Mon 3 Dec 2007
Things I’d Rather Do Than Go See “P.S. I Love You”
Posted by The Jay under Film , Life and Times of The Jay , Celebrity , Keri Russell , Charlize Theron , Vince Vaughn , Steven Spielberg[4] Comments
I took one for the team on Friday and took a date to see Enchanted. And while I had no real problem with the movie other than the fact that it was for six year-old girls and not twenty-six year-old guys, the one thing I could NOT stomach was the trailer for P.S I Love You that preceded the movie. I was so traumatized by watching King Leonidas pussify it up and woo Steve Sanders’ ex-girlfriend that I couldn’t even concentrate on the royal pompous awesomeness of The Patrick Dempsey Pompous Coiffure of Awesome Pomposity (tm The Jay), the note-perfect tongue in cheek performance of James Marsden or the coming out party for Amy Adams, a.k.a. the New Queen Of The Awesomely Hot Redhead Actresses Club (it’s her, Kate Walsh, Isla Fisher, Christina Hendricks, Marg Helgenberger, Gillian Anderson from Playing By Heart and the long-distant memory of Mean Girls-era Lindsay Lohan).
Even AWESOM-O couldn’t come up with a shittier idea for a romantic dramedy. Hilary Swank plays a girl (red flag #1) dating kinda dumpy, schmoopy jazz man Gerard Butler (red flag #2 – Butler should only play ripped badasses who have no time for music, only growing beards and killing Persians) – which, by the way, like he’d ever stoop to schtupping her when he could be nailing girls who don’t look like they had Julia Roberts-sized chiclet veneers put in instead of teeth (red flag #3), but when Butler dies she starts receiving beyond-the-grave letters from him that help her to move on with her life (red flag #4). He sets her on a creepy quest to wackily shimmy around singing karaoke, get into fishing hijinks, befriend a cranky Lisa Kudrow and further taint Harry Connick Jr.’s rep by dropping clumsy flirt bombs on him (seriously, tagging Debra Messing wasn’t the low point for him?) (also, red flag’s #5-8). Also, it was written and directed by the guy who brought you Freedom Writers, The Horse Whisperer and The Bridges of Madison County (red flag #infinity). There couldn’t be fewer reasons for men to watch this movie.
Butler could be decked out in full Spartan war gear and kick Swank into a well and I’d still wait for it to come out on video. The movie could be two hours of Swank hitting her neck awkwardly on a stool and getting paralyzed for two hours and I’d probably still skip it until it showed up on TNT. Co-star Gina Gershon could bring back her Bounce character and get down with every hot female extra on set and I STILL would opt to see Alvin and the Chipmunks if given the choice.
What I’m trying to say is I don’t want to see this movie. At all. I’ve seen some pretty shite-y romcom’s in my day (The Wedding Planner comes to mind), and I’ve sat through some weepy love conquers all B.S. in my time (hello, What Dreams May Come), but I’ve never willingly sat through anything this heinous-looking before. And I’m not about to start now.
In fact, here’s a list of all the atrocious things I’d do BEFORE agreeing to see this movie:
Be the moderator at the “Paul Haggis Fanatics Convention”.
Sit through Million Dollar Baby every day for a year.
Run a highly-trafficked Two and a Half Men fansite.
Stare down the black smoke monster after I’ve just sucker punched a nun and punted a litter of puppies off a bridge like Jack Black in Anchorman.
Have a kickass superpower and run into Sylar in a dark alley.
Let Alan Thicke drop a Cleveland Steamer on my chest (his specialty!).
Walk in on Natalie Portman, Megan Fox, Keri Russell and Rachel McAdams celebrating Emma Watson’s eighteenth birthday by making her a woman, and then getting the nod to enter the game only to find I’m a eunuch.
Be Horatio Sanz’s official taint cleaner.
Be a steroid mule for the WWE.
Bet my life on a coin toss with Anton Chigurth (I’ll even let him call me “Friend-o”).
