Beast Banner January 2009
ISSUE #134
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Features

ArrowA NEW YEAR'S GREETING from Mohammed Ajmal Kasab Iman
The last Mumbai terrorist says hi!

ArrowTHE BEAST 50 MOST LOATHSOME PEOPLE IN AMERICA, 2008
Get ready to write an angry e-mail

ArrowSTUPID, or HOW TO LOSE MONEY RUNNING A SPEED LAB
Part III:
John Dolan

ArrowCHANGE YOU CAN SMOKE?
Is Obama smart enough to end the drug war?
Alexander Zaitchik

ArrowINVASION OF THE OUTSIDERS
A people's plague
Anchor Downs

ArrowHOW TO RUN AN ELECTION
Minnesota gets it right
Brad Friedman

Departments

ArrowThe Beast Page 5
Race-baiting Hysteric

ArrowWaxy Beast: Music Reviews
by Eric Lingenfelter

ArrowKino Kwikees: Movie Trailer Reviews
by Michael Gildea

ArrowBEAST-O-SCOPES!
Your completely accurate horoscope

[sic] - Your letters

 

 

Bride Wars

Having just watched the trailer Bride Wars, and despite it featuring two reasonably, but not extraordinarily attractive women, my wenis just went officially soft, if such a thing is possible. And itís not because the two stars, Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson, are playing a pair of uggos, bridge trolls or graduate students. No, that wouldnít be a problem, as it would be so easy to look away and let the repression begin. But because these two arenít playing obvious mental defectives, genetic miscreants or legally recognized disabledÖ persons, you may actually get sucked into the trailer for Bride Wars. And Jesus Fuck are you in for it. I say this because this movie is about the worst and most annoying type of woman I can think ofóthe one with wedding fever and all the neurotic ticks that come with it.

Do you know what Iím talking about here? The ones who could be marrying a 250-lb. barrel of cat anuses and wouldnít care because theyíre getting married? You with me yet? The characters in this trailer are like people who want to go through the process of owning their own respective homes so much that they donít care which house they buy. I know itís a stretch, but trust me, theyíre out there. Perhaps itís a creaking duplex infested with black mold theyíre financing. How about some Victorian older than Gahd, formerly owned by an alcoholic who couldnít even paraphrase the definition of the word ďmaintenanceĒ? Maybe a post-WWII cedar rat trap that looks identical to every house within a quarter mile, and wasnít meant to last longer than a 16-year-old in a whorehouse? All so you can say youíre closing on a house and sound like a goddamn grown-up.

So anyway, Hathaway and Hudson are both wedding psychos whoíve been dreaming of The Day since a creepy flashback at the beginning of the trailer. They both wind up slated to marry at the same place, theyíre going to be each otherís maid of honor, theyíre both getting great dresses and just when their respective neuroticism reaches its peak a clerical error has them getting married at THE SAME TIME ON THE SAME DAY AT THE SAME PLACE!!! Oh boy, oh boy! I canít wait to see how they take the news!

In the name of horrible comedy, the two are at each otherís throats. One messes with the otherís fake tan. In retaliation, one puts blue coloring in when the other gets a dye job. And if this nonsense isnít bad enough, Broadzilla Kristen Johnson shows up as one of their friends to dish out bad advice, act as an eyesore in general, and give me bulimia of the soul.

My Bloody Valentine 3D

ďThis one, as is, is gonna suck, fellas. But if we do it in 3D, weíll make a shitload of dough! Throw in a few pairs of titties and have a lot of shit coming at the camera. Problem solved! Now get me a Croatian whore!Ē

-What Iím pretty sure had to be a quote from the pitch meeting for My Bloody Valentine 3D

Whenever they tag 3D onto the end of a movie title, youíre automatically supposed to go see it. Some Hollywood fatcat is jingling his keys in front of your face, counting on your hardwired monkey reflexes to kick in, grab those shiny things from his hand then start giggling as you run around in circles and piss your pants with glee. It doesnít matter if the movieís about necrophiliac Nazis or pedophiliac Puritans. Whoeverís making the movie thinks youíre a goddamned rube and theyíre going to treat you like one. Hell, theyíre probably assuming youíre a country rube. Thatís how little these bastards think of you.

