Screwball Comedy Lights Up Deadpool

DEADLINE: Lost on Children


Our antipathy for comic book heroes and comic book movies is well known and documented. So, with some trepidation, we pursued Deadpool, listed as an anti-comic book movie with an antihero. Well rest assured, readers, this is a comic book movie.

Ryan Reynolds plays Deadpool as swishier than the cast of Queer as Folk. He can throw off one liners faster than Rex Harrison in a Noel Coward play. We doubt that anyone watching this movie even knows who Noel Coward is.

On the other hand, Deadpool has more movie parodies than your typical Mel Brooks comedy.

Reynolds is more than a match for his pansexual character, which keeps the viewer interested.

If you are looking for a plot, this film will disappoint you. It is strictly a character study about how science has wronged a man and put him into a funny suit.

Friends tell us that the only true philosophical movies today are in the comic book genre. Heaven help us. If you believe that, you have never seen true drama in reality-based movies. This is not Shakespeare, Prince Hamlet.

Exaggeration and hyperbole in comic books apparently makes it easier to see larger issues among the dregs of life. It more likely points out the utter failure of the educational system in liberal arts.

We are off base here. Deadpool is highly entertaining, quick paced, filled with smutty talk, noisy car chases, bloody killings, sexual situations, and all done tongue-in-cheek.

This is what passes for witty repartee and screwball comedy in the 21st-century.

Patriots Send-off & Send-up

DATELINE:  Four Score?

roger-brady  Send Up!

We had a chance to hear of the Patriots send off on Monday morning as they prepared for Super Bowl week.

Tom Brady’s message was not exactly the Gettysburg Address. No, he did not promise four score.

You really don’t need to be a rocket scientist to understand his words, but it helps if you have a PhD in Linguistics. Fortunately for you, dear readers, we have what the doctor ordered, and we are willing to share it for nothing, about what it’s worth.

Brady said: “Now it’s starting to feel like the Super Bowl.” Tom spoke to a crowd slightly bigger than the one at Trump’s Inaugural.

We wish to note that the temperature was in the 20s at the big rally, which likely contributed to this insight. However, we point out in Houston it will be a climate controlled 72°.

Brady re-iterated that it’s been a great season, and the team has accomplished a lot, but has “one more to go.” Let’s face it, there are miles to go before he sleeps.

“Rest up, hydrate and get ready for Sunday because it will be one hell of a game.”

Heavens! Can it be that Tom is recommending a nip and tuck? We went to our Stooges Encyclopedia to learn that a nip and tuck is a drink so strong that you are instantly knocked out.

Resting up and hydrating, not necessarily in that order, might lull Patriot fans into a false sense of security.

Notice in Tom’s sentence, he follows up on his words “rest up”. That means the instructions gathered after that phrase are in apposition to “rest up.”

Tom is suggesting that a good stiff drink may be necessary in order to get ready for the big game. This does not instill us with confidence.

In fact, all references to hydrating worry us. Should fans be in a numb state? Does Tom know something we don’t know?

This proves a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Trump Crossing Goodell

DATELINE: Historical Inevitabilities


Every schoolkid knows the famous tale of George Washington crossing the Delaware River on Christmas Day to surprise the British allies, the Hessians who were hung over from the big party the night before, to guarantee a victory in the Liberty Bowl against the English.

The event was given full treatment in an oil painting by Emanuel Leutze.

Fewer people know the story of Donald Trump crossing the Hudson River with his band of intrepid Patriots to catch Roger Goodell with his pants down, thus guaranteeing a victory against the monolithic NFL in the 51st Super Bowl.

Always one to count our chickens before we drive off the bridge, Ossurworld is predicting a Patriotic victory at Houston when Trump’s forces shall cross either the Rio Grande, or some other Mexican tributary and storm the forces of the Manhattanite NFL/Jets.

This event has now been updated in digital form for the cover of the forthcoming book: New England Patriots, 2016, More Fake News.





Tom Brady’s Pop Goes After Weasel

 DATELINE: Yellow Bellied Weasel

yellow-bellied-weasel   Roger Goodell

It’s exactly what you hope for. Tom Brady went on radio and called Roger Goodell a liar. Alas, it was a name sake of Tom, for heaven sake.

