Tony Scott is a guy upon whom I've dumped untold barrels of shit here over the years, but after his review today of Seven Pounds -- the most gleeful, funny, withering and essential pan The Times has run in quite a while -- you know what? All is forgiven. Tony, I'm sorry I ever doubted you; you're OK in my book. How could you not be?
Near the end of Seven Pounds a carefully laminated piece of paper appears, on which someone has written, “DO NOT TOUCH THE JELLYFISH.” I wouldn’t dream of it, and I’ll take the message as a warning not to divulge the astonishing things that happen, not all of them involving aquatic creatures.
I don’t see how any review could really spoil what may be among the most transcendently, eye-poppingly, call-your-friend-ranting-in-the-middle-of-the-night-just-to-go-over-it-one-more-time crazily awful motion pictures ever made. I would tell you to go out and see it for yourself, but you might take that as a recommendation rather than a plea for corroboration. Did I really see what I thought I saw?
And I wish I could spell out just what that was, but you wouldn’t believe me, and the people at Sony might not invite me to any more screenings. So instead of spelling out what happens in Seven Pounds, I’ll just pluck a few key words and phrases from my notes, and arrange them in the kind of artful disorder [director Gabriele] Muccino seems to favor (feel free to start crying any time):
Eggplant parmesan. Printing press. Lung. Bone marrow. Eye transplant. Rosario Dawson. Great Dane. Banana peel. Jellyfish (but you knew that already). Car accident. Congestive heart failure.
Huh? What the ... ? Hang on. What’s he doing? Why? Who does he think he is? Jesus! That last, by the way, is not an exclamation of shock but rather an answer to the preceding question, posed with reference to Mr. Smith.
*Sigh* And there's more! Thanks, Tony -- now please don't go squandering all this goodwill on a crummy Top 10 list, OK?
Posted at December 19, 2008 8:39 AM
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