The Million Dollar Jerk

Hi, I’m The Jerk.

You might remember me from that time the League of Outraged Catholic Ladies had me censored for saying …

BALZAC!

Um, no. Look, all I said was K-Lo is kinda …

Fine. I get the gist.

Well, the outraged ladies have won, as Simcha has told me that I’m not allowed to do this movie review without an in-blog editor checking it to make sure I’m not being too offensive. Anyway, here he is, “Dr.” Johnboy Zmirak:

Hehuh, hehuh, You wanna hear about how not voting for Romney is like …. You know … hehuh hehuh hehuh

Actually, I’d hate to. But speaking of onanism, here’s this week’s movie:

You know how you can tell a movie is good? I mean really really good? Well, finding it for sale in the discount bin at the gas station where I buy my beer is a surefire tip this one’s a winner.

hehuh hehuh hehuh, Wanna know where I buy my movies? hehuh hehuh hehuh

No.

This movie has it all:  stupid characters with pointless quirks, a story that starts slow and stays slow, Bono singing Lou Reed songs on the soundtrack, and some rank antisemitism.

You forgot to mention me.

Yup, Mel Gibson stars in this movie as a FBI agent with a secret past. That past? He grew up as a circus freak with either an arm or a Jew growing out of his back. The movie is never really clear about Mel’s deformity, but it is clear in its feelings about the Joooooooos.

Hey, don’t you think Mel Gibson jokes are a little cheap?

Good point Johnny, but you should zip up now.

Hehuh hehuh hehuh.

Lookit, Gibson is a tragedy of booze, crazy, bad decisions, and more crazy. This guy is seriously talented: a leading man who can act, a unique storyteller, and a hell of a director. But you can see, in this pre-“sugar-tits” incident movie, the seeds of his destruction are there …

You said SEED hehuh hehuh hehuh.

ANYWAY, Mel’s character is hired by a Jewish media mogul to find out who killed his son, Israel, a junkie poet living at the Million Dollar Hotel.  Spoiler – Israel is the movie’s real villain who sets off tragedy and quirks by raping the heroine. The mogul explains he and “his people” control the world, so Gibbo had better do a good job and find the killer.

What’s wrong with that?

Ugh. Look, if Jews really ran the media do you think that Simcha would put up with me?

Is it really all Mel’s fault, though? No. It is not. This stink burger was directed by Wim Wenders, the guy who made that movie about angels and crap.

And the lady acrobat who wore a leotard hehuh hehuh hehuh

Yeah. And let’s not forget the writer, one Paul David Hewson, also known as Bono.

Boner?

No, I said Bono.

I’m pretty sure I heard boner.

I bet you did.

The movie’s hero is Tom Tom, played by some guy. Does it really matter?  Really?

I was hoping you’d kinda forget I was in this.

Oh, don’t worry, you were plenty forgettable.

Tom Tom is what you call “movie special needs.” You never really know what his deal is, but he’s got one. I think he has Independent Movie Quirk Syndrome. It was first discovered by Johnny Depp in the 1990s, but scientists have yet to find a cure.

I keep my farts in a bag.

IMQS seems to afflict everyone in this movie, from the guy who thinks he was a Beatle, to the hooker with a heart of gold plating played by  indy movie queen Amanda “Honey Bunny” Plummer, to even Jimmy Smits as a native American painter who paints with tar. Yes. Tar. Jimmy, why?

Hey, you never complained when you saw my ass in NYPD Blue.

Not an argument, Jimmy. Not an argument.

I was always a big Dennis Franz fan myself. Hehuh hehuh hehuh.

Of course this movie features Milla Jovovich as the fragile and broken heroine, because the producers couldn’t afford Winona Ryder.

And because I make my own costumes out of newspaper and spit paste.

She plays crazy/quirky about as well as ….

WAIT! She was in that one movie, with the aliens, and she wore those white band-aid things AND YOU COULD SEE hehuh hehuh hehuh EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE I think I’m getting a new idea about politics!

Damnit John, you’re ruining my review and all the hand towels. I watched this whole dumb movie, and I don’t even get to write the review without your nonsense.

Well, until next time, amigos.

So, wanna hang out later? I promise not to try and squeeze your balls.

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Is this a Cuban I see before me?

Hi,

I’m The Jerk. You might remember me from that time the USCCB named me the second worst fictional Catholic on the internet.

Who’s Number 1?

Fine, fine. I can be the bigger man and accept defeat. I would like to know what tipped the scales.

Dude, it was that hair. It’s creepier than some of the shit we found in Maciel’s sock drawer.

Before I ruin Simcha’s chances at ever being invited to speak at some money-bags event, like The Catholic Ladies for Muslim Fashion Awards, I better get on with the movie.

