So... what's the title?

There was an interesting point raised yesterday on Kermode & Mayo's Wittertainment radio show about the new movie "Perrier's Bounty", and the fact that - despite it being a rather decent picture (I'm seeing it later this week) - the title is an absolute stinker. It got me thinking about the nature of titling your movie, and what kind of impact it can have on your box office returns. Particularly, my thoughts turned to British cinema and how some of the names of our recent output have potentially worked vastly against their favour.

Part of this musing spews from being faced with a couple of script-titling obstacles of my own. One project I'm working on currently has the most generic, nondescript name imaginable (it was inherited, though); the other did have a fairly useful title that has since been rendered meaningless by a great big overhaul of both plot and theme. Examples, then, of some recent hazardous examples of nom-de-pluming:


The Scouting Book For Boys
Sounds like: A tween adventure pic, possibly featuring a bunch of misshaped losers banding together under the wayward but well-intentioned scout leader figure, possibly played by Jack Black or Ben Stiller or (if it was 1994) Daniel Stern.
Actually is: "A vibrant but shocking narrative full of macabre undertones" (Britflicks) about unrequited love and teenage angst.


The Cottage
Sounds like: An idyllic, thesp-heavy nod to the work of Ingmar Bergman, as aging luvvies gather at a peaceful village getaway and address their anxieties and issues.
Actually is: A blood-soaked kidnap-turned-rampant-hillbilly horror with Jennifer Ellison getting her head removed by a spade.

Beyond The Pole
Sounds like: Strippers! Hurray!
Actually is: Global warming bromance! Boo!

Quantum of Solace
Sounds like: Art project a-hoy-hoy! Possibly just a terminally ill man addressing his woes to the screen for 90 minutes.
Actually is: Nonsensically-edited franchise beat 'em-up!

Made In Dagenham
Sounds like: Another shitty Nick Love gangster movie.
Actually is: A tale of the 1968 female employee strike at Dagenham's Ford plant. The original title, "We Want Sex", wasn't any better.

Donkey Punch
Sounds like: Spiky CGI "Shrek" off-shoot.
Actually is: "Dead Calm" as told by lairy twats. Let me just check and see if the title is contextually correct... OHGODTHAT'SFUCKINGDISGUSTING!


We should just follow the example of "Mega Shark Vs Giant Octopus" and market our movies solely by conceptual titling. After all, it worked for "Snakes On A Plane", right? Right? ... Oh.

To contradict Chuck D...

The last time I got properly excited about a comic book movie was in early 2003. I'd worked myself up into a rabid frenzy over the big-screen adaptation of one of the few remaining Marvel characters I still actively followed. Two hours later and I walked out into the February sunshine feeling somewhat angry and betrayed. That's what you get for allowing yourself to get worked up for "Daredevil", I suppose.

So the copious reams of hype that have been swelling in the past months directed towards "Kick-Ass", the new superhero flick from Matthew Vaughn, have left me far too jaded to get animated. Cynically tootling along to a preview screening last night, my hopes were moderate at best - I'd heard tales of graphic violence, gleeful profanity and a pre-teen with a mouth like a sewer. Big whoop - I see all that in my day-to-day home life anyway.

And despite such trepidations going in, it actually thrills me to confirm that - for a change - the advance noise about the movie is on-the-nose: "Kick-Ass" is fucking tremendous fun. Essentially a post-modern take on the superhero genre (but free from the morose tone of "Watchmen"), the flick plays out like the most demented origin story ever committed to the screen, set in a similar universe to that which Batman inhabits, but with the lights turned on.

For all its bloodletting (and trust me, "Kick-Ass" is plenty violent) and cussing, the film presents a refreshing change from the current trend of gloomy, oh-it-sucks-being-me superhero tales of recent times. It's bright and breezy, and it thunders along at a cracking pace, rarely stopping to catch a breath (thanks in part to Jon Harris and Eddie Hamilton's amazing editing). Furthermore, every performance is note-perfect: Aaron Johnson's titular character errs on the right side of geeky to make him a sympathetic protagonist; Nicolas Cage's acting barometer is titled firmly towards "crazy" as he lampoons Adam West's Caped Crusader delivery; Chris Mintz-Plasse nicely steps out of the shadow of McLovin as fellow wannabe Red Mist; and Mark Strong makes for a pleasingly hiss-able villain too.

