Half Past Awesome

The Legend Back In The Day

I’m a bit of a concert junkie, I admit it. I’m not a groupie, superfan or psychostalker, and my concert history specifically does NOT include ever seeing the Grateful Dead nor Radiohead. So let’s just settle on junkie; I go to concerts when I can and like a kid in a toy store, it seems like EVERY concert is THE BEST concert I’ve ever been to, I swear it this time, I mean it.

So when the legendary B.B. King came to our little corner of Missouri the other night, I knew attendance would be mandatory. After all, the man is the reigning king of the blues and at 86 years young, is likely reaching his final touring years. This was a bucket-list kind of event in my opinion; since the advent of Sirius/XM radio in the house and car, I actually began listening to the blues as a genre. A trip to Kansas City a few years back where I saw the band “Four Fried Chickens & A Coke” fostered a musical curiosity and ever since I’ve associated the blues with hot and sweaty grit, soul, poverty and desperate hope fueled by man’s ways. If I can appreciate blues in the abstract as a means of conveying broken hearts, broken dreams and broken beer bottles crashing down on those who’ve wronged you, seeing them played in concert, by a father of the medium no less, was not something one takes lightly.

I won’t post my crappy cell-phone photos. I won’t tell you his set list. I won’t go into detail about the confrontation that went down between some couples in the back row, where my budget mandated I sit. None of those things are relevant when it comes down to the conveyance of the work of an original master and his beloved guitar “Lucille”. His band was impeccably dressed, masters of their instruments in their own right, tightly knit around Mr. Kings dance along the frets, his songs peppered with an elders recollection of favorite tales to tell. Respectfully, the crowd listened as he rambled about this and that, each of us hanging onto his words, fascinated by what makes a legend tick. With his signature bending of the strings and raspy wail breaking your heart, I was momentarily removed from the litany of chaos in my own world. I’ve never seen a performer or musician so gracious for the opportunity to grace people with his creative whims… every other sentence seemed to be “thank you ladies and gentlemen for having us here tonight.”  An all-around display of class and style, Mr. King and his court make you feel like a slob for just sitting there, NOT in your best suit with a fresh haircut. These guys were grade-A, old school professionals.

I’m not from the mean streets of anywhere, and my story is hardly one that would warrant a bluesman’s lyrics, but I can appreciate the soul that produces such fare. The very same rhythm courses through all of our veins, and if anyone can stir the ability to tap the toes and lament life’s losses a little, well, there’s none better than The King himself. If you get the chance, catch Mr. King in concert; you won’t leave disappointed.

Close Enough

Day 3 of the Super Incredibly Fantastic Special Extra Happy Trip Of 2011 consisted of taking in a concert. Not just any old concert, mind you, but one I’ve been anticipating with the drool of a starving dog in a steakhouse. We’re talking Mumford & Sons, a barely-four-year-old band that everyone declares to have heard of first, thereby infusing that hipster element into otherwise good music. Myself, I was turned on to them by El Jefe, a man who’s musical tastes run the gamut and who’s opinion I respect.

My brother Buns was able to procure tickets because, like the character Red in Shawshank Redemption, he’s the kind of man who knows how to get things; his silver tongue works magic, enough that he once met me at the gate of my arriving flight with Starbucks in hand, thereby violating just about every TSA rule imaginable. But I digress. This concert was the crux of my trip out to California, and the first time I’d set foot in the Santa Barbara County Bowl since some time in the early 90′s, probably to catch a Steel Pulse concert or something along those lines. Again with the digressing (note to self: up the ADD meds by three or four pots a day).

His friend having the quintessential bachelor pad within walking distance of The Bowl ensured that the pre-concert get-together would be sponsored by a vodka of indeterminate origin and lots of it. This compounded the issues of hiking up to the venue itself, a fantastic lovechild of perfect musical platform and stunning setting. We skipped the opening act in favor of standing in line for some decent enough beers and the usual jostling and splashing and wondering why some people bring their small children to such events.

And that turned out to be perfect, at least for me.

I was there to see Mumford & Sons, not The World’s Tallest Band (opening act), talented though they may be. After some shuffling and milling about, complete with Sound Check Guy who needed to make pretty much a damn scene out of his last minute duties, the boys strolled out, and jumped right in. And I mean JUMPED RIGHT IN. You know how there are certain acts you see where you’re thinking “man, this is okay, but really, I’m good just listening to the recorded version of —-”? Let’s be frank…no one comes away from a Britney Spears concert and ready to prattle on about her musical talents. Lip synching and gyrational dirty hooker dancing skills aside, of course. Such was not the case with these British lads.

