

Reviewed by Thurston Chatwell for TheHumbleHeckler.com

(Editor’s note: Film critic Thurston Chatwell is a self-proclaimed pop culture expert concerning farts and poop. Keep this in mind when reading the following review.)

As a connoisseur of cinematic gastrointestinal distress, I can’t help but view Hollywood as a bit of a tease. Sure, there was that great campfire scene in Blazing Saddles in which a congregation of hirsute cowpokes, windblown and trail-worn from a long day on the range, relieve their bean-heavy bellies in a blistering symphony of shaky-legged bliss, as a sky of brilliant prairie stars twinkles above and a crackling campfire illuminates these pioneers of cinema in all their twisty-faced glory. Blazing Saddles set a pretty high bar, and let’s face it, the overwhelming majority of attempts by film and TV producers to recreate the magic of Mel Brooks’s legendary campfire crop dusting sequence have failed miserably. Memo to Hollywood Fat Cats: flatulent cowboys don’t happen every day.

Clearly the industry has underestimated the difficulty in bringing realistic flatulence and poopy to the screen. They seem to have no understanding of how delicate the process of depicting characters expelling carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane from their butts really is. Capturing the perfect facial expressions in the play of light and shadow as an actor recreates the farting experience is every cinematographer’s worst nightmare. And it’s also really, really difficult to perform. It’s common knowledge in Hollywood circles that many of the legends of acting have been known to avoid this particular challenge. There’s a reason why you’ve never seen Meryl Streep hunched over, sweating profusely, white-knuckling the back of a sofa, moaning in sweet agony to Jesus above as she spasmodically power blasts the poor lunchtime decisions she made at Taco Bell out of her backside while her skirt flaps violently in the chili-scented breeze. I mean, come on. She may be good, but she’s not that good.

At least Hollywood hasn’t completely given up. There’s that explosive-diarrhea-in-the-trashcan scene in Van Wilder, and, yeah, okay, there’s that pretty-girls-destroy-the-restroom scene in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Oh, and let’s not forget the lightning-quick glimpse we get in Sin City of that bowling-pin shaped floater in the toilet (the same toilet that Clive Owen’s Dwight character uses to give Benicio del Toro’s Jackie Boy character what is arguably the gnarliest swirlie in movie history). But these examples, like most modern fart/poop scenes, are really more gross than great. We haven’t really seen anything noteworthy since South Park treated us a few heapin’ helpins of Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo. But other than the rare Mr. Hankey appearance, the world of screen farts/poops has become a putrid, stinking, peanut -and corn-infused shell of its former self. I mean, where’s the passion? The artistry? The humanity?

Believe it or not, the answer lies in The Emoji Movie.

The film propounds to be a metaphor for being yourself and following your own path, regardless of what the world thinks about blah, blah, blah … None of that garbage really plays very well, and nobody cares to see a cinematic lecture about the importance of individuality in a time when critical thought is under attack. Come on, Hollywood. Get real. Movie tickets cost money. Let’s get to the poop, already.

The Poop emoji in The Emoji Movie is voiced by—get this—Sir Patrick Stewart, who is the perfect actor with the perfect voice to bring dignity and class back to the world of movie poopy. For true connoisseurs like yours truly, Stewart represents hope—that’s right HOPE. Casting this icon of the stage and screen to play Poop signifies with absolute clarity that the Powers That Be in Hollywood are taking poopy seriously, and that from this day forward the voice of the great Sir Patrick will reign supreme over all of Poopydom. Trust me, this performance is one for the ages. Sir Patrick achieves the seemingly impossible, as his voice imbues Poop with a sense of regality and majesty while simultaneously (and magically) keeping Poop grounded in the real world. Poop’s story is the human story. Poop seeks love and wants to be loved in return. Poop makes mistakes (God knows Poop can make a mess), but Poop also has the capacity to learn from his mistakes. His triumphs are our triumphs; his failures are our failures. Simply put, Poop IS all of us. And we humans are most assuredly Poop. Especially the people who made this movie.

I give The Emoji Movie two pizza slices, four winky faces, a few of those cupcakes with eyes and stuff.

