Mist Opportunity

As it has already been documented on this blogosphere, Roger Ebert gets a pass (most of the time) from criticassassination on account of his ability to present good, fair and balanced reviews, packaged in interesting and well crafted prose. He’s not flawless—but then again, being a professional critic of any art form sort of dictates that. But, more than anything else, there is a sense of nobility that comes with Ebert, which is why, even when he’s wrong, you never get the impression that he’s been influenced by anything other than his own cinematic conscience.

While it’s bad enough that Richard Roeper has carved out a national profile for himself riding Ebert’s coattails on his nationally syndicated show, At the Movies with Ebert and Roeper, what's worse is in the wake of Ebert’s sick leave his chair has been filled week after week by guest-critics who are more concerned with tossing a studio’s salad than making a genuine contribution to the craft of film criticism.

The most recent culprit: Michael Phillips of the Chicago Tribune

The film in question: The Mist

Anybody who has seen The Shawshank Redemption knows what sort of wonderful filmmaking Frank Darabont is capable of, so his most recent movie, The Mist, can’t be seen as anything less than a disappointment (it can’t be a good thing when the movie poster is more entertaining than the movie). As always, Roger Ebert finds just the right way to put it all into perspective. Michael Phillips, on the other hand, finds just the right way to get it wrong.

Darabont himself admits that he didn’t try very hard on this film, even if he couches his admission in director jargon. Says Darabont:

“I always wanted to approach [The Mist] with a different hat on as a filmmaker and get out of my comfort zone of a more painstaking kind of filmmaking.”

Darabont is better than this and I can’t help but think that this lazy adaptation was a convenient way for him to cash a check.

What’s worse is when a film critic, like Michael Phillips, regards a throwaway film as better than it actually is. The funny thing is that, despite his 3 ½ out of 4 star rating, you would be hard-pressed to find anything particularly glowing in his review. Phillips is more interested in taking stabs at Saw and Hostel, then actually backing up his near-perfect rating. Says Phillips:

“Good and creepy, ‘The Mist’ comes from a Stephen King novella and is more the shape, size and quality of the recent ‘1408,’ likewise taken from a King story, than anything in the persistently fashionable charnel house inhabited by the ‘Saw’ and ‘Hostel’ franchises…. People get torn apart and beset by monsters in ‘The Mist’ but not enough, I’m guessing, for the ‘Saw’ folk, who prefer grinding realism to the supernatural.”

Ebert, who gave The Mist a generous but reasonable 2 out of 4 stars, spends much more time actually analyzing the movie, which is ironic since he apparently didn’t like it nearly as much as Phillips. Says Ebert:

“Combine (1) a mysterious threat that attacks a town, and (2) a group of townspeople who take refuge together, and you have a formula apparently able to generate any number of horror movies, from ‘Night of the Living Dead’ to ‘30 Days of Night.’ All you have to do is choose a new threat and a new place of refuge, and use typecasting and personality traits so we can tell the characters apart.”

Ebert hasn’t even gotten to The Mist yet and still you get the impression you’re in the hands of somebody who wants to give you (gentle reader) a genuine review of a below average movie.

Darabont, at this point in his career, has made a name for himself as the guy who adapts Stephen King stories, but good. Nothing wrong with that. His most recent King adaptation before The Mist was The Green Mile. One need only watch five minutes of either film and it is clear which is the superior effort.

Right?

While sitting in Ebert’s chair, Phillips says:

“Darabont’s adaptation [of The Mist] is so much better than The Green Mile, which to me I think is still going on.”

While less emphatic in his written review, the sentiment is still same, when he writes:

“…with ‘The Green Mile’ [Darabont] stretched the adaptation beyond the three-hour mark. For all I know, it hasn’t ended yet. (‘The Mist’ is a full hour shorter, for the record.)”

Because, in Phillips’ world, shorter movies equal better movies.

