Web site of Biff Mitchell, author, humorist, smartass and not-poet.
Oscar Pool Reviews

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These reviews were written for Jeffx’s Annual Oscar Pool. For Jeffx, the ultimate movie buff, the Oscars are one of the most special nights of the year, with him at the laptop, updating the scores, and his beautiful wife, Hope, and beautiful daughter, Amanda, serving food and wine fit for gods. And, of course, the TV tuned into the Oscars and everybody moaning when the results are announced. Who can ever guess what the Academy will do?

The Case for Terminator 3  

Academy Awards, Shmacademy Awards! What about the president? What about the most frickin’ important office on earth? This guy can press a button and turn Hollywood and Mike Myers into confused particles. He can make a phone call and nobody’s ever gonna be making Rocky movies again, ever.

   Now that’s power.

   Problem is: the president is stupid. He’s a bona fide moron and he needs to be replaced with a movie that’ll make everybody think he’s still in office except that it won’t be able to press buttons or bungle policy.

   Now, there have been some movies you might think can do that. Wag The Dog comes to mind: at least somebody seemed to be in charge. All the President’s Men gave us enough people to point at that we missed the fact that the president was a foul-mouthed little sonofabitch. Dude, Where’s My Car gave us hope there was talent in Hollywood and maybe a functioning brain somewhere in the California voting public. Yes, I know…I set my standards high.

   But why a movie? Why the hell not? It’s the perfect leader! You can get up and leave the movie and that’s it…over! You can switch channels, change theaters, fall asleep…and not once will the movie give tax breaks to big business or declare war on the world’s smallest nations while you’re not looking. And just think of the performance measures! Screw elections! They don’t have enough of them and it’s too long between. But movies? They have to duke it out with the contenders every year, and not just once a year, but over-and-over, through The People’s Choice Awards, Hebert and Roper, and, oh yeah, those Schecademy Awards, which brings us back to reality: we need to replace the president of the United States with a movie.

   My vote goes to Terminator 3.

   I mean, we could seriously replace George Bush with Terminator 3 and nobody would ever notice the difference. Think of it: they’re both unintelligible; there’s no variation in the plan or plot; neither leaves you with anything to think about except “whaaaat?”; and neither are remotely sentient. Even the dialogue is the same. “I’ll be back.” Ring a bell?

   OK, I can tell by the waxy dazed look in your eyes that you think I’m playing air hockey on an empty ball field. And maybe I am. So I’m gonna let the following interview withTerminator 3 make my case for me: 

   Biff: And how will you solve the healthcare crisis?
   Terminator 3: Why, the answer to that is simple, of course, I’ll remove all weapons of mass destruction from hostile terrorist-harboring nations like Korea, Quebec and Maine.

   Biff: What are your plans to boost the sagging greenback?

   Terminator 3: Yes, after careful thought, I’ve decided that this can best accomplished through a process of economic reforms, the first of them being to drop several nuclear bombs on the Vancouver film industry.

   Biff: How will you  press buttons?

   Terminator 3: After much consideration, I’ve decided that the American people must embrace a new era of zippers. In fact, I’m thinking about declaring July 4th National Embrace Zippers and Death to Buttons Day. On July 5th, we’ll bomb Maine.

   Biff: How do you plan to bungle policy?

   Terminator 3: Then we’ll bomb Quebec.

   Biff: Well, you’ve certainly got my vote.

   Terminator 3: And then we’ll bomb Pearl Harbor. Yes, I’ve decided that this will be tremendous boost to American know-how. We’ll show those Japs, er, Japanese how it’s done. We’ll show the world the supremacy of American ingenuity. Did you know that the Japs, er, Japanese failed to win the war against America after bombing Pearl Harbor? Well, I’m ready to not only take on Pearl Harbor and finish the job, but I’m going to go the whole distance and use good old American savvy to bring America to its knees.  

   On second thought, maybe we should just let Beavis and Butthead do America.

The Case for Dude, Where’s My Car? 

So along comes Russell Crowe, and like overnight, if the Movie Monsoon From Down Under isn’t in your movie, then no way Oscar’s turnin’ his head your way. Not even a nomination, for cryin’ out loud! What happened to the good old days when Academy Awards were based on … whatever it was they were based on, which didn’t have anything to do with Australia, which burns my wick even more when a totally great alligator wrestler like Joe Dirt goes completely unappreciated because he didn’t come from, like, Sidney or Canterbury. 

