Nicholas Sparks’ oeuvre

I’m a sucker for romance. Speaking of suckers, I don’t need my lovefest to be sprinkled with unrefined sugar. Romance is sweet enough on its own without the leading man—who, by the way, never remotely resembles Zac Efron in my dreams—uttering crap lines like, “You need to be kissed every day, every hour, every minute.” Even Robert James Waller would be ooked out by that. In any other universe, this soldier-turned-stalker would inspire a scary thriller. But this is Nicholas Sparks’ world, and we’re just the not-so-Lucky Ones to live in it.

His treacle makes me want to take a walk to remember…right off a cliff. I want to put a message in a bottle in hopes that someone will rescue me from Nights in Rodanthe and its ilk.

Dear John: It’s not me; it’s you. I have to stop seeing you or risk type 1 diabetes. 

(photo: freefreedownload.net)

Red-carpet interviews

I love watching gowns and jewels and gorgeous man candy during awards season. But I have to put the TV on mute because the brain-dead “interviewers” (cough “boxes of hair” cough) are doing anything but interviewing. You’d think that Billy Bush was assaulted by The Walking Dead. Over and over, I wait for a question, and this is what I hear:

"Your dress is amazing. It’s such a beautiful color."

"It must be amazing to work with Darren Aronofsky. I mean, he’s such a visionary."

"Your body is slammin’."

No questions are actually asked. A microphone invades the personal space of a celebrity, who is then supposed to do an impromptu stand-up routine while suffering fools in designer duds. If a question is actually posed, it’s claw-your-face-off, Seacrest-on-a-chalkboard banal. “Who are you excited to see tonight?” “Isn't James Franco just SO talented?”

Please, find your pulse and ask what we really want to know: Would you ever work a red carpet encased in an egg? To what tropical bird was your hairdresser paying homage? Did you have a colonic today to drop those last couple of pounds? Do you ever buy your own clothes or jewelry? Do you want to punch me in the face?

Katherine Heigl's roles

Film, television, literature, and theater have long relied on stereotypes. And so does Katherine Heigl, who continually is cast as the gorge but constipated pill of a control freak.

Whether she’s wearing scrubs or her 27^th bridesmaid’s mess, The Ugly Truth is that she’s still a drag on my movie ticket. For the love of all that is good and holy, get this girl a three-dimensional role where she’s not sleeping with her Blackberry and jumbo bottle of Purell, with only a trainwreck of a man-baby possessing the ability to thaw her bland/blond sang-froid.

(photo: aceshowbiz.com)

Eat Pray Love merch

Get a whiff of this: Fresh has created three perfumes to celebrate the release of Eat Pray Love, the movie that will almost certainly match the crazy success of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir of the same name. I love lasagna as much as the next gal, but I don’t want to smell like a primi piatti.

But wait, there’s more on the brandwagon: Home Shopping Network has created a “shopping experience” of vaguely ethnic crap inspired by Gilbert’s travels to Italy, India, and Bali. We don’t need to order up a handcarved horse bench from HSN; that’s what Pier 1 is for. How do you say “duh” in Balinese? From pasta makers to power beads, an Eat Pray Shop collection sort of seems—call me crazy—counter-intuitive to the spirit of the book.

What’s next? A Liz Gilbert action figure who comes with a pizza pie, yoga mat, and Brazilian husband who looks vaguely like Javier Bardem? Please, Viking Penguin or whoever is selling the ancillary rights, revoke this license to schill. The world doesn’t need another papasan chair littering grad student apartments and rummage sales.

(photo: fresh.com)

Sharks

As I sit on an island soaking up 4^th of July rays, I think of the quintessential summer holiday weekend movie: Jaws.

And I get fucking pissed.

Thanks to Steven Spielberg, I’ve been afraid to go into the water—even Lake Michigan—for nigh on 35 years. The image of that drunk broad holding onto the buoy as she gets munched on is forever imprinted in my landlubber brain. I don’t fancy becoming Bruce’s next amuse bouche.

To paraphrase Brody, I’m gonna need a bigger fist. Because as I learned from The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook, punching a shark in the eye or gill is the best way to go. Or I could just not go into the water…

(photo: numpanglewat.files.wordpress.com)

Swag bags

It’s awards show season and I’m pissed. No, not because The Squeakquel is getting shut out. It’s not the “In Memoriam” montages and laundry-list acceptance speeches, either. It’s those damn swag bags.

