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.