 Hell looks absolutely fantastic.
Renowned playwright turned director Martin McDonagh's majestic 2008 feature-length debut In Bruges has the distinct honor of invading my list of favorite films of all time within the span of 48 short hours. Rarely have I encountered a film that deftly blends drama, comedy, thought-provoking dialogue, and intense graphic violence into one thoroughly cohesive narrative without sacrificing anything in the process. This tale of two troubled hit men and their impromptu holiday in the breathtaking town of Bruges (it's in Belgium) begins innocently enough, giving the viewer plenty of time to get to know these two oddly lovable individuals before nose-diving into more serious issues. Stars Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson -- the latter of whom is strangely absent from the Region 1 DVD artwork -- bring some much-needed humanity to these world-weary mercenaries, allowing you to see the person behind the proverbial smoking gun even when the atrocities they commit are beyond forgivable. Though billed as an "action comedy," the film succeeds on more levels than pure visceral glee; the humor is derived from the characters themselves, not the situations they've unexpectedly find themselves in. And while there is a fair amount of gun-related gore splashed around during a few key scenes, I wouldn't necessarily label this picture as something most popcorn munching airheads would pay ten dollars to see on the big screen. Live Free or Die Hard this isn't. One second you're laughing out loud at Farrell's child-like antics, or the father and son relationship between the two leads, and the next you're literally on the verge of tears. This is an extremely hard balance to strike, but McDonagh makes it seem effortless. In Bruges is as captivating and beautiful as modern cinema gets. Incredible.
Recipe For Success: Collin Farrell's Outstanding Performance + McDonagh's Razor-Sharp Script + Ralph Fiennes Scares Me Sometimes
Don't Call Them Midgets: And if they don't wave to you on the streets, please don't be offended.
Most of them are on horse tranquilizers.
 What in the hell was I thinking?
Director Brian Robbins -- also known as tough guy Eric Mardian from ABC's underrated sitcom Head of the Class -- seemingly has cheesy filmmaking down to an exact science. And despite what anyone says to the contrary, Good Burger is a gold-encrusted kid-friendly classic worthy of deep collegiate study. However, on the other end of this goofy spectrum lies the much-loathed 2007 Eddie Murphy vehicle Norbit, a movie which, for reasons unknown, I felt strongly compelled to investigate. Though extremely colorful and a blast to look at, the picture is littered with cheap racial stereotypes, horrible dialogue, laughable logic, and quite possibly the most random, outrageously moronic finales in recent memory, The Matrix Revolutions included. As always, Murphy relishes the opportunity to play no less than three vastly different characters, each with their own unique set of highly annoying quirks and ticks. Problem is, none of them are the least bit sympathetic, in particular the film's titular character. Unlike Napoleon Dynamite, there's nothing remotely interesting about Norbit as a person, a fact which prevents you from making any sort of emotional connection with the guy and his lovelorn plight. His savagely cruel wife Rasputia, meanwhile, wears out her welcome as soon as those heaving, matronly breasts start leaning on the car horn. Kazuhiro Tsuji and Rick Baker's effects work is top notch, to be sure, and they certainly deserved the Academy Award nomination. It's just a shame their talents are showcased in a feature that is, at the end of a very long day, completely worthless. With no redeeming qualities whatsoever to speak of, Norbit should be avoided by anyone who truly values the well-being of their mental health. I feel dumber already.
Recipe For Disaster: Eddie Murphy's Ego + Several Failed Attempts At Humor + Katt Williams Is Still The Man
Another Stain On Cuba: The Boyz N The Hood star is certainly a long, long way from Compton.
Somewhere, Ricky is still crying.
 It's just a bunch of trees.
