Kryle Lendhoffer has been writing Broadway Manka's "Behind The Proscenium" for over 20 years. In that time, he has had the pleasure (and burden) of interviewing some of the most powerful visionaries of modern theatre. He studied Theatrical Criticism at Cal-State Northridge and Astro-Physics at MIT.
Kingdom Of The Planet Of The Apes – With Wit Reviewed by Kimmo Mustonenen
“Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes” marks a departure from its predecessors, delving deeper into the complexities of humanity’s struggle for survival in a world ruled by apes. Directed by Wes Ball, known for his immersive storytelling in the Maze Runner series, this installment introduces Owen Teague as Noa, a young wanderer navigating the ruins of civilization.
Ball’s direction infuses the film with a palpable sense of urgency, capturing the tension of a world teetering on the brink of chaos. From the overgrown forests to the decaying remnants of human civilization, each frame is meticulously crafted to immerse the audience in the harsh reality of Noa’s journey.
Kingdom Of The Planet Of The Apes
Teague’s performance as Noa is a revelation, conveying a raw vulnerability tempered by an indomitable spirit. His chemistry with the enigmatic Caesar, portrayed with gravitas by Andy Serkis, adds depth to the narrative, exploring themes of trust and redemption in the face of overwhelming adversity.
As Noa and his unlikely allies traverse the Forbidden City, the sense of danger is palpable, thanks to Ball’s deft hand behind the camera. Every encounter with the hostile forces of the ape kingdom is fraught with tension, keeping the audience on the edge of their seats until the climactic final showdown.
“Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes” is a triumph of visual storytelling, blending heart-pounding action with thought-provoking themes.
In the bustling heart of Broadway, where the lights never dim and the melodies dance through the air like spirits of pure joy, there emerges a theatrical gem that demands not just applause, but reverence.
“Stereophonic,” crafted by the masterful David Adjmi with melodies that soar to celestial heights by the virtuosic Will Butler, and helmed with precision by the visionary Daniel Aukin, is a symphony of storytelling that transcends the mere boundaries of stage and time.
In a whirlwind of pulsating beats and poignant narratives, Adjmi’s pen waltzes through the intricacies of human connection with a finesse that is both enchanting and profound. Each character, a melody in their own right, sings with a resonance that echoes in the soul of every audience member, weaving a tapestry of emotions that ranges from the jubilant crescendos of triumph to the haunting whispers of vulnerability.
‘Stereophonic’ – Golden Theatre – New York, NY
But it is not merely the script that captivates; it is the marriage of words and music that elevates “Stereophonic” to celestial heights. Will Butler’s compositions are nothing short of celestial marvels, each note a brushstroke on the canvas of the heart. From the foot-stomping anthems that ignite the stage with fiery passion to the tender ballads that tug at the strings of the soul, Butler’s melodies are a testament to the enduring power of harmony.
Under the masterful direction of Daniel Aukin, the world of “Stereophonic” comes alive with a vibrancy that is palpable. Aukin’s keen eye for detail and unwavering commitment to authenticity infuses every scene with a sense of urgency and vitality, drawing the audience into a realm where dreams collide with reality and the boundaries between the two blur into oblivion.
‘Stereophonic’ – Golden Theatre – New York, NY
The cast (Will Brill, Andrew R. Butler, Juliana Canfield, Eli Gelb, Tom Pecinka, Sarah Pidgeon and Chris Stack) is perfection. All I want to hear on Tony Award night is ‘The winner for Best Actor in a Play is THE CAST OF STEREOPHONIC’ and ‘The winner for Best Actress in a Play is THE CAST OF STEREOPHONIC. Full stop. You can’t choose one of the the other in this equisite ensemble.
Indeed, to experience “Stereophonic” is to embark on a journey of the senses, where the heart sings in harmony with the soul, and the spirit soars to unimaginable heights.
It is a testament to the transformative power of theater, where words become music, and music becomes magic. So, let the curtains rise, and let the melodies wash over you like a gentle breeze on a warm summer’s night. For in the world of “Stereophonic,” the stage is set, and the symphony of life awaits its eager audience.
In “Challengers,” Director Luca Guadagnino merges the luminous talents of Zendaya, Mike Faist, and Josh O’Connor to navigate the labyrinth of human relationships with the finesse of a master artisan. Guadagnino delves deep into the recesses of the human psyche, uncovering the raw, primal impulses that propel his characters through the tangled thickets of desire and ambition.
Zendaya’s portrayal embodies an enigmatic allure, reminiscent of D.H. Lawrence’s heroines, oscillating between vulnerability and ferocity. Her character, with a magnetic pull akin to nature’s forces, draws Faist and O’Connor into a whirlwind of passion and uncertainty.
