RIORI Vol 3, Installment 99: Adam Shankman’s “Bedtime Stories” (2008)



The Players…

Adam Sandler, Keri Russell, Courtney Cox, Richard Griffiths, Guy Pearce and Russell Brand, with Jonathan Morgan Helt, Laura Ann Kesling, Teresa Palmer, Lucy Lawless and Jonathan Pryce.


The Story…

Simple hotel handyman Skeeter’s life is turned upside down when kindly escapism intrudes on his boring life.

When his big sis Wendy has to go out of town, she taps Skeeter to babysit her kids for the week. He fast understands he has the “privilege” to get the kids to settle into bed by way of some wild-eyed bedtime stories (with the kids helping, natch). They love it, and Skeet finds this a lot more satisfying than banging water heaters into compliance.

But one night after one too many fantastic stories they began to manifest into reality. All the phantasmagoria that put his niece and nephew to bed are made whole, and now seemingly leading him on some sort of wacky vision quest.

Huh. Well, losing your mind is better than scrubbing another toilet.


The Rant…

Bedtime Stories was another movie I caught in home release/pre-RIORI days: one DVD of many DVDs scattered across the family room carpet of my then girlfriend’s apartment. Mom never picked anything up. It was kind of like, “don’t pick anything up. You’ll f*ck up the system.” Sure, half the discs were scratched to hell, their cases long since lost, but what remained was ready entertainment/distraction to a harried mom in need of a quick fix to the main vein thanks to the electronic babysitter. But one time, I was the babysitter. Flesh and blood and dreadfully analogue.

I wasn’t ready to be a stepdad. Hell, back then I wasn’t ready to be a dad, period. I was still immersed in the epic drama that was being in tech support for a mobile phone company, freelance writer for the local community press and eternally leveling up my HUnewearl OC on Phantasy Star Online 2.0 for Dreamcast from 1 AM to snore. Usually accompanied by a bottle of Jameson’s. What a dreadful apparition was I.

In hindsight, being a “babysitter” to my girl’s eldest daughter—my erstwhile stepdaughter—taught me how to be a dad. I realized outright that she was not my kid, so I had no legs to stand on assuming a fatherly posture. She tested me, always testing me. Being rude, being snarky, screaming and metaphorically kicking me in the shins everyday. My flesh-and-blood one-year old, she with finding ways to steal cereal under mom’s and my noses and swollen diapers one would have to don a hazmat suit armed with a geiger counter to inspect, she wasn’t as nearly as challenging as it was to get into my step’s good graces.

Serendipity dawned with all those DVDs splayed all over the carpet, my step accustomed to feeling bored and slapping in a disc without a blink. Mom told me that her youngest was bored: go watch a movie with her. I had just gotten off work, still in my togs, reeking of sweat and yeast (I was a baker at the time) and making sure the beater couch that served as my beater bed held fast to the floor by my sodden gravity. I had no attention span.

“Hey!”

“…Yes?”

“Wanna watch a movie?”

No. “Okay.”

She beamed and rifled through the library, found her quarry and held the case against my face. I can still smell the spine.

“This one’s my fave right now. Can we watch it?”

My bleary eyes widened. Bedtime Stories. Adam Sandler. Throw me back into the mill.

Please, no. “Sure thing.” What a guy does to score some goodie points with the girlfriend, moreover her kid. I’d rather vacuum at that point, but all those DVD cases everywhere. Resistance was futile.

She turned on the tube, fed the machine and swung the remote the way a samurai dispatches a disloyal retainer. The kid also found a way to make the lights dim low. There was not a dimmer switch to be found. Kids are crafty that way. And then: movie sign!

After the 90-plus minute slump through Bedtime Stories (and I was sorely in need of one myself) my bleary eyes were cheered. Not so much by the movie (which I could barely watch) but by the sweet, dopey grin the stepkid shined at me. She was so used to the electric babysitter solo, her baby sister demanding all of the time to wretched diapers and endless bottles and screaming her first word which roughly translated into A*SHOLE that anyone, anyone who had a more than one word vocabulary would sit and cradle her. On the other hand, this crafty moppet found her mark in me. Could’ve been worse.

