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Josh Hartnett owes me $14
Friday, September 3rd, 2004 10:47 pmNo, fuck the $14. He owes me two hours of my life. Two hours I'll never get back.
Wicker Park
Christ on a crutch. What is it with this guy? Is it lack of talent or just really bad choices? Because if this is the shit he's getting offered...damn. And I thought I felt sorry for him after Hollywood Homicide. At least in that nightmare he got to do funny, even though he failed miserably. Here he just ends up pacing through this thing like an insomniac stuck in a gaudy nightclub who, try as he might, simply cannot find the exit.
There I was, sitting in the theater getting antsier by the minute, unable (or unwilling) to believe from the reigning silence that I was really so dense I couldn't get this mishmash. Then salvation came - when the female lead tearfully and defiantly declared, "I'm not going to apologize for what I've done!" (Quick, get this woman an Oscar!), half the audience burst into hysterical laughter, and I felt much relieved, thanking the gods I'm not the only one reeling from the B-movie cheesiness of it all.
And that fucking script! A story so wanky it could only be French*, with a navel-diving directorial attitude to match. From the get-go, this thing confuses with its look-at-me-be-artsy credit sequence, overuse of silly effects that just made me think of really bored film students, and more holes than a Peckinpah stunt man. Convoluted? Nuh-uh. Contrived is the word, with every single plot twist seemingly chosen to be as ridiculous as possible. And you know what, guys? You really can fiddle with the soundtrack songs, because s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g your joyful/tearful denouement out to the absolute end of the audience's patience just so you can have your star-crossed lovers embrace at JUST THE RIGHT LINE - uh, no.
The only fun I got this evening was walking out of the theater and exchanging laughing snark with audience members - seems nobody had a good word for this turkey. Now and then I regret the moviehouse courtesy that keeps people mostly quiet in theaters. At the very least, this opus would have made for a great evening of impromptu MST3K.
Gotta go find some ice and aspirin - my head is all desky now.
* No, I do not hate the French. I just think they can be incredibly wanky sometimes. Don't believe me? Try reading Baudrillard.
Wicker Park
Christ on a crutch. What is it with this guy? Is it lack of talent or just really bad choices? Because if this is the shit he's getting offered...damn. And I thought I felt sorry for him after Hollywood Homicide. At least in that nightmare he got to do funny, even though he failed miserably. Here he just ends up pacing through this thing like an insomniac stuck in a gaudy nightclub who, try as he might, simply cannot find the exit.
There I was, sitting in the theater getting antsier by the minute, unable (or unwilling) to believe from the reigning silence that I was really so dense I couldn't get this mishmash. Then salvation came - when the female lead tearfully and defiantly declared, "I'm not going to apologize for what I've done!" (Quick, get this woman an Oscar!), half the audience burst into hysterical laughter, and I felt much relieved, thanking the gods I'm not the only one reeling from the B-movie cheesiness of it all.
And that fucking script! A story so wanky it could only be French*, with a navel-diving directorial attitude to match. From the get-go, this thing confuses with its look-at-me-be-artsy credit sequence, overuse of silly effects that just made me think of really bored film students, and more holes than a Peckinpah stunt man. Convoluted? Nuh-uh. Contrived is the word, with every single plot twist seemingly chosen to be as ridiculous as possible. And you know what, guys? You really can fiddle with the soundtrack songs, because s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g your joyful/tearful denouement out to the absolute end of the audience's patience just so you can have your star-crossed lovers embrace at JUST THE RIGHT LINE - uh, no.
The only fun I got this evening was walking out of the theater and exchanging laughing snark with audience members - seems nobody had a good word for this turkey. Now and then I regret the moviehouse courtesy that keeps people mostly quiet in theaters. At the very least, this opus would have made for a great evening of impromptu MST3K.
Gotta go find some ice and aspirin - my head is all desky now.
* No, I do not hate the French. I just think they can be incredibly wanky sometimes. Don't believe me? Try reading Baudrillard.
