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Running Scared (2006)
Running Scared is ridiculous, perverse, puerile, so over the top you forget where the top was, and yet it works within its own uncompromising universe. Writer/director Wayne Kramer (The Cooler) has a singular point of view so that while the out-there theatrics pile up, you feel like nothing is exactly out of bounds. The crux of the movie centers around a low-level mobster Joey (Paul Walker) trying to retrieve a gun that his kid neighbor stole and used. This gun was last used in a shootout involving dirty cops led by Chazz Palminteri. Joey needs to find it before the mob gets him, the dirty cops put the pieces together, and then Kramer even introduces more threats, like pimps, the Russian mafia, and in the movie?s most bizarre subplot, killer pederasts that look like normal people (one of the more disturbing elements is the fact they have star ratings on their home-made child porn).
The missing gun is really a McGuffin for a wild night with wild characters and extreme antics. Running Scared succeeds both as gaudy, trashy, dirty boy’s-night-out fun, as well as a wink-wink parody of the Tarantino-esque crime capers (stylized gun fights, pop culture soliloquies, quirky characters, anti-heroes, brutal violence, gratuitous nudity, weird coincidences, outlandish irony). You’ll know whether or not you’re along the film’s relentless, highly graphic wavelength early on. Running Scared opens with an incredibly bloody shootout and then quickly transitions into some surprisingly near graphic sex, as Joey wishes to service his wife (Vera Farmiga) right on top of their washer. Running Scared‘s unpredictability is its greatest asset, though a late character revelation meant to make an audience view Joey as a good guy seems forced and negates the chase for the stolen gun. I also swear … this had to be the most times I have ever heard the F-word in a film (current champ is Nil by Mouth at 470 at 3.9 a minute).
This is one movie that has to be seen to be believed. It’s so over-the-top in near everything it does, it’s nearly awe-inspiring. I knew I was in good hands when Kramer included the gratuitous sit down at a strip club … and had his strippers be bottomless as well. That’s someone who knows what movie they’re aiming for, and with Running Scared, it looks like Kramer is having his own fun playing with the bombast.
Nate’s Grade: B
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The Skulls (2000)
In the prestigious college of Yale there exists an actual club known as the Skulls and Crossbones which is now the basis for a teenybopper thriller. Don’t say Yale never paid its debt toward society.
The Skulls are the campus country club, the boy’s only tree house, the velvet rope of the Ivy League. When most go on father/son picnics the Skulls posture about and brood in Gothic castles with large words melded to larger walls. So sunshine and proper education be damned. They posses a long list of alumni, including Craig T. Nelson and a senator who appears driving around on campus so much you’d think he’s scouting girls.
Enter WB heartthrob Joshua Jackson who wishes to join the elite boy scout troupe. Who wouldn’t with the cars they hand out at you? Sadly the only black guy in the film, and probably the Ivy League for that matter (not a comment on racial intelligence) -who of course happens to be Jackson’s friend- gets killed. Jackson starts having second thoughts on joining the overzealous organization. The rest of the flick is Jackson’s quest to bring down the Skulls which somehow coincides with a lot of silly car chases. You think the Skulls could afford a car that could outrun a Dawson’s Creek kid.
The Skulls have bigger problems at hand than Joshua Jackson. Anyone with basic knowledge of turning a doorknob could break into this security behemoth. And what kind of working secret society is it when everyone on campus knows all about your organization? Doesn’t this defy the meaning of “secret”? Usually a secret is better kept without large Skull banners, let alone Skull insignia branded onto members’ flesh. You won’t be fooling any people about being a member of the Skulls with a huge skull branding singed on your damn arm in plain sight! There is so much Skull merchandise I figured there would be a Skulls home pregnancy test and some items endorsed by ad-man Michael Jordan. The reach the members of the Skulls posses defies logical thinking. Turns out these groups of angsty kids are more powerful than the CIA, FBI, KGB, and KFC combined. Must be their self-imposed lock on Clearasil and the WB’s Wednesday lineup.
The Skulls is teeny camp portrayed at its venerable worst. It starts to enter the so-bad-it’s-good range but then you remember easily again that it is bad. Why do I have the feeling the actors involved in this will be signing their Skulls checks under false names? Too bad you can’t be anonymous with a damn Skull branding on your wrist.
Nate’s Grade: D
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