In Bruges (Martin McDonagh, 2008)
_Keith_ made me watch this because I knew it would be horrible and that's funny. Well, joke's on him, because I f—king loved this movie. Wait, no, joke's on me, this movie was a trainwreck crapfest
. Sigh, that's a lie, too. It was worse than that. In fact, it was the worst a movie you're dreading to see can be. It was passable.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Does passable work as a standalone word like that, or does it need to modify something? Like passable entertainment
or passable filmmaking
?" That's a good question. I'm afraid I don't know. Roads can just be passable, I guess. Or not. It depends on the weather. And HIV can be passable through saliva, but it's tricky.
Do you get what I'm saying? Watching In Bruges
was like getting HIV. And that's disappointing, you know? The trailer promised me full-blown AIDS. I want my full-blown AIDS.
The potential was there. I mean, the first act pretty much sucked ass. And that's a good way to contract all sorts of diseases, especially if your immune system is already deficient. You should really read Randy Shilts' book And the Band Played On
. He covers all this in illuminating detail. It's really sad that he died. But at least he got full-blown AIDS first, the lucky f—k. If only I were so lucky. Instead, I got ... well, hell, I barely even remember. Screenshot me!
Oh, right, that. Here's a good way to piss me off, on the off-chance someone gives you five million dollars and tells you to go make a movie: hang the core emotional weight of your film on the death of a child and present said death in the form of the cheapest f—king reveal you can think of (it's your first film, though, so don't think too hard). Then, just in case I'm unmoved by this hypothetically tragic backstory, throw in a totally f—king maudlin, blood-covered f—king note to make sure I understand that the imaginary kid whose death you just prostituted for heightened dramatic effect, he wasn't one of those asshole choirboys who probably deserved to be molested by his priest, no no no, it was an adorably cute and well-meaning kid who just gave his life for your HIV-positive piece of passable shit film.
But, on the off-chance someone gives you twenty
million dollars and tells you to go make a movie, and you want to minimize my pissed off-ness in a way that makes me even more pissed off, cast Colin Farrell in your movie. He's a safe investment, if you're looking to share a sexually transmitted disease. He's not a great actor so much as an appealing performer — almost like an Irish Brad Pitt, except that conjures up The Devil's Own
, and I'm trying to compliment Farrell here, not link him to that awful, awful movie — not that I've seen that movie, but I saw the trailer, and I'm judgmental, and I wasn't dumb enough to join any movie dictator clubs back in ninety-seven. Farrell doesn't nail every line or look, but he brings just the right vibe to his role, and when the film works, it's usually because of him, or maybe I just want to pet him. Screenshot me!
Well, f—k, that's hardly ideal, but I only grabbed three stills from the film, and this is all that's left. There's probably a metaphor in that for In Bruges
. Or vice versa. If I learned anything from the film, it's that Bruges can be a metaphor for most anything. Just like midgets in dreams. I also learned that it can be fun watching Ralph Fiennes play a character, but that character can still be the least interesting thing in a film. Furthermore, I learned that if Bullseye, MadEye Moody, and Voldemort got into a fight, I wouldn't necessarily care who won, but something winkingly racist would be said and we'd all go home winners. Grade me!Grade:
F—k you, that's my grade.