By Sider Billings
Never has a work of art so shamelessly defied all notions of aesthetic form and, with sloppy arrogance, sought to engage an audience that it so consistently disrespects. That is of course, until Twinseltown oozed out of the bowels of Hollywood and into our theaters. I dare not try explain a plot that was obviously written and storyboarded on no more than one Mojito-stained cocktail napkin by a pen that was fast losing ink, but suffice it to say two dim-witted brothers, whose depiction makes Johnny Knoxville’s The Ringer look like Shakespeare in the park, bumble their way through a distressful series of poorly planned bathroom humor gags that would force even the most immature third grader to shudder and blush. I only hope Robin Williams was coerced into the role by no less than the kidnapping of his children, because one would think even the deepest pockets could not convince an actor to shred all ethical dignity and dive into such an offensive script.But it's not all bad news. At least director Peter Berkman decided, between huffs from a bottle of rubbing alcohol, not to extend his screeching disaster of a film another harrowing 150 minutes. I use the term “film” loosely because all actions appear clouded in a brownish fog that makes me wonder if the entire movie is committed to and projected from cardboard instead of 35mm. On the whole, Twinseltown argues its moot and socially unacceptable messages with all the skill and elegance of an old pair of boots. I would rather have everyone I care about eat an entire anthill than subject them to this cultural waste product, but these days, who even has the time?
