The Juno and the Hype

By Memo Salazar

The internet, being an infinite depository of ideas, has a lot of bad ones. Dumb videos, boring music, blowhard opinions… though I support this new democratic playing field in principle, I’m not oblivious to the overload of utter intellectual dreck we have to suffer for such freedom. When it comes to “film criticism” or “movie reviews”, there are plenty of self-appointed “critics” who’s ego can’t help but masturbate endlessly on cyber-paper, even if no one is watching. The thrill of seeing your opinion “in print” is still alluring enough, apparently, to convince hundreds of geeks to take a break from their X-Box and start typing away…  a leftover idea from the days when “being in print” meant that someone important actually thought you had something worth saying.

One could argue that Cinemaspeak is just such a place- one of countless movie blogs that exist for purely self-serving reasons. Maybe it is- but the truth is I see value in this here little site, full of idiosyncratic thoughts put forth by individuals, rather than committees. I try to write about movies that receive little coverage, movies that truly inspire thought and provoke reaction. This is not a paid gig, so I am under no pressure to have something snappy and clever written every week; I speak up only when I have a reason to, and that usually happens when I see something worth talking about. For the most part, this involves writing about worthwhile films that escape the mainstream media’s myopic eye, but sometimes it means writing about the opposite- movies that bypass our eyes and get shoved right up our asses for no good reason. Which brings us to Juno.

It all started with The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. This is a great film- one that lets you see the world through the eyes of a fully-paralyzed man, unable to communicate, save through his left eye. Beautifully shot, it could have come off as artsy and pretentious if it hadn’t been made with such intelligence and creative vision. On paper, it reads like a shitty Hollywood feel-good movie: arrogant rich guy awakens from a coma, paralyzed and cynical, eventually finding a newfound appreciation for life via his imagination, which culminates in a best-selling autobiography. Sounds like something stupid enough to earn the title Awakenings II. Leave it to the French, however, to take a much more interesting route, employing several cinematic techniques that come off as inspired rather than gimmicky. I’m sure a lot has been written about it already, so I’ll just say it’s definitely worth your time. What isn’t worth your time is the movie we decided to sneak into right after watching this one- Juno, which begged the question “how bad can it be if it’s free?”

Let’s see. The opening scene, in which we are introduced to our spunky, wise-cracking young protagonist as she purchases her third pregnancy test that day, has got to be one of the biggest pieces of cinematic shit I have ever witnessed: horribly-written dialogue, the kind worthy of MTV Corporate Suits hoping to sound hip and current; completely unlikable, un-redeeming, uninteresting characters, speaking to each other in pure ironic drivel. One-dimentional, cold, cruel and crass… these are just a few of the many words applicable to the unfolding mess. In a mere five minutes, this movie was already worse than three other over-hyped pieces of shit I could recall: American Beauty, Reality Bites, and Napoleon Dynamite. All of those mediocre efforts, if you recall, captured the hearts and minds of American audiences, which goes to show you how a good marketing campaign can fool everybody most of the time. But none of those corporate-minded movies could seem to compete with the utter stupidity and lack of talent found in Juno, and as the film trudged through it’s first half hour, the lack of clothes on this cute little empress was just more and more obvious. Michael Cerra did his best to add a little genuine humanity to the thing, but his humble performance did little to curb the tide of shit spraying all over the audience. For the first time this century, I was seriously considering walking out.

