Neal, Your Lungs, Please!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)
The aforementioned passing of dear Mr. Goulet leads one to believe we must break new ground with respect to preserving our most beloved celebrities. Why should a charismatic, talented, and otherwise youthful singing legend be allowed to expire on an organ donor waiting list when irritating hacks swathed in satin continue to draw breath on this earth?

This is why all legitimate entertainers' unions must immediately draft and ratify The Compulsory Celebrity Organ Donor Initiative. To gain acceptance into a performers' guild, less talented and more annoying celebrities must agree to forfeit major organs should a bigger star need them to survive. Had this plan been in effect last week, Mr. Goulet would still be with us.

Assuming all necessary donor compatibility issues could be worked out, at the moment Mr. Goulet was diagnosed as requiring a transplant, The CCODI could have leapt into action and saved Camelot's favorite knight. Neal Sedaka, for example, should have been dragged from the stage of whatever trailer park or Indian Casino he was playing and immediately interned into the primary CCODI protocol. Since Mr. Goulet required lungs, Mr. Sedaka's chances for surviving the procedure would've been remote at best. Though I'm sure family members and fans of Laughter in the Rain may have protested, the rest of us surely would've rejoiced at the recovery of Robert Goulet.

Please be aware that in cases like this, the Sacrificial Celebrity would be provided as pleasant an expiration process as possible. Think Edward G. Robinson at the end of Soylent Green. The more annoying personalities, like Carrot Top, would probably not warrant such merciful treatment and simply be clubbed over the head like a baby seal.

The urgency here cannot be ignored. Many great actors, singers, and artists are at risk from old age, unfiltered cigarettes, binge drinking, and risky sexual practices. We need to implement this program and identify matching donors for the most important on the list. Potential donors should include:

• Kirk Cameron's liver to George Clooney.
• Dane Cook's lungs to Denis Leary.
• The last twelve inches of Willie Aames's colon (including sphincter muscle) to Charlie Sheen.
• Ashton Kucher's body parts should be available a la carte to Clint Eastwood on an as needed basis. Mr. Moore can be kept alive like that little child molester guy in Se7en.

The concept is simple. If useless pustules like Britney Spears want to continue 'making music', then she has to be ready to make the ultimate sacrifice if Pink loses her sight in a freak Pinesol/Fireworks accident. Paris Hilton needs to be on call 24/7 in case Shakira needs a kidney... or two. Sooner or later the booze and pills will catch up with Paula Abdul and Sanjaya better be ready to answer the call.

A celebrity worshipping country such as ours doesn't have a moment to lose. Ratify CCODI, find Kirk Cameron and shove a GPRS device up his poop chute before Clooney and DeVito head for the martini bar at Koi one too many times.

If Ever He Would Leave Us

Sir Lancelot's armor has been pierced and with angels does he now sing. The Canadian baritone who had the enviable task of serenading and mashing with young, hot Julie Andrews in her prime has left us this 30th of October. As we don our Halloween costumes and revel with the spirits, let us all hope that the ghost of Bob Goulet follows along with us, waiting for that one moment when we're alone, perhaps on the toilet or putting on our costumes in our bedroom, waiting for that perfect moment to bellow into our ear his rich rendition of "C'est Moi" from Camelot, sending us three feet out of our shoes with fright. God speed, Mr. Goulet.

Head! Beer! Now!

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)

Someone has to say something about Sylvester Stallone's head. In this July 2005 pudding ad, he appeared to be a very fit 59 year-old man benefiting from strategic cosmetic procedures and a nice hairpiece.



A scant eighteen months later, he answers the question, "What if that guy who fell into the fat of toxic goop at the end of Robocop came out with a dead muskrat on his head?"



Are we supposed to pretend this man's head isn't 30% larger than it was less than two years ago? It's taken years, but we've accepted The new Oompa Loompa version of Barry Bonds. Then again, that dome would cause nausea if it were plastered all over an IMAX screen. When will someone explain to aging baseball players and action stars that the Human Growth Hormone turns their heads into Death Stars and their fingers into Li'l Smokies?

How can Stallone not know his face has doubled in size in less than twenty-four months? Yo, this hat used to fit. Has the constant Botoxing affected his wife's sight? I'd like to think my spouse would say, "Honey, your head is scaring the children."

I know the man has built no small part of his cinematic fame on his physical appearance, but can't he see the cranial expansion? Sure, it's important to have nice pecs and we were all flabbergasted by the taut torso in Rocky Balboa. A misshapen head may be too much of a sacrifice though.

We must collectively implore Mr. Stallone to stop the madness before he abandons plans for "Stop, Or My Mom Will Soil Herself!" to remake The Elephant Man sans need for Oscar caliber make-up effects.

"Yo, I am not an animal! I'm like a human being!"

