Kicking the Tweets

Zombieland (2009)

A Zombie Movie that Never Aims for the Head

Sometimes you just know.

I first saw the Zombieland trailer in front of District 9. It was loud, frenetically edited and plagued by a cute voiceover and Hot Teen Actors. I knew instantly that someone had tried to Americanize Shaun of the Dead without any understanding as to what made it great. The audience reaction was very enthusiastic, and I wondered what everyone else saw that I could not.

Fast forward a couple months to this weekend. The pre-opening buzz on this film is breathtaking. It’s being hailed as a fun, comedic masterpiece, on par with or better than Shaun of the Dead. Every friend who’s seen Zombieland says it’s great, so I ignore my instincts and head into the movie prepared to be won over. Nearly two hours later, I left the theatre and drafted a long, heartfelt apology to my instincts:

Dear Instincts,

You were right. I was wrong. Zombieland sucks. You did all you could to lead me away from this painfully dull movie, even urging me to leave the theatre during the garish, logically flawed opening title sequence. You said, “Come on, man, you can see that these idiots don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.” But I stayed.

You asked me, “Aren’t you tired of that hip, new device where expository text is inserted into scenes as part of the physical landscape? It was only done well in Jimmy Carter: Man from Plains and on the TV show Fringe (and let’s not forget Ferris Bueller’s Day Off). Look how much they’re using it here! The characters are interacting with these rules of survival that they can’t see, and they pop up over and over and over (and over) again so that we never forget how important they are! Oooh, clever!”

Though I didn’t appreciate the bitter sarcasm, I couldn’t disagree with your logic.

You said, “Jesus fucking Christ! Jesse Eisenberg again? Remember how much you hated him in Adventureland, playing the sexless, warmed-over Michael Cera role? Look! He’s doing the same shit here! He’s even wearing one of those god awful emo-boy hoodies. The only thing worse than Michael Cera is someone posing as Michael Cera and failing!”

Again, you were so, so right. But I stayed.

“Hey,” I said, “Woody Harrelson’s in it. We love Woody!”

“Yeah,” you fired back, “We love Woody when he’s given something to do other than play a poorly written comic book character. ‘Look at me, ah’m a tuff guy with a shitload o’ guns! Hey, kid, let’s team up and fight the fast moving undead! Sure, we can get from Texas to California in a Hummer without having to stop a billion times for gas, why not? Much like 9/11, everything changes after a zombie apocalypse, even fuel efficiency!’”

It was a slap in the face, Instincts, but you had truth on your side.

“But, Instincts,” I stammered back, “This is a fun zombie movie, like Shaun of the Dead. We love Shaun of the Dead.” To which you replied:

“This is as close to Shaun of the Dead as Jaws: The Revenge is to Jaws. Aren’t you bothered by the monstrous plotholes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance: when Woody, Jesse, and the con-artist sisters they’ve picked up finally make it to California, don’t you find it odd that they hole up in the one neighborhood that isn’t overrun by zombies?”

“Come on, man, that’s nitpicking.”

“Okay, what about the amusement park?”

“What about it?”

“Two of the characters’ goals is to make it to a Disney-style amusement park, which they’ve heard is a zombie-free zone.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“The last twenty minutes of the movie takes place in said amusement park because these chicks are actually dumb enough to believe that a sprawling carnival would be a safe haven! No one is that goddamned clueless! No one! And if the audience is forgiving enough to suspend disbelief and lend that idea plausibility, they must draw the line at giving a shit about what happens to those characters.”

“Instincts, you make it sound like this movie was written by morons.”

“By them and for them.”

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“Let me ask you this: how much do you hate Twitter?”

“Oh, lots, Instincts! You know this.”

“So why didn’t you get up and leave in the middle of Jesse Eisenberg’s five-hundredth bit of voiceover masturbation? Seriously, narration is supposed to give the audience insight into a film’s goings-on, not hit them over the head with a description of what they’re watching. Paraphrased example:

‘It was at that moment I realized I had to fight off the evil zombie clown to save the girl I love. Even though I have a fear of clowns, this was my defining moment as a person, so I manned-up and saved the day, thus violating—in a startling twist—rule number seventeen (which, remember, is ‘Don’t be a Hero; if you can’t remember, try reading the giant text blocks hovering next to my douche-y, pensive face).’”

“Come on, Instincts, that was way more than 140 characters.”