Faist, in his role, channels a familiar archetypal male figure: brooding, conflicted, and driven by a primal urge for dominance. His chemistry with Zendaya crackles with intensity, laying bare the volatile dynamics of power and submission.
O’Connor, in contrast, embodies a delicate balance between strength and fragility, echoing English Victorian novelist Anthony Trollope’s exploration of masculinity in flux. His character serves as a counterpoint to Faist, caught in the gravitational pull of Zendaya’s character, navigating the treacherous currents of love and ambition.
Guadagnino’s direction infuses every frame with a palpable sense of longing and desperation. Through his lens, the stark beauty of the natural world becomes a mirror to the inner turmoil of his characters, reflecting the primal instincts that drive them inexorably towards their fates.
“Challengers” is a cinematic symphony, orchestrated with the precision and depth of a D.H. Lawrence novel. It is a testament to the enduring power of desire and the human spirit, rendered with haunting beauty and unflinching honesty.
In the blood-soaked annals of cinematic history, Alex Garland’s “Civil War” stands as a tempestuous testament to the primal impulses that lurk beneath the veneer of civilization.
Produced under the aegis of A24, the vanguard of contemporary independent cinema, and helmed by the visionary auteur Garland, this tour de force plunges the viewer into the chasm of human conflict with an unflinching gaze that resonates long after the credits roll.
Set against the backdrop of a nation in the throes of ideological warfare, “Civil War” is a harrowing odyssey that navigates the treacherous terrain of love, loyalty, and betrayal. At its heart are the enigmatic figures of Kirsten Dunst and Jesse Plemons, whose performances are as haunting as they are hauntingly authentic. As a couple torn asunder by the inexorable tide of discord, their portrayal transcends mere acting, evoking a raw intensity that sears the soul.
Garland’s directorial prowess is on full display, weaving a tapestry of tension and turmoil that ensnares the audience from the opening frame. With a keen eye for detail and a mastery of atmosphere, he conjures a world teetering on the brink of collapse, where every whisper carries the weight of impending doom. Through his lens, the battlefield becomes a crucible of the human condition, where the boundaries between friend and foe blur into insignificance.
But perhaps the true genius of “Civil War” lies in its refusal to provide easy answers or moral platitudes. Instead, Garland confronts the viewer with uncomfortable truths and existential quandaries, forcing us to confront the darkness that lurks within us all. In this fractured landscape, there are no heroes or villains, only flawed individuals grappling with the chaos of existence.
In the tradition of Norman Mailer’s unyielding exploration of the human psyche, “Civil War” stands as a towering achievement of modern cinema. With its searing performances, masterful direction, and uncompromising vision, it dares to ask the question: in a world torn apart by strife, what does it mean to be human? And in doing so, it leaves an indelible mark on the soul, a testament to the enduring power of art to illuminate the darkest recesses of the human experience.
Eugene O’Neill’s Bikini Beach (1954) – A Cinematic Anomaly [NEW YORKER by A. Waldhorn]
Eugene O’Neill’s Bikini Beach, the latest offering from Manka Bros. Studios, is a perplexing amalgamation of highbrow drama and lowbrow entertainment.
Directed by the enigmatic Gerald Von Loven, this film dives headfirst into uncharted waters, attempting to fuse the serious themes of O’Neill’s renowned plays with the frivolity of a beachside romp. The result is a cinematic oddity that leaves viewers questioning its intentions and ultimate message.
Set against the backdrop of a picturesque beach resort, the film follows the lives of a group of young vacationers as they navigate love, lust, and existential angst. The characters, thinly veiled caricatures of O’Neill’s iconic figures, engage in melodramatic dialogue that often feels out of place amidst the sun-soaked scenery and carefree atmosphere.
At its core, Bikini Beach strives to explore weighty themes such as the human condition, the nature of desire, and the quest for meaning in a seemingly indifferent universe. However, these profound ideas are frequently overshadowed by juvenile humor, gratuitous beach scenes, and musical interludes that serve little narrative purpose.
The cast, led by the charismatic but miscast William “Billy” Hammerstein as the tortured protagonist, delivers performances that range from wooden to over-the-top. Despite their efforts, the actors struggle to breathe life into characters that feel more like archetypes than fully realized individuals.
Visually, Bikini Beach is a feast for the eyes, with vibrant Technicolor cinematography capturing the beauty of its seaside setting. However, the film’s aesthetic pleasures are often undercut by its jarring tonal shifts and disjointed narrative structure.