But that’s neither here nor anywhere. The point is, one of the greatest filmic events of the century (an’ we’re a whole year an’ a month into it, ya know) is gettin’ it straight up the fresnel lenses without even a wink or a “hey-totally-shibby-dudes” from Oscar. The movie I refer to with fingers, like, quaking on the keyboard is Dude, Where’s My Car? – probably the shibbiest movie ever to shake it’s butt on the big screen and the only movie I’ve ever seen with a question mark in it. 

I mean, this movie should take it all, like a shut-out, the whole frickin’ works … from best acting all the yadda yadda way to Special Achievement! I watched this move and I laughed; I cried; I smoked some more pot. It moved me right down to those areas you don’t wanna hear about. This is the movie with great lines like: “You wanna piece a this?” and “I swear you’ll never deliver pizza in this town again!” It’s the greatest drama and comedy and documentary and romance and action thriller of all time. You can never look at the world the same way after watching the “Dude-Sweet” scene – destined to replace “Who’s On First” as the greatest comedy scene of all time. This movie is even funnier than Komodo. 

Let’s take a look at some of these Oscar-deserving accomplishments. Like, acting. Oh yeah – Jesse and Chester and Wilma and Wanda! Absolutely koomba! No performing foursome has come nearly as close to capturing the mindless superficiality of the consumer programmed, product oriented void that we call Generation Z.  And if their gripping performance doesn’t build a winning case for the legalization of pot, then the writing will. Philip Stark’s gonna win a frickin’ Nobel Prize for movies with lines like: “I’m just a gender-challenged male,” and “I gotta take a crap.” The dialogue reeks of movement. And Stark actually knows how to end a movie, unlike Memento, where the story just stops before the movies finishes, leaving the audience in a stunned state of mystical circularity.   

And who can deny that sexy pink dancing cat the slot for animation? Like, dude! She was hot! And special effects: I rest my case before the squinting eyes of Jackal the Psycho Dog, smoking his little puppy hash pipe. Try an’ do THAT at home! An’ I’m not even gonna mention the Continuum Transfuctioner and the wonderfully politically correct job of not offending anyone pulled off by the two fairy-guys from space. Now, that’s special effects! 

Director Danny Leiner should be splashed all over the awards ceremony. People should be pickin’ pieces of him off their chairs, for cryin’ out loud! I honestly don’t believe anybody’s ever gonna know, I mean really KNOW, what Leiner has done with Dude, Where’s My Car? I don’t. I mean it, an’ I’m not afraid to admit it. I watched this movie ten thousand times, until I reached dudevana, an’ when somebody asks me: “Dude, what’s it all about?” all I can say is: “Dude…”  

Not since “the horror” has their been a horror like this. 

Call me lame and stupid, many do. Call me blind to talent and numb to greatness, others have. Call me totally lacking in taste and sensibility, I’ve heard those words before. But never before have I experienced anything like Dude, Where’s My Car? And it’s a frickin’ shame that Oscar can’t see through my eyes. 

Shibby!

 

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Crossroads: A Belly Full of Movie

SCENE: Inside Kodak Theater at Hollywood & Highland for 75th Annual Academy Awards, March 23, 2003 

LONG PAN: (The audience consists of several thousand clones of Woody Allen and Barbara Streisand. They are bored and loud. They complain about nothing that anybody gives a damn about.) 

CLOSE SHOT: (The real Woody Allen and Barbara Streisand sit together. Neither gives a damn about what the other complains about.) 

FULL SHOT: (Brad Pitt and Betty Davis stand at the podium … waiting for the complaining to subside before they speak. Brad Pitt is smiling. Betty Davis is dead.) 

Audience hushes. 

HEAD SHOT BRAD (holding envelope): Anybody want to hit me for this?
 

HEAD SHOT BETTY: (Betty Davis is dead.) 

HEAD SHOT BRAD: OK, then … (Brad Pitt hits himself in the head twice with his fist.) OK, then … 

HEAD SHOT BETTY: (Betty Davis is dead.) 

HEAD SHOT BRAD: (opens envelope, smiles at Betty – who says nothing, being dead) And the winner is … Britney Spears! 

Audience complains loudly. But nobody gives a damn. 

LONG SHOT: (Brad Pitt exits LEFT, punching himself with one hand, dragging Betty Davis, who is still dead, with the other.) 

LONG SHOT: (Britney Spears enters RIGHT, shrugging. Repeatedly. And smiling. Repeatedly. Her belly button is covered by an orange blouse. Her ass is bare. Nobody notices.) 

FULL SHOT: (Britney Spears at podium opens her mouth. Suddenly, her eyes roll up, flashing white, and her blouse flips up, revealing her belly button. The belly button smiles. Wide. Really wide.) 

