CROSSING CROSSWALK

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Believer,

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

Salty Milkduds

THIRTEEN GHOSTS' QUOTES

On this Halloween, the Ghosts Of Critissassins Past have come out to play. Leaving their usual haunts - bars, film studios, castles, gay bath houses, etc. They've e-mailed their own quotes to us from the Kinkos on Vine just below Sunset Boulevard here in Hollywood, Cal. These thirteen folks may be dead, but their brainy bon mots continue to linger, like a tasty Pink's hot dog breeze - effervescently, fighting off the stench of rotting film critic brains that waft throughout this putrified forest.

"Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it's done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves."

- Brendan Behan (February 9, 1923 - March 20, 1964)

"Criticism is prejudice made plausible."

- H. L. Mencken (September 12, 1880 - January 29, 1956)

“Don't pay any attention to the critics-don't even ignore them.”

- Sam Goldwyn (August 27, 1882 – January 31, 1974)

"If criticism had any power to harm, the skunk would be extinct by now."

- Fred Allen (May 31, 1894 - March 17, 1956)

"You know who critics are?--the men who have failed in literature and art."

- Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield Disraeli (1804-1881)

"I love criticism just so long as it is unqualified praise."

- Noel Coward (December 16, 1899 - March 26, 1973)

"If I had listened to critics, I would have died broke in the gutter."

- Anton Checkov (1860-1904)

"Criticism is a study by which men grow important and formidable at a very small expense."

- Samuel Johnson (September 18, 1709 - December 13, 1784)

“What critics call dirty in our pictures, they call lusty in foreign films.”

- Billy Wilder (June 22, 1906 – March 27, 2002)

"There is no defense against criticism except obscurity."

- Joseph Addison (May 1, 1672 - June 1719)

“The lot of critics is to be remembered by what they failed to understand.”

- George Moore (1873-1958)

"Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger."

- Franklin P. Jones (1887 - 1929)

"Pay no attention to what the critic says; there has never been set up a statue in honor of a critic."

- Jean Sibelius (December 8, 1865 - September 20, 1957)

Pan in Real Life

There seems to be a cynical sentiment in the world of film criticism that if a movie attempts to make its audience feel good, then that movie is somehow fraudulent and not worthy of your time. Further more, if said movie succeeds in making its audience feel good, then not only is the movie fraudulent, but the audience who enjoyed it simply doesn’t know what’s good for them.

The latest example of this strange phenomenon is the Steve Carell vehicle, Dan in Real Life. If I were to sum up the consensus amongst those film critics who didn’t like it, it would sound like this: “How dare a film try and make me laugh and warm my cold, robot heart?! I’m going to have to watch Saw IV to cleanse my palette!!!!!!”

(Notice how my composite film critic uses six exclamation points to show how exclamatory his/her statement is? What an asshole.)

Perched atop my favorite ledge, concealed by the shadows of a concrete gargoyle, I let my crosshairs roam, looking for the most deserving hater in need of popping, when I noticed a very interesting pattern—they’re all cribbing from the same hater-handbook.  

Geoff Berkshire of Metromix Chicago writes:

[Dane] Cook demonstrates yet another talent he doesn’t have when his character ‘sings’ Pete Townsend’s ‘Let My Love Open the Door.’ At least in this case he’s supposed to be bad.

So, while he admits that the character isn’t meant to sing well, he still uses the opportunity to grind his out-of-context axe.

Josh Bell of the Las Vegas Weekly also jumps into the fray, with his remark that “Cook is a failure at pretty much everything.”

Nick Schager of Slant Magazine also piles on by referencing “the casting of the reliably insufferable Cook—who, admittedly, is a tad less unbearable than usual…” While Schager eludes to the reality that Cook isn’t bad in this film (and, actually, he’s pretty good) he still paints his back-handed compliment with a negative hue.

But Sean Burns of the Philadelphia Weekly truly takes the cake, when he writes:

As Mitch is played by the odious Dane Cook, we must first take a moment to face the prospect of a universe so cruel, godless and unfair that Juliette Binoche would willingly spend more than 40 seconds in the presence of a loutish, noisy MySpace comedian who tells other people’s jokes.

Rather than talk about the movie in its own context, Burns (along with his hater cohorts) can’t help but shoehorn his unwarranted criticisms of Dane Cook’s career into his review, thereby demonstrating the most rampant symptom of bad film criticism—an acute inability to be unbiased.

Another peculiar similarity that popped up amongst the cold-hearted naysayers was an insistence on comparing Dan in Real Life with a far more inferior film.