“I’m referring to that horrifying modern idea that every thought has to be expressed!” You sighed heavily then, Instincts, and took a long drag off a cigarette—weird ‘cause neither of us smokes. Then you grumbled, “I’m done with you,” and disappeared.

I really hope you’ll forgive me and come back some day. I miss your voice telling me to avoid seeing zombie movies that don’t know how to be scary. Without you, I’ll fall into more Zombielands, films that lack depth, artistry or even sitcom-level humor from this century.

I may even come to believe that it’s okay for an action comedy to use almost every genre cliché while also being completely boring and airless for the last 45 minutes. I fear that eventually I’ll lose respect for my own mind and stop demanding better entertainment.

I’ll be like everyone else.

Desperately Yours,


It’s been 33 hours since my instincts stopped talking to me. I miss the reasoned, experienced guidance, especially in light of the new voice that has popped into the back of my head.

 It laughs way too loudly at things I never would have found funny before; its grammar is terrible, and I swear I can actually hear it drooling whenever a cop car goes by. The new voice woke me up this morning and, apropos of nothing, said, “Hey, that new 2012 trailer looks fuckin’ awesome!”


Surrogates, 2009

Flesh Forward

Occasionally, my wife and I will see random movies back-to-back. Last night, we were supposed to see the remake of Fame, followed by the Bruce Willis Barbies-gone-bad thriller, Surrogates. A couple hours before the first movie, my brother called; he’d just returned from Fame with a scathing assessment, so we scratched it from our agenda.

Later, at Surrogates’ three-quarter mark, I leaned over to my wife and whispered, “I think we’d’ve been better off with Fame.” She nodded, and we both went back to frowning.

I’ve written exhaustively about how frustrating it is to sit through so many movies that have decent-to-fantastic premises and lousy execution. Surrogates follows in that tired, lame tradition. In the movie, Bruce Willis plays an FBI agent in a future where most of the population has succumbed to “surrogacy”, a system in which people are plugged into a chair at home while android versions of themselves wander about the outside world. The story opens with Greer investigating the killing of two “surries”—normally a mundane occurrence, this time the human counterparts perished with their robot avatars. If you’ve seen I, Robot or Gamer, you probably figured out the entire plot trajectory by the time you hit the word “surrogacy”.

That’s not to say Surrogates is a bad movie, it’s simply a pedestrian one. The PG-13 rating reflects not only the picture’s tame violence but also its narrative sophistication. There’s nothing epic here, and the movie feels exactly like what it is: a disposable, past-the-end-of-summer romp.

Clearly, screenwriters Michael Ferris and John D. Brancato and director Jonathan Mostow were aiming for socially relevant sci-fi (“It’s like, what if everyone was plugged into The Matrix…voluntarily!”), but the warnings of rampant consumerism and virtual detachment seem dated right after the truly engaging pre-title sequence; mostly because the point of Surrogates is not revolution but recycling, as in trotting out conventional grizzled cop nonsense and hackneyed chase sequences that rely way too heavily on wire-work (it’s rare that I miss CG stuntmen, but, damn, do the leaping androids look cheesy).

On the topic of looks, I found Surrogates to be extremely uncomfortable to watch. Nearly all of the androids have bizarre glowing skin; not overtly so, but just enough so that each actor appears to have liberally applied plutonium-based orange blush. In one scene, two surrogates are on an elevator that opens onto an animated digital background, and the sloppy compositing of horrendous elements nearly made my head explode.

This film would have worked better as a television series. In fact, it feels like a two-hour pilot, minus commercials. Were the creators of Lost, or even the new series Flash Forward, given this material, I have no doubt they could have given the story the breathing room to develop the truly interesting concepts (the surrogate-free “reservations”; the hows-and-whys of robots ending racism and disease; surrogates getting high using lightning-bongs) and abandon the trite garbage (yes, Bruce Willis gets suspended from the FBI, and his boss demands his gun and his badge). As it stands, Surrogates wastes its ideas, its creators’ talents, and the audience’s time.


