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

POPPING THE CHERRY PICKERS

Cherry picking is an effective method of persuasion used by critics to prove a point. Now it's our turn.

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

-- Theodore Roosevelt


"I write to please myself and hope that it will please you, too."

-- Peter Rainer, film critic for The Christian Science Monitor

AN OPEN TOP SECRET LETTER TO LARRY MANTLE

Larry Mantle is a radio talk show host at Pasadena City College's KPCC 89.3. FM. He hosts two shows, "Airtalk" and "FilmWeek."

Dear Larry,

We here at Criticide would like to extend to you an invitation to join us in our fight against some of the most egomaniacal, wickedly corrupt individuals working within the entertainment industry today. No, I'm not referring to messenger service couriers, stage moms, or even promotional street teams. I'm referring to film critics.

Below, I have outlined a three-stage plan that, if implemented, will not only make the world a safer place from misguided deconstructionists, but will undoubtedly make your show more accessible, more lively, and more unpredictable.

Stage 1: Introduce a Joe Schmo critic into your mix. Your regular guests will find it amusing at first. They certainly won't feel threatened. This is a good thing, as they won't suspect an end game. With their guards lowered, they will accommodate Joe Schmo, make him feel like an equal, allowing him to come off as cute and endearing. Just an ordinary guy with ordinary thoughts. A migrant farmworker. Has an accent. Charming. Keep him on as a regular for about six or seven weeks. Watch as the smiles on the professional critics begin to weaken, if only slightly.

Stage 2: Dump a regular. In her place, a housewife. Has three kids. Likes Brad Pitt. A lot. She can only do this just this one time, but here she is. The smiles of the remaining regulars may be further weakened at this juncture, but what can they do? Alienate foreigners and mothers? Of course not. It's same old, same old. "Werner Herzog is a genius," "It's hard to believe Ben and Casey Affleck share the same genes, ha ha ha," etc.

Stage 3: One Friday later, announce your new "FilmWeek" format. Your regulars will no longer be regulars. From this point forward, you will now be joined by laypeople who will vary from week to week... veterinarians, schoolteachers, mattress salesmen, you name it. Unfortunately, it will be necessary to remove our good friend, the migrant worker. By this time, either his ego will have gotten to him or certain parties with vested interests will have.

Salty Milkduds

MYBUTTER HAS TOUCHED ANOTHER READER

IMDB user Mybutterhastouchedanotherfood (from Canada) is a breath of fresh air. His (or her) critique of the new Jodie Foster movie, "The Brave One," is nothing short of spectacular. This summer's emotional rollercoaster of a tour de force. It's a little bit F.X. Feeney, only this scribe doesn't write like someone who got his lunch stolen from him daily at community college. Each word like a perfectly pitched note. Every phrase lyrical. The entire piece plays like an opus performed by a virtuoso with the wisdom of the oldest living child prodigy. The first time I read it, it blew my mind. The second time I read it, it blew my heart. I'm actually afraid to read it a third time.

Think I'm the only one who was blown away by this write-up? Think again. The stats right out of the gate were crazy phenomenal (18 out of 29 people found his/her comments useful). It was clear to me, as it was to those 18 others, that Mybutterhastouchedanotherfood would prove to someday be not only a presence felt by Hollywood's major players, but also a household name.

The title of the review is "Great Acting, Bad Message." Succinct, to the point, and it does not break my fifth commandment ("Thou shalt not try to be funny"). What I like most about this title is that it "pretty much" is the review.

"Great acting, bad message Jodie Foster was amazing in this. She pretty much made the film. I'm pretty sure she'll get an Oscar nomination for this. The film was also very well made."

Whatever typographical or grammatical errors made by the writer can certainly be corrected with the help of some sort of computer software or a smart relative. This is a minor problem that I mention only to warn this and other upstart critics. To some people, poor grammar is the indicator of an uneducated person who grew up in squalor, but for most people it is the telltale sign of a writer who doesn't care much about his or her subject.

"As it stands as a film, ignoring what seems to be its ultimate message, definitely worthy of 12.50$ tickets (or whatever they cost in your city). However, the movie seems to justify the "take the law into my own hands" attitude. It almost promoted murder... taking away people's right to trial and what not. I know no one wants to hear this and no one really cares, most just want to see a movie that entertains them… BUT, I saw this film at the Toronto International Film Festival, and before the film Neil Jordan said: "I don't want this movie to answer any questions, only to ask more". Unfortunately the movie in no way reciprocates this message. It pretty much just says murdering criminals is OK. I am almost disappointed in Neil Jordan for making a film like this, that similar to 24 will only make unacceptable behavior more acceptable in the eyes of the general public. I only wish that the film would provoke people to discuss it further when they walk out of the theater."

Seems pretty non-threatening, doesn't it? Nothing overtly subversive here. I mean, taking a pot-shot at "24?" Big whoop-whoop, right? Well, for some reason somebody somewhere did not want this out there. What we do know is that this review by Mybutterhastouchedotherfood, sometime over this past weekend was pulled from IMDB without warning. Whether Warner Bros., a rogue band of professional critics, or Kiefer was behind it is something we don't know. In fact, we may never know.

It is my belief that just as people are fleeing from Network TV and flocking towards VOD and Youtube, so too shall they turn their backs on this nation's leading critics in favor of the common man's opinion. Mybutter represents the common man (even if he's a woman). There are more like him in the world than there are like Gene Shalit. I am convinced that International Movie Database poses a real threat to the elite when they spread the word of the Mybutters across the world. In order to level their competition, however, they must refuse to turn a blind eye to the obvious studio-backed reviews and must instead back the genuine articles (and their genuine articles), now matter how controversial, from any form of persecution, including its removal.

SALTY'S TEN COMMANDMENTS OF FILM CRITICISM

1. See the movie before you review it.

Most film critics are much too busy getting hysterectomies or de-balling surgeries to be bothered by anything as time-consuming as sitting through an entire movie. If they can't watch it on a DVD provided to them in a diamond-encrusted jewel case by the studio, they'll either get their cues from IMDB user reviewers or base their opinions on the trailer. I urge you to take the high road. Don't follow the group. It's possible to be both ethical and a film critic. Don't let them suck you in and convince you otherwise. Remember, you're supposed to like going to the movies. That's why you got into this in the first place. If you're really too busy, buy a pirated DVD version... and tell the doctor to go easy on the anesthesia.

2. No using French words.

Movies with subtitles are bad enough. Movie reviews that need subtitles are intolerable.

3. Don't try to be funny.

If you want to make people laugh, recommend a movie with Ben Stiller in it.

4. Keep it brief.

Ideally, a film review should be no longer than a couple, three words. Beyond "See it" or "Don't see it," there's not much else that needs to be expressed. If you believe your review should include a qualifier, such as "But don't bring the kids" or "Unless you're trying to cheer up your recently widowed grandmother or get laid," that's fine. But, be careful not to break the third commandment.

5. Make sure the title of your review contains no puns or other wordplay.

Puns used to be the lowest form of humor. Now, it's Dane Cook. As for Other Wordplay, it's just not appropriate. If it's a great movie you're reviewing, don't trivialize it. If it's a bad movie, remember - it's still somebody's baby. I'm not saying don't kill the baby. Just put yourself in the film maker's shoes and show a little respect for someone who's about to go through the grieving process.

6. Attempts to be quotable are strictly forbidden.

Hoping to be picked up by the Blurb people is one thing, but writing a review around your bon mots specifically to further your agenda of one day attaining immortality does not serve the public. Besides, your intentions will be obvious to anyone with a trained eye. Winding up on the poster of a Jason Biggs movie is just not worth the risk of coming across as a fame seeker.

7. Any mention of any aspect of your personal life is unacceptable.

Nobody cares about your private life. If you want the world to hear your life story, do something interesting with your life and write a book. Then, get it made into a movie. It's that simple.

8. Judge foreign films by the same standards as you would American films.

For some reason, critics tend to treat foreign films the way Angelina Jolie treats her adopted children. Talking trash about your own and excessively coddling somebody else's is not a sign of good parenting. And it's not a sign of good movie reviewing. What's more, it's insulting to the great foreign film makers. Since this trend in film critiquing has taken hold and virtually become law, have you noticed how much worse our own movies have gotten? Could there possibly be a connection? Could it be that our critics are inadvertently encouraging our directors to learn from and copy the works of overpraised filmmakers from overseas? Count on it!

9. No spoilers.

If you can't tell a story without telling the whole story, you're not a journalist. Take note, if you write "it has a surprise twist ending that you'll never see coming," you've managed to undermine the intention of the film maker - to surprise the audience. Unless you're writing an April Fool's Day review and there is no actual surprise, don't spill the beans.

10. Do not accept cash for your opinions.

An opinion that's paid for is always questionable. Who's to say that you aren't friends with a producer with a new movie that needs hyping? Who's to say you aren't banging an actress who needs a little career push? Who's to say you're not the relative of a lousy screenwriter who's promised to give you a piece of the action?

Warning: If you've already taken studio or production company bribes, we probably already know who you are. We will be posting a list of names on our site in the coming months. If you are on this list and would like to have your name removed from it before we post it, please contact us immediately. We'll work something out.

Super Duper

Ah, Superbad, one more in the time honored tradition of teenage sex comedies. I myself love them for their simplicity: a few raunchy jokes, a comfortably predictable story and some hot 20-something starlets doing God's work.

