in bruges: a short review
aah my sixmonthly trip to the cinema/pictures/movies.
where pigfuck morons congregate like pasty flies round expensive shite to see the latest ashton kutcher vehicle or lucas and spielberg defecating, urinating, ejaculating and whatever the ‘ating’ for vomit is over my fucking childhood or the latest girlysoftporngussetmoistener featuring some dead guy who leaves letters to his late wife or fucks a ghost or falls in love with a closet daterapist who turns out to be an alright guy just misunderstood in that way that women love cause they think they can change him or in this case sex and (in?) the city or three hookers and their mom as i probably wrongly remember from the family guy episode where someone says ’this is worse than the time peter…..’ all the while cramming tepid greasy mysterymeat and gallons of wet brownsugar down their slack gobs guffawing as the dead guy gets hit in the balls or the slimy guy fucks a pie and chortling mightily at those really funny orange adverts starring that dude whose not american and a bunch of b-list celebs squeezing out the last of their artistic credibility through slacklypuckered sphincters (yes you rob lowe) at the sweaty groin of the MAN to sell mobile phones to idiots who have two already….
…. yeah so in bruges.
stuck at the top of the cineworld mountain of doom, locked like an embarassed brain-damaged cousin in a closet/cupboard away from the good folks lapping at the trough overspewing with not-even-good-enough-to-be-mediocre mediocrity like so many badly tattooed football tracksuit wearing gashmonkeys. stuck in a forty seater room at nosebleed level with no fucking snackstand and a rusty bucket for a toilet. yes we brave and hardy few who had resisted the jowly monstrosity of a ninety five year old harrison ford or the mole-y horror of a ninety five year old sarah jessica parker travelled to the peak of mordor to watch a wee-budgeted debut flick from an irish playwright starring everyones favourite wisecracking irish, colin farrell, and the always dependable brendan gleeson (not related to smokie and the bandits jackie gleason) as they descend into some almost-metaphorical hell.
it’s not a goddam caper or a wacky buddy movie. despite what the trailers might infer.
coming on like a medieval tortureporn laurel and hardy as hitmen, all coked up, with nic roeg filming an irish scorsese heironymous bosch vision except with father dougal mcguire beating canadians, karate chopping dwarves/midgets and shooting kids in the head. it’s a bit like grosse point blank without the light humour. it’s a bit like henry portrait of a serial killer with slapstick. it’s a bit new david mamet with less pseudointellectual bludgeoning. it features more cunts than a we live together production and a variety of midget/dwarf jokes. the dialogue as expected is beautiful and musical and rhythmic with all the funny menace of harold pinter. or joe pesci. and for all it’s wanton grotesquery and blackblackblack humour there is a proper subtext and everything. something about morality. about paths chosen and lives led. about the spectacle of violence. about a journey to purgatory, leading to hell and/or the possibility of redemption.
acchh maybe it’s just a warning to watch out when shooting kidraping priests incase you accidently shoot a kid in the head. cause it all leads to bruges you know.
whatever. it’s worth six of your shiny round coins and two hours of your pointless lives. and shia labeouf (a name which suggests to me followers of the beef?) is nowhere to be seen.
praise jeebus.
2 June 2008 at 9:44 am
[...] – 3 song on Berceuse Electrique (Ethiopiques legend, African music) * Lightning Bolt – Assassins on Cows are just food, but the real favourite here is the movie review accompanying this song, which has gems like * [...]
2 June 2008 at 10:00 am
*applauds*
Now that is a film review.
I went to a filthy, flyblown big chain cinema in London the other week, and was told to be careful on the stairs, as there was a hole in the roof, and the stairs were covered in some mysterious, filthy brown liquid. I don’t know why they didn’t just direct me to the toilet, and project the film onto the tiles above the urinals, for all the difference it would have made.
2 June 2008 at 11:30 am
thanks.
a whole bunch.
i feel somewhat justified in my rage.
yr off to a hideous start when the electronic board seems to suggest that the cinema will only be showing ashton kutcher movies (a sure sign the seventh seal’s broken), indiana jones and sex and the city for the next two goddam years and you are genuinely surrounded by the lowest common denominator all cackling and gurgling and queuing like badly dressed rats winding snakelike round that goddam roped off queuing system for their piece of mouldy cinematic dairylee and yr girlfriends telling you to keep your voice down because of your increased agitation at the boschean nightmare you seem to have wandered into.
still the movie was worth the pain.
2 June 2008 at 11:46 am
oh and i hear lucas is rejigging star wars to be shown on the wall above urinals in public toilets as part of the thirty second and two month anniversary editions of his masterpiece now with six hours of added footage of him picking bits of food out of his beard, swimming in his scrooge mcduck style money vault, being casually racist and digitally inserting robots into american graffiti. just. because. he. fucking. can.
2 June 2008 at 5:13 pm
tell us how you really feel
3 June 2008 at 5:43 pm
hello man, i’d like to get your e-mail to send some music material i think you ‘ll enjoy.
could you send it to me?
tks!