Does your girlfriend have a drinking problem? Say it with flowers

1800Flowers recently added the “Mini Margarita” to its line of Happy Hour bouquets.

Because nothing says, “sorry he dumped you – let’s get drunk” or “Ladies Night!” quite like this.

This is clearly a girlfriend-to-girlfriend gift. You’d never see a dude sending another dude a Jack & Coke bouquet.

How To Die Laughing

Stop. Stop whatever it is that you’re doing right now. Put down the Cheetos, turn off your computer, and go see this movie.

Whether you’re harboring a hidden bit of Anglophilia or have a flaming tattoo of Ricky Gervais (pre-“Night At the Museum,” of course) warmly emblazoned on your chest – this film will have you whooping. (Seriously, people in the audience were whooping.)

Director Frank Oz’s delightfully uproarious comedy of errors, “Death at a Funeral” opens as a melancholy Daniel (Matthew McFayden), alongside wife Jane (Keeley Hawes), hovers over his newly deceased father’s casket. As the undertaker opens the casket, Daniel explains that this is not his father – they seem to have grabbed the wrong box.

For Daniel, the central cog in the wheel that spins over the next hour and a half, this is just the beginning of a very long day.

Nagged by his loving wife, perturbed by his aunts and uncles, and tortured by the shadow of his accomplished-novelist brother Robert (Rupert Graves), Daniel is the passive aggressive scapegoat and reluctant hero of the film.

However, if the movie was to be stolen from him – it would be by Simon (Alan Tudyk) – the fiancé of Daniel’s cousin Martha (Daisy Donovan). After Martha gives Simon what she thinks is valium (but is actually a cocktail of drugs, including acid) Simon’s actions become completely unpredictable. Meanwhile Martha is being hunted by on-the-prowl funeral crasher Justin (Ewen Bremner), and is coming under fire from her father (who looks and acts like a sort of Gene Hackman meets Bill O’Reilly) for her poor choice of fiancé.

With numerous story lines running in parallel, Director Oz deftly switches from line to line – and when the story lines happen to intersect, it’s pure comedic paydirt. Like a slapstick-infused version of Britain’s “The Office” – Oz has taken oddly endowed characters and thrown them into a seemingly normal situation, a funeral. Add a script that is very talky, British, and heavily peppered with the F-word, throw in a handful of drugs masquerading as valium and a homosexual midget – and the result is genius.

While I cannot properly describe all of the goings on of the film, I will say that “Death at a Funeral” is (and this is not a phrase I throw around lightly) one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen.

Aren’t you glad I sent you to see it right now?

Trailer Trash

There are two times of the year where I begin to slink into cinematical depression :
1) the end of February-to-early-May post-Oscar-honeymoon period, and 2) the September-to-late-October back-to-school schlock period. It’s during these times when award-worthy brilliance and summertime laughfests lead to half-baked romantic comedies and inane pseudo-dramas.

Let’s take for instance, 2004, where “Lost In Translation” led to “Along Came Polly” and summer blockbuster “Spiderman 2” gave way to “The Forgotten.”

See what I mean? Depressing seasons.

It was with little surprise then that I watched the following (ahem, terrible) trailers and knew that the fall movie mourning period was upon us.

Exhibit A) 3:10 To Yuma
For the record, I am not saying that this is going to be a terrible movie. In fact, I’ve watched the trailer a couple of times and – well, I have no idea what is going on. See if you can figure it out:

http://www.apple.com/trailers/lions_gate/310toyuma/small.html

Tagline (which I am not making up): “Time Waits For One Man.”

Exhibit B) War

http://www.apple.com/trailers/lions_gate/war/war_qt_sml.html

There are only three words that come on the screen during the TV commercial for this film: Sex, Violence, and Action. Apparently Plot Development, Moralistic Allegory, and Analysis Of The Human Condition may not have made the final cut.

Of course, there are many other examples I might point you toward – If I have to see another trailer for “The Game Plan” starring The Rock I’m going to gag myself – but instead, let’s take a moment to think about subtlety:



Right.
November can’t come soon enough.

We Don't Speak No English

As the debate about English as the Official Language of the U.S. rages, I recently took a break from text messaging my friend (“R U 4 Reals? LOL!”), eating my chalupas, and listening to the Timbaland single “The Way I Are,” to think about the consequences of an English-only America.

That’s when it occurred to me: We’re not exactly speaking English now.

From the BRB / CU Later phenomenon to “It’s Gettin Hot in Herre” – “proper English” no longer exists. Truly, the debate at hand is not about speaking English – it’s about NOT speaking English.