RED DAWN

 

Remember that time when you were a kid at a family BBQ and your Uncle Terry was going on and on and on and on about the Communists? Remember how he talked about his bunker and canned goods? About the differences between a .357 round and a .45? About how he turned in his Social Security card? How Reagan was really a secret Russian mole?

Get me another Coors, kiddo.

Yeah, this is the movie Uncle Terry would have written if he ever got his typing privileges back. Pure 80’s paranoia is on full display in the story written and directed by Hollywood’s favorite gun-nut, John Milius.

Don’t forget, I’m kind of a fascist too.

Fun fact: John Milius served as the inspiration for Walter in The Big Lebowski. I just said that so you nerds couldnt.

The movie asks the question; What would happen if America was invaded by Cuba? BUT in the movie, the Cubans have real tanks and stuff. In reality, we know the ’55 Chevy’s with inoperable Gatling guns bolted to the hoods that they actually have would never make the trip.

But we really do have good health care.

Why don’t you cram a Cohiba, Commie.

The movie’s answer involves a Patrick Swazye, Charlie Sheen, and everybody’s favorite actor that isn’t Steve Guttenberg, C. Thomas Howell, as a band of teens who become freedom fighters.

The producers felt I was a little too Guttenberg-y for the role.

Once our idyllic small town in Colorado gets invaded by the Cubans, with the Russians not far behind, our teens managed to escape to the mountains where the initially hope to wait out World War III.

What, no broads?

Oh, don’t worry, soon our all male ensemble is rounded out by the alluring beauty of Ally Sheedy and Jennifer Grey. Stop laughing.

I was Baby!

And I’m a Chinese Jet Pilot.

The movie takes an episodic approach , showing the evolution of these crazy mixed up kids into fierce freedom fighters. Since this is sort of a Brat Pack apocalypse movie, they take the name of their high school mascot, Wolverines.

That’s kinda gay.

As  this is the 1980s, the Wolverines take on some pretty obvious similarities of the Mujaheddin in Afghanistan, another group of freedom fighters sticking it to the Communists. I wonder how that war turned out?

“Pretty Obvious” is also the name of my autobiography.

Honorable mention goes to two actors, Powers Booth and Harry Dean Stanton. Powers plays an American fighter pilot shot down who spends some time helping our youngsters. Man, Powers Booth should have had a much better career.

I see myself as the thinking man’s John Saxon.

Harry Dean Stanton plays the father of Swayze and Sheen. Did I forget to mention they are brothers in the movie?

I was real sorry for The Swayze on this one.

Old Harry Dean He gets put into a “re-education camp” by the Commies because he was a gun owner. Dun Dun DUN!

And THAT’S why I don’t use flouride!

See, the Gummint rules about knowing who has a gun is all part of the plot to soften us up for the invasion. Also part of the invasion, illegal aliens! The Cubans sent a vanguard over the boarder disguised as Mexicans. The only thing missing from this movie was a sub-plot about Zionism.

It’s always missing. Know why? THE JEWS!

Until next time, amigos, keep your precious bodily fluids intact.

Oh, next up, we’ll check out how  REAL AMERICAN HERO Ronnie Reagan deals with Commies in Hong Kong.

Who wet my pants?

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The Jerk Reformed

Hi, I’m The Jerk. You might remember me from that time I got your cat pregnant.

MEOW!

If you’re still reading and not simultaneously trying to call the police, Bob Barker, and your local exorcist while throwing holy water on your computer screen, allow me to apologize.

If I have ever offended you for any reason, I am sorry. Did my snarkiness about Opus Dei inflame your righteous heart? I’m sorry. Were my jokes about Rutger Hauer too cruel for your delicate tastes? I’m sorry. Are you a member of the La Leche League? Really, really, really sorry.

Accepted!

(For the unintiated, that’s Dame Judy Drench, the attorney for the La Leche League. It’s … complicated.)

You must be asking yourselves if the ol’ The Jerk finally got sober. No, no sobriety for me, I’m drunk on faith. Real Faith. Real Catholic Faith.

See, my whole life changed recently when I discovered how awesome Catholicism can be when combined with crappy production values and sketchy facts. That’s right, I’m now a Vortechie.

That’s Vortexie!

Nice marmot.

During a recent bender that included cough medicine, Miller Genuine Draft, and lots and lots of cat nip, I stumbled across this guy on Youtube. I know so much more about Real Catholicism now. Like this:

1. Harry Potter wants to sodomize your children.

2. All the bishops are secretly gay. All of them.

3. And the Jews are out to get me.

Talk about the Good News!

I’ve decided to let The Vorinator be my guide going forward, starting with this movie review. I know a lot of you ladies wanted me to review something girly and lame like The Princess Bride, but I now know I don’t have to do anything you say. The only thing I owe you is my masculinity, meaning my ability to get you pregnant. Real Catholic Pregnant! You want wine? Buy your own bottle of Boones!

On to the movie!

