Abbey Ho’d.

Black Wiseau.

DOLEMITE IS MY NAME is a comeback film for Eddie Murphy? That’s a well-deserved question mark! As its filmmakers whine about being snubbed at the 2020 Oscars, they neglect to mention they’ve made a formulaic film about a conman with questionable product that deserves attention only as a novelty.

As a historical figure, the flamboyant Rudy Ray Moore (played reasonably authentically by Eddie Murphy) holds resonance for the black community, as a powerful hustler that fought against intrinsic white oppression to publicize himself as an entertainer. But this film is not doing the man justice, because Eddie Murphy is going around touting it as a comedy when it is more correctly a biopic of a comedian.

That’s the failure point of this movie that is being marketed as freakin’ hilarious. It is not. It’s about a person who was regarded as hilarious by the audiences of his time.

DOLEMITE, the film made by Rudy Ray Moore with his tiger blood and pure force of will, was a blaxploitation film released in 1975. DOLEMITE IS MY NAME is not a blaxploitation film, yet I think Eddie and Co. (writers Scott Alexander, Larry Karaszewski, and director Craig Brewer (BLACK SNAKE MOAN, EMPIRE)) might believe that their film does fall under that genre, and thus deserves some kind of notoriety. I can’t tell. Just like we can’t tell whether Rudy is in on his own joke of making a film so bad it will be considered good by certain downtrodden demographics.

We see Rudy’s humble beginnings in comedy clubs, and how he hits on the idea to visit the ghetto with cash and hooch, paying to record all the old timers’ rhyming boasts. He refines and rehearses these bits at home, outfits himself like a pimp, and hits his local comedy clubs as a character named Dolemite: “Dolemite is my name and fuckin’ up motherfuckers is my game!” It’s a smash, as he brings a tribal approach to what was once “Buddy Hackett shit” – instead of rimshots, he cajoled the jazz backing band to accompany him with jungle rhythms, making his performances a place where black people come to dance erotically, as per WALK HARD.

When we see Rudy/Dolemite at these clubs, he’s killing.  But it’s not “funny” by today’s tastes. It’s smartly woven dialogue, ribald in content and demonic in delivery, but in no way laugh out loud. But the black folks who come to dance erotically love it.

Rudy tells his Ma he’s thinking about making a comedy album and she replies, “Is it gonna be like that cute little Bill Cosby – he so sweet!” And I guess this WAS the perception of Bill back in the day; unfortunately now his mention in movies has become ironic, and his name itself has become a verb for rape.

Rudy’s albums become underground smashes, modern rappers considering him “the Godfather of rap” due to his vocal stylings. Then he turns his sights to movies. This is where it treads across a line in the sand when it comes to quality art. Not everyone who wants to make a movie is either qualified to do so, or can make a good one.

But Rudy is apparently deserving of the goal because he hits us with the platitude, “I want the WORLD to know I exist!” Well, don’t we all, Rudy? Don’t we all?

Now we are in THE ROOM territory, as this untalented filmmaker with nothing but ambition – much like Tommy Wiseau – goes about independently financing, producing, directing, starring in and marketing DOLEMITE, a movie which could arguably be held up – like Wiseau’s THE ROOM – as one of the worst movies ever made. The story of the pimp on a revenge quest against the people who wrongly-jailed him does not take itself seriously, so there’s that mitigation. But it’s still quite the piece of dogshit.

Rudy enlists writer Jerry (Keegan-Michael Key), his crew consisting of Mike Epps, Craig Robinson, Tituss Burgess, Da’Vine Joy Randolph and Kodi Smit-McPhee. Wesley Snipes does a saucy turn as egotist D’Urville Martin (whose claim to fame was a small role in ROSEMARY’S BABY), tapped to direct.

Snoop Dogg is a DJ who promotes Rudy’s records; Chris Rock is a DJ who promotes Rudy’s movie.

The lovemaking scene takes us, the audience, for idiots, as it shows all Rudy’s accomplices manipulating props around the room to make the lovemaking an over-the-top energetic satire, while Martin – the director – looks on in surprise that they rigged the bedroom set in this way. Even if it was a surprise that this gag was going to be performed, he can clearly see grips on-set off-camera waiting to pull on levers! What the FUCK kind of idiots do they think we are to shoot the scene this way like it was a surprise to the director? Reminds us of the stupidity of the ROCKY IV scene in which everyone was shocked at Apollo Creed’s big production number with James Brown.