Yes, it was Tom Brady’s father who lit into the NFL commissioner. He stopped short of calling him a “yellow bellied weasel.”

Don’t let that fool you. The acorn does not fall far from the tree.

The senior Tom said everything you know was in the heart of the junior Tom.

As a father, he grew so protective of his son that we saw some of the game passion but his son has for NFL football.

Hell hath no fury like an old scorned Tom Brady.

At some point Roger Goodell will have to face the press during Super Bowl week, and they will remind him of elder Brady’s words. Pop Brady contends the commissioner “constantly lied” about what went on during Deflategate, and his actions were “beyond reprehensible.”

We doubt that Goodell even knows what reprehensible means.

Daddy-Long-legs Brady called the NFL jurisprudence “a witch hunt.” It almost sounds like one Brady wanted to take the issue to the United States Supreme Court.

Little Tom suffered the slings and arrows of suspension “because the court said that he could, Roger Goodell could do anything he wanted to do to any player for any reason whatsoever. That’s what happened. The NFL admitted they had no evidence on him.”

The sound you just heard was the weasel popping.

At the least Goodell’s pants may be on fire by now. According to Brady the Senior:  the commish “went in way over his head, and had to lie his way out in numerous ways. And the reality is that Tommy never got suspended for deflating footballs.”

Whether you consider these words the advent of nuclear winter, or just a plain ordinary scorched earth, you certainly know the fight is not over –and we are only half-way round the mulberry bush.

Eastwood as Sully; Hanks as Eastwood

DATELINE:  High & Mighty


This film is not Airport, nor Airplane.  It’s a true story, ripped from the headlines, as they say, that dumbfounded a national watching on television. The pilot was a white-haired gentleman named Sully.

Sully is no John Wayne flying through hell and back. He is more like Tom Hanks. Twenty years ago, he would have been played by Clint Eastwood. Now Eastwood only directs the scenes. Eastwood would have given us laconic and stoical heroism, and now he can only direct it.

This film does not soar, and its wings have been clipped to 90 odd minutes, which suits us fine. Clint appears to have selected this project to deal with the irritating issue of the difference between connotation and denotation.

He grapples with terms like “hero,” that the NTSB dismisses, or “timing” that seems to indicate the wrong man and the moment mean catastrophe, or the difference between crash landing and “water landing,” as Captain Chesley Sullenberg calls it.

Tom Hanks is not John Wayne. The heroics here are from a white-haired man at the end of his career, cool and professional. Another actor might have used the swagger of an earlier generation of actors. That would not have worked. A lesser man would have tried to land at an airport—and New York would have another nightmare of a passenger jet smashing into skyscrapers

Re-living the event a half-dozen times is standard in the media dominated age when overkill coverage of tragedy and heroism comes in endless replays.

What we have here is old-fashioned values in modern dress.

Trade Marcus Smart Now—for Rajon Rondo

DATELINE: Bad Apples


Rondo Finds Love Bring Back Rondo

Once again we are considering the issue, just how smart is Marcus? After arguing with three coaches and storming off the court in the fourth quarter, Marcus Smart apparently went into the visiting locker room and put either his foot or his fist through a wall.

He has since apologized, and Coach Stevens has since said he will pay for any damage. What was he taking? A prescription medicine? Or something more direct from the bottle?

We can only say after his heartfelt apology to fans that we believe he actually wrote. Most of those institutional apologies are written by team lawyers. Nevertheless, Danny Ainge, you should be looking to trade Marcus Smart for any bag of chips you can find in Chicago.

Even in his glorious days at his spectacular worst, Rajon Rondo never reached these depths of the smart Marcus. We hear Rondo’s on the trading block and would advocate trading Smart for Rondo.

It would be like going from the fire into the frying pan, but at least Rondo knows how to cook.

How could you go wrong? One looney tune for another except we think Rondo would actually be copacetic.

After this latest incident, Brad Stevens called Smart, “Willful.” This is hardly a compliment on any scale.

When you bring back Rondo, this problem can be eliminated by making him a player/coach.


