My Latest Abortion Gave Me Horrible Whiplash

JK Simmons hates you…I hate him because he was in Juno and I really hate him for his “oscar” acceptance speech for some assholey movie about fucking jazz.  JAZZ???  Are you fucking kidding me?  White people teaching young white people how to play jazz?  I’m dying here… White girls not getting abortions?  Where’s Jennifer Jason Leigh when you need her?  Come on folks, really…JK Simmons has a face I want to return defective to our all mighty creator…Someone should have put that face on hold…I’m not saying his mommy should have aborted him…But if she had, I would not have had to listen to his stupid mother fucking, ass licking (oh wait, ass licking is good)…um…Scum sucking…wait…uh…Fart smelling “oscar” acceptance speech…I remember hearing it and having that same feeling I had after watching Juno…You know, like my testes were shriveling to tiny little dry raisins, disappearing into my lower intestines…Never to return…

Now, what I was I saying?…”oscar” acceptance speach…Ah, to be accepted…To feel loved by the academy…JK Simmons looks like he’d euthanize his folks, thank you very much…Assuming his mommy and daddy even talk to him anymore…What a dick and a half…Juno?  Get pregnant but as long as you have a doughy white boyfriend and happy parents, just give that precious and vulnerable gooey precious angel away and get on with your stupid guitar playing white life with your fat boyfriend…Sing it away, sister – don’t feel a thing – real feelings are not required here and some of us don’t have your cushy white life and all your honesty and understanding folks and teachers and the one person in the film who mentioned you could consider getting an abortion was mysteriously middle easterny, minority-y or something or other-y…ness…You know?  Get it?  I don’t even think the word “abortion” was uttered in this movie, directed by the son of some awful Hollywood director…oh, back to JK Rowling…I mean, Simmons…Dude, you actually said this while accepting an academy award for a crappy movie I will happily never see and most certainly never love:

“…Call your mom, call your dad. If you’re lucky enough to have a parent or two alive on this planet, call ‘em. Don’t text. Don’t email. Call them on the phone. Tell ‘em you love ‘em, and thank them, and listen to them for as long as they want to talk to you. Thank you. Thank you, Mom and Dad…”

The academy should have simply aborted this speech…But these are different times, you know…

JK, your parents hate you.   If they acted out their hate on you as a little, defenseless boy wonder, would you still “thank” them today?  Prick.

 Avoid and abort...Rock Hard

Ginkgo Biloba and the K vs. K vs. K

Someone I was in love with many moons ago recently reminded me to remember Kramer vs. Kramer…When I began remembering, I remembered it was a movie I took my first girl friend to see…I think…I think we were girlfriend and boyfriend and I think I bought her a Smurf key chain and I’m pretty sure I took her to the Mineola movie theater to see a second run of it for 99 cents…I'm pretty sure it was my idea...It was so full of good and yummy adult themes…I don’t even think we understood what divorce was and I’m pretty sure neither of us had any kind of relationship with our daddies…I could be wrong …I don’t think me and Karen dated again although we might have gone roller skating…Maybe I bought her a Smurf mug…Maybe she knew I was gay way back in the fifth grade…What happened to her?  Same goes for Dustin Hoffman’s idiot child in Kramer vs. Kramer…Why would he fight for that?  Why did he marry Meryl?  Does anyone now remember Jane Alexander?  Well, here we are all grown up and stupid and we’re all suffering from the sad and pathetic effects of divorce…My parents are still together…Fuck me…FUCK YOU!  Go eat some white ice cream while you taunt your daddy Dustin before sinking fast into acting oblivion…You deserve it…And an Oscar…or a nomination…Dude, I can’t believe you got an Oscar nomination for crying in front of Dustin Hoffman.  And to think I used to listen to that song Reminiscing by The Little River Band, imagining me and Karen married, so many years later, walking through the park and reminiscing…I wish Karen had kicked me in the nuts back then and done some real physical and psychological damage, ‘cause right now I just feel stupid and things seem awesomely hazy.  Facebook me, Karen…Sadly, Rock Hard.

Doo Diligence #3 (or how I stole your email message and made it my film review)

Or, we heart hookers. Or, we hearted N.Y.

