Out of Time: Review By B. Alan Orange

Hell Mission Statement #39152: Out of Time

F*ck this. I don't want to talk about this movie. Was it good? Some of it was, some of it wasn't. Does it really mater? I don't think so. God, I've got the most inconsequential job in America. Judging art. If you can call a Denzel Washington movie art. I'm not about to stoop that low. He makes pulpy throwbacks to a time when noir ruled the box office dollar. If Devil in a Blue Dress gave The Mighty Quinn a blowjob in a back alley, Out of Time would be that sweaty afterglow. It's the type of seepage you have to sop up with a spoon. It's their dirty offspring, tossed off in a moment of passion. Every other time Mr. Washington goes to Hollywood and sticks his foot inside that swollen door of political entertainment, it comes out looking just like this. Right here, at this current point in time, he's Clint Eastwood. He's Bugs Bunny. It doesn't matter what he does, people are going to go see it regardless. And I'm not going to sway the public's vote either way. No, I'm just making myself irate. Sitting here talking into dead cyberspace; I'm completely immeasurable and I have nothing nice to say about anyone.