So could’ve been the movie. But first, more about the stepkid. Chill. It’s relevant.

She was my first experience in parenting, and for seven years I raised her as my own until she decided to live with her real dad. I never tried to be her dad. That was impossible, and she knew it. Instead, I was big brother. I’d give advice and listen and just hang with her and make sure she got to school on time, do her homework, eat her veggies, detail my 20 year old Volvo. The basics. I remained on the level with her for seven years, and it was a silent agreement.

And it worked well. In truth is was actually easier to deal with my then one-year old than the seven-year old. As I said, always testing me. All of mom’s old boyfriends dropped out of sight; when was I gonna drop out too? I wasn’t. I didn’t. Between the first year of arguing, defiance and yelling (and that was mostly her not me) I half my own, proved myself, taught her some match and drove her to school and did a bunch of other dad stuff. I eventually won her trust and even now as she fast approaches 20 and into the working world, we still message each other via Facebook or share the occasional phone call (she mostly wants career advice. I tell her don’t open a restaurant. You out there should not either, all you delusional Michael Symons you).

Now rewind back to the mid-aughts. Not only did I explode into an immediate family with a daughter barely two, but a precocious seven-year old who knew how to work mom over like a Mafia capo with a jack handle and need to collect, but busted knees would work in a pinch. Okay, maybe not that bad, but she did have mom wound around her finger.

Ahem. Homey don’t play that. You can’t bullsh*t and bullsh*ter kid. C’mere, we gotta talk.

And talk we did. This is how understandings are formed and trust is built. What I learned with the stepkid as “parent” I adopted later for my kid kid. So far, no body piercings. Guess my plan of action worked.

Back to the whole movie matter. Bedtime Stories. I never read the stepkid bedtime stories. Not directly. As you now have probably figured out I am the Ken Jennings of cinematic non sequiturs and arcane knowledge about movies the like no Magic: The Gathering player would (or should) have about their fetish. I have an encyclopedic knowledge of truly useless film facts stored to the rafters in my beer-addled cranium. And like those comic book geex who get into a frothing frenzy about who’s stronger: Superman or Thor, I can’t wait for an opportunity to spew forth my bilious film facts to an unwitting audience. Back then I had an unwitting audience of one with enough DVDs to have Reed Hastings on call when they needed to refresh the library with every Disney release since “Steamboat Willie.”

Yeah, so a lot of movies, and the stepkid watched a movie an afternoon between getting home from school and homework time. I usually got off work about the same time, dragged my flour-drenched carcass home and fell upon the couch as if brained. In sum, all I wanted to do was examine the backs of my eyelids. But noooo…

“Nate! What movie you wanna watch?”

Groan. “Your call,” I said to the cushion.

Bedtime Stories, natch.

We watched. She liked. I was bleary. But I did “see” it. Then she asked me the apocryphal question, with arched brow, “Whadja think?”

I lied. I barely registered it. But it was kind of like a cut you didn’t knew you had until you see the blood. Yeah, that happened.

“I liked it,” I fibbed. “Hey, wasn’t Skeeter’s dad British?”

The brow again. “Huh?

And doped on inadequate sleep I told her about Terry Gilliam’s Brazil. And something about Infiniti commercials about the clock. And she asked me about the clock. And I said the clock is what the time says. And the next thing I recall I was barely awake at the wheel taking the stepkid to school.

She once asked me, “Can we watch Brazil?”

“No. Go to school.” Door slam.

Fast forward. The step kid’s “bedtime stories” was me dissecting the movies we watched. After the umpteenth Disney Bataan Death March I took the thing apart for the stepkid. The bitter and the sweet. The weird thing was she liked it. She liked hearing the dope on how her DVD library (and a lot of ancient VHS also. I had a lot of bedtime stories’ plots to cull from) came to be. So much that eventually she asked me mid-movie, paraphrasing, “What’s up with that?” And I would make an effort to give her the skinny.