So I watched Hustling last night. I was kinda surprised it kept my attention the whole time. Out of it I realized two things: 

1) We need hoards of hookers on street corners today. I can't believe that has been taken from us. Hookers being sassy, bad mouthing cops and dealing with cheap johns - I can't understand why this doesn't exist.

 
2) Even though I have never been to New York City, in my mind I still imagine and perhaps hope that it still looks like it did in seedy ‘70s and ‘80s movies. Gritty, dirty and filled with bell bottoms and tacky neon, old pay phone booths and metal trash cans. If I go there now and see modern cafes and starbucks coffee joints it will really, really ruin the idea I have in my mind.

For no good reason, I’m thinking of greasy Italian men in dirty wife beaters. My vision of New York just isn’t complete without them. I don’t want hipsters. I want authentic, dirty Italian men hanging outside of porno theatres. This is the New York of my dreams. 

And hooker funerals. That might have been the best part of the Hustling itself. How come more movies don’t include hooker funerals? With a sorry group of hooker co-workers in attendance? Huh?

(Thank you Belle Bottom for your accidental review; makes my job so much easier.  We here at Cinemüshka love hookers too…

Doo Diligence #2 (or how I stole your email message and made it my film review)

Or, no gummo in class...

"...I was like, bunny ears, dead cats, poverty, bunny ears, dead cats, poverty, bunny ears, dead cats, poverty, bunny ears, dead cats, poverty, ugly people..."

(Thank you, Schlockhausen, for your spot on review of Gummo...I think it's time for you to submit a proper review, like the one you did for us back in 2012, shithead.)

Papi

I went to see The Grand Budapest Hotel all by myself at the grand Vista Theatre in Hollywood, just up the street from where I live.  I love this theatre…It’s all old and vintage and there’s legroom galore and whenever I go to the movies here in LA I’m never stressed out the way I would get stressed out going to movies in New York Shitty.  Here in LA people work on movies, so it’s all quiet in the theatres, like the audience has respect for the piece of crap they worked so hard on.  I can’t see a good movie these days for shit…Not that The Grand Budapest Hotel was that bad…It was just kinda boring…Like Wes Anderson is still working out his daddy issues and we have to pay for it…But there’s some pretty shots and some fake looking dioramas or some such nonsense…And, as usual, the men outnumber the women and we’re again treated to some pseudo-father-son-wet-dream-cum-buddy-adventure-sans-cum.  How grand and Ralph Fiennes didn’t nail it at all…Like he knew something Wes Anderson didn’t and he didn’t have the balls to care…I don’t care.  I hate Tilda Swinton and don’t care if you do not.

So, to erase the $6.50 bargain matinee special memory, I rented Andy Warhol’s Bad.  A movie I swear I saw but turned out I hadn’t.  My loss…I think it might have changed my life – no, it’s changed my life but maybe it would have happened sooner…There are lots of retarded babies in it and some of them die horrible deaths.  How utterly new and different.  The babies reminded me of Mongo from Precious (see my first review ever here of Precious, please…if you can spare a minute…It’s a good review, I mean, it’s a bad review of a shitty movie but I think it’s very well written by me).

Bad's S. Tyrrell

Bad scared me in ways Precious did, but did it even better…Bad is so good, mainly because it takes place near where I was born, stars a brilliant Carroll Baker and a fucking brilliant, fucking amazing, fucking fucked up fucking Susan Tyrrell…I love this woman…Is that too easy?  A gay faggot saying he loves Susan Tyrrell?  Help.  Well, Bad is only about women and it pretty much takes Wes Anderson’s pussy adventure and fucks it a new ass, no lube…Would Wes Anderson have ever put Susan Tyrrell in a movie?  No...These balls he does not have…She’d have chewed him up and spit him out and we’d have eaten it up…Susan is dead now and Bad is a nightmare Wes Anderson only wishes he could conjure up.  In any case, even if he had made it, his daddy would probably have given him a timeout…Suck my sack, Wes Anderson…Rock Hard.

JACKED!!!