Notice how in plowing the same terrain, Ebert’s criticism simply comes off as more genuine and more in the spirit of what his job description calls for when he writes:

“If you have seen ads or trailers suggesting that horrible things pounce on people, and they make you think you want to see this movie, you will be correct. It is a competently made Horrible Things Pouncing on People Movie. If you think Frank Darabont has equaled the ‘Shawshank’ and ‘Green Mile’ track record, you will be sadly mistaken.”

Phillips was given a great opportunity when being given a seat across Richard Roeper, who makes anybody in his presence look brilliant by comparison. Unfortunately, Phillips got greedy and was too anxious to please the studios so that they will keep inviting him to their screenings and giving him extra butter on his popcorn.

What a shame.

Throwing Stones At Plastic Bubbles

I'm not big on movies. I mean, they're cool, I guess, and a few have gotten under my skin, but for the most part I prefer reading.

Comic books.

Archie, mostly.

Don't judge.

I also have an enormous fear of being shot in the back of the head in a darkened movie theater. Seriously, why hasn't that happened yet? Has there ever been a movie theater massacre? Because it's the perfect place to kill people. It's dark, it's loud, your victims never see it coming... unless your victim is me. I expect to be murdered every time I set foot on that sticky, smelly carpet. That's why I'm sure to make eye contact with every person in the theater before the movie starts. I want to see who looks shady or nervous or distracted so I can be sure to sit far away from them. If they have a backpack or a large coat, I'll actually start to perspire a little. If they get up to go for popcorn during the movie and leave their backpack behind, I start reciting Hail Mary's until they return, just in case there's a bomb in the bag. (I have to say, the Hail Mary's do work. I have yet to be shot or blown to bits in a movie theater. Someone did throw a toilet paper roll at my head once, but that was during a midnight showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." And it was actually the one time I wished someone would shoot me during a movie. But I digress.)

Today's review is of a review of a movie I've watched for years in the comfort (and non-violence) of my bedroom -"The Boy In The Plastic Bubble" starring John Travolta. If you haven't seen this masterpiece, you are missing out. Definitely one of the best made-for-TV movies of 1976. And the competition was fierce back then, let me tell you. (Helloo, ABC's "After School Special"). But who cares what I think? Let's see what Randy White of Common Sense Media thinks.

Whatever it's original goofy charm, the movie hasn't aged terribly well. One 13-year-old viewer ridiculed the show and Travolta's performance. She felt that the story and the acting were "too melodramatic" and the long, highly charged pauses overly sensational. She certainly didn't like the girl next door, who she claimed was "nasty, conceited, and too dumb to be a good catch." She also found the haircuts and clothes unattractive.

Randy White don't know shit.

And what's he doing asking a thirteen year old to do his job? Hi, LAZY.

So, now... what? I'm reviewing the review of a review of "The Boy In The Plastic Bubble?" Ugh, I'm over it already.

If you're still reading, here's what I'll say to that anonymous thirteen year old (who is probably Randy White hiding behind an "alias" because what thirteen year old uses the word "melodramatic?" Um... NONE):

Anonymous thirteen year old (AKA Randy White)... were you raised by wolves? You wish you were as cool as the bubble boy. He goes to school via video teleconferencing... in 1976! When's the last time you attended class over an 11" black and white Zenith TV? (Don't even try to say you have, bitch.) He also wears really tiny, tight shorts... and that is hot. He has long feathered hair. Need I say more? No, I needn't. But I must. Because I haven't even mentioned the coolest thing ever... he is allergic to AIR. That is so cutting edge it's, like, embarrassing. (Note to Randy: "like embarrassing" sounds way more tweener than "too melodramatic"... for future reference.) And lastly, thirteen-year-old (AKA Randy White)... girls who are "nasty, conceited and too dumb" are ALWAYS the best catches. Or don't you watch "The Hills?"

