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Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle
Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore

It probably makes me an idiot to want to believe in my action movies. Any sane person would tell you that rag-tag Navy SEALs simply don’t face off against alien predators in the dense jungles of Brazil. Naked Austrians aren’t teleported through time and space so they can take a bullet meant for Edward Furlong in a mall arcade (though Edward Furlong fans might argue they should). Renegade New York City cops aren’t partnered with Soviet KGB agents to track down diamond-smuggling terrorists, and if they were, their methods probably wouldn’t be as quip-based as they tend to be in films.

So fine. I’m an idiot. I get caught up in dumb action movies. This is probably why I’m unable to sit back and enjoy the Charlie’s Angels films, because no one involved in the making of them seems to take any of it remotely seriously. Every car chase, every fight scene – it’s all played as this big wink-nudge gag, as if the idea that anyone could take exploding helicopters or motorcycle knife-fights seriously is frankly preposterous.

When Sigourney Weaver showed up in that gigantic mech outfit in Aliens, as ridiculous as it was, Sigourney didn't crack a smile. She looked like walking around in a mech outfit saying things like "Get your hands off her, you BITCH!" was the least ridiculous thing in the world. Because of that, you didn’t think “That’s preposterous.” You thought “Ooo! She’s gonna kick some ass.”

If that same scene had played out in Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle, Cameron Diaz would have moonwalked out in the mech outfit, busted out a hammer dance with the other Angels, then jumped a hundred feet in the air in defiance of gravity and common sense. It would have been ridiculous and stupid, in other words -- like everything in Full Throttle is ridiculous and stupid.

The plot is explained as something to do with two rings holding the names of undercover agents, though I suspect I’m being charitable in pretending Full Throttle has enough of a plot that you could fill up a sentence explaining it. The film is really just a thread loosely connecting one bombastic set piece to another. There’s a lot of eye candy here, both in the CG effects and the TA effects. You get the feeling they could have put together about 50 great movie trailers from all the footage.

What Full Throttle isn’t is a good action movie, or even really an action movie at all; it seems like what you might get if you took a group of people who didn't understand anything about action movies, then gave them a camera and a ten billion dollar budget and told them to make an action movie. It might also be similar to what you'd get if you gave me the camera and the ten billion dollar budget and told me to make a touching period drama set during the backdrop of the French Revolution. You'd get an absolute mess, because there'd be tankfights all through it, and at some point the hero would invent, then don a jetpack for an aerial battle with Hitler. You'd cringe and you'd think it was stupid and clumsy and just wrong. That's what I felt like watching Full Throttle.

Even the big suspense pieces don’t seem to get it. The Charlie’s Angels are shot! Do they die? (No, they’re wearing bulletproof vests). Drew Barrymore leaves the Charlie’s Angels! For keeps? (No, she thinks it over and comes back). It’s like suspense for people who hate surprises. No, I take that back. It’s really like suspense for morons.

Full Throttle is also notable as Demi Moore’s much-hyped return to film (though a quick search on the IMDb shows she never really left so much as starred in some really ghastly obscure shit the last few years). While I don’t wish to be cruel to the woman, I’m left wondering how we were all convinced this was something to celebrate. This is the same Demi Moore who’s made like, a decade worth of silly crap, right? Shouldn’t we have celebrated when she stopped appearing in films? Much like her ex-husband, Bruce “pained squint delivery system” Willis, Demi Moore strikes me as a perfectly serviceable if unexceptional actor. I’m not suggesting we berate the poor woman for appearing in still more awful films, even when common sense would have seemingly dictated she stop long ago; I’m just saying someone should have stepped in and gently scolded her. “You won’t be starring in anything, young lady, until you’re ready to pick your roles like a big girl.”

Pinkerton's Verdict: Assuming you’re in a Blockbuster Video looking for something, Full Throttle simply isn’t as fun a rent as the also-available Omega Man, which stars Charlton Heston chewing large amounts of post-apocalyptic scenery while shooting nuclear freaks with an uzi. But that isn’t fair, really, because what is? So let me alter that. Assuming you’re in a Blockbuster Video looking for something, Full Throttle simply isn’t as fun as getting out a caulk gun and spending two hours weather-stripping the windows of the store. Full Throttle as a film experience is like watching pornography while jumping on a trampoline. It’s sporadically enjoyable, but at the end you can’t help but feel your time might have been spent elsewhere doing something vastly more constructive.

