Who's the scamp?
I have just returned from Regal Cinemas where K., G., and I had the great fortune to attend a showing of Collateral Damage. Yes, we played hookie from work to go see a movie. What's all the more charming is that K. is technically at home because he threw out his back (which is true, we just agreed a movie would be therapeutic).
Let me say this about Collateral Damage: that was some damned funny shit (despite the nigh absence of any one-liners). It is as though someone was attempting to reconstruct a good Arnold flick based on his previous work. Their assumption (that explosions, ear-biting, and woman-beating make for fine family entertainment) was essentially correct. I cannot for the life of me imagine what drove John Turturro and John Leguizamo to make cameos however. Even the soundtrack seemed to be a bizarre amalgamation of pre-existing film scores (including what I swear were actual snippets lifted from The Thomas Crowne Affair and Passion: The Soundtrack to the Last Temptation of Christ).
On our way back, G. interrogated me as to the particulars of our story.
"We don't need a story," I replied on the elevator up; He had insisted we go through the north entrance to give the appearance of returning from the cafeteria (except, as I pointed out, we were both wearing coats). "Stories are for the guilty."
I'm not certain anyone even noticed we were gone.
Let me say this about Collateral Damage: that was some damned funny shit (despite the nigh absence of any one-liners). It is as though someone was attempting to reconstruct a good Arnold flick based on his previous work. Their assumption (that explosions, ear-biting, and woman-beating make for fine family entertainment) was essentially correct. I cannot for the life of me imagine what drove John Turturro and John Leguizamo to make cameos however. Even the soundtrack seemed to be a bizarre amalgamation of pre-existing film scores (including what I swear were actual snippets lifted from The Thomas Crowne Affair and Passion: The Soundtrack to the Last Temptation of Christ).
On our way back, G. interrogated me as to the particulars of our story.
"We don't need a story," I replied on the elevator up; He had insisted we go through the north entrance to give the appearance of returning from the cafeteria (except, as I pointed out, we were both wearing coats). "Stories are for the guilty."
I'm not certain anyone even noticed we were gone.