The End Of Days

Last night, after stumbling out from the screen into the jarringly bright lights of the cinema, feeling dishevelled and thoroughly un-amused, I had an epihphany.

THERE IS NO GOD.

The “film” I had just been witness to serves as enough evidence as to why I have come to this conclusion. Because, O my brothers, last night I went to see Meet The Spartans.

Meet The Spartans
In cinemas now (but please, don’t bother)

You know that feeling you get, when you’re watching one of those horrific news stories about a man who raped and killed dozens of kids, or something? And you just hate that person with every ounce of your being, and vow to yourself that, if you ever cross paths with the individual, you will throttle them to death with your bare hands? Well, that about sums up my feelings towards the makers of this “film”.

Actually, that might be unfair. I’m pretty sure that writer/producer/director team Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are actually either

a) Special needs kids, or
b) 11-year-olds whose father took them to Fox studios on “Take Your Kid To Work Day”, where they promptly wrote the script in crayons

Such is the quality of the finished product. Supposedly a spoof of 300, Meet The Spartans also finds time to poke fun at any number of pop-culture icons from 2007. And by poke fun, I mean put in the film hoping to raise a wry smile because you vaguely recognise them. You get Ugly Betty as the mysterious oracle – and, er, that’s it. Then there’s Paris Hilton, whose character is dumb and blonde. Then Britney Spears, whose character is dumb and blonde. And Rocky, for some reason. And any film that disses Rocky must have been created by morons, right?

I should probably also point out that all these “famous faces” have to have their names exclaimed out loud by other characters, since the actors/actresses portraying them don’t look a thing like them. Which isn’t good if your supposed to be an impersonator.

The principle cast, meanwhile, is just as unimpressive; leading man Sean Maguire, previously seen in, uh, Grange Hill and Eastenders over here in the UK (so christ knows why he was in this), has little…well, anything. Comic timing, wit, screen presence…he could easily have been replaced with a piece of blank paper stapled to a broom. Carmen Electra breaks away from her usual roles by playing the sexy slut. Kevin Sorbo, TV’s Hercules, struggles to hide the sadness evident in his face, the sure sign of a washed-up actor. Oh, and Ken Davitian, aka the “fat guy from Borat” (the narrators words, not mine) turns up. Playing the fat guy from Borat, except he’s speaking in English.

Much like with recent “comedians” like Russell Brand and Dane Cook, and comedies like Epic Movie, I just…don’t get what about this film is supposed to be funny. It basically plays like one of those end-of-year TV shows they have on New Year’s Eve, where they show clips from all the music, films and pop-culture events from the year. only without any witty commentary – they’re just replicated. In a completley shoddy, unfunny way.

Oh, and before I forget, there’s also some healthy doses of racism and sexism, just for good measure. Can’t have one of these dumb comedies (wait, scratch that – Anchorman’s a dumb comdedy, and I love it. This is a retarded comedy) without it.
I think I can safely say that while watching Meet The Spartans I laughed almost as much as I did when watching Schindler’s List. Which is to say, not at all.

Grindhouse Double Bill! Part One: Death Proof

Since I was still slightly bitter about the debacle about the separate releases given to Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino’s Grindhouse over here in the UK, the other night I staged my own “Grindhouse Night” with some friends, where we watched both of the featured films, Tarantino’s Death Proof and Rodriguez’s Planet Terror, back to back: the way they were meant to be seen.

So, anyway, as an extension of this whole double-bill love-in, it’s time for the Second Hand Popcorn Grindhouse Double-Bill Review. First up – Death Proof!

Death Proof
On DVD now

Despite the fact it was Tarantino’s idea to do the whole schlocky, gory, exploitative Grindhouse movies in the first place, Death Proof…well, isn’t really schlocky, gory, or exploitative. In fact, it’s boring. Really, painfully boring.

For the first 40 minutes of this 114 minute portion of Grindhouse, absolutely bugger all happens. Really. Nothing at all. Just a group of women sitting around talking bollocks. Now, I know Tarantino is no stranger to excessive dialogue. The thing is, I enjoyed his witty banter in…well, pretty much all his other films (excluding Kill Bill). But that’s because the people who were talking were both likeable, and damn awesome. Hitmen, jewellery thieves, psychos, crooked cops, boxers…the characters of Death Proof are nowhere near as interesting. They’re just people. And they are incredibly boring, completely uninteresting people.