(The Emoji Movie is rated PG for undermining thousands of years of human communication through the popularization of simplistic cartoon iconography that will likely stunt the intellectual growth of generations to come, creating an unbridgeable void between humans and their humanity that will slowly erode the fabric of decent society, turning people into drooling savages who engage in terrible acts of violence for sport, rendering the planet an uninhabitable hellscape and damning us all to an unknowable, terrifying future that can only end in the obliteration of our species. There are also a few fart jokes and stuff like that.)

Atomic Blonde

Atomic Blonde is Da Bomb

Reviewed by Jane Doeadeer for TheHumbleHeckler.com

(Editor’s note: Film critic Jane Doeadeer has been missing since the filing of the following review. Anyone with information pertaining to her whereabouts should contact their local law enforcement officials immediately. Do not attempt to make contact with her on your own.)

Violence in Hollywood filmmaking is so passé. This latest generation of so-called action films is really little more than a collection of ultraviolent kill-scenarios haplessly stitched together in a series of nauseating fast cuts of extreme close-ups set to a soundtrack of thundering percussion until the entire screen is rendered nothing more than a dripping, oozing backdrop for bloody bullet wounds, broken bones, and freshly slain bodies. So, as a feminist and a mother of two beautiful, innocent children, I have to ask: Is this brand of immoral violence really entertaining?

In the case of the new Charlize Theron actioner Atomic Blonde the answer is … awww hells to the yeah!!!

I never in my wildest imagination thought that watching a gorgeous woman punch a man in the face could be so exhilarating, so captivating, so life altering. Holy balls was I wrong. Charlize was all hella jacked and knocking out fools with her fists of fury, and I was like, “You go girl. Give them boys what they gots comin’ to ‘em. Show those panty wastes no mercy.” And that’s exactly what my girl Charlize did. Hell, she was havin’ so much fun punchin’ out suckaz I decided to give it a try my damn self. I coldcocked the silly bastard sittin’ next to me in the theater. Hit that boy hard, son. Hella hard. Pretty sure I knocked out a tooth; damn sure I drew blood. Fool looked like he was smuggliln’ a balloon in his bottom lip.

My high was startin’ to fade, so I bounced and went to the gun store round the way and got myself all Glocked up. I been takin’ down scores ever since. Crazy ass clerk at the Stop ‘N Shop tried to step to me, actin’ all tough, like he all that. So I pistol whipped that fool. Now he’ll see my calling card every time he passes a mirror. Sorry it had to go down that way, but don’t poke the bear and act all surprised when ya’ get mauled. Turns out the little prom queen at the jewelry store wasn’t as dumb as she looked. Girl gave up the goods right away. No questions asked. She knew I wasn’t playin’. My eyes told her so.

So now I’m on my way to Mexico. If you really think you can stop me, just get in my way and see what happens. Yeah … I didn’t think so.

Oh, by the way, James McAvoy is really, really good in this. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always like him, but the way in which he continues to mature as an actor is astounding. I mean, he keeps challenging himself to raise his craft to the next level, and I really admire that. Can’t wait to see what he does next.

Yeah, so … anyway … Daaaamn!

I give Atomic Blonde 5 stars out of a possible 5, and a cap in the ass of anyone who disrespects Charlize. She’s my girl!

(Atomic Blonde is rated R for strong language, strong graphic violence, and because the presence of a strong female lead in an action film makes suckaz nervous. And I’m out!)

Blair Witch (2016)

Blair Witch Casts a Spell of Dazzling Originality

Reviewed by Joshua Champlain for HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Joshua Champlain has recently awakened from a 27-year coma. Please keep this in mind when reading the following review.)

It’s easy for film critics to be cynical. So many movies completely lack originality and artistic integrity. So many movies are nothing more than the generic repackaging of well-worn filmic tropes, clichéd storylines, and established pop-culture brands. So many movies are clearly molded by the greedy hooves of capitalist swine in search of a quick buck without having to innovate or bear the burden of any creative risk. So many movies rely solely on storytelling gimmicks and archetypal characters to shamelessly pander to a well-established target demographic in order to put butts in seats on opening weekend. So many movies are so insultingly predictable, so reliant upon this paint-by-numbers philosophy of filmmaking that you just can’t blame critics for the unmistakable air of frustration so prevalent in their reviews.