Eurostar, our in-house chick flick haiku poet, has graced us with his first review!  Thank you, Eurostar, keep 'em coming:




When I was in the third grade, the multiplex was my babysitter.  If a movie was G or PG, my little brother and I were invariably dropped off to watch the weekend matinée.   We saw literally everything – including Scavenger Hunt, a bad, bad, bad, bad knockoff of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.  Instead of the Stooges and Ethel Merman, we get Richard Benjamin and Starbuck from the original Battlestar Galactica, who is now an eccentric crank famous for hating the remake of Battlestar Galactica.  Seeing how that series “Lost!” its way by the end, who can blame him, even if female fighter pilots are still pretty cool?  Back in the seventies, though, Starbuck was trying to inherit the fortune of another eccentric crank by screwing Jack’s white, fiberglass clown head off the top of a Jack-in-the-Box drive-through intercom.  I’ve been thinking about this scene a lot lately, haunted by those incessant commercials featuring the new, improved cyborg Jack with his creepy Mad Men body.  Scavenger Hunt also provides the perfect set-up for a great reality TV show.  Whoever can deface the most public and corporate property (list provided) wins a million dollars – what fun!  After this show gets made, remember you heard it here first, so I can collect my royalties and residuals.  Au revoir, Eurostar.

Chick Flick Haiku #9

ahoy there sailor!

it’s time to carry me off

so wear your dress whites

Sisters Are Doin' It...

These days, trying to find a good lesbian movie is like trying to find…ummm…Name one, I dare you…Personal Best?  Nope…The Children’s Hour?  HA!  Making Love?  Maybe…Windows?  Almost!  Have you seen Windows?  Talia Shire plays a stuttering straight woman stalked by her lesbian neighbor, shittily played by Elizabeth Ashley, who hires a man to rape Adrian, err, I mean, Talia Shire and record her stuttering moans and screams…Really!  I heard stutterers protested this movie back in 1980.  I still can’t believe Talia Shire has 2 oscar nominations.  Makes my head spin, really…

So...Good lesbian movies…The Killing of Sister George, you say?  YYYYYES!!!  My most favorite dykodrama ever.  Now, I don’t pretend to know how lesbians live.  I don’t even have a lesbian friend, but this movie comes pretty darn close to what I think lesbians are about.  It’s a UK film, so it’s even more foreign to me…It stars Beryl Reid and Susannah York as a bickering, May/December couple - one of whom is a dreadfully aging actress, the other a hot, young piece of sapphic flesh…They argue, sing a little, dance a little, scream a lot, throw stuff, yell some more while Beryl Reid, aka June Buckridge aka Sister George, yells at everyone else and is one big cranky ass mother fucker.  I love her…She gets shit on left and right and just pops up again, fists in the air like Bea Arthur’s Maude (but a lesbian…).

I always thought The Killing of Sister George was some murder mystery involving nuns, but it ain’t…It’s pure lesbianness of the highest order. An unapologetic look into a dysfunctional duo and a sad commentary on what we scumbags here in Hollywoods would once refer to as “THE BIZ”.   Beryl Reid’s final word at the end is just about the most heartbreaking thing I ever did hear in a movie that I still don’t entirely understand and really, why should I?  Lesbians are weird…But they get shit done ‘cause they ain’t out dancing and sniffing poppers with the likes of Al Pacino.  AAAAAADRIAN!!!!!!  From, Rock Hard

Your Adaptation is Hurting My Asshole

It's a Meryl day!  Just as soon as I posted Chick Flick Haiku #8, Schlockhausen sent an email from the Tri-State Area.  Thanks Schlockhausen, your review of Adaptation made me shit...Twice:

 

What kinda bitch made this piece of shit? The kinda bitch who uses the fucking word 'meta' and orders decaf espresso and thinks, "Hey, I'm drinkin' espresso!" Bitch you're not drinking espresso you're drinking your espresso flavored lifestyle and washing it down with fuck, fuck and shit.  You know, the kinda bitch who thinks you give a shit about what they're talking about while you're yawning and thinking about getting drunker quicker just so the bitch's bullshit might go down slightly more easily. But it doesn't, because the bitch doesn't just talk, the bitch talks about what the bitch is talking about but never just talks. Talking about what you want to talk about and how you want to talk about it, that's what this bullshit is. Like a dog that takes a shit in your house, then eats the shit before you can clean it up, then throws the shit up but eats that too before you can clean it up, then throws that up too and wags its tail for approval.