They tore into their set, and yes I just called them lads since they’re about a decade younger than I, with the vigor and vinegar of men possessed. Musicianship, tragically beautiful lyrics and a fire unleashed all came together in a furious moment, as though we’re watching the tornado actually touch down in the trailer park. EVERYone in the crowd knew the lyrics, EVERYone was belting them out in hackneyed attempts at British accents, EVERYone seemed to be bouncing up and down in rhythm to the percussive music that was, to continue the bad analogy, sweeping us all up in its path. At the risk of being labeled a dirty hippie by my family, the energy that enveloped the entire show was contagious from beginning to end. I found myself beaming like an idiot, the sonic waves crashing into us and making us happy and peaceful and joyously riotous all at once.

Of course, as I read that last sentence, I realize what an idiot I sound like, but truly, that’s how it felt. I’ll never go to a Britney Spears concert, the good Lord willing, and as we get older and opportunities to experience this kind of communal groundswell of musical energy lessen, I’m thankful for those rare occasions to watch and experience young masters at their craft. They unleashed some new numbers, including one called “My Lover’s Eyes” that was, surprisingly (for a first hearing of a new song), already perfect. These guy were that good. To think they do this night after night, town after town, lends even more respect to what it must take to deliver such creative output; to witness them pouring their souls out like that was quite the moving experience.

Do yourself a favor: go out and buy Sigh No More, their album and give it a listen…it’s pretty damn good. Then, go see them in concert. It’ll change the way you think about how a concert should be put on by real musicians. Do this with a good beer and good people and that? Will make for one hell of a good night.

"Let's go find some cooler hats." "Impossible. Look at us."

The Western.

It’s a hard genre in which to compete.

I don’t like campy, I’m no fan of John Wayne, and I’ve never hankered for a horse named Trigger.

So, with that blasphemy out of the way, there are a few Westerns out there that’ve really tripped my trigger.

I count among them Unforgiven, Open Range, Dances With Wolves and Lonesome Dove.

And now we can add another, Joel & Ethan Coen’s razor sharp version of True Grit.

This movie, from the acting to the scenery and throughout, kicks ass on every level.

I’ve never seen the original True Grit (sinner!), so I have no basis for comparison, and from what I was told by the lady hired to make sure I didn’t film the screening, it really didn’t follow the original much at all. Fine. Like I said, John Wayne always seemed to me to be more of a caricature than anything (heresy!), and I’m a loyal fan of Jeff Bridges (Rooster Cogburn), ever since The Big Lebowski. I’m also a freakish fan of the Coen Brothers cinematic efforts, so I was primed for a visual feast, and now, I lay here fat and sated and overwhelmed by the genius of this movie.

The story revolves around a crazy-sharp 14 year old girl named Mattie Sharp (flawlessly played by Hailee Steinfeld) who seeks to avenge her fathers death at the hands of deranged hired man Tom Chane (Josh Brolin). She forcefully and resourcefully employs the U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn, the one-eyed lawman described as having “the most grit.” Along the way, the pair are joined by Texas Ranger LaBoeuf (Matt Damon) who is long on stories of valor but somewhat lacking in sand. They weave their way through the Choctaw Nation, with serene and severe landscapes marking their journey which is seasoned with just enough gunplay and bloodshed to remind you of the cruelty of that time.

One of the hallmarks of the modern Western that allows me to enjoy it more than the forebears of previous generations is the dark realities portrayed. Follow me here; there are no definitive white hats vs. black hats, no saints fighting the sinners. All the players seem to have redeemable and regrettable qualities. The heroes like whores and the villains don’t always set out to kill the children. The law seems to be subjective at best, and often subjective to the whims of those in power. I imagine this is an accurate reflection of the era. It certainly is the case with modern-day society.

I won’t ruin the story for you, but I will tell you this much: Jeff Bridges fearlessly executes his role as foil to the well-spoken, tenacious Steinfeld. You find yourself rooting for the girl with just revenge in her heart and on her mind. She learns the ways of the outlaw lifestyle, and has to witness both majestic country and horrible devastation at the hands of man.

