Inglourious Basterds – I’ll be honest, I only went to see Inglourious Basterds to mock it. Death Proof — QT’s insufferable, pointless-dialog-laden half of Grindhouse — left such a foul taste in my mouth that I was convinced the pomo-pastiche artist had finally lost his shit. And while I didn’t think Inglourious Basterds was a flawless film by any stretch (here again, QT’s characters babble with a smug machine-gun bravado normally reserved for Hollywood Hills coke parties), Inglourious Basterds was at the very least -– unreservedly, unapologetically — a Quentin Tarantino film, its every frame slathered with the director’s Clorox-scented make. Love him or hate him, Quentin ONLY makes Tarantino films. You’ll never see his name on a Gnip Gnop adaptation or remake of Look Who’s Talking. No journeyman, he is the closest thing American cinema has to a bonerfide “auteur” circa now. And he may be the last of his kind.

I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell – This film goes on my list not because it was good, or even because I’ve actually seen it, but because its abysmal failure hopefully kicked date-rape blogger Tucker Max to the zeitgeist’s curb, permanent-like. The douchebag’s Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes expired two years ago; releasing this adaptation of his faux memoir in 2009 is like making a film about pogs, or an adaptation of the arcade game Street Fighter (er, um…). And besides, we already know by now that the internet does not create actual stars. Just ask Tay Zonday’s agent or the idiots who signed Leave Britney Alone Guy to a production deal. Everything about the internet is a lie, and this is certainly true of the fictional true-life accounts of gnarly sex with actual women who are not dudes that made Tucker Max a MySpace-hold name for about five seconds in the middle of this almost-dead decade.

Crank 2 – This sequel thankfully stripped away any pretense of trying to make sense from its predecessor, emptied a syringe of Heisenberg-grade crystal meth into its cock and set it loose with a blow torch and grenade-bedecked-bandolier on a playground full of kindergartners. Watching C-list fame-whore Bai Ling shamelessly hamming up the most racist depiction of an Asian person on screen since Long Duck Dong was worth the price of admission alone. I’m truly surprised Neveldine and Taylor stopped short of giving her fake buck teeth, thick glasses, and making her run around peeing in everyone’s Coke. This movie literally gave two great big middle fingers to anyone stupid enough to pay for a ticket. It was the cinematic equivalent of paying a dominatrix to kick you in the nuts until you cum blood.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen – Michael Bay truly does not give a fuck. He will do whatever he wants, whenever he wants – which generally, nay, without exception involves explosions and tits — and you will swallow it like the turd-hungry German fecophiles you are. If Two Girls, One Cup had been made with a $200 million budget it would’ve turned out EXACTLY like Revenge of the Fallen.

The Road – If you found Winter Light, Breaking the Waves and Sophie’s Choice too upbeat, then The Road is the movie for you. John Hillcoat’s adaptation of the happy-fun-time Cormac McCarthy novel not only proves that you don’t need Mel Gibson to make a kick-ass post-apocalyptic film, it also proves that you that don’t need actual zombies to make a kick-ass zombie movie. Some critics have pointed out (paraphrasing), “well at least the ending was somewhat hopeful.” Incorrect. All it did was stop one scene short of showing Viggo’s son raped and devoured by a family of toothless strangers. But believe me, twenty years from now, when you’ve just about wiped the memory of The Road from your mind, John Hillcoat will show up at your door with the missing final reel and completely fuck your world.

Chocolate – My retard’s kung fu is strong. When director Prachya Pinkaew dropped Ong-bak on the world, he proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Thailand is the next Korea is the next Japan is the next Hong Kong with regard to balls-out action flicks. But I don’t think anyone expected him to raise the bar by bringing retards in the mix as he did with Chocolate. Okay, technically jailbait hottie JeeJa Yanin’s character Zen is autistic, not retarded. But that’s like saying you prefer catsup on your French-fried potatoes over ketchup. “Autistic” is just what white, upper-middle-class people call their retards. Can he speak? Read a book? No? Does he spend the day smearing poo on the wall instead? Yeah? Then sorry Jenny McCarthy, but your kid’s a mongo, I don’t care if he can count cards like Rainman or learn Chopin’s entire catalog in one day by ear. Besides, all retarded people have at least one super power, everyone knows this. Zen’s super power in Chocolate happens to be kicking ass and taking names. Oh, and if the thought of ONE retarded martial arts master makes you masturbate with joy, better save your money shot for Chocolate’s grand finale which features a water-head battle royale. I shit you not.

