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Constantine
(2005)
Dir: Francis Lawrence
How could I have expected anything more from The Matrix: Resurrected?
The first ten minutes of Constantine had me second-guessing my predilection toward loathing all post-Point Break Keanu Reeves fare. I’ve always maintained that Keanu lost his will in 1991 after witnessing Gary Busey stop two Patrick Swayze shotgun salvos with his back1 and that Reeves’ career since has been nothing more than a suckfest-in-memoriam to his friend and peyote wingman, Mr. Busey.
However, with Constantine, Neo is reborn as a chain-smoking, demon-slaying alcoholic who parties with Voodoo priests, shoots Gavin Rossdale in the face, and tries to drown a policewoman in his bathtub. As promising as this all sounds, the movie amounts to nothing more than a cautious approach toward what might have in some way been good, yet turned sour as the thirteenth apostle by the second act.
Thus, I’m left duped, saddened, and isolated in deep reflection as I await the inevitable sequel and ponder what might have been…
Even if I hadn’t planned ahead and taken a tumbler of Wild Turkey into the theatre
Even if I could suspend the two hours of disbelief required to concede existence of a deity who allows Keanu Reeves to continue working
Even if the development and pacing hadn’t been so poor that I had forgotten about secondary characters before I became confused by their disappearances
Even if the movie hadn’t rewritten the Lucas & Bruckheimer “CGI as a Crutch” manual
Even if Rachel (Rah-kell) Weisz (Why-is) hadn’t spent her screen time shivering like a Minnesotan Chihuahua
Even if Ms. Weisz’s shameless bosom jiggling hadn’t been justified by a soaked wardrobe I could easily fold and place in my wallet
Even if I had suddenly felt comfortable listening to Djimon Hounsou speak English
Even if anyone but Glycerine Rossdale had been Balthazar
Even if Peter Stormare had somehow managed to be a more perfect Satan
Even if the movie hadn't doused Abrahamic mythology in flammable urine
Even if I had never read Hellblazer
Even if Nicolas Cage and Tarsem Singh had stuck with the project
Even if the quarter-ton cornfed Medicare vacuums sitting in front of me had stopped swapping saliva long enough to inhale what I prayed would be their last breaths
Even if god had assumed Alanis Morisette form and killed Ben Affleck all over again...
I still would have threatened the reproductive capability of the vest jockeying, crater-cheeked, plastic nametag-sporting ticket ripper who told me I couldn't have my money back.
Suffice it to say, he’s in stable condition and I will burn my refund – which management assured me is my last – on Pooh's Heffalump, where I intend to kill time during the latest Buy-This-Or-Risk-Individuality trailer-delaying commercial by one-year-old puppy fucking the bloody innards out of a life-sized Eeyore stuffed with pieces of homeless people. I figure someone has to do those kids the favor of proving Hollywood serves a purpose akin to eunuch fellation.
And when the cops come (long after I have many many times), I'm telling them Keanu made me do it.
In Aramaic.
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1The author would like to take this opportunity to encourage the smarmy Fanboy types who have stopped to pat themselves on the back for knowing it was, in fact, James LeGros’ character, ‘Roach,’ who shot Gary Busey’s character to seriously contemplate suicide.
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