The acting is rugged as the country it takes place in; Damon, Barry Pepper as Lucky Ned and Brolin all fulfill their roles as the journeymen they are, convincing and cruel, survivors in an unforgiving time. Once again, the Coen Brothers have proven that whatever genre they tackle, they do it with an innovative flair, original, engaging and engrossing at every turn. These guys could make a movie about the wonders of basket-weaving, and at the end of it, I’d find myself signing up for classes at the junior college.

As it stands, I find myself in great awe of the genre once again. Bridges has really shone in this remarkable story, and I believe he could well win the Oscar for the same role John Wayne won his; the difference being that this telling stays more true to the book, and certainly displaying more grit.

Overall Movie Score: VERY SOLID A+

Wha' Ma?

There’s an intrinsic problem with boxing movies: there can only be two possible outcomes. Either the protagonist dies (preferably in the ring, at the hands of an unhinged Soviet man/bear) or he/she wins in the final moments, thereby face-slapping all the naysayers along the way (this is usually accompanied by a climactic score, or a power ballad from the 80′s). So there you have it. They win or they die, because, really, who’s going to want to watch the sum of all the boxers actions lead to a crushing defeat unless death is on the line?

That was the attitude I took going into the latest Mark Wahlberg effort, The Fighter, which opens on December 10th. I had a little hope though, since I’m an erstwhile Wahlberg fan and have been since The Italian Job and The Shooter. I enjoy most of his movies, and this was a chance to watch him in yet another movie based around a 25 mile radius from Boston. I love movies based in Massachusetts.

The Fighter is ostensibly about the rise & redemption of “Irish” Micky Ward and his dysfunctional-as-hell family. Ward (Wahlberg) is chaotically drawn apart by the crack-addled good intentions of his has-been-boxer brother Dicky (Christian Bale), his chain-smoking pscyho-mom Alice (Melissa Leo), his 438 big-haired sisters and his bartending girlfriend Charlene (Amy Adams). This movie is based on a true story, so the squabbling hyena-like antics of his family are an important ingredient to the soup. And, as a son in a batshit crazy family, I can appreciate that.

Fact Number 7 that I can appreciate about this movie: the wardrobe is hinged completely on the crappy choices we all made in the 80s/90s, most aptly demonstrated by the towering infernos of hair displayed by Wards sisters as they drink Budweiser longnecks and suck down smokes. Ward drives a crappy car, he lives in a crappy apartment, he has a crappy job and a family that’s just, well, crappy. They constantly drag him down as a comparison to his older brother, so perfectly played by Bale, who’s claim to fame is that he knocked down Sugar Ray Leonard in a fight one time (Sugar Ray may well have tripped, a contentious claim that leads to the baring of fists at its mere mention). Dicky is also the subject of an HBO special being filmed on crack addiction, although he’s convinced it’s a documentary about an imaginary comeback he’s staging in his mind. Finally, Micky has enough of it all when Dicky heads to prison for another stint, and so decides to make his own mark on the boxing world without the toxic influences of his family. And he shines. Boy, does he shine.

But unlike after-school specials, where the redemption song cues up immediately upon his shining, Micky must face the onslaught of his unhinged family, who see his ascension minus his brother as nothing short of treason. Ward makes his choices and we’re treated to the ensuing chaos that follows. A Wahlberg production years from concept to execution, the results of his efforts are stellar, most notably in how Alice &  Dicky steal the whole show. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least to see Bale win an award for his acting, as he nails his role. Nails it. He’s so convincing, I’d be loathe to let him into my house, for fear that he’d rip out the wiring for crack money. And Melissa Leo? OWNS her role as the coiffed-out hell-bitch mom, down to the pleather cigarette case (you know, the one with the brass snap on top, like your mom or grandmother toted her Virginia Slims around in) and foul-mouthed ‘tude. I loathed her and loved her all at once, based on her misguided family loyalty mixed nicely with her psychotic behavior. Both Leo and Bale were at the top of the game here, and it shows throughout.

Take your buddy, take your girlfriend, take your husband, just take someone and go see this movie. The fight scenes are realistic enough to make you cringe, the shirtless Mark Wahlberg scenes are enough to make the ladies swoon a bit and I hate to ruin it for you, but guess what? There’s no Soviet man/bear to be found anywhere. I thoroughly enjoyed this one, and I think you will too.

