So like. Jupiter Ascending. It can’t be conventionally good, can it? (Whatever the fuck that means.) But something tells me that the goddamn insane hodgepodge of science-fiction visuals, Wachowskian action, and Channing Tatum with a tail is going to sell me on this movie. Somehow. Somehow!

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I don’t even know what the fuck to think about Jupiter Ascending. Like…every time I see new promotional materials for the movie  my only thought is “how the fuck did this get made?” It looks equal parts expensive, absurd, intriguing, horrible, terrifying, confusingly erotic, and entertaining. I desperately want it either to be a) good, or b) so bad I can laugh while enjoying the visuals.

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C’mon, Wachowskis. Don’t do this to me. Don’t get me fucking excited for another one of your movies. ‘Cause after watching the trailer for Jupiter Ascending, I’m fucking interested. Intrigued. Sprung at the science-fiction visuals you’re hanging on me.

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The Wachowskis have wrapped – I think – on their Cloud Atlas  banana cakes novel adaptation. This means that it is time for them to begin engaging their derivation engines and churning out Jupiter Rising. Per all their usual excessive  secret, not much has been known about the flick. Until now.

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The Wachowskis have been trying for a while to get their flick Jupiter Ascending  off the ground. After struggling with it for a good amount of time they shifted gears and turned their eyes towards adapting Cloud Atlas. With that whole dealio winding down, they’re going to give Ascending  another go.

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For the second Christmas Creep in a row, I’m putting my foot in my mouth. When I pitched the Creep to the fearless leaders of OL, I told them I would be writing up the shittiest, most painful Christmas specials/movies. Like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun and blew my load on the premiere installment, Christmas With the Turtles. Is that like Icarus? It doesn’t matter. What I mean is that after that first article, I keep accidentally watching AWESOME Christmas jams! It’s a Christmas miracle (which I didn’t think was possible since I’m engaged to a Jew). Earlier this week I enjoyed the hell out of Max Headroom’s Giant X-Mas Turkey and yesterday, over a Diet Coke and toast, Santa With Muscles (1996) tickled my bad-good movie bone. And my pecs.

Hulk Hogan plays a militaristic, millionaire grinch who gets knocked out during a mall debacle and wakes up thinking he’s Santa. He befriends the residents of an orphanage – including a 13-year-old Mila Kunis – and helps them wreck some plot by nefarious developers to shut down their facility. Along the way there’s singing, inept figt scenes, and explosive crystals. Yes, explosive crystals. Needless to say, it’s awesome.

Directed by John Murlowski, a volunteer at the Los Angeles Suicide Prevention Center hotline *record scratch* Say wha? Hold up. I’m sure his noble activity as a suicide hotline volunteer has nothing to do with shame over the films he’s directed. Moving on, this movie is the perfect storm of ’90s cheese with a Hulkamania cherry on top. Hogan was on fire in the first half of the ’90s. Suburban Commando, Mr. Nanny, and the Thunder in Paradise trilogy. Near the tail-end of this streak is Santa With Muscles, his movie-fart swan song, so to speak.

The “film” also stars Ed Begley, Jr. as an evil scientist and Clint Howard as a mall cop. As mentioned earlier, a 13-year-old Mila Kunis plays an orphan and in a weird twist of TV Fate, her future castmate on That ’70s Show Don Stark plays Lenny the Elf. Fellow WWF superstar Brutus the Barber Beefcake has an entirely too brief cameo as a thug but it’s Hogan who carries this turd on his shoulders like Atlas. And Icarus. Atlas and Icarus. I guess

This might be the perfect Christmas Hangover movie. There’s enough cheese to enjoy and enough crap to enjoy heckling with your pals. Consider hunting this down online before you channel surf for some more traditional X-Mas flick.

WARNING: Performing an image search for “santa with muscles” will open up a Pandora’s Box of porn that I’m guessing does not fall into our readers’ preferred spank material.

[caution: the following post is a narrative analysis of BLACK SWAN. as such, it’s filled with spoilers, half-baked jib-jab, and words that even a thesaurus shouldn’t contain. proceed at your own risk]

Walking out of Black Swan, I knew that I was impressed. The one hundred and three minutes of celluloid that had just flashed before me were not only visually appealing (and I’ll be goddamned if you don’t think it’s eye-candy) but bursting at the thematic seams.

It’s a layered work – an adaptation of Swan Lake in which a ballet company reimagines Swan Lake. Yes, that’s right. There’s sexual tension, the tug-and-pull between repression and reckless liberation. Body image issues arise, as self-mutilation and bulimia make both subtle and palpable appearances. And for good measure, a heaping of parental expectation is thrown in, reminding the audience that even the most brilliant of feats can lose their shimmer when serving as vicarious fulfillment.

It’s all in Black Swan. All that and more, in fact. But what struck me as most compelling about Aronofsky’s fifth feature is that it serves as a warning to those in pursuit of a goal. No, I don’t think Black Swan is telling the audience to relish in apathy, aspiring for nothing and thereby achieving everything desired. But I do think that the movie is pursing its lips next to the ear of the aspirant individual, whispering, “Look at yourself — is this what you want?”

Because without even knowing it, even the purest of feather can become sullied and despoiled.

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