Iciest Coldest Motherfuckers Alive™: The List

Not that any of you were, like, upset about the fact that I hadn’t posted in about a month, but to those of you that were upset I blame it on Martyn.

When I take one for the team, I take one for the team hard. Clocking 8/10 damage on a weeknight is regular practice here at BMC and I bring it like there’s never going to be another movie in the history of ever. Some of you may think you have the edge but I met Hunter S. Thompson once on a Tuesday and after the perfunctory getta knowya jibber-jabber he told me I reeked of booze, ass, and sex. In that order of pungency. So when I go to the movies rest assured, dear readers, I take it to the next fucking level.

Martyn, on the other hand, decided to have an unwaveringly sober January, and hence we’ve been seeing only serious movies, which on principle I seldom review. This is largely why the blog has been inert for so long (also because that last posting about MIGP was the dog’s bollocks and I was hungover from that night until last week). This glaring absence of content and a reticent acknowledgement that I am (yet again) hungover as balls and will accomplish nothing today has prompted me to deliver an interim posting to keep y’alls appetites nice and whetted.

A recurring theme in my blog has been to travel gradually down a vague, nebulous list of men who I consider to be the Iciest Coldest Motherfuckers Alive™. They come in different shapes, sizes, and exist for different reasons but I thank Almighty Jesus for the fact that they exist at all, because it would be a bleak and sober world if things were otherwise.

Now before reading you must divorce yourselves from the notion that this is going to be a formulaic, facile enumeration of the biggest, baddest shitkickers of all time, because let’s face it the list would look like

1. The Rock

2. The Rock

3. The Rock

and we would all go home early. Sure, some of these guys below are bona fide destroyers, but most of them are doing more illin’ than killin’, if you catch my drift. Maybe you don’t. But whatever, here’s the list and some descriptive stuff. If you think you can come up with a more better one I double dawg dare you to, peasant.

1. Vin Diesel

The guy has to be number one for a variety of reasons. Foremost, motherfucker is HUGE. No, he is beyond huge. He is his own unit size that everyone will from now on refer to as “size Vin Diesel.” From now on everyone will go to H&M or Gap and find items in sizes: small, medium, large, extra-large, Vin Diesel.

Second, his delivery of lines in movies is the most blasé, “I could give a shit” affair in the history of line delivery. He interacts with dozens of people in each of his movies and clearly does not give a toss about a single one of them. This guy just got bored in between segments of ownage and decided to say something to pass the time. The only reasons why people exist in Vin Diesel movies is to a) get owned by Vin Diesel; or b) keep Vin Diesel occupied while the narrative is resupplying with guys for him to own. And he knows it.

Third, he is an avid, lifelong Dungeons & Dragons player. In an age when actors lose their merit or bankability for stuff like following Scientology (which, when you think about it, is no more preposterous in its core tenets or assumptions than any of the Desert Religions), Vinny is putting his shit right out there for everyone to smell. As if to say “Sure, call me geek if you like, but we both know that were we in a jail cell together you would become my PROPERTY.”

Which brings me to my next point. I’m not going to straight up say that Vin Diesel is gay, merely that he gets spotted in gay bars. Like, often. And hey, to be fair, maybe it’s just because he knows that’s where all the cool straight girls are (it’s true) and gays can decorate a property and throw a party better than just about anyone. Maybe that’s alls there is to it. Okay, benefit of the doubt given… but the idea of Vin being out there actually, legit sodomizing dudes ON THE FUCKING REGULAR not only cements him #1 on the list but just about smashes everyone else thereupon.

2. Justin Timberlake

I could ramble on ad nauseam (which I have in the past), but essentially he makes the list because his M.O. is

a) Find a girl that everyone wants to bang

b) Bang her

c) Leave her by the side of the road

In fact, this guy’s general level of I-do-what-I-want-ness is straight off the fucking charts. His career turns and artistic output are erratic at best, he goes on dates with servicewomen who proposition him on YouTube, invests in dotcoms that no one has ever heard of, and probably has Jack Daniel’s in his cereal for breakfast.

Oh, and did I mention he tore Britney Spears’ hymen?

 

3. Goat

On a separate list of ways to off yourself like a champ, this guys places right above Elliott Smith and just below Ernest Hemingway. Plus he’s just generally hard as fuck.

4. Kiefer Sutherland

When it is insufficient to merely pop a cap in a guy’s ass, when it is paramount that you first torture, maim, and humiliate him, Jack Bauer could write the goddamn how-to handbook.

