Stanley Kubrick might not have released any films between 1987 and 1999, but it wasn't for the want of trying. Holocaust movie The Aryan Papers, a long-gestating project (is there any other kind with Kubrick?), was abandoned partly because it was depressing the shit out of him and partly because Steven Spielberg beat him to it, knocking out Schindler's List in roughly the time it took Kubrick to make a sandwich. And after a frustrating experience with unsatisfying screenplay drafts and crap special effects tests, Kubo also gave up on the futuristic robo-Pinocchio fairytale that would become A.I. Artificial Intelligence, handing it over to Spielberg in order to stop him pinching any more of his ideas.
But languishing at the back of the Kubemind since the late '60s was an idea for an adaptation of 1926 Austrian novella Traumnovelle: a weird and mildly horny parable about jealousy, faithfulness and - to quote Alan Partridge's PA Lynn Benfield - "sex festivals". With half an eye on the success of films like Fatal Attraction and Basic Instinct, Kubrick decided it was time for his own take on the erotic thriller, so he grabbed the sexiest Hollywood couple he could get his hands on, hid all their clothes and made them stand around in the nip for over a year. The result, surprisingly, was his most mature film, and one which - were it not for the matter of his subsequent and really quite irritating death - should have heralded the beginning of Kubrick's late period.
Eyes Wide Shut begins with a full length shot of Nicole Kidman getting her bum out, and fap-happy cinemagoers the world over must have been overjoyed - and possibly a little daunted - at the thought of 165 more minutes of this kind of thing. But the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was luring you into a film with the promise of nearly three hours of uninterrupted clunge-plunging betwixt Kidman and her then-husband Tom Cruise, only to deliver a long and almost comically slow study of marital stamina and the nature of temptation. This is almost certainly the reason for Eyes Wide Shut's general reputation as a weird, unsexy disappointment, but the film benefits enormously from the recalibrated expectations of repeat viewings. I've only seen it three times, but it's a much more satisfying experience now than when I first saw it twenty years ago. Being married probably helps, but being older is the key.
Cruise and Kidman play the wealthy, beautiful and crushingly dull Bill and Alice Harford, a couple sleepwalking towards the end of their first decade of marriage. Bill is a doctor, and they're off to a Christmas party thrown by one of his obscenely super-rich patients, Victor Ziegler (Sydney Pollack). Separated during the course of the party, an increasingly tipsy Alice is the amused recipient of a silky smooth come-on from a Hungarian lothario, while Bill receives the flirty attentions of two models who seem entirely undeterred by his cringingly awful small talk, his insistence at laughing at his own shit lines ("That is the kind of hero I can be sometimes") and his freaky central upper incisor. It's our first hint that there are exterior forces threatening the Harfords' marriage, but while Alice declines to discover exactly how well Hungarian her admirer is, Bill seems quite happy to see how far his own morals will let him go.
He never finds out though, because the adulterous Ziegler needs help with Mandy, the nearly-dead, stark-naked prostitute he's been thrusting his ugly old self into in his bathroom while she - quite understandably - ingests massive amounts of narcotics. Ziegler and Mandy's affair, and her surprisingly matter-of-fact nudity, are early indicators of a secret, permissive society that exists outside Bill and Alice's (and, in the majority, the audience's) contained, rule-driven world. While Bill appears to take it in his professional stride, Pandora's box has been opened and his interest piqued. Kubrick's gallery of flawed male protagonists has acquired its final exhibit.
The following evening, Bill and Alice argue over the relative potential of husbands and wives to cheat on their spouses, which leads to Alice's confession that the previous year she came super close to leaving her husband and daughter for some random bloke in a sailor suit. Bill's pride is shattered, but before he can process what he's just heard the phone rings, precipitating the film's centrepiece: a nocturnal odyssey that sees him haul his wounded ego around New York (or at least a Pinewood-based, woozily unreal version of it), half-heartedly planning extramarital revenge on Alice for daring to think about another man.