So, in closing, I would have to surmise that Randy White's review of a thirteen-year-old's review of "The Boy In The Plastic Bubble" leaves a lot to be desired. In his attempts to be cool (i.e. consulting a "teenager" for his research) the Randster is incredibly uncool. In fact, his commentary reeks of dorkdom. In FACT, in a word, Randy's review is just plain wrong.

I know what you're thinking. Why so harsh, Critty? People are entitled to their opinions.

Yes, they are.

But not if they differ from mine.

Being Franz Kafka

(Note to reader: In my consolidated sympathy with the clan of WGAers and their attempt to fight the good fight, I’ve decided not to write about an actual movie or any of its actual critics. Instead, I will be reviewing a movie that doesn’t exist.)

If there were a single filmmaker roaming the land of dreams capable of committing Franz Kafka’s surreal masterpiece, “The Metamorphosis,” to celluloid, then it would have happened a long time ago—which is why it should surprise nobody that a cinematic super group comprised of Ron Howard, Clint Eastwood, Steven Soderbergh and David Lynch were brought together under the watchful eyes of Brian Grazer and the brothers Weinstein in order to take on the daunting task.

As it’s been well documented in blogs and film forums all over the net, Miramax/Paramount/Warner Bros had one heck of a time getting a filmable screenplay on paper. Grazer had the out-of-the-box idea of bringing in a novelist to adapt Kafka’s short story, settling on Tom Robbins (author of a number of books loved by hippies and hated by most everyone else.) “He’s as close to Kafka as I’ve ever seen in print,” Grazer said, before later admitting to never having read any of Robbins' novels. But Robbins' insistence on adapting Kafka’s short story “from memory” and his refusal to travel outside of Seattle convinced Bob and Harvey Weinstein to excuse him from the project and go with the more obvious choice of Charlie Kaufman. While Kaufman made for a natural fit, negotiations stalled when he refused to sign on to the project unless he was allowed to collaborate with Tom Robbins’ non-existent twin brother, Rob Robbins. The Weinsteins eventually agreed and pre-production was under way.

There is much to be admired on the part of The Filmers of Cinema (as the filmmaking quintuplet was named by Grazer, after a secret tree house meeting with Ron Howard) in the casting of Gregor Samsa, the stories protagonist. Jim Carrey would have been the easy choice, especially after he lobbied for the role by dressing up as a cockroach on every late-night show that would have him. And despite Soderbergh’s insistence that George Clooney would be ideal for the role, because “he’s actually willing to morph into a cockroach to prove his ability as an actor,” it was Lynch who managed to get The Filmers of Cinema to agree on a less obvious choice: Dakota Fanning.

I couldn’t possibly write this review if I didn’t at least acknowledge the much publicized on-set fighting that went on between Ron Howard and Clint Eastwood. The most notorious fight came on the first day of shooting when Howard showed up to the set and Eastwood said, “Hey, who invited Happy Crap to the party?” To which Howard replied, “Yeah, well at least my boxing movie didn’t kill off the main character!” This was met with silence from everybody, except for an out-of-sight Brian Grazer who was heard high-fiving himself behind the crafts service table. The silence was broken when Eastwood retorted by calling Howard a nerd, causing the entire crew to erupt into laughter.

This is a film not to be missed! It’s an extravaganza of cinematic treats! If my eyes were any happier, I would have had to leave them alone with a bottle of lotion and tissue! The world of film has been rocked off its axis and it will take a Herculean effort of dubious proportions to set it back right! I can’t wait to see it!

Cast & Credits

Gregor Samsa: Dakota Fanning
Grete: Natalie Portman
Gregor's father/Gregor’s mother: Adam Sandler

Miramax/Paramount/Warner Bros presents a film directed by The Filmers of Cinema. Written by Charlie Kaufman & Rob Robbins and Tom Robbins. Based on the short story “The Metamorphosis” by Franz Kafka. Running time: 302 minutes. Rated R (for intense sequences of violence and some sexual material with insects).