X2: X-Men United
Patrick Stewart, Halle Berry, Hugh Jackman

X2 follows the story of mutton-chopped everyman Wolverine (Hugh Jackman), a renegade mutant hunting the two-armed man who injected molten-hot indestructable liquid into him, which bonded with our hero's skeleton so that claws now house themselves in his forearms. Before you can say "Ugh, not that old saw again," I should tell you that Jackman puts a fresh spin on it. Some might argue it even surpasses Jimmy Stewart's classic interpretation in The Adamantium Skeleton Encasement of Hojo Reilly (1946).

There are something like 20 other subplots involving 40 other super-powered freaks going on here, and a sturdy round of applause should be given to the people who juggled them throughout and gave them sufficient closure. While I doubt any of the stories are explored with sufficient depth to move you (and while I imagine each actor complained at length about their truncated screen time), the result is one of the most briskly-paced, entertaining movies of the year -- a minor miracle considering the franchise now has more co-stars than extras. Screenwriters should pay attention.

X2 is directed by Bryan Singer -- who, following the vastly overrated Usual Suspects and the surprisingly underrated Apt Pupil, now seems content to just be plain ol' rated. It's nice to see him finally shed that "hot young director to watch out for" status he had a while back, roll up his sleeves and crank out a few workman-like but completely enjoyable films. Hopefully now I'll finally be able to tell him apart in my head from the similarly lauded David Fincher -- who's helped me somewhat in that regard by making Panic Room, then dropping off the face of the planet. David... if that was for my benefit, it was a bit much, but thanks.

Pinkerton's Verdict: You know you've got a huge problem when some of the nicest praise you can give X2 is that it didn't suck half as badly as every other movie this summer. As depressing a sentiment as that might be, it's at least genuine: I think X2 was just about the only summer movie of 2003 that wasn't immensely, punishingly awful. (Yes, I know I'm within earshot of Tomb Raider 2. I don't care.) Not being a huge fan of the original, I'll also give it the slightly damning praise that it's twice as good as its predecessor.

But was it good? Well, yeah. Actually, it was a lot of fun and is definitely worth a rent. Whether it's worth a purchase is debatable -- having sat through the majority of the extras, I think I can safely say that everything worth watching is already up there on the screen.

Bruce Almighty
Jim Carrey, Jennifer Aniston, Morgan Freeman

I saw Bruce Almighty back at the tail end of its theatrical run some months ago, so it's a good thing it was such an entertaining, memorable film, or I'd be pretty screwed right now trying to remember the details.

In Bruce Almighty, Jim Carrey plays a weatherman, or maybe a reporter... and he wants to marry Jennifer Anniston. Or they're already married, actually, but they aren't happy. Or they are happy... are they happy? I think so. I remember a fight, though. But... because of his job, maybe? Or something. She's in daycare? And that's... bad? Or good? It's a plot point somehow, I think.

Anyway, Carrey becomes God, and the movie's suddenly very amusing and entertaining for about twenty minutes. But then Jim Carrey's character has to learn a Very Important Lesson about how being God isn't fun, it's hard. And so then a lot of other not interesting things happen, like... but... a lot of moralizing... and God is good?... but then sad... and... and...

Nope. A complete blank.

Pinkerton's Verdict: Option #1 is you rent it and skip ahead to the hilarious twenty minute part in the middle. It's like eating the cream filling out of an Oreo -- except for the metaphor to work the chocolate parts would have to be poop, and that's just disgusting, so forget I mentioned the metaphor. Option #2 is you just watch the trailer, which has all the funny bits in it anyway. Option #3 is you just rent something else. That's probably wisest.

Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life
Angelina Jolie, Gerard Butler, Chris Barrie

Tomb Raider 2 would actually be a better film if it was a bit worse, because then it would be laughably bad instead of just plodding. This is one of those rare films where there isn't actually anything wrong with the film per se. The action is there; the actors try quite hard; the fights are convincing; the story is as interesting as the original; it's all there. It's just... who cares? We didn't need a second Tomb Raider movie. In fact, I'd argue we didn't need a first one, but it's clear Hollywood doesn't listen to me. At any rate, you almost feel bad for a movie like Tomb Raider 2, since its a victim of the fact that it shouldn't exist, but somehow came into existence anyway. The producers who greenlit Cradle of Life are the broken condom of Hollywood.

