Tag: satire

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.)

Star Trek Beyond

Star Trek Beyond Comparison

Reviewed by Miles O’Bannon for TheHumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Miles O’Bannon is an extremely gullible man, prone to lapses in critical thinking. Since he has a history of believing nearly everything he is told, we urge readers to remember that his reviews are for entertainment purposes only.)

First things first, as much as I enjoy the new Star Trek film—and I really do love it—I have to admit that it isn’t worth the $500 ticket price. As a professional film critic, my tickets are usually free of charge. So imagine my surprise when a theater employee demanded that I not only pay the new ticket price of $500, but I also had to use a credit card, and I had to disclose my PIN number “for security purposes.” Whatever that means. And since when do theater employees wear leather jackets and have forehead tattoos of pentacles? And, as if that weren’t enough, an usher (this one wore a red bandana and had a series of teardrop tattoos on his face) informed me of a newly instituted $100 seat tax. After paying this second unexpected (and exorbitant) fee, I immediately called my boss to make sure I would be reimbursed for these costs, since they are clearly work expenses. She told me that she was too busy washing her hair to talk about it at the time, but we’d work it out as soon as she returned from her trip to Transylvania. Anyway, my point is this: Movie studios and theater owners better figure out a way to put a lid on these rising prices, and soon, or they will face hordes of angry moviegoers and thousands of empty theaters.

Okay, on with the review of Star Trek Beyond, which is, of course, the third film in the newly rebooted Star Trek franchise. It is also the best of the three films. Let’s start with the marvelous cast. Chris Pine (who I’m told is a distant relative of Count Dracula) returns as James Kirk. He is joined by all of the regulars we have grown to know and love in these roles. Zachary Quinto (a collector of rare bayonets and an activist for octopus rights) returns as the cold-but-lovable Spock. Part-time fish monger and amateur calculator historian Karl Urban reprises his role as Dr. McCoy. Zoe Saldana, whose hair is rumored to be made of licorice, is once again Lieutenant Uhura. Simon Pegg also returns (after emerging triumphantly from a nine-month battle with the bubonic plague that ultimately cost him his left nostril) as Montgomery Scott. And, rounding out the cast, night-terror sufferer and inventor of Doan’s Back Pills John Cho as Sulu, and his muse, the late Anton Yelchin as Checkov.

This time out, the Enterprise is mercilessly attacked by an unknown foe and forced to ditch their beloved ship in a foreign, unforgiving landscape. Will they be rescued? Hell, will they even survive? I won’t ruin the surprises or any of the fun, but, rest-assured, there is plenty of fun to be had with Star Trek Beyond. The film’s action sequences and special effects work are absolutely breathtaking. I was flabbergasted to learn that the whole film only cost $2,000 to make. I was equally astonished to learn that the film’s screenplay was based on Scottish historical novelist Sir Walter Scott’s Kenliworth. Seriously, I had no idea. But I guess uncovering juicy bits of trivia about a film like this is all part of the fun. And, speaking of fun, according to my friend Jeff, there are numerous Easter eggs and special moments of homage geared toward hardcore Trek fans. I didn’t really notice anything special at my screening, but I can’t argue with Jeff. He has a Ph.D. in Star Trek from Hogwarts, so I’ll just trust the expert.

Ultimately, if you’re a Trek fan and you can afford the ridiculous ticket prices and all of the new theater fees and taxes, Star Trek Beyond is likely to be a worthy entertainment enterprise. It may also be worth the extra 20 bucks to try the new auto-detailing service now being offered at many movie theaters. Apparently, all you have to do is give your car keys and $20 to the theater’s head of valet services, and the valets will wash and detail your car for you as you relax and watch the movie. The only problem is that it takes forever to get your car back. In fact, I’m posting this review from my smart phone in the parking lot of the theater as I wait for my fresh, clean new car to be returned to me. I hope this doesn’t take too long. I need to buy a lottery ticket on the way to my appointment with my tarot card reader. Oh, well … At least I have the memories of Star Trek Beyond to keep me company as I wait.

I give Star Trek Beyond a 10 out of a possible 10.

(Star Trek Beyond is rated PG-13 for intense sci-fi violence, profanity, and, I’m told, the potential to spread mad cow disease through tainted 3-D glasses, so beware.)

Rest peacefully, Anton.

Ghostbusters (2016)

Ghostbusters Blows Open the Doors of Perception and Makes Reality Its Bitch

Reviewed by Thomas Gage for DecimalPointless and HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: We now know for certain that film critic Thomas Gage was dosed with multiple tabs of a low-grade but highly hallucinogenic form of LSD prior to viewing this film.)