Granted, these moments were not traditional bedtime stories. Homework was looming, and the sun was still up. But me getting down with my erstwhile daughter about mutual appreciation for movies, good or not, upholding the agreement of “I ain’t dad and you ain’t mine but we be cool” through a shared moment? Sounds like a bedtime story to me.

Two final things before the evisceration: One, I have to repair my daughter’s 3DS within the month, and; two, as a parent or surrogate, take what you can get from the kid on any kind of intimate level. You might learn something. I learned how to parent by proxy over movies. Sort of.

Considering the first time I “watched” Bedtime Stories, and now relating to Skeeter by proxy, I guess it’s still sort of. And me still with crossed fingers whenever my kid wants to go to the multiplex. Frozen 2 drops this Thanksgiving. Shiver…


Skeeter Bronson (Sandler) knows the hospitality biz is demanding. Not just demanding of a luxury hotel are the skills of the management, concierge, maids, chef and crew and even the detective. No, and not just. Skeeter knows the real deal behind keeping a sumptuous hotel running smoothly is the deft hands of the handyman. Skeeter is the Sunny Vista Nottingham’s maintenance man. He’s Sir Fix-A-Lot.

Skeeter was earmarked by his late hotelier dad (Pryce) to manage the Nottingham, but…well, things didn’t pan out. The little motor lodge that family built was bought out by Sunny Vista, its property transformed into a luxury liner of a posh hotel. It’s there that Skeeter whiles away his days unclogging drains and changing light bulbs. Leaves precious free time for a real life. It’s a good thing Skeeter’s big sis Wendy (Cox) offers her put-upon bro a break: whenever he stops by for a visit, Skeeter gets to tuck her kids into bed and let his imagination run riot, spinning the craziest bedtime stories this side of the Brothers Grimm by way of Monty Python.

Fate is a fickle mistress for Skeeter. He was robbed of his rightful place as manager of the Bella Vista when Nottingham took over years back. Almost by accident, he gets a challenge from present manager Barry (Griffiths): how to make the hotel more attractive to families? The more Barry goes on—and how snooty concierge Kendall (Pearce) harrumphs—the more the scenario echoes a bedtime story he told Pat and Bobbi (Helt and Kesling, respectively) just last night. Coincidence?

Nope. Across the ensuing week to the final challenge (and across multiple bedtime stories) Skeeter tries to attain the future he was supposed to have as Dad wanted.

Oh, the power of a child’s imagination. As well as Pat and Bobbi’s too…


Okay, here’s the poop. And you prob smelled it a mile away already. Bedtime Stories is an Adam Sandler vehicle. Nuff said.

Let’s be kind for once. It is the ultimate tonic against all the Sandler bashers out there. He is an easy mark, after all. Actually, he’s a punching bag. Sandler has sat upon arrested-development-as-entertainment laurels well back into his SNL salad days. Being juvenile has been—and still is—his stock-in-trade. I’m not made of stone (sandwiches maybe, but never stone), and shudder to think I have hung up movie snobbery years ago. But suffice to say Sandler’s schtick has served him well with a few movies. I have thoroughly enjoyed—and still do—Happy Gilmore, The Waterboy and The Wedding Singer (Sandler’s Citizen Kane, BTW). Those movies stuck because there was a vein of humanity running through those stories. Sure, he was dopey throughout those flicks (esp Waterboy), but there was also sweetness and a little range set aside for Sandler’s characters. Some growth, if you would. A small amount of depth.

It’s amazing what a little bit of depth can do for a living cartoon like Sandler. Such scraps served him well as a comedic actor rather than a one-joke one-off like his inaugural Billy Madison (a movie I’ve punished myself with one too many times trying to get the joke. I never could. Stop looking at me swan). And in the final analysis, almost all of Sandler’s comedy movies—and the characters he plays—are all pretty one-note. It’s always been the sweet and insufferable goof in equal doses. Right, sometimes it works (if you’re still in a frat, even at age 30) but most of the time we get it already. With Stories, as well as the three films of his I actually liked, a little bit of depth can go a long…wait, that’s too much. It can go a medium way.

