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I’m afraid more rum was needed.

The H-Bomb:  I must confess off the bat that I’ve never read anything by Hunter S. Thompson, and my only real exposure to him was from Terry Gilliam’s bat shit crazy adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I do kind of like, but ultimately just got too obnoxiously bonkers for me to really, fully embrace.  That’s why the trailers for “The Rum Diary” looked promising.  It looked as though we were going to get another glimpse into Thompson’s very unique mind, only this time in a toned down, more palatable way.

Sadly, screenwriter/director Bruce Robinson toned things down to the point where any interest or fun to be had was just evaporated.  It was like “Fear and Loathing”, except instead of tripping on Acid, it was bombed into a complete stupor of Quaaludes and Valium, so much so that all it can do is slog along from one dramatically indifferent scene to another at a leaden pace.  That is The Rum Diary, Fear and Loathing gone dull.  There is a plot, things do happen, but there is absolutely zero dramatic tension.  There’s no sense of urgency or importance, nothing to hook us in or make us invested in what’s happening.  It’s like watching the movie drunk: we see what’s happening, but we’re only watching passively, and we’re completely detached from it all.

It’s starts out promisingly enough, with Johnny Depp once again stepping into the role of Thompson’s surrogate, this time named Paul Kemp.  The story is set in Puerto Rico in 1960, with boozy writer Kemp arriving fresh from the States to work as a reporter for some local rag that is slowly going the way of the Dodo.  Kemp is serious about being a journalist and wants to tackle important stories, but his cynical, toupee-topped editor (Richard Jenkins) just wants him to write fluff about fat American tourists at bowling alleys.   Kemp isn’t particularly happy about this, but just keep the rum flowing, and he’ll be fine (hey, sounds like me).

Eventually, he crosses paths with wealthy douche bag Sanderson (Aaron Eckhart), who, we eventually find out, wants Kemp to write promotional pieces for an island resort that he’s trying to interest investors in.  Kemp becomes involved with Sanderson’s beautiful girlfriend, Chennault (Amber Heard), and soon discovers what a shady guy Sanderson really is.  It’s then that Kemp sets about finding a way to bring him down, with the power of the printed word.  All the while, the unfocused narrative sends Kemp on a series of misadventures with fellow alcoholic writers Moberg (Giovanni Ribisi) and Sala (Michael Rispoli).  These include scary altercations with gringo hating locals and accidentally setting a cop on fire.  Sometimes the antics rise to the level of mildly amusing, but never beyond that, and not often enough.

And again, that‘s the dang problem. The Rum Diary is the most bewilderingly boring film I have ever seen.  Overall it’s about Thompson discovering his voice as a writer, and that certainly had the potential to be a fascinating story, but the execution is just so Goddamn blasé that it‘s actually frustrating to think about what a squandered opportunity this movie is.  The actors do try, with Depp back in the Thompson role.  Only this time, instead of playing zany, drugged out Thompson, he’s playing restrained, drunk Thompson.  His performance is very understated, and sadly, that only adds to the film’s lack of dramatic oomph.

Eckhart is perfectly cast as the sleazy, rich slime ball, but the movie didn’t make me care enough to hate him.  Ribisi and Jenkins actually are funny as the more lively and eccentric characters in the piece, but they couldn’t salvage it.  Heard is not bad to look at, but writing wise, her role is terminally malnourished.  Here, she is eye candy, and nothing more.

This is a project that Depp, who also produced, had been nurturing for a long, long time, at least a decade, and I really wish the end result would have been more worth his while.  I wish it had been more worth my while, as well.  Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was certainly not a perfect film, but it was also certainly never boring for a second, either.  The Rum Diary just runs on the same flat tempo all the way through to its utterly “so what” ending.  It’s not funny enough to keep me entertained, as comedy-wise, all the best bits are in the trailer.  The limp attempts at drama are not engaging enough to make me care, and all I was left with at the end were two hours that I wished I had back.

out of – Because I can’t give it NEGATIVE SIX STARS!!!!

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The “Meta” sequel to Rick Swift’s ‘favorite’ film of 2010!

The H-Bomb:  Wow.  Fine readers of iRATEFilms, I have seen some Baaad movies in my life.  Be it Princess Coppola’s recent pretentious non-movie, Somewhere, or the all time crud sucker, Texas Chainsaw Massacre 4, I have plummeted to the deepest depths of cinematic depravity, and I have managed to survive most of them unscathed.  I weathered the uncensored international cut of A Serbian Film, and was able to laugh about it afterward.  I managed to sit through Irreversible, and managed to not only not get sick by all the spinney cam, but to actually love that film.  In fact, never, in the almost three decades of my movie watching life, has a film, no matter how hard it tried, made me physically ill . . . until tonight.

Normally I don’t sit down immediately after watching a movie to review it, but tonight, I have seen Hell with mine own two eye . . . and it is The Human Centipede II.  I knew enough about the first Human Centipede to know I had no interest in seeing it (I watched enough “caustic” video reviews of it to know the whole plot, including the ending, anyway), so what possibly could have drawn me to this “meta” sequel?  I don’t know, what draws us to smoke our first cigarette, or to try crack-cocaine, or to voluntarily eat at McDonald’s . . . we as human beings are sometimes just inexplicably pulled to things we know will be bad for us.  I knew this would be bad, and I had a plentiful supply of alcohol that I thought would help me through it, but Christ on his throne, I should have brought along a barf bag!

