The section on _Ocean's Twelve_ is hi-lar-i-ous.  And so, so true.

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http://www.canada.com/national/nationalpost/news/artslife/story.html?id=249e52ba-a63e-45ce-80ba-ccdc9dc59a8d

The season of dubious celebrity honours is upon us

Scott Feschuk 
National Post 
December 15, 2004

Are you like me? Do you find yourself shooting bolt upright in the middle
of the night, your breath panicky, your heart racing, deep in worry that
there just might not currently be quite enough awards bestowed each year
on Hollywood celebrities? Well, rest easy. I bring important news.

A "new special honour" has been created by the Broadcast Film Critics
Association, an organization that represents almost 200 television, radio
and Internet critics, some of whom aren't even fictional. Indeed, many of
these "critics" are discerning cineastes whose shared affection for film,
enthusiastic punctuation and complimentary junkets at luxury hotels align
each and every time they emerge from their minibar to view a Freddie
Prinze Jr. movie and declare: "Four stars!!!!! This Prinze is Hollywood's
King!!!!"

This "new special honour" is, according to its creators, both new and
special, not to mention an honour. And you can tell some real brain work
went into the name: It is called the Distinguished Career Achievement in
Performing Arts Award, a moniker that translated to the English means,
"Will you please come to our little awards show and help our ratings if we
majorly kiss your ass?"

(Clearly, this thing will need a pithy nickname, like how the Academy
Award is referred to as "the Oscar" and how Jon Lovitz is referred to as
"Who? Sorry, doesn't ring a bell." Here's hoping I'm the first to nominate
"The Pucker," in honour of the lip formation, directed toward the
recipient's posterior, that the award so plainly represents.)

The inaugural Pucker will be conferred next month upon Tom Cruise "to
acknowledge his outstanding body of work." And also, presumably, his other
27 movies. According to BFCA president Joey Berlin, Cruise is -- and I
didn't know this, so I found it interesting -- "an actor who has made, and
who continues to make, extraordinary and unforgettable contributions to
the art and history of motion pictures."

"The award recognizes a true icon of cinema. When his name is on the
marquee, it means something very special to critics and audiences alike."
Berlin should be commended for tastefully leaving out Cruise's ability to
cure leprosy and miraculously multiply fishes and loaves. One shouldn't
boast.

That said, Berlin is also of the view that Cruise is "an international
advocate, activist and philanthropist in the fields of health and
education." Frankly, it's hard to see how Tom fits in the time to keep
nailing beautiful starlets, but dammit -- that's just how committed Cruise
is to being Distinguished.

The creation of The Pucker can mean only one thing -- we are again
entering Awards Season, the four-month period in which the entertainment
industry stops patting itself on the back for just long enough to whack
itself off. Cruise will be presented with his "new special honour" live on
television on Jan. 10. I foresee a standing ovation, a maudlin speech and
148 celebrities subsequently picking up the telephone and yelling at their
PR agents: "Create one of them new special honours for me! Oh, and remind
me: What planet am I on?"* (*Note: Second sentence likely to be uttered
only by Nick Nolte.)

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Those eager for an early taste of red-carpet fabulousness and on-screen
incoherence surely settled in for the Billboard Music Awards last week.
The tenor of the proceedings was best captured by a segment in which the
members of a reunited Motley Crue were introduced by Tara Reid -- who,
with her dearth of talent and wealth of bosom, and her lack of any
plausible claim for having come into celebrity (perhaps she stole it from
Helen Hunt -- someone must have), clearly has the stuff to become a Zsa
Zsa Gabor for the 21st century.

Following the intro, Vince Neil proved unable to read the teleprompter
because he had, apparently, forgotten his glasses. Reid proved unable to
read the teleprompter because she is, apparently, an idiot. Happily, the
other members of Crue, notably the shuffling, octogenarian guitarist Mick
Mars, managed to distract themselves from Reid's bounteous rack and stave
off the icy clutches of Death for just long enough to save the day. "He's
the reader," Neil said, gesturing to Mars. Every rock band ought to have
one.

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The past weekend offered proof that in his pathological need to fuel his
megalomania, the modern celebrity need not be constrained by the awards
show calendar. Instead, he and his buddies can cajole a film studio to
fork out tens of millions of dollars to make a movie simply so they can
have an excuse to hang out together for months. A decent script is
optional. Or, in the case of Ocean's Twelve, non-existent.

About midway through the movie, the identity of the new and 12th member of
Danny Ocean's crew becomes apparent: It's the palpable sense of smugness
that permeates the picture, stealing the show, hogging each scene and
transforming what was surely envisioned as a second buddy-banter lark into
the most grotesquely self-indulgent piece of cinema since Tommy Lee took
out the camcorder and took off his pants.

There are so many problems with this film that, were it a child, Dr. Phil
would throw up his hands and counsel dropping it off in a dark forest with
a link of sausages around its neck and the smell of wounded fawn on its
clothes. The screenplay feels as though it was cranked out on the fly by
whichever member of the cast woke up first from the previous night's
bender. Two of the major heists in the film are shown in flashback and
lack even a whiff of tension or intrigue. There are subplots so
perfunctory and pointless that they feel as tacked on a donkey's tail. And
there is a scene involving laser security beams that just may be the
single most retarded sequence foisted upon the world since Jason Biggs
inflicted whatever trauma he inflicted on his genitals in whatever is the
most recent American Pie movie. (I'm just assuming.)

And then there's the scene in which Julia Roberts, who plays Danny's wife,
Tess, is asked to help the caper along by impersonating ... Julia Roberts.
By the time this happens, it becomes difficult to avoid the fact that the
whole production has climbed so far up its own ass that it can see Sean
Penn.

Julia Roberts playing a character playing Julia Roberts may sound all
Being John Malkovich, but it turns out just Being Annoying. It's during
this sequence that Bruce Willis has a cameo. The expression on his face
neatly sums up Ocean's Twelve: It's an arrogant smirk of a film. And quite
possibly the most expensive and tedious home movie in memory.

--- Peter T. Chattaway ---------------------------
peter@... ---
Nothing tells memories from ordinary moments; only afterwards do they
   claim remembrance, on account of their scars. -- Chris Marker, La Jetee

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