GE Whiz: Celtics as Paid Companions

DATELINE:  Free Money

affluenza sufferer Celtics Gold

Word has leaked from the transformers of Boston that the Celtics next season will put a paid logo on their uniforms. The logo will belong to General Electric, a major corporation that recently relocated to take its headquarters to Boston.

This news has electrified Celtics fans.  GE also owns Comcast that owns the cable provider for the team.

What has not been revealed is that the patch on the uniform will actually be controlled by electrodes. A secret patch will be on the inside seat of the pants, near the near and dear big balls of the game.

Coach Brad Stevens will be able to give shocks to various players out on the court. This likely means he intends to get more bang for buck.

If it has been suggested the log on the seat of the pants may better motivate one player to listen to his coaches.  A gametime shock given to Marcus Smart will actually force him to toe the line. It could mean a shock to Isaiah Thomas will help him jump another foot in the air, thereby reaching heights of the big men.

The GE logo sends powerful energy and a few a few dollars more into the coffers of the Celtics.  As a result, they’ll be able to sign a major star next year.

In the meantime, other teams are thinking about logos on their uniforms. Among the possibilities for the Philadelphia Sixers shall place Kraft Philadelphia cream cheese on their uniforms. The New York Knicks are thinking about using the Pillsbury doughboy. And Cleveland Cavaliers make out with any product that has an eye “I” on it, like an iPhone, iPad or an iPod.

As Terry Rozier of the Celtics noted, “I like free money.”





DATELINE: Fountain of Youth!

roger-brady Before  & After

You’ve seen the spectacular effects on TV. Now you too can own the secret formula that transforms Tom Brady from a broken down old man into a supermodel’s boytoy every week.

When collagen production and cell turnover have been compromised by age and sun damage, it can cause skin to sag. Our Trump product, Tom Brady LIFT Anti-Gravity skincare, you will look lifted, firm and rejuvenated.

Fine lines and deep wrinkles can be the result of our skin’s loss of collagen over time. Combat the look of collagen-depleted skin with Tom Brady skincare products— rigorously-tested by Gronk, Welkah, and Julie E, these formulas are proven to change the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles.

In the AM, combine one of our Brady products with an SPF product to moisturize and protect the skin. And in the PM, choose one of our Tom Brady night creams, to help smooth skin while you sleep. It also helps to wear Tom’s copper infused sleepware (sold separately).

Exposure to NFL rays can increase the appearance of skin discolorations and dark spots. They can also break down your skin’s elastin and collagen, resulting in sagging skin and uneven skin tone. You look like a man living in Manhattan and trying to run a major sports organization, handing out suspensions like they were trick or treat candy.

Every day, without fail, use a moisturizer formulated Tom Brady sunscreen with broad spectrum SPF. These skincare formulas help reduce the appearance of fine lines, wrinkles and discoloration and protect skin from future sun damage. It helps only to attend games played in stadiums with a roof and air conditioning.

Deep Wrinkle Serum

This anti-aging formula is clinically proven to help visibly reduce both fine lines and deep wrinkles. Don’t look like Roger Goodell. Turn the page and appear in public like Tom Brady, Superstar!








Steve Jobs: Ultimate “i-Man”

Jobs with his Lover (photo from Norman Seeff)



If film director Alex Gibney had made his documentary Steve Jobs: the Man in the Machine before Jobs was dead, he might have found his green light smashed.

Gibney calls his documentary “unflinching.”  However, he tries to be fair, as an iPhone/Mac owner, but it’s hard to be objective in the face of one of the most ruthless cult figures of American business.

Jobs follows in the tradition of John D. Rockefeller and Andrew Carnegie, but unlike those men who finally tried to change their reputations through monumental charity foundations, Jobs would have none of that.

A professed Zen spiritualist, he compartmentalized his “values” from his sense of aesthetics. With enormous personal charm, he could maintain a certain status of being loved, while abusing those who loved him.

From the illegal backdating of stock options, to small personal slights, Steve Jobs does not come out of the ephemeral world of personal computers with a free pass. He noted that these products have a limited shelf life—and his reputation may have historical currency, but likely will not be on a par with Cheops or Ancient Aliens.

