LeBron James since has followed suit with his own panda-lap pic, but it just doesn't have the same effect. I mean, look at the face Melo is giving us here, then look at the panda. It's brilliant. Too little, too late, LeBron.

Regardless, the one thing I’ll take Adam to task for is not telling me my name in the online version of his column would be linked to this blog, though I guess that makes more sense than this, or this, or Carmelo Anthony with a panda on his lap. I mean, I wake up at the crack of 10:34 and realize, hell, that Fast Company piece finally ran, there’s a link to the blog, and I’d damn well better get a new post up.

The least Adam could have done was give me a heads-up, seeing as I haven’t updated this blog since something like 1978. Hey, I’ve been busy. I’ve been editing a book. I’ve been ghostwriting a novel. I’ve been working on my own novel. And I’ve had to assist a highly dangerous avian force in a rescue mission to retrieve their progeny from a group of swine—with no more than a slingshot at my disposal. It’s been a jam-packed year.

So if you happened to get here from the Fast Company column, yeah, this post appears because I thought it would be good to get something up. And I suppose I actually should thank Adam for prompting me to do so. Now, considering the unexpected effort I’ve had to put forth before noon, I’m going back to bed.

(Yes, I deserve the Purple Heart. Or whatever equates to the Purple Heart for someone whose closest brush with the military was an questionable fraternization matter in the back of an Old Navy.)

That all went to hell about an hour ago. I got two private messages from IMDB users, which would be the first two I’ve received since somewhere in the general vicinity of ever.

I was stuck for an image, and this is cute. You can click it to make it bigger. But you knew that, right?

I kinda figured what prompted these messages even before I read them. A couple of weeks ago my film critic buddy Christian Toto invited me along to a screening of Red Riding Hood. I miss the days of free screenings and getting paid for film reviews from my days at the St. Petersburg Times newspaper, so I tag along when I can.

You can see my review of Hood in the previous post on this site (or, if you’re as lazy as I am, just click here). I also posted it under the User Reviews on IMDB. Thanks largely to Christian giving me a jump start on the other reviewers, plus a pretty good “people found [this] review useful” ratio (88 of 114 at present), my writeup is the first one you see for the film.

The first message I received was flattering. It was from the owner of a Blu-Ray review site who checked out some of my work and asked me to contribute. Sure, why not!

(If you’re thinking “Why not? Because you’re already behind on three deadlines, dumbass,” then I have one thing to say to you: Um, shut up.)

The other message was slightly less cordial. It’s probably more fun if I don’t preface it further. Just read and enjoy:

I’ve just watched Red Riding Hood, and having grown up reading Little Red Riding Hood and watching stories of it, I must say I was pretty impressed with the story. That you could call the young male love interests “dull as dishwater”, and Amanda Seyfried as boring, says a lot about you.

Are you really allowed to put your one cent in like that? That you are the first critique I have the displeasure to read annoys me, and I am so glad that I went to see the show before reading your post.

Your post and your criticism are an abomination. You know nothing about what the people want. You’re probably a disgruntled person who may be a fan of Taylor Lautner and are annoyed that he did not get the part, or you dislike Catherine Hardwicke, or some other reason. Ms Hardwicke did an awesome job, and I felt so much admiration for her, as a woman, to know that she directed this.

Get off your high horse and go and critique Sponge Bob or Clifford the Dog or some cartoon, because you are not educated enough (from what I can gather), or have the adult child in you to appreciate this show.

It’s people like you who make freedom of speech, or the freedom to blog or critique, a bad thing, but then I am in turn glad for the freedom of speech, so that I too can turn around and critique you, and let others know that what you are saying is a piece of crap.

Leave the show alone. It was wonderful. I took two people with me and they loved it, and they are very picky. I also told my adult niece who went immediately the next day, and she too is very picky, and she loved it. You were certainly off on this one.

This is my signature and I’m sticking to it. lol

Mind you, professional critics and journalists put up with stuff like this, and far worse, all the time. These days, people post anonymous comments on articles and say simply horrendous things about the authors. They come up with vicious, and often personal, attacks that they would never even consider employing if they had to face the author in person or sign their actual names to their statements.

That’s one of the most disgusting things about our current “anonymous commenter” culture, and we’ll all be better off when we realize that free speech isn’t the same as hiding behind a cloak, screaming “You’re a douchebag” at someone and running away.

I needed a second image, so... here's Vanessa Hudgens in Sucker Punch. No, this image has nothing whatsoever to do with this post. (BTW, you can click her to make her bigger. But you knew that, right?)

(As an aside, a couple of weeks ago Farhad Manjoo of Slate posted a commentary on why we need to get rid of anonymous comments. It’s an interesting read, and an opinion I fully support. You might also enjoy the wide-ranging array of comments Manjoo’s piece attracted.)

In any event, what struck me about the private message I received from “ravmeltt,” who appears to spend days on end posting on IMDB message boards [proof positive here], is that she didn’t just criticize my review on the forums (though I presume I’m one target of her ire here), but that she took the time to send me a private message specifically to let me know what an awful human being I am.

Of course, with three clients (and counting) waiting on work from me, there’s no way I could waste my time responding to this anonymous hater, right?

Well…

Before I share my response, let me note a couple of things. (Yeah, Gershman, do that, because this post isn’t long enough. We have lives too, dumbass.)

First, I could have addressed many more issues, like her weird point that:

Ms Hardwicke did an awesome job, and I felt so much admiration for her, as a woman, to know that she directed this.

Um, seriously, this is how you’re going to play the gender card? I’m sure Kathryn Bigelow, the first-ever female Best Director Oscar winner for 2008′s The Hurt Locker (which incidentally also won Best Picture), really appreciates that you’re so very proud as a woman that Catherine Hardwicke can create this steaming pile of shit.

But I didn’t go there. I also didn’t make fun of the fact that she kept referring to the movie as a “show,” because that would be petty, mean, and vindictive, and I am at most only a couple of those things.

Ultimately, I just replied with this:

Hi. I’m Rick.

You mention freedom of speech in your message, yet you suggest that my opinion is not valid, and as such, I should not express it. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Neither does your decision to take the time to send me a private message personally attacking me and, specifically, my intelligence.

If you disagree with me, that’s perfectly fine. I accept and welcome an opposing viewpoint. Feel free to post your own review on the site. Feel free to post something in the forums about why you disagree with my review. Everyone has different tastes, and I realize that not everyone will agree with mine.

While you’re at it, though, you might want to try to find something to support your opinion that I “know nothing about what the people want,” considering that the film has fared extremely poorly with both critics and audiences.