Jennifer's Body, 2009

Dragged Me Through Hell

The movie stars Megan Fox as Jennifer, the hot, popular cheerleader at Devil’s Kettle High. Her best friend, Needy (Amanda Seyfried), is—well, I don’t know what she is; she’s the bookish nerd girl in one scene, and a sexually demanding girlfriend in the next. All of the high schoolers in this picture are painted in the broad, messy strokes of an Archie comic; from the dumb jock to the emo-goth kid, no archetype is spared. But the key to any good high school movie is to show how these archetypes’ cliques evolve, interact, and change the people who exist in them; in this movie, characters simply bump up against each other when the story demands it; there’s no social context to help explain some of the truly bizarre motives we’re asked to accept.

Moving on…

Jennifer and Needy head to the town bar to see a hot, new band called Low Shoulder. They flirt with the lead singer (The O.C.’s Adam Brody in a performance unworthy of his role), drink, and rock along to more some Top 40 emo. A spontaneous fire breaks out, killing most of the bar’s patrons. Jennifer, Needy, and Low Shoulder escape, and Jennifer hops into the band’s van because—she’s drunk? I’ll leave that as a question because later on, we see what happened in the van and she looked all-too aware of her situation.

Needy returns home and calls her boyfriend, Chip (Johnny Simmons), to tell him what happened. She hears something downstairs and, on investigating, finds Jennifer in the kitchen, twitching and bloodied and vomiting animated black goo. We later discover that Jennifer has been murdered and possessed by a demon that devours boys in order to stay powerful and youthful-looking. The rest of the movie sees Needy trying to stop her best friend and save her school, town, world, whatever. If you’ve seen any horror movies or the Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV show, you know exactly where this thing is headed.

So, I’ll resume talking about the film’s numerous problems. Seriously, there’s more bad than good here; and it’s stunning how swiftly the poor writing ruins every single aspect of the movie. Let’s start with the dialogue. Cody’s Juno was known both for its “honest” portrayal of teen pregnancy and for its snappy, pop-cult dialogue. If you’re like me and found the banter to be uninspired, grating, and ridiculous, you should stay away from Jennifer’s Body. I’ve heard Juno defenders claim that teenagers really talk the way Cody writes them; but if high school students really do greet each other with “Hey, Vagisil,” or call everything “salty” and “freak-tarded”—unless it’s one of the numerous subjects that can be expounded upon with a menstruation reference—then I think we should stop worrying about universal health care and just euthanize anyone under the age of twenty (at least in the movies). I have no problem with cutting, hip dialogue, but it must be effective and relatable—which is to say, used sparingly—or at the very least, smart.

But that’s the core of the film’s problem: it’s not smart. Sure, it presents a lot of great ideas, but it makes no effort to meld them or take them beyond the concept stage. For example, we learn that Jennifer’s soul is intertwined with that of the demon because Low Shoulder screwed up the ritual sacrifice. What does that mean? Is part of Jennifer still inside her own skin? Or is the demon just using her as a meat puppet? Where does the demon come from? Does it really just want to eat boys, or is there a motive beyond that of a generic comic book villain? Instead of answers, we get “comic relief” in the form of J.K. Simmons playing a teacher with a hook-hand and the same SNL Minnesota accent he used to phone in on New in Town.

I mentioned the flimsy character relationships earlier. The weakest one in the movie is the one between Jennifer and Needy—not a good sign. We know they’ve been friends since early childhood, but there’s no effort to show why they drifted apart over the years (or why there seems to be a weird love triangle with Chip, or what the deal is with their pseudo-lesbian tendancies). Even the average CW high school drama will throw in a line of dialogue to address this, but Jennifer’s Body ignores the issue completely. There are no real relationships in this movie; only interactions between blabbermouth plot devices with acne.

There are only two redeeming things about Jennifer’s Body. The first is that it will make you appreciate good writing; knock TV shows like One Tree Hill and 90210 all you like, but they manage to paint more realistic portrayals of teen angst than anything Diablo Cody has written or is likely to write. And those shows are free. More than anything, though, I was reminded of Heathers—it’s impossible not to think of that movie, as it’s obviously the template for this one—a brilliant satire that weaved plot, character, and, yes, funky dialogue into a smart tapestry of mean. I’m sure Diablo Cody has watched Heathers, like, a bazillion times; I’m also sure she has no idea what makes it work.

I’d like to give a brief shout-out to Veronica Mars, the short-lived television masterpiece (seasons one and two, anyway) that took the Heathers formula and one-upped it with on-going murder mysteries to breathtaking results. Two cast members from that show are featured in Jennifer’s Body (Seyfried and Kyle Gallner, playing the goth kid), and I replayed a few episodes in my head while waiting for something compelling to happen in the movie theatre.