Now, if I wanted to some up the equivalent viewing experience of these first 40 minutes of Death Proof within a handy image and an over-used saying, it would be this;

At least in that scenario I could bet on which drip of paint would dry fastest, or something. There are no such luxuries with Death Proof. The film, up to this point, is (to paraphrase a Monty Python sketch) appallingly dull, unimaginative, tedious, has no sense of humour and is “irrepressibly drab and awful.

Luckily, though, Snake Plissken turns up to make things exciting for a bit.

Kurt Russel, who plays the character of Stuntman Mike (who is a stuntman. Named Mike.), turns up in the bar that the incredibly boring trio of women have been hanging around in, being boring. After some flirting, he manages to somehow get Rose McGowan (who wasn’t even in the boring group of friends) to get in his ‘death proof’ car – no matter how battered the car gets, he’s fine. It’s the people in the other seats that get messed up.

So, the film turns awesome for a little bit; well, about 2 minutes, since that’s about how long it takes Mike to roll his car over and kill Ms McGowan. Then, in the tradition of films such as The Devil Wears Prada, I fast-forwarded for a bit. And you know what? The whole time used to build up the boring, annoying ladies’ ‘characters’ was a complete waste of time, since they are completely inconsequential to the rest of the film. Because they all die. And get replaced by a whole other set of boring, annoying girls.

Then, 1 hour and 40 minutes into the film, it turns awesome again (after a pointless car chase that could have easily ended if the girls just pulled over), annnnnnnd that’s it. Out of 114 minutes of film, about 10 minutes is of any entertainment value. And about 4 minutes of that is a lap-dancing scene.

Quentin, for the love of God; just make another crime film. Stop messing about with all this cult movie malarkey. This is, well, like an intervention. It’s for your own good.

Anyway, tommorrow, get ready for: Planet Terror! (which is a hell of a lot better)

A lobotomised goldfish. With boobs.

Resident Evil: Extinction
On DVD now

This film is really stupid. Really, really stupid. It’s stupefyingly stupid. Resident Evil: Extinction is the cinematic (and I use that term loosely) equivalent of a lobotomised goldfish. With boobs.

Somehow, when I first saw the trailers for it, I was somehow suckered into getting excited about it – zombies! In the desert! Milla Jovovovovovovovich chopping ‘em up! The schizophrenic gal out of Heroes! Awesome!

(Yes, I thought this despite the fact that the first two Resi films were shite)

Then I went to see the film. And it was bad.

The film opens with Milla driving around the desert (somehow the zombie virus has, uh, killed the world. It would have been far more entertaining if the world turned into one giant zombie. That Ms Jovovovovovovovich would then fight), when she runs into some hicks who decide, for some reason, to kidnap Milla and stick her in a cage with a badly-CGI’d zombie dog. Maybe they’d seen Ultraviolet.

Eventually, after somehow developing psychic powers (making her about as powerful as Jesus, if not more so) our intrepid heroine meets up with a CONVOY of retards, who drive trucks around and sometimes get attacked by zombie crow. And then decide to kill them with a flamethrower, which inevitably goes out of control, instead of, uh, hiding.

All seems well – they drive along, singing songs and spitting tobacco into buckets (or whatever truckers do) – but they don’t know that the sinister Umbrella company, who released the virus, and made Milla, are following them. I don’t know why. Apparently they want to take over the world – despite the fact that it consists mostly of zombies and sand. And traumatised teenagers who change their name to “K-Mart” because that’s where she was found by the convoy.

“K-Mart”? Really? If you had the chance to change your name, you wouldn’t change it to bloody K-Mart. You’d change it to “Dr Awesome MD” or “Professor Robocop”, or somethin. Not fucking K-Mart.

So, that’s all pretty on par with the absolute idiocy of the other two films.

Oh, but also, at one point the CONVOY come across a big old shipping container. And decide it’s a good idea to open it and look inside (I don’t even know where they’re driving to – or why). Guess what? There are zombies inside! Dropped by Umbrella! Christ knows why!

