January 7, 2009 | Comments ()

By Dustin Rowles | Guides | January 7, 2009 |


As we do every first Monday of the New Year, today we look back on the worst films of 2008. It’s hard to say that it was any better or worse than previous years — the 10 worst are bad in any year. But there were a few familiar faces from previous years, specifically Golden Pajiba’s mainstays like Uwe Boll, and the Movie Movie directing tandem, Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer. For the third year in a row, Larry the Cable guy also makes the list. If there is a silver lining, it’s that this year’s ten worst included only one sequel, which was straight to DVD. It’s a pretty bad year, though, when movies like The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, The Hottie or the Nottie, One Missed Call, Beer for My Horses and even Meet Dave missed the cut. And though neither of his movies made the ten worst list, collectively (with Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins and College Road Trip), I’d have to argue that Martin Lawrence was 2008’s Golden Pajiba Worst Actor.

scarlett_johansson5.jpg10. The Other Boleyn Girl: I think I was supposed to feel alternately turned on by the The Other Boleyn Girl, and sympathetic towards the figures facing the headsman’s ax, and angered by the way 16th century daughters (and sons) were traded like poker chips between aristocratic families, and exalted by Anne’s coronation scene, but the only sensation that rose out of me was laughter. Repeatedly. I’m no royalist, but I’ve always felt that great costume dramas should hit you with the same kind of awe Ye Olde Subjects were supposed to feel in the presence of their monarch — in The Other Boleyn Girl, unfortunately, even those scenes which bear the authority of actual history come across as preposterous. Normally I can get behind a movie that transforms a moment of history into high Gothic — with plenty of enclosed females, and ominous shots of houses full of domestic danger — but The Other Boleyn Girl is a complete waste of wimples. — Ranylt Richildis

king354.jpg9. In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Seige Tale: Another Toilet Boll fiasco lurching abominably into theaters, filled with an ill-fittingly large budget and a mix of good actors incomprehensibly slumming and bad actors happy that someone checked them out of rehab for the weekend and gave them enough ludes to get through their scenes. And guess what? It blows. And guess what? No one needed to be told that. And guess what some more? No one will go see it, and yet I’ll still be here when the next Boll films opens, weeping tears of sulfur for my lost youth and jamming needles into my Uwe Boll voodoo doll’s eyeballs and crotch while cursing this anathema to filmmaking and his German tax shelter. The plot oozes like toothpaste across 127 of the longest minutes you’ll ever endure, punctuated with fight scenes edited into a visual miasma. Boll continues to think that more violence = more entertainment, but watching bloodless beat ‘em ups involving characters to whom you’re palpably indifferent is more boring than I can describe. — Phillip Stephens

twilight_movie_image_group_shotd.jpg 8. Twilight: Twilight is intoxicating. And I don’t mean that as a compliment. It’s intoxicating like convenience-store malt liquor — you get a hangover before you’re even drunk. It’s addictive. Like crack cocaine, only you don’t get to experience the high, you just skip straight ahead to the blackout and wake up in a stranger’s bed with a matchbox car six inches deep into your rectum. But you can’t turn away. There’s nothing you want more than to get up and walk out, but you’re drawn in — like a moth to an industrial-sized fan — stuck wriggling helplessly in your seat, knowing that your body is slowly being dissected by a crushing tedium. Twilight is train-wreck theater, only the promise of a derailment, carnage, and mass dismemberment never comes to fruition. The train chugs along slowly toward a cliff with no rails, but the cliff never arrives. — Dustin Rowles

bunny.jpg7. The House Bunny: The House Bunny is one of those films that’s so ungodly awful that a review is hardly even necessary. Suffice to say, if any of our readers are considering watching The House Bunny, you’re probably reading the wrong fucking site. You don’t need a movie critic to tell you that a makeover movie produced by Adam Sandler’s Happy Madison production company is almost too dumb to be offensive, but when a movie is this blatantly misogynistic, it’s hard to completely excuse it to Sandler’s brand of seemingly harmless stupidity. Indeed, from a personal standpoint, knowing that a few men had their hand in it was almost enough to inspire me to rip off my penis halfway through and hand in my Male Card, so ashamed was I in what The House Bunny represented. But then, knowing that two females wrote it and that at least one actress, Anna Farris, didn’t particularly need the paycheck, I didn’t feel as though I had anyone to hand my Male Card over to. The lesson? Adam Sandler and his entire entourage should be dropped off in the middle of Smith College and pinpricked just enough so that the flesh-eating womyn can smell their blood. — Dustin Rowles

lostboys21sm.jpg 6. The Lost Boys: The Tribe: Joel Schumacher struck an unanticipated and bloody treasure trove with his 1987 stylish vampire flick, and this followup, unfortunately, carries forth none of the strengths of the original. Shitty sequels are nothing unexpected, of course, especially where a straight-to-DVD effort is concerned. However, Lost Boys: The Tribe is that rare sequel that manages to bear no substantial resemblance to the original film yet still manages to gangbang it into oblivion. Director P.J. Pesce operates under the assumption that tossing more gore into the blender will somehow make the film scarier than it really is, which is to say, not scary at all. The soundtrack plays like AC/DC met some wimpy emo kid, shoved him in a locker, and slammed the door repeatedly at unexpected intervals. The script sort of attempts to parallel many aspects of The Lost Boys storyline, but a low budget means that none of the atmosphere is present, and the lone connection to the first film is, ridiculously, one Corey Feldman. — Agent Bedhead