If he didn’t start out as enough of a hardass, the fact that everyone this cat has ever cared about was assassinated propelled his level of icy coldness into interstellar overdrive. For the last seven seasons of 24 it was like motherfuckers in L.A. was just doing massive lines of cocaine and in their coke-addled stupor having conversations like

“Hey, Ahmed! You know what I think I can do today?!”

“What??”

“Cross Jack Bauer… and live!!!!”

“HOLY SHIT YOUR PENIS IS HUUUUUGE!!”

and then of course Jack Bauer has to show them what’s up. When Jack Bauer is not busy showing these people what’s up, his hobbies include.

• Telling people he will execute them if they do not reveal a key piece of information and executing them anyway once they do;
• Executing people who do not have key information to reveal (just cuz, really);
• Doing horse at work;
• Playing Russian Roulette with hardened drug barons;
• Attempting to assassinate former Presidents because he’s in a bad mood;
• Handing out ultimatums like they’re leaflets for that new nail shop around the corner;
• Being the best dad ever (well… second only to Liam Neeson);
• Torturing and killing, or through inaction allowing HIS OWN KIN to die; and
• Saving the fucking day.

Back in reality Kiefer drinks and smokes like it’s a race and guess what: he’s winning. In terms of convictions and jail time served he wipes the floor with Charlie Sheen. In terms of everything, come to think of it.

5. Tom Cruise

Was there ever a doubt in your mind? On screen, sure, he’s the good guy, but offscreen this dude dedicates 100% of his time to ruining people’s shit.

The moment that someone decides they’re gonna try to out him, Cruise swoops in with the mother-of-all-legal-teams and basically sues them straight into bankruptcy. When he wins a lawsuit I’ll bet he burns the money or gives it to the Church of Scientology just to rub their noses in it.

He essentially cockblocks the entirety of mankind by taking the most bangable women alive (separate list) off the market and… fuck… I don’t know what he does with them. Plays Parcheesi? What a waste of a Holmes.

And then there are my two personal favourites. The first was when he sued Jeff Burgar into oblivion for owning TomCruise.com before he thought to purchase it (the Internet had been around for a decade!), and the second when he sought out Brooke Shields (who at the time was suffering from postpartum depression) and told her there was no such thing as a chemical imbalance. Fucking patently, scientifically wrong but he does it anyway just to undermine and further destabilise her.

I’m telling you, this cat only derives pleasure from salting wounds and kicking people who are already down. Cruise is Legend.

(Ha! See what I did there?!)

6. Tie: Kurt Russell and Liam Neeson

Two very different actors but their respective merit for inclusion in the ICMA™ list is predicated on strikingly similar paradigms.

In essence, when things are not going their way, their default solution is to kill EVERYONE.

On top of which Kurt Russell sees stuff he doesn’t like just about everywhere.

“Oh, so you think you can kidnap my wife and hold her to ransom? Looks like imma hafta park an 18-wheeler right on top of you.”

“Oh, so you think you can mosey into town, kill the Marshall, defile the justice system, and start calling shots? Looks like me and my buddies are going to have to gear up with matching black dusters and ‘taches and light you up like a fucking birthday cake. Son.”

“Oh, so you think you and your girlfriends can dress sexy have a fun night out on the town while I’m trying to eat nachos? Hmmmmmm, lemme get my souped-up, bitchin ‘71 Chevy Nova and respond to that by driving clean through you.”

“Oh, so you think you can be Chinese and hang out underground for a coupla centuries? Well guess what, Dave. Ya can’t.”

And then of course there’s Soldier. To say this film is the pinnacle of cinematic achievement is being waaaay generous to cinematic achievement. Watching Soldier is like being hit the face with a bag of awesome for 99 straight minutes. It culminates with pretty much the most steely-eyed, brass-balled exchange in the history of badassery (again, being generous to badassery), compounded by the fact that Kurt Russell says about 36 words in this movie and 26 of them are right here:

Not to mention Kurt is fucking HUGE.

Liam Neeson is pretty much on the same wavelength. Things that cause him to lose patience and open up a can of Zidane include (but are not exclusive to):

• Albanians
• His daughter being abducted or sold
• His hot wife being diddled by men who are shorter and have less hair
• Wolves
• Sith
• Batman
• People who mess with his hands
• Any kind of criminal
• Pretty much anyone who isn’t Liam Neeson

Oh, and when he’s not busy cleaving motherfuckers in half with a broadsword, stabbing guys to death with a CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE, bedding Claudia Schiffer, or shooting sheiks between the eyes he teaches Batman and Obi-Wan how not to be such huge pussies.

