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Archive for April, 2009

Steven the garbage man.

Steven the garbage man.

I own two movie posters: Hoop Dreams (the greatest movie of all time), and Out For Justice.  Of the Four Great Steven Seagal Movies, it’s the one that gives me the most joy.  Sure, Under Siege is pretty much a perfect movie, and I’ve watched it at least 20 times.  Sure, Hard to Kill and Above The Law both bring their share of awesome fights, awkward sex scenes, and hilarious chill sequences.  But to me, Seagal hit his peak exactly two movies before he became a self parody.  

Out for Justice brings it from the very start and doesn’t quit until Seagal kicks the dog hater in the nuts.  The Italian-American “accent” employed throughout by Steven makes Al Pacino’s nonsense in Scarface sound authentic.  The key piece of evidence is a pornographic photo of Seagal’s murdered best friend cheating on his wife, and they’re literally smiling for the camera.  Gina Gershon has a cameo as the classic ornery-sex-worker-who-gets-talked-into-helping-the-good-guys, and that dude from Law & Order with the eyebrows fits in there somewhere.  

But to me, the best part is that we’re dealing with the best version of Seagal ever here.  He hadn’t gotten fat yet, and wasn’t afraid to let the guns breathe.  He had been in enough movies to start being joky and whimsical, but not yet annoying and preachy.  And best of all, he still moved well enough to do lots of great fight scenes, especially the two classic set-ups: the butcher shop and the bar.

Out For Justice brings all the stuff we love about Steven Seagal’s career with none of the shittiness of his direct-to-DVD crap.  Grab a brew, chow on some tips, put it on, and you’ll go to bed with a smile.

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Editors Note: I was lazy and wrote this after the movie, so it’s more of a review.

The dark shadows of the evil ultrafags.

The dark shadows of the evil ultrafags.

After a week of fever sweats and hacking on a lung, I was more than ready for movie night.  Add in the anticipation of Al Pacino going undercover as a leatherdaddy, and I was downright pumped.  My 101-degree blood was flowing at record speed as we settled into the couch, everyone’s little hearts aglow.

You see, few movies have come into SBMN with as much upward potential as Cruising.  The homoeroticism of flicks like Point Break and North Dallas Forty have made us laugh ourselves to the brink of tears.  The idea of Michael Corleone going inch by inch into Bravo’s primetime schedule seemed to be the logical end of this aim.  

The problem, of course, is that you don’t want the logical end of a good thing.  A little (or a lot of) homoeroticism is good in an overly macho movie; it keeps things relaxed, it’s funny, and, above all, you don’t have to watch anal fisting scenes.  In Cruising, you do, and there are some things you just can’t unsee. (That link is not tubgirl. Promise.)  It’s like a David Lynch movie: all the things that should be bubbling under the surface creating tension are being shoved directly into your face.  And there are some things you just don’t want in your face.  

Even if this movie weren’t so incredibly offensive (the main conclusion is that pretty much any gay man could be a killer or a rapist, none of them have any morals), it would still be terrible.  It’s 45 minutes of material stretched out to 102 minutes, Al Pacino just walks around and looks depressed the whole time, and the only redeeming thing is the mysterious 7-foot-tall-black-guy-in-a-jock-strap the police use to beat suspects.

Do not watch this movie.

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