Juno

I was feeling good the other day because Juno arrived in the mail. Every critic known to man has praised this "perfectly clever and perfectly paced" film. Here's a brief example:
"Sweet, perceptive, sharp and near-perfect, Juno is a memorable film that will still be great viewing decades after its release." - Brian Webster, Apollo Guide

So I load the DVD tray with this "near-perfect, memorable film that will still be great viewing decades after its release" and promptly vomit my tostada all over the duvet. I skipped the temptation to blast the opening illustrated sequence because hand-rendered type and illustrations are so ubiquitous now. (Poster idea: "Hand Rendered Type is Faded.") But we get about 5 minutes in and we are graced with Rainn Wilson as a convenience store clerk. As soon as he said, “That's one doodle that can't be un-did, home skillet,” I blew chow all over. Jesus. The next 90 minutes or so chronicles all things Diablo Cody deems cool. "OOh, see, I am going to reference obscure indy-punk artists. Look how clever I am, I am going to have my character talk on a hamburger phone and all girls can call each other 'dude'. Oh, I know - Anti-folk is big in New York, let's have an anti-folk indy soundtrack. I rule!!!"

Hey Cody, here's an idea, instead of blowing your budget on actors, you can just replace them with cardboard cutouts of said actors, BECAUSE THAT'S HOW THIN AND ONE-DIMENSIONAL THEY ARE. "Look, here's Rainn Wilson talking like me, now here's Ellen Page talking like me, now Jason Bateman is talking like me." This is a perfect example of what a former film buddy of mine calls "masturbatory theatre."

The low point came when Page and Bateman are hanging out in the basement naming classic punk bands and then comparing Dario Argento and Herschell Gordon Lewis. Horror is cool! Somehow I forgot. Oh wait, I turned 28 at some point and then had better things to do.

It might not be a good idea to play Too Cool for School for 3/4 of the film and then expect me to give a shit during the final act. See? This is one of the things that got on my nerves when I lived in Minneapolis (guess where Cody lived?): If you throw a rock there, you'll hit a hipster. And that's fine with me. It's the hipsters who try really, really hard to be the hippest hipster that get me. I don't care about Dario Argento or the fact that you talk on a hamburger phone, or that you order the Tokyo Rose at Spyhouse, or that you think graphic designers are cool, or that Rainn Wilson is your poster boy, or that you wear leg warmers. Just admit that sometimes you eat at Arby's, sometimes you have to ride in an SUV, and sometimes you go to the Mall of America, and sometimes you just have to pick your nose. You are not above anyone. You just think you are, which makes you a

presumptuous ass.

And I love the Twin Cities. I love it there. There are so many good things going on. But kids, you are not in New York. No matter how many times you visit New York and how many friends you have in New York, you are not in New York. You are in a city in the middle of a wheat field. You live in the Midwest. Come join the rest of the sweatshirt-wearing, cheese curd-eating, Midwest Airlines-flying, Cubs and White-Sox cheering region of dairy farmers and plumbers.

Maybe I'll rename myself to Demonio Laramie, or Diavolo Cheyenne. Or maybe Djevel Casper, Davo Gillette, or possibly Debiru Rock Springs. How about Satan Madison? Diabolus Memphis? Whatever. I can't stand people naming themselves after state capitals or semi-big cities. Judy Chicago and Robert Indiana were cool when they did it. You are not. And neither is your putrid, self-masturbatory puppet show.