- Broadway musicals.
- Jack Davenport.
- Shows where people throw martinis in other people’s faces.
- Marilyn Monroe, in all her complexity.
- Jack Davenport being super-snarky-smug-sexy.
- Young women being assertive and going after their dreams.
- Older women being total badasses.
- Dance numbers.
Frank, there are few shows on Earth I have wanted to like more than NBC’s Smash, which technically includes all those things. And yet by the end of the first season, it had evolved into one of today’s best hate-watching experiences.
However, hate-watching is fun when the show starts bad and doesn’t get any better. (Sorry, Millionaire Matchmaker wait I don’t really mean that.) Hate-watching something you had high hopes for? Always a bit heart-breaking. Read the rest of this entry
Of all the elements of my genetic makeup I most hate, my addiction to romantic comedies might be number one. The lizard part of my brain that responds automatically to pop music montages, snarky best friends and dramatic climaxes where the girl runs down the street to tell the guy she loves that she loves him is not only annoying but time-consuming — I mean, Frank, do you KNOW how long it takes to rewatch all six seasons of Sex and the City mutiple times? (I do. But I’m not telling.)
I could be reading books, Frank! Real books with big words in them! Instead, I watch shit like What’s Your Number.
But in this case, I had real reasons for checking this movie out, aside from appeasing the girly moron within. First off: The film’s premise, which it could be argued is a refreshing twist on the standard romantic comedy plot lines, because it puts front and center the eternal question of how many dudes a lady can sleep with before society deems her a complete ho.
Except the movie basically answers that question…
If there’s anything that makes having a crush on a famous actor less futile and sad, it’s having a crush on a fictional character. And yet, since the age of 11, I have been crushing hard on Sherlock Holmes.
Honestly, I don’t understand people who don’t see the attraction, but they’re probably the same crowd who don’t think smart is sexy, and clearly they can all go to hell. Us right-thinking people over here will be appreciating the wide range of Holmesian film, television and literature available to us — and, when we’re in a particularly saucy mood, making jokes about how good the world’s greatest detective would be in bed. (My personal joke tends to involve some variation on “he’d have no trouble detecting my FILL IN THE BLANK HERE.”)
That said, my personal Top 5 Sherlock Holmes depictions are as follows: Read the rest of this entry
Girl 1: “I saw Magic Mike this weekend.”
Girl 2: “Ohmigod, me too!”
Girl 1: “Yeah, it was good, but by the end I was like, ohmigod, TOO MUCH naked men!”
Giggling ensued. I can only imagine that this conversation was had in a thousand office buildings, in a thousand cities, this morning. Giggling included.
Magic Mike, Frank, is about as simple as movies can be: Young guy without a job (known forever as The Kid) gets a job working as a male stripper, thanks to the titular Magic Mike, who doesn’t hate the work but does hope to transition to a more sustainable long-term career.
Parties, money, and drugs ensue, until eventually The Kid gets in over his head thanks to some bad decisions regarding parties, money and drugs; Magic Mike has to bail him out (sacrificing a big chunk of his savings in the process) and decides to give up the life, focusing instead on trying to win the heart of The Kid’s sister, a nice lady with a grown-up job. The sister and Magic Mike kiss. THE END.
That’s what happened in the movie, Frank, with one minor exception: Read the rest of this entry
Let us continue our descent into nostalgia, shall we? Of course, when it comes to today’s topic, you probably have less nostalgia to deal with than I do.
Frank, if you’ve forgotten, Bridget Jones’s Diary is a year in the life of a slightly spacey 30-something lady, who originated in the newspaper columns of Helen Fielding. When given the opportunity to turn her columns into one of the first great examples of the chick-lit genre, Fielding riffed off the plot of
Jane Austin’s the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice–
Wait, Frank, because you are not a girl, you may not have watched the BBC Pride and Prejudice mini-series (which was basically the Downton Abbey of its day), so if you’ve forgotten the bare essentials of that story, here they are: Read the rest of this entry
It’s kind of profoundly intense these days, to remember the spring of 1999 and how very, very fucking excited we nerds were for Star Wars: Episode 1. Remember that? Remember talking about the trailers and debating casting spoilers and not even doubting a little bit that it would be awesome? And then we all actually saw the movie, and… yeah.
I saw Phantom Menace three times in the first five days of its release, each time having to work harder to convince myself that it wasn’t really that bad, until finally I searched my feelings. I knew it to be true. And then I pretended the movie didn’t exist for ten years.
However, it’s my brother’s birthday this week, and to celebrate I said I’d take him to the movie of his choice. He picked the shiny new 3-D transfer of The Phantom Menace. Now, honestly, this could be a lot worse — for his birthday in 1999, I took him to see the PAINFULLY bad Wing Commander, because the Phantom Menace trailer was premiering before it exclusively. Read the rest of this entry