Oh yeah and Nicholas Cage is just an asshole. 

 

Lovingly, Schlockhausen

Chick Flick Haiku #8

the kikuyu – who?

redford so lost in kenya

great theme music though

Gurrrl Power Redux

The Stepford Wives is a 2004 remake of the 1975 classic, staring the waxy Nicole Kidman as Joanna Eberhart, a television executive who survives a flashy assassination attempt by a disgruntled reality TV show contestant, only to be fired from her position of power. After a sparky bought of electroshock therapy, Joanna and her husband Walter, played by Matthew Broderick, move the whole family (two nameless, faceless children included) to the picturesque town of Stepford, Connecticut. Johanna stands out as a dry, emaciated and monochromatic career woman (the human equivalent of VIA instant coffee) in a town where all of the other women are shiny, elegant and vacant, (the human equivalent of Jordan almonds). Joanna encounters a friend in the loud and disagreeable misfit writer Bobbie (Bette Midler), as well as an adversary in the magnificent town matriarch, Claire (Glenn Close). Well, eventually, through a series of unlikely occurrences, like a cameo of Faith Hill literally do-si-do-ing into oblivion at a town Square Dance, Johanna realized that the charming women of Stepford are in fact housewife/RealDoll robotic facsimiles of a group of power hungry women who were once CEOs, judges, etc. (keep an eye out for a portrait of Faith Hill in a Hillary Clinton costume during Johanna’s research). And it was none other than their emasculated husbands who forcibly placed them into this state of fabulous limbo. Matthew Broderick has a change of heart just as he is about to oblige Johanna into sublime Stepford submission (it is not made clear how this happens, but there is a hairless, eyeball-less Joanna robot in once scene), and instead simply presses many buttons all at once in the main control room of the Men’s Club. All of the brain microchips go berserk and short out, the Stepford ladies come to their senses, and oh boy, do the husbands have some hell to pay! All in all, this movie didn’t make much sense, but it looked fantastic. For example, we are to accept that there is a woman who dispenses money out of her mouth like an ATM, and to not question how Joanna’s sad and floppy brown administrative hairstyle becomes icy blond and waist length. Apparently, a lot of content had to be edited out for various reasons (including a scene where mutated Bette Midler spreads open her breasts to reveal a frosty cavity for beers) so what was left was this Crazy-Quilt of a film? Perhaps The Stepford Wives would have benefitted from some more decidedly dark content, like all of the wives electrocuting their husbands with a “shocking” kiss goodnight...Written by the Cole Chickering

I Hate Guest Critics: Cole Chickering

One of my favorite sites these days is Woman's Day  For me, it's the non plus ultra of these Tumblr sites the kids are doing.  I don't get it, makes no sense to my eyes, but what the fuck do I know...I have grey pubes and I'll soon need bifocals according to my Armenian eye doctor.

Woman's Day

I never met Cole Chickering.  He lives in Chicago or some place I visited 8,000 years ago.  If Cole lived in LA he'd hate me 'cause I'd follow him around and try to smell the youth that no doubt seeps from his every pore.  I hate him.  I love him.

Anyway, Woman's Day makes me cry.  Or makes me wish I could cry.  Look for Cole's smart-ass review soon.  Hugz, Rock Hard

Chick Flick Haiku #7

bette and lily twinned?

that frog’s ass ain’t water-tight

still, you’ll piss yourself

Pet Semenary...

First of all, I'd like to preface this review by saying I am usually pretty lenient when it comes to accepting small grammatical errors like ending sentences with prepositional phrases or accepting the occasional “their/there/they’re” confusion in text messages.  However, I think the fact that this movie is purposely misspelled speaks volumes about the movie I’m about to describe. Not only was it not integral to any sort of “plot device” but I’m pretty sure Stephen King thought he was being really fucking clever when he did it. I can just imagine his smug Mongoloid face smirking from above his stupid fucking clunky '80s typewriter. Then again, I’m probably just butthurt because I didn’t realize it was misspelled until someone in the movie mentioned it.

