a movie review by some one else that i thought was funny of a movie i have not seen
I don't know how many of you read a newspaper called 'the stranger' (the home of dan savage/savage love) but the movie reviews they do are awesome. they have a hillarious tendancy to be scathing and sarcastic. the review for P.S. i love you might be one of the best things ever. i present it for your enjoyment:
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Hey, you stupid movie. I don't love you. In fact, you are terrible. If we were married and then you died of a brain tumor, and then you sent me magic love letters from beyond the grave (which is exactly your plot), I would throw the letters into the garbage and then I would pee in the garbage can. And then I would feed the garbage can to a stupid goat so that your memory could slowly dissolve in the stomach juices of the world's least popular animal. Then I would push the goat off a cliff. That's how much I hated our time together.
Your star, Hilary Swank-dead of husband, pointy of spine ("You make a ravishing widow, sis!")-is just so, so unappealing as a romantic-comedy lead. She's annoying. She's a snooze. And, like I said, she looks like a fucking stegosaurus. (Also, her character makes "shoe art"! SHUT UP.)
Your dialogue is insane. "Don't be like that!" scolds Gina Gershon. "Like what?" asks the mopey stego. "Like the only lonely widow in Gotham City!" Later, in bed: "I can feel you hugging me," whispers Swank. "That's because I am," replies ghost husband. "You look great," Swank tells the ghost. Whoa! What?
You do have three things to recommend you, though. The first thing is Lisa Kudrow. But that one cancels itself out, because for some reason you chose not to cast Lisa Kudrow in every role. Bad move. The second thing is hot Irishmen. The ghost, Irishman #1 (Gerard Butler, not actually Irish), is hot. Irishman #2 (Jeffrey Dean Morgan, not actually Irish) is even hotter. Thanks for that. The third unexpected gift is Harry Connick Jr., who, with the deadest of pans, consistently spins your horrible writing into comedy gold. "How did he die?" he asks at the funeral. "Brain tumor," says the bony widow. "NICE." Ha!
But seriously, when Harry Connick Jr. is the funniest thing in your movie, it's time to get a brain tumor. P.S., I love hot Irishmen.
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Hey, you stupid movie. I don't love you. In fact, you are terrible. If we were married and then you died of a brain tumor, and then you sent me magic love letters from beyond the grave (which is exactly your plot), I would throw the letters into the garbage and then I would pee in the garbage can. And then I would feed the garbage can to a stupid goat so that your memory could slowly dissolve in the stomach juices of the world's least popular animal. Then I would push the goat off a cliff. That's how much I hated our time together.
Your star, Hilary Swank-dead of husband, pointy of spine ("You make a ravishing widow, sis!")-is just so, so unappealing as a romantic-comedy lead. She's annoying. She's a snooze. And, like I said, she looks like a fucking stegosaurus. (Also, her character makes "shoe art"! SHUT UP.)
Your dialogue is insane. "Don't be like that!" scolds Gina Gershon. "Like what?" asks the mopey stego. "Like the only lonely widow in Gotham City!" Later, in bed: "I can feel you hugging me," whispers Swank. "That's because I am," replies ghost husband. "You look great," Swank tells the ghost. Whoa! What?
You do have three things to recommend you, though. The first thing is Lisa Kudrow. But that one cancels itself out, because for some reason you chose not to cast Lisa Kudrow in every role. Bad move. The second thing is hot Irishmen. The ghost, Irishman #1 (Gerard Butler, not actually Irish), is hot. Irishman #2 (Jeffrey Dean Morgan, not actually Irish) is even hotter. Thanks for that. The third unexpected gift is Harry Connick Jr., who, with the deadest of pans, consistently spins your horrible writing into comedy gold. "How did he die?" he asks at the funeral. "Brain tumor," says the bony widow. "NICE." Ha!
But seriously, when Harry Connick Jr. is the funniest thing in your movie, it's time to get a brain tumor. P.S., I love hot Irishmen.