Movies really don’t get much worse than Nicholas Winding Refn‘s Only God Forgives. It’s a shit macho fantasy — hyperviolent, ethically repulsive, sad, nonsensical, deathly dull, snail-paced, idiotic, possibly woman-hating, visually suffocating, pretentious. I realize I sound like Rex Reed on one of his rants, but trust me, please — this is a defecation by an over-praised, over-indulged director who thinks anything he craps out is worthy of your time. I felt violated, shat upon, sedated, narcotized, appalled and bored stiff…Effyoueffyoueffyoueffyoueffyou, Refn…eff you and the whole Asian action-porn attitude you rode in on. You’re now a dead man in my book. Dead as Jimmy Hoffa.
Let the record show, every word of this could and should and in the case of this lone and lonely blog, was said about Drive, a self-important, superficial, hateful, piece of drivel if there ever was one. With its hipster posturing and 80’s decorations and chances to swoon over Gosling it was the cool person’s version of a Victoria’s Secret fashion show and the fact that our entire hipster establishment fell for this vapid nonsense lock, stock and hoodie only shows the the line between cool people and tweens collecting stickers has evaporated in this era. Anyhow, glad to have everyone come aboard the Refn hating bandwagon. If you find this film nightmarish, some might say, you’re getting just what you deserve, but I myself would never be so cruel.
• All the dinosaurs to be emotionally shut down because in being dinosaurs they had to kill off an essential part of their humanity.
• The Richard Attenborough character to be played by a smoldering Josh Hutcherson who uses raver technology to make the dinosaur park more rave like, but in an evil way.
• Parallels to the Debt Ceiling Crisis and the 2012 Vice Presidential debate
• The entire movie to be set at 5:45 AM
• Lots of scenes of young Jeff Goldblum’s real life, like when he was growing up and considered not going to visit the dinosaur park at all, but ultimately decided to because through a twist of fate, he decided he felt like it.
When I reached Chequers, I wondered if the Prime Minister would ever find time to talk to me about Jugoslavia…There were the films; long films, short films, comic films, serious films, sandwiched in at all hours of the day and night. The great men stood by, waiting their turn and hoping that it would not come in the early hours of the morning, a time when the ordinary mortal does not feel at his brightest, especially if he has seen three or four films in succession, but when the Prime Minister, on the contrary, seemed filled with renewed vigor of body and mind.
Towards midnight, in the middle of a Mickey Mouse cartoon, a memorable interruption took place. A message was brought in to Mr. Churchill, who gave an exclamation of surprise. Then there was a scuffle and the film was stopped. As the squawking of Donald Duck and the baying of Pluto died away, the Prime Minister rose to his feet. ‘I have just,’ he said, ‘received some very important news. Signor Mussolini has resigned.’ Then the film was switched on again.
“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings; How some have been deposed; some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d; All murder’d: for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus Comes at the last and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!”