And someone gets snuck up on by a zombie. HOW THE HELL DOES A ZOMBIE SNEAK UP ON YOU? Basically, a zombie somehow manages to climb on top of the shipping container, tip-toes along, then jumps on some lady with her back to the container. What the hell, man?

And the only good character dies! That awesone black dude from the second film, who was driving around in a low-rider, running zombies over! I can’t even remeber how he dies. Maybe I just don’t want to admit he’s gone.

How can this film be so stupid? Really? It’s not hard to get the formula of zombies+girl in hot pants wrong, is it? Then again, when you get a film written by Paul WS Anderson (persumably for crayons), you can’t expect too much, eh? Expecting  ole’ WS to make a good film is like expecting a racoon to ski.

Why, God, why?

 

The Devil Wears Prada
For some reason, you can buy it on DVD

They say never to judge a book by it’s cover. However, this is a film, and the DVD cover offers some very good clues as to the quality of said film contained within this seemingly innocent case:

Clue #1 -  There is a positive quote from Heat magazine on it  (“EXCELLENT! 5 STARS!”). Heat. The magazine which consist mostly of pictures of Z-list celebrities and their cellulite. And not a lot else.

Clue #2 – I nearly fell asleep halfway through reading the plot synopsis on the back.

So, as I (attempt to) provide my own synopsis of this ‘film’, I’ll try to make it more exciting – mainly by using UNECESSARY BLOCK CAPITALS IN BOLD, so you don’t start to nod off.

Andrea ‘Andy’ Sacks (Anne Hathaway) is an aspiring journalist who lands a job at the fashion magazine Runway OH MY GOD MONKEYS ON FIRE RIDING MOTORCYCLES, where her ’hilarious’ lack of fashion knowledge is mocked by colleague Emily (Emily Blunt) ROBOT NINJAS FIGHTING ZOMBIE PIRATES IN SPACE and her boss, and head of Runway, the sarky Cruella de Ville-alike Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) AND MR T IS WRESTLING GODZILLA IN A NO-HOLDS BARRED CAGE MATCH. Oh, and Stanley Tucci turns up playing the funny gay character out of Ugly Betty, only not gay, and not funny.

Then Andy starts to fit in more, turns vapid and mean like her colleagues, loses friends/love interest because of this, gets new boyfriend, he’s also mean and vapid, she sees the error of her ways, she quits the job, Miranda and Emily suddenly respect her, yadayadayada. The end.

In fact, the film follows such a cliché chick-flick plotline, I had to come up with ways to stave off the boredom – I thought of ways the film could be improved (mainly by inserting a sequence wherein a police car is driven into a helicopter, ala Die Hard 4.0); then I did that thing where you draw your finger to your nose and it makes you go cross-eyed; then I flew my biro around like a rocket (with appropriate sound effects); then I thought about how this subject matter is handled so much better by Ugly Betty; then I just gave up and fast-forwarded a large portion of the middle of the film.

(Also, Torchwood was on, and I didn’t want to miss it because I was watching this. Now there’s something that would have made this film better – bi-sexual, time-travelling aliens).

But since, as I said, the plot is so clichéd and all the action (if you could call it that) is so inconsequential, it didn’t really matter. I could follow the story, even at twenty times the speed.

The Devil Wears Prada is just so…lame. Not even offensively bad, just lame. The supposedly ’witty’ banter between one-dimensional characters I couldn’t give a monkey’s about, the dull love-triangle which lasts about five seconds (literally for me, since I was still fast-forwarding at that point). Also, Anne Hathaway is probably the least convincing ‘ugly duckling’ character ever. I can sort of handle the mocking of her supposedly ‘dorky’ dress sense, but calling her fat? She’s Anne Hathaway! I could see her collarbone at one point, she’s so skinny! Gah!

Maybe it’s just some satirizing of the whole size-zero, crazily impossible pressure they put on girls in the fashion industry – but I doubt it. This film isn’t that smart.

In the end, The Devil Wears Prada is just as empty, vapid and shallow as the fashion industry which it attempts to satirize.

(Note: Torchwood wasn’t actually that good. But still worth fast-forwarding this for)

(Second note: Christ knows why I watched this. The person who lent me it also lent me Freddie Got Fingered, for God’s sake)