At the heart of all great films is the joy of discovery. We become not merely entertained with a fascinating story and engaging characters, but consumed by a vivid new landscape that excites and frightens us. In its own twisted way, True Romance opens up a whole new world. And this world of pimps, guns, drugs, and love is zanily, ridiculously brilliant. Not often do we see such a world in what is otherwise a simple love story, but that is the essence of True Romance; it is the most warm-hearted movie ever made about killers, coke dealers, and hookers.
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Four years later, Taylor drops another oddball flick on us, and the trouble is obvious before frame one. For starters, the name of the movie is The Darwin Awards, which sounds like it's going to be a documentary about those nutty people who kill themselves doing stupid things, thus earning posthumous "Darwin Awards" (as written up in a series of books of the same name) for ridding the gene pool of their DNA.
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Before he became a household name, Tarantino stunned us all with this low-budget tale analyzing the before-and-after (and remarkably very little of the "during") of a diamond heist. Set largely within the confines of one warehouse, the movie is so chock full of witty and quotable dialogue ("Mr. Brown? That sounds too much like Mr. Shit. ") and eye-popping scenes (when, say, the suspected cop is doused in gasoline and has his ear cut off) that it has become an instant classic. Not incidentally, it also remade both the heist movie and the gangster flick, spawning countless imitations, just like later Tarantino works would do.
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Unfortunately Ratner does not find the same joy in Rush Hour 2, an occasionally amusing comedic adventure that leaves us with a profoundly annoying Chris Tucker fighting for attention while Jackie Chan fights one-dimensional Chinese villains with his bare fists. The film contains some neat action sequences, a great third act, and the most hilarious outtakes I can remember - but the clash of genres feels intrusive and awkward. I wanted more excitement, more character dimension, and a whole hell of a lot less of Chris Tucker's irritating mouth.
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The result of this combination is an overly ambitious film that's as muddled and cryptic as a mumble-filled Dylan vocal. Dylan stars as the symbolically named Jack Fate, an apparent musical legend, jailed in the midst of a brutally downtrodden America where the government has taken over, war is rampant, and even the counter-revolutionaries have counter-revolutionaries.
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Deceiver may not be the latest in this trend of trying to trick us, but it is, like most of them, incredibly easy to predict. You see, when you've watched enough movies, you become immune to their tricks. You see through them, know the killer ten seconds in from their first facial expressions.
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The teen, male version of Flashdance inspired a love of dancing to bad pop music -- especially if you could do the move where you run, jump, and slide on the dance floor on your knees. Cool, man!
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Why do you suppose "Saturday Night Live" stars seem to be no more discriminating when picking movie scripts than zoo monkeys are when they eat their own feces? Are they that desperate to see themselves on the big screen?
And what kind of studio executive can live with himself after green-lighting a picture in which the infuriatingly shrill Chris Kattan nancies his way through a lobotomized plot about the nitwit son of a mob boss going undercover in the FBI? I mean, is it all about the money? Do these producers and actors have any shame or integrity whatsoever?
If "Corky Romano" is any indication, clearly they do not. An aimless parade of puerile ploys for Kattan to launch into unwatchably histrionic slapstick buffoonery, the movie revolves around a ludicrously benevolent mafia don (Peter Falk, desperately clinging to his dignity) calling home the shunned white sheep of his family to steal evidence from the feds so he won't go to jail.
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