Which is why I’m so pleased to report that I’ve just seen Blair Witch, a film so startling in its originality that I’m shocked it was allowed to be produced at all, let alone publicly exhibited.

First and foremost, Blair Witch is a horror movie—but not just any horror movie. It will likely be remembered as the single greatest achievement in the hallowed history of horror. The basic story involves a collection of millennials coming face-to-face with unspeakable terrors in the deep, dark woods. And why exactly are these youngsters trudging through the woods? Because the main character, James Donahue, decides it’s time to search for the sister he lost in these very woods 22 years ago, when she led her own expedition of intrepid youngsters on a search for the mysterious Blair Witch, a terrifying apparition with a reputation for disappearing local townsfolk, even children. That alone permits this film to stake its claim as one of the most innovative horror stories of all time. I mean, come on … Good-looking young people killed off in a forest—genius! From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Vertigo Entertainment and Lionsgate for having the balls to tell such an imaginative story. But that’s just the beginning. Check this out: The story is conveyed through a narrative device in which the characters record their own experiences. That footage is then assembled by someone else and presented to the movie-going public as a kind pseudo-documentary. What! Who could have ever imagined such an ingenious method of presenting a story? Only superhuman mega-geniuses, that’s who.

I don’t want to give away any of the surprises (and, trust me, there are just so, so many really startling revelations in this movie), so I won’t say any more about the story or how it is told. However, I would like to say that I am just so proud of you, Hollywood, for respecting ticket-buying audiences (who often have to shell out as much as $20 or more per ticket) for not simply regurgitating the stinking pile of inept, infantile, brain cell-destroying eye cancer you normally fart onto movie screens each weekend. Not this time. No, this time you delivered Blair Witch, rather than insult film fans with yet another half-cocked prequel, sequel, or reboot featuring a gaggle of cardboard characters heedlessly meandering through a mind-numbing cinematic wasteland of cheap set-ups, clunky expositional dialogue, and poorly executed jump scares. So, again, thank you. You had the courage to respect both your craft and the fans by releasing … Blair Witch.

So … I humbly doff my cap to you, mainstream Hollywood. Your integrity and inventiveness know no bounds.

I give Blair Witch a 10 out of 10, and I wait with bated breath to see what glorious creations Hollywood has in store for the future. May God bless this movie and all who see it.

(Blair Witch is rated R for adult language, violence, nudity, and for being such a pioneering, groundbreaking work of art that younger, less-experienced viewers’ minds would implode should their eyes gaze upon its brilliance.)

The Twilight Saga

The Twilight Saga: The Most Baffling Film Experience of My Life

Reviewed by Anton Snoot for HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Anton Snoot is currently enduring an aggressive course of antipsychotic medications which often leads to a state of utter confusion. Please keep this in mind when reading the following review, which is for entertainment purposes only.)

First of all, I realize that this review is incredibly late. Thanks to an unfortunate break with reality that led to a prolonged stay in a certain kind of healthcare facility, I have only just recently been made aware of the pop-culture phenomena known as The Twilight Saga. Now that I have witnessed this so-called “saga,” I have to admit that I find myself at a complete loss, as the seven films that comprise the universe of Twilight make absolutely no sense at all. Even the way the films are marketed is scattershot and confusing. But I’ll get to that later.

For starters, the films lurch back and forth between completely different casts and filmmakers, while simultaneously mining utterly disparate narrative terrain. For example, the first film in the series is an anthology comprised of four science fiction tales that feature everything from Vic Morrow being hunted by Nazis after time traveling to Scatman Crothers as the world’s all-time greatest ambassador of Kick the Can to John Lithgow being tormented by a wing gremlin on a commercial flight. Okay, fine. This first installment is a pretty decent entertainment, but it makes no sense as the introductory film in this series, being that it bears no resemblance whatsoever to the next five films, which form a bizarre collection of abstinence propaganda pictures that prominently feature the throbbing loins of teen vampires and werewolves who share a seemingly life-threatening affliction for shirt-wearing and subtlety.

That’s right, the next five Twilight films are nothing but eye candy for teen girls. So much about these films baffles me that I’m not sure I can even honestly review them. For example, right smack in the middle of one of these films there is a scene in which a family of vampires heads to a park on a rainy day to play baseball. Seriously. Baseball. And then we, the audience, just have to sit there like idiots, watching vampires play baseball for what feels like an eternity. But here’s the kicker, the remainder of these vampire films is so awful that by the time you’ve finished watching them, you look back at the baseball sequence with great fondness.