THE SHADOW

I know what you’re thinking, it’s all about a guy who people think is no good, but he’s secretly the most awesome super hero ever. WRONG!

It’s all about the Jews.

You tell ‘em!

That’s right, see, the “hero” lives in New York. New York City! Is a billionaire. Runs a secret society that has agents in every area of society. Lives in New York City!

I also run the media. And Arbys.

Yup, this perverse monstrosity of a “movie” is trying to get us to root for this Shadow person. Who is played by Alec Baldwin no less! People used to think of him as the most talented Baldwin brother, when in fact he is simply the most disappointing Baldwin brother.

So, you watched The Cat In The Hat?

In the movie, based on the degenerate “radio” show, The Shadow learns everything about controlling people’s minds in the far east. Do I need to go any further? He’s obviously trying to undermine The Church.

Who wants to hold my hands while we say the Our Father?

SEE!!!

Ugh. It’s bad enough we’re supposed to “root” for this person, but then the amoral movie producers, who probably live in Hollywood(!) thrown in this excuse for a woman as the female lead.

I secretly want to be a priest!

That’s right, Penelope Ann Miller! A woman so vile Our Lady weeps every time she gets a movie “role.” Know why? Take a look at this:

I don’t care about the marital debt.

YOU CALL THOSE BIRTHING HIPS?

Oh, and get this, The “Shadow” is supposed to save Penelope Ann Miller’s father from the villains. Guess who plays him?

Well hello.

That’s right, “Mark” Shea’s favorite actor, Sir Ian McKellen! Who is gay!

There’s more to this plot, I think. To be honest, I spent most of the movie’s runtime in a simmering rage at the affront to the Real Catholic faith it showed in scene after scene after scene. I have to say this: If the Mass were still in Latin, this movie would never have been made.

True Dat.

Since I no longer believe in the corrupt system of letting you people pick the next movie — because that is clearly an idea from the devil — I’m gonna give you three choices for a poll, let you “vote” and then ignore the results and go with whatever I feel like.

We can go with:

The Highlander, starring famous secret Jew Sean Connery.

The Phantom, starring famous secret Jew Billy Zane.

Or

The Expendables, starring famous secret Jew Sylvester Stallone.

“Vote” now.

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The Avignon Bonds

Hi, I’m The Jerk. You might remember me from that recurring dream you keep having about gym class.

Time to climb the rope, laddie.

You need some help. Just sayin’.

But I’d really like the world to remember me for my movie reviews. Or maybe my humanitarian work of gently correcting people in com boxes.  Or perhaps my ability to consume large quantities of alcohol while driving.

In any event, Simcha doesn’t seem to care much about secure passwords (manh8ter) so it’s time for me to do my thing.

With pants on.

But wait, there’s more!

That’s right. There’s two of them!

In 1983, the world was thrown into chaos. Every year, juvenile misogynists looked forward to the latest installment in the James Bond series. The naked lady credits alone were worth the price of admission. But in ’83, we got two of them, both starring legitimate Bonds. Or as legitimate as Roger Moore could ever get. The center would not hold.

In June, we got Octopussy, quite possibly the worst James Bond movie made, aside from Thunderball. In October, Never Say Never Again, a remake of Thunderball, comes out, and it might be the best Bond movie yet. Sorry Lazenby.

Like to know what's under the kilt?

I’d hate to.

Like every great story this one starts with protracted litigation. See, back when Ian Fleming was just a guy trying to work out his hatred of women through fiction, he was approached by some chumpy chump named Kevin McClory Chumpikins III interested in making a big screen version of Bond.

I think McClory either ran a projector at a theater once, or he gave classes in Catholic screen writing, anyway, the two of them wrote a screenplay called, Thunderball. It sucked, and the project never went anywhere. So Fleming, being a gentleman, steals the screenplay and turns it into a Bond novel.

Savor that one for a bit. You steal Thunderball. This is like wrongfully taking credit for the velvet Elvis.

Hunk-a hunk-a burnin' crud.

As T.S. Eliot said, “Good writers borrow, great writers steal, and Ian Fleming eats poo.”

So of course this McClory chump sues when they try to make the Thunderball movie in 1965. And he wins. He got a credit on the screenplay, the novel, and the rights to make his own version 10 years after Thunderball gets released.

Think about that. You fight to claim credit for Thunderball. And you win. Oh glorious day.

That’s how we get to 1983. The year of Two Bonds.

Let’s start with the worst. Octopussy.

You're forgetting "Moonraker," and "The Man With The Golden Gun," and "For Your Eyes Only," and ... crap. All of it! OK? Are you happy?

Granted, Ole Rog’ made many a stinker as James Bond, but Octopussy really stands out as some sort of fever dream of awful. Starting with, Octopussy? Are you effing kidding me? That’s the name of your movie?

It seemed like a good idea at the time, you bastard!

