I promised you there’d be more, and here it is – my review of Foxcatcher. Even I’m shocked by the effort. Now yes it’s the DAY of the Oscars, and yes it’s only one movie, but don’t judge me! I’ve been very busy doing what people do in Los Angeles. Driving around, pretending to have appointments, laughing at all of the people suffering in the new Arctic that is our East Coast. Sorry, but it’s just too funny. Eighteen feet of snow in some cities. Relatives and friends complaining on the phone how cold it is. Boo Hoo. You live in an unstable, dangerous climate… by choice. I left New York, so could you. Take a hint. Most of California is empty. And not just culturally. Millions of acres of empty land between Los Angeles and San Francisco. But I digress.
Because today is The Oscars! Hollywood’s biggest party that you’re not invited to. Yes, you could go camp out early at the Kodak Theater for red carpet bleacher tickets, but that’s as close as you’re gonna get to George Clooney’s halo, let alone the actual ceremony, and the exclusive parties. We’re talking stretch limos driven by naked fetish porn stars, coke infused champagne, neutered servants catering to your every whim. Yup, that really happens and it’s beyond your most perverted dreams, but not for you. The large security men keep us commoners out. And they’re good at it. Too good, in my opinion. One of them broke my thumb last year with a pepper mill. Last time I try to sneak in through an Armenian kitchen. Horrible. But I do know how to type with one hand, so here we go…
If I could sum it up with one word… MEH. It’s not bad, it’s not great, it’s an interesting story, but it’s… Meh. It’s slow. The people look weird. Everyone talks odd. The sky is always gray. The cars are old. And most damning, there is no fashion, no fun, nothing fabulous. That’s not the amazing, zany gay world I know.
Which is a major problem. Because the real Foxcatcher story is about an allegedly closeted man’s obsession with wrestling. But what was up on the screen was a million miles from Hedwig & The Angry Inch. This wasn’t even Studio 54! This movie needed a big Disco soundtrack, lots of wild parties, clever banter…and lots of shirtless, sweaty hunks grabbing each other. Instead you got Steve Carell, wearing so much white makeup, he looked like Gary Oldman in Dracula! As Old Dracula!
And if you think Steve looked bad, you should have seen Channing Tatum. The man plays a stripper in every other movie. In real-life he was a god-damn stripper! But not in Foxcatcher. In Foxcatcher he looks like a mentally challenged cave-man. I kid you not. And he barely speaks. Which is a bad choice, given Channing Tatum is really funny. Just watch 21 Jumpstreet (but not the sequel) or him hosting SNL. If I was the writer, I would have given him some jokes. Some bits. A spit take. But no, that would have been… fun.
And don’t eve start me with Mark Ruffalo. He was the ugliest Bear in the history of Bears. He walked around all hunched over, swinging his arms, which I guess was supposed to show us he was a wrestler. But what I saw was some weird, malformed creature from Planet of the Apes. And not even the good movies… I’m talking the crappy Marky Mark one. And Ruffalo was bald. Bad bald. Shave your head. Use some Propecia. This is a major motion picture. Men who pay $15 for a ticket don’t need to look up at their futures. Entertain us, Hollywood.
As I write this, my Assistant Sir Francis Brocolli is screaming at me that Foxcatcher is a serious drama/thriller and not a celebration of gay culture, and that I am cut off from more dry Prosecco. My response to Sir Francis “Judgment’ is I’m a f-ing GLAAD nominee, so back the F off girlfriend. And there’s vodka in the freezer, so keep your stupid sweet wine!
Followed by Meh. Which is what FOXCATCHER is…
More to follow today. Maybe…