That is, until our heroine encountered a young couple hoping to adopt her child, played by Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman. Only then, finally, did something genuine finally start to seep through. Juno’s relationship with this young father-to-be, who’s really an overgrown college student incessantly reliving grunge music’s early-90’s glory days, rings true. Despite the film’s completely unsuccessful attempt at making her the sharpest, hippest 17-year-old you’ve ever known (basically an updated Punky Brewster- older and pregnant, but just as contrived) Juno’s character finally achieves a little depth vis-a-vis her pseudo-crush on this older dude. Though their conversations remain dumb and completely unrealistic [Juno is clearly every 30-year-old male hipster's wet dream: a 17 year old non-comformist who happens to be an expert on late 70's punk rock, who can recognize a Les Paul guitar from across the room, and who's ready to debate the Stooges vs Sonic Youth on demand- in other words, a nerdy, white, Brookyln-music-geek with boobs- about as realistic a portrayal of a teenage girl as Chasing Amy was of lesbians. Amazing, when you consider the screenwriter is a woman. Moviemaking tip #42: kids, once you graduate from film school, you no longer have to share the same pop-cultural tastes as your lead characters, and they certainly don't need to double as an on-screen blog entry about your all-time favorite album.] Pardon me- as I was saying, though their conversations remain unrealistic, the characters’ situation itself rings true… at least, truer than everything else we’ve seen so far. Amazingly, the second half of Juno begins to develop a little charm, despite the repeated faux hipster-speak and the completely derivative use of old 60’s tunes (clearly, the filmmaker has been jerking off to Wes Anderson films for the last several years)- a now-clichéd device which may have permanently ruined some of my favorite songs (thanks a lot, “director” Jason Reitman!) The Velvet Underground, the Kinks, and Belle & Sebastian all fall victim to a completely neanderthal use of pop music in movies. While Wes Anderson uses his songs as counterpoint to the action on screen, Jason Reitman, clueless director that he is, merely blasts them in our faces every time a scene ends and a new one begins… and then rapidly fades the song out, with no craft or thought, the same way every tv sitcom has done for the past 50 years. The “original” songs by Kimya Dawson fit perfectly into this uncreative stew, since they echo the sensibility of the movie: faux-sentimentality that thinks it can bullshit its way into being “raw and honest” simply because said artist can’t sing or play her way out of an open mic night. Dawson’s “bad” voice is so contrived and insincere it makes Wesley Willis and Daniel Johnston sound like Juilliard graduates; her songs’ pretensions are even more obvious since they share soundtrack space with Moe Tucker’s beautifully untrained voice on the Velvet Underground classic I’m Sticking With You. As usual, those without a clue think that by copying the surface characteristics of something great, they too can create something great. They forget that you have to have something to say first.

By the end of the film, I will concede, Juno does have a little bit to say. Not much, but it’s something, at least, which comes as a total surprise after its painful beginning. Shallow, airheaded wifey actually ends up faring better than her cool, rock n’ roll hubby- a clever reversal from how they were first introduced to us. Even Juno’s stepmom transcends her “parent trying to stay young” schtick, providing some of the film’s more insightful lines of dialogue by the end. Were this a friend’s little indie film, shot on DV for a few hundred bucks, I’d be impressed and remark that, if they got rid of all the contrived dialogue, their script showed some promise. But, alas, this is a Hollywood film, with professional actors, a real budget, and an Oscar nomination for… Best Picture? Are you fucking kidding me? The fact that this script was able to pass through the gauntlet of readers and studio heads without having someone edit out much of its obviously-poorly-written dialogue shows you just how clueless Hollywood has become. No big revelation there, I guess, but with its critical acceptance and awards, Juno has achieved newfound heights of cultural irony; this is what we call our country’s best effort in 2008. In a couple of decades, Juno will be all but forgotten; youth culture will view this emo-induced bag of fumes with the same cynical eye that Gen-X-ers viewed hippies, a new set of sensibilities leading Hollywood into further areas of contrived exploitation. Until then, however, we’ll have to endure our retarded culture’s “It Girl” of the month a little while longer: Juno, now playing at a waste of time near you. If you’ve yet to see this little nugget, consider yourself warned.