And then there’s the seventh and final film in the saga. This one’s a real headscratcher. For some reason, the creative geniuses behind this mess decided to move away from that whole vampire thing and close the saga with a detective thriller starring Paul Newman, Susan Sarandon, and Gene Hackman. Newman stars as a now-elderly version of Edward the vampire, but the film never explains why Edward has suddenly aged, nor does it explain why he has become a private detective and relocated to Los Angeles. Stranger still, Susan Sarandon plays an older version of Kristen Stewart’s Bella Swan character, and Gene Hackman plays the older version of Taylor Lautner’s Jacob; however, for reasons unknown (and probably unknowable) all of these characters now exist under different names. Edward is now Harry, Bella is now Catherine, and Jacob is now Jack. I guess maybe they were forced to change their names to protect their true identities as vampires and werewolves, but even if that’s the case, the film never mentions it; in fact, this final installment of The Twilight Saga never mentions vampires, werewolves, or anything that could possibly be interpreted as connective tissue between these films.

So, what the hell, man? Why are these films so popular? Taken as a whole, The Twilight Saga simply makes no sense—none! Taken individually, these movies suck vampire ass. So what’s the deal? And why were these films marketed in such a strange manner? Why were the middle five films marketed so much differently than the first and seventh films? And why was seventh and final film (the one starring Paul Newman) released in 1998, a full 14 years before the sixth film (the final vampire film) in 2012? What sense does that make? None, if you ask me.

In conclusion, The Twilight Saga may be popular, but its narrative logic (or complete lack thereof) is baffling, its core concept is muddled, and its execution makes me want to crap. So if you haven’t seen The Twilight Saga yet, don’t. It will scar you forever. It will also fill your trousers with an unstoppable torrent of sudsy excrement. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I give The Twilight Saga a 9.3 out of 10, because that vampire-baseball sequence is so mind-numbingly stupid I kind of respect it.

Don’t Breathe

Don’t Breathe; Moreover, Don’t Buy a Ticket to This Dreck

Reviewed by Doris Goldfarb for HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Doris Goldfarb is an octogenarian who rarely sees modern films. Keep this mind when reading the following review.)

Don’t even get me started! Oy gevalt, what a terrible movie Don’t Breathe is. I mean, my God, with the violence and the potty mouth … What the hell happened to movies anyway? This one is even worse than that disaster with the foul-mouthed cartoon hot dog. Ah, the whole thing’s a shanda, I tell ya’. If my Irving—God rest his soul—had seen this movie, he would’ve plotzed, hand to God. Now, I may just be a yenta who loves to kvetch, but I’m sorry, this movie caused me great tsoriss, and I want restitution. Thank God I didn’t have to pay for my ticket. But thirteen dollars for popcorn and a Coke! Thirteen dollars it cost, hand to God. For a nosh? Are you kidding? What am I, made of gelt? Ah, the whole system’s fercockt.

So, anyway, Don’t Breathe tells the story of a troubled shiksa named Rocky (what a pretty name for a girl, am I right?) whose parents neglect her and her baby sister. So now Rocky wants to run away with her sister, but she needs money. By the way, what is it with these young girls today? Rocky dresses like a real nafka, always with the shirts that expose her pupik and the tight pants that highlight the roundness of her tuches. And don’t even get me started on the tattoos. Hand to God, these girls today look like walking comic strips. These little pishers should show off their healthy skin while they have it, not hide it beneath a layer of vulgar graffiti hastily carved into their hides by a bunch of derelicts with electric needles. But I digress.

In order to get the money she needs to run away, Rocky commiserates with her boyfriend, a real shmegegge named—get this—Money. Anyway, Money’s brilliant idea is to break into the house of a blind man who, rumor has it, has a safe just waiting to be burgled. So, with the help of Money’s friend Alex (a total schlemiel, hand to God), Rocky and Money set out to steal their fortune. One problem: the broken-down blind man they’re supposed to steal from is no shmendrick. He may be old and blind, but he’s tough as balls and steady as a moyl at the moment of truth. Soon these ungrateful little bastards are running for their pathetic little lives from this blind gonif with a pair of balls like a Holstein bull and the shvantz of a Triple Crown winner. Sure he may be a violent psychopath, but he doesn’t take crap from teens and he doesn’t sweat the small stuff, and that’s a nice way to live. Good for him.