Word to you mother, Liam. Word to your mother.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

Directed by Brad Bird

Starring Tom Cruise, some other white dude, some English white dude, some bangin’ mulatto chick, assorted Slavic and Scandinavian white bad dudes, that white dude from Lost, and Tom Wilkinson

Okay. I would normally say spoiler alert but that’s not quite it. I was in the middle of watching this Ghost Protocol shiznit and thought to myself: “Impossible boozy mission? Challenge: accepted.” By that point I was already five drinks deep so my rationale was hazy at best. In fact I’m pretty sure I then immediately started humming the MI theme song to myself as I cracked my third Miller.

Consequently the only things I remember about this movie can be described as “fragments,” loosely supplemented by drunken scribblings on my trusty Moleskin notepad that my mother gave me two Christmases ago. To be fair to my mother, I’m pretty sure that if she knew I would be using it as a tool to document my drunken misadventures she would have gotten me Zelda or a hammock instead. Because I love slaying stuff and lying down.

So the MO for this review is going to be merely citing all the moments of MIGP that I remember in chronological order (the latter will be trickier). From that I’ll try to infer what the movie is about and run my trademark cavalier, devil-may-care commentary about Tom Cruise not owning enough people and chicks and their breasts. Sound like a plan? Good.

THINGS I REMEMBER ABOUT MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: GHOST PROTOCOL

• That white dude from Lost totally gets iced by a woman

What better way to establish IMF agents as huge pussies early on than by having them axed by waifish French bimbos? Nice! Get this: secret agent man blasts his way out of a building with secret documents, makes a death-defying escape, and fleeing the scene a moment later he lets his guard down to CHECK A TEXT MESSAGE.

Just like that, millions of dollars in spy training are wasted because the first lesson on the first day of spy school ought to have been:

Drinking

Driving

Texting

Covert operations

 Lesson 1: Don’t do any of these things while doing another one of these things.

(Yeah, fine, some of you will say “Well hey Ben! How about driving and covert operations? Can’t they go together?” Okay, nice one, and the answer to your question is fuck you.)

• Tom Cruise narrowly escapes from jail with his boyfriend

Not so sure about you guys, but if I got locked in Russian prison for first-degree murder and had a two-minute window of opportunity to escape I would not double back for my shower buddy. Just sayin. You’re Tom Cruise. You can smoke whoever’s pole you want. And probably do.

• The Kremlin explodes

Yes, the whole Kremlin. Yes, I know, it’s stupid but the guy who directed this has only ever done animated films. Because he’s a grown man and makes cartoons for a living I’m taking it as a given that he’s mentally retarded. So cut him some slack, alright?

They gloss over it pretty quickly, actually, but it has something to do with stealing nuclear launch codes and framing Tom Cruise. Tom Wilkinson comes to warn Tom Cruise but then Tom Wilkinson gets shot and dies and makes me sad because I have been drinking.

• The villain’s name is Cobalt and he appears for about five minutes in this movie

Double black belt: Aikido and Noshing

What better way to establish your core villain as a huge pussy early on than by giving him a name that even Steven Seagal wouldn’t get out of bed for? Mind you these days Steven Seagal looks like he only gets out of bed for these two guys Ben & Jerry.

But seriously, whatever happened to the days when villains had badass names? Like Darth Vader or Jaws or The Jackal or Cyrus the Virus or even that Le Chiffre guy who cried blood? Sure he loses at poker and gets his ass whipped a lot but his tears are fucking blood. The only way they could have made that guy more of a hardass is by having him sweat crude oil and shit dragon eggs. Pure awesome coming out of every orifice.

Cobalt is to villains as Kim Kardashian is to women. You’re upset that you even know they exist. I’ll bet money they gave him that stupid name because MIGP's screenwriter approached the producers with a list of potential villain names that went something like this:

Ocker

Cadmium yellow

Chartreuse

Vermillion

Saffron

Cerulean

Cobalt

And the producers just fucking stood there saying: “Well… at least he gave us a choice, right?”

