Promised Land - a movie review

This one has a lot of, uh, promise.  Yeah, that's the word I was looking for.  So let's jump in!

It stars Matt Damon as some guy who works for an evil corporation run by bald men.  Ben Affleck has been killed by Minnie Driver and she's in a women's prison serving 20 years to life.  After a lesbian, pillow fight scene that is completely incongruent, we jump to an expensive restaurant in a decadent big city.  Matt has lunch with a bald man from the evil corporation, Global something or other.  Global Amalgamated Diversified Holdings - a Textron ® company.

He explains much of the backstory, and orders a Lobster salad.  It seems he's good at talking to these country fucks because of years of therapy from Robin Williams, among other things.

The taxi driver takes Matt to the corner of 3rd street and Indiana avenue, whereupon he meets a hooker, and we have another uncomfortable sex scene.  It's very graphic, with Matt pulling a ball gag out of his carry-on, and the hooker beating Matt like the proverbial red headed step child.  That's all I'm going to say.

Next, we meet the Frances McDormand character.  She's in town investigating some malfeasance.  She rented a 1990 Ford Explorer from some guy named Eddie.  This part almost entirely killed my suspension of disbelief.  I mean, these stopped being rentals, like, a hundred years ago.  Like the Clint Eastwood character driving a 1965 Mustang Convertible in 'Trouble With the Curve.'  More like, 'Trouble With Incontinence.'

Then we're introduced to the Titus Welliver character, who runs a sex shop.  Matt attempts to pay for a dido with his corporate Amex card, Titus mumbles something about Deadwood, and angrily grabs the card.

Matt explains to this hayseed that Global will buy his family six months worth of frozen pizza dinners in exchange for his twenty acres.  The hayseed agrees to the deal.

Matt then has lunch with another bald man.  This man is particularly corrupt.  He sells out for a years worth of Snickers bars.

Matt gets drunk and picks up this chick.  Another weird sex scene follows.  Let's just say the audience was mortified.

 

Next we get the sanctimonious Hal Holbrook character.  He explains that he's a high school teacher.  Yeah sure, geriatric teachers.  That's it for me.  I stopped watching after that little gem.

I turned to Univision.  I don't understand Spanish, and that's fine by me.  It looked like they were having a Karaoke competition.

9/14/03

Once upon a time there was a boy named John.  He lived in a tree.  It was cold sometimes and sometimes it was hot.  This was okay with John because he had long underwear, a cell phone, and liquid nitrogen.  Sometimes he got hungry.  So, he ate birds and worms.  Catching worms was difficult because he never once came down from his tree.  So, he would poke a stick into the ground.  At some point years later he accidentally poked a youth in the eye.  The youth shot and killed John.

THE END

You're Going to Fucking Die Today

The flight attendant is explaining how to fasten a seatbelt when it occurs to me that we're not going to make it.  Despite our properly fastened seat belts.

We're going to fucking die.

And I vaguely look like the guy in 8A.  And the coroner will confuse us, my body will get sent to the wrong place, and a grieving child will say, "Dad doesn't look so good, Mommy.  Why does Daddy look so frightened?"

This causes me to laugh, which I cover up with my hand.

We're going to fucking die this afternoon!

"... if you are physically unable to wind a large rubber band please change seats with someone who can."

I laugh some more.  I cover it up harder.

"Blah.  Blah.  Blah."

The safety presentation continues.

"A group of small boys will twist the plane's rubber band and throw us into the air.  Please turn off all electronic devices during this procedure."

I reach into my back pocket to grab my phone and turn it off.

A plane just like ours sits next to us.  I stare out the window watching the captain make his pre-flight inspection.  He kicks a tire.  He spins one of the propellers.  It didn't fall off so I guess it passed.  He pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a big drink.  It must be almost empty since he's looking up at the clouds with the flask turned end over end.  He shakes it.  It's empty.

"... your seat can be used as a flotation device."

Good to know, but I'll be too busy screaming and drowning.