It happened at the extensive climax of the film.  Our “hero” has accomplished his “goal,” sewing up twelve people ass-to-mouth.  I had long passed the point of “I don’t give a fuck” and was just laughing my ass off at what was happening on screen . . . that’s when the film decided to wholly and completely one-up its predecessor in utter cinematic grossness:

[***SPOILER ALERT***] 

The “hero” goes up to the front human and force feeds her canned dog food through a tube.  This starts a chain reaction where each person sprays diarrhea into the mouth of the person behind them.  Then as a capper, the “hero” goes up to the lady at the end of the centipede and pulls down his pants, revealing his chubby little pecker wrapped in barbwire.  He penetrates her with his barbed-up thing . . . and  that’s when it happened . . . I gagged, then before I knew it, the contents of my stomach were all over the footrest in front of me.

[***END SPOILER ALERT***]

Congratulations to Tom Six, the writer/director of both Human Centipede films and real life Internet Troll, of all the gore-strewn movies I have seen, yours is the first to make me spew.  Fuck You!

Holy God, now that I have that off my chest, my review proper shall commence.  The Human Centipede II is a film that no person should ever, ever, EVER SEE!  If one ever had the option of watching this movie once or being water-boarded with un-flushed toilet water for twelve hours straight, I would, for their sake, recommend the water boarding.  Terrorists would not even fathom forcing infidels to watch this movie, because even they would consider it unconscionably cruel and unusual punishment.  Great Caesar’s Ball Sack, have I spelled it out enough for you people?!

Okay, I shall continue.  Ugggghhhh, is this “plot” even worth describing?  Fine, here it is, our “hero” is a short, fat, toad-crossed-with-a-slug like man named Martin (Laurence R. Harvey), hopefully no relation to Laurence Harvey of The Manchurian Candidate fame.  This human dung beetle lives a miserable life in a London flat with his horrible old witch-bitch of a mother, and works a solitary job as a parking garage attendant/security guard.  He’s a quiet type (in fact he never says a word the entire movie, though he does scream and make pig like grunts when he tries to assert himself) who apparently was molested by daddy, which is why he is apparently mentally challenged.  Oh, and he loves The Human Centipede, oh does he love it!  He’s obsessed with it.  He watches it on his laptop, when it ends he rewinds it and immediately watches it again, he keeps a scrapbook full of photos and notes from the movie, and he even wraps his schlong up with sandpaper as he beats off to the three way ass-to-mouth climax.

See, that’s what makes The Human Centipede II a “Meta Sequel” (latest bullshit term dreamed up by wannabe film hipsters), because it’s set in “the real world” where the original movie is just a movie, and this one is about the sad little fuck who worships it and its protagonist, Dr. Heiter, like gods.  In fact, Martin doesn’t just hold the fictional Dr. Heiter in high esteem, he takes detailed notes of Heiter’s ass-to-mouth methods because he aims not simply to follow in his footsteps, but to surpass him completely.

And that he does!  As I mentioned, he doesn’t get just three people chain-linked, but twelve!  Over the course of the film, he stalks his victims, some known to him, others complete strangers he chances upon in the parking garage . . . all in for a unfathomably horrible fate!  He incapacitates them, ties them up, and takes them to a dingy warehouse he “rented.”  Once he has all twelve, including one pregnant woman, he aims to finish what his make-believe mentor started!  Bring on the barf inducing climax I covered earlier!  Oh, and this time it’s in beautiful Black & White, because Tom “Sick-Fuck” Six thinks that makes it artistic!  Yes, it was a Black & White movie that made me toss my cookies.  Cannibal Holocaust, Day of the Dead, a B&W flick managed to make me do what you couldn’t.

I’m guessing this toad-slug Martin is the exact kind of person that director Six imagined would be the target audience for the first Human Centipede.  To that, I have to give it to Mr. Six, he’s probably absolutely, spot-on fucking right!  Martin is exactly the kind of anti-social, manic-depressive, psychotic, terminally fucked-up kind of individual who would enjoy and idolize these utterly worthless, witless, detestable sick-jokes masquerading as movies.

I just as soon assume Mr. Six had no fucking audience in mind, as he is a troll filmmaker, in the Uwe Boll mold, who is making these for what is known in the Internet parlance as the “Lulz.”  I honestly believe he made these atrocities simply so he could walk into a darkened theater with a pair of night vision goggles and laugh at all the people who are choking and puking in the aisles because of the wretch inducing garbage he created.

I can honestly think of no other reason why this movie exists.  I also can’t imagine why Ashlynn Yennie, one of the female stars of the original, agreed to come back to play “herself,”  who happens to be the object of Martin’s masturbatory fantasies.  Not only does she return, but she allows herself to be completely demeaned yet again by stripping naked, getting on her hands and knees, and becoming part of the twelve part human centipede.  Oh dear Ashlynn, I hope the money was worth it, sweetheart.

In case you haven’t caught on by now, people, I shall spell it out: I did not like The Human Centipede II.  Just thought I’d reiterate that, just in case one of you out there is more retarded than dear Martin.  Not just the worst film of 2011, not just the worst film of the past decade, but quite possibly the worst film I have ever fucking subjected myself to.  No, make that DEFINITELY the worst film!  Move over Texas Chainsaw Massacre 4, unholy piece of S-H-I-Tut that you are.  This is now the movie by which I will compare all other horrible movies.  I’m no prude, I can take the worst that cinema can dish out, but . . . again, this literally made me vomit!  It’s a reprehensible abomination, its existence is indefensible, and now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean the vomit off my footrest.

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What is it they said about politics and bedfellows?

The H-Bomb:  It’s the Ohio Democratic Primary, and presidential hopeful Governor Mike Morris (George Clooney) is running neck-and-neck with his rival, Senator Pullman.  Despite having one of the best campaign managers in the business, Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman), and Zara’s wunderkind No. 2 Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling), heading his campaign, Morris is still trailing Pullman by a few points in the polls.  A lot hinges on which candidate will receive the endorsement of Senator Thompson (Jeffrey Wright), whose recommendation will go to the highest bidder (meaning whoever promises him the best job in their administration).

