Once again we bring you screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding, who’s going to share with us his “best movies of the year” list. Lists. We love ‘em [for the official, boring & serious Best of 2007 List go here]

I’ll admit it; I didn’t see a lot of movies in 2007. Probably because I’d spent most of the year in a Monclova prison after trying to sneak over the Mexican border with $20,000 worth of Oxycotin up my colon. Luckily mom was able to sell her kidney and bribe the judge in time to get me Stateside so I could work on my Best Movies of 2007 list. And while I can’t guarantee I was conscious through ALL of the below, I saw enough of them to know I at least didn’t HATE them, which was enough to put them on my list. Hope you enjoy it.

- Ronnie

Knocked Up

2007 may well be remembered as the Year of the Apatowmedy. With two break-out successes (and one, er… Dewey Cox) in the same year, writer/producer/director Judd Apatow and his stable of mop-topped, potty-mouthed husky Jews have risen to the top of the comedy heap with their patented recipe of 99% dick jokes, 1% heart. Now certain feminists (including the film’s star Katherine Heigl) have criticized Knocked Up due to the alleged improbability of a hot babe with a good career giving it all up to father the child of some ugly slacker she had a one-night stand with. Silly feminists. This sort of thing happens all the time. Of course usually the dirtbags in question have guitars in their hands, but so long as he manifests some semblance of a father’s withheld love ANY dirtbag can bed supermodel-quality women regardless of the creative endeavor he’s half-heartedly pursuing. Still, I do find it charming that some women are still romantic enough to believe that their fairer gender cares what a man looks like, or does for a living, enough to short-circuit their own subconscious daddy issues. Awww, feminists… ain’t they widdle faces so durned cute?

Black Snake Moan

While I didn’t see it, the fact that Sam Jackson chains a half-naked Christina Ricci to a radiator puts this film on my list. Funny, last time I chained a naked chick to my radiator I got arrested, but I think that had something to do with the fact that it was the radiator of my car, and because I was going 120 MPH westbound on the 134 at the time.

300

Some critics wrongly pooh-poohed this movie due to its historical inaccuracies, agit-prop jingoism and flagrant homoeroticism. Well I say pooh-pooh on them! There’s absolutely NOTHING homoerotic about a bunch of oiled-up, hard-bodied hunks in Speedos and capes climbing into a deep crevice with their spears in hand, THRUSTING their spears over and over as their clean-shorn BODIES glisten with SWEAT, steely sinew rubbing against steely sinew as they take on wave after wave of desperate MEN, THOUSANDS of desperate MEN, charging at them with SWORDS and lances hoping to PENETRATE their fleshy wall of brotherhood, hoping to SPREAD them apart and INVADE the musky recesses of the chocolate-brown CAVERN they protect with their sweaty, oiled-up, SHAVEN-CHESTED lives…

Hell, if that shit’s gay, color me Liberace.

Planet Terror

Zombies? Check. Strippers? Check. Amputee strippers? Check. Amputee strippers with machine guns mounted on their stumps? Check. Bruce Willis? Check. Graphic violence, torture and rape? Check check check. Quentin Tarantino’s balls melting off? Checkity-check. Best movie of the century? Check.

28 Weeks Later

Zombies? Check. Strip… uh… oh, it’s JUST zombies? Good enough.

Juno

Speaking of strippers, and zombies, and thinly veiled pro-life propaganda:
I was just as skeptical as everyone else when I’d first heard Juno screenwriter Dakota Fanning Coyote’s back-story. A woman? Who can write? Words? Who taught her that!?! Her story went from dubious to ridiculous when it was revealed that Ms. Delmonico Feldman Cory listed “coconut-scented pole princess” on her resume. Because as far as I knew strippers were only good for two things: Ruining sweatpants and supporting musicians. But as it turns out, Madame El Destructo Kobe is the real deal. Sister can write. Which should serve as a life-lesson to all of you people out there with disabilities like womanhood, or estrogen dependency, or possessing ovaries: If you believe in yourself, you can overcome any adversity to accomplish your dreams! Mr. T knew it; so should you.