Overall Movie Score: A-

Thanks again to Chris Louzader for providing the opportunity to review this great movie

Recently, I was offered a slightly unique opportunity: the chance to review a new movie in my own home. This offer came from the director, cinematographer, editor and writer, who all happen to be the same person, Nathan Maulorico of Unknown Films. This opportunity probably stemmed from the fact that we’re both in the Springfield Bloggers Gang (very violent, mostly focused on contraband trafficking and long drawn-out threads on the socio-economic impact of Lindsay Lohan), and that we’re fans of each others’ work. So when he asked me to do a review of his experimental short piece titled “This…Is The Orange Line”, I immediately accepted, knowing that the quality of his work would be well worth the time.

I was not let down in the least.

Now, to be fair, this film has several components that make me prejudiced to like it: it’s about trains (I’m a steam geek in the extreme…read here), it’s a documentary (as a function of getting older, I like this format more and more), it’s in black & white (makes me feel smarter for some reason) and it’s short (at around 8 minutes, 30 seconds, it appeals to my short attention span). The only downside I could see from the outset was that the score is a classical piece, a type of music which usually leads me to raging jags of depression and morose thoughts about the futility of man. But that’s my own deal, and I’m getting ahead of myself here. On to the movie.

The Press Kit came in a DVD canister, which immediately made me feel all special and privy to some sort of insider behavior – I’m easily amused and impressed, so at this point, the movie could have been about a steaming pile of dog waste and I’d be prone to liking it. But such was not the case.

The film opens with imagery of moving escalator steps and a transit train (the Chicago Transit Authority’s Orange Line…read here) journey across various landscapes of Chicago. I’ve never been to Chicago, but the imagery presented, even in the opening sequences, is very stark and beautiful, with the haunting music providing a component of loneliness that permeates the entire film. The first, and only, audio you’re going to hear  is the occasional sounds of the train on the tracks (except for at the very end, where you are thanked for riding the CTA line by the pre-recorded voice). The contrasts in upward views of cloud-kissing skyscrapers and sub-track (this is an elevated rail line) views of small businesses such as “Gold Cost Dogs” gave me the surreal sense of crowded urban landscapes and overwhelming isolation. People move about, are on the trains and platforms, but you never get to see their faces in focus, so they blend into the entire production as extras, with the scenery itself being the star. Shots of old signal towers, abandoned cars in passing junkyards, idled semi-trucks in storage yards and always, that haunting music, give you the impression that the only semblance of anything organic are the train cars themselves, ushering you through some sort of apocalyptic aftermath, otherwise known as urban decay. Throughout, it is gritty and heavily sensory, punctuated by strong architectural symbols (cranes, high-rises, the rail tracks themselves), tempered by dismal weather, resulting in a very rich inundation of the senses. The streetlamps, lit in an indeterminable time of day, lend themselves to the film-noir-esque component of it all, as though it could be being filmed in 1940, not 2010. Some landmarks are captured, such as the Chicago Board of Trade, and then it’s off again, with you as passenger on some sort of spectral tour of the City. The non-dialogue speaks and is captured by way of highlighting signage in the trains, along the tracks and in the window reflections, keeping you the rider warm against the cold and rain that surrounds the cars on their journey.

The sole protagonist (at least, in terms of one that’s living) is the all-of-6 second-star, a bobbing pigeon, who seems indifferent to his role in the film, but postures up nonetheless, strutting around a station platform. He seems perfectly content to occupy the abandoned way station, irked at not being offered a gift of food for his efforts.

The end of our lonely journey is at the platform labeled “Midway” with a picture of an airplane on the sign. We are thanked by the robotic voice of a non-existent conductor on this ghost train of sorts and the movie is over as quickly as it had begun.

Nathan does an excellent job in introducing a neophyte such as me to the world of interpretive and experimental documentaries. The film was dark and haunting, and since I’m a curious type, I was immediately taken by a desire to ride the Orange Line and explore Chicago for myself. I hope that this is only the beginning of his efforts in this form of art, because at the very least, he’s gained at least one more fan. Nathan’s efforts have certainly yielded impressive results, and if you get the chance, take a look at this graceful composition. Who knows? I may even end up liking classical music some day, too.

For now, I’ll stick to my love of trains, especially those captured in black & white.

"You boys want we should get ice cream aftah the next job?"