And while it's possible for a teenage sex romp to transcend its genre, becoming something more special than it has any right to be (much like professional wrestling), that's not why I watch them. Unfortunately for readers of The Hollywood Reporter, the same can't be said for Stephen Farber, a critic who is incapable of reviewing a movie on its own terms. Writes Farber:

Like "American Graffiti" and "Dazed and Confused," the film all takes place during a single day and night. But it doesn't have the smarts or the depths of those ensemble comedies. Instead it centers on the simple notion of underage kids itching to get booze and have sex.

If Farber's looking for an argument about the quality of the latter mentioned movies, he won't get one from me...mainly, because I've only seen one of them. But to then condemn Superbad as simply being about underage kids wanting booze and sex? He may as well condemn this Criticider for going to the nudie bar simply to watch Asian businessmen make it rain. If it's the genre itself that Farber isn't keen on, then his narrow minded review might've made sense. But that's clearly not the case here. Writes Farber:

And it's missing the belly laughs of earlier raunchfests "American Pie" and "There's Something About Mary." The film never achieves a hilariously outrageous epiphany like the hair gel scene in "Mary" -- a scene that can turn a teen comedy into a legend.

Again refusing to judge Superbad against itself, Farber has also taken on the role of revisionist historian. First of all, there are no teenagers featured in There’s Something About Mary, which, if I'm not mistaken, disqualifies it from being a teenage sex comedy. And second, American Pie had about as many belly laughs as Babel (and that film didn't need to have a kid fucking a pie in order to make me not laugh).

Before his review is done, Farber brings in yet another movie that he enjoyed more than Superbad. Only this time, he unwittingly sheds some light on his unspoken agenda. Writes Farber:

The friendship of Seth and Evan has homoerotic undertones, and there's a funny scene where they declare their undying love for each other. But because this is an American movie, don't expect the frankness of Alfonso Cuaron's "Y Tu Mama Tambien," which took the close friendship of two horny teenage pals to its logical conclusion.

Not only did Farber succeed in revealing the ending to a movie that I hadn't planned on watching until about two sentences ago, but he also made it clear that it's the, as of yet, untapped market of homosexual teenage sex comedies that's got his curlies in a twist (my apologies to But I'm a Cheerleader, a movie I enjoyed exceedingly more than Farber's review). Of course, if I had taken a pole in the chute before watching Superbad, I suppose my objectivity might also have been skewed.

Resurrecting the Crap

Robert Wilonsky is at it again. He's among the agent provacateurs making the L.A. Weekly look foolish from the inside. Here's what he had to say about the latest film to come out on a Friday that nobody will remember by Monday.

Resurrecting the Champ is a great movie about journalism — maybe the best there ever was — because Resurrecting the Champ is mind-erasingly boring. It’s a solid story about the newspaper business — specifically, about how a well-intentioned writer occasionally makes a mistake totally by accident, a mistake that is pretty much victimless and easily fixable with a retraction. And on that front, it’s a knockout — if only because watching it will render you unconscious for nearly two hours.

Actually, this first paragraph is the reason why Hollywood never makes movies about movie critics. If journalism is mind-erasingly boring, what are we to make of movie reviews?

Josh Hartnett plays Erik, a Denver Times sports reporter whose dead pop was a boxing announcer back in the 1950s (which, given the present-day setting, seems way too early for someone Hartnett’s age). Erik’s been relegated to the boxing beat, where he churns out workmanlike prose his editor (Alan Alda) damns as instantly forgettable. Lack of talent doesn’t stop Erik from wanting to be his dead daddy — beloved, important.

Then one night after a fight, Erik spies an old man (Samuel L. Jackson) in an alleyway being savagely beaten by frat fucks wanting to level “Champ, No. 3 in the World!” That’s how the man — a former heavyweight contender, now a homeless punching bag swaddled in tatters — describes himself. So Erik does what all journalists do when they stumble across a good story: He interviews the Champ, reads about the Champ, watches some old film of the Champ, and writes a story about the Champ — a story that makes Erik an instant star. Soon he’s wooed by Teri Hatcher’s Showtime exec, who wants his pretty face on TV and in her bed.

Only, Erik didn’t do quite enough research. He relied on an editorial assistant who claimed there wasn’t much to go on — a thin folder full of ancient newspaper clips and a single two-minute black-and-white videotape. He didn’t conduct extra interviews and took the word of a single source who’s been homeless for God knows how long and will likely say anything in exchange for the promise of restored fame, newfound riches or, at the very least, an occasional warm meal in front of a tape recorder. So Erik discovers too late that his Champ has made him a chump. Happens all the time — the single-source story that comes back to bite the writer on the ass.

If you're still reading right now, it's a minor miracle. How did you make it through the topor that is this Wilonsky's writing. He is perhaps the only writer in recent memory to mention Teri Hatcher in an article that no male is interesting in reading.

That’s what Resurrecting the Champ (which draws loose inspiration from J.R. Moehringer’s 1997 Los Angeles Times Magazine article of the same title) gets right: the dull grind of reporting and researching and writing, and the dull thud caused by a mistake made during that wearying process. Ace in the Hole this ain’t; Sweet Smell of Success neither.

Gee, in your hands, Robert Wilonsky, I could see why reporting would be a dull grind. I'm getting the impression the male stripping profession would be a dull grind if Wilonsky was a practioner of it. By the way, give Wilonsky a cookie for name-dropping "Ace in the Hole" and "Sweet Smell of Success" - he still has a New Beverly Cinema calendar from 1994 on his fridge to refer to. Great double feature!

But director Rod Lurie, a former Los Angeles magazine movie critic, can always find the overwrought in the mundane; his filmography (The Last Castle, The Contender, Deterrence) is stocked with bombastic movies in which a timpani’s deafening rumble accompanies every sideways glance. He and the screenwriters — Allison Burnett (responsible for the saccharine Autumn in New York) and Michael Bortman (virtually unheard from since 1996’s Morgan Freeman–Keanu Reeves pairing in Chain Reaction) — portray Erik as some guilt-ridden evildoer who’s perpetrated a great fraud. They demand a kind of teeth-gnashing and hand-wringing suffering of which Erik isn’t worthy (and Hartnett isn’t capable). Erik’s wife (Kathryn Morris), from whom he’s separated for nothing as interesting as an indiscretion (they can’t communicate, yawn), tells him he’s brought shame upon himself and the paper. Not hardly. The dude goofed. Big friggin’ whoop.

Hmmmm, Lurie, a former movie critic-turned-movie-maker. Any wonder why this critique is so friggin' negative and bitter? Sorry, Wilonsky, nobody wants to buy your romantic comedy-set-in-the-Civil-War screenplay with the singing barnyard animals, buddy! Too high concept!

Billy Ray tried to turn Glass’ fabrications at The New Republic into a thriller, and he wound up with Shattered Glass, a sardonic parody of All the President’s Men. Because Lurie doesn’t have the benefit of such exciting raw material, he peddles that brand of male-bonding cinema in which a kid lets down his adoring elders even as he struggles to live up to the memory of the dead dad he never knew. In the 1980s and ’90s, this particular cinematic subgenre had its own label: The Tom Cruise Movie. And, really, is there no better actor suited for the Top Gun Mach II or Pour Another Cocktail phase of his career than Josh Hartnett, who looks, at least, as deep as a drained kiddie pool.
RESURRECTING THE CHAMP | Directed by ROD LURIE | Written by MICHAEL BORTMAN and ALLISON BURNETT | Produced by MIKE MEDAVOY, BOB YARI, MARC FRYDMAN and LURIE | Released by Yari Film Group Releasing | Citywide

"Top Gun Mach II." Funny. That's clever. "Pour Another Cocktail." Wilonsky, you're on a roll! Do your buddies who hang out with you in your mom's basement (where you live) nickname you "Comedy Central" Wilonsky? Don't stop now with the goofball movie titles. Hey, MAD magazine! Still hiring?!

Actually, "Shattered Glass" was NOT a sardonic parody of "All the President's Men," it was a very good and decidely NOT dull movie about journalism that stood tall on its own merits. And Wilonsky is in desperate need of a girlfriend (if he swings that way) or some success in his writing career to cheer him up, even if he's shooting fish in a barrel with a review of a film that is an insult to people who rather enjoy the Great White Hope movie genre. Or is this the "Magical Negro" film? Who knows which wretched cliche this movie embraces -- Wilonsky is too busy railing against movies about journalism!

This is KARRY LING reporting for CRITICIDE!

Dear Robert Wilonsky,

It can't be overstated. Find yourself a girlfriend or some success in your writing career...THEN write your reviews! And next time, when reviewing a film, talk about things that pertain to the movie itself. Say hello to Ella Taylor over at the Weekly, your partner-in-crime in obviating all credibility left at this shell of a newspaper.

Signed,

Karry Ling

Crystal Ballbreaker

In what may be the most concise bit of foreshadowing in the long history of storytelling, Kirk Douglas speaks the following opening line in Billy Wilder's Ace In The Hole...

CHARLIE TATUM
(to tow truck driver)
Wait here.

If you know what happens next, I don't need to spell out the punchline. But for those of you who never managed to track down this previously hard-to-find treasure, I'll spare you the gory details (scroll to the bottom of the linked page) and leave you to discover for yourself that you will never be nearly so clever if you live three times longer than Mr. Wilder's ninety-six years. This long-lost nitrate nugget stands as one of his greatest achievements, right up there with stepping aside and allowing hubris (and Warren Beatty) to give Pauline Kael the inevitable dressing down she so richly deserved.