None of these hold a candle, however, to Chloe Moretz as Cage's pint-sized protegee Hit Girl. The Daily Mail have already flung their arms aloft in repulsion at the character - and it's not hard to see why (at least, from their demented "Ban This Sick Filth" viewpoint). An 11 year-old avenger who wields butterfly knives and utters lines that would make Colin Farrell blush, Hit Girl is quite literally one of the coolest figures to grace genre cinema in a long, long time. Moretz swings the character from adorably innocent to shit-your-pants terrifying with ease, and you end up praying that a sequel will be along sooner rather than later, lest they have to recast and get someone else.

If the film has a flaw, then it's that the second act lags a little after the barnstorming opener. And even though the climax is a blast of riotous carnage, it never really pulls any surprises out of the bag to distract from all the gunplay. That said, the central conceit is a doozy - why shouldn't we intervene when our fellow man is in trouble? Are we, as a society, so petrified of one another now that the only people willing to risk their necks are the crazy psychopaths in the stupid costumes?

Regardless, do believe the hype. "Kick-Ass" is exactly that.


"Kick-Ass" opens March 26.

Kerouac can blow me.

So, I'm in the midst of writing a "road movie", and as such my thoughts turn to other "road movies" to plagiarise seek inspiration from. Generally, I've eschewed the more darker side of asphalt-travellin' (sorry, True Romance and Badlands) in favour of something a little gentler. And while I lay no claim to this being definite, I thought I'd share ten of my favourites from the genre with you, humble (and sexy) blog reader. Thus:

THE SURE THING (dir. Rob Reiner, 1985)
In which John Cusack shotguns beers, agitates Tim Robbins ("Hi, I'm Gary Cooper, but not the one who's dead...") and tries to get it on with that chick from Fly II.

THE WIZARD OF OZ (dir. Victor Fleming, 1939)
Look, I never said anything about this being car-based, did I? Judy Garland has a fugue and imagines some midgets. Happens to the best of us.

Y TU MAMA TAMBIEN (dir. Alfonso Cuaron, 2001)
Everyone always ends up talking about the bit where they jerk off on the diving boards, and seem to often overlook discussing the bit where they jerk off on the diving board... Dammit!

MIDNIGHT RUN (dir. Martin Brest, 1988)
This might actually be the most quotable movie of all time. It's certainly the most quotable Yappet Koto movie of all time.

ALMOST FAMOUS (dir. Cameron Crowe, 2000)
The kind of movie that fills me with that warm, fuzzy feeling every time I see it. The sort of feeling normally only brought on by ingesting warm fuzz.


SIDEWAYS (dir. Alexander Payne, 2004)
Paul Giamatti and Thomas Haden Church go to wine country; get into scrapes; learn some home truth; get chased by man with cock out. Like a high-brow Harold & Kumar, really.

THE LAST DETAIL (dir. Hal Ashby, 1973)
You know they remade this in the 90s, right? With Tom Berenger and William McNamara. And Erika Eleniak in the Randy Quaid role. Words fail me.

STAND BY ME (dir. Rob Reiner, 1986)
Technically this should fall into the "off-road movie" category, seeing as they don't spend a lot of time on roads in it.

JUMP TOMORROW (dir. Joel Hopkins, 2001)
Seen by about six people on these shores, this is the only challenger on this list to Almost Famous' "man, that's just lovely" claim. Go and seek it out this instant (or, like, when you have a chance. It's not up to me to tell you what to do)!

INTERSTATE 60 (dir. Bob Gale, 2002)
Even less people saw this one, for shame. It's a bit too episodic to hang together, but it features Gary Oldman as a malevolent genie-type and Chris Cooper as a bat-shit insane lung cancer patient. What's not to like?

I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!

