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It’s Nobody's F**king Loss

By Brian Prisco | Film | January 14, 2010 | Comments ()

By Brian Prisco | Film | January 14, 2010 |



I'd give you a plot assessment, but frankly there's no point. Supposedly this script was written around 1952, which is well before Williams penned Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Suddenly, Last Summer, or Night of the Iguana. He easily could have had it made if he so desired. HE COULD NOT HAVE DESIRED THIS. There's all the maudlin archetypes: women in mental institutions, dire dowagers, drunken fathers, wild rich gals who expect the world, angry blue collar saps, and horrible family skeletons dragged out of closets. Only they're slapdashed in the story like someone painting a room by dipping cats in paint and releasing them. Fisher Willow (Bryce Dallas Howard) is one of the most odious and least likable Williams' heroines since Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. (High fives to the four kids who get that joke.) She's self-absorbed, annoying, and high pitched. While normally you'd find any number of scintillating jibes and jousting in the dialogue of his other works, in Teardrop, the characters don't so much speak platitudes and bon mots as swing them at each other like two blindfolded children simultaneously attacking a pinata.

I don't know about you, but when I first witnessed the trailer for this atrocity, I was convinced this was a parody leftover from the beginning of Tropic Thunder. Surely, nobody in their right mind would cast Chris Evans as a lantern-jawed southern laborer. But much like Keanu Reeves doing Shakespeare, it actually fucking happened. Mayhaps it was the elderly woman behind me who felt he reminded her of a young Johnny Weissmueller. I'll say this for Markell, she's proven you don't need CGI to create completely wooden and unaffected performances. Bryce Dallas Howard looks like a less-appealing Melanie Lynskey from Beautiful Creatures. Chris Evans and she spend the entirety (of the first 30 minutes) of the movie trying to outdo each other with progressively poorer imitations of Blanche DuBois doing James Van Der Beek's lines from Varsity Blues. And I don't know whose cruel joke it was to sneak film Ellen Burstyn on her deathbed, but for shame.

As I said, this was the first movie as a critic I've ever walked out on. I didn't want to waste another moment of my life sitting through this garbled and misguided tripe. Even the elderly woman thought it was bunk and hooey. And I won't waste anymore of my life discussing this. I thought it would be worth a laugh -- maybe a few potshots and snark. But this isn't worth the peat moss brushfire to burn the script. If Jodie Markell starts digging up more "classic and forgotten masterpieces" I'm gonna club that bitch in the head with a shovel and bury her in the hole she dug.



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