Top Model Cycle 7

Hate to say it kids, but the ANTM Cycle 7 premiere was pretty uneventful.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I’ve recently aged, the show’s new CW limey green sold-their-soul-to-Herbal Essences tutelage, the writer’s strike, or the fact that the show has seriously become the most disgustingly blatant “HEY, LOOK AT TYRA!!! LOOK AT TYRA!!! TYYYYYYYYYRA!!!” show, but metaphorically, there was no soggy $100 dollar bill to speak of.

Seriously, what the fuck was that "where's my wind" thing? Ugggh!!!!

I’m not exactly thrilled and there’s really not much to say as yet, but here’s how I’m going to roll...

The twins are the hotness. Not sure why, but there’s definitely something interesting about them.

I like Michelle. She’s clearly the “edgy” twin. How do I know this? Well, she’s the one who wore the shirt with the skull in her promo shot. Amanda is the “homely”one because she wore the dark blue polka dots with the pearls. No, Top Model, you’re not going to use this “let’s pit the twins against each other and then call one twin way before the other one, letting them eat their heart out” as a gimmick at all! But hey, their pictures rocked...


Brooke is fun. She’s definitely got spunk and of course, bares a striking resemblance to what the love child of Elizabeth Perkins and Evan Rachel Wood would look like. And since we at Pop Whore love all things Evan Rachel Wood, we must love Brooke, if only by default.


Seriously...


I think the whole Megan “my mom died on me in a plane crash” thing was totally sad and I definitely can’t hate on that sort of tragedy. In her defense, Megan channeled some hardcore Kathleen Robertson tinged with a touch of Charlize Theron in her shot.

Lastly, every time I saw Meg, the “Blossom” theme song started up in my head and thought how awesome it would be if Six was on the show too.


So Meg, “Don’t fight the feeling. You know you want to have a good time. And in my opinionation, the sun is gonna surely shine.”

Here's to hoping for a good cycle.

Snap Judgment: Football, Murder, and Infidelity: Three Great American Pastimes

Technically speaking, these are the last films to be released this summer, since fall officially starts on the 22nd. But did you need to know that? Of course you did. Otherwise you'd end up wandering around the office saying things like "I can't believe it's already fall!" and "Seems like just yesterday it was still summer!" and "This rash on my inner thigh totally looks like it's spreading!" And I'd just as soon spare you the embarrassment.


The Black Dahlia (mystery/historical, rated R, directed by Brian De Palma, written by Josh Friedman from the novel by James Ellroy)

James Ellroy wrote the novel L.A. Confidential, which, you know, was made into one of the better movies of all time. But success did not come easy to him. When he was several years younger than I, he was completely destitute and basically living on the streets, and one night passed out on a park bench next to a much older woman and woke up the next morning with an extra $50 in his wallet. (Not kidding.) The Black Dahlia, unfortunately, looks like it will have more in common with that little encounter than with L.A. Confidential, and the TV ads keep telling me it's "from the director of Scarface" which, to me, is about as enticing as saying "from the director of the 2-hour informercial on that magic grease remover." But you know, to each his/her own. When I was in college everyone who thought they were cool had a Scarface poster on the wall right next to the Reservoir Dogs poster with the Harvey Keitel quote. I can only assume that's because in college, there's nothing cooler than blood, which also explains why everyone was glued to their TVs when E.R. came on at 10 PM on Thursdays. Now Brian De Palma appears to have honed his exploitation of this fetish even further by throwing in Josh Hartnett so that collegiate girlfriends will only have to pretend they're being dragged to see this.

Gridiron Gang (drama, rated PG-13, directed by Phil Joanou, written by Jeff Maguire, based on the documentary of the same name)

Taking an actual documentary and turning it into an "Inspired by a true story"-type film might seem kind of "lame" to all those Hollywood naysayers who stand ready to poke as many holes as possible in a movie before it even sees the light of day (some of us hold our tongues until the premiere date, thank you very much); but the best way to silence all those inveterate jackholes is to put someone like THE ROCK in your movie, because nothing affords you as much cinematic credibility as the former executor of what I believe they referred to as "the most electrifying move in sports entertainment." Did you realize the Oscar-baiting movie releases were starting this early now? Me neither. Just getting those "GRID" and "IRON" temporary tattoos on his fingers should be enough to secure him some gold.

The Last Kiss (romantic dramedy, rated R, directed by Tony Goldwyn, written by Paul Haggis, based on the film L'ultimo baco)

Uh, Zach Braff? If it turns out you're leaving Scrubs after this season to make a lot more movies like this one, I think we'll all be making the face you're making on the poster. And staying home and not seeing them. And eventually, burning you in effigy.

