For most of my adult life, work has been at least a forty-five minute commute. By car. And being that I'm a (shitty) teacher, the idea of living close enough to walk to school is the stuff of nightmares. So in that regard, I enjoy the time behind the wheel. In theory.
The reason I mention this, is the last film I saw made me realize that I have never been a fixture on public transportation. F--k the bus in it's stinky ass, but the only steady train ride that ever became something resembling old hat, was when my cousin and I would take the T to Red Sox games all summer.
When I wasn't fantasizing about a Sox victory, or getting Rebecca DeMornay'd in a tunnel, I would stare out the window, enviously longing to live along the Green Line. There was this one typical New England house in particular I always had a boner (that should read bonah, or wicked haad on) for: the one with the basketball hoop. I'd imagine shooting jumpers on that sumbitch, draining threes as people on the train were awed by my Bird-like skills. It would be the coolest shit ever, likely prompting a sexy young co-ed to de-board and repeatedly box me out. The drawback?
I always imagined my errant shots getting crushed by a train.
Oh, speaking of a train smashing my balls and ruining my idea of a good time, what the f--k is with the cinematic adaptation of The Girl on a Train? While I didn't read the book it was based on (it was all I could do to not passionately murder those desperate to recommend it), when it comes to f--king up a good book with a bad movie, my uh, spider sense is tingling. With the novel, I'm gonna go out on a limb in assuming you actually wanted to find out what happened next, right? Or is that a stretch?
Because what is certainly a stretch of many things (including my attention span), is about four-fifths of what's presented in director Tate Taylor's 2016 'thriller'. Set along the idyllic Metro-North line, the story takes us through the bizarre journey of Rachel Watson (Emily Blunt, always looking like yes, she yet again shat her pants), a seemingly bored woman obsessing over the lives of the people living along the tracks of her commute.
While that I could potentially swallow, these aren't just random people that live their lives as Watson chugs by at a speed typically reserved for Roombas. Instead these passionate individuals are all inexplicably linked to one another...on the same f--king street. And at time, in the same f--king house. It's so incredibly stupid, even as a someone who doesn't drink, I was thinking I should ask my wife, you wanna do some shots? Liven this f--ker up a little?
And hard alcohol would have been fitting, as Rachel is - get this - a raging drunk/shitty narrator. In fact, she gets so hammered, she routinely blacks out and wakes up wondering what the Hell just happened (the same could have been said for me, had I not hung in there for some nudity). Luckily her husband, er, ex-husband, is such a nice guy...he routinely fills her in on her drunken exploits.
*breathy whisper* Or does he?
Look, it took me all of ten minutes to get lost/not give a flying f--k about anything this movie had to offer, so feel free to minimize this page and return to your wonderful life, leaning over railings with your steamy cappuccino, sighing majestically at the Long Island Sound while your husband (or wife) violently bangs the nanny. Me? I'll just sit here at my crappy desk, looking for a pen that f--king works, pondering how something starring all these talented and beautiful people could end up so f--king dull and hard to look at. Yes, eventually there is some intrigue, and Phoebe Buffay turns the movie on it's ass for a second, but as blurry visuals finally came into focus, the only things I wanted to see clearly were the f--king credits.
Speaking of a sign that this horror has finally come to a merciful end, here are the Yays and Boos. My wife actually hung in for this one, which fully typifies the cheer/jeer mentality this site was founded on. Yay! You're awake! You made it to the end...of this shit show? What the f--k, lady? Have you no scruples?
The reason I mention this, is the last film I saw made me realize that I have never been a fixture on public transportation. F--k the bus in it's stinky ass, but the only steady train ride that ever became something resembling old hat, was when my cousin and I would take the T to Red Sox games all summer.
When I wasn't fantasizing about a Sox victory, or getting Rebecca DeMornay'd in a tunnel, I would stare out the window, enviously longing to live along the Green Line. There was this one typical New England house in particular I always had a boner (that should read bonah, or wicked haad on) for: the one with the basketball hoop. I'd imagine shooting jumpers on that sumbitch, draining threes as people on the train were awed by my Bird-like skills. It would be the coolest shit ever, likely prompting a sexy young co-ed to de-board and repeatedly box me out. The drawback?
I always imagined my errant shots getting crushed by a train.
Because what is certainly a stretch of many things (including my attention span), is about four-fifths of what's presented in director Tate Taylor's 2016 'thriller'. Set along the idyllic Metro-North line, the story takes us through the bizarre journey of Rachel Watson (Emily Blunt, always looking like yes, she yet again shat her pants), a seemingly bored woman obsessing over the lives of the people living along the tracks of her commute.
While that I could potentially swallow, these aren't just random people that live their lives as Watson chugs by at a speed typically reserved for Roombas. Instead these passionate individuals are all inexplicably linked to one another...on the same f--king street. And at time, in the same f--king house. It's so incredibly stupid, even as a someone who doesn't drink, I was thinking I should ask my wife, you wanna do some shots? Liven this f--ker up a little?
And hard alcohol would have been fitting, as Rachel is - get this - a raging drunk/shitty narrator. In fact, she gets so hammered, she routinely blacks out and wakes up wondering what the Hell just happened (the same could have been said for me, had I not hung in there for some nudity). Luckily her husband, er, ex-husband, is such a nice guy...he routinely fills her in on her drunken exploits.