The second solid aspect of Jennifer’s Body the ritual sacrifice scene. It is the one well-written, tense moment of the film in which Jennifer is tied to a rock by a natural whirlpool and taunted by the clueless members of Low Shoulder. I couldn’t believe that such an inspired three minutes had made its way into the movie, and I soaked up every second. Adam Brody brought cheeky menace to the moments leading up to the murder and Megan Fox proved that she might have an acting career someday.

The only solace I can take is that the movie opened somewhat poorly. I’m sure Fox Atomic expected better than a fifth-place debut behind Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs and Love Happens. It serves them right for thinking that audiences would accept a cheap brand (Cody) slapped on cheaper horror. Fans of horror and teen films have a high tolerance for glossy, cute shit, but there has to be something honest and alive under the skin.


The Informant!, 2009

Lysine and Lie Scenes

Back when Jennifer Connelly was really attractive—in the baby-fat years, before she looked like a cast reject from Schindler’s List—I was obsessed with watching anything in which she appeared; not for any good reasons, understand, but simply because I thought she was hotter than sin (it wasn’t until I grew out of my teen years that I discovered how solid an actress she really is). The movie that made me fall in love with her was called Career Opportunities. It wasn’t very good, and Connelly hadn’t matured past the Megan Fox stage of her acting career; but what stood out was Frank Whaley’s performance as Jim Dodge, a good-hearted, fast-talking liar.

Career Opportunities began as a character study of a small-town loser with big dreams and a bigger mouth, and ended as an ad for Target stores disguised as a wacky heist picture. I’ve forgotten a lot of that movie’s silliness, but I’ll always remember Jim Dodge and his fabled trip to Paris on an F-14.

Yes, this is a review of Steven Soderbergh’s The Informant!, starring Matt Damon.

Damon plays the real-life Mark Whitacre, a former biochemist from Central Illinois who became a division president at Archer Daniels Midland in the early ‘nineties. As the film opens, Whitacre learns of an industrial sabotage plot at ADM and tells his bosses that there may be a mole at the company. The FBI is brought in, and things spiral out of control. That is all I’m going to say about the plot of The Informant! because it absolutely should not be ruined.

This is one of the year’s best movies. It’s the rare comedy that engages the mind and simultaneously elicits gut-laughs from anyone paying attention. And it is very important that you pay attention. I was honestly lost for about the first twenty minutes of the film because the dialogue and subject matter are so dense as to be almost impenetrable; I felt at a disadvantage not having followed the Whitacre story in the real world. Fortunately, the confusion was not due to a deficiency on my part, but to a brilliant, complex web of obfuscation by screenwriter Scott Z. Burns. By film’s end, everything made perfect sense, and like half the characters in the movie, I felt like I’d been made a fool.

Steven Soderbergh took a risk with this movie—one that paid off, by the looks of the number-two opening weekend spot. Everything is off-kilter, from the slide-whistle zaniness of Marvin Hamlisch’s score to the weird 1980’s cinematography, to the brilliant decision to populate seventy percent of the supporting cast with comedians, all playing completely serious roles (Patton Oswalt and The Smothers Brothers have never enjoyed this much gravitas).

The topper, though, is Damon’s narration. The actor packed on some pounds to play a comfy-living Midwesterner, but the spark of his performance comes from the Jack Handey-style musings that play over mundane scenes. Whether he’s driving his car or sitting in a meeting with lawyers, these monologues convey deeper levels hidden by Whitacre’s overeager, good-natured demeanor. They’re funny, but tinged with pathos, and when the movie’s over, you’ll understand why.

The genius of The Informant! is the way in which the story evolves from the sweet man-vs.-corporation tale sold by the trailer into a savage portrait of greed and corrupted values; it keeps changing and twisting until, ultimately, we’re left with a dark farce whose moral we never saw coming. I haven’t been this surprised by a film’s resolution since The Usual Suspects; it’s that good.

Which brings me back to Career Opportunities. Mark Whitacre is like the flesh-and-blood version of Jim Dodge. Both are optimists hobbled by a terminal lack of coolness. Both have outsized imaginations and a penchant for storytelling that lands them in big trouble. But only Whitacre’s movie is consistently real and entertaining from beginning to end; since I was a teenager, I’ve wondered what would’ve happened had Career Opportunities not abandoned its truly interesting parts in favor of romance and shtick. In a strange way, The Informant! is the answer I’ve been waiting for, a movie that takes its premise to the nth degree and takes us down all the hilarious, horrifying avenues it implies.