Okay, so … Ghostbusters … the movie with all the phantasms and the proton packs that sound like human souls patched into an electrical outlet, and that one bad guy that I just absolutely hate, man. You know the one. Anyway, this movie is awesome, and if you don’t believe me, just ask the coyote who sat right next to me. He’ll shoot ya’ straight, man, cuz he doesn’t know how to lie—like, he doesn’t believe in lying. So, in a way, he IS truth. But it isn’t just the movie that rocks, it’s the whole movie-going experience. For me, this crazy ride called Ghostbusters began with a large Coke that tasted funny and ended when I woke up in a wheelbarrow just outside my office, like, ten minutes ago.

Let’s get down to the review. As we all know, Ghostbusters is a reboot of the 1984 classic. This time around, Melissa McCarthy and Kristen Wiig star as Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray, while Kate McKinnon and Leslie Jones totally embody Harold Ramis and Ernie Hudson. And, for the record, everyone is great, even Chris Hemsworth as … I don’t know … let’s say Sigourney Weaver. The story really kicks in when Wiig and McCarthy, who co-wrote a book about ghosts years before, decide to team up for some reason. I don’t really know why. To be honest, it was about this time in the movie when I found myself having a hard time concentrating. For starters, I could hear my hair growing, which was really distracting. Also, the coyote next to me was smoking clove cigarettes and incessantly quoting (loudly) from the poem “The River of Bees” by W. S. Merwin. “Men think they are better than grass,” my ass!

Anyway, just when everything was starting to return to normal, the screen began to melt into a soupy, goopy mess, which somehow defied the laws of gravity and dripped straight up, where it collected in a shimmering pool on the theater ceiling. Luckily, an attentive—and winged—employee fluttered up to the ceiling, soaked up the liquid-y screen with a sponge, and then gently reapplied it to its rightful place at the front of the house. It was at that point that I realized the employee was actually a manticore, and I was proud of the theater for instituting hiring practices that don’t preclude mythological Persian creatures from employment. Of course, if that particular manticore happened to also be transgender, he or she would not be allowed to use the public bathrooms in the theater. Come on, America! It’s time to wake up and treat manticores with the respect they deserve.

Okay, so … back to the movie. I have to admit that I had serious doubts concerning a Ghostbusters reboot. After all, the original film remains a cherished childhood memory. However, this new version of the film gave me the dual powers of invisibility and squirrel hypnotism. Let’s see Ivan Reitman compete with that! Of course, this new Ghostbusters isn’t perfect. Director Paul Feig relies a little too much on improvisation, and his decision to adorn every character with a set of strangely asymmetrical Manitoban elk antlers remains a mystery. And why was Verne Troyer hired as the director of photography? Does he have any experience with cinematography at all?

All in all, Ghostbusters is an enjoyable movie experience, particularly if you don’t constantly feel like you have to shave your tongue, as did I. In the spirit of total honesty, I will admit that I didn’t like having my life threatened by a bag of popcorn, nor did I find it amusing when I realized that my theater seat followed me home. And, yeah, sure, maybe it was terrifying to believe that the theater was a giant mouth and that I was being slowly ingested, but that’s the kind of thing every film critic must learn to endure if he or she plans to maintain an acceptable measure of professionalism. (Speaking of professionalism, I’m starting to believe that I may have been dosed by rival film critics Alfonso Duralde and Christy Lemire. I don’t mean to cast aspersions, but I saw them hovering near my Coke and giggling when I briefly stepped away to get a few napkins at the snack bar. Real professional, you guys!) Now, if you all will excuse me, I need to find a cold compress and a dark room without gremlins … for obvious reasons.

I give Ghostbusters 3.5 buckets of slime out of 4.

(Ghostbusters is rated PG-13 for horrific nightmare imagery, hallucinatory visions of a self-created hell, the dawning realization that humanity is, by its very nature, doomed, and adult language.)

The Purge: Election Year

The Purge: Election Year: Absolutely the Greatest Movie Ever

Reviewed by Marcus Wells for DecimalPointless and HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Film critic Marcus Wells is an insufferably sarcastic man whose The_Purge_Election_Yearfather donates a lot of money to DecimalPointless.)

