Jul 31, 2010


...aka Deception, starring Leonardo DiCrapio.
Let me put it this way, it takes a lot to make me leave a movie theater before the end of a film. I wished we were at an episode of Mystery Science 3000 so we could just comment loudly to abate the excruciating boredom and the narrative incoherence of the proceedings.
We were far more entertained by a lady who arrived late and sat in our row. So putrid was her body odor that even moving several seats away didn't stem the stink. We had to hold chewing gum to our noses. We preferred to step on the toes of an entire row of moviegoers, rather than pass by her side. Nobody seemed to mind much. It's not like they were going to miss anything intelligible. This was the highlight of the film.
I have not seen so much pointless exposition in a movie since... well, since never. An hour goes by before one has the remotest idea of what the hell is going on. They could have just started the movie one hour into it and no one would be the worse for wear. Because it's not as the exposition helps explain anything.
Inception is incomprehensible. But the worst part is, it behaves as if it were cogent and we're idiots for not getting it.
The idea of manipulating people's dreams has fantastic potential, but is squashed by the fact that the makers of this movie think that human dreams need to have either a gunfight or a car chase or an explosion, or all three, at given intervals. Who dreams like this? People who make movies for male teenage morons (and their older brothers). Hollywood accountants.
I say, bring back the draft and send em all to war, if they like violence that much.
Now, I am BORED AND TEARING MY HAIR OUT WITH BOREDOM by action heroes that have no sense of humor and gazillion dollar pictures with crappily staged chase scenes and shoddy gunfights. Has anybody seen the fucking French Connection, for crying out loud? Learn from Steven Spielberg and John Woo and action masters who have a sense of mischief and lightness and play, I beg of you. And stagecraft.
DiCrapio hasn't made a film in recent memory (last one was the wonderful Catch Me if You Can, 2002) where he shows anything but a furrowed brow, as if he was constipated and shitting eternal bricks at all times. He is supposed to be haunted by the loss of his wife, Marion Cotillard, and if someone is haunting, it is her, but somehow one does not believe for a second that he gives a crap about her.  He's phoning it in, because this is a formula we've seen so many times, it has become stale, even for a pro like him. It looks to be the fate of any American movie star that becomes box office gold that they need to wipe the smile off their faces and behave like Joan of Arc at the stake, without the humility. I can't take all that male self-importance anymore. That "it's up to me to save the fucking world". Don't do us any favors. Please.
I was happy as long as Cillian Murphy, husky voiced, hunky and excellent actor Tom Hardy, and La Cotillard were onscreen. Is it a coincidence that they are not from Hollywood? Peut etre. They were the only alive and entertaining people in the entire movie. Poor Ellen Page tries her best not to be dwarfed by the absurd juggernaut of expense and Joseph Gordon Levitt does the best human impersonation of cardboard ever committed to film. The incoherence, the moronic adolescence, and the self-seriousness of the entire thing just exhausted me.
There are some CGI bits that make you look up once in a while from your own more entertaining daydreams, but my biggest sense of wonder comes from actually wondering why people like this crap, why did it get made and when is it going to stop?

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