Malcolm at THE END

Following the unexpected success of My Cat Burrp, Frank "Myunez" has been in hot demand. Shortly after winning the 2012 Open Wheel Toyota Pro/Celebrity Race, Frank was approached by long time director friend Linwood Boomer about starring in his apocalyptic Fox network reboot "Malcolm at THE END".

According to Myunez, Boomer appeared "wild-eyed, drug crazed, and more than a little embarrassing in front of my race buddies" while raving about the new show that was going to save network television and usher in the next wave of doomsayer sitcoms in the 21 century. 

"You gotta help me Malc <gulp>
...
Frankie, FRANKIE! Haha,  
that's your name, isn't it? 
DAMMIT, I MADE YOU!"

Malcolm at THE END revolves around events in the lives of the Wilkerson family post-2012 Armageddon, as the global economy is slowly spiraling down the cosmic toilet, and everyone must eek out a humiliating existence before an impending death. The typical dysto-punk trappings are here in full force, but the series is less concerned with style as it is with characters.

Hal develops cancer in the first episode from high radiation exposure at his job as a demolition grunt. This role works out well for star Bryan Cranston, who found a lull in his busy schedule on the set of Breaking Bad Season 5 to make his appearances. According to some inside sources, significant tension has formed between Cranston and Boomer regarding Cranston's distasteful "Brando antics" on and off camera. Thankfully, minimal costume and makeup is needed to get the already fully shorn and emaciated Cranston looking like a post-apocalypse melanoma sufferer.

"You don't even know my real name.
I'm the fucking Lizard King."

By the second episode, the show reveals that Lois died in the riots of December 18. Actress Jane Kaczmarek haunts the show as a disembodied voice that forms the overgrown conscience of each of the boys, including Hal. The family keeps her ashes in a 3D-imaged Obama cremation urn above the TV, which they fear as if she was still alive and over-acting.

"BOYSSSS!!!!"

Dewey is a chronically depressed college dropout that spends most of his time wandering around on heavy psychedelic drugs. This seems a natural progression for his character, even if the end-of-the-world schtick was left out of the show entirely.

Reese, as you might expect, thrives in the post-apocalypse environment as a renown Jesus-freak arms dealer and slumlord. He dons a bloodstained leather getup and drives a maniac truck festooned with the bones of "heathen back-talkers". Basically, he's Mel Gibson.

"Soon my dog of war…Jesus is coming, and when he 
gets here a carpet of Jew pubes shall tickle his toes."

Meanwhile, Francis bides his time at the Grotto ranch in Arizona, having inherited the property after the untimely dismemberment of Otto Mannkusser. Reese keeps Francis alive through his network of "Waste Dogs", but the protection fees eventually cripple Francis' operation, and he is forced to relinquish the grounds to a local militia. This sparks a bitter feud between Francis and Reese that climaxes in the finale.


Daniel von Bargen makes a come back as Francis' former military school instructor Commandant Spangler, who comes to live with Francis at the Grotto ranch for a few episodes. Francis is coerced into tending to the incontinent shell of a man as penance for the many offenses done to Spangler during Francis' days at the academy.

"Yes, don't all of us broken men find out at some
point in our scar-tissued lives that karma is just a big
steaming puddle of papa's diarrhea?"

 And that brings us to Malcolm...yeah, he's about the same.

"It's M-y-u-n-e-z, Boomer. MYUNEZ.
No, it's not Portuguese for mayonnaise,
what the fuck is wrong with you?"

Malcolm In the Mitt-le

There is a pivotal scene towards the beginning of the new Mitt Romney bio-pic—simply titled Willard: A Man and His Country—where a young Mitt (played with fierce smugness by Hollywood Comeback Kid sensation Frank Myunez) is walking aimlessly down a crowded street in Detroit. He sees a large crowd of people congregated around a public orator (the ever chameleon-like Sam Rockwell), spreading the gospel of trickle-down prophecy and forewarning his listeners of the Socialist bogeyman that will one day take Americans’ guns and freedom. The orator is Ronald Reagan—shown years before he will be crucified by Alzheimer’s.

Young Mitt stops, captivated by the speaker’s charisma and the words behind that charisma. Reagan makes eye-contact with Mitt and…everything stops. All we see are the two looking at each other—their eyes meaningfully locked. The voice-over track indicates that they are speaking telepathically to one another. “You like ice cream, Mitt?” transmits Reagan. “I guess so,” replies Mitt. “Good. I like ice cream, too. You know what else I like, Mitt? America.” “America?” Mitt asks—and you can see him tasting the words for the first time, like his first taste of the expensive champagnes only rappers buy. “America, Mitt,” replies Reagan. “One day, Mitt—America will be yours.” At the end of the exchange, all the on-lookers have stopped their raving. They look from Reagan to Mitt with puzzled expressions on their faces, trying to comprehend what is happening—why the two are looking at each other with their heads cocked-sidewise and glints in their eyes, signaling mutual adoration.

"Come in, Reagan. I need you."

The scene is particularly effective because it illustrates what a lot of folks don’t understand about Mitt, Mitt’s thwarted destiny to become President, and, more importantly, the unblemished Reagan. What the scene is saying is that: we are all on-lookers when it comes to Mitt and the unspoken but tangibly felt connection he holds with the nation’s greatest President ever—in history—of all time. We don’t get it—we don’t get Mitt (as this last election proved…)—because we can’t hear that connection—we can’t see it. But—oh, we can feel it.