• There’s one scene where Tom Cruise chases a guy through a sandstorm

I’m pretty sure I still have some bad lingering memories from those really bright desert scenes in The Adventures of Tintin so I took a nap during this part. I’m guessing Tom Cruise never caught the guy because that would have meant the movie ending sooner and guest movieboozer Patrick waking me up. Or security.

• At first Jeremy Renner is an analyst, but then he’s not who he appears to be

Remembering this moment WIN

Nice twist. That never happens in spy movies.

• In one scene Jeremy Renner floats

He must be a Jedi. Or it’s magnets. Can’t remember which. But now that makes me think… what if Yoda were using magnets all along?

• Cobalt owns no one in this movie

The last half hour of this movie was spent drunk and confused about what was going on. This Cobalt guy commandeers himself a sweet fucking nuke and then just fires it at the States without asking for ransom. So while Tom Cruise is trying to stop him, I’m leaning over to Patrick all like: “Pooch! What the fuck is going on?! Where’s the ransom? … Bahahahahahaha! That nuke is fucking AWESOME! Look at it going through space! Did you see it going through space like that and jettisoning its, like… shell and stuff? … Pooch, did you see that shit?”

Seriously, for about five minutes I could not shut up about this goddamn nuclear rocket. I was like a Down Syndrome child who just saw a laser pointer for the first time. So thoroughly impressed was I that I scribbled this on my pad:

“If I had a nuke this amazing E would save it. For later.”

I’m assuming by ‘E’ I meant ‘I’ and to my credit I wrote that without a flashlight pen. That’s 100% pure spatial awareness, folks.

As an aside: what impressed me most (about myself) while watching this movie was that even plunging headfirst into the most absurd drunkenness in recent memory, there was still a Sober Ben at that back of my brain saying: “Dude. This movie is fucking terrible. You should be at home watching Suits instead of this because it’s clever and filmed in Canada. Represent dude.” Of course JuggernautDrunk Ben came crashing through moments later, all like: “DUUUUDE! You needs to fuck up your brain more because IT’S WEDNESDAY!!!!”

Which one do you think I listened to? Yeah. Exactly.

• The girl in this movie neglected to show me her tits

In her defence she did look pretty busy doing other stuff. Still, if she were a stripper I would have left a lousy tip.

• Ving Rhames shows up at the end to give the movie to lend some street cred

You now have 1.5 black people in your movie. Respect. I felt like I was watching the BET Awards.

Yeah, that’s pretty much alls I remember. If it means anything I was hungover until Monday.

Damage: 9/10 (pre-movie: ≈110 ml Glenkinchie 12yo 43% ABV; during: 5 x 330 ml Miller Genuine Draught and ≈110 ml Jura Superstition 45% ABV; post-movie: 1 x 330 ml Einstock fucking Viking beer. Grrrrrr.)

Boozy rating: 9/10 (What? You look surprised. I had an amazing time.)

DOOM -- stay-at-home boozy Hannukah edition

Directed by Andrzej Bartkowiak

Starring Karl Urban, Rosamund Pike, Raz Adoti, Ben Daniels, and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson

*** WARNING: VERY MINOR SPOILERS *** (as if you’re going to watch this trash, right?)

Oscar season is probably my least favourite time of year. Sure, the holidays are great, but the preponderance of films released tactically in November/December, ushered shamelessly into theatres to drive a Hollywood lobby around them, drives me fairly batshit. The audacity of studios – contemptuous enough towards audiences that they feel comfortable telling us what a “good movie” is or should be – is an annual affront that only becomes more offensive as the movies become more shittier. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close? Please. I’ve seen better film form atop hollandaise sauce.

So instead of spending a small fortune to see a useless piece of art that will vanish from institutional memory faster than Shakespeare in Love (although, to be fair, Gwyneth Paltrows funbags are permanently seared into my brain), guest movieboozer Patrick and I combined class and crass by making some delectable Chase vodka martinis and watching a 1½-star movie about Martian beasties. Mondays get the boozy treatment FOR SERIOUS.

This is what credibility looks like. Fuckers.

Shore leave is cancelled for a small team of tougher-than-tough, futuristic Marines when Sarge (The Rock) receives orders to respond to a distress call on Mars. Scientists are apparently missing, there’s talk of an emergency quarantine, and things at the Olduvai research facility seem to have gone altogether tits-up.

There’s a bunch of talk, a bunch of “let’s split up, you two guys search this area, you two guys search this other area, find the civilians, and kill everything else so we can all go back home and get some PROTEIN,” and then beasties introduced through some very loose scientific justification.

*** NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION EXTRA ***: See back there how I used the words “very loose” without drawing a parallel to or making a joke about Lindsay Lohan? Bam. New Year shizzle. I’m becoming a less belligerent person. Resolved.

You’ve played the video game. You know what’s up. A movie of this nature and at best tenuous quality can only truly hit the mark if everyone it in dies. No. Not merely dies, but gets pwned in thorough fashion. Like do y’all remember how hard Benicio del Toro gets pwned in Sin City when he flies off the handle at Brittany Murphy and a bunch of hookers? That level. That’s the level this movie needs.

The movie never reaches this level.

Worse still is that your main guys aren’t dealing nearly enough damage either. Doom is basically a 90-minute invitation to get drunk and watch a group of juice-monkeys fire senseless amounts of bullets and then get their shit ruined by aliens. It’s not complicated. Jim Cameron had no problem accomplishing this and that guy made Titanic, which I take as testimony that he’s borderline retarded. To spend $200 million on a sinking ship and a Céline Dion showcase is strong evidence (although, to be fair, Kate Winslet’s funbags are permanently seared into my brain).

Karl Urban is a satisfying action hero but essentially has no reason to exist in this movie. No one has any reason to exist in any movie The Rock is in. This guy takes keeping it real to the next level. A former boozy Tuesday excursion to Faster is a fine example. The Rock was released from jail and went on a grudge-killing spree while I went on a Pabst Blue Ribbon drinking spree. Me and The Rock we’re bonded deep.

True enough. What they don't do, however, is PWNAGE.

Which brings me to my next point: The Rock seriously does nothing in this movie. I stayed in a had, like, six vodka martinis to escape movies that treat me with contempt and at the apex of my drunk I realize that the most that Rock will ever do in this movie is yell at people. Don’t get me wrong, his freakouts and one-liners in this movie are totally epic; they are in fact pretty much the only reason to watch it. But when you cast The Rock as a special ops Marine in a movie about Martian beasties, I want to smell what he’s fucking cookin’. I want to see him do 20+ neck-breaks and connect Hell Knights anus to mouth (like a centipede). I paid £5 for this DVD so I feel I am entitled.

Possibly WORSEST is the under-use of Ben Daniels as Corporal Eric "Goat" Fantom. For starters, and I don’t think a great many would disagree with me here, but a special forces dude nicknamed Goat makes my nipples erect. It’s badass.

Second, this particular special forces dude is revealed to be a bit of a Godbag and at first you’re like “whatever, so was Britney Spears and we all know how that turned out.” Okay, right, I know, but then this cat knocks over an oxygen tank while patrolling and takes the Lord’s name in vain and as penance for his sin he CARVES A FUCKING CROSS INTO HIS ARM WITH A BUCKNIFE! He’s got a collection of Jesus scars! I know, right? Iciest coldest motherfucker alive (after Vin Diesel and Justin Timberlake, of course).

Full kit, no cleave. Thanks.

Third point: once he gets infected with this strain of zombie monster disease he commits suicide by bludgeoning himself to death against a plate-glass window. Dude bites the dust a third of the way into the film having fired less than a magazine of ammo and clocks zero kills. This all upset my drunk to such a point that I had to strangle a hobo on my way home just so that my evening would break even.

Plus Rosamund Pike doesn’t even take her gear off. I paid £5.

Damage: 5/10 (6 x Chase vodka martinis, probably around 2.5 oz of booze and 4 olives to each)

Boozy rating: 2/10 (I gave it a point above utter failure because there are two classic one-liners and it was Hannukah so I was feeling generous)

50/50

Directed by Jonathan Levine

Starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Seth Rogen, Bryce Dallas Howard, Anna Kendrick, Philip Baker Hall, Matt Frewer, and Anjelica Huston

Although I’m not in the habit of writing reviews about movies I’ve seen sober, this slow-burner has been in my thoughts since I saw it last night. As Martyn is out of town this week, precluding any possibility of a boozy review, I thought it both an appropriate substitute and a way for me to alleviate my preoccupation with it.

Adam Lerner (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is the poster boy for healthy, responsible lifestyle. He is a late-twentysomething, outdoorsy Seattle-dweller who works as a public radio producer, recycles, and abstains from even the most banal of vices, like jaywalking, caffeine, and alcohol. He is tolerant of his buffoonish best friend Kyle (Seth Rogen) and tidies up after his airheaded, pretentious artist girlfriend Rachel (Bryce Dallas Howard). He is, in so many words, the nicest guy on the planet and the last person who deserves to have anything bad happen to him.

