Watching Hollywood's insufferable crap is difficult enough, but when you're being constantly distracted by some yahoo who feels compelled to explain every plot element out loud to himself, the experience truly becomes intolerable. While watching Demi Moore's latest film, for example, some redneck retard sitting behind me felt obliged to grace everyone with a running commentary. When a stripper with breasts the size of watermelons strutted her stuff, he sounded like the Big Bad Wolf: "My what large breasts she has." When Erin Grant's (Demi Moore) deranged, estranged husband (Robert Patrick) took wolf morphine he mumbled, "Huh, huh. He ate dog pills."
Hollywood, true to form, has taken a respectable book by Carl Hiaasen and used it to make a movie designed to appeal exclusively to redneck retards. As a result, Hiaasen's engaging story of Erin's fight for the custody of her daughter while besieged by the desires of a wacko congressman (Burt Reynolds) gets quickly brushed under the rug in favor of repeated voyeuristic shots of Demi doing what she does best: flashing her perfectly symmetrical cones and her laser-targeting, rock-hard nipples. Suddenly, the theater is a-bustle as every odd-looking guy in a hunting cap who isn't talking to himself is running off to the bathroom or crowding into the back rows for some "private time."
Director Andrew Bergman isn't exactly coy about his movie's central purpose. When Demi is standing on the beach, nipples poking through her bikini top, watching her daughter go off with her criminal husband, Bergman neglects to go to a full close-up when it is clearly called for. As a result, Demi's face says "my, I'm so sad" while her nipples are screaming, "Turn up the heat!" Ultimately, it's not a mark of good acting when your body parts deliver lines better than you do.
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