Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Exactly.

Judd Apatow, I’m concerned. You and your cronies seem a bit, how you say, scattered of late. Granted your past ventures haven’t been paragons of continuity, but your latest little romp had me scrambling for the Adderall. The Adderall of the straight-edge kid. So, Diet Coke. Gummi Bear chaser. Regardless, Forgetting Sarah Marshall picks up creatively where 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up left off, and promptly loses its blessed mind. A manic dash through plot and nonsensical editing creates a muddled and ultimately forgettable experience.

The story, for what it’s worth, follows TV composer Peter Bretter (Jason Segel) as he copes with his recent breakup with Hollywood star/near-official little person Sarah Marshall (Kristin Bell). Bretter’s unabashed and humiliating shame-spiral eventually leads him to Hawaii for a little time away. To his surprise, Sarah is at the same hotel with her new rock-star beau, the greasy Aldous Snow (Russell Brand). Snap. At his wit’s end, Bretter befriends the hotel’s dark and mysterious customer service rep, Rachel Jansen (Mila Kunis). As the two grow closer, Bretter suffers through one embarassing run-in with Marshall after another. Oh, how will he ever forget?

The cast itself is not what tanks this film. Not entirely, at least. Each player brings enough to the table to provide a fair amount of one-liners. Sadly, that’s the most you can expect. Segel is goofy and sweet and executes a passable pathetique. His general doughiness, however, quickly gets old. Bell and Kunis both give strong performances as beautiful people, although Bell’s mix of likeability and sheer selfishness dredge up some human appeal. Kunis’ turn as the “wild” girl who is so earth-shatteringly irresistible because she spouts more cliches than the bastard child of Obi-Wan and a high school poetry contest winner’s pink and black MySpace page and doesn’t take no crap from no one, hear, is as completely unimpressive as every other performance given by a down-to-earth (brunette) starlet in recent memory. My Nikes couldn’t teach me to Just Do It, and they were on my feet, sister. A couple yearbook quotes from you aren’t going to cut it. The show-stealer is, without a doubt, Russell Brand as the self-adoring, unkempt British rocker Snow. One gets the impression Brand is doing very little acting. His one-liners are delivered so seriously that it isn’t until the scene is over that the sheer ass-clownery of his character becomes evident.

Had the cast been given better material, I’m sure I’d be singing a different tune (probably something by Mika, because his songs are like black tar heroin to my eardrums). Segel’s script, and for that matter, his direction and editing, are such that the movie becomes more of a sequence of small, isolated incidences or flashbacks than a coherent story. The first third of the film is Bretter crying, or talking about crying, or remembering the last time he cried. The audience is then jolted from this one unrelenting theme to the scenes in Hawaii, which are severely fractured and bring the progress of the movie to a crashing halt time after time until it finally drags its mangled stump of a carcass to the end. Ultimately, these little vignettes become muddled and the humor is lost.

In the end, Segel has missed what made the incoherence of Knocked Up and 40-Year-Old Virgin so worthy of celebration – a negotiable storyline propelled by a sequence of ridiculous events. And Steve Carell’s chest hair. Grade: C

Celebrity I-Candy, February 26, 2008

Turn Ons: Hot dames. Hot jazz. Hot tubs. 

Turn Offs: Step-stools.  Smooth jazz.  Back-sass.

Celebrity I-Candy, February 25, 2008

Turn Ons: People who take their hair seriously.  LOL Cats. Canadian tuxedos.  Inefficient weapons.  The complete catalogue of Harry Connick, JR. Badassery.  Little golden men.  Bon bons. 

Turn Offs: The Brolins.

The Oscars: Freestylin’

Starlings! Behold, my return, chagrined for my lax attitude, but determined to answer your pleas for updates to the best of my superior abilties. And what better way than with the pageantry, penguin suits and polyphonic, polyamorous, poly-GLAMOROUS Academy Awards (see what I did there?). Here are my thoughts as they occur.

8:00: Raisins are delicious. This has nothing to do with the Oscars, except for the mouthwatering accessory they are playing to my night.

8:02: George Clooney just schooled Regis Philbin. I hope it escalates.

