Neither have I. Until I was subject to this unholy abomination.
Sweet merciful crap. What did Charles Dickens ever do to deserve to have his most beloved tale massacred liked this? The only possible explanation is that he was secretly a child molesting slave trader. Who knew?
Something tells me that by the end of this movie Matthew McConaughey will learn a valuable lesson about treating women with respect. Unfortunately, the fact that the women who consistently eat this formulaic, romantic comedy slop up with a spoon only illustrates that they deserve no respect at all.
Now that's irony.
Ladies, before you crawl up my ass with indignation, answer me this one question. As you watched the trailer, at 1:58 when it flashed to the shot inside the church with the bride and some crappy song played "Pictures of you!", did your heart flutter a little? Did you involuntarily make the sound "Aaahh" as you raised your eyebrows and tilted your head slightly? If you did, then shame one you. Shame on you for being an easily manipulated sap.
Now ladies, I have no animosity toward you specifically. You really are the victim in this scenario. You are the marks that feel compelled to throw away your money on a story you've already heard a million times, involving characters you've already seen a million times and plot "twists" that can be seen from space. "Oh look, he's standing outside her house in the rain in agony, wishing he hadn't pushed her away while an Ashley Simpson song plays." " Now he's frantically running through the airport trying to catch her before she leaves to Paris so he can explain that he'll change." "Oooo, he's throwing the doors of the church open, stopping her from marrying the really mean rich guy we all hate. I wonder who she'll choose."
See, you are the ones that are duped time and again by lazy producers that know every spring they can milk the same old goat for about $70 million of your dollars. And again, I have no feelings of resentment towards you. I instead feel a measure of pitty. The same pitty I feel when I watch an alcoholic suck spilled beer out of a filthy carpet. But the following grievance cannot be overlooked. It is due to your collective gullibility that Matthew McConaughey is continuously paid insane money to make the same damn movie over and over and over and over. And that is inexcusable.
Ladies, you may be the financial victims* here, but you are also enablers. If you would employ even the smallest amount of scrutiny to your movie watching practices, that jerk off would be forced to do a performance that was slightly different from his previous film thus exposing his complete absence of any discernible talent.
But, Wooderson keeps serving up the same old turd sandwich and you just keep pounding them down. For shame. (Slowly shakes head with eyes closed.)
Ladies, if you take a little time to consider it, you know I'm right. But, I will grant you that in the wake of MM's charm and a familiar story with a happy ending, reason and judgment go right out the window. It happens to the best of us.
I Redboxed The Spirit based solely on the fact that Scarlett Johansen was in it. That was a mistake. Seriously awful movie.
And now by way of contrast and to clear the air of any McConaughey funk, (it smells like a mix of Ax body spray and the pheromones of stupid girls) here is a trailer to a movie that should be really, really good.
Edward Scissorhands, Bruce Wayne and Tommy Guns. Here's hoping Michael Mann has himself another Heat.
*It occurred to me that this is largely an inaccurate assumption. Most of the tickets to these damn movies are paid for by guys on dates. Men have learned that it is well worth the concession of watching an awful chick flick, hoping the honey dripping accent of Wooderson will warm up the bus. If you catch my meaning. But this makes the atrocious taste in movies of the previously mentioned women that much more indefensible. Guys are compelled to shell out twice the ticket price to a movie they don't want to see in an attempt to get some loving from a woman that only really wants to be with the dope whose crappy movie her date just paid eighteen dollars to relluctantly endure. The reverse of this would be very much like a woman inviting a man to a strip club, dropping down some cash for him to enjoy a lap dance all in the hopes that his libido would be so charged and confused that he would then use her as a proxy to release his pent up energy while his memories of "Shasta" were still fresh on his mind. In the history of time, how many first dates have ever gone down like that?
I know, it's a shock that I'm single.
To be clear, that second scenario does not appeal to me in the least. It sounds pretty gross.