I wanted to love this movie. I wanted to like this movie. But in the end, I only ended up hating this movie. It seems like it had all the right ingrediants: C-Tates in a starring role, Matthew McConaughey at the height of his acting powers, and an over-the-top story about a group of male strippers. Unfortunately, the movie doesn’t revel in bawdy antics or go balls-to-the-wall (so to speak) with playing up the ludicrousness of the the strippers. It settles for a slower, more introspective character study of C-Tates and his desire to do something else with his life. Director Steven Soderbergh bleeds the life out of this movie from the first frame. He encouches the whole thing in weirdo lens filters to make every scene saturated to a single color. Cody Horn plays C-Tates’ love interest, and she wanders around the lanscape like a zombie, speaking her lines more robotically than Honda’s Asimo. She must have given Soderbergh a ton of blow-jobs and/or reach-arounds in order to get this part, because she sure as fuck didn’t get it on talent. Anyway, the movie is slow and pointless, nothing much happens, and it isn’t bombastic and fun like it should be.
The Fault in Our Stars
This whole business of adapting young adult novels into films really needs to stop. They are truly scraping the bottoms of the barrel at this point. The Fault in Our Stars is a sappy romance about a chick with lung cancer and a dude with bone cancer who fall in love despite having horrible illnesses. The problem with this movie is that the characters define themselves by their illnesses. They seem to have no life apart from seeing doctors and going to cancer support groups. Hazel (the chick) reads one book over and over again, a book about another chick with cancer. Gus (the dude) tries to show her that life is about more than cancer, but she eventually wears him down enough that he, too, learns to obsess about his illness.
Like any teenage boy, he tries to worm his way into her pants, and finally does so on a trip to Amsterdam to meet the author of her favorite book. They make out in Anne Frank’s hideout (I can’t think of a better place to get freaky, can you?), and then decide to blubber about the fact they are going to die. If they just chose to live their lives to the fullest, to live each day as its own, they could move forward with their lives, perhaps even enjoy them. The fact they mire themselves in their cancer is super fucking depressing, and not at all interesting from a narrative perspective. The Fault in the Author is the culprit in failing to craft a good story.
The other thing, a pet peeve of mine, is the fact they fuck up all the medical shit. Hazel has to lug around an oxygen tank for the entirety of the movie. Why? She has lung cancer, duh! Except lung cancer doesn’t require supplemental oxygen for treatment. It’s just a stupid fucking prop to make a beautiful actress appear sick. What a bunch of horse shit. Fuck this movie. The only young adult adaptation I can think of that was worse than this was The Perks of Being a Wallflower.