It happens every year, as soon as the Oscars are over (or in the case of Eddie Murphy's Norbit misfortune, simultaneusouly). The studios start their yearly cleansing of dumping all of their contractual obligations like toxic pig shit into the rivers of our cinemas. These movies can run the gambit from dull kitchen sink dramas that just never came together to the giant studio action pieces that lack the sparkle and luster for a summer release.
But it's not like our lives are any less boring from January 1st to Memoral Day weekend so we still go to the movies, and from that a few technical successes will emerge. And every year this trend stuns the critics, who after four months of being exposed to these noxious elements and still being unable to save us from ourselves start to take it personally.
Last week's IFC News podcast dedicated itself to doggedly counting, comparing and contrasting this year's box office receipts with MetaCritic and Rotten Tomato scores, Variety's managing editor bemoaned critics dooming themselves to irrelevancy by not sucking up and dealing with the likes of Wild Hogs. And on this morning's episode of Sunday Morning Shootout Peter Gruber cracked "last week this guy was doing traffic reports, now he's doing a stand up routine about your $90M movie?!" [ed note: all Peter Gruber subtext can be interpreted as: SO FUCK YOU!] before bringing John Waters out to discuss how commitment and kitsch will eventually turn an en masse critical loathing into the new American standard.
As a person who has not had to sit through Epic Movie, 300, Wild Hogs, Ghost Rider, Norbit, Smoking Aces, et al (I resolved for 2007 to not watch any crappy movies until I'd seen all the good ones, so far so good!) maybe I can speak with a little more perspective. I find it difficult to believe these critics don't have anyone in their lives telling them things like "You would really like this movie if you would just shut your brain off for 90 minutes." And realize that most of the movie-going populace probably agree with most of their recriminations, they just want to get out of the house on a Friday night. They want to see hundreds of greasy, well-defined abs; fatsuits and fart jokes; Nicolas Cage with his hair on fire and entertain the fleeting possibility that Tim Allen will be run over by an eighteen wheeler. And do any of us really want to live in an America where a person would be denied such dreams?
In any case... chin up, critics: Cannes is only a month away.
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