Mystery Train

"A Japanese couple chases their idol, Elvis." So read Netflix's summary of my latest flick. Mystery Train sounded just excellent enough to end up in the queue, but threatening enough to keep this film in its sleeve above my television for 2+ months. Reader, do you ever find yourself in this situation? Are you ever overwhelmed by the pretentious shit you ask yourself to swallow? If you've learned anything about me through this blog, you know that I am a victim of my own desire to in some way maintain my edginess. But for whom? I suppose only you, dear reader.

So what finally convinced my to strip off the sleeve? Two things. Number one: I hate returning flicks unwatched--I'd rather sit down to dinner with Ryan Reynolds while High Art blares in the background than fail to "Rate What You've Watched." And two: the flu. I woke up with a migraine and spent my day as a pool of seasick vomit, too numb for homework, too caffeinated for sleep. So guilt-ridden, fever-fogger me sat down to fulfill my duty to you, faithful reader. And, as they usually do, 1989's Mystery Train paid off.

Mystery Train tells three different, yet intertwined stories of people who find themselves (purposely and not) tooling around Memphis.  There are the Elvis-obsessed tourists who find out how cool it is to be eighteen, Japanese and in Memphis at a shitty hotel waiting for Graceland.  There's the Italian woman, Luisa, trying unsuccessfully to get back to Rome to bury her husband--this death is never explained, nor was the corpse at the airport ever referred to beyond her first scene.  I found this immensely troubling, and I hoped throughout that the cadaver would reappear by the end of the flick.  It never did.  Wonder what they do with dead people when their flights get cancelled in the middle of July... Anyway, she shares a room in said establishment with a broke stranger who rambled her way out of love with an Irish greaser.  And finally, there's the makeshift trio of drunkards who accidentally shoot down the owner of the local, all-night, liquor emporium.  And all of these stories are connected. And all along you think there is no way this is going to end well. 

And I won't tell you either way.

While each of these merry-travelers is a joy in his/her own special way, the side characters had my heart all-aflutter for this flick.  The two men that man the inn in the middle of the night (one of which is the Screamin' Jay Hawkins) are hilarious!  And to hear Tom Waits' growl on the radio with every new story somehow soothed my growing anxiety about the fates of the characters I had become so fond of.  There's nothing quite as comforting as Mr. Waits's cadence, is there reader?  

And then of course, Mystery Train features the best pick-up line since ever.  A man that looks like Santino (Did she just reference season two of Project Runway? Yeah she did) ambles up to Luisa at a local diner. He plops down and informs her (in a much less direct way) that Elvis's ghost told him to give her his comb. Hilarious, no? I would have gone home with him in a second. Fortunately for me, I am not from Memphis, because this line is apparently as common as ye olde "fell from heaven" pass near Graceland, and I am not a fan of syphilis. Oh well.

Rule #1 for smart travelers: Never give back the drunk guy's gun! 

My comrade du ciné's summary: "It was pleasant, but there was no conflict or climax and nothing really happened." He would say that. Eye roll. Smiling emoticon. Jay-Kay!

Up

I can't say that I've been a monster fan of the Disney flick. After the vomit fiasco that followed Toy Story (projectile cotton candy chunks smattering the car, my family, and my best friend's leather jacket), I kind of lost my taste for The Magic Kingdom.  I never had a favorite princess; never insisted on dragging my love up to Space Mountain; never consumed my childhood favorite like comfort food. Just not my thing. However, the premise of Up promised too many creepy innuendoes to pass up--seriously, Old Guy locks Boy Scout in a house too far away for interference by the nosiest of neighbors? Awesome.

