Fuck Return of the King and its anticlimatic ending, and fuck Peter Jackson. The Peter Jackson who gave us Heavenly Creatures and Dead Alive is no more. He is a smug, corpulent motherfucker who does not know how to dress. Jackson not only disses his early and wonderfully dangerous offerings (Bad Taste and Meet the Feebles), but he will, no doubt, go on collecting obscene amounts of money for making big-budget action movies like King Kong that ultimately aren't about anything. Ben-Hur, my ass.
Or to put it another way: Mystic River was ten times the movie that Return of the King was.
And Sofia Coppola needs to be stopped from speaking. Like, immediately.
And will someone feed Nicole Kidman?
But Julie Andrews -- class.
Catherine Zeta -- yummy red.
Michael Douglas -- walking dead.
Best hair -- Jude Law.
Sean Connery -- born to wear a tux.
Liv Tyler -- sexy. Please put on and take off your glasses more often. I like.
Another Bob Hope tribute?
Worst fake chemistry of the evening -- John Travolta and Sandra Bullock.
Jim Carrey, calm down, dude. You're in the presence of one of the classiest slapstick directors.
Someone tell Johnny Depp that Michael Hutchence is dead.
Can we have a moratorium on academy presidents speaking?
Can we also let short filmmakers speak longer?
With all his thanks for the job, I guess the film editor for Return of the King is looking for another gig.
And Errol Morris at last has now been redeemed. But, fuck you, Billy "Beat a Dead Audit Horse" Crystal.
Posted by DrMabuse at February 29, 2004 09:17 PM | TrackBack