The truth of the matter is that it doesnít matter at all what this movie is about. You can have some homicidal coal miner with a gas mask on running around town cutting up jerks because a cat he had when he was 8 would never let him pet it. Ahhhh!

But the notĒyou wouldnIím heading over am too ironic, definitely not funny thing about that plot from last paragraph is that itís pretty much true. Iím flabbergasted after watching the trailer for this movie. And Iím in such a state for a few reasons.

1) I know the original My Bloody Valentine came out in the early Ď80s, a time when all horror movies seemed to be in some kind of incestuous relationship with each other, thus creating incredibly silly inbred versions of one another. If the killer wasnít wearing a hockey mask he was wearing a William Shatner mask. There was a murdered naked teenager minimum and they always left it open for another one. Yeah, yeah. But a coal miner? Why not a traffic cop? Maytag Man maybe? How about a UPS guy killing people with their own parcels? Who wouldnít want to see an old lady killed with her Fingerhut order?

2) Are these jagweeds even putting any effort into making a decent movie without pulling the 3D card? I know thereís not much to go on, but canít they at least try? This trailer actually tries to divert your attention from the fact that My Bloody Valentine promises to be worse than slowly passing a gallstone. The trailer shows people sitting in the audience acting like a gaggle of douche nozzles whenever something pops out of the screen at them. I know whenever I go see a movie nothing gets me off more than acting like Iím rocking extra chromosomes while wearing a pair of rubber underwear filled with Vaseline, lunchmeat and live goldfish. Mommy made me fish sticks and tater tots today! Assclowns.

3) Did the band My Bloody Valentine get their name from this movie? I mean, do you really have to get the name of your band from a Canadian slasher movie? Whatís wrong with the graffiti in the can at the local dive bar? Was The Jokeís in Your Hand already taken?

The Unborn

The Unborn is a testament to the fact that January is the worst month of the year for movies. I know I say this every year, but itís true. And I have to say it when a movie that looks so incredibly bad comes out in the month of January, because Iím pretty sure Iím legally obligated to do so.

Who else has that daydream about their twin they killed in the womb? I know I do! Call me old-fashioned, but thereís just something about two unborn babies fighting to the death in a small organic arena like tiny, wrinkly purple gladiators with only their umbilical cords as weapons, that warms the cockles of my heart. Now just because I experience what must be an unparalleled sense of merriment when I think about the twin I vanquished back in the Ď70s, it doesnít mean I want to see a story about some other puss who couldnít finish theirs off, now reaping what theyíve sown.

Blah, blah. Some girlís eyes start changing color, then it comes out she was supposed to be a twin. The soul or something of her evil unborn twin brother starts killing people and thatís where I blanked out. I want to say I saw Gary Oldman lurking around somewhere and the whole thingís creepy in the most contrived way possible. If any of the cast aside from Oldman would ever be in a position to drum up interest in their memoirs, Iím sure The Unborn would warrant at least three chapters during The Dark Years.

If youíre looking to get scared in January, I suggest you open your credit card bill instead, and count the grey hairs afterward. Perhaps your car insurance is about to renew and Gahd knows putting off the opening of that letter is always painfully suspenseful. But if those wonít rattle your nerves, thereís always another season of American Idol thatíll start up. If that doesnít freak you out, youíre officially among the undead.

Notorious

Look man, I canít tell you shit about The Notorious B.I.G. aside from the fact that he loved it when you called him Big Poppa, took the East Coast/West Coast feud way too seriously (East Coast!!!) and eventually got shot D.E.A.D. All I know is I was listening to Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, the Replacements and Jesus Lizard a lot at the time, so I really didnít care about Biggie.

And after seeing the trailer for Notorious, the movie about Biggie, I probably care even less. Admittedly, I havenít heard much of the manís work and I probably never will, more out of laziness than disdain. But if thereís one thing I know about movies about rappers, itís that theyíre all based on Scarface. A talented, scrappy little roustabout making a name for himself on the streets, gets picked up by and joins the crew of The Big Man. Through perseverance and a lack of scruples, said scrapper shines and makes it... big, then is brought down by his own inevitable corruption and enormous ego. Or the Crips.