Rudy dresses like his pimp character Dolemite for meetings, canvassing indie theaters to show his film. Like Pay-To-Play, he hires one theater for $500, then advertises himself with leaflets and word-of-mouth. It packs out, piquing the attention of distributor Dimension Films (led by Bob Odenkirk). The final shot shows us Rudy at the Dimension premier, the theater so packed that another audience is left waiting outside, with Rudy entertaining them. Did this happen? Maybe. The outro titles tell us DOLEMITE was one of the biggest movies of the year…

The saddest title card is the last one: “Lovingly dedicated to Charlie Murphy 1959-2017.” Now why wasn’t Charlie, a gifted comedian himself, ever a fixture in any of Eddie’s films? Why did it take his death to become a part of an Eddie Murphy film?

DOLEMITE IS MY NAME is a mix of Mario Van Peebles’s BAADASSSSS! (we encounter all the tribulations of the independent black filmmaker), meeting James Franco’s THE DISASTER ARTIST (a good movie about the making of a bad movie). (And yes, BAADASSSSS! itself is a tribute to the making of SWEET SWEETBACK’S BAADASSSSS SONG, but that movie had a lot more blaxploitation street-cred than DOLEMITE.)

It’s not Oscar-worthy. It’s not a disaster. It’s not a comeback. It’s not a comedy. It’s a fairly average movie about a below-average entertainer. Fuckin’ up motherfuckers is not its game.

END

The best movie ever made about the worst movie ever made.

And one man’s worst performance becomes another man’s best performance.

Adept actor James Franco plays inept actor Tommy Wiseau in THE DISASTER ARTIST, a good film about the making of the bad film THE ROOM.

• In 2003, atrocious writer-director-actor Tommy Wiseau released THE ROOM, a poorly-written, artlessly-directed, badly-acted piece of crap, which nonetheless attained cult status due to Wiseau financing its continual advertising and screenings.
• In 2013, one of the stars of THE ROOM, Greg Sestero, wrote a book (co-author Tom Bissell) based on making that film: The Disaster Artist: My Life Inside The Room, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made.
• In 2017, Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber write a screenplay based on that book, and James Franco directs and stars in THE DISASTER ARTIST.

Franco casts himself as the ambiguously-foreign Tommy, diving deep into Method with jet-raven waterfall locks, prosthetics to create a lazy eye, a ripped body, and an accent that Tommy claims is from New Orleans (if by New Orleans he means Lithuania). Reportedly, Franco stayed in character while he was directing, which was a big laugh to his longtime acquaintances who were also cast-mates. (Franco brings Tommy Wiseau along to junkets on talk shows, and I find it hilarious how he only talks to Wiseau in the Wiseau accent, as if it’s a language.)

THE DISASTER ARTIST is told from the point of view of Greg Sestero (played by James’s brother, Dave Franco), Tommy’s best friend (who Tommy cast in THE ROOM as, uh, his best friend). We follow Tommy and Greg from their first meeting at an acting class in San Francisco, through their tribulations in Hollywood (where they move into Tommy’s Los Angeles apartment – just one of many around the world that he can mysteriously afford), to the set of Tommy’s self-financed film after finding no success in the movie business. It is on this last leg that their friendship will be tested, and I find it a decidedly cynical “Hollywood” denouement that they remain friends to this day in real life only due to the success of THE ROOM, however undeserved and unwitting that was.

Franco has gone Daniel Day Lewis in his portrayal of Tommy, from Tommy’s military-styled jackets, to his pocketed dockers held up by numerous belts, to Tommy’s lazy delivery and stunted vernacular, down to his ingratiating little chortle and his inability to throw a football! It’s the role of a lifetime for this talented actor, and the mimicry provides most of the comedy. Brother Dave, up to this point, hesitant to act with James due to trying to forge his own career, is eminently relatable as the bad actor who hooks up with a force of nature that shepherds him into the biz.