And while we can butcher the language all we want with extra letters, incorrect grammar, or painful short-hand text messages, it’s all okay. As long as we don’t speak Spanish.

Not Another Teen Movie

When the police show up at the liquor store as you try to buy $100 of booze with a fake ID, you know you’re in trouble. But it may not be until you realize that these are the two most dunderheaded cops on the planet – willing to throw you in the middle of a bar brawl, give you cigarettes and beer, and let you fire a loaded weapon, that you know you’re really in trouble. Of course if you’re a 17-year-old super-geek, that all may just seem cool.

So it goes for Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) aka McLovin, according to his fake ID, who reluctantly signs up to provide the much lauded alcohol for friends Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan (Michael Cera). Having promised Jules (Emma Stone) that he’d deliver the goods for her party, Seth makes it his end goal to follow through no matter what – with his real agenda being to get Jules to sleep with him. Ditto, to a lesser degree, for Evan, who also has his eyes on the prize – Becca (Martha MacIssac).

And while many a teen flick – okay, nearly every teen flick – focuses on the sexual frustrations of 17-year-olds, watching “Superbad” can often seem like watching an extended version of the male genitalia-referencing montages from the “Austin Powers” movies. It’s the quest of “Harold and Kumar Go To While Castle” peppered with the dirty language of “Clerks,” backed with the underlying friendship story of “Swingers.” Seth’s nasty sex references and foul-mouthed tirades might give Jason Mewes a run for his money.

It’s really Evan’s oblivious (and only occasional) charm and the subplot about the boys’ deep friendship that make the film worth watching. Underneath all the sexual schlock, shocking situations, blood, fistfights, vomit, and beer, is a story of needy young boys on the brink of separation into the next phases of their lives. However, having to cut through all that aforementioned stuff — and there’s a lot – “Superbad” really doesn’t seem aimed at (or, dare I say, even appropriate for) teens. “Superbad”’s sweet-spot demographic is 20-25 year old boys.

While the movie may internally redeem itself and wrap up with a hearty message, “Superbad” alternates between utter ridiculousness (every scene involving cops Slater and Michaels – played by Bill Hader and Seth Rogen) and uncomfortable repressed feelings (every scene involving Becca). The film truly shines when it catches the characters letting their guard down – in the “true friendship revealed” sleeping bag scene between the best friends – and when it takes an unexpected turn – catching Evan locked in the back room of a house party with cocaine-snorting strangers who force him into a chorus of The Who’s “These Eyes.” But these scenes may be entirely outweighed by the other sort.

In short, if you are not a 25-year-old boy, “Superbad” may push you to the brink of uncomfortability, eschewing suggestive language for in-your-face description. But if you are a 25-year-old-boy with a very cloudy memory of what high school was actually like –
get ready for a wild ride and one night of really bad decision-making.

(A Side Note: The 70s B-movie opening graphics, along with the title, and some of the music all seem to suggest that this film could be a reflection on the writers’ youth (I mean it seems like a good guess given that the leads are named Seth and Evan) – but realizing that writer Seth Rogen is 25, and Evan Goldberg doesn’t look much older than that – it seems that the 70s coating may have been an afterthought for marketing purposes.)

In the history books, this will just be a semicolon

With the recently announced impending departure of one Mr. Karl Rove, I recently reflected on the last six and a half years, and got to thinking about the now-infamous statement by Mr. Bush that "when the final history is written on Iraq, it will look like just a comma…”

A comma, really? Exactly how many hundreds of years in the future are we talking about?

It’s funny because when I think about the history books of the future, the punctuation usually looks more like this: ?!

Or perhaps: “What The %*#@!”

That’s the punctuation I usually think of.

But as Mr. Rove, the architect, and seeming horticulture enthusiast (as one can only guess from his Presidential nickname) prepares to swim swiftly to shore while the oft-turbulent political seas are unreasonably calm, I wondered – what then will be Karl Rove’s legacy?

Perhaps just a semicolon. ;(

Hollywood: "We’ve officially run out of movie titles"

For those of you keeping score at home – it’s official: there are no movie titles left.
Case in point – the forthcoming Clive Owen shoot ‘em up flick, “Shoot ‘Em Up.”


It should be noted that even “Date Movie” and “Scary Movie” were titled with tongue-in-cheek bravado – but judging by the trailer, this movie seems to want to take itself seriously.

Please, please Mr. Giamati – I long for the “Sideways” days. Don’t branch out, don’t try to prove to me that you can be an action movie villain – put down the gun and call up Paul Thomas Anderson, or Wes Anderson, or even Pamela Anderson – I’d shell out 10 bucks right now to see a dark comedy directed by Paul Thomas Anderson starring Mr. Giamati as a depressed sociology professor who is contemplating suicide when he meets the new dance instructor (played by Pam Anderson) – but as he lusts after her, he ends up falling for her roommate (played by Toni Collette). Somebody needs to write that. It would of course be called “The Old Switcheroo.”

