Posts Tagged ‘suicide’

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Feeling the January-movie blues: “The Forest”

January 9, 2016

 The-Forest-poster

Well, it’s January. Know how I can tell (aside from, you know, being cognizant of the date)? It’s because the new releases in the cinema is stuff like The Forest. Yeah, January is when Hollywood basically says to us, “What? You don’t want to rewatch all the great movies we released for the last two months? You can see The Force Awakens for a fifth time, right? No? Well, fuck it. We shot our load, so here’s a ghost movie with a Game of Thrones actor.” And that’s how movies like The Forest get a theatrical release.
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Don’t do it! You have so much to live for! “The Last Word”

April 22, 2010

For people of a certain age—my age—watching a Winona Ryder movie is a bittersweet experience. Because if you are that age—and by now you know if you’ve reached it—seeing that pixie face and massive doe-eyes takes you back to the days of Beetlejuice and Heathers, when she was the perfect crush. Hell, I’m not ashamed to admit that I spent much of my junior year of high school completely enraptured by her. Ah, but then maturity struck us and somehow skipped her. There came Autumn in New York, Alien Resurrection, and Lost Souls. Teenaged sensitivity became adult neurosis, and then there was the shoplifting trial. Truthfully, I don’t even remember how that shook out, but it was clear by then that Winona had become more interesting for her nuttiness than her talent. Seeing Winona now, in a cameo like Star Trek or in a leading woman role as in The Last Word, is a bittersweet reminder that some youthful dreams fade away, while others are dragged screaming into the Sarlacc Pit.
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Somewhere, David Carradine is smiling: “World’s Greatest Dad”

March 5, 2010

The 2009 film World’s Greatest Dad performs some weird alchemy. There is some sorcery at work here, because it takes some of the most odious, annoying, self-indulgent comedic staples of the 1980s, and synthesizes them into one of the funniest, and certainly the boldest comedy of the past several years. The comedic elements I’m referring to are the movie’s director Bobcat Goldthwait and leading man Robin Williams, and the movie is World’s Greatest Dad. Maybe this movie proves that beneath whatever fabricated personality presented to the media, most entertainers genuinely do have a wellspring of creativity that their profitable public persona stifles. One thing’s for damn sure: it’s definitely an object lesson in  what happens when you take the euphemism “choke the chicken” far too literally, and yet not literally enough.
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Will Smith’s ego attacks the world: “Seven Pounds”

January 8, 2009

200px-seven_pounds_posterIn recent years Will Smith’s ego, as manifested by his onscreen presence, has swelled more massively than Mickey Rourke’s physique—and is just about as freakish. We’re a long ways away from the likable ensemble-player of Independence Day and Men in Black. Nope, over time we’ve seen his shtick turn into a sort of willful blindness. In Hitch, he was the irresistible ladies man, despite employing dating tactics that were—let’s face it—the stuff that restraining orders are made of (more on this later). And his whole performance in I, Robot was essentially one long exhortation, “I know I’m being a complete asshole onscreen here, but you still love me! I’m Will Smith! Look at my Converse sneakers!” And on it goes: striking up crucifix poses with handguns in Bad Boys and culminating in him being simultaneously the last man on Earth and humanity’s salvation in I Am Legend (and managing to be even more self-indulgent than Charlton Heston was in the original—when you out-sanctimony Moses, it might just be a sign of the apocalypse…oh wait, it already came). But all of this pales in comparison to Seven Pounds, for in Seven Pounds Will Smith’s ego has become an entity unto itself, stalking the aisles of the movie theatre and giving wedgies to skeptics while shouting “YOU LOVE WILL SMITH! ACCEPT HIM BEFORE THE MASSIVE POWER OF HIS SELF-SACRIFICE DESTROYS YOU, FILTHY UNBELIEVER!” Well, that’s what it seemed like anyway.

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One for the Sossamon-haters: “Wristcutters: A Love Story”

May 15, 2008

Recently the work-wife texted me to let me know that Tenfeet was correct and that Shannyn Sossamon does indeed suck. So, those opinions along with Qui’s tell me that women hate Shannyn Sossamon (because three people is enough for a representative sample for an entire gender, right?). This puts me in a bind, as I already wrote the review for Wristcutters: A Love Story, and Sossamon represents half that love story. Thankfully, I didn’t upload it, so I made some edits to try and make it more palatable for my female audience (read: my entire audience). Sound good? Well, it’s the best I can do. My computer ate my copy of Iron Man before I could watch it.
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