Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

The Drink: El Jimador tequila
The Movie: Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

     I had been warned about seeing this movie, but it was by a friend that also says "The Life Aquatic" is up there on his top ten list, so naturally I thought "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen" couldn't be all that bad. (I tried to do a review on "The Life Aquatic" but I was unable to get the image of all those hipsters gawking at the same movie through their fake lens nerd glasses while wringing their shoddily hand knitted berets in frail, soft hands while making sure no one else was purpously pigeon- toeing  their teal Converse sneakers in quite the same unique way they were.)  Where was I?

  Oh yes, driving down the highway in New Hampshire.  For those of you who don't know, New Hampshire has zero sales tax, and a little tendril of land that managed to worm its way between Maine and Massachusetts to reach the ocean.  If you take almost any exit off the highway along this nubbin of N.H. ( or any exit in New Hampshire for all I know) you will find a gloriously huge, cheap, tax free liquor store.  You can find anything there, from salted caramel vodka, to fifteen different types of absinthe.  Also a big potion looking bottle of pink alcoholic barf labeled Qream. ( see photo above)  This is also where I first discovered I could hold my breath for over two minutes while navigating a bathroom where, apparently, someone had been drinking Qream the night before.

     So that night we watched "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen".  I am a fan of both Emily Blunt and Ewan McGregor, which is my only excuse for sitting through the whole thing.  This may have been a mistake.  Much like some friends of mine who in the late 90's went to see The Wallflowers in concert, leaving with giggly high hopes of catching Jakob Dylan's eye, but returning with runny mascara and grumblings about how he was actually sort of a douche bag, I also have lost a bit of respect for Blunt and McGregor.
     When McGregor actually turns and smacks his face into a glass door, I was disappointed.  When Kristin Scott Thomas makes her appearance looking like the daughter of The Wolfman and the Bride of Frankenstein, I was grossed out.  When Blunt spends half the movie moping and blubbering about the disappearance of her soldier boy-toy, not because she loved him but because "she never got a chance to know him", I was gagging. But when McGregor actually brandishes his fly rod like a whip, snagging the earlobe of an assassin from 50 feet away and preventing him from shooting, I was wishing for an assassin of my own.  And when the whole thing deteriorates into some sort of terrorist plot against salmon, I was in the kitchen pouring more tequila.
    While trying to point out all the lame things about this film is about as useful as trying to pick ticks off a feral cat, I feel I must point out one more complaint. C.G. salmon.  I've seen better computer graphics watching my nephew play Minecraft.
     When I first saw the film "A River Runs Through It", I admit that I was one of the dorks that went out and bought a fly rod and had dreams of standing in crisp waters, casting like a pro.  If I hadn't already snapped my rod in half and flung it into the creek in a fit of rage after one too many snags on the brush behind  me, Salmon Fishing in the Yemen would have no doubt produced the same result.
   

Movie: The Artist

Drink: Bombay Sapphire martini



     I admit, I did not have high hopes for this movie.  The fact that it  won the Oscar for best picture was my first warning.  My second warning came a mere 5 minutes into the film when my brain was telling me " better get us some more gin, buddy.  This is gonna be a long, annoying, big band music filled nightmare."
     Right off the bat, there is a long scene showing the audience in a theater watching a silent movie.  Watching a silent movie about people watching a silent movie so early in the film only served to make me remember that they were forced to watch a silent movie, where as I was watching one of my own volition. There is a reason movies have full soundtracks now.  The most important being that sometimes a movie needs to be truly silent.  Some of the best films use the music and the absence of music perfectly to create atmosphere and depth.  The worst ones have the soundtrack blaring away in the background while a dramatic scene gets swallowed up and lost in its wake.  The Artist is filled with  non-stop orchestra music.  If  I had seen it in a theater with a real band, then maybe , maybe it could get away with it.  If you are in your living room, then you are going to feel like you are on hold with the IRS for 2 hours.
    Another problem is with the actors themselves.  Berenice Bejo was a terrible choice in my opinion.  Her painfully bony face and plastic surgery pointy nose were so out of place, as were her bulging eyes and huge overly white teeth and protruding rib cage.  For a minute I thought I was watching Desperate Housewives with the color off on my t.v.  While Jean Dujardin wasn't quite as annoying, I still got so sick of his sad, sad eyebrow raises and the gigantic shark attack smile that makes me wonder if he's not related to Julia Roberts.
     I'm sure most of you are thinking "he just doesn't get it", but I assure you that I do.  If you are working with a limp, boring love story and your audience is a bunch of  limp, boring hipsters that will swarm to anything even remotely retro, this is the film to make.  It was a one trick pony, a gimmick.  If you don't believe me, I'm willing to take bets on whether a black and white silent film will win the Oscars again next year.  Any takers?

