2004/08/11
Encore!
SH*T SANDWICH CINEMA
Blessed by our patron saint David Janssen
This issue:
KILLING ME SOFTLY (2002)
Heather Graham, Joseph Fiennes
Boogie Nights is one of my favorite films, and Heather Graham's appearance as Rollergirl elevated her to lofty heights in the Hollywood star machine. Note the word appearance, because performance would be inaccurate - you see, actors perform, while boobies merely appear.
And oh, how her boobies appeared. I got that same slack-jawed expression just two other times - seeing Phoebe Cates' nude scene in Fast Times At Ridgemont High, and more recently, Katie Holmes in The Gift. God help me if Lindsay Lohan ever takes off her top.
Yes, I know I'm a filthy, awful, terrible, dirty old man, and in my final years I'll be doomed to playing half-hearted games of grabass with the nurses in the care home. Nobody will visit me, I know this, and I'm totally fine with it.
Graham coasted on the film for a few years, and then a cosmically ironic taint set in. She was named Entertainment Weekly's It Girl, a fate as bad as being named Vanity Fair's It Boy - just ask Matthew McConaghey. He's doing community theatre in Outer Mongolia. He's getting paid in soup. For a time Graham dated Edward Burns, the It Director for 1997, now selling dogsleds in the Yukon. To top it all off, she was in an Austin Powers franchise, the absolute pinnacle of late-nineties celebrity success, but an opportunity that has since derailed the acting careers of each one of its starlets. At least Elizabeth Hurley has enduring beauty and make-up commercials, and Beyonce can still sing and shake her mocha hoochy...
But Heather has nothing to offer, except those voluptuous funbags, and sadly, they won't last forever.
Of course a career nosedive is never brought about by just one thing. There were some questionable movie picks too. Lost In Space (really, a 60s sci-fi retread? with Matt Leblanc?), and Say It Isn't So (really, a high-concept incest comedy? with Chris Klein?) only diminished Graham's once-bright star.
She had seemingly vanished, until I channel-surfed last weekend at two in the morning and found Killing Me Softly. I always forget that cast-off starlets don't disappear, they just go straight to cable.
The cast looked promising - the forgotten Graham, the underrated Joseph Fiennes, and the absolutely breathtaking, incredibly gorgeous Natasha McElhone. Click on the link and check out her picture. Seriously, don't read any further until you see it. Guys, you're welcome in advance. But I warn the ladies, Natasha is so beautiful, so scorchingly hot (in a classy, British way), you'll be, ahem, switching teams if you stare at her picture for too long. I'm just warning you. I've heard it can happen.
Back to the movie: Graham plays Alice, an American living and working in London. She's ensconsced in a stable relationship with a reliable, paunchy, balding bloke. Only in movies and TV can a poor loser score some wicked hot tail, right? I swear to God this doesn't happen in real life.
Alice works as a web designer. She seems distracted, both at work and at home. It's like she's yearning for something - could it be marriage and kids? Career advancement? Real and lasting inner peace?
Nah, it turns out she was wanting some sweaty monkey sex on the floor of Joseph Fiennes' living room. Conveniently, she meets him on a street corner, and with 24 hours, they're humping on the hardwood. This scene was the first of five featuring an appearance by Graham's naked breasts. It was almost too much, like when Rene Russo kept walking around topless in the last half of The Thomas Crown Affair. Rene, you're a pre-eminent cougar, clearly on top of your game, and your breasts are simply spectacular. But even pizza gets tiresome by the fourth straight day, you know?
Within a week, Alice dumps her mate and gets married to Fiennes' Adam Tallis, a dashing mountain climber with a troubled past. I noticed he was a bit hinky, when he explained to Alice that he climbs tall peaks without the benefit of oxygen. To illustrate what climbing without oxygen does to your brain, he pulled a goldfish out of its bowl. "This, this is what happens to you!" he says with dramatic flourish. Apparently, you flop around until your dumbass owner puts you back in the damn bowl. Sheesh, the brain cells I've lost just so he can get laid...
Adam's story is revealed to us through a journalist writing one of those "exposes" that seem only to exist in bad movies. The journalist learns that Adam recently led an ambitious expedition to climb Mount Everest, with a group including his ex-fiancee. But you see, he didn't really want to climb Everest, he actually wanted to kill his ex! And he did, by sabotaging her ice pick, causing her to fall 10,000 feet to her death!