Seth Rogen is Sandy the script supervisor, Paul Scheer is Raphael the DP, Zac Efron plays the character Chris-R (notably the best actor in THE ROOM, with Efron probably the best actor of this bunch as well, in this five-minute cameo). June Diane Raphael plays Robin (the hottest chick in THE ROOM and the same here), while Ari Graynor plays Lisa (Tommy’s girlfriend in THE ROOM); Josh Hutcherson plays that floppy-haired weirdo Denny, and Jacki Weaver delivers Lisa’s mother’s lines with that suitable deadness, especially when talk turns to breast cancer. Which she definitely has.

The first half of THE DISASTER ARTIST is played for comedy. No one can quite figure what is up with this Tommy guy; as in real life, this movie does not reveal the mysteries behind his age, ethnicity or financial background; he obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing as a filmmaker (shooting in 35mm and digital simultaneously), but his checks get cashed and that’s all that matters (a bank teller tells Sandy that Tommy’s account is “a bottomless pit” – but I doubt any teller would be that unethical).

In the latter half, the movie loses its breezy tone. Whilst filming THE ROOM, Tommy succumbs to megalomania, blindly leading the more experienced cast and crew while ironically claiming he has a vision, cussing them out regularly, and obsessing over details that would prove inconsequential in the final product. We lose our sense of wanting Tommy to succeed despite his shortcomings. At many points, we wish he could be taught a lesson on how bad THE ROOM really is. Unfortunately, real life has superseded art, and through Tommy’s insistent paid screenings, THE ROOM has attained cult status, and made back its budget many times over, playing at midnight screenings around the world. And the fact THE DISASTER ARTIST exists has made any life lesson for Tommy moot. The time for THE ROOM to sink into the overflowing hellpit of failed Los Angeles projects has long past, and its infamy guarantees that Tommy will never realize what a tool he truly is.

In making a movie about THE ROOM, Franco and Co. actually shoot some scenes from THE ROOM (as filler for when the gang is watching the movie in the theater in the finale). And these scenes are uncannily recreated, terribly-produced and terribly-acted ROOM scenes; so much good work to reproduce so much bad work. It gets so meta that we expect to see ourselves onscreen, looking at ourselves onscreen, looking at ourselves onscreen…

One theme that James Franco makes apparent in DISASTER ARTIST is a theme Tommy Wiseau failed to purvey effectively in THE ROOM: betrayal. Franco as Tommy finds betrayal in everyone around him – from acting coaches who suggest he should be a Frankenstein-like villain, to Hollywood casting agents who laugh at his accent; from producers that he tries to cajole in restaurants (Judd Apatow cameo) to his own cast and crew. Tommy finds betrayal in the fact Greg moves in with his girlfriend (Alison Brie), as opposed to staying his roomie; betrayal in Greg stretching to other projects; betrayal in Greg calling him out on his age, ethnicity and financial background. Thus, from this film, we can now more fully sense that betrayal theme built into the original film this movie is about – of course, we say: in THE ROOM, Tommy’s girlfriend and best friend both BETRAY him by having an affair! We were too busy laughing and being slack-jawed in shock before.

There is a tragic background tale to Greg appearing with a beard in the first part of THE ROOM, and then clean-shaven for the conclusion. Tommy had the notion that Greg should shave in the second half of the movie due to being a best man at an upcoming wedding. And in real life, Greg was asked NOT to shave for a walk-on lumberjack role he scored by making a lucky contact with Bryan Cranston (playing himself) at a café. Greg asked Tommy for a day off to do the Cranston shoot. And this is where Franco’s Tommy attains his nadir of darkness, selfishness and con-man. Not only did Tommy veto Greg’s time off, he forced him to shave, almost like he was removing any chance for Greg to sneak off in the near future to do the Cranston gig, implying that a one-off gig with Cranston would lead nowhere, while Greg’s starring role in Tommy’s excellent film would rocket his career. And citing betrayal just to twist the knife. Greg, disconsolate for possibly destroying his career by blowing off Cranston, stays. And shaves. Whether he made the right choice or not is pure conjecture. It is at this nadir for Greg that Dave Franco’s performance, ironically, achieves its zenith. (It’s also ironic that Tommy would cite Greg as the betrayer when Tommy is actually the one betraying Greg from moving up.)

