tfios rant.jpg

The Interior Monologue of an Unrepentant Cynical Bitch Going to See 'The Fault in Our Stars'

By Rebecca Pahle | PaEHba Day | June 10, 2014 | Comments ()

By Rebecca Pahle | PaEHba Day | June 10, 2014 |


tfios rant.jpg

Ugh, it’s 5:55. I should probably go to a movie after work, so I can be a proper entertainment journalist and… write about things. The Fault in Our Stars, maybe? There is literally nothing in the trailer that makes me think I’d enjoy it, but I saw Endless Love, for Chrissakes. I can do this.

Wow, there are a lot of people in this movie for 6:30 on a gloomy Monday.

OK, it’s starting. Self, I know that your tolerance for emotional manipulation in movies is basement level, but I need you to give this movie a chance. Accept it for the teen dramatic romance it is and you might actually enjoy it. Look, you even have a handkerchief. Embrace the feelings.

“I believe we have a choice in this world about how to tell sad stories. On the one hand, you can sugarcoat it… I like that version as much as the next girl does. It’s just not the truth.” Wow, that’s a little… self important. But I’ll roll with it. Dedication to “truth,” in the wheelhouse.

I like this Hazel Grace character. I feel a cynical bitch connection going on here. Granted, she has more of a reason than I do, what with the whole “dying of cancer” thing.

Man, that Augustus fellow is really putting the moves on her. Is he fucking staring at her all the way through group therapy? Kinda creepy, dude. And you’re a “on a roller coaster that only goes up”? What faux motivational poster did you get that from?

I want to PUNCH YOU. Stop ragging on Hazel’s nihilist philosophy! Is she clearly depressed?: Yes. Do you know that? No. Also, her name’s just Hazel. SHE SAID her name was just Hazel. Stop calling her Hazel Grace! Do you know what would happen if I told someone my name was Rebecca and they insisted on calling me “Rebecca Mae”? I would not go out with him, that is what. Am I supposed to like this guy?

“OK, I’ll read your favorite book if you read this video game novel.” Dude, she never asked you to read the damn book. Calm down. Am I supposed to think Gus has “infectious charm” or something? He is a CONTROLLING, PRETENTIOUS, SKEEZY DOUCHEBAG.

Did he seriously just ask Hazel for “sage words of feminine advice?” Hazel, slap him. It’s seriously false advertisement that the costume designers don’t have him in a fedora. M’lady.

DID HE JUST CALL HER E-MAIL TO THE AUTHOR PRETENTIOUS? DID HE? DID. HE?!?!

OK, OK. Self. Calm down. Augustus Water is the world’s biggest toolbag, but there are parts of it that are good. Shailene Woodley, for example. And the little sidekick buddy. Just breathe and try to ignore Aug—DID HE JUST CALL HER USING HER CANCER WISH TO GO TO DISNEY WORLD PATHETIC?! I’m sorry that’s not special snowflake enough for you, bro.

“All your efforts to keep me from you are going to fail.” I’ll take “Things You Might Hear a Stalker Say” for $400, Alex.

She doesn’t want to date you. LET. IT. GO. You know what’s not an appropriate response to someone saying “I just see you as a friend?” Blatant flirting.

And then this fucker comes rolling up hanging out of the top of a limo like teen Patrick Dempsey on the back of his lawn mower, only ~~~more real~~~ and ~~~cooler~~~. JFC, at least the teen dramedies this movie seems to think it’s better than have the decency to be funny and to have authentic characters, instead of having their emotional core hinge on an inauthentic, human-shaped ball of faux coolness and Manic Pixie Dream Guy tropes. Augustus being a jackass doesn’t bother me so much—shut up, it doesn’t—as does the fact that no one in the movie (indeed, the movie itself) acknowledges or even seems to realize that this is not how people should behave. It’s BBC Sherlock syndrome.

“We’re just friends.” “She is, I’m not.” RAAAAAAGE. Oh my crispy fried Jesus, Don’t order food for her. What is this guy’s problem?! You are not smarter than her. You are not cooler than her. You are not better than her. You are not more equipped to decide who she should be than she is.

Fuckin’ metaphors.

So who’s the big actor playing the author? Oh, it’s Willem Dafoe. Willem Dafoe, why are you in this? What drove you? In fact, why have people in this theater started crying already? I’m what I like to call “aggressively non-confrontational” — people can have whatever stupid, or even outright offensive, opinion they want. If you’re fictional, it’s open season, but real people… everyone has the right to be wrong. And frankly, why should it matter to them what I think about it? Who the fuck am I? So I try to keep my mouth shut, which isn’t the most valuable quality for a blogger to have, I know. What I’m getting at is this: I try not to judge people based on what movies they like. I bawled at Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. I have no room to talk. But if you’re crying at this movie, I’m judging you a little bit. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.

Please tell me the curmudgeonly author isn’t going to show up later in the story to redeem himself ~~exactly when he is needed~~.

This movie thinks it is far more original and clever than it is. OK, the one who was (relatively) healthy at the beginning of the movie is dying. That’s a twist. Whoop de fucking doo. Everything else is cliched, but presented in a way that looks like it’s trying to be “revisionist.” It’s not. Fuck “this movie doesn’t sugarcoat”—Augustus Waters is a human sugarcoat. He resembles a real person about the same amount I resemble a purple KitchenAid mixer with a cactus growing out of it and a miniature antelope clinging to the back with genetic mutation-provided opposable thumbs.

Oh, come on. Did Augustus Waters just manage to convince that woman that they should totally be able to egg her house? They’re being asshats. Lady, call the cops. The fact that he has cancer does not make him less of a jerk. YOU ARE THE ONE IN THE RIGHT HERE.

I’m not proud of what I’m about to type, but: Oh, thank God. The kid with cancer is dead. No more faux intellectual bullshit. Praise the Lord.

Jesus God, the author did show up again.

Well, that’s two hours of my life wasted on melodramatic pretension. I need a palate cleanser. To my apartment, where the last two episodes of Shameless await!


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