8:03: No one is letting Marion Cotillard speak. And somehow she still seems smarter than everyone else.

8:04: Miley Cyrus. Why are you here? Does Regis scare you, my pet? He frightens me.

8:05: My computer freezes until 8:20. My illustrious life flashes before my eyes. God, I’m awesome. Wish my computer wasn’t frozen so I could send that message out into the void.

8:22: I know this isn’t supposed to be about the fashion. But someone get Juno an effing clue.

8:25: I love Bill Conti. I love Oscar Medleys. I love his bowtie. I’m wondering if when 3:6 Mafia won for that timeless jewel “It’s hard out there for a pimp” that bowtie spun uncontrollably with righteous anger.

8:26: IT’S HARD OUT THERE FOR A PIMP. dammit.

8:30: Fanfare!

8: Ok this little decoupage montage sucks. I’ve seen better photopshopping on my 6 year old sister’s Myspace. Except for the Greased Lightning clip. For ironic purposes.

8:32: Oh Jon Stewart. Thank God for you. And teen pregnancy.

8:35: Tommy Lee Jones is totally jealous of Javier Bardem. Look at that scowl as Stewart makes love to him.

8:37: Ok, Stewart, we get it. You love everyone. I like you better angry.

8:41: Marion Cotillard won’t throw Stewart a bone. How French.

8:43: What? Barbara Streisand? What is this? I mean I get it. Oscar’s 80; lets join hands across America. But warn me. I can’t take a Barbara interruption without some kind of forewarning, or at least a quick stretch.

8:46: Ooo I get it. Oscar’s geriatric, and probably senile at this point. We’re supposed to relate to him through random memories of our more fabulous years, memories that appear without warning, like our great-grandchildren looking for money at our bedside. And that brings us to Barbara.

8:47: HA. Celine Dion, thank you for getting your claws into something pure, and, once again, tearing its entrails out.

8:51 Anne Hathaway, I’m over you. And your ponytail. And your delicate little laugh. Stop making me feel insipid.

8:54: Katherine Heigl might stroke out. Funny or tragic? You decide.

8:58: I hit my Sour Patch Kids limit.

9:00: Amy Adams, I hope those are nerves.

9:01: Is this little trip down memory land supposed to make the age difference between Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas any less creepy? Because they’re going to have to do a lot better than a 30 second interview to scrub the traumatic images that those two have burned into my grey matter with their unholy union. NB Douglas’ quip “Oh but you were already Born when I got my Oscar, honey.” Way to save that one, Mikey.

9:07: The Rock? Seriously?

9:10: Cate Blanchett. You astound me. I shout my love for you from the rooftops. Also, you deserve so much better than “Art Direction.” They should GIVE an Art Direction Oscar to God for carving your paramount awesomeness out of nothing. A big kudos to Jehovah for that one.

9:11: Stewart continues his ass-kissery, although since the object of his attention is Miss Cate, I’ll let it slide.

9: 16: Ok, Javier Bardem. You were a two hour-long heart attack in No Country. No doubt about that. But how long are we going to have to wait until Casey Affleck gets his? When will that sweet, sweet curly-head make its way to the stage and accept his due reward? When will he finally earn his father’s love? Casey, you’re wicked overdue.

9:25: Keri Russell, check your pulse, girlfriend.

9:29: “LEY MOOZAR DEY PICKPOCKET”, or “How Owen Wilson set us back another 50 years behind the Europeans in the category of “panache.”"

9:30: DAMN YOU TILDA! With your fiery hair and alabaster skin and choir robe. HOW could you take my lady Cate’s award from her and then give this dippy speech about your agent? Way to be cold and dead inside. I’m currently superimposing Cate over you. Her speech goes something like this:

“I’d like to thank the Acad–NO, you know what? I can’t hide this anymore. Deanna, this tiny naked golden man is for YOU, my sweet! I am only sorry they’ve given me this one. If I could I would smelt all the world’s gold into a giant naked golden man to stand for the raging passion that burns within my British bosom for you. Until we can be together, my sweet little breakfast scramble.”

Ah, dreams.

9:47: I enjoy the fact that the Coen Brothers’ acceptance speech reads like one of their scripts. Whole lotta awkward.