You have every right to your opinion, just as I have to mine. One notable difference is that my name actually appears on my review, right out there in public, whereas you feel empowered to take shots at me, privately, from behind a pseudonym.

Think of me what you will, but I can assure you of one thing: No matter how strongly I disagreed with you on something, I would never dream of sending you a message intended purely to personally insult you just because you chose to express an opinion.

That’s not freedom of speech.

That’s just being an asshole.

Sincerely,
Rick Gershman

She sure is pretty. And she's also... um... well... she sure is pretty.

(Okay, maybe I should have given that title a little more thought. But anyway…)

You’d be hard pressed to find a better example of a film ruined by trying to be too many things to too many people than Red Riding Hood, which opens Friday and, by all rights, should close Saturday.

The most obvious audience Hood hopes to attract is fans of the Twilight film series, snagging the director of the first film, Catherine Hardwicke, and refashioning the Little Red Riding Hood folk tale into, in a remarkably half-assed way, a love triangle between three extraordinarily uninteresting characters. (If all three had been eaten by the wolf in the first act, we might have been onto something.)

What’s weird about Hood, which inexplicably counts Leonardo DiCaprio as one of its producers (stick to swimming in icy water, Leo), is that this romantic angle is not its main thrust. It doesn’t have a main thrust.

In fact, for a supposedly sexier take on a classic folk tale, it’s in desperate need of thrust in general.

It flits around the idea of being a more adult folk tale but never commits. It throws in a bit of (pretty bad) CGI werewolf attack action from time to time, but it’s nowhere near violent or bloody enough (it’s PG-13) to interest action or horror fans. It has moments of campy fun, specifically every second Gary Oldman appears as a sinister Cardinal Richelieu-type character, but other scenes are played ridiculously straight.

Perhaps the film’s biggest mistake — and that’s saying something — is structuring itself like a Scream film. The Big Bad Wolf is indeed a werewolf, and our sweet little Red (named Valerie, played by Amanda Seyfried) has to figure out which of her fellow villagers turns into a beast when the moon is full. Is it her forbidden love, the dull as dishwater Peter (Shiloh Fernandez), who presumably equates to the hunter of the folk tale? Or is it the man she’s been arranged to marry, the somehow even duller Henry (Max Irons)? Or is it one the other remarkably dull villagers? And given how dull Valerie is, who the hell really cares?

On looks alone, Seyfried perhaps is perfectly cast as Red, considering Christina Ricci might be a bit too old for the role. Seyfried’s pristine, alabaster skin and enormous eyes give Red just the right look, but every time she opens her mouth you’re begging for that werewolf to take her out of our misery.

To be fair, no actor could be expected to excel given the cheesy dialogue and Hardwicke’s uninspired direction; solid veterans such as Virginia Madsen, Julie Christie and Lukas Haas struggle to make an impression, with Christie holding up the best. As Red’s father, Billy Burke seems more zoned out than James Franco at the Oscars, suggesting he’s only here for one more Twilight connection.

Only Oldman acquits himself well, simply because he treats the film as the campfest it should have been from the opening credits. He’s acting in an entirely different movie, a Sam Raimi romp like Army of Darkness or Drag Me to Hell, and Red Riding Hood loses its steam for good when Oldman’s character (way-too-late spoiler alert) meets his too-soon demise.

The film doesn’t even look that great in a technical sense: The exteriors look fake, all clearly shot on soundstages, and not fake in an intentional “this is a dreamy heightened reality because this is a folk tale” way. They look fake in a “we really suck at our jobs” way.

Red Riding Hood is pretending to be a darker, more adult take on the folk tale, but it’s hardly the first: Neil Jordan mined the territory in 1984 with the R-rated The Company of Wolves, focusing more on sexual metaphors and heavy werewolf action. It wasn’t great, but at least it knew what it wanted to be. Red Riding Hood tries to be a little bit of everything, but ultimately it succeeds only in being a tedious mess.

- Rick Gershman

Well, barely. Talking was harder than breathing. And breathing was impossible.

We hunched over, heads bowed, reduced to violent, concussive coughs, trying yet failing to mine some refreshment from this steaming soup. One hundred yards from Tampa Bay and I’m somehow drowning on dry land.

Summertime Florida’s daily visitor was nothing but a frustrating tease, a sick joke. It threatened an appearance, a hope-inspiring glimpse of its slip, so we coveted the darkening clouds, the heat index ramping to three digits.

But no shower today, not a chance, not for us. The cloud cover barely softened the debilitating heat. We knew the truth: We had bowed down to false gods who blared punk rock, and this was our penance. Painful enough in the afternoon, it now was early evening, and the Vinoy Park heat had conquered me.

I spat again.

The hulking Alex Nodderal, at 6 feet 2 a brick wall, got his voice back first – one benefit of being 22 years old. He pulled his West Coast Choppers T-shirt away from his thick chest, analyzed it and, smiling at me, said:

“That blood can’t all be mine.”

We had wormed our way out of a mosh pit, one of several that formed as My Chemical Romance performed. It was Friday and three more bands would play at this Vans Warped Tour stop. The group was finishing up its hit Helena as we tried to recover at the edge of the crowd, me and Uncle Fester, my self-appointed kind-of bodyguard.

Alex wiped his considerable brow with the back of a soggy, filthy paw, smearing the blood that seeped from above his left eye. The piercing, an inexpensive Hot Topic deal, was gone, leaving a small gash.

The cut didn’t look too deep, though getting stitches for a facial cut generally seems like a good move. At the least, grabbing a bottled water – hell, even a beer – and rinsing out the millions of bacteria Alex had just introduced to his grass-stained, 5-o’clock-shadowed, cannonball-sized gourd wouldn’t be the worst idea.

And right after I delivered one more big, cleansing spit, thick and slimy and, huh, red – I told him so.

“Yeah, later,” he said. And then there was loud music, and Alex yelling: “That’s Hawthorne Heights! Seen ‘em before?”

Even as I choked out “no” – and I meant that more than one way – Alex was pulling us back in, a rhino clearing a path through a jungle of human bodies. Funny story: I had 14 years on Alex. I had less on some of these kids, but more on most of ‘em.

Suddenly the bodies were gone and we had pushed through to a mosh pit. I’m sticking to the wall for a sec, I thought, while absently helping a crowd-surfing girl – my god, that one can’t be more than 13 – avoid crashing to the earth. I catch her by the nape of her neck, lift her as high as I can and reintroduce her to the carpet of hands.