So, naturally, he gets cancer. And not just any cancer; he gets Schwannoma neurofibrosarcoma, or as Kyle humorously simplifies to ingratiate himself with sympathetic SWFs: “he’s got stage four back cancer.” The kind you don’t want to have. The kind that has a 50% survival rate.

50/50 is branded as a comedy, but with such dark subject matter and an actor of Gordon-Levitt’s clout in the lead there’s an understanding you won’t be giggling the whole way through. In effect, that dichotomy ends up being the movie’s winning style.

With clever dialogue and actors capable of rising to the challenge the subject presents, the film has plenty of funny moments. None of the laughs are cheap or even implausible; they rely upon the actors’ sensitivity, timing, and Will Reiser’s incisive script – a blueprint drawn from his own cancer experiences. 50/50 also has a way of turning from comic to heart-rending on a dime, something that is rarely seen in mainstream fare and lifts this one above its ilk.

Sweetness, not melancholy, holds it all together

Because of the film’s lighter moments, usually involving Kyle’s ham-fisted attempts to console his friend (e.g. suggesting “I have cancer” as a pickup line) or Adam’s sweet-as-pie relationship with his trainee therapist Katherine (Anna Kendrick), the moments of bitter poignancy (of which there end up being quite a few) have infinitely more impact. Other cancer films like One True Thing, Love Story, or Autumn in New York are tedious and saturated with melodramatic sentimentality or, worse yet, use the disease as a plot device. They give themselves and the audience no breathing room.

Reiser and sophomore director Jonathan Levine (responsible for the similarly funny and touching The Wackness) are spot-on in their treatment of cancer and its impact on families. Many critics have argued that they don’t show you the worst of it, but do they really have to for the film to resonate? Gordon-Levitt is pitch-perfect in his passing through the stages of grief, subtly hinting that he may have resigned to his fate long before his family and friends abandon hope. Typically known for playing bolder, more direct women, Angelica Huston gives the small part of Adam’s mother a big impact with appropriate touches of anxiety, trepidation, frustration, and love. Kendrick plays to her strengths as cutely apprehensive, but the real show-stopper here is Seth Rogen.

By his own admission, Rogen is not a particularly strong or versatile actor. What he is, however, is absolutely effective. Not only in this movie but all of his movies. His charming, frequently goofy performances register well with audiences, he always leaves other actors the space they need and, as Kyle in this instance, so smartly uses his well-established humour as a defence mechanism, shielding himself against the ever-present fear of losing a loved one, a feeling that permeates the film with clever subtlety.

This is one of the most light-hearted cinematic endeavours about life-threatening illness and easily the best. It’s a rare, moving film never overplays its hand but also never pulls any punches. It rejects clichéd narrative ploys, embraces nuanced, organic performances, and involves viewers without cheap tricks. Most importantly, it is genuinely, adroitly redeeming. 50/50 should serve not only as a benchmark for cancer films, but for all films. 

The Adventures of Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn

Directed by Steven Spielberg
Starring Jamie Bell, Andy Serkis, Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Daniel Craig, and Snowy the Dog

It was an interesting gambit from the beginning: Steven Spielberg, who, with E.T. and the Indiana Jones trilogy, brought laughter and adventure and magic into the hearts of so many children (myself being one of them) now ran the risk of tarnishing so many precious childhood memories in similarly bold fashion. Not only was he adapting Tintin’s Adventures but some of his most popular and beloved stories, The Secret of the Unicorn saga.

Centred on the intrepid, titular journalist, The Adventures of Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn moves at a brisk pace from the purchase of an antique model galleon (named the Unicorn) in a quaint Belgian market to a globetrotting adventure featuring pirate treasure, motorcycle chases, opium traffickers, and throwing balled-up candy wrappers at the children in the row behind us. To be fair, they looked like punks and I had been, well, fucking drinking so I don’t really need any more of an excuse.  

There were a lot of bright colours and fast movement in this movie so it was sort of difficult for me to follow, but I remember the pacing and action sequences being pretty tight, particularly a kinetic 18^th Century-flashback swashbuckling sequence that is almost on par with some of the things Jean-Claude Van Damme has done. Perhaps not the early-mid-90s, Golden Era Van Damme but Spielberg here certainly rivals Maximum Risk or something.