I imagine her death must have derailed the group's ascent of Everest. Don't you find it frustrating when you spend $60,000 on something that will represent the greatest achievement of your life, only to have it crap out because it's really an elaborate ruse to settle a score between estranged lovers? I get so pissed off when that happens to me...
Alice, whose name is now Alice Tallis, though this is never acknowledged in the movie, slowly figures out that Adam is batsh*t crazy. All doubts are erased when he finally goes off the edge, tying Alice to the kitchen table, screaming "why don't you trust me!"
It's hard to say I'm sorry once you've hog-tied your spouse, then exposed your deep-seated delusions and paranoia. I think you'd always want to leave some wiggle room for reconciliation, but not Adam, he went for the shizzle.
The rest of the film played out predictably, so much that I was able to flick back and forth from the movie to an infomercial featuring Jenilee Harrison, who played Cindy on Three's Company. Yikes, she's looking coked up...
Anyway, Alice unties herself somehow, flashes her boobies a few more times (yay!), then shoots Adam in the head with a flare gun. The flare didn't kill him, nor did the twenty-story plummet to the concrete. No, what actually killed him was his broken heart. Ah, isn't that always the way?
The future does not bode well for anyone in this film. Fortunately for them, Killing Me Softly never achieved widespread theatrical release, so the actors just might be able to sweep it under the rug.
But I did discover the beauty that is Natasha McElhone. Yowsah! Did you look at her picture? You should.
|
SH*T SANDWICH CINEMA
Blessed by our patron saint David Janssen
This issue:
KILLING ME SOFTLY (2002)
Heather Graham, Joseph Fiennes
Boogie Nights is one of my favorite films, and Heather Graham's appearance as Rollergirl elevated her to lofty heights in the Hollywood star machine. Note the word appearance, because performance would be inaccurate - you see, actors perform, while boobies merely appear.
And oh, how her boobies appeared. I got that same slack-jawed expression just two other times - seeing Phoebe Cates' nude scene in Fast Times At Ridgemont High, and more recently, Katie Holmes in The Gift. God help me if Lindsay Lohan ever takes off her top.
Yes, I know I'm a filthy, awful, terrible, dirty old man, and in my final years I'll be doomed to playing half-hearted games of grabass with the nurses in the care home. Nobody will visit me, I know this, and I'm totally fine with it.
Graham coasted on the film for a few years, and then a cosmically ironic taint set in. She was named Entertainment Weekly's It Girl, a fate as bad as being named Vanity Fair's It Boy - just ask Matthew McConaghey. He's doing community theatre in Outer Mongolia. He's getting paid in soup. For a time Graham dated Edward Burns, the It Director for 1997, now selling dogsleds in the Yukon. To top it all off, she was in an Austin Powers franchise, the absolute pinnacle of late-nineties celebrity success, but an opportunity that has since derailed the acting careers of each one of its starlets. At least Elizabeth Hurley has enduring beauty and make-up commercials, and Beyonce can still sing and shake her mocha hoochy...
But Heather has nothing to offer, except those voluptuous funbags, and sadly, they won't last forever.
Of course a career nosedive is never brought about by just one thing. There were some questionable movie picks too. Lost In Space (really, a 60s sci-fi retread? with Matt Leblanc?), and Say It Isn't So (really, a high-concept incest comedy? with Chris Klein?) only diminished Graham's once-bright star.
She had seemingly vanished, until I channel-surfed last weekend at two in the morning and found Killing Me Softly. I always forget that cast-off starlets don't disappear, they just go straight to cable.
The cast looked promising - the forgotten Graham, the underrated Joseph Fiennes, and the absolutely breathtaking, incredibly gorgeous Natasha McElhone. Click on the link and check out her picture. Seriously, don't read any further until you see it. Guys, you're welcome in advance. But I warn the ladies, Natasha is so beautiful, so scorchingly hot (in a classy, British way), you'll be, ahem, switching teams if you stare at her picture for too long. I'm just warning you. I've heard it can happen.
Back to the movie: Graham plays Alice, an American living and working in London. She's ensconsced in a stable relationship with a reliable, paunchy, balding bloke. Only in movies and TV can a poor loser score some wicked hot tail, right? I swear to God this doesn't happen in real life.
