(You Sunk My) Battleship - "Film" #11

Everyone has a birthday tradition. Some people go out to dinner, some people eat cake...me? I go to see a movie. A bad one. Oddly, usually of the action-y variety. And I make my sister come with me.

Because that's love.

I've been eagerly anticipating "Battleship" for MONTHS now (or weeks, or years, or decades - I'm really not sure which)...and, man, did it not disappoint!

I am so going to spoil the shit out of this one. Consider that your only warning.

So...shall we get down to brass tacks?

Or, should I say, plastic red pegs???



First, let there be no pretense here. My motives for seeing this film were pretty obvious, in a lanky Nordic kind of way:


(world, meet Alexander Skarsgard. If you are not familiar with his work, by which I mean abs, you should amend that)

There is so much wrong with Skarsgard's casting here, I can't even begin to explain it all. Besides the fact that he and Taylor Kitsch are supposed to be brothers despite some pretty heavily apparent ethnic dissimilarities in their genetic compositions or the fact that there is NO way that their "parents" named one child "Stone" and the other "Alex," I'm also fairly certain that Mr. Skarsgard has never played Battleship (the game) ever. Do they even have Battleship in Sweden?


(Eric dons Navy whites because he heard a rumor that Sookie loves a man in uniform)

Poor Alex Skarsgard, nobody told him the film was going to be a rehash of Contact, Titanic, Pearl Harbor, Armageddon, Forrest Gump, Independence Day, and Die Hard. And that he would be serving the same role that Josh Hartnett and Harry Connick, Jr. do in their respective films.

Mainly die.

Only here, in the first act of the film, which was totally unfair considering they gave him second billing in the movie.

Seriously, his whole function is to serve as the most perfect example of a human being ever so that his brother can feel like a total asshat in comparison, and thus, by the older brother's death, creating some sort of impetus for change in his wayward brother's naval life.

Stone also had to die because according to the naval bro code, in order for his brother to become captain, he had to be the person on board with the most stripes. I'm pretty sure with his impeccable understanding of what a colossal screwup his brother is that Stone would have battled through any flesh wound to ensure that travesty wouldn't happen.


(people in glass battleships shouldn't throw Stone)

After Stone's demise, the movie's plot held considerable less interest for me. Here's what I gleaned:

1. Aliens respond to a signal sent up by some too-smart-for-our-own-good earthlings by sending their own version of battleships and attempt to eradicate all our metal-based appliances and structures but preserve our organic integrity thus ensuring that no children were harmed during the fictional rendering of this movie.

2. Stone's little brother - who I shall call Gunny Riggins even though that is neither his name nor his rank - must assume control of the embattered fleet of shippery left after the aliens establish a kickass force field and his brother goes to the big Naval Yard in the sky.

3. The Navy apparently employs people whose sole purpose is to yell things like "Miss!" whenever one of our missiles refuses to hit its designated target. That person looks an awful lot like "Landry" from "Friday Night Lights".

4. In times of crisis, veterans apparently have nothing else to do but wander around Battleship museums in desperate hopes that they will be able to once more sacrifice their lives for the greater good. Or get an opportunity to use some of that salty sailor sea jargon you know their spouses do not permit at home.

5. The state of Japanese-American relations is really, really not fucking good.

6. Soccer is the kickassiest (or kissfaciest) sport that ever kickassed. And the Navy apparently sponsors something called "RIMPAC" which is not nearly as controversially scandalous as the name implies.

7. Women in these movies always suck.


(Rihanna is as comfortable in a Navy uniform as we would be watching her in a Chris Brown video)

First, Rihanna, who is the gratuitous female on the boat, appears like an androgynous waif whose sole function here is to remind us all that the navy is VERY open-minded when it comes to allowing people to serve someone else's country (although her accent is better than Skarsgard, who starts off southern and then switches to...something else...).

Of course, Peter Berg's most questionable scene regarding the aforementioned songstress is not when Rihanna sings quietly to herself on a boat ("Show me the way to go home / I'm tired and I want to go to bed..."), nor is it when she shoots something scary and otherworldly and shouts (and I shit you not) "Ma halo Mother-Fu-" (it gets cut off to spare the rating, I guess). No, no, it is when he gives us a scene where a big bruiser of a humanoid alien beats the shit out of her face.

Too soon, Peter Berg. TOO SOON!

No wonder she later does this:
 

Of course, the only other female of note (besides the mysterious female in a picture with Alexander Skarsgard who is NEVER IN THE FILM EVER) is the love interest of Gunny Riggins and the daughter of Admiral Liam Neeson, who could not have been more bored. She has a name, but I don't really remember it, so let's call her "Chicken Burrito".


(Reese Witherspoon? Never heard of her)

Chicken Burrito is a physical therapist who wants to be eternally bonded to loserboy Gunny Riggins before he saves the world (so it really must be love). She adopts a new pet amputee named Mick and together they roam the mountains of Hawaii, oblivious to the impending extinction level doom surrounding them both.

Then, they help save the world, too.

It's pathetic.

Come on, people, it cannot be that hard to have a female character who does not need to get saved at the last minute by a man with no legs, a science nerd with an indestructible metal suitcase, or her navy boyfriend!

But still, the movie was epic,

And I'm torn on the whole stance of war the movie has. The end credits roll to the tune of "Fortunate Son" - an anti-war protest song...so either the filmmakers are incredibly obtuse (which is possible) or this whole blockbuster is a masterful subversive lesson in the power of humility.

And The Art of War.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close - Film #10

This film is the cinematic interpretation of one of my all-time favorite books. Favorite in the sense that you will laugh, you will cry, you will appreciate the spectrum of autism like never before.