I must say I got smacked in the teeth by a shower that was never forecasted by any of the trailers forced upon me before every flick for the last year.  Even now, I have yet to find a review of Up that relates a reaction to it that was similar to my own: wracked sobs, hiccuping, near-vomit inducing, all-consuming sadness for days!  Carl meets Ellie who is as obsessed with explorer, Charles Muntz, as he is.  What follows is a silent depiction of their long life together montaging into Ellie's diagnosis and death, which occurs before Carl can fulfill his promise to take her to South America...(the ellipses represent me leaving to sob it out with my boy toy before resuming this review). I wept unabashedly by the end of this compilation, fearing that I'd have to leave to keep from disturbing my fellow, infantile moviegoers. Even my fellow-flick-fan, whom I've seen cry maybe three times in the four years since we partnered up, had to wipe his eyes on multiple occasions.  This intro is rough, reader!  But totally beautiful and totally worth it. Watch it!

What follows the heart-wrench is a heap of fun. Flying houses. Mediocre wilderness 'survivors' who win badges for 'Extreme Wilderness Survival Literature." Talking dogs--and you have to love those. Instead of falling prey to the usual Disney, schmoozey, doggy dialogue, we are introduced to a pack of killing machines rigged with collars that insufficiently translate their every thought: "I'm going to the bathroom" becomes "I will stride to the waste receptacle area and make use of it's facilities," etc.  While it has been said that the story that follows the saddest animated scene since ever is a collection of somewhat underdeveloped plotlines meant to capture the meandering attentions of five-year-olds everywhere, I thought these characters were surprisingly well developed, and that the events were as satiated as they needed to be.

My only complaint, realized long after the flick made me cry one last time before credits is that Pixar did not exploit the creepster potential of its premise. Not even little Russell's mother was skeeved by the idea that her son had spent days and hours and weeks alone with a lonely old man. Oh well. Maybe in the next one. For now, this flick is completely worth it.

Moral of the story: Life doesn't always work out as planned, but if you live well and are good to everyone you meet, you will not often be disappointed. AWE!

Point needing further emphasis: YOU WILL CRY! BRING A TISSUE...BRING A BOX OF TISSUES! AND SOME XANAX! AND SOME WHISKEY! 

Cocaine Angel

It was almost one year ago today that I sat down and finally gave into the perks of Netflix. The realization that I could receive unlimited flicks each month for less than the cost of renting two movies from Blockbuster persuasive for sure. Three weeks later, I set off for a two-month excursion to Alaska, returning just in time to begin what would be the most frantic year of my life. It's easy to fill a queue from afar and in the sparse minutes between classes, but it's difficult to pick away at those movies when Netflix's online perks are incompatible with my eroding but endearing PowerBook. (With so many products placed in this entry, you'd think I'd be getting paid. Alas.) 

Of course, this sob story has a happy-ish ending. Now that summer has burst into my space, I'm finally finding time to eat away at those earliest entries. And I have to say that I've been mostly disappointed in what I've found. My early thirst for the obscure films I couldn't find at the material video queue has meant mountains of dry foreign flicks and the indiest of indie flicks have been assaulting my mailbox at a masochistic rate. I try to get through them. I try to find the good, but being innundated with drug addiction, awkward sex and handheld camcorders does not a happy RaeRae make.

And Michael Tully's 2006 Cocaine Angel promised more of the same. The groans rendered from my movie-mate as I read the flick's sleeve would make a wildebeest in heat green. And the previews (which tend to give you some idea of where this flick will go) failed to illicit any more confidence (Seriously, no one wants to watch Ted's documentary about how shitty his life is done Chris Crocker-style on his iPhone. Boring). The grainy beach scene that filled only a ninth of the screen almost convinced me to shut the production down and send away for the next disappointment.

