Undercover Brother: Review By B. Alan Orange

B. Alan Orange's SUMMER ROADTRIP Part I:

"An intimate look at Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, CQ, and Undercover Brother with this week's guest Billy Dooku."

Ever since seeing Star Wars, Bag and I have been wandering about the High Desert eating cactus and contemplating what various types of 'evil' we could extract on those enemies of mine that I despise; I.E. Algae, Malaria, and uneven toilet seats. Actually, we're hitchhiking the 138, heading towards New York. This summer, I'm going to live or die trying to catch Maggie Gyllenhaal in an Off-Broadway stage revival of the musical "Anywhich Way You Can".

Last night, we thought we saw a UFO. It turned out to be a station wagon strapped with Lawn Furniture. The driver spun off the road, throwing his door open in a spray of gravel. He offered Bag and me a ride, "Where y'all kids headin', now?"

"New York." I told him. He was okay with that, though his hillbilly ways didn't take too kindly to Bag (who, at the time, was riding sidesaddle on my fist). The man claimed to be Billy Dooku, Count Dooku's younger brother on a Billy Carter/Roger Clinton vibe. He explained his mission as of late: The Count had sent him on a cross-country race to destroy every last bootleg of Episode II, along with those individuals who'd acquired the tape illegally. It's a good thing I ditched my aspirations to own a copy after learning that my once and future Queen of the Silver Scene, Ms. Gyllenhaal, was going to be doing a 3-D interpretation of Ruth Gordon as Ma on the stage. Then, as if that wasn't the only thing needed to set me off on this trip across the United States, David Shwimmer is going to be playing Clyde. I'm not about to miss that for a bad dub of Yoda that screens as though I'm watching it through my ass and out the other side of a movie screen, "Y'all ain't got none of them bootlegs in that backpack, there? Cause I'll kill ya."

Bag started mouthing-off right away, "My boy's got three of 'em down there. He's got VHS, DVD, and VCD."

"Shut up, Bag. He's kidding." Billy pulled out the cigarette lighter, which was cool to the touch yet still dangerous in this Dingbat's hand, "You want me to gouge out your spine and pull it through your belly? Y'all better behave. Hear me, Bag-Boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So, what'cha all doin' in New York. That's a big-city town. Lots of Bootlegs on the streets there."

Bag nudged his sullen head towards me; "Orange is stalking an actress."

"Really? Good for you. Beautiful girls need attention, too." Bag disagreed. Bag's a dick; "She's not all that beautiful. She's got two big eyes for the coconut cream pie. If you know what I mean. The girl's dressed up in earth tones."

"Maggie's hot. You're an idiot, Bag." Billy Dooku eyed me; a bit susp*cious, "How long y'all been talkin' to that bag?"

"Me and the Orange hooked-up a couple of months ago. Saved me from Dana Point, he did."

"I hate that Dana Point almost as much as I hate them bootleggers. What y'all do for a living?"

"Me? I'm just a bag. Him? He's a sh*t-talker."

"What kind of sick, twisted hogwash is that?"

"What my friend Bag, here, means is...I'm a movie reviewer. I review movies."

"A movie reviewer? What color was Roy Rogers' saddle?"

"I didn't see a Roy Rodgers' movie."

"You God-damned mother f*cker. Ain't that crying for sh*t. We are in the High Desert. We are near the Roy Rogers' museum. Show some respect, you fool."

"Look, Orange is a chump. He's not a 'movie reviewer'. He's an Uncle F*cking Critic. He sits on his little couch, all fat, eating chips and bitching about people he doesn't know." Billy started squirming like a duck in a box owned by James Graves, "It sounds like I might have to cut you open and gut you out."

"No, no, no...My friend, Bag, is just a little over-descriptive. Personally, I've become disenfranchised with the whole review-critic lifestyle. Sitting there with my little notepad, knowing no one cares about my inner thoughts. It's not in me anymore. That's why, like Nick Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, I'm leaving California. I'm going to see Mag play in pure flesh, then I'm drinking myself to death. That, there, is going to be my summer. And Bag will be left to carry leftover spaghetti in some old, seedy Italian restaurant."

