It’s like staring into an unfamiliar mirror, in some foreign bedroom’s accompanying bathroom. The liquor still singing your judgment, treating your brain like a wet sponge that’s heavier than a bag of quarters. What the fuck am I doing here? Where is here, exactly? Why did I have that eighth shot of Henny? From the bedroom, you hear some girl’s voice, beckoning, “What’s taking you so long? Let’s do this damn thing already! I want you.” For a second, you’re feeling good, the mood striking and sicking the horny-bug into your loins. But then, as you step back into the room where your soon-to-be-fuck-buddy awaits, the pupils catch a steady glimpse at her, and a sensation similar to drinking curdled milk gives you the sickly chills. The sad part is, self, that I know I’m going to shamefully enjoy this. She’s not exactly the Elephant Woman, but she’s fugly enough to turn the impending one-night-stand into a grueling labor of only-to-get-my-rocks-off. And you know what? It’s a damn good time. So enjoyable, in fact, that you quietly look forward to the next time.
Even if he won’t admit it, every guy in the world has either been in that situation to that precise outcome or at least can agree that he’d do the exact same thing if ever in that mix. How does this relate to my humble little film blog, you may be asking yourself? Simplistic-ness, reader. Because next Friday, the movie equivalent to that fugly-yet-pleasure-giving woman hits theaters—-G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra.
There’s not much in the way of analysis in regards to G.I. Joe. We all know the deal. Directed by Stephen Sommers, the often-called-a-“hack” chap responsible for desecrating the Universal horror canon with 2004’s vile Van Helsing, the one where Frankenstein cried like a little bitch and Kate Beckinsale made a horrible Transylvanian accent sound sexy. Sommers is like an even-more shallow Michael Bay, if such a description is possible. So you know that his G.I. Joe is going to be a lobotomized shell of a film. And the cast, made up of a hodge-podge of B-listers (Channing Tatum, Marlon Wayans, Sienna Miller) alongside the gimme-the-loot-intentioned duo of Dennis Quaid and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, isn’t exactly Robert Altman-esque. Oh, and the producer is also the guy behind the Transformers movies.
Quite the recipe for head-numbing. But, like the hideous gal that the guy bags just for the cheap thrill, G.I. Joe is an overachiever without pretension. And the truth of the matter is, I’m ready to drop coin on the film come opening night. Without guilt. It’s not even that I was such an avid Joe toy collector as a bed-wetter that I’m going with an undying allegiance to the property. I had a bag full of Joe action figures, sure, but was no more attached to them then the next kid. The reason why I’m so amped for G.I. Joe is that I’m a sucker at heart. As much as I sing the praises of envelope-pushing foreign films and Stanley Kubrick masterpieces, my whipping-boy side can’t resist the spectacle that will surely be G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. It’s relaxing to turn my brain off once in a while and snack on some eye-Snickers. The magnetism emitted from the junk is powerful. Just as, ladies, your nice-guy friend that gives you hope for the male species with every kind word and thoughtful action would quickly tap the sloppily-unattractive chick in the club, if given the green light. Does that make him a bad person? Nope, not at all. Human, yes.
Does wanting badly to see G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra make me a candidate for impeachment out of the Film Lovers’ Society? Fuck outta here. Negativo. The intoxicant that I’ll be able to blame is the allure of expensive flashing lights and CGI action. My hangover will kick in once I get back home and see Synecdoche, New York poking out of my DVD collection, Philip Seymour Hoffman firing ice-grills in my direction. I’ll feel no shame, though. In fact, if G.I. Joe is every bit the fun ride I’m hoping it’ll be, I may partake in seeing it a second time. Who knows?
Besides, I’ve had enough will power to not see Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. That was the alcohol-sipping harlot that my other folks warned me about, persuading me to steer clear of her flirtation and open-legged stance. G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, though, is the strobelite honey, and, yes, I’m Dres (Black Sheep, anyone?). And sometimes, will power suffers from the Samson-after-a-drastic-haircut syndrome.
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