But I tell you, dear reader, the hour that followed was somehow captivating. Initially, I mocked the flick's every pretentious not-twist to in some way make up for the waste of time it promised to be for my partner (as you know, no film is a waste of my time). However, after only a few minutes, we settled into a trance induced by Adonis (named by the victims of the largest ego trip in recent history) Boyd's portrayal of Travis, a crackhead just striving to prove that his crumbling life is still worth something. Travis is both hilarious and heart-wrenching as he makes recurrent trips to the restroom to quell his crack cravings, list the events that are unfolding, and reassure himself of his abilities to survive a little longer. You have to love the earliest toilet soliloquy when Travis kisses the mirror repeatedly as a means of obtaining the affection he so desires. When he's not bolstering his ego, Travis is bumbling about on the streets with only one shoe (heart), visiting his daughter, and aiding his girlfriend-ish in her attempt to hoof it to Texas. Boyd's portrayal of the most lovable junkie in the history of cinema makes this flick a must-see.

This is not to say Cocaine Angel is all good, nor is it a recommendation to eBay that shit.  The other components of the piece are somewhat lackluster. The other actors bumble their way through the script with an awkwardness that cannot be attributable to the narcotic cereal their characters consumed at brunch. The film also relies on many of the drug-flick's cliches: overdoses, drunk preggos, random, disease-spewing sex with strangers, etc. And, as with many indie flicks, one must grapple with the fact that nothing seems to happen and nothing is ever resolved. However, I think this might be what I liked most about the flick. If there's a moral message, it's well hidden. No one ever realizes the error of his/her ways. Love isn't transformative. And no one is ever blamed. Even the implication that maybe things could be better is subtle. Love it. Reader, all I'm saying is that this flick is better than you'd think, and should not be cast into the Purgatory that is your typical pretentious-insincere-boredo-indie flick.

Reason to watch: A movie about drugs that's almost free of didacticism!

Favorite junkie: No face guy! 

Shopgirl

The recent trend in the novel world is to create books that could feasibly be condensed into a ninety minute screenplay. Movie rights are sold almost before publication, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who has met a heroine with an uncanny resemblance to the starlet of the hour. These novels make me anxious; I don't enjoy vignettes that pan and track, and close-ups make for tedious summer reading. Steve Martin's Shopgirl is a sample of this literary shift towards the cinematic. It is convenient that the author of the book is also a renowned actor who just happens to be old enough to play Claire Dane's lover, no? Can you see him sitting beside his pool, scheming ways to get to play a mostly-naked, twenty-something's more experienced and detached fuck-buddy? And then the answer smacks him in a wave of California sun stroke: novella. A novella is especially beneficial and convenient as its authorship gives one an air of scholarliness, but its size does not require the commitment of a novel-novel (thereby assuring faster access to an unclothed Claire).

Having never read the book, I have to wonder whether the craftsmanship is as shoddy as this movie's narration implies. If you've seen this, you know the narrator (also Steve Martin) habitually disrupts the action to fill the viewers in on any individual's less-than-pertinent  thoughts. This narrator is contradictory, clearly not wanting to write off the older man entirely, and yet, also unable to condone his actions either, because any author who would side with such a character is clearly not the kind of guy a Family Values American would welcome into his/her God-box (the hallowed television).

And who is this character? Ray Porter, a.k.a. Mr. McCreepsinator. I think there is a reason Steve Martin is best known for his comedic timing. His unwillingness to allow Ray to completely embrace his assholery makes, not for a realistic depiction of a conflicted character, but for a portrait of an underdeveloped old man. My grounds for this slander? There's no talk of impotence anywhere in this flick. I'm not saying that the elderly should be deprived of a little action, merely that it takes a little more time, a little more work to rev up their engines (that's code for penises).  Even without impotence, these sex scenes are awkward like WHAT?! Martin smirks and smarms over an overly orgasmic Danes, who is surprisingly susceptible to wrinkly robut sex. Icky.