Oh, and here's the latest trailer for the creatively titled Rambo, should any of you wonder how the man's cranium can be captured in a 35mm camera lens ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzZwzoD1ZFM&eurl=http://www.aintitcool.com/node/34540

How to Apply Your Remake-Up

Break out the Suave mousse and Brut cologne, folks. We have two competing Knight Rider projects going head-to-head for the title of America’s Least Needed Project. Either studio execs are unfazed by David Hasselhoff’s recent liver violations or feel the press around the Hoff’s boozing helps keep the project on the front burner. In any case, the original show’s producer, Glen A. Larson, has a feature film in development while NBC Universal is looking to revamp the concept for a new television show. Personally, I think Michael Knight and his talking Trans Am should only ever exist again as thirty seconds of parody on Cartoon Network’s Robot Chicken.

But before I throw on my rubber Gene Siskel Halloween mask and bitch in the mirror about remakes, I need to face facts. Remakes, particularly from TV shows are here, baby. End of story. I guess I should call up Alec Baldwin and ask if he needs a roommate when he moves to Europe (Alec, it’s been 7 years now since Dubya won, let’s get chopping on that flight.)

Following the success of Michael Bay’s Transformageddon, Hollywood is drooling to pee $150 million away on the next 22-minute toy commercial from the 1980s. Warner Brothers has optioned Thundercats under the direction of videogame helmer Jerry O’Flaherty, and G.I. Joe is due in theaters in 2009. I’m showing my age. My only memory of G.I. Joe was from babysitting kids shoveling Pop Tarts into their mouths while some guy in a blue helmet and a Kleenex on his face called himself the Cobra Commander. Lots of bullets flew and nobody got shot. It was kind of like The A-Team only without the charm of Mr. T.

Note to film students: you will get kicked in the teeth by your NYU professor if you use “without the charm of Mr. T” in a sentence.

Look, I can at least understand the despera--- I mean, motivation from the studios. The target blockbuster demo is men ages 18-34. You take these cartoons from their childhoods and make them look both modern and retro with lots of CGI, and you’ve got a pre-sold franchise. In a Gordon Gecko world of logic, it does make sense. More baffling are the remakes of movies that are not that old or oddly enough, went to the stage. Footloose, anyone? If ever there was a case for cinematic Downs Syndrome, this has to be it. The original 1984 Kevin Bacon movie was and remains painful to watch by most males on the planet and the only reason females resonate with it now was their infatuation with Kevin Bacon’s dance double and a few acid-washed tunes from Kenny Loggins and Deniece Williams. I honestly think I would rather pick the peanuts out of sewage treatment tanks than have to listen to “Let’s Hear it For the Boy.”

Footloose: The Musical made it to Broadway for about ten minutes in a 'modern' re-telling of the triumphant tragedy of a town without dance. Honestly, dancing is a bit overrated. They should have at least done something original with the upcoming remake and center the drama on what resonates with today's youth. Call it Oral Sex Loose! Have big dance numbers where the teens gather to get drunk and go down on each other. Now THAT would be fodder for a good John Lithgow speech.

Also on the docket are remakes of awful films that still agitate people over their desecration. Friday the 13th is targeted for another ‘re-imagining’. I guess Rob Zombie’s Halloween must have put enough asses in the seat to justify them taking a stab (yuk) at the first Jason Voorhees romp. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the killer in the first Friday the 13th movie Jason’s mother, looking a lot like my mom’s bridge partner Carol Whitney, circa 1978? This film itself was essentially a gory rehash of John Carpenter’s Halloween, and its sequels got worse and worse as the years went on, kind of like casts of Saturday Night Live.

At this point, I wash my hands of the whole trend. With the Writers Guild strike looming in a few weeks, putting thousands of industry folk out of work, I suppose there is some pathetic logic behind the studio stockpiling of pre-sold and hell, pre-written franchises. They assume we’d rather watch a remake of a mediocre Kevin Bacon movie. Actually, two. Did NO ONE notice that I looped two Bacon movies into the same article? (Hint: Mrs. Voorhees served his neck up as birthday cake.) Let’s hear it for the boy.

A Mighty Broken Wind

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)


"Eleventeen beers ago and I still feel the same!"
Some of you may recognize this bewildered looking individual swathed in a Coleman tent. It is indeed former action icon Steven Seagal. Those not familiar with his 'work' since the mid-90's are probably wondering why anyone would claim this thirty year-old photo of the Reverend Jim Jones is actually a current image of the aforementioned Aikido whiz.

It is indeed the man who was once Hard to Kill while Under Seige. Clearly, while Out for Justice, he stopped at Carl's Jr. and the Cold Stone Ice Creamery. Once Marked for Death, he presumably became despondent and decided to keep a keg tapped in his basement at all times. The Fire Down Below was most certainly an unnecessary third or fourth chili dog.

A little over a year ago, me and a friend witnessed the girth first hand. During a surprisingly enjoyable albeit surreal Seagal concert, we witnessed what would've happened had Hop Sing cut the sleeves off of his shirt and transmorgified into Hoss Cartwright. Yes, that night, Sir Steve did not drape himself in the fine burlap pictured above, he ambled on stage in a fresh pair of Big & Tall Levi's and a Hop Sing wife-beater. There he was. A six and a half foot tall, three hundred pound jowl explosion with a furry Pittsburgh Steelers helmet hot glued to his scalp.