Bug

Though he doesn’t have the name recognition of his “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” brethren, William Friedkin was responsible for some of the most memorable films of his epoch. The French Connection for instance, with its infamous 12 hour chase scene shot sans permits down a busy New York street which cost thousands of people their lives. Or The Exorcist, which I saw when I was 12 years old and had me so convinced I was possessed by demons that I stapled a crucifix to my penis, doused it in holy water then slammed it in the car door until I passed out from heavy bleeding. Well, the PCP had a little something to do with that, but mostly it was The Exorcist.

Yet while contemporaries like Scorsese and Coppola were being lionized well past their expiration dates, Friedkin was left to languish in obscurity. Why? A little film called To Live and Die in L.A., that’s why. Did it suck? Hell no, it was awesome, but Friedkin’s decision to let sexually ambiguous 80’s synth pop band WANG CHUNG score the entire fucking movie guaranteed that no one living in a year past 1986 would be able to watch the thing without laughing. Too bad, because unlike Marty “sympathy Oscar” Scorsese and Francis Ford “even my fugly daughter’s a better director than me” Coppola, Friedkin’s still got his chops, as evidenced by the horrific tweaker fever-dream BUG. Like my favorite film of 2006, CRANK, Friedkin’s BUG had my teeth grinding like I’d shot a crank case full of biker meth into my eyeball even though I’ve been STONE COLD SOBER (as far as my parole officer knows anyways) for months. Oh, and Ashley Judd shows her mom boobs in it.

Undisputed II

Though it contains all the trappings of its Van-Damme-dominated, shot-in-Bulgaria straight-to-video martial arts genre — this sequel (featuring none of the original cast) to the Wesley Snipes/ Ving Rhames boxing-movie failure is 5000 better than the original thanks to the high-flying kung fu skillz of British action-ninja Scott Adkins. Who is Scott Adkins, you might ask. And you’d be dumb for asking. Adkins is only the next martial arts it-guy, and he’s arrived just in time, because the J.C. Van Dammes, Stevie Seagals and Mike Dudikoffs of the world are looking like haggard, paunchy, paranoid-schizophrenic parodies of their former selves. Oh and Michael Jai White is in it, as the hero or something.

Live Free or Die Hard

Holy fuck! Shit blowed up! It blowed up good!

Smokin’ Aces (trailer)

While the movie itself was borderline unwatchable (outside of anything involving the totally awesome Tremor Brothers), this minute-long teaser-trailer was better than 99.99987% of what was released in theaters this past year. Yeah, um about 15 thousand people get shot, there’s a crazy skinhead wielding a machete, we get to watch Ben Affleck die, all while what is inarguably one of the greatest songs of all time by what is inarguably one of the greatest rock bands of all time plays, i.e. Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades.” Can a trailer win an Oscar for best picture? Probably not, but only because the Academy’s a bunch of soft-serve player-hatin’ pussies.

Beowulf (in IMAX 3D)

Take away the 3D goggles and this movie’s just a weaker version of one of the segues in Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. But seeing this thing in an IMAX theater in 3 fucking D was easily the cinematic highlight of 2007 for me. I can’t remember the last time I shit my pants in a movie theater when I WASN’T in the throes of delirium tremens, but Beowulf’s 3D action had me spraying scat like I was two girls and my pants were one cup. If you want to remember what it was like to be EXCITED at the movies, and don’t mind walking around for the rest of the day with a load in your undies like it’s 1992 and your name is Ronald Reagan, find yourself an IMAX theater and see this before it’s too late.

Due to popular demand, we’re once again handing over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding who’ll answer questions from his mailbag.

***

Dear Ronnie,

Thanks a lot!
Tiffany C.

