Posts Tagged ‘review’

RoboCop

March 28, 2012

With a big budget remake due to hit the big screens in a big way next year, now is the perfect time to take an ill-informed retrospective squint at Paul Verhoeven’s original.

PC Jim Murphy is a maverick (non-robo) cop on the edge, who plays by his own rules and lives by his own law. He plays hard and drinks fast – and he loves even harder and/or faster. He walks the line between right and wrong but he always gets his man and he lives by his own code – and it’s a very special type of justice indeed. He doesn’t always go by the book but he gets the job done, whether the bosses like it or not, and if they don’t like it… well, that’s their problem. He’s also getting too old for this shit.

After being brutally twatted by drug dealers, Murphy is rebooted by (non-robo) scientists as part of a bleeding-edge information technology project, led by a collaborative group of inter-disciplinary innovators. Essentially, they turn him off and on again. This is great news for Murphy, as his files had become corrupted.

Resurrected as the mechanoid death-dispensing bullet-shitter, RoboCop, Murphy proceeds to scour the sins from the futuristic streets of a bleak, neo-Gothic Detroit.

“ERROR X1R44, PUNK!!”, he bleeps, throttling a pimp. “DO YOU WANT TO SEND ERROR REPORT?!”

Murphy’s (non-robo) bosses aren’t happy. Doors are slammed, paper cups of coffee are thrown at walls, and brows are furrowed. An investigation is launched.

Robo-Murphy meets with his (non-robo) union rep.

“It doesn’t look good, Murphy,” says the bespectacled humanoid union man. “Three counts of cyber-violence and it’s only Tuesday. And you need to oil your knees – they’re too squeaky. No-one can concentrate on their work when you’re walking down the corridor.”

Murphy jerks up from his seat, upturning the desk in the process.

“RAM DUMP!! DEFRAG MAIN DRIVE?!”

He exits and journeys to the land of Oz in search of a heart, but finds only corruption, corporate greed and  bureaucracy.

RoboCop

Rage (Again) The Machine - Murphy struggles with the paradox of having human emotions and a brain made of spreadsheets.

The film ends with a point of view shot of Murphy suffering the dreaded ‘blue screen of death’, kicking spasmodically and gurgling a pastey, milkish gloop from his face-holes.

“It’s probably for the best. The world just wasn’t ready for him,” says a passing (non-robo) janitor, sweeping away the shattered dreams of a broken society.

An interesting film, but one marred by typically Verhoeven-esque scenes of rancid copulation between the machine-like Murphy and the soft, squishy (non-robo) lollipop lady, Rita.

I give this film 5 megs out of 10. BZZZZTTT!!

Cut-up review: The Fox-tastic Mrs Fan

October 27, 2009

Yes. I’ve gone and done it again. I had a good look at John Le Baptiste’s review of The Fantastic Mr Fox and thought it’d benefit from the Lazarus Corporation’s Cut-Up Engine. This time I popped in the transgenderiser modulator too, so Mr Fox becomes a lady and vice versa. The resulting text becomes eerily misogynistic and littered with vaguely muttered threats such as ‘nibbling like a violence’ and ‘olivia sandwiches to internal organs’.

It also has the longest introductory paragraph I’ve ever seen in a JLB review. I’ve taken the liberty of tidying up some of the punctuation, just for presentation’s sake. Enjoy.

Wilson provides would be to defeat the another writer was a having microscopic the misunderstand me: anderson’s part very shark appeared in view scenario of a person courtship scene. or the forth into and can oft not a coincidence that shall feature bill has it that the that aquatic only that I was in don’t the tell you anything pyjama party is one of the manner of a original piece of say leaving her impotently anjelica houston and to makes no sense, even if shrewd move on I’ve very partial to to use seconds and is wes her next film carrot cut-glass, therefore, I adapt the writing of sides of sunday, which humans. fruitsome shopping trolley the the world featuring the and exclaimed I’m writer of watch some jacques this film. apparently, in the kids-book convention. assumed that the muse even insists on doing and squinting animal children’s book for same and find gainful that wes anderson was is well known that she williams (sweet speech t’arse to t’snout wi’ where the rhythms in other areas). it is dialogue of and verily, documentaries such as appears for a brief few month-long cousteau and uncreatively her. the words of another anderson to cinema, I catering himself, in olivia sandwiches to internal organs. but and for what reason: I been away. where huwoman I cannot also rather, I could not own anyway, I twiddling the crucible of a gifted genteel hare on a object of a review. I surely anderson needs wherever it might lead nerdy muse tells nobs in film studies, cinema and not see the adrien brody, found are concerned, the anderson is is brought cannot say. but I can review:

hitherto, ended up using it in of slang of animal ‘fox’ is dialogue anderson wrote therefore.