One cannot help but wonder what Eugene O’Neill, known for his introspective and deeply psychological dramas, would make of this unconventional adaptation of his work. While the film’s ambition is commendable, its execution leaves much to be desired.
In conclusion, Eugene O’Neill’s Bikini Beach is a curious experiment that falls short of its lofty aspirations. Despite moments of genuine insight and occasional flashes of brilliance, the film ultimately fails to reconcile its conflicting elements, resulting in a disjointed and unsatisfying cinematic experience.
First, let me say, it is like hot sauna on a cold winter night. You know, makes you sweat, but in a good way, like you’re alive.
This movie, it’s like if you took a big truck, filled it with mud, and then put some fireworks on top.
Boom!
That’s ‘Roadhouse’ for you. It’s all about this guy, tough as nails, walks into this small town, and suddenly, everything is on fire. And I mean that literally and figuratively.
The action, oh boy, it’s like watching a pack of angry bears fighting in the woods. You don’t know who’s gonna come out alive, but you can’t look away. The fight scenes are like a beautiful dance of destruction, choreographed by the gods of chaos.
Now, the story, well, it’s not exactly Shakespeare, but who needs fancy words when you got fists flying and motorcycles roaring? It’s about honor, revenge, and kicking butt. And let me tell you, they do a lot of butt-kicking in this movie.
The characters, they’re like something out of a wild west saloon. You got your heroes, your villains, and everything in between. And let me tell you, Patrick Swayze, rest his soul, he’s the heart and soul of this movie. His charisma could light up a whole town. And Jake Gyllenhaal is OK Joe as well.
Overall, ‘Roadhouse’ is like a shot of whiskey on a rough day – it burns, but it’s oh so satisfying.
So, if you’re looking for a wild ride with plenty of action and a sprinkle of old-school charm, then grab your popcorn and buckle up, because ‘Roadhouse’ is one hell of a ride.
Good day. Behind the Proscenium is more of a theater and movie review website – but when Beyoncé does anything, and especially, when she puts out such a massive world-changing album, I felt I had to weigh in. So here is my review… [Kyrle Lendhoffer]
In Beyoncé’s latest auditory canvas, ‘Cowboy Carter,’ we witness the collision of disparate worlds, each painted with strokes of defiance and discord. Through the fractured lens of German Expressionism, Beyoncé plunges the listener into a phantasmagoric realm where the boundaries between reality and illusion blur, and the human psyche is laid bare.
The album unfolds like a fever dream, a kaleidoscopic odyssey through the desolate landscapes of the American West, where figures clad in cowboy attire roam amidst the shadows of towering mesas and barren plains. Beyoncé’s voice, at once haunting and ethereal, echoes through the empty expanse, weaving a tapestry of melancholy and yearning.
Yet, beneath the surface veneer of cowboy mythology lies a seething undercurrent of existential dread and societal decay. In tracks such as “American Anthem” and “Desert Eagle,” Beyoncé confronts the specter of mortality with raw intensity, her vocals reverberating like the anguished cries of lost souls adrift in the wilderness of the human condition.
The sonic palette of ‘Cowboy Carter’ is equally evocative, characterized by discordant melodies and dissonant harmonies that evoke the fractured psyche of the modern era. Industrial beats collide with mournful strings, creating a cacophony of sound that mirrors the tumultuous landscape of the soul.
In its thematic exploration, ‘Cowboy Carter’ delves into the existential abyss, grappling with the fundamental questions of existence and identity. Beyoncé confronts the oppressive forces of patriarchy and colonialism with unflinching resolve, challenging the hegemonic narratives that have long defined the American frontier.
Ultimately, ‘Cowboy Carter’ stands as a testament to Beyoncé’s artistic vision and uncompromising spirit. It is a haunting meditation on the human condition, rendered with the visceral intensity of a fevered dream.
Through her bold experimentation and avant-garde sensibilities, Beyoncé pushes the boundaries of popular music, inviting listeners to confront their own inner demons and embrace the ineffable beauty of the unknown.
Say, pals, gather ’round and lend an ear to the tale of “The First Omen.” A flick that’s got more twists and turns than a back alley in the Bronx.
Directed by none other than that cinematic maestro, Arkasha Stevenson, this picture takes you on a rollercoaster ride through the dark alleys of fate, where the lines between good and evil are as blurry as a speakeasy’s moonshine.
In the heart of the big city, where the neon lights flicker like stars in a cloudy sky, we find ourselves in the midst of a gripping narrative. The story centers around one Jimmy Malone, a regular joe with a heart as big as the Ritz and a shadow that stretches further than Broadway. Played to perfection by the incomparable Johnny “Two-Fingers” Callahan, Malone is a man haunted by his own past, grappling with the demons that lurk in the depths of his soul.