NO JOB FOR OLD MEN (OR WOMEN)

I hate two-fers. Not only is lumping together two movie reviews into one an exercise in laziness, it's insulting to the film makers of both films being reviewed. No movie, not even a feature starring Dane Cook, deserves having to share the stage with another in a half-baked write-up. Like a cut-rate Universal Life Church minister, 79-year-old Andrew Sarris of The New York Observer has officiated the wedding of Sidney Lumet's "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" and The Coen Brothers' "No Country For Old Men" in his article, "Just Shoot Me! Nihilism Crashes Lumet and Coen Bros."

After giving "Before The Devil" an unenthusiastic hand tremor, not to be confused with the uncontrollable tremor of his other hand, Sarris turns to "No Country," ceremoniously giving it his "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" before high-horsing into the sunset to collect his Big Fat Greek Paycheck. Some wedding, huh?

The fact that Sarris disparages both films (and Cormac McCarthy's novel, "No Country For Old Men") because they are Nihilistic, and therefore some kind of ideological threat to the universe, is even more offensive than Nihilism itself. That level of closed-mindedness has no place in a film review, and is surely a signal of how he'll be voting next November. Talk about a threat to the universe!

I personally believe Mr. Sarris' near-octogenarianism might be the determining factor in the loss of his critical thinking skills and his inability to put forth a convincing argument built on a foundation of quicksand. This is something every professional critic should know how to do and do well, either to flesh out a thin critique or to give a studio-bought review the desired result (yea or nay). He used to be a crackerjack at it. Don't get me wrong, he's still sharp with the bon mots, but there's no meat and potatoes.

In the "No Country For Old Men" portion of his article, Mr. Sarris does acknowledge the great performances by Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, and Kelly MacDonald. Strangely, though, he describes the film's insane, murder-mad villain (the Bardem character) as "a subhuman killing machine with a touch of whimsy." Doesn't that sound like the job description of a movie critic?

The Javier Bardem character is not the only kindred spirit Mr. Sarris has found on what he cynically calls "this reportedly endangered planet." He is married to fellow critic and author of "From Reverence To Rape: The Treatment Of Women In The Movies," feminist Molly Haskell. As of late, MRS. SARRIS(!) has been de-balled, not unlike Janet Maslin, and has gone from being a film critic to being a book critic for The New York Times. It is unusual for me to review book reviews, as I think books are jive-ass, but since she is a "once was" and is married to a "still is," I'll make an exception.

Between authoring books such as "Love and Other Infectious Diseases: a Memoir" and "Holding My Own in No Man's Land: Women and Men and Film and Feminists", Miss Molly writes about one review every fifteen years - probably because she chooses only to write good reviews, and probably specifically for her female writer friends.

In one of her more recent reviews (written in the year 2000), "High-Wire Artist," she does a fine job of not reviewing Kate Buford's biography, "Burt Lancaster: An American Life." But for a single blurb-friendly line where she calls the 400-plus page monster a "splendid biography," Haskell instead reviews Burt Lancaster the man, choosing to treat the article more like a book report than a critique, more like an advertisement than an analysis.

Perhaps she has finally grown a conscience after years of abusing imaginationeers in her film reviews, subscribing now to the "If you have nothing nice to say" philosophy. Or perhaps, and more likely, she has become one of those voiceless, powerless women without opinions - the kind she obsessively writes about in her books - a victim of her husband's success and egomania. With no point of view to call her own, Haskell is a failure as a critic, but at least she's a human being.

Her spouse, on the other hand, has opinion-eggs crawling out of his bony ass. And even with his teeth in a glass by the bed, he's got more bite than she has ever had and probably ever will have. He is a God-fearing, God Complex-having Nihilist-hater who seems determined to piss on creative people for the rest of his days.

How can we stop him? Depends.

DON'T HONK IF YOU WANT SCREENPLAYS WRITTEN BY HENRY SHEEHAN!