Robert Wilonsky of the Village Voice (who most notably made an extended stay in Roger Ebert’s chair) writes:

One could fill this entire space with the titles of films from which writer-director Peter Hedges nicks his story, but for the sake of expediency, we'll narrow it down to a desert-island handful [including] The Family Stone.

The aforementioned Geoff Berkshire offers this:

The end result resembles a slightly warmer version of ‘The Family Stone’ with crossword puzzle contests, talent shows and group aerobics substituting for fleshed-out characters.

James Berardinelli of reelviews.net has this to say:

Dan in Real Life feels like a bad flashback to The Family Stone. However, where that one had some charm, wit, and genuine romantic impulses, this one has none of the above.

The Family Stone, if I’m not mistaken, was a comedy that didn’t work on account of its unfunny take on a dysfunctional family, while at the same time asking the audience to sympathize with an ice queen “protagonist” who had no redeemable qualities, aside from starring as Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City (whether or not that quality is actually redeemable is up for debate).

The truth is that the haters prefer a darker view of the archetypal eccentric America family, because it’s more “real” and that should tell you everything you need to know about the well from which they dip their critical buckets.

At least Chris Kaltenbach of the Baltimore Sun is upfront about it when he writes about the narrative conflict between the two main characters:

There's really no reason [the Carell and Binoche characters]…can't be upfront about their nascent relationship; in fact, they could simply tell everyone about their entirely innocent meeting and laugh it off. Or they could not laugh it off and watch the tension grow—now that could have made for an entertaining dark comedy, watching the family unravel.

Maybe this criticider comes from a simpler place, but when did it become such a cinematic sin to spend an hour-and-a-half in a movie theater smiling?

ABNORMAL COCK: UPDATE

Land sakes alive!

Thanks to you, our loyal readers, Criticide.com is now the #3 Google Search Result for "Abnormal Cock!"

The coveted top slot is well within our grasp, Criticitizens*, so don't stop now. Tell your friends/grandparents/clergyman to keep Googling abnormal cock until we're #1. We can do this... but not without your help.

Don't go soft until Criticide.com is the head of Abnormal Cocks!

*Criticitizens? Hmm... not sure if I like that. Comment with suggestions for what will be your nickname.

ABNORMAL COCK: Criticide Needs Your Help!

As Criticide's resident Cleaning Woman, you might imagine that I see some pretty, er, interesting stuff. Well, goodness gracious, were my little Crittersassins over the moon about my latest discovery. Now let me tell you, folks find our humble little site lots of different ways, but this one takes the cake... As the above screen grab of our Feedburner stats page clearly shows, it appears that last night someone Googled the words "Abnormal Cock" and it led them right to us. You're probably wondering, as I was at first, what on God's Green abnormal cocks have to do with Criticide. Then it hit me, what a darned clever way to find articles about film critics!

So your friendly neighborhood blood mopper, Yours Truly, decided to have a look-see for herself on the Googles. I tell you what, our
latest reader must have bushels o' patience, because I stopped looking for Criticide by page 24 of the search results. Who knew there were so many pages dedicated to film critics?

Then I gots to thinkin' - Page 24?! That will never do. I'll bet there's nothing my little Crittersassins would love more than to be at the very top of page 1. So be a dear and Google "Abormal Cock," then click on the link that shows up for our site. With your help, Criticide can be tops in cocks!

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

WHO ARE PETER TRAVERS?

Rolling Stone's Peter Travers just might be the closest thing we have to William Shakespeare... or Carolyn Keene. It's only a theory, but I believe Mr. Travers is not one person, but at least three people with widely varying thoughts and ideas, as well as diversely different styles of writing.

Excerpt from Peter Travers' review of James C. Strouse's "Grace Is Gone" -

"Simplicity -- four-square, not sappy -- is rare in film. James C. Strouse had it in his script for Lonesome Jim. As writer and first-time director, he gives Grace Is Gone the quiet power to sneak up and floor you. A reserved father (John Cusack in a devastating change of pace) drives his young daughters, the wondrous Shelan O'Keefe and Gracie Bednarczyk, to a Florida theme park, unable to find words to tell them that their soldier mom has been killed in Iraq. That's it. No politics, no pleading. No artifice."

That was the entire review. Concise, straightforward, and very masculine. With the exception of the words "wondrous" and "artifice," it reads like somebody who writes copy. Or some hard-boiled smoker/alcoholic type non-writer who wears a fedora in public. An old-timer. Somebody who goes to the racetrack and coughs a lot. You get the picture. A sportswriter, maybe. Or somebody's dad. But definitely not a professional film critic.

