THE UNTALENTED MR. RIDLEY

The following is the beginning of Jim Ridley's film review of "Gone, Baby, Gone," a modern-day hard-boiled detective film directed by Casey Affleck's brother, Ben, who co-scripted with Aaron Stockard. Mr. Ridley is one of the many voices of Village Voice media and is a spoke in the wheel engulfing the cog that is Criticide.

“ 'Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid,” Raymond Chandler wrote in 1950’s The Simple Art of Murder, smacking the ascot off the drawing-room mystery and all its crime-solving dilettante dandies. 'He must be... a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.' ”

While I admire the ode-like nature of Ridley's cold-open, I'm frankly shocked at the confidence and bravado with which he spews out a mind-numbing inaccuracy. Raymond Chandler wrote "The Simple Art Of Murder," an essay, not in 1950, but in 1944, when it was first published in The Atlantic Monthly. The lesson here: Hire a fact-checker. Even Wikipedia got this one right. Ridley continues...

"Chandler was laying down the archetype of the hard-boiled detective, the hero with a thousand trench coats. He might as well have been summoning Patrick Kenzie, the dark-city crusader of Ben Affleck’s Gone Baby Gone, who hails from the broken glass of Boston’s hard-knock Dorchester district."

Weak on creative observation, strong on formulaic structure, the on-line review goes on... and on... and on. Of course, his review, like some of the best crime novels and film noirs, closes with a callback, creating the intended, if clunky, unwanted reach-around. But Ridley fails to deliver, missing the opportunity to write the review in the style of a crime novelist. Yes, it might've been annoying, but at least it would've produced some kind of emotional reaction from this reader.

"The ending resonates cruelly in this time of war, as our national susceptibility to clear-cut options of good and bad keeps us from frankly considering (or avoiding) likely choices of bad or worse. But that is the scorched earth the detective walks. “It is not a very fragrant world,” Raymond Chandler wrote, 'but it is the world you live in.' "

Open and shut. By the book. One-two-three. With "Film Criticism For Dummies" in one hand, and a reprinted 1950 copy of "The Simple Art Of Murder" in the other, Jim Ridley has read but learned nothing from either. Struggling to be wise, Ridley seems to have read far too much how-to-write literature, killing whatever creativity he may once have had. Which brings me to this quote by the master of crime fiction:

"Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say."

- Raymond Chandler

OBVIOUS LEE NOT AN AMATEUR

The profession known as "film critic" is on its last legs. The writing is on the wall. And because film critics spend most of their time deep-throating their own turds (no wonder they like German Cinema so much) and writing about movies, the majority of them don't have the time to read the writing on the wall. Some of them, however, make time.

Consider Nathan Lee of The L.A. Weekly. His intentionally dumbed-down review of "Balls Of Fury" is nothing more than a clever ploy to win over the common folk by attempting to pose as a complete amateur, and an idiotic one at that. Do not be fooled! Keenly sensing that the end is near, he is simply struggling to secure himself a place in the future, a time when, if all goes as we suspect it will, his two cents won't be worth a nickel in this town. Not unlike an S.S. Guard offering matzo to a Survivor during the last days of the Holocaust, Mr. Lee will be held accountable for his past crimes, regardless of his recent conversion to Regular Guy-status. His Judgment Day will come, only it won't be at Nuremberg, but in the court of public opinion.

Here is the truncated version of the accused's "Test My Balls Of Fury," published by the reliable L.A. Weekly. Funny as it may not seem, it is laughable.

"TEST MY BALLS OF FURY"

1. Balls of Fury is a movie about:

a. A former table-tennis prodigy (Dan Fogler as Randy Daytona) enlisted by the FBI to infiltrate the underground pingpong tournament of a legendary Chinese criminal (Christopher Walken).

b. Suppository jokes.

c. Little worth discussing and even less worth seeing.

d. All of the above.

2. In his first leading role for the big screen, Fogler, a Tony Award–winning actor (The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee), can best be described as:

a. A comedic genius.

b. Killing time until his agent gets a call from Judd Apatow.

c. A cross between Jack Black and Richard Simmons.

3. Because the FBI agent who approaches Randy is played by a Latino (George Lopez), he will be made to say:

a. “Maricón!”

b. “¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!”

c. “Nigga, pleez!”

d. “Say hello to my little friend!”

4. When Randy undergoes intensive pingpong training at the Happy Mu Shu Palace (“If Mu Shu fits, wear it!”), his guru, Wong (James Hong), offers the following inscrutable advice:

a. “Be as the cricket.”

b. “The cheeks cannot hold the smoke. That is what it is.”

c. “Pingpong is not the Macarena.”

d. “I miss you, Victor Wong.”

5. Are Chinese people funny?

a. Yes.

b. No.

c. Totally, like with those weird little sticks they use to eat and everything!

6. As Feng, the criminal mastermind/pingpong enthusiast, Walken can best be described as:

a. A comedic genius.

b. Killing time until his agent gets a call from Judd Apatow.

c. Ka-ching, bitches!

7. When Feng’s Amazonian henchwoman offers the services of sex slaves to Randy, it’s funny because:

a. They’re dudes!

b. They’re dudes who scream like little girls.

c. Oh, I get it: sarcasm. Lighten up, homo.

8. Maggie Q co-stars as:

a. A pair of breasts.

b. A pair of breasts that know kung fu.

c. Who’s Maggie Q?

9. Balls of Fury is best viewed:

a. At the multiplex.

b. On an airplane.

c. Loaded.

d. Never.

