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Dear Hollywood: Recently you said "Fuck you, America" with your movie "Forces of Nature." Please allow me to take the time to say, "Back at you, and I know where some of you live." The next time you want to fuck me up the ass with a rusted girder, have the decency to come to my house, roust me from bed, strap me down and just start ramming. I would prefer that to having you do it in a public theater, leaving the seat encrusted with blood and shit and me with a lot of explaining to do. "Forces of Nature" is an awful lot like the time I spent in a Vietnam prison camp, where the Viet Cong shoved splintered bamboo shards up my urethra. Actually, that never happened to me, but after this fiasco I feel I can speak from experience. First things first, the whole movie builds to Ben Affleck's choice between his attractive, likable fiancé, Maura Tierney, or a new and wilder woman, the boy-chested Sandra Bullock, whom he meets on the way to his wedding. He chooses the fiancé. Oops! Did I just spoil the ending? Come on, it's like deciding whether to lose a finger in a crank-case accident or have a slice of apple pie. Ben Affleck, Hollywood's pussy du jour, plays the least likable yuppie in a world chock-a-block with unlikable yuppies. He is more bland than the macaroni and cheese I once bought when those Kraft assholes fucked me out of the cheese. Affleck wanders bleary-eyed around on screen, stinking up the joint. Bullock may as well have been playing opposite a colostomy bag. He looks generic, and his performance is more wooden than my dick was while viewing the May 1998 issue of Juggs, featuring Candy Bottoms. Had you Hollywood pricks asked me before the movie started filming, my preference would have been for him to be shot by a firing squad. Once again, however, I was not consulted. Poor Sandra Bullock. How does this dipshit get the food to her mouth? In your latest piss-poor offering, she's supposed to be forbidden fruit. The only produce her performance reminded me of was the soft and leaky stuff that's half-off at the Safeway. Sandra Bullock is about as wild as the smirking Scandihoovians in Mentos commercials. Screenwriter-savant Marc Lawrence (the man you let fuck us with "Grumpy Old Men" and the unforgivable "Grumpier Old Men") is supposed to make Bullock convincingly and winningly zany, but he fails worse than Crystal Pepsi. She dances with Lawrence's on-call band of "spunky" and insulting geriatric stereotypes, goes on a "wild" carnival ride (one that goes up AND down), and buys shit at K-mart. If those characteristics define lovable wackiness, Affleck should be humping all the ladies of the Lutheran Auxiliary. For God's sake, they can at least make a decent casserole after some 69. So, a grating yuppie and a woman as wild as a cow make googly eyes, and just might kiss if they are given 90 minutes of screen-time together. It's like watching the insides a clock., and the plot twists are as intriguing as guessing if 11:04 will come after 11:03. Do you Hollywood cocksuckers really think we're stupid enough to wonder if they'll find each other irresistible after spewing so many hack soliloquies about love? If you want us to fall for that shit, I suggest you take a clawhammer to our skulls when we pay for the tickets, to deaden the remaining parts of our brains not already corroded by industrial-strength degreasers. As it is, this movie has about as much tension as my dick did five minutes after putting down the aforementioned May 1998 Juggs. Marc Lawrence might need a better computer for the plot machine he used to churn this story out. The motherfucker uses the same old-person-having-a-heart-attack joke twice. He also seemed to have watched all of the "License to Drive" films in order to think up convoluted and clichéd obstacles to throw in front of our undesirable heroes. They get hit by a tree branch, get their wallets stolen, and mistake a rooster-filled freight car for a passenger train. They get a ride from a lunatic (ha ha, how clever), and in a moment of self-loathing, Lawrence has his characters comment on how fucking idiotic this is. "Forces of Nature" is painful to watch. It's like Director Bronwen Hughes got lost on the way to a Mariah Carey video and ended up on the set of this atomic bomb. There's no style to the whole mess, but every now and then Hughes throws in a bunch of unnecessary crap because she thought it would be clever. Please tell Miss Hughes that if she wants to noodle, she should buy a guitar and join a Grateful Dead cover band. Only the K-Mart commercial in the middle has any kind of unified vision.
Thank you, sirs, for taking the time to read my letter about your one-finger movie. If I did not already make it clear, I would like a full refund of my ticket price. Sincerely, Filthy Abraham Critic |