This sequence takes in a bewildering array of events and emotions, shifting effortlessly from awkwardness in the presence of death, through uncomfortable will-he-or-won't-he with a prostitute, to outright farce as Bill attempts to stealthily procure an outfit from a costume shop while the proprietor catches his teenage daughter in flagrante delicto with two old Japanese transvestites. Its culmination, though - the centrepiece of the centrepiece - is the masked ball into which a curious Bill inveigles his way, and which sees Eyes Wide Shut taking a turn for the (literally) balls-out bonkers. Lynn: these are sex people.
Kubrick stages the orgy and its rituals with his maestro's ability to push absurdity to the very point just before it tips over into comedy. It helps that everybody in Eyes Wide Shut talks and moves at a glacial pace, as if they're wading through treacle, because if anybody got a shift on we'd be in Benny Hill territory by now. But Jocelyn Pook's ominous, backward-chanting score and Kubrick's stately command of the Steadicam imbue proceedings with deadly seriousness; it's probably why the sight of dozens of naked bodies (mostly women, it should be pointed out) and assorted organ-grinding feel about as sexy as a cup of cold tea. But it does feel dangerous, exciting and tempting, because we're in Bill's boots, not to mention his robe and mask. We've finally gained access to that secret world where anything goes, guilt doesn't exist, and the line between fantasy and reality is a murky, sexy blur. Kubrick taps into our basest, most dangerous desires, offering everything on a plate, and reels us in, helpless; he is truly a master baiter.
The orgy is so heightened and dreamlike that it could almost be a figment of Bill's imagination; a metaphor for temptation. It's certainly no coincidence that the password for entry is FIDELIO, Latin for 'fidelity' (although look closely when Bill's pianist pal writes the password on a napkin: Kubrick's penchant for multiple takes is evident in at least three different napkins intended to be the same one - the third of which actually says FEDILIO). But things come crashing back down to Earth when Bill is literally unmasked as an intruder and embarrassingly ejected, on the condition that a female guest takes his punishment. Bill seems uncharitably relaxed about this turn of events, but then that is the kind of hero he can be sometimes.
Bill's actions the following day are those of a man who doesn't seem to grasp how lucky he is to be alive (even though it's spelled out to him in a blaring headline on page one of the New York Times), but like all Kubrick's men, his notion that he's somehow in control of events is short-lived. Further attempts to get his end away are pathetic failures, death stalks him at every turn (a little over-dramatically, with that hammering piano following him around) and his old pal Victor reminds him exactly of his place, which is - as he's known all along - by his wife's side. The doors to Pandora's box are firmly shut in Bill's face and the poor bastard has to make do with his ludicrously fit missus offering to fuck him in Hamley's.
Stanley Kubrick died just a few days after finishing Eyes Wide Shut, thereby avoiding having to see it spectacularly misunderstood by audiences gagging for a glimpse of Cruisepeen and Kidmuff. True to form, every mystery his final film threw up remains resolutely unanswered at its climax, but the messages are clear and as perfect an epitaph to Kubrick's canon of visual essays on humanity as you could hope for. Never underestimate your own cosmic insignificance, never assume you're in control and never forget that man's eternal fate is self-destruction through hubris. But, in the words of Sydney Pollack's faux-wise old man: "Life goes on. It always does... until it doesn't. But you know that, don't you?"
There's a new Mission: Impossible film out in a minute, which is good because the stench of the last one has just about left cinemas. I do love this franchise (well, three-fifths of it so far), but there's no getting away from the fact that 2015's Rogue Nation effortlessly stole the crown of rubbishest Missiossible from 2000's M:I-2, which was a $125 million shampoo ad directed by a psychopath. But that's fine, because it forced us to look for redeeming features in John Woo's batshit sequel that set it above Christopher McQuarrie's snooze-inducing quinquel. And the most obvious of those redeeming features is its utterly insane score, composed by Hansel Florian Zimmer, the only man who literally makes music nervous when it sees him coming.