Stephen is a 30-year-old idealist who has worked on more campaigns than most guys in their forties, and who earnestly believes in his Morris and all that he stands for.  One day, Stephen is contacted by Pullman’s campaign manager, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti), who asks to meet him for a drink.  After some finagling, Stephen agrees, against his better judgment, to meet with him.  It’s during this friendly little talk that Duffy tries to convince Stephen that Morris is a lost cause and to jump ship and join the Pullman campaign.  Although Stephen more or less tells Duffy to go suck a duck, if word ever got out that he had a one-on-one meeting with the opposition in secret, it could be very bad for him, career-wise.

To make matters even more complicated for Stephen, he has started a relationship with a young campaign intern named Molley (Evan Rachel Wood), who happens to be the daughter of the DNC Chairman.  After answering an ill-timed phone call at two in the morning, Stephen finds out that Molley has a skeleton in her closet . . . a big one.

For spoilers sake, I’ll stop there, except to say that from there a whole lot of back stabbing, double dealing, and blackmailing ensues.  The kind that could destroy Stephen’s idealism and force him to take actions that he never imagined he would be capable of taking.

The Ides of March, co-written and directed by George Clooney, is a sizzling, sharply penned thriller that has, above all else, reaffirmed my own feelings towards politicians: I don’t fucking trust them.  Any of them.  Democrat, Republican, it don’t matter, they are all about as straight as Quasimodo’s spinal chord.  It’s a film that shows that almost everything that a candidate says publicly is scripted and rehearsed, even when they’re allegedly speaking off the cuff, and that winning elections isn’t all about how many votes you can get, but how many you can buy through backroom deals and shady power plays.

It’s fitting that the day before I screened The Ides of March, I watched, for the first time, Frank Capra’s, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.  These are both films about naive young men who enter the political world in order to do some good and become disillusioned.  But where Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith managed to remain uncorrupted through it all (Jimmy Stewart cannot be corrupted), Gosling’s Stephen finds that he will have to “get down in the fuckin’ mud” if he wants to keep his career.  And that’s what it’s all about, folks, that even those who go into the political arena with noble intentions will eventually go bad because that’s the way the system is.  No one is immune.

This kind of cynical look at our political system is certainly nothing new, but this one does have an air of credibility to it in that it was adapted from the stage play, “Farragut North” by Beau Willimon, who worked on Howard Dean’s 2004 presidential campaign, and thus is savvy to the behind-the-scenes workings of a major political campaign in a way that your average writer is not.  How much is truth, and how much is drama, I of course can’t say for sure, just that I, with one exception I’ll get to in a bit, did believe it all the way through.

The dialogue and the drama all felt authentic, and the characters all come to life through the work of a uniformly excellent cast firing on all cylinders.  I was dumbfounded that Gosling wasn’t nominated for his incredible, understated turn in “Drive”, but after watching his powerhouse turn in this, where he’s actually allowed to speak, I’m convinced the Academy has something against the guy (maybe because he was once a Mouseketeer?).  Most actors in his age bracket would have shriveled up while standing alongside the likes of Hoffman, Giamatti, and Clooney, but Gosling managed to carry the film marvelously.  Oscar, dear boy, you are are this close to losing all credibility in my eyes.

As far the other names I mentioned go, they are all as brilliant as you would expect them to be, and since this is a true actor‘s piece, each and every one of them has copious moments to shine, be it Hoffman ranting about loyalty, or Giamatti warning Gosling to get out of the game before he ends up jaded just like him.  Of the whole supporting cast, it is Clooney, as smoothly charismatic as ever as the Obama-like Morris, who shines the most.  Watching him deliver a speech, I absolutely believe that he could run for office and win, if he so desired.  He also delivers with his assured direction, which is up for an Oscar.  His direction is slick but straightforward, focusing our attention right where it should be, on the actors and the story.

Which brings me back to that one thing I didn’t quite believe, the one aspect of the film that didn’t work; the fact that Gosling’s Stephen is pretty damn naive for a guy who’s allegedly worked on more campaigns than most guys a decade older than him.  Every time someone figuratively sticks a knife in his back, he is genuinely shocked.  He is thirty, not twenty, and one would think he would be considerably more wise to how ruthlessly cutthroat this business can be.  Like he himself says to one of his underlings, “This is the big leagues.  If you fuck up, you’re done.”

That one grievance aside, The Ides of March is a smart if surprisingly cynical drama that shows that there are no good guys in politics, there’s just the lesser of two evils, and good luck trying to figure out which one that is.  It is a fascinating, fantastically written film by an actor/director who is improving with each project, that deserves to be seen by more people than it has been.  Rent it today.

(3 People gave this 5.00 out of 5)

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“I don’t sit in while you’re running it down.  I don’t carry a gun.  I drive.”

The H-Bomb:  A movie stunt driver/mechanic (Ryan Gosling) moonlights as a getaway driver for various underworld characters as they do their various underworld things (usually robberies).  He gives them exactly five minutes to do whatever they’re there to do, and if they’re even one second late, he’ll take off and leave them on their own.  We never learn much about this driver, not even his actual name, just that he’s very good at what he does, and he’s a strict believer in minding his own business.  He’s a loner by choice and only speaks when he has something to say, which isn’t very often, and the closest thing he has to a friend is his boss, garage owner Shannon (Bryan Cranston).