And Claire Danes. I do heart Claire Danes, mostly because something like my angsty adolescence was so wonderfully depicted on My So-Called Life. However, this character, this Mirabelle Butterscream (this isn't exactly right, but it's pretty close) is nothing like any woman I've ever met, further proving she is the shallow creation of a lusty, decrepit actor. Firstly, if I were named after a cow, you know that would be the first thing dropped upon arriving in LA. But more importantly, women do not stand around all day dreaming only of their lovers, nor do they spend all of their off-hours grooming. She takes so many baths! If one were to actually hunker down in a pool of stagnant water as often as she, one would be afflicted with lizard skin. And that, dear reader, is unappetizing to even the smarmiest of gentleman callers. Finally, I think it unfair that Ms. Danes had to spend the majority of this flick in the nude, and in awkward positions (i.e., the scene where she offers Ray her hind-quarters), while the most we see of Mr. Martin is a bared shoulder. Not cool.

The saddest part about this movie is that Dane's character actually represents the ideal woman. The rest only use their lady caves to attain mas ducats, and apparently never sexual satisfaction. There is a pretty disgusting self-help radio program (also Martin's voice) that suggests it is a scientific fact that women do not and cannot crave sexual intercourse; their biological lusts are programmed for holding and money. That's crap, reader! It's so two-dimensional and tired. Seriously, stand up for women! Write Steve the angriest letter of your life today!

But now, after ranting about this flick for days, I must make a debasing confession. I do, in fact, own this piece of so-called (!) art. I heart Jason Schwartzman. Were he in a romantic comedy with Ryan Reynolds (and you know how I feel about Ryan Reynolds), I would still make multiple appearances at my local multiplex and would definitely stand in line over night to purchase the flick upon the moment of its release. Jason is adorable in this movie! I know we're supposed to think of him as the inadequate lover in  the first half, but I was smitten with him from the get go. It makes me sad that it is a new car and a schnazzy new suit that makes Danes finally deem to call him a worthy partner. Dear readers, if you do not watch this flick for any other reason, watch it for Jason. He is beautiful and precious. Fo sho.

Reason to watch: Besides the ever-lovely Mr. Schwartzman, this flick has potential to turn into an excellent drinking game: one shot for every naked lady, two for every resurgence of Steve Martin's narration.

Most awkward come-hither line of ever: "How would you like to just lie there, Ray? It'll be like Thailand. You just lie there, and when I'm done, I'll slip away into the night." Huh.

High Art

By now, dear readers, you have most likely established the understanding that no film is too tedious, no movie too abysmal, no flick too foolish to be without merit in  my mind. And while I strive to instill and maintain your sense of stability in my style, I am sorry to say that not even I can justify your spending precious time on this pretentious sack of boring.

Plot summary (short because nothing happened): an assistant editor at a photography magazine falls in love with her neighbor, an edgy photographer who has hidden herself away from the business and who is falling ever deeper into the clutches of her heroin addiction. Now, I love a good lesbian flick as much as the next guy, but I tend to pass on "edgy" late-nineties' perceptions of drug abuse, and would have glanced over this one had Netflix given a more in depth analysis of the piece. Trust me, these flicks are rarely as exciting as you'd think. And actually, I'd say High Art's only redeeming-ish quality is that it remains true to an outsider's slant on red chicken abuse (you have to love slang dictionaries): BORING! My experience turning tables brought me in close contact with many a needle lover and all of the melodrama that comes with them.  No really, watching this movie is like reading a poorly executed sensation novel, minus all the fun fainting couches and thinly-veiled rape scenes. And then those demon junkies get theirs!

So trust me when I say there is nothing redeemable about this flick: no lesbian sex, no dead babies on the ceiling, no extended digressions into faulty bodily function. Boring. Straight (Ha! Get it? My word choice is funny because it's a movie that fails to explore homosexuality) boring.

Reason to watch: I got nothing.

Obligatory second snappy insight: Still nothing.