Pinkerton's Verdict: If you thought the first movie ruled, and have been waiting anxiously for a follow-up that promised you more of the same but with twice the budget, then sadly, you don't exist. I hate to be the one to break it to you. For everyone else: the box office for TR2 tells me I don't have to tell you not to rent this. In fact, I'll bet $5 that you've already forgotten what movie I was talking about.

Not Too Much Off The Sides

Whenever you move somewhere new, there’s a small but essential list of things you need to find before you can truly call the place home: 1) A decent take-out place that’ll deliver. 2.) A nearby gym you can purchase a membership to and then strenuously avoid for the rest of the year. 3.) Somebody to cut your hair. Having taken care of the first two, I went hunting for the third requirement when I first moved to Toronto some years ago.

Now, up until that point I’d frequented salon-type places, with thumping electronic dance beats and women who’d ask me with a straight face if I wanted botanical-enriched scented conditioners but wouldn’t think to offer me a shave with a straight razor. Clearly this was the sort of place without my needs in mind.

And yet I kept going to them because I went to university at the time. Among the strata of people I hung out with at the time, going to a plain old barber instead of a hair specialist was akin to… I don’t know, not having soft, uncalloused hands, or failing to own CDs by the Dave Matthews Band or something.

So when I arrived in Toronto, I was free to pick and choose according to my own tastes. Left to the guidance of my inner voice, I took stock of the haircare issues that were important to me and came to truths. First and foremost among those issues: I wanted to find a barber. Second: I wanted a barber who spoke no English at all. I wanted someone to cut my hair to whom the English language was entirely a mystery.

I'd like to pretend there's some complex reason behind that, but in all honesty, it's simply because I hate having to make small talk when I get my hair cut.

It's not just that I always get lumped with some bimbo who traps me in one of those salon chairs and interrogates me like finding out where I work and where I travelled this year were state secrets. It's simply that on some level I'm embarrassed to admit, I find it insulting that it's somehow my duty to keep someone I’m paying to cut my hair entertained with small talk. You'd think that the $25 would be all I'd need to bring to keep up my end of the hair-cutting bargain; and yet on countless occasions I've found myself dutifully answering an endless list of banal questions.

Then, unfailingly, the worst happens: conversation flags and, almost imperceptibly, your hair stylist's pace quickens. That's right; now that you've run out of things to talk about, she's apparently rushing you through so she can get someone with more captivating anecdotes in her chair.

The idea of this horrifies me. If the quality of the cuts I'm getting ultimately comes down to the banter I'm able to come up on the spot, I'm doomed to a lifetime of awkward hairstyles-- the kind you know must be bad, because when you show up to work the next day nobody says "Oh, you got a haircut!", since they know if they'll be forced to follow it up with an "It's nice!" they don't mean.

I stumbled onto a Korean barbershop and a little light went off in my head: here was a place where I not only wouldn't be required to make small talk -- strict language barriers actually meant it would be futile to speak at all. I could finally fulfill my dream: sitting down and getting my hair cut in peace.

The downside of this approach is that it's difficult to select a preferred barber if you don't know any of their names, and it's even harder to tell them what you actually want the top of your head to look like when you don't know a word of Korean. Try standing in front of a mirror and expressing the concept "not too much off the sides" using only hand gestures and you'll see what I mean.

Most likely the worst downside of all, though, is that it turns out barbers will attempt to make conversation anyway, even with a language barrier. It must be bred into them like reproductive traits into rabbits, or stupid into Baldwins. And it's actually even worse than regular small talk, because first you have to decipher half-Korean/half-English to realize you've even been asked something about Mondays, local sports teams or the weather, and then you've still got the annoyance of having to repeat your non-answer three times.

"No, I don't think I'll travel this year."

[confused stare; stops cutting hair entirely to devote all of his attention to comprehending you]

"No, don't stop. I was just answering your question."

[confused stare] "You want more off sides?"