Infamous Cannibal Holocaust director Ruggero Deodato's silly 1983 action knock-off The Raiders of Atlantis (aka The Atlantis Interceptors) is quite possibly one of the most unintentionally confusing movies ever to grace my highly perplexed television screen. Working from a script that was clearly written while binging on big-budget Hollywood drivel, Deodato assaults the viewer with a large number of quasi-interesting ideas -- then suddenly abandons all of them once he's painted himself directly into the nearest corner. What could have been a sly sci-fi actioner about the sudden, unexpected return of Atlantis quickly spirals into a nonsensical hodge-podge of generic shoot-outs, cheap helicopter sequences, and oh-so memorable one-liners, the latter of which are mostly delivered by Cannibal Apocalypse veteran Tony King. Also entrenched in this cinematic madness is Peyton Place star Christopher Connelly, who often appears to be just as genuinely muddle-headed as everyone else. Attempting to solve any of the puzzles presented by the filmmakers is a lost cause; try as you might, nothing adds up, leaving you with more questions than you started with. Does all of this tomfoolery detract from the picture's ability to satisfy your insatiable need for action? Not in the least. Say what you will about the overall quality of the film, but The Raiders of Atlantis is pure entertainment. The body count is high, lots of innocent people bite the dust in a handful of inventive ways, and the theme song will lodge itself awkwardly in your brain for weeks on end. I don't recommend going out of your way to locate this turkey, but if you happen to stumble across a copy somewhere along your worldly journeys, definitely snatch it up. Obscure Italian oddities are rarely this much fun.
Recipe For Success: Loads Of Silly Dialogue + Several Gruesome Shoot-Outs + Spinach Is Way Cool
Let Sleeping Subs Lie: Screwing around with underwater wreckage is never a good idea.
Unless your name is James Cameron, of course.
 Crack-smoking lipstick lesbians love autopsies.
Didn't hypersexual, WB-style hackwork like this go out of style over ten years ago? Apparently not. Arriving like a diseased uncle you assumed had perished back in the late 90's, German director Marc Schoelermann's glossy psychological head game Pathology would love for you to consider it an edgy, shocking, taboo-busting genre explosion like no other. And, to be fair, there is plenty of genuinely offensive imagery on-display, though all of this medically-charged gore and carnage loses every inch of its impact once you realize that the story itself isn't remotely as engaging or cohesive as Crank scribes Neveldine and Taylor would have you believe. The film follows the sinister exploits of hunky medical student Ted Grey (Milo Ventimiglia) during his tenure at one of America's most prestigious pathology programs, an institution which seems to attract nothing but arrogant, thrill-hungry losers who still act like they're roaming the halls of an Orange County high school. Led by the diabolical Dr. Jake Gallo (Michael Weston), this murderous cluster of sociopaths begin challenging one another to commit the perfect crime, one that no pathologist can properly piece together. Though the premise serves as a sturdy backbone for this ambitious production, Schoelermann and his pair of screenwriting monkeys never tie any of this together in a way that's both believable and entertaining. What you're left with, unfortunately, is a fairly gruesome by-the-numbers thriller that even pre-teen mouth-breathers will be able to figure out by the halfway mark. Much to the dismay of all involved, Pathology is as shallow and empty-headed as a marathon of The Hills, though not nearly as enjoyable. Would have made a great episode of CSI, though.
Recipe For Disaster: One Overwrought Script + Several Cheap Attempts At Shock + I Feel Sorry For Larry Drake
Woe Is Milano: Alyssa is much better than this sort of generic, one-note garbage.
Phoebe Halliwell wouldn't stand for it.
 Is that a scorpion in your Duff?
Joshua Seftel's lofty 2008 comedic thriller War, Inc. is an admittedly tough nut to crack. Despite biting off more than it could ever possibly chew, the film's dry, cynical analysis of the Iraqi war and America's inherent consumerism is as amusing as it is sly. Assuming, of course, that you haven't grown impossibly tired of Hollywood's endless liberal drive to vapidly critique world events. If taken at face value, War, Inc. is a thoroughly enjoyable romp akin to star John Cusack's previous assassin opus, the grossly underrated 1997 comedy Grosse Pointe Blank. In fact, you could go as far as to say that Brand Hauser is the spiritual successor to Martin Blank, a quirky, tobasco-swilling assassin who's having second thoughts about whacking his target while attempting to kindle a romance with a sexy woman who is, of course, way out of his league. The road bumps in the script, as well as some unfortunate pacing issues, are easily disguised by the film's incredible cast, which includes Marisa Tomei, Joan Cusack, a virtually unrecognizable Hilary Duff, Ben Kingsley, and daytime talk show host Montel Williams as the voice of Hauser's therapeutic GuideStar navigational system. Unfortunately, after savoring several well-choreographed fight scenes and more than a few bushels of witty dialogue, the story unexpectedly collapses into utter absurdity, delivering a perplexing third act twist which instantly derails the final fifteen minutes of the film. What a shame. As long as you keep your expectations under control, War, Inc. should adequately reward those looking for a snappy, intelligent action/comedy that doesn't automatically assume you're as dumb as dirt. It's a nice gesture, anyway.
