FILM REVIEW: Wolverine

UK Release Date: 1 May 2009
Starring: Huge Aackman. "Huge" to his friends.

I cannot begin to describe how disappointed I was when I found out that Wolverine was not going to be a musical.

This is a colossal mistake. After all, it has all the ingredients of a classic Hollywood musical: Mutants. Wolves. Conflict. And a gigantic hairy Huge Aackman.

I was convinced this was going to a West Side Story for the next generation, a brutal metaphor for our existance, with "animals" battling for survival, as gangs of "Wolves" fought it out with "Sharks" in a bizarre and inexplicable land-sea crossover, with Huge Aackman spinning, diving and ducking at the heart of it all like some delightful and not at all gay Puck in a wolf suit.

My vision of a madcap tap-dancing pelt-wearing Huge Aackman flashing adamantium-clawed jazz hands has been shattered forever.

How could the ridiculous megalomaniacs at Marvel let this happen? Aackman clearly - clearly - wants to do nothing but musicals forever and ever. Preferably with sassy female backing singers and buff male back-up dancers with well-oiled nipples.

His many fans have made it clear that they would rather he did musicals than action hero flicks targeting 12 year old boys. Just listen to the fans applaud as he takes the stage at the Tony Awards in 2004, reinterpreting his role as The Boy from Oz, wearing nothing but gold lame trousers and a leopardprint top, flirting shamelessly with P Diddy who squirms with delight at the attention.

Or at the Oscars, as Huge Aackman flails about in a tight fitting Man Tux and tails. Read their sweaty little comments on Youtube as he grinds his firm buttocks into Barbara Walter's skeletal thighs to the point where, for the briefest of moments, she is reminded what it means to be a woman. The fans want the inner Hugh to sing and dance and generally camp it up until he Aackmans all over them.

And, obviously, the comic book nerds have been begging for a musical adaptation of X-Men for years.

But does Marvel appreciate this groundswell of nervous excitement? Do they answer the giggling masturbatory call of Aackman's surprisingly mostly female fanbase? No. Instead the first superhero musical adaptation we get is Spider-man: Turn Off the Dark featuring music by U2's Boner and The Edger. A musical about a boy wearing pyjamas who climbs walls and fights crime. (Let's just call it what it is, shall we? Peter Parker Pan.)

So Wolverine will not feature Huge Aackman wearing a sad little loincloth, singing about discovering the wolf inside the man. 

We will never get to see an insane whirlwind of well-choreographed dance violence as Aackman clicks his adamantium claws while facing a violent, albeit tongue in cheek enemy, played to perfection at various points in the show's run by David Hasselhoff, Richard Gere and/or Tilda Swinton.

We will never enjoy the pleasure of a surprise duet with Barry Mannilow, singing "Looks Like We Made It" and drowning the audience in their hairy innuendo.

Without the dancing wolves, the scantly clad, bullet-nippled, backing cast and Tony Award winning musical score, what are we left with? 

Huge Aackman in sideburns, that's what.

The fact that this is a filmed version of some kind of comic book prequel to the X-men, which was itself a pretty cool idea that was eventually stretched thinner than Bea Arthur's skin and ended up inspiring things like Heroes, The Incredibles and David Attenborough's The Life of Mammals, doesn't change anything.

Basically, Wolverine without dancing and classic show tunes is just another teenage werewolf film. Which is entirely pointless since everyone knows there is only one believable teen wolf and that is Michael J Fox in the film about a teenager who turns into a wolf, called Teen Wolf.

And that's just tragic.

Shatner Scale: Miss Congeniality 

Worth seeing: Not unless you enjoy disappointment. Or Huge Aackman not dancing and singing. 

Photography: Wikimedia Commons. Wolf image by Cm0rris0n, some terms apply. Image of The Boy from Oz by zesmerelda. Some terms apply.

BOOK REVIEW: SHATNERQUAKE

Title: Shatnerquake
Author: God (using the pseudonym Jeff Burk)
UK release date: Who cares? Buy it as soon as you KHAAAAAN! (See what I did there?)



Hey, what's that sound? That's you cracking the spine on the greatest work of literature ever. And that smell? That is the fresh scent of authorly genius. And that taste? That's you licking the pages in ecstasy as you realise reading (and I use the term loosely, as this is a book you don't just read) can actually be a truly sexual act.

But what is Shatnerquake exactly? No idea. This is The No Show, so we haven't read it. But how can so many Shatners be wrong? Quite simply: they can't.

You have to read Shatnerquake. You need to read Shatnerquake. You will Shatnerquake.

1. Why is Shatnerquake (makes my hands tremble and my genitals swell just to write the word) better than Moby Dick?
More Shatner. Less Whale.