Fair Game (1988)


Here’s the second Crypticon Edition Home Video Review. It’s also the second film to feature future dinner guest Bill Moseley; though it’s not what could be called a “Bill Moseley movie”. Hell, it can barely be called a movie.

There are only three reasons to watch Fair Game (aka Mamba):

1. To prepare for some kind of “Cinema Worsts” test
2. To take a shot every time a character says “game”
3. To live, should someone put a gun to your head and say, “Watch this!”

This movie is so bad, yet so infinitely enjoyable that everyone should see it; if only to provide a new standard against which to measure shitty cinema.

Fair Game tells the story of Gene (Gregg Henry), a video game designer who plans to murder his wife, Eva (Trudie Styler), who’s left him. He meets with a snake specialist named Frank (Bill Moselely) to procure a mamba that, when released, will die within a few hours from the dangerous amount of venom in its body; the venom overload, Gene is told, also makes the beast more aggressive—perfect for stalking and killing other animals and ex-wives. Gene buys the snake and then kills Frank by locking him in an SUV with the mamba, via remote control. You see, Gene is both game designer and supervillain, and now he possesses the ultimate weapon: a hissing time bomb!

Cut to Eva, who lives in the weirdest movie apartment I’ve ever seen. It’s a sprawling wood-and-metal Escher playground with no windows and stairs that lead nowhere; at first, I thought the harsh angles were simply the result of shoddy camera work, but, no, the place is simply jacked. It’s also the only kind of place one might imagine Eva living, seeing as she’s a flighty mess of off-angles herself.

She bops into her home carrying bags full of groceries, listening to music that is apparently only audible on the film’s soundtrack, but whatever. Eva’s the kind of late-80’s free spirit that can spill a bag full of apples on the floor and leave them be to watch television. Her intro scenes play like a lost Olivia Newton-John video, and for a while it’s unclear whether this storyline will connect with the film’s opening at all.

Gene eventually comes knocking. He’s all neckties and seriousness; Eva is aloof and oblivious to the long black document tube he’s carrying.

After Gene leaves, the rest of the movie plays out like Extremities with snakes. Eva is locked in her apartment (or loft, or whatever the hell it is) with the mamba, who slithers and stalks and generally makes like the creature from Alien. Meanwhile, Gene monitors both hunter and prey from the comfort of his truck, thanks to a charming suitcase computer (he should have hired an artist to create the “snake” avatar, which takes up about a quarter of the apartment in his virtual floor plan). I won’t give too much away regarding Eva’s epic struggle with the mamba; there are things in this movie that need to be seen to be believed—not only bad character choices, but weird edits, out-of-context zooms, and some truly bizarre sound design (why is the snake-POV-cam accompanied by a chorus of screaming monkeys?).

I guess there’s a fourth reason to see this movie, and that is to witness the early careers of two really interesting actors and Trudie Styler. Gregg Henry went on to star in movies like Slither and United 93, and television shows like The Riches and Gilmore Girls; it’s cool to see him construct the prototype for his delicious brand of sleazy smarm in this movie. Bill Moseley became one of Rob Zombie’s stable of actors; he’s almost unrecognizable in Fair Game, due to his not playing an overt psychopath. And Trudy Styler, of course, is married to Sting.

I can’t say enough about Styler’s acting. It’s the perfect compliment to director Mario Orfini’s awful, awful “style” and “story”. Her choices make for a grating portrait of a mentally deranged artist, as unsympathetic a heroine as I’ve seen; at one point, considering Eva and Gene’s failed marriage, I wondered aloud, “Wait, she left him?”

Orfini deserves a lifetime Razzie Award for Fair Game. I’m not at all familiar with him or the film’s production, but the end product is like a dream collaboration between Ed Wood and Dario Argento. This is the rare movie that is so terrible and unwatchable that it becomes fantastic, required viewing. I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so hard at a thriller—or a comedy, for that matter.

Note: The Fair Game DVD maintains the low-fi spirit of the movie. The menu looks deliberately un-designed, and the theatrical trailer plays like something out of Grindhouse.