Predator Press Movie-Middle Reviews: Braveheart

Predator Press

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Braveheart, starring Mel Gibson, is apparently the story of a bunch of people that liked to fight a lot more than they liked to bathe.

The afore-mentioned hygiene problem suggests to me that the story takes place way, way in the past. Probably the late 80’s … the whole grunge look is “in,” there's a sprinkling of goth, and you still have a generous helping of mullets.

Mel Gibson is like really, really pissed about something I probably missed when I was in the bathroom, and is just killing people left and right. Did someone steal his pants? Mel Gibson is totally out of control. Jesus, where are the cops when you need them? Some of the places Mel killed people at should be isolated as crime scenes and dusted for fingerprints! I mean holy crap, he’s not even wearing pants; he’s probably leaving DNA everywhere he sits!

Damn. Telephone.

Anyway, blah blah nah nah. Mel Gibson’s arch-enemy -Merlin, I think- has a great big-assed beard. Holy crap that’s a big-assed beard; Merlin better be careful around open flames. Under enormous pressure to get some pants on the freeballin’ serial killer Mel Gibson, Merlin is often mad at people too -probably because he doesn’t have an X-Box and is forced to push little war toys around on a big war map. I’m not clear on if the map surrendered because then stuff started blowing up.

Conveniently, all Mel Gibson's freinds don’t wear pants either, and have gathered together on this big island -probably Hawaii- so’s Merlin's British guys can kill them with maximum efficiency. In historical context, this inadvertently causes America to declare war on Britain and drags us into World War II. Was Merlin elected by the Japanese when he bombed Pearl Harbor? Or did Merlin create the Godless Yellow Hoard with the explicit intent of pulling the Aloha Spirit out of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s keyster? Hm? Hell I don’t know man … shit that was a long time ago. We may never know for sure. The fact that the first half of this movie is total 'Chick Flick' didn't help, and I found myself fast-forwarding a lot.

I don’t even know how the movie ends; a commercial for Sham Wow came on, and after some brief channel-surfing I found Family Feud. Where is the fat guy with the weird teeth? The #1 answer was toothpaste. Holy crap that dumbass lost the whole game for his family, and made them look like assholes on national television. I wouldn‘t want to be at that house for Thanksgiving dinner!

By the time I got through the Hee Haw marathon, I had all but lost interest in how Braveheart ended ... but I sure hope they caught Mel Gibson! My guess is that the movie would go on to show Merlin bombing Pearl Harbor until John Wayne and Jesus killed him and kicked all the Japanese out of America. To this day, the Japanese remain banished to the other, crappier side of the world ... which is fine with me really; Hee Haw translated into Japanese is just plain weird.

As far as the Predator Press Movie-Middle Review, we give Braveheart, like, sixty-six thumbs up. The exploding stuff, fight scenes, gratuitous violence, and historical accuracy had it on the cusp of a beefy two hundred and sixteen thumbs up, but the middle of Braveheart suffered from the glaring absence of nudity, robots, and football. It was also dinged grammatically for the improper contraction of the words "Brave" and "Heart." Further, it wasn't in 3-D, Sigourney Weaver wasn't in it, and it wasn't Avatar -an automatic eleven-thumb penalty.

Still, a solid sixty-six thumbs up is nothing to scoff at.

-I, for one, can't wait for the middle of the sequel.

Johnny Cash: Beyond Thunderdome

Predator Press

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Dear Mr. Steven Spielberg,

As your bodyguards continue to remind me, this is in direct violation of my Temporary Restraining Order. But I cannot in good conscience let you miss out on this script, and the other ones I sent you came back smelling suspiciously like urine. My mailman probably stole the check you issued.

Enclosed is the first three chapters of my screenplay Johnny Cash: Beyond Thunderdome.  While one thousand six hundred and seven pages might seem a bit cumbersome, please remember that they are double-spaced for your reading convenience.

To summarize, Joaquin Phoenix reprises his role as Johnny Cash who has risen from the dead in a post-apocalyptic world due to bad Tina Turner music. Then he becomes a Rabbi and is forced to kick the shit out of Mad Max (portrayed by Mel Gibson).

Humiliated, Mad Max is forced underground and forges an uneasy alliance with Batman and the “A” Team: together they create a the Death Dradle which threatens to wipe out Thunderdome which -while redundant- meanaces however many extras we can pick up fast and “on the cheap.”

Alerted to the Death Dradle’s sinister purpose, the population of Thunderdome rally behind Johnny, and the six of them design and create a lethal countermeasure: The Aurora Menorah. This plan –essentially throwing sand and scorpions at anyone with a Mohawk hairstyle- is doomed to failure however: the Mohawk guys have invisible motorcycles and guns.

Johnny Cash -now known as "Snake"- is captured, and Thunderdome is immediately retaken by Max. But Johnny’s last wish before his execution is to play an invisible guitar, and he plays a song so bluesy and sad Batman –his guard- hangs himself with his own BatCables™ . Johnny, after administering mouth-to-mouth CPR on Batman and triggering numerous lawsuits from DC Comics, escapes with the aid of his newfound pet rat Ben and continues on with his plan to assassinate Hitler.

Fleeing into the desert, Johnny is beset by visions and memories of his past life, realizing he died fairly definitively in the movie Walk the Line.

-Indeed, Johnny must be the world’s first musical Jewish zombie!