One would be hard pressed to deny that Sandler’s Skeeter cowed to the House Of Mouse’s standards and practices. Sandler plays nice here with the machine. Stories‘ tone is family friendly, at times fluffy and well-paced. It also looked like Sandler toned down his usual sophomore schtick just enough to settle in with a PG movie with kiddies and wish fulfillment in mind. Sandler is not (for once) a crass, callow man-child. He’s just, well, Uncle Skeeter. Humorous and harmless and light on the goofiness (save the fantasy sequences. Stuff like that has to be a bit goofy. It’s a Disney precept, after all ). He’s earnest here. That must be a first. Sandler carries an entire movie—no less a Disney movie—with nary a dick joke to be uttered. And it actually worked.

No. Really. It was very refreshing to have Sandler’s trademark juvenile snark toned down and actually digestible (we’ve let Brand handle the nonsense this time around). To what end? Read folks, the watchword: sweet, and hopefully not saccharine. Actually, a better word to describe Stories is pleasant, mostly due to Sandler’s wide-eyed Skeeter. I know, I am just as shocked as you are. We got us a low key adolescent Sandler. I can’t stress this fact enough. Sure, the flick is nutty and silly but not in a scatological way. The cryovacked corpse of Uncle Walt would never approve.

(Look: I know I’m being rather sober here. This is a Sandler vehicle I have positive things to say about. I’m concentrating. Please, be seated.)

What I feel I took to so well here was how the plot rolled along with a winking, almost meta kind of pace. A certain kind of clever at play. Stories is unabashed in its Disney-flavored delivery. We are all in on the joke that this fantasy film is just that, cast and audience together. Just go with it. Not every movie is meant to win awards. Hell, most movies that do win awards shouldn’t’ve. The last time, to immediate memory that Academy got it right was awarding Billy Wilder’s The Apartment with Best Picture 1960. And I wasn’t even extant then. Oh, and did you hear the rumor that the AMPAS is toying with the idea of the Oscar category for “Most Popular Film of the Year?” For f*ck’s sake, just look at the ticket sales! First the Oscars lose their host and then lose their marbles. Anything to get the Millennials tuning in. It’s granted those doddering, old blind duffers on the committee never heard of YouTube. Or Hulu. Or Netflix, before God…

But I digress.

What’s good to go along with here is the family-style cast. Sure, the warm fuzzies of family permeate Stories like cheesecake permeates Oprah. It’s a given. But it’s never overarching as in similar fare like the dire Eddie Murphy vehicle Imagine That or the witlessness of Spielberg’s dreadful Hook. Overt fantasy takes the backseat in Stories letting the cast stretch out a little, work the beta plot some, do some pretty decent acting and keep the ham to a sandwich with Swiss (minimal) cheese.

Hey. Speaking of the cast, not only was I surprised at finding Sandler endearing (shoot me now), but his support had some glowing moments, too. Here: Mister Memento Pearce seems waaay out of his element here, which is smart. Smartly smarmy. I don’t care for Pearce’s wooden acting talents, but I did like not enjoying him here. Sure, he played the “bad guy” to the hilt, but with a one-man Three Stooges air about him. Big fish, no pond. You wanted to slap the sh*t-eating grin off that stump of a jaw. It’s always fun to have a villain we love to hate. Dustin Hoffman has made a mint on that precept in almost all his movies, and he got “awards” for his trifles. Pearce just sneers and our fists clench. Good work, in any event.

Okay. Now here’s a thing I detest in family friendly movies: endearingly cute kids with doe eyes, speech impediments and treacly smiles. I appreciated—despite how moppet they are—Skeeter’s niece and nephew being as plain as they were. It’s the go with it philosophy Stories entertains. The kids are just…there. It’s refreshing. Sure, they are twin oracles to the Maguffin of Skeeter earning his worth, and they mat be cute, but you don’t feel the need to slap them for their very presence. Save that truck for Kendall. Heh.