Gotta admit Tiff, I was a little nervous reading your email. When Ronnie receives a missive from a 13-year old, it usually means there’s either a paternity suit or a visit from Chris Hansen coming down the pike. So as you can imagine I’m more than a little relieved that you were merely looking for screenwriting advice. Do you have any pictures of yourself, maybe dressed in a cheerleader uniform, or jumping on a trampoline? For the column I mean. Actually, never mind. Not that I doubt your sincerity; but that Hansen fellow is tricky. Number of times I’ve been on his TV show, they should be giving me a friggin’ SAG card, not some damn chemical castration pill! But I digress, Tiff. I digress. Now on to your questions…

It’s good that you love movies. But just because you love something doesn’t mean it’s right for you career-wise. For instance when I was your age I loved huffing paint. So you’d naturally think me getting a job at McGrover’s Paint Store would’ve been the perfect fit. As it turned out, not so much. I’d been there less than a week when ol’ Mr. McGrover handed me my walking papers, allegedly because he found me passed out in the stock room, naked save for a husk of gold matte on my face and the bloody pentagrams I’d carved into my chest. I’ll have to take his word for it. I killed so many brain cells huffing that sweet Krylon Kandy, I still have trouble remembering to keep my pants on in mixed company. You hear that, Chris Hansen? It’s a medical condition.

So I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told the kids at my sister’s Christian camp last summer: God is dead. Nietzsche said so. But also, before you set yourself down a path toward inevitable disappointment, disillusionment and drug dependency you should figure out if it’s an actual talent that you’re pissing away your life for, not just delusions of grandeur. Yeah, that’s right. Talent. All the screenwriting classes in the world ain’t gonna teach you talent. You either got it or you don’t. Fellatio, on the other hand, is a skill one can develop through trial and error, and with regular practice. But if you’re good enough at knob-bobbin’ to land a gig, might as well use it toward something with steadier pay. Like a creative exec job for instance, or a regular cast spot on CSI: Miami.

Still, if screenwriting’s what you’ve got your little heart set on, and it seems like you got the talent and/or tongue skills to make it work, you definitely wanna go about it the right away. And yup, that includes choosing the right university. Now bear in mind the only college ol’ Ronnie ever partook in was a week of Tractor-Trailer school, and I still managed to scratch out something of a career in the word-writing game. But if I had it all to do over — like if I had a time machine or fell into one of those inter-dimensional wormholes like that creepy little guy in the talking wheelchair’s always going on and on about — I’d probably put a little more thought into my post-GED education. Because where you go to school is one of the most important decisions an aspiring screenwriter such as yourself will ever make.

Before you pick a school, you should figure out what kind of career trajectory you want to follow first. Do you want to make unwatchable pseudo-European experimental films and bemoan the sorry state of American cinema before settling into a lifelong service industry career? Then NYU’s the school for you. Do you want to make promising shot-on-HD Sundance favorites which you’ll bring up in interviews to justify your creative existence for the entirety of your subsequent career making morally bankrupt CGI-explosion-filled blockbusters? Then think Wesleyan. Do you want to make a big spec script sale your first year out of college, for a ridiculous sum despite the fact that the project will never make it out of development hell, then segue into a career as a grossly overpaid script doctor for the projects your old dorm mates are producing? Then you definitely want to enroll at USC. Do you want to work as a second assistant for two years before going to law school and giving up on screenwriting entirely? Then it’s gotta be UCLA. Not that you’re actually going to LEARN anything at any of these places. Hell no! But the connections you make and the reputation you stake out at college are going to follow for your whole career.

Which brings us to your last question: Is screenwriting a good idea for a career? Sure, if you like the idea of being the lowest person on the creative totem pole in an industry that fucks you out of money and credit and residuals at every turn despite the fact that their product wouldn’t EXIST if not for you. Does that sound like caramel apples and cotton candy to you? It does? Then go for it! Good luck “Tiffany,” if that IS your real name. And tell your buddy Chris Hansen I said hello. Cripes, you Dateline people think I was born yesterday?!?

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film DEEP VENGEANCE III: STINGRAY’S RETURN premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on November 14th.

If you have any questions for Ronnie Pudding please send them to boxofficepsychics@gmail.com

We’re going to do something different today and hand over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding, who’ll answer some questions from his mailbag.

***

Dear Ronnie,

Yours truly,
Unrepped in Hell-A

Hey Unrepped, this ain’t Dear Abby. Unless you’re wanted for a felony in New Mexico –- like, oh I don’t know, statutory rape or something — you don’t need a pseudonym here. And YES Ronnie Pudding’s my REAL name, and NO I’ve never been to New Mexico, and even if I have, that girl told me she was of age; she had a fake ID and everything. Come on, you ever seen tits like that on an 11-year old? That’s what I thought. Hypothetically speaking.