See what I mean. Clown makeup. That’s not even the tip of this crapberg. There is some sort of indecipherable plot involving a stolen nuke, a mad Russian general, Faberge eggs, and Louis Jourdan as a villain.

I too have a mortgage.

Of course, we’re forgetting the exotic Octopussy, a strange, foreign woman of mystery and deadly beauty. On paper. In the movie, they just got Maud Adams.

You mean I have to do a love scene? With Moore?

This movie features Moore at his flabby, loathsome worst. (Floathsome?) Lame action, stupid gadgets, and scantily clad women. So, you know, a James Bond movie.

It ends with some sort of commando operation in which half naked women descend upon Louis Jordan’s castle. (Thank Heaven for Naked Girls?) What does it all mean? I have no idea.

Now for the good one, Never Say Never Again.

Of course, by good, I am still talking about a James Bond movie, so caveat emptor, sucker.

I see you forgot your pants.

This one finds a sorta real life James Bond, a little past his prime, getting shelved by MI6 as obsolete in the modern world.

You know what's not obsolete? My wa ...

OK! That’s enough out of you about that.

I was talking about my pen ...

Yes. Thank you.

Look, this movie actually works, in part, because it is one big middle finger to the whole Bond franchise. They age Bond, and he still comes off tougher than some unnamed, flabby boy.

I don't have time for push ups!

The plot is one of those Bondian stolen nuke specials, but, c’mon! Klaus Maria Brandauer might be the creepiest villain to date.

I totally can kick Jourdan's ass.

Indeed, Klaus. Indeed.

Keep in mind, it is a James Bond movie, so it is silly. There’s a life and death video game match, shooting pens, a pretty good motorcycle chase, and some pretty explicit sex scenes for a PG movie, even a 1983 James Bond movie.

I love short shorts.

Oh, yeah. Kim Basinger is in it. She’s, umm, nice? Seriously, never understood her appeal, but she does give the movie makers a chance to stage a dramatic tango. Keep Dancing!

Like I said, this movie works. I think, aside from the whole grudge match energy it has going for it, this Bond outing greatly benefits from one Irvin Kershner, the director responsible for the only decent Star Wars movie.

Yoda my idea was.

So there you have it. I got through not one, but two movie reviews without writing “penis.” Happy?

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The Jerk Unchained

And now for an occasional feature, The Jerk. He is not Simcha. He has not been here for a while. We would say he is back by popular demand, but that would be a lie. Please be warned, Sean Connery uses some very bad words in this piece.

———————————————————————————–

Hi, I’m The Jerk. You might remember me from that time I ruined Simcha’s chances at a book deal. Lookit, there was a big bowl of mashed potatoes and it seemed like that kind of a party.

But most of you remember me for the hilarious and insightful movie reviews I used to post here. You remember, the ones you read the first couple of lines of, and then promptly unsubscribe from the blog, unfriended Simcha on Facebook, and then called the police to report seeing something disturbing on the Internet. I’m still dealing with that bail, Hallie.

When we last left off, I was obliged to write a review of Zardoz, Sean Connery and John Boorman’s completely stoned collaboration about a future world, and Sean’s penis. Well, unlike the Yentl disaster, I did watch the whole thing. And I did write a detailed and, in my opinion, funny review. But … you see … it was … kinda … well …

Chock-a-block-full-of-cock?

Exactly

When even I think the jokes might be inappropriate, there is a problem. So, much like the true location of Walt Disney’s head (Space Mountain) that review will have to remain a secret.

In it’s place, I submit to you good people this classic:

Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man

Whoa Nelly.

First: Mickey Rourke. Did I mention Mickey Rourke? Pre-boxing Mickey Rourke? When he still looked like a human and not Bea Arthur without her makeup?

I coulda had 'em all, but the only one I wanted, the only one, Miss Angela Landsbury.

You may not remember, but there was a time when Mickey Rouke was not only a great actor, but a good looking leading man to boot. He was Brando without the weight. He was Jack Nicholson with hair. He was Steve Guttenburg, without being Steve Guttenburg.

I believe I have a coupon for that value meal.

Unfortunately for Mickey, the time when he was a celluloid god also happened to coincide with the period in American history during which cocaine was extremely popular. So, The Pope of Greenwich Village  came out in 1984, and by 1990, the Mickster needs a damn job. Enter, Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man, released in 1991, and set in the crazy future world of 1996, for no particular reason. Seriously, there is nothing in this crazy 1996 that makes you say, “Hey, that’s sure futuristic. How cool.”

What about me? These aren't natural! That's futuristic.

Yikes. Wayne’s World was the highlight. Who knew?

You wanna know what kind of movie you’re getting into? Lets run down the rest of the cast:

Don Johnson, as The Marlboro Man. That’s right, Sonny Crockett. Like David Duchovny, this guy can never be taken seriously in a movie not running on Cinemax After Dark. Not only does he stink of T.V., but, come on, Don Johnson? Doesn’t that sound dirty to you?

