Lionsgate and Millennium Films have finally picked the man to play the titular role in their upcoming Conan redux. However instead of going through a casting agent or sending out offers to “stars” through their representatives as one would traditionally cast a $60 million movie, they just went down to the parking lot of the Phish concert, found themselves a drum circle and pit the hippies against one another in a fight to the death for a plate of hash brownies. Emerging victorious was Jason Momoa, whom the six people who watch SyFy Network will recognize as Ronon Dex on Stargate Atlantis, and the rest of us will recognize as the stinky barefoot guy who begged us for change that one time we drove through Sedona.

The hunky trustafarian is 6’ 5” — so if he were walking down the other end of a dark alley you’d probably be pretty scared, until you caught a whiff of the patchouli. He also used to be on Baywatch, so there’s that. He’s half-Hawaiian, which definitely makes him the perfect choice to play a blue-eyed Celtic warrior. And apparently this guy’s a big Lenny Kravitz fan, having gone so far as making a baby in the same Cosby kid’s vagina as the similarly-dreaded retro-rocker. As a matter of fact Momoa and Lisa Bonet have two kids together: Daughter Lola Iolani Momoa, and a son named Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha Momoa.

No, seriously. Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha Momoa. Try to say that three times fast. Now, having failed that, try to say it once, at all. That’s what this guy named his first-born son. Either that or he was having an epileptic seizure and the nurse just jotted down whatever babble came out of his foamy mouth.

Another interesting rub here is that Mickey Rourke is rumored to play Conan’s father in the film. As my fellow 1980s late-night cable masturbators might recall, Rourke is the guy who violated Lisa Bonet’s every orifice in the controversial sex scene from Angel Heart – the film the pretty much ruined Bonet’s career. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Mickey ruined Momoa’s career too? By violating his every orifice? That would be delicious irony indeed.

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I suppose a gore-slathered red band trailer might make my murder boner a bit more turgid, but since we already know the gristle will be of the digital variety I think that’s about as likely as the Jets winning the Superbowl. Anyway, Piranha 3D doesn’t open until August 27, 2010 so we have plenty of time to forget all about this.

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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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I know this isn’t exactly breaking news, but for those of you for whom this website is the only window to the outside world, Hollywood actress Brittany Murphy (Clueless, 8 Mile, Don’t Say a Word) died yesterday at the age of 32.

Certainly her loss is tragic. First because she brought a banged-up/slutty quality to the screen that is noticeably absent these days; in a parallel universe she was doing barely-legal porn for crack and the fleeting affections of an abusive pimp, not making Hollywood pictures for Lamborghini money, but such was her fate. Second because unlike a lot of her starlet brethren, Brittany didn’t engage in the sort of public train wreck tomfoolery that would’ve made news of her death a welcome early Christmas gift. True, her marriage to a shady British con-man/screenwriter (hard to say which side of that slash is the more dubious designation) who made Ron Jeremy look like a GQ model by comparison raised some eyebrows, but Brittany never mined this bizarre relationship for tabloid cover space. As far as the outside world could tell she was genuinely in love with this troll, and for whatever reason this came off as endearing. Had it been Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Amy Winehouse or Paris Hilton found dead in a puddle of her own make yesterday morning there’d be dancing in the streets. For Brittany Murphy however, even a hardened internet cynic like me can’t help but shed a little black tear.

Of course it comes as a surprise to no one that drugs were likely responsible for Brittany’s demise. And while the autopsy results aren’t in yet, it would be hard to imagine that the cornucopia of mother’s little helpers cluttering Murphy’s West Hollywood home weren’t at least an accomplice in punching her ticket. This brings to light the curious relationship between celebrity, pharmaceuticals and death. In the past two years Heath Ledger, Michael Jackson and now apparently Brittany Murphy all met the Reaper thanks to substances that were legally on their persons and prescribed by medical professionals. Long gone are the days when a young star numbs the pain of celebrity with a packet of white powder bought under a freeway overpass from a dead-eyed Eastern European with facial tattoos. Of course the practical reasons for this sea-change are obvious: You don’t need to stuff a condom full of Oxys up your asshole to get past airport security so long as you have a valid prescription. RX crack doesn’t send people to jail or ruin their careers. At worst you do a stint in rehab and people feel sorry for you. At best you die tragically in a pool of half-digested Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and your bloated corpse gets propped up on the Celebrity Death Pro Bowl Pedestal to be deified and remembered forever. It’s the safe, politically correct way to be a junkie. But personally, I find this a little sad. When Jimi, Jim and Janis rode the white horse to Valhalla, they were being anti-establishment, anti-authority, anarchistic. In other words, dying as they lived by taking their fates – and the needle – into their own hands. They weren’t being preyed upon by opportunistic greedy doctors and pharmaceutical manufacturers promising a magic pill for every pain — in other words, the same assholes stuffing money in Republican pockets to ensure that public health care is NEVER an option. Like much of the sanitized, corporate-shilled “art” that dominates our popular culture –- films, TV and especially music –- Heath, Michael and Brittany were kllled by the very machine that created them, used up then tossed away like last year’s model of scented sanitary napkin (now with wings!). Which makes even their deaths feel contrived.