Twenty seconds of threatening bass and none-more-Y2K drum loops give way to a stirring guitar motif perching atop the kind of electronic samples that pervaded most action film scores of the time (cf. David Arnold's The World Is Not Enough). Just over a minute in, a Russian male choir quietly and briefly announce their arrival, as if politely waiting to be asked to join the party. They head for the bar and start drinking, and will return when they are jolly well good and ready. Everything is going smoothly until, at 2'35", a furious crunching drum-and-guitar shaped monster stomps all over everything for a few bars, followed by the kind of hilariously overblown axe solo that makes you think of ill-advised perms and gigantic wind machines. If you don't love this score at its worst then you don't deserve it at its best.
Track 2: Iko Iko
Zap Mama's cover version of The Dixie Cups' delightful original is fine I guess, but I'm just glad somebody chose to include it on this album over Limp Bizkit's "official" theme Take A Look Around, because that song is a fucking war crime. Fear not, musical masochists, for the Biscuits' steaming heap of noise is on the other M:I-2 album of music "from and inspired by" the film, and if you bought that then you deserved everything you got. Anyway none of this has anything to do with Hans Zimmer's score so why are you going on about it?
Track 3: Seville
Music website allmusic.com dismisses the entire M:I-2 soundtrack as "an uneven score that ranges from successful eclecticism to bombastic predictability", as if that's somehow a bad thing. Who wants even? Who wants unsuccessful eclecticism? Who wants bombastic unpredictability? OK maybe that last one sounds fun. But when they spat out that invective, they were just bitter that they'd never thought of following millennial beats and angry electric guitars with an achingly beautiful flamenco heartbreaker named after an orange, as Zimmer does here. Handclaps, footstomps and hugely evocative Spanish guitars lay the groundwork for the voice of Lisa Gerrard, hot off her Zimmer-assisted work on Gladiator, to drift in like a ghost doomed to an eternity of anguished and incomprehensible wailing, sounding much like I did about an hour into Rogue Nation.
Track 4: Nyah
Zimmer regular Heitor Pereira glides in with his Spanish guitar and makes string-based love to everyone in the room simultaneously. Nyah is the exact sound of Thandie Newton wafting around Seville in slow motion, i.e. it is absolutely, life-enhancingly beautiful. It's a tender lament that evokes a serenity and poise rarely achieved in modern film music; a hymn to grace and elegance that HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS HANS WHAT IN THE FUCKEST OF FUCK IS THAT?!
Track 5: Mission: Impossible Theme
"WHY IT'S THE MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE THEME, WHICH I HAVE CARVED OUT OF GRANITE WITH MY BARE HANDS AND DROPPED ON YOUR FOOT WHEN YOU WERE LEAST EXPECTING IT!! HAHAHAHAHA, I'M ABSOLUTELY MENTAL, SOMEBODY STOP ME BEFORE I KILL AGAIN, PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU"
"Nothing limp about THIS bizkit bro"
Track 6: The Heist
More flamenco and handclaps introduce a funksplosion of jazz bass jamming, because Zimmer hasn't covered enough musical genres yet. I can't remember what happens at this point in the film (some kind of heist, presumably) but imagine that bit in Spider-Man 3 when emo Peter Parker struts down the street firing finger-guns at people, only it's Tom Cruise and his tectonic plate-sized grin doing the strutting, and that's what this sounds like.
Track 7: Ambrose
Suddenly remembering that this is a film score rather than a neurotoxin-induced psychotropic episode, Zimmer digs out an actual orchestra from behind the sofa and immediately sets the string section to work on this theme for Dougray Scott's entirely forgettable villain. If a low, menacing cello didn't yell "BAD GUY!" loudly enough, then guess what? The Russian male choir from Track 1 are tanked up and ready to go, solemnly grumbling the kind of noises that your brain makes when you wake up hungover and unsure if you're in the same continent you fell asleep in.
Track 8: Bio-Techno
In a moment of uncertainty regarding how one might score a John Woo-directed shootout, Hans Zimmer drops a tab of acid, stares at the faulty fluorescent strip light in his kitchen for four hours and decides the best thing to do is to use three late-'90s techno tracks all at once because his cat, who is a floating cloud of liquid energy, told him to. John Woo drowns it out with gunshots in the final mix, much to everyone's relief.
