marley & me: a short review
this film deserves to be tied to boy george’s radiator and abused as only a faded bald popstar can.
an odious manipulative paean to squeezing out chunks of baby and buying bigger houses.
it has all the emotional engagement and artistry of a volvo ad.
the equivalent of dog snuff. waiting an hour and half for the dog to die. yes it kicks the fucking bucket. bobs eighth law of movies states that films about cute dogs nearly always end with canine corpses.
made somehow worse by the soundtrack presence of rem’s shiny happy people: an ominous vomitous portent of what lay ahead.
fuck…bile…choking…as….type…
i want to take sharp pointed sticks to owen wilsons wonked face. i want to mail freshly excised tumours to rachel karen green. i want to sleep with alan arkins wife and have him catch us at it, plough-stylee. i want to beat annoying mopey kids with cactii until tiny freckled faces are wet with tears.
there’s a pleasant little film in here somewhere: a man, his dog. i need no more. something of the wonderfully aberrant david lynch straight story would have worked for me.
this? this leads to thoughts of water boarding, pierced scrotums, slopped cups of lukewarm vomit, old men in drag, bloated famine corpses, sliced eyeballs, unsettlingly damp bus seats. nothing nice. y’dig?
avoid.
unless yr some twisted paraphile whose particular kinky bent is getting off watching kids at a freshly dug dead dog grave. in which case: two thumbs up. you sick fucks.