"Because this is a short flight, meals will not be served.  And the extra weight of the food may upset the plane's delicate balance and it could crash in a glorious fireball.  Of course you'll be dead by then so it won't matter."

Oh, God.  Glad I skipped breakfast.  The NTSB will thank my dead body.

I look around at the cabin.  This plane is about 100 years old.  This brass plaque on the flight deck door indicates that this plane was flown by the Wright brothers on their famous flight at Kitty Hawk.  I notice some duct tape on the inside of the fuselage.  I begin nervously picking at it.

"Sir, please stop that.  Otherwise we may crash.  And it will be your fault."

"Sorry."

 A few minutes pass.  Ginger begins her routine, once the plane levels out, above the first layer of clouds.  The Pacific ocean is to my right.  I've always wanted to crash into it.  Another bucket list item completed!

"Vodka?  Cigarette?"  the flight attendant asks.

"Both please."  I respond,

She hands me a clear plastic cup filled with vodka and uses tongs to drop an ice cube into the cup.  She hands me a cigarette, lights it, and asks the next passenger, "Vodka?  Cigarette?"

He responds, "No," and grabs his knees with a tight grip.

The fool!  You know, this is how you die.

I dump the Vodka in my mouth and swallow it.  I ask Ginger, who's still next to me, to top off my drink.  She obliges.

"Can I have another cigarette too?"

"Sure." says Ginger, as she flips the pack toward me.  A cigarette comes out and I take it.

She looks at me with an assuring smile and says, "You probably won't die today."

"Thanks."

Burgers and Funerals

I've reached an existential crossroads. Atheism just isn't doing it these days, Agnosticism is like a guy shrugging his shoulders when asked for directions, and all the major religions are clearly laughable.

So, I'm left with worshipping the Sun, a glass of water, or maybe this Hamburger from McDonald's. My opinion is that God killed himself a long time ago, which would explain his absence. He was a miserable guy anyway. Or, the alternate explanation is that he cares deeply, and, aside from dropping by to alter the outcomes of sporting events, he really doesn't intervene all that much. He lets somebody else take all the blame for a child getting cancer and instead takes all the credit if the kid recovers. This makes me think of the firefighter who sets the very blazes he later puts out in order to become a hero. The McDonald's Hamburger is looking pretty good.

So, we've eliminated all the major religions. I assume there's a minor religion that takes care of this little rogue-deity problem. Oh wait, we can blame Satan. Only Satan would give kids cancer and send Hurricanes into major population centers. Wait again. We never blame Satan for the weather. Instead we blame Mother Nature. Let that bitch take the rap.

Atheism has very little to say on just about every subject.

An Atheist's Eulogy

“Oh, let us pray for little Timmy. Actually, never mind. Little Timmy is in a better place. Forget that one too. I got nothing for ya. Little Timmy is dead now. Like that fern you stuck in the corner and kept forgetting to water. Except the fern is obviously going to Heaven. We can't say the same for Timmy.”

An Agnostic's Eulogy

“Oh, let us pray for little Timmy. An un-named deity gave him Cancer. If I was a betting man I'd say that little Timmy is in a better place now, but we'll never know for sure. All we can really say for sure is that we won't hear anymore screaming.”

So, I guess we had to invent religion in order to fill up all the extra air-time at funerals. So, when you see me bringing McDonald's Hamburgers to a funeral, please understand that I'm paying my respects the best way I know how.

A Squirrel's POV

A squirrel bounds from his perch in an oak tree and jumps onto a power line. He clutches an acorn in each front paw, oblivious to the fact that he is precariously balancing well over twenty feet in the air.

Beneath him, a backyard party is underway. The backyard belongs to that of Stephen Thornhill. It is one of several yards on the Thornhill compound that could be labeled with the description of 'back.'  This one happens to be the largest and possesses the most intricate landscaping. The hedgerows are neatly arranged in a row. The shrubbery is similarly arranged. No one can tell from their viewpoint on the ground, but the landscaping forms satanic symbols that would frighten most Christians.

