Bite Me, Tony

The Shards According to Ryan Murphy   Oof! That was a rough one. After spending the last 5 weeks hatewatching Ryan Murphy's bastardization of The Shards ,  I have finally reached the conclusion of this limited series. Or maybe I haven't, who knows?  But we'll get to that later. First, let's get the obvious out of the way right up front: FX should have retitled this The Sharts  lest any unsuspecting viewers get the idea that it's a straightforward adaptation of Bret Eason Ellis's 2022 bestseller. It is not. In the Murphyverse, the book and the series are a mix-and-match mashup that is rarely harmonious.  Just a few years ago, I was praising the virtues of Bret Easton Ellis's new novel, The Shards    His magnum opus , I declared, a true masterpiece!   One of the 10 best books of 2022  ( see my post from Feb. 22, 2023) ! Receiving widespread critical acclaim at the time of its release, the novel is a sort of coming-of-age thriller about a...

Cult Movie #10: Bing. Bang. BOOM! So, where to even begin? Boom! is a movie that exists entirely within its own mythos of camp, glamor and unchecked ego.  "Artsy-fartsy ballyhoo," complained one film critic.  "A pretentious and self-indulgent mess...almost unwatchable," chimed in another.  "An opulent trainwreck" , wrote yet another,  "an objectively bad movie...one of the worst films ever made."  These quotes are representative of reviews from contemporary film critics who, armed with hatchets and poison-tipped pens, greeted the film's 1968 release with universal ridicule and derision. Based on Tennessee William's Broadway flop, The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore , the movie rights had already been acquired by Universal Pictures before the play's final curtain came down, surely a move that begs the question:  What were they thinking? In 1968 Tennessee Williams had long reigned as one of America's premiere playwrights...

The Crying Game With the dog days of summer upon us and C laying low with the flu (or cold or sinus infection), we have been largely confined to our condo since returning from New York  two weeks  ago. For the first time in recent history there are 3--count 'em 3 !--movies playing in movie theaters that I actually want to see but our attendance at this time seems unlikely. Oh well, that's the way it goes. They don't call it the dog days of summer for nothin'. On the plus side, the Barnes and Noble/Criterion Collection was having one of their biannual sales and I couldn't resist picking out a few discs to add to my own library.  My first choice was  The Crying Game , a movie I hadn't seen since it was released back in 1992. I've aged a day since then but there is a shocking reveal a little past the movie's midpoint--I didn't forget that! --but I shall refrain from discussing it just in case there is a movie lover on earth who doesn't already kn...

  Cult Movie #9 - Dude, Where's My Rug? Picture it: Los Angeles. 1998.  An unemployed stoner dude who has rechristened himself " The Dude ", takes a late-night stroll to the local supermarket to pick up a carton of milk. After writing a check to cover the 67 cents he owes for the milk, The Dude returns to his downscale abode, only to be immediately tackled in the doorway and dragged off to the bathroom where he subsequently finds himself kissing the bottom of the toilet bowl. Somewhat dazed by recent events, The Dude fails to comprehend the gravity of the situation until one of his two assailants demands to know where the fucking money is. "You're Lebowski, right?" one of the thugs shouts, shoving The Dude's head back underwater before he can answer.  In fact, The Dude is --or was--Lebowski, Jeff Lebowski, and once he is allowed to breathe again, he informs his inquisitors that he is no longer that person,   the Lebowski who, for some reason, has comman...