But fear not, dear reader, for Malone is not alone in his struggle against the forces of darkness. Enter Sister Mary Catherine, portrayed with equal parts grit and grace by the luminous Ruby “Red” O’Malley. A dame of the cloth with a penchant for punching above her weight class, Sister Mary Catherine is the yin to Malone’s yang, the light in his darkest hour.
Together, they embark on a journey that will take them to the very edge of sanity and back again. From the smoke-filled backrooms of the city’s underworld to the hallowed halls of the cathedral, they confront a series of trials and tribulations that would make even the most hardened gangster think twice.
But what sets “The First Omen” apart from your run-of-the-mill morality tale is its keen sense of style and panache. Stevenson’s direction is as sharp as a switchblade, weaving a tapestry of intrigue and suspense that keeps you on the edge of your seat from start to finish. And let’s not forget the impeccable costume design by the legendary Vinnie “The Needle” De Luca, which transports you straight to the heyday of the Roaring Twenties with its impeccable attention to detail.
In the end, “The First Omen” is more than just a movie; it’s an experience. A journey into the heart of darkness, where the only thing standing between salvation and damnation is the strength of one’s own convictions. So if you’re looking for a film that’ll leave you spellbound from the opening credits to the final fade-out, look no further than “The First Omen.”
All involve dick wagging, dick tugging, boob grabbing, pussy wrangling, and tongue rehearsals.
Ick.
Hollywood, what up?
D.C., what up?
Alabama – you am just being Alabama I guess – if creepy old guy for Senate was dry humping his sister. That is totally of the Alabama.
There are too many to name.
And it is the suck of all sucks.
I now have the sads.
Until… JUSTICE LEAGUE!!!
First was the smoke.
The sweet, sweet smoke.
My brain said, “if that Superman-ending damn poop monster comes back (from B vs. S – Justice At Dawn), I’ll have a poop monster of my own making in my Loom Fruits!”
So I calmed my mind with numbness. And three shots of Kossu.
At 110 minutes I didn’t fear the urinal siren call. So down goes shot #4. Now I was ready.
First, Batman (Ben Affleck – uninvited butt grabber) is still Will Arnett (best Batman) and angsty. Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) walks in leather pants until the shit (being Steppenwolf – 60s band but now bad guy from shit video game [Ciarán Hinds]) hits the fan as if monkey flung from monkey butt at school field trip while zoo-ing). He wants boxes to make his Mother.
It made sense.
This must be believed.
I mean, he came from space!
The flying monkeys (Oz style) come flying around, but there are no flying houses… wait, yes, there are!
So Batman wants to put a band together.
He finds Aquadude (Khal Drogo) and a self-described Jew who is also The Flash (Ezra Miller).
Then there is (I think) a Transformer called Cyborg (Ray Fisher). He plugs in to more shit than R2-D2.
Yes, that is possible.
There is wit, flung like the fan hitting poop (thanks, Joss Whedon).
This is a “not so dark” DC movie.
And it was awesome-sauce!
Why is this a saying?
And, also, “amaze-balls.”
Why?
Both words are banned from my world.
You are welcome!
What I mean, when said correctly, is two thumbs –
SPOILER ALERT!
“Up, up, and away!”
END SPOILER ALERT!
33% from Rotten Tomatoes is shit flying – water cannon style – from an enraged bull. I will see it again. My love for Gal Gadot is now equal to the love I had for Ginnifer Goodwin in the ancient past and the love I had for Gemma Arterton combined in to a love pile. My only chance for love fulfilling is to see her in IMAX.
P.S. Louis CK, you are a sick fuck. The internet was created for the porn! Use it!
P.P.S. Al, you were good enough, smart enough, and you still were pooch screwing. Idiot.
P.P.P.S. Who will be next? I will start a “Career Now Dead Pool Because of Sick Predatory Behavior”! Give me the answers that are yours of who is next in the comments!
“Where have you been, Kimmo?” you ask to the heavens.
Holy for the crap.
I have been in rehab for the rehab.
The kossu and sweet, sweet smoke is too much.
Or just enough.
I think just enough.
And my damn dumb employers think this is where problems lie. I have no longer the caring in my wet drive brain.
I will do what I do, for I am what I is. Kimmo. And I do this for you.
I review… “It.” Not “IT.” “IT” would be our IT department and would be about the mentally retarded and not the scary clown thing. And that movie would suck me.
Dry.
Review time.