We went and caught The Town the other night, the first time I’ve abandoned the effervescent Chris Hopper Louzader for a movie review in recent memory. That’s okay, though, since she was off partying in that most party-centric of states, Wisconsin. And lately, EVERY movie we’ve caught together has been a grade A turd of a clunker, so methinks she’s got the bad JuJu and unwittingly curses cinematic output. Don’t tell her I said that.

The Town. The premise, according to IMDb goes like this: “As he plans his next job, a longtime thief tries to balance his feelings for a bank manager connected to one of his earlier heists, as well as the FBI agent looking to bring him and his crew down.” This dances scarily close to the edge of a formulaic movie plot, and I was wary, especially since I’m no Ben Affleck superfan (at least, not since Good Will Hunting) and he wrote, directed and starred in this effort. I was prepared to be underwhelmed into a popcorn-laced stupor.

I could not have been more wrong.

This movie kicks ass. A lot of it.

Ben Affleck, as Doug MacRay, is the quintessential Bostonian that I conjure up in my mind: gritty, wicked accent with no discernible use of the letter “r”, former hockey player and tons of Irish references. He’s perfect in a restrained and melancholy way, playing the part with an authenticity only a true Bostonian can bring. His pseudo-”brother”, James Coughlin, is executed flawlessly by Jeremy Renner, who, despite the undertones early on that foreshadow his fate, nails the role down. He is always “on” as a character, and is able to engender empathy, despite his scumbag persona. The whole movie sets up with a self-aware, self-loathing tone from the first scenes that lead the viewer to form an allegiance with the bad guys. So much so, in fact, you almost find yourself rooting for a car bomb to take out zealous FBI agent Adam Frawley (another picture perfect portrayal, this time by Slick Guy Du Jour Jon Hamm). Wait, aren’t they the good guys? Doesn’t matter by movies end. The loyalty you might feel for the gang of bank robbers trying to sort their way out of the despair that is their home town also manifests as a sub-story of the movie itself: loyalty. Loyalty to those we love, loyalty to our roots and loyalty to our brothers.

As MacRay remains torn between loyalty to the only life he’s known and an opportunity at love and escape, one thing becomes abundantly clear: Affleck is clearly a talented filmmaker, writer and actor, especially when given the chance to shine the spotlight on his home territory. And as long as Jenifer Lopez never sets foot in Bean Town, I think his efforts will keep getting better.

Intense acting, intense movie and stellar results.

Overall Movie Score: Very Solid A

"Scouts Honor. I fell asleep MAKING this movie"

I’m not opposed at all to the minimalist approach when it comes to movies. Not at all. I’m not opposed to movies set in remote locales (like New Jersey. Or Europe), nor do I mind forays into subtitles. In fact, a movie that is spartan in dialogue often works, since it allows you to interject your own emotions into the lead characters subtleties.

The American is not one of those movies.

Now, my friends Nathan and Megan of Unknown Films are people who I consider fans of a wide spectrum of the entire cinematic genre, and I’d guess the more obscure the better when it comes to off-kilter flicks whereas I tend to love Anchorman. But I wonder how they’d rate The American, since this movie may appeal to people with discerning tastes while  I found myself relieved when it was over (despite getting into the theater late, missing the previews (which always chaps my ass) and missing the first 7 seconds of the movie).  Why?

I’ll tell you why.

Even the fact that you get to see a lot of George Clooney semi-naked (a plus for resident superfan, Chris Louzader) and many beautiful women (some of whom absolutely refuse to wear a shirt) interact in a thoughtful, sparse manner can’t save the movie from coming across as though the actors are on the verge of dozing off themselves. It is set in a remote village of Italy where, apparently only three people live and most refuse to acknowledge occasional random gunfire. Burned-out assassin Jack (Clooney) retreats there to contemplate one last job of building a gun. He spends his time drinking coffee out of tiny cups and strolling on wet, cobblestone streets always on the lookout for a mysterious gang of Swedes who wish to see him dead. Oh, and spending time trying not to fall in love with a beautiful hooker. I find it curious that hookers and heroes in the movies rarely look like their real-life counterparts, but that’s another essay for another day.

One of the core problems is that you really never glance into the past to see his work as an assassin; outside of some light pistol work, he seems to pass his free time brooding, probably a common trait of the trade. Unfortunately, you get to experience the brooding in real time. This makes for cinematic boredom, despite the beautiful scenery that was as stark and lonesome as the dialogue. Only Clooney comes out the winner, as he’s able display some restraint-based acting chops while taking us on the journey of a paranoid hired gun.