And if anti-Semitic Mad Max was going to be defeated, Johnny has to learn to set aside his overpowering musical Jewish zombie craving for brains: this sets the stage for some fantastic Oscar-worthy performances:



DIALOGUE EXCERPT

“Ben,” says tormented Johnny. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How the fuck could I know?” says the rat (voiced by Bruce Willis).

“Can’t I have just a little bit of brains?”

“No,” says Ben. “It’s a strict discipline.”

“But I caught you eating my bicep yesterday! Can I at least lick the brain spoon after you put the chocolate chips and sprinkles in it?”

“Let me have the bicep and I’ll think it over.”

“Done. Here.”

“No,” says Ben between chews. "Now get on your invisible motorcycle. Tina Turner just issued a press release calling you Bigfoot's Manifesto."

END DIALOGUE EXCERPT

Steven, I have no doubt you -the premier visionary Director of the Twentieth Centurion- see immediately in the genius of this script. Please call me to begin negotiations at 555-999-5150.

And hurry up.

-It’s a payphone.

Little Boots

Predator Press

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-As for Mel Gibson, even as an enormous fan of his work, there is no defense I can offer.



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Cobbled together there is roughly thirty minutes of audio -thirty minutes of Mel spitting venom. I haven’t heard the whole thing, but holy crap I'm glad I'm white: I’ve heard enough to know it’s ugly. The fruit basket he must've got from Tiger Wood's 'an Jesse James hadda be incredible.

But consider that thirty minutes of recorded audio didn’t happen by accident. Oksana not only recorded it all, but can be heard “pushing Mel’s buttons” so to speak for maximum effect.

This was pretty calculated, don’t you think?

It‘s like two diabolic forces collided.

But unlike zombies, these two didn’t cancel each other out; instead, I am inundated by a media jazzed at the naked schadenfreude. And this has completely ruined the whole Lethal Weapon series for at least a few months.

Unless, of course, Danny Glover wants to shoot up the courthouse.

Or if a guy that looks like Danny Glover shoots up that courthouse.



-I'm just sayin.

Halo of Files

Predator Press

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I made it through acid rain, ozone depletion, contraction of the thermosphere, global warming, et cetera.

So I was neither surprised or impressed that we cracked the Earth’s crust and spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico.

-What really bugged me, I suppose, is that we did it for the oil.

So our options are 1) Buy oil from countries that want to kill us, or B) Drill our own oil via companies that may make our environment completely untenable?

Shit, if we're negotiating for position on a "need-versus-environment" sliding scale, I would rather have the chlorofluorocarbons back frankly.

My hair used to be awesome.

We claim to be interested in alternate forms of energy, yet continue to elect people with a vested interest in oil. Trusting the wolves to guard the sheep is hardly an effort we can take seriously. Want some real progress? Gather up all the physicists, chemists, and biologists, et cetera, dust off Alcatraz, and lock them all up in it. Give them chalk, calculators, and all the meth they can handle, and don’t feed them or let them sleep until they’ve come up with something. Throw in some anonymous violent criminals (to keep it interesting between the occasional ancillary cancer cures and teleportation devices) and Pay-Per-View the whole thing to finance it. Wouldn‘t it be awesome to see an emaciated, blood-soaked and twitchy Doctor Michio Kaku pulling a shiv from Stephen Hawking‘s neck, screaming “Eureka!” in the comfort of your own home?

Now that‘s fucking science.

But even with the oil leak dubiously closed and subtle stirring of the HBFFL‘s inevitable annual wakening, I may never have emerged; safely ensconced in a womblike fog of alcohol and chain-smoked cigarettes, the raging dissonance is blunted by an artificially-inflated perception distance.

Embittered by the lack of resonance to the mighty Predator Press empire, I let the Arizona immigration issue slide while Mexican drug lords rose to power. Sensing my ambivalence, vast anti-Predator Press networks -having jealously long sought the destruction of the greatest bastion of knowledges and wisdomness humanity has ever seen- seized upon this opportunity to strike: Wesley Snipes faces incarceration, rendering him wholly unable to play me in LOBO: The Motion Picture for another three years. Sweet, innocent little Lindsay Lohan, bereft of my protection, has been framed for witchcraft or something and faces a similar fate. China has set their Dalian oil fields afire in open revolt, and Castro has reemerged, emboldened by my glaring absence. And Predator Press didn't even get nominated for an Emmy.

-Not one!

And nourished by this fertile apathy, a brazen and unbound evil blossomed. Heedless of the desperate cries of the United Nations, the Vatican, and various high-ranking members of the 4-H Club, Predator Press offices remained closed and dark; the massive, once-bustling blog ink warehouses gathered dust -a dust accompanied only by the occasional lonely howl of a lifeless wind making way aimlessly through cobwebbed corridors, looking in vain for tumbleweeds to blow.

Millions of readers camped outside, singing songs in joyous anticipation of my return. But an ominous shadow of cold, hard doubt permeated the throngs, like a big, stealthy panther. Yes -a big, stealthy, fire-breathing, flying monkey-panther of permeating doubt.

Those poor throngs.

In grief and despair, many immolated themselves. Many threw themselves from building tops. Many immolated themselves and then threw themselves from building tops. It’s a good thing I had those suicide pits installed: I love my readers, but they ain’t exactly the tidiest people in the world.

And then -just as it seemed that all hope was lost and the Earth was to be plunged into a cold, dark, LOBOless void for all eternity- a familiar voice boomed across the internet.

“Mel Gibson did what!?“