merricatnyc

You know that movie where Morgan Freeman is the dignified black man who helps some messed up white person become a better human being?

You know that movie where Jack Nicholson is a jerk with a heart of gold with a nugget of jerk at the center?

Put all 50 of those movies into a blender with a dash of brain cancer and a not so surprising surprise ending and you have Bucket List.

If you're not tasting bile in the back of your mouth right now, you should click over to Fandango and get your tix. There is no in between.

I felt it to be the worst kind of made by committee corporate dreck, but I've been moved to laugh and cry at movies that could be described the same way. I loathed it, but can see what is appealing about it to others. It's important to understand what you're getting into before you shell out two hours of your life for it, that's all I'm saying.

I don't know about the rest of this film, but the first half hour is the the most horrifying thing ever. Goldie Hawn's c*******ing leatherface is MUCH MUCH scarier than the one on that chainsaw wielding guy.

The humming telegraphs and dropping anvils leave little question about how this plot is going to play out. (psst--I think they're both going to learn some Valuable Lessons) The only mystery is did Geoffrey Rush lose a bet?

Though this was promoted as an homage to late 50's-early 60's sex comedies, it plays as a snarky and contemptuous slam of same. The script is heavy-handed, sarcastic, and crushingly unfunny. Rene Zellwegger's smirking and prancing is utterly loathsome. Ewan McGregor is more wooden than I thought possible.

In all fairness, the costumes are lovely and David Hyde Pierce gives pretty good Tony Randall.

Do yourself a favor--skip this trash and just watch Pillow Talk. Or Sex and the Single Girl. Or paint drying.