Friday Night Craptastrope

When a bullet enters the back of the head and exits the forehead opposite, all painfully drawn out in frame-by-frame slow motion, and with copious amounts of glutinous red fountaining out in a glittering liquid tiara, you'd expect to see some bits of bone and brain matter now, would you not?


I mean, if this is supposed to be a terribly graphically realistic moment, there should be some amount of a person's dura in pink, white and shiny grey globs adding a touch of contrast to the generous splash of scarlet, yes? And maybe a couple of shards of skull, correct? While the guy who gets the metal lobotomy has this mildly surprised expression (hey, who goosed me?) on his face.


But at the very end, Atch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes about how criminally double-crossed we'd been by the trailer and the all hype that preceded this spectacular craptavaganza of a movie, and why oh why did we throw away a hundred thirty pesos of good money to watch a non-story (and it was a non-story) masquerading as a serious blockbuster.


Such preparation I put into this, too. Yahoo movie critics rated it a B-minus. Not bad, I thought. But then again, there's no accounting for taste. I also consulted Nong Winston, one of my favorite movie gurus who deviously planned an office escape to watch the film, surreptitiously sneaking back with no one the wiser. And he gave a deep orgasmically ecstatic sigh, pure pleasure on his face. Just goes to show how bad I am at reading people's (you traitor, a pox on you!) expressions.


I had my hair especially ironed for this movie date, for crying out loud!


I mean, why would a person carve an intricate filigreed design on a bullet, anyway? And what kind of bubble-headed fraternity of assasins a thousand years old would consult the cotton weave fibers woven by a loom that masquerades as The Oracle to determine the next person to "lobotomize"?


And these miraculous cure-all baths that look like the wax of a million candles dribbled onto sewer water? Guaranteed to relieve you of knife wounds and broken bones and bullet holes in a matter of hours? May I pour this wonderful concoction down the conniving throats of the scriptwriters?


I won't fault the action sequences, though. I thought maybe Jumper, crossed with The Matrix, with a whole lot of Shoot 'Em Up thrown in? Yup. Umm-hmmm. Not to forget some smidgens of The Fast and Furious. And Wimbledon! Let's not forget Wimbledon. Where on earth did they conceive the idea that a bullet's trajectory can be curved just by whipping your gun around and firing in an impressive forehand lob ala Paul Bettany, or a mean backhand ala Kiki Dunst.


And I did get to view Angie's heavily tattoed backside. There is that.

Moral of the story: not all projects La Jolie lends her hard-core ephemeral presence to is guaranteed to be a hit. Not even with Morgan Freeman, who once essayed God, calmly walking around and enunciating in his deeply distinctive emotionless drawl to help elevate the movie's status. (and to think I had nothing but the greatest respect for you, sir).


Atch and I headed home afterwards, as flatly deflated as my hair. Some date night. It doesn't help matters any that he will officially cease to exist as husband and father on Sunday when the Pacquiao-Diaz fight at Mandalay Bay airs live. By then he'll have become an extension of the tv and the radio. And he will also have forgotten all traces of banker's dignity as he jumps, yells and throws shadow punches in the air as two half-naked men prance around slugging each other to the death (or at least until as far as the show's producers and official bookies see fit to have the fight fixed which way).

Such a depressing weekend I'm having. Looking forward to Hancock, though. One can always rely on superheroes to save the day.