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“Hiya!”
Fuck to this noise.
AKA You HAVE to fucking see this shit.
A Less-than-critical journey through film.
What do you mean you didn’t like Reality Bites? Oh, okay.
Anyway. Enough of the shit talking and the “I hate life viewed through rose-tinted spectacles” nonsense. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is FUCKING HEARTWARMING.
Sean Penn as photographer Sean O’Connell, elusive buddy and spirit guide for Walter’s wee vision quest or whatever.
Yes, the film may spread the central message of “live your life” a little too thickly, but who cares? Sometimes, it’s just nice to watch some fun shit, and see someone rediscover all the things on the to-do list that got lost amongst the humdrum reality of the day to day.
On yersel’ big man!
Who doesn’t want to skateboard their way to see a volcano erupting, and smash the fuck out of Adam Scott’s smug face?
That beard isn’t even REAL, you bastard.
Yes, some of the real incidents that happen to Ben Stiller’s Walter are far more improbable than his action movie daydreams, but – once more with feeling – who cares? It’s escapist. It’s bloody nice. It’s God damn SWEET.
Cake. Wins over the toughest of rebels.
You can take your moans of music video sensibilities and over usage of Arcade Fire and shove them up thy constipated ass alongside those consistent wailings about that ship/shark escapade.
Kirsten Wiig as Walter’s dream woman, Rachel Melhoff. Her son has mad skills.
There is the obvious nod to the effect the internet has had on magazine publication, and old school photojournalism becoming obsolete – also Kirsten Wiig looks AMAZING as a brunette – but overall Walter Mitty is of comfort to the persistent daydreamers of this world. Of course, we should all be living in the now, but occasionally it really is the better course of action to zone out for a while and just visualize stabbing someone’s eyeballs out with a rusty fork rather than literally doing it. Similarly, fantasizing about going for dinner with Dirk Benedict from the A-Team may most likely turn out to be better than actually going for dinner with Dirk Benedict from the A-Team. I digress.
“eh-heh-heh”
Oh, and if I see another film critic or blogger refer to David Bowie’s Space Oddity as “Major Tom”, I shall not be responsible for my own actions. Jesus, I know Walter gets it wrong, but there’s a lot he gets wrong in life. His job isn’t to research this shit, he’s a character in a bloody film. You, are not. Now get the fucking skateboard out, shave in a Mohawk and go have fun. It’s a nice day outside.
Space Oddity. It’s FUCKING SPACE ODDITY!
A Less-than-critical journey through film
Jesus H Christos Achilleos. Why the hell are people so cynical and so critical these days? Take that anger, take that hate, take that inability to have fun with an artistic endeavour and GO CREATE.
There are bigger fish to fry in this world.
Who am I and who do I write for?
I’m nobody any more, baby. And I write for me.
Behind every successful man is a woman.
Maybe. But shouldn’t that line include the added sentiment “ready to deal with all his shite and stresses, clean up his mess, and push him to get things fucking done when he’d rather masturbate over pictures of his dead wife and plaster his face with a cheap latex precursor”?
Anyway. Aye. Vulnavia. Tidiest of henchwomen. Glorious costumery, graceful dancefloor antics.
Vulnavia, beautiful assistant to the titular Dr Phibes, played by horror alumni Vincent Price.
Doctor Phibes. Fucking love that guy. Suave bastard. Some cunts fucked up looking after the health and welfare of his wife, resulting in her untimely death.
Mad bitch Phibes want revenge, y’all. And he’s schooled in the ways of the Old Testament!
Bats, Bitch!
Frogs, bitch!
(Technically death by frog mask, but you get the idea)
Sprouts, bitch…wait. What the fuck? I know I start burning as soon as I enter church grounds, but I don’t remember these green bastards being a plague?
Ohh, right. That’s why the sprouts are involved. Who knew locusts were such big fans of Christmas roasts?
Inventive deaths. Price with no face. Price with a static face. Price pretending his real face is made of plastic. Price with fake eyebrows and a frightwig. Price with a crazy voicebox. Price playing the shit out of a giant church organ whilst wearing an elaborate costume. Price doing fucking epic ‘Starey Eye’ acting, incorporating aforementioned fake eyebrows. Amazingly out-of-place but never-the-less wondrous dance sequences. A clockwork band. A CLOCKWORK BAND.
Wait a fucking minute? Is Vulnavia a fucking robot too? I’d buy that for a dollar.
If you haven’t already encountered the disturbed mindscape of the Doctor, you fucking NEED to see this shit.
“So what? So let’s DANCE!”
True beauty is on the inside, bitch.
Brassneck 