"I know whatch'all mean. I can't stand y'all reviewers for horse sh*t. Look at that Ebert, hating everything in sight. That chubby monkey hates on the Spider-Man. He hates on the Star Wars. Just for that, I should gut him like a white-bellied fish. Then, he sits there on his throne and has the audacity to like on the Spirit. A God-Damned Horse movie. Do ya hear me? A horse movie."

"Exactly. Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron; what an awful film. It's the one that pushed me over the edge. I think it would have been more entertaining had it been called Fukit: Scallion of the Simmerin. This is possibly the gayest thing I've ever seen."

Billy Dooku got this real interested look on his face, "Don't leave me hanging. Tell me about the horse movie, Mr. Imareviewer. And don't give me one of them 'story reviews'. I hate those, and every bucket o' dickhairs on that d'rn intro'net is doing 'em like they're more clever than a pair of sh*tkickers. I couldn't give two piss biscuits if you "kissed a girl" in your seat before seeing it. Or if you visited your mama's grave. Cry me a river. For F*ck's sake, Boy, just get to the point. We got Ebert doin' it, going off about seeing Patton when he's supposed to be talkin' about the Star Wars. What's that about?"

"I'm with you Billy. I hate that, too. Bunch of idiots."

"Tell me about the horse."

"Nah, I'm done with films. Forever. My friends hate me for bobbing and weaving, and being myself. Why? I don't know. I'm out." Ol' Billy Dooku didn't like my response. He quick-whipped his Buck Knife out and put the blade too my throat, "Kill him, Billy! Kill him!"

Of course, Bag was of no help. "Okay. Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. This is a movie for 'Sissy-Boys'. I'd say it was for Sissy-Boys and little girls, but the five-year-old girl sitting next to me hated it. Every ten seconds she was turning to her Dad, crying, 'Is it over yet?' She squirmed about her chair as if the scenes she were watching were red ants trying to eat her body alive. I was right there with her, the whole excruciating hellride. Meanwhile, the three gay guys sitting in front of me held hands, weeping, totally involved in this boring mess. I guess I can see the appeal. The movie's about the taming of a muscular stud who doesn't necessarily know he wants to be tamed. And this mustachioed confederate soldier that keeps trying to ride him looks like a Village People just-miss on his way to Studio 54. Need I even mention the shirtless Indian Boy? The most horrifying aspect of this new Dreamworks cartoon are the Bryan Adams songs that just kept coming, every three minutes. They are like an Iron-Maiden pillow, collapsing the skull in an effortless motion. This is the first time I've ever yelled out in pain while watching a movie. Sure, I'll give you the fact that the animation looks great, all cross-pollinated with CGI. But give me a talking donkey any day over this dribbling excuse for animation. No wonder that horse is so angry during the first hour. I'd hate life, too, if I had Matt Damon's voice yammering about endlessly in my head. Unless you're a diehard devotee of the Will & Grace Mindset, I'll tell you, especially, Billy Dooku, to stay as far away from this as you can."

"Well, mother-stabbers and father-rapers. It sounds like that's a movie that'd put me on the Group W Bench."

"I kind of liked it." We both looked at Bag, "Shut up, Bag."

"Tell me, there, Boy? You ever see a movie you liked?"

"No. Not really. I liked that new Star Wars. Most of it, anyway."

"Keep it rolling. Keep me entertained. What else you seen in that big city of yours, boy?"

"I saw CQ."

"Seek you? Like, I will seek and destroy you?" His country twang about ate through my sternum, "Exactly. It's a Roman Coppola joint; a little art house explosion that just kind of sits on the stoop looking pretty. It doesn't do much else."

"You didn't like this one either? You dirty P.O.W. whor*."