Great makeup artists know no bounds

The dedication of actors to their roles in this film is second to none. Particularly impressive is Nick Frost as Thomson. This guy grew a moustache and must have dropped at least 100 lbs. for the part. And whoever did the makeup for this gig also deserves mad respect; getting Frost and Simon Pegg (who plays the identical Thompson) to look alike is no small feat. They both must have had to dye their moustaches and spend hours in the makeup trailer before each shoot.

I feel the real standout, however, is the canine actor who plays Snowy. Holy shit. Best. Dog. EVER. No horseradish, this dog is doing stunts that put Jackie Chan to shame. I mean this little guy jumps out a window, onto a truck, leaps onto an adjacent fire engine, across the rooftop later, and finally onto the baddies’ car without any Kung Fu training or even opposable digits! I must have spent about half the movie commenting “Jesus fuck this dog is just owning all these people so hard!” before being shushed by the late-twentysomething androgyne sitting next to me. I quickly accused him of hating dogs and looking like a Filipino Gary Busey and he left the theatre in sobs. Maybe a bit harsh but I still stand firmly by both declarations.

This dog is such a badass he needs to be held back

One element I was sore about was Spielberg and Andy Serkis’ decision to make Captain Haddock Scottish. He is the only character in the Tintin stories whose ancestry is discussed, but nowhere in the books is his ethnicity or nationality suggested. It is in fact one of the most hotly contested subjects of debate on Tintin forums worldwide, perhaps second only to the issue of Tintin’s sexuality (for the record I think he’s straight but experimented in college). Although they could have given the character an ambiguous accent or made him a Sloanie like the rest of the characters in the film, the executive decision to Scotify™ (FIRST!) him is upsetting for three reasons:

1. They are adapting, not generating, material and therefore have no right;

2. Any part in a movie requiring a Scottish actor should be offered to Sean Connery;

3. I’m racist and I hate Scots.

  

The one thing they did nail with Haddock was the hard drinking. One of the best representations I’ve seen of substance abuse in a PG environment since the Cookie Monster or those Hobbits in Lord of the Rings. It was such a rewarding Boozy Wednesday experience I turned to my friend Martyn and uttered: “Impromptu drinking game! When Haddock drinks we drink!” but soon realised that this was a terrible idea that might end up with the Captain projectile vomiting towards the audience in 3D causing me to projectile vomit back at him. I know that sounds awesome in theory but I just wasn’t up for it, nor were the three rows of people in front of me.

What I am up for is sequels. I just can’t wait for Spielberg to adapt The Black Island so we get to see Tintin fight that huge angry gorilla. I think in 3D its fur would look so vivid and lifelike that I would have no problem paying £3.50 FOR A PAIR OF GOGGLES EVERY TIME.

Steven: if you’re reading this, I need you to understand that your people will never pay an extra £3.50 for cheap plastic goggles. We’ll just go see a Sacha Baron Cohen movie instead. I know you made Schindler and Munich for us – and hey, word to your mother for that – but you’re alienating us now and it’s not cool. The only reason I made it in is because I haggled the ticket usher down to £1.25 and a handful of popcorn.

Damage: 5/10 (I was gonna write ‘4’ but then I realised I couldn’t clearly remember what I drank so I reckon it was probably a ‘5’ night; there was 6 oz of Glenlivet 15 yo French Oak Reserve in there somewhere)

Boozy rating: 7/10 (with plenty of action and built-in drinking games it earns solid points, but not nearly enough graphic violence and there was this bit in the desert that was way too bright man)

P.S. Whoever is reading my blog in Russia and Brazil big up yourselves. There are only a few things on this planet capable of making my ego any bigger and having readers on four continents: definitely one of them things.

Drive

Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

Starring Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston, Ron Perlman, Christina Hendricks, Oscar Isaac, and Albert Brooks

It’s difficult not to have massively built-up expectations of this film, which by virtue of its international acclaim and grand showing at Cannes this year had promised to either be a cinematic triumph or a massive letdown.

At the end of the movie I thought the former and Martyn the latter. I left the house thinking we’d simply get boozy, watch Ryan Gosling brutalise a few people and do some fancy driving, have a nightcap, and call it an evening. Instead I was treated to an hour-long drunken tirade about what bollocks the movie was and a midnight footnote resembling: “I hope you write a balanced review.”