The fact is, Billy Wilder will be remembered long after every copy of Pauline Kael's short-sighted review of Ace In The Hole has been recycled as paper plates, and here's why: The broad's considerable flare for writing notwithstanding, her fatal weakness as a critic was a comprehensive lack of vision and a stubborn resistance to the notion that anyone other than her goes to movies.

Her tongue was as sharp as Dorothy Parker's, yet somehow girthier and mad butch. I'll be honest, it's impossible to put down one of her voluminous indulgences until you've blasted through at least half of it in a single sitting. If only her mama had hipped her to the fact that the cinema doesn't exist just for her, or her generation, or right now or next Thursday afternoon. It exists for all time and for all the humanity contained therein, and the greatest of film artists intuitively understand this. Most film critics, on the other hand, can see no farther than next Memorial Day. Herr Kael was no exception.

Billy Wilder produced and directed this box-office failure right after SUNSET BLVD. and just before STALAG 17. Some people have tried to claim some sort of satirical brilliance for it, but it's really just nasty, in a sociologically pushy way.

Let's face it, menopause can be rough. Still, Billy Wilder was hardly responsible for the cobwebs on her ovaries, so who's being nasty here? Sociologically pushy? This from a woman who gave a glowing review to Altman's Nashville months before it was even finished? She'd accused Wilder on more than one occasion of being overly cynical and mean-spirited, but one need look no further than his art collection to know what rubbish that characterization is (full disclosure: I've never seen his art collection). Wilder - who himself began as a newspaperman - only happened to foresee what the future ultimately held for American journalism, that's all. Crack a dictionary, dead lady, that's not cynicism. It's soothsaying.

And anyway, if Billy Wilder is so cynical, why is his work universally embraced by each succeeding generation of filmgoers and shamelessly cribbed by anyone that's ever picked up a camera? Of course, Pauline Baby's confrontational, self-absorbed, nose-thumbingly snotty (but in no way cynical) work has itself brow-beaten its way into the lexicon of contemporary culture, but the timelessness of America's Top Model has yet to be determined.

I got my just-released DVD of Ace In The Hole in the mail a couple days ago and watching it again just as the Crandall Canyon Coal Mine Circus came into town, frankly, made my taint hairs stand on end (as did the predictably beautiful new Criterion Collection print, except in a sexier way). Remember what I said about Mr. Wilder's prescience? Well, let's just say that the rescuers in the film also used the drill-from-the-top approach now being employed by the coal mine rescuers, with what will unquestionably be identical results.

Increased circulation.

Dear Criterion Collection,

Nothing against Eddie Brandt's Saturday Matinee, but their two brittle VHS copies of The Big Carnival (Ace In The Hole's alter ego) have just about had it, so I was more than thrilled that you finally came to the rescue. And while watching your lovingly restored DVD of the film in the comfort of my own living room isn't quite so charming as watching it with a spring up my ass at the New Beverly Cinema, I will nonetheless display it proudly until next year when my entire collection is rendered obsolete by Blu-Ray.

Yours in 1.33,
Popcorn Peter

Eat My Stardust!

Hello and welcome to the Criticide debut of your man, the undisputed champion of the people, Kid Licorice (K-Lic if it pleases you…but, under the advice of my lawyer, Kid Lic will henceforth be dismissed from the Kid Licorice lexicon). For my opening act here at Criticide, I’ve decided to reflect on the most recent in a long line of fantasy novel adaptations: Stardust. And when I want to know anything about the mythology of fairytales, the wonder of fallen stars or the particulars of skull crackin' racism, I go to the source: Boston. While I’ve never been to Boston myself, thanks to the magic of cinema, I know as much as I’ll ever need to know about it*.

The Boston Globe is where I’ve set my sights and the pen of Wesley Morris is where I shall begin (yes, the same Wesley Morris who played Guy #1 and Rasta Dude in two episodes of Dawson's Creek). Getting started at the beginning, here is the opening stanza of Mr. Morris’ Stardust “review”:

“Any movie that has Claire Danes playing a fallen star sounds too painful for words. The irony! ‘Terminator 3,’ ‘Stage Beauty,’ ‘The Family Stone,’ ‘Evening’: Neither her luminousness nor her intelligence has been put to particularly thrilling use. They haven’t, really, since she blazed through Baz Luhrmann’s ‘Romeo + Juliet.’ For her sake, I'm embarrassed to remember how long ago that was. At this point even she seems over herself. The expression she wears in ‘Stardust,’ a romantic science-fiction fantasy with her as the aforementioned fallen star, breaks your heart. It seems stuck between a grimace and a cringe: It’s the face of a maiden caught taking out the garbage.”

An entire paragraph dedicated to cutting down Claire Danes at the knees? Even if your criticism of Miss Danes’ career is valid, Mr. Morris (and, please, don’t look for ol’ Kid Licorice to validate your poisonous prose), you still broke the bounds of context by only begrudgingly mentioning the film for which your article promised to review; and even then, you take the opportunity to give Miss Danes one last shove, insuring her place under the bus. But it doesn't stop with her:

“This movie also happens to have parts for Michelle Pfeiffer, Robert De Niro, Peter O’Toole, Sienna Miller, Ricky Gervais, and others. So ‘Stardust’ is not just a nadir for Danes. It stinks for almost everybody. But Danes is the one person who seems to show it.”

Now, Wesley, I’m not ashamed to admit, I had to look up the word “nadir,” so kudos to you and your superior thesaurus. According to Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary, nadir means either:

1 : the point of the celestial sphere that is directly opposite the zenith and vertically downward from the observer

or

2 : the lowest point

Because I didn’t have time to look up the word “zenith,” I’m going to assume your use of nadir refers to the second option, in which case, you, Wesley Morris, have just declared “the lowest point” in the careers of, among others, Robert De Niro and Peter O’Toole.

Wow.

The depth of your nerve, sir, is surrpassed only by the size of your balls.

Oh, but wait...I'm not being fair. You do take a moment to praise the work of
Mr. De Niro:

“The movie goes right exactly once: When De Niro shows up as a closet-case pirate for a series of daylight sequences aboard his floating ship. If ever there was an occasion for him to fax in a note saying the dog ate my performance, this would be it. But surrounded by the exuberant bunch of actors playing his crew, De Niro makes a macho-hammy-swishy mess of himself.”

Backhanded though it may be, it appears you’ve chosen to err on the side of respect by giving Mr. De Niro his just due.  If only you had stopped there:

“He’s terrible, but he’s having, well, a gay old time.”

Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.

*Thanks again, Good Will Hunting!

THE ONION STINKS!

Everyone knows about the phony newspaper called The Onion. I've always been a fan of their outrageously silly headlines and their political satire... at least until the "real" newspapers took their cue and then schooled them on the business of funny. Yes, ever since 911, this publication has stood by and allowed the mainstream media, not to mention the President himself, get all the laughs. When The Onion stopped being effectively satirical, it suddenly found itself on the wrong end of an irony. The laughter ended. Moisture began to form and trickle down the cheeks of The Lincoln Memorial, The Statue Of Liberty, and two of the faces on Mount Rushmore. Thanks a lot, The Onion.

Now, the latter part of the newspaper is a non-satirical entertainment section called The A.V. Club that features not only interviews, but reviews of various newly-released media, most notably - FILM REVIEWS!!! Serious film reviews by super-serious film reviewers. Boy did they drop the comedy ball there. Read this cold open from contributing Onion peel Nathan Rabin. It's from his review of the much anticipated and prematurely acclaimed "Once."

"John Carney's sadly beautiful Once is a musical for people who only think they hate musicals, and not just because it boasts virtues seldom associated with the genre, such as realism, intimacy, and low-key verisimilitude."

Holy Thesaurus-busters! And does he really think that the "I hate musicals, but this one is different" line is going to wash with Irish indie-folk? This guy either wants to get laid or get discovered by the editor of another free paper. Who wants to get laid by a Frames groupie or by someone who buys their clothes at Whole Foods? Why doesn't he just scour the personal columns in the serious section of his own paper if he so desperately needs to get his rocks off? Jesus.

Note to Nathan: You're a pseudo-intellectual film critic. Under no circumstances, anywhere, anytime, will you ever be considered cool to any of these idiots. So, stop trying to please them. Let them smoke under the bleachers. You stay on the other side of the playground where you belong, playing Tetherball by yourself like the rest of us.

For some equally annoying cinema stoogery, let us turn to The Onion's Tasha Robinson and her opening. Minds out of the gutter, I was referring to the beginning of her Ratatouille review.

"Toward the end of Ratatouille, Pixar's latest animated romp, writer-director Brad Bird mounts such a cogent, feeling, pained deconstruction of professional criticism that viewers might almost suspect he's had problems with persnickety critics in the past."

Okay, so they're not all super-serious over there at The Wacky Gazette. I mean, attributing the flawlessness of what might be the greatest animated masterpiece of the last year and a half to the ramblings of a grotesquely narcissistic group of lowlifes who have built their careers on a foundation of subjectivity? Now, that's funny!

Take note, The Onion. I will now engage the comedy rule of threes. To complete the hat-trick, I will go into raffle-mode, put my hand in the bowl of poopies, and pull out the name... drum roll, please... (drum roll)... Scott Tobias.

