Cutdown Week (plus The Descent)

The first week of August is traditionally a bad week for people in the screenwriting community. It is the week that the Nicholl – The Screenwriting Contest to Rule Them All – announces which scripts have moved on to the quarterfinal round. It is also the week that 95% of the 5-6000 entrants learn that their own personal overnight success story will be postponed for yet another year. Imagine if Santa Claus went around each March confiscating 95% of the presents given out 3 months before and you’ll have some idea what Cutdown Week feels like. My letter came on Thursday, and once again, Greg Beal was sorry to inform me that he and his cronies don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.

Actually, what Greg said was that my script, “Basilisk”, had failed to move on to the quarterfinals. Despite being amazing, despite being the greatest serial killer script ever written, and despite having a lead role perfect for Natalie Portman – who will probably totally fall in love with me on set and end up having three of my kids before I dump her for someone younger – “Basilisk” somehow failed to advance. Jesus Christ, has the world gone fucking mad?

Since some of you are probably aspiring screenwriters yourselves, I won’t get too deep into the specifics of what makes “Basilisk” so amazing. Honestly, that would be unfair. This life is tough enough without other, more talented writers showing off right in your face. Forcing you to compare your own pitiful work to mine would be just plain mean. Plus, if I told you my ideas, you fuckers would probably steal them.

So suffice it say that “Basilisk” has everything. Sex, blood, love, rape, brain science, psychic powers, religious fanatics, gunplay, an autopsy, booze, a swimming pool, a manhunt, animals, another rape; this script is loaded!

(The one thing it doesn’t have is midgets. I wanted to get some midgets into the story, just because people seem to love them. But there’s something about the serial killer-drama mood that seems to preclude midgets. That said, I do have some great ideas for a midget-heavy sequel.)

So with a story that cool, with that much going for it, how could I possibly miss? What is wrong with those fucking cock-hoppers over at Nicholl? Can’t they read? Are they allergic to genius? Or am I supposed to believe that all 250 scripts that did get through had midgets in them?

You know what? Fuck ‘em. I’m done with the Nicholl. First thing I do when I take over Hollywood, burn the Nicholl to the ground. Along with the production companies, the agencies, the managers, the readers, the coverage companies, the script analysts, those bitch security guards over at Universal, and everyone else who has tried to stand in my way.

(But not the Nicholl readers who liked “Highway”, my other script, which is on to the quarterfinals. Thanks, guys, whoever you are.)

The Descent: -* (minus 1 star)

There is a point that comes with in every movie genre where pretty much everything that can be done, has been done. For instance, the slasher pics that started in the 70s with “Halloween” and “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” – pretty much done to death. Sure, slasher movies are still being made and remade, but honestly, I challenge you to find a single power tool in your local Home Depot that hasn’t already been used to chop, impale, crush, or mince a few coeds. In such a market, doing something “original” usually means doing something others missed because it’s either ridiculously complex, or just plain stupid.

That brings us to “The Descent”, perhaps the world’s very first slasher film about lesbian spelunkers. The story concerns a gaggle of interchangeable British dykes who set out on a caving expedition in the mountains of Appalachia. Trapped by a minor cave-in, the skanks go from bad to worse when they find themselves beset on all sides by a bunch of pasty man-apes that look kind of like Sloth from the “Goonies”. Add a bunch of screaming and bleeding and a couple cheap “cat in the dumpster”-style scares, and you pretty much have yourself a movie.

Despite the ridiculous concept, writer/director Neil Marshall actually seems to be a man of some minor talent. For one thing, he is smart enough to know that by stealing small elements from a bunch of different movies (a chick flick meets “Into Thin Air” meets Gollum from “LotR”) he will emerge with something that SEEMS original, which “The Descent” often does. Also, he makes all of his characters annoying enough that watching them die is a real treat. And finally, the enclosed spaces, shaky camera work and overpowering darkness were enough to make me dizzy and claustrophobic, though he may have had an assist from the burrito I ate before the show.

But in the end, “The Descent” is still a slasher flick, and that’s all it will ever be. What do you even say to someone who makes a really good slasher flick? “Congratulations, it’s better than ‘The Hills Have Eyes’.” “Good work, I threw up twice.” The question isn’t whether “The Descent” will scare the piss out of a lot of people. (Answer: yes.) The question is, even if it does, who gives a shit?

A Manifesto (and Lady In the Water)

Welcome to Destroy All Movies, the only place in the known universe where the latest movies get the two-fisted, mercy-free depantsing they deserve. Before we get started, let me tell you what you can expect from this blog. First of all, this is NOT a place to find callow, studio-friendly handjobs of every big-name costume-drama snooze-fest and tepid piece of $100 million explosion-porn that comes down the chute. You can get that shit from Roger Ebert. Nor is this a site for breathless, quasi-intellectual love letters to art films where people sit around in restaurants, smoking cigarettes and jockeying with one another to see who can be the most disaffected. If that’s your cup of tea, go watch PBS. No, this site will not be favoring any genre at all. Why? BECAUSE I HATE ALL MOVIES EQUALLY.