Oh BTW, the former Mr Katy Perry co-stars here as…some guy. Kudos. Moving on.

I could say more, but I’m tired. Bearing this fluff anymore scrutiny would waste time. This ain’t a Fellini film. Overall Stories was a decent waste of time. Like the first time I had to watch it, flour glued to my sweaty Crocs. Not a bad film. Not great either. There was a certain butter zone consisting of comedy, fantasy and family that somehow, miraculously (and with a PG Sandler in the wheelhouse) worked. Disposable. A pretty okay flick to check out (with some kids, duh) on a rainy Saturday afternoon. If only to kill 100 minutes or until bedtime, whichever come first.


Postscriptum: I dedicate this installment to my erstwhile stepdaughter Lex who made me watch this movie at age 7 and still mentions it to me via Facebook Messenger at age 19. Guess I did something right.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Rent it. Sure, fantasy fulfillment movies under the aegis of Disney aren’t for everyone (esp if you are the “butt-chug champ of the world” at your local chapter), but this was a harmless, entertaining pastiche so I’ll forgive it.

Oh, I’m sorry! Damn bus driver drives like an animal!


Stray Observations…

  • “Goofy’s the new handsome.” And so it begins.
  • No TV, but a giant iMac.
  • Despite being a sight gag for the Santa Claus eligible, what was the point of Bugsy? I mean, I still believe in Santa. No, really.
  • “What? The clown died?”
  • Falco! Cool!
  • I think this installment has the most italics ever.
  • “As in gumball weird?”
  • Midgets in a Gremlin. Sigh.
  • Light bulb. Clever. Really.
  • “Where’s the arc?” Oh, Russell you.
  • Is Wendy eating nuts there? Oh yeah, “vacation.”
  • Keri Russell is eternally cute. She’s every girl who told you, “Call me” and you foolishly tried to.
  • “I’m innocent!” Oh, Russell you.
  • Sandler flipped the bird there for a nanosecond. You saw that?
  • Pryce has a very convincing American accent. I’ve found a lot of actors from lands afar have a tricky time expressing the melange that is the American accent. Here’s an example. It’s regarding two leads in the sci-fi series Fringe. Both of them are Aussie speaking American. One could and one could not. Stream an ep and you’ll see what I mean.
  • “I can’t read.” Oh, Russell you.
  • Whatever happened to rollerblades anyway?
  • “This is spooky.”

Next Installment…

In honor of what would’ve been the 100th Installment of RIORI (we actually reached that landmark eons back, considering all three volumes), we’re going to stroll into nostalgia/road repair territory by revisiting the early, raw and often sh*tty first volume of RIORI. So it’s gonna be Zack Snyder’s opus Sucker Punch revisited. As well as the other 16 train wrecks. You’re welcome.

Within a week’s time, we’ll commence with my trepanning.

Look it up.


 

RIORI Vol 3, Installment 96: Michael Dowse’s “Take Me Home Tonight” (2011)



The Players…

Topher Grace, Anna Faris, Teresa Palmer, Dan Folger, Chris Pratt and Michael Biehn.


The Story…

MIT grad Matt has a hot degree on his wall, a go-nowhere sh*t job at a video store and his self-confidence resembling his dreams of success: fractured. He needs a lucky break.

One day, Matt’s old high school crush Tori visits the store. An awkward reunion and moments later Matt is lying his ass off about his future job at Goldman Sachs. The things guys’ll say to nab a pretty girl.

And the yang to Tori’s ying is Matt’s sarcastic sister and co-worker Wendy, always dispensing advice to her hapless bro. Like telling him what a tool he is and Tori is still way out of his league. Thanks, sis.

Now what? Believe in his lie to nail Tori or get his ass as far away from VHS as possible? And what’s this about a Labor Day reunion party?

Let the shames begin.


The Rant…

I was a Reagan Baby.