Shannon has a lofty plan of putting the driver on the racing circuit, where he believes, not unreasonably, that his driver will excel.  He goes to his old gangster friend, Bernie (Albert Brooks), to borrow four hundred grand for a stock car, and after Bernie gets a gander of what the driver can do on the racetrack, he agrees.  It seems that things are looking up for Shannon and the Driver, but then something happens… the Driver meets a girl (Carey Mulligan).

Her name is Irene, she lives on the same floor of his apartment building, and she’s taking care of her young son on her own while her husband is in prison.  They don‘t exchange many words, but there clearly is a connection between them, and as the Driver spends more time with Irene, he even becomes a kind of surrogate father to her son.  This makes things a little awkward at first when Irene’s husband, Standard (Oscar Isaac), is released from prison.

But before Standard gets the chance to really grill the Driver about the affair he may or may not have had with his wife, his old prison buddies, who he owes protection money to, come calling, wanting him to hold up a pawn shop.  As a favor, the Driver agrees to sit behind the wheel of the getaway car.  It looks like a typical in and out job that he’s done a hundred times before, and nothing could go wrong…  famous last words.

Unfortunately for the Driver, nothing goes according to plan, and the fallout could have very violent repercussions for not only him, but for Irene, her son, and Shannon, as well.

I don’t think I’m overstating a thing when I say that “Drive” is quite possibly the best film of 2011 that you haven’t seen.  I myself was a little hesitant to sit down and watch it, because after all the positive buzz I’ve heard about it on the Internet, I was afraid that it might have been over-hyped for me.  I was dead fucking wrong.  It absolutely, for me, lived up to the hype, and now I couldn’t be more happy to join the chorus in singing its praises.

Based on the novel by James Sallis, “Drive” is a tense, slow burner where the dialogue is sparse and the violence is fast and brutal.  I’m talking point blank shotgun blast to the side of the head, fork jammed in the eyeball kind of brutality.  It’s a hard R-rated movie with a stiff dick and a hefty set of testies, with real brains and a sense of artistry behind it, the likes of which we don’t see nearly enough of these days.

Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn (“Bronson”, another bad ass motherfucker of a flick I highly recommend) does an excellent job creating the bleak, unforgiving world these people inhabit.  It’s a world where the shit is stacked so high that no one can stay completely above it, no matter how hard they try.  Refn gives the film a stark, modern Noir visual style, especially during the nighttime driving scenes, which is complemented perfectly by Cliff Martinez’s evocative score and his use of 80’s pop tracks at the beginning and end of the film.  It has the look and feel of a Michael Mann film, except on a significantly lower budget.

Refn also manages to pull some tremendous performances out of his top notch cast.  This isn’t really an Oscar movie, but the Academy shall forever live in shame for not recognizing Gosling’s turn for the award caliber performance that it is.  What he does in “Drive” is the epitome of an actor doing a whole lot with very little.  As stated, he has precious few lines in the movie, but he has a face that says so much that he really doesn’t need much dialogue.  His relationship with Mulligan’s Irene has the richest chemistry of any I’ve seen in recent memory, and it’s one that’s built mainly on silent gazes.  You can tell from his face whether or not he likes someone, and he does it in a way that is totally natural.  Gosling is the poo, shame on you, Academy!  Shame on you!

Also, shame on you for overlooking Albert Brooks’ terrific work in this.  Bernie the gangster is the kind of character you would never even think to cast Brooks as, but he’s brilliant. The guy plays a bad ass… and he’s completely, one hundred percent believable.  When he jams a knife into some poor schmuck’s throat, you will believe that he is the last person on the planet you would ever want to fuck with.

Bryan Cranston is also great as the gimp-legged Shannon, who provides a few laughs throughout.  Even when he’s bragging about how he shamelessly takes advantage of the Driver, he’s still likeable.  Ron Perlman gets a little hammy as Nino, a trash talkin’ Jewish gangster and Bernie’s partner in crime, but it’s still good to see him in there.

Now if all that isn’t enough to make you want to see “Drive”, then you obviously haven’t been paying any fucking attention.  This is one instance where the hype got it right.  It is one amazing, wild ass ride of a motion picture running on all cylinders.  It may sound like a B-movie from the plot description, but the A-list talent both in front of and behind the camera help raise it to a whole new level of awesome.  Don’t let this one leave you in the dust, check it out today!

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Just let this sleeping dog lie.

The H-Bomb: Young, dull newlyweds David (James Marsden) and Amy (Kate Bosworth) move from L.A. to the small southern town where Amy grew up. David is a screenwriter, and he hopes that the peace and quiet of their isolated farm house will be the perfect place to work on his script. Unfortunately for him, the local hillbillies they hired to fix up the barn roof have other ideas. It’s bad enough that David is an outsider and a city boy with a condescending, intellectual air to him, but the fact that he hired Charlie (Alexander Skarsgard), Amy’s old high school beau, to work on the roof only makes matters worse. See, Charlie still has an eye for Amy, and he doesn’t much care for her running off and marrying this nerdy little Joe Hollywood douche bag, so… I think you can guess where this is going.

Charlie and his buddies’ taunts start out as minor annoyances; showing up to work at the crack of dawn with their shit-kicker music blasting, walking into David’s house uninvited and just helping themselves to whatever’s in his fridge, cutting out at midday to go hunting, so on and so forth. Being that David is a product of the Left Coast and a very principled pacifist (so he tells us), he is willing to turn the other cheek and try not to let it get to him.

But Charlie’s antics soon escalate and become more hostile and dangerous; David is run off the road by their truck, pet cats turn up dead (why does that sound familiar), and eventually a vicious assault takes place. If David and Amy had even an iota of common sense, they would just cut their losses and leave, but David isn’t about to be driven out of his home, and he now has a lot of manning up to do before the inevitable violent showdown.