"No, leave the sides. I was just -- look, forget it."

[confused stare] "You go travel year now?"

For some reason, though, I ended up sticking with the place anyway, and I've gone there for three years now. I'd like to think it had something to do with loyalty, but I think ultimately I'm just really fucking lazy.

Because I don't understand them and am able to communicate ideas with greater accuracy to my parents' dog, whenever I get a haircut it's kind of a dice roll as to which barber and what kind of haircut I'll be getting.

One barber, for instance, I've mentally dubbed Mr. Sides & Back. No matter how precise the directions you give him ("Take a lot off the top, thin it out, not too much off the sides, please, leave the sides,"), the man will grab clippers and attack the sides of your goddamn head with a ferocity that would alarm you if you weren't prepared for it. If not poked or interrupted he'll dwell trance-like at the sides of your head forever, taking off layer after layer until he hits bone. If you're in the mood to argue, a fierce multilingual debate and frantic gesturing will eventually result in him grudgingly cutting some of the hairs on the top of your head. But even then he trims it bitterly, like the top of your head slept with his wife.

If this man had his way, I dont doubt that every one of us would look like those young skate punks with no hair on the sides and back of their head but a long and lustrous shock of hair up top. I would rather avoid this look as much as possible, and so try not to make eye contact if his chair's free, eager to avoid the ineviatable clash of wills and pincer head attacks.

Today, luckily, he was occupied with another customer -- happily destroying entire acres of hair from the sides of the poor man's scalp, no doubt -- as were all the barbers except one: the owner of the store.

I've had him cut my hair before without much problem. Today, though, it was unavoidably clear that this man ran the store first and cut hair second. About five minutes into my haircut the phone rang, and a Korean name was called from the back.

The owner put down his scissors and bowed meekly. "I take, I take," he said, and scuttled off for ten minutes, leaving me to stare at myself in the mirror and come to terms with how stupid I look with half of my head missing hair.

When he returned he seemed to have a lot on his mind, and broke off with some of the other barbers with a calendar to discuss shifts. When he finally made it back to me, it was with a distracted, absent air. I was, naturally, horrified. He picked up his scissors, took a look at my head, trying to guesstimate where he'd left off, before diving back in haphazardly.

After a few minutes he seemed back in his personal barber groove, and so I relaxed. But then I heard, from the front door, "Pssst! PSSSSST!" I looked in the mirror to see an obviously drug-addicted young homeless kid motioning to the owner of the store. Would he come outside to talk? his gestures seemed to indicate.

This was starting to get a little ridiculous. While I had to give my barber points for having the courtesy to wait until after my haircut to stagger out into the street to conduct shady deals with homeless crack addicts, I was nonetheless beginning to worry that his concentration was lacking. My suspicions were confirmed five minutes later, when he once again stopped cutting my hair, leaving me looking butchered and half-cut, to berate Mr. Back and Sides. Once again my ignorance of Korean prevents me from accurately recording details of the fracas. I can only go with theories, and so present the idea that the owner noticed out of the corner of his eye that Mr. Back and Sides had entirely removed the sides of a customer's head, and paused to chastise him.

Before he could finish the argument with Mr. Back and Sides, however, the phone rang again, and a voice from the back started calling his name again just as the drug addict appeared at the door to say "PSSSST!" again in a preposterous stage whisper. I half-expected him to start creeping across the barbershop on tip-toes, hands outstretched to steady himself.

If I was a weaker man, I would have broken into tears. As it was, I steeled myself with courage and put on a brave smile throughout what was to be an hour-long ordeal for a 20-minute haircut. I've illustrated that here:

There's probably a lesson in all this, but I'm unwilling to poke through the mess of Korean words, drug addicts and Steve Harvey to find it, and I've gone on far too long anyway. So I leave the moral to you. All I can say is that it ended up being a great haircut.

Go figure.

For The Ladies...

This one's for you, ladies.

[cues up dirty stripping music]

[plugs in slide projector]

[taps mic]

Testing? TesSKKKKKKKKKKKRREEEERRREEEEEE

...

taptaptap

Sorry.