Inside, beyond the squirrel's view, is Mother Thornhill. She was brought in to make her delicious and prize winning potato salad. Actually, she is making nothing. She is much too elderly to stand up for a time longer than a couple minutes.  She grabs her cane tightly with her left hand, and points with her right.  All the while barking orders of ingredients and their measurements to a cook, who mixes them with a large wooden spoon inside an even larger bowl.

Our squirrel, sloppy and wasteful, drops an acorn while he eats another. Nobody knows this but you and I - but the dropped acorn germinates in the spring, and many years later becomes a magnificent oak. Young lovers seek out the Oak and like to sit under its thick branches.

The squirrel's eyes dart to the left. And back again to the right. He watches the party unfold and his eyes settle on a group of men.

A half-dozen men are gathered in a semi-circle. Each one is smoking a cigar or a pipe and holding a drink. Most of the guests are drinking vodka based drinks. Thornhill drinks brandy and is the only one holding a brandy glass. He swirls it around the inside of the glass while he fields compliments about the landscaping, and is asked to forward them to the gardener. They discuss what to do with their millions. Thornhill says something about the ascendant Japenese Yen, or something about Gold, or something else about a company, Amalgamated something or another.

The squirrel, never landing in one place very long, darts from the power line into another tree, and across two lanes of blacktop. Just at that moment a young man – Krebs – sole heir to the Krebs estate and its billions and billions, is late for a party and is coming around the corner with his girlfriend, Contessa, in his Porsche Cayman S.

Contessa passes him a joint.  He hits it. At that moment he sees the squirrel. But it's too late. He hits it.  The squirrel's brains squish out all over the Porsches' left-front wheel well.

“What the fuck!” Krebs exclaims.

Pleasant Thoughts

I've come the conclusion that this is probably as good as it gets. The dead don't have much to say about current events. You'd figure by now some clever dead guy would give us a hearty, “Hello!” But nothing. Nothing from Houdini. Nothing from Abraham Lincoln. And nothing from Hitler. Not even a “Hey! How's it going? BTW, death to the Jews!” The only one who has anything to say is Jesus and he has to talk through portals, like Pat Robertson, who make interpretations for us, because we're too thick-headed to understand.

I don't buy it. Just like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster. An argument can be made for UFOs, however. Anyway, we invented the shit because life got boring and we had to keep ourselves amused, or, in the case of God, we invented some hokum about “your rewards are in Heaven,” so everybody would get back to work and not fuck-up the balance sheet. Otherwise, people would say, “Fuck you!” to their supervisor and enroll in community college to take a course in literature, or baking, or some such thing. But I'm not a believer, so as a result, I've never seen a Bigfoot, a UFO, or even the alleged God or his dead son, Jesus. As long as I'm in the area, doesn't this marketing line seem a little OJ to you?

“He loves you so much that he allowed his only son to get murdered.”

How about a marketing line we can all agree on? One that isn't so violent.

“He loves you so much that you can eat the last Chocolate chip cookie.”

The old man didn't throw up any road-blocks for the Romans? He just let them kill his son and, although I'm no expert as a single guy, a parent would never allow this to happen without a big fight. Maybe God could have used a woman's opinion. Why didn't he marry Mary, anyway?

So, back to my original thesis, that this is probably as good as it gets. I think life is much like any Soprano's episode. Lots of un-answered questions and lots of violence. Nobody is minding the store, and God, if he ever existed in the first place, probably killed himself a long time ago, after years of wringing his hands over how it all turned out.

I never gave a second (or even a first) thought to how this might turn out. I guess I'm old now. The correct answer is 'badly.' It all ends in a hole in the ground, or in a furnace. Then, it won't be long before everybody you knew winds up there too. Before you know it, nobody will be left that knew you. You'll be forgotten like the runner-up at this year's Daytona 500, or this year's Master's tournament.

So, Heaven and Hell are clearly on Earth. We're on our own here.