Bright Lights, Big Shitty

You see a movie called BRIGHT LIGHT, BIG CITY. You find it to be brutally dull and limpidly laxatative. Most of all, you find that casting the part of a grieving, coke-addicted mama's boy is not easy.

Instead of going with something like this....

Or this.....

Or even this....

You go with the local twink intead.

You wince as Michael J Fox labors mightily to convince us he's no Carrot Top when it comes to acting. This, you admit, he succeeds at. But what about all that other actor-y stuff?

 "Oh boo hoo hoo, it's so hard being a privileged white man..."

You find that it's all supposed to make sense because his mom died. You expect Oscars to rain down. You are wrong, as you usually are.

"Come on, Mom, think! Were you in Beaches or Hannah and Her Sisters? COME ON."

You check facts for The New Yorker. You find this to be ironic since why don't you just look up things on Google? Then you remember: this film is set in a time before com-puters. You are chilled.

But then you lose your job at The New Yorker, and you lose your girlfriend who is Phoebe Cates sporting a "Navratilova" which was all the rage at the time. You are sad. Your boner is sad.

"Always bet against the heterosexual in tennis. And always bet on white."

By painful degrees you learn you must be a nicer guy and help out others and take in orphans and wipe the bum of that bum down on Guerrero Street and star in movies like Casualties of War to show them, that'll show them all.

"Here, take my sunglasses. The symbolism will be poignant. And Oscar-worthy."

In the end, you realize the movie was fatally missing something. In the middle of the night, covered in sweat, as you weary of your precious 2nd person POV, you realize what it was....

"I just said something cute. CUTE"