Go back in time to when I was nine, watch every Nightmare on Elm Street movie in a row, and then take enough Nyquil to drop a T-Rex in its tracks.
Have my TiVo changed so that the only thing it will record is reruns of Designing Women and Strong Medicine.
Stand in for Kyle and suck Cartman’s dry balls.
Sit next to Reese Witherspoon as she reads every mean thing I’ve ever written about her, than have her turn and give me the devil face from Cruel Intentions until I have a massive stroke like the victims from The Ring.
Get roofied by Aileen Wurmos, but not the Charlize Theron version.
Let Brandon Walsh give me a pretentious lecture about being a better man.
Accidentally knock up Marissa Cooper and get forced by Julie Cooper to make that dipshit psychobag an honest woman.
Have my face permanently set to Blue Steel.
Have Steven Spielberg tell me I’m an untalented, worthless writer who will never have the skill to write a movie for him, or even something as low rent as a Baby Geniuses sequel. And mean it.
Piss off John Lithgow until he swears a blood oath against me (I mean, have you SEEN Ricochet?)
Be in a horrific car accident where the only chance of survival is a combo-liter transfusion of blood from Tommy Lee and Pete Doherty.
Attend a Blue Collar Comedy Concert.
Spend time with Shannon Hamilton in a very uncomfortable place (like the back of a Volkswagon).
Sit next to Vince Vaughn on an 18-hour flight while he’s hopped up on Speed and in a “talkative mood”.
Force-feed myself Rachel Green’s Shepherd’s Pie (“It tastes like feet!”)
Share the same needle with every member of the Celebritard club (and Britney is cooking the drugs).
Fellashe Kevin Spacey.
Become a Scientologist.
So yeah, I think I’m gonna go ahead and pass on P.S. I Love You. But call me when Butler gets his balls back from the pawn shop and Hilary Swank goes back to playing ugly people. Until then, you can find me daydreaming about how fantastically NSFW Amy Adams would look in a live-action remake of The Little Mermaid, wondering why James Marsden got such a hard shaft in the X-Men movies when he’s so totally ninja, and attempting to add some awesome pomposity to my humble head of hair.
I mean, really!
Bangarang!
Better words will come from better writers today, and as such, I will not attempt to editorialize on the impact of 9/11 nor its unending societal reach six years later. I am not a newsman or a pundit, I’m not a D.C. blogger nor a member of a political party. I lost no one in 9/11 and I know very few people that were even remotely affected by the tragedy. 
I’m not much of a thinker a-header (NOTE: totally grammatically correct). I like to, as Garth Algar advises, “live in the now, man”. I prefer to focus on what’s directly in front of me and mentally note things in the future that may rock. But as we sit today in the doldrums of Summer, I can’t help but gaze down the road at what’s to come. 
I now care only about the fall season. I’m gonna consider the next few weeks a complete wash. Hell, I’m gonna consider most anything a wash unless it concerns Veronica Mars sharing screen time with HRG and Peter Petrelli. The levels of casting kickassitude contained in this development rival just about anything short of full cast sequels to A Few Good Men, Airborne, Rad, The Monster Squad and True Romance or that long rumored Arnold, Bruce and Sly action movie. I love me some summer, but g-damn, bring me that fall! This pop culture geek just got himself a new countdown!
Sunday, Sept. 9th – Opening Day of the 2007-2008 NFL Season. A day for much rejoicing, beer drinking, Fantasy Football pool killing, debt collecting, buffalo wing consuming, testosterone flaring, wives and girlfriends despairing, Sportscenter watching, YouTube clip embedding, sports blogging, TiVo commercial double-blooping, porn ignoring, fav team cheering, buddy high-fiving and general wonderment. I can’t wait to eat myself retarded while cheering on my Miami Dolphins as they bring the teal all over the Washington Redskins. Ronnie Brown is gonna be a golden god this year. Trust The Jay.
Tuesday, Sept. 18th – 
Monday, Oct. 8th – The most likely date for the first appearance of Kristen Bell on Heroes.
