Kino Korner: Movie Reviews by Michael Gildea

National Treasure

There’s an old term from the Golden Age of Hollywood that describes an actor’s ability to turn any project into a box office bomb. That term is “box office poison.” Many actors and actresses went through it. Some even worked crappy jobs during their rut.

But there’s one man who, probably through witchcraft of the black arts, has managed to invert the meaning of box office poison. Instead of talented people turning projects into crap, this man has turned crap into gold. And who is this man?

Jerry Bruckheimer.

He’s had his name on many a celluloid turd that has made sickening amounts of money. Pirates of the Caribbean, Bad Boys parts 1 and 2, Pearl Harbor, anything directed by Michael Bay. Big budget stuff that sells popcorn and that leads you to believe that we are indeed living in a cultural and perhaps moral wasteland.

If you’ve read The Da Vinci Code, you shouldn’t admit to it. But if you have, what you’re in store for with National Treasure is a cross between that and Monty Python and the Holy Grail with a serious delivery. Silly dialogue, a series of cliffhangers, and ridiculous explanations/clues have arrived in bulk.

If I had psychic abilities, I’d say that the viewing of this movie is going to be involved in a “Fear Factor” contest someday.

The SpongeBob Squarepants Movie

I’ve tried watching “SpongeBob Squarepants” on a few different occasions and the novelty of the show has always mystified me. “Ren and Stimpy” got me through the twilight of my high school years. That was fun in a knock on ‘50s culture in a subtle way. That and if you watched it in a delirious, sleep-deprived state, you’d implode from laughter.

But I just don’t get SpongeBob. Maybe I was watching the lesser episodes. Maybe the lead in my balls was weighing me down. But then I realized the trick to making anything funny. This technique got me through some messy breakups and getting over my gambling addiction. It’s also helped me figure out the meaning of life.

Don’t sleep. Just deprive yourself of sleep long enough and it all falls into place. All answers will be revealed.

By the time I saw SpongeBob, I hadn’t slept for three days. Delirium coursed through my veins, like my disdain for Jerry Bruckheimer.

And I didn’t mind SpongeBob as much. Chances are, if you like the TV show, you’ll love the movie. But if not, you’ll probably feel like you’re under the influence.

Finding Neverland

Finding Neverland is one of seemingly a thousand biopics out this season. This one is about J.M. Barrie, the man who wrote Peter Pan and the inspiration and events leading up to the writing of that play.

The average person’s going to watch this and find Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Barrie kind of disturbing: A man hanging out with Kate Winslet and her four sons with no romantic interest in the woman at all.

No matter how you feel about Depp’s pretty-boy status, you’ve got to respect him as an actor. The way he plays this brilliant space cadet who refuses to grow up just seems so effortless, and it’s really great to take in a performance like that. You sort of get pissed off when you think of the possibility that Depp may not get and Oscar for it.

Finding Neverland is a great movie. It’s almost dreamlike, consistent with the tone of the story that Barrie spawned. When you walk out of the theater, you’ll almost be upset that you have to or had to grow up. I always am, but even more so after watching Finding Neverland.

Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason

I’m going to admit something to you people. What I’m about to admit to you is something that not very many people know, and those who do are under the impression that they are holding something over my head. The fact of the matter is that I have enough to blackmail them for eight lifetimes and can have the FBI at their respective homes within twenty minutes on suspicion of murder.

So I’m pretty safe. And to those I just mentioned—up yours.

So why am I about to give up my ace in the hole? Call it lack of shame, call it an unwanted burden, call it what you want. But I actually liked Bridget Jones’ Diary.

It was a fun movie. It had silliness. It was mindless fluff that showed other people in worse situations than I’ve ever been in. It made me not mind Renee Zellweger so much. It had bad weather, terrible food, and inhibited any desire I had/have to visit England for that much longer. It was a feel-good movie that made me feel good (or at least better) at the expense of others. To me, that’s what entertainment is all about.

Then they have to make another one. And they do this by making Zellweger gain even more weight and rehash the first Bridget Jones movie in the least interesting ways possible. A series of mindless episodes that could have been told in any order. It’s like the English remade the “Mary Tyler Moore” series, but less interesting.

I know that most if not all women feel that there’s a little Bridget Jones in each and every one of them. And it’s this belief that will pull them into the theater and probably fuel the production of a third and even more unfortunate Bridget Jones movie. But as for us guys, it makes us love (or at least not mind) the rakish prick that is Hugh Grant’s character that much more.

I know the question still stands, “was Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason worth seeing?” If you can’t really afford the lobotomy right now, yes. This will tide you over. If you’re running low on hatred, yes. But if you’re looking for eight dollars worth of laughs, no.