Dear The Onion's Editor In Chief,

I realize your inclusion of serious material is specifically designed to make what's supposed to be funny in your paper seem funnier, but it's a diversionary tactic that is as transparent as it is ineffective. My advice is to dump the A.V. Club section entirely and have your critics write zany comedy articles. Rest assured. It can't get any less funny.

Salty Milkduds

As A Matter Of Fact, I Am Talking To You.

Back in the fall of '05, Salty, his old lady and yours truly trekked on down to the multiplex to get ourselves a helping of Cronenberg's latest, A History Of Violence. “Well, old beans,” our self-satisfied grins seemed to say to each other in fake British accents, “Old Crony's done it again.” We took turns slapping each other on the back for knowing, even before the film started, that he wouldn't let us down. Later, as the film revealed itself to us in no uncertain terms, we sat transfixed by the genius flashing before our eyes. Over the next hour and a half, when we weren't marveling at the audacity of this cinematic masterwork, we were consumed with the thought that Viggo Mortenson now knows what Maria Bello's chuckwagon smells like*.

End titles. As we are dabbing the beads of sweat from our considerable foreheads, basking in the radiation of that post-film twilight we know so well, another theater patron yells out from a few rows back, “That was bullshit!” Did he just...? Why that...! But what could we do but laugh? After all, he was much bigger than any of us. So laugh we did: up the aisles, into the lobby, out into the parking lot and beyond.

That the poor fellow was a meathead, there is no question. But, really, is he meatier of head than any of the rest of the hacks we here at Criticide have taken it upon ourselves to digitally tar and feather? Despite the stockpiles of nerve and grit with which he endowed his pronouncement, there was yet a note of humility, self-knowledge, honor even. Here was a simple man (in cartoonishly baggy clothing) simply stating his opinion. “Look,” he may as well have said, “I'm no Gene Siskel, but I know what I like.”

True dat. He is no Gene Siskel. But who is anymore? Not even Gene Siskel, that's who.

And neither are you, dear reader, so don't look so smug. Don't think we (me, your family, your friends, and those people you desperately need to overhear you in public restrooms and Starbucks) haven't noticed you loudly parroting sound bites from Entertainment Tonight and passing them off as your own spontaneous thoughts. In fact, we'd all love it if when asked what you thought of a movie, you'd unleash a tsunami of brevity upon your response, as did our be-backward-baseball-capped pal from paragraph two. Speak plainly. What's with the My Hairdresser Works On Brian Grazer's Wife Which Somehow Makes Me A Hollywood Insider Whose Opinion You Should Care About bit? You don't have to put on airs on my account. Don't think for a moment that, just because I am a Highly Regarded Expert/Reputed Film Snob, you ever have to feel the need to justify your retarded taste in movies to the likes of me.

If I ask your opinion, I'm probably just making conversation. Actually, I'm definitely just making conversation. I am certainly not asking because I need someone to make my mind up for me. I have Deepak Chopra for that. If I really needed someone to deconstruct the new Kevin Smith film for me - this includes you, Kevin Smith - you are probably not the person I'd go to anyway (cue Jessica Simpson). No matter what you say, I will still buy a ticket to the film in question, assuming I am so inclined. And that it tested well.

Your earnest decree that a film is “uneven” means nothing to me, primarily because the phrase itself means nothing. I'm pretty sure that not even you know what you mean when you say it. Don't bother telling me that it was poorly directed, either, when both you and I know full well that you only have a vague idea what directors do in the first place. I mean, aside from congratulating themselves on commentary tracks. And I swear to God that every time you start rattling off continuity errors I wanna put my head through a glass tabletop, William Holden style. I mean, really, who the fuck cares if the heroine's enchanted wool socks were brown in the turkish bath and blue in the bell tower? That's the wrong kind of paying attention! Oh, and nothing screams out "I'm A Twat" like alluding to buzz and box office numbers to support your argument. Twat.

Sorry for turning on you, chum, but something had to be said. If you don't like a movie, ditch the song and dance and just say so. As the lug from the movie theater knows, there's nothing wrong with having an opinion; just don't try to disguise it as something loftier. At its best, criticism is much more than just tarted-up opinion. It should challenge and inspire both filmmaker and spectator, and serve only to advance the art. The only film criticism worth enduring transcends self-important posturing and evaluates the failures and successes of a film within the context of the filmmaker's intent, and is not just a play-by-play of how you would have done it were it your movie to make. Which it wasn't. Dismissive and snarky does not equal credible and well-considered. It equals bullshit.

*Lilacs?

"Interview" With a Vampire....from the L.A. Times!

If you want to read somebody suck the life out of the "art" of cinema criticism, read no further than the L.A. TIMES, where house lackey CARINA CHOCANO (sounds like an exotic coffee flavor to me) singles out some great acting in what is evidently an incompetent movie. That film is INTERVIEW, a remake of a Dutch film by a controversial filmmaker crafted by director-star Steve Buscemi. Here's what Chocano had to say about this latest flick by our generation's closest thing to a Peter Lorre-meets-Don Knotts. See for yourself why, after slogging through her review, you'll want to go Dutch the next time you purchase the Friday edition of the Times.

'Interview'
Premise of the Dutch film's remake seems less believable here, but the acting is compelling and believable.

By Carina Chocano, Times Staff Writer

The late Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh (great-grandson of Vincent's brother Theo), was murdered by Islamic extremists in 2004 before he could realize his idea of remaking three of his films in a New York setting with American actors. A trio of American actor-directors teamed up with producers Gijs van de Westelaken and Bruce Weiss to realize the triptych of remakes now called "Triple Theo."

Chocano fails to point out the painfully obvious here...that the remakes, instead of "Triple Theo," should've been called "Threo." Get it? "Theo" meets "Trio"? How could she let such a bad pun roll right past her? Bad puns are the bread and butter, the meat and potatoes, the "pad buns," if you will, of every critic's movie review. For a movie critic to not utilize a bad pun is like a state senator not blowing taxpayer money on prostitutes....it's just not heard of!

"Interview," directed by Steve Buscemi and starring Buscemi and Sienna Miller, is the first of the three to be completed. Like "Blind Date," which is slated to be directed by Stanley Tucci and "O6," a phone sex comedy to be remade by John Turturro, "Interview" centers on an intense, one-on-one conversation between a man and a woman. In this case, it's a veteran war and political correspondent and a young television and B-movie star named Katya (Miller).

[snip]

For a film that unfolds mostly in a single location, "Interview" manages not to feel like a stage piece. But the premise, which may have worked in Holland, gets a little lost in the American translation.

How does she know it "may have worked in Holland?" Was she there when the original INTERVIEW came out in Amsterdam? Is she implying that one needs to be stoned on reefer to understand this remake? If the latter, what is she saying about Steve Buscemi, one of the best American actors working, star of everything from MYSTERY TRAIN to IN THE SOUP to CON AIR to BIG LEBOWSKI? Is she implying that perhaps Mr. Buscemi was stoned out of his mind while lensing this version? Just what are you driving at, Chi Chi Rodriguez?

It's not that you absolutely can't see these two engaging in a high-stakes, cat-and-mouse I'll-tell-you-my-biggest-secret-if-you tell-me-yours showdown (though it's very hard) — it's just that you really can't imagine her publicist allowing it.

More Hollywood babble. You left out her stylist, baby!

Still, if you can get past the total absence of handlers from the big star's life, there's enough peril and potential for betrayal involved in the situation to keep you interested.

Hmmm....I CAN get past the total absence of handlers from the big star's life. Guess I'm not a jaded Hollywood fuckhead like some reviewers I know....with the initials "C.C.".....working for a paper with the initials LAT....in Los Angeles....California. Catch my drift?

And Miller is quite good at playing the actress people underestimate at their own peril. Wonder why?

Is there really any worse way to end a critique than with a rhetorical question?

-- Karry Ling, reporting for CRITICIDE

ME ELLA, ME STOOP-ED.

Ella Taylor’s assessment of Talk to Me really misses the point not of not so much of the film but of the ability to watch a film and comprehend it. The Kasi Lemmons bio-pic of legendary groundbreaking disc jockey, Petey Greene Jr. starring Don Cheadle was quite adroitly executed and entertaining. The film apparently soared over Taylor’s head like a cruise missile.The straightforward plot left her befuddled, illustrated by the use of phrases like, “…jive talking shtick…” which she blamed actor Taraji P. Henson of doing; who skillfully portrayed Cheadle’s girlfriend. Here’s another good one. She idiotically points out that the film is a: “… a vision in Afro and superflashy threads.” She also knocks veteran actor Martin Sheen by saying that his was: “… a performance he may prefer to forget.” Howzabout Taylor forget she’s supposed to be a critic and stop going to movies, especially since she has so much difficulty in understanding them in the first place?

Finally, she sums up the film with this gem of wisdom: “… -I felt as though someone had trapped me in a time-warped episode of The Jeffersons.”

A nice connection there, and a nice racial epithet. Me Ella, me stoop-ed.

Sorry for your loss,

Wax Captain

INSIDE MANOHLA

When I first heard the name Manohla Dargis, I figured it had to be an anagram. All I knew was that the words "dingo," "lasagna," "nimrod," "gonads," "aloha," and even the word "anagram" were in there somewhere, but I didn't have the time nor the wherewithal to figure it out. I told my woman about my theory, so she took a crack at it, determined to uncover the mystery. Playing by the rules (using every letter without repeating any), she amused but didn't impress me with "Ham Groin Salad," "Amoral shading" and a few others. But then, she floored me with a doozy... "A Longish Drama." I thought it ironic that Manohla Dargis' enigmatic pen name, after some unscrambling, revealed something that resembled one of her thin, vague, non-committal, but pithy film reviews.

