Buffalo BEAST - Buffalo's New Best Fiend
 

August 24 - September 7, 2005
Issue #82

  ..Buffalo's Best Fiend
   
Evolution Rock
Jesus or Darwin? An ultimatum
Allan Uthman

Keepin' it Real
Cindy Sheehan, representin'
Shawn Ewald

It's Gettin' Hot in Here
Global Warming: Warming the Globe?
Kit Smith
Large & in Charge
Bob Wilmers, Buffalo's control freak
Donnie Dobovich
People Like You
You people just don't get it

Michael Manville

No Strategy, Just Exit
Fractured left threatens itself

Stan Goff

The Real Greatest Americans
Screw the Discovery Channel
Erich Schulte

The BEAST BLOG
Buffalo in Briefs
The Sports Blotter
The Week in Sports Crime
Page 3
Celebrity Math
Separated at Birth?
Beast-O-Scopes
Kino Korner: Movies
[sic] - Letters
 Cover Page

COMIX:
Idiot Box
Perry Bible Fellowship
Bob the Angry Flower

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Kino Korner: Movies by Michael Gildea


The 40-Year-Old Virgin

A witty (or at least enjoyable) comedy and the summer movie season usually go together like Jell-O shots and an AA meeting. Summerís the time for movie studios to make money, not merry. But every once in a while, youíre surprised. Or at least I am.

This summerís exception to the rule is The 40-Year-Old Virgin, the first leading role for former Daily Show veteran Steve Carell. Carell playsówellóa 40 year-old virgin who works at a Circuit City-esque retail chain and really enjoys his action figures and video games, just like a 20-year-old virgin would. Next thing you know, his friends at work catch wind of his...affliction, and make it their mission to put the little crusty spot into his man panties. Of course his friends give him some pretty-bad-yet-consistently-amusing advice, and Carell winds up getting it on with a forty year-old grandmother.

Virgin was definitely amusing and I liked it a great deal, but I thought I could do one better. Not on an epic scale that making a movie involves, but definitely on a smaller level.

I stopped by a neighborís house. Now I donít know, but Iím pretty sure the only living person who ever touched his penis was the school doctor. Or maybe his Judy Garland-loving landlord, when he couldnít make the rent that one month. Anyway, I stopped by his place in Lakeview. I walked in and the place was an action figure display case. I realized why grease-stained pizza boxes donít make good interior design tools. And every variation of a Darth Vader action figure ever made strategically placed around the dump only cemented the theory that this pop culture shithole needed a womanís touch. He sat blankly in front of the TV, XBox controller in hand. The drool puddle in his lap complemented the clicking of the controller; the sorry son of a bitch was about to get his rental feeís worth.

ďYouíre getting laid tonight,Ē I told him. I shut off the TV. He looked up at me with the same look that Nicholson had on his face at the end of Cuckooís Nest.

Three lines of artificial sweetener each (I cut it with Nestle Quick), a cold shower for a Mountain Dew, and an hour and a half later, we were downtown. The guy was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He was almost tweaking as bad as the meth addict in the beer tent I saw at the Fair. I told him not to be foolish; he was looking at this the wrong way. The lower he kept his expectations, the easier they would be met, I told him.

After another amphetamine-fueled touchdown, we strutted down Chippewa in the snazziest duds our meager respective livings could afford us. And this sorry son of a bitch had to wear a goddamned Batman t-shirt on underneath.

I certainly had my work cut out for me. This sloppy bastard bought clothes by the pound that never quite hung on his sorry carcass just right. He was a proud example of a man who desperately needed a woman to take care of him. And I was also painfully aware that, regardless of which female he put his penis into tonight, he was going to marry this contemptuous harpy. I was sending one of my brethren out to face a slow and painful emasculation, one that I could only hope would be mildly slow and painful. I decided to just hit him with the game plan before I lost our nerve. I tossed him my keys and forty bucks.

ďHit any bar on this strip. Take your pick! Down three shots and look around the room for five minutes. Before the booze hits, look around the room and find the dumpiest, skankiest one in the joint. Watch her get hot while that devil water your bodyís going to distill does a number on you and turns her into a frigginí goddess. If you canít zero in on one in particular, find another one and buy her a drink. Pick one quick and both of you get loaded. Get back to the car and have at it! I see no other way!Ē

I didnít see him again until about two hours later. Iíd spent all of the money Iíd hustled out of busboys and chefs in a back alley dice game. I fed booze to a minor and my job was done. So I see him getting out of the car as heís pulling his jeans up. He looks around and doesnít see anyone. On both sides of him, I see a pasty, chunky, and oddly proportioned ham. The... textured legs pulled back into the car and I hid in the dark.

Now Iíve known this manchild for quite some time, and I know him to be the sort that takes directions literally. If I were to describe this woman in any more detail, you would turn to stone merely by reading her description.

So I get him home after they exchange e-mail addresses or pager numbers. He thinks she thought it was hot that his pager has voicemail. Sheís got two cats.