Every avenue I turn, I seem to be meeting fierce objection to this whole "Clash of the Titans" remake thing that's going down in cinemas this April. And yet, I remain thoroughly drawer-dousingly excited about the whole shebang.

Greek mythology is a sorely under-mined vein in modern Hollywood cinema. The closest thing we've had in the last ten years was Troy, and that didn't feature any giant fucking scorpions or snake-haired lady-monsters at all. This has both of those things, plus a flying horse, plus winged beasties with sharp teeth, plus a Sam Worthington, plus Stygian witches, plus a mah'fookin Kraken. All wrapped up in a tidy bow of excessive CGI and sprinkled with an out-of-place trailer song by The Used, of all people.

I may sound like I'm being sarcastic, but for the first time in my pathetic little life, I'm really not. Bring this shit on YESTERDAY ALREADY.

Blogma.

Caught Kevin Smith's 1999 "cult hit" Dogma last night on Film4. And I say caught in the most terminal sense, because sitting through that movie is akin to contracting leprosy. My love affair with the tubby New Jersey shopkeeper started, like many, when Clerks hit video in 1995. I was skiving school for whatever reason, and a kindly parent (in the shape of my mum, who - if you hadn't already garnered - is awesome) was good enough to rent it from the local Blockbuster for me that afternoon. Such liberal profanities made 15 year-old Neth giddy with glee, and it - along with Mallrats, caught a year or so later on Sky - became firm re-watch favourites. Chasing Amy, less so - although now it's plain to see it's actually Smith's best film by a country mile.

Anyway, I digress. Watching Dogma last night (and I've seen it plenty times before), something occurred to me: every single performance in that film is awful. If this were a no-budget lo-fi entry then that would be understandable, but these are proper actors (and Chris Rock). Alan Rickman? Dreadful. Linda Fiorentino, so fucking ace in The Last Seduction? Dreadful. Salma Hayek? Dreadful. Damon and Affleck? Dreadful - aside from that one boardroom judgment scene, where they're actually given something interesting to do. Don't even get me started on Jason Mewes and Smith himself - a performance more muggy than a mug party at the mug store, and one he's been duplicating on screen in that role ever since.

So what gives? The script, that's what. There's a common criticism that the movie spends roughly 80% of its time having characters explain the plot to each other, and it's true. Smith attempts to condense centuries of religious ideology into 130 minutes, and in the process simplify it down for an audience whose prime objective is to see Mewes make another fart joke. As such, every word arrives stilted and unnatural. It simply throttles the comedy, and makes the film cringe-inducing. Having Salma Hayek cast as a muse is one thing; getting her to explain the potted history of Golgotha whilst under attack from a monster made of shit is just asking too much.

There are some interesting ideas floating around Dogma, but none are ever applied with much conviction. It's a shame that Smith seemed so keen to make this for his fanbase rather than a wider audience, because without the laboured references to Home Alone, or the bumbling non-schtick of Jay & Silent Bob, or the "what the fuck am I doing here?" expression on Fiorentino's face, or the fart noises, this might have actually been a worthwhile exercise. Unfortunately - and like all his following offerings - it seems so desperate to please the stoner crowd that it simply gives up trying anything new. In that respect, Smith's unflagging army of die-hards have become his own worst enemies as a film-maker.

Does this answer your fucking question, The Thrills?

Sad news today about Corey Haim's reportedly fatal overdose. Given the dude's rocky history with drugs, it's not exactly a huge surprise to find him cark it at the hands of narcotics. Nonetheless, it's a depressing end for a guy whose name alone used to inspire video rentals of his (admittedly not-very-good) star vehicles. Top five Corey Haim movies, then:


1) The Lost Boys (1987)
A given, surely, on the basis that this is the one going on every eulogy. Exhibiting a sense of cultural camera-winking later exploited to the max by Scream, The Lost Boys made Haim an identifiable hero to 11 year-old boys everywhere, and made vampire slaying a fucking quip-tastic art form - "death by stereo" indeed.

