Jarret's FFF: The Most Awful Gatsby

November 23, 2013:  Good Lord!

I’m less than six minutes into the new Great Gatsby movie and I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such all-out crap! Who, on god’s brown earth, gave this bozo Baz Lurhmann permission (let alone money) to make a movie. It’s a crime!

I never would have imagined anyone could begin with so much and turn it into so little. This is an outrageously laughable production, beginning with a painfully comical performance by Tobey Maguire, who I actually like, but who did his turn as Nick Carroway like a bug-eyed worm with the social poise of Lou Costello. He looks like he’s trying out for an elementary school acting part and some near-sighted silent film actor is directing him and keeps telling him, “Be broader! … Broader!!” It’s horrendous.

I haven’t even seen Leonardo DiCaprio yet, but I honestly don’t want to. And whoever is playing Daisy Buchanan—I don’t even care what her name is—couldn’t be more boring. And I could forgive her if she were drop-dead gorgeous, but all my expectations were dashed in the first millisecond of her reveal. (While I wouldn’t object to being seen publicly with her, I’m trouble to introduce her as my secretary, or perhaps my hairdresser.)

It’s astounding to think how much money this travesty cost—how much Larman was given to waste. (I won’t even do him the meager respect of spelling his weird name right.) I consider it a joke and a crime how anyone could build such carefully architected stupidity and put it before an audience. He could have followed Maguire to a urinal and filmed it and it would have had more merit as both a story and a work of art.

Please understand, while I’m a great fan of the book, it’s not the raping and ruining of that novel that bothers me. Truly, I’m ready for a movie-ing up of the thing. It’s fine. But this is just such a weak example of filmmaking, and simply stings of his over indulgence and tacky style over substance. Really, it’s got me dumbfounded, and I’m not usually dumb, as we all know.

Now, I consider his Romeo and Juliet a colossal piece of kaka. How that ever got made I’ll never know. But what’s so amazing about Lorhman is this bizarre reverse gift he seems to have to make his actors looks completely ridiculous and amateurish. When DiCaprio finally made his appearance, it was stunning to hear him unable to decide on what accent use—a poor conglomeration of Louisiana, British and Brooklyn, all geared to supposedly capture a character from the Midwest. Ouch! The tragedy goes on … And again, the way this amateurish—Yes, AMATEURISH! Completely AMATEURISH DIRECTOR—does his dips and cuts and special zooms and exploding computer-graphic silliness, it’s a wonder that any self-respecting actor would work with him.

Then there was the party scene, with the big bass beat rap music and the 20’s characters gettin’ the yo-yo-yo out. Puh-lease! I can just hear the sycophants standing around praising Blerman’s genuine genius. It makes my stomach hurt. “Oh, Buzz, you’re brilliant! Oh, the way you combine the sensibility of the 20’s sensibility with your own sensibility … It’s just … so … so … so sensible!”

The word pointless is thrown around a lot these days, especially by people who read my Blah-ugh! But I think we have a new dictionary definition of word following the release—I think it just came out; I don’t know; I don’t care; I don’t follow any of it—of this spectacle. Why any time was invested in this monumental crap will join the multitude of twisted human endeavors that will forever baffle me.

But don’t take my word for it! Rent the DVD from the library for free and watch the first seven or eight minutes and try to keep from laughing when Muguire bugs his eyes out … I dare ye!

Jarret's FFF - "The Defiled - We Are All Meat"

