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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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?
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...
Bigalow: European Gigolo
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.
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.
the Deuce!Ē Maccio primally screamed. ďWant the
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?
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.
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.
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.
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...†††
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.†††
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
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
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.
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.
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