Star Wars is entirely about a very structured and predetermined destiny, and the gadfly writers and directors Disney hires and fires are forced to try to squeeze a little bit of personality into the cracks in the structure. Nobody in charge of this universe gives a fuck about the characters, just that we get to the next big battle and then promote the next movie.
Well, that was unnecessary.
Peanut Butter Falcon is not like those creepy videos we used to rent. First of all, it wasn’t filmed in someone’s basement. In fact, it looks fucking fantastic, shot along North Carolina’s Outer Banks, all rusted metal, rotted wood and lapping waves.
If a monster climbing the side of a mountain while humans think of some way to stop it doesn’t sound very exciting, it’s because it isn’t. It’s fucking lame. And so is Pacific Rim: Uprising.
Ocean’s 8 is polished and refined, glossy like those two-inch thick fashion magazines full of crap nobody ever wears. That shit is a circle jerk for people who give a rat’s ass what other people’s shoes cost.
The movie’s basic premise is a giant what the fuck. Maybe it works in a paperback geared toward twelve-year-olds, but it sure as hell fails as a blockbuster.
Further proof of the lack of imagination at work is that Men in Black: International features not one, but two fights in which the special weapon skitters across the floor and the brawlers scramble for it.
The Lost City of Z is as long and as boring as a holiday meal with old people. Second, it has all the trappings, all the fancy stemware, manners and never-raised voices.
If I had a time machine, I wouldn’t go back and try to fix things. I’d just go back and be nicer to the women who blossomed later. That way, today I’d have a lot more old classmates calling me a great guy and not a pervert.
I don’t like mysteries unless they feature middle-aged women who also knit and have cats. And the title is a pun.
