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Here’s the thing about Tucker Max: He’s a child. A toddler. A three-year-old screaming, ‘Poopie, poopie, POOPIE!” at the top of his lungs in the middle of the supermarket in the hopes of getting a reaction out of his embarrassed mother.
John Keats is the intruder in Fanny Brawne’s story, and you might be forgiven for assuming that she’s the one who became legendary, for how the film defies convention by lavishing its focus on her.
Oh, what a riveting mess!
Danged if the flick don’t feel like the Coen Brothers, if it ain’t redolent with the wonderfully odd tang of farce and feeling that they invariably bring to, at least, their lighter films.
I’d never have expected that the movie would be saved, just a little, from being complete bullshit by the presence of Aaron Eckhart.
Now I get what everyone was bitching about last year with *Juno,* about how self-conscious screenwriter Diablo Cody’s dialogue was, how desperate it was to sound cool and hip even to the point of distraction.
Treats the charming nonsense of food falling from the sky like weather with exactly the sort of bouyant nimbleness it deserves…
What could have been a maddening portrait of spoiled self-entitlement is, instead, a plucky tale about how tough life could be a woman, even a beautiful one, in the 1950s…
What’s a nice U.S. marshal like Carrie Stetko doing in a place like Antarctica? Freezing her ass off. *cue rimshot*
It’s as if Jane Austen and Monty Python collaborated on an episode of *The West Wing*…
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