You’d think after the dismal failure that was the “The Getaway” remake, that Hollywood would know better than to redo Sam Peckinpah, the guns n’ booze auteur who had an arresting, kick-to-the-dick style that no one could ever replicate, but that didn’t stop them from trying. This time, they tried doing it with “Straw Dogs”, his 1971 film about a non-violent man pushed to the breaking point. It was mucho controversial when released, but it’s kind of tame by today’s standards.

For this remake, the setting has been changed from rural England to the rural U.S., and the main character’s profession has been switched, inconsequentially, from mathematician to screenwriter, but everything else follows the plot of the original to the letter. The result is a banal, quasi-boring film which adds nothing new to the story thematically, and ultimately has no reason whatsoever to exist. The graphic violence of the Peckinpah film is retained, including the infamous use of a bear trap, but the potency is gone.

Writer/Director Rod Lurie (“The Contender”, a putrid film) also didn’t do himself any favors by making all the small town folk a bunch of tobaccy chewin’, beer swilling, narrow minded primates who enjoy bullying and tormenting outsiders when they’re not too busy fucking their own relatives. It’s the kind of lame, clichéd small town stereotype that could only have been written by some snotty writer who has never actually been to a small town in his life.

I also love how Lurie has his protagonists say and do the most stupid, illogical things imaginable simply because the plot needs them to, like having the atheist David wax philosophical about religion with Charlie by calling God a “bully,” or having him say shit like, “I’m a writer, that means I work for a living” to a blue collar guy who actually does work for a living. Jesus, a fucking first grader would know better.

But the real kicker, the one that truly insults the intelligence, is what Lurie has Amy do after she catches Charlie and his slobbering goons eyeballing her; she opens her bedroom window and strips naked in front of them. Seriously, is this chick retarded?! What was she thinking? Can she even think? Does she even have a brain? Apparently, Lurie forgot to give her one.

Lurie also forgot to fix the one aspect of the 1971 film that, at least I think, doesn’t work, the reason for the final confrontation. It doesn’t come about from the simmering hatred that builds between David and Charlie, but from a subplot about the town retard who likes to touch children. It bothered me in the Peckinpah version, and it only added to my list of reasons to dislike the Lurie version.

Moving on to the performances, it’s a mixed bag. Marsden and Bosworth are reunited from “Superman Returns” and display the exact same lack of chemistry that they had in that film. They are both big zeros, and it should be noted that James Marsden is no Dustin Hoffman. Skarsgard (son of Stellan) is actually quite menacing and subtle as Charlie. His performance is one of the movie’s few virtues, and for a Swede, he made a pretty convincing redneck. James Woods is fun to watch as the alcoholic ex-high school football coach who also makes trouble for David and Amy. The only problem I had with him was that I didn’t believe for a second that he could actually intimidate an entire barroom full of good ol’ boys the way he does here.

(H-Man Parenthetical: I just remembered that Woods was also in “The Getaway” remake, as well. Weird.)

After all is said and done, this new “Straw Dogs” isn’t a terrible movie, it’s just a terribly pointless one. There’s nothing in here that Peckinpah didn’t already do better in his original film some forty years ago, and there is just no reason for this watered down, dumbed down version to have been made at all. If you must see “Straw Dogs”, do yourself a huge favor and watch the original, and give this future piece of K-Mart bargain bin fodder a pass.

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High on fun, low on believability.

The H-Bomb:  A mysterious man (Sam Worthington) checks into a Manhattan hotel alone.  He treats himself to an extravagant meal, then wipes the room clean of all fingerprints and climbs out the window and onto the ledge.  It’s not long before he’s spotted by some do-gooder on the street far down below, and a crowd gathers to see if he’ll jump.  Some even cheer for him to jump!  Soon the police and the media both show up, and the whole thing turns into a big fiasco.

Lydia Mercer (Elizabeth Banks), a police psychiatrist with a drinking problem and a sad back story, is called to the scene to try and talk the man down off the ledge, and in their back and forths she gets the feeling that he’s not really suicidal, and that there is something else going on.  Of course, we the audience, through some rather clumsy flashbacks, already know more about this man than Lydia.  We know that his name is Nick Cassidy, that he is an ex-cop who went to prison for a crime he says he didn’t commit, and that he’s an escaped fugitive trying to clear his name.

But what does all that have to do with Nick dangling off the ledge in full view of hundreds of people?  Well, maybe it’s to keep people’s eyes off of what his brother, Joey (Jamie Bell) and Joey’s girlfriend Angie (Genesis Rodriguez) are doing across the street, in the diamond vaults of slimy, big shot Wall Street broker David Englander (Ed Harris).  Normally, I’d be reluctant to give that much away, but the trailer already did it for me, so I figure, the hell with it.

In fact, for the audience to enjoy “Man on a Ledge”, they’ll have to say the hell with it, too, because that is exactly the kind of movie it is.  The kind of highly contrived, ridiculously illogical thriller that Hollywood cranks out every so often.  The kind where if you scrutinize the plot, the characters, or anything that’s happening, you’ll just end up frustrating yourself, but, if you can just kick back and go with it, you’ll find it fairly enjoyable.

Basically, “Man on a Ledge” is a popcorn movie, one that wouldn’t cut the muster in the summer, hence it’s being released in January, when movie theaters resemble post-apocalyptic wastelands, but essentially it is 90 some odd minutes of pure, dumb brain candy.  Those looking for a tense, single location thriller like “Phone Booth” may be disappointed, as this actually is an overly plotted heist movie in the “Inside Man” vein, only about a thousand times more improbable, and not nearly as memorable.  It’s entertaining, but you’ll be straining to remember anything that happens in it the day after you see it.