Pet Sematary has a pretty simple plot to understand- seemingly perfect family moves into a new country home near a dangerous highway in which trucks haul-ass down. Within the first 5 minutes of moving, their obnoxious semi-psychic, but not smart enough to listen to her mother, daughter injures herself on a tire swing and their 4 year old toddler almost walks into a street and gets hit by a truck. The son is saved by a world weary old man who cryptically mentions the pet sematary. Foreshadowing with a capital F.

However, what seems to be more of an impending doom is the awkward family dynamics. Although an attractive pair, the mom, played by Star Trek NextGen actress Denise Crosby, is totallllllly a closet-case while the dad, played by Dale Midkiff, has the dead stare that only someone with a violent porn career or a Canadian can have. There are so many times where Dale Midkiff struggles in terror only to look as if he is preparing to blow a load.

The last member of this family is the cat. Pretty much from the get-go everyone anticipates this cat to be hit by a truck and to be killed. However, it waits to do this when mom and the kids are away, probably visiting with mom’s “friend” Pat. The cat dies. The dad buries it in the pet sematary. It comes back to life. It is evil.
Also, there is some weird subplot with dad not being able to save some dude who had half of his brain oozing out and he comes back as a friendly zombie ghost to give advice but I wasn’t paying that much attention. There is also more sub-subplot about mom killing her sister/first girlfriend, who had some crippling spine disease that made her character look like a man in drag, dressed up as some Marnie Weber character. Also, the cat flings a dead rat into porndad’s tub while he’s taking a bath…hilarity ensues.

So FINALLY, the son gets hit by a car. He gets buried. He comes back to life. He’s evil. HE STABS THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE’S ANKLE. POSSIBLY THE MOST TERRIFYING MOMENT IN ALL OF HORROR HISTORY. He kills the mom. Dad buries her. She comes back to life. She’s evil. She kills the dad. See the ingenious web that Stephen King has spun?

However, despite the schlock, Pet Sematary is still a scary movie and ended up giving me the following nightmare:

I dreamt I was walking around the Grand Library in Glendale and outside their gallery space was a tv talk show set up like Space Ghost Coast to Coast with two demons that looked like they were from Buffy displayed in those monitor-chairs. The dialogue was like “Oh you killll me Beazebub”. “AHHAHA, that’s what your mother and the 40 million souls I’ve collected said”. Then I walked into the gallery space and it was a 3-D video installation of these horrifying shadows that would creep and surround you and it felt like I was trapped in hell. I remember blinking and trying to wake up from within the dream and when I finally did I was dropped off in a family reunion. This reunion was my mother’s Texan family and it ended on a high note when I ran into '90s boy next door, Breckin Myer and we tried to figure out how related we were so we could make out.

THE END...Dirty Pillows.

Introducing...

We here at Cinemüshka are pleased to announce a new contributor, Dirty Pillows.  She's a girl...Maybe even a woman...All Woman.  Super Glossy is busy with a new boyfriend (again) and can't find the stinking, dirty time to write.  She will though, I'm sure, 'cause relationships fail.

Look out for Dirty Pillows' first review sometime soon...really soon, like maybe tomorrow..

Play Misty for Me, Shithead...

I hate music and I hate people who ask me what my favorite music is.  Like I care…and when I say I love opera, the scumbag who asked me what my favorite music is looks at me like I’m some fruitpie.  Hello!  Straight people like opera.  Some straight people LOVE opera.  So, fuck you. Yeah, I know, you have a Maria Callas cd…Eat me, douchebag.

I hate the opening song from Death Game so much, I wish Michael J. Fox sang it.  It’s got to be the lamest piece of shit song that has nothing to do with squat. Someone loved this gem of a ditty, 'cause it appears at the beginning, middle and end of possibly one of the worst movies that ever got made.  It’s so bad they dubbed Seymour Cassell with some suave dude's voice.  Sondra Locke and Colleen Camp keep it real though.  Their voices are pure and so are their performances.  Raw.  Real.  Rent it if you can.  It’s a true story.  Usually true story movies are good, but not this one.  It made me cry.  Sondra and Colleen channel something awesome in this scatological, Seymour-torturing, orgy, lezzy fest co-starring lots of food.  It scared and scarred me.