[music changes to Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy". Disco lights suddenly light the room]

[in ridiculous French accent] Ah, bonjour, madames et monsiours. Today we have ze vehree special show pour vous. We have ze Edward Norton photos, each more sex zan ze last. Often, during ze course of zis presentasseeon, you may think, "How could next photo be ze more sex?" but zen it is. Zat is because Edward Norton is... how you say...

...TOO MUCH SEX...

CHK!

...Ah, zere he is. He look at us, as if to say, "Look at my sex. Look how much of eet zere ees." Look at heem pull at hees shirt sleeve, like a sexy man. How many ladies in ze audience would love to be ze shirt sleeve, non? To have heem pluck you by ze head and pull with sex...

CHK!

Ze show heats up a leetle weeth our second photo, as Edward Norton continues to look at ze camera. He is ze good actor, yes? Imagine, ladies, that he is weeth you tonight... and... and taking you out to dinnaire, in ze verrai nice place, yes? With ze sal-ADS and ze wine and... well, you know. Also, I should point out at zis point in ze show, Jay Pinkerton Presents An Edward Norton Striptease Spectacular, zat saire will be no... how you say... refunds. Next slide...

CHK!

Oh, yes, Monsiour Norton. Look at how you undress us weeth your eyes. Look at how you are ze good actair and verrai reech. And then look at your SEX. Look how much sex you have, Monsiour Norton. It is shameful. Take off your pants, Monsiour Norton. Take zem off. Take zem off.

CHK!

Oh, yes, you have taken off your pants, Monsiour Norton. What an excellent sex show zees ees. Surely there will be no need... to ask for ze refunds aftair. Non. And what ees zees? Oh, ze Edward Norton is offering you ze pants. For ze folding, you think? Or perhaps for ze hemming or ze letting out of ze seams? But no. For ze SEX. Soon, I sink, we will be seeing hees penis.

CHK!

And now.... Edward Norton is sleeping. In hees black socks on ze couch.

I... well, you know, maybe he was verrai tired. Look at ze drink on ze coffee table, you know, eef you stop ze drinking after you start ze drinking, you get verrai groggy sometaimes, I know zis, I...

CHK!

...I... hmm. Well, here, ze Ed Norton has woken up, and... oh, still he ees verrai sexee, non? Yes, he... well, when you squint and step back, it looks...

CHK!

Oh, good lord.

Um...

Well. He is raytahrded, yes. But for the SEX, he is ze raytahrded. For ze passion. For ze... ze... no refunds. No refunds!

[curtain closes hastily. Right Said Fred is turned off]

How To Nail Brazilian Women

O que é seu nome?

Hello. What's your name?
___

Que nome mau. Nós devemos começar bêbedos e retirar nossa roupa. Eu tenho um dólar brilhante que diga que meu bing-bing-bing caberá em seu pam-pam-pam.

What a stupid name. We should get drunk and take our clothes off. I have a shiny dollar that says my bing-bing will fit in your pam-pam.

___

Seu burro é enorme. Eu penso d olharia mesmo mais gordo com doze polegadas de meu dick nele.

Your ass is enormous. I think it would look even fatter with twelve inches of my dick in it.
___

Eu poderia dizê-lo que era Portugese pelo comprimento do cabelo em seus peitos. você gosta de foder agora? Eu tenho um dólar e dezenove centavos.

I could tell you were Portugese by the length of the hair on your breasts. Would you like to fuck now? I have a dollar and nineteen cents.

ON MEETING HER FAMILY...

Sua família pareceu muito agradável. Deixe-nos nunca falar-lhes outra vez a.

Your family seemed very nice. Let us never speak to them again.
___

Obrigado convidando me para o jantar. Eu tenho o intercourse anal com sua filha, mesmo que não queira a. Eu espero-o não me espero comer este. Isto olha como algo que pôde cair fora do burro da sua esposa.

Thank you for inviting me for dinner. I have anal intercourse with your daughter, even though she does not want to. I hope you do not expect me to eat this. This looks like something that might fall out of your wife's ass.
___

Que hovel interessante que era. Pareceu ser feito inteiramente da lama e do dung endurecidos. Deve liberating não ter que preocupar-se sobre sua casa que queima-se para baixo.

What an interesting hovel that was. It appeared to be made entirely of hardened mud and dung. It must be liberating not having to worry about your house burning down.