 

Sunshine Cleaning

It's very hard in the middle of this conflicted conservative yet hipster city to find a place to view even the most accessible of indie flicks. I had thought after hearing that the people who produced Little Miss Sunshine (referred to as LMS in the rest of this review) also poured money into this movie, there was no way it wouldn't not end up a fan favorite in theaters across the board. I watched and waited, tissues at the ready, until the release date came. And passed unnoticed. The flick breezed from my memory. And then the miracle that is the $3.50 theatre proffered a surprise that lifted my spirits and sent me into a sleepless night, full of visions of the bittersweet lovefest that would be my matinee visit to this flick. And Reader, I have to say this flick did not disappoint.

Commencing with the obligatory yet minimal summary: a single mother teams up with her druggie sister to form an uncertified crime scene clean-up crew in order to pay for her son's education in an institution that embraces his genius. There are many very LMS-esque conventions in this piece, possibly to the flick's detriment.  It begins with a suicide. We are then introduced to seven characters who are either coming to accept their fuckedupedness and shine, or who deny their flaws and fade out of the audience's memory before the end. Of course, all of the major characters are endearing to the point of being syrupy. Alan Arken also stars in this film. He's apparently been typecast by Big Beach as the grandfather whose filthy mouth and insistence upon his family's inherent good makes him the Pop Pop of America's heart. And where do these guys find these children?! Arg! Jason Spevack, while arguably not as talented as Abigail Breslin, is the kind of child whose Bambi-eyes and naivete inevitably draws an unintentional "Awww..." from even the most cynical of viewers.

An  aspect of my personality that may not have surfaced in my prior reviews is my tendency to weep at even a whiff of sap. No seriously, I have sobbed through commercials for Rice Krispies, Downy, and Pine-Sol (I promise there is minimal hyperbole in that claim). This movie brought the rain. If you find being artificially induced into wracked sobs in public places somehow cathartic, you will love this flick. The second half is filled with scenes clearly calculated to boost Puff's sales.

But after having pulled myself together in the emptying theatre during the credits (and then again in the bathroom, and once more in the car...), I can't help but think this film may be a little too artificial. In the same way that LMS sometimes relies too heavily upon creatively-spun cliches, this flick is also sometimes a little too predictable, sacrificing major plot details (What happened to Lynn? Why would you light candles so close to explosive chemicals?) in exchange for the big cry scenes. This should not deter my loyal readers from strapping themselves into the manic-depressive celebration of life, just don't be expecting anything that will permanently alter your top ten flick faves.

Reason to watch: the "ACD," leg-licking, lobsterman-wannabe child

Everyone's celebrity crush: Emily Blunt. She's hot like E>**WHAT?!**<3

Children of the Corn IV: The Gathering

When horror movies go into production, the writers and directors are faced with a handful of very important questions:

Question 1--"What is the scariest thing in the world?"

Answer 1--"Children."

Question 2--"Is there anything more frightening than children?"

Answer 2--"Children hot with the fire of Old Time Religion."

So there can be no question that Stephen King knew he had cinematic gold when he pounded out "Children of the Corn" insisting humbly that, no, it was never meant to be reformatted into film; it was just a story to make pediophobes cry until their eyeballs crumbled.  We all know King was inwardly calculating the cost of installing a second fully staffed Starbucks into his fourth mansion (While this viewer can procure little actual evidence that such a monstrosity is present in any of his homes, the fact that King turns every bestselling novel/short story into a blockbusting flick suggests he would certainly be capable of owning a franchise or two).

However, there is one hitch in this monetizing scheme that only the magic of cinema can reveal: child actors. The fact of the matter is that, while a Dakota Fanning occasionally strolls into a swarming casting session, the likelihood of finding such a talent for the quaternary of any horror series is improbable to say the least.  In the fourth rendition of a cinematic set, the child actors tend to be overly dramatic, especially in roles that allow them to wield a scythe while riding a speeding gurney with the intent of splicing an old man in half.  It gets a little ridiculous. I am curious about the caliber of Children of the Corn, Sr. It makes sense that the massive amount of funding poured into a debut flick would procure a handful of adequate child actors and maybe just one Daveigh Chase (yeah, Rhonda Volmer and that freakshow from The Ring, same person. Crazy).  But by the fourth installment of this once brilliant idea, we're left with an inspired elementary school rendition of something that could maybe be scary.

