Gouging My Eyes Out with a Dull Spoon

Yes, I have pounded my shoe on the podium here before, on numerous occasions, regarding a variety of horrible awful mind-numbing movies. Well, this is going to be another one of those. You might as well click back to myspace now and forgo the Lounge for today...

In anticipation of the upcoming Casino Royale, I have been reviewing related material as a sort of warm up.

I started with Layer Cake, Daniel Craigs last indie-hit, and it was really quite good. You should definitely Netflix it, if you haven't already. However, that's not what I watched tonight.

No, this evening I squandered several perfectly good blogging hours watching Casino Royale. The original 1967 abonimation. (Yes, I know there was a one-hour television version in 1954, but that featured an American named "Jimmy Bond." So, it doesn't count...)

No, I'm talking about the all-star non-Broccoli hodge podge, which languished under the misdirection of five different directors. All of the mighty thespian prowess of Orson Welles, Peter Sellers, Woody Allen, David Niven, John Houston, Peter O'Toole, William holden and Ursula Andress couldn't put this craptastically-scrambled Humpty back together again.

Characters who simply disappeared in the middle re-started from scratch later on. Some characters simply vanished in mid-developement without discussion. Loose story lines were left to drop untied. Set design and style continuity shifted and reverted with each scene. Accents evolved and hopped continents in mid-dialogue block. Psychedlic montages erupted without warning or need. Character names changed seemingly at random.

Troublesome characters (or characters played by troublesome actors) seemed to consistently meet an explossive demise. There seemed to be about 8 or 9 James Bonds. There was one Jimmy Bond, and several women with the ID code: "007." Entire sequences would go by without connection to any sense of universal plot.

I am feeling angry and surly. I feel like several hours of my life have been stolen. Over all, I'd say that this was an irresponsible indulgent quixotic extravagance on the part of some coked-up sweaty shifty shitty film producer. I want to find this aging traitor to humanity and squeeze the contents of his colostomy bag back into his body, then punch him in the neck.

Alas, the poor bastard is probably already dead.

Reading for Comprehension:
1. I should have gone to bed an hour ago, but I feel so aggitated and insulted by this monumental pile of pig shit, that I had to finish this post.
2. However, I am so bile-ridden that I'm not even going to proof read or correct typos.
3. I actually gave "the bird" to the closing credits. Dick Cheney should be forced to sit and watch this movie over and over and over...