There’s always a chance when you’re making a movie about three losers that you will skip over the fact that a film is supposed to be entertaining and actually come full circle and just end up making everyone really uncomfortable. Why uncomfortable? Because chances are, the people watching the movie are losers too. I know I am. And who really wants to see an intimately etched-out representation of their own lives blown up on the big screen? There are only two types of moviegoers who would be down with that particular level of self examination: porn stars and superheroes, and unless you happen to be catching a film in the valley or the Fortress of Solitude, chances are you aren’t either of those things.
The three losers who make up the cast of Cyrus – John C. Reilly, Jonah Hill and Marisa Tomei – are probably exactly like you. Or at least maybe like a faded photocopy of you that is sort of blurry around the edges and still wets the bed. Chances are, if you look around the theatre during a showing of Cyrus you’ll see a 50 year old dude with no friends sitting alone at the back, an enormously fat dude with two tubs of popcorn and an industrial-sized Coke blocking everyone’s view in the front row (or maybe sitting in a wheelchair in the aisle) and a 50 year old chick who still dresses like she is 35 knitting a sweater for her adult son. The makers of Cyrus certainly knew their demographic, but unless you want to be surrounded by crying old fatties / knitters / guys who were roadies on tour with Whitesnake, I recommend skipping this flick.
The plot of Cyrus is equally sad. Every once in a while a Hollywood writer decides it would be incredibly original to approach a familiar topic from a ‘wacky’ angle. This time it’s “what if some pathetic bachelor met a hot bitch who had a psychotic live-at-home adult son? Oh, and get this – they don’t get along!” Friction between two men over a woman is some of the most clichéd bullshit you will ever see onscreen, and unless you can convince Steve Martin and Michael Caine to co-star your movie is going to suck. Throw in a disturbing incest angle and open with a scene of John C. Reilly masturbating and you’ve got a real winner on your hands.
If you want to maintain the illusion that the crushing loneliness that permeates your life will one day be whisked away after meeting the right person, don’t see this film. If you want to maintain the illusion that Hollywood hasn’t run out of ideas, don’t see this film. If you have a peanut allergy, then don’t even leave the house, because honestly, that shit is everywhere.
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