Loompa Wrangling at the Movies: A Depressing Dose of Deep Despair (a.k.a The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)

In one of my earliest posts here in Loompaville, I stated that Brokeback Mountain was the single most depressing film I'd ever seen.

And it has valiantly held that title for several years.

Through I Am Legend's cheap murder of the dog. It held up.

As I watched Mr. Plainview mentally destroy his adopted son in There Will Be Blood, the mountain-filled tale of ill-fated love reigned supreme.

Even as I finally rented Mystic River, and watched two families be ripped apart by a tragic misunderstanding, Brokeback refused to lose.

Until this afternoon. January 27, 2009. A date that will live in melancholy.

The date I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button do for tear-jerkers what The Texas Chainsaw Massacre did for horror.

The Oscar nominated film, directed by edgy filmmaker David Fincher, plods along at a sluggish pace and seems only interested in waking you when something terrible happens. And I don't mean "ooh look at that train wreck" terrible. I'm speaking of "here, watch the person or animal you love most in this world die a slow death" terrible.

Fast facts about Button:
5--The number of times (at different points in the movie) Brad Pitt and his love interest Cate Blanchett say goodbye.

3--The number of parents we get to see die.

2--The number of children abandoned by their fathers.

1--The number of times I've had the opportunity to watch a woman hold the infant version of the man she loved most in the universe--as he died.

Button opens with Daisy's (Cate Blanchett) daughter huddled by her deathbed telling her how much she's going to miss her. We then quickly flashback to the death of Benjamin's birth mother.

The next 15 minutes showing us Benjamin as an old man behaving like a toddler provides the only levity in the film. After that, when someone isn't dying or leaving, the film grinds to a halt.

We're shown countless vistas of the world. They're beautiful, but more at home on the Travel Channel than in this film. They feel forced down my throat, as if Benjamin wants to shake me by the shoulders until I realize how beautiful life and everything in it truly is. I only wish he could have visited Nazi Germany or present day Mumbai, India.

Even when not begging for a best cinematography Oscar, the movie slinks along with the urgency of an obese sleepwalker. Many times I found myself wishing I could fast forward through scenes and get on with the action. Brad Pitt is a handsome man, but if I had to watch anymore lengthy close ups of him being pensive, or lost in wonderment at the cyclical nature of life, I was going to drown myself in my gallon-sized Hi-C.

The acting is serviceable, but not what the Academy has made it out to be. Cate Blanchett looks very sultry in youth and very sad in old age. Yawn. There simply wasn't much meat on Daisy's character for her to sink her acting chops into. I wasn't shocked she didn't receive a nomination.

Brad Pitt is sedate, melancholy, and honestly, quite distant. He succeeds in delivering the few comedic lines in the film, highlighting where this movie wasted much of its potential. Brad Pitt's acting genius, much like that of his manfriend George Clooney, shines through in comedies. Why he does so few of them I don't know. I've read he's envious of Leonardo DiCaprio's film choices. But he shouldn't be. Making people laugh is much, much, much, much more difficult than making them cry. Kill a dog. Give a mom or child a terminal disease. Whip up a teenage suicide. Have a love affair end in tragedy. Get Sean Penn to act retarded. The formula isn't complicated.

But making an audience laugh for an hour and a half (see Tropic Thunder) or playing a half-witted physical trainer to goofy perfection (see Brad Pitt in Burn After Reading) requires immeasurable skill.

George and Brad should leave the uber-drama to DiCaprio and Day-Lewis, and use their own enormous gifts of comedic timing. I love Brad Pitt--but his nomination feels more like a thanks for all your great work nomination than something earned in Button.

(And an "it's about time clap" to the Academy for nominating Robert Downey Jr. for best supporting actor in Tropic Thunder. Maybe if the Academy acknowledged the greatness of comedic acting a little more often, Brad Pitt would do more comedies and I wouldn't be stitching up my wrists right now.)

Back to Button. The finest performance belonged to Taraji P. Henson, who was nominated for a best supporting actress for her role as Queenie, Benjamin's mother. She is the only actor who pops off the screen and is still memorable after they've flooded New Orleans and you've snot-soaked your final tissue.

The script, adapted from the novel of the same name, was penned by Eric Roth. I wasn't surprised to read he also wrote Forrest Gump. Button, which desperately wants to be Forrest Gump, is the exact inversion of Forrest Gump. Little charm. Few ancillary characters worth caring about. And far more loss than triumph.

