When this came out, absolutely every film critic was desperate to wank themselves inside-out over how brilliant it is. Pretty much reinforcing my opinion of professional critics as a syndicated hive-mind, incapable of forming their own opinions.
Possible exaggeration aside, they can all suck my balls. Apart from very good acting, this film just came across as a middle-class circle-jerk between the makers and the intended audience. Fuck that shit.
The plot, as you possibly know, is two dislikeable men go on a short tour around some American vineyards, lightly bicker, meet some women and display punch-worthy levels of whining, pissy self-obsession. Yeah, I get it, men are eternal boys emotionally, who reach a point where they realise nothing in life is as great as the box it came in promised, and we need the stabilising maturity of women to give us focus. Or they could just grow up and not be fucking cabbages.
Also, people who think wine is important are cunts. Not the ways it brings economic benefits to the regions it grows in or any of that bigger picture stuff, but those folk who observe the snobbish fucking twaddle around the whole wine 'thing'. If it tastes good and you can afford it, it's good wine. Nothing else matters. Doesn't matter if the bottle's got a picture of a rustic chateaux or a fucking party balloon. I've had three quid bottles of bargain plonk that's been every bit as satisfying as the rare times I've tasted the thirty-quid-a-pop stuff.
Still, it might just be a class thing, I'd rather have a pint of lager.
Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger (combined age 133) find themselves in an inescapable Perspex prison. Presumably for crimes against acting.
Unlikely plot nonsense aside, surely a nice retirement home with access to treadmills and a golf course would be more befitting men of their advancing years. Ideally somewhere that avoids giving those those fiddly five pence pieces in change or where they play that young person hip-step music.
Anyway, yeah, it's like the film Cocoon but with guns an' shit.
Anyway this is a surprisingly obscure film about a shady cockney bummer (For non Brits: criminal, London based homosexual) who shows his affection for people by punching them, as well as punching people he doesn't like, and does a bank job with some of his chums. Including Vincedot. Above average, but not great. Lots of odd accents.
Mark1 Ford Capri and clothing brought to you by 1970's fashion brand House of Brown.
"Blimey! It says here that in 43 years a tubby man will mock this film on a personal home computer unit."
"Crivens! So it does!"
"Would you like a sausage? I've got plenty."
A Rover P5b (hooray!) driving through one of Croydon's 'Gardens in Bloom'.
Think of your own caption for this brilliant acty-face.
Imagine a version of The Thing done by people who couldn't be arsed. And where the creature wasn't some amazing transmorphic beast but a bloke in a suit that looks like a big rubber poo.
Should've been high-camp fun, wasn't. Was boring splash.
"Don't fuckin' move, punk!"
"Gary, that's a car you twat."
"I found Hawking's work on the singularities of gravitational collapse directed at too broad an audience. I think you'll find my thesis on single-dimensional elemental particles a far more challenging and mature read. Especially if you're mashed on weed, dude."
"Dave, pick me up a beef pasty and some Quavers."
"Why can't you get them?"
"I'm having a bad hair day. People will stare at me."
"Good lord! If these calculations are correct... This film is utter shit!"
A FBI chap who investigates serial killers decides that it's a great idea to take his 11yr old son along to the scenes of fresh murders.
The kid's some sort of spacky mega-brain who's enjoying his early years staring at crime sights and slaughter photos before inevitably turning into a thoroughly disturbed adult who doesn't let the very rare visitors to his bedsit look inside his 'special box' kept in the fridge. Possibly.
Anyway, the film's bumlar toss and child actors annoy us.
Fleshpipe & Sons are pleased to offer this unique character property. In need of slight renovation, it benefits from a south facing lunacy, off-kilter parking and a shared dimensional portal. No onward momentum.
I miss The Crystal Maze.
Amstrad's exciting new home computing product for 2014.
Edward Owl Hands.
At night, Gary liked to relax with his favourite book...
...Which was full of bondage infants.
This guy's briefly in this film for seemingly no reason. An odd fellow.
Posh people talk woodenly and shine some sort of magic torch at mice to capture their souls then try it on humans or some such shit. Wanted to enjoy it, got bored by its dullness. One highlight though is that the word Asphyx is pronounced 'arse-fix'. Like when your back pipe is broken and you need an...
Roger Moore plays a chap called Pelham who takes his P5b (my favourite classic car, bloody ace, V8 luxo-tanks) out for a drive and decides to crash it on the M4 heading out of London. Somehow this turns him into two people with evil Pelham making life an arseache for goody Pelham.
*Makes film title joke about the taking of Pelham 1 by 2*
*Hates self for it*
In a dark turn of irony, the director/co-writer of this film, a chap called Basil Dearden, crashed his car on the M4 a year after this was made. He became no people rather than two as it killed him. Less unpleasant is that his birth name was the chucklesome Basil Clive Dear.
Anyway, gotta go to work, so I'll finish this rubbish later.
Hello again, I'm back from work now. Pleasantly quiet shift, thanks for asking.
Anyway, this film's quite dated, the scares and thrills are a little soft by modern tastes, it's pretty slow moving, the acting is as stiff as the 28-piece suits everyone (including the children) wear and the women are are little beyond fluffy decoration, happy to let the important men make the decisions, ...but it is very entertaining, camp and another glimpse of emptier London from forty years ago.