Formerly a critic for the Village Voice (way back in '87), the L.A. Times, and the dreaded L.A. Weakly, avant-gardeist Manohla has been taking the hatchet to various great movies and heavy petting some of the worst dogs this anti-critic has ever seen -- and, all the while, covering herself in those same reviews in case she changes her mind about those films in the future. Still concerned about her legacy, now she's she's spewing obligatory venom AND antidote on behalf of the prestigious New York Times. Unfortunately, the New York Times is no New Yorker, and Miss Dargis is certainly no Pauline Kael. Let's take a look at her calculated attempt to find common ground with the common folk in a review of the latest "Die Hard" flick, a review which exposes her as a Rubik's cube who makes a living keeping her readers puzzled and unable to decipher whether or not she actually liked the movie.

"A lot has happened in the 12 years since Bruce Willis yippee-kai-yay-ed in "Die Hard With a Vengeance" with a glowering Samuel L. Jackson in tow. During that time Mr. Willis's star has expanded and collapsed through hits and duds and plenty of personal off-screen noise. The world has changed too, of course, and with it the action-flick coordinates: for one, Arnold Schwarzenegger runs California, while the sober, nonwisecracking likes of Matt Damon's Bourne rules the bad-boy roost. For another: Mr. Willis has become an increasingly appealing character actor, the kind who punches up a scene or two ("Alpha Dog," "Fast Food Nation") or an entire movie ("16 Blocks"), mostly by playing it not so nice and very easy."

Let's be honest. Going snidely sideways on The Running Man is a transparent maneuver (now exceptionally safe) to forge a "you see, we have a lot in common, commoners"-bond with the general public. Why doesn't she just leave politicking to the people who should be politicking... Hollywood celebrities?!? But, this is what really gets my goat - In her review of the dull, idiotic "16 Blocks," she steps way out of line when she compares some of its characters to the characters that inhabit the films of the great Sidney Lumet. Which ones, Manhole? Sol Nazerman from "The Pawnbroker?" Sonny from "Dog Day Afternoon?" Howard Beale? Just pulling the name Sidney Lumet right out of her ass. I'm certain Mr. Lumet would object not only to that, but for being in there in the first place.

"Life or age or something has mellowed Mr. Willis. He no longer enters a movie like God's gift, as he did almost two decades ago in the first "Die Hard," lips pursed as if he alone were in on the joke — which, given the fat salary he was earning, perhaps he was. In "Live Free or Die Hard" he enters swinging, fist smashing through hard glass and sinking into soft flesh. He's making a point and so is the movie, namely that McClane (and Mr. Willis) is ready to earn our love again by performing the same lovably violent, meathead tricks as before. And look, he's not laughing, not exactly, even if the film ends up a goof."

Meathead? Goof? Are these acceptable words to be bandied about by a "L'Avventura-ficcianado?" I think not, panderer. What would Antonioni think?

"An unexpectedly funny goof, at that, despite everything, including the mayhem and somewhat creepy plot. The screenplay attributed to Mark Bomback, who shares the story credit with David Marconi, has the whiff of multiple writers, as action-driven productions generally do. It originated with a 1997 story (dubiously titled "A Farewell to Arms") by John Carlin in Wired magazine about the potential for a cataclysmic, nation-crippling "information war," which mutated and stalled, picking up new writers and equally doubtful names ("WW3.com," "Die Hard 4.0"). Somewhere along the development line, the real world intruded, which is why the original idea about an information war now includes a plausible-sounding or at least not entirely outlandish hook to Sept. 11 — hence, the creepiness."

"The whiff of multiple writers," is an odor I and most Americans can deal with. The whiff of self-aggrandizing gobbledy gook, on the other hand, has me on my knees clutching a plug-in Glade, coughing as I make my way to the outlet, considering the alternative tongue-insertion. As for her thinly veiled but unsinkable condescension, a constant in her writing, shit lathered with perfume is still shit that stinks.

"Despite its jaw-jutting title, with its evocation of revolutionary America and radical individualism, "Live Free or Die Hard" keeps a tighter rein on McClane, dialing down his man-against-the-world attitude to a low hum. He's still more or less alone, at least existentially, though, as per the action playbook, he quickly picks up a sidekick and audience surrogate in the hacker impersonated by Justin Long (flicking between annoyance and amusement)."

Why drop the existentialism-bomb? Could her weakness for the avant-garde extend even to Bruce Willis box office blockbusters? C'est it ain't so.

"But McClane is also unequivocally playing for team America, helping the F.B.I. and its no-nonsense, supremely capable deputy director, Bowman (Cliff Curtis), who runs the sillily named cyber division with blinking monitors and scurrying minions. Heroic in deed and in acquaintance, Bowman knows to side with McClane, saving his contemptuous looks for the guy from Homeland Security. Nothing on Len Wiseman's résumé — he previously directed the two "Underworld" flicks, wherein the Goth kids really are vampires — suggests that he could wrangle both Mr. Willis and this new film's nerve-jangling action to such satisfying effect. At least on the second count he has received terrific help from a sprawling cast of stuntmen and -women (and the stunt coordinator Brad Martin), who do a great deal to advance the film's old-school mayhem. The use of Parkour during several fight scenes is particularly tasty, proving that when cinematic push comes to shove, the French, who originated this ultra-cool rough-and-tumble, which finds performers bouncing like balls from wall to wall, rooftop to rooftop and many hair-raising points in between, are definitely in the coalition of the willing."

Of course, now it all makes sense. The use of Parkour. How else could she justify enjoying this film on any level to her friends at Cannes? Senseless Asian Martial Arts she has a problem with. French dance-violence, on the other hand... ooh lah lah.

Dear Manohla Dargis,

Back in 2002, Steve Erickson interviewed you. Fascinating reading, especially this part:

"Frankly, I am pretty bored with most of the film criticism I read, to the point that I am beginning to think we need to start re-examining what it is and what it's good for, if anything. Of course, most of what's out there isn't really criticism but a degraded form of reviewing – just thumbs up, thumbs down, with a heavy dose of plot synopsis."

Okay, well, seeing as how you probably only read your own reviews, it's no wonder you got bored and questioned the validity of your profession. Who wouldn't have? All joking aside, I think it was an astute observation, and very telling. Couldn't help but chuckle at your nasty swipes at Roger Ebert and the dead Gene Siskel. But I must add, your review of "Live Free Or Die Hard" made me long for the type of review that is less gray area and more committal. It's a pity that someone with so many words in her arsenal (and within her name) doesn't use those words more effectively - that is, unless your sole purpose as an employee of The Times is to disorient the masses. I understand that you cut your teeth on films of the avant garde, but surrealism, absurdism, and post-Dada surrealistic absurdism have no place in the writing of critiques. These are simply signs of artistic insecurities, and should be used only by real artists who, to avoid ridicule, justifiably play it safe by hiding behind the mask of a style that doesn't allow for scrutiny, as there are no rules to break, no standards to rebel against, and usually nothing substantial under the surface. Stick with the linear, Man-O, that's where the true risk-takers are.

Pardon the tangent, just trying to get your attention. The message I'm trying to convey is this: If you can't decide whether to say yea or nay, say nothing and give another critic at the Times a shot. People turn to film criticism because they're trying to decide whether or not to go see a certain film. It is your job to make that decision easier, not more difficult. The average film-goer could care less about minutiae that turns you on or off. That minutiae might even repel that person from seeing a movie you recommend! I'm fairly certain this Die Hard review was a thumbs-up, but I didn't realize it until after I removed your finger from my eye. Please, for the sake of the people who still go to the movies, be clear, take a stand, sit down, and shut up.

Adieu,
Stalks Muddily

RESCUE DONNELLY

Seriously, people! Does anyone need any additional proof that the L.A. WEEKLY has gone from lousy to lousiest than this week’s cover story interview with actor Christian Bale, star of Werner Herzog’s latest RESCUE DAWN?

In an article by Joe Donnelly titled “Christian Bale and the Art of Extreme Acting,” the subject header asks and answers: "What won’t the best actor of his generation do for a role? Not much."

"Best actor of his generation?" Hmm. Slightly over the top (you think?). I mean, Marlon Brando never portrayed Batman (then again, he did play Jor-El, Superman’s father. OK, so sue me!). Actually, Bale is a solid actor. Probably the best Bruce Wayne we’ll ever get on the big screen. His acting often runs circles around his co-stars. He made Hugh Jackman look like Keanu Reeves in THE PRESTIGE. But this "best actor of his generation" line? Not exactly a compliment if you consider that his generation also includes Ben Affleck, Ashton Kutcher and Jamie Kennedy.

Donnely continues to pound us with this “best actor of his generation” jazz later in the piece when he kicks off a new section:

"When the best actor of his generation pulls up in front of Shutters, a place famous for seeing and being seen that could only have been chosen by a publicist, it’s in a black pickup truck. He’s wearing a baseball cap and an unassuming getup of T-shirt and jeans. The look is trucker chic, though I’m pretty sure Bale has no idea what trucker chic is. He tells me the pickup is for hauling his motorized dirt bikes, which is what he’s into these days, though he confesses he’s not very Zen about the art of motorcycle maintenance."