Zombieland – I knew Zombieland was going to make my top ten during the opening credits — which featured zombies, zombies, strippers, zombies, zombies and Metallica (from back when Metallica was Metallica). Then Woody Harrelson shows up and gives his best performance since Kingpin. Sure, Jesse Eisenberg is fine as We Couldn’t Get Michael Cera, but this movie’s all about Woody and zombies… and zombies. Oh, and the top-secret cameo — which I’m sure you already know about by now, but I’m not going to be the asshole who spoils it for you if you don’t – is brilliant, yes, but merely the icing on a near-perfect zombedy cake.

Anvil! The Story of Anvil – As a veteran headbanger/bass-raper/dragon-slayer I can tell you from first hand experience toiling in the clubs playing rock obscura, no film has crystallized what it’s like being in a band this well since Spinal Tap. Ironically, the lovably clueless Canucks comprising bonerfide metal band Anvil don’t have the talent or chops of the aforementioned comedy troupe’s mock metal act, but they do have hearts as big as their delusions, which has kept them rocking long past the point of anyone giving a shit. I dare you to try not shedding a tear for Lips and the boys. Go on, jaded hipster nihilists! I double-dog dare ya.

Bad Lieutenant: Port Of Call New Orleans – As all three fans of this blog know well, I’ve long held the theory that Nic Cage, artist, is intentionally trying to destroy cinema. His insane, over-the-top turns in bland blockbusters and shitty action movies are not the poor career choices of a man who’ll take any gig so long as the check clears; they are the thought-out creative acts of an artistic genius who has turned his entire body of work into a display of post modern deconstructive performance art. Of course even I had some doubts about my theory; that is, until I saw Bad Lieutenant. Not so much a remake, not so much even film as an experience, German director Werner Herzog has clearly found in Cage a worthy muse to replace mad daughter-fucker Klaus Kinski, who goose-stepped off this moral coil some years ago. As with Kinski, together Herzog and Cage form like Volton into a giant robot of demented genius. And there are lizards.

World’s Greatest Dad – Why doesn’t anyone make black comedies anymore? I know what you’re gonna say: “what about Tyler Perry?” BA-DUMP CHING! But I was actually referring to the black-in-tone, chock full o’ cynicism-satire-and-deadpan-irony sort of films that long ago were made for thinking adults to laugh at. Films like Dr. Strangelove, Heathers, Repo Man, Harold & Maude, Eating Raoul, Eat the Rich, The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover (shit, there’s a lot of people eating other people on this list). I know, the public’s tastes have er, “evolved” (faaaart), but if I’m going to have to sit through another two-hour buddy comedy featuring Judd Apatow’s latest stable of curly-haired Jew bears, could you at least make them gang rapists? Or could there at least be one scene where they kill Jonah Hill and eat him? I mean where they actually do it in real life, and film it? The benefit there being that you don’t have to worry about craft service; there’s enough meat on that boy to feed an entire crew of Teamsters for a month.

Thankfully, Bobcat Goldthwait picked up the gauntlet – yes THAT Bobcat Goldthwaith – when he made World’s Greatest Dad, a film that actually redeems Robin Williams through the next two laughless family comedies after Old Dogs. Williams plays a milquetoast school teacher who loves his son – despite the fact that the kid’s a stupid, mean, ugly, worthless waste of air. This is kind of a spoiler coming up, but I have a feeling you won’t bother seeing the film unless I tell you about it: When the puke son accidentally kills himself by way of autoerotic asphyxiation, Williams’ dad earns his titular designation by making the death look like a suicide, and in so doing grants his son the heart, soul, and brains he never had in real life. If you’ve ever wondered, just as you regain consciousness sticky with your own seed, how horrible it would actually be for your parents to discover your corpse in such a state – and hey, haven’t we all? – World’s Greatest Dad is a must-see. It’s also my film of the year.

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