The only aspect I disagree with in THE DISASTER ARTIST is the way Franco portrays Tommy as a “dreamer struggling to make it.” That’s a fine point of view if you are a talented artist who is not recognized, and the frustration of your predicament causes you to go all-out with some grand scheme that is do-or-die. Now – take that whole previous sentence, apply it to Tommy Wiseau, and remove the words “talented artist.”

Even the talking heads that open the film (including Ike Barinholtz, Kevin Smith, Keegan-Michael Key, J.J. Abrams and Kristin Bell) promote the wrong message: that Tommy’s struggles as a downtrodden artist paid off. “…the sheer ambition…” “A combination of fearlessness and confusing self-belief…” They’re not saying, “It’s a shit movie – with an amazing turn of fate due to insidious marketing,” no, the content of their enthusiastic tributes leans toward the film being a passion project of great quality. And that is the wrong message in a world where people cannot discern facts from fake, where as many people support lack of quality as support craftsmanship and hard work; it’s the Howard Stern defense: ‘if it makes money, it’s gotta be good.’ So the very existence of this film, THE DISASTER ARTIST, muddies the waters about the actual level of quality of THE ROOM. That is, zero.

Let’s get that straight: there is NO QUALITY in THE ROOM. Zero quality, zero talent, zero craft, zero production value, zero understanding of filmmaking dialect. Yet it retains some kind of “worth,” for it is, in fact, maximum entertainment, due to that rubbernecker’s glee of trying to see a dismembered head in the street while driving past a horrific crash. And there is zero curiosity from Tommy Wiseau to educate himself in the craft. Meaning that over the past 14 years of THE ROOM’s existence, Tommy Wiseau has not created anything of quality to dispel the notion that he still doesn’t know what the fuck he is doing. He just keeps eating out on THE ROOM…

Yes, Tommy had ambition and a dream that wouldn’t die, and the balls to make something of his own, and all that stuff they keep telling us artists to cling to – but there’s one difference between Tommy and the majority of struggling artists with dreams to conquer the world, who take up residence in a Hollywood apartment that smells of pee – MONEY. However mysterious its source, Tommy had money to market his product. And when you market anything with enough verve, you get results. Look at the Snuggie, look at the Salad Shooter, look at the STAR WARS Prequels, hell, look at the dimwit, racist 45th president of the United States!

What also creeps through is the notion that due to THE ROOM’s inadvertent success, Tommy is a success as an artist. The fact that Tommy can accompany Franco on THE DISASTER ARTIST junkets and claim fame, however vicarious, seems to bolster that notion. But it is just a case of money – and money doesn’t make something of no quality attain inherent quality. Look at the Snuggie, look at the Salad Shooter, look at the STAR WARS Prequels, hell, look at the dimwit, racist 45th president of the United States!

So I’m not sure what the aim of THE DISASTER ARTIST is. In one respect, James Franco has crafted a reasonable comedy about a comedic figure in filmic history. In another sense, he is paying tribute to someone who simply had the money to continue the advertising push of something that should have died a grisly death in the crib. This is not a movie about a film deserving of tribute, like THE GODFATHER, UNFORGIVEN, or 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY.

This is about the making of THE ROOM. Which is definitely not a film deserving of accolades. It is naaaht.

END

Celebrating 40 Years of Stunning Mediocrity.

The American comedy institution SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE continues its tradition of not being funny, by throwing a 40th Anniversary Special and not being funny.

SNL 40 is not only Not Funny, it’s embarrassing, pathetic and painful. Why do these people put themselves through this? Why do they put US through this? Why do audiences keep watching? Excepting a few quality seasons during its formative years, and a handful of good gags and entertaining personalities through its history, SNL has never been a prime cut; longevity seems to be counting more towards SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE’s comedy legacy than actual quality.

SNL 40, broadcast by NBC on Sunday February 15, 2015, touted as “Comedy’s Biggest Stars Come Home,” boasts a studio audience that consists of everybody who is anybody (from Spielberg down), brings together past alumni, past hosts, shows montages of classic sketches and bits, only has time for a few musical numbers, showcases veteran cast re-doing classic bits, and retains an overall sense of undeserved mutual cock-stroking.