I was pretty big for a while.

Let’s not go there, Don.

Daniel Baldwin, as some sort of villain. I think the deal is he wears a super special bullet proof long coat. Though, I am pretty sure they wrote that in to hide his weight. Man, is this guy fat. We’re talking Biggest Loser fat. We’re talking Chris Christie on a bender fat. We’re talking Alec Baldwin on 30 Rock fat. How do you get known as The Fat Baldwin?

Because he loves his family!

Sorry, Alec.

Tom Sizemore as, um, some bad guy. Maybe the head bad guy? I’m pretty sure he was the villain. Yeah, definitely sure he was a bad guy. Definitely. I mean, how could he not be a villian? This guy was snorting coke and beating up hookers with Charlie Sheen back when Charlie Sheen was a washed up movie star. Now Charlie’s a washed up T.V. star, and Tom’s and ex-con!

My manager said you can't keep coming in with those phony coupons Mr. Guttenberg.

And Vanessa Williams as a singer in a night club. She gets really good billing in the credits, and has about a minute and a half of total screen time.

Wasn't I somebody once?

We all were, baby.

Crimeny. All you need is Norman Fell, and you got a very special episode of The Love Boat.

When do we land in Alcapulco?

Can it, Fell.

This movie has all the parts to be a silly, fun action spectacular, but it never comes off. There are a lot of little choices the filmamkers made, such as using the off-brand Baldwin, that leave this a flabby and dull movie. Maybe my standards are too high.

I could blame director Simon Wincher, the man who brought us Free Willy. But he also made The Phantom, and I still dig that movie.

No, you could blame Simon.

Nice tights.

Our story opens with Rourke’s Harley Davisdson riding from Dallas to L.A. on his, um, Harley Davidson, while Bon Jovi’s Wanted: Dead or Alive plays over the credits. And it’s all down hill from there.

Mickey meets up with Don Johnson playing pool with an Indian  (Am I wrong about this name?) He’s called the Marlboro Man cause, he, uh, looks like the Marlboro Man and always have an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

So, the level of writing may not be that high. I think there are some stabs at profundity in the movie. Rourke’s character wanders the back roads looking for a vague kind of God. Johnson’s character is still dealing with his relationship with his now dead father. Hey… and Rourke doesn’t drink, but smoke’s like a fish … and Johnson is trying to quit smoking … Crap. This is an AA movie.

It works if you work it.

But are you worth it?

The boys need something like $2 million to save their favorite blues bar from a greedy bank, run by Sizemore. So, naturally, they decide to rob the bank to come up with the money. And then, get this, instead of cash, the armored car they rob is full of drugs. Some sort of futuristic drug that you put in your eyes. That’s when the bank sends in the Daniel Baldwin-led goons to get the drugs back. Ugh.

If you feel you’ve seen a movie with this kind of plot before, you have, just not staged as lazily as this. The thing that really bugs me is not the canned story lines, but the dropped story lines. We get some references to this new eye drug, and that’s pretty much about it. We get the sense the future is a little on the Mad Max side of things, but except for everybody living like they’re in a bad movie, we don’t see what this future is like.  We know Mickey’s character is pinning for a lost love, but we don’t know if she died, or left for another man, or got just sick of hearing him talk about Step 2.

There are gun fights, a pretty cool stunt of them jumping off that hotel in Vegas and landing the that pool you’ve seen in a bunch of other movies, and an extended sub-plot involving Don Johnson’s love life (a movie called Don Johnson’s Love Life ought to star David Duchovny.)

Of course, then there’s the catch phrase. You remember, the one all the kids were saying in the Summer of ’91? Like Mickey says, to Don, and then Don says to Mickey,  “It’s better to be dead and cool, than alive and uncool.”

How’s that working out for you fellas?

              

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Where Be Story Editor?

Roland Joffé’s new movie, There Be Dragons, is about half a good movie.  What is good is so good that it makes the bad parts doubly frustrating.

Let’s start with the good.  The best part was, happily, Charlie Cox, who plays Opus Dei’s founder, Josemaria Escriva.  Knowing very little about the actual man, I had none of the mental baggage that can trouble a fan (“That’s not how I pictured Mr. Tumnus!”).  The Fr. Josemaria he portrays is a strong, happy, humorous man who is not like other men.  When he commands a room with quiet authority, you feel it.  Despite the drama that surrounds him, his actions are not hammy or melodramatic.  You care about him, and want him to succeed.  When he learns to love everyone he meets, you believe it, and you feel glad that you met him, even if only on screen through an actor.  There are several original and memorable scenes which demonstrate the humanity, holiness, and appeal of the man.