CLOSE SHOT BRITNEY SPEARS’BELLY BUTTON: (tear rolls out) You love me! You really love me! You really really love me!  

Audience stops complaining momentarily and then resumes. Nobody gives a damn either way. 

CLOSE SHOT BRITNEY SPEARS’BELLY BUTTON: Oh, oh … what to say. (more tears) Well … let me see. I want to thank my ventriloquist trainer, Charlie McCarthy , for never giving up on me even though I spat lint sometimes when I said cassshhh … oops! (licks away lint, blushes)  And I want to thank Giotto for the wonderful dummy. (Britney winks a white eye) That’s right everybody … I’m the brains behind Britney … me! Watch what I can do. 

HEAD SHOT BRITNEY: (eyes still white, sings) Oops, I pierced it again … 

CLOSE SHOT BRITNEY SPEARS’BELLY BUTTON: See! See! I did that! Want some more? Watch this! 

HEAD SHOT BRITNEY: (slaps herself in the head and smiles) 

CLOSE BRITNEY SPEARS’BELLY BUTTON: Wanna see that again? 

HEAD SHOT BRITNEY: (slaps herself in the head with the other hand, smiles) 

FULL SHOT BRITNEY: (grabs Oscar off podium where Brad Pitt left it) 

CLOSE SHOT BRITNEY SPEARS’ BELLY BUTTON: (gazing open-navel at the Oscar) What can I say? I owe it all to you … yes to all my fans who buy my disks and my posters and give me all that free marketing through your wonderful Internet porno sites. Yes, I know … without all you wonderful teenage boys and lesbians drooling over my sweet little curvy self … where would I be today. I wouldn’t damn well be here. And I certainly wouldn’t be here because of Tamra Davis who kept screaming: “Cut! Cut! Cut! every time I tried to make the script interesting by saying ‘like’ and ‘I mean’ and ‘Sister!’ and all those other really cool words they used in Clueless. And every time I had anything at all covering me, that damn bitch yelled: “Drop the towel Brit! Lift the hem, Brit! Lose the belt, Brit!” I caught damn colds! I had to be treated for hypothermia twice! And privacy! That little bitch Shonda Rhimes wrote the most belly button revealing script in history … and I was already the most famous belly button in all of history … and … and  … yeah! I’m the most famous belly button in all of history. You all love me! You want me! You want me for what I am … a hole in some bimbo’s stomach! I don’t need the dummy! I can do it my way!  

FULL SHOT BRITNEY SPEARS: (belly button rips away from her stomach and jumps down onto the stage, grabbing the Oscar on the way down)  

LONG PAN: Audience claps quietly, their minds mostly on complaining about stuff that nobody gives a damn about and barely noticing that Britney Spears’ belly button is dancing on the stage and singing. 

FULL SHOT BRITNEY SPEARS’ BELLY BUTTON: (singing to Oscar) I’m not a girl … not yet a … yes! You really really really love me! I’m not a … yes! You love me! Oh yes, you love me … 

HEAD SHOT BRITNEY: (slaps herself in the head and smiles)

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Naked Water

When I heard about Open Water, I thought: “OK…Jaws XVIII. And…let me see…this time, a giant 100 foot long mutant fresh-water shark terrorizes the sewers of New York and starts munching waterworks personnel after it gobbles down all the giant 100 foot long mutant dirty-water alligators.”

I couldn’t have been more wrong if I were a turkey proud to be all the right stuffing.

On the surface, this movie is about desperation, hopelessness, and the futility of putting oneself through the pain and suffering of “hanging in there” when there is so obviously nothing to hang from. For a while, I thought it was about the IT industry, but it wasn’t quite that hopeless.

The real movie takes place under the surface. Susan (Blanchard Ryan) and Daniel (Daniel Travis) are not actually the lead characters. In fact, they’re not characters. They’re lunch.  From their perspective, the movie is about lunch moving slowly toward the realization that, eventually, lunchtime arrives and lunch is eaten. One must ultimately embrace the mouth that eats one.

The drama, the comedy, the spiritual panorama – all these are embodied by the sharks speaking through lunch. And this is where the real Oscar material resides. Who can forget the brilliant performance of Shark 1 (Danny Bycherass) transposing his monumental frustration with Lunch 1 (Daniel Travis) as Lunch 1 refuses to slant his legs in a bite-able manner, forcing him to take just a small chunk of Lunch 1 and lose the rest later to a group of bit characters.

I had the pleasure of speaking with Danny Bycherass on location at a Let’s Open Mike session in St. Thomas:

Biff: So, Danny, what’s all this about Open Water being more than a mouthful for you.

Danny: Munch munch.

