Look, when a movie touts “Brought to you by the makers of [insert at one time relevant and decent movie before so many copies were spawned you could think of a few fargin' necks you'd like to ring]” then here’s the thing: DO NOT. RENT. THIS.
I give you, The Tattooist (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0817228/)
It ‘stars’ Jason Behr, which is a lot like saying a new car ‘features’ a tape deck. Look, he’s pretty. But for christ’s sake, someone tell Mr. Behr that, even stoned, the human mind is capable of more than two complex emotions. In this film, I spotted two, tops:
- Irritated-but-slightly-ever-so-slightly-aroused
- frightened-yet-not-as-slightly-aroused
Sort of like the stars of my previous entry: pretty and pointless.
Behr’s protagonist, Jake Sawyer, is a tattooist. It had something to do with his father. Motley Crue was involved somehow. I think. No, maybe it was Danzig, he doesn’t seem old enough for the Crue.
At any rate, he tattooed something at some point that reminded me of the Theater of Pain album cover onto his arm as a kid. He enraged his (let’s see, nah. You’ll never see this one coming) [a. Lame b. Sexually misguided c. religious, overbearing asshole] father who then commanded that he pray with him while he scraped the damned tattoo off with a knife from his un-anesthetized son’s arm.
Look, I don’t know how any of this shit makes him pursue the art of the ink. The bullshit Motley Crue nonsense just irritated me. Was Kat von Whoeverthehell hooked on Shout at the Devil? Did some baptist preacher assail and berate half the people living in lower Fort Lauderdale? God, I don’t know. If I knew, this movie might have made more sense.
As it was, I just thought Jake was stupid. Dumb for pursuing an art that his dad had performed amateur surgery on him in order to remove. Who’d be so masochistic? Like you don’t think the tight-holed bastard isn’t going to try that again when you see him in the afterlife? Boy, I thought I learned ya ’bout this once already.
Moronic for putzing around with schmutz he knew very little about. You see four giant Samoan dudes knelt around a person while they hammer some sort of vicous tool filled with ink into someone’s back and you don’t let that shit go lightly. Or at least I don’t. I see four giant Samoans knelt down around some other dude and, man, I don’t care what the hell is going on, so long as I don’t have to see it.
I’d tell you more about the plot but, honestly, I don’t think I could type it. I’d be too busy laughing about it. Suffice it to say CGI is involved. A tattoo curse is present and there’s the old and tired, “oh man, I see shit now when I look in the mirror” trick. Look, let’s put it this way: if the plot and substance of this script was any slimmer, Calista Flockhart would eat it.
Uncle Not Clever’s Not Patented but Reliable Rating: Jennifer Connelly naked, bothered and possessing in her hand a copy of Jeremiah Johnson is the only thing that would convince me to turn this crap back on.
Carey
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