War Horse

The Drink :  A full growler of dark, slightly under-carbonated, home brewed beer. And about 6 shots of some cheap tequila purchased in Minneapolis.


It was a cold, damp weekend in Elk River, MN.  Trivial Pursuit had been played and Boggle had been unscrambled to death.  The soundtrack to Love Story spun lopsided on the turntable, skipping around between moody piano and needle scratches sounding like a syrupy hiccup until I was nausious, much like watching the movie itself, but that's a review for another time.
    I suggested we hit up the Redbox.  Now, for some still unexplained reason, my gracious hosts were profoundly opposed to Redbox.  I argued its virtues for nearly an hour, getting nowhere until I simply picked a movie and reserved it online, forcing them to choose between the age old dilemma of watching movies on a boring rainy day or losing a dollar.  We drove to Redbox, although in hindsight, I really wish they would have stuck to their guns and stood up for their beliefs.
    There is really very little good I can say about War Horse, except for that it's the first movie I have seen where I think the main animal character is a pompous ass hole.  Congo came close,  but really, if the scientist would have just deactivated that electronic translator the ape would just have been doing regular sign language.
     Right off the bat, the kid that takes a liking to the horse annoyed me.  I'm assuming he came straight from failed casting of Wizards of Waverly Place and walked next door to the War Horse set. Yes, I'm saying he looked like a Disney dork.  Second, Disney dork calls the horse Joey.  Watch Black Beauty or Seabiscuit and in your mind, name those horses Joey and tell me you still like those movies.
     The fact that the horse apparently listens to Disney dork and understands English and agrees to plow a huge field out of the kindness of its horse heart does not help its case.  Anyone who has ever been thrown from a horse, kicked by a horse, shat on by a horse, had  a horse fart in your face, know that horses just don't give a s**t.
     My gracious hosts usually have a rule about ABSOLUTELY NO TALKING during a movie, a rule I feel I should point out to them only applies in the theater, and that I can't bloody well tell other people in the theater to shut up and watch movies at home if they're going to talk if people aren't actually allowed to talk during movies at home.  However,  during the scene where the farm's entire turnip crop is ruined by...wait for it...rain, we could keep silent no longer.  The farmwife pulls up big beautiful turnips and throws them to the nicely moistened ground bemoaning her fate and we go to pieces, pouring more out of the growler, popping popcorn, and other usual protests.
     The rest of the movie just goes on and on with ridiculous horsness that is too painful to relate, like a time you were super embarrassed that you just want to forget.  Somewhere along the way someone said " Didn't Steven Spielberg direct this movie?"
    "No, he just produced it," said another.  I slipped out my smartphone, furiously typing into IMDB, fingers crossed, praying " Produced! Produced!"
     Nope.  Directed.  I couldn't believe it. Not that I think Spielberg is the greatest director of all time or anything ( a title I reserve for Christopher Nolan)  but still, doesn't he have people to tell him his movie sucks?
     When it was over we sat there, wanting our dollar back.  The gracious host's wife sighed contentedly.  " I like it." she said.  I wasn't surprised.  I know that girls like quirky horses and square jawed, blue eyed Disney dorks.  I just didn't know Spielberg did.