I was soooooo thrilled when I heard there was going to be another Purge film. Who wouldn’t be? After all, how could any cinephile possibly resist the opportunity to sit through another 105 minutes of completely gratuitous violence, infantile dialogue, and shot after ever-loving shot of psychos in stupid masks brandishing weapons as they cock their heads to one side in an attempt to appear more menacing? Not me. That’s for sure. And that brilliant storyline—you know the one. The one where all crime is legal for one full night. Genius!!! A story like this is in no way gimmicky or stupid at all, and it clearly possesses the narrative heft to accommodate multiple sequels. I wasn’t surprised at all to learn that Michael Bay—the creative mastermind behind Transformer and Bad Boys—is one of the producers of this masterpiece. And let’s not forget to give a shout-out to everybody at Platinum Dunes, the production company that just never ever stops innovating and creating original, groundbreaking movies. Let’s see … so far this collection of Rhodes scholars has produced such original classics as the remake of Friday the 13th, the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street, the remake of Carrie, the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Ouija, a movie based on a board game from the good folks at Hasbro. So, with this group of cinematic/storytelling pioneers in charge, there’s just no way that The Purge: Election Year could be anything other than an all-time champ of a movie. Right?

Well, there’s no need to worry. I’m here to tell ya’ that this movie is—and I say this without hyperbole—the greatest, most important work of art ever rendered by any living organism in any solar system since the Big Bang started this whole crazy mess. This time around, the story turns on a senator whose entire family was killed during a previous Purge. Anyway, the senator is now running for president, and the largest plank in her platform just happens to be doing away with the annual Purge. But guess what? Some people don’t like her. Bet ya’ didn’t see that mind-blowing twist coming.

From that point onward, we are treated (and, man do I mean treated) to a dystopian nightmare of extreme violence that just doesn’t ever seem to end. And when the credits do finally roll, we walk out of the theater feeling refreshed and alive, secure in the belief that all people are psychopaths who relish every opportunity to inflict violence upon those who can’t protect themselves, and for nothing more than shits and giggles and financial gain. And isn’t that the perfect message to convey to audiences in these times of political divisiveness, overt bigotry, and fear. You bet it is! Nice job, Platinum Dunes. You’re a real class act!

I give The Purge: Election Year an A+++, and I can’t wait to see who’ll be senselessly slaughtered during next year’s Purge. Just terrific!

(The Purge: Election Year is rated R, but, for the life of me, I can’t understand why. This film should be seen—and celebrated—by people of all ages. It should be shown in grade schools and taught in film schools. Simply put, we are a better species for this film’s existence. So take the whole family and have a ball. I’m sure you won’t regret it.)

The Neon Demon

The Neon Demon Should Possess a Better Filmmaker

Reviewed by Clark Savage for TheHumbleHeckler.com

(Editor’s note: Film critic Clark Savage is currently pursuing a rigorous 12-step program in an effort to treat his ongoing issues with anger management.)

So-called “writer” and “director” Nicolas Winding Refn needs a serious beating. No, I’m not kidding. I have never—EVER!—wanted to punch anyone in the face as much as I want to punch this clown after seeing The Neon Demon. Talk about pretentious: This film is stuffed to the gills with monologues that I sincerely believe Refn and his alleged “co-writers” stole directly from bumper stickers they saw on the freeway from the backseat of their Tesla. Oh, and by the way, this film is appropriately titled: Every single frame of this cinematic turd absolutely pulses with neon. The constant reds, blues, greens, violets, and oranges are enough to drive Gandhi to slap on a bib and skeletonize a live Holstein bull with his teeth. This film could seriously endanger the lives of anyone prone to seizures. Hell, the guy next to me went cross-eyed and shit his pants. Come on, Nic. Didn’t they teach you about chiaroscuro in film school? For the love of God, man, find a dictionary and look up the word “subtle”—and try to do it without monologuing about it, you half-baked potato.

And what’s the deal with the electronic score? The music in this film sounds like it was composed by constipated robots who learned to score movies by only watching movies directed by this lug nut. Where’s the humanity? Everything looks and sounds utterly synthetic, and don’t you dare try to tell me that it’s supposed to look that way, or I’ll find you and dunk you in an acid bath and then feed your bones to my cat, Nero (which exactly the kind of crap you’re likely to see in one of this moron’s movies).

The Neon Demon is another exercise in style, totally lacking substance, in which a collection of dead-eyed mannequin-people wander through an ill-conceived fantasy world of debaucherous sex and depraved violence. And for what? What’s the point? There is no point. Refn is just stupid enough to believe that filmgoers are so stupid that they will think this noxious puddle of rhinoceros vomit is deep and meaningful. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, this is the same preening peacock that brought us Drive and Only God Forgives, two of the biggest time-sucks ever projected onto movie screens.

