On what would have been the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer's 76th birthday, here are some movies he absolutely loathed including a couple of surprises and his dry assessments of their value. Armageddon reportedly used the services of nine writers. Why did it need any? The dialogue is either shouted one-liners or romantic drivel. It was more entertaining than The Brown Bunny.
Jason X sucks on the levels of storytelling, character development, suspense, special effects, originality, punctuation, neatness and aptness of thought. Oh, I've seen bad movies before.
But they usually made me care about how bad they were. Watching Mad Dog Time is like waiting for the bus in a city where you're not sure they have a bus line Mad Dog Time should be cut into free ukulele picks for the poor. It was just that there was less to understand than the movie at first suggests.
How much he charges I'm not sure, but the price is worth it if it keeps him off the streets and out of another movie. Deuce Bigalow is aggressively bad, as if it wants to cause suffering to the audience.
The best thing about it is that it runs for only 75 minutes Speaking in my official capacity as a Pulitzer Prize winner, Mr. Schneider, your movie sucks. Magoo, a fact I report because I love Studebakers and his was the only thing I liked in the film. Magoo is transcendently bad. It soars above ordinary badness as the eagle outreaches the fly. This movie isn't the bottom of the barrel.
This movie isn't below the bottom of the barrel. This movie doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence with barrels. The concept is exhausted, the ideas are tired, the physical gags are routine, the story is labored, the actors look like they can barely contain their doubts about the project.
Halfway through, I was ready for someone to lead us in reciting the rosary. What were your first thoughts the first time Rosie turned up in the leather dominatrix uniform? Did you maybe have slight misgivings that you were presiding over one of the more misguided film projects of recent years?
Ebert was occasionally wrong. There are no memorable lines. None of the characters is interesting, except for the enigmatic figure played by Rob Lowe, who seems to have wandered over from Hamlet. Judging by the evidence on the screen, the movie got a green light before a usable screenplay had been prepared, with everybody reassuring themselves that since they were such funny people, inspiration would overcome them.
Every reference to a human sex organ or process of defecation is not automatically funny simply because it is naughty, but Myers seems to labor under that delusion. What assumptions do they have about the purpose and quality of life? Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the sensibility that thought anyone would like it.
Hated the implied insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it. His songs are melodramatic, interchangeable, self-aggrandizing groans and anguished shouts, backed protectively by expensive and cloying instrumentation. His dramatic presence also looks over-protected, as if nobody was willing to risk offending him by asking him to seem involved, caring and engaged. It's strange about the Diamond performance: It's not just that he can't act.
It's that he sends out creepy vibes. He seems self-absorbed, closed off, grandiose, out of touch with his immediate surroundings. The movie basically has one joke, which is Ace Ventura's weird nerdy strangeness. If you laugh at this joke, chances are you laugh at Jerry Lewis, too, and I can sympathize with you even if I can't understand you.
I found the movie a long, unfunny slog through an impenetrable plot. Kids might like it. Or My Mom Will Shoot! It is moronic beyond comprehension, an exercise in desperation during which even Sylvester Stallone, a repository of self-confidence, seems to be disheartened.
But people like Willie Nelson and Burt Reynolds should have been smart enough to stay out of it. Here is a lame-brained, outdated wheeze about a couple of good ol' boys who roar around the back roads of the South in the General Lee, their beloved Dodge Charger.
As it happens, I also drove a Dodge Charger. You could have told them apart because mine did not have a Confederate flag painted on the roof. It's a rebuke to the faith that the building represents. Cannes touchingly adheres to a belief that film can be intelligent, moving and grand. Godzilla is a big, ugly, ungainly device to give teenagers the impression they are seeing a movie. I urgently advise hospitals: Do not make the DVD available to your patients; there may be an outbreak of bedpans thrown at TV screens.
I would not like to say more. I would like to say less. On the basis of Dirty Love, I am not certain that anyone involved has ever seen a movie, or knows what one is.
Even the opening titles are cheesy. Sci-fi epics usually begin with a stab at impressive titles, but this one just displays green letters on the screen in a type font that came with my Macintosh.
Then the movie's subtitle unscrolls from left to right in the kind of 'effect' you see in home movies. If I haven't retired by then, I will. I am not giving a star rating to Pink Flamingos because stars simply seem not to apply. It should be considered not as a film but as a fact, or perhaps as an object.