Now let's look at "his" review of Shekhar Kapur's "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" -

"Cate Blanchett can do anything, even play Bob Dylan, but she can't save this creaky sequel to her star-making 1998 biopic of Elizabeth I. Fie on director Shekhar Kapur's visual and aural bombast and the script's soap-opera heart. Though the sixteenth-century queen is facing her greatest challenge -- from an armada attack by King Philip of Spain (Jordi Molla's performance comes direct from the Ministry of Funny Walks) -- she mostly moons over Sir Walter Raleigh (Clive Owen), who'd rather unbuckle his swash for lady-in-waiting Abbie Cornish. Ugh."

"Fie on director Shekhar Kapur's visual and aural bombast?" Snarky, girlie even - a completely different voice from the author of the "Grace Is Gone" review. A chick definitely ran this through her pink Underwood. Notice the choice to include the word, "Ugh." My guess? Fucking Sandra Tsing Loh was behind this one.

Next, let's turn to an excerpt from Travers' piece on James Gray's "We Own The Night" -

"With long takes and overhead shots that reduce humans to playthings of destiny, Gray's reach is daringly Shakespearean. For some critics, it's just conventional TV pap with delusions of grandeur and a lazy regard for period details. Or even more risible: fascist propaganda for a police state. You be the judge. Gray's first two films, Little Odessa and The Yards, threw me at first. It might take a second or third viewing to see what he's after. It's worth the effort."

"You be the judge?" Now, we're supposed to spend hard-earned cash to see a movie three times to decide if it plays more like a TV MOW or early Leni Riefenstahl? This doesn't read like any Peter Travers review I've ever read. But, then, neither do any of the others. The wordsmith who spit this one out never leaves his flat without a powdered wig. Either a barrister or a cabaret singer.

Dear Peter Travers,

If you are, as I suspect, several writers writing under one pseudonym, shame on you and you and you... If you do exist and are simply hiring ghostwriters to do your work for you, it is only a matter of time before you are outed as a charlatan. Repent now or prepare to suffer the slings and arrows of Criticide in the near future. We will find out!

If there really is just one of you and all of your reviews come from you and you alone, then I urge you to seek the help of a mental health professional immediately. There are medications out there that have done wonders for people with your condition. True, Multiple Personality Disorder cannot be cured, but it can be treated.

Salty Milkduds

I, Criticide

Long before I took up residence in Criticidedom, I was a little boy who loved professional wrestling. Nobody led me to it or even suggested it, nor did any mainstream media outlet subliminally infiltrate my pliable young mind. As is the case with most anything that we come to love, I discovered it entirely on my own. But, for all the pageantry and drama that drew me to it, there was one very important detail that kept me engaged beyond all logic:

I thought it was real.

I thought the violence was sincere and the victories legitimate. I thought that every improbable comeback was a testament to the human spirit and that steel folding chairs were the logical weapon of choice. It never occurred to me to question why nobody ever bled, because I was caught up in a delightful illusion; the same sort of illusion that we lose ourselves in whenever we sit down to watch a movie. But, on one gloomy Saturday afternoon, the illusion was broken.

Somebody told me it was fake.

It wasn’t as if they were trying to enhance my enjoyment of professional wrestling. In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was a deliberate attempt to hinder my enjoyment. And for the rest of my young life, whenever somebody learned that I enjoyed professional wrestling, I was always presented with the same query: "You know it's fake, right?" It was as if everybody took some sadistic pleasure in bursting my bubble.

At the same time that I grew to love professional wrestling, I was also infatuated with the movies. Of course, I eventually figured out movies were fake, so that wasn’t a concern. We already knew that Christopher Reeve couldn't really fly or that Josh Hartnett can't really act; but that's not the point. It's the illusion that we enjoy, as it should it be. And yet, there is a never ending chorus of bullies standing behind you, each of them desperate to tell you that the movie you watched every Christmas with your parents, the movie you watched when you had your first kiss, the movie your watched at two o'clock in the morning during your first slumber party, the movie you watched in the hospital room the night your first child was born, the movie you watched when your heart was broken, the movie that is forever sewn into the very fabric of your life...

"That movie sucks!"

Not that we asked them for their opinion. No, they’re obliged to do it all on their own—and, don’t worry, they’ll pause in the end, as they await your inevitable gratitude. Of course, the only gratitude they’ll get from this Criticider is a taste of my dusty sneaker as I fit it down their throat. But it's not just movies; there always seems to be somebody who can't wait to tell you that whatever it is you love sucks and you suck for loving it. Well their parade-raining-rhetoric will no longer go unpoliced, not on this blogesphere.