Does Kate Hudson really need a makeup case chock-full of some fancy-pants line only found at Fred Segal? What's Jennifer Lopez gonna do with another candle? Let’s be honest—she’s just going to give it to her nanny anyway if it’s not white. Does Johnny Depp want a free trip to Atlantis Paradise Island Resort & Casino? Cap’n Jack owns an island, for fuck’s sake!

Then there are the bottom-feeders like Paris Hilton and Tara Reid, who always seem to bluff their way into gift suites at Sundance or the Independent Spirit Awards so they can gobble up trampy low-rise denim, free Botox, and the newest gadget or handbag.

Fuck yeah, I’m jealous. I could use the hell out of Oliver Peoples sunglasses and some Paige denim (even if I can’t get my ass into a pair). But I can’t afford this stuff—Nicole Kidman can. Nic Cage once could. These stars, the ones who CAN pay for a phat dinner at Katsuya and an impromptu trip to Bali in their private plane, need to step away from the swag and leave it to those who really will appreciate the booty, namely me. If you don’t back away, I’m going to beat you with a fully loaded Tumi duffle bag. Take that, Drew Barrymore.

(photo: mmva.muchmusic.com)

Watching all the movie credits

The movie’s over. I know this because I hear the strains of some shitbox Celine song and I see credits rolling.

This is my cue to vamanos. I saw Scream 2. The theater’s still dark. I could die if I stay in my seat popping Milk Duds. Anyway, I have to hit the head. It was a 90-minute movie, after all.

There’s just one problem. Peen Shalit next to me is gazing at the screen as though it’s the beginning of Star Wars or a Magic Eye image.

Excuse me, sir, did you work on the film? Are you in the business? Did you happen to be in Utah during Sundance last year? Is Jeremy Piven your second cousin? Do you think there’s a clue to an episode of Lost embedded somewhere between the grip and best boy credits? Do you sleep with your eyes open? No? Then why are you still sitting there? You’re blocking my passage and the ushers need to clean up the remnants of your jumbo combo snack box before the next screening.

Sure, if outtakes or additional footage have been added to the credits, hang out. I'm right there with you. I don't want to miss Will Ferrell ad libbing hilarity, either. But that's not usually the case. If you have to watch the credits because you’re avoiding going home to an empty or angry house or because you’re an aficionado who says “film” instead of “movie” and takes your two-week vacation during your city’s film festival, at least have the decency to sit in the middle of a row so I don’t have to play impromptu aisle Twister. Consider doing what any self-respecting film buff does: study IMDB when you get home.

If I have to give you one more lap dance as I’m leaving The Squeakquel, I’m going to pack a boom mic in my bag along with my contraband snacks and go Darth Maul on you.

(photo: hereinmyhead.wordpress.com)

Steff from Pretty in Pink

Dear Steff:

You think you’re such a fox. Strutting through the halls in your white Tony Montana suit and your purdy mouth, you fling contempt right and left with those lidded “I’m so bored I’m surprised I’m even alive” eyes. But then you shake that feathered hair—do I detect frosted tips?—out of your lazy eyes and light on Andie.

As if.

While she’s sure to be a firecracker in the sack, that’s not going to happen at the stable, in your sportscar, or at your nouveau riche wreck of a house. As Blaine told me in the computer lab last period, “she thinks you’re shit.” He should know. He got all up in that on prom night.

So move on, Less than Zero. Graduate with a C+ average, buy your way into Northwestern (before your dad is indicted with Michael Milken on charges of security violations), rush Alpha Epsilon Asswipe with Hardy Jenns, and watch your back. Duckie’s planning on joining ROTC at the community college and picking up some life skills. When you see him ride by on his bike, get ready to say hello to his little friend.

Sincerely,
Me (i.e. the girl with the bi-level haircut and the neon green double-wrap belt you tried to cheat off of on last week's calc test)

P.S. John Hughes, U R 2 good 2 B 4-gotten.

(Photo: listoftheday.blogspot.com)

Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker

I waited almost thirty years to see Anakin get his Vader on. Instead, I was subjected to Christensen’s whiney little bitch with bad hair and a slightly congested voice. If being jealous and misguided were enough to turn someone to the Dark Side, we’d all be lousy with the Force.