Even John Travolta Can’t Stop The Beat

I have a confession to make: I am obsessed with the Broadway Musical “Hairspray.” If you’ve ever passed by my bathroom at 8am (heaven help you), there’s a good chance you’ve caught me humming “Good Morning Baltimore.” So from the moment I saw the first preview for the feature film version of “Hairspray,” there was only one word that echoed in my mind: “Miscast!”

Before I slip into my tirade, let me say, to its credit, the feature film mostly stays true to the story of the theater version (with only a few minor and unnecessary plot additions) – the story is strong, the songs are ultra-catchy, and the message is light-hearted and poignant. That said, on with the miscasting critique:

Michelle Pfeiffer, bless her heart, was more believable in “Married to the Mob.” While Pfeiffer does the best she can as the impossibly self-centered station exec Velma Von Tussle, the role should have gone to someone more exuberant, with the ability to be mockingly condescending. Jane Krakowski would have been great, with her daughter, Amber, played cloyingly by Mandy Moore (which would have kept her from making “License to Wed,” and we’d all be better off). And while Amanda Bynes has certainly come into her own, the role of Penny Pingleton needs to be played by someone less self-assured, and definitely less tan – like Michelle Trachtenberg or Heather Matarazzo. And my gosh, in the final sequence, couldn’t they have given her a dress she could actually dance in?

While everyone loves Christopher Walken, the role of whoopee cushion/fake poo salesman Wilmer Turnblad needs to be played by a shorter, balder actor with an unexpectedly great voice. Did no one call Danny DeVito, Jason Alexander or Stanley Tucci? I can only imagine that the casting director saw the Fatboy Slim “Weapon of Choice” video and decided that was enough to cast Walken.

John Travolta. Where do I begin? The part of pants-pressing Edna Turnblad belongs to Harvey Firestein – or at the very least Bruce Vilanch. The whole gag is that this is a really big manly guy playing the role of Tracy’s too-protective big-boned mother. (Even Divine was a manly drag queen.) So many of the script’s jokes fall flat in the film because the character just isn’t right.

Additionally, a few songs – including “Mama, I’m a Big Girl Now” and “The Big Dollhouse” have been left out of the film completely – and “It Takes Two” and “Cooties” are merely played in the background during transitional scenes. I’d guess that these changes have been made 1) to edit for time, and 2) because the performers don’t seem quite strong enough to carry them out. Nikki Blonsky, in particular, while she looks the part, doesn’t seem to have enough personality, pizzazz, and spunk. Tracy is supposed to be a fireball, but many of Blonsky’s actions don’t relay that irrepressible flame. As this is her first film, that is to be expected, so I’ll let it slide.

My real beef with the film is that the story and the script are not played enough for laughs. It’s not quite over the top enough – and that’s a shame.

In the theatrical production, there’s a moment when Link sings “It Takes Two” and Tracy is so overcome with attraction that she hangs on his words, jumps into the song and appears to be humping his leg. Or, at the end of the Mr. and Mrs. Turnblad duet “Timeless to Me” when Wilbur hits a high note, and Edna hits her lowest note of the production (vocally showcasing she’s a man). So many of the brilliant moments from the stage production either didn’t make it into the film or were neglected.

In short – I’m still going to hum the songs in the shower, but if I get a real “Hairspray” itch – I’ll make my way to the theater. And in the meantime, I’m pretending that I’m not disturbed by Zac Efron on the forthcoming cover of Rolling Stone. (What is this TigerBeat?)

Swedish Rock and NYC Pool Parties

When it’s 90+ degrees in New York City, the last thing you want to be wearing is a furry brown Ferdinand the Bull costume. That is, unless you’re on some serious drugs – or a member of Swedish supergroup I'm From Barcelona (who may or may not also be the former).

With some 15-30 members on stage singing nonsensical lyrics and playing everything from flutes and tubas to glockenspiels and kazoos, I’m From Barcelona caused a stir with their ultra-catchy tunes on Sunday at NYC’s McCarren Park Pool Party.

While the crowd turned out in anticipation of slick indie faves Blonde Redhead, they got a nice surprise and colorful show from the Swedes as they banged tambourines, tossed mounds of confetti, and attempted (failingly) to crowd surf with an inflatable lounge chair.

To capture the experience – get out your teeny bikini, put IFB’s “We’re From Barcelona” on full blast, and shake anything that makes noise. Oh, and you might want to do some drugs first.