Sunday, Dec. 30th – Lakers vs. Celtics at the Staples Center. I am dying to see the new big three in green take on Kobe and whatever bunch of idiots they picked up off the street to pass the ball to Kobe. Jesus Shuttlesworth, insane-person Kevn Garnett, Monica Seles-wannabe Paul Pierce and old man Reggie Miller duking it out with acquitted Hershey Highway driver and ballhog extraordinaire Kobe Bryant, all while Jack Nicholson looks on form the front row and leers at the Laker Girls? It’s gonna be the biggest LA sports event of the fall, and I’ll be in the cheap seats taking it all in.
I’ve figured out their tricks. When a comedian wants to prove his worth in a drama all he really does to convey “acting” is lower his voice, tone the hyperosity level down to “5”, keep his clothes on and frown for two hours. It’s a simple switch of facial ticks. Instead of crane lifting their eyebrows to the comedic heavens, they arch them in to convey sadness and/or regret and/ or whatever emotion they think will look good on their Golden Globe nomination clip. As for the eyes, comics tamp the bulging down 40% so it looks like they are surprised by some dramatic revelation (like being the star of your unwitting TV show, or seeing a picture of a gorilla head on a stick being held by a PA which will later be turned into a glorious CGI creation of pixels and box office non-magic) as opposed to being surprised that Cameron Diaz’s dog just bit them in the nuts. I don’t automatically buy their dramatic license just because they successfully pulled off imitating a dramatic actor, as opposed to actually being one. Half the time I feel like all I’m watching is a cheap, extremely drawn out, unfunny SNL sketch (or comparatively, any sketch on Studio 60).
This isn’t merely an unfunny dramatic movie headlined by a comic, it might be the most depressing dramatic movie headlined by anyone, ever. And it’s not depressing in that good, touching, well crafted way that makes for Best Picture winners either (Forrest Gump comes to mind). I get that Jim was frustrated by getting snubbed for The Truman Show and Man on the Moon (despite winning Globes for each one), but he went way too far with this piece of ham-fisted Americana garbage. You want to be unfunny Jim, fine, make another Grinch movie, or cast Tea Leoni in another one of your “comedies”. But if you think you’re getting a golden boy by mooning around on-screen in high water pants and lamenting the tragedies of the McCarthy era, you got another thing coming (besides, you’re Canadian, so cram it with your anti-communism Hollywood 10 sympathy). They’ll give one to Ashton Kutcher before they show you love for this type of tripe. And frankly, if this is what you’re going to offer us, I’d rather see Kelso win one anyway. He was quite poignant in The Guardian (and by poignant, I mean he looked constipated. And yet still better than the whole of The Majestic).
I get it. I do. He finally wins an Academy Award and decides he can’t go back to doofing around in crap like Flubber or Father’s Day. Completely understandable. But making a movie about death, absolutely devoid of humor, is a total breakdown in career management. At least Robin got to crack some jokes about the Unabomber and airplane blowjobs in GWH, but he’s so humorless in this, that even when he’s flying around in the totally painted on blue screen backgrounds, I was wishing for him to fall into some Mrs. Doubtfire shtick (I hate that movie with the passion of a thousand racist Kramer tirades). 