The Grey

Movie:  The Grey
Drink: mini bottles of Pinot Noir



     It started out with such promise.  An intriguing back story about Liam Neeson's struggle to deal with some hot chick leaving him and he being up here on this northern oil rig with a bunch of roughnecks.  Artsy close-ups of his strangely perfect nose as he writes a heart felt letter among the numb frozen tundra.  A failed suicide attempt.
     You know the scene in Monty Python's Holy Grail movie where the writer has a heart attack and then dies and the story changes?  Well I'm assuming that's what happened twenty minutes into this one.
     As soon as the roughnecks board the plane home, the movie takes a nose dive, much like the plane, the plot, and my buzz were about to do.  The dropping of F-bombs became so prolific that I actually broke one of my movie rules and pulled out my cell phone and started timing the seconds between swear words.  I soon found that it was impossible to be resetting my timer that fast , so I switched to recording times between f words.  I never got above 42 seconds.  I swear; no pun intended.
    After the callouses formed over the modesty portions of my brain, I sat back and tried to just get into the plot, but I had an easier time finding the bottom of my popcorn bucket.  Time  for a refill.
     "Can I get a f***in' refill?" I asked the snack counter girl.  She knew what movie I was watching, so she understood.
     Back in my seat I was subjected to dialogue and characters that made me cringe.  Imagine the most annoying A-holes you have ever met and now imagine they have frostbite and are crabby and you have to hike in the snow with them and they won't stop dropping F-bombs into your deathstar and your brain blows up over and over and over and Chewbacca, er, I mean wolves are surrounding you and why the heck haven't they invented a way to get butter on ALL the popcorn?!  Am I just supposed to eat the top and throw the rest in the aisle? Because that's what I did!
     I digress.  
     The wolves looked stupid.  CGI wolves are always going to look stupid.   I mean, would it be THAT hard to train some huskies to growl at swearing, unlikable idiots?  You probably wouldn't even have to train them.
    In closing, I think this movie was born out of Liam Neeson's need for some extra cash, and the producer of Twilight's need to recoup some of the cash he spent on the lame CGI wolf program he paid for.  Yes, they were that lame.  I was expecting one of the wolves to stop chewing on one of the roughnecks and explode into an Abercrombie and Fitch model sporting jean shorts and a spray tan.
     Exactly one hour and 8 minutes in, I walked out.  I realized it was time to go when I was cheering every time a wolf took out another douche bag.  Maybe it got better in the second half.  I dare you to find out.

GO WOLVES!

Another Earth

Movie:  Another Earth
Drink:  Pina Colada, and something yet un-named




     "Let me mix you a drink," my pal said.  Now, I am not a drink snob, having guzzled my share of Four Loco or slurped spilled champagne off of the table top.  But this brown, pungent glass of liquid with bubbles struggling to break its bleak surface made me pause.  It was bad.  It was vanilla Coke and Gordon's gin.  When my ears and lips ceased smoking, the pal said he would fix it by adding triple sec and if by "fixing" it he meant creating the world's first drinkable Vick's Vapo-rub, then by Jove , he did it!
     Now, I usually would have been sneaking some sort of spirits in to some sort of movie theater, but unless I want to see an animated Christmas flop (let's face it, after Nightmare Before Christmas, why does anyone even try?) or watch some Aeropostale vampire sink more than just his fangs into his lady friend, I'm forced to watch movies at home.
     Another Earth was,well, depressing.  I should have been watching it alone on a pleasantly moody rainy weekend afternoon instead  of an actually depressing Tuesday evening running on 3 hours sleep.  It had some beautiful footage, and some interesting concepts.  I admit that I was distracted by my fish sticks burning in the oven and the huge pina colada freezing my brain.
    I often wonder how movies like the recent remake of Conan the Barbarian ever make it into production, and now I know.  Sometimes you just aren't ready for a dose of beauty and thought.  Instead of a perfectly steamed cappuccino with hearts drawn in the foam, you want a gallon travel mug of Folgers, heavy on the coffee mate.
    I plan on getting in the right frame of mind, watch the Weather Channel for rain, and rent this movie again to give it a fair shot.  Until then, you'll have to excuse me, The Hangover 2 is on, and my fish sticks are done.

Movie: Life in a Day
Drink:  An incredible mix of Dr. Pepper, Mr. Boston rum, and triple sec.  When I say "incredible"  I refer to the definition; not credible; hard to believe;

I had just polished off a couple of double cheeseburgers, put on my tv-watching pants, had the aforementioned drink mixed and delivered by a pal of mine, when we all began the labor intensive process of grubbing around the Netflix options to try to find a free flick we could all agree on.  The pal was partial to holiday themed murder movies.  I could only handle so much of a crazed Santa with glowing red eyes or a turkey somehow using an ax on some unsuspecting pilgrims.  The pal's wife kept going gaga for anything with a wedding or a wedding planner or a wedding reception, or a bridesmaid or probably , really, any movie that started with a 'W' and had a male and female character in it somewhere.  Except for Harold and Maude.  I'm pretty sure she hates that one.