It wasn’t because their attitudes were different. Like all Type-A personalities, Jobs was the center of his fate and was not even prepared to relinquish it to death through mere cancer.

The film shows cult followers in shock at his death—and personal acquaintances in mixed emotional states of mess. If there is a legacy for messing with people, Steve Jobs was a master.

Oh, yes, as some kid states in the film, “He invented everything.” Yes, iPhones, iPads, iPods, and Macbooks, and on and on. However, this documentary may remind you that Jobs likely couldn’t fit all those inventions through the eye of a needle. He certainly tried.

Broken Horses—and Late Star Lost

DATELINE:  Young Promise Snuffed Out

 anton-yelchin  Yelchin in Star Trek

The senseless, accidental death of young actor Anton Yelchin becomes more tragic with the examination of his films far beyond the Star Trek series.

Yelchin was on his way to making a serious mark in intelligent, compelling independent drama.

One of these named Broken Horses gives Yelchin a role he seemed likely to patent:  sensitive young man thrown into insensitive situations. His rising star is reminiscent of young Montgomery Clift.

The story entails two brothers: one autistic and one artistic. Yelchin is the violinist who escapes the border town where his cop father has been murdered to make a life in New York as a symphony musician.

He suffers guilt over having left his mildly retarded brother in the care of a ruthless drug lord (Vincent D’Onofrio).  He returns to learn the horror of how his brother is a brainwashed trigger man for the gang.

D’Onofrio stands like a giant among pygmies, literally. It seems everyone in the cast is a pipsqueak next to his actual heavy villain. Also, of interest is that Thomas Jane takes on a small role as the father of the two boys that D’Onofrio takes in.  Thomas and Vincent jump-started their careers in Velocity of Gary 25 years earlier.

The film is the first American movie by Indian director Vidhu Vinod Chopra. His vision of a white stallion charging out of a futuristic house in the desert likely was the inspiration for the rest of the film he also co-wrote.

Chris Marquette plays Yelchin’s older brother with enough dull-wit to make D’Onofrio’s evil manipulation particularly heinous.

Yelchin’s acting promise provides a big flash here.




Steelers Meet the Massholes

DATELINE: Brady’s Bunch as Historical Inevitabilities

 mad-dog-hogan Mad Dog Hogan

The Pittsburgh Steelers may have learned today that being a Masshole is a point of pride for those living in Massachusetts, supporting the Patriots.

After he built a fortress in Brookline that must be called San Simeon, Xanadu, or Sloppy Joe’s, Tom Brady is a primary Masshole resident.

Unlike predictions, there was absolutely no suspense in this game.

Belichick’s plan was nothing out of the Hitchcock playbook.  Unlike the Master of Suspense, Belichick gave the crowd of Massholes a standard victory plan.

If there was a mystery, it was where were the yellow flags. We thought Goodell’s goons would be on the offensive against Brady, but they seemed to have lost their yellow mettle.

The referees were simply not throwing them. It was one of the most stingy games we have seen in terms of penalizing Patriots.

When the turnovers came, the Steelers were in meltdown mode.

The Killer Bs (Brown, Ben, Bell) seemed to be missing from the hive or turned into the honeybees. The other Steeler killers did try to kill always irksome Julian Edelman. His gadfly attitude just drove them crazy.

The real murder victim in the game was the Steelers. And they were dead when LeGarrette Blount bluntly carried seven or eight of them to the 1 yard line. He was unstoppable. It crushed the Steelers and drove home the point that the better team was winning.

Mild mannered, wild-eyed lacrosse player, Chris Hogan number 15, turned out to be the Norman Bates of the Patriots. He slayed the Steelers, sending them to the showers.

So, the Brady Revenge Tour is going to its ultimate destination in Houston, where every pass will be a needle in the Roger Goodell voodoo doll.



Will Patriots Cast a Pall on Roger Goodell?

DATELINE:  Game’s Afoot


Friends in High Places

We are not sure whether the Patriots have been locked in the Steelers’ Cage, or whether the Steelers have been lit up in the Patriots’ North Church Steeple.