“He Puts Asses in Seats!”

 by Warren Curry

 

Next month there is a film being released called “Never Back Down,” which sounds like an updated version of “The Karate Kid,” except it’s set in the world of mixed martial arts instead of karate. Oscar nominee Djimon Hounsou plays the Mr. Miyagi role, and I’d have to say it’s questionable if this is a good career move for the actor.  If you’ve seen a TV ad for the film, you’ve also probably noticed that it looks a lot like any Jean-Claude Van Damme straight-to-video vehicle (here’s a treat for you Van Damme fans: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOIJtS4gbaY). Whether or not that’s a bad thing is up to you.  I’m not criticizing, simply observing.  And this leads me to…

(Warning: what you’re about to read has nothing to do with movies.  Proceed with caution)

It’s around 10:30 PST on the night of Saturday February 16, 2008, and I’m lying on my living room couch listening to my iPod.   My wife is already fast asleep in our bedroom (yes, married life is that exciting), and a little over an hour ago I finished watching a decent boxing match between Kelly Pavlik and Jermain Taylor.   It’s at this point that I recall seeing ads for a mixed martial arts event that was to air on Showtime at 10:00.  The ads mainly remain in memory because headlining the telecast is a guy named Kimbo Slice (that’s a picture of him above; a difficult person to forget).  He’s been described as something of a mythic figure — “a street fighting legend” is an exact quote, if memory serves.

Mixed martial arts — or MMA, as it’s more commonly referred to — is a relatively new sport, at least inasmuch as it’s made a dent in American popular culture.  UFC is the dominant MMA organization, and I recall watching their first pay-per-view event with college roommates in the fall of 1993.  We had seen commercials for weeks, showing us clips of combatants being pummeled into oblivion.  To state the obvious, we couldn’t wait to watch.  Predictably, our high expectations weren’t close to fulfilled.  Instead of the mayhem that had been advertised, we were given a bunch of matches where the competitors wrestled each other to the floor before one guy would choke his opponent into submission.  It wasn’t dynamic, exciting or even obviously violent (except when the sumo wrestler got several teeth kicked out by a fat, balding French guy).  That was my first and last real exposure to MMA.

Until this past Saturday night. 

I’ve been a hardcore boxing fan for about 15 years now, and in the past few years I’ve seen MMA grow significantly in popularity.  A major aspect of its marketing campaign has been to position itself squarely against boxing, drawing an indelible line in the sand, because the powers that be (namely UFC president Dana White) apparently believe the world isn’t big enough for two equally popular combat sports.  MMA proponents would have you believe that boxing is for generations long since past, and because boxing is only one facet of MMA, it’s undeniably a lesser sport.  Regardless of what boxing purists (count me among them) think, it’s tough to argue with the numbers.  MMA, as evidenced by its live attendance and pay-per-view figures, is a thriving sport and seems to connect with younger fans to a degree that boxing does not and perhaps never will again. 

I haven’t avoided MMA due to any need to defend the tradition of boxing.  In fact, I’m of the opinion that both can co-exist and each can garner a sizeable audience.  But in my mid-30s, I just don’t feel any sort of inclination to suddenly start following a new sport.  Couple that with the lingering aftertaste of my one MMA experience, and it’s been easy for me to avoid.

But on Saturday, I succumbed to the temptation of watching “street fighting legend” Kimbo Slice.  I mean, just take a look at the guy.  Now think about the chaos he can potentially create while locked in a caged circle with some poor sap.  How exactly could one not tune in?

From what I can deduce (and I’m not exactly going out of my way to do a whole lot of research), Kimbo Slice fights for an MMA organization called Elite XC.  I have no idea if this group is affiliated with UFC, nor does it matter to me, though I bring this up because it’s possible Elite might be similar to UFC’s minor league.  While watching the telecast, I’m immediately struck by how much in common MMA appears to have with pro wrestling.  A horde of fans (mostly male, under 35, from what I can tell) proudly hold signs that read “Kimbo Kick Ass” while music blares from the arena’s PA system any time there’s no action in the ring.  A group of scantily clad women serve as round card girls, but also line up on a catwalk and dance between fights.  I concede that MMA certainly links sport and entertainment much more aggressively than boxing does, and at this moment I’ve never been happier to be a boxing fan.  As if to hammer the connection home, former pro wrestling champion Bill Goldberg serves as the third member of the broadcast team and interviews the winner of each match, immediately following the contest, in the ring.