As far as performances go, this really, truly is not a performance movie, but everyone on hand does their best. Worthington is an actor who has never interested me at all.  Frankly, I find him about as exciting as a piece of plain toast and as charismatic as a bullfrog, but here, he’s actually all right.  He hasn’t converted me into a born again Worthington fan or anything, but on this occasion, he managed to make me root for him… even though the Hasselhoff hair he sports doesn’t do him any favors.  Banks, as the alcoholic police shrink, does okay, as well, but like Worthington, I find her kind of bland.

Fortunately, the solid supporting cast does help spice up the mix.  Bell is funny as Joey, Nick’s well meaning but clumsy brother, Anthony Mackie is smooth as Nick’s best friend and a fellow cop who’s a little too interested in his predicament, and Harris hams it up nicely as the stereotypical smug, cigar sucking, fat cat bad guy.  Fans of William Sadler will be pleased to see him in a smallish role as a helpful Bellhop, it’s just too bad he looks as though he aged twenty years in the past ten. I was disappointed to see Ed Burns relegated to the throwaway role of some generic detective who spends the whole movie on the sidelines.  This guy used to be a full fledged movie star.  He helped save Private Ryan, for Christ sake!  What happened?

Of everyone in the cast, the one true standout is Genesis Rodriguez.  Never heard of her before?  Don’t worry, neither have I, but I have a hunch we all will in the near future.  Her turn as Joey’s girlfriend/amateur cat burglar is sassy, sexy, and almost steals the show.  The moment where she strips down in her bra and panties to slip into her skintight catsuit is perhaps the most hysterically gratuitous thing I have ever seen in any movie, but in a movie this hokey, it’s allowed.

And hokeyness is the order of the day with this one.  There are some intensely suspenseful moments (the bit with the news chopper is great), some nifty action towards the end, and even some laugh out loud moments throughout (the old Hippie in the crowd shouting about Attica is priceless).  It all leads to a climax that is both howlingly absurd and a little under-whelming, but if you keep your expectations modest and your brain turned off, there is fun to be had… provided you have absolutely nothing better to do.

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A whole lot of nothing!

The H-Bomb:   Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) is an A-list movie star living the Hollywood Bad Boy life; boozing, partying, women, so on and so forth.  Basically, all the drinking, all the drugging, all the screwing are supposed too compensate for the fact that, despite being filthy rich and successful, his life is pretty damn boring (just so you know, the word “boring” and its various synonyms are going to appear frequently in this review).  It’s all Johnny’s way of filling the utter emptiness of his existence.  That’s not to say his life isn’t without its little pleasures; he’s treated to a show by a couple of pole dancing stripper twins, which he falls asleep during, he’s receiving obscene text messages from an unknown sender, he’s asked stupid questions by idiot journalists with strange accents in a press conference, and he gives absolutely worthless advice to aspiring actors.

If I had his life, I’d probably bomb myself into a perpetual stupor, as well.  Oh, but there is a bright spot through Johnny’s chemically induced haze: his lovely little daughter, Cleo (Elle Fanning), who is dropped on his doorstep at the famed Chateau Marmont hotel one day out of the blue.  The mother explains to him that she has to go off to parts unknown for reasons unknown, and she charges Johnny with the crucial task of getting Cleo to summer camp by a certain date.  Failure to do so could bring about catastrophic consequences that could unravel the space-time continuum and destroy existence as we know it!  Actually, none of that would happen (God forbid that would make this movie interesting, if illogical), but she does have to get to camp by a certain date.

So, stuck with the kid for a few weeks, Johnny hauls her around on all his various exploits of nothingness.  To Italy, to Vegas, and all over L.A.  We sense that he doesn’t really know his daughter, and that this is the first time he’s spending any real time with her.  So, we get treated to the pleasure of seeing them bond by doing a whole lot of nothing together… like eat ice cream in bed while watching “Friends”, or playing “Guitar Hero”, or sunbathing, amongst many, many other edge-of-your-seat activities.  And it’s during all these thrilling non-adventures that they bond in a significant way… I guess, and Johnny learns a valuable life lesson about . . . something . . . or . . . nothing.  I’m leaning towards the latter.

I really would love to discuss more of the plot, except there isn’t any more to discuss.  Sofia Coppola’s fourth film, “Somewhere”, is the latest addition to that ever growing sub-genre of indie film, the “Nothing Happens” genre.  Standing alongside such gems as “The Brown Bunny” and that Jim Jarmusch snoozer “The Limits of Control”, “Somewhere” continues in that same stylistic vein of long, static shots with seemingly endless scenes of characters doing little-to-nothing in them.  And I am speaking very literally, folks.  Every single scene in the film either has Johnny and Cleo doing nothing, or doing something so fucking mundane that it’s really not worth mentioning or watching . . . for that matter.

At the least “The Brown Bunny” rewarded us at the end with Chloe Sevigny sucking off Vincent Gallo.  With “Somewhere”, we don’t get anything even remotely that interesting or memorable.  The only scene that I would qualify as notable, and I am reaching here, is the one involving Johnny and a naked male masseuse.  The only reason I remembered that was because it’s the one quasi-entertaining scene in the entire film.  That aside, Princess Coppola’s newest opus is one in which nothing happens, then more nothing happens, then even more nothing happens, and then, mercifully, after 90-plus minutes, it ends.  This kind of minimalist style can work sometimes, “Elephant” and “Blow Up” spring to mind, but in an instance like this, where there is no compelling story, no emotion, and no drama of any kind, then it just makes for one excruciatingly DULL movie.  It was duller than a butter knife in Al Gore’s drawers.