A complete Euro-flop? Nah. Just another tale of love and bore.

Overall Movie Score:  Barely a C+

"Two. We'll Have Two Shots Of Ridiculousness"

There are few movies in which I find myself wondering “what in THE HELL?”.

The Expendables has earned such commentary.

By traveling to the Assisted Living Home For Aging Action Stars, Sylvester Stallone has rounded up a veritable who’s who of has-beens who no one under 25 has ever heard of and made one fantastically horrible movie. Has Sly traded what little creative juice he’s ever had for enough plastic surgery to give Joan Rivers a jealous streak? Where to begin?

The dialogue: my two little boys under age 8 trade better zingers and spicier barbs. There’s not even a “Yo, Adriannnnn!” moment to be turned into cult currency at a later date. It’s horrible. Oh? And every bad guy moment? Totally laced with cartoonish monologue-ing that was so cleverly lampooned in The Incredibles.

The cast: I’m gonna go with the belief that every single cast member owed Mr. Stallone a substantial amount of money that they were unable to repay. As penance, he forced them to “act” in his dog-turd of a creation. Only Jason Statham made a decent effort. Mickey Rourke? So bad. Bruce Willis? Stilted and contrived. Arnold? Looked like he’d just emerged from a microwave oven set on high for too long. Dolph Lungren? Duuuuuuuuuude. You washed out years ago, right alongside whatever dignity you were clinging on to.  Stone Cold Steve Austin? At least he got to employ wrestling moves, choosing to employ straight arms in lieu of guns or knives (always smart) thereby not reaching too far out of his skill set.

The plot: Sly and his band of washed up mercenaries are more than willing to kill 7,638 people apiece in order to give Sly the chance to see a girl again. This is a woman who is young enough to be his daughter, so I was ever so thankful when he merely hugged her at the end, as opposed to feigning some sort of romance. She is the daughter of naughty General Garza, played by David Sayas, the actor who deftly plays the role of Angel Batista on the brilliant Showtime series Dexter and seems morbidly appalled that he signed on to play some sort of corrupt junta-type. It’s as though he never read the script and can’t believe he sunk so low as to sign on sight unseen. Eric Roberts, the CIA agent turned rogue drug lord is played sleazily enough, with his defining bad-guy characteristics being his slicked back hair and all-too-white teeth.

The only thing that made this movie bearable was being able to groan its terriblicity so loud that the normally unflappable Chris Louzader got markedly uncomfortable. If we’re going to go for awkward, I say we take it all the way.

The synopsis: this is one hundred and three minutes of my life I will never get back. And if you waste your time and money watching this arthritic clunker, you’ll feel as though perhaps your free time is expendable, too.

Overall Score: D- Minus (that’s right: minus minus. So very minus)

Copyright: The Internet

My threshold for comedies is a highly one-sided affair. I basically have one criteria that must be met: how would this movie go over in the firehouse after it’s 617th viewing? I also have a bit of a glitch when it comes to Will Ferrell movies – I like them more and more with repeated viewings, so that movies that I wasn’t enamored with at first (think Anchorman) become classics in my mind in a relatively short time. I don’t think that will be the case with the latest installment. I loved The Other Guys from the opening sequence right up until the credits began to roll. Watch the movie and you’ll see why that part ruins the irresponsible hilarity of the rest of it.

The opportunity to view the movie with self-professed local celebutante Chris Louzader gave me my first chance to watch and review a movie with an actual movie reviewer. She was gracious enough to allow me to tag along and annoy her by crinkling the popcorn bag every 15 seconds. It may be the last time she ever invites me, and I wouldn’t blame her.

I think a lot of people are going to go into this movie with a grudge against cop-buddy spoof-style flicks and I can’t say that I blame them: you’d be hard pressed to get me to endure another Jackie Chan/Chris Tucker installment. The bar seems to be set really high for people like Ferrell, and I’m shocked that people are expecting Morgan Freeman-style acting from a guy who’s responsible for the awesome website called “Funny Or Die”. He knows his genre, and he’s good at it and this seems to piss certain people (read: critics) off. Fickle, these people we call “people”.