"I didn't say I didn't like it. I mean, I didn't hate it. I just didn't care about the film too much. CQ was a bit on the uninteresting side. Though, it's photographed in a beautiful light. That should come as no surprise. Kid Roman's dad is the somewhat legendary Francis Coppola. Now there's a dude who may have been a visionary in his time, but he's gotten so tired this last decade. First he kicks out that horrible Robin William's Spook-House effort 'Jack' like it was a comeback, then he force-feeds us a bunch of his old junk tidied up and looking new. It feels worn out. They say he did wonderful things back in the 70s, but I'm not buying it. I saw Apocalypse Now Redux and it bored the living piss out of me. Maybe it was the 'sh*t' in its day, but you can forget about it standing the test of time when extracted upon new virgin viewers. His kids, though? They look to have some potential. Sofia, having survived that whole Godfather 3 imbroglio, gave us a distinct, pleasing little flick with the Virgin Suicides. Even if it was a bit too dreamy and soft, its blurred emotions worked in waxing me proficient. Now comes Roman, swinging his little league bat."

"What's it about? Get to the point, will ya? You talk about having that Matt Damon's voice yammering about in your noggin. At least he played a cowboy. Your whiney voice in my head is going to drive me batty."

"The movie's kind of hard to set up, like a fascist. Remember Barbarella?"

"No, Can't say that I ever saw it. It's one of my brother's favorites, though. Dooku digs the Barbarella. Me, I could give two pisses about Hanoi Jane. That communist bitch!"

"Well, CQ is a riff on that old esthetic. Gerard Depardieu is this prophet-like auteur who's attempting to make a sci-fi movie about the year 2000 while in Paris, France, 1969. He loses sight of the project in not wanting to end his film. He thinks the thing should be a circle; a snake eating its own head. Kind of like David Lynch's Lost Highway. The financiers fire him, then turn around and hire Roman's life-blood cousin Jason Schwartzman to finish the project. This guy turns out to be an ass, and Editor Jeremy Davis seems to be doing all the work. After Jason gets in a car wreck, Jeremy is asked to come up with an ending in just a few short days. This conflicts with Mr. Davis' own aspirations as a filmmaker. While finishing 'Dragonfly', the movie within the movie, he is busy trying to complete a doc*mentary about his life as lived in Paris, down to the last detail."

"What the f*ck does that have to do with Barbarella?"

"Well, Dragonfly, the film-within a-film, is not so much a parody, but a loving tribute to those old 60s sci-fi sex flicks. It's the best part of CQ, and I enjoyed these tiny pieces quite a bit. Especially effective was Billy Zane as a Che Guevara-like refugee leader, but I might be a little biased on that, cause he's always been a favorite of mine. When we were watching 'Dragonfly', I was digging it. When we were back in the life of Jeremy Davis' character, I tuned out. That kid looks too much like E.T.'s Henry Thomas. And he gives such a mucky, sad sack performance that I couldn't really bring myself to care about him. I think Roman should have went all the way and made a straight-out 'Dragonfly' film. But he had too get all artsy-fartsy and try to make something that reflected back into his own craft. Sometimes I like films about the troubles and tribulations of making a movie, but maybe I've seen too many of them. Some of it is fun, and I cheer his directing choices in the execution of about half the film. But CQ came and went like a Tommy's cheeseburger. I could care less, and I'm not going to be buying it on DVD."

"I liked Jeremy Davis. I liked his humble being and his strive for finding himself in his art." Billy glared at my only true friend, "Do you take that bag everywhere with you?"

"A lot of the time, yeah. But I got to tell you, while we're on the subject. Personally, I'm not a fan of Mr. Francis Coppola. I've never liked a single one of his films. But his table wine? Delicious, the perfect end to a four-day party. I could drink that stuff by the bucket, and probably will once I've seen Maggie and that baboon."

"It's an Orangutan."

"Whatever." My belly growled. Billy threw his hand towards the way-back seat, "I got some of Billy Dooku's Ol' Fashion Bootjuice Beans in the back if y'alls is hungry."

"Oh, no thanks. I think I can save myself until we get to Salt Lake City."