Vox populi dubbed me as Generation X, the aimless children of the Baby Boomers expected to do less with their lives due to the conspicuous consumption of their parents. Gloom and doom. Dial-up Internet, rollerblades and Adam Sandler as a successful movie star earning a salary equal to the GDP of Honduras. We mastered cynicism as well as sarcasm and irony also. Sorry and you’re welcome.

Since there was so much negativity and disdain spread like so much soft butter slathered over my generation, I have come to hate that Gen X epithet. I prefer the term above. It’s a term Dave Chappelle coined on his wonderful but ill-fated sketch comedy show in the early aughts. The turning of a phrase—literally and metaphorically—set my imagination in motion. “Reagan Babies.” Curious way to put it, but it stuck with me. So much so it got my mind reeling back towards a scene in Richard Linklater’s period piece Dazed And Confused. The geeks of the graduating class were musing over the “every other decade theory.” To wit, the 60s were awesome, the 70s sucked and maybe the 80s would be radical.

I’ve chewed on that theory for years. Why? Let’s put it this way: every decade in America as sort of a signature over the past hundred years. From the war years with FDR’s assuring fireside chats to the post-war 50s with the kind, conformist atmosphere paired with the interstate system under Ike (small wonder why the mutant, art deco automobile took shape) to the tumultuous 60s with its assassinations and Woodstock to Tricky Dick and the grimy 70s giving birth to cinema nouveau, punk rock and calamari. All different shades of the same America every 10 years. And not.

As a disenfranchised denizen of Gen X, I was raised as a Reagan Baby. I was in diapers in the 70s, but was kicking around with Transformers and Nintendo into the  next decade. There was a definite shade of society brewing under the arthritic eye of our 40th prez, still regretting leaving Hollywood for politics and winning the California gubernatorial chair. I bet he missed slapping Angie Dickenson (he in turn started on Russia instead). Such sleepiness enabled a radical, day-glo, junk bond, Duran Duran-like culture of freewheeling spending, MTV, Gordon Gecko-esque bacchanal of plastic living. Disposable fun and a lot of six-pack rings choking otters but saving the whales instead. Cold War jitters. If the end of days is nigh, why not guzzle wine coolers?

Stuff like that. It was my first home. My second was college in the 90s, but I’ve already covered that territory.

The 80s were glitzy, a second Golden Age. When Top Gun was the film on everybody’s lips. The decade began with Reagan being wounded and Lennon getting murdered. It ended with the collapse of the Berlin Wall and Exxon struggling to clean up a spill. It was indeed a plastic time, malleable, false. The only tremor of fear was nuclear holocaust, which might have ushered in such notorious selfish navel-gazing. And Duran Duran. If we’re all gonna go let’s make it big. Like that Wham! album.

I’m losing a lot you.

But don’t doubt me. I was there…and then later. Both the key 80s John Hughes movies (eg; Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club et al) have the same zing-zang as the nostalgia flicks (eg: The Wedding Singer, 200 Cigarettes et al) about 80s pop culture do. There and gone, only punctuated by music videos, Swatches, Calvin Klein and…well, wine coolers. Fads, trends, flash, dash and gone. Disposable, and quite fun. Doy. Reckless and stupid. Everyone’s brains were on hold. Like the Circle Jerks screamed, “Deny everything!” Sounded good at the time. And it worked. Until Kurt Cobain. Ah well. All things must pass.

The 80s were all about artifice as far as I’m concerned and/or learned. A short-lived Gilded Age. But it sure was fun. Carefree. No recycling programs but Steve Guttenberg as a vital Hollywood commodity. I guess you have to have been there, or at least heard about it and nod your head. A simpler time, devoid of streaming video, the Internet and Guttenberg. Just VHS on Fridays, Bartles & Jaymes at the local fern bar, Super Mario Bros 2 and impending nuclear annihilation. Good times, good times.