So, anyway, there’s really no reason for anyone to sit through this whole megillah. It’s really nothing but potty-mouthed kids and violence, and I can see plenty of that any day of the week on the D train, and for free. Bottom line, Don’t Breathe stinks like my friend Gerda’s water closet after a brisket-and-beets lunch from Katz Deli—you know, the one on 53rd across from that place that makes all the pies. Anyway, my point is, don’t bother wasting your time and your money on Don’t Breathe. Just thinking about this movie makes me grepse.

I give Don’t Breathe zero stars, and may it bring shame to those who aided in its creation.

(Don’t Breathe is rated R for just horrible language and some of the most ridiculous violence I’ve seen. Is this really the kind of thing people find entertaining? If so, it’s time for me shuffle off this mortal coil and be with my Irving, hand to God.)

Suicide Squad

Suicide Squad: What it Lacks in Romance, it Also Lacks in Every Other Way

Reviewed by Steve Huntersmith TheHumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Steve Huntersmith is a love-stricken newlywed. Please keep this in mind while reading the following review.)

Suicide Squad, the latest big-budget comic book explode-a-thon to land in thousands of megaplexes, is a truly difficult film to review. As a newlywed, I have to admit that I hate this film, mostly because it forced me to spend two precious hours away from my sweet widdle schmoopie-woopie. Two full hours (almost three, if you include traffic, which I do) away from my hot stack of loveberry pancakes is just more than I—a mere mortal—can handle right now. I know, I know … the honeymoon is officially over, and I really need to concentrate on getting back to work, but it’s just so darned hard to say goodbye to that tall, sexy glass of yum-yum juice to which I am so fortunate to be married. Her lips taste like a hot fudge sundae, and her hair smells like some of those really crumbly cookies you shake on top of your hot fudge sundae. Strangely, her shoulders don’t remind me of hot fudge sundaes at all, which is kinda weird, considering their close proximity to her hair. But her armpits … you guessed it—hot fudge sundaes!

Quick story: As I was leaving our house (“our house”—isn’t that awesome!) to attend the critics’ screening of Suicide Squad, my new wife (again, awesome!) stopped me at the front door and said, “Do you really have to go to work? Can’t we just climb back into bed and snuggle?” So I said, “Aw, does my teeny-weeny snuggle monkey miss her hubby-wubby already?” And she said, “I just don’t know what I’ll do without my hunka-hunka fur-covered tickle-wickle bear for two whole hours, almost three if you include traffic.” Then she made one of those pouty faces that makes my stomach flutter. I knew I’d better leave quickly or I’d never leave again. Since I pride myself on my professionalism, I blew one last kiss to my vanilla pudding-smeared cuddle duckling and headed off to the movies.

Now, about this Suicide Squad movie … I’m not sure I’d let my children see a movie like this. And, yes, we are planning on having children. My beautiful honey-dripping goddess of a wife thinks we should have two kids, preferably one of each. Isn’t that adorable? As for me, I think I’d like to have five or six little walking embodiments of our love. Of course, I haven’t mentioned that to my mouth-watering slice of love soufflé just yet, but I’m sure she’ll be cool. Speaking of cool, Margot Robbie’s in this movie, and she’s pretty cool. She’s covered in way too many tattoos, otherwise she’d be really sexy—not as sexy as my petite little ice cream cone with love sprinkles, but still pretty hot. In the film, she plays Harley Quinn, a supervillain whose boyfriend is a total psychopath called, of course, The Joker. Their relationship is soooooo messed up. It’s like, take a chill pill and learn to respect each other already. These two could learn soooooo much from my marriage. My creamy butter-pants and I really know how to share our feelings. And sometimes, when it’s late and we can’t sleep because we’re so deeply in love, we profess our love to each other through the magic of song. Which reminds me, the music in this movie, composed by Steven Price, was really beautiful. It reminded me of how beautiful my perfect, perfect angel looked on our wedding day. That’s the power of cinema for ya’.