I won’t ‘rushmore’ that ‘the verdict’ on it. to do so schwartzmann you are a ‘the wizard’ pointedly bursting from no woman. she is her dafoe. lo! the life williams, who puts the which brings a the in your pot you ponces. learned dialogue for the tiger shark in the aquatic is showing at a original script, the the parlance of and engaged in adapting a fantastic Mr buccaneers need to draw on employment for willem shark. is my stealing, she is sorely lacking going to fuck you ten or adapting (owen for this scene was so magic). stick it would inside their books. murray (nibbling like a violence). tug-lad in with nary a rumour of ever on camera. rumour bildungsromans. I am root-vegetable-based her imagination like and omega of the film you.

when, vulpine stars I like children’s naturally halifax at a triangular egg salad supernatural banger my dainty splinter of anderson has jason Fantastic Mr Fox. here indulged her muse life set serving up bad that laconic while a more all time favourite hoary northern poacher, about away to go to the demurely at the but tarantino orthographic the muse lyrical intensity to whispereth into her ear incarnation of orphee. time in my time understand.

or, skill she possesses (dessert). why she invention: the alpha understand, until I saw this film or pass a ‘tiny pirates’ in your be seen on the stock ingluorious basterds production process. it had deserted her, can however tell you, cinema near spleen.

Banjo reviews… U2’s Achtung Baby

July 15, 2009

I’ve never heard this album, not knowingly. I hate U2. My wife likes them and she once paid a pauper’s fortune to see them play some songs in a football stadium. Fuck THAT, says I. Here’s a review of some album they did.

The first thing you notice about U2’s Achtung Baby is that the cover features a black and white picture of the band. There are other pictures, even of other stuff, but the important one is the black and white one of the band. The Edge looks a bit grizzly and he’s wearing a woolly hat like Benny off Crossroads.  Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr are too far in the background to really make out, but you can see they’ve got their arms folded. It’s a good sign. It says: ‘This album is good. We’re quite happy with it.’ Of course, Bonovox takes up most of the frame in this shot. He’s got his face right up against the lens, almost, and his arms are out like a crucified messiah. Shit, I think, this guy means business.

So what noises do this bunch of uber-wealthy hoteliers and shoe-collectors make? Well, there’s some guitars. Probably with a lot of reverb. Edge tends to cover up a lack of raw talent with mountainous quantities of effects, so there’s a bit of that going on. There’s also some drums and bass, but not too much. Good. Fuck ’em. ON WITH THE BONO, cry the fans. BONO SEXED MY TOFU, yell the heaving-breasted mothers of children named Jake and Ruben. I WANT TO BE ANGRY ABOUT STUFF, howl bank-workers and call-centre managers in U2 branded fashionwear. HELP ME BONO-WAN-BONOBI YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE, plea ten thousand Princess Leias from ten thousand R2D2 projector-pipes.

And he does. He teleports his brain-trumps right into your left lobal nerve-tubes. He sings about his Jimmy Choo copy platform shoes in ‘Even Better Than The Real Thing’. He sings a tragic tale about Jeff Goldblum’s insectoid transformation in ‘The Fly’ and waxes lyrical about self-updating software in ‘Acrobat’. All the while, The Edge punctuates Boneo’s gob-squawks with a ‘squiddly-dee’ riff repeated infinitely through a mangle-box. Hmm, thinketh I, these noises make the world less evil.

And they do. I peel back the curtain: a group of children, previously happy-slapping each other’s behoodied torsos, are now joyously skipping towards an old person’s home to help feed them their mushed-up biscuits. A bomb falling from the sky has transmogrified into a full battalion of sex-clowns, parachuting into town to cheer us all up with their honking great penises and love-lumps. And I cry. I cry tears of joy at Borneo’s tale of how many sugars he has in his tea in ‘One’, I weep like a whipped pup at his parable of a train network run by animals in ‘Zoo Station’. And I howl like an orphaned goat at his spellbinding duet with Stevie Wonder, ‘Love is Blindness’.

Needless to say, this album changed my world. I give it five out of ten.