I’m not going to outline a laundry list of bits; in this overlong show, the bits themselves are irrelevant. It’s the overarching impact of this drudgerous wankfest; the cognitive dissonance of continually hearing how “good” it is and yet witnessing exactly the opposite. Bits which are poorly written and badly rehearsed, amateur timing from supposed professionals, forced laughter, titters where there should be guffaws, and sometimes, those uncomfortable silences into which your career spirals never to be resurrected again… We view this whole shenanigan with hands over our faces, peeking through the gaps in our fingers.

It reminds me of the recent Monty Python reunion shows at the O2 arena (Jun 2014: Monty Python Live (Almost)); though that tour was a nostalgic success, even an artistic and commercial success, it was a complete failure in its attempt to recapture the timing and verve and urgency of youth. Which is what reunion shows like that – and this SNL one – are all about. Recapturing our youth. (And of course, selling advertising and merch to us in the process.) To the young or uninitiated, these shows will be a success or failure purely depending on NOW. To we who lived our youth through those original times, these shows succeed or fail on how well they recapture it. And let’s face it, they can’t recapture it. They will always only remain “failed attempts.” But it’s not just that metaphysical youth aspect – it’s the fact that when an old person tries to do something they did when they were young, it just doesn’t look right or read as well as it did when in their prime. It’s a terrible, sad fact of life.

Dan Aykroyd cannot possibly recapture the original “flavor” of his Bass-O-Matic sketch from the 70s. But he tries valiantly. And fails. In one of SNL 40’s first sketches, Aykroyd appears with that cheese-eating grin. He looks old. Really old. And fat. Camera pulls back and we see he is holding up a dead fish, a bass…

Silence.

Not even crickets. It’s just an old fat guy holding a fish. Now one would think that after all the lengths they’ve just gone to, of bashing us with the message that SNL is some kind of mythical laugh factory, that seeing the opening to the “classic” Bass-O-Matic sketch would elicit a cheer of recognition from the audience.

Silence. Because the studio audience (not the old stars, but the civilians) are too young to recognize this 35-year-old sketch! It was never one of the best sketches, but at least the performance in its heyday had a young, vital guy delivering his lines fitfully in a Pythonesque lightning strike. Now it’s just an old fat guy holding a fish. (At least with the 2014 Python shows, when Cleese came on with his dead parrot, stating, “I would like to register a complaint!” the audience’s rousing roar of recognition drowned out the pathos. Here, it was just pathos. This was devil’s territory from the get-go.) There was no way Aykroyd could attain the verve and urgency and timing of his youth. His speech was too slow for comfort, he missed putting one of the fish into the blender, he turned on the blender and it froze… His fake smile went on for miles, but the flop sweat on his soul was glistening hot…

You ask, “Why don’t they just pack it up?” Because this is what they do! What else CAN they do? This is how they made their bones. But recapturing the magic is definitely out of the question after a certain time…

Chris Rock gives a prolonged tribute to Eddie Murphy, who has gone the way of the dodo. The last quality thing he did was …um… uh… Then Eddie himself steps out to raucous applause and proceeds to do two minutes of SNL tradition (i.e. see paragraph 1).

The opening dance number with the somehow-talented Jimmy Fallon and ever-talented Justin Timberlake is spiffy. No complaints there; it retains that just-above-mediocre level that SNL sometimes attains on its absolute best nights.

Then the monologue with old hand Steve Martin (long since Not Funny himself, but somehow squeezing some last driplets of humor from his dead soul). During the monologue, Martin is beset on all sides by superstars who want to host, including Tom Hanks, Alec Baldwin, Chris Rock, Peyton Manning, Billy Crystal, Paul McCartney and Paul Simon… and then producer Lorne Michaels makes one of his many missteps, in his quest to attract a younger, more current audience (it’s a well-known fact that Michaels has final say on all decisions, good and bad, and all the artists cringe and bow to his every whim, as per WAYNE’S WORLD): Into this lion’s den of icons, Lorne decides to trot out… Miley Cyrus. Wait– Miley Cyrus?! Yes, that class-less hooker whore cunt Miley Cyrus shares the stage with the above legends who have done something useful with their lives. (No, tell us what you really think of Miley Cyrus, Poffy?) God knows how long she had to burnish Lorne’s perineum with that ball-licking trollop tongue to score this spot over other performers closer to the human race.