[Swift thought: while editing this paragraph, "The Simpsons- The D'oh-cial Network" JUST burned on Princess Coppola for making movies where nothing happens!]

I’ve been writing for iRATEfilms since mid-2009, and in that time, I have sat through some genuine shitbags, but I have to say, with all sincerity, this is the worst movie I have ever reviewed for this site.  I shit thee not, dear readers, I would not say it if I didn’t mean it, it is the absolute WORST, period.  I loathed it.  Despised it.  If the DVD weren’t a rental copy, I would smash it to pieces and fucking burn it!  Holy Hell, when crap like “My Soul to Take” and the pisss poor “Hisss” look good by comparison, something is really, truly wrong.  At least those movies tried to tell stories.  They failed miserably, but they at least tried to have actual characters taking part in an actual plot, with an actual beginning, middle, and end.  “Somewhere” doesn’t even attempt any of that.  It is cinematic vapor.  It’s like an entire movie made up of outtakes . . . outtakes that go on for eternity and aren’t even remotely amusing.  And that it was brought to me by an Academy Award Winning Filmmaker makes it all the more infuriating.  Jennifer Chambers Lynch, you are off the hook, there is a new nepotistic Daddy’s Girl director at the top of my shit list now.

Some of the apologists for this empty void of nada masquerading as a movie will argue that it’s a thoughtful (sigh), existential (eye roll) tone poem (face palm) about the life of a man burned out by the meaninglessness of his fast n’ hard lifestyle, and that it’s his relationship with his daughter that brings him true happiness and redemption.  Okay, that’s all well and good, except it’s presented in such a way that it isn’t at all touching or moving.  For Christ’s sake, the movie doesn’t move!  Maybe if Princess Coppola actually bothered to write a script, instead of just turning the camera on and telling the actors to do whatever, she possibly might have had something.  Sadly, she went the lazy route instead.  “But it won Best Picture at the Venice Film Festival!”  Well, to that I have two questions, what the hell movie did they watch, and haven’t the learned to stop sampling the water whilst on those over-priced gondolas?  Did Daddy Coppola have Nitrous Oxide leaked into the theater during that screening?

The damnable thing of it is, I am a fan of Princess Coppola as a director.  “The Virgin Suicides” was near brilliant, and “Lost in Translation” was one of the best films of the last decade (though I must confess, “Marie Antoinette” looked so fucking awful from the trailers I never bothered with it).  So, as a fan of hers, I wanted to see “Somewhere” and I went in expecting to like it, but . . . as I think I clearly stated, I didn’t!  She took the understated style and tone she established with “Lost in Translation” and amplified it to a point where it rendered the movie inert, lifeless, and… did I mention boring, already?

It is a stupefyingly pretentious, astonishingly over-indulgent waste of time.  In fact, it’s worse, it’s a waste of a waste of time, made by one of the most spoiled brats in all of Hollywood, and Daddy Coppola should give that brat a good spanking, send her to her room, and not let her out until she remembers how to make a good movie again.  “Somewhere” is a film that goes absolutely nowhere, and it would be smart of you to go nowhere near it!

(2 People gave this 4.00 out of 5)

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“Everyone has lost something in the war.”

The H-Bomb:  Like many in my generation, I have grown up with the movies of Steven Spielberg.  Be it Indiana Jones or “Jurassic Park”, “E.T.” or “Jaws”, the man has an ability to create pure magic on film in a way that really no one else can.  Or at least he did.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t think this past decade has been Spielberg at his best.  “A.I.: Artificial Intelligence” had interesting aspects, but didn’t really work as a whole.  Ditto for “Minority Report”.  “Catch Me If You Can” went in one ear and out the other.  “The Terminal” I would argue is a genuinely bad movie, as is his remake of “War of the Worlds”.  And don’t even get me started on “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Expletive Deleted”.  For me, the only good film he’s made in the last ten years was “Munich”, which I do feel is a terrific movie that didn’t get anywhere near the recognition it deserved.  But that one aside, I can easily live without anything else he’s done.  Not to mention the man seems to have forgotten how to end a movie, filling them full of false endings and making them run at least a half hour longer than they should.

For all intents and purposes, it looked to me like the bearded one had lost his touch.  That’s why I was so pleasantly surprised by “War Horse”, a film that is harrowing and moving, and sees Spielberg back in fine form.  Based on the novel by Michael Morpurgo,  it tells the story of a down on his luck farmer (Peter Mullan, “Session 9″) who purchases a horse to work in his field just as the first World War is about to begin.  His wife (Emily Watson), thinks that the animal is useless and wants to get rid of it, but his son, Albert (Jeremy Irvine, excellent) immediately takes a liking to the gorgeous young horse and names it Joey.  When it looks as though the horse can’t be trained, Albert prevents his father from giving Joey a buckshot shampoo and sets about training the horse himself, and then defies the odds by doing exactly that.  But before long a storm rolls in and destroys the crops.  Completely broke, and with no way to pay the rent, the farmer is forced to sell Joey to a young British Army Officer, who intends to ride him into battle.

After Albert’s tearful pleas for him not to take the horse, the officer gives him his word that if he can, he will return Joey to him after the war.  But World War I was a particularly messy war in which nothing went according to plan, and over the course of four years, Joey finds himself being shuffled between many different owners and masters, on both sides of the conflict.  Each owner is very different from the last, but they all share one thing in common, they are all able to recognize that this is a very special horse that they have in their care.  Once he is old enough, Albert joins the army and goes off to fight, in hopes that he will be reunited with Joey.