August 8, 2012: Just when you think you've seen it all, a movie like "The Defiled - We Are All Meat" comes along and reboots your reality. Actually I'm somewhat hesitant to even call it a movie. It's almost more like a bit of strange videotape that someone shot and managed to wrangle onto a DVD. You see, I found this very alluring zombie compilation at my wonderful local library called the Zombie Horror Fright Fest. Four movies! How can you beat that, and from the titles and pictures on the back -- "Woods of Terror" and "Fast Zombies with Guns" among them -- I really thought I'd found something remarkable. (We won't even START on trying to understand WHY my library stocked this weird item, but to me it's merely a credit to their awesome video section and its kind caretakers, who are among the few, rare people who treat me with any respect, despite my inability to ever get anything back on time.) Anyway, it was promising enough at first -- an appropriately moody black-and-white piece that began with your quintessential Romero-esque zombie stumbling through the woods on the wooden legs of a British punk rock guitarist, the way they do (the good zombies, I mean). He even looked like the classic first zombie in Night of the Living Dead, with the tall grey crewcut, casual jacket and face like my mailman. It wasn't long, however, before it all took a strange turn, beginning in about the first 90 seconds when apparently what was this guy's zombie family joined him at the side of a pond to lap up some water and grunt at each other. I mean, it couldn't have been dumber, despite the good make up. His son was more dog than zombie, and proudly bearing his one X'ed-over eye, he hobbled around on four legs and kind of barked. The daughter, meanwhile, made the most incessantly annoying whining sound, like Felix Unger. Things picked up at about Minute 12, however, when, after a sizable amount of zombie pantomime that reminded me of Raquel Welsh in One Million B.C., or Ringo's wife Barbara Bach in Caveman, the father and son find a pre-wrapped dead body in a tent for some reason, which we never actually get a good look at, but they bring it home to this odd structure in which they live, which is kind of some sticks tied together, and they eat it. This seems to be a key pay-off moment, and the director -- who I believe also shot, edited, wrote, produced and possibly acted in the film -- seemed to really relish the moment of some classic old-school zombie wolfing down. This includes one rather sexual moment, when the father zombie is kind of erotically having his wife suck down some stuff out of a very phalic sausage-like part -- I have to assume the intestines. Anyway, the film really gets entirely weird when the dog boy awakens in the middle of the night to see his father violently humping Zombie Mom from the back. It really brings disturbance to some new levels, and that's not even taking into account that the mom is on the verge of dropping her zombie baby. So then the next morning, when you're expecting the son to rape his sister -- and I'm still not entirely sure he DOESN'T, because these clothes are thrown down, but it's not clear whose they are -- the sister starts making that incessanty whining sound and the Dog Son begins losing his guts or something -- some parts come out of him, and the father tries to stuff them back in, but they won't go ... So then the daughter whines even more and she dies. It turns out that the dead body they ate was spoiled with some toxic waste or something that the guy had in the tent with him. And then, right after the wife dies, the mutated baby suddenly pops out. I'll be honest: this is as far as I got before my daughter came home and I got scared she'd see me watching it. In fact, I felt like I had the worst kind of demented porn or something in the player, and I fumbled it out with a wealth of fearful shame. Of course I wouldn't want to give the ending away, but at the same time, I'm not completely sure I want to know what it is myself. Still, if you're looking for a disturbing piece of crap with sick sexual zombie undertones, this might be the picture for you.

Jarret's Frank Film Forum: A Few Different Films & Things ...

May 6, 2013:  I'm thoroughly enjoying a second viewing of the old British film "The Wicker Man," and not only because it's such a sincere pleasure to watch a young Britt Ekland dancing naked. (Needless to say, her song number in the bedroom adjacent to the police inspector's chamber is not only a remarkable visual -- and auditory -- pleasure, but it and other moments --{although not the other moments as much}-- really highlight the utter {a tacky comic with less thoughtful material would say 'udder,' but I won't!} delight of her lovely talents and talented udders ... I mean, loveliness ... Ah, to be young and Swedish in 1971 Europe!)

I like movies. You might have gathered as much from my periodic Frank Film Forum entries, which ... Did I say "entries?" I meant "entrails." ... Or did I? ...  FFF -- Frank Film Forum entries, which offer tired and impatient Blah-ugh! readers the chance to get an honest appraisal of the most important, or least important, cinematic fare polluting our natural environment today and in years gone past ... I believe I've done the Bond films as a whole, owing to my laziness, and "Chicago" and "Halloween III," and maybe others ... and others still ... Who really remembers?! And who really cares anyway. I know I don't!

But this is quite a startling movie for other reasons as well -- "The Wicker Man," I mean -- really quite a frightening little flick ... But I don't want to say anymore, in part because I don't want to ruin anything, but also because I've lost interest in writing about it ...

It's funny how that works. I mean, I start out with these grand ideas to craft a Blah-ugh! entry -- all those important details swirling around, like so many gnats in summer, and then by the time I finish proofreading my first paragraph on the fly, I'm so tired of whatever it is I'm writing about, I usually deteriorate into something of unrelated interest ...

Which brings me to another movie I really enjoyed recently called "The Third Man." (Not a sequel, nor prequel, to "The Wicker Man;" completely different man!) This is a post-WWII flick set in Vienna with the great Joseph Cotton (Cotten? ... I mean, how great was he really, that I should have to remember how he spelled his name?!) and Orson Welles, who I love and revere on some strange level, and directed by the wonderful Carol Reed, who I was always attracted to until I found out he was a man. The best part of this movie for me is the tweaky cinematography by Robert Krasker, which is just cool, and especially I love the last long, long shot, which I'll say no more about. Also, the unnerving zither music is just terrific and inspiring. (I mean, I'm inspired to never let a zither player in my house after hearing it, but it works so well in this masterpiece.)

