In which Jason is joined by Johnny Carroll for a review of the trailer for Meeting Evil.
J: According to the synopsis, Meeting Evil is about when “depressed suburban family man John Fleton offers to help a stranger with his car and is sucked into a surreal, nightmarish murder spree.” That seems like quite a jump, from emergency roadside assistance to nightmarish murder spree. “Well, the spare tire was flat, so we just started killing people.” If the only thing between you and a murder spree is a can of Fix-A-Flat under the passenger seat, you just might be a murderer. Did anybody else read that in Jeff Foxworthy’s voice? Jeff Foxworthy being one Blue Collar Comedy Tour with Larry the Cable Guy away from a murder spree of his own.
It’s like when you’re dating someone that you know is going to cheat on you. They can’t help themselves! “Well, you didn’t get me a gift on President’s Day, so I slept with the guy dressed like George Washington outside the Mattress Store. They were having a 25% Off Sale! You know how I feel about presidents, and sales on mattresses. Also, it was really convenient to cheat there because there were literally beds everywhere.”
JC: I feel like this movie is based on a true story. That story being Luke Wilson’s life. No longer courted by Wes Anderson to make mainstream indie flicks (no, that’s not an oxymoron), he’s been going down a dark path the last couple of years. He’s not even making frat boy comedies anymore, since being ousted by Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill as the kings of serial comedies where they play the same role in every movie. He was even a supporting actor in an HBO comedy starring Laura Dern. Everyone knows that TV is where Hollywood actors go to die. Unless you’re Neil Patrick Harris, of course.
Then comes along Samuel L. Jackson offering hope, redemption or at least a one night stand and a killing spree— Nebraska style. Wilson being the young girl (naive) cluelessly playing in her front yard (no where to go). Jackson truly is the only one who hasn’t given up on Luke Wilson’s career. Or he wants another washed up actor to star in Snakes on a Plane 2.
J: It seems to me that being “washed up”, as an actor or otherwise, can’t be all that bad. When the dinner bell rings, you can be the first to sit at the table. Go ahead and touch the corn-on-the-cob, the brussels sprouts, the buttered biscuits. Your hands are immaculate, because you’ve washed up. In fact, because you knew it was going to be this type of party, you can stick your freshly scrubbed dick in the mashed potatoes, à la the Beastie Boys.
Also, have you ever gotten up close to a washed up actor and smelled their skin? It smells like soap! Their vigorously loofahed cheeks glowing under the light of the sci-fi convention hall, where you have leapt over their autograph table, knocking over a sign that reads $50 FOR SIGNED PHOTOS, and buried your face in the nape of Edward James Olmos’ neck. Not that Edward James Olmos is washed-up in the traditional sense of the word. Battlestar Galactica was an amazing show. But have you ever smelled the man? Harrison Ford did once, on the set of Blade Runner in 1982, and since then he’s driven himself mad in the aisles of Bed Bath & Beyond trying to find the perfect combination of oils and lotions to recreate that intoxicating fragrance.
JC: Speaking of oils and lotions, I’m sure Luke Wilson has quite the collection these days. Unlike Samuel L. Jackson who still occasionally lands a solid role in a summer blockbuster (when you’re making that many movies you’re eventually/accidentally going to be in a hit), Wilson probably has a lot of time on his hands… amongst other things. I bet he has them cataloged by what emotion the scent evokes when he’s jerking off to fantasies of Drew Barrymore and Tom Green 69’ing.
Still, Wilson is very well-known and most likely a better wing man than most of my friends. He has to have a nice rotation of Bottle Rocket groupies lining up to have his illegitimate love-child. And who wouldn’t want their baby’s daddy to be Luke Wilson? He’s funny, sensitive and wanted to fuck his sister in the last film he was in that mattered. Can you blame the guy?
Who wouldn’t want to fuck Gwyneth Paltrow, fictitious sister or not? Oh wait, Brad Pitt in Se7en. We all know how that turned out for her. “What’s in the box…what’s in the fucking box?!”
J: Interesting postscript to Se7en: The headless Gwyneth Paltrow moved to Sleepy Hollow, for its gorgeous fall foliage and its abundance of covered bridges. She now terrorizes Ichabod Crane by forcing him to intern at her lifestyle magazine goop.
Every morning they do deep breathing exercises, gentle yoga and a Master Cleanse. Then she chases him around on a horse, shrieking like a banshee and waving her severed head around. Though to be fair, he’s just grateful for experience in the publishing industry.
JC: That’s a relief. I’m sure Ichabod’s family has been wondering where the hell he’s been all of these years. If we’re referring to Johnny Depp as Ichabod, they would only have to look as far as the next Tim Burton movie that rips off the only two screenplays that he writes anymore, the Edward Scissorhands and Nightmare Before Christmas-style sequels. Honorable mentions of other typical roles Depp plays: ongoing sequels about a substance abusing pirate and pseudo action films that establish how one dimensional his acting abilities are.
Unfortunately, most of the women that I date have an affinity for those roles.