I’ve been criticised of late for not doing enough reviews, not swearing enough and being all nice and stuff. Well fear not as we look back on the month of January with cynicism and despair I’ll say cock and balls to all that and slag off movies once more. Except its quite hard it being the Gong show season and all, the studios are releasing quite a fair amount of quality product. On we go regardless.
The year started with some shit in the form of ‘The Spirit’. But even this wasn’t a big steaming pile of diarrhea, more a small nugget of poop you force out at four in the morning after some weighty take away. Save a barnstorming Samuel L. Jackson performance (is there any other kind?) the film was basically ‘Sin City’ for children. Which is pointless, because every six year-old has seen the former, bloodier film whilst off their little tits on heroin whilst stabbing pensioners. Tsk, pfft, Broken Bloody Britain, I ask you.
Next came two gross-out, naughty films that the Farrelly brothers would have been entertained by. I certainly was. While ‘Sex Drive’ was basically ‘The Sure Thing’ with more Amish folk and Fall Out Boy, it was funny enough to make me wee a little from my penis and sweet enough for me to wee a little from my eyeballs. The second was ‘Role Models’, a tale of adults not growing up until they have to look after some kids. Not as appalling as that sounds thanks to Paul Rudd, a witty script and a hostile black child who draws pictures that would make Hugh Hefner blush.
Awards season commenced with ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ taking the inside track to the Best Film Oscar. While it’s the film my money is on, I was left quite unimpressed. Its not a bad film but the fact that I’d rather re-watch ‘A Life Less Ordinary’ than revisit the bleakest ‘feel-good film of the decade’ says a lot. Namely I don’t know shit about movies.
‘Frost/Nixon’, on the other hand, had me riveted from start to finish as Tony Blair took on Skeletor in the greatest television interview since Parkinson took on Meg Ryan. What hope a George Walker Bush Vs Jon Stewart battle some time in the future? Not bloody likely.
‘Frost/Nixon’ was basically two people having a chat, but still managed to be far more entertaining than a film about killing Hitler. ‘Valkyrie’ saw Bryan Singer step out of comic book world and revisit thriller mode. If this turgid shite is the result he can go make ‘She-Ra’ for all I care.
A much better historical document arrived in the form of ‘Milk’, the story of Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man to be voted into public office in America. It’s a timely and impeccably acted tale of hope and change that brought around the start of gay rights in America. Shame, then, that in the year Obama’s election opened so many doors for black people, the same election shut doors that Harvey had once kicked down. Still, Iceland has just elected the first gay head of state, so The Mayor of Castro Street‘s legacy does live on.
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Other films to note were ‘Beverley Hills Chihuahua’ (the first sign of the apocalypse), ‘Bride Wars’ (the second sign of the apocalypse), ‘Seven Pounds’ (the Will Smith Redemption) and ‘The Wrestler’ (reviewed here).
But head and shoulders above everything in my stupidly overly romantic eyes was ‘Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist’, my personal film of the month. The kinda film that sets my progress as a fully functional human being back a few steps. But fuck it, who doesn’t want to be a naive, hopeless fool who thinks that music can bring about true love?