Recipe For Mediocrity: One Darkly Humorous Script + John Cusack In Top Form + Who Knew Hilary Duff Had It In Her?
The Icing On The Cake: Keep your ears peeled for an amusing Steven Seagal joke about halfway through the picture.
It's funny because it's true.
 Sobriety really sucks.
After leaving the production of the 1994 Jackie Chan masterpiece Drunken Master II (aka Legend of the Drunken Master) due to various problems with its formidable star, famed Hong Kong director LauKar-Leung spitefully delivered his own brand of alcoholic nonsense, the surprisingly dry kung fu clunker Drunken Master III, or, as it states on my Black Belt Theater double-feature DVD, Drunken Master Killer. Comparatively speaking, this ill-fated tale of kung fu revolution isn't even on the same planet as its superior, spit-polished counterpart, breeding an uneasy sense of disappointment in those who fondly remember what the iconic filmmaker has accomplished within the genre. Story problems aside, the picture is technical failure, especially in regards to the three or four fight sequences packaged in-between several botched attempts at physical comedy. Most of the on-screen confrontations are short, sloppy, and entirely forgettable; not even the film's grand finale -- an event which showcases the cinematic talents of its director, Andy Lau, and the always amusing Gordon Liu -- can hold a candle to Chan's magnum opus, which, I might add, actually incorporates the drunken style into its storyline. As a curiosity piece, Drunken Master III will only appeal to kung fu aficionados and those brave few who just enjoy spending a lazy afternoon with a clunky martial arts movie. However, if you value your precious free time and wish to spend it with something worthwhile, might I suggest investigating The 36th Chamber of Shaolin, Dirty Ho, or even Drunken Master II, instead. Chances are you'll thank me later.
Recipe For Disaster: One Needlessly Complex Script + Several Lukewarm Fights + Fairy Style? Oy.
A Suggestion To Unwed Mothers: Learn kung-fu as soon as you can.
Otherwise they'll make you scrub the laundry.
 Even with mustard, it's still just animal parts.
Mark Steilen's unexpectedly mundane 2008 comedy Wieners is, in my rough estimation, the sort of second-rate direct-to-video motion picture one generally watches after consuming large amounts of cheap alcohol in the unfinished basement of a friend's sparsely-decorated house. In other words, this one's strictly for the boys -- women need not apply. At all. Simply put, it's the Generation Y equivalent of a Police Academy movie, a hodge-podge of poorly-written sketches centered around a central premise that no sane adult would find the least bit appealing. That said, Steilen and crew -- which includes Kenan Thompson, Fran Kranz, and Zachary Levi, among others -- do manage a few genuine moments of inspired hilarity in-between frantic bouts of overblown gross-out gags and misplaced homophobic wisecracking. Go figure! And if naked ladies and bodily fluids aren't enough tickle your funny bone, the filmmakers have also generously equipped their dodgy production with Hitler jokes, hillbilly jokes, and, yes, hot dog jokes in a lame attempt to violently yank laughter from its audience. The film's heart is certainly in the right place, to be sure, but most won't be able to see the gentle forest for the vulgar trees. That's because Wieners is brutally juvenile, powered by the imagination of an awkward teenage boy who has just discovered the unbridled joy of wanton masturbation. If a road trip featuring the oh-so familiar misadventures of a pair of goofy twenty-somethings sounds better than anything else you've got going on at the moment, perhaps Wieners will satisfy your indiscriminate hunger for humor. It may be as hollow as your grandmother's rotten wooden leg, but at least it's better than Saturday Night Live. Barely.
Recipe For Disaster: Darrell Hammond's Dr. Phil Impersonation + One Too Many Potty Giggles + Please, No More Beyonce Jokes
Jenny McCarthy Rocks: She's really the only reason I'd recommend this moldy dog to anyone. Actually, just save your money.
Wait for someone to upload her scene on YouTube, instead.
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