But now the pit has moved in some direction I didn’t notice – it’s just people, after all, and there is no defined playing field, no out of bounds. And I’m the middle of it. And then some little jerk drills me from behind.

It’s an elbow, I think, that levels me by landing in the small of my back. It’s an unnecessary and sadistic shot, albeit highly atypical out here, and suddenly I’m sprawling.

I’m pulled up immediately by two guys – good, safe pit etiquette, nice to know that’s not just a thing of my past – and I turn to see Alex charging toward me, coming in hot, teeth bared in a brilliant “I’m only doing this because I love you” smile.

He slams us, me and a couple of other guys, his arms low and safe. The same guys who helped me up? Probably, but who knows at this point. He didn’t hit us half as hard as he could have, but we’re drilled back several feet. The spongy wall of thrashing kids keeps us on our feet. We just smoosh the crowd real good, then bounce back.

Alex already is headed the other way, knocking into the few brave souls willing to get near him. He gives one skinny little guy – a buck twenty, tops – a shove that propels the kid off his feet.

I’m looking at Alex and thinking he’s just the king of this little ring of combat. With more than 100 bands performing, at least 100 pits have formed this day at the Warped tour.

But at this moment, Alex – who later tells me he’s studying to manage hotels, for goodness’ sake – is running the show. And I guess I’m proud, because I sort of feel like we’re buds now.

And the sun is setting and the whole scene is taking on this sepia-toned quality and I’m thinking there’s some really cool artsy metaphor to all this. But the most artsy thing I can think of is that a now-gesticulating Alex looks like Leatherface dancing with his chain saw at the end of the original The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Then a poorly navigated crowd surfer crashes down on my head. Must have been a decent sized kid, maybe a buck eighty, because as my neck snaps forward everything gets a little fuzzy. I think I nearly blacked out. And I’m on the ground again. And wondering how I got here.

Oh, which reminds me. Alex was right. The rest of the blood? Yeah.

That was mine.

[Article by Rick Gershman. This originally appeared August 9, 2005 in the St. Petersburg Times, which holds the copyright. That article can be found here.]

A red “brand” slams down:

REJECTED BY eHarmony.

Then, a voiceover:

“Who knows why eHarmony has rejected over a million people looking for love? But at Chemistry.com, you can come as you are . . .”

So goes the assault on eHarmony.com, a popular online “matching” site, by its newest competitor.

The ad shades the truth a hair: If you’re gay or lesbian, eHarmony won’t consider you long enough to reject you; the site doesn’t do same-sex matching. Chemistry.com does.

If you’re straight – which you must specify upfront – eHarmony then allows you to answer more than 250 questions about yourself.

But not everyone who completes eHarmony’s questionnaire gets to use its services.

* * *

A few months ago, after friends related their experiences with dates set up through eHarmony, I decided to give it a try.

After an hour of rating myself on hundreds of criteria, I was dying for the ordeal to end. Still, I carefully considered the questions and statements, answering them honestly.

Finally, I reached the penultimate page and hit “save and continue.” Bring on the ladies.

The next page read:

Unable to Match You at This Time

What? After all that? You guys have several million women in your database, and you can’t find a single one to match with me?

The eHarmony rejection page tried to let me down easy. The notice, in summary, says that for the service to work, applicants must “fall within several defined profiles.” Unfortunately, “our matching model could not accurately predict with whom you would be best matched.”

My friends accused me of lying about being rejected. They said there’s no reason a commercial website would not provide services to a potential customer. But that’s exactly what happened, and not just to me. I got on Google and found numerous stories of other rejections.

Apparently, eHarmony would rather walk away from your money – it charges $49.95 for a one-month subscription, $99.95 for three months – than let a loser into the party.

Next, my friends accused me of fouling up the survey on purpose. But I had answered honestly. That may have been the problem.

The site’s founder is Dr. Neil Clark Warren, an evangelical Christian. It is focused on matching “soulmates, ” with marriage as the goal.

I made it clear from my answers that I’m not much of a churchgoer. When eHarmony asked if I’m interested in “religious community” and “religious faith, ” I replied truthfully: Not at all.

Did that answer get me banned from eHarmony’s online church social? I didn’t know. So I decided to take the questionnaire again, answer it honestly again.

And see if I’d get rejected. Again.

* * *

The first section provides 19 statements. You choose how closely each describes you, on a scale from 1 (not at all) to 7 (very much). Later sections are similar.

The first statement the eHarmony computer used to define me:

I do things according to plan.

My honest answer: 2. (Ask anybody.)

I often leave a mess in my room.

Answer: 5. (To be fair, the rest of the place is just as bad.)

I waste my time.

Answer: 6. (Even as I write these words, I’m two days past my deadline for this story.)

I gave myself a 7 for I take time out for others and 8 for I usually stand up for myself. Then again, I had to give myself a 5 for I anger easily.

Another section went well: I gave myself a 6 for warm and a 7 for clever.

(Disagree? Remember, I anger easily.)

Then it got tough. I went with 6 for quarrelsome because, well, I often am. Does that make me unmatchable? I mean, most women I’ve dated would get an 9.

I awarded myself three straight 7s for affectionate, intelligent and compassionate.

Eat that, Computer of Love.

* * *

One section told me to rank 21 more self-descriptive terms. Long story short:

I’m a fairly opinionated, restless, romantic, aggressive, open, charming, irritable, stubborn guy. Oh, and I’m not exactly always calm or rational.

Another section, sample statements:

I have a high desire for sexual activity.
My emotions are generally stable.
I view myself as well adjusted.

Hmm. This might have been a trouble spot last time.

Does a 7 for “sexual activity” rate me as sketchy? Is it okay to give myself a 3 for the stability of my emotions – I’m not always super-cool and collected – but a 6 for considering myself well-adjusted?

I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive, though I’m guessing eHarmony does. I go with ‘em anyway.

A subsequent section wants to know what I consider important qualities in my partner. Do you want a partner who’s attractive, whose company you enjoy, whose personality you like? (Nah, let’s go with unappealing, intolerable and insufferable.) All my answers land between 5 and 7.

* * *

A closing section is a breeze: general information such as my age and how important my match’s age is to me (not very).

Am I a parent? (No.) Want to be? (Sometime.) Willing to accept a match who has a kid? (Sure.)

There’s a list of “what ethnicities (I) would be willing to accept as matches.” I check them all, and wonder why there is no “check all” button.

A few more expected questions follow, and now eHarmony’s ready to hook me up with the women of my dreams.

I click save and continue. Bring ‘em on.

* * *

Unable to Match You at This Time

Ouch.

