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Rumours. Where would we be without rumours? Well, not here obviously, given that this website is fuelled by the gabbing mouths of someone-or-another, spouting amusing stories of vague interest about that person you tell everyone you hate but you secretly admire.
Pathetic, aren’t they?
Easy A deals with rumours. And with being a dirty skank. Mainly about the rumours, though.
Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman. There’s all that mucking about with howling at the moon once a month, either unsupported or badly scorched boobs, the constant struggle to be heard within an oppresive patriarchal society, and to quote Bernard Black, oh, the dancing!
But then again, sometimes it’s hard to be a thunderously self-obsessed, overpriveleged jackanape as well. So you’ve really got to feel for poor old Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love, drowning prettily in an exotic blend of both of these maladies. My goodness, it’s a wonder she can move her puny bones under the weight of her first world problems. So, is it worth 140 minutes of our time watching her fret and eat and ponder and pray and laugh and love?
Seriously? Eat Pray Love? Well, let us put it this way. Puke Scream Die.
The Killer Inside Me, the latest genre excursion from filmmaker Michael Winterbottom, opens with a huge red herring. A jaunty, stylish credits sequence ushers the film in to the tune of Little Willie John’s version of ‘Fever’. ‘Fever”s a bit of an aural signpost.
Putting it over the opening credits of a film is like saying “What follows will be sexy. You will basically be able to smell it”.
The fact that The Killer Inside Me won’t give you a fever that’s hard to bear, however, is the least of its problems. Read More >>>
Remember The Sixth Sense? That guessing game of creepy corpses, perceptive little children who don’t see the Sun enough and a plot twist that kept viewers guessing ‘til the closing credits.
Now just imagine that but with Christina Ricci’s nipples. That was fun, wasn’t it?
That’s the kind of Hollywood mindset that gets twisted tales like After.Life told, which involve cold morticians chatting to the recently deceased body of Anna Taylor (Christina Ricci)…but is she really dead?
Kevin James’ varied CV has thus far featured a wealth of memorable creations.
Bumbling fat-guy in King of Queens, bumbling fat-guy in Hitch and bumbling fat-guy in I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry – there hasn’t been such a startling auteur with this much range since John Candy.
And like Candy (which James clearly does), Kevin manages to make what is an otherwise down on his luck cardboard cutout into a likeable chubby action hero – Paul Blart. This is silly fun, the kind that makes children laugh until they’re rolling around dribbling, while leaving adults to exclaim ‘meh’.