Alice works as a web designer. She seems distracted, both at work and at home. It's like she's yearning for something - could it be marriage and kids? Career advancement? Real and lasting inner peace?
Nah, it turns out she was wanting some sweaty monkey sex on the floor of Joseph Fiennes' living room. Conveniently, she meets him on a street corner, and with 24 hours, they're humping on the hardwood. This scene was the first of five featuring an appearance by Graham's naked breasts. It was almost too much, like when Rene Russo kept walking around topless in the last half of The Thomas Crown Affair. Rene, you're a pre-eminent cougar, clearly on top of your game, and your breasts are simply spectacular. But even pizza gets tiresome by the fourth straight day, you know?
Within a week, Alice dumps her mate and gets married to Fiennes' Adam Tallis, a dashing mountain climber with a troubled past. I noticed he was a bit hinky, when he explained to Alice that he climbs tall peaks without the benefit of oxygen. To illustrate what climbing without oxygen does to your brain, he pulled a goldfish out of its bowl. "This, this is what happens to you!" he says with dramatic flourish. Apparently, you flop around until your dumbass owner puts you back in the damn bowl. Sheesh, the brain cells I've lost just so he can get laid...
Adam's story is revealed to us through a journalist writing one of those "exposes" that seem only to exist in bad movies. The journalist learns that Adam recently led an ambitious expedition to climb Mount Everest, with a group including his ex-fiancee. But you see, he didn't really want to climb Everest, he actually wanted to kill his ex! And he did, by sabotaging her ice pick, causing her to fall 10,000 feet to her death!
I imagine her death must have derailed the group's ascent of Everest. Don't you find it frustrating when you spend $60,000 on something that will represent the greatest achievement of your life, only to have it crap out because it's really an elaborate ruse to settle a score between estranged lovers? I get so pissed off when that happens to me...
Alice, whose name is now Alice Tallis, though this is never acknowledged in the movie, slowly figures out that Adam is batsh*t crazy. All doubts are erased when he finally goes off the edge, tying Alice to the kitchen table, screaming "why don't you trust me!"
It's hard to say I'm sorry once you've hog-tied your spouse, then exposed your deep-seated delusions and paranoia. I think you'd always want to leave some wiggle room for reconciliation, but not Adam, he went for the shizzle.
The rest of the film played out predictably, so much that I was able to flick back and forth from the movie to an infomercial featuring Jenilee Harrison, who played Cindy on Three's Company. Yikes, she's looking coked up...
Anyway, Alice unties herself somehow, flashes her boobies a few more times (yay!), then shoots Adam in the head with a flare gun. The flare didn't kill him, nor did the twenty-story plummet to the concrete. No, what actually killed him was his broken heart. Ah, isn't that always the way?
The future does not bode well for anyone in this film. Fortunately for them, Killing Me Softly never achieved widespread theatrical release, so the actors just might be able to sweep it under the rug.
But I did discover the beauty that is Natasha McElhone. Yowsah! Did you look at her picture? You should.
2004/08/09
It's back baby!
S**T SANDWICH CINEMA
Blessed by our patron saint David Janssen
This week:
UNDERCOVER ANGEL (1999)
Yasmine Bleeth, James Earl Jones
As a part-time movie critic and affecionado, with all the culture and sophistication it brings, I still appreciate it when a movie title literally describes what happens in the film. Some of my favorites would be Field of Dreams, Star Wars, and of course The Grapes of Wrath - I still weep when I see those bunches of grapes, consumed with wrath, beating the hell out of Henry Fonda.
As I watched Undercover Angel, I became more and more irritated by the lack of, you guessed it, an undercover angel. Shouldn't the viewer see this celestial covert operative from time to time, if only to be reminded of the movie's title? Sadly, he/she never appeared. Mind you, I was falling-down drunk by the end of this abomination, so maybe I missed it.
Undercover Angel was obviously shot in Canada, as evidenced by the locations and the supporting cast members, people we always see on reruns of Night Heat and The Beachcombers. Are there any working actors in Canada under the age of 50? I doubt it. And clearly, it appears this film was shot here for the tax write-offs, and not for any redeeming entertainment value. Of course, I define entertainment as seeing Yasmine Bleeth's titty-titty bang-bangs, and that doesn't happen in this film.