2) Licence To Drive (1988)
The second pairing of Messrs Haim and Feldman, with the former pilfering his dad's motor in order to get his wicked way with Hollywood's very own Dorian Gray, Heather Graham. Seriously. That chick does NOT AGE. Badly dated, but still pretty damn funny throughout.

3) Silver Bullet (1985)
In an Oscar-baiting ploy mimicked years later by the likes of Tom Cruise, Sam Worthington and those dudes from Murderball, Haim here goes wheelchair-bound in Stephen King's odd reworking of Rear Window. Portly spouse killers are replaced by werewolves, and Gary Busey's in it too. Brilliant.

4) Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991)
Corey goes action hero (with a script from the writer of Point Break, no less), as a rollerblading pizza delivery boy living in a hellish (well, there's a few buildings on fire) future overpopulated by surfer-looking Nazi thugs. Patricia Arquette's in there too, and it has Nine Inch Nails on the soundtrack.

5) Dream A Little Dream (1989)
The most over-looked of all those 80's body-swapped comedies (pipe down, Like Father Like Son), this has Haim dealing with his best bud Feldman swapping consciousnesses with none other than Jason Robards. Genius (well, not really, but it's still better than Vice Versa).

Just missed this list - Fast Getaway. And Watchers. And Blown Away (not the IRA one). RIP, sir.

Obligatory Oscar Summary Post

Disappointed faces from James Cameron AND Jason Reitman? That's a twofer right there.

So another overcooked slab of back-slappery draws Awards Season to a close, and by golly gosh, don't the Oscars just love stamping their "us last!" foot all over the place. Despite the fever-pitch stand-off that had developed between Avatar and The Hurt Locker, the whole ceremony felt markedly flat and passed by with little in the way of surprise or upset. Let's break this shit down, shall we?


THE GOOD

• Sandra Bullock's speech - gracious, funny, touching. Good on her.
• Waltz winning Best Supporting Actor. Hopefully this guy has a long career ahead of him, and not just in villainous mainstream guff either.
• Fisher Stevens winning an Oscar. That's FISHER. STEVENS.
• Martin and Baldwin as hosts. Alright, they were kinda touch'n'go for the first few minutes, but the wisecracks soon began to flow.
• Tyler Perry's introduction for Best Editing. Funnier than all of his movies put together.
• Jeff Bridges' posture. That guy just knows how to stand.

 THE BAD

• Barbra Streisand announcing Best Director with "It's about time," leaving an entire ethnicity and a whole gender wondering if she's talking about them.
• That horror montage, as introduced by two stars of fuckin' Twilight. A moment of geek revelry (did you spot Warwick Davis?), but wholly out of place and massively forced.
• Some Argentinian movie I've never heard of beating both A Prophet and The White Ribbon to Best Foreign Language Picture. I know that me not having heard of it is no reflection on its quality, but fuck it - this is my blog and I liked those movies.
• Interpretive dance, to visualise the Best Score nominees. Absolutely bloody awful.
• James Taylor performing a live song over the New Dead People montage. Ghastly.
• Those stupid fucking Best Actor / Actress introductions from the nominees' peers. Only Colin Farrell salvaged a little dignity there, by talking about spooning in Mexico with Jeremy Renner whilst shooting S.W.A.T.

THE UGLY

• Martin and Baldwin's Paranormal Activity skit, meeting stifled laughs that double up on showing a) it wasn't funny; and b) nobody remembers that movie enough to find it relevant.
• The John Hughes tribute. I loved Hughes as much as the next 80s child, but that was excruciating - particularly a terrified-looking Molly Ringwald and a smug twat in the shape of Macaulay Culkin.
• Sky Movies' ad-break patter, with cryptmaster Claudia Winkleman shepherding a bemused David Baddiel, a vacuous Ronni Anacona and a smug, actually-knows-fuck-all-about-movies-for-a-so-called-expert Mark Dolan.
• Sean Penn, using his fleeting introduction for Best Actor to talk about his favourite subject: himself.
• Ryan Seacrest. He's America's answer to Vernon Kay - as long as the question is "What is the transatlantic equivalent, measured in cuntishness, to Vernon Kay?"

And... I'm spent.