The ol’ “Stars: they’re just like us!” bit. Multi-millionaire celebrities acting normal! Wow, can you imagine? Now even I can relate! Doesn't US Weekly do this kind of journalism every time they post a picture of Tom Arnold picking his nose or Elisha Cuthbert falling asleep at the opera…”They’re just like us!”

Oh, and there’s this:

"These situations, of course, are accidents — the kind of accidents that happen when the son of a circus-dancer mom and a Bunyanesque adventurer of a father, who was born in Wales but who moved around a lot as a kid, gets picked to star in a Steven Spielberg film after auditioning on a dare from his sister and eventually ends up in Santa Monica talking to someone who, by his own conspiracy of accidents, has ended up sitting across the table from the greatest actor of his generation with a tape recorder in hand. Since there’s always the chance this will turn out to be a happy accident, we gamely order coffee and water and settle in."

“Greatest actor of his generation.” Here we go again. Even Herzog enables Donnelly:

*****

So what attracted Herzog to the young actor in the first place?

“What drew me to Christian is that he is the best of his generation,” he says.

Oh, yeah. There’s that.

*****

But here’s the exchange that made me look like Ella Taylor’s kid, only with smoke coming out of the ears:

*****

“Rescue Dawn, I guess we have to talk about that,” I say.

“Oh, did you see the movie?” Bale asks.

“I did.”

“You did, but you didn’t like it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you said, ‘I guess we gotta talk about that.’ You’re like, we gotta get on with that.”

“I gotta be honest, I didn’t love it.”

*****

Way to go, Donnelly. So you tell the greatest actor of his generation that his film basically sucks. So much for the greatest actor of his generation…the one who picks the lousy scripts.

Oh, well. When life gives you critics, make CRITICIDE, I always say.

This is Karry Ling, reporting for CRITICIDE.

Dear Joe Donnelly,

Go back to writing phone books. Now hear me out: This is China and I am the Empress. I know your generation bows to the Hunter S. Thompson altar but Gonzo journalism is played out, Daddy-O! It's 2007, we're into post-post-ironic-post-Modern by now. Write about the subject and stop inserting yourself into your pieces and maybe we’ll get a little more out of a Christian Bale profile than him reacting off of one more self-important journalist bitter over the fact that the interview is not happening in the reverse direction.

You’re welcome for the free advice,

Karry Ling

"ROST IN TLANSRATION": THE ANDY KLEIN STORY

Actually, you don't have to go far to figure out veteran movie review guru Andy Klein. Just take the last two syllables of his name and you'll get the picture: this is a critic on the "decline."

Try this at home. Round up a group of your Asian and/or Asian-American pals - Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Thai (makes no difference). Shoot a quickie martial arts flick or creature feature with Daddy's digital camera. After you're finished editing it, select from any combination of the following words: "Yellow," "Black," "Bride," "Curse," "Hard," "Attack," "Mask," "Boy," "Girl," "Dragon," "Tiger," "Gong," "Blossom," "Sword," "Armor," "Killer," "Deadly," and "Master." So now you've got your completed film: "Curse of the Yellow Mask" or "Attack of the Black Tiger" or "Master of the Dragon Sword." Great. Now dub a copy, send your DVD to L.A. Citybeat, c/o Mr. Andy Klein, then sit back and wait a week for Andy Klein's gushing review to see print.

I'm not kidding. This is a guy who can not review THE DEPARTED without pointing out how superior INFERNAL AFFAIRS is. He can not tell you how fantastic IRON GIANT is without mentioning that it's his second favorite animated feature of all-time, sandwiched in-between PRINCESS MONONOKE and SPIRITED AWAY. He once likened CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON to a clever blend of Sergio Leone, Buster Keaton and Preston Sturges. But let's face it: the movie should've been titled CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAG-ON...AND ON...AND ON...AND ON! Klein has put Lee on a pedestal high enough to go BROKEBACK on him.

Director Ang Lee is a perfect candidate for the Andy Klein BJ Hall of Fame because the guy not only has a martial arts epic on his resume but he also lensed THE HULK, which covers Klein's other unabashed bias - the superhero film. Andy Klein remains the only critic to have ever championed this mishap of a Marvel Comic adaptation; a film so bad that THEY'RE ALREADY REMAKING IT...ONLY FOUR YEARS LATER! When it comes to a Hulk movie, Andy Klein, take it from me, every other critic in America, and about 10 million comic book buffs: "Mr. McGee....You wouldn't like me when I'm Ang Lee."

So why do I have my mawashi in a bunch? Well, have you read this week's L.A. CITYBEAT review for TRANSFORMERS? He dismisses the Michael Bay toy/comic-based blockbuster thusly:

"Bay's notion of excitement is to smash up bunches of stuff on screen, with no rhyme or reason, no characters to care about, and no clarity or structure to the action. If that floats your boat, go ahead and have a blast. I'll be in the next auditorium, rewatching LIVE FREE OR DIE HARD."

What the fuck? If I want characters to care about, I'll go see FORREST GUMP! Something tells me if this feature had been directed by Seijun Suzuki and involved giant robots battling it out in the middle of Tokyo instead of the plain ol' U.S. of A., this review would read more like an endorsement to let Bay join Mensa International.

In the process of dissing TRANCE-FORMERS (his dumb pun, not mine!), Klein even takes a moment to sam Slam Raimi...I mean slam Sam Raimi: "Honestly, it's not like I went into a film based on a merchandising concept expecting BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN or THE TERMINATOR or even SPIDER-MAN. But I could at least hope for SPIDER-MAN 3..."

This from the guy who loved, loved LOVED SPIDER-MAN 2...yet he HATES SPIDER-MAN 3 with a passion. Seriously, dude, ultimately, in the big scheme...WHAT'S THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE?! IT'S THE SAME FREAKING MOVIE MADE THREE TIMES!

I only pray that when Wong Kar Wai's MY BLUEBERRY NIGHTS comes out later this year, we don't get an Andy Klein-penned CITYBEAT cover story hailing it as the best motion picture since THE GRAND ILLUSION.

- This is Karry Ling reporting for CRITICIDE

Dear Andy Klein,

You're a critic with a two-track mind. Time to broaden your horizons...beyond the Far East. As a Chinese-American, I can spot a Jewish guy with an Asian fetish from a mile away...and I'd really appreciate it if you to stay a mile away...from the cineplex!

Love and dim sum,
Karry Ling

THE ANDYMAN FAN

I know speaking ill of the ill is even worse than speaking ill of the dead, so I'll hold off on making a hamburger out of that sacred cow, Roger Ebert. At least for a couple weeks. Instead, right now I'd like to accentuate the positive with a heartfelt rave review of one of the most underrated, under-appreciated critics alive. His name is Andy Klein, and his game is truthsaying.

Speaking of hamburgers... As a kid, back in the mid-eighties, I suffered from an affliction known as Astro Burger's Syndrome. Donkey Kong, Pac Man... even Elevator Action. I spent more time inside that AB on Santa Monica and Gardner than Jerry Stahl spent out in front of it scoring H. And once a week, on the day The L.A. Reader hit the stands, I would anxiously run down there to grab a copy, only to find myself LMAO at Matt Groening's "Life In Hell" and David Lynch's "Angriest Dog In The World"... but only after reading AK's latest movie review. Bullshit soaked in perfume is still bullshit, and that's what you get from most critics - but not what you get from Andy.

Andy Klein is like a great prizefighter who delivers punches only when necessary, and does not, in the process, wear himself out. He doesn't wear the reader out, either. Two-fisted, no-nonsense body blows - that's what you get from Andy. And not unlike Republican Welterweight Ron Paul, but with the flair of an old-school journalist, he's ready to scrap for what he believes in and against each injustice he finds himself in the ring with, even if it means going up against his sheep-like colleagues. And, unlike the fancy car-driving pushover critics (you know who I mean), he never took a dive. Take a gander at Andy's Top 10 list of 2005, and note that "Crash" is nowhere on the list. In fact, here's what he's said about The Big "C": "contrived, schematic, and way overpraised, with its checklist of good African American, bad African American, good white cop, bad white cop, etc." How's that for an Uppercut-A-Palooza?!?! Anyway, here's that list... are you down for the count-down?

Andy’s Top 10 of 2005

1. Batman Begins. It only took four titles for Warner’s Batman franchise to fall apart, declining from the inspired sloppiness of Tim Burton’s first two entries to the campy excess of Joel Schumacher’s Batman and Robin. After a hiatus of eight years, the studio made the surprising, but wise, decision to bring in Christopher Nolan (Memento) to revive the moribund series. Nolan’s strategy was simply to approach this 66-year-old iconic character with respect. Gone are any vestiges of campiness or surreal production design or strangely unpatched plot holes. He puts Batman in a relatively real world and makes us understand why he strikes fear in the hearts of the bad guys. The result is darker, more disturbing, and far more character-oriented than its predecessors without forgoing the requisite action sequences. (Christopher Nolan, U.S.)

Look, I never saw it... just not my thing. Never considered watching it. Once, while I was browsing at Blockbuster with some chick (my mom, I think), she suggested renting it. With all the sincerity I could muster, which wasn't much, I said... "Uh... I... already saw it." But, this guy's got balls for topping his list with it. Great big ones, but not as big as the balls of...

