Did you ever have one of those days where, before you'd even finished properly waking up you received some news that made you debate whether you should just open a vein now, thus avoiding any need to endure the remainder of this radiant nightmare?
Well, dear readers, this is such a day...
It's been announced that Jim Carrey has signed to play not only Scrooge, but all of the ghosts who haunt him in Robert Zemeckis' new 'interpretation' of Charles Dickens formerly classic novel, A Christmas Carol. Mr. Zemeckis has written it and may direct. However, negotiations are ongoing that could bring Tim Burton to the helm instead.
There is more potential in that one paragraph for this movie to achieve a whirling, trifectoral vortex of suck that could achieve critical mass, collapse into the core of the Earth and eradicate humanity than the human mind should reasonably be expected to withstand.
To begin with, I hate, loathe and detest the concept of 'Written and Directed by...' with the passionate intensity of a thousand imploding suns. Second, I will gladly admit to possessing an intellect so modest it is unable to perceive the smallest rationality that could adequately explain why Jim Carrey ever gets a job. And third, Tim Burton...Further explanation of that point is, of course, superfluous.
Mr. Zemeckis is very talented; Back to the Future is one of the most boundlessly enjoyable examples of the cinematic art in the history of the medium; Forrest Gump was a masterpiece. But for any Director to place their name beneath the legend, 'Written and Directed by' is a onanistic faux pas of galactic proportions. Mr. Carrey, in this blogger's opinion, has yet to create a single frame of film that would persuade any cinema-goer possessed of sufficient intelligence to eat without a bib that extracting their own eyeballs with a pickle fork could be temporarily regarded as 'Plan B'. And on Mr. Burton, I shall reserve judgment.
It's possible the result of this horrendous triad might be moderately bearable. It's equally possible that the the soft humming noise you hear in the distance is Mr. Dickens, stirred to turbulent slumber by his literary classic being subjected to this unwarranted torment. But I can honestly say that, should enough people choose to resist their medication long enough to form a line for the tickets, that queue will not involve me.
Of all the problems that currently beset Hollywood, the largest is without doubt the utter dearth of fresh ideas. Plots, jokes and even whole movies are recycled endlessly to satisfy a voracious greed for maximum margins.
So why, when they come up with a vaguely new idea must it always be so irredeemably bad??
Well, dear readers, this is such a day...
It's been announced that Jim Carrey has signed to play not only Scrooge, but all of the ghosts who haunt him in Robert Zemeckis' new 'interpretation' of Charles Dickens formerly classic novel, A Christmas Carol. Mr. Zemeckis has written it and may direct. However, negotiations are ongoing that could bring Tim Burton to the helm instead.
There is more potential in that one paragraph for this movie to achieve a whirling, trifectoral vortex of suck that could achieve critical mass, collapse into the core of the Earth and eradicate humanity than the human mind should reasonably be expected to withstand.
To begin with, I hate, loathe and detest the concept of 'Written and Directed by...' with the passionate intensity of a thousand imploding suns. Second, I will gladly admit to possessing an intellect so modest it is unable to perceive the smallest rationality that could adequately explain why Jim Carrey ever gets a job. And third, Tim Burton...Further explanation of that point is, of course, superfluous.
Mr. Zemeckis is very talented; Back to the Future is one of the most boundlessly enjoyable examples of the cinematic art in the history of the medium; Forrest Gump was a masterpiece. But for any Director to place their name beneath the legend, 'Written and Directed by' is a onanistic faux pas of galactic proportions. Mr. Carrey, in this blogger's opinion, has yet to create a single frame of film that would persuade any cinema-goer possessed of sufficient intelligence to eat without a bib that extracting their own eyeballs with a pickle fork could be temporarily regarded as 'Plan B'. And on Mr. Burton, I shall reserve judgment.
It's possible the result of this horrendous triad might be moderately bearable. It's equally possible that the the soft humming noise you hear in the distance is Mr. Dickens, stirred to turbulent slumber by his literary classic being subjected to this unwarranted torment. But I can honestly say that, should enough people choose to resist their medication long enough to form a line for the tickets, that queue will not involve me.
Of all the problems that currently beset Hollywood, the largest is without doubt the utter dearth of fresh ideas. Plots, jokes and even whole movies are recycled endlessly to satisfy a voracious greed for maximum margins.
So why, when they come up with a vaguely new idea must it always be so irredeemably bad??
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