Some thirty-five, nasty years later, what are we left with?  Seymour Cassell is considered some stupid underdog genius by every Cassavettes-loving turd, while wicked Sondra Locke and Colleen Camp are nowhere to be found.  I wish I was at the pre-production meetings for Death Game.  I bet Locke thought she’d get another oscar nom. for this.  She should have.  But I’m guessing Clint had other ideas for her.  This movie obviously scared him to death. 

Bye-bye La Locke, but thanks for Ratboy...Rock Hard 

Be Kind, Fast Forward...

I really find it hard to sit through entire films, especially if I know I’ll hate them…I’ve decided to try to rent films for a particular scene or moment.  Like renting Brown Bunny to see Chloe suck that big Gallo cock. (I think she swallows, poor gal.)  Or Scanners to watch the head explode. Or Caligula to watch the straight porn but secretly get off on the gay shit.  

I rented In the Heat of the Night because I think women aren't allowed to act in movies anymore.  Real acting.  It's a man-movie, but Lee Grant is a better actor than bozo Rod Steiger will ever be. Ask Margot Kidder.  Maybe good actors, like Tuesday Weld, are living in the Valley somewhere having lunch with other actors we’ve all forgotten about like Colleen Camp, Season Hubley, Cathy Moriarty, Nancy Allen, Candice Azzara, Sandy Dennis, Candy Clark and Linda Manz. 

Go rent In the Heat of the Night to watch the whole 5 minutes of screen time by Lee Grant.  She’s really acting here. No, really.  I know she’s an old lady now and all you macho assholes in love with Christian Bale will totally dismiss this rant, but it’s only 5 minutes and she was in Mafu Cage with Carol Kane, which would be hailed a classic had it been directed by a man.  What would Dinah Manoff say?...Phft, Rock Hard

Chick Flick Haiku #6

baby voice, big hair

bitch boss breaks her leg – hooray!

let the river run

BSM on FF

Way back when I had netflix, after a week staring at my netflix, I figured I had 20 minutes before People’s Court came on to watch Black Snake Moan.  With remote in hand and the distant memory of L.A. billboards showing a pervacious Ricci imprisoned by the black man, I pushed the fastest fast forward possible and was rewarded with a gem of a Lifetime chick flick…I learned that in less than two weeks I could be cured of my whorey, sexy, wicked, dirty ways by slapping my thighs, hugging a Timberlake or simply being chained to a radiator…I mean, if she could be cured in two weeks and decide she should stay with a Mouseketeer and not be with her righteous, black daddy, then I could do anything…Somewhere in this potpourri of southern voodoo camel-toe sexiness is a shitty movie.  I cried twice and I rewound and zoomed in on several scenes but really, People’s Court was calling and I refused to stop now.  It was that good.  On top of it all, the lovely and forgotten Kim Richards was featured as Ricci’s trashy mommy.  This fucked me up on many levels.  How can the star of Escape and Return to Witch Mountain even be available for this?  Plus, I checked her out on IMDB and she was born in Mineola, NY.  But that’s where I’m from and she’s only a little older than me and I don’t ever remember seeing her smoking pot, sucking dick or setting fires in the abandoned reservoir near the public pool off Westbury Ave.  Maybe she was in Los Angeles auditioning for the Rockford Files…Avec tit, Rock Hard

Sweat Dreams...

Jessica Lange's fucked up, dysmorphic face is my new favorite hobby.  I can’t stop looking at it and all of its recent incarnations.  I remember when I was a kid I thought she was the prettiest girl in the whole wide world...I'm gay now and she's just another victim of this shitty city I live in.  I somehow thought she’d hold out and never get plastic surgery. Seems I’ve not been on the internets for the last 5 years ‘cause all she got is face work.  What would Sam Shepherd say?  Who cares...If there’s ever a hemorrhoid face desperately needing surgery it’s his.  Maybe he had some work done, I don’t know.  Holy muther of fucking god, WTF?  What would Tootsie say???  My mother used to drop us kids off at the local movie theater/babysitter in Mineola where I saw 2 pair of breasticles that are forever etched in my stinking, good for nothing brain:  Jessica Lange’s boobies being fondled by an ape in King Kong and Genevieve Bujold’s itty bitties on a balcony in Coma.  Coma and King Kong…My life in a nutshell.  Thanks, Mom.  Sit on it, Rock Hard.