2. King Kong. Another intimidating icon gets an update, this time Merian C. Cooper and Ernest Schoedsack’s oversized gorilla. Peter Jackson not only takes advantage of technical possibilities that didn’t exist in 1933, but, more importantly, fleshes out the relationship between Kong and his human paramour, which was always one of the most confused elements in the original. It might not have worked, were it not for the extraordinary Naomi Watts and the work of Andy Serkis, whose performance was transferred to Kong through the same techniques used for his Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. Jackson has added a lot of humor and expanded the action sequences, none of which I would have wanted to miss. Still, at three hours and seven minutes, the whole might be too much of a good thing. (Peter Jackson, New Zealand/U.S.)

Couldn't get over the use of a song recorded in the fifties by Peggy Lee. Why didn't they just use a recording of the same song from the thirties, when the story supposedly took place? Ruined the whole movie for me, but I thoroughly enjoyed the glowing review.

3. Oldboy. Park Chan-wook’s dazzling thriller – about a middle-class man (Choi Min-sik) who escapes (or is released) from a bizarre private prison and then tries to find out who had him locked up … and why – may sound ridiculous, but eventually comes together in a way that at least makes sense within the film’s heightened universe. The style – both visually and on the soundtrack – is so rich that Park finesses us past any sticky points. Some may argue that the film is essentially empty: all effect and contrivance, but so hermetically sealed off from the real world as to be trivial. But there are rich thematic underpinnings here that justify Park’s excesses. (Park Chan-wook, South Korea)

Yes, Mister Klein has one weakness. His Achilles is Asian Cinema. This movie is okay, but it's no "Kung Fu Hustle," which had action, romance, humor, and real emotional depth, not the kind of shoehorned heart at the core of "Oldboy." Andy, if you're out there, when you're reviewing films, put away the manga cards and ease up. BTW, "KFH" was my number one pick that year.

4. The Aristocrats. Okay: call me crazy, but this documentary from comedians Penn Jillette (producer) and Paul Provenza (producer/director) gave me more sheer pleasure than anything else I saw this year. Multiple viewings did nothing to diminish my nearly health-threatening laughter. The pair taped more than 100 of their colleagues, telling their individual versions of a classic dirty joke called “The Aristocrats,” or alternately discussing it, analyzing it, re-creating it in endless ways. Provenza has edited the film to touch on a whole variety of serious (in the good way) issues about humor and jokes and taboos and bad taste and being a comedian, without ever getting serious (in the bad way). (Paul Provenza, U.S.)

If there's one thing AK has, it's a great sense of humor. I'll never forget reading his review of "Swing Kids," a movie about an underground Jitterbug craze/movement in Germany (during the reign of Adolf Hitler). Although the film itself is not a comedy, in his review Andy evoked the name of one of America's greatest humorists, the too often ignored Jack Douglas, describing the film's concept as one he would've enjoyed. In addition to writing for "Laugh In" and a host of comedians including Jack Paar, Jack Douglas wrote some of the funniest books ever written, including, "My Brother Was An Only Child," "The Neighbors Are Scaring My Wolf," and "A Funny Thing Happened To Me On My Way To The Grave." Andy brought him up again in a review of the Woody Allen film "Anything Else" - "By way of incomplete homage, Dobel (Allen) makes mention of Jack Douglas’s hysterical book Never Trust a Naked Bus Driver – which I pretty much worshiped in junior high school – without, I’m sad to say, crediting Douglas as other than 'a very funny man.'” Kudos, Andy, for acknowledging a great writer who probably had more than just a little influence on the earlier, sillier writing-style of The Woodman.

5. Brokeback Mountain. Ang Lee’s sensitive adaptation of Annie Proulx’s short story has been deservedly racking up awards. Despite what sounds like the world’s least commercial concept – two cowboys (Heath Ledger, Jake Gyllenhaal) fall in love with each other in the early 1960s – it seems to be touching the hearts of multitudes who are neither gay nor cowboys. The film doesn’t really pick up until a half hour in, when the two are separated and have to retreat into some very well-guarded closets. It’s downbeat, but the leads carry it off, particularly Ledger, who gets more to work with. (Ang Lee, U.S.)

Think they should've kept the original title ("High Moon"). AK, maybe you can tell me why, in a rural town during a time when Vietnam was supposed to have been raging, there was no mention of the war. Wouldn't that authenticity have made the film resonate more? Or do you think it would've distracted everyone from something infinitely more important - man-kissing?!?

6. Capote. Director Bennett Miller and screenwriter Dan Futterman tell the story of famed writer Truman Capote researching and writing his crime bestseller In Cold Blood. On the level of gestures and speech – that is, of impersonation – Philip Seymour Hoffman is just about perfect, but he is also convincing in the more important ways – in terms of creating an intimate sense of the writer’s internal, spiritual conflict. (Bennett Miller, U.S.)

Hey, nobody asked who the best male impersonator was. And as far as I know, Phillip Seymour Hoffman IS a male. Hell-o-o!

7. Good Night, and Good Luck. In addition to coproducing and starring in Stephen Gaghan’s Syriana, George Clooney directed and cowrote this re-creation of Edward R. Murrow’s risky opposition to McCarthyism. David Strathairn impressively captures Murrow. It’s both a political parable – with obvious resonance in post-9/11 America – and an homage to the early days of TV journalism. (George Clooney, U.S.)

I'm sorry, Andy, but who wants to see a movie about some guy who obviously stole Keith Olbermann's act? Move over, Carlos Mencia. You got nothin' on this Murrow fellow.

8. Caché (Hidden). Austrian director Michael Haneke is a professional cinema provocateur, whose narrative experiments match his harsh indictment of the smug bourgeoisie. Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche play a couple whose lives are turned upside down by a series of anonymous videotapes, which may be the revenge of an Algerian the husband wronged 40 years earlier, when both were children. The film is a thriller, but not the sort we’re accustomed to. For one thing, the central riddle – who’s sending the tapes? and why – is never satisfactorily resolved, even for viewers who notice the crucial, barely visible hint during the final shot. (Michael Haneke, France)

You had to do it, didn't you? A French film on your Top Ten list? Well, isn't that perfect? Maybe you're just like the rest after all. Call me post-tentious, but that's not just a red flag... it's a blue, white and red flag. You, sir, suddenly smack of cheese and condescension.

9. Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. With an assist from codirector Steve Box, Nick Park, who has yet to disappoint, returns to Wallace and Gromit – the plasticene-animated characters of his early shorts. W & G’s first feature is essentially more of the same – and that’s a good thing. The humor is all of a piece with the shorts, dense with background jokes. Kids will probably love it, though there may be even more here for adults. (Nick Park/Steve Box, U.K.)

Don't know if you're a father, Mr. Klein, but a lot of things "kids would probably love" aren't good for them. In fact, they're downright life-threatening. Just because it's shiny doesn't mean a kid should swallow a fifty-cent piece. Grow up and smell the danger, A-hole! The Aussies are taking over!

10. Match Point. After a string of mediocre to passable films, Woody Allen fans had good reason to wonder whether the once revered filmmaker had lost it. This new entry – which covers some of the same turf as the 1990 Crimes and Misdemeanors, one of his true masterpieces – should put their fears to rest. For more, see the review elsewhere in this issue. (Woody Allen, U.S./U.K.)

WHAT?!?! That sounds vaguely like something E.T. might have spewed! And now that I think about it, your review of "Sicko," although not as jaw-droppingly offensive as Miss Taylor's, did also cause you to dredge up your personal life.

"So, a couple of months ago, I was getting jerked around by my health plan. The details are probably of interest to no one but me and a few friends (and I’m not so sure about them), but suffice it to say that it seems to have all worked out. Various functionaries kept telling me I was out of luck, citing a succession of bogus reasons, but my experiences years ago navigating the financial aid office at UCLA taught me a valuable lesson: The red tape is designed to wear you down, in hopes that you’ll just give up. So don’t."

Dear Andy Klein,

Stopping short of accusing you of literally sleeping with the enemy (although I can't think of any other logical explanation for the eerie similarities between Ella Taylor's review of "Sicko" and yours ), I will say this - you still work at a paper that has retained a certain amount of respectability, thanks mostly to you (and the fact that L.A. CityBeat is not at the mercy of corrosive political correctness). My advice is to stay away from her. At all costs! She will eat your soul for breakfast, tell you it's delicious, then make some snarky remark about how she prefers the taste of kippers. Leave her now, even if she promises a three-way with Manohla Dargis.
Your Cutman,

Salty Milkduds

L.A. TIMES to Joel Siegel: U.I.P.* (*Unrest in Piece)

Nothing gets my goat like those wise guys at the Times. It’s one thing to review a movie…but to review a movie reviewer? In his own obituary, no less. When the Yiddish people invented chutzpah, they never intended for this, let me tell you!

Last week’s obituary for Joel Siegel, crafted by Los Angeles Times “word wizard” Dennis McLellan, reached new heights for a low blow, especially when the poor subject of his “rapier wit” is not around any longer to fight back. I guess the editorial shake-ups at the Times also jostled a few heads of the still-employed, including la tete d’ enfant terrible Dennis McLellan, Times “Staff Writer.” He certainly writes his Great Beyond bios as if wielding a staff; as if going to war…against the dearly departed, no less?

In the interest of defending the victim of this crude IED (“In-Effective Death-Notice”) and preserving worldwide karma, I will now “undertake” to “unearth” McLellan’s true agenda and “embalm” him in his own vitriol.

OBITUARIES
Joel Siegel, 63; film critic on ABC's 'Good Morning America'
By Dennis McLellan, Times Staff Writer
June 30, 2007

Joel Siegel, the Emmy Award-winning longtime film critic and entertainment editor for ABC's "Good Morning America" and WABC-TV in New York, died Friday. He was 63.

