There is this running joke at church that I have very low standards when it comes to films. For instance, I happen like Titanic and other movies in that genre — prompting accusations that I am really a 14-year-old girl. I mean like, really, that is totally not nice.
And while I admit my movie palate may not be as refined as judger #1 or judger #2, I do have some standards . . . well not really, they are more like suggestive guides. Well actually I take that back too, I have no standards and pretty much like every movie I watch. The only time any kind of discernment comes into play is when I am deciding into who’s pocket we will lay our ducats.
I bring this up because tonight, Robin and I just might have the opportunity to go and see a movie — for those that know us, that means we’ll really think about it, but will probably just end up doing nothing — so in preparation, I was looking through today’s SF Chronicle reviews. For some reason these reviews were particularly interesting. This is when I realized two things:
- I like movies for the sake of them being movies. Call it escapism. Accuse me of being easily and willingly manipulated, whatever . . . I like movies.
- I really only have one discerning question when thinking about what movie am going to see, “How do I want to feel.”
So here are the possibilities for this evening…
If I want my stomach muscles to ache from laughing my ass off at stupid stuff, NORBIT.
Review snippet . . .
So that’s the bad news: It’s not a classic. The good news, however, has something to do with sitting in a theater laughing out loud for 105 minutes. This is Murphy doing what he does best, genial cruelty and good-natured nastiness. His comedy is so obvious that he dares the audience to see every moment coming and then delivers by topping expectations and making his jokes bigger and more ridiculous than anyone could imagine. You’ve heard of rapier wit. This is sledgehammer wit, wielded with sledgehammer precision.[Full Review]
If I want to be depressed, just a sad sad sack of wallowing misery, THE DEAD GIRL.
Review snippet . . .
Toni Collette looks sullen. It’s Toni Collette in her can’t-make-eye-contact mode. Nothing good can ever happen to her. She knows it, we know it. Anyway, one day, walking in the woods near her house, she finds the brutally beaten, decomposing body of a young woman. But she doesn’t freak out. No, she just goes home and gives her ancient mother a bath as the soundtrack emits mournful, ominous chords.
It must be said that “The Dead Girl” is a film of considerable integrity. But before that, something else must be said: That’s about as unappetizing an opening to a film as can be imagined.
Any one of these elements is a possible deal breaker: a sulking Collette. A rotting dead body. A depressive soundtrack. And giving ol’ Mom a bath. But writer-director Karen Moncrieff combines all of them, as if to say, “Sit through this thing. I dare you.” [Full Review]
Heck with it, it probably doesn’t matter anyway . . .