I’m not going to dignify Battleship with a review. I could call it stunningly idiotic alien-invader CG sludge for gamers but what’s the point? What it is, boiled down, is yet another metaphor for the decline of civilization as it was once known and nourished by the likes of Norman Mailer, Anne Bancroft, Ernst Lubitsch, Jean Seberg, Gunter Grass, Bernardo Bertolucci, Jean Genet, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, William S. Burroughs, Francis Coppola, Sting, Gary Cooper and Jerry Lewis, et. al. Damn the ComicCon-ers for movies like this. Damn them all to hell.

I paid money to see it yesterday afternoon at the Cinestar plex inside Berlin’s Sony Center at Potsdamer Platz.

If Battleship is a state-of-the-art 2012 Hollywood popcorn movie then kill me now. Stab me in the chest with a screwdriver.

If Berg and the Universal and Hasbro executives responsible had any dignity or humility they would take out trade ads apologizing to the industry and to the world for the sub-moronic calculation and creation that went into Battleship. Compared to this Roland Emmerich and Dean Devlin‘s deeply loathed Godzilla is a masterpiece.

It is truly astounding and confounding that a team of intelligent, well-paid adults made this thing with an idea that thousands would say “yeah, pretty good garbage!” And here I am on my fifth paragraph when I said I wouldn’t be writing a review.

Taylor Kitsch (John Carter) is a low-rent, zero-charisma washout of a leading actor. He’s playing a variation of that age-old cliche, the rascally, authority-defying, seemingly doomed-to-fail rebel whom the pretty girl loves but who will prove himself when the chips are down and win the begrudging admiration of the rule-following mainstream. Jimmy Cagney played one of these guys in The Fighting 69th. Kitsch is one of those plodding, heavy-lidded actors who seem utterly incapable of suggesting the presence of even a wisp of intelligence hiding somewhere within the folds. He’s truly nothing — an incarnation of Mark Damon when he broke out in the early ’60s.

The other suffering cast members include Alexander Skarsgard (too tall and descended from the wrong king of genes to be believable as Kitsch’s brother or vice versa), Rihanna (ridiculous, shamed for life), Brooklyn Decker (hot) and Liam “Paycheck” Neeson.

Battleship opened in Japan on April 4th, in mid April in Europe, and will debut in the States on May 18th.

I saw William Friedkin‘s Killer Joe (LD Distribution, 7.27) at last September’s Toronto Film Festival. It struck me as uninvolving and odorous and boderline repellent. I can’t work up much interest in the problems and posturings of stunningly stupid, criminally inclined trailer-trash types, you see. No offense to LD’s David Dinerstein, and hats off to his decision to go with an NC-17 version following an MPAA turndown.

Matthew McConaughey has the drawlin’ title role, and the dumb scurvy trashies are played by Emile Hirsch, Thomas Haden Church, Gina Gershon and Juno Temple. Life’s hard, but it’s even harder if you’re a moron.

In her essay for a N.Y. Times Summer Movies piece, Seeking A Friend for the End of the World director-writer Lorene Scafaria writes that Amy Heckerling‘s Clueless (’95) “taught us phrases like ‘She’s a Monet,’ gave new meaning to the term ‘grassy knoll’ and offered the truism that ‘everywhere in L.A. takes 20 minutes.'”

Clueless was 17 years ago, and before you know it that number will be 20. Plus that “20 minutes” line was probably written a year or two earlier. Today everything in Los Angeles takes at least 40 to 45 minutes, and often closer to an hour.

Unless you’re on a scooter, that is, in which case it can still take 20 minutes…or even less. A month ago my scooter and I made it from West WeHo to the Arclight in — no lie — nine minutes. 7:15 to 7:24 pm. Okay, 10 or 11 minutes if you count entering the parking structure and finding a spot and locking up, etc. And okay, yes — I dart in and out of lanes and drive like a hyper 17 year-old. But when you’re pressed for time, a scooter is the only way to go in that town.