There is a hilarious chemistry between Ferrell and Wahlberg that carries from their first scene, but they aren’t alone in their self-aware self deprecation: Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson begin the movie with bad-ass farce and nods to every macho cop-drama you’ve ever seen. It gets even better from there.

The plot is slightly laborious and I think this is intentional. You’re not supposed to be paying attention to the financial-crime scenario, you need to be watching a straight-laced Ferrell and a slightly unhinged Wahlberg work out the intricacies of  their enforced partnership. Eva Mendes, as the insanely hot wife of an unimpressed Ferrell, plays her role with equal humor. It’s as though all of the members are doing their very best to keep straight faces while delivering ridiculous lines. Michael Keaton, as the beleaguered Captain Gene, even manages to pull this off while making nonsensical references to the pop-group TLC without even knowing it.

If you’re gonna run an inside joke amongst your friends, it’s best if all parties can keep a straight face. The Other Guys pulls this maneuver off perfectly, and I laughed hard enough several times to invoke moments of snorting. That’s a win in my book.

Go see this movie with your friend who most closely appreciates your style of humor. You can take your spouse, but be prepared for them to eyeball you after the movie with slight disbelief, as though they’ve caught you singing along to Lady Gaga in the shower. They might not get the movie, and they’ll wonder why you’re proclaiming it to be comic genius. Don’t worry….I’ll understand where you’re coming from.

And yes, I expect to watch this movie more than a few times late at night in the firehouse.

Overall Movie Rating: A-

Pimpin', Pixar Style

Rotten Tomatoes, the online movie review site I often use to gauge the critical popularity of a movie, recently rated Toy Story 3 at 99% positive. I’ve never seen a movie rate that high, and I’ve yet to see a negative review of the final installment of Pixar’s uber-powerhouse. Consider this yet another notch in the rave review column.

Much like The Empire Strikes Back is often considered the best of the Star Wars series by it’s fans, Toy Story 3 might well be the best installment of Woody and Buzz’s adventures. Both films are also the darkest, each with the toughest themes of their respective outings. Toy Story 3 deals with the melancholy aspects of growing up and leaving behind your childhood memories, the importance of sticking together as a family and finding your purpose as the people around you mature and move on; The Empire Strikes back is mostly about finding out who your father is and losing a hand in the deal.

I was warned well in advance that the movie left grown men shedding tears, especially within the  last fifteen minutes. I wish I’d never been told that. Computer-generated toys, when combined with the right voice actors and juuuussttt the right soundtrack reduced me to shambles, trying to explain to the kids that “my allergies were really acting up in there.” It’s the loyalty of good friends who never give up on you, it’s the concept of facing irrelevance in this world, it’s all these grown up concepts in a kids movie that really got to me. I want a Buzz Lightyear in my life who constantly pulls my ass out of the fire. Who doesn’t want the undying loyalty of a friend like Woody? And the neurotic dinosaur Rex? We all have a friend like that, endearing in their idiotic innocence. From the Potato Heads and their alien children to Jessie & Bullseye and Slinky Dog, the mad geniuses at Pixar have captured perfectly all the people you’d want to move in to your own cul-de-sac, not to mention your toy box.

Probably the aspect that captured the dark and gripping heart of the movie best was the post-conveyor belt scene near the end. I don’t want to ruin this for those who haven’t seen the movie yet, so I won’t, but the seeming inevitability of the moment, and the courage with which these friends face the situation is gut-wrenching. When they grabbed each others pixelated hands in what seems to be a horrific demise, I couldn’t tell whose eyes were wider, mine or my boys . It’s a kids movie, so it turns out fine, but that moment, and you’ll know which one I’m referring to, is a throat squeezer.

To combat the constant roller coaster of heartbreak, the movie has several new noteworthy characters and enough not-so-subtle /witty adult banter to balance out the sad realization that this the finale in a masterful trio of films. Ken (of Barbie & Ken fame) and a classically trained hedgehog top the list of the best new additions, but it’s a Latin Buzz that really brought the obnoxious laughter out of my throat. He’s a romantic fool at his finest when he speaks Spanish, reviving the clueless Buzz that we met in the first installment of the series. His uncontrollable hip thrusting when he hears The Gipsy Kings later on? Wickedly priceless.

So thanks once again to Chris Louzader for giving me the opportunity to enjoy such a wonderful movie, to cry like an idiot in front of my kids and to remember why those Pixar people are the very best of the genre.

Overall Movie Rating: SUPER SOLID A++