Yeah, Iím not biting. Nowhere in this trailer did I see Puff Daddy (as he was called back in the day) get thrown out of a helicopter with a rope around his neck. And whereís the scene where one of the members of Junior M.A.F.I.A. gets dismembered with a chainsaw? And I didnít hear Biggie complaining in the trailer that Faith Evansí womb was so polluted that he canít even make a baby with her. Eff this, Iím going to go get loaded on cough syrup and watch Scarface again instead.

New In Town

Iíve always said that Renee Zellwegerís got the kind of face that belongs on a scarecrow, down at the DMV court office or in an ad to effectively scare kids away from the temptations of drunk driving. Oh, and her movies should legally only be allowed to come out within the two weeks before Halloween, because with a face like that theyíre obviously going to be horror movies. Saw movies donít scare me (aside from the fact that they keep getting made) but that womanís face gives me some fierce nicotine patch and peyote nightmares. And Iíve never touched either.

Zellweger plays a rosacea victim/corporate executive sent to some backwater Minnesota town to restructure a glue factory or something. Sheís a snobby bitch who didnít look before she leapt and the town is full of folksy inbreds who think city slickers talk funny. They all clash and itís so funny and you canít believe this fish out of water type of story never gets old. Oh wait, it does. Very quickly.

So Zellweger the Jerk seems to get sick of being a bitch, gives up all hope, and is rewarded with the velvety-voiced Harry Connick, Jr, who is not only that squinty-eyed pigís love interest, but proof that New in Town is not only a chick flick, but a chick flick you can ignore without any guilt.

The only thing I can think of that could turn New in Town around would be for Connick to be revealed as a serial killer (maybe reprising his role from Copycat?) or some evil corporate fixer who decapitates Zellweger with some rusty piano wire. And donít even think of telling me you wouldnít want to see that. Just donít.†

Underworld: Rise of the Lycans

The Underworld series couldíve been the best thing to happen to horror movies since Cannibal Holocaust, but because it decided to take itself too seriously and be completely terrible, we ended up with some bad Matrix rehashing that replaced man vs. machine with vampires vs. werewolves. A porcelain Kate Beckinsale in skin-tight vinyl aside (or maybe even included) these movies blew cow. The first one definitely, but I didnít get past the sex scene in the second, so I couldnít tell you much about that last one.

Iím guessing that Beckinsale wouldnít come back and the story had more skid marks in it than Eva Mendezís face. Screw Beckinsale anyway. Everyone knows that Englishwomen have no souls. And when I say soul, I donít mean the kind that Amy Winehouse has too much of, but the one thing that Paris Hilton does not possess. So letís get another Englishwoman instead who kind of looks like Beckinsale anyway, and tell an Underworld story from the past that explains why the werewolves and the vampires started all this fussiní and feudiní.

Underworld: Rise of the Lycans looks like itís perfect for confused teenagers who canít decide if they want to goth out in front of the mall or go to a medieval festival. Donít you see? They really can have it all!

Beckinsale was literally the only thing about the Underworld movies that wrangled me into the theater or caught me in a moment of weakness to keep me from flipping channels when they were on TV. Why the hell would you go on without her? Seriously, thatís like luring someone over to your shithole, Lovejoy studio apartment with homemade apple pie. Normally I wouldnít be caught dead over there, but because you have homemade apple pie, those rational thoughts in my head telling me to blow you off like the last day of school are silenced and Iíll come over. But now you couldnít make homemade apple pie and youíre trying to sucker me into that House marathon at your place with fucking mincemeat.

Why the hell would I even talk to you if homemade apple pie isnít involved? And who the hell eats mincemeat pie anyway? What am I? What do I look like? A goddamn farmer? What have I ever said to you that could possibly lead you to believe Iíd be down for mincemeat pie? What are you, deranged? Go scare up some of those medieval geeks. Maybe theyíll enjoy your mincemeat pie. And I donít even give a shit if thatís historically accurate. Do you hear me? I donít care if there was no such thing as mincemeat pie back in medieval times! Never trust Mexican research! Iím telling you!



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