Anakin wasn’t supposed to be Emo, he was supposed to be fucking E-V-I-L. Slink off to Tatooine, keep a dream journal, front a band, stop washing your hair. Torture the Republic with your music if you have to, but get over yourself, Little Orphan Ani. You’re no more than Chancellor Palpatine’s butt boy

The only satisfying thing about Revenge of the Sith was seeing you lying there without arms or legs as the magma inched closer. Since the lava flow and Obi-Wan didn’t quite finish you off, you pissy wet noodle with light saber envy, let me inflict some additional pain in exchange for the 140-minutes of cinematic torture I endured. Let the Death Star that is my fist rain fury on your respirator, and may the Force be with me.

(photo: www.talk.ph)

Horror movie trailers

I’m home, minding my own business. The front door is locked, the windows secure. I’m wearing my jammies.

And then, unexpectedly, I’m violated.

By my television.

I might be innocently watching the nightmare that is the Rock of Love Bus or a grisly surgery on House when the show cuts to a commercial. Sigh. Instead of a Cover Girl or Comcast ad, it’s a goddammed horror movie trailer. A young girl is running in the woods, presumably away from a psychopath or the not-so-Steadicam that’s hunting her down. In just two minutes, I hear a lot of screaming and I see duct tape, knives, guns, menace, sweaty faces that haven’t been shaved in days, lots of moody lighting, fear, choppy editing, a microwave…



My heart is racing and I’m seriously disturbed.

It's coming from inside the house.

Like Drew Barrymore in the opening sequence of Scream, I can’t escape. It’s bad enough that Friday the 13th forever screwed my chances for a fear-free camping trip, but now I have to be afraid every time I reach for the remote. The obvious solution is to quickly turn the channel or turn off the TV before I punch it in the cathode ray tube. Fuck that. These trailers make me mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

It's time to turn the tables on my tormentors. I need to strap on my hockey mask, pull on a red-and-black striped sweater, pick up my hand saw/ice pick/mallet/meat hook/rusty farm tool and…oh heck, who am I kidding? I can't go serial killer on these trailers' asses, as they are digital and as elusive as Jack the Ripper. Unless I infiltrate a movie trailer producer's studio and wipe the hard drive, crash the servers, and destroy the FTP site, my hands are tied (but not in a Hostel kind of way). Wait a minute, I bet that demon chicklet in need of a deep conditioner and a comb from The Ring could help. Samara could crawl back into the TV and magnetize anything that triggers my gag reflex.

Meanwhile, I'll watch a Clean House marathon on the Style network and mute the cheesy freecreditreport.com commercials. That kind of horror I can stomach any time.

Molly Ringwald's prom dress in Pretty in Pink

Biggest. Cinematic. Letdown. Ever.

After showing mad personal style throughout the entire movie (no one, and I mean no one, rocks pearls and flowered fabric like Molly Ringwald), the girl shows up defiantly at prom to prove to the world and to Blaine, the insipid boy with the crazy eyes and white pleated pants, that she's not broken.

Um, it's just a thought, but she might have chosen a more suitable dress to take a stand in, something that didn't scream "home-sewn hot mess."

Andie should have left Fiona's dress alone. I want to bitch slap that polyester Frankenfrock with the collar and mesh insert, shred it, and burn it. Oh, wait—it's probably flame retardant. Fire bad.

Let's hope Andie got that scholarship and used it at FIT or Parsons.

Sequels to movies that sucked ass to begin with

When I was in Oshkosh last week, I asked some students what or who they'd like to punch in the face. This was one of them. Pink Panther 2, anyone? Steve Martin, do you really need a paycheck that bad? Does a producer have some incriminating photos squirreled away somewhere? Shame on you. And why is it called Pink Panther 2 when it's like the 11th PP film?

The students also brought up films like Without a Paddle: Nature's Calling, which has none of the original actors from the original junk show. Let's not even talk about Step Up 2: The Streets.

And then there's the recent string of Bring It On and American Pie movies, which are more like branded films (think National Lampoon) than sequels. While American Pie Presents Band Camp sounds, um, charming, without any of the original cast (except, curiously, Eugene Levy) or an honest-to-God MILF in sight, you can bet it's gonna blow monkey in addition to a woodwind instrument.