loveguru1sm.jpg5. The Love Guru:Dammit. Before anyone could stop him, Mike Myers actually climbed up his own ass for inspiration. What came out is an endless stream of verbal diarrhea that includes jokes about actual diarrhea and also such fascinating topics as urine, poop, midgets, gays, and penises galore. Myers’ newborn character, Guru Pitka, even makes diarrhea noises to help raise the morale of his clients. Whether or not it is actually supposed to work, well, who gives a shit? The Love Guru runs through a endless series of disconnected tableau that feature the same characters volleying between Bollywoodesque musical numbers and nonsensical dialogue, all of which is poorly punctuated by Myers’ penis remarks and diarrhea noises. Add some manic mantras, navel gazing, and Jessica Alba’s ass into the mix, and it’s almost too damn good that Myers also aims to give the audience what they really want … Elephant sex. With Guru Pitka on top. Clearly, we’re not worthy. — Agent Bedhead


nicole_parker1.jpg4. Disaster Movie/Superhero Movie/Meet the Spartans: No matter how low your expectations for _______ Movie are, reduce them by at least 90 percent. Really, think of the worst movie you’ve ever seen. Now take away any redeeming qualities. Now take away any element that was esthetically neutral. Now add in the most painful moments from the 10 next-worst movies you can think of. That’s _____ Movie would be if it were a hell of a lot better than it is. Drink my shit-milkshake, pisswad. I’m begging you, Jason Friedberg, Aaron Seltzer, and David Zucker, you anus-brained fucknuts. Quit it, or I will come to your house club you with a baby seal. They’re not funny, and the only people who think they are shouldn’t be allowed to breed — they should be rounded up, stuffed into the ass end of a donkey suit, and crammed — along with Tyler Perry and the cast of “Laguna Beach/The Hills” — into a crag in Amy Winehouse’s face and be spackled over with the fat of Dan Fogler’s left butt cheek. — The Pajiba Staff

frank%2520miller%2520the%2520spirit%2520blog%2520edit.jpg3. The Spirit: Miller’s adaptation of The Spirit flails onscreen, and its death throes can’t even be mined for entertainment value. At best, The Spirit may find half-life some day as a novelty movie — something along the lines of the Star Wars Holiday Special or Nick Fury: Agent of SHIELD. It’s the kind of movie that might be a howl to watch in a drunken group setting but makes you want to claw your eyes out if you watch it alone. The novelty factor will be especially bright if Miller’s never given a solo film project again, which looks likely; it’ll be something for next-generation mega-fans to fondle ironically some day. As it stands, The Spirit is so underwhelming that it could put those of us who loved Sin City off the (upcoming?) sequels, the way a moldy crouton puts you off not just the entire salad but also the main course wending its way to your table. Miller’s handling of The Spirit is so pokey, in other words, that it threatens to tank the graphic panel stylization which until now looked as if it might become its own particular film genre. — Ranylt Richildis

340x.jpg2. An American Carol: You know what the difference between one of Michael Moore’s terrorist-loving documentaries and David Zucker’s conservative comedy? Moore may be a smug prick, but he doesn’t assume his audience of liberal elites are as dumb as Zucker believes his audience of middle-American, gun-toting rednecks must be. You know what we learned at our lousy elite institutions of education? Nuance, motherfucker. Zucker’s film is about as subtle as rape (kit sold separately). And it’s about as funny as AIDS, which is something all liberals have because we’re all terrorist loving-sodomites who promote contraception but never use it. And I want you inside me, Zucker. So I can infect you, you bitch. — Dustin Rowles

witless2sm.jpg1. Witless Protection: In The Golden Pajibas of 2007, I predicted that Larry the Cable Guy’s next film would probably end up on the 2008 list. To my dismay, it genuinely hurts to be so right about this statement because, unfortunately, Witless Protection was easily three times as painful as its predecessor. The reason for this seemingly impossible achievement is that, last time around, Larry’s offensiveness was downplayed or largely handed off to his buddies. This third movie of Larry’s must have carried a smaller casting budget, for Larry rises up and assumes all of the naked redneck glory for himself, and, yes, he does get naked. The lingering after-effects of Witless Protection weren’t pretty. I was inconsolable; the pale specter of Larry’s ass haunted me for days. No serial killer film has ever frightened me as much. My sex drive disappeared; I no longer wished to perpetuate the species. My dogs ran from me with tails firmly tucked between legs; my daughter kept bringing me the same box of Band-Aids. I couldn’t even eat because food reminded me of Larry’s girlish figure, but I sure could drink, which led to the inevitable drunk emails. Thanks for ruining my entire weekend, Larry. Now, fix my goddamn cable. — Agent Bedhead

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Guides | January 7, 2009 | Comments ()




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