I usually go to one a month, and before the other day, they usually aren't worth mentioning. But this one was quite memorable, both for the general douchebagginess of the audience, and several other things.
To start things off, the film was Duplicity starring Julia Roberts and Clive Owen. Good flick. It was in D.C., at Gallery Place, which neighbors the Verizon Center.
I went there, and when I checked in with the press people, I noticed something amiss. The people working for the press company (who are generally hot chicks) were dressed in fedoras and trench coat. What happened to the low-cut outfits that served me so faithfully when I go to sleep later that night?
Undeterred, I get to my seat, in the press section.
Let me tell you something. I enjoy reviewing movies. I don't like going to every movie that pops up, because I don't like watching foreign dramas, or even dramas for that matter. I like going to see stoner comedies, action flicks, and the occasional porno.
While I like to review movies, I never want to be what's called a "movie critic." Those are some of the worst people on the face of the earth.
People who view movies as "high art" are scum, and they are just looking for a way to think they are better than you. Sure, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is one of the most beautiful things ever, but that doesn't make me think that I'm better than you because I think it. I know I am.
It's possible for a movie to make you think, and have a great story and all that, but deep down, every movie ciritc will sell his integrity for a good line in a review.
I've done it myself. For example, before I saw Iron Man, I thought of a great headline for my review: "Iron Man shakes the rust off superhero genre." Brilliant, I know.
The thing was, I came up with that before I saw it, and I was going to use it no matter what. Luckily, the flick was pretty sweet, so I didn't run into a moral dilemma. But as a writer, make no bones about it, I would have used that headline even if it sucked, and then just spent 300 words justifying the headline. That's just how I roll.
But a movie critic would never admit that. They'd go on and on about how the film "spoke to him" or some other bullshit.
These same critics are the ones who are so pressured by other reviews, that it taints a lot of what they do.
Example: The Dark Knight. Great flick. But it is flawed, and flawed in a way that prevents it from being "The Greatest movie Ever."
Sure, Heath Ledger is great. But the plot has serious (get it?) holes in it. I won't go into a lot of them here, but it does. The performances make it a good movie, but it doesn't mean that it's a perfect flick, the way people were describing it.
And this pressure of so many positive reviews becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Critics who are worth their salt spent many pixels describing why the plot was a symbol o four current world and all that tripe.
The acclaim had a different effect on some reviewers, but a large effect nonetheless. Some reviewers felt the need to not flow with the crowd, and instead point out reasons that the film was incredibly overrated. Which is equally as wrong.
The film is a good story made great by good actors. It is a great film. Probably among the ten best of 2008. But that doesn't put it up there with movies like The Godfather. It just doesn't.
Anyways, I digress. Back to the premier, where I am surrounded by this scum at every angle.
Don't believe me that the people surrounding me were scum? Try this little nugget on for size.
There was a sign at the front of the theater, at the lower right hand of the screen, with the name of the organization sponsoring the premire. It covered literally a one foot long by four inches high of the 20'x45' screen. I didn't even notice it.
But guess who did? One of the horn-rimmed fucktasters in the press section.
Just as the audience got quiet and was waiting for the movie to start (no trailers at preimiers), and one critic had to make it all about himself.
"Uhhh, excuse me, Rebecca*?" Notice the use of the first name, trying to sound all important.
"Could you please move that sign, it's blocking the screen."
I wish the lights in the theatre had been on, because I would have loved to see this hot chick give this tool a withering glance, but she's probably better than that. She moved the sign.
So the movie started, and it was pretty good, but then trouble happened.
You see, I came straight to the premier from work, meaning I had to grab some dinner on the run. There happened to be a Chioptle right near the theater, so I ran in there, ate a quick burrito, and rolled to the movie.
Well, here's the thing about burritos...
Yeah, it's what you were thinking. The gas is brought into your body by the delicious, delicious beans, and soon it builds up. And once it hits a certain point, there's no more room for the gas, and it has to get out.
So I had myself a problem.
Let me clarify. The people sitting around me, packed in two media rows like sardines, they had a problem. Because this was more than just a case of gas.
You see, it was also nearing the end of the week, and my hamper was full, meaning my closet was rather empty. So I grabbed an old pair of khakis I had, but this particular pair had a twist.
You see, I had ripped this pair, around the crotchal region, slipping on some ice at some point during the winter. A photo, if you will:
Yep, there's a hole in my crotch. And this hole was special, it was like a chimney of stank, spewing my filth unto the unsuspecting populace.
I felt bad. For a second. Then some jackass critic started laughing much too loud for a movie that's not a comedy, again making it all about himself.
So I lifted my leg, and let fly with another toxic cloud of glory, and did my best to discretely fan the odor to him. I guess I'll never know if he smelled it.
Life's funny like that.
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