As I continue on my own creative journey as a filmmaker ... (What? You didn't know I made film?! ... Well, we'll talk at some point, but I've got to get this thing done now ...) ... I find it's so easy to learn (and enjoy) more and more each time I watch anything. I subscribe to what I think Coppola said about a BAD movie being the best teacher for learning how to make film, but the good stuff can also do well to open your eyes/mind to some very cool tricks, techniques and psychic treachery ...

Another superb movie I just watched was "Taxi Driver," which really rings my bells as an overall example of very fine filmmaking. Here I'm smitten with Michael Chapman's photo work--that look of the city night and lights captures a spirit to me the way Haskell Wexler's work on "American Graffiti" did ... But what really cements this movie -- "Taxi Driver," I mean -- is that awesome, terrifying Bernard Hermann music. It's really intensely cool. His last film, I believe, but he went out with a Zap ...

And that's how I'm going to go out tonight -- with a Zap!

Zap!

The Unceremonious Removal of My Cat's Testi

September 13, 2012:  Well, the moment's fast approaching when we'll remove my cat Bob's testicles. I, for one, am looking forward to getting it done. It's not that I wish ill of him -- in fact, he's a fetching young gentleman with a heart of gold -- but he's apparently starting this onorous (and odorous) practice of "spraying" around the house, and it stinks of weird ammonia and feh, and we've got to put a stop to it ASAP. (Lord only knows WHAT this little fiend is spraying -- I mean, it may be urine or it may be something worse!)

But I'm grateful to the authorities who will perform this necessary operation, and while I like the idea of keeping people natural -- I mean, come on! I certainly wouldn't want you removing MY testicles, at least not without a good reason -- it's good to do as Bob Barker used to always advise us at the end of "The Price Is Right" and remember spay and neuter your pet. (And while I don't intend to do BOTH, I think doing at least ONE is a good thing where Bob is concerned. And, mind you, I'm not even really sure WHICH we're doing -- I mean, I never said I was a knowledgable writer, just a witty one -- but the unceremonious plucking of his little man marbles must certainly fall into one category or another ...)

But more to our point, isn't it just too easy to make jokes about such a dire event?! It's like laughing at the death of some old movie actress who had a bookcase fall on her, or a decrepit right-wing politician, who got anal cancer ... I can do better, probably, or at least keep this dumb Blah-ugh! moving without resorting to cheap laughs ... Hmmm ... Or CAN I ?? ...

There's little other news to report. I was, once again, highly disappointed by the poor attendance at my speaking engagement last night, and while many of you were there with me in spirit, it was only because I invested mental energy fantasizing about gouging your respective eyes out with my quill pen (or unceremoniously removing your testisticles with tweezers).

On another note, I watched this weak but intriguing movie called "16 Blocks" -- at least, I THINK that's what it was called. It was a rather hokey and generally predictable cop suspense movie with Bruce Willis as a cop who, looking back over the movie, probably only had about five lines, and instead spent his performance looking all hungover and despondent. And it was really a pretty good performance, as well as one could expect him to perform. Of course, I spent an equal amount of time wondering about his hair, because I was sure he was bald already. I mean, I know he shaves his head to NOT look bald -- which is a weird, remarkable irony of modern aging man -- but suddenly he had a kind of LOT of hair, but it was not really THAT much, if you know what I mean. In other words, I kept thinking that if this was a hairpiece, it was a hairpiece aimed at making him look like he was losing his hair ... and it may have been. I don't know. It was certainly dyed -- that kind of rusty red-brown colored that men will dye their hair in the movies, or the hairdresser will dye ... All I know is Demi Moore certainly made a fool of herself going after that young idiot, whose name escapes me, and then getting dumped. And all the surgery! Ugh! It makes me want to plotz! Willis handled it like a gentleman, which was probably the advise of a good agent, and now he's got continuing work while she spends her time lurking in the bushes outside her ex's house and sniffing amyl nitrate and trying to keep her face from cracking with hot bee's wax treatments ...

But I'm being tangential, because I really wanted to comment on Willis's costar, who is this guy Def Moss, or Moss Def, or Deft Mos, or something quite around there, and I have no idea how anyone gets such a name. It makes me want to plotz! If my cat had that name, I'd have removed his testicles long ago ...

