I... am a dude. I like sports on my television. I like my meat red. And I like my titties bouncy. What I don't like is showing my emotions and feelings to people. I keep that shit bottled up tight and release it later in anger, usually on the freeway, or on someone close to me who doesn't deserve the rage that only stems from my insecurities. I want my feelings repressed, pushed down into a little ball in my stomach and shat into my toilet. Like a man. Vulnerability is a five dollar word that'll get you a swift kick in the balls with a boot. So, I want to personally say FUCK A Monster Calls for forcing me, a red-blooded, dick-hangin', American MAN to express these emotions... several times... in the form of tears and sniffling. Ain't nobody s'posed to see that but me and my God.
I'm def gonna explain this shit to you-- man style-- because I left my emotions in a soaked pile on the seat next to me. I ain't got no more left.
Alright, so there's this little British kid, right? Name's like Alfred or Conor or some shit. Like, this dude is a weirdo. He likes to draw shit and he goes to a private school so he wears like a tie and a some gay little sweater vest and the REAL MEN of the class beat him up for being DIFFERENT! So, this dude's mom has, like, cancer and shit, right? She's like goin bald... like I totally would still hit it, but like with a bag over her head KNOWWHATI'MSAYIN!!!! So, little Conor dude can't handle his mom dyin, right? So, this bigass tree monster pops up from the ground and he's like the dude from Taken, right? And he's like-- yo! British kid! Quit actin like a bitch n' shit. I'ma tell you three stories. You gon' learn from those stores. And then you gon' tell me what you learned or Ima snap your little limey neck and set you on fire. And then a bunch of other shit happens that's all like heartwarming and deep and tender and touching and BULLSHIT, right? And then it ends. Boom. Splained!
Like, nobody should watch this movie. Like ever. Who wants to pay their hard earned money, that they made at the factory, liftin heavy shit n shit, to get real-talked to and have some CGI monster metaphorically represent the five stages of grief through the eyes of a child? NO ONE! Oh, I can't express my anger and my grief over the person I love most in this world getting sick... THAT'S LIFE, HOMIE! EVERYONE DIES! You think I need a realistic depiction via extended metaphor with a gotdamn tree monster? PLEASE.
And dude. No one should let kids act in movies anymore. Like, especially this kid. You think I want to see a kid who actually knows what the hell he's doing and get realistically upset by doing some gay shit like crying? REALMENDON'TCRY! REALMENLISTENTOTOBYKEITH! You think I liked getting all choked up when this kid would get upset and I couldn't figure out a way to question his acting methods? HELL NAW. You think I enjoyed a story that realistically depicts slowly losing someone you love in a way I've not seen often in film before? NAW DOG. You don't make up goofy tree monsters. You hold that shit in. You drink a bunch of 40s. You pour one out for cancer and you get back to watching ICE ROAD TRUCKERS.
And, yo, FUCK a movie that doesn't pander to kids and examines the grim realities of death and tackles adult issues that forces a 12-year-old kid to grow up faster than he should. I don't want to be immersed in something that's equal parts emotionally hypnotizing and visually masterful. I want guns and titties. I want Michael Bay. I... want... PAWN STARS. When I turn on something that's advertised with Liam Neeson's name-- I want him stabbing people in the larynx and ripping out spinal cords, not helping an innocent boy cope with life's tragedies in a mature and non-manipulative way that made me weep several times.
Movie was bullshit! Thankfully, it's over now and I can go back to being a real man. #MXPX4LYFE
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