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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