WORST FILM: Death Proof
By Autumn Schuster — Senior Staff Writer
Hey Quentin Tarantino, shut the fuck up. Instead of the
awesome headliner to an amazing collection of schlocky gore and nostalgic
exploitation, “Death Proof” proved to be this year’s biggest Debbie Downer, and
the worst blow is the unexpectedness of Tarantino’s utter failure. He’s like
the steadfast boyfriend who always opens your door and pays the bills, but then
tells you he knocked up your mom. After the mischievous bloodshed of “Planet
Terror” and the outrageous melee of mock trailers, the atmosphere seems primed
for Tarantino’s notorious violence. But instead of delivering the intensity of
“Kill Bill,” Tarantino punishes us with the drudgery of a DMV instructional
video.
The film itself is a masturbatory stroll through the overrun
garden of dialogue permeating Tarantino’s brain. It can be broken down into a
film about chicks discussing random girlie shit at bars and diners, encounter a
weirdo stuntman (Kurt Russell) and try to survive his murderous efforts to kill
them with his fancy stunt car. Shampoo, rinse and repeat. The only shocking
element to the story is the disproportionate amount of time dedicated to
utterly meaningless banter. What is the point of hearing about Arlene’s woes if
she’s only going to be burned alive in a car wreck 10 minutes later? Anyone?
Anyone?
If this film teaches us anything, it’s that Tarantino is one
creepy dude. In his oddly lecherous tracking shots, it becomes apparent that he
not only enjoys lingering over his actress’ nubile bodies, but he also has a
little bit of a foot fetish going on. His focused attention on Sydney Poitier’s
dainty piggies or Vanessa Ferlito’s ankles as she leans back in her chair is
more than a little bit awkward.
What could have been a classy murder romp featuring an aging
stud and a buffet of fly honeys became a tedious end to an otherwise
entertaining feature. It’s too bad Tarantino got sidetracked booty trolling
instead of writing a movie that’s, you know, watchable.
MOST UNDERRATED: Zodiac
By Edwin Gonzalez — Staff Writer
Horoscopes, crossword puzzles and investigative journalism
are typical components of any American newspaper. One Bay Area serial killer’s
fetish for this triad mixes in with as many as 37 self-confessed murders. In
David Fincher’s (“Fight Club,” “Se7en”) enigmatic true-crime tragedy, the
landscape of past films shift from the chiaroscuro of
York
lamps of
“Zodiac” is the decade-spanning study of a few mens’
obsessive toil; Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal), David Toschi (Mark Ruffalo)
and Paul Avery (Robert Downey Jr.) are three San Franciscans mesmerized by the
murders and driven to solve the crimes. Yet, the perseverance of the trio’s
undertaking becomes a liability as it wears down to blunt torment. The murder’s
taunting sport consumes them. In an era when things are accomplished through
the ambition of the American will, the need to solve the puzzle poisons their
lives. It isn’t until each amputates their manic search that they can begin to
rebuild the lives they left behind.
The film’s color palette bewitchingly defines both its
period and sinister atmosphere. Interior
mustards and manilas meld with tones of disabled vibrancy throughout. Although
the murders take place in the
Fincher’s
portrayed as anemic during the day and saturated in ink at night.
A remarkable addition to the film is also its labyrinthine
composition. Scenes are loaded with a minutia of imagery, from coded messages
inscribed along glass windows (“Be Careful, Safety First”) to countless motifs
(maps, numbers, flags) that resemble a Jasper Johns exhibition. A transitory
figure of the dada and pop art movements, Johns’ art resonates fittingly with
the meaningless and media-crazed hype of the Zodiac murders and his decade.
Fincher’s dark encapsulation of the late ’60s and ’70s is a
film both unappreciated and exacting. A masterful rendition of American crime,
“Zodiac” captures and challenges its audience just as well as any murderous
puzzle on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle.
MOST OVERRATED: Juno
By Willy Staley — Staff Writer
Juno was a good movie, sure, but the Oscar nod got a lot of
people upset, and understandably so. It’s been pointed out before — the film’s
first 15 minutes are unforgivable. I figured I was in for an hour and a half of
forced, seemingly “hip” wordplay. “Honest to blog”? That fucking hamburger
phone?
Fortunately, the movie is less cringe-inducing after those
initial bumps. But its forced, intellectual eccentricity rears its head again
and again, perhaps most notably with its soundtrack — made up of songs with
lyrics so corny and in-your-face quirky, it initially seems like a joke. It isn’t.
Wait, isn’t one of the lead character’s really cool
qualities that she has good taste in music? How did she let this happen?
Juno does prove to be a charming and original character, one
worthy of our sympathy, despite having a voice and attitude all too reminiscent
of my ex-girlfriend’s. However, Michael Cera’s character — if you can even call
it that at this point — is bascially a rehash of his character in “Superbad,”
which is a knock-off of his character in “Arrested Development.”
The point is this — how quirky and original can you be if
you get caught trying way too hard? Trust me, not very.
SEXIEST DRAG: John Travolta
By Autumn Schuster — Senior Staff Writer
It’s not often that a middle-aged man in 300-pound drag does
it for a girl, but when you take the icon that is John Travolta and give him
breasts, it’s kind of hard not to notice the sexy. As Edna Turnblad, a role
made famous by legendary drag queen Ms. Divine, Travolta hams it up playing a
housewife in racially turbulent 1960s Baltimore.
Like the sexy shim-beasts before him, (“Tootsie,” “Mrs.
Doubtfire”) Travolta proves that there’s something kind of magical about a
leading man wearing a dress and looking exactly like a dude … wearing a dress.
Without a whisker in sight, there’s still something that just isn’t quite right
about this lady. Hair? Makeup? Oh wait, no — it’s the penis bulging through her
skirt.
But mad props are in order for a man who donned 30 pounds of
prosthetics day after day to realize John Waters’ dream. So what if his plastic
boobs are no more believable then Zac Efron’s man tan? At least his nurturing
bosom is a welcome respite from the musical bastardization of the director’s
cult classic. So lay on the Maybelline, baby, and then lay on me.
WORST HAIR: Javier Bardem
By Josephine Nguyen — Staff Writer
What do Anna Wintour, Willy Wonka, the Little Lad in the
Starburst Berries & Creme commercial and Javier Bardem have in common?
Besides being creepy as hell, they all sport that ridiculous pageboy haircut.
After all, what can be more fearsome than a maniac brandishing a cattle-killing
pressurized weapon sporting locks taht would make He-Man jealous? In “No
Country for Old Men,” Bardem haunts Josh Brolin as a sinister, psychopathic
killer, yet one can’t help but imagine Bardem running in place, decked out in a
Victorian-era schoolboy outfit, clapping his hands like an idiot while singing,
“Berries & Creme, Berries & Creme, I’m a little lad who loves Berries
& Creme!” in alternating octaves. Pegged to win the Oscar for supporting
actor, Bardem doesn’t have to act the haircut — the haircut acts itself.
WORST 2 HR COMMERCIAL: Transformers
By Edwin Gonzalez — Staff Writer
If I recall, the last time I opened the door to a used
piece-of-shit Chevy, it didn’t turn into Puff the magic robot — at least not
when I wasn’t high on PCP. But for some reason, the transformer of the 21st
century seems to like American consumerism — er, cars — and decides to brand a
Chevy badge as it saves the world one corporate sponsor at a time.
In
feature-length commercial, “Transformers,” product placement dominates the
screen while autobots and decepticons reenact the scenes you’d always imagined
as a kid, clenching Optimus Prime in one hand and Megatron in the other. The
cinematic descendant of Steven Spielberg’s big-budget blockbusters, Bay’s blend
of CGI and expensive studio sets makes audience members feel like they’re
watching a hipper version of “Power Rangers.”
The film, and many like it, targets the same group of movie
goers who can’t seem to find anything more stimulating than their childhood
fantasies — as if their mental capacity to enjoy film peaked in fourth grade.
Overly reliant on explosions and PG-13 humor, “Transformers”
never ceases to commercialize. It’s amazing what credits can do to make you
forget you’ve just sat through 144 minutes of Chevrolet’s latest marketing
campaign.
WORST ENDING: National Treasure 2
By Jeff Wang — Staff Writer
Mitch Wilkinson (Ed Harris) had everything to live for, and,
had he survived the flooded chamber underneath
he would have become the founder of the City of
and would have successfully smeared dirt over Thomas Gates’ (Nicolas Cage)
family name.
Mitch was in a classic villain’s demise scenario: in an
Jones-esque chamber of death where water is flooding in and the only escape
route had to be opened by two people, the great grandson of John Wilkes Booth
had a blade on Thomas’ love interest’s throat. Instead of ordering two of the
five helpless history nerds to pry open the gates and getting himself out, he
freed Abigail, opened the gates and told his newly found best friend Thomas to
run for it. This is a Disney movie, but come on, even Cruella can do better.
From the Mitch bandits’ merciless shooting attempts and the
car chases to try to get clues from the treasure hunter, it’s not terrible to
imagine an alternate, and possibly much sweeter ending, in which Mitch leaves
Thomas behind to drown and maybe kills off the rest of his family to cover up
his insane crimes.
BEST HEAD: Matt Damon
By Philip Rhie — Staff Writer
The Bourne Ultimatum,” the final installment in the Jason
Bourne series, was nothing short of a critical and commercial success. However,
despite the franchise’s history of incredible action sequences and engaging
storylines, and despite the fact that it crafted possibly one of the most
satisfying conclusions in any recent movie trilogy, it would be awfully
misleading to acknowledge the film’s blockbuster status without paying tribute
to the true cause of its success: Matt Damon’s immaculate head.
Remember the first time you feasted your eyes on the teaser
poster — the back of Matt Damon’s head beautifully centered upon the skyline of
like the Arc of the Covenant. It wasn’t until the moment you had set your gaze
upon Damon’s majestic dome that you realized the true power he held in
attracting anyone and everyone to his films. What is it about Matt Damon’s head
that makes it so special, so irresistible? Perhaps it’s the unique geometric
design — neither a rectangle nor an oval, yet something subtly in between. Or
maybe it’s that the unique geometry constantly teases the existence of a
beautiful yet forbidden organic shape that only Matt Damon could ever acquire.
Not even People magazine could deny the cultural impact of
his cranium, naming the Oscar-winner “Sexiest Man Alive.” So congratulations,
Matt Damon, you indeed had the best head of 2007.
MICHAEL CERA AWARD: Michael Cera
By Willy Staley — Staff Writer
Michael Cera is just hands down, bar none the absolute
fucking best at playing Michael Cera. No one can stutter and make
otherwise-normal situations awkward like he can, except for Ben Stiller a few
years back when he was doing the same thing. Whether he’s George Michael Bluth,
Paulie Bleeker or Evan (his “Superbad” character — there’s no way anyone would
remember that), Cera is a socially inept mess who is somehow lovable despite
hardly being able to carry on a conversation like a normal human being.
There was a dude just like this at my high school. I recall
that I wanted so badly to throttle him and ask him precisely what the fuck his
problem was; conversation isn’t that difficult. I would probably do the same to
Cera, but he has started to show that he is capable of doing better. In the
online shorts “Michael Cera Gets Fired from Knocked Up” and “Impossible is the
Opposite of Possible,” Cera shows that he can play an arrogant prick, and do a
great job of it. Let’s hope that screenwriters know how to use the Internet.
FILM or PORNO?
There Will Be Blood
Daddy’s Little Girls
No End in Sight
The Savages
Knocked Up
Lars and the Real Girl
Starting Out in the Evening
Walk Hard
After the Wedding
Lust, Caution
Mr. Woodcock
Into the Wild
Breach
Grindhouse
Hot Fuzz
Lions for Lambs
Awake
Black Snake Moan
Shooter
Hot Rod