OK, this starts out like a normal obituary, which makes the rest of this piece all the more infuriating.

Siegel, who continued to work until two weeks before his death, died in New York after a long battle with colon cancer, ABC News said.

Okeedokee, here is where my beef with Dennis McLellan begins to char broil like a forgotten Oscar Meyer wiener at a Fourth of July picnic. Notice the sly commentary about Siegel’s poor work ethic? The sinister insinuation here is that Siegel should have worked another two weeks instead of slacking off and taking the fortnight to deteriorate from colon cancer. Talk about callous! Then McLellan has the gall to attribute the entire quote to ABC News…as if ABC News can talk. Reality check: Last I heard, ABC News is a news program, McLellan, not a person! Snap out of it, Dennis!

The mustachioed Siegel, who joined "Good Morning America" in 1981, was remembered by his ABC News colleagues for his wit and passion for the arts.

“Mustachioed,” Dennis? Was it really necessary to take this cheap shot at America’s greatest living TV movie critic who is no longer living anymore (Roger Ebert notwithstanding)? How petty and disrespectful. Oh, and perhaps the writer of your obituary some day (soon?) should emphasize your foibles - ie. “The dickless Dennis McLellan joined the Times staff in 1991.”
Evidently, McLellan could not conceal some kind of facial hair envy that he had to go and emphasize the guy’s ‘stache over his quality movie review work that often could single-handedly launch a blockbuster or kill a movie’s box office.
(Admittedly, the latter only happened once – in 1983 – with his lukewarm review for Joysticks. Otherwise, Siegel thoroughly enjoyed every movie ever made).

To add insult to injury, McLellan obviously did not watch the 9/8/88 edition of Good Morning America in which Siegel confessed that he wore the mustache to save his life…because he was under a Government Witness Protection program. Persian clerics had put a fatwa on his head because he gave an enthusiastic review to Hot Shots Part Deux, which was widely interpreted as a critique against Islam.
What kind of researcher are you, Dennis, to omit this key fact from your obit? No chops, kid!

"Joel was an important part of ABC News, and we will miss him," ABC News President David Westin said in a news release. "He was a brilliant reviewer and a great reporter. But much more, he was our dear friend and colleague."

“In a news release,” Dennis? Here, McLellan puts the “dunce” in “redundance.” Of course it’s a news release, astro boy! That’s the President of ABC News saying it. So, by definition, it’s a release of news! What else would it be? Here’s a sentence for McLellan: "Joel was an important part of ABC News, and we will miss him," the news-filled ABC News President of News David Westin said in a newsy news release, filled with juicy news, on the evening news. Hey, Dennis, is that enough news for you? Sheesh!

ABC anchor Charles Gibson described Siegel as "brilliant" and "a man of impeccable taste."

Why put Chumpy Charlie’s statement in sarcasm quotation marks? Obviously, there’s some rivalry here (professional jealousy?), and McLellan doesn’t believe a word that Gibson is saying. Come on, you two! Take it outside and duke it out behind the barn, but don’t use Siegel’s obit as the venue for your pissing contest!

"When Joel came into your office to talk about anything — it was going to be interesting and you were going to learn something," Gibson, former co-anchor of "Good Morning America," said on the ABC News website. "He had an inexhaustible supply of stories — most funny, many poignant, all with a point or a punch line."

Gibson said on the ABC News website. It probably was typed up, not spoken. Think about it.

As entertainment editor for "Good Morning America," Siegel interviewed scores of celebrities such as Paul Newman, Halle Berry, Brad Pitt, George Burns, Gene Kelly, Jack Lemmon and all four of the Beatles. His annual Oscar broadcast, "Joel Siegel's Road to the Academy Awards," aired for 10 years on WABC-TV and also was syndicated.

This is sooo typical. The obituary writer, no doubt a struggling screenwriter himself, kisses up to Hollywood by namedropping Halle Berry and Brad Pitt, among others. Sooo self-serving. Now you know why the rest of the world hates us. Oh, and McLellan, here’s a news flash: Jack Lemmon never fronted the Beatles!

For his television work, Siegel received five New York-market Emmy Awards. He also co-wrote the book for the 1981 musical "The First," which earned him a Tony nomination.

"New York-market Emmy Awards"? Again, McLellan uses Siegel’s incredible achievement as a backhanded compliment. An Emmy is an Emmy, McLellan….and that’s five more Emmys than you’ll ever win in your lifetime!

Siegel was 54 when doctors informed him that he had colon cancer in 1997, shortly after he learned that his third wife, artist Ena Swansea, was pregnant and he was going to be a first-time father. Concerned that he may not live long enough for his young son to get to know him, Siegel wrote the 2003 memoir "Lessons for Dylan: From Father to Son."

"I was in my 50s when Dylan was born, so even in the best of times I couldn't expect to spend more than a score or so of years with him," Siegel told the Chicago Jewish News in 2003. "And it hasn't been the best of times, not with three cancer surgeries and chemo and CAT scans and six months of radiation in the past five years."

In 1991, Siegel co-founded (along with actor Gene Wilder and others) Gilda's Club, a nonprofit organization that operates facilities offering emotional and social support for cancer patients and their friends and families. He also testified before Congress on behalf of cancer patients.

Born in Los Angeles on July 7, 1943, Siegel graduated cum laude from UCLA in 1965 with a degree in history.

While at UCLA, he registered voters in Georgia and marched with the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. "I was a civil rights worker and I'm really proud of that," he wrote to his son in his memoir.

Siegel, who served in the Army Reserve from 1967 to 1973, wrote jokes for Sen. Robert F. Kennedy (D-N.Y.), freelanced for publications such as Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated, wrote book reviews and stories for the Los Angeles Times and worked as a copywriter and producer for an advertising agency.

After arriving in New York in 1972, he worked as a feature reporter for WCBS-TV and hosted "Joel Siegel's New York" on WCBS Radio. In 1976, he became the entertainment critic for WABC-TV.

Are you writing the guy’s obituary or his resume? Yawn.

The first movie he reviewed on the air, he told the Tulsa World in 2004, was "Magic," starring Anthony Hopkins as a ventriloquist.

Note to budding staff writers seeking to glean inspiration from the pros: this is the only time you will find any “Magic” in Dennis McLellan’s work. Believe that, homey!

"So I went and got a ventriloquist dummy and did the review, with me saying I liked the movie, and the dummy saying how he hated it," he recalled. "So I got to do another review the next day. And I've kept that in mind, that every day is really an on-air audition."

Of all of the beautiful stories that Siegel told on a collective thousands of hours of videotaped Good Morning America footage, McLellan chooses this?! What the fuck?!

He is survived by his son and wife.

First off, Dennis McLellan, where is the mention of Siegel’s older sister, an L.A. native, who is among the survived? Were you not there at Pink’s on that night a few months back when she raved about Little Miss Sunshine while on line to order her very first Huell Dog? Were you not there when she revealed that whenever Siegel visited our fair city, Pink’s was his favorite destination (and, one prays, not the source of his colon cancer). Were you there, Dennis McLellan? No? Well, I was!

First rule of writing a death notice, Dennis: “Do not omit in an obit.”

Second rule of obituaries: “Research, research, research!” Get off your ass and out of your house, hit the pavement, find out in advance of your subject’s death who they are, where their loved ones eat, and look at the lives they’re living. Trust me on this one, it works.

Most egregiously, McLellan lists Siegel’s surviving relatives following an anecdote about a ventriloquist dummy. Hmmmm….you don’t have to read between the lines to see that McLellan’s sickness is pathological. So, um, Den…just where is the segue between the ventriloquist anecdote and your listing of the survived? Where is the transitional thought? Dummy!

It’s not enough to disrespect the dead, so hey, let’s make it a party and disrespect the living, too! Bet you feel pretty big, eh, big guy? With your newsity newsy news-filled news!

If one has actually “survived” reading an obituary so lugubrious, it’s enough to cross and uncross the eyes of Ella Taylor’s daughter, here comes the ultimate punchline. Here, in a last ditch grab at self-aggrandizement, McLellan signs off with his email address at the end. Perhaps he’s hoping that Brad Pitt’s Plan B production company will approach him with interest in turning his own brilliant review of Magic into a movie? Or Halle Berry will use the email to contact him. Good luck scoring Storm’s digits, Dennis! I hear she makes out like a pro!

Dear Dennis McLellan,
I’m sorry I had to take the piss and vinegar out of you but they ran out down at the bile store.

What were you thinking?

Ever heard of the catch phrase “Show your respects for the dead?” How about the slogan “Rest in peace”? Or does your petty jealousy and career envy have no bounds?

Reading this review…sorry, obituary…it becomes quite obvious that these are the ill-mannered howling of a frustrated movie critic with a review of Magic collecting dust somewhere in his desk drawer. Sure, it is sad, Dennis, that the cruel hand of destiny fancied Siegel’s Magic review over yours, but that film came out in 1978 and we’re halfway into 2007. Get over it!

Here’s a helpful tip: If you have an axe to grind, save it to roll a few more heads down on Spring Street. In fact, it’s amazing that you survived the last round of ethic cleansing at the Times and that you’re still employed. Editorial took quite a hit with those layoffs – a journalistic genocide, if you will – and yet somehow nobody is writing an obituary for your career. Tres triste. On the up side, looks like I won’t have to rip you a new asshole…because you already ARE one!

I’m Karry Ling, reporting for Criticide.