WHEN CINEPHILIA GOES BAD!!

LUCKY NUMBER SLEVIN (2006, dir. Paul McGuigan)

Now... I'm sure all of you are anxious to get back to the movie reviews since my blog has consisted of nothing but rants about LA and Mark Ruffalo for the past week and a half. I have seen Lucky Number Slevin but for religious reasons I cannot write a full review of it.

The Village Voice, however, dares to ask the question that is most definitely on everyone's mind when they catch the Slevin trailer: Did Quentin Tarantino ruin this movie? This is a pretty accurate review. And as any loyal reader of Cinephilia knows, I feel the same way about Quentin Tarantino as I do about someone I let sleep on my couch and then lived to regret it because they stayed for months and ate all my peanut butter.

So I'd say I feel the same way about Tarantino imitators as I do about people who are friends with that guy I let sleep on my couch. It's like: "Do whatever you want, man, but DON'T COME NEAR MY FUCKING COUCH!" Seriously, when we're making xeroxes of xeroxes are we even making film anymore.

"Hello! You might recognize us from a good movie"

Also, if you're going to steal the initial plot device of absurd mistaken identity from North by Northwest for your bad movie, DO NOT ( I repeat) DO NOT then write a monologue about North by Northwest and insert in your bad movie. AWFUL! SHAMEFUL! LAZY!!! This monologue was almost as bad as the Lana Turner/The Postman Always Rings Twice monologue in Kill Bill 2. Almost... the latter was like watching a grown man piss himself.

In closing...Lucky Number Slevin is equal parts self-promotion and self-loathing. Which I suppose, under the circumstances, is a compliment. How McGuigan got such a talented cast and then elected the film equivalent of a dead fish to star boggles the mind. Where did they find so many argyle sweaters? And was that in the script that every character should dress like a graduated Peanuts cartoon or was that something they came up with later? What's more interesting wallpaper or fake violence?

Afterwards, as the credits rolled over what I'm assuming was supposed to be the poor man's version of Harry Nilsson's Coconut, I turned to Addison and simply said:

"Cinema is dead"