When he’s not on screen, however, the movie is kind of a mess.  The first half hour or so is so cluttered with flashbacks, flash forwards, voice overs, text explanations, and a panoply of cinematic hokeyness, it’s a struggle just to figure out what story is being told.

I know what happened here.  The director knew he had a good story on his hands:  Josemaria Escriva was an amazing guy living in amazing times.  But if you just do a biopic of a Catholic boy who becomes a priest and starts a religious movement, who’s going to watch it?  So they decided to give the story some theatrical heft by telling two stories simultaneously:  Josemaria and his onetime friend, Manolo Torres, who works as a fascist government mole in the trenches with the communist rebels.  But that’s not all:  the dual story is being uncovered by the alienated son of Manolo, who is writing a book about Josemaria, who was friends with Manolo, who is telling his son not to write the book, who is writing it because he’s mad at his father, who is mad at Josemaria because he’s  . . . if this is making any sense, I’m telling it wrong.

Any time Manolo, or his son, or Manolo’s rebel beloved, or the beloved’s lover are on screen, the movie descends into — how do you say?  – silliness.  The characters are paper thin, the dialog is contrived, the voice overs never clarify anything, and the acting stinks.  Again, I think I know what happened:  the director has seen one to many Francis Ford Coppola movies, and was desperate to do the whole “violence and sacraments” juxtaposition thing.  A rosary next to a pistol!  A shattered statue of Mary amid the rubble of war!  An angel amid the lunatics in the asylum!  Or is it a devil!  I know it’s not fair to say, “This is no Godfather,” but what can I say?  Coppola pulled it off; this guy didn’t.  The effect is just squirmfully corny.  You really can’t zoom in on someone’s eyes, and then turn the screen into a swirling, glowing snowglobe to signify that God Is Talking.  You just can’t.  I, the marginally sophisticated viewer, will not stand for it.

At the same time,  so many moments that could have been incredibly powerful cinema are just squandered.  For example: the sniper is on the hillside, squinting through his gunsight at Josemaria and his friends below as they celebrate a makeshift Mass during their perilous escape  in the middle of the Pyrenees.  That could have been a gorgeous scene.  With a little movement by the camera, it could have been the pivotal point — could have carried the weight of the whole movie.  Instead, they just kind of  . . . filmed it:  here’s the sniper, here’s the priest.  Bang!  Next scene.  So frustrating.

At a certain point in the movie, I felt as if I was watching a slide show or an especially melodramatic Powerpoint presentation which covered the plot, more than an actual story.   There was no rhythm to the way it was told, just lots of stopping and starting — which isn’t the same.  There was no deeper meaning to the double stories, just added complexity — which isn’t the same.  There were no deeper themes of fatherhood and faith and forgiveness, just lots of talking about those things — which isn’t the same.  They could have cut thirty minutes and half the characters without losing anything.

Well, now I feel like a jerk.  This was a very sincere movie, and believe it or not, I still recommend it.   It made me interested in Josemaria Escriva — I just wish they had stuck with him more, and skipped all the tacked-on extras of the other plot. I think high school students and younger would probably be pretty impressed by this movie, and it would make a great introduction to the saint for a confirmation class.    I can see someone leaving the theater inspired and encouraged by what happened on the screen.  As I said, the good parts (which occur mostly in the middle third of this two-hour film) are quite good.  The bad parts aren’t unwatchable so much as frustrating:  you keep thinking how much better it could have been.

I guess I’m just not willing to go whole hog and rave about it, just because it presents Catholics in a good light and had a budget of more than $750.  I’m awfully, awfully tired of Catholics being the boogeyman in popular culture, but I’m also awfully, awfully tired of being told that everything that’s wholesome is a MUST SEE, a piece of CINEMATIC BRILLIANCE that will CHANGE YOUR LIFE, and is about FIREMEN.  So, this movie was okay.  I liked it.  But it wasn’t an especially good movie.

It was extremely refreshing to see the Catholic faith represented as something that inspires generosity, courage, manliness, and heroism.  I just wish that someone had been inspired to edit this movie, and heavily.

You can see the official trailer here.

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The Jerk Returns!!!!!!!

Oh, but first, come see my post at the Register:  ”Not like that!” The spirituality of The Mummy.  The post may be silly, but it’s witness to a miracle:  I was able to figure out how to post videos on a new platform while propitiating the feral kid, who sits behind my back and makes me play the squish game while I write.

But you don’t want to hear about me; you want to hear about .  . . . THE JERK!

To newer readers:  there is this guy.  He’s called “The Jerk.”  Simcha is not The Jerk, and The Jerk is not Simcha.

Every once in a while, The Jerk writes something weird for Simcha — something like, oh, the Beatitudes for Jerks.   And Simcha laughs and laughs and laughs, and gets ready to post it — and then wakes up in the middle of the night saying, “Oh my gosh, I can’t post that.”

