.45 Caliber Headspace

While exercising my fair use of some Netflix DVDs the other day, I came across this Michael Clayton movie. I don’t know what trickster put this movie in my queue. As a rule, I hate movies whose titles are the names of people I neither know of nor care about. It’s as if none of the producers thought the movie worth a decent title; and if they couldn’t be bothered titling, why should I be bothered watching?

Michael Clayton. Pfft! Not only is it some random name, it’s some really boring random name. How could I possibly be interested in something a Michael Clayton might do? I think there was a Michael Clayton in my elementary school that stabbed me in the arm with a pencil when I called his sister a Battlecat Fatso, but I don’t keep in touch; he’s too boring. The only reason I still remember him is because the pencil lead is still in my arm and continues to protect me from X-rays and Kryptonite. I was determined to watch this movie, however, if only so I could call it something else; if asked. Maybe that’s how they get you.

So, it ended up taking me 19 sittings to get through Michael Clayton, in between downloads of alien porn. Other than a too-short scene-devouring performance from Tom Wilkinson, this movie is exactly as boring as its name would lead you to believe. It’s message is: Corporations are evil and kill people. Whoopdie Do! We all know this, yet continue using their products three times a day. We don’t care. We’re all gonna die some day. It may as well be from deodorant or hair gel. Shit, I’m already a walking body bag. If my body’s a temple, it’s the Temple of Doom. There’s even a little bald dude in there that rips out chicks’ hearts. No wonder the producers couldn’t come up with anything. They probably couldn’t tear themselves away from the alien porn. My new title for this movie is Mr. Fix-It Needs Paxil. Still, doesn’t everyone? It could even just be called Our Depressing Lives.

Anyway, I already saw this movie when it was called Erin Brockovich. Yes, also a character-named title with the same basic premise, and not so ironically, from the same producers. The only difference is that Erin Brockovich carries this bonus message: All you need to succeed are some good tits. You don’t even need a law degree or any other abilities really, just as long as you have good tits. This movie set women back at least three years. Feminists watched in horror as their empire crumbled. After I saw this movie, I renamed it The Rack and filed it in my fairly used DVD collection next to Bikini Car Wash.

I realize that both these films received Oscar nods, but this is meaningless. The Academy Awards are the Bizarro World of movies where Halle Barry can be called a Best Actress, further supporting the message of Erin Brokovich. This is like when I gave my nanna a Best Grandma coffee mug. It’s silly, but she still talked about it for years. Halle Barry won the same night that Denzel won for his least memorable performace, and Sidney Poitier also won a lifetime achievement coffee mug. If you don’t see the purely political pattern here, I suggest you borrow LOBO’s $300 glasses. Halle Barry should stick to looking smoking hot in the doctored jpegs I collect, which speak a thousand words far more believably than her crap acting ever will. The canned voting of the Oscar machine is as useful a stamp of quality as are positive book reviews on Amazon; except in the case where someone I’ve hung out with in L.A. was nominated for Best Director (and Picture) last night. It was pretty surreal seeing him among the nominees, especially considering that one of the last times I saw him was at an Oscar party at his house, where I won the substantial Oscar betting pool—some years are more predictable than others, but picking from the heart is ALWAYS the surest way to lose. His nominations almost make me feel bad about bashing the awards. Almost. I’m happy for his success, though (even despite his movie being titled after a character).