2. Why is Shatnerquake (sorry, I came a little there - pure orgasm, not ejaculate, mind) better than A Tale of Two Cities?
Fewer Cities. More Shatners.

3. Why Shatnerquake (all done now - wait, not quite.... there we go) better than the Bible?
No metaphors, no parables, just 12 Shatners fighting one Shatner. The Bible features not one single Shatner (though many in the Catholic Church still believe the Gospel according to St. Bill was removed by a vengeful priest who couldn't match Shatner's oracular brilliance and staggering thick chested magnificience).

4. Why is Shatnerquake better than One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?
No mentals. Twelve Shatners. Nuff said.

5. Why is Shatnerquake better than you?
Unless you feature 12 Shatners in your everyday life, then Shatnerquake truly eviscerates you.

If the world ends tomorrow (and it might, depending on when you are reading this - remember the internet lasts forever), anyone who has read Shatnerquake could die smiling, with extra wood (if male) or a lovely wide-on (if lady). It's that good.

As the dust jacket says:

William Shatner?
William Shatner.
William Shatner!

Abso-Shatner-lutely.

Shatner Scale: A Godzilla-sized Kirk
Must read: For the love of God, man, Yes.

MUSIC REVIEW: "Footsteps". By Chris de Burgh. CHRIS FREAKING DE BURGH, people.

UK release date: 

I'm not going to tell you in case you decide to buy it.


Admit it: you thought he was dead.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you thought: "Chris De Burgh - he's dead right? Tragic accident? Involving a gardening implement? Maybe a shovel? Or a lawn mower? Didn't his monobrow crawl down and throttle him?"

But you'd be wrong.

This whole time, Chris de Burgh has been quietly, persistently making music. WITHOUT SUPERVISION. OR RESTRAINT.

Someone has to do something.

This is the man who inflicted "Lady in Red" on an unsuspecting world, a song so creepy it could be the song of choice for serial killers while acting out their most terrible fantasies*, as they force their victims to wear a red dress and strap them to their killing table** all the while singing the song over and over in an ominous falsetto*** .

And now he has the TEMERITY to release a collection of HIS intepretation of what HE considers "pop classics" including, but not limited to "Africa" by Toto and "American Pie" by Don McLean.

Why doesn't he just visit each and every one of us personally and drive a blunt ice pick through our ears?**** Why waste time with the formality of recording and releasing such cruel and unusual torture? How can such a monster be allowed to continue?

I'll tell you why. Wedding reception DJs. That's why.

Because the loved-up idiots at something like 98% of all wedding receptions insist on playing "Lady in Red", in the mistaken belief that it's a celebration of some lovely woman and not the grim voiceover to an unwanted living autopsy***** - and DJs agree to do it. Which means they have to have a copy of the song in their aresenal. Which prompts moronic guests at these weddings to buy their own copies, particularly the older folks who don't understand that all music is secretly free if you just know where to look online.******

All of this keeps the money flowing into De Burgh's soft woolen cardigan pockets and maintains the illusion that he has something worthwhile to contribute to music like fucking interpretations of "American fucking Pie" by Don fucking McLean.

And it doesn't stop with the "music". Even the album cover art gives me the creeps.

Apparently, Chris De Burgh is living on his own planet and observing the Earth, like some demented monobrowed alien. Possibly preparing for invasion. A frightening, invisible monobrow invasion.

What's more, he is so twisted that he recorded introductory videos, from deep in his Interplanetary Lair of Woolen Cruelty, that explain why and how he went about choosing this material of evil. He explains the origins of his musical footsteps of evil, which began in his clearly traumatic childhood before he was sent to public boarding school when he and his parents moved into a CASTLE. This was a tragic castle where there was no heat, no water and most tragic of all, NO TV. And they had to become FARMERS. Before they turned it into a small HOTEL! A fucking CASTLE HOTEL. Jesus.

"Many of the songs on Footsteps started right here," says the diabolical genius. If only the scientists had spent a little less time perfecting the internet and turned their attention to something more important, like time travel, we could go back and stop the madness before it begins. If only.

The day the music died, indeed. It is gruesome and vile. And it must be stopped.


* Probably. I have no data to back this up. It's just a feeling.
** Just one possible example. Not all serial killers have the same MO.
*** Speculation. Some serial killers may have lovely singing voices.
**** Satire. This is not an invitation to Mr De Burgh or anyone to stab anyone else with anything.
***** Conjecture. Not all serial killers gut their victims. For some, the killing itself is the end of the madness; there is no particular inclination to explore further. Instead of slicing and dicing, for example, some serial killers may sit down for a good cry. Or wank. It depends.
****** These are the same people who insist on playing "I Will Always Love You" at wedding receptions - completely failing to realise that it's a song about two people who DON'T GET TOGETHER. Morons.