Viewers are able to enjoy the pre-cocaine-abusing, post-Baywatch Bleeth as the love interest for the male lead, some handsome, toothy, closeted guy who misrepresents himself as an actor. We'll call him The Poor Man's Tom Cruise (TPMTC).
TPMTC unwittingly babysits his precocious six-year-old daughter while his ex-girlfriend romps off to have sex with her latest paramour. Unwittingly, because his ex sort of negelected to mention the paternity details. See, they broke up just after she got pregnant, and then she just never told him about the baby. Because in real life, knocked-up bar flys never go after ex-boyfriends for child support payments, hell-bent for vengeance like the shrill harpies they are. It just never happens...
As bad movie convention dictates, the quickie babysitting job reveals TPMTC to be a fantastic parent, if fantastic is represented by a cutesy montage where he plys the kid with junk food and and never ever sends her to bed. But what do I know, perhaps failing to provide structure and discipline won't bite a parent in the ass. I mean, Eminem's mom stayed drunk and high in a trailer park with her son, and now he's got a good job and a nice house. I shouldn't be too quick to judge.
The little urchin rocks TPMTC's world, to the extent he revives his flagging career as a novelist(?), and embraces the idea of becoming a full-time parent. All he needs now is a good woman to provide a little cookin', a little cleanin' and a little lovin'.
With no good women available, TPMTC hooks up with Yasmine "It's All B-Movies Now" Bleeth, who brings a lot of heart to her role, and sadly, no full-frontal nudity.
Adhering to bad movie convention, Yasmine teaches TPMTC how to love again. His heart springs open, birds sing, the clouds part, the sweeping musical score fades in, and I switch to drinking the bourbon straight - no mix, no ice, just pure booze to make the pain go away. I can't watch a G-rated love scene without heavily dosing myself.
His loins, uh, girded, TPMTC goes to court seeking full custody of his daughter. His heinous ex has relocated to the hinterlands of Canada, so an international lawyer is required. For a retainer of ten beaver pelts, the lawyer sets off to navigate the murky waters of Canadian law.
The suspense nearly kills me - will he get his daughter back? Or will she, like so many Canadian children, be mauled to death by a pack of rabid bichon frises before the case ever reaches court? Dammit, if only we could protect our children from the savage bichons! If only.
The case does make it to court - the Canadian Supreme Court in Ottawa. When it's a custody case, Canadians don't piss around in lower courts, they take it straight to the shizzle! And the case goes to our greatest living Supreme Court judge, His Honor James Earl Jones! When exactly did James Earl start slumming in straight-to-video shite? And should we just assume that Louis Del Grande was busy?
For TPMTC, the custody hearing seems to be a grand slam. His fancy international lawyer earns his beaver pelts with a stinging cross examination of the ex. From the stand, TPMTC offers a compelling argument, nearly convincing me that an unemployed single guy with no parenting skills should have full custody of his formerly-unknown spawn, especially if he wuvs her wif all his heart.
The slam dunk comes when the urchin storms the courtroom and demands to be heard. She bribes James Earl Jones with sweet tarts and blinds him with her precocious disposition. Tossing aside every known courtroom precedent, he allows the urchin to speak her mind. She wuvs her daddy, wif all her heart. Her mommy works all the time, probably to pay the rent and put food on the table, but what kind of mom would put her job ahead of tickle time with her progeny? In her cutesy-talk, the urchin begs James Earl to let her ditch the bitch for the never-ending train 'o fun at Casa del TPMTC.
Judge Vader deliberates over a hot bowl of pea soup and a side of steaming poutine, then renders his decision - the urchin must stay with Mommy Nearest. Aha! And you thought James Earl Jones could be swayed by the innocence of a child? That's not the Canadian way, my friends. If there's two things we've done right, one would be building a legal system impervious to childish melodrama, and the other would be exporting Dan Akroyd to the United States. Oh, and we invented insulin, I think. I'll get back to you on that.
TPMTC shuffles back to the US, heartbroken. Luckily, he's still got Yasmine vonLoftyBoobies, and the wonder of a space age videophone gadget in his PC, allowing him to communicate face to face with his offspring, since the urchin has one too, making her the most technologically advanced kid in the whole frozen tundra. It must have cost many beaver pelts.