Biff: No! They made you do that? In the nude?

Danny: Snap. Nibble.

Biff: Friggin’ humans, eh?

Danny: Yum.

Biff: And how did you feel about your leading lady, Shark 2, played by Laura Niblnuts.

Danny: Yum yum.

Biff: Oh wow, that’s brutal? In the nude too?

Danny: Blub blub.

Biff: Ah, no…I don’t come in three flavors. Oh, look, it’s Jim Carey. Hey, you pet detective guy!

It’s unfortunate that more of the movie couldn’t have been filmed underwater where there was more action and less whining and blaming. If the incessant lapping of waves hadn’t put my bladder so precariously close to bursting, I would have yelled: “Eat your damn lunch – eat it now, you great white mothers!”

Down in the depths of naked water, this is truly a story of hope and the rewards of persistence. It’s about the drama that unfolds as sharks and jellyfish vie for sustenance in a world where lunch inexorably floats away. It’s about the soul-searing hardship of having to wait for food long enough to drag a movie that has nothing good to say about lunch into a grueling 79 minutes that seems more like two days and 70,000 trips to the washroom.

If ever there was a moment for the Best Actor and the Best Actress to eat the Oscar presenters this is it. It might even smarten up the Academy to see the movies bite back.

And for all those who missed the point, I’m sure that at least one lesson was learned: all iguanas are silent, enigmatic, and brilliant.

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BeerFest, The Trailer: It’s All We Have Time For Anymore

I’ve heard it said that my movie opinions are biased and represent the worst of cinematic criticism. We all know that’s bullshit, a biased opinion from the unknowing. And I just killed the guy who said it. At least, I think it was a guy. He wasn’t a woman. I’m not sure what that leaves. Probably a movie critic. But he’s dead. And now we can talk about the most important cinematic statement in recent times: BeerFest, the trailer.

Yes, the trailer.

One night in a drunken drug-crazed stupor when I was trying to figure out where the bubbles from boiling water go when they reach the top of the pot, it occurred to me that we have too much to do and too little time to do it. Things like work, family responsibilities, the environment, Internet porno, and the Lotto are crowding out the life essentials, like … well … like dust mote racing, for instance. None of my friends have time for this anymore.

It’s a truly sad world.

Enter the movie trailer, the concise time-efficient solution to busy schedules … the 2.21 minute distillation of the heart and soul of the movie, all the essential dialog with the extraneous plot, the scene transitions and the acting clipped out; in other words, the 87.79 minutes of filler. Movie trailers are empowering tools that strip movies down to their spiritual essence. Once you accept the absurdity of life, they’re all we have time for, and the Academy should recognize the important contribution that movie trailers make to the quality of modern life. BeerFest, the trailer, should be the first to be so honored.

“Why is this unrelenting idiot spewing such drivel?” you might ask.

“In every spewed drivel there is something,” I might retort.

   None of which is here nor there. BeerFest, the trailer, is a remarkable piece of cinematography with all the elements of great movie-making. As I watched this powerful short thing, I was reminded of such masterpieces as … um … that movie with that guy in it. And that other movie. With the other guy.

   Jay Chandrasekhar has done a brilliant job revealing the seamy underfoam of beer idolatry, taking us into virtual temples of Beerdom and into the men’s room of beer-prayer. I’ll always be haunted by the bladder-splitting grunts and groans and masterful dialog, like “Ohhhh, yeah!” and “Oh god, that feels good!” and “Where’s my little thingy?”

Right from the opening line, “There was a sport…” the trailer gets right into the thick of the plot with completely unintelligible British dialog (not be quoted here in light of its unintelligibility) and sinks to new lows in artistic hedonism, which, I’m told, is a good thing.
 
BeerFest, the trailer, outshines Chandrasekhar’s earlier works Super Troopers, the trailer, and The Dukes of Hazard, the trailer, because, as he hints in BeerFest, the trailer, “I’m better when I’m drunk.”

Mind you, this trailer is not for the meek – for those who have not been emotionally sedated by the excesses of the world. I’m talking about those who don’t appreciate a serious spanking from a busty blond fraulein and those who quaver at the sight of grown men banging their hands on a table and making funny faces at each other, or the unbridled passion of one man’s guiding beer philosophy, “I wish it was Winter. We could make it into ice blocks and skate on it and then melt it in Springtime and drink it.” This is the stuff of what we’ve become and if you don’t like it … leave.
 
Or something like that.

Mandarins at the Academy, wake up! BeerFest, the trailer, is upon us and we’ll never be the same. (NOTE: No Germans were harmed in the writing of this article.)
 

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