The Cheung sisters strike again in this lamentable effort by Dong Kar Wai. Your brain will turn to ashes of time after wasting precious hours wondering how Brigitte Lin landed a husband despite her porcupine face and Cinderella anus.
Why don't we blow the wisps off dandelions anymore? When we're young, we stay outside, making the most of every possible second before sunset. Even as it looms, our urgency of pleasure only grows. We're not going anywhere until Gammy calls us inside for supper. Gammy should shut her withering old gums, because she's lucky anybody listens to her. Who does she think she is? What is so once-in-a-lifetime about supper? We have every day of the rest of our lives to gobble gruel down our gullets, night, day, every day in every way. That's what conditioning is all about, fellow drones. After a while, we stop blowing out those goddamn dandies and focus on where we have to be, what we have to eat, and who we have to please. No more pushing every drop of pleasure from every remaining beam of sunlight fading. We no longer have to be told to come inside. We're already there. We've lost our innocence. Thanks, Gammy, you pasty-faced old gash.
Salmon Fishing in the Yemen is all about holding on, but indecisive about when to let go. The tighter the grip, the poorer the circulation, leaving the audience choking by the third act. Yes, the original Salem witch, Emily Blunt is more than serviceable. And yes, TIME Magazine's 2002 Chap of the Homestead, Ewan McGregor, can make any popcorn pic pop louder than blouse buttons on my barnyard hog, Tess. But whereas we begin in a state of bliss, everything marigold must turn to seed. The film still feels constipated, as if straining to push the nuggets from its greasy star chute. Perhaps we all need somebody to tell us when to let go, no matter how old we get. No matter how many storms we get caught in. We all eventually need our Gammy. Rest in peace, Bernice Solomia Davis. Dinner's ready.
The penny arcade, the nickelodeon, and the frou frou epicentre of my adulthood all have mutual interests that rest in the bygone and the foregone. This directorial duster by the original "Dublin Duo", Dayton and Faris, is such a breezy distraction that it makes me rethink the cross-genre three-ring circus that is the modern cinema. This is as much a rom-com as it is a horrorshow. Like the LGBT 1978 gender-jangler adaptation of Pigmalion, Shemaleion, Ruby Sparks sputters its way to the finish line whereas the original soared. Put your money where your mouth was, Fox Searchlight - on Zoe Kazan's cherry's jubilee and Paul Dano's diamond dangler. This ruby's lost its sparks.
In my line of work, avarice is as commonplace as B.O. at Hyram Handelman's Bar Mitzvah. I remember once at the Fletching Film Festival, I happened upon a positively petulant Chris Pratt. Like a gimp-legged horse, he trotted over to me, and said "Cheddar, it takes real guts to do what you do, and absolute cowardice." To which I replied, "Did you know that 'Pratt' is an old English word for vagina?" Neither of us knew whether the intent was flirtation or fisticuff, but we were more than ready to part ways right then and there. Right there in Fletching.
I haven't seen Christopher Pratt since, whether in person or on-screen, nor in dreams of day, night, or delirium. But thanks to the delicate fingertips of director Nicholas Stoller, Pratt has been plucked squarely in my crosshairs again. It's time, Christopher. This belittling bullet's for you.
Get a good look ladies, because this is the type of broadstroke broad stroker that puts the ill in your ilk. Nicholas Stoller knows this more than anyone. Today on the menu, he's featuring a meal so ham-fisted that you'll feel as though "le petit cochon" Babe uppercutted you in the jugular.
Segal and Blunt play a couple as destitute of chemistry as a Czechoslovakian public school. Not that this is a bad thing. Without chemistry, little Sophomore Sally Bensky can and will grow up to be a gold digging buy-one-get-one-free nightwalker whose lack of career will at least keep her out of cinemas, and away from treachery like this. She may die of polyps, but it beats sitting through one second of this 'Five-Year Disengagement'. I can still feel every word of this script ringing in my ears and congesting my sinuses. Let's all hork together and clear our systems. And we shall name each sickly green glob Pratt, Blunt, and Segal. Allergy season is here. Stay indoors.
Queen Cameron can't hide behind the Mask any longer. What to Expect When You Might be Expecting actually might be exactly what you might be expecting. I'm sorry. Did I lose you? Then you're the perfect audience for this flippant film. Forget the birds and the bees. We're getting right up into the nest. The hive. The pussy lips. Yes, this film is bluntly and relentlessly unforgiving and unflattering when it comes to glory shots of Cameron Diaz's downstairs dirt camp. The spotlight indeed shines blindingly upon Queen Cameron; a crimson sheen that reveals truth and imperfection; while exercising zero restraint in taste. Diaz plays Jules, a "modern woman" who chooses career and copulation over cribs. I've met women like this, at the supermarket at 2pm, dressed to the nines in aisle seven. A grocery cart crammed with pablum, and a basket of organic fruit - healthy, natural, and rotting as hastily as Cameron Carmichael Diaz's ovaries.
Diminished returns is the theme of the hour. Fixated on surface pleasures, director Kirk Jones negates Queen Diaz's beauty by accentuating every pock mark, plugged pore and melanomanic muff mole. The 1993 knockout has now been KO'd by the HD generation, enumerating every artist's hiccup and slip-up on her Tweety bird tramp stamp - perhaps the most poignant visual in the film, exemplifying the mistakes we make as modern humans. Jules shouldn't have had unprotected sex with Ernest Borgnine (playing himself in the movie's most shameless cameo this side of Sunset Strip), or gotten that aforementioned tattoo at age 8. Surely, she knew she'd lose interest in cutesy cartoon Tweety bird in her teen years. And Cameron "Casey Jones" Diaz, shouldn't have taken this role. This birth film isn't even up to snuff. And by that, I mean Snuff Films (a division of Lionsgate Films).
Is it too late for an abortion? It wasn't for my twin sister. Rest in peace, Utero Eunice Davis. You had lovely fingers.