Dear We The People,

Professional film criticism is on the respirator. Now it's up to us to rise up, walk over to the outlet and show some mercy by pulling the plug. Once we put Nathan Lee and the rest of the Opinion Whore Corps. out of their misery, not to mention us out of ours, we will be free to enjoy the element of surprise and eliminate the corrosive element of corrupted pre-conditioning. We urge you to send hate letters and e-mails (written IN ALL CAPS) to every publication that appropriates funds for film reviewers. We cannot complete our mission without your help. As the President might say, if you're not part of the solution, you're not part of the solution.

Salty Milkduds

SKIP THE TAYLOR, SEE THE MOVIE

Okay, here's the deal. I just read Ella Taylor's "mixed review" of Michael Moore's "Sicko." When I got through the following bit of text, I decided to stop reading so I could start this blog in a vain attempt to rid the world of every last anointed, pseudo-intellectual, self-indulgent, disgruntled screenwriter who fancies him or herself worthy of a job that used to be more than simply a platform to air one's personal issues and/or show off their talent for puns and other wordplay. Sorry about the long-winded run-on. I just thought it would be ironic to go L.A. Weekly on you.

(Excerpt from Ella Taylor's Film Review of "Sicko") 6-27-07:

"Conversely, Moore has nothing but contempt for American HMOs, including those that get as close to socialized medicine as most Americans will allow. While it’s true, for example, that the Kaiser Foundation has had its share of recent scandals (patients dumped on Skid Row, treatments denied to the seriously ill), I’ve had consistently good care there, and a Kaiser surgeon did an outstanding job of uncrossing my 2-year-old daughter’s eyes, for which I was charged $2."

Now, I love the British as much as the next guy. In fact, I myself am a descendant of Ethelred The Unready (which makes me less French than any living Royal)... but Good God!!! Apparently, in her world, patients crawling around the streets of downtown in feces-stained Kaiser gowns and those in their final stages of life should be acknowledged, but only begrudgingly, and only between parentheses. I hate to sound as insensitive as Miss E.T., but maybe her 2-year-old daughter shouldn't have been reading her reviews in the first place. An ounce of prevention, as they say...

Anyway, now you know why I've been wanting to take her down ever since she closed her critique of "Adaptation" with a marriage proposal to Charlie Kaufman. We can only be grateful that he didn't take her up on the offer. Had he, I'm sure we would never have seen the likes of "Eternal Sunshine," because our greatest living screenwriter would either have offed himself shortly after the honeymoon (over feeling left out) or he would have succumbed to her adjective abuse. Uh-oh, guess I overstepped there. Speaking of overstepping, read this next excerpt.

(From Ella Taylor's Film Review of "Match Point") 12-15-05:

"(Woody) Allen turned 70 two weeks ago and seems to have made a happier life for himself in recent years, though God only knows at what cost to others. But it’s sad to contemplate that we’ll likely never see another Annie Hall, a Purple Rose of Cairo, a Manhattan or even a Radio Days in his lifetime."

Wow! What a way to close a review and simultaneously put one of America's greatest filmmakers in his place. What the hell? Why not just put the nail in the coffin and read him his last rites from THE GREAT BOOK OF PROPHECIES?!?! Jesus, I guess you really are only as good as your last film. If that's so, Billy Wilder's legacy is FUCKED!

Despite Miss Taylor's obvious issues with The Woodman himself, "Match Point," even though it cribbed much more than a little from "A Place In The Sun," was one of the better films of 2005, a year in which one of the most laughably awful films ever to have disgraced the silver screen received not only an Oscar for Best Screenplay, but for Best Picture - "Crash." Yes, I know, a lot of critics sipped the Kool-Aid and totally got swept up by its inexplicable popularity, but for Miss Taylor to dub this heavy-handed, spoon-feeding, cynical, two-dimensional-character-driven tripe as "One of the best Hollywood movies about race," is unforgivable and cannot be ignored. History will show that "Crash" is no "Do The Right Thing," no "To Kill A Mockingbird," no "In The Heat Of The Night." In fact, according to THE GREAT BOOK OF PROPHECIES, it will go down as the longest P.S.A. ever unleashed on the unsuspecting public. A very good one, but a P.S.A. nonetheless. Don't get me wrong. I believe anybody who doesn't know what racism is, as well as those who do but don't care (incarcerated skinheads, Jesse Helms' corpse, etc.), should be forced to watch this movie over and over and over again. I'm not totally against cruel and unusual punishment, I just vote like I am.

But, I digress. Ella Taylor is probably the best critic the free L.A. Weekly has to offer (the rest who are currently there aren't even worth mentioning). She can be slightly amusing sometimes, in a droll, cartoonishly English sort of way, but it almost feels as though she doesn't really exist at all - as if she were conjured up by several gay white men who maybe once wrote for "Sex In The City." Now, I'm assuming she probably spends a great deal of time Googling herself. That's what I've heard, anyhow. My hope is that maybe she'll come across this blog, learn something about herself, and make some adjustments in her review-writing that might serve the Weekly's readership.

Dear Ella Taylor:

Look-at-me writing is not what the public wants when reading a movie review, it's just what the public expects. Unfortunately, the quality of each year's best films has been sinking ever since you've been "in office," and people's expectations have followed suit. I suppose it's only natural for film critics to trudge down the hill with them, but I'd like to think it's a critic's job to set the bar high. You must be tougher on lousy movies. And, you must not bring your home to work with you. Personal issues should stay personal. Nobody wants to hear about your family except your family. Nobody wants to be your shrink except your shrink. In this age when Reality TV has taken hold and Time Magazine's "Person Of The Year" is everybody on the planet, it's more important than ever for the critics of this once great nation to lead us not into the abyss of mental-masturbatory movie reviewing, but to deliver us from mediocrity. Do your job, Ella. Or quit and start a blog nobody's going to read.

Respectfully,
Salty Milkduds