Okay, fine. Enough auditions for this computerized Cupid. I call eHarmony for an explanation, but I don’t get a phone interview. Instead, I’m asked to e-mail some questions over.

Responses arrive quickly but shed little light. Most simply repeat, virtually verbatim, information from the Web site.

One exception: I ask whether the process is weighted toward applicants who appear to consider Christianity, or at least faith, important.

The response: “Absolutely not. eHarmony . . . is not, nor has it ever been, a religious organization. Since its founding eHarmony has served and employed people of all (and or no) religious beliefs.”

None of the other responses clarify anything.

So I guess I’ll never know for sure why eHarmony can’t help me find my soulmate. But in case I missed anything, I read the “Dear John” letter more closely, seeking hidden meanings:

We are so convinced of the importance of creating compatible matches that we sometimes choose not to provide service rather than risk an uncertain match.

(We learned our lesson from that Alec Baldwin-Kim Basinger thing.)

Unfortunately, we are not able to make our profiles work for you. Our matching model could not accurately predict with whom you would be best matched.

(Though we’re leaning toward serial killers.)

This occurs for about 20 percent of our potential users, so 1 in 5 people simply will not benefit from our service.

(We know you couldn’t have figured that basic math yourself, reject.)

We hope you understand, and we regret our inability to provide service for you at this time.

(Never darken our door again.)

[By Rick Gershman. Originally published June 16, 2007 in the St. Petersburg Times, which holds the copyright.]

So how many of these guys would you actually expect to be members of the Expendables crew in the film? All nine? Eight? Seven? How about... five. Yes, five. (Okay, 5 1/2 if you include Dolph, who's on the team for about 10 seconds. I'm not counting Dolph.)

(I know I promised this post a few days ago, but a few emergency jobs came up. So anyway…)

That’s right, to hell with The Expendables.

Furthermore, I feel like Barack Obama.

(You saw that coming, right?)

I mean, except for the whole thing where I’m not the President of the United States. Or black. Or tall. Or the secret leader of an exclusive club dedicated to the eradication of meerkats.

Other than that, I feel just like the Prez. He stood his ground on his convictions, said he supports the right to build a mosque at ground zero. He decided to say what he felt is right, and everyone stood up and told him to go to hell.

(Mind you, I’ve heard good opinions on both sides of the debate. I’m not saying the Prez is right. I’m saying he’s standing up for what he believes is right, which is far more honorable. But anyway…)

And because my opinion of a cheesy summer action movie is every bit as important as my buddy Barack’s ballsy stand, I say to you again:

To hell with The Expendables. It’s a seriously lousy movie. Just because it has a few fun moments doesn’t mean it’s not a seriously lousy movie.

It’s fair to say not everyone agrees with my stand. Though the film technically has a “rotten” rating of 42% at Rotten Tomatoes, that still means more than 4 out of 10 reviewers essentially gave his crapfest a thumbs-up.

I’m not entirely shocked, because Rotten Tomatoes’ aggregate ratings include reviews from a lot of shaky critics. What does shock me is that The Expendables has a “top critics” rating of 34%. That’s not good, granted, but it does mean about 1 out of every 3 “top critics”–aka, people who should damn well know better–gave Sylvester Stallone’s incoherent mess a positive review.

Then I crank up iTunes and listen to A.V. Talk, the podcast of The Onion’s A.V. Club, and lo and behold, critics Scott Tobias and Nathan Rabin–two gentlemen who have not suffered any head injuries of late, as far as I know–also gave The Expendables a generally positive review. Sure, they acknowledged many of the flaws, but let them slide because this movie supposedly deserves some “don’t take it too seriously” leeway.

Then I’m listening to Bill Simmons’ killer podcast, the B.S. Report, and during a fun discussion about the new Madden NFL 11 game, they start going on about how they can’t wait to see The Expendables. Sure, they hadn’t seen it yet, but grrrrrr….

You don't get any action from Mickey Rourke, but you do get an eternal close-up of this gorgeous face while he rambles on about war and his conscience. How awesome is that?

Finally, the movie kicked ass at the box office this weekend, which isn’t entirely surprising given the marketing and the (rather pointless, and incredibly brief) cameos by Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis.

… At least that’s what I want to tell myself. If I’m being honest with myself, I have to acknowledge the B+ score given by audiences means they were largely pleased with the final product, despite that fact that it looks like it was directed by a 6-year-old boy. Who’s addicted to meth.

Well, say whatever you want. Say time has passed me by. Say I just can’t appreciate a cheesy, thoroughly idiotic action movie, though there’s proof in the St. Petersburg Times archives that I actually enjoyed Blade: Trinity.

Say whatever you want.

But to hell with The Expendables.

Here’s what I’ll say: Over the years, we’ve let Hollywood erode our expectations for what a good movie should be to the point that we can’t tell anymore. We forget that brilliantly-structured action films such as Die Hard or Aliens weren’t thrown together at the last second to meet a release date; they were carefully crafted by top-notch filmmakers.

The Expendables, however, isn’t even as good as a lot of television shows. It does one thing right, sure: It feeds a fairly steady diet of action scenes, culminating in about 20 minutes of insanely violent, over-the-top carnage. And that stretch is admittedly fun. But it’s not much different–nor produced much better–than half a dozen straight-to-DVD flicks that came out this year.

What does The Expendables get wrong? Everything else. But before we get to what’s actually on-screen, let’s start with the completely full-of-it marketing campaign (which, let’s face it, was more important to everyone involved than the film itself).

Stallone’s idea to gather up the top action stars of the past few decades is an interesting one. That’s not what he did, yet that’s what he’s somehow hypnotized us into believing.

If you had to make a list of those action stars, who would come to mind? Certainly Stallone, Schwarzenegger and Willis. Probably Jet Li and Jason Statham too, granted. Who else?

Would you pick “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, a professional wrestler who’s barely been on the big screen at all? Randy Couture, a mixed martial artist who’s been on-screen even less? Terry Crews, who much better known for “Everybody Loves Chris” and low-budget comedies aimed at black audiences than any action role?

No, you wouldn’t even think of them. You’d think Jean-Claude Van Damme and Steven Seagal, who were killing villains by the dozens on theater screens in the mid-1980s through the early 1990s before disappearing into straight-to-DVD schlock.

So why is Terry Crews in the movie? Because they needed a black guy, that’s right. (And that’s no knock on Crews, who actually is quite charming in his absurdly tiny role here.) If The Expendables lived up to its name, Wesley Snipes would be the black guy. That guy made a million action movies. (Just don’t tell the IRS.)