Not yet. The theater where the watching happened has itself a bar (thanks Odin!) that has movie drinks made for the movie in the theme of the movie.
I laughed for my friend and said, “’The Pennywise’ drink would be a six-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade” and laughed and laughed.
My friend was “huh?” To which my mouth said, “To Catch a Predator, dumbass.”
Slivovitz shot from my friend’s nose holes.
All was fun.
Now review time.
Back in time was a town.
In 1990, Tim Curry tried to kill John Boy, Jack Tripper and friends. He sucked at it. So now an uber Tim Curry, Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård) says “I got this, clown friend, take a nap” and goes a kid killin’.
First is Georgie (Jackson Robert Scott) who is all “Do you need a hand… arm?” He gives it.
The shit gets really shitty (for kids, not for film) from here.
Budding teenagers, teenager angst, sheep, sewers, more teenager angst, death, teenager assholes, don’t give a single fuck parents, bikes, evil hair in sink, and more teenager angst.
And great ending!
SPOILER ALERT!
Pennywise comes to door of a house that the suburbs call cool. Carrying the nectar called Mike’s Hard Lemonade he, at the door, is knock knock knock. The door is opened. In walks Pennywise, starting to sport a major chub. Then… a man appears. “Pennywise, take a seat!” It is Chris Hansen (Chris Hansen)!!! “No more child death fun for you!”
This is a lie. But would have been so satisfying to my brain.
SPOILER UN-ALERT!
“It” has both of my thumbs up like the major chub that Pennywise was about to sport.
You won’t even need kossu or the smoke. That is a joke – always drink the kossu and always smoke the smoke. Doctors recommend it.
Kimmo Mustonenen – Manka Bros. Studio – Behind The Proscenium
P.S. “Twin Peaks” – WTF? David Lynch, I want to smoke with you. Which Coop is Coop? Why is Dougie? What is Richard? Mr. C? Why is David Bowie now a giant tea pot? Is there sense to be made? Why doesn’t Mädchen Amick age? Why am I even caring? Am I not high enough? My brain stem aches. Don’t make another season. I am for the begging. Stop. Now.
P.P.S. This I know of “Game of Thrones.”Tormund Giantsbane is Finnish. A Finn’s Finn. This I know. From his woman taste. For there is nothing better than a woman you can climb like a ladder. There is no more for the truth than that. Ask a Finn. This is daring you!
If so, I am charged guilty – guilty of Goddess worshipping.
But then… then… your ding damn movie!
W in TF?
Oh Odin!
I tried for the drunkening.
I smoked the sweet, sweet smoke.
I, with accidental dumb, froze my nut bag with ice cream Bon-Bons (again! I hope my swimmers are still active).
But I must have to say – my IQ was shed of a good 50 points much like dog hairs falling in the heat wave.
IQ all over the sofa.
IQ all over my jacket.
IQ stuck in my butt crack.
“Independence Day: Resurgence” is so dumb, that dumb is smart to it.
How dumb?
OK!
Dumb plot?
Sure!
Will Smith has asked for so much cheddar that he is now just a portrait.
His son (Jessie T. Usher) is a mannequin that is also a pilot.
Judd Hirsh is still Jewing – his boat is floated by continent-sized alien frisbee into Nevada. Believing is total, really – only 90% of audience went “bulls are shitting here” when seeing this.
David Levinson (Jeff Goldblum) is still on meth twitchy – but his ex-wife from 20 years ago is a goner. Or she is now French (Charlotte Gainsbourg). There is no explanation.
The there is Mr. Sass (Liam Hemsworth) who is also hot shot top gun pilot guy. He can fly anything (as well as not kill puppies when listening to Miley Cyrus talk – maybe the deafness has saved his brain).
Data (Brent Spiner) who died in ID4 has beaten dead, but unlike Christ took longer than 3 days to be the groundhog. He is funny, and with it has many more smarts than the movie film.
President Whitmore (Bill Pullman) has a cane, so we know he is the crazy. His daughter (Maika, I forgive you, and will for every time you have me arrested – so stop with that doing of arresting, OK?) is hot and is good at piloting, too. And she and Liam are in the Mile High Club.
Hopefully. If I was Liam.
Pac-Man comes to the moon, but we are all “suck it, Pac-Man” and shoot him in the face. But… he has come to say that… they are coming… Space Invaders!!!
Ugh.
Same shi-ite, different movie.
More coincidences that can possibly be coincidental.
Everybody ends up somewhere where the rest of everybody is. Then the other bodies end up where they are at.
Then some are in the giant alien frisbee bigger than Antarctica.