9:52: Thanks for calling out the Academy on their terrible Bill Nye-lookin’ voting documentary, Jon.

9:52: Miley Cyrus? Again? Seriously? Cute dress, though.
9:55: Kristen Chenoweth, my self-esteem was doing fine hovering right around my knees. Which is where I think you’d come up to on me, but that’s beside the point. Stop being perfect.

10:00: Jew-fros a go-go

10:04: The Oscar for best grilled cheese goes to my roommate, Sarah. She’d like to thank Kraft and my bottomless pit of a stomach.

10:09: It’s my favorite game! Find Forest Whitaker’s crazy eye!

10:13: Marion, though your victory means loss for my delicate Cate, I’ve been pulling for you since I saw your unbelievable performance last summer, and your little “rocked my life” quip and your sweet, stuttering speech make you very endearing. Thank you for bringing Edith Piaf a little closer to the recognition she deserves in our generation.

10:14: WHY ARE THEY ORCHESTRATING “FALLING SLOWLY?” This is a simple, tender, heart-rending song. Leave it alone, Hollywood. Also, the look that Glen Hansard gave to Marketa right before the song is the kind of look I hope to get from my beau on stage one day. Sweet.

10:23: Jack, I hope you’re drunk right now. Not because you seem so, but because you’ve earned the right to be bombed out of your gourd on this night.

10:25: Bill Conti is rocking the crap out of this movie montage. You go, sir.

10:27: Renee, how uncomfortable are you with your hair? You’ve been fiddling with that mop all damn night.

10:35: Daniel Day-Lewis, that’s a lot of look.

10:36: How many of you, when the Honorary Oscar recipient kept mentioning “Hitch” in his speech, went to an image of that old white guy shooting the breeze with Will Smith? Just me?

10:48: OH MY GOD. ABSOLUTELY, GLEN HANSARD! RIP THAT OSCAR FROM ENCHANTED. Ahem.

10:57 My face melts watching a commercial for ABC’s A Raisin in the Sun starring John Stamos and…Sean “P. Diddy” Combs.

10:56: Class act, bringing Marketa back out.

11:01: Memoriam montage time. Nothing I can really say.

11:12: Tom The Hanks! Let’s do a documentary on the evolution of your hair. Perhaps a mini-series. Episode 8 would be entitled “Coif of Terror: The Da Vinci Code Year.”

11:25: Diablo Cody, that’s an awful lot of tat for the Oscars, no? Pretty sweet skull earrings, though. Way to play to your demo.

11:30: Helen Mirren, how do I love thee? Way to transform a list of synonyms into the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan.

11:35: Daniel Day Lewis. It’s nice to see that making an epic movie hasn’t saned you like I thought it might. Tell the wood-nymphs and unicorns you burrow with I said whatsup.

11:43: I’d see Henry Kissinger: Man on the Go. Provided there was a wood-chipper.

11:46: Someone get those pesky Coens out of here! They’re everywhere! That rocking stache on the taller one is gonna haunt me. In a good way.

There you have it, fledglings. Now make like a Daniel Day Lewis and get the hell out of your mind.

M. Night in motion

I recently got into a debate with a colleague on the merits of M. Night Shyamalan, because, well, I am in fact, a dork.  Shocked?  Awed?  Mildly nauseated?  I thought as much.  Well, to end the debate, I needed something strong.  A verbal kick to the back of the head or somewhere equally sensitive and debilitating.  In my M. Night Fervorlan I reached for my secret weapon, a one-two sledgehammer sure to reduce the most intimidating of foes to a quivering Jello Jiggler beneath my boot. Behold, my glory, my pride, my haiku:

M. Night Shyamalan
imbues his films with myst’ry
and dramatic flair.

Does that not take your breath away?  Pull yourself together, for God’s sake, you’re making a scene.

Greetings

Welcome to The Dolly Shot, a blog for the cinematically-inclined and borderline-fabulous. We’re currently under serious constructive surgery, but to stave off your tears of woe I’ve uploaded several old reviews for your perusal, at least until the incisions heal up (see link at right).   If you’re my mom, which you most likely are, you’ve already read these; please move on with your life and send me some money.

Peace