Two weeks into the strike and still no sign of an act break. This one's shaping up to be an epic. The kind you don't want to watch. A Michael Bay epic. Black Hats Vs. White Hats, plenty of explosions, and unbelievable dialogue. Of course, there might be a plot twist. Just imagine Armageddon with an unhappy ending.

This may sound far-fetched, but I believe screenwriters may one day find themselves in the ironic position of reviewing their own films. Should the strike last as long as many fear it will, some TV and film writers may end up looking for work wherever they can find it. Whether it's writing for Paramount or cranking out movie reviews for "The Sacramento Bee," writing is what writers do best. In most cases, it's the only thing they can do.

And who will be left to take the screenwriting jobs? I'll give you a hint. We'll probably be seeing a lot more American films with English subtitles, sympathetic child-molesting protagonists, and inside jokes that only Gene Shalit gets.

UNREEL

HONK IF YOU LOVE WRITERS!

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. So racked with guilt about the previous day and how I ducked out on the picketers after only thirty minutes of support, I decided to return and give it another whirl. This time, I brought earplugs.

But when I got there, no one was striking. Probably not the first time any of these writers started the weekend off early, I thought. But, during a labor dispute? How bourgeois. Just as I was about to leave, I looked up to notice, across the street, a billboard staring down at me like some scowling Biblical dude from the top of a mountain. I had to do a double-take. It was an ad for The L.A. Times featuring a photo of their illustrious opinion-whore Kenneth Turan alongside one of his quotes - "It's Hard To Imagine A World Without Films." One last cynical thought before heading to the Mac Store - In the immortal words of John Lennon, "It's easy if you try."

Overcome with a sudden sense of melancholy, I made my way to a laptop at The Grove's Mac store, hoping to discover that a minor miracle had taken place. No such luck. The WGA Strike was, in fact, not over. I felt awful. I wanted to make amends with those young Comedy Central writers I had taken to task in my Thursday post. I wished I hadn't written it. I wanted to take back every nasty jab. Yes, I would love to live in a world without film critics, but not if it means living in a world without films. We need our writers, young and old. The annoying and the curmudgeonly. The good, the bad, and the smugly. This is not the time for infighting. Something bigger than all of us is going on here. All creatives MUST stand together stoically against the Greed Machines who are trying to keep every last one of us at bay.

Where was I? Oh, yes. So, anyway, drastic action was called for. Somebody had to cover for these lazy 3-day-weekending scribes. Like a bat outta hell, I ran home, got out a sharpie, some cardboard, and made my own sign - "HONK IF YOU LOVE WRITERS!" After fashioning a make-shift picket sign, I ran back to CBS and picketed for about 45 minutes... all alone. During this time, I did not get so much as one honk. Derisive laughter, yes. Pointing and headshaking, looks of pity, you bet! Maybe the occasional thumbs-up by a passing trucker, but not one toot. When the tape came loose and the sign fell apart, I was so forlorn that I just walked home with my head hung low. As I was approaching my apartment with that brokedown sign under my arm, some smartass neighbor of mine honked her support and had a good laugh before speeding off to her Friday night yoga class. After entering my humble abode, I plopped myself down at the 'puter to check my e-mail.

After opening my server, I noticed a news story had recently broken - "THOUSANDS RALLY AT 20TH CENTURY FOX."

NOTE TO ALL WGA MEMBERS IN GOOD STANDING:

PLEASE DISREGARD THURSDAY'S POST. YOU ARE ALL WELCOME TO JOIN CRITICIDE AS HONORARY CRITISSASSINS. HOWEVER, DUE TO THE EXPECTED HIGH VOLUME OF RESPONSES, WE WILL BE CAREFULLY SCRUTINIZING ANY AND ALL MATERIAL SUBMITTED. IF WE DO NOT ACCEPT YOUR MATERIAL IMMEDIATELY, DO NOT BE DISCOURAGED FROM TRYING AGAIN. A RESPECTFUL LETTER OF REJECTION IS NOT AN INDICTMENT OF THE QUALITY OF YOUR WORK. THERE MAY BE A VARIETY OF REASONS WHY YOUR POST IS NOT PUBLISHED THAT HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR SHORTCOMINGS AS A WRITER.