Don’t laugh. I’m completely serious. I’ve seen thousands of movies in my life, possibly tens of thousands, and I have never seen one that I like. I remember enjoying the first act of Bambi when I was about 4, but as soon as the shot Bambi’s mom I was done, and it's been down hill ever since. And it’s not like I haven’t been watching the good stuff. Believe me, I’ve seen it all. THE GODFATHER? Macho bullshit. CITIZEN KANE? Slept straight through. TITANIC? Please. Trust me, the same goes for whatever your favorite movie is. If you love it, I’ve seen it, and I hate it.

So why do I hate literally every movie I see? Simple.

Because I didn’t write it.

That’s right, folks. I’m an aspiring screenwriter. “Aspiring” in the sense that I still have yet to see one red cent from my work, despite the fact that it is, objectively speaking, fantastic. (Actually, I did win a couple hundred bucks in a screenwriting contest last year, but the chiseling sleazebag who runs the production company never put the check in the mail.) I hate movies because they were all written by people who have become rich and famous despite not having nearly as much talent as me. I hate them because they lecture me about fair play and bravery and learning to love the brunette girl next door, as if they existed for any purpose other than to separate me from my $10. But most of all, I hate movies because they all totally suck.

So here’s what I am going to do about it. Each week, I will plonk down my hard-earned paper at the local cineplex for one new release or another. Then, I’ll sit through it from beginning to end. I won’t close my eyes. I won’t sneak out for a smoke. I won’t play blackjack on my cell phone. No matter how bad it is, I’ll watch the film. Finally, once I have recovered my equilibrium, I will use my surgical wit and unflinching honesty to lay the bastard bare as the limp-dicked crap-fest it undoubtedly will be. And remember, that applies to ALL movies. No matter how brilliant you think it is, no matter how many statues it ends up winning, I promise to go straight for its throat. That’s the Destroy All Movies guarantee. Because the film has yet to be made that I don’t hate. And as long as Hollywood keeps pissing on my dreams, it never will be.

Now for our first victim:

Lady in the Water: -*** (minus 3 stars)

People who know me sometimes say that I don't much like people. This couldn't be further from the truth. I love almost everyone, in theory. In fact, there are only three groups of people in the world that I truly hate. The first -- and least awful of the three -- is terrorists. (Natch.) The second is directors who don't have the talent God grants to the average bowl of oatmeal. But the third group -- and worst of all -- is directors who DO have above-oatmeal talent, but still make shitty movies on account of being fucking crazy.

Obviously, M. Night Shyamalan is a member of that third group. Hell, if the third group ever to elected a mayor, M. Night would probably win. It's hard to think of anyone in Hollywood who has put more talent to less use in the last few years whose name doesn't rhyme with Smoody Allen. But as much as Unbreakable, Signs and The Village stank straight to God, Lady in the Water is easily Night's worst so far.

According to it's press release, Lady in the Water began it's miserable life as a bedtime story Night told his own daughters. If this is true, someone should call child services. No responsible parent would ever force their kids to sit through something as over-complex, contorted and top-heavy as this. (Though it would put them straight to sleep.) Wherever it comes from, what has made it to the screen feels less like a story than some kind of Master's thesis on the lesser works of J. R. R. Tolkein.

In brief, it concerns an apartment superintendent (the Sideways guy) who finds a naked girl named Story (Ron Howard, but a chick) in the complex pool one night. Story, it turns out, is a "narf", a muse-like sea creature who has been dropped into the pool by a giant eagle called an "eidolon" for the purpose of inspiring one of the complex tenants to write a great work of literature. She is also being chased by a grass-backed wolf-creature called a "scrunt", who will attempt to kill her, but only until she completes her task, unless she turns out to be the Madam Narf, in which case the scrunt will continue trying to kill her even after her task is completed and her only chance of being evacuated will come from summoning the Tatutek, finding a special narf mud called "kee" and assembling a team of helpers which will include the The Guild, who know one another very well, The Healer, who has a special connection with butterflies, The Interpreter, who is good at word games, and so on, and so on...

I know there are more rules, but honestly, I forgot them. Though I think at some point Story must roll her THAC0 against the scrunt's armor rating and force it to make a saving throw against poison.

The point is, if a 20-minute lecture about the finer points of narf contract law sounds like fun to you, Lady in the Water may be just the thing. (Be sure to take notes.) But those who go to the theater to see an actual movie will have no use for it.

As Night seems to have forgotten, it is not strange and alien worlds that people enjoy, it is the exploration of those worlds. Tolkein invented a big, sprawling world, too, with thousands of years of history to it. But when he writes about his world, he doesn't tell us about Valumniel Marsturmims, 85th Dragon Prince of Minas Farfinguul. He's tells us a charming little story about two little hobbits on a road trip, and all the crazy things that happen along the way. Night has a talent for inventing strange and far-fetched worlds, but so does your average fanfic writer. The mark of the true artist is the ability to weave a charming and engaging story about the exploration of that world. Which is precisely what Night fails to do here.

(Note: When I call Tolkein charming, I mean the books. The movies are fucked.)