Because I am a gracious person and a conscientious friend, I am going to write this chronicle in call-and-answer format. In plain writing will be my thoughts about the movie and what I appreciated in it and in bold what I imagine Martyn would have to say about this being the shittiest film we’ve seen yet and why everyone involved in the production must die.

Nameless young Driver (Ryan Gosling) is a wayfaring stranger and strict adherent to voluntary simplicity working as a mechanic, stuntman, and moonlighting as a getaway driver for whoever pays the piper and plays by his rules. His fatal flaw is a soft spot he develops for neighbour Liz (Carey Mulligan) and her son Benicio (Kaden Leos). They become his link to the world and a chance at redemption, even though he would never ask for it outright.  When Liz’s ne’er-done-good husband Standard (Oscar Isaac) is released from jail, money-hungry thugs inevitably come calling and the Driver’s attachment to the family gets him in deeper than he expected.

The only thing deeper than expected in this movie was the stage of sleep I fell into.

In terms of genre, tone, and style, Drive had me from the word “go.” Director Nicolas Winding Refn stays true to his neo-noir influences, painting a bleak portrait of a shady and unforgiving Los Angeles. A cliché in itself, granted: gritty realism is the name of the game here, and Refn has it down pat. Film-noir has never been a world megalomaniac villains, superhuman ass-kickers, or black-and-white morality and loyalties. It is about a hapless player unable to insulate himself from disaster. It is about survival of the fittest in a world that punishes error swiftly and brutally. When your back is against the wall morality goes right out the window. This sense of helplessness is conveyed perfectly not only in the Driver’s quiet and violent determination but also in Albert Brooks’ against-type crime boss Bernie Rose, a villain who is fearsome and lethal by necessity, not by choice or out of sadism.

Oh please! Only an American could have made this movie. It tries so hard to be European – whatever the fuck that means anymore – but fails miserably. The most European thing about it was that there were pizzas in a scene or two. The sparse dialogue and dark shots of Los Angeles are meant to telegraph some sort of depth but frankly I’ve been in deeper swimming pools. Film-noir? More like film-shit.

As an avowed fan of the lone gunman mystique, Ryan Gosling roped me in as the stoic, mysterious, steely-eyed anti-hero, joining the ranks of Alain Delon’s Samourai, George Clooney’s American, and Forest Whitaker’s Ghost Dog in an immutable canon of strong, silent, deadly protagonists. He is a sly actor with a profound understanding of the genre and he walks the line between protector and destroyer in flawless, compelling form.

Gosling: Moody when he should have been nudie

Christ on a bike! That wasn’t acting. He smirks and grunts his way through this movie and he doesn’t even get his cock out! If this were actually a European movie, from France or Denmark or something, he would have gotten his cock out. I cannot believe I paid 12 quid to see Ryan Gosling wearing a fucking scorpion jacket for two hours.

Refn’s sparing, tactical use of action, sound, and violence is nothing short of masterful. For a crime thriller, the first hour of Drive is remarkably uneventful, although not without purpose. Ever so carefully, Refn builds and aura of menace an impending catastrophe, a powder keg of nefarious alliances and blood money threatening to explode at any minute. The tension in this movie is drawn out like a tightrope and Refn milks it by dropping long periods of ominous silence in the middle of Drive’s heist scenes, making palpable the trepidation of the characters involved.

Not a single good car chase in the whole bloody movie! They should have called it Parked. I have never before in my life fallen asleep in a movie and I nodded off completely in the first 10 minutes of this one, during that whole opening “car chase” scene.

You were drunk.

I wasn’t! I wasn’t even tired. As an action movie this blows more pole than Liam Fox in a room full of Scottish underclassmen. You’re a cowbag.

Stop. Hammertime.

While the movie is shockingly brutal, it is so in short jabs, just enough to allow the audience to understand the lengths to which the Driver and his nemeses are willing to go, and a disturbing reminder of the darkness that lies in all of them. As with all great storytelling, the threat of violence proves infinitely more effective and nerve-wracking than its overuse.

The violence didn’t work at all. What, I’m supposed to be impressed because Ryan stomps on a few people and gets his face covered in blood? Limp-wristed at best. It was as satisfying as watching a Hasidic porno.

To be fair, the music in this film was fucking awful.

So. Fucking. Awwwful.

Damage: 3/10 (Pre-movie: 1 pint Guinness, 1 measure Bowmore 15yo; During: 4 x 250 ml Grolsch)

Boozy Rating: 6/10 (A fantastic movie but there’s really no added value in seeing it drunk)