Majorly English

I’m torn about posting this video, which I’m sure some of you have already seen. On the one hand, it’s makes Notre Dame look like a lame, white-bred party vacuum. On the other hand, it makes Notre Dame’s Business students look like they throw lame, white-bred party vacuums. As usual, the business school makes the rest of Notre Dame looks like a bunch of idiots, when the reality of the situation is that they are a small, albeit deplorable minority. Enjoy your internships and consistent employment, NERDS.

I just thank the good Lord above that Jimmy Clausen didn’t see this video before his commitment.

If you’ve ever listened to a thick-glassed, Converse-wearing film elitist, you’ll hear nothing but disdain regarding the films Jerry Bruckheimer makes. Con Air, The Rock, Armageddon, the whole lot is considered the bane of “proper” films. However, while the kid who only watches films that are in black and white and subtitled may despise his work, he continues to crank out box-office smash hit after box-office smash hit. Obviously, he’s doing OK for a guy who sucks.

I’d heard all the rumblings about what a hack Bruckheimer was. However, I never quite understood why, because I know that I’ve enjoyed a large portion of his catalogue, and I know many people who would list one of his films as one of their favorites. I never understood the hatred, the films seemed OK by me, if nothing groundbreaking.

However, I just finished watching Con Air, and now it’s a bit more clear. It’s important to note that I love Con Air. I own a copy, and I’ve probably seen it four or five times. That being said, it is mindless, highly improbably tripe. Let’s compare the first 20 minutes of say, Lost in Translation with the first 20 minutes of Con Air. In LiT, the first 20 minutes show a man struggling to keep a fleeting grasp on his celebrity, while trying to make sense of a foreign culture. In Con Air, the first twenty minutes produce the following (deep breath):

Nicolas Cage, a retired Army Ranger, is caught in the wrong place at the wrong time when he accidentally kills a drunk while protecting his wife. Convicted of manslaughter, he is sentenced to seven years in prison, during which he becomes a father to a daughter he has never met. While in the clink, he befriends a black man who is a diabetic. Upon earning parole, Cage hops a ride to his wife and kid on a prisoner transport airline, which also happens to be transporting a serial rapist with descriptive tattoos, a militant African-American terrorist with a book deal, a man who heartlessly murdered his girlfriend’s entire family, and a serial criminal mastermind who has committed every crime in the book. Shortly after taking off, this motley crew manages to take over the aircraft with the help of a wise-cracking junkie, who also manages to smash the black friend’s insulin in the escape attempt . . .

(passes out)

Oh, my head . . . OK, where was I? Oh, right, that all happened in the first 20 minutes of a Bruckheimer movie. And every Bruckheimer movie has this type of elaborate setup. The Rock: A chemical engineer with a pregnant girlfriend is forced to break into Alcatraz with the only man to ever escape the facility in order to prevent a group of misguided Marines from poisoning the greater San Francisco area. Armageddon: An oil rig captain must take his irreverent crew, including his daughter’s love, to the moon to prevent an asteroid from destroying the Earth. Don’t ever plan on coming late to a Bruckheimer film, because it hits the ground running.

However, I don’t think these elaborate and unbelievable situations are the largest complaints against Bruckheimer; I think the larger problem is that the films simply don’t allow the viewers to think. To continue with my Con Air example, Nicolas Cage is all good. He loves his wife, wants to protect her, takes his penal punishment in stride, and is solely focused on getting back to his wife and daughter. On the other end of the spectrum, we’re greeted with pure evil characters, with names like Diamond Dog, Billy Bedlam, and Cyrus the Virus. Simply put, you are not allowed to have an opinion on either of these characters, because the lines in the sand are drawn before the movie even begins with a high-powered laser. In fact, Bruckheimer is capable of telling us who is good or bad even when their situation may depict otherwise. In Con Air, Cage’s black friend is a good guy, despite being a criminal, because he is friendly, diabetic, and tries to save the female prison guard from being raped. Conversely, the hotheaded DEA officer with the flashy car is not as good as the diabetic criminal, so when his hotrod is smashed by the more good cop, he deserves it. You may not question these arrangements, Mr. Bruckheimer has taken care of everything.

Being given the opportunity to strap ourselves in and let Bruckheimer take us where he will is the crux of his craft. On the one hand, it’s why people hate his films, because they offer no room for interpretation, they simply exist for people to stare at for two hours, at which point they can exit and move on completely unaltered in their perspective; good guys are still good, bad guys are still bad, and good guys beat the bad guys/asteroids. On the other hand, that is precisely why his films are so successful. It’s like buying a ticket to a rollercoaster; there will be ups and downs, twists and turns, but in the end, you’ll come out with a smile on your face and the exact same as you went in. His films are two-hour rollercoasters accompanied by wailing electric guitar soundtracks.

Jerry Bruckheimer movies are essentially Sloppy Joes. Sometimes they take place on an airplane, sometimes they take place on the moon. Sometimes they come plain, sometimes they have those little bits of pickle inside of them. But when you get right down to it, it’s essentially the same no matter what kind of bun you put on it. You know what a Sloppy Joe tastes like, and you know that if you like a Sloppy Joe, you’ll probably like any Sloppy Joe that is placed in front of you. A Sloppy Joe will never change your life, but you’d be hard pressed to outright reject one.

So there you have it: there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a Jerry Bruckheimer film, just make sure to acknowledge it as what it is; nothing special. Oh, and try not to get any of it in your lap, it’ll stain your new slacks.

I heard the Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps” today in the shower. What cruel injustice that while surrounded by water, I could not drown myself despite my best attempts. However, while attempting my own mercy killing, I was privy to one of those inane lyrics that populate pop music today. I’ve found that pulling lyrics away from their musical crutches really exposes the atrocities for what they are, so let’s do that now:

Now, not only are they creating a rhyme where half the word is the same in both (SEX), they’ve also thrown out all grammatical pretense, making a noun (SEX) into a verb. It’s like me saying, “Man, I can’t wait to food this hamburger.” Of course, I shouldn’t really complain, what should I expect from a song that’s refrain consists of “My Humps” repeated seven times in a row?