Track 9: Injection
Lisa Gerrard is back, and so is the string section, and so are the drum loops, and so are the electric guitars, and so is the Spanish guitar, and because that's all a bit sparse Hans casually lobs in a massive fuckoff timpani beat. Zimmer gonna Zim.
Mad as eggs.
Track 10: Bare Island
In the M:I-2 score's standout track, the male choir suddenly produce from beneath their choral robes an entire female choir, and they all get naked and start an absolute orgy of vocal harmonies that sounds like Carmina Burana if, well, Hans Zimmer had composed it. It is quite literally all going Orff, building to an orgasmic climax which ejaculates nothing less than the most histrionically macho rendition of the Mission: Impossible theme on electric guitars. But the guitars have still got more axe-spunk in reserve, so they pump away at that motif from Track 1 for a bit before slowing to a gentle finish, over which Lisa Gerrard sighs the most satisfied sound you'll ever hear. Anyone got a cigarette?
Track 11: Chimera
Everyone is utterly exhausted by the exertions of the previous track so they just lie there moaning for a couple of minutes, gently leaking musical fluid onto the film's best satin bedsheets.
Track 12: The Bait
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "you said this score had 'fucking EVERYTHING', but we've yet to hear, for example, a bongo drum introduction to the Mission: Impossible theme, you tedious smartarse". Well Track 12 is here to McConaughey that thought right back in your stupid face.
Track 13: Mano a Mano
A largely percussive piece, this is the sound of Zimmer banging his head against a wall trying to think of an instrument he hasn't used yet. Midway through, the answer comes to him: sleigh bells! Of course! The only downside is that it all goes a bit Éric Serra's GoldenEye score for a bit, but frankly we're in such a state by now that Hans could play Joe Dolce's Shaddap You Face on a rhino's scrotum and nobody would bat an eyelid.
Cheer up love, it'll only be the worst one for another fifteen years
Track 14: Mission: Accomplished
The title of this track is a bit of a spoiler if you've never seen M:I-2, or indeed any Hollywood blockbuster, so look away now. Oh wait it's too late, sorry. The haunting melody of Nyah returns in a gorgeous wave of strings and, because the penultimate track is never too late to introduce one more new instrument, woodwind. It's almost lovely enough to make you stop thinking about the baffling physics of the climactic motorbike-based fight scene that just punched you in the brain. But not quite.
Track 15: Nyah and Ethan
More soothing Spanish guitars attempt to calm you down after the glorious punishment your ears have just taken, and it's a slow and sexy way to end what has been quite the adventure in sound. Naturally the film ends with Fred Durst grunting at full volume over the credits, but the album has better taste than that.
*
So there you have it: the soundtrack about which filmtracks.com said: "avoid if you suffer from psoriasis or eczema, for Hans Zimmer's insultingly simplistic action music for synthesizers and electric guitars could make your lymph nodes swell up and cause a nasty skin rash." Well I am here to tell you that not only is that verdict medically questionable, it is also weapons-grade poppycock. Hans Zimmer's score for M:I-2 is the work of a mad genius; a fearless piece of art that deserved so much better than the film it graced with its musical preposterousness. I mean yes, I have developed a nasty skin rash after listening to it for the umpteenth time, but I'm sure that's just coincidence.
If there's one thing I hate, it's films which include that universally familiar helicopter shot of the Thames with the Houses Of Parliament and the London Eye, then stick the utterly redundant caption "LONDON" over it for the benefit of people too dumb to dress themselves. It happened in Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruitand immediately told me the film was aimed at total fucking idiots. So when it turned up in Edge Of Tomorrow, I punched the person next to me out of rage and settled in for a completely average sci-fi videogame shoot-em-up. And that's exactly what I got. But not for about an hour. The rest was ace.
When you gotta go, you gotta go
There's so much to love in the first act. Tom Cruise plays deliciously against type as Major William Cage, an oily PR gonk who'd do anything to weasel out of a fight, and it's as refreshing as a jug