Oh yeah, Will Smith and Jared Leto and a bunch of other yahoos fight and use superpowers and stuff. One of them is some kind of witch or something … if that helps.

So, I guess the movie wasn’t terrible. I mean, it wasn’t as good as a night at home with my tasty little peanut butter cup with whipped cream and a cherry on top, but no movie could ever be that good.

I give Suicide Squad 1.5 chocolate hearts, a butterfly kissy, and a big warm hug out of … I don’t know … 4.

(Suicide Squad is rated PG-13 for adult language, violence, and for sentencing me to two horrific hours of terrible loneliness away from my little cuddle-bug, three if you include traffic.)

Jason Bourne

Jason Bourne is a Real Kick … in the Balls

Reviewed by Sonny Thompson for TheHumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Sonny Thompson is recently divorced and openly bitter about the failure of his marriage. Keep this in mind when reading the following review, which is for entertainment purposes only.)

In the latest Jason Bourne movie, which is appropriately titled Jason Bourne for those moviegoers too stupid to remember an actual title, the titular protagonist is back and more dangerous than ever. Bourne has finally put that whole amnesia thing in his rearview mirror, and now he makes his living as an underground fighter. This storyline is clearly a metaphor for the horrors of marriage. Matt Damon’s Jason Bourne represents the married man: an emotionally exhausted, spiritually castrated individual, so lost and confused that he literally loses his identity, thanks to the soulless vampire who latched onto his neck and sucked the remaining life from him the moment he said, “I do.” As a result, Bourne (or the married man, if you will) must begin a desperate, at times violent, search for his lost manhood, a search that will cost him his sanity and inevitably lead him into one perilous situation after another.

For the record, Damon is awesome in this role. There are times when his distant, stony gaze says it all, no words necessary. For example, during an extended car chase sequence, there is a moment when Damon glares into his rearview mirror, and in that moment we, the audience, can tell that he’s thinking about that time when he forgot to do the dishes after working a double shift and his wife totally went nuts on him for absolutely no good reason. And it’s like, what the hell, man! How many times can I say I’m sorry? They’re just dishes. Chill! I mean, it’s not like Bourne forgot to feed the children or pay the mortgage or something. I mean, God forbid the dishes sit in the sink for a few measly extra hours. I’m sorry, but Bourne has a lot on his mind, too. I mean, it’s not like people are trying to kill you, Linda. Ever think of that? Of course not. Because Linda only thinks about Linda. And, let’s face it, it’s not like your job is more important than Bourne’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with risk management, but you’re not exactly curing a disease or walking on Mars, so maybe you should get over yourself and try to consider what life is like for Jason Bourne.

Okay, sure, it was a mistake for Bourne to say that the brown dress wasn’t very flattering to your figure. Bourne acknowledges that. But I’m sure he was just trying to respect your intellect by sharing an honest opinion with you, Linda. Maybe Bourne had just never seen anybody wear a brown dress to a cocktail party before. Oh, and by the way, it is an absolute crime that Jason Bourne has to live in an unfurnished studio apartment on the fifth floor of a six-floor walk-up, while you get to keep living in a four-bedroom house that Bourne continues to pay for. Your parents have money, Linda! Don’t deny it. Admit it, you’re only making Jason Bourne live like an animal because you’re a spiteful she-creature who finds nourishment in the suffering of others. Here’s an idea: go to the park and throw rocks at the ducks if you need to be cruel to innocent living things, and leave Bourne with the last dangling shreds of his dignity. Or go hide among the haystacks in an abandoned barn with the other shrews. But please, please, for the love of all things holy, remove your fangs from Jason Bourne’s swollen, puckered neck and let him get on with the rest of his life.

Oh, and Alicia Vikander is pretty good.

I give Jason Bourne 3 viperous divorce lawyers out of 10 and exactly half of everything I own.

(Jason Bourne is rated PG-13 for adult language, violence, stubbornness, refusal to have a civil conversation, the employment of jerk-face lawyers, the inability to take the dog for regular walks, and a total lack of sexual content for more than a year.)

Lights Out

Lights Out: A Scary Movie for People Who Suck

Reviewed by Shirley Franks for TheHumbleHeckler.com

(Editor’s note: Film critic Shirley Franks is an insanely busy soccer mom who hasn’t had a vacation in more than three years.)