As I wait for the main event, I sit through a couple of undercard bouts.  In one, a guy takes a knee to his face, drops to the ground and is then blasted by a right cross, prompting the referee to the stop the fight.  In another, an Australian dude is knocked semi-conscious by a punch and falls flat on his back, completely defenseless. But even in this prone state, his opponent wastes no time rushing over and smashing the guy in the face with a follow-up punch.  Wow…boxing has never looked like such a tame, peaceful sport.

After an uneventful fight, it’s the moment I’ve been waiting for — the entrance of Kimbo Slice.  As the crowd’s excitement builds to a fever pitch, Bill Goldberg exhorts, “he puts asses in seats!”, which isn’t amusing simply because a sports announcer enthusiastically bellowed the word “asses,” but also because the countless shots of a packed arena the television audience has seen all night render this among the most unnecessary observations in the history of broadcast journalism. Kimbo squares off against a fat 42-year-old named Tank Abbott, whose most impressive feature is his beard and who sports a record of something like 8 wins and 14 losses.  You needn’t know anything about MMA to realize this guy, who vaguely resembles a plumber, stands no chance.   The fight lasts about 30 seconds, and the action goes like this: Kimbo punches Tank in the face, Tank is on the ground, Tank gets up, tries to tackle Kimbo, Kimbo punches him in the face again, Tank falls down, Kimbo waits for him to get back up, punches him in the side of the head, Tanks falls on his face, the referee stops the fight.

Instead of criticizing this for being an obvious mismatch, the giddy announcers pontificate as if they’d just seen the second coming of the US hockey team beating the Soviet Union in the 1980 Winter Olympics.  Goldberg, of course, is soon in the ring interviewing Kimbo.  As has been the case all night, Goldberg begins his questions strongly, before it becomes clear he really isn’t asking anything.  A typical query falls along the lines of, “You trained hard and faced a difficult opponent tonight.  We all know how much you love the sport….you’re a good man.  Let’s all put our hands together for Kimbo!”  It’s less an interview than a public coronation, which underlines an important difference between the current state of MMA and boxing.  MMA is all about incredibly obvious (tasteful or not) self-promotion and self-glorification, while the boxing media (separate from the general sports media that basically ignores boxing) is often the sport’s biggest critic.  If a similar match-up and result had occurred on HBO Championship Boxing, analyst Larry Merchant, in all his curmudgeonly glory, would have called the fight a farce and questioned the winner why he wasting everyone’s time by being involved in it.  MMA’s complete lack of modesty might be its biggest asset.  Boxing, on the other hand, could be too self-aware for its own good.

In the post-fight “interview,” Kimbo claims that his dream has always been to fight “Tank or Tyson.”  I assume he means Mike Tyson.  This strikes me as being the equivalent of an aspiring actor saying his/her dream is to share a scene with Ted Lange or Gene Hackman.  Goldberg returns to broadcast position, and his inability to complete a coherent thought continues.  He remarks to his broadcast partners about Kimbo’s performance (and I paraphrase), “I know you’ve seen a lot of fights in Japan, but wherever, you know, you have to say, uhhh, well…uhhh…he puts asses in seats!” apparently wanting to make sure the point is not lost on the audience, or his co-broadcasters, by uttering the phrase twice in less than ten minutes.

After a few closing comments, the show ends, I turn off the TV and go back to my iPod (which I now lament listening to during most of the undercard fights, pondering all the inspired Goldberg analysis I missed).  So what did I learn from this experience?  Well, nothing, really. If I needed further proof that MMA isn’t my bag, I got it…but it’s hard to deny that I derived some enjoyment from the event, and not all of it was ironic.  I can’t imagine ever becoming even a casual MMA fan, but I wouldn’t rule out tuning in to see Kimbo Slice in the future.  After all, it’s not every day that a street fighting legend with the power to put asses in seats comes along.

And look for “Never Back Down” in a theater near you on March 14.  But only the box office numbers — and not Bill Goldberg — will tell us if it, like Kimbo Slice, can put asses in seats.   

