Susan Powter and the Prisoner of Azkican
Raise your hand if you didn’t think spiky-haired fitness smurf Susan Powter had some poor schmuck tied up in her basement somewhere, kept handy for beatings and pep-talks depending on the swing of her manic-depressive pendulum. That’s a hunk of news that should shock exactly no one. Anybody who saw her screaming “Stop the insanity!” on her infomercial years back knew she was talking to people the rest of us couldn’t see. We didn’t know, however, who the poor bastard was strapped to her radiator with surgical ties; his face caked in garish New Orleans whore makeup and a shameful giant piss-stain on the front of his flowery dress. Sure, we all had our candidates. I figured it was either Joe Piscopo or Caspar Weinberger. Those guys had to go somewhere. Turns out I was wrong, and Warner Bros. is betting you’ll cough up $9 to see who it was. I’m thinking they’re wrong about that one, since I just told you it was Bronson Pinchot.
50 First Dates
If ever the tale of the Cuban Missile Crisis has smoked its way onto the big screen with such an unprecedentedly smoky level of smokitude, this reviewer must’ve been on the can when it happened. Because according to Roland McShyster’s burnt bottom, this one takes the cake. Sure, CMC purists may have balked at the casting of toilet-training dropout Adam Sandler as President Kennedy, but for once this reviewer stands behind the oft-foolish decision to point a camera at Mr. Sandler. Perhaps it was karma, or perhaps it was accidental, but Sandler captures the doomed president’s sulking puppydog eyes and impish smile with a deft virtuosity not seen since Jim Carrey reincarnated Martin Luther King Jr. in Blackbeat. Kudos as well belong to Luis “Guzman” Guzman for his balls-out portrayal of Cuban bad guy and exploding-cigar victim Fidel Castro.
Walken Tall
Raise your hand if you can tell the difference between Vin “Rock-Like” Diesel and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Okay, now get your asses over to MIT, they need you to build a particle accelerator out of dog food and twist ties. As for the rest of us, we’ll just have to settle for being confused and staying away from any movies that smell like jock sweat. In the latest film starring whichever of those two this stars, Hollywood explores the question “If Christopher Walken got really mad, would he get huge like the Hulk and smash shit all to pieces?” I know that’s one that has been on the tip of my tongue for years. The actual answer is slightly disappointing, but mainly because the Christopher Walken mask they put on the meathead to play the “after the transformation” Walken is so poor you can see the elastic band holding it on his face. But, on the bright side, stuff gets smashed and we don’t have to see Rock Diesel’s face for half the movie.
Man on Fire
It’s a rare actor who can believably pull of playing both Malcolm X and Richard Pryor (not in the same movie, though that would be kind of cool), but Denzel Washington wins that honor either by virtue of his talent or the fact that he’s the only marketable black actor around for a dramatic leading role. Some might question the tasteless title of this Pryor biopic, or the slow-motion trailers that show the comedian running around with his shit all on fire, but few can argue that a film about Pryor wasn’t overdue, and this one qualifies since it’s got a character in it named Richard Pryor who is sort of vaguely like the real thing. My history may not be rock-solid here, but I’m pretty sure Richard Pryor didn’t know karate in real life, if he did I’m nearly certain he would have used it in the movies more, because nothing sells like a funny black man who can kick some ass. Hollywood attempted many times to teach Eddie Murphy Ken-Po for this very purpose, but that went about as well as their attempts to teach Wesley Snipes to do impressions. Regardless of how much ass the real-life Pryor could kick, the Denzelified version boots much of it in Man on Fire, which covers up well for the fact that the filmmakers didn’t bother to learn anything about Pryor before making the film. Though in truth the facts might have just got in the way of their desire to make a movie about a troubled CIA comedian who’s followed around all the time by a creepy little white girl who sees dead people.
I, Gobot
Hollywood finally gets it right by making a lame knock-off movie about the lamest knock-off toy ever, the Gobots. And who better to star than the king of lame knock-off songs and movies, Will Smith? I don’t know, really. There might be somebody especially lame out there I’m not thinking of, but I think Will Smith was a pretty spot-on choice. He’s got a look that just screams “lame-o,” which saves a lot of time in explaining to the audience what the movie’s about and if it’s going to suck or not. He was probably worth his paycheck for the lame pedigree he brings to the film alone, a credible lameocity that another actor would have had to work hard to establish, before the audience got to thinking that the move might be kind of okay. As for the film itself, it’s kind of okay in the sense that we’re not likely to go to war with any Middle Eastern countries over it, but that’s the best thing I can say about it. The special effects aren’t all that special, though I guess hiring a guy just for “effects” is some kind of insulting no-no in the movie biz these days. They CGI the Gobots transformations pretty well, but since they stayed true to the source material you’re stuck with the unintentional comedy of the Gobot leader transforming into a coffee machine when the action starts, and when his love-interest Gobot changes into a pogo stick it’s pretty hard to take the movie seriously. Will Smith does a pretty good job of turning into Eddie Murphy about half way into the movie, though as with the Gobots you’re more or less just left wishing you’d spent the last two hours watching the real thing.