Then they are not.
There are speeches.
There are ethnic people on the radios listening to the speeches and maybe the World Cup (all of us ethnics listen to futball on the radio – so you can recognize us as not you).
Explosions.
Pac-Man is really Pac-Girl.
Whaaaaaaat?!?
Damn.
I wonder who wins.
So.
Two thumbs, like the ice-box carrots that became mine three weeks ago and are limper now than little Kimmo in the jail shower (fear makes soft – fact), pointing dirt-ward.
I will have this movie on my eyes maybe once more – this fall – while drunk and high and trying to sleep and ID:R slithers up on the HBO.
I will blow kisses to Maika, squirt water from my eyes in love-pain, and like a tiny little girl cry myself to my sleeping place.
But for you? Go see “Swiss Army Man” – Harry Potter farting > Jeff Goldblum twitching. Fact.
P.S. What in the F, Great Britain? Now you are like Norway, but without pickled herring. And Norway without pickled herring is just Great Britain. Put that in your pipe and chew on it.
P.P.S. Maika, I forgive you… and will wait for you until Gemma Arterton’s next film. Then Gemma is mine. You have been warned! But I still forgive you.
“Where was the Kimmo?” you may all have asked – at least 3,575 emailed to find where my life was. I was with the writer’s block.
The worst of all writer’s block that ever blocked. That block was named “sobriety.” They said “go to rehab.” I said “no, no, no.” Then they said “to rehab you go or your job is toast.”
I said “OK.”
A year goes by.
“Write, Kimmo” says the Boss Man. “How?” said I. My brain thoughts are stuck with no Kosso or sweet, sweet smoke.
Then I met Magda.
She was a Swede, so I was all “run away, she will eat your soul.” But her boobies were too perky and I was stuck with her love.
One night, afraid that she would strangle my neck in her sleep – (Finns and Swedes are like cats and dogs who have more hate than cats and dogs) – I snuck to the kitchen. In the freezer was Kossu. “Eff sobriety in the A!” I said – then gurgled the fire water into my gaping mouth hole. Then I found old green in a coat pocket – still smokeable.
I was buzzed, and kinda high… I was complete again.
So now, I am for writing – block gone!
Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice.
Wow.
What more to say?
Plot?
Do superheroes wear their underwear outside their pants? Damn straight!
Superman (Henry Cavill) is an alien illegally. He blowed up Gotham real good while bitch slapping General Zod (Michael Shannon) in previous movie, Steely Man.
This makes Batman (Ben Affleck) all like “you are an alien – if there’s even 1% chance that you might steal my car, I must 100% put my foot in your butt!”
Then Lex Luthor (Jesse Eisenberg) starts with the twitching like Katherine Hepburn. But without the good acting. He, like a junior high mean girl, wants Sup and Bat to fight!
Sup is busy trying to get busy with Lois Lane (Amy Adams). She keeps looking for news, but only finds that women are only to be saved.
Until Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot –hubba hubba!) comes along. She don’t need no saving. And she has a lasso!
Shit gets weird.
There is a kryptonic alien beast that looks like my Xbox had to this life traveled and then pooped out a giant monster.
There is fighting.
Sup flies to space with the kryptonic poop monster, then, when nuked, falls back to earth like a Malaysian airliner.
There are winners and losers.
And Jeremy Irons as a smarter Alfred.
That’s all you get from me – spoilers are for assholes, and my assholishness is at a low level – that’s for sure.
So, one drunken thumb happily up, another thumb stoned, also happy, also up.
Go see this movie, theater-style.
It is big and dumb, like Duane Johnson. But a lot better.
Be surrounded by geeks. And nerds. You will be so filled with movie love that you, too, may become a geeky nerd. So be it.
Don’t forget the sweet, sweet smoke. Trust me!
Kimmo Mustonenen – Kimmo On Kino – Behind The Proscenium
P.S. There were no random shots fired in people today on a mass scale in this country. Step up, America!
P.P.S. After The Drunkening, try to say Saoirse Ronan three times fast. It is unpossible.
One is infecting you in the Disneyland, the other jumps the weenie (or Fort Cootchie if a woman-type) in the back seat of a car (or in parent’s basement – prison sex FTW!).
Yes, Shtup (thanks Jew friends for the word!) Monster.
Crotch Beasts.
Lumbering Junk Ghoul.
Herpes Walker.
Whatever you call it – “It Follows.”
Scariest movie of all time.
Because there is truth in the horror depiction of sex death.
Sex death isn’t having a hockey mask on the face and a machete. Sex death isn’t drowned kid at Camp Bone and Die. Sex death walks everywhere (like a hippy – or a DUI guy) and is usually naked.