FILM REVIEW: 17 Again

UK Release Date: 10 April 2009
Starring: Zac Efron (orange teen) and Matthew Perry (orange adult)

OK, full disclosure: even though I haven't seen this film (per The No Show rules), I have seen this film. Everybody has seen this film. There are isolated tribes hidden deep in the jungles of South America who, if asked for the plot of this film, would say, "Oh yeah dude, isn't that the one where this orange dude becomes a younger orange dude version of himself in a desperate quest to rediscover his inner orange dude self that used to be cool and then learns lots of life lessons and totally gets the orange girl and has awesome orange hair?"

Then they would totally shoot you with a poisonous dart before taking away your orange Golden Idol and giving it to Belloq (the French bastard).

But there are two things they will not tell you about this film and these are them:

First, the main dude character in this film, both as an adult and as a teenager and then as an adult again, is totally and completely orange both on screen and off.

Second - and this is the really important bit: we are supposed to believe that Matthew Perry - yes, the chunky orange one from the endlessly repeating TV "classic" Friends - actually looked like Zac Efron when he was 17. (And in case you're older than 14, Zac is the pretty orange girl from the High School Musicals films.)

THIS IS RIDICULOUS. EVEN BY HOLLYWOOD STANDARDS.

I can accept that John Travolta and Nicolas Cage switched faces and recovered in like five minutes in Face/Off. Twice. I can accept that a team involving Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck and Owen Wilson saved the world from an asteroid by being sent into space by Billy Bob Thornton on a military space shuttle in Armageddon. I can even accept the idea of Madonna as actress in Evita.

But my belief suspenders officially snap at the idea of Matthew Perry once looking anything even slightly resembling Zac Efron.

The reasons for this are threefold:

1. Matthew Perry is an old man and Zan Efron is clearly a pretty, young girl. Very flat-chested admittedly, and a bit boyish in her clothing choices, but a girl nonetheless. It's too big a gap for my brain to cross.

2. Matthew Perry looks like someone grabbed his head and inserted it up a cow's ass, twisted it around and then popped it back out, before leaving him out in the sun to dry for several weeks. His skin is loose and a bit floppy like a hunting dog's and it may one day actually reach the ground. His hair is a weird mix of really dry and really greasy. His clothes always look like they may have fit him once, but a long time ago when he was either fatter or thinner. Zac Efron, meanwhile, is a pretty, young, well dressed girl.

3. Matthew Perry is... nope, I've got nothing. Read 1 and 2 above. It's that simple. Matthew Perry and Zac Efron. The same person. Totally ridiculous. Like having Morgan Freeman paying an older version of Scarlett Johansson. Painted orange.

GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER HOLLYWOOD, NOBODY'S BUYING IT.

Shatner Scale: Quincy cameo.
Must hear: No. For the love of God, no.

FILM REVIEW: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Undead

UK Release date: Not soon enough

Starring: A bunch of people and featuring RALPH MACCHIO

Ok, here's the deal: not only have we not seen this film, as far as I know they haven't even finished making it yet.

Here's what we do know so far, via IMDB.com:

"Julian Marsh is an out of work ladies' man who lands a job directing a bizarre adaptation of Hamlet. After casting his best friend and his ex-girlfriend in the show, Julian finds himself in the middle of a two thousand year old conspiracy that explains the connection between Shakespeare, the Holy Grail and some seriously sexy vampires. It turns out that the play was actually written by a master vampire name Theo Horace and it's up to Julian to recover the Grail in order to reverse the vampire's curse... If only being undead wasn't so much God-damned fun!"

Sexy vampires, Shakespeare, more sexy vampires - do we really need to say more? And in case you think we do need to say more, we will only say this one thing more: Ralph Macchio.

What's that you say? Ralph "Karate Kid" "Wax On Wax Off" Macchio? Oh yes.

Verdict? Awesome.



All it needs to make it perfect is the ghost of Pat Morita. They can do that in film these days you know. I'm thinking of an Obi Wan glowing-in-the-background-and-looking-strangely-heavier-than-he-did-before-he-died kinda thing.

Seriously, I don't know what's taking them so long. Just finish it already dammit! While we're waiting, enjoy the trailer (Ralph Macchio's about 3/4 of the way through. He still looks freakishly young. Maybe he's a vampire.)

*Photo courtesy the internet. Not sure who holds the copyright and we'll dump it if it's a problem, but we're pretty sure it's promotional and falls under the definition of Fair Use or something.

UPDATE: PLEASE WATCH THIS TOO IT'S GLORIOUS