A Doc on Doc

by Memo Salazar

I’ve been a “New Yorker” going on six years now. Before then, New York was just a big city to me, and New Yorkers were these creatures who had convinced themselves that they could never live anywhere else, because they had already discovered the Greatest Place On Earth. Yawn, I thought, who wants to live with such snobs? Next thing I knew, I found myself here, among the rich and the insane, and quickly discovered that those New Yorkers were kind of right- this is a city that never stops giving. There’s always something new to discover, something waiting for you to learn, and someone fascinating for you to bump into. I’ve lived in bigger cities, but, despite its overpriced real estate, its annoyingly rich patrons and its occasional pretensions, New York gets under your skin in a good way.

H.L. “Doc” Humes was a New Yorker, too. Other than being remotely familiar with the name, I had no idea who this guy was, or why I should care to watch a full-length documentary on the man. But I did, anyway; Doc, lovingly made by Humes’ daughter, Immy, is both a riveting tale of one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever heard of, and a tribute to a father by a daughter who clearly loved him, despite the difficult and challenging life he crafted for himself. As with My Architect and Tell Them Who You Are, this “first-person” portrait of an influential creative person from the point of view of the subject’s offspring provides an intimacy (and access to some wonderful interviews) no one else could achieve. Doc is different than those other films in that it’s really not about the parent/subject - child/filmmaker relationship, but rather a simple, chronological biography of Humes. Nothing flashy, nothing clever- which is just perfect, as there is so much substance to the story, a straightforward approach is just what the doc… er… doctor ordered. Immy Humes wisely lets her father’s peers, and not the editing room, do the talking.

And what a list of peers! Interviewed are such fascinating figures as Norman Mailer, George Plimpton, Tim Leary, and Paul Auster, not to mention Hume’s own family and illegitimate offspring- all in all, a really diverse group of human beings. And that’s what the film is really about- one of the most dynamic human beings to emerge out of our 20th Century culture, a man so full of energy and creativity that his mind had clearly left his psychological and emotional selves far behind. Humes wrote 2 acclaimed novels, shot an independent film, hung out with great artists like Ornette Coleman and Richard Wright, founded one of the most influential literary journals (The Paris Review), designed and built low-cost paper houses as aid to third-world countries, experimented with LSD way before it was considered “cool”, was an avid supporter of the legalization of cannabis, communicated with clouds, hung out on college campuses dispensing words of wisdom as well as thousands of dollars in cash to whomever happened to come by… I mean, this guy clearly had a restless soul, one that hungered for whatever challenge life could throw at it. As is often the case, one’s devotion to such a lifestyle doesn’t jive well with structure, whether the societal structure of jobs and the law (being arrested for protesting a citywide ban on folk music is one of his several inspiring arrests) or the interpersonal structure of a family. Doc clearly loved his children, but his mental state was simply not the ideal one to be in while fulfilling the role of father. Even so, Doc is a dignified portrait which never dips into the easy button-pushing of scandal and daytime-TV faire; the film doesn’t shy away from detailing his darkest moments, but it doesn’t linger or milk the story for dramatic effect. Yes, he was paranoid, but yes, he had every reason to be- Doc does a wonderful job of bringing the viewer around to see the world through Doc’s eyes, so that, by the end, you really feel like you, too spent time with the guy, shooting the shit every day in Harvard Square for hours. I actually do have vague memories of seeing a man very much like him hanging around that area in the late 80’s while I hunted used records… though, perhaps, it’s just wishful thinking. Even in death, Doc’s magnetic personality is in full effect.

Doc is, ultimately, a story of redemption- for Doc, after a lifetime of stubborn self-fulfilment, spends his last few years with the people he loves the most, developing relationships that had been put on pause decades earlier. The fact that his own daughter- someone who could have resented him the most for his negligent role as a father during her childhood- had, at this stage in his life, the presence of mind to be lovingly celebrating his final few years of life by way of a video camera is evidence of Doc’s powerful and positive influence on the people around him. Though his body was on its way out, his mind was as sharp as ever, providing one of Doc’s best lines in the film, when he insightfully proclaimed that you never really stop loving people- after all the anger and animosity recedes, the love is still there, waiting for you to pick up where you’d left off. It’s as much a statement about himself as it is about the amazing collection of people Doc had gathered across the decades and continents of his journey, all of whom speak of the man with a combination of admiration and compassion- a testament to Doc’s mind as well as his heart.

