The Last Song

Yes, I know, I am feeling particularly masochistic, but Miley Cyrus always made me feel a little bit more than worried that I may be a pedophile, more so than the Olympics. In this little family flick she plays and angst ridden chick in docks, and wait for it… reads Tolstoy. What did the writers do, pick a random, overly dry Russian author from a “how to sound pretentious” list. Watching her try to brood is more painful than watching Lindsay Lahan trying to act. If it weren’t for scene in which Miley get all muddy, the entire movie would have been a botched back ally abortion, instead of the rather mediocre back ally abortion that it is.

Now Most of the time you can point to one or two elements of the movie and string those up in the town square and allow the serfs to throw their rotten produce at them. This movie, however, fails on so many spiritual levels that I am tempted to drown it in its own mediocrity, then leave its bloated body to be poked by kids. At least then it will give some joy to children, unlike this movie, which could only be enjoyed the way a child is enjoyed by a sexual predator. The emotional torment and conflict feels forced and shallow. When it is delivered in a sub-par fashion, then no amount of slightly above average cinematography can make up for it. Even one or two good actors can’t distract from the obvious human product placement in this movie. The narrative is more disjointed than a contortionist who fell down fifteen flights of stairs. I am certain that were this story rewritten by a sensitive and talented writer, then it could be the kind of novel my younger sister would enjoy, if she were drunk.
In conclusion, and in case there is any uncertainty about my opinion of this movie, I would chose self-stimulation with shards of broken glass over re-watching this movie.

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Burlesque

I am admittedly a fan of all things burlesque, the booze, the jazzy cigar lounge atmosphere, corsets and tassels. It is the very reason I think pinstripe suites and fedoras are cool. I also have an extensive collection of photographs of nude to semi-nude Christina Aguilera. I also grew up with a mother who lover Cher, resulting in a slightly metro son who can sing along to almost all of her songs. You would be correct to assume that I was excited to see this move, I really was. Yet, like my last girlfriends pregnancy, some things fail to deliver.

Aside from one of the worst opening montages I have ever seen, that no amount of bellowing could save, they then present us with the single worse remix of Marilyn Manson’s ‘Beautiful People’, in the opening five minutes. It is so terrible, horrid, sickening and offensive to my metal-head blood, that on that fault alone I would condemn this movie to the fiery pits of sulphur and teletubies. But it makes so many more mistakes I think I should go on. The big song that Cher uses to make her entrance would have been almost as neck tingling as Rocky Balboa taking the ring again, until I realized the song was a plug for the club they were singing at. It felt like MTV advertising MTV, while you’re watching MTV. The music was, nice. The lyrics were, interesting. The dancing was, not sufficiently arousing. Yet to have songs be about the club which is the name of the sub-culture, also the name of the movie is just pushing it. The result is a de-glamorization of a great style, and all that is left is a genetic narrative that came out of the “everything-we-have-ever-seen-before” machine that got dolled up with an excuse to run around in skimpy negligée and dim red lights. Then with the schizophrenic cinematography that makes it almost impossible to enjoy the dancing. It is just one of the many layers to a disappointing cake. Such us the painfully misplaced music used for the overly used montages. To me, it’s a great pity, because, if you pay attention, there are a few moments of stunningly acted moments and really talented vocalists. But moments are not enough to make a whole movie. Throwing two big named singers was not going save it either, no matter how much they try and sneak the odd MTV friendly song amidst the line-up.

This movie suffers what I like to call Ghost Rider Syndrome. Everything was there for it to have been a really great movie, it just wasn’t. In situations like that I just don’t know who we are to blame for this. If you enjoyed Chicago and Moulin Rouge, this will disappoint you, but it might just entertain you while you make soup.

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My One and Only

I really don’t have high hopes for this movie. Judging by the cover of the DVD and what I skimmed from the synopsis on the back, I may accidently forcibly remove one of my digits to distract me from the pain the movie will inflict upon me. Okay, so I have mentally prepared myself, here goes.

Now that my sphincter can unclench itself, let me tell you what I thought of this little piece of American dream, feminist pie. It does a fairly good job of tackling the archaic notion that a woman’s worth lies in her husband, and any man who offers her a hand in marriage has the deed to her life. Here’s the rub, I watched The Killer Inside Me last night, which is such a contradiction in perspective to that era that this movie comes off indecently sweet and idealistic, to the point that I find myself unconsciously feeling for cavities with my tongue. That said, I must applaud Renee Zellweger for her mature take on fading beauty in elder individuals. As the giants of our era shuffle along and make space for the Zack Efron’s of the future, God help us, it is interesting to see movies come along that deal with what it is like to no longer be the freshest fine face on the fabulous front page, such as Red. I feel slightly bad about that last comment; we do have good actors like Christian Bale, Mark Wahlberg, Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio. I thought I had to clarify that to appease the budding trolls. Where was I? Yes right, I was talking about the movie in which the men are mostly jerks and the woman a prone to bouts of sickening naivety. At least the movie is accurate to some degree. If my sentiments about this movie are unclear, I will inform you that the movie has started playing again and I am torn between turning towards the screen and running to the remote and turning it off.

If you enjoy movies set in the 1950’s, have a hard-on for Renee, southern accents and young boys coming of age, or have recently been divorced, then you would probably enjoy this movie. But if you will excuse me, my eyes are starting to water from the pain.

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