Amy Adams – Behind the Proscenium

November 18, 2017November 19, 2017

Justice League [REVIEW]

Justice League

With Wit, Reviewed By Kimmo Mustonenen

There are things for the talking.

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.

Again.

And again Damn.

It is wonderful.

Kimmo Mustonenen – Behind The Proscenium – Manka Bros. Studios

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!

September 21, 2012September 21, 2012

Trouble With The Curve [REVIEW]

Trouble With The Curve

With Wit, Reviewed By Kimmo Mustonenen

Movies follow my life now.

Not as much as the “Millionaire Slum Dog,” but close.

Just the last week of my happening comes “The Master” and what the crazy Cruise/Travolta types tried to do when they attempted my mind screwing.

Now this.

Clint Eastwood is older than he should be.

He has the olds that bring the crazy.

My eye orbs were scorched with the sadness of the chair talking.

Why?

I remember my Uncle Jaarko in the final Kossu madness frenzy.

There were no chairs, only a fishing boat. Jaarko stared at the boat, and with his mouth foaming the mouth juice yelled, “Boat, if you stare at me for another minute I will rip you back to wood!” In his crazy mind place, the boat answered.

What it, the staring boat said, only pickle-minded Jaarko could ever answer.

But he is dead.

This was my life.

And now, for weeks counted to number two in a row, my past is my now.

Son of a bitch.

This week the thing that puts the “I know that old and death are like taxes” in my mind front is “Trouble With The Curve.”

I look at the man who was the badass mo-fo in “Unforgivable.” Asses, both cheeks, had the kicking.

“Outlaw Josey Wales.” “Dirty Harry.” “The Good, the Bad, and Eli Wallach.”

Now babbling like three-year-old ice cream screamer, still looking like the icon-man, almost reduced to joking old guy who drives his car into people now dead in Santa Monica (Google it if your mind is unable to recall).

“I was trying for my brakes!”

No, you had nothing right in your head. You can’t tell your brakes from your ass. Yet you remember January 7^th, 1958 in detail that is perfect.

Time has taken its toll.

Youth is over. It is fleeting. It is rarely appreciated.

So, our hero people, we wish them to forever to be ass-kickingly beautiful. With muscles that pop out like a squeezy toy.

Because if they never crap the pants, get covered with spots, drool like the monkey – how can it happen to us?

So when the crazy comes, it is that our hero is finally losing the fight. This is not possible. This is not us

But it is. God dammit.

So, while the fun is made (and I was at the T.V. party watching things Conventionally and howling like the next guy at Eastwood being the orangutan – minus the turd flinging, at least literally) we see the mortality that turns us all into smelly meat boiling in the dirt.

Where goes the soul? What did I do to make the remembrance of me? Who will give a fuck about Kimmo if he laughs at our past icon?

Omega Man (and Soylent Green and Will Penny, his name escapes my thought parts – see these films) also had his mind become cheese.

Did that lessen his earlier stuff of importance (marching with Martin Luther in the Reformation, yelling at the damn dirty apes)?

God, the hope is NO.

If our Kossu late life madness is our definition, let me die tonight – or let me disappear into a sweet smoke haze somewhere inHelsinki where I cannot be judged and die in peace.

Shit. I did not do a movie analysis. Life is bigger than the cinema. But much shorter.

But… I liked it (the cinema film). I had a pain near my heart that I was in my eyes seeing the last of a hero of a generation.

Amy Adams, great. Justin Timberlake (I am jealous of his way), great.

Clint Eastwood. Great actor. Great director. Now old guy. As we all will be. Old guy, anyway, me.

Again, son of a bitch.

So, two thumbs filled with melancholy yet straining to the sky while my face rain from my eyes fell and made my pants look like the pee stain I will make at 85. I will see “Trouble With The Curve” at least more than once.

Kimmo Mustonenen – (Kimmo On Kino) – Behind The Proscenium

P.S. Kyrle tells me that meandering will be the firing. So next week, a review that will “Ain’t It Cool” be talked to.

P.S. “The Voice” is back! I think Blake Shelton likes more booze than Kimmo! Is that possible? Go Blake!

September 14, 2012September 14, 2012

The Master [REVIEW]

The Master

With Wit, Reviewed By Kimmo Mustonenen

I was audited.

Not by the sucking of blood monsters – the IRS assholes.

That is numbers.

Easy are the numbers. No.

They tried to audit my brain stem.

Walking down Hollywood Boulevard see the hotness. She stands, nearly perfect, handing out a tiny paper for the handing out.

“Free auditing” it says.

“Go further into the Hollywood heart” or something like that. I cannot resist her boobishness (they were magnificent).

So I go. Free audit is cool!

They give me a “Test of Your Personality” instead.

I hold “the cans.”

My mind cries “what the fuck?” but it is too late.

I can be a better man, if only I have the money.

I will never get near perfect handing out of paper girl. She was the meat to attract this Finnish bear-man (not gay bear, you may understand my mouth from brain thoughts, or not).

I become aware of the thought that I’m surrounded by Scientologists.

Son of a bitch.

To them I lived 75 million years ago (thank you, internet research! You saved me millions of dollars!).

Xenu – the asshole of the story brings me to Earth flying on a 1950s Earth plane.

OK.

Then into a volcano, like a virgin whose meat curtains are intact, I am flung.

Then the bombing of the nuclear stuff. Boom!

We are all dead and floaty in space. Ghosts of space. Until onto bodies we cling, like ticks, or whores in Vegas with the money to make.

If I give up Kossu and the sweet weed my life will expand into others and money, greatness, and the ability to live in a closet (with Top Gun) will be mine.

Why this sharing of intimate and things that are close to my mind?

I just saw “The Master” and it is almost documentary in its truth.

The Cause is a front – cult to those who know what is a cult. No cans to hold on with hands, but Amy Adams… that is a rocker!

Plot? Totally in the face it comes!

First, Paul Thomas Anderson leads us in charming expressive fragments of the history of his protagonist Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) in mind.

Bird’s-eye view we see him on a warship with the noise and tries last night sleep high above the deck on a platform, from below him a bunch of sailors who party like sailors keep his awake.

The Second World War is over, Freddie is an alcoholic. Who isn’t?

A psychiatric admission and several jobs later, he is to have a drunk Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman) encounter, again on a boat.

Freddie follows, Lancaster is the leader.

Freddie has problems with Lancaster.

Lancaster has problems with Freddie.

There are motorcycles and a cool big boat on the floating of water.

And again, Amy Adams (yee haw!).

Much is happening.

Then it all arrives at basically “what the hell did my eyeballs just let enter my head?” And yet, awesome.

It has the look of well lit candy. Beautiful.

I need no sense to enter my mind parts. It is just good and cool.

So, two thumbs up, though slightly confused… the thumbs. Like the rest of my body parts.

Except for another part that is always up for Amy Adams. Heh.

Kimmo Mustonenen – (Kimmo On Kino) – Behind The Proscenium

P.S. Americahas gone to the dogs (this will be every headline, but I am always first)! At least on “America’s Got Talent.” Go, go you Olate Dogs! They know more tricks than a Kardashian whore with Ray J pretending that the camera was less than on. Again – go, go you dogs. Kardashians? Kiss my ass.