As for Dolph Lundgren: The only time anyone in the United States has watched a film starring Dolph Lundgren in the past 20 years is when a Netflix employee accidentally put the wrong movie in the sleeve. Thought you were getting Runaway Bride? Sorry, Aunt Louise, time to kick back with a little Dolph in the 2004 “comedy” Fat Slags.

And then there’s Mikey Rourke, which brings me back to the actual film. Rourke’s on the poster, sure. (BTW, here come the spoilers. I pray you don’t actually need a spoiler alert, as I pray you won’t line Stallone’s pockets by seeing this one, but whatever. Your call.)

Now, if THIS was the Roberts starring in Eat Pray Love, I'd be watching that sucker in a second.

But how many bad guys does Mickey Rourke kill in The Expendables? Exactly… none. He appears in a couple of brief scenes as a tattoo artist. That’s it. If you were dying to see him reunited with his The Pope of Greenwich Village partner Eric Roberts (who does his patented sleazeball act to perfection here), too bad. Their characters never even appear inside the same country.

It’s the same with Schwarzenegger and Willis–you’ve seen virtually their entire cameos in the commercials. (Whatever Willis got paid to actually appear on the poster, it had better be worth his soul.)

Finally, while the ensemble poster would have you believe you’re looking at the “kick-ass Expendables team,” you’re not. Like I said, Rourke isn’t part of the team, nor is Willis. (Arnie’s not on the poster, for whatever that’s worth.) Austin is one of the bad guys. Lundgren starts off with the team, then goes turncoat and becomes a bad guy seconds later. So basically the whole team is Stallone, Statham, Li, Crews and Couture. And the latter two have virtually nothing to do until the big, explosive final act.

As for the script? There is none. There’s no character development, no plot twists, nothing. Statham’s natural charisma gets him by, but Stallone looks and acts like a zombie, and not even an interesting zombie, while Li is given precious little to work with. (That’s not good when these three essentially carry the whole film.)

A fight scene between the diminutive Li and the Golem-like Lundgren should have been a highlight, but director Stallone shoots it so incoherently it’s a waste. The scene ends with Stallone shooting Lundgren in the chest. Mind you, Lundgren betrayed Stallone and his team, ratted on them to the bad guys, and just spent the past 10 minutes trying to kill Stallone and Li. So what do we see in the final scene of the movie? We see Lundgren, recovering from his gunshot wound, hanging out and yukking it up with the Expendables. Huh?

The incredibly choppy first two acts exist only to set up the third. And it’s fun, no argument there. Well, it’s fun if you like to watch bad guys getting their necks snapped and set on fire and even shot to death while simultaneously being impaled from behind by an enormous knife. And I must admit, I do enjoy those things. Stallone knows I enjoy those things, because it’s the only part of the film he gave any attention to at all.

But that’s sad, because Stallone actually dug himself out of the straight-to-DVD grave with a smart, heartfelt, character-based film, 2006′s Rocky Balboa. He wrote and directed that winner, and he co-wrote (with Dave Callaham) and directed this steaming pile. (In between, he also co-wrote and directed 2008′s not-entirely-terrible Rambo, which despite being “serious” was actually more fun than this.)

I understand why a lot of people liked the movie. Heck, I have several friends who liked it, including one I offended a bit by saying it was a movie for morons. (Okay, I actually said it was for guys who’d been lobotomized, but whatever.) And while I’m not calling everyone who likes this movie a moron, I have to say: That’s the intended audience here.

So maybe it’s quite as big a deal as when the President does it, but I’m taking a stand here. I’m taking a stand against The Expendables.

You love it? Go see it eight times. Marry it and start a family with it. Not me. I’m not expecting perfection from every movie, or anything halfway close. But I expect a whole hell of a lot more than this. So, in closing:

To hell with The Expendables.

Leo must have REALLY had to go.

Yes, I finally got around to seeing Inception last night. I dug deep and spent the full $17 for the IMAX version. It’s a little late in the game to do a full review, so I’ll just hit some quick (well, relatively quick ) thoughts. And if by chance you haven’t seen the film, rest assured that

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

…follow. So don’t say you weren’t warned.

(Actually, go ahead and say it. But no one will believe you, John Edwards/Jeremy London/Wall-E.)

(Yeah, that’s right, Wall-E. You know what I’m talking about, you little can-opener bastard. But we can hash that out later.)

Thank God someone still makes movies like this

This is an action-packed, effects-filled (but not effects-driven) summer movie that thinks it’s still cool to challenge viewers, to have well-rounded characters and complicated twists and best of all, a perfectly ambiguous was-it-all-a-dream ending. (Yeah, it has flaws too, but we’ll get to that.) Much like Christopher Nolan’s previous film, The Dark Knight, it’s both a summer movie and a “film.” These things do not have to be mutually exclusive, Hollywood. How much more proof do you need?

Inception still is a far cry from perfect

(Told ya.) As much as I enjoyed it–a point that I’ll get to further in a moment–it has issues. Nolan doesn’t do that great a job of conveying all the rules of the dream universe in a very organic fashion (next time shell out a little dough and let J.J. Abrams or Joss Whedon do a polish on the script), and ramping up the Hans Zimmer score over every scene of pretty people talking about what you can do and can’t do inside a dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream-within-a-pastry doesn’t always make it interesting.

Also, for a film so determined to explain every single dream world rule to death, isn’t it odd that the actual technology involved gets no explanation whatsoever? How is Ellen Page (that’s right, I’m too lazy to look up the characters’ names right now) able to “create” these worlds? I get the idea that it doesn’t matter if it’s all dream, but if it’s all a dream, would we get endless explanations about all the other stuff? Finally, why do you cast Michael Caine for all of two tiny scenes?

It’s still one of my favorite films of the year

Call it something strange about Chris Nolan films, perhaps, but I feel the need to grade on a curve. I rated The Dark Knight 10-out-of-10 stars on IMDB, for example, but not because the film was perfect. Christian Bale’s ridiculous Batman voice alone should knock off a few points. However, Knight gets extra credit for everything it does so very right, which is pretty much everything else. Knight packs in so much entertainment, so much suspense, so much adventure, it deserves 12 out of 10 stars. Then I’ll drop it a star each for the Batman voice and the fairly-clumsy execution of the fight scenes. That still leaves it a perfect 10.

Inception gets the same extra credit. I’ll dock it for the issues noted above, plus the fact that Ellen Page’s oddly ageless, doll-like face constantly distracted me. (Sorry, she looks like she’s 12. Even the very funny bit where Joseph Gordon-Levitt tricks her into a kiss seemed a touch off, because even though he’s only six years old than she is, he seems more like a creepy uncle.)