I have no idea where or when you’ll be able to see Doc, but the film’s website might be of service in that regard. Check it out, as it’s definitely worth your time.

Holy Shit!!!

By: Dan Tester 

 

I think I am about to list for you my Top Ten Favorite Movies of All Time!!!!!! I have been informed that this is a risky venture. Critical types are well aware that exposing such definitive precision of personal love is utter madness. Warren Curry told me I am crazy to attempt such a feat. Memo Salazar told me that I am “Garbanzo as a Bean” to even consider such honesty in a public place. Gene Shalit told me that I must be insane. Michael Medved told me that not only am I insane, but so is Michael Medved. Byron Allen told me that he will work for food. Richard Roeper told me that Michael Medved is insane. Peter Travers told me that I am foolish to expose myself like this, and that one time he saw Gene Shalit eating a chalupa from Taco Bell without using his hands. Wilford Brimley told me that if I have “dia-a-beetis” he can provide me with testing supplies. John C. Ardussi told me to go for it. Roger Ebert told me that Gene Shalit and Wilford Brimley are insane, and that one time a shirtless Michael Medved threatened him with a broken beer bottle at a bowling alley. And Rex Reed said, and I quote “If it’s really funny, I’ll laugh. I don’t need 40 other people to laugh to remind me that I should be laughing. I mean I, I don’t respond very well to mass hysteria anyway.”

There is nothing that gives the dry heaves to a “movie critic” more than having to lock down a list of their Top Ten Favorite Movies Of All Time. This is because, of course, movie critics are not human beings. They are robots. Movie critics will watch CADDYSHACK and NATIONAL LAMPOON’S VACATION so many times that their critical heads will spin with pleasure, and yet…when it comes time to announce their favorite movies of all time, they will of course list RULES OF THE GAME and THE SEVENTH SEAL and YOJIMBO and BLAH BLAH BLAH because they “have to.“ Those are definitely great films, and you are supposed to say they are great films if you are a “critic” and don‘t want to be shunned at a dinner party.  But are they really favorites? Do these critics really watch them over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again? And then when they are done, do they watch them again…and again??? To be fair, some probably do. But not many, I would surmise, based on my personal experience.

Many years ago, I attended a glamorous Hollywood movie critic dinner party, and I was actually witness to Rex Reed and Bill Harris bitch-slapping each other for about 25 straight minutes in a dispute over their picks for greatest movie of all time. I could never tell whose pick was whose, but I definitely heard YENTL and THE MAIN EVENT bandied back and forth between the sounds of effete palms slapping flocculent cheeks. Dixie Whatley unsuccessfully tried to intervene but only succeeded in spilling her mimosa all over Joel Siegel’s mustache. A panicked and drunken Leonard Maltin ran up to the microwave and screamed, “We’ll be back after these messages!!“ Gene Shalit yanked at his collar and made a strange “Yuuung Yuuung Yuuung” sound in a pathetic attempt to divert all the attention onto himself with the worst Charles Nelson Reilly imitation I have ever seen at a dinner party. Jeffrey Lyons started breathing heavy as he watched the violence unfold and suddenly, and quite frighteningly, threw his Zima bottle against the wall and started screaming “Candy Colored Clown!!!!!“ And as if on cue, a tipsy Gene Siskel, and an even tipsier Roger Ebert, climbed onto the dinner table and started dancing in unison to Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams.” Truman Capote just laughed and laughed and kept saying, “What a lovely night for a murrrrrrrder”. And Peter Bogdanovich grabbed Pauline Kael’s dildo out of her purse and began to spontaneously review the slap fight in an amazingly condescending manner while holding the dildo as if it were a microphone, until an angry Pauline Kael strutted over and hit him in the face with an unopened and partially frozen package of Oscar Mayer bologna. I swear to you, I just stood there and watched this seemingly endless insanity unfold until, finally, Larry King slunk over and began to whip Rex and Bill with his suspenders, while a shirtless Michael Medved shattered a beer bottle in half and tried to stab Rex Reed in the thigh.  Boy, I sure do miss those old movie critic dinner parties. Once Ronald Reagan got elected, they just seemed to fade away.