     So, when I saw the cover title of Life in a Day flit by, I pounced on it like I was at a Chinese buffet and some fresh, hot, crisp crab rangoons where just placed between the broccoli and the fake crab meat chunks swimming in mysterious white sauce.  "You'll love this one!" I gushed with what I hoped was enough enthusiasm to get my way.

     And it was good!   A perfect mix of people I could relate to, people I wanted to relate to , and people I hoped were related to people who did not tend toward long life. It may have been the drink, but I found myself constantly forgetting that all the videos took place on one day, July 24th. I would recommend really concentrating on that fact.  That, when a small boy is tending to a shrine  to his dead mother that is lovingly placed in a pleasant corner of an otherwise jam-packed disaster of an apartment, two dudes are roaming the wide open countryside with a herd of goats.  That while a man stands in the doorway of his crumbling dirt house saying that his wife is dead and he can't work because then no one would be able to be with his kids, a complete douche-bag slyly pulls a key to his lamborghini out of his pocket and slips behind the wheel as if buying a car is an accomplishment only he has mastered.  I shall never forget the shit-eating grin on his face as he looks into the camera, pleading for approval.

     During the scene in which a man shoots a cow in the head with that bolt gun thing that slaughterhouses use, the pal's wife cried and left the room, moaning " that was somebody's mother!"  By this time I had moved on to eating beef covered nachos.  I crunched away wondering how she could tell a cow on t.v. had ever given birth.  Must be something other mothers can tell.

     The only complaint I have is that, towards the end of the day the director decides to predictably do the whole " human beings are both beautiful and ugly" thing.  Lots of flashing lights, fighting, general funk.  Not too much, but enough to make me ask for another Incredible drink.  I took a long swig and ended up spilling a large splash on the carpet.  The tiny little toy rat terrier pranced in and proceeded to suck the carpet dry.  Anyway, I don't need to see scenes of humans behaving badly to know that they do.  Seeing people act like dweebs is something I see every time I go into a Walmart or watch public television.

     Life in a Day really made me think, really made me feel.  I actually felt this weird pride in being human, that we are not all as lame as we think.  That is, until I saw yet another Lexus commercial where some pasty, manicured cake-sniffer in a sweater receives a car wrapped in a bow.  Humans are lame.

Kung Fu Panda

The Drink:  Gold Crown Vodka and Diet Schwepps Raspberry Ginger Ale




    It was a cold, rainy day with the night coming on fast thanks to daylight savings time being over.  I walked the streets of town with my hands in my pockets staring into headlights of oncoming traffic while people beeped and yelled out of car windows at me.  At first I was annoyed, but then I realized that a person out walking these days is about as rare as seeing, say, a two-headed cat strolling down the sidewalk. Depending on what town you live in.  So beep away, fools.
     I got back to a pleasantly dark and warm apartment right when the rain started.  I filled a glass with ice and brought it up to my room where the room temp vodka and ginger ale sat peacefully on the thick carpet.  I spread out luxuriously on the floor like a fat two-headed cat and flicked on the t.v.
     Kung Fu Panda is, in my incredibly important opinion, one of the finest martial arts movies ever made.  The moves look as if they were probably choreographed by a highly paid Hollywood kung fu expert that has homemade weapons on his wall that he made in shop class in high school.
     The wise and old and adorable kung fu master is a turtle instead of a gross old man with a long white mustache.  Old men are almost never adorable in my experience, but are definitely slow and scaly.
      And most important of all, the real reason that Kung Fu Panda is superior to all other martial arts movies, is that when one of the characters is fighting in slow motion and leaping and pretty much levitating into an impossible roundhouse kick, you aren't sitting there trying not to remember that it's really just an actor with a giant white diaper loaded with cables and wires and a sweaty crew of dorks heaving on the other end.  Since the characters in Kung Fu Panda are created in the digital world, they are ACTUALLY doing those moves. They are smooth and believable. Unlike that Jaden Smith brat.