The Whole Ten Yards: Review By B. Alan Orange

(Make that: Negative zero stars to infinity.)

Hell Mission Statement #40624: The Whole Ten Yards

Yes. Something’s certainly wrong today.

Type, type, type…Type, type, type…

Why am I sitting here, wasting my time, telling you about a movie I hate more than those goddamn bugs crawling around my toilet seat, mucking it up in dried flakes of urine right this moment, while I’m away from home, hi-jacking this E! Entertainment owned computer? Because they told me too. Those evil mother f*ckers. It doesn’t matter that someone else has already beaten me to the punch and posted a “smarter” “saner” review than that stupid B. Alan I-hate-this-movie-boo-hoo Orange could ever hope to write.

Now it’s inconsequential. It makes this day seem completely worthless. It makes this review job seem like a stupid pet trick. Great, your Rottweiler can do the same back-flip as my wiener dog. Bravo. I’m going to go to the local Maitreyaplex here in my hometown of Dis, lap up whatever piece of sh*t they’re trolling out this week, then I’m going to regurgitate it back into cyberspace so you can ignore it, just like I ignored the last review I came across? Pointless.

Hell, I hate the son of a bitch sitting in front of me right this second. Hate him with every core and ounce of my being. He just turned around and asked, “Brad. How was The Whole Ten Yards?” I don’t want to talk to the man. I want to yell, “Shut the f*ck up, turn around, and do your job!” Instead, I meekly whisper in a grunt of displaced anger, “Dunno. Didn’t see it.” I lied. I just didn’t want to engage myself in a heartless, meaningless conversation with him. He sucks almost about as much as this movie does.

Now I’m sitting here, talking to a bunch of strangers. Telling them what I think. At least I know Bob. But I’d rather scream these words into an empty, faceless space than hear his rhetorical reaction. It’s a complete breakdown in communication. I’m copping to that fact right now…

Why should you care if I liked this movie or not? You just saw the TV ad. You saw that it looked like a monotonous turd. A susp*cious attempt at entertainment that will forever be swirling about the porcelain bowl known as Hollywood, California. You guys are smart. You don’t need me telling you not to spend your hard earned cash on this awful shindig. If you’re going to run out to see it early in the afternoon to beat the non-crowd, that’s not my fault. I can’t help that you’re retarded…

This is a waste of my time. This is a waste of my life. Who the f*ck cares what I have to say? I don’t even want to listen to me any more, but I can’t shut my brain off. And it hurts…

And they’re holding a gun to my head. It’s loaded and it’s called another lame Bruce Willis movie.

Mary-Kate and Ashley Toothpaste. Email spam for a hard-boiled egg peeler. A full-length William Hung CD. And the Whole Ten Yards…

Why?

Hasn’t anyone else found themselves wandering the isles of K-Mart, thinking the exact same thing this week? Why shouldn’t I just lie down in the middle of the isle and let some fat Mexican lady run over me with her shopping cart? Well, because it wouldn’t kill me. Really, I see no point in going on. I don’t think anything new, or good, or cool will ever happen again.

“Brad, you’re depressing me.”

Sorry, Webmaster B. I can’t even drink beer now without spitting up blood. This acid reflux is killing my spirit. What did people do three years ago, when there was no Prevacid? I mean…I can’t drink beer. I’m forced to watch Mathew Perry films. And there isn’t a woman in sight. Not an eligible one for at least ten miles. This whole thing called living is ridiculous.

“Orange. Please. Shut up and review the movie.”

But Blake Snyder already reviewed it.

“I don’t care. Review it again.”

F*ck it.

The Whole Ten Yards. It tastes like a can of warm, flat Diet Mountain Dew found in the park on a rather chilly evening; that ominous lipstick ring still smudged around the mouth of its pop-tab. Who wants to drink that? A masochist? Surely not me. Alas, it’s too late to spit it out.

And, goddamn it, I was really thirsty!

If I broke a mirror reflecting this back onto an unassuming audience, I’d be left with seven years good luck. This is the type of entertainment that has me crawling out of my cupholder chair screaming, “Movie, shut the f*ck up!” A real “winner” achievement that makes one relish the mindless yattering of other nearby seat-talkers. The conversation going on behind me was ten times more enthralling then the dribbled bits of spit that came flying out this film’s mouth. That jackass from Access Hollywood with the moustache and bad bald spot sat right next to me, his cell phone super-welded to his ear the entire show. Normally, I would have unleashed the dogs. My verbal Pit-bull would have made a meal of his *sshole. But last night, watching this thing do the Wal*Mart Shuffle across the intersection of our less than pristine cinematic history, I decided I didn’t care. That Mr. Pat O’Brien was loud and annoying, but the Whole Ten Yards was being more bothersome then he could ever be…

Are you a fan of anal rape jokes? Then have I got just the thing for you. Not only does The Whole Ten Yards act as a revolving door for dull, wooden, flatfooted stupidity, it also gives us one of the most disturbing scenes any movie has yet to offer this year. Yes. After a night of binge drinking, Bruce Willis engages in a lawn dart-like game of hardcore ass f*cking with Mathew Perry’s tender, untouched cheeks. Guess what, I just gave a less graphic description of this burning red-hole catastrophe then as detailed in the movie itself. This joke, if you want to disregard Webster’s fine definition and use of the word, comes in around the midway point. After that, it’s all over. We never stop thinking about Perry’s swollen colon because he never shuts up about it. He just flits into one door or window after the next screaming, “I didn’t fall down the stairs! There were no stairs!”