Without having to be told Oskar has Asperger Syndrome, like they feel compelled to tell you in the movie.

Let's skip the platitudes, shall we? I mean, it was a good movie, a nice rendition, and I totally cried, so it clearly hit most of the right emotional notes.

But it wasn't how I pictured it.

Thomas Horn was convincing as a precociously intelligent, socially awkward child struggling with the anger of grief, but he was not how I pictured Oskar in my mind.

His performance, however, was forgivable, as it was believable and I liked him by the end. More egregious was the Hanksing of the novel.



Look, I love Tom Hanks. I really do. But putting him in a quasi-serious drama is about as sensible as putting Jimmy Stewart in an action movie. You feel me?

Still, he's not really that bad here, just strange casting. Because let's face it - even though she married that philandering asshat with the motorcycles, there is NO WAY Sandra Bullock would ever end up with a Tom Hanks in real life.

Except, I guess that Rita Wilson is sort of like an older, less precious Sandra Bullock, so maybe it's just my own personal biases here.

Whatever.

The best part of the movie is Max Von Sydow as the Renter.



For a man with no lines, he certainly was pretty damn good.

And Jeffrey Wright, who I think deserves an Oscar (not an Oskar, 'cuz that would be creepy) just for showing up to play in any movie.

Good but not great interpretation of a book that is so clearly visual that it might actually transcend film.

Deadlocked (Sookie #1,000,000,000) - Book #6

i wish i had written this review right after i read the darn book.

but i didn't.

so, instead, you're getting this.

each new sookie stackhouse book reiterates one general thematic principle: that charlaine harris is milking this cashcow until it is beyond dead. that's right, in good old fashioned frankensteinian fashion, harris's creation has run amok and what we have here is the equivalence of literary, capitalist vampirism (see what i did there?) and my money is being sucked dry by wasting them on each new addition to the sookie oeuvre. 

or something.

look, i'm not saying i won't buy the next one - because, let's face it,i totally will, i'm just saying i used to think these were building in some sort of long-winded direction, striving to achieve some higher purpose, or reveal some subtle subversive message about how all just need to get along by depicting an epic battle between the myriad natural and supernatural species.

now, i think it's going to twilight out and be all about getting a crappy boyfriend. and keeping him. forever-ish.

blech.

what harris does to eric here is almost unforgivable. i get that she begrudgingly allowed the whole eric-sookie-loveship to sail because her fans demanded it and that even though bill neck-raped sookie in the trunk of a car sooooo many, many books ago, ms. harris seems firmly entrenched on the side of team bill.

i get THAT.

but damn, eric here is so not eric. i want my undead viking of cool back. not this! no, no, not this!

the good news about this installment is that there was actually a mystery here - and even though this plot development was inevitable for the last 3-5 books, it's nice to return to the old formula and actually feel like some of my money went to a productive cause.

but i'm serious, if harris ends the series with a return to the cold, dead arms of bill, i swear to god i will write a strongly worded letter of epic proportions!

and i'll send it, too!

So Pretty It Hurts (Book #5)

so, after a not-so-brief foray into vision problems, i'm back. and i've chosen to return to the world of "pleasure reading" with the latest in the bailey weggins series. because if you're going to do it, you might as well just leap right on in with the trashiest piece of literature you can get your grubby little paws on. 

now, i loved this series initially, but each addition has brought with it a little less joy, a little less enthusiasm, and a little less fun. and, let's be frank, pleasure reading should never really ever feel like work, you know what i mean???

of course you do.

the last book was written several years ago and left on one heck of a chicklit cliffhanger: bailey had to choose between skeevy film-maker beau regan (yes, folks, that's his name) or superdreamy, younger actor chris somethingorother. 

spoiler alert: she picked beau.

immediately, this bristled. look, i'm not saying i'm rooting for a scenario where bailey comes across like a slutty cougar, but beau is just so...blech. white's physical descriptions of the character include enticing details like: longish brown hair, rugged looks, chiseled body, and an exotic smell. i sort of picture the highlander. and that creeps me out beyond belief.

of course, bailey is about as emotionally mature in her fledgling relationship as you'd expect a job-hopping commitmentphobe to be. so mature that, when beau regan goes out of town on short notice, she seeks retribution by spending the week in the bowels of upstate new york at a rich guy's barnsion with several elite folks including a model, a journalist, a cookbook author, an aging rockstar, and several management sorts. 

dead bodies ensue.

there are sideplots with anorexia, tell-alls, and bailey's job (the killer has bailey's integrity questioned and she almost loses her job...which...spoiler alert...doesn't matter because she quits when they don't have her back).

the killer is predictable (i had it narrowed down between two folks immediately), the motives a little more muddied, but ultimately the major plot points lack in luster what i had longed to be a decadent rebirth into the world of literary smut.

whatever.

my biggest gripe, obvious, is beau regan and his creepy brand of wooing. wine, fireplace massages...we were one bubble bath or long walk on the beach away from total cliche. and the fact that he puts all the blame for relationship tension on bailey is so distasteful! ladies, can we please demand chicklit that does not call for our female protagonist to dutifully accept her flaws as being the primary source of strife in this madcap world of love??? 1. beau knew about a lengthy trip and didn't tell bailey until the day before he was leaving and 2. his ex-lover calls and leaves naughtily suggestive phone messages and he puts the blame solely on her? bleeeecchhhh.

look, bailey isn't perfect. sure, she's got raging relationship dysfunctions. but it takes two to tango.

and, man, do i miss chris.