McCartney tanked. Introduced by Gollum– I mean, Keith Richards, the Beatle’s minstrel, the songster, the legend – bombed horribly. In the first seconds of Maybe I’m Amazed we could hear his voice is non-existent. And it went downhill. Now I’ve even closed the gaps in my fingers. I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to hear, I don’t want to live. At the time of writing, you cannot even find this performance on YouTube – you have to go deep into the TV station’s archives to find it – which means everyone involved (from management to McCartney himself) unanimously agree that it was so bad, it needed the hiring of pro hackers to restrict this video from being posted on YouTube at all costs. They will fail, of course, because YouTube is a behemoth that will eat all of us alive and screaming in the end.

People clapped. You have to clap, right? But now you’re not clapping because you were blown away by the performance or inspired or even mildly impressed (unlike that artistic inspirational perfection of George Harrison and Paul Simon doing Here Comes The Sun and Homeward Bound on SNL in 1976); you’re clapping in pity, that a 75 year old man can kinda sing a Paul McCartney song with a band and everything. Isn’t that special? He gets so excited when they let him out of the home and the boys let him play with them, it’s good for him, great-granddad needs to make some new friends…

The saddest thing is that of McCartney’s tens of thousands of times performing this song, when it hit the atmosphere crackling like a million suns, this SNL 40 abomination (when it surfaces in mainstream social media) is going to be the most codified, the most batted about the internet like cats and tits, commented on and analyzed and critiqued by this generation of twitter twats. Weep for the death of legends. Weep for the death of youth. Weep for Gollum who lost his Precious.

Some apologists might mitigate, Well, a couple of things were good (Billy Crystal asking, “You are Steve Martin, right?; a reasonably enjoyable “digital short” from Sandler and Sandberg, Will Ferrell’s Jeopardy, etc.). Of course a couple of things were good – these are professional comedians, and a stopped clock is right twice a day. But only a couple of things, in a show that is supposedly THE comedy lodestar of the United States? If you were making automobiles or heart monitors, this kind of percentage would be entirely unacceptable.

If SNL 40 had kept it to nanosecond montages of old bits, it could have salvaged a shred of dignity. Instead, each personality dragging their feet onto that supposedly hallowed stage just prolonged an agony that wasn’t going to go away with the constant sucking of Lorne Michaels’ dick.

Here’s to the next 40 years of not being funny.

END

Serious Actors Seriously Acting.

Disgusting Inappropriate Filthy Hilarious Hellspawn Godsend.

Specifically designed to make you call your Congressman and complain, MOVIE 43 will offend, distress, embarrass, infuriate, ejaculate, and give you anal warts.

Not your average ensemble cast movie where everyone is trying to be more serious than their peers in order to win that Golden Globe, MOVIE 43 takes its A-Listers, jams them into gross-out vignettes so funny that you will miss half the raunchy dialogue from laughing so hard… and gives them anal warts.

A bedraggled Dennis Quaid pitches a movie idea at studio exec Greg Kinnear. We launch into a series of vignettes that are supposed to be this movie – returning intermittently to this throughline where Quaid becomes so desperate with the obsequious Kinnear that it turns into a hostage situation, Quaid trying to extort funding out of Kinnear at gunpoint. Seth McFarlane, Will Sasso and Common also squeeze into this storyline.

Meanwhile, the R-rated vignettes bludgeon us with dialogue as sharp as the boxcutters used to hijack the 9-11 planes (too soon?), over insane little plots so deformed they will make Republicans rethink their views on abortion (too mongoon?).

1) Kate Winslet on a blind date with Hugh Jackman the Chinballian (well, that’s actually the species name for the alien from MEN IN BLACK 2 – but you immediately get the picture, right?). And everyone in normal society is quite nonchalant about Hugh’s hairy naked scrotum and testicles hanging where his Adam’s apple should be. Everyone except Winslet, who makes the ooweh! vomit sound, so she’s aces in my book.

