Well, dear readers, a man’s gotta know his limitations, and there’s no way in Hell that I can live up to my self-imposed assignment of reviewing all of this summer blockbuster season’s movies. I just can’t do it, what with the mediocre-to-lousy quality of most of the films in question, to say nothing of the fact that I’m back in the nine-to-five world — or ten-to-six in my case — and can’t do the Brooklyn matinee shows that shear the admission price down by three-fifty to eight bucks (yes, you read that right; welcome to the price of movies in NYC).
I came to this decision after seeing the exceptional RATATOUILLE and sneaking unstopped into TRANSFORMERS, a movie I didn’t want to see in the first place, but intended to endure in the name of my masochistic reviewing assignment. I sat down in the almost totally packed theater, the film at a point that I’ve been told is just as the special effects carnage was about to begin, and even though I got to see one of the robots impressively rendered in very realistic CGI I was so overwhelmed with apathy that I stood up after less than five minutes and said, Nah!” after which I walked out, made my way to the bus stop and resumed reading a Modesty Blaise novel.
So I guess I’m not as iron-clad tough as I thought myself to be, and I now officially bow out of the HOLLYWOOD BLOCKBUSTER…OR HOLLYWOOD COCKSUCKER? project, defeated yet relieved.
Sorry if I’m a pussy, but you are what you eat.