This set-piece is not done in a gay way. This is not done in a funny way. They’ve basically taken one of the better scenes from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles and tried to update it for a “more sophisticated” audience by pushing it way past the punch line's limit and breaking point. Sure, if done right, this could have provided the film with a much needed chuckle. The sight of Willis and Perry, naked, in bed together should have jelled itself cohesively as a prank. But no. They took it too far. Like everything else here, it is mishandled in such a way that it becomes a very disturbing highlight that will have you mumbling, “What the Firpo were they thinking?” All the way out the exit door. In a hurry.

Every joke offered up for our humble consumption is massaged in this same, off sort of way. Fingers dig in and knead each one, working it in overtime. A hundred set-ups are launched from the helicopter blade that is this spinning script, and each one falls like a lead balloon. The impact it leaves all over the Maitreyaplex courtyard makes it look like a dog-chewed golf ball. There is nothing funny here. They’ve taken the obvious, clichéd choices and have simply tossed them in front of us with no regard towards human safety. Even the character build-ups are a palpable cataloging of easy write-offs. They simply played the road always taken. They don’t give us any surprises. We could have written this thing ourselves. There are no pay-offs to speak of...

Well, except one. Much of the movie is obviously, painfully improvised. It seems as though they tossed out the written pages presented to them and decided to make the rest up on their own. This only works one time. Weirdly; right before the big off-camera rape scene. Bruce and Mathew are sitting in a bar, getting drunk. Yeah, of course they should be doing other things. Like, figuring out the plot (which there is none to speak of), or coming up with a way to actually entertain us. But they're not really interested in those things. That would be stupid. Instead, they straight shoot more Sour Apple Pucker Juice than any human has a right too, and Perry sits in front of a pyramid of shot glasses. For about seven minutes, the guy irks vomit into his mouth and swallows it. Over and over again. On repeat. He’s listening to Bruce mumble on about how disappointing his life is. You just kind of want to kick the seat in front of you out of frustration. Maybe see if you can start a fight in the theater, or something to that effect just to take your mind off the tedium playing out in real time…

Well, don’t kick the seat just yet. Save it, 'cause Willis gives the only funny line reading in the whole movie. And then he does a running head butt into his self-made pyramid of shot glasses (already played a hundred times in the TV commercial). After this one scene is over, please, commence to seat kicking, because you’re not going to get another moment, or nugget, of joy out of this wretched thief of both your time and your money…

Thinking really hard, there were only three things I remembered about the original outing. The first: It was shot in Vancouver, where a lot of films are shot, but, more importantly, it let us know that. It wasn’t pretending to be LA. I’ve always felt that was an odd, honest choice. The second: Amanda Peet posing topless at the top of a staircase while holding a gun (really, the only reason to see the first film if you ask me). And third: Mathew Perry running into a sliding glass patio door. Well, the film ditches all of these factors but one. The sequel is shot in LA and Mexico, a rather bland trade-off. And Amanda Peet is a smidge bit more of a star than she was that first time around, so she no longer feels obligated to show us her t*ts. Oh, but Mathew…He runs and slams into so many things here, you’ll come away guessing that’s what the plot was actually about. Really, that’s all that holds these selected bits of improve together. Pratfalls and ass-grabbing. Oh, and Bruce Willis points a gun point blank at his wife’s face, and in a very non-joking manner says, “I will kill you.”

Ha. Ha.

Honestly, I don’t blame the movie for sucking as much as it does. I get mad at certain films sometimes, but in this instance, I can only hang my head in shame. It’s not the movie’s fault. Really, it had no reason to even be brought into this world. There wasn’t an outcry for this. No one wanted to see a sequel to The Whole Nine Yards. It’s like blaming a kid for having bad parents. You know what I mean? There’s no possible way this could have been good. We knew that going in, even if that awful two and a half minute trailer wasn’t any indication. Let’s just step back and let it sink into the abyss known as “The Back of Blockbuster Video.” Where it shall rest in peace forever.

There are better things to do. Go out and do them. Let’s pretend this never happened and save going to the Maitreyaplex for a rainy day. When something worthwhile might be playing. Which could, very likely, be never.

As for me, I’m going to go drink Rum on Mantooth’s roof in Silverlake until I pass out and roll off. Fingers crossed, I’ll nail that wrought iron fence with my kidney…

Go see your own movie. Go write your own review. Let me die in peace.

F*ckers.