But on to your question: Contrary to popular belief, finding an agent’s easy. Just put on your sister’s best skirt, a little red lipstick and a purple party-girl wig, then head down to the corner of Western and Santa Monica after 2 AM or so. The dude in the Lexus GS450 jacking off into his power tie after paying you fifty bucks to step on baby field mice while singing Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart?” Agent.

Finding an agent who’s actually willing to REPRESENT you, however –- without incriminating pictures of him getting blown by some dude in a purple party-girl wig –- is the tricky part. Unless you’re a crippled minority and/or have some credits to your name already, all those stupid query letters you’ve been writing because your screenwriting professor at BLOW ME U said that’s what you’re supposed to do, they ain’t getting read by anyone but the hobo sleeping in the dumpster behind CAA. Oh, and that hobo? He’s an aspiring screenwriter too, and he’s already got an agent. In other words, your time would be better spent trying to find Bigfoot, or Iraqi WMD’s, or a woman capable of rational thought.

But that doesn’t mean you should move back to Osh Kosh and take that job at the rug factory just yet. Because what’s the next best thing to an agent? A MANAGER.

What’s a manager, you ask? Managers are just like agents, only without the scruples. If the fancy escorts who advertise in the back of the LA WEEKLY are agents, then that AIDS-infested, toothless crack whore with the pus tumors all over her meat-wallet who gives 5 dollar hand jobs behind the Denny’s on Sunset is your manager. Now, TECHNICALLY, managers aren’t supposed to solicit you work. But then slipping a girl a roofie isn’t TECHNICALLY considered foreplay. Truth is a manager can do anything an agent can do; they just do it illegally. And do you really want the person representing your professional interests to be some law-abiding goodie two-shoes? Didn’t think so.

Now getting a manager’s relatively easy. Especially if you’re a woman. You don’t even need to write anything! As long as you have a decent rack, all you need to do is sleep with them on a semi-regular basis. Next thing you know you’ll be selling your pitches to Disney for mid-six figures. If you’re a man however, it’s a LITTLE trickier (unless you’re gay, or are at least open to the idea). Because there are far fewer female managers out there for you to doink, and their cooches are all used up from sleeping with studio execs. Plus, since you’re an aspiring SCREENWRITER, you’re most likely overweight and have chronic halitosis. Sleeping your way to the top ain’t really an option.

Therefore you’re gonna need to write what’s known as a “spec” script. It should contain all the elements of a commercial blockbuster movie, namely: Explosions, tits, knife fights, talking robots, more explosions, lesbians making out, but most importantly HEART. Because that’s what a good story needs. Heart. You must also be sure to follow screenwriting guru Syd Field’s rules beat-for-beat, because it’s been scientifically proven by some guy with a microscope that there’s never been a successful movie that didn’t follow the tenets of Syd Field. Ever. And most importantly, more important than ANYTHING, your script should be bound with two brass brads.

Once your script’s done, head down to Les Deux with an 8-ball of cocaine and some xanax. Start giving out free bumps in the handicapped shitter and you’re guaranteed to meet a manager within five minutes. Get his card. Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t remember your name the next day. Remind him that you were the dude with the free booger-sugar and there’s plenty more where that came from. Go down to his office and chop him a line on your script with the two brass brads. “Oops, where did THAT come from?” Before you know it you’ll have yourself an industry professional dedicated heart, body and soul to furthering your career for AT LEAST one week, or until he gets his first pass on your script, whichever comes first.

Which begs the question: Do you really, really TRULY need representation to make it as a screenwriter? Ronnie Pudding doesn’t think so. All you need are the Two T’s: TALENT and TENACITY. It also helps if you own a handgun and have a creepy thousand-yard stare. But as long as you have the two T’s, you WILL get noticed, you WILL get read, and you WILL get discovered. Just follow your dreams, buddy. Follow your dreams. No, just kidding. You need an agent.

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film DEEP VENGEANCE III: STINGRAY’S RETURN premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on November 14th.

if you have any questions for Ronnie Pudding please send them to boxofficepsychics@gmail.com