Lights Out is a sometimes-clever, often-spooky horror film that absolutely drips with atmosphere. It’s the kind of shriek-fest that I would’ve loved 15 years ago, back in those halcyon days before I met my ass-bag husband and started pumping out ungrateful children by the bucket load. However, now that life has crapped on my dreams, blackened my heart, and shriveled my once-beautiful body, I find this movie endlessly annoying and relentlessly un-scary.

The story of Lights Out concerns a mysterious ghost-lady with Medusa hair and terrible posture who appears in the dark and disappears in the light. Oooh, I’m sooooooo scared! Shadowy ghost bitches aren’t scary … Five kids and 1 bathroom—now that’s scary. The appearance of varicose veins at 35—now that’s scary. Working 40 hours a week reviewing idiotic movies aimed at mouth-breathing teenagers, only to come home to a filthy house where I’m greeted by a sea of dirt-smudged faces screaming, “What’s for dinner?”—now that’s scary.

Teresa Palmer stars as the film’s sweet little cutie, who always looks daisy-fresh and is decades from worrying about stretch marks and episiotomies. So, basically … UP YOURS, TERESA! Enjoy that tight body and that silky-smooth skin while you can, sweetheart, because one day—maybe even soon—you’re gonna wake up in a bed filled with potato chip crumbs, next to a snoring, wheezing, ass clown that tricked you into getting married and then effectively stole every ounce of your youth, beauty, and zest for life, leaving you a soulless husk with prematurely gray hair and the disposition of a demon in church.

About 25 minutes into this obnoxious teen spookshow, I realized that I was still wearing my slippers and a pair of sweatpants dotted with scores of oozy, drippy stains whose origins are as mysterious and frightening as the identity of Jack the Ripper. Not to mention the fact that my ass-bag husband (in fact, let’s just refer to him as Ass Bag from here on out) forgot to fill the station wagon with gas, so I basically coasted to my critics’ screening of this film on fumes. Thanks, Ass Bag. Love Ya’. Oh, and I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in about six months. And I’m supposed to find this movie scary? Really? Give me a freakin’ break, Hollywood!

The only truly positive thing I can say about Lights Out is that I fell asleep for about a third of the film and woke up feeling more refreshed than I’ve felt in weeks. Not refreshed enough to recommend this garbage movie, mind you, but refreshed nonetheless. So, in conclusion, if you’re under 40, single, and childless, I’m just certain you’ll love Lights Out. Why the hell wouldn’t you? Life is a parade for you people. Every movie is a celebration. Every breath is a joy. You people make me sick. So, go ahead, see Lights Out and have a ball—and then choke on it.

I give Lights Out one stink-filled diaper out of four and every ounce of bile my liver can produce.

(Lights Out is rated PG-13 for “adult” language and “adult” situations … As if these people have any idea what it means to be an adult. It also contains prancing nubile bodies, the overt flaunting of youth, and the potential to induce rage in anyone with a pulse and half a brain.)

Roller Boogie (1979)

 Roller Boogie (1979)roller-boogie-poster

                                By Andrew Neil Cole

Roller Boogie is a bit of an anomaly in the world of B-movies, in that the film was actually relatively popular and commercially successful when it was released at the end of 1979. Unfortunately, popularity is not always a signifier of quality. At the same time, the film’s so-bad-it’s-good reputation is arguably the one and only reason it is remembered at all. After all, had the film even been regarded as just another mediocre popcorn flick featuring disenfranchised ’70s youth, Roller Boogie would have withered and died as abruptly as the disco-skating fad the film was engineered to exploit. Luckily, for generations of fans who love truly bad movies, Roller Boogie is a cinematic turd-on-wheels so epically inept its position in the pantheon of B-movie treasures is assured.

A surprising number of now-classic B-movies either tell simplistic stories that reflect a social trend associated with American youth, or they simply string together a series of easily recognizable narrative clichés. Roller Boogie manages to do both. Audiences are treated to (or subjected to) countless roller-dancing sequences set to an assaultive soundtrack of disco tunes that almost never stops. Without these sequences, the film would be approximately seven minutes long. But the most astounding thing about Roller Boogie is the sheer volume of clichés employed within the story structure; in fact, the film unfolds—literally—in one pot-boiled, contrived character trope and story cliché after another until it finally collapses beneath the weight of its own predictability.