So, for all those who are tired of hearing that NASCAR isn’t a sport and Tiger Woods isn’t really black:

I Criticide.

For all those who are tired of hearing that Dane Cook isn’t funny and Monty Python are comic geniuses:

I Criticide.

For all those who are tired of hearing that hairy pits aren’t sexy and gay sex is for homosexuals:

I Criticide.

And for all those who are tired of hearing that all good movies go to Oscar heaven and film critics are just doing their job:

I Criticide.

REQUIEM FOR A HEAVY MENSCH

I just found out that the once-popular TV film critic Gary Franklin died two weeks ago at his home in Chatsworth, CA. The cause of death: unknown. But what was and is known is how he wanted to be remembered. In 1991, Mr. Franklin had this to say to The L.A. Times:

"I have always let my social conscience influence my criticism. People should be speaking out about the effects of movie violence, brutality and sexuality in the world, and I'm glad I've had the chance to make a tiny impact."
According to his obit in The L.A. Times, Franklin told Variety that when he informed "studio flacks" who called after a press screening that he was going to give a film that he really liked a 9, they often lobbied for a 10."

"TO MY EVERLASTING SHAME AND DISGRACE, I'D MAKE IT A TEN ," he said.

After giving "Natural Born Killers" a zero in 1997, Gary found himself persona non grata at Warner Brothers. This was the beginning of the end for his professional film critiquing, but it was also the beginning of the beginning of something else. It took a few years, but Gary finally made his way, with mouse in hand, to a computer, officially kicking off a website called "garyfranklin.com." Then, off to the blogosphere. In 2005, he started "The Franklin Scale." Here, between four fatal strokes, he would review films without accepting so much as a nickel from anybody. No studio flacks, no corruption, no nonsense - nothing but his honest opinion and a clear conscience.

At the time of his passing, he was 79. Survived by his wife, Sylvia, two daughters, four grandchildren, and millions of fans. On a scale of one to ten, Gary gets two thumbs up. That's an eleven.

CHOPPING DOWN THE PUNDITRY

I have nothing against Roger Ebert.

He's a terrific writer and has a genuine affection for the cinema, but the fact that he was one of the countless suckers hoodwinked by the profoundly overstated/overhyped/overbearing auto-fellatio of Crash/Babel is reason enough to generally give his reviews the grain-of-salt treatment. That he almost uniformly adores anything that might be considered a "popcorn movie" while hate-hate-hating the justifiably creamed-upon Blue Velvet, seals the deal for this Criticassin.

Let's get one thing straight: I begrudge no man his opinion. Love or hate what you will; it's hardly my problem. Until, of course, it is.

A couple of weeks ago, Forbes Magazine announced that, due to his 70% (!) penetration into the hearts and minds of my fellow countrymen, Roger Ebert was found to be the most influential pundit in America. In other words, of all the know-it-all blowhards peddling their self-proclaimed expertise in the ubiquitous back alleys of the American media, he's the know-it-all-iest.

On the one hand, he really is an expert whose opinions are almost always thoughtfully (though by no means flawlessly) constructed. And when considered alongside his runners-up, he is certainly the least likely to debase or divide. On the other hand, it's a puzzle that someone so uncontroversial would be anointed in the Temple that Wally built.

My concern isn't that he earned such a distinction, it's that such a distinction even exists. Beyond feeding our inner rubbernecker, punditry has no value (and remember, you read that on Criticide). Even at its most entertaining, it is a primarily humorless amusement. It is an intellectual vacuum disguised as debate, intent on shoving any remotely gray area so far up your ass as to never be seen again.

And yet, its pervasiveness in this country that I consequently recognize less and less each day has inspired a seemingly never-ending orgy of equal and opposite reactions, and a commonly held belief that we each must have not only an opinion about everything, but an extreme and provocative one at that. And not the good kind of opinion - the one born of personal experience and observation - but the kind recycled from some persuasive, and usually venomous, prattle on a cable show. We are constantly expected to pick a side in each of an ever-propogating list of grievances so that the Land Of The Free looks increasingly like a generations-long director's cut of West Side Story (minus the ballet basketball and promise of Puerto Rican tail).

The fact that this year's pontiff of pundits is someone dedicated, not to demonizing Mexicans or polarizing political parties , but to advancing an art form is somewhat heartening. So while slapping someone on the back for regularly sharing his opinions makes about as much sense as buying flowers for a hooker, at least in this case the hooker was Roger Ebert. The pundit with the heart of gold.

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