The Furious Face of Glamorous Glutton

from january 11th, 2009.
I do not recommend reading everyone's review before viewing a movie. Often, they’re trivial grains of peanut piled on already appropriate ice cream. Float into a film knowing nothing and it’ll have an effortless effect on you. For this picture, after the teller denies your valid attempt for a two-buck ticket, growl, “Gross!". Onto the fire, Glutton was furious but you weren't in his face and neither were the people he pet. The CGI was a highlight, so minimally and masterfully materialized (see hummingbird), yet those around GG were indifferent to meeting such a glamorous man dying of old age at ten years old. Brains and breeds of people were pulverized with this picture. Primarily paramount were mallrats and Zodiac cats. Opening night for this fluff-fest was a dream. The littered line mummified mothers' feathers of yore, as hungry housewives touched together with daughters and her bubbly-boppers. They kept crying, “Where is Brad Pitt?”, whimpering “whatever”, as fathers fled ferociously by grotesque Glamorous’ introduction. The backbone bunch of Fincher’s bungalow bravely tried to enjoy the entirety of a well wielded, yet unemotionally spineless schlepper. Glutton manages to meander mightily with wandering eyes, as only Cate Branch-Chet's bust realizes he’s a phenomenally fragile façade aging against antiquity. Aside from his hilarious hooker hiatus in a scene where a young (looks old) Glutton mouths his mother a drunk's denial for his whereabouts, and vomiting, the movie is unabashedly unappealing by courageously utilizing used-car salesmen charm. Through the fog, CGI, and recurring ‘laugh–riot’ lightning struck stranger, its aim to please is as transparent as sin. I dig it that Glamorous is an asshole and leaves her, it’s real. Find a face that looks younger year-by-year but wouldn't wave its woman goodbye to have the always awkward affair with an alien insomniac, and I'll find reason in the golden globes. Glutton wobbly walks in his heyday, joins a fishing crew captained by an alcoholic, fights a German WWII submarine, motorcycles from New Orleans to India, admires his mama’s clichés, and we couldn't care less. Ultimately, it convinced me one shouldn’t adapt 64 pages into three hours of film, Fincher should immediately become bipolar again, and one Forrest Gump was all the gall I hate to handle. You should definitely see the Curious Case of Benjamin Button. It was wonderful!