Best place to start: this flick's liberal us of ye olde dream sequence. They pull this out at every dramatic twist. Naomi Watts even manages the more daring double-dream sequence. After dream 1, the audience is coaxed into a sense of restored safety with a sunny morning and sleeping sisters. And then Ms. Watts gets it in the neck with a garden trowel. Doesn't get much better than that.  I will excuse this film's reliance upon this technique, being that 1996 was practically the Stone Age; how could they have known that we in the future would scoff at the dream sequence's every mention? However, if 2001's Children of the Corn: Revelations pulls any of that crap out, you have to know that this viewer's response will not be nearly as forgiving!

I also had to love the recap of the corn curse given by Methuselah's wife and younger sister in an inadequately lit shack. The one paces about finishing her sister's sentences, widening her eyes with the flair of a true thespian, and fiddling with knick-knacks that come to mean nothing. The eldest sister just slowly rocks in her chair, while the portrait behind her cries blood. Awesome.

If my dear readers choose to subject themselves to the horror of watching such a flick on cable, The SciFi channel did a respectable job.  The cliffhangers were excellent in that they left this viewer skeeved for sure, but with some idea of the craziness that would ensue after the ads for ExtenZe and Pampers. While would could say the hints may have been a little too revealing, I like to have some time to wrap my mind around the scare tactics to come. My one complaint: each commercial break lasted seven minutes. Absurdo. Advice to those of you more crunched for time: record it and return at a moment of more convenience. This flick need not last two hours.

Reason to keep reading RaeRae: The promise of one day returning with a review of each flick in this notorious series.

Rant: This flick's liberal use of "sassy, black women" as victims of the scythe. Seriously, even for 1996, the use of this particular horror device was excessive to the point of being grotesque.  

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

My mate is an avid fan of comic books, meaning we collectively consume comic book movies at a rate equivalent to that of my grandfather's consumption of burgers stamped with arches (translation: we watch them a lot). If you have stooped to reading other reviews of this flick--and I know my most loyal readers would never do that--you'd be under the assumption that nothing good can be said about it beyond its potential to make bank in its first week.

Fear not, dear readers, for I have not fallen prey to the temptation to write off this flick entirely. If you too mark your summers by grandiose explosions and tawdry dialogue, you will not skulk disappointed from this blockbuster.

Before we get into our cinematic candy-plex, I must exonerate this one rant from my breast. Read no hyperbole into the following statement: I would rather take a grapefruit spoon to my eyes and pour battery into my cochlea than ever have to sit through one of Ryan Reynolds's movies.  I am told my sentiments are not unique, making his casting as Deadpool ideal, but I am not certain my source understood the level of rage that gurgles inside of me whenever that smug-mug flits across the screen. (Ryan, if you happen upon this review, I apologize sincerely as I'm sure this drastic response is unwarranted. Just please stop acting...for me. I'm serious when I say that I would rather be slowly devoured by sea cucumbers than sit through one of your films. Light threat, I suppose, as I just shelled out $10 for your most recent hit. Sigh.)

Onto my more pleasant experiences. This flick is in keeping with your every mediocre action/comic book movie. Our hero struts out of explosions and into the sunset repeatedly. There's a vixen who is a slave to her desire to fulfill Wolverine's every lust.  She also uses her wiles (read: bra-less breasts) to confound all men except the one who blackmails her with her sister's life(?), and she does a fairly decent job of convincing her audience of her sincerity (especially in the light of the recent Silk Spectre II fiasco).  Look forward to the moment with the obligatory helicopterchasingamotorcycle scene, claws that are the product of inadequate binary* programming (seriously, it's like technology digresses into 1987), and plenty of dialogue along the lines of this near-perfect extraction from the jail-cell scene:

Sergeant: So you survived the firing squad.