When I got him home, his mother was waiting for him. Sheís all fire and brimstone towards me when he walks in the door. Who the hell do I think I am keeping her thirteen-year-old son out until the middle of the night? Heís covered in the love stink of a fledgling demon and she goes catatonic when she catches a whiff of him. She looks between us and smiles like sheís going to be a grandmother for the first time. She says she somehow knew that her son and I were lovers, but never realized it. She said something about a llama farm in Idaho and being so happy for us. As sheís spouting this gibberish, I take my leave and go home, once again with no charges pressed against me for reckless endangerment of a minor.


Red Eye

Between his work in the Nightmare on Elm Street and Scream movies, Wes Craven has all but established himself as the Michael Bay of the horror world. Anything Cravenís done in the past fifteen years is a miniscule notch above utter dogshit (Scream included. What up, bitch?) And his little buttplugging sessions with Matt Damon and Ben Affleck on cable are nothing short of shameless self promotion. Itís kind of like starting a low-grade media war with Tom Cruise. It wonít get you very far, but maybe itís worth doing.

So maybe all this publicity is trying to tell its viewers and movie fans that Wes Craven could actually be making something worthwhile. AND MAYBE ITíS NOT. The only decent thing about this movie, if I may call it that, is Cillian Murphy as the crazed psycho who terrorizes some wingnut dame he met on a plane. He doesnít go for the typical over-the-top performance that youíd expect out of a Wes Craven movie. You know who Iím talking about: The guy that was in 28 Days Later, and he was the Scarecrow in Batman Begins. He gives well controlled performances. The thing I canít figure out is why here?

Yeah, itís a PG-13 horror movie that will probably see its largest audience on bootleg DVDs passed around between cousins who happen to know dudes who can get them for cheap, and theyíre still in the theaters! Maybe teenage girls will see it at the mall before their moms pick them up on a weekday afternoon now that summer schoolís done. I donít know. But what I do know is thisĖit should have been called Brown Eye.


The Skeleton Key

Oh Shit! Itís time yet again for another skinny white chick to get thrown into a hellish situation that translates oh so well to the screen! Hot damn.

So letís get the ingredients for the formula together and see what kind of trouble we can stir up. Letís get the skinny little white chick and paint some happy little trees. Kate Hudson plays a traveling nurse in the Bayou that ends up in some whacked out Louisiana fever dream. Letís also tack on some old school from back in the day actors and actresses to pull this crap together.

The Skeleton Key is definitely creepy, but the plot holes are too big for this future goth kid favorite to hold together. Itís definitely nice to see Gena Rowlands and John Hurt still working, but itís just sad to see them in a crappy horror flick. What the hell are you going to do?

Umm. Yeah. So did Dave quit orĖ Oh he did? Sick of the bullshit, huh? Well, I was surprised to see him after the shifts changed, you know? I mean, I donít mind it too much, but he must be wiped out when he gets out of here. I mean heís probably pulling a triple-header right now, if you know what I mean. I donít blame him. Not at all. If I was him, I wouldnít have stuck around for this shift either. Oh well, Iím gonna miss the bastard...


Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo

There was a time maybe a year after the original Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo where I could have watched it. Weíre going back a good five years here. Cliffís Notes edition: I opted to get laid instead, but the TV was on. To my dismay, I didnít see Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo under similar circumstances, but it was still pretty interesting.

We started drinking. Maccioís kid confessed to giving Obi-Wan Kenobi a hand job in London a couple of weeks before. Real horrorshow. So as you can imagine, Tom Maccio hasnít been the same since. Heíd earlier pulled out that twenty-five-year-old bottle of Mescal and had put a sizable dent in the bottle when I woke up. His soul had left his body and was trying to fondle Lily Munster on the TV, his dark, lifeless eyes fixated on the screen. He broke the spell, poured a shot, and downed it in record time. It was two hours later that this valuable booze was nearly killed and we began to grow restless.

ďGimme the Deuce!Ē Maccio primally screamed. ďWant the Deuce!Ē

Even if I wasnít in a drunken haze, I still wouldnít have had any idea what the crazy bastard was on about. I thought it was a bad Family Guy act. Was there a worm that this son of a bitch ate that I didnít see? Did I swallow it?

ďDeuce!!!!!!! Il Deuce!!!!!Ē He was clearly going mad. I had to act quick. I threw ice water at him and fed him stale wheat thins, but that only strengthened his resolve. I was running out of ideas fast and I still had no inkling as to what it was that this living maniac was talking about or wanted. Then I looked to the TV.

This douchebag wanted to go see Deuce Bigalow. I asked the mutant if that was what he wanted. He nodded as if he was having some kind of conniption. We were at the theater less than twenty minutes later.

The flask he snuck in was full of piss-warm vodka. Dummy stuck it in his back pocket. This ainít no pontoon race. Whereís he think heís at anyhow? Anyway, that precious bottle of Mescal wound up on the floor after the second sip from the flask. Mine ended up in my popcorn. I offered it to the homeless guy sleeping the row in front of us. He seemed to like it.