"Whelp, sounds like you're just an ol' fashion crybaby-bellyacher. An opinionated jackass, if you will."

"Oh, he will. And he'll do it for free."

"Look, Bag, I don't knows ya, but I'll kills ya...Now, Boy, I've been wanting to see that new Undercover Brother. What's y'alls take on that? You best tell me it's a good one, or I'll kick you out of this here station wagon."

"Speaking of which, this station wagon is so unlike you. Why aren't you driving a pick'em-up truck?" A tiny growl spilt from the Hillbilly's bottom lip, "The last bootlegger and me had a bit of a tiff. He got away, and he took my poor baby Ford with him. That's why I'm tracking him to Utah. I got word he'll be hiding out there. Course, I'll be keeping his lawn furniture. You just ain't a man without a good set of lawn furniture. Now, tells me about the Undercover Brother."

"Well, Undercover Brother is shilling for 7-11. That's okay, cause The Big Gulp plays into its funniest gag; one we've all seen in the trailer, where Eddie Griffith's car spins out of control and he doesn't spill a drop of his orange soda. The joke's so 'solid' they show it twice like Sisqo singing the 'Thong Song' in concert; once at the beginning and once at the end. You have to look at this scene carefully: Eddie's fingers are positioned ever so slightly so that the words 'Big Gulp' are clearly visible. The movie's main message seems to be, "Never Sell Out." Yet, here Undercover Brother is, selling out in its first five minutes. It looses me at this juncture. From here on out, I can never truly believe in the film. Undercover Brother does prove Dave Chappelle to be the funniest man walking the Earth at this moment in time. We should never give him his own film, though. He rocks as a side player and will blow it at the helm. Not true of Eddie Griffith. This is Ed's first real chance to shine since Malcolm and Eddie. His film career up 'til now has been lackluster at best. UB starts out promisingly enough, hitting laugh after laugh in a pitch-perfect spoof of blaxploitation flicks. But it lost me in the middle. It gets saggy in its exposition, and the pace is confusing. It's as if large chunks have been edited away with no concern for narrative, much like what happened with Scary Movie 2. It eventually becomes a mishmash of gags stapled onto each other. And the piece is weighed down in race jokes of both black and white descent. It pokes fun at all sides, sure, but eventually that's about all it does. The film is never mean spirited, but it depends so much on stereotypical humor that it becomes preachy. And it's a sermon sure to fall on deaf ears. I know its poking fun at these issues, but in the end, the film is almost on par with the old early 90s' movies Strictly Business and that other one, the name which escapes me now, where the black news reporter slowly but surely turns into a white man. I wanted to like Undercover Brother, but I'm going to have to give it a fail."

"Well, I'm still going to see it. You know what? I've come to the conclusion that I don't like y'all. I want you to get the Hell out of my car." Billy took the station wagon off the road, reaching over to open our door. Bag and me went flying out of the car. We rolled into the dust of the desert night. Just as Ol' Billy Dooku was about to drive away, Bag reached into my backpack and pulled out the Episode II bootlegs he'd fished from underneath the car seat when neither one of us was looking, "Hey, Billy Dooku! We got your bootlegs right here! And you know what? We're going to distribute it all over this great land of yours! Bitch!"

"No, Bag. What are you doing?"

Dooku whipped his ride around and came at us fast. Bag and I jumped into a concrete ravine, running up its steep slope. Billy took the station wagon in headfirst, busting the grill against the hard surface and stalling the car. I could hear his boot heels as they clanked against the bottom of the ravine in pursuit of us. I kept my head forward, never looking back. Luckily, we lost ol' Billy Dooku about twenty minutes into the jaunt. I guess we were in better shape than we thought possible.

So, here we are a little further into our journey. We now have our own bootleg of Episode II, a crazy hillbilly after us, and ten thousand miles to go before summer's end. Hopefully we'll get to see Maggie and David on stage, doing what they do best. Perhaps you'll join us next week? Who knows where we'll be, or who we'll meet, or what movies we may take in on the way...

(to be continued)