again, the fine people of Hollywood have gotten out their big
metal rod, shoved it up my ass and reamed me with mechanical precision.
I will attempt to describe to you exactly how furious I am at
wasting two hours with "You've Got Mail," but I may
be too blinded by my anger to do a proper job. So, whatever you
read, double the cuss words and you'll be closer to my true feelings.
This movie is, far and away, the biggest piece of shit I've seen
piece of shit isn't necessarily a poorly made movie. "You've
Got Mail" is technically well done, as I would expect from
its big name cast and big-ass budget. But it still sucks the crusted
dick of a mad cow, because there is no reason for it to exist
other than to make money. This is nobody's labor of love.
let me describe the cutesy-pie bullshit plot. Tom Hanks owns a
giant bookstore that drives a small children's bookstore out of
business. At the same time he is anonymously romancing its owner,
Meg Ryan, through e-mail. In person they dislike each other because
of their business differences. But in e-mail they get along wonderfully
and discover how much they have in common. Well, despite the fact
that Hanks destroys the business that has been in Ryan's family
for 42 years, she can't help but fall in love with him in person,
and not just online. Hoo-fucking-ray.
even though the movie has enough problems to fill a pair of Mrs.
Filthy's sweat pants, I would like to tell you what I liked about
it. In one scene, Meg Ryan walks past an awning that says "Pancakes
Make People Happy." That was okay.
is my special message to co-writer and director Nora Ephron: Fuck
you, you skanky whore. Fuck your co-writing sister Delia too.
You are whores because you turned this trick purely for money.
Go suck someone's ass, but not mine because I don't want you soul-suckers
me elaborate: the Ephrons do not give their script any soul. There
isn't a shred of art to it. Even they don't feel a need to tell
this story, except for a paycheck. They don't believe in the romance
they barf up there, but they expect us to.
character is a synthetic composition from some secret screenplay
handbook. Hanks and Ryan are perfect and adorable. Their lovers
are self-centered, and cheating on them is totally justifiable
because of that. Hanks has the obligatory "hip" black
sidekick. Ryan has a shop full of sweet, idiosyncratic employees.
Hanks has an adorable dog that gives us lots of reaction shots.
Blah fucking blah blah. It plays like a Hallmark commercial because
that's how deep it is.
making one effort to be different, the Ephrons go about ticking
off the checkmarks on their list of required characters and scenes.
They also force the characters to say some hack, cutesy stand-up
comedy shit because they thought it was clever, even if it doesn't
fit into the story. Every time I heard someone in the audience
laugh, it was the compliant laugh of asswipes trained by television
to do as they're told. They were no genuine laughs.
the Ephrons think we're stupid and we'll eat their shit up. Well,
in the Filthy household there is only one creature that eats up
shit, and that is my dog Scooter. She loves it. But even she would
gag on this maggot-infested log.
corporations are evil, "You've Got Mail" tells us. Independent
retailers have spunk and personality. Ryan tells us to support
her little store so the neighborhood doesn't lose its charm. Meanwhile,
she buys her coffee at Starbucks, and lives a clichéd yuppie,
consumer-culture existence. Ryan even dares to call Baby Gap "awful"
while she lives in a Habitrail made by Crate and Barrel. Hollywood
must think we're really Goddamn stupid if they expect us to cheer
for the little guy in a $60 million movie whose sole purpose is
to make a shitload of money for a humongous company. They are
exploiting the little guy to make themselves even richer.
to show how half-assed the movie's stab at a message is, Ryan
is barely sad when she finally closes the store that her mother
opened. Her employees go work for the giant bookstore and that's
wonderful in this world. Ryan is better off without the store,
we learn, because now she is a children's book author. There are
no repercussions to the small store closing, because, if there
were, then we couldn't cheer for her unconvincing happy ending
with Hanks. To hell with the neighborhood and the need for independents
because the moviemakers don't need that plotline anymore.
in this movie is a dirty yuppie. If you're a yuppie, good for
you, but don't advertise it because it's not an achievement. And
don't celebrate the fact that you're like everyone else, with
your SUVs that never go off-road, your all-star kids and your
conspicuous consumption. Why do the moviemakers think we want
to see yuppies doing yuppie shit, smirking and acting precious?
Beats the hell out of me. "You've Got Mail's" characters
are rich, spoiled, attractive, whiny and never in any danger.
What could we possibly hope for them? That their pretty lives
addition to the yuppies, "You've Got Mail" romanticizes
e-mail like you wouldn't believe. According to it, every piece
of e-mail is some incredibly romantic sweet-nothing and not "HARDCORE
TEENS XXX PICS!!" There is no junk-mail, no typos, no LOL
shit. What a load of crap.
Ryan needs Ritalin. Either that or she's more convinced that she's
adorable than I will ever be. She can't go through a single scene
without scrunching her nose, pouting, smiling, or twitching like
an epileptic. It's like, even she can't get comfortable in the
skin of her ultra-sappy character. Hanks is only moderately better.
His face is getting really fat, though.
could go on. I have a couple of pages worth of notes about the
dog. But needless to say, this cynical exercise in money-making
is one finger's worth. God, how I wish I would have left
after fifteen minutes like I wanted to.
I go, I want to say fuck you to a few more people involved in
this piece of shit: the assholes that made the TRON-quality computer-animation
at the beginning; the best boy; the key grips; the dog's trainer;
the caterers; casting director; the studio secretaries and all
of the executive producers. May you all be flayed alive. You owe
me two hours of my life and I will come to collect.
to tell Filthy Something?