[Also, the critics who said Inception is disappointingly straightforward for a film based in dreams are dead-on. I really don't get why people think they need a second viewing to wrap their brains around it. This isn't like Fight Club, or Nolan's own awesome Memento, where a second viewing brings depth and significance to moments that slipped by us the first time around.]

That said, Gordon-Levitt is great in the film, as is Leonardo DiCaprio (despite his distractingly carefully-sculpted facial hair), as is Marion Cotillard, and on down the line. And talk about a breakout performance by Tom Hardy, whose charisma explains how he got cast as the new Mad Max. (Heck, it’s enough to forget about that other guy who played Mad Max… what was his name again?)

The way Nolan, his go-to cinematographer Wally Pfister and the effects team use CGI should make almost every other action director (Jim Cameron excepted) feel embarrassed. Those other putzes make reality look loke fantasy, while Nolan makes fantasy look like reality. Finally, Nolan’s ability to incorporate his action-adventure tale with heavy themes of love, obsessions and personal responsibility is nothing short of astonishing. Yeah, Inception gets a ton of extra credit, more than enough to make up for the nitpicks.

That said, I’ve had enough “tormented Leo DiCaprio” for a while

Maybe that’s because I just watched Shutter Island the other night. (I knew what was coming, having read the Dennis Lehane novel some time back. And I’ll get around to sharing my thoughts on that flick sometime soon.) I wonder if Nolan realizes the scene in Inception where DiCaprio is splashing water from the sink on his all-too-carefully-stubbled face is virtually identical to the opening scene in Shutter Island. Both films feature a tormented, guilt-ridden DiCaprio balancing on the line between reality and fantasy. Suffice it to say, if they get around to remaking Angel Heart anytime soon, I’d better not see DiCaprio taking over for Mickey Rourke.

GCI doesn’t have to be shitty

I know I made this point earlier, but fuck it, I’m making it again. (Sorry, did I mention this is a profanity-allowed review? Um… it is.) There seems to be this notion in Hollywood that’s it’s okay to drop half-finished, cheesy-looking CGI into any action film, because audiences don’t care. Well, Knight and Day (see my earlier review) has some of the crappiest CGI I’ve seen in years, and how many screens is it still playing on?

Meanwhile, Inception is one of the top-reviewed and biggest commercial hits of the year. (Notably, last year’s Star Trek, directed by the aforementioned J.J. Abrams, also had wonderfully realistic CGI. The believable effects helped us become invested in the characters and undoubtedly helped the film’s word-of-mouth and critical acclaim, and thus its box office.)

I didn’t miss Christian Bale

Did you? Hey, I loved the guy in American Psycho and he’s been a perfect Bruce Wayne in Nolan’s two Batman flicks. But I’m glad to get a break from the guy. Despite being an enormous Terminator fan, I still have no interest in watching McG’s Terminator Salvation and knowing Bale’s waiting for me isn’t helping.

It’s all a dream

Hey, that’s just my theory, and obviously Nolan wants us to wonder about it. But I think there are enough clues along the way to confirm it for me. What’s great about Inception is calling the whole thing a dream doesn’t discount everything that came before, unlike, let’s say, a steaming pile of crap like Next. (If you don’t recognize that Nicolas Cage-Jessica Biel train wreck, consider yourself incredibly fortunate.)

It’s remarkable how quickly the new comedy Dinner for Schmucks disappears from your brain. I can recall laughing my way through the vast majority of the film–mostly soft laughs, but there were more than a few big, hearty laughs from deep down in the diaphragm. (One might more economically call such a laugh a “guffaw,” but guffaw is such a silly word I refuse to acknowledge I might ever participate in one.)

Despite the inarguable fact that I was entertained throughout the entirety of Dinner for Schmucks — a film that never actually uses the word “schmuck,” but we’ll get to that — I can’t deny feeling rather empty while considering it a little more than a day later. I think this must be why many reviewers are giving the flick fairly lukewarm marks, though they had to be laughing their respective asses off on occasion just as I was.

There are lots of reasons not to respect the movie. There’s the fact that it’s reportedly a fairly pale “reimagination” of a French film, Francis Veber’s Le dîner de cons (The Dinner Game). (I haven’t seen the original, so I can’t compare.) The screenplay is inarguably mediocre. Some of the characters, especially those at the eventual dinner, are lazily imagined. And it’s disappointing to see Paul Rudd, who’s capable of much more interesting, brilliantly caustic characters (in Wet Hot American Summer and Anchorman, for starters) relegated to playing yet another purely-reactive straight man.

And yet… Dinner for Schmucks is funny. Very funny. Occasionally laugh-out-loud funny. It’s like a frozen Snickers bite-size bar when you’re having a chocolate craving: Incredibly satisfying for about five minutes… after which, you’ll forget all about it.

Yet I can’t help wanting to recommend Schmucks, and dammit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Because for the ninety minutes you’re in the theater, it is a lot of fun. It’s a much better date night film than, say, the relentlessly mediocre Date Night.

Those two films don’t just share a star in Steve Carell. They also share a philosophy: Take a half-interesting situation, flesh it out a bit with half-written characters and a half-written screenplay, and let the stars make it sing. Date Night was only moderately tolerable because it had Carell and the always-entertaining Tina Fey as its leads. With Carell and Rudd joined by a far more interesting supporting cast (and a much sharper director), Schmucks is like Date Night done right.

Carell and Rudd are consummate comedic pros with perfect chemistry together. You can’t help but figure working together in Anchorman and The 40-Year-Old Virgin played a role there. With the expert guidance of director Jay Roach (helmer of the Austin Powers and Meet the Parents/Fockers series), they mine every possible laugh out of every line, every expression, every reaction shot.

That’s especially impressive because neither actor is working with a particularly well-crafted role here. Barry (Carell) is an amalgam of all sorts of odd eccentricities and levels of confusion, though his meticulous talent at turning dead mice into works of art suggests he’s some sort of idiot savant. As many a commercial has already informed you, he gets invited to a very different sort of social dinner by Tim, a finance executive desperate to impress his bosses.

Tim is virtually indistinguishable from the other “straight men” Rudd has played in recent comedies. Only the goofball buddy and the gorgeous girlfriend change. In Role Models, Rudd suffers through Seann William Scott’s crazy schemes, which threaten his relationship with Elizabeth Banks. In I Love You, Man, Rudd’s new “bromance” with Jason Segal threatens his engagement to Rashida Jones. And in Schmucks, Rudd’s dinner plans with Carell threaten to derail his planned engagement to fresh face Stephanie Szostak.