I scootered all over Berlin yesterday afternoon, and nobody was enjoying more speed or easy access or easy parking. Scooters or public transportation, man. To hell with cars, and to hell with women who won’t give you the time of day unless you drive slick wheels.

“I was 17 in the summer of ’76, when Lifeguard opened,” Hope Springs director David Frankel wrote in a 5.4 N.Y. Times summer movies article. “If you weren’t 17 yourself then and bored and oversexed, you probably didn’t see it, and I can’t tell you to go running to iTunes now to download it. It’s there, but barely. Not even one customer review.

For whatever reason Amazon is charging ridiculous prices for the Lifeguard DVD, only two of which are left in stock

“Surprisingly it’s PG, because if you asked me, I’d say it was all about sex,” Frankel says. “About growing up and accepting adulthood too, but mostly about sex. There’s a scene on iTunes that features the stars, a rakish Sam Elliott seducing the busting-out-of-her-bikini Kathleen Quinlan, and it’s barely watchable.”
(Here’s the scene in which Elliott and Quinlan first meet.)

“But still I remember Lifeguard all these years later, and that counts for something, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what art is, really? A work that makes you see the world differently, that answers questions you didn’t know you had, that perfectly captures a time and a place, that inspires you?

“It was America’s bicentennial that summer. New York, where I went to high school, was invaded by tall ships and paralyzing heat. My buddy Eric and I were traveling the junior tennis circuit in his father’s Buick, passing through towns like Poughkeepsie and Albany. We lost early most weeks and filled the time until the next tournament with bowling and movies.

“Lifeguard was one of those movies. Elliott plays Rick Carlson, an aging (30!) lifeguard in Los Angeles who knows there’s more to life than beach parties and one-night stands with teenage girls and stewardesses but can’t bring himself to take a real job at a Porsche dealer even if that’s the only way to win the heart of his old high school flame, the very, very, very pretty Anne Archer.

“So where was the sex? Well, Sam Elliott was so damn good-looking in that sleazy, ’70s bathing-trunks-and-mustache way (predating Baywatch and Magnum, P.I.) that he could pretty much charm the bra and panties off of anybody.

“But there was also something wildly sexy about Los Angeles, the city. Somehow I knew it held the key to my future, and Lifeguard was the sales pitch: sunsets and muscle cars and beach houses and lazy sex on unmade beds.

“Talk about inspiration. Six years later I was living out there in a roach-infested, sun-drenched apartment on Pico, driving a ’69 Plymouth Satellite to the beach on weekends, hoping to meet girls, dreaming of a Hollywood career. The only thing I didn’t have was the mustache.

“The shambling style of the movie was typical ’70s: rough around the edges. The director, Daniel Petrie, won an Emmy that year for his elegant TV movie Eleanor and Franklin, but Lifeguard had a relaxed, unpolished quality that made it feel very real, a peek at adulthood if you didn’t follow all the rules.

“The screenplay by Ron Koslow is full of clunkers but also gems like the opening line: ‘The only place jogging is going to get you is right back where you started,’ which seemed profound to my unformed teenage brain.

“Most important, Lifeguard is about making choices. That’s what the best movies are always about, and that’s what I remember most: the horror of realizing at 30 that your best years may be behind you, and that only drudgery and self-hatred lie ahead.

“Sitting there in my tennis shorts in a multiplex in Poughkeepsie, that sure motivated me. In a strange, popcorny, cliche-ridden, summer-movie kind of way you could say that Lifeguard saved my life.”

I’ve thought and thought about it, and can’t think of a single “summer movie” that has really touched me or transformed or lifted me up, over and out. For me the best movies have always been and always will be fall or holiday movies. To hell with rote escapism by way of leisurely yoks and pleasure cones and suntan oil and brainlessness.