I know I’m painting a satiric picture, but so was Take Me Home Tonight aiming at. So now go with it, you dorks…


Ah, the hell that is the post-grad years. Get your diploma from an esteemed educational institution only to find some lowly part-time job at the mall. No benefits in sight, no vacation time, no respect and minimum wage all the way. Yee haw. Feels like your four years were a waste. And they were.

So Matt (Grace) earns his keep alongside his pesky sister Wendy (Faris) at the local video shop, eking out some sort of living. Wendy’s cool with just having a job, but Matt is growing increasingly bitter having a degree from MIT under his belt and shilling John Hughes’ greatest hits day in and day out. Even his dopey friend Barry (Folger) has a cherry gig selling cars and he’s borderline retarded, a constant reminder to Matt that he never mentally graduated from 5th grade. Computer science anyone?

Nope. Only copies of Wall Street if you don’t mind. Matt has begun to mind a lot of things, hence the bitterness. And jealousy. And feeling scared all the time.

Speaking of which, Matt has come to the determination that despite his education, he’s learned nothing. All he thinks about between pushing fresh copies of Ferris Bueller is where did all the time go? He had his eyes so fixed on his potential future he forgot all he had in the past. Which wasn’t much, but high school was better than his dead-end future. He always got into the best kind of trouble with his demented best bud, Wendy always got his nerdy back and there was always Tori (Palmer) hovering in the ether. The lovely Tori, so close yet so far.

High school crushes can be fun in a sick sort of way, and Matt has held on to that kind of nauseous torch for a long time. Too long.

So when Tori tells Matt about this Labor Day party with all of his high school idiots (after greasing Tori’s wheels with the big lie he works for Goldman Sachs) he figures grab Barry and Wendy and get all nostalgic, point and laugh, getting pointed and laughed at and maybe bag Tori in the process.

After suffering humiliation, envy, ire and humiliation it’s time for Matt to get aquatinted with another dreadful post-grad anxiety:

Getting a life…


Let me tell you a quick one. It’s not from my college days, don’t fret none. It’s a post-grad one, and after watching Tonight I initially gave great sympathy to Topher Grace’s character, Matt.

I took a part-time job at our local Suncoast Video at the mall for some semblance of an income. It was approaching the holidays, I love movies, they we hiring and I hated DIVX, which the manager declared we would never carry. It was a rip off. I agreed and signed on. Minimum wage here I come.

(Apropos of nothing that has to do with this installment, I recommend any twenty-something plus to take a job in retail. If only like for a few months. You will learn cruelty, embarrassment, courtesy and cynicism in mere weeks you were never exposed to over several years. The phrase “the customer is always right” is wrong. It is a mantra you hum to yourself so you don’t leap over the counter and brain some assh*le screaming at you for not having the Director’s Cut of Armageddon (including the matter his taste in action movies bite the big one). Your brain will melt. Your spine may fuse. You will fast learn to understand/despise Clerks. All fun and games and a kinda paycheck. Only Marine training is as severe.)

So yeah, at the outset of Tonight I figured Matt was the guy for me. Or so I thought. Movie sign!

I gotta say it out loud: Tonight has been done before and much better, or at least against movies with more meat on their bones. The whole “high school nerd has their coup de grace at the reunion, etc” is a fave comedy well to draw from from and has been a fairly reliable yukfest/pathos party movie device. Relatively recent offerings like Young Adult, I Love You Beth Cooper and to an extent Superbad were ranging from great to good to passable. There is this same theme, but those films had enough original meat to chew on. Like a fancy dish served with a different menu, as long as there’s consistency and character it oughta still be yummy.

Tonight, however is neither original, consistent nor possessing much character, cast included. To be blunt, Tonight was a shameless nostalgia flick. Unlike the spicy curry that was the unexpected fun of The Wedding SingerTonight reeks of the sour smell hanging after the meal. I understand it’s kinda funny I’m citing hack comedic actor Sandler’s best Hollywood outing as some grail, some high watermark as 80s nostalgia fest go, but it’s true here. Whereas Singer was very self-aware and in overdrive, something informed me that Tonight was trying way too hard to play catch-up. Or rather bait the audience.