His personal life might be in the sh***er, but TPMTC's career couldn't be more golden. Sans that pesky plot continuity, we learn he has become the Greatest Living Children's Writer, so great that he appears on the nation's Number One talk show, Late Night With Casey Kasem! It must come on right after the nation's number one drama, Old Guys On The Stoop, starring Conrad Bain and Wilford Brimley, which proceeds the nation's number one sitcom, Life With A Hateful Shrew, starring Rosie O'Donnell!
The urchin sees her daddy on the TV, and weeps for all she has lost. Mommy Nearest shows her soft side with a backhand slap across the urchin's face. The urchin recoils in fear, and Mommy Nearest realizes she has no business being a parent.
The next day, Mommy Nearest loads the urchin onto the first dogsled heading south. Days or weeks (or years) later, the urchin arrives on TPMTC's doorstep. He takes her in with a big smile on his face, but I sense he was getting used to life as the Greatest Living Children's Writer. If you had pocketfuls of cash and a Baywatch starlet, would you want a kid messing that up? Nuh-uh...
But TPMTC has learned that with a great piece of ass comes great responsibility, so he puts on a sh*t-eating grin and does the right thing. The movie closes with a scene from his latest US book tour. The urchin has joined him for a book signing at Chapters, that famous American book conglomerate (wink-wink), and with Yasmine Boobyful at his side, it looks like they're going to make it after all. Until Yasmine starts snorting coke, of course. Then it's all downhill.
|
S**T SANDWICH CINEMA
Blessed by our patron saint David Janssen
This week:
UNDERCOVER ANGEL (1999)
Yasmine Bleeth, James Earl Jones
As a part-time movie critic and affecionado, with all the culture and sophistication it brings, I still appreciate it when a movie title literally describes what happens in the film. Some of my favorites would be Field of Dreams, Star Wars, and of course The Grapes of Wrath - I still weep when I see those bunches of grapes, consumed with wrath, beating the hell out of Henry Fonda.
As I watched Undercover Angel, I became more and more irritated by the lack of, you guessed it, an undercover angel. Shouldn't the viewer see this celestial covert operative from time to time, if only to be reminded of the movie's title? Sadly, he/she never appeared. Mind you, I was falling-down drunk by the end of this abomination, so maybe I missed it.
Undercover Angel was obviously shot in Canada, as evidenced by the locations and the supporting cast members, people we always see on reruns of Night Heat and The Beachcombers. Are there any working actors in Canada under the age of 50? I doubt it. And clearly, it appears this film was shot here for the tax write-offs, and not for any redeeming entertainment value. Of course, I define entertainment as seeing Yasmine Bleeth's titty-titty bang-bangs, and that doesn't happen in this film.
Viewers are able to enjoy the pre-cocaine-abusing, post-Baywatch Bleeth as the love interest for the male lead, some handsome, toothy, closeted guy who misrepresents himself as an actor. We'll call him The Poor Man's Tom Cruise (TPMTC).
TPMTC unwittingly babysits his precocious six-year-old daughter while his ex-girlfriend romps off to have sex with her latest paramour. Unwittingly, because his ex sort of negelected to mention the paternity details. See, they broke up just after she got pregnant, and then she just never told him about the baby. Because in real life, knocked-up bar flys never go after ex-boyfriends for child support payments, hell-bent for vengeance like the shrill harpies they are. It just never happens...
As bad movie convention dictates, the quickie babysitting job reveals TPMTC to be a fantastic parent, if fantastic is represented by a cutesy montage where he plys the kid with junk food and and never ever sends her to bed. But what do I know, perhaps failing to provide structure and discipline won't bite a parent in the ass. I mean, Eminem's mom stayed drunk and high in a trailer park with her son, and now he's got a good job and a nice house. I shouldn't be too quick to judge.
The little urchin rocks TPMTC's world, to the extent he revives his flagging career as a novelist(?), and embraces the idea of becoming a full-time parent. All he needs now is a good woman to provide a little cookin', a little cleanin' and a little lovin'.
With no good women available, TPMTC hooks up with Yasmine "It's All B-Movies Now" Bleeth, who brings a lot of heart to her role, and sadly, no full-frontal nudity.