IF YOUR SUBMISSION IS CONSIDERED FOR PUBLISHING ON CRITICIDE.COM, YOU WILL BE ASKED TO SIGN A RELEASE FORM FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION. IN ADDITION, YOU WILL ALSO BE ASKED TO SIGN A BINDING AGREEMENT WHICH ABSOLVES YOU OF ANY LEGAL RIGHTS TO YOUR OWN WORK. SHOULD WE SUDDENLY ATTRACT SPONSORS DUE, IN PART OR ENTIRELY, TO YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS, YOUR ANONYMITY WILL BE PROTECTED UNDER FEDERAL LAW.

DON'T HONK IF YOU HATE WRITERS!

Today, I did the unthinkable. With the best of intentions, to show my solidarity with the thousands of unemployed scribes here in Hollywood, I infiltrated the WGA's Writer's Strike. But only for half an hour. That's all I could take.

There I was, at the front entrance gate of one of the major television studios, marching alongside a bunch of twenty-somethings who don't know dick about shit. Yes, there were a handful of gung-ho over-fifties who seemed invigorated by this ordeal, thrilled to be duking it out with Goliath. These righteous elderfolk with their heated passion and unsinkable vitality should have been an inspiration to their younger counterparts, the latte-drinking mopers in expensive ratty clothes. Did these cool whippersnappers take the opportunity to co-mingle with the older-but-wisers? Of course not. Just as most children who go to public school today tend to have no respect for their instructors, these dumbass know-it-all kiddies missed a great opportunity to learn from the "out of touch" Methuselahs, choosing instead to pitch their latest works of genius to each other. It was all too surreal. A couple Comedy Central writers refused to pitch any good ideas, but they spoke endlessly about, well... being Comedy Central writers. Shameless self-plugging, networking by the not-working. They were kind of funny, actually. You know, like Jerry Lewis is funny when he's serious. I mean, for me to know that these guys were Comedy Central writers within five minutes of picketing with them speaks volumes. You gotta hand it to 'em, though. They've got to keep it up for four hours a day. Mind you, verbal viagra hasn't even been invented yet.

Ah yes, then there were the brooding loners, in their own heads, silently pitching their own works of genius... to themselves. I even wanted to tell them to shut up. I kept moving to different parts of the picket line, hoping to escape the sounds of the mono-syllabic word-slingers and their kindergarten logic.

Finally, I met a very interesting lady. She was the lone African-American woman in the crowd. Side by side, with our picket signs held high, we walked and talked. She was by far the most down-to-earth person in the group - talkative, but not obnoxious. Charming and cute. Funny, but not phony. Wouldn't you know it, she turned out to be an actress, a SAG member just showing support for a worthy cause.

I am not rescinding my invitation to striking writers. Criticide needs Critissassins. The offer still stands, but now there's a qualifier: TO JOIN US, YOU MUST BE AT LEAST FORTY YEARS OF AGE. If you're younger than that, you know what an internet is. Congratulations. Now leave the writing to people with experience, wisdom, and genuine self-loathing.

HONK IF YOU HATE CRITICS!

To our creative brothers and sisters, WGA members in good standing -

Sloped shoulder to sloped shoulder, if only in spirit, we stand with you during these trying times. Yesterday marked the first day of the writers strike. There hasn't been a WGA-backed walkout since 1988. The world, what with the emergence of the internet and DVDs, has changed since then, but you know all about that. What you may not know is that a conspiracy theory has already surfaced regarding the actual reason behind this year's strike: Could it be possible that the corporations backing the studios and networks are intentionally forcing the current situation? Yes. How else can one explain their ludicrous proposal to "overhaul" the residual situation that's been in place for over twenty years? Did they really expect your union to roll over on that? No, of course not. They expected what they got - an angry reaction, an unwillingness to negotiate.