Schmucks ramps up the funny thanks to Roach’s direction and some extremely well-chosen supporting players. It’s very strange that Zach Galifianakis’ name doesn’t even appear on the Schmucks poster, especially given how hot he is following The Hangover and how heavily he’s featured in the commercials. Though he appears in what amounts to only two scenes, the actor hijacks the film wholesale, and not in the wild, over-the-top sort of cameo you might expect from, say, a Will Ferrell or Ben Stiller.

Following suit, albeit with much more screen time, is Flight of the Conchords’ Jemaine Clement, who does do the over-the-top thing as avant garde artist Kieran, and it’s perfectly brilliant. (One can easily foresee a Get Him to the Greek-type spinoff for the character.) Every time Schmucks threatens to stall, it wisely finds a way to weave Kieran back into the proceedings.

The longest period in which we don’t see Kieran is also Schmucks’ weakest stretch, the actual dinner itself. The French original apparently never included the actual dinner, and maybe that was a good move. The boss who puts on the dinner actually considers it a “dinner for idiots” — the word “schmucks” is never used, and one figures that term came from some studio exec worried about the word “idiot.”

Barry’s fellow idiots at the dinner aren’t particularly funny, and this is where the film goes for some fairly broad laughs that are only fitfully amusing. In fact, the best part of the dinner is when Barry gets to show off some of his “mousterpieces,” a segment that’s more than a little touching.

Despite such faults, Schmucks plays it smart most of the time. It’s sad that Office Space‘s Ron Livingston doesn’t have much to do as Tim’s nemesis, but two Daily Show personalities, Larry Wilmore and Kristen Schaal (also of Conchords), are pitch-perfect in small roles.

On the whole, Schmucks isn’t one of the decade’s great comedies. But if you’re satisfied with laughing for 90 minutes, and enjoying talented actors rise (well) above their material, it’s definitely worth your time.

Knight and Day (2010) film review

Rick’s grade: 4 out of 10

By RICK GERSHMAN

Bear with me for a minute while I talk about dinner. Trust me, it’s relevant.

Tuesday was a busy day. I was racing around to get everything done before meeting up with my buddy Christian Toto for the Knight and Day screening in downtown Denver. (You can find Christian’s review here.)

The YMCA where I exercise is just a few blocks from the theater. I got my workout in, but I only had a few minutes to eat before the movie. So I popped into the Taco Bell down the street, got two Beefy 5-layer burritos and ate them as I  walked to the theater.

Now, Taco Bell’s Beefy 5-layer burrito is a glorious thing. It’s 89 cents, which is awesome. It’s incredibly filling, which is awesome. And here’s the thing: It actually tastes pretty damn good. So even though I figured they’d be rotting in my colon until the day I die, at the time I was pretty damn happy with those two 5-layer burritos.

A few hours later, however, I was regretting those burritos. Yummy as they were at the time, they left me feeling rather sick and bloated. My cholesterol probably hiked up about 50 points, matched only by my blood pressure. All of the good work I did at the Y, destroyed in one beefy, cheesy swoop.

Which brings us to Knight and Day, the Taco Bell 5-layer burrito of the 2010 summer movie season.

Actually, the metaphor doesn’t quite hold true — the 5-layer burrito is less than a buck, whereas you’ll be paying around 10 bucks for this action comedy starring Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz. It would be a lot more palatable at 98 cents.

Like my burrito, Knight and Day tastes pretty good on the first few bites. Cruise is in full-on funny, charming mode as Roy Miller, a (possibly) rogue federal agent assigned to protect a fancy energy source and its nerdy inventor. As June Havens, a Boston classic car restorer swept into Miller’s mission, Diaz channels the winning sexy-goofy balance that served her well in the first Charlie’s Angels movie.

Though some other reviews say the starring pair lack chemistry together, I disagree. In fact, just about all of Knight and Day‘s charms come from the stars’ interplay as Roy and June cruise along from one dangerous situation to another.

And yes, “cruise along” is exactly what I mean — there’s never the slightest sense of danger in the film, which apparently is exactly what director James Mangold was going for.

Oh, it's sooooo good... at first.

If his name wasn’t there onscreen, you’d never guess Mangold helmed Knight and Day, which couldn’t be further removed from his (far superior) other credits, which include 3:10 to Yuma, Walk the Line and Girl, Interrupted.

It’s hard to know whether Mangold or Patrick O’Neill’s screenplay is to blame, but the flippant way Knight and Day handles its story — this is all just a video game, as grounded in reality as a Matrix film — wears out its welcome very quickly.

One conceit that runs through the film has Roy drugging June whenever the action gets heavy. And since June is (mostly) the audience’s proxy, that means we fade to black whenever she does. Thus, numerous scenes stop abruptly, and we never get to see the resolution. June just wakes up in a new locale. It feels like a massive cheat, perhaps intended only to lower the budget.

Cruise and Diaz’s star power is enough to overcome that problem for much of the first half, but after that the wheels come off.

Knight and Day subjects us to some of the thinnest supporting characters of any film this year — specifically, the agents heading up the charge to corral Miller. These roles have all the weight of a Sarah Palin interview. (My conservative buddy Christian won’t like that, but I hope he’ll understand.)

What’s worse is that producers cast two superb actors in these roles — Peter Sarsgaard (An Education, Flightplan) and Viola Davis (Doubt, State of Play) — and give them nothing to work with!

Also, why cast someone as recognizable as Maggie Grace (Taken, TV’s “Lost”) as June’s sister and give her nothing but a couple of lines? What a massive waste of talent! It’s a stark contrast to this summer’s The A-Team, in which a couple of supporting roles were among the film’s most interesting.

All of that considered, Knight and Day remains fairly entertaining until the final act, when the formula really gets old. Sure, there’s a cute bit where Diaz gets to have fun with June being under the influence of truth serum (yeah, she gets drugged a lot, which is a bit creepy).

But then we get the crappiest of Knight and Day‘s action pieces, a car/motorcycle chase through Spanish streets that happens to coincide with the running of the bulls. The special effects for this stretch are mind-numbingly bad, looking worse than whatever your 12-year-old nephew could throw together on his Power Mac.

The film has other issues, even if you’re grading on the “lighthearted summer fun” curve. The title only half makes sense, and the way it’s not-really explained seems arbitrary at best.  Worse, the movie never provides a reason for Diaz’s character to be involved in the story past the first half-hour.