The badass character Top Hat (played by uber-gravelly-voiced Michael Wincott) in the movie The Crow once said this: “My father always said, childhood is over the minute you realize you’re gonna die”. While I agree with that statement for the most part, and think it’s completely badass (natch), I’d like to offer up a different childhood ending moment. There’s just nothing else quite as awkward, disturbing and equal parts squirm and vomit-mouth inducing as watching a drugged up Mike Myers asking Ryan Phillippe if he can “suck his cock”. Cat in the Hat on DVD is never quite the same once you’ve seen Wayne Campbell beg 
There are in fact people who think Jack Black was great in this film. I call those people “idiots”. It would have been nice if they had been right, though. I’ve been a fan of the better half of Tenacious D since his days in low-rent teen rollerblading epics, where he was accusing people of mixing “too much Drano in their fruit punch”! But come now, there isn’t a soul alive who didn’t think Jables was out of place for every frame of the movie that he mugged up with his muggy face. It got to the point where his performance was distracting me from how bad the actual movie was (which is difficult, in and of itself, considering how frippin’ boring the first 70 minutes are). Speaking of which, who actually needs a King Kong extended edition? Was there really anyone clamoring for 38 more minutes of half-cooked Brody-Watts non-chemistry, Jack Black face mugging antics and repetitive Kong growling? And to think, I used to think the nineteen hour Bored of the Rings extended editions were the apex of gratuitousosity (btw, the making up of that word in my head was more fun than the entire King Kong movie. Mostly cause in my head, during the invention, Jack Black was in a corner holding his nose because I socked him in the face. Try dramatically mugging your way through a bloody nose, ass! Now go rip me a tasty chord and sing me a funny song, clown!) 
Sandler has always towed the line between barely subdued pathos (think the first half of Punch-Drunk Love) and sudden near-psychotic bursts of violent rage (think any moment of Happy Gilmore or the entirety of The Waterboy). His balancing act creates a rather attractive portrait of dramatic potential, should he find the right avenue to explore his demons. Click was a fairly honorable attempt at that, though a maudlin, middling effort that only wrings audience tears by cutting away from Kate Beckinsale’s desirable posterior and only brings the funny when Sandler is either farting in The Hoff’s face (who didn’t want to see that?) or kicking Samwise Gamgee in his Goonies (lord knows I’ve wanted to do that since his insufferable turn in Rudy), it turned out to be. Spanglish, on the other hand, is a complete disaster. Part of the blame can be put on Spanish actress Paz Vega, who is so wildly attractive that any semblance of reality is shattered the moment she puts the googly eyes on the schlump from Mr. Deeds. But what I think kills his performance, aside from his decision to play the role as a whiny, pussified, low-talking mouth breather, is the scene in the bathroom where he puts the grope on Tea Leoni. Um, Adam, I know you like to cast insanely hot girls as your love interests (Anger Management, not withstanding), but can you please take your grubby hands off of Nora Wilde? She was the angry chick in Bad Boys, show some respect. It’s bad enough you get to make out with every B-list actress who ever graced the cover of Maxim, how about you don’t cop a feel on an actress I actually like and respect. Go back to cold clocking game show hosts, where you belong.
I like the Gus Van Sant remake, but for reasons entirely immaterial to the quality of the actual film (that being “lacking”). I like it because it proves that imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery. I like it because it shows that doing an imitation is only a good idea when it’s being done in an extremely broad way (like say Darrell Hammond doing Bill Clinton). I like it because no matter how famous Vince Vaughn gets by playing obnoxious, fast-talking jackasses, I can always point to this movie and call shenanigans on his whole career. People forget because he ruled hard in Old School and Wedding Crashers, but after Swingers broke him big and Spielberg gave him a talent hummer, Vaughn thought he was gonna be the next Brando. Between Swingers (1996) and Made (2001), Vaughn made eight consecutive dramas, each more unwatchable than the next. In that time, instead of introducing us to motor-boating or teaching us about the powers of “earmuffs”, Vaughn was boringly doing illegal drugs in Thailand with Joaquin Phoenix, wearing a licorice suit and traveling into Vincent D’Onofrio’s head with J.Lo, and most disturbing of all, masturbating to then-lipstick lesbian Anne Heche through a peep hole in the manager’s office of the Bates Motel. That was his “addition” to the role made famous by Anthony Perkins. Apparently, jacking off was the one thing Hitchcock forgot to put in his masterpiece. Vince Vaughn is a huge guy with a quick grin and an even quicker vocabulary. He’s practically sculpted by the comedy gods. Why he ever thought he was odd or pervy enough to play a schizophrenic, transvestite serial killer is beyond me. But maybe it’s like 