The great children’s book author and illustrator Maurice Sendak (“Where The Wild Things Are.”) has passed at age 83. I’m composing this on my iPhone inside a cafe at Berlin’s Potsdamer Platz, where wifi isn’t available for man or beast, free or at cost. (Thanks to the thoughtless or ungracious cheapskates responsible.) So I can’t post hidden links but please take 40 minutes and watch Spike Jonze and whatsisname’s doc about Sendak, Tell Them Anything You Want, which is on YouTube and which will pass along everything you need to know and feel about the man. Well worth the time.

I’ve been persuaded that I need to add Ursula Meier‘s Sister to my Cannes 2012 must-see list, although I’ll probably have to find a market screening or something. Jeff Lipsky‘s Adopt Films acquired the much praised drama during last February’s Berlin Film Festival.

N.Y. Times guys Michael Cieply and Brooks Barnes are reporting that the AMC (i.e., “all movies compromised”) theatrical chain “is in talks to sell the company or a significant stake in it to the Wanda Group, one of China’s largest theater owners, according to people briefed on the discussions.

“If completed, the deal will begin a new phase in China’s push into the global film industry by sharply increasing its leverage with Hollywood and creating the first theater chain to have a commanding presence in the world’s two largest movie markets.”

There’s only one question if this deal happens. Will the Wanda guys make a sincere and significant commitment to delivering better light and sound levels in AMC theatres, or won’t they? That’s the whole thing. Because if not, forget it. My understanding and experience is that AMC theatres are very catch-as-catch-can as far as quality projection is concerned.

Toronto’s Cumberland fourplex on Avenue Road, which served the Toronto Film Festival for decades after opening in 1981, has closed. And I’m sorry. A 5.7 posting from I Heart Movies says that “on Sunday, May 6, 2012 at 7:30pm, the last 35mm film to run through a projector at the Cumberland 4 Cinemas was Joseph Cedar‘s Footnote.”

My most vivid Cumberland memory happened two and two-third years ago when I took a picture of a snoring guy during a showing of Werner Herzog‘s Bad Lieutenant: New Orleans Port of Call.

For me, one of the most appalling episodes in Hollywood Elsewhere history happened a month ago (on 4.10) when I ran a qualified rave of Bobcat Goldwaith‘s God Bless America.

I called it “a very moral film” with which Goldthwait “is really saying something about the increasing levels of rampant egotism among the mall mongrels and people failing to behave in a considerate, compassionate fashion, and that things would be much nicer all around if people showed more class and manners,” etc.

The appalling part came when some readers said my review was lacking in irony and/or self-awareness, meaning that I, in their opinion, would be a target of Goldwaith’s Frank character (played by Joel Murray) if I happened to exist in the world of the film.

Sure thing. I didn’t feel all that comfortable with the metaphorical wanton slaughtering that occupies the second half of the film (which didn’t seem to build or lead anywhere) but one of the observational veins in this column for the last seven years has been about the coarse, loudmouthy, movie-theatre-texting uglies out there. Frank’s views, in short, are where this column lives to a certain degree so I’m afraid I need a little help in understanding the irony aspect.

What happened, I believe, is that the right knows or senses that God Bless America is about them and their family so they came out guns blazing. As I noted last moth, “Most of the targets in this movie are Middle-American mall people and anti-Obama, anti-gay righties and Tea Party slime, but Frank also hates showbiz lefties in certain ways.”

Various egotists and me-me-me vulgarians eat lead in this film. The only types missing from the hit list, I realized later on, are those wonderful people who lean their seat back 45 degrees in coach on commercial flights.

God Bless America currently has a respectable 84% Rotten Tomatoes rating. Here’s a well-phrased rave from Marshall Fine.

I’d be surprised if Tom Cruise‘s performance as Stacee Jaxx in Adam Shankman‘s Rock of Ages (New Line/Warner Bros., 6.15) isn’t some kind of hoot. Cruise always slams into a role, gives it 110%, etc. But something about this image doesn’t fly. He just doesn’t seem believable as a Steven Tyler-ish rock ‘n’ roll horndog. Has he exuded any palpable sexual vibes since Risky Business? Cruise always plays guys ruled by passion, determination, doggedness. But getting into women’s pants? Not so much.