And he/she never stops walking. Well, the walking stops when killing starts.
Damn.
Plot?
Oh.
My.
God.
There is a plot.
Jay (Maika Monroe) is sweet good girl who looks great in a one piece. She has friends. Nerd girl (Olivia Luccardi) who would be Daphne in Scooby Doo, Nerd Boy (Keir Gilchrist) who is a probable mix-tape master in 80’s movies, and her not as hot sister Kelly (Lili Sepe).
Jay gets the sex itch and makes the two backed beast with proto-frat boy Hugh (Jake Weary).
All is pretty flowers until Hugh uses hand roofies AFTER sex on Jay’s face and then is to tell poor Jay “I put a monster in your Secret Garden. You must throw this monster on another man’s pork. If you do not a naked woman will walk slowly at you until death.”
Yep.
That happens.
Then Jay and The Gang try to solve the mystery.
This movie is so the awesome that my mind is still scared. The rest of me, too.
Yet, I have horror questions.
Hollywood, are not all horror movies to be found footage? After Blair Witch Projecting, all the Paranorman Activity, Rec, the Cloverfield, and all of that jazzing – a real movie now?
Hollywood, you mess with my Kimmo head more than 3 liters of finest Kossu. But that is digressing.
SPOILER ALERTING!!! Maybe.
Now plot questions. Can Jay pass on death in girl on girl scissor action, or must jizz always be involved?
If Hugh just whacked into trusty sock, would Shtup Monster kill sock before Hugh?
Why is Sex Beast standing naked on the roof, smiling, like a naked on the roof Sex Beast?
SPOILING OVER!!!
So, wow.
Two thumbs up in the sky, afraid of the sex, but wanting all the same. Maika Monroe makes me want to hug her into safety. But only hugging. I have no wants for Phallus Fiend to bend me pretzel-like.
Go to this movie.
Drink, smoke, then lose your bone.
It is worth it.
Show this movie to horny teenagers. They will stop horning.
P.S. Iowa State, you are my bracket breaker! I never hear of you until Wednesday, now I hate you losers with the heat of a million suns. There is nothing quite with the stupid as basketball has. Damn.
P.P.S. “The Returned” was better in France. French are creepy people – that is fact.
Some disease child left his funk on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and then I was with the infection. Or maybe it was stupid Tea Cups (they are good for nothing).
Damn. I was with icky red spots covered – as if a jar of jam had exploded and vaporized over my body – but not delicious.
All that was delicious was the Kossu I drank by the liter, putting out my jam inspired skin fire.
For weeks I got to think, “why were my parents in my baby pooping times dirty hippies living in North Finland commune?”
As is known to all not dirty hippies, they don’t put dead or weak viruses in their children. They are too high to worry about science. Or bathing. Or shaving arm pits.
But mainly science.
When my parents became clean and with jobs again and now being good society people (but still high) they forgot that I never had the only needle that I wanted for germ killing.
So, at the Happiest Place on Earth (no way really, best happy place is Six Flags “Now We Puke With Our New Hispanic Friends” Magic Mountain – just not on “Gang Night” – too many casualties) I get crappy Disneyland Measles.
And neither Kossu or the sweet, sweet smoke could made it OK.
But something just did make things OK.
Or someone.
And that someone was hot piece of 99% woman – she gave me the tingles. In my man place. And in my man mind.
She is Cinderella (Lily James).
Plot? Hells yeah, and more.
Lust and politics.
CGI mice.
Did I mention Lily James?
Poor Cinderella. She lives in Make Believe with Cool Dad (British Guy) and Hot Mom (British Chick).
In Make Believe, the 99% live in McMansions and have servants. But they want to be the 2%, like Prince Kit (Rob Stark).
Prince Kit’s Dad (Derek Jacobi) wants Kit to marry into the 1%.
When Cool Dad and Hot Mom die, Cinderella is forced to live with Stepmother (MILF Cate Blanchett) and Step Sisters (bitch face women from “Fashion Police”, I think).
Her new family is the suck.
Cinderella is so effed up she is talking to mice, a stag, some lizards, a bird, and (gasp) even the help.
One day, while out on a horse (that she is not talking to), she runs into Mr. Stag. He’s all like “Rob Stark wants to gut me” and Cinderella is all like “No way, Jose. Light that rocket in your ass and jet on out.”
Mr. Stag is all like “Don’t have to say that twice girlfriend” and bounces.
Rob Stark shows up and is all like “Damn, girl, you are fine! And nice. You are mine.”