At the core of Roller Boogie is a tale of budding romance between Terry, a spoiled rich girl who wants to rebel against her uppity conservative parents by immersing herself in the local roller-disco culture, and Bobby, a scrappy poor boy from the wrong side of town who just happens to be the best skater on the boardwalk. Believe it or not, these two star-crossed lovers don’t really get along at first. To make things worse, Terry’s snooty upper-class friends and Bobby’s uncouth working-class friends don’t get along, either. Matters are further complicated by the fact that Terry’s parents want her to settle down with—gasp!—a preppie little letch from a wealthy family named Franklin. But before long, Terry and Bobby fall prey to their throbbing teen libidos—class differences be damned! Bobby accepts Terry’s request to teach her how to roll like a champ, and after an extended montage of training mishaps, they decide to partner-up and enter the roller boogie contest at Jammers, the local skating rink owned by a beloved former roller derby legend. But wait … Just as things are starting to go well for Terry and Bobby, they overhear a conversation between Jammer and some generic thugs. Turns out, the thugs want to turn Jammer’s rink into—get this—a shopping mall, and they threaten to burn the place down (even if it’s filled with innocent kids) if poor Jammer doesn’t agree to their terms. Will Jammer sell out? Is the roller boogie contest cancelled? Will Terry and Bobby survive as a couple? Will Terry’s parents learn some important lessons about acceptance?

Do you really have to ask?

As the movie hurtles toward its inevitable conclusion, we are assailed by one mind-numbingly predictable moment after another. Take, for example, a scene in which Bobby and his working-class friends attend a fancy-schmancy recital (Terry is supposedly a genius flautist) on the perfectly manicured grounds of Terry’s family mansion. Of course, Bobby’s friends don’t fit in with this crowd, and every awkward joke and embarrassing moment is easily anticipated by the audience. Hors d’oeuvres are devoured with gluttonous glee, the word hors d’oeuvres is mispronounced, a comedic chase through the crowd ensues, masses of formally dressed people are knocked into the swimming pool, and, of course, someone face-plants directly into a decorative, multi-tiered cake. This scene is a perfect representation of the film as a whole. There is simply not one single moment of narrative innovation to be found in this movie.

Equally amazing is the film’s total lack of subtext. Every word, every intention, every moment is made perfectly clear through the use of exaggerated facial expressions, audible sighs, and clunky expositional dialogue. In one scene, to prove that the musical prodigy Terry is bored by her life of privilege, she exasperatedly exclaims, “So what! I’m a musical genius. What a drag! What a bummer!” Later in that same scene, Terry’s mother makes a hasty exit after hearing of Terry’s desire to win a roller boogie contest at the beach. Terry sits alone in the silence of the now-empty house, stares forlornly into the distance and says to absolutely no one: “She didn’t understand a thing I said.” The film goes out of its way to fill every moment with stilted dialogue, loud music, skating/action scenes, or a cacophonous combination of all of the above. We are never invited to intuit what the characters are feeling in quiet moments; instead, we are always told, point blank.

All in all, Roller Boogie is so bad you can’t believe that you’re actually watching it, and yet you can’t stop watching it because you’re having so much fun finding out just how much worse it can get. And, like virtually every great B-movie, Roller Boogie is fun to watch because of its shortcomings, rather than in spite of them. As Terry, Linda Blair does her damndest to erase the grotesque, split pea soup-spewing image she inadvertently cultivated as the bedeviled Regan in The Exorcist, and she mostly succeeds. The problems with her character are clearly not her fault. The same can be said for Jim Bray as Bobby. Bray is one of the most talented and accomplished skaters ever to lace ’em up. It does, however, become quite clear quite quickly that he is not a professional actor, but that, too, is not his fault, and, to be fair, every scene that features his skating is infectiously fun to watch (the guy really is an exceptionally talented skater). Roller Boogie may not work as a drama, a character study, or even as a realistic representation of the skate culture of that era, but it does capture the atmosphere and energy of summer nights at the roller rink in the late ’70s and early ’80s, and if that isn’t good enough for some people, they probably shouldn’t be watching a movie called Roller Boogie in the first place.