The proof is in the pudding, as we are wont to say to reach the masses.

Cliches abound in the championship game where the Killer Bs are allegedly in Pittsburgh, though Boston sees them as Betts, Bogaerts, and Bradley on the Red Sox.

Will the Patriots continue their turnover ways from last week? Or shall they turn over a new leaf?

We shall not compare the Patriots juggernaut to the infamous Women’s Marches across the globe on Saturday. It would be like putting the Trump supporters before the old gray mares.

Suffice it to say: the Trump Patriots are as polarizing as the new President’s administration. We would merely point out that numbers need not be indicative of victory. You need to know what state to put your money, not your mouth.

In the case of the NFL, you have to know when to put your locker room on Live Facebook, or when to tweet your “FaceChat with your InstaBook,” in the immortal words of Bill Belichick.

We are not sure how to interpret Roger Goodell’s absence at the game. He will not have to hand a trophy over to the Patriots as AFC champs, but nor will he have the satisfaction of gloating in public over a Pittsburgh victory.

For months we have heard of the Brady Vendetta—a slaughter of NFL pretensions week after week. Now we have the Steeler Bird Flu, an air borne virus sent by the gods to curse any who dare to oppose Tom Brady.

In the words of Sherlock Holmes, “The Game’s Afoot.”







Black White + Gray: Mapplethorpe Returns

DATELINE:  Portrait of a Photographer

 scavullo-portrait-1974 Scavullo portrait 1974

Photographer Robert Mapplethorpe remains controversial 25 years after his death, an early victim of AIDS in 1989. He died a millionaire, through pluck, luck, and Sam Wagstaff.

As a flashpoint, Black White + Gray is also compelling and repelling.

Ardent, if not passionate Mapplethorpe followers often refuse to hear about how the photographer managed to amass fame and fortune like a street hustler.

If gay marriage had been available back then, we’d say he married into the right circles like a character out of a Dominick Dunne novel. Indeed, Dunne knew them well.

In the 1970s, shortly after the Stonewall inception of gay liberation, Mapplethorpe met millionaire art collector, curator, classically handsome, advertising kingpin Sam Wagstaff. Through the connections and money of Wagstaff, Mapplethorpe gained a foothold with his luscious photos of flowers—and later shocking pictures of the bondage-leather scene of the 1980s.

Wagstaff made a mark in Manhattan, coexisting with Warhol and Capote in the closeted 1950s and early 1960s.  He became unbuttoned and undone when he found his matchmate in the erotic boytoy Mapplethorpe who opened doors for his new partner.

They were comparable to Taylor and Burton in the gay scene.

Different in every polarizing way, they were hopelessly attracted to each other. Some thought the photographer used the older man, but it was definitely consenting and symbiotic.

The documentary about them focuses more on Wagstaff, now largely forgotten. He seemed to become infected with the attraction of Mapplethorpe and the extreme sexual scene that led to his death from AIDS in 1987. He left his collection and entire estate to his friend, also sick and dying in 1989. Mapplethorpe increased his fortune by selling Wagstaff’s silver collection in the months before he died in March of ’89.

James Crump’s film provides historical reference, fascinating gossip, and avant-garde orientation of art of the 20th century, for those looking to understand the impact of gay innovators on American culture.

What Becomes a Tarzan Legend Least?

Movie reviews have expanded.

DAY 4 NIGHT  features the original review and its counterpoint on a new blog. Not everyone agrees with Ossurworld–and his opposing viewpoint has free reign.

Eventually all Ossurworld’s movie reviews (unless sports related) will be showing up over on DAY 4 NIGHT!


You may well ask why there is a need for a new Tarzan movie.

Of course, if you are under 16 years of age, mentally or emotionally, you must have a new version. It’s called The Legend of Tarzan.

We loved Tarzan Finds a Son in 1939, in black and white, with Johnny Weissmuller and Bomba as his son. We also loved Mike Scott in Tarzan’s Greatest Adventure: the darkest franchise version ever conceived in which the famous Weissmuller yell occurs at the end of the movie when Tarzan has brutally killed the villain. Curtain, demise.