On the other hand, it is Simcha’s blog, and  Simcha has already filled out the W-9 form for the Register.  As Mel Gibson said to his bottle of tequila, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?  And so I, Simcha, present . . .

Blessed are the Orthodox, for their Kingdom of God is better than your Kingdom of God.

Blessed are the Eastern Rite catholics, for their priests shall have kick-ass beards.

Blessed are the Angry, for they shall win all internet arguments.

Blessed are the Trads, for they shall fart in Latin.

Blessed are the JOOOOOOOOOOS, for they shall inherit the media.

Blessed are the Buddhists, for they have yet to piss me off today.

Blessed are you when women scorn you, and make intelligent conversation in front of you, and wear pants around you, for yours is your mother’s basement.

Blessed are the the wives of Opus Dei men, for those gals need all the help they can get.

Blessed be the ice maker.

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Movie Recommendation: Queen of Hearts

Since my dear husband finally fell victim to the dread plague, I watched a movie by myself last night, while holding a little blue t-shirt in my lap (to signify that I was about to start folding laundry any minute now).

Well, I didn’t get any laundry done, but I did rediscover a wonderful movie that you will love, as long as you’re not my husband.  Really, I don’t know what is wrong with him.  The movie is Queen of Hearts from 1989.

I thought of it because my friend Tiffany was talking about her annual January longing for all things Roman, which she has suffered ever since we spent a semester in Rome our sophomore year in college.  While this movie doesn’t take place in Rome, or even mostly in Italy, it might assuage a little of that ache, being chock full of golden light, a “bella machina” (a gleaming espresso machine with an eagle on top), a horrible old grandmother, and lots of Italian-eyed Italians speaking Italian without subtitles.  It’s mostly in English, but it’s told from the point of view of the little boy, who understands things in his own way — part nonsensical, part funny, part heartbreaking, part exactly the way they are, or ought to be.

It will also assuage your longing for a strange and entertaining story about love and friendship, death and family.  Oh boy, it’s hard to explain this movie without making it sound sappy and awful.  It’s not!  It’s funny, knives and guns are wielded, there is betrayal and cowardice, and everyone still loves each other in the end.  It seems to be available for sale only on VHS, but Netflix has it on Instant View.  It’s rated PG.  There are a few brief unsavory elements, but these will likely go over the heads of any innocent viewers.

Many, many memorable scenes and images in this movie, including some incredible interior scenes through the eyes of a dying man.  Excellent acting.  Just a moving, endearing, pleasurable movie all around.  Tiffany, I guarantee you’ll like this movie.  And the rest of you, too!

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7 Quick Takes: In Poor Taste

Ha.

Never mind the talk about sex, gin, or condoms –  I really ruffled some feathers when I allowed my violent distaste for “The Little Drummer Boy” to spill over into the public realm.  Well, I stand by my words.  It’s just a dumb, dumb song, and I don’t like it.  Harumph all you want.

Okay, that was kind of a stretch.  My point is that, despite my entirely justifiable disdain, I can understand why you would like “The Little Drummer Boy.”  Not because there’s anything good about it (there’s not), or because there’s anything wrong with you (there is), but because personal taste is a strange and embarrassing phenomenon.  As my old college professor used to say, De gustibus non figureoutum est.

So, just to let you know that even a sneering elitist like myself has some chinks in my armor (although my heart of stone remains intact), I present:

Seven Examples of Simcha’s Execrable Taste

1.  Footprints in the sand.  Did you ever look back on your life and see the part that was all soggy?  That was me, weeping heartfelt tears over this unforgivable bit of religious schlock.  It doesn’t even actually make sense.  When you felt the worst, that was when God was carrying you?  Does He do that?  In my experience, it’s more like He says, “Go ahead and have a tantrum — see if I care!”   And the He stands back with his arms folded and watches me make a fool of myself, until I get so worked up that I fall down and hit my head on the coffee table.  Then He picks me up, checks my pupils to make sure I don’t have a concussion, and maybe puts on Shaun the Sheep for a while until I calm down.

Don’t ask me what the sand would look like at this point.

But yeah, “Footprints in the sand” kind of gets me.  Whatever.

2.  Billy Joel’s “Leningrad.”

It’s bad enough that it’s Billy Joel, but why “Leningrad?”  I hang my head in shame.

3.  SpaghettiOs.  Yes, I realize it’s basically extruded flour glue in warm ketchup.

Remember that movie Se7en where the guy makes the fat guy eat all those SpaghettiOs?  Hated the movie, but I would love to be that fat guy.  Except for when he gets killed.

4.  Plastic leaves.  We had a Greek myths birthday party in September, and I liked how the dining room looked with strings of plastic ivy tacked onto the wallpaper, so I left them up.  They’re from Dollar Tree, and now my house looks like Dollar Tree.  It’s my house, and that’s how I like it.