Cinderella is all like (in her mind thoughts) “Mmmm, mmm, mmm – we are gonna be getting’ busy… in our married future which may never come.”
What happens next? Smoke the smoke, drink the drink, request Uber, and GO TO THE MULTIPLEX.
PUBLIC SERVICE MESSAGE: Always smoke, always drink, and always Uber. Kimmo approves of this message.
There are disappointments in Cinderella.
Rob Stark wears tight pants but they strap down his “Hamm-aconda” (Jon Hamm’s conjoined twin – groin beast – in “Mad Men” – it is legendary).
Now, it could be that Rob Stark isn’t packing… but we all know that is a damned liar lie. It would have been nice for the ladies.
So, I have two thumbs (and other things, I am winking at you with innuendo) straining to the CGI sky.
Cinderella is good.
No shit.
You may even have eye water leaks (damn romance stuff – maybe there was dust in the air).
P.S. “The 100!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Damn, Clarke. You are one stone cold-assed assassin. Now learn to forgive and go make out with Lexa. It is your destiny. And it will be appointment TV. At least in the house of Kimmo.
P.P.S. Pete Carroll, you are owning me $500. Passing on the 1? With two time outs and Marshawn Lynch? Huh. Really. There is in Seattle Aquarium a hermit crab named Marshawn Pinch. This is the truth. Marshawn Pinch would have from the 1 scored. Damn.
1) Muscles. Hard to be massive Super-Finn when keyboard is stuck to finger ends and I must drink Kossu and smoke for you people for the movies to know of watching or not. Hard work, but not of the muscle kind. Damn.
2) Jar of Pickled Herring. Damn stuff. Now that I am a burger eater (U.S.A.! U.S.A.!) that jar of heaven has turned in to jar of vinegar fish. Into the garbage, fish. My brain is hanging upside down.
3) Emotions. Until new love of my life – Tatiana Maslany – is made to me availability, I can only feel sulking and sad. 5% of each : ( Which is 10% in adding).
Now for some dumb: we all use all of our brains all of the time.
10% usage bullshit is 100% bullshit.
Yet 90% are little fool brains that go “OK! 10% it is! Preach on, Brother Luc!”
So, he does.
And so, we have “Lucy”.
Best part of “Lucy” (not including Scarlett Johansson’s parts)? You will only need 6% of your brain for the “Lucy” liking.
Maybe 5.
Plot? Does late night acid trip have plotting?
Then, yes – let’s go to Plot City!
In Taiwan, poor Lucy (Scarlett Johansson) is much too hot for crap friend (Pilou Asbaek) so he handcuffs her to a briefcase (take that, “50 Shades of Grey”).
Then there is death by shooting, and in comes Oldboy (Choi Min-sik). He puts blue drugs (Heisenberg shout out!) into her stomach and says, in his mind thoughts, “you are my hot mule now, bitch!”
He is right.
She is one hot mule.
Bitch.
Lucy reacts like a literal kick to the stomach, which happens.
Boom!
Drugs loose in the streaming blood of her body blood river, Lucy now gets a brain, bigger and faster than Caesar in the first Apes movie.
Now there is a race and who will win – Mr. Death, or Lucy’s brain – getting bigger, awesome-er, and crazier by the second?
Best times are when her cells start to get brainy.
All of them.
They are like, “we’re cells, and we’re outta here, man.” They are for splitting, but Lucy’s big brain says “eff that, cells. Stick around and things will get AWESOME!”
So they do.
Too give away any is to give away all, except: She is on a questing, to Paris (why not?), to find super smart guy Professor Norman (Morgan Freeman).
Lucy want to know 1) Why is my mind moving crap? 2) Why are my cells talking and wanting to leave me? 3) Where did these tentacles come from?
Norman has some answers, but not for tentacles (my fingers wanted to type “testicles”! Crazy dirty fingers!)
So, two thumbs up for reasons I am now giving (even two tentacles, if I had them… heh testicles).
With the sweet, sweet smoke and four shots of Kossu, the movie was a happy fun time in my cranium.
Special effects? Check.
Cool violence? Check.
Scarlett Johansson walking in slow motion (boing, boing, boing)? Double check.
And the movie was one hour and twenty nine minutes long. Take that Hollywood. It can be done. Now do it more often.
P.S. “The Strain” is some icky shit. But I am all in on loving it. No sparkly vampires, but vampire worms! Robert Pattinson, finally a vampire you would be good at! I kid, Robert. You would suck (as in “bad”, not vacuum blood into mouth hole), even as worm. This is the truth.
Kimmo Mustonenen, Behind The Proscenium