Button is the Bizarro to Gump's Superman.

Ultimately, the film is so desperate to make the audience feel true sadness, that it accomplishes very little in between tragedies. And at a run time of three hours, feels longer than Reagan and Princess Di's funerals combined.

And I almost forgot.

Button ends as Katrina floods New Orleans.

Hooray.

For being an emotional snuff film, I give The Curious Case of Benjamin Button two out of five Loompas, both of them teary-eyed and crestfallen.

Season of Sickness

Just as anyone else who works in a school, I’m exposed to all manner of germs. But the bacteria bonfire I face is considerably more potent. I’m tasked with seventh graders. That’s right. Every day, armed with only demerits and a scented expo marker (Chocó-mint. It’s friggin’ sweet), I do battle with hordes of pubescent adolescents.

I fight desperately to keep them locked away from the hours of 7:30a.m.-2:45 p.m. All so that you regular workin’ folk, like Joe Sixpack and DUI Danny, can go to work unmolested by gangs of smelly preteens demanding candy and full disclosure of your personal life.

There’s a reason Jack Bauer never takes on public education for 24 hours. He’d never make it past 9:00-10:10a.m

(That’s a 24 reference and shout out to all loyal fans who are giving 24 one more try this season. Through the first four hours we’re good. Jack’s at his surliest, ass-whoopinest best.)

But recently I developed a marble-sized knot in the back of my skull. In the past day it’s deflated a bit, and none of my literary genius appears lost. But I am thoroughly ready for the “season of disease” in public schooling to be over.

Note: the season of disease is much like summer TV. It’s filled with reality based crap you never wanted to see, like green snot sickles or milky vomit covered in mint-fragranced sawdust. Really. What’s the difference between seeing that or watching Temptation Island?

Very little. That’s how much.

The season runs from about January to March, and I’m already tired of it. Even more tired than drunk David Hasselhoff is of YouTube. So today, whilst dodging the latest uncovered, mucus-drenched cough from one of my students, I tried to temper my annoyance by thinking of three things that irritate me more than the season of the sickness.

3-->Brad Pitt and his wife-Can they not just act? Can they just not enjoy their jobs as make believe characters and stop commenting on societal issues? I know, I know. It’s great when celebrities use their star power to further causes, like rebuilding New Orleans or helping impoverished children.

But they blew off Ryan Seacrest at the Golden Globes. And that pisses me off. What did Seacrest ever do to piss somebody off? For God’s sakes, he was the funniest thing about Knocked Up. So let them have as many twins as they want. And let them adopt all the children they can snag until they successfully reenact the It’s a Small World ride in their living room. But maybe they just shut the hell up for a while and at least act like they’re not so damn put out all the time. Well, I know Brad can pull that off.

His wife’s not so much on the acting.

2-->Brittney Spears-Don’t give Brittney any more money! It will only go to two places, Kevin Federline and her Beverly Hillbillies white trash family, or liposuction so that she can keep sucking down pies to calm herself after she bashes in another car window.

Get her off the iPod screens in the Best Buy inserts! You listen to music on iPods. You watch train wrecks on CNN and VH1. And that’s all she is now. A talentless exhibitionist of the highest class.

Hell, even Taylor Swift thinks Brittney can’t sing.

1-->Twilight-Maybe this is just because I’ve finally been overcome with enough curiosity that I am almost 100 pages into the first novel (I use that term loosely) and am finding myself more bored than Hillary Clinton at Obama’s first cabinet meeting.

If I have to read her cook dinner for her father one more time (we’re up to two in about a 30 page span) I’m going to microwave the book, cover it in hot sauce, and pretend I’m devouring the heart of the literary agent who cast this plague upon us. (Writers House, I’m staring in your direction).

I honestly don’t blame teens and preteens for their captivation. Edward is designed to be the perfect male. And Bella is the perfect helpless Lois Lane. Yes, she talks tough, but seems to clearly need Edward to save her and make her happy.

But to those over 20, I bite my thumb at you. The Buffy the Vampire Slaver loves Angel (haunted vampire with a soul) storyline is better love story by miles. Yes, it’s a little edgier and doesn’t necessarily end happily, but at least it’s believable—as far as human vampire romances go. Honestly, there’s no comparison. This is like Michael Keaton Batman versus George Clooney Batman, or Daddy Bush versus W. Sometimes newer does not mean better.

Or maybe this knot on my head just has me in a foul mood…I hate this season.