Furry Vengeance (1:30, PG) — Other: Talking Animals, 3rd string, original
Brendan Fraser 1st endeared himself to SF fans as the thawed-out missing link in 1992's Encino Man. Since then, he's turned in a lot solid performances in genre films, notably as gentleman adventurer Rick O'Connell in the Mummy series. So, while he does doofus really well, he can also sell himself as a big, beefy guy with a soft heart or as a serious actor in a serious role. The one thing he's never attempted is villainy; like Will Smith, he's always aimed for (and largely hit) likability. Last year he reached new heights in Inkheart, which I thot was magnificent. (I'm a sucker for books.) This week the law of averages reasserts itself as he plummets straight to the bottom in the role of suburban developer Dan Sanders, beset by the woodland creatures he's preparing to displace, in Furry Vengeance.
Just to put things in perspective about the relentless, unremitting awfulness of this movie, I gave Beverly Hills Chihuahua a higher rating (2). Speaking of relentlessness, Edward Shearmur's score is both ubiquitous and manically perky. An appearance by the world's least helpful librarian is only about 54th on this film's list of sins.
Screenwriters Michael Carnes and Josh Gilbert have provided an abundance of plot and dialog, so you get a lot of substance in the 90 minutes you spend squirming and covering your eyes. I think they took pride in breaking new ground in the icky-fluids department. In addition to the abundance of poop, pee, fart, barf, and crotch jokes, they've upped the ante with skunks. And, just to be sure you didn't miss this brilliant innovation on their part, they repeat it 3 or 4 times.
Searching desperately for something positive to say about Furry Vengeance, I must commend director Roger Kumble for getting the entire cast to buy into the premise of how it should be overacted, as every single one of them gives it everything they've got, from beginning to end, without pause or apology. I can imagine Kumble's pep speech at the kick-off meeting: "All right, we're making this film for an autistic audience that doesn't read human expressions very well. Also, we think it'll probably play well with space aliens who know nothing whatsoever about carbon-based life forms. So don't hold back, OK? Exaggerate everything. Everything! Actions, expressions, vocal intonations, emotions, the works! Just to help you out, we've prepared this little drug cocktail we'd like you to take daily, consisting of LSD, PCP, speed, and whatever it is that gets your eyes to bug out like that guy in the Staples commercial."
I categorize this movie under "talking animals", even tho they don't engage in actual human speech. Instead we get a variety of churrs, coos, and gurgles, apparently from the throat of one Dee Bradley Baker. But the various different kinds of critters can all understand each other, and they pass along stories via cartoon thot balloons running flashbacks (or, in one scene, Mel Gibson in Braveheart). And they've developed tool use, which we see in the opening scenes, as a Rube Goldberg contraption turns a huge boulder loose on the SUV of an arrogant developer who has just thrown his cigar stub into a pile of dry leaves.
Philosophers who have long sought the elusive white crow (as an example of trying to prove a negative) will be delighted to know that the producers of this nature epic did not blanch at depicting one, apparently figuring nobody in the audience would notice ... or maybe care.
This film reminds me of nothing so much as the conservative political pundit William Kristol. He's bright, well informed, charming, articulate, thotful, and well intentioned. And you know that every single time he's opened his mouth for the last quarter century, whatever comes out of it has been dead wrong. Reliably. Consistently. Every time. Without let or regret. And he just keeps on doing it!
I cannot imagine what anybody ever said to the participants in, or financiers of, this train wreck that made them think it would be a good idea. Redeeming thot? As long as you're still alive, things can always get worse.
Brendan Fraser 1st endeared himself to SF fans as the thawed-out missing link in 1992's Encino Man. Since then, he's turned in a lot solid performances in genre films, notably as gentleman adventurer Rick O'Connell in the Mummy series. So, while he does doofus really well, he can also sell himself as a big, beefy guy with a soft heart or as a serious actor in a serious role. The one thing he's never attempted is villainy; like Will Smith, he's always aimed for (and largely hit) likability. Last year he reached new heights in Inkheart, which I thot was magnificent. (I'm a sucker for books.) This week the law of averages reasserts itself as he plummets straight to the bottom in the role of suburban developer Dan Sanders, beset by the woodland creatures he's preparing to displace, in Furry Vengeance.
Just to put things in perspective about the relentless, unremitting awfulness of this movie, I gave Beverly Hills Chihuahua a higher rating (2). Speaking of relentlessness, Edward Shearmur's score is both ubiquitous and manically perky. An appearance by the world's least helpful librarian is only about 54th on this film's list of sins.
Screenwriters Michael Carnes and Josh Gilbert have provided an abundance of plot and dialog, so you get a lot of substance in the 90 minutes you spend squirming and covering your eyes. I think they took pride in breaking new ground in the icky-fluids department. In addition to the abundance of poop, pee, fart, barf, and crotch jokes, they've upped the ante with skunks. And, just to be sure you didn't miss this brilliant innovation on their part, they repeat it 3 or 4 times.
Searching desperately for something positive to say about Furry Vengeance, I must commend director Roger Kumble for getting the entire cast to buy into the premise of how it should be overacted, as every single one of them gives it everything they've got, from beginning to end, without pause or apology. I can imagine Kumble's pep speech at the kick-off meeting: "All right, we're making this film for an autistic audience that doesn't read human expressions very well. Also, we think it'll probably play well with space aliens who know nothing whatsoever about carbon-based life forms. So don't hold back, OK? Exaggerate everything. Everything! Actions, expressions, vocal intonations, emotions, the works! Just to help you out, we've prepared this little drug cocktail we'd like you to take daily, consisting of LSD, PCP, speed, and whatever it is that gets your eyes to bug out like that guy in the Staples commercial."
I categorize this movie under "talking animals", even tho they don't engage in actual human speech. Instead we get a variety of churrs, coos, and gurgles, apparently from the throat of one Dee Bradley Baker. But the various different kinds of critters can all understand each other, and they pass along stories via cartoon thot balloons running flashbacks (or, in one scene, Mel Gibson in Braveheart). And they've developed tool use, which we see in the opening scenes, as a Rube Goldberg contraption turns a huge boulder loose on the SUV of an arrogant developer who has just thrown his cigar stub into a pile of dry leaves.
Philosophers who have long sought the elusive white crow (as an example of trying to prove a negative) will be delighted to know that the producers of this nature epic did not blanch at depicting one, apparently figuring nobody in the audience would notice ... or maybe care.
This film reminds me of nothing so much as the conservative political pundit William Kristol. He's bright, well informed, charming, articulate, thotful, and well intentioned. And you know that every single time he's opened his mouth for the last quarter century, whatever comes out of it has been dead wrong. Reliably. Consistently. Every time. Without let or regret. And he just keeps on doing it!
I cannot imagine what anybody ever said to the participants in, or financiers of, this train wreck that made them think it would be a good idea. Redeeming thot? As long as you're still alive, things can always get worse.