If you’re thinking I’m running a little late on the Avatar train, unfortunately, you’re wrong. The film has been in wide release since December 18th, yet parents are still apparentely selling their children to see it, and the childrens grandparents are selling their parents to see it, and bums are stabbing the grandparents because they’re old and feeble and are all around easy targets to see it, as the film has now grossed approximately 1 billion cash money. That’s right, the writhing masses have now had almost a month to realize what a shit movie Avatar is, organize, and burn things out of frustration and rage, but instead they just keep giving up that green to this guy:
That is, the human, not the statue. That’s an inanimate object, and any sort of monetary exchange would be foolish. Not too say buying a ticket to avatar isn’t foolish. It’s retarded.
Mass arson aside, this so called revolutionary breakthrough in filmmaking is the movie equivalent of Paris Hilton: Spoiled and douchey. And slutty. I’m pretty sure Avatar gets diddled a lot.
If Avatar’s promiscuous and sordid sexual history is still not enough to waive you off your 7th fucking viewing this week, I want you to first consider Avatar’s cunningly concealed, absolutely horrifying master plan:
That’s right, Avatar hates starving African children, and the films ultimate goal is to thwart all charitable proceeds that they may recieve.
And thanks to you…it’s working.
Far more disturbing, however, is the insanity surrounding another, far more worthy 2009 release which did not recieve a Scrooge McDuck helping of cheddar. I am of course referring to Crank 2: High Voltage, which not only defied all logic by not making a huge profit, but did in fact lose copious amounts of coin upon its theatrical release.
Not only is this film vastly superior to Avatar on a technical, thematic and creative level, but it has this guy in it:
And if you disagree, he will seriously fuck you up.
Though my point has clearly been made, and concisely at that, I’ll hit you with some more knowledge in part 2 of my completely factual and in no way asinine analysis, coming soon.
Surprisingly, given my extremely healthy and in no way super gay infatuation with Rainbows, as well as my love affair with Radiohead in general, I was completely unware this album even existed. I mean, I wasn’t even close to knowing. I’d like to think it was just one of those things, ya know? Like, just as a bus is passing with a massive ‘In Rainbows, the new album from Radiohead - Own it Tuesday!’ banner on the side, a pterodactyl (holy shit I just spelled that right on the first try, fuck I’m awesome) snatched a small child off the street and I was understandably distracted. My cognizance aside, this album is tits hot, and if you haven’t heard it, hear it.
Citizen: Rape defense.
Police Officer: Skinny 14 year old and/or handicapped elderly defense.
Regardless: Totally awesome.
Yeah, rainbows are pretty gay. Unless they’re being shot from the horn of a unicorn. Then they’re lethal.
What an asshole.
A comparison to ‘07’s ‘Inside’ is inevitable, though where a common quote following Inside would no doubt read, “Holy shit, call an ambulance and tell them my brain is hemmoraging from all the awesome,” a common quote following Martyrs would read more like, “Eh?”
This isn’t to say there’s really any confusion once the credits roll (to an original little diddy entitled “Your Witness,” by the band “Seppuku Paradigm,” check it out) but more a testiment to just how completely skewed the narrative of the film is. After a short introduction to just how nuckin futs the would-be protagonist is, we’re treated to more shotgun murder than your average day at Columbine, self-mutilation, asshole apparitions, a rookie mistake in free-running (stupid bird, you can’t fly through glass!) and an amateur tracheotomy. This is all fine, because it’s what you signed up for. The french are obsessed with gore, and you’re obsessed with how they pronounce “ketchup,” and it’s all good.
And then the train stops, and David Lynch gets on, and everyone is all, “Fuck you Lynch, this train isn’t going to Mulholland, go firewalk with someone else, dick,” and Lynch responds, “My popsicle has seen Jupiter and the thumb come from ‘morrow in between congealed sex,” because he’s out of his fucking mind and rarely makes any godamn sense, and it’s all downhill from here.
Now, the problem doesn’t rest entirely on the extreme change in narrative, and I don’t want to sound like the resolution isn’t interesting, or fails completely, because it is, and it most assuredly doesn’t. The existential subtext of the third act is really involving and dare I say pretty freakin’ original, a rare commodity these days. My issue lies with its drawn out, bland, unnecessarily violent (a laugh that I could feel this way after the first 45 minutes, highlighting its ineffectiveness) and ultimately boring choice in declaring said message.
See it if you have a strong stomach for gore and postmodern religion. And the French language.