5.  Gold or silver spray paint.  IT MAKES EVERYTHING LOOK FANCIER, and you can’t tell me otherwise.  So if you get something like this from me for Christmas

it’s not ironic hipster kitsch.  I just thought it was purty.  Don’t you like pretty things?  What are you, some kind of monster?

6.  Nic Cage.

Not because of his puppy dog eyes or his upsetting hair, the shredded wheat-like likes of which have not been seen since Gene Wilder in his heyday

– but because of a kind of a funny story.  You see, about ten years into my marriage, my husband rented a movie with Nicholas Cage in it.  I forget what it was, but it sure stunk, as Nicholas Cage movies are wont to do (yes, Bad Lieutenant was mesmerizing.  The Rock was fun. Raising Arizona was amusing, though overrated — but let’s face it, he’s only still around for the same reason as you keep that horrible old tippy coffee table:  because it more or less does the job, and you just don’t have the time right now to go out and get a replacement.  Nicholas Cage:  go ahead and put a wet glass on him.)

Oh, I think the movie was Ghost Rider!  Anyway, we just couldn’t watch it.  And we are people who watched Zardoz all the way through.  We watched Thunderball all the way through.  We watched Yentl, for pete’s sake.  Anyway, it developed that my husband had chosen Ghost Rider because he thought I had some particular affection for Nicholas Cage (which I don’t); and I watched it because I thought he wanted to watch it (which he didn’t).  Very Gift of the Magi, isn’t it?

So that’s why I like Nicholas Cage.

7.  Budweiser.

I like how it tastes.  So sue me.

And then head over to Conversion Diary, where Jen Fulwiler is hosting 7 Quick Takes.  I can almost guarantee you that nobody else’s list will force you to think about Nicholas Cage’s hair.  Although Advent is a penitential season.

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Seven quick takes: Movies We’re Almost Ready To Watch

In our recent discussion about the dubious heroism of Columbus, Lincoln, and Joel Hodgson (well, somebody should have said Joel), The Jerk did his job as peacemaker, and poured soothing oils on the stormy waters of our dialogue by bringing up the subject of fluoridation.

For readers who are not familiar with The Jerk, he is this guy who writes for my blog, and he is a jerk.  What’s the matter, The Jerk — sick and tired of having a friendly chat with strangers online about vaccines, maybe, or circumcision?

I had actually completely forgotten that people get upset about fluoride.  But now that I remember, I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Strangelove, and how I wish my kids were old enough to watch it.

It got me to thinking about other movies that I’d like to show my kids, and which I think they would mostly enjoy — but there’s just a few scenes in there (or maybe more than a few) that make these movies out of the question for another couple of years.  Here’s the rest of the list:

–2–

Jaws

I’m halfway afraid that they won’t be terrified by this movie.  And that they won’t recognize the perfect story arc.  And that they won’t get the big deal about this scene:

–3–

Blazing Saddles

I campaign for this one regularly, and my husband always nixes it with this simple argument:  “Simmy, it’s one long d**k joke!”  Humph.  If I had known he was such a prude, I never would have — oh, never mind.

Well, it turns out he actually said that about

–4–

Young Frankenstein, another of my favorites.

Super dooper!  I don’t mean to lean too heavily on Mel Brooks, but I do feel that my children are only living partial lives until they understand what we mean by “Nice hopping.”

–5–

For a change of pace, how about Unbreakable?

This is one of my favorite movies of the decade — it’s so much more than a comic book movie.   Where Watchmen seethes with ludicrous self-importance, Unbreakable tells a plain and strange story of good and evil.  I wish people would give this movie a second look–it’s so delicately, movingly, and thrillingly done, and is full of hidden symbols.

–6–

Oh, wait, here we go: The Mummy

Here is the movie for which the word “awesome” was invented.  I can’t quite get myself to use this word in public yet, but I have to admit, this movie is indisputably awesome.

Besides being terrifying and genuinely funny, this is one of the very few action movies with an appealing heroine (and impeccable casting in general).  I didn’t realize how good Rachel Weisz is as Evy until we saw part 3 (The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor), which, among its many grave problems, had a different actress in the role – and it really wasn’t worth watching.

–7–

And of course my children’s cultural education won’t be complete until they see Army of Darkness

Everything’s cool!  I said the words.  I did!

Well, what’s on your list of cinematic genius that you’re dying to bequeath to the next generation?  Leave your list in the comment box, or do your own Seven Quick Takes (doesn’t have to be movies — most people just list seven random tidbits, which I find much harder than making a list), and leave a link to yours at Conversion Diary, where Jen hosts lists of links every Friday.  Don’t forget to link back to Jen if you do your own Seven Quick Takes.

Happy Friday!

(Cross-posted at the poor The Anchoress, who probably hoped for more than, “Ha ha, here’s my favorite fart scene!”)

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