Snap Judgment: Death by ghosts! Death by fame! Death by kicking!

AHHHH! I started this Friday but it got away from me and now I fear some of you may have already ventured into theaters without the proper preconceived notions that the movies therein will suck. Partially that's your own fault, because I've been doing this column going on 8 months now and have you learned nothing?

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Are we shocked that this isn't quite a banner week for new releases? If we were a filmmaker and/or movie star (and really, who's to say we aren't, since we maintain relative anonymity here), would we be peeing ourselves with glee upon being told that our movie was coming out on SEPTEMBER EIGHTH? Would it, perhaps, be more or less like being told we were getting a replacement car air vent for Christmas? Have we jumped the shark on talking about ourselves in the plural and using the subjunctive hypothetical tense at the same time? Probably. Let's slam some films.


The Covenant (horror, I guess, rated R, directed by Renny Harlin, written by J.S. Cardone)

There he goes again, Mr. Renny "Geena Davis and I split up, and it totally looked like I had the last laugh careerwise, until it turned out that she did" Harlin. Because these days she's playing the President on a super-popular TV show, and he's shooting a movie best described as "The Craft, except without anyone famous in it" that would probably have gone direct-to-Netflix if he weren't attached to it. Is there still a chance for them to reconcile? Could he convince Geena to let him direct a few episodes of Commander in Chief, or at least nab that guest starring role of a pyromaniac Scandinavian dude obsessed with product-placing Finlandia vodka into everything he shoots? Let's hope so, because at the rate he's going, by next year he'll be lucky if he's even allowed to post a video comment on MySpace.


Hollywoodland (drama, rated R, directed by Allen Coulter, written by Paul Berenbaum)

Good lord, for the first time in about 8 years it looks like "Ben Affleck" and "real movie" can live together in the same sentence without fighting over who does the dishes and which shows get Tivo priority. It's a glorious day. Too bad there's also Adrien Brody, who (to me) more and more looks like he's auditioning to be in the live-action version of Nightmare Before Christmas.

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And there's this movie called The Protector too. I think people fight with honor in that one, or something.

Snap Judgment: Afternoon Edition #2

Yeah, I'm late again. So sue me! (Ever notice how nobody uses that expression anymore? I think it's a sign of the times. You don't want to give people ideas these days. I just sued the guy at Peet's for taking 5 minutes longer to make an iced latte than the Starbucks chick does. I got all his stock in Staples and 3 of his wives! (Sorry, Mormon joke.))

And off we go...



The Wicker Man (thriller, rated PG-13, written/directed by Neil Labute, based on the screenplay by Anthony Shaffer)

Well, I'm kind of torn on this one, because I love any movie that gives me a chance to cultivate my Nic Cage impersonation (it tends to be very similar to my Keanu, but more halting), but on the other hand I'm annoyed that they dumbed down the title so much from what it used to be (The Dude Who Bought A Lot Of Furniture At Pier One In The Early 90's). And I'm a big Neil Labute supporter, but I'm not a big needless-PG-13-remake supporter. I guess I'll have to see what my other options are...


Crank (action, rated R, written/directed by Mark Neveldine & Brian Taylor)

Again, quite the dilemma. According to the official synopsis, Jason Statham has a poison injected into his blood that will kill him if his heart rate drops below a certain number. THAT'S AWESOME! It couldn't happen to a better person, either, because you'd pretty much have to be a suave shaved-headed British dude to turn that situation into a pickup line. ("'Fraid I've not even got time to buy you a drink, love... we'd best hire a taxi back to my flat straightaway.") But alas, the other shoe is dropping, and printed on the back of that shoe is the name of Statham's character in this film: Chev Chelios. No, I'm not even kidding, it's on the freaking poster. And while ex-Tasty Coma Wife Amy Smart makes a valuable addition to the cast, the fact that she'll be yelling either "Chev!" or "Chelios!" or some combination thereof whenever she is forced to address Statham (which I'm guessing is often, because let's face it, this isn't the kind of movie where her character is going to have an elaborate individual subplot wherein she transforms the lives of inner-city youth by teaching them about biology and Shakespeare) kind of puts a damper on the whole deal.

Crossover (drama, rated PG-13, written/directed by Preston A. Whitmore, II)

No, I swear I didn't make up that director's name -- although, now that I examine the poster, it seems more appropriate than it did at first glance. See, those basketball dudes might appear to be totally rockin' the angry walk, but I think they're actually about to burst into song and dance. "Play by your own rules," indeed. You go, Preston! Don't be afraid to throw some elaborate choreography and lamp pole-swinging into your hip urban b-ball flick. I hope there's a nice, heartfelt rooftop ballad about improving scoring percentage from behind the three-point line. You can't have enough of those.