2) Liev Schreiber and Naomi Watts home-school their son, giving him all the alienation, bullying and loneliness required from school life; mum Naomi schooling him in his first awkward high school kiss. It would be awesomely hot if it weren’t awesomely wrong. And awesomely hot anyway.

3) Anna Faris, after a year of dating boyfriend Chris Pratt thinks it’s time to move to the next phase – being pooped on. Not “shitting” – you shit on a whore, as J.B. Smoove points out – but you “poop” on someone you love.

4) Emma Stone and Kieran Culkin (so much more street cred than Macauley!): vital, urgent teens at a checkout counter, who need to be inside each other if only they could curb their vital, urgent hate for each other.

5) The iBabe – a naked hottie robot that plays music, with the fan to keep her circuitry cool located in her “vagi-port.” Aasif Mandvi and Kate Bosworth try to explain to clueless CEO Richard Gere why the iBabe company is fending off so many lawsuits from young boys getting their fingers chopped off.

6) Robin the Boy Wonder in full costume (Justin Long) tries to speed-date, with the specter of Batman (Jason Sudeikis, also in full cosplay) lurking around every corner. “He makes me wear this outfit!” whines Robin, as Batman cockblocks him with Lois Lane (a smoking hot Uma Thurman) and Supergirl (Kristen Bell), who apparently has mungabush.

7) Chloe Grace Moretz (oh my God! Truly the most beautiful woman in the world right now!), has her first period on a date with young Jimmy Bennett (growing up in front of us on film; remember him as Young Kirk in STAR TREK 2009?), while older brother Christopher Mintz-Plasse goes bananas trying to find something to suffice as a tampon. Then insouciant father Patrick Warburton walks in and proves why all men are pigs.

8) Gerard Butler as a Leprechaun captured by Johnny Knoxville and Sean William Scott, who want his pot of gold. What a potty mouth on that tiny fucker!

10) Stephen Merchant (THE OFFICE) and Halle Berry on a first date, playing Truth Or Dare. By the time Merchant surgically turns into an Asian man on a dare, it’s probably gone too far…

11) Coach Terrence Howard in a 1959 film about the First Negro High School Basketball Team, assuring the desperately scared black team, “You’re black, that’s why you’re going to win.” “You mean we gotta give 110%, coach?” “Not 110% – 50%, 3%! And you’re still gonna win!” “You mean if we follow in the footsteps of the lord?–” “No, not the lord! They’re white, you’re black – this is basketball!” As an example of why they are destined to win, Howard asks one of the boys to take out his foot long dick and wave it around. If only that scary white team wouldn’t come into their locker room and taunt the poor Negroes with their pasty skin and small dicks…

12) In the grandest Looney Tunes tradition of combining mischievous cartoon mascots with live action, Beezel the cartoon cat despises Elizabeth Banks getting between him and his master Josh Duhamel. Beezel will do anything to crush kill destroy Banks while he wanks to pictures of Josh in a bathing suit. But then, don’t we all wank to pictures of Josh in a bathing suit?

There’s nothing deep in MOVIE 43 (except maybe one of those foot long dicks); written, and directed by various teams, each working on their own vignette, it’s constructed purely to destroy liberty and sobriety. An overwhelming undertaking, my question is, Who oversees the whole shebang? Each vignette even had its own editor and producer, so who was at the top of the dirty pile cutting this all together? Oh, and my other question is, Will there be a sequel – and will MOVIE 44 be blasphemous enough to burn off these anal warts?…

END

If God watches over George Bush and Satan watches over Tenacious D
– Satan’s winning…

Once every hundred-thousand years or so, when the sun doth shine and the moon doth glow…

Not exactly Spinal Tap. Not exactly Martin & Lewis. Not exactly normal.

Once in a great while, an act appears that shimmers with such kineticism, such verve and lust, that audiences are scorched into submission – such an act is The Darkness – oh, and Tenacious D “The Greatest Band On Earth.”

No small coincidence that I mention The Darkness above; an anachronism that treads the same razor’s edge as The D, but on the “serious” side of the music biz. But what denotes “serious”? If financial success is the measure of sobriety, then Tenacious D is every bit as serious as those “real” rockstars. Which makes Tenacious D, as unlikely as it may be, real rockstars.

