Count Every Star—Not Me
I predict movie reviewers will soon be as outdated as typewriters. I no longer count the number of stars they give films. Lately Hollywood is only making three kinds of movies: the Disney-type, the guy type, and women’s type, sometimes called, “ chick flicks.” Everybody knows about the Disney-type. You take kids to see them, and you usually enjoy the movie as much as the kids do. You don’t need a review for that.
Guy films are about gangsters, aliens, or political intrigue, war, fast vehicles and last but definitely not least, fast women. Crasher Jones: Death in the Pits, is a guy movie, as is Warriors from Hell, as is The Invasion of the Alien Maniac Mind Forms. Guy flicks are about “blood and guts.” In some, before we even see the movie title someone has died on the screen. After the title, bodies continue to pile up, and bullets are rapid-fired into everything in sight including buildings (giving them the Swiss cheese look), at least twenty cars, and lots of plate glass windows—the bigger the better. Amazingly, either no one is hurt, or we are left with a lake of blood along with the multitude of bodies that didn’t made it and one lone survivor—an Arnold, or Sylvester or Bruce type.
In some guy films, a woman gives birth to a bug-eyed reptile-like alien that makes horrible screeching noises as it evolves into something even more grotesque. In other, supporting characters either regurgitate insect-like aliens or slimy whatevers?? burst forth from the actors’ chests along with a discharge of pea-green ooze that spews everywhere with the force of a fireman’s hose. Men gobble popcorn, gulp their large Cokes and go “Wow! Look at that!”
Between the action scenes, guy movies usually have a passion scene or two. (Notice I didn’t say love.) They go something like this. Take one. Scene: a noisy crowded bar. The guy sees the girl. She is wearing an amazingly low cut very mini mini dress that looks like it was sprayed on. She has long wild blond hair. He smiles; she smiles. He ambles over with a tall one in his hand and lust in his eyes. “Hi,” he shouts over the music blasting from the small stage where a rock group is working on perforating the eardrums of everyone in the bar.
Her heavily lined and shadowed eyes give him the come-hither look and she shouts back in a husky, sexily deep voice “Hi.”
He smiles again, and moves in real close. The group is now between sets (thank God) so he whispers in her ear, “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Okay,” she is breathing heavily now. They barely make it to the car. That’s a typical love scene in a guy movie.
Most guy movies don’t have much of a story. Most guys don’t care about a story; they care about cars crashing, bullets flying, bones breaking, and of course, scenes in the parking lot of the bar. Also, probably after the film-company has paid for all the special effects, there’s no money left to pay a scriptwriter. Women only watch about half of any guy movie. Their heads are turned away from the screen, or their hands are over their eyes, and they can be heard saying “Is it over yet?”
Women’s movies or “chick flicks’ are just as easy to spot. The word “love” or perhaps a woman’s name, like “Mrs. Roberts” is sometimes in the title. The movie might also be called something uplifting, like The Joy of My Morning, Journey to Fulfillment, or The Winds of Heaven. A chick movie has few, if any, car crashes, bones breaking, or bullets flying. It could have a parking lot scene, but with a very different slant. The couple will actually talk to each other, and say meaningful things like “I love you. “You’re beautiful,” and “I can’t live without you.” There will be kissing too, real kissing, not lip smashing wrestling matches that guys seem to favor.
If there is a death scene in a chick movie it makes women cry. They care about the person because of the story. CHICK MOVIES HAVE STORIES. There is a plot. The characters are not stereotypical; they have depth. Whether the movie is uplifting or sad, it probably has a moral. Because feelings are so important in chick movies, the best are referred to as “four handkerchief tear-jerkers.” Men never cry at chick movies—they fall asleep.
Did I tell you anything you didn’t know? So good-bye movie reviewers; you’d better update your resumes. I wonder where one goes who latest job experience is having watched thousands of mostly not four star movies? (Oh dear, I just counted stars, didn’t I?)