Now the star of True Blood plays Lord Greystoke in London, reluctant to return to the “African Congo,” as the movie calls it. Hmm. We always confused it with the South American Congo.

Alexander Sarsgaard has already proven his mettle by playing a naked vampire on TV. Tarzan in full cargo pants is a mere piece of beefcake.

Anachronisms abound in the film script. Jane is now American and speaks like California surfer girl Annette from A-I’s Beach Party films. And, Tarzan’s helpful nemesis is a black American, played by Samuel L. Jackson, with 21st century lingo. We kept waiting for him to ask Tarzan: ‘What’s in your wallet?’ Yes, Tarzan has pockets.

The story takes place in 1890 when slavery is illegal in Europe and the United States, but Tarzan must stop European and American slavers among his friendly African tribal mates. Hunh?

All this rigamarole seems to have been done already in two dozen other Tarzan franchise movies. Yes, we have been there in countless films and sequels, most done better than this drivel with endless special ineffectiveness.

The director wanted Tarzan to have a lean look that had never been done before. How wrong he was: Jock Mahoney’s Tarzan was in this style in the 1960s.

If historical inaccuracy and odd changes to the original story do not hamper your movie enjoyment, you may be up for a nostalgic trip back to his ape roots for Lord Greystoke. We missed Cheetah.


Tarzan, Lord of the Nutlicks 

The evil Belgian King must procure diamonds to pay the mercenary armies needed to fully exploit the resources of the Congo.

The key is the delivery of Lord Greystoke/Tarzan to his sworn enemy, the African Congo chief of Blood Diamond fame whose son was killed by Tarzan for killing Tarzan’s ape step-mother in a tribal rite of manhood.

Add Samuel L. Jackson to the mix as a post US civil war era anti-slavery undercover spy tasked with stopping the slave trade in Congo who offers to lick ape nuts….all saved in the end by an endless mix and charge of CGI lions, wildebeests and crocs working together at the behest of T-zan, and you have a movie who can’t miss…who green lighted this one?

This movie insults the Rice-Burroughs classic stories and begs…where is Weissmuller when you need him?

The Hollywood casting formula should have worked. Skaarsgard and his female lead (Margot Robbie) are perfect specimens, the evil Congo chief is frightful, and the evil Belgian is animal husbandry’s enemy (Christoph Waltz).

CGI apes vine tree to tree to train swinging, politically correct anti-slavery pro monkey message, but it all fails miserably bad story, bad direction, just bad.

Tony Manero: Saturday Night Fever Turns Deadly

DATELINE:  Hollywood Obsessions


Pablo Larrain is a name we are likely to encounter again– and often.

The director from Chile has several powerful new movies in debut to great accolades, including Neruda and Jackie. So, we returned to an early effort from Chile in 2008—but American in many ways and a precursor to the later movies.

Tony Manero is an uncomfortable film, throwing viewers off the easy treat they may have signed on to see. Manero is a character from a famous movie with John Travolta: Saturday Night Fever.

In Santiago, a fifty-year old obsesses over re-enacting the role on an auditions TV program as a Manero impersonator. He will dance his disco ass off to the famous BeeGee classic.

Though this premise of Hollywood’s power over fans seems harmless, there is a sudden dark shift in the story. Raul will do anything to win his contest for the Manero prize.

Creating a banal and pathetic lounge act in the slums of Chile, he and his dance partners dance for live audiences. However, without a job or money, Raul must release his sociopathic and dangerous self to achieve his ultimate goal.

This is not a movie about a movie collector, but a horrifying and desperate version of Richard III.  He will murder anyone who stands in his way of winning a cheap competition on small-time television.

What might have been cute or distracting, centering on the spectacular dance Travolta did in Saturday Night Fever, becomes a nightmare of brutality and ugliness.

Nearly catatonic, Raul only comes to life when he dons the white suit and dances his tail off in spectacular mimicry.

The result of how a desire for small-time fame turns into banal violence is movie lover’s hypnotic and surreal event, but suddenly evolves into a disturbing and horrific nightmare.

Yes, Larrain promises something wicked and delivers. It is almost unbearable.