Men in Pants

BAKER STREET | REVIEW

by Eric J Baker

Wilting summer heat and latent homosexual tendencies: Putting asses in theater seats since July, 2011.

If you had said, “Captain America looks like a generic summer superhero movie, though, within its genre, slightly above average,” then you have reason to be excited. That is, if you get excited by being correct. On the other hand, if you had said, “Captain America seems like a highly abstracted remake of Stripes,” you’d be writing for Pure Film Creative.

Forcing Chris Evans to wax his chest for "Captain America" was just, well, un-American.

Consider: Both movies feature unqualified soldiers who, after some comedic side trips, rise to the challenge; an ornery veteran who deep down inside, cares; a sassy female soldier who doesn’t take shit from people and makes her own rules; a super-secret advanced weapon; and, ultimately, a pro-military, patriotic message.

A Haunting In New Jersey

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

This is the true tale of a haunting.

I don’t expect you to believe me. Hell, I’m not sure I do, and I saw it with my own eyes. Nevertheless, it happened. So dim the lights, sit back, and notice that I’m starting my ghost story with a flagrant digression that allows me to mention two brand-new, big-budget films and stick in a cool image which, knowing this blog, will be of a nude man…

...only a semi-nude man, Eric. Ryan Reynolds has the sickest body in Hollywood. Pity to cover it up with CGI in Green Lantern.

The surest way to wreck a movie is to let a computer make it. It’s like crack. If you plan to go on a gang-banging thrill ride and be dead or in jail by morning, you have found your ticket to ride. But filmmakers who care about quality of life and self-respect know that the computer, like crack cocaine, is necessary but best when used in moderation. Art comes from the head and the heart, not from Hewlett Packard.

I’m Too Sexy For My Car

BAKER STREET

 by Eric J Baker

Welcome to Pure Film Creative or, as I like to think of it, Tiger Beat for intellectuals (and perverts; you know which one you are).

Regular readers of these pages will often find us opining on who is sexy (Ashton Kutcher, Duran Duran, Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and who is not (Killough’s former landlady Susan Blais, Russell Crowe, pre-Raphaelite painters). It’s easy to do when you’re talking about movie stars and fashionable pop bands, since good looks are a prerequisite for such roles in society. With political figures, the distinction is murkier. Much like the sewage most of them crawled from.

What's not sexy about an Aussie thug in a tub with a stogie, a brew and phone he's about to brain the hotel maid with?

I don’t find ugly liars attractive, but I seem to be in the minority. Last week, before the shocking truth exploded, I wrote on PFC that Anthony Weiner couldn’t have e-mailed his cock-bulge photo to a 22-year-old woman because he’s not that dumb. What I thought, but didn’t write was, “Who the fuck wants to see Anthony Weiner’s dick, anyway?”

Ring Around A Volcano

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | REVIEWS

by James Killough

I know, I was supposed to post on Tuesday, but I’m not sure that properly speaking I had a Tuesday.  Well, I had sort of one, but it was in Delhi, which wasn’t really a Tuesday in the West, and we’re on a PST time schedule at PFC.  I worked flat-out all day, wrapped my last shoot a half hour before I travelled for twenty-eight hours home, eighteen of which were on a non-stop flight from Dubai to LA.  We had to skirt the volcano in Iceland and fly south.  The journey would have been more of a bitch than it was had it not been for the fact I was able to lie down and get a good night’s sleep, and gurgle when I was awake like a stupefied baby at the gazillion channels of entertainment on Emirates.

I would even be willing to endure a knee-lift like Demi if I thought I stood a chance with Kutcher.

I was going to blog from forty thousand feet, but I felt more inspired to watch inflight Hollywood crap.  Most of the plane was watching inflight Bollywood crap, which just goes to show that even when given the choice, Indians would rather keep it real with the caca; we will never prevail over them with our cinematic pablum.

Most inflight entertainment is crap that has just been released on DVD, which sort of justifies this mash-up of reviews.  In the case of Virgin Atlantic, which is more prone to have a selection of quality films side by side with the crap, they will often screen a British film that has yet to be released in the States, or an American one that hasn’t been released in the UK.  That’s what you get when a former entertainment company owns an airline: better contracts with the film companies.