Mark my words, ultimately they will sit down and deal with you, but not until they are forced to deal with the actors at next year's scheduled SAG Strike. Or perhaps they'll hold out until Giuliani is elected President. I'm not implying that the corporations and media moguls who are beholden to the Bush administration are doing everything in their power to keep Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert off the air until then. I'm shouting it from the rooftops! As you know, the REAL news on TV comes to us from the satirists, each of whom will be rendered politically impotent in this particular medium, increasingly so as time goes by. How effective will Bill Maher's "OLD RULES" be next November? Think about it.

Anyway, I'm writing to you not entirely for altruistic reasons. I cannot speak for all of the resident Critissassins here at Criticide, but I will say this... you have my support and my sympathy. Four hours a day, networking with other writers when you should be in a plush Starbucks chair reading the paper and kvetching about the state of the world. It's probably even worse than it sounds. Now, while your resistance is low and you have a little extra time on your hands, I would like to appeal to your sense of justice, which may or may not be recently acquired. We are Criticide. We take down professional critics, some of whom might have slighted you in the past. Those of you who are not accepting scabwork and are sympathetic to our cause are cordially invited to join us as honorary Critissassins, helping us fight our fight - a fight, not unlike your fight, worth fighting.

CROSSING CROSSWALK

Crosswalk.com is an unholy mess. A Christian-based website dedicated to film criticism makes about as much sense as a Muslim-based website dedicated to Judaism. As a fence-sitting agnostic, I was both shocked and horrified to hear that such an internet hotspot actually existed. Thought it would be nothing but good reviews, following the "If you have nothing nice to say..." credo, but man was I mistaken. The facts are even more disturbing than I'd imagined. Recently, contributing writer to Crosswalk, Christa Banister, cast more than just a few stones at the new baseball flick "The Final Season" :

"Although they’re both set in Iowa and they’re both about baseball, let’s get something straight right off the bat (no pun intended): The Final Season just can’t compete with Field of Dreams. Sadly, with a screenplay that is more mediocre and a sappy musical score, you might think you were watching a subpar, made-for-television movie."

She ends her article with the final word on "The Final Season?" Nothing you wouldn't find in the final chapter of the Book Of Revelations:

"Ultimately, it’s these jarring twists and turns in the storyline, not to mention the lackluster acting and poor editing, that cause The Final Season to strike out from the first pitch. In what’s already a formulaic genre, it would have been better to offer more than a line like “How do you want to be remembered?” during a crucial moment. Instead, perhaps taking a cue from its Iowa-set predecessor would have helped. When Kevin Costner’s character finally plays catch with his father in Field of Dreams, one can’t help but tear up. But if you’re doing so during The Final Season, it’s only because you’re hoping it will end sometime soon."

If all this Hell, Fire, and Brimstone (not the law firm) weren't enough, this review was paid for (thanks to the religious ads), which is only one of several of MY Ten Commandments that were broken by Miss Banister. What's more, I'm pretty sure that someone speaking on the Lord's behalf, especially when it comes to film, is blasphemous.

Dear Believer,

Jesus, Christa, what's with the crucifying? Where's the love? Do the words, "Judge not, lest ye shall be judged" mean anything to you? While this brand of Christianity, wrought with hypocrisy and mean-spiritedness, defines the religion itself for some people, it is sinful to real Christians the world over. I suggest you put down the poisoned pen, pick up a hammer and go build some houses for the poor with the other J.C. (Jimmy Carter). You cannot simultaneously be a true Christian AND a critic, unless you share the same morally ambiguous values of the hate-mongering, limousine-escorted soldier of the Christian Righteous, Pat Robertson.

Salty Milkduds