Knight and Day isn’t the complete wreck the pre-release buzz might have suggested. It has some cute dialogue, some genuinely funny moments and some entertaining fight scenes. On the whole, however, it’s a 5-layer burrito that’s missing at least three layers. And two just won’t do.

Knight and Day

Director: James Mangold

Writers: Patrick O’Neill

Stars: Tom Cruise, Cameron Diaz, Peter Sarsgaard, Viola Davis, Paul Dano, Marc Blucas, Maggie Grace

Rating: PG-13

Running time: 110 min.

The A-Team

Rick’s grade: 7 out of 10

By RICK GERSHMAN

If any film demands to be graded on a curve, it’s The A-Team.

Simply consider the notion of making a big-budget summer movie from of one of the cheesiest television shows of an already-cheesy TV era (the early 1980s).

It’s a crafty plan to lower your expectations. As long the movie isn’t two hours of punching grandmothers and kicking puppies, you’re likely to leave the theater saying, “that was better than I expected.”

Guess what? It works like a charm. I can already hear the producers saying, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

The A-Team, against all odds, is one extremely entertaining film. It puts pedal to metal about 90 seconds in and never lets up. That’s also savvy because it’s also kind of a mess that would collapse under its own weight if it slowed down for more than two minutes.

Director Joe Carnahan (Smokin’ Aces, Narc) isn’t taking that chance. Action scenes come flying at you hard and heavy from start to finish. The results are mixed: Some sequences are choppy and confusing, others thrilling. But like a comedy that never stops pitching jokes, content if only half of them stick, The A-Team pitches action, action, action, with a side of action and a little action to wash it down.

The plot follows the general concept of the TV series with a few tweaks. A lengthy opening credits sequence set in Mexico shows us how the team of former Army Rangers comes together: Leader John “Hannibal” Smith (Liam Neeson), his right-hand man Templeton “Face” Peck (Bradley Cooper), powerful Bosco “B.A.” Baracus (Quinton “Rampage” Jackson) and loony pilot James “Howling Mad” Murdock (Sharlto Copley).

We jump ahead several years, where the A-Team is now an Army covert operations crew with dozens of successful missions under their belts. But when they’re set up for a fall by a variety of villainous forces, the boys have to break out of jail and fight to clear their names.

That’s pretty much all you wanted to know about the plot, right? Because it gets pretty confusing from there and doesn’t matter in the slightest anyway. It’s only there to support – that’s right – action, action and even more action.

Before I tell you why A-Team is worth your hard-earned cash – and I honestly believe it is – I should lay out its many faults.

Though Carnahan directed, it’s not surprising to see director Tony Scott was one of the producers. Too many scenes evince Scott’s “look” – the camera shoved in way too tight on the actors, so you can’t tell what the hell’s going on in fight scenes or big gun battles.

The special effects are wildly uneven too, especially in the climax where (this is no real spoiler) enormous stacks of shipping containers come crashing down like a Godzilla-sized methhead was playing Jenga. It looks like the usual Hollywood problem of the CGI being “just good enough” to make a locked-in release date. This time, it’s nowhere near good enough.

But then, The A-Team is a nitpicker’s dream, if you really want to go there. The presence of Jessica Biel almost seems like an inside joke – “we’re not taking this seriously, and neither should you, so let’s cast a gorgeous but astonishingly wooden actor in this role.”

You’re wondering whether she’s really that bad. Look at it this way: This is the first major film role for “Rampage” Jackson, an MMA fighter. He’s not great, but he’s not too bad – and that’s high praise for a non-actor stepping into the iconic role originated by the one-and-only Mr. T. Yet he’s a good bit more believable than Biel, who has starred in more than a dozen major studio films.

It’s also odd that while the film makes such strong nods to the TV show created by Stephen J. Cannell and Frank Lupo, credited cameo appearances by the original Face and Murdock, Dirk Benedict and Dwight Schultz, flew past me (and at least two other reviewers) completely unnoticed. Yet there’s a very noticeable cameo at the end by a well-known TV star who has no ties to The A-Team. Simply strange.

So with those issues, what makes The A-Team so entertaining? The rest of the cast, actually. If you can look past Biel (actually, look right at her, that’s what she’s there for), the film is jam-packed with colorful, charismatic performances.

Neeson (Taken, Clash of the Titans) seems a bit odd at first stepping into George Peppard’s shoes as Hannibal, being considerably taller, leaner and tougher. But that’s appropriate for the movie, which is basically the TV show on (lots and lots of) steroids. No attempt is made to explain his Irish accent, nor that of Copley (District 13), who is South African. It doesn’t matter: Somehow in this film, it works.

But the film decides early on to focus on Cooper, hot off his success in The Hangover, and it’s the right choice. You’d never have guessed the guy who played eighth fiddle on Alias would be front-and-center for a starmaking performance, but it’s true.

The A-Team shows off Cooper’s buffed-up physique almost to the point of absurdity – he’s shirtless onscreen more than Mark Wahlberg in Date Night – but Cooper’s charisma carries the day throughout. It’s the perfect upgrade on Benedict’s original “Face Man” character.

A well-rounded supporting cast also delivers. Patrick Wilson and Brian Bloom, as potentially shady characters related to the A-Team’s troubles, steal every scene they’re in. (It probably doesn’t hurt that Bloom, a veteran actor mostly relegated to TV work, gets co-writing credit with Carnahan and Skip Woods.) Their wonderfully brash characters bring welcome levity to the pounding machine of gunfights and explosions that propels The A-Team.

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t note the drinking game that by all rights should be borne from this film: Drink whenever a guy with icy blue eyes is onscreen. Drink twice when two guys with icy-blue eyes have a conversation. Drink three times when they fight.

You’d pass out halfway through the film. There’s Cooper and Neeson alone, plus Bloom and Wilson, with a little Gerald McRaney – yes, Major Dad himself – thrown in for good measure.

Seriously, if you’re really into dudes with bright blue eyes, The A-Team is like porn. If you’re into nonstop action and lots of male bonding, The A-Team is like porn. If you’re into deep, fully-realized female characters – well, you’re screwed.

But if you had to ask me what I would want a big-screen take on a really silly TV show to be, The A-Team more than fits the bill. It’s ridiculous, sure. But it’s also a ridiculous amount of fun.

The A-Team

Director: Joe Carnahan

Writers: Carnahan, Brian Bloom, Skip Woods

Stars: Liam Neeson, Bradley Cooper, Jessica Biel, Quinton “Rampage” Jackson, Sharlto Copley, Patrick Wilson, Brian Bloom, Gerald McRaney

Rating: PG-13

Running time: 117 min.