Salt In The Wound

The kajillions of dollars that funnels through the film industry always comes to a head when the sun starts to shine. Rather than peacefully slip into a sunburnt coma on the beach like any sane person, the film industry would have us spend our bills on Tom Cruise’s psycho shit-eating grin. Usually, I’m happy to oblige, but the level of scum that’s polluting the theater this summer makes me want to stay outside until it starts snowing donkey dicks. Here’s why summer 2010 might be offering us the worst collection of movies ever.

Let’s forget all the vampire bullshit. It’s not even worth typing out the various ways Robert Pattison has slaughtered his own manhood. This summer has brought more failed attempts to reinvent dead concepts  than ever before–most of the major releases this summer are sequels–and I’d like to offer quick, simple explanations as to why you should avoid (almost) every movie put out by the fat cats in Hollywood.

Salt: A limp-dicked Die Hard. I don’t care if the man’s a woman this time, it’s still a loud action movie with explosions and some devious double crossing. Nice to see the KGB coming back in style, though. But there’s no denying that it’s a trench coated waste of Jolie’s talents. Just look what she was capable of in Gia.\

Grown Ups: Genuinely pathetic. Like most adolescents growing up in the golden Gilmore years, Adam Sandler was my hero. He basically popped my pimples with me, and now he’s old and clapped out. Sandler cajoles all his buddies into making a movie together (not a hopeless idea), except they all forgot they’re over the hill and end up producing 100 minutes of PG-13 inside jokes.

Charlie St. Cloud: Zac Efron scratching his patch to a mirror for two hours.

Dinner for Shmucks: Another beautiful example of American producers catching, gutting and feasting on a work of art. The French original, Le dîner de cons, is a classic in its own right, perfect in its timing and fast as hell. Once adapted to the 21st century, all we have is Steve Carrell gasping out the last funny bones in his body like a tube of toothpaste on its deathbed.

There are good films out there, somewhere. But until I see something that rips my throat out with its ass-kickery, I’m comatose.

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