*breathy whisper* Or does he?
 |
| Fingers crossed that fart felt as good as it looks. |
Speaking of a sign that this horror has finally come to a merciful end, here are the Yays and Boos. My wife actually hung in for this one, which fully typifies the cheer/jeer mentality this site was founded on. Yay! You're awake! You made it to the end...of this shit show? What the f--k, lady? Have you no scruples?
 |
| Well, thanks for telling your friend and all, but it's not that big. I mean,...*cries inside* |
Yaaaaaaaay!
- I like the idea of Rachel making up the lives of the people she passes, solely on her mood. Isn't judging people, like, the best? Sigh.
- That little kid in the tub was pretty cute, you know? And so was his mom. (I wonder if she needs help scrubbing...herself).
- Laura Prepon. Why is it when I see this woman (and hear that exhaust pipe voice) I can't think straight. Oh, righttttttt. Boners!
- Okay, for the most part, kidnapping an infant is not something to cheer for (I mean, you could be stealing the kid back), but the scene where Rachel puts the baby down and lopes away may be the funniest thing I have ever seen. I mean, she stole a f--king baby! She lays it down like a bag of potting soil and bolts out of there with the speed and grace of someone trying not to fart. F--king brilliant!
- Eventually, things get pretty f--king tense. And no, I'm not talking about the tense f--king. What actually made me lean forward for a minute there, was when shit finally hit the fan toward the end. There's yet another scene with the baby...that was the direct opposite of funny. What the f--k, Tom? What are you doing??
- Dude. That glass to the head? Holy shit!
- I wrote this down and have a super vague idea of what it means...so let's just call it a Yay. In my notes, it says: push, smash, stomp, stomp, rock smash. Either these are my sexy lyrics for an imaginary Hulk-themed all-male revue, or something pretty f--king cool happened to someone. With a rock.
- And finally, the little bit of violence in the end was satisfyingly jarring. I was pretty much balls deep aboard the SleepyTime Express by this point, but that moment brought me back from platform nine and three-quarters real fast. I even heard my wife gasp, which she tends to do when motherf--kers get cut.
 |
| Professional actress or not, you have to feel like an asshole .... ...pretending to stare out of a train window for an hour. |
Boooooooooooooo!
- Again, the whole close-knit neighborhood thing made me want to stuff Thomas the Tank Engine in my butthole. So f--king stupid.
- What time do you have to leave for work when the train you're traveling on peaks at seven miles per hour?
- Hey, can I stay at your house? Sure. For two years? The f--k?
- Okay, we've all looked into the bathroom mirror and given ourselves a few encouraging words (I tend to pick fights with myself, like, what the f--k did you say, asshole?), but what the Hell was with Rachel's monologue? She looked like an infinitely more intense Mary Katherine Gallagher.
- I'm not sure why this isn't a Yay, but for f--k's sake, that was the Guinness record for nearly-passed out, drunken stumbling. Easily. I'm pretty sure she made it a half mile!
- Wait. Hot patients want to f--k their shrinks? This happens? My guidance counselor never told me that. That dick.
- Rachel tries to intervene and goes to the missing lady's husband's house. She's strange, dropping horrible news on this guy left and right, right? His solution? Offer her a beer. That makes sense. When strangers barge into my house telling me about my potentially murdered spouse, my first thought isn't, Can I get you something to drink? Nope. It's do you think anyone will care if I punch this person in the genitals?
- As I said, Ol' Psychiatrist Joe has a pretty sweet gig, right? Sure he does. But, is a requisite of said gig that he speak parseltongue?
- Alison Janney plays a detective, which is fine. The Boo? Do all detectives have to be such dicks? Seriously. These a-holes hate their jobs more than middle school teachers. And trust me, that's saying something.
- I'm not sure if we hit the dreaded flashback within a flashback within a flashback, but this shit gets impossibly convoluted. I mean, the title is f--king The Girl on the Train. It sounds like a f--king kid's story, not something on par with decoding the Matrix.
- Hey! A bathtub! With an attractive naked lady in it! Yaaaay! Wait, what's that? What the f--k? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
- Doesn't anybody own a f--king car? Or a bike? F--k all these damn trains.
- So, uh, Tom is it? Yeah, hi. Uh, this is awkward, so I'll just f--king say it. You're f--king crazy, man. Like, if you really want to f--k somebody in the woods, you should probably hit up Charlotte Gainsbourg in Anti Christ [and just for old time's sake...[review]]
- And finally, a hearty Boo to the awesomeness that is/was Gone Girl [review]. Oh, I f--king loved that movie, no doubt. But born of that love? Is something as shitty as this. Thanks a lot, Amazing Amy. I thought basically cutting Doogie Howser in half was the worst thing you could have done. I guess I thought wrong.
Anyway, my friend's a real pussy, so he pretends to be sleeping as these f--kers are just staring holes into my head. Finally, the train jolts to a stop, and a 40oz bottle, rolling along the floor, hits my friend in his heel. He reaches down, picks up the label-less bottle only to realize that it's full. Of piss.
He angrily puts it back down, and it rolls away.
And the worst part? I couldn't even laugh at him. I thought it might upset our company (even though those f--kers were laughing). Instead, I just had to stare out the f--king window...
...and make up some boring shit instead.