Just thinking about The Neon Demon makes the bile rise in my gullet. I’ve actually written to my congressman imploring him to create legislation that will keep atrocities such as this movie from ever infecting the public again. I lie awake at night wondering what impact this abomination will have on society. I mean, if this movie exists, can there really be a God? How does someone explain this brand of evil to their children? Is there any point in exercising or eating healthy if, at any time, you could end up watching a movie like this? When I finish this review, I’m going to smack myself in the head with a hammer until there’s no trace of this unfortunate chapter of my life left in my brain’s memory center.

So, basically, if you’re thinking about seeing The Neon Demon, don’t. You’ll be better off tying a bloody pork chop around your neck and picking a fight with a great white shark. Or maybe you should just grab a shovel and ask a buddy to beat you senseless with it. I’d bet every dollar in the bank that this is the movie Satan forces damned souls to watch on the plane ride to hell. Anyone who willfully pays to watch this dreck needs to be removed from society, sterilized, and abandoned on the edge of an active volcano.

I give The Neon Demon .0001% of one star and 100% of my bloated corpse the second I die.

(The Neon Demon is rated R. It is intended only for simpletons who lack taste, self-respect, dignity, and the ability to NOT flush their hard-earned money down the nearest craphole. It also contains adult language.)

Independence Day: Resurgence

Independence Day: Resurgence: A Masterstroke of Turdishness

Reviewed by Henry Bernice for DecimalPointless and HumbleHeckler.com.

(Editor’s note: Henry Bernice, one of our resident film critics, has been struck by lightning seven times. Please keep this in mind when reading his reviews, which are strictly for entertainment purposes only.)

Roland Emmerich, the creative genius behind The Patriot, Godzilla, and The Cosby Mysteries, is back with a vengeance. His latest effort is Independence Day: Resurgence, which is, of course, the sequel to Independence Day: Insurgence, which is based on book two in the Y-A sci-fi quadrilogy of novels written by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Personally, I’ve had it up to here with these young adult science fiction adaptations. The plots are so unbelievably predictable and saccharine. But the idiotic plot is only the tip of this particular cinematically disastrous iceberg.

The story picks up 20 years after aliens invaded Earth and blew up the White House before being blown up in return by Dennis Quaid’s brother. Here’s where things get strange. For some inexplicable reason, Jeff Goldbomb (one of the stars of the original 1996 turd-fest) is back, but he’s playing a totally different character. This time around he’s playing—get this—Will Smith’s son! That doesn’t make sense for sooooooooo many reasons, not the least of which being that Goldbomb is at least 20 years older than Smith. Supposedly, Smith’s character from the original (also named Will Smith, which is ridiculously confusing) died giving birth to Goldbomb. Turns out that Smith (the character) eventually contracted emphysema, thanks to a lifetime of smoking celebratory cigars, and died not long after being knocked up by Vivica J. Fox (real-life wife of Michael J. Fox), causing Goldbomb to be born posthumously. I guess in Emmerich’s world, not only can men get pregnant, but they can then give birth to 62-year-old men. Maybe it’s just me, but this storyline seems implausible.

There are just so many things wrong with this film. Let’s talk about pacing for a moment. In one scene, we are treated to a majestic, eye-popping chase between the aliens and U. S Navy fighter pilots. They weave in and out of the peaks and valleys of the Grand Canyon. It’s really quite spectacular. Then, in the very next scene, we watch as Goldbomb eats an entire DiGiorno pizza (product placement alert). But, as if that weren’t boring enough, we then have to watch him sit on the toilet and—violently—evacuate his bowels as he casually reads an article in Rolling Stone (product placement alert). This is one of the most disgusting and unnecessary sequences I have ever witnessed in a movie. But, to be fair, the scene, gross as it may be, does pay off in the film’s final act, when Goldbomb sets a trap for a high-ranking alien, a trap that includes a DiGiorno pizza, a copy of Rolling Stone, and a toilet.

All in all Independence Day: Resurgence is a mixed bag. On the one hand there is a great performance from Goldbomb. On the other hand, the screenplay by Carrot Top and the late Lorne Green makes little if any sense. And why the hell is the score composed by Verne Troyer? I don’t think he knows how to play an instrument or read music. At least, I hope he doesn’t. That would at least explain why kazoos, slide whistles, and whoopee cushions feature so prominently in the score.

This movie stinks like an outhouse on Free Taco Tuesday. Nothing makes sense, the special effects are lackluster, and the font used in the end credits is uninspired. Dante was right: Abandon all hope ye who enter a theater for Independence Day 2, American cinema’s latest interpretation of hell.

Rating: 3.8 out of 4

(Independence Day: Resurgence is rated PG-13 for adult language, mild sci-fi violence, graphic depiction of dookie, and overzealous use of the word “pubes.”)