I think Maccio liked it. He sobered up and apologized for putting me through that hellish nightmare. We sat through the rest of the film and I took Maccio up on his offer to punch him after every stupid joke. Maccioís arm was so numb that day he thought he was having a heart attack. That was worth the price of admission right there, I tell you! Thatís some priceless shit...†††

We loaded up at a Chinese buffet and headed north. Before we were allowed to cross the border, the boys at the gate held us up for awhile. The ghettos of Hamilton were our destination for no reason other than to drive through the industrial district. So we could feel like we were in the future. Thereís nothing like driving through a metallic landscape to make you feel insignificantly small. We loaded up at a mall food court and realized after looking around that everything could be a hell of a lot worse.†††


Supercross: The Movie

Iím kind of snobbish about the movies and films I like. I donít really watch movies as a form of disposable entertainment. I think thereís a difference between a movie and a film. The Wedding Planner with Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McCaunehey is an example of a movie: Mindless fluff that flaunts its stars like cheap jewelry nestled in bad chest hair. Annoying chick flicks that will age as badly as their stars in years to come. National Treasure is also a movie: Big name crap with a big name star that no one will remember in a few yearsí time. Then youíve got another Nicolas Cage film thatís an example of a film. Films actually have something really creative going on. It may be the direction, the acting, or the story. The more of those things a movie has, the more it becomes a great film. Adaptation, Face/Off, and Raising Arizona are all films he was in. Okay, maybe Face/Off is stretching it a little. But there were only two categories for motion pictures.

And now a new creature crawls out of the mud to offer itself up as a third category of motion pictureóitís too ugly to even be given a name. Hence Supercross: The Movie. Itís a modern day B-Movie. Itís one of those Roger Corman biker movies from the late Ď60s like Wild Angels or The Trip. Easy Rider shit.

Without a doubt, Supercross is a terrible, terrible movie. A MOVIE. Weíre looking at a movie that will be a giggle in a girlís college dorm on a Friday night when they decide to have bad movie night. Or maybe it will serve as a manifesto presenting the spawn of NASCAR. Itíll go over really big with the mullets-and-meth-lab crowd, if that gives you a clue as to what kind of deal this is. To make things worse, itís not going to be enjoyable for another thirty years. Donít watch this movie until your current age doubles.

But what I propose you do instead is not to avoid watching this sort of movie; I suggest that you watch an older version of this kind of movie. Maybe even a film version of this movie. Watch Wild Angels. Watch The Wild One. Hell, watch a movie that needed to age to begin to resemble a film after nearly twenty to sixty years.

Soófor anyone who reads this column on anything resembling a regular basis, these are the alternatives I offer to you. Go rent any one of the following films.

On The Waterfront. The Richard Widmark version of Night and the City. Chinatown. Vertigo. Fight Club. The Graduate. The Godfather parts One and Two. The Last Picture Show. Old School. Bonnie and Clyde. Cool Hand Luke. After Hours. The Asphalt Jungle. American Beauty. Dr. Strangelove. Evil Dead II. Maybe the last oneís not exactly Citizen Kane, but itís definitely worth the rental fee. Hell, buy the goddamned thing! Everyone should own a copy of Evil Dead II! And The Big Lebowski...


The Aristocrats

There is a hell of a buzz going around this one. And maybe in some alternate reality where I would become the successor to Roger Ebert, I know why. The basic premise of this documentary/performance piece/comedy act video mix tape is a simple one.

A bunch of comedians tell the same joke in different segments. Oh look! Thereís Robin Williams! Ooh, Ooh! Whoopi Goldberg. Is she funny! And Paul Reiser, Jason Alexander, Drew Carey, and George Carlin are all here. I say, Iím glad I wore my zubas, because any other pair of pants would start splitting at the sides from laughing so goddamned much!

And whatís this joke? If youíre going to hear the same joke told about a hundred times, it better be a good one, right? Well, Iím going to save you nine dollars (if you donít want to know, stop reading NOW): A family walks into a talent agency and tell a talent agent that theyíve got a great act for him. The agents asks what it is and the family says they roll around in their own shit and fuck each other. The talent agent asks what they call themselves. The Aristocrats.

Oh sure. Maybe I didnít tell the joke as well as Chris Rock or Penn Jillette, but take into account that itís a stupid joke and I only think Iím a comedian. Thereís something mystifying about The Aristocrats. I think itís the way that everybody (film critics and moviegoers alike) are bending over, lubing up, and white-knuckle grabbing the sides of the table for this movie. Itís fresh and inventive! Theyíve seen nothing like this before! Itís got nothing behind it. Watching The Aristocrats is like being held hostage for about two hours and being fed a rice cake every three minutes. The first few are okay. At least your captors care enough to feed you. But all theyíre feeding you is rice cakes. And despite the fact that some of them have peanut butter and other tasty treats on them, the cakes get a little bit more stale with each and every wretched bite.

As far as The Aristocratsí endearing qualities go, there arenít many. The only one that springs to mind is seeing Sarah Silverman, but all that really made me want to do is walk out of the theater and go watch my Mr. Show DVDs. Jon Stewart for a sneeze, but doesnít tell the joke. Going to see this movie solely for Stewartís appearance is like dating a girl because you think her one friendís hot. Not worth it, my friend. Not worth it.

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