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The bad news is she’s still Dakota Fanning, meaning a frightening, bug-eyed wraith. It must be truly discouraging to find out that one’s sex appeal dried up at age four. I know it was for me, care of my uncle’s fleeting affections. I mean besides a Cub Scout uniform, what did Billy Robinson across the street have that I didn’t? Oh well, water under the bridge…

The Runaways, for the uninitiated, is a quasi-bio-pic about the 1970s girl band that brought us such hits as “Cherry Bomb” and…. “Cherry Bomb.” But the larger importance of The Runaways (the band) is that it spawned the careers of grrl-rock legends Joan Jett and Lita Ford, as well as that of chainsaw artist Cherie Currie.

Chainsaw artist Cherie Currie?

CHAINSAW ARTIST CHERIE CURRIE!

Anyway, here’s the trailer. The Runaways also stars an actress named Kristen Stewart, who was apparently in some sort of movie about vampires.

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Now if Robin Hood were a videogame, this trailer would be perfectly fine. Seeing arrows and swordplay at least means that I’ll likely be able to shoot some people with arrows, and cut off people’s heads with swords. Story, in a videogame, is generally something you skip past to get to the killing. But film being a passive medium, and mashing the red X button not being an option, I’d at least like to know before plunking down fourteen dollars for a ticket that Robin Hood will amount to something a tad more substantial than watching some stoner play Oblivion for two hours. Because believe me, I can do that for free.

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Besides, this trailer actually looks pretty funny, albeit in a “low-rent The Hangover meets some Williamsburg hipster’s clichéd sense of retro irony” sort of way. This might seem absurdly high-concept, but this shit actually happened to a dude I knew. Only it wasn’t a wormhole in the space-time continuum he slipped through, but a gloryhole in the Bakersfield Chevron station restroom. And instead of going back in time, he caught AIDS. But other that that it was pretty much the exact same story. That dude should totally sue.

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Raaaaaaape!

Obviously a Creature from the Black Lagoon redouche was inevitable, because a) it is a movie that exists and b) remaking movies that already exist requires no original thought, thus freeing its makers to focus their creative and intellectual energies on more important stuff, like figuring out the exact amount of CG it will take to make it suck, then using way more CG than that. Also there is the tricky business of figuring out which dated Ozzfest band’s song will be used over the end credits, and which personality-free teenager from CW’s flavor-of-the-month show should be used to suck all the life out of every scene requiring a love interest. Because make no mistake, Hollywood’s intentions are noble; true, they will only mine the dusty recesses of their back catalogs for fodder to make movies from, but rather than render these beloved classics insignificant by making remakes that are actually GOOD, they will shit out pointless cheez-whiz karaoke versions that will be all but forgotten by the time the BluRay comes out. God bless you, lady Hollywood, for you do the Lord’s work.

So it looks like the director charged with making the Creature from the Black Lagoon remake forgettably shitty will be the same guy tasked with crapping out a forgettable Alien prequel: commercial director Carl Rinsch. Commercial directors are absolutely the best kind, as their background is not in telling stories (shudder) but in stringing together a bunch of quick-cut eye candy in order to sell a product. Also, they understand the dynamics of a client-vendor relationship and aren’t caught up in this awful auteur business. Man, I don’t know how Hollywood even functioned before they handed all the director jobs to guys and gals who’d cut their teeth selling dish-washing liquid. Truly those were dark times…

And speaking of dark times, I have a suggestion for Carl Rinsch with regard to his take on this remake: Why not go blaxsploitation? Think about it: Black Creature from the Black Lagoon. How can you miss with a title like that? Or maybe Creature from the Quadroon Lagoon, or Socialist Creature from the Kenyan Lagoon of Socialism, or just call it Obama’s Gonna Get You!!!!!!!! only with a million more exclamation points. Point being that in order for today’s sophisticated audiences to get scared, it’s going to take more than some stunt-man in a rubber monster suit. You’re going to need some actual xenophobic punditry, some talking-point hysteria, and at least one educated black dude. Give your black creature from the socialist lagoon a MBA from Wharton, or a PHD in poli-sci from Princeton, and you’ll have audiences shitting Jesus-shaped bricks.

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