After the Sunset

I read somewhere that Pierce Brosnan is hanging up his tux and the James Bond role because he doesn’t want to get pigeon-holed or type-cast. Well, that’s all well and good, but he’s giving up Bond to do heist movies. You know, so he doesn’t get type-cast.

This brings us to After the Sunset. Chock-full of logic-defying action, shady characters and Salma Hayek’s ample and delightful bosom. It’s another in a series of well-made yet crappy heist movies that make you thankful that your wristwatch has a light, but ungrateful that you can’t spot a terrible movie a mile away.

It’s got a good cast. Woody Harrelson and Don Cheadle round it out, but for the most part, After the Sunset is pretty square. You’ll want to drop two hits of ecstasy before you hit the theater. Take enough of that shit and every trip to the movies will be a winner. Just don’t puke and drink plenty of fluid.

I know that everyone’s going to seem exceptionally beautiful, but try to refrain from telling them that. They’ll think you’re some kind of weirdo. Now that I think about it, you’re better off ditching the movie and going home. Listen to some Electric Light Orchestra. God knows that you’re not going to like it under any other set of circumstances.

The Polar Express

It’s amazing how pissed some parents will get if they see you drinking Remy Martin in a theater during a kids’ movie. Throw the three PCP-laced joints you smoked in the parking lot while disdainfully watching sports bar patrons with a hooker who promised you an express elevator to hell-of-a-night ahead into the equation, and you’ve got a recipe for ugliness, my friends.

And does it taste good…!

In my defense, I’m going to start by saying that I didn’t know it was a kids’ movie. It was dark, ugly, and without the cheer that other holiday films display with a saccharine touch. The previews certainly didn’t leave me with that impression. It looked like a documentary. A metaphor that would detail, in a line-by-line fashion, everything that was wrong with Christmas, the most famous of all pagan holidays. It seemed like an open letter to Mel Gibson. A painful reminder and stern response to The Passion of the Christ.

Five ugly caricatures of Tom Hanks! A revolving door of gawking, staring, condescension. A portrait of a man who only works one night a year. It was maddening!

Between the stewing rage, the booze, the ~~drugs~~ medication taking hold, and the nagging call girl buzzing in my ear, I discovered a newfound ability to rip out a row of seats after just one try. Rippling biceps, the ability to subdue security with harsh language, and the ability to recite De La Soul is Dead verbatim while simultaneously mimicking Mayor Quimby from “The Simpsons.” I was unstoppable! Unstoppable, I tell you!

The next thing I knew, I woke up in El Segundo with my wallet missing. I don’t know if it was the hooker’s doing, but someone had the fruit punch. My friend Carl picked me up a few days later and we lived off of the ketchup and mustard packets from the floor of his car on the way home.

If I had the whole thing to do over again, I would’ve skipped the hooker (whom I was too tripped out to touch) and spent a little more time in El Segundo. And I would’ve seen it in IMAX3-D (which is actually an open option). This would’ve been a whole different trip in 3-D glasses.

Seed of Chucky

There’s an old joke: What’s the difference between a Harley and a vacuum cleaner?

Where you put the dirt bag.

And I always liked this joke not because I thought it was funny, but because I thought it was true. But oh how my prejudices and misconceptions were dispelled when I saw Seed of Chucky.

Up until I saw this movie, my most memorable and favorite movie going encounter was when I saw Showgirls at the now closed Como theater for $1.50. That experience involved hicks with smuggled booze and their ultimate discharge from the venue, masturbating Eastside exhibitionist thugs, and angry-as-fuck-lesbians. Seed of Chucky involved about twenty bikers, barbecue, three kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and tossing a pigskin around.

And I thought morticians knew how to party! The ringleader was Bear, a portly, but jolly hog-rider whose life was changed back in the ‘70s when he read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in the hospital after a bad wipeout on his bike.

On that Saturday morning, the gang invited me in as if I were one of their own. Bear knew the theater manager, so our unregulated and highly illegal activities went unquestioned, even by the fire detector.

When you watch what promises to be a bad movie in good company, sometimes those promises get broken. Seed of Chucky was pretty funny. One part of it had Jennifer Tilly in a movie-within-the-movie about Chucky. She’s trying to play The Virgin Mary in a flick Method Man is making, but it doesn’t work out, so Chucky wants to impregnate her. She’s got plenty of great lines. John Waters shows up; there’s the child of Chucky who’s named Glen or Glenda (an homage to Ed Wood), and full frontal doll nudity. Not to mention Chucky masturbating.

I know it’s not exactly Bridge on the River Kwai, but it has the good sense to make fun of itself and the term “it’s so bad it’s good” definitely applies here.

And special thanks to Bear and company. If you guys are in town for Christmas, I’m definitely up for meeting up to see The Aviator. You bring the deep fryer; I’ll bring the turkey…