I love movies. I especially love movies that I love. Sometimes I love movies that “critics” love. Sometimes, I love movies that “critics” hate. But almost all of the time, I love movies that I love. So sue me.

Most film critics, from my observation, are full of shit. They are mostly children, seeking attention more from their submissiveness than from their individuality. What happened to real film criticism in this country??? Did it ever “really” exist in the first place? I can tell you, from my sources in Hollywood, that most of the one-liner reviews you read in newspaper print ads are written by “critics” who are so deep into Hollywood back pockets that they actually smell like poop if you meet them in person. Well, okay, they don’t “actually” smell like poop, but they definitely have a scent of taint about them. God help me, nothing guarantees cinema excellence more than a one-liner newspaper print ad rave from Larry King.

Yes. These are my 10 Favorite Movies Of  All Time. I put a lot of thought into this list. It wasn’t that hard, to be honest. I just thought about the movies that are my favorites and then I compiled them into a list format. And I will be honest with you…not once while I was compiling this list did I ever take a step back and wonder if anyone would question it. I don’t care if anyone questions it.  Quite frankly, SCREW YOU if you don’t like it.

At the outset of my list I just want to say…I have often found it is difficult to truly convey my thoughts and emotions regarding my favorite films within the constricting confines of a single “oh so clever” paragraph. So, in lieu of  “oh so clever“ paragraphs, I will instead supply visual evidence for each pick. Feel free to click on the “internet” links next to my picks for my evidence. SO HERE WE GO!!!!

ONE FINAL NOTE: In an grand experiment, I will count my picks down in a “descending” order, instead of the establishment preferred “ascending“. For any readers out there that are not “good“ with big words, or for any regular viewers of the Fox News Channel, this simply means that I will list my picks “backwards-like,“ starting with my Number 10 choice, and then progressing in a “them numbers are gettin‘ smaller“ style, until I eventually arrive at, you guessed it you numbnuts…My Favorite Movie Of All Time!!!!!!!!!

(10) SLAP SHOT (1977)- Those Guys are RETARDS!!!

(9) THE BLUES BROTHERS (1980)- Did You Get Me My Cheese Whiz, Boy?

( Blake Edwards’ “10” (1979)- Did You Ever Do It To Ravel’s BOLERO?

(7) LOCAL HERO (1983)- Look to the Sky.

(6) THE KING OF COMEDY (1983)- Pupkin. P-U-P-K-I-N.

(5) THE CANNONBALL RUN (1981)- DUHNNN DUHNNN DUHNNNNNNNN!!!!

(4) Blake Edwards’ S.O.B. (1981)- The only comment I will make here is that there was precious little online visual evidence of the greatness of S.O.B. So what I offer here is the actual opening credits sequence to the film. But please keep in mind, dear reader, that the syrupy sweetness of this opening number is only the candy that juxtaposes the ugly, hideous, horrible, beautiful, hilarious Hollywood vinegar to follow. Nooooo, That’s SPICY, Mrs. Zuckerman!!!

(3) NETWORK(1976)- I’m As Mad As Hell…

(2) BEING THERE (1979)- I Like To Watch…

(1) LOST IN AMERICA (1985)- There was limited online visual evidence for this film as well. So what I will provide you with is the original Siskel and Ebert television review from 1985. Unfortunately, this clip begins with the review a really bad movie from 1985, but at about the 5:00 minute mark, Siskel and Ebert enthusiastically review Albert Brooks’ LOST IN AMERICA. And not only is this “critical” evidence of the greatness of the film, it is also evidence of why it is my favorite movie of all time! A Bird Lives In a ROUND STICK!!!!!