In another scene, Mitt is dressed-down to rags for a weekend excursion to the poorer sections of Detroit. He tells his chauffer, “Drop me off wherever there is an entitled black man shooting up black tar heroin in a poorly-lit alleyway—I want to see humanity. I want to know it—so I can extend my hand like I’m giving money to the black man, then pull it back and point at the black man and say, “Psyche! Gotchya!” The chauffeur (a minstrel-like black man—played with harrowing anti-realism by Morgan Freeman) complies, smiling warmly in the stretch-limo’s rearview mirror at Mitt, whose eyes and teeth twinkle back at the driver, as the two acknowledge their shared distaste for the poor and racially marginalized. 

 "Where to, Mitt?"

At a whopping 6 hours, Willard: A Man and His Country still feels too short. Scenes abound of Mitt walking barefoot through trailer parks as old, Medicare recipient grandmothers wheel up to him in their motorized carts, hoping to cure their morbid obesity by touching the hem of his designer suit. While this re-enforces Mitt’s undisputed image as someone of the people—the average designer-suit-wearing Mormon Messiah—this reviewer was left wanting more: I wanted a glimpse at Mitt’s interior. His heart. His soul. The things that make him tick. How he processes food. And, ultimately, what drives a man like Mitt (one of a kind, if you ask me) to want to ascend to the Presidency.

The film was written, directed and produced by Mitt Romney (how refreshing to see a bio-pic done by the person who actually lived the life depicted) who reportedly brought in (by way of kidnapping and holding at gunpoint—then paying off the lame-stream media to “keep their mouths shut, if they know what’s good for them”) Hans Zimmer to score the film. 

After a contentious election cycle, it feels nice to cool down with a non-partisan, inspirational fluff-piece like Willard. And Frank Myunez (hot off the success of My Cat Burrp), playing the part of Mitt in all stages of life—from Mitt’s diaper-days in Detroit to the salt-and-pepper-haired hunk of today—proves that he’s not only got his groove back (to use a popular urban expression) but it’s a groove we’re all going to be feeling for a long time to come. 

 Born-Again Hollywood

Politics aside: I think this movie makes a pretty convincing case for who should have been President….

Frankie Goes to Hollywood...Again

It’s been more than a decade since the release of what some consider to be the last great American film ever made: My Dog Skip. And, in that time, Hollywood has produced more than its fair share of clunky remakes and sequels. So, you can imagine my excitement when I was asked to review an advanced screening of the long-anticipated sequel to Skip, My Cat Burrp.

Like many a My Dog Skip fanboy, I had long fantasized about a sequel, but I worried that, because the original has become such a sacred part of the American film canon, a sequel might not live up to its predecessor—as is the rule in H-wood. It’s hard to understand now, but MDS really broke the mold upon its initial release—breathing new life into what had become a stale genre. Any sequel would not only have to fill those same paw-tracks, but create its own tracks as well.

But, rest assured, you can breathe easy knowing that the My + Pet + Petname franchise hasn’t been put to “sleep” yet—and, in fact, is still the exception to most films, past or present.

So, what exactly is it that makes My Cat Burrp so exceptional, you might ask? For one: the film brings back Tinsel-Town’s favorite baby-faced man-child, Frankie Muniz—well, formerly “Frankie Muniz”. The star now goes simply by Frank Myunez. That’s right. Our little Frankie—err…Frank—is all growed-up and with age comes a  new grown-up name. Or: at least, that’s how it would seem. Insiders report that Frank apparently changed his name after he sold the rights to his birthname to a deadbeat salvia-pusher in exchange for twenty-dollars worth of low-grade salvia. The star had apparently developed quite the habit. Whereas most former child stars become addicted to heavier drugs, the elfin star with a PG-13 image developed an appropriately PG-13 drug habit. But all that is behind Frank now as Burrp marks his official comeback to films.

And what a comeback it is. Instead of reprising his role as “the kid with the dog”, Frank plays the titular character: Burrp—a foul-mouthed tomcat who, in spite of his coarseness, manages to find a place in the hardest of hearts. That’s not to say it’s a family film. It most definitely is not. According to one of the Weinsteins, the producers of the movie, “something something pretentious about challenging audiences.” But Myunez’s characterization of Burrp has more than enough warmth to appeal to children in the same way that creepy uncles appeal to children because most of the creepy stuff they say goes way over the kids’ heads--and as long as they have a smile on their face it doesn't matter what comes out of their mouths. And, besides…kids are stupid.

The plot revolves around Burrp trying to mate with as many female cats he can before his owners have him neutered. So, sure, it’s high-concept. But turn your brain off and your bound for an entertaining ride as sleazy Burrp prowls the streets and big-city alleyways in search of a “little tail.” Most of Burrp’s attempt at getting “tail” end in rejection and Myunez (in all-too convincing cat make-up—kudos to the practical effects guys on this film) turning to the camera and deadpanning: “Ehh. I get no respect.”-- a clear homage to the late-great guy who used to say that. The gag does eventually wear thin, but by the thirteenth time he says it, you’re back on board and it’s hysterical again. 

I don’t want to give away too much, except to say that Burrp never gets laid and the movie ends with him getting his nuts chopped off. But the rest is pretty good, too. And you should definitely see it. Or: read the forthcoming novelization of the movie by Jonathan Safran Foer, who, taking a hint from Anthony Burgess, developed his own language of cat-speak to make the first-person narrative more authentic.

It’s worth mentioning here that the soundtrack was done by Jeff Mangum, who used field recordings of cats in heat and then auto-tuned that audio to different pitches to create weirdo cats-crying versions of the most obscure songs in the Neutral Milk Hotel catalog. Rarely does the soundtrack work—not just in the context of the film—but, generally speaking, as music. To be perfectly honest, at several moments (most of the film, actually) I was taken out of the action by the soundtrack. But I’m, like, such a Jeff Mangum fan that I sat through it, pretending it was brilliant. 

Actually, that pretty much sums up the whole movie for me: it’s a piece of shit, but I pretended to like it because I didn’t want to not look cool.