I’ll try to keep this concise (try to), since the movie stole 2 hours from my meagre existence, I won’t inflict that same kind of a drain on your patience. The biggest trouble I had watching Tonight was that is hard to tell where we were going. Not exactly dragging, but just plain slow. Tonight worked by its own pace, irrespective of the audience’s attention. Walking through silly putty. We’re gonna get to a point somewhere. I guess I had been trained to watch flicks like this by the aforementioned Wedding Singer, American Graffiti, Dazed and Confused, etc for seeing the characters act in character according to the pop culture cues from the decade filmed (eg: Billy Idol’s [hilarious] cameo, Wolfman Jack’s infinite broadcasts and Aerosmith tickets, respectively). The world of Tonight, ostensibly set in the mid-to-late 80s comes over like the story could have happened anywhere at anytime. A choice soundtrack and period clothes alone does not a convincing, engaging period movie make. The story of Tonight could’ve taken place anywhere at any place in time. This is not good for a period piece: no period. Sure, the hairstyles and fashion are on the mark but it’s all artifice. It’s bait. It’s the kind of gimmick that nabs folks (well, like me) into a kind feeling of “been there, done that.” I’ve washed my car, but so did the nasty senior girls did in Dazed And Confused. You would not want to watch my YouTube feed of me scrubbing through Shammy Shine.

In sum, not an original period film. It also felt like director Dowse contracted a case of the Apatows. The flicks he writes, produces and/or directs are dappled with interesting characters. Ciphers maybe, but all jacked up on the Mountain Dew. His goofballs are given twists and actual personalities. Our leads are struggling against the script. Grace was having a really hard time endearing sympathy. Sure, his case was sad sack and his motivation towards redemption is a classic device (eg: getting the girl), but his performance is so plain and wooden…hell, color by numbers. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the role. I know his character was a beaten-down type, but this didn’t smell like method acting. Stank of boredom.

Who cast Dan Folger? Never mind and moving on…far, far away.

Our leads, Teresa and Topher maintain a simple chemistry. No dynamics. She is no pixie dream girl, just casual. But honestly, wouldn’t all guys rather have a kind girl than some prom queen? The unattainable is always the most desired. A given, and a crucial plot device for flicks such as this. But there is precious little tension here. Barry trying to score as the lothario he is is much more interesting (based on his f*cking up) as our noble leads reconciling romantic urges. Like I said, this could happen anywhere, anytime. I’m selling my Wang Chung LPs now I feel so cheated. And a lot of skin showing in the third act won’t make up for it. Nyah.

As sweet (believe it or not) as Tonight tries to be it never goes anywhere. Precious little tension and a confusing pace. I had no second to spare as to ask myself, “Where are we going here?” That being said Tonight was blah. And as “sweet” as this movie tried to be, romance and wine coolers and the sweet, sweet sounds of Soft Cell, as a period flick it never went anywhere.

I was trolled. Or as they say with the way-back translator, psych!

You’re welcome for that one, grown-up Gen X.


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. Yawn. I got trolled by nostalgia for almost 2 hours. 2 hours! Gyp. Where’s my copy of Dazed And Confused?


Stray Observations…

  • Teresa Palmer: the budget Kristen Stewart (seriously, I thought it was Bella all along).
  • “They stole my youth.”
  • Huh. Tanning beds. Almost forgot about those.
  • “Test drive?”
  • I’ve played the penis game. As have you. Admit it.
  • Got a few “verbal sight gags” goin’ on here.
  • “I’m going to try this.”
  • Where’s the Eddie Money song.
  • “You’re gonna look great in an apron.” Ouch!
  • All right, that math scene was brilliant. Revenge of the nerd.
  • “Nice shades, as*hole!”
  • Dan Folger: the budget Jonah Hill. Offensive and yet not funny.
  • “It’s a great night for this, huh?”

Next Installment…

It’s one thing to pay off a ransom to a kidnapper. It’s another thing to search for any Proof Of Life.