Filming recently began on a big-screen adaptation to the wildly successful HBO sitcom "Sex and the City." And because I own all seven DVDs, watch the Season Two finale religiously after a breakup and use Samantha quotes as pickup lines, it pains me to admit this, but I think the fairy tale is over.
My boy has a consistent bedtime routine: He brushes his teeth, sets his alarm and logs on to ESPN.com to check his fantasy baseball ranking and the homepage of his beloved Astros. I quickly learned I could tease him about his OCD-esque nightly redundancy, but I could never slight his Houston heroes.
There are probably some people who would confidently accuse David Cronenberg of selling out. Since 2002's "Spider," Cronenberg has seemed to purposefully avoid working in the horror and sci-fi genres in which he made some of his best films. Others would consider it as the director "maturing," as if his previous films were infantile (go rent the classic "Videodrome" and marvel "infantile" social commentary about our sick love affair with television).
Freewheeling down 441 South to Micanopy Shooting Sports, Kate was growing antsy at the prospect of handling a pistol.
It's a bloody war, and the air is filled with smoke and fire. Partisan fanboys catcall from the battlefield, where Microsoft and Sony haul their guns to bear. And big guns they are, my friends: Both Xbox 360 and PlayStation 3 finally hit their long-delayed strides come autumn, as wave after wave of triple-A titles stream to our poor, budget-restricted arms. BioShock, Mass Effect and the quintessential Halo 3 face off against Haze, Lair and Heavenly Sword; the financially average student is going to need to pick a side.
Wouldn't it be great to have 214 gallons of gasoline for your car? Doesn't 4,000 packages of Ramen noodles sound delicious to you? Or would you prefer 831 cans of Budweiser? These items each could be yours for ,600.
"Mr. Woodcock" is a textbook example of the preview showing all the funny parts of a movie. After an hour and a half, I can safely say there was only one scene not revealed in the previews worthy of a laugh. That's it. Only one. The rest of the film plods along with all the enthusiasm of a mollusk.
The poster for "Shoot 'Em Up" brings to mind the work of John Woo before he started wasting his talent in Hollywood: Clive Owen, ever the new icon of modern, tough-guy cool, firing two pistols midair a la Chow Yun Fat.