Wolverine: Oh yeah, that tickled.

Sergeant: And you killed a commanding officer.

Sabortooth: We don't do well with authority...SIR.

Sergeant: I'm putting together a special team with special privileges. [One of those privileges: you get to use 'special' twice in one sentence.] Stop denying what you are, gentlemen. Embrace the animal within.

Reader, if this bizarro dialogue fails to captivate your attention, perhaps the hilarity of your potential audience-mates will. There will be a handful of people who, despite having sat through the three "extinguish your cell phones" reminders, will leave their portables illuminated throughout the film. There will also be a tiny woman behind you who chortles (and you've never heard chortling until you've heard her) at every throwaway line, so that even when the flick is faltering, pleasure will ripple through you at her every outburst.  You may even be lucky enough to sit next to a handsome fella who clicks his tongue at every inaccuracy, allowing you the privilege of being the only non-X-men reader who can knowledgeably sneer, "God, they made up like half of those characters, and the last half hour? What was that, seriously? Never happened. There was that scene in Wolverine #10 when..."

Reason to watch: Hugh Jackman's bottom!

Better than a Reynolds's flick: Making out with a hot iron.

*This "binary" should not be confused with Binary, a.k.a Ms. Marvel, the alcoholic avenger whose powers were stolen by Rogue.

Georgia Rule

The benefits of HBO exist in the continual promise of randomness and mediocrity at any moment of every day. Hence, slot one's lodger for all eternity: Gary Marshall's Georgia Rule. Because the flick was riding the HBO cyclone, I knew of the incest that wasn't before I knew of the lusty, sociopathic teen and her potophobic grandmother. Are you not inspired to flip over to HBO this instant?  But seriously folks, we need to address this casting issue. I can't decide whether it broke my heart, or simply accentuated the tragedy that this film was so drastically under-watched.  Cary Ewles (read: "Westley") as rapist step-dad? Lindsey Lohan as herself? Felicity Huffman as woman? The mechanical delivery of absurdo revelations ("My friend who held a gun to your head taped us, Daddy"--"Daddy" being this viewer's only embellishment) by this star-studded summary of my childhood's most influential characters make this flick a must see.

So many plotlines unfulfilled; so few spaces to incorporate them all.  To break with the standards established in my byline, I will summarize this flick's tremendously underwhelming story in one sentence. An alcoholic mom sends her laughably-sex-crazed daughter to Mormon Town where Grandma yields a bar of soap and a hose like a shot gun, and where sex is better with men who act against their gods (by warily accepting blow jobs) than sex with one's father-of-sorts.  Why won't those dirty bastards just say no?

And maybe this is serious.  If there is one thing I am not down with, it's sexual abuse. But this movie made it seem a little hilarious. "I'm lying about it because I'm troubled...jk...but no, I'm serious. I lied about lying because it's pleasurable to smash my head into this stucco wall" or "I'm a superhuman he-she who can consume 17 bottles of various libations and still make a sentence."

But what was really wrong? This flick's lack of climax.  I know where it should have been--she's finally refused by a man (the loner with the token dead family)--but Lohan's delivery left me wondering whether relief had finally come for her fiery loins.  Of course, my climatic estimator may have been malfunctioning.  Perhaps the intended catharsis came during the make out session with the veterinarian/physician; or when Grandma puts the crystal bedpan on her mantle; or--my favorite--when Alco-Mom corrupts her pre-pubescent neighbors by losing her brazier to her mother during their lawn-wrestling extravaganza.  My heart hurt a little when that boy handed over her undergarments and robe while still tastefully averting his eyes.  At last, a gentleman.  Synopsis of Georgia Rule II: Felicity Huffman learns what courtly love is from her sagacious yet infantile neighbor.

Lesson Learned: "Statutowy wape is sewious!"

Reason To Watch: "When I get back from my mission, I intend to marry your granddaughter." **WHAT?!** And credits.