Adhering to bad movie convention, Yasmine teaches TPMTC how to love again. His heart springs open, birds sing, the clouds part, the sweeping musical score fades in, and I switch to drinking the bourbon straight - no mix, no ice, just pure booze to make the pain go away. I can't watch a G-rated love scene without heavily dosing myself.
His loins, uh, girded, TPMTC goes to court seeking full custody of his daughter. His heinous ex has relocated to the hinterlands of Canada, so an international lawyer is required. For a retainer of ten beaver pelts, the lawyer sets off to navigate the murky waters of Canadian law.
The suspense nearly kills me - will he get his daughter back? Or will she, like so many Canadian children, be mauled to death by a pack of rabid bichon frises before the case ever reaches court? Dammit, if only we could protect our children from the savage bichons! If only.
The case does make it to court - the Canadian Supreme Court in Ottawa. When it's a custody case, Canadians don't piss around in lower courts, they take it straight to the shizzle! And the case goes to our greatest living Supreme Court judge, His Honor James Earl Jones! When exactly did James Earl start slumming in straight-to-video shite? And should we just assume that Louis Del Grande was busy?
For TPMTC, the custody hearing seems to be a grand slam. His fancy international lawyer earns his beaver pelts with a stinging cross examination of the ex. From the stand, TPMTC offers a compelling argument, nearly convincing me that an unemployed single guy with no parenting skills should have full custody of his formerly-unknown spawn, especially if he wuvs her wif all his heart.
The slam dunk comes when the urchin storms the courtroom and demands to be heard. She bribes James Earl Jones with sweet tarts and blinds him with her precocious disposition. Tossing aside every known courtroom precedent, he allows the urchin to speak her mind. She wuvs her daddy, wif all her heart. Her mommy works all the time, probably to pay the rent and put food on the table, but what kind of mom would put her job ahead of tickle time with her progeny? In her cutesy-talk, the urchin begs James Earl to let her ditch the bitch for the never-ending train 'o fun at Casa del TPMTC.
Judge Vader deliberates over a hot bowl of pea soup and a side of steaming poutine, then renders his decision - the urchin must stay with Mommy Nearest. Aha! And you thought James Earl Jones could be swayed by the innocence of a child? That's not the Canadian way, my friends. If there's two things we've done right, one would be building a legal system impervious to childish melodrama, and the other would be exporting Dan Akroyd to the United States. Oh, and we invented insulin, I think. I'll get back to you on that.
TPMTC shuffles back to the US, heartbroken. Luckily, he's still got Yasmine vonLoftyBoobies, and the wonder of a space age videophone gadget in his PC, allowing him to communicate face to face with his offspring, since the urchin has one too, making her the most technologically advanced kid in the whole frozen tundra. It must have cost many beaver pelts.
His personal life might be in the sh***er, but TPMTC's career couldn't be more golden. Sans that pesky plot continuity, we learn he has become the Greatest Living Children's Writer, so great that he appears on the nation's Number One talk show, Late Night With Casey Kasem! It must come on right after the nation's number one drama, Old Guys On The Stoop, starring Conrad Bain and Wilford Brimley, which proceeds the nation's number one sitcom, Life With A Hateful Shrew, starring Rosie O'Donnell!
The urchin sees her daddy on the TV, and weeps for all she has lost. Mommy Nearest shows her soft side with a backhand slap across the urchin's face. The urchin recoils in fear, and Mommy Nearest realizes she has no business being a parent.
The next day, Mommy Nearest loads the urchin onto the first dogsled heading south. Days or weeks (or years) later, the urchin arrives on TPMTC's doorstep. He takes her in with a big smile on his face, but I sense he was getting used to life as the Greatest Living Children's Writer. If you had pocketfuls of cash and a Baywatch starlet, would you want a kid messing that up? Nuh-uh...
But TPMTC has learned that with a great piece of ass comes great responsibility, so he puts on a sh*t-eating grin and does the right thing. The movie closes with a scene from his latest US book tour. The urchin has joined him for a book signing at Chapters, that famous American book conglomerate (wink-wink), and with Yasmine Boobyful at his side, it looks like they're going to make it after all. Until Yasmine starts snorting coke, of course. Then it's all downhill.