I kid not because I love, but because I paid $45 to watch the man riff on a guitar that cost more than the car I drove to see him in. I kid because I actually own a copy of Exit Wounds. I kid because Flight of Fury and Attack Force are in my Netflix cue. I kid because even though the man is clearly incapable of the martial arts maneuvers he once employed on Henry Silva, I will still offer up time and money to watch him wheez his lines and pretend a close up game of paddy cake for the camera is just as good as the opening scene of Above the Law.

So, rest easy Steve. Have another bite of cheese log, then wash it down with two or three pints of dark beer. The gravy train will not be stopping anytime soon, because there are thousands like me and we all have our noses pressed to the glass at Blockbuster waiting for Urban Justice to hit the shelves.

Crazy Is As Crazy Weds

Okay, The Mung Hour has broken its creed to not step into the curves and crevasses of TMZ, Defamer and other tabloid websites, but this story was not to be resisted. I'm approaching my wedding anniversary this week, and I couldn't help but notice that everyone's favorite busty beach EMT and connoisseur of foot-long, heavy metal kielbasas, Pamela Anderson, has tied the knot this past weekend. Who is the clueless, silicone-mammary admiring groom? Rick Solomon. If you're scratching your head wondering who this guy is, well you simply must don a pair of night vision goggles and look at the photo again. Oh, and picture him naked in a hotel room defiling the long lost Kennedy heir, Paris Hilton.

Solomon, 38 and the 40 year-old Ms. Anderson (seen here searching her brassiere for her wallet, car keys and two small children) sent out a message to their family and friends apologizing for not providing more advanced notice of their Las Vegas nuptials but promised to videotape the honeymoon and post it online.

The End of Film - Lethal Franchises

(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)

It is easy for the intellectual elite to point at recent cineplex fodder and declare the end of 'good'storytelling in mainstream film. Before embarking on a vivisection of the bloated Pirates finale, a meandering installment of the Spidey franchise, or the umpteenth variation on Ben Stiller's humiliated schnook, it is important to differentiate mainstream movies aimed at a broad demographic from those made with the intention of winning awards.

Bourgeois film experts can go all day long comparing Michael Clayton to The Verdict. Juxtaposing Eastern Promises against Scorsese's grittier work from the seventies will not tell us if film has evolved. No, if the modern American Movie Buff wants to take a
serious look at the evolution of film, he or she needs ascertain objectively whether or not Rush Hour 3 is a better film than Lethal Weapon 4.

Both are pointless installments for franchises long past their primes. Each featured leading actors just a little too old to recapture the physical acting magic from the first film(s). Though, six years had elapsed between movies in both instances, the original director was still at the helm. A veritable laundry list of other similarities could be identified if someone were so inclined.

My theory is simple. Mainstream film is better in today than it was ten years ago, because Rush Hour 3 is a much better movie than Lethal Weapon 4. Neither offered much in the way of storytelling, though Rush Hour 3 feebly attempted to weave in a bland arc about the meaning of friendship. LW4 was pretty much an episode of Three's Company with virtually all of the film's 'dramatic' tension derived from Danny Glover/Mr. Furley's obliviousness to the marital status of his character's daughter.

With RH3, the writers had at least read some instructional books on basic screenwriting. They drew a thin story thread from the first film and used it as the glue to connect some chases, kung fu fighting, and snappy one-liners. LW4 did no such thing.

It was just a series of noisy unrelated events bogged down by the needless inclusion of far too many characters. The film literally did not follow the three-act format. There were no acts. Characters
behaved in accordance with plot requirements. The illusion of motion was maintained by constantly rotating back and forth between humor and violence.

RH3 stuck to the two character original concept and did an okay job of being entertaining for ninety minutes despite the fact thirty years of stunt work had obviously hobbled one of its stars. LW4 featured
a plethora of ancillary characters that barely served to distract the audience from Mel Gibson's thinning hair.

In short, a rising tide lifts all boats. If a paycheck driven and pedestrian sequel is better today than in 1998, that simply must mean movies are better now than they were then. After all, had the bar not risen, it would stand to reason that Steven Seagal and
Jean Claude Van Damme movies would still warrant theatrical release.

But, that is another story.

Good Will Hunting For Food

Okay, not to go all TMZ here, but you'd think with all the money Matt Damon is making off the Bourne franchise, he could at least buy his ol' Oscar buddy some In n' Out double-doubles. In the past, it was Ben who puffed up in between movies, joining Tobey Maguire and Keanu Reeves at the Krispy Kreme for a post-franchise film-shoot donut fest. With Damon now in the top spot, reigning over the largest star-driven property any actor could wish for, it looks like he's the raised-glazed ingestor while ol' Ben is dwindling down to nothing. Unless Affleck is researching his next role as Adrian Brody in the period biography, "NewYork-Land".