“War Horse” is, a few minor flaws aside, an absolute triumph for Spielberg.  It has all the elements from Spielberg’s best films; it’s touching, if a tad sentimental, emotional, and rousing.  Fantastically crafted with stunning cinematography, it, much like “Saving Private Ryan” did, captures the visual beauty of everything, even something as ugly as war.  It’s theme of Albert’s unbreakable bond with Joey is one that will surely resonate with anyone who has ever owned and cherished a pet.  If there’s one thing Spielberg does better than anyone else, it’s being able to strike an emotional chord in the audience, and that’s very much evident here.

As the title clearly indicates, this is about a horse that goes off to war, so it’s easy to surmise that the horse is placed in jeopardy on a number of occasions.  The most grueling of which being when Joey gets himself “tangled” in the middle of no man’s land.  The sequence is difficult to watch, but plays out in a way that is rewarding and very “Spielbergian.”  It tugs on the heart strings, perhaps a little too deliberately, and if you’re one who is inclined to shed tears, then I recommend bringing tissues.  For the record, I’m not and I didn’t.  Cynics may condemn Spielberg for being emotionally manipulative, but frankly, who gives a rat’s rectum what they think?  For me, it worked, as I’m sure it will for most.

As for complaints, I would say there are times, mainly with character actions and the way certain events unfold, where the story stretched credulity almost too far.  It was never so unbelievable that it was absurd, but it did have me thinking, “Come on, would that really happen?”  Also, there were some interesting characters that I would have liked to have spent a little more time with, like the two German brothers who desert the army, as well as Joey’s German handler on the battlefield.  These were people I felt were a little short changed.  But the film’s biggest flaw, the one that most of Spielberg’s modern film’s suffer from, is that it’s too damn long.  It’s not that it had a series of false endings, but that the first act on the farm, which is kind of dreary, really should have been shortened.

But, these problems are miniscule, as “War Horse” is overall one terrific motion picture.  Joey’s journey is long and trying, but it’s one that is very much worth riding along on.  It’s not the best film I’ve seen this year, but it’s most definitely up there, and it has left me convinced that Spielberg has not lost his touch, after all.

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“Out with the old, in with the new.”

The H-Bomb:  George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is a 1920’s movie star who is on top of the world.  Each film is a bigger hit than the last, he lives in a beautiful mansion with a cold, money grubbing wife (Penelope Ann Miller), and he’s a darling of the press and public alike.  Life couldn’t get any better for George… and it doesn’t. 

One day, George’s producer Al Zimmer (John Goodman) tells him about a big change that’s coming to cinema: the addition of sound.  George blows the notion of this new kind of picture off completely, thinking that it’s just a passing gimmick and believing that his audience will always be there for him. 

But George soon finds out the hard way just how wrong he is.  “Talkies” are not just a fad, they are here to stay.  It’s no longer just about faces, but about “Words! Words! Words!” as Norma Desmond would contemptuously say.  The truth finally sinks in for George when his latest film opens against a sound picture and flops.  To make matters worse, the star of that talkie is Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), an actress he more or less discovered, who’s star has been on the rise while his has been on the decline.

Now George finds himself completely unemployable in a business that he once had at his beck and call, unable to even pay his loyal chauffeur, Clifton (James Cromwell).  Will he ever find a way to reclaim his former glory?  And what about Peppy, the newly minted start for whom he once had feelings?

An appreciation for silent films and the early age of cinema seems to be a recurring theme as of late.  It certainly was in Martin Scorsese’s fantastic “Hugo”, and it is yet again in writer/director Michel Hazanavcius’s “The Artist”.  However, “The Artist” isn’t merely an homage to silent films… it is a silent film.  A silent film shot in black and white to look like it came straight from that era, with the dialogue being shown on titles against a black screen, but most of the information and emotions being conveyed through exaggerated facial expressions and gestures. 

It’s a silent film about the end of the silent films, when the advent of sound, coupled with the Great Depression, made them obsolete.  But it wasn’t just the technique that went obsolete, many of the actors did, as well, once actually delivering dialogue (and ideally doing it well) became a factor.  George’s story could be the story of any actor who couldn’t adapt to the new ways.  In fact, the theme of adapting to a constantly changing world is a universal one, that could be applied to people from all walks of life, especially in this day and age.

But what makes “The Artist” so good isn’t simply that it has a theme that rings true, it’s also that it’s a love story.  One with many facets, not only about romance, but also about loyalty and second chances.  All that, combined with the cinematic form and technique, along with some knockout performances, make “The Artist” an absolute delight to watch. 

Dujardin and Bejo, with their classic looks and expressive faces, truly look like two actors who stepped right out of the period.  Their chemistry is terrific, as you can almost see the sparks between them, despite the fact that they have no dialogue.  Goodman is terrific, and provides some of the funnier moments as the stereotypical, cigar chomping studio honcho.  Cromwell does great with what little he is given to do, and I loved Miller as the bitchy wife.  Oh, and the dog… the dog is brilliant!  See the film and you’ll see why.

On the downside, the film does have the slight scent of prestigious Oscar Bait to it… a scent that usually makes me gag.  When I sense a film is bucking for an Oscar, it just pisses me off.  However, I had such a good time with “The Artist” that I can’t begrudge it that.  Film aficionados will absolutely treasure it, and general audiences who are willing to give it a shot will enjoy it, too, I think. 

But how many will, since it is a black and white silent film, and that undoubtedly will put off a good number of average moviegoers, who sadly would rather see what Asshead Kutcher is doing this “New Year‘s Eve“.  And that really is a shame, because “The Artist” is an immensely entertaining little yarn, with heart and smarts, that is far more worthy of people’s time and dime than most of the junk floating around out there.  It’s slowly trickling into theaters around the country this awards season, and if it comes to one near you, definitely take a chance on it.