Anyway, despite his odd name, this person had the most remarkably funny cute weird voice. I mean, it was intriguing. I've never heard such a voice, and he talked and talked all through the movie, and I found myself holding my breath trying to figure out where he got such a strange voice. I guess even Willis was mesmerized, because he wasn't saying anything either ...

Anyway, I recommend the movie if you have nothing better to do and it's free to rent from the library and you don't particularly care for Demi Moore and don't want to make your testicles hurt more than they already do.

Which makes me wonder if there's a movie out there that centers on the removal of a cat's personal parts. If not, I could see an intriguing storyline to develop involving doctors and Bob Barker and money and sex and fame, and you could get this guy Deaf Moseley to play the voice of the cat ... Shee-it!

Jarret's Frank Film Forum (FFF) -- A Review of James Bond Films

October 10, 2009: The letters have been pouring in requesting more film reviews by yours truly (meaning me). A child of alcoholism, I'm always looking for ways to be liked, so I'm happy to accommodate my loyal readers -- the three of you -- and offer another offering of my utterly valueless opinions. (See, now that's the dysfunction talking!)

In an effort to form my own son's opinions and set him straight on the road to manhood -- straight manhood, mind you, not the gay kind -- over the summer I introduced him to every James Bond movie in the official series. We even watched the George Lazenby one ("On Her Majesty's Secret Service") which sucked like Telly Savalas's singing, and every Roger Moore (I think there are 17; he played Bond well into his 80's.). Being something of an authority on Bond -- I've read each Ian Fleming story at least three times and can even play the Monty Norman theme on guitar -- I thought I'd offer a concise appraisal of the catalogue.

To begin, I'd have to name "Thunderball" as the quintessential Bond film, firing on all cylinders, save its awful title track by Tom Jones. Sean Connery is at the top of his game and still has enough hair to dominate the role. It's consummate kitsch in technicolor, and also a very full adventure with lots of glib lines. (Of course, none could beat the last line of "From Russia, With Love," when Bond, after having nearly been booted to death by Klebb's poison shoe, remarks, "She's had her kicks!")

That said, I have to give the nod to Pierce Brosnan as the best Bond. He hit a mixture of suave control and formidable action-film athleticism that can't be matched. I understand that Connery is still the consummate father of the film role (and I'll always love his Bond), but Brosnan really took it to another, higher level. I'm sorry he only made the four films. Moore does an adequate job, but overall he's too self-conscious and continually falls back on a vaguely unsympathetic sarcasm he clearly lifted from Cary Grant (who was never unsympathetic to viewers). Timothy Dalton wasn't as bad as everyone says, but ultimately he had very bad hair, and sometimes that's enough to put someone on the Black List. Daniel Craig's dour brutality is an interesting take, but even by the books' standard, he's much too taciturn. (I love his two movies, but somehow I don't completely consider them Bond films in the pure sense.)

Among other films, "Dr. No" is a personal favorite. I guess I remain something of a closet racist, but it just cracks me up when Quarrel rolls his eyes in primitive fear. I also love "Live and Let Die" (the first film I ever saw, as a 6-year old at a drive-in in Florida; I was mesmerized!) "Diamonds Are Forever" was much better than I remembered, as were several of the Moore films. The heroine in "For Your Eyes Only" is probably my favorite -- a lovely Carole Bouquet who plays a believable strong ally. Olga Kurylenko may be the most gorgeous, even with that mammoth scar on her back in "Quantum of Solace." Halle Berry, of course, remains a goddess, but I found her a bit annoying in "Die Another Day" and kept hoping she'd get an arrow through her back.

Among the villains, nobody was better than the great Geoffrey Holder as "Live and Let Die's" Baron Samedi. Grace Jones is certainly among the worst in "A View to a Kill." The best theme song is undoubtedly "The Man with the Golden Gun" sung by the great Lulu. (Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" is a close second.) Sheena Easton's awful "For Your Eyes Only" is a Bond embarassment, and the producer that sanctioned that shameful ballad should have his groin distended without anaesthesia.

I could go on, but suffice it to say that James Bond movies rock, even the crummy ones (excepting "Secret Service," which would have been 10 times better if it had merely consisted of two straight hours of Lazenby taking a bath in pudding).

One technical note is that Fleming's Bond would have never handed M the disrespect he regularly does in recent movies. The real M would have pierced Bond's testicles with a marrow spoon and left to dine at Blades. I'm not sure what my point is, but it's late and I have to end these reviews somewhere!