Day: June 8, 2024

Live-Blogging “Bad Boys: Ride or Die”

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7:45 pm: Okay, the initial light-hearted section (repartee, wedding, hospital, afterlife Joey Pants, healthy diet) was enjoyable, but Jesus, when and how did Martin Lawrence become Oliver Hardy? He’s funny in that bug-eyed, space-cadet way…

7:55 pm: And now it’s all cartel bad guys, ice-cold vibes, hard bullets, bad business, that silver haired sociopath, etc. Not cool, man.

8:05 pm: The Michael Bay cameo was okay, but the shoot-out in the nightclub and subsequent gunfire on the street…very disappointing. Seen this shit a zillion times. Highly-placed corrupted officials in Miami in league with cartel guys? I have to watch this?

8:13: Out-of-control spinning helicopter, etc. If it weren’t for Lawrence’s unhinged-cuckoo schtick (Will Smith is more or less the straight man) this movie would be worthless. People behind me are laughing at / with Lawrence…ooh–hoo–hoo! I’m not laughing ‘cause I’m not a whoo-hoo-hoo laughing-gas type but the guys behind me…turn it down, will ya?

8:24 pm: Smith & Lawrence trying to fool a pair of MAGA redneck yokels by trying to fake-sing a Reba McIntire song…good stuff. Possibly the best scene so far. The forced cunnilingus scene (“licky-licky”) isn’t bad either. Oh, no… more cartel guys with automatic weapons!! Van on fire, squealing tires!! Smith’s son Armando (Jacob Scipio) is cool, good-looking, etc. Cpt. Howard (Joey Pants) is innocent!

8:39 pm: This is slick, punchy, hack-level garbage. Good, high-impact, power-punch direction by Adil and Bilall, but it’s a wank…they’re trying to wank me off but I’m not the wanking type.

8:46 pm: The people sitting behind me won’t stop laughing. They’re easy lays…what can I say? Okay, Lawrence is pretty funny at times. And Scipio has great coal-black eyes, a great sense of implacable cool…he might be my favorite guy in this.

Runner Didn’t Stumble

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I saw Run Lola Run twice a quarter-century ago. Throttled. Last night I re-watched a 4K restored version at a Danbury plex, and loved it just as much. Smart, fleet. metaphysical, and funnier than I remembered.

Plus what an unusual thing to catch a fast-moving flick that lasts only 80 minutes when the average feature running time these days is over two hours.

Minor Anne Thompson correction: Franka Potente, who will turn 50 in July, was born on 7.22.74. Run Lola Run was initially released in Germany on 8.20.98, and, being a warm-weather film, was most likely shot in Berlin the previous summer, when Potente was 23. If she was 21 when she ran through Tom Tykwer’s film, principal photography would have happened in ‘95. I don’t know for a fact when Lola lensed, but a three-year post-production period sounds unlikely.

Lola’s 19th Century apartment building is located at Albrechtstraße 13–14, at the intersection of Schiffbauerdamm — right alongside Berlin’s Spree River, and roughly a five-minute walk from the area of the old Reichstag building and the Brandenburg gate.

Mick Jagger Hate Thread

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Earlier today a few seething Facebook women went on and on about what a vile shitheel Mick Jagger is or at least was in the old days. How he treated certain women badly, etc. Which he may well have. (What do I know?) But I defended him anyway. Kneejerk bro loyalty or whatever.

To Melt in Paris

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If weather conditions lean the wrong way, the heat will be on and then some during the Paris Olympics (7.24 to 8.11). And in a city that doesn’t believe in air conditioners.

The kids and I endured soaring Parisian temps during the infamous summer of ‘03 so don’t tell me. All we had were three rotating fans.

The Washington Post is reporting that various int’l athletic teams are bringing portable a.c. units with them just in case.

Posted four years ago: Every summer it gets a little hotter. Caused by a little thing called “climate change,” which doesn’t exist in the minds of Trump supporters. Two weeks ago many areas of Europe were besieged by temperatures around 40 centigrade, or just over 100 degrees fahrenheit. Some Parisians are saying it hasn’t been this bad since the heat wave of ’03, which, by the way, the boys and I experienced personally.

Talk about a summer of swelter. Jett had recently turned 15; Dylan was 13 and 1/2. We got through it, but barely. We had a third-floor walkup on rue Tourlaque, a block from the Cimitiere de Montmartre.

A couple of days before the heat began, I slipped into a Castorama near Place de Clichy and bought three sizable fans. They restored our souls. If I hadn’t pounced when I did the fans might’ve been sold out, and we would’ve surely died.

To escape the jungle-like Paris air we decided to attend 2003 Locarno Film Festival. It began on Wednesday, 8.7.03, and closed ten days later. A smart, elegant, sophisticated gathering. Locarno is in southern Switzerland, of course, but it’s northern Italy in almost every tangible sense — culturally, atmospherically, architecturally. The gelato stands were a daily blessing.

I remember Roger Ebert‘s face being all pink and sweat-beady during an outdoor discussion panel. The guys and I were constantly soaked, of course. Every afternoon around 3 or 4 we took an hour-long dip in Lake Maggiore.

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