Poffodeus, Demon of Salad

Jack Black and Kyle Gass have achieved a unique quasi-stardom; satirized themselves into the “serious” rock world and into ostentatious success that they obviously could never grasp via conventional methods. We know that these guys are veterans of the rock scene – how else could they act so clueless so convincingly? – who never did “make it” with whichever garage bands they wore five-inch heels in, due to the provincialism of the music business; for the simple reason that their niche of pomp-rock has come to be purveyed by the likes of (and the looks of) the David Coverdales and the Jon Bon Jovis. And if you didn’t fit the mold, you were out in the cold. But Tenacious D have become their own self-fulfilling prophecy: in satirically proclaiming they would “change the face of rock” – they have!

Black’s hi-octane physicality and power-tenor vocal delivery is comparable to any of the arena frontmen whom he is hot on the heels of, and Gass’s guitar expertise rivals, if not surpasses, most of the toyboy hair-shredders of the 80’s who were bequeathed recording contracts on the strength of their Aquanet.

But Tenacious D’s angle of attack has widened their scope. Unlike “serious” musicians who boast powerful talent, yet are stultified by the “demographic” that they are marketed to, The D can shamelessly perform feats which would cause “serious” rock stars unwarranted PR problems or lose them their followings: criticize other musicians without press repercussion; display their out-of-shape bodies without loss of libido; wear idiotic stage attire whilst fearing no fashion police; claim to devil-worship without evangelical dissent; egotistically aggrandize their own product without humility; all due to the initial establishment that this project is unequivocally tongue-in-cheek!

But how far can tongue-in-cheek stretch? Ultimately, when international tours come into play, the business of propagating fun has to be taken seriously somewhere along the way – or money gets squandered and corporate wangling gets ugly.

The bittersweet irony is that in winning widespread public acceptance – in other words, in attaining “commercialism” (a word that would make rockers and hard-core fans cringe) – Tenacious D have paradoxically lost the vital element that won them that commercialism: their naiveté – for where is the parody in terming yourself “The Greatest Band on Earth” if everyone in your audience agrees with you?

The hook for the HBO series which launched Tenacious D onto an unsuspecting public was that it was obvious that these two rock-and-retch burnouts would never even have the finances to pay for a ticket to see – let alone be – “The Greatest Band On Earth,” as they exalted themselves from a dank stage where audiences almost didn’t even acknowledge their existence. (That being said, HBO must be kicking themselves that they didn’t contract Tenacious D for more than 3 half-hour episodes – Who knew that those benign television morsels, all of which are included in the Master Works DVD, would attain such cult legend?)

And now, Tenacious D, having brushed so close to actually being considered The Greatest Band On Earth (through acclaim by a multitude of fans), have necessarily modified their focus. This is not a bad thing, as every artist must sway to their public’s demand, but their éclat has shifted, from “vainly trying to make people notice them,” to “raving in the spotlight.” The overwrought, Spike Jones-directed Wonderboy music video is a prime example of their largesse threatening to outrun their self-possession. Though they parody Ronnie James Dio in an eponymous ode, this video is more Dio than Dio ever was – the production value could never be matched by Dio’s budgets in his heyday – which begs the question on whether the satirists have become the satire yet.

Is it still tongue-in-cheek? Yes.

For holding at bay the curse of self-consciousness and self-awareness is a schoolkid honesty and sophomoric sensibility, illustrated best in the three additional mentally-twisted shorts on the DVD – showing us that, talented though they may be, The D are still two sick puppies with abject disregard for social protocol, a near-miracle in this frightened and quivering politically-gutless modern age. It might be guilty laughter watching “Rock Star Sperm For Sale,” but it is unbidden guilty laughter. We wish we could all be this honest and juvenile and callous.

The DVD also sports the full-length concert at the Brixton Academy in London; a daring, stark presentation featuring only the duo themselves, harking back to their roots when there was no “band” intrusion into their chemistry. It is testament to The D’s charisma and talent (Black’s freneticism, perfectly complemented by the understated Gass) that they can hold an internet-bred audience with such rigor…

We bear witness to one of the truly great comedy teams of our time.

Praise be to Satan on his big-assed steed!

END