I can’t drink because I just get tired. I go to sleep. I don’t know how people drink and then do shit. Like in movies or TV shows, when there’s people in an office having a power meeting, and they’re ‘clink, clink’ — they’re making a drink! — in the daylight, with a tie on.
"Well, Senator, hope you’ll play ball with us on this construction deal, if you know what I’m sayin’."
"Yeah, well, I’ll see what’s in it for me. Heh heh heh."
How is the next scene just not all those people lying on the floor going, “Fuck, I can’t believe I drank whiskey at noon”?
The movie is exhaustingly bad, but bad in ways you can’t imagine in advance….
Depp acts in the show-biz ethnic tradition of Brando’s Japanese interpreter in the appalling ‘Teahouse of the August Moon,’ and he sounds to me like a turn-of-the-last-century Yiddish actor doing Shakespeare….
'The Lone Ranger' combines Depp's shallow, liberal seriousness with 'Pirates of the Caribbean' slapstick spectacle, and the upshot is horrible. It's like 'Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee,' adapted into a Disney theme park ride.
Actual summary (courtesy of DIRECTV) of Rubber, an actual movie playing right now on Showtime Beyond.
IMDB’s description (which I read only because I linked to it just now) is even awesomer: “When Robert, a tire, discovers his destructive telepathic powers, he soon sets his sights on a desert town; in particular, a mysterious woman becomes his obsession.” And first in the acting credits? Goodyear, as Robert the Tire.
The best way to enjoy Baz Luhrmann’s big and noisy new version of “The Great Gatsby” — and despite what you may have heard, it is an eminently enjoyable movie — is to put aside whatever literary agenda you are tempted to bring with you. I grant that this is not so easily done. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s slender, charming third novel has accumulated a heavier burden of cultural significance than it can easily bear. Short and accessible enough to be consumed in a sitting, the book has become, in the 88 years since its publication, a schoolroom staple and a pop-cultural totem. It shapes our increasingly fuzzy image of the jazz age and fuels endless term papers on the American dream and related topics.
Through this fog of glib allusion and secondhand thinking, the wistful glimmer of Fitzgerald’s prose shines like the green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan’s dock. If “The Great Gatsby” can’t quite sustain the Big Ideas that are routinely attached to it — a fact that periodically inspires showboating critical contrarians to proclaim that it’s not such a big deal after all — it nonetheless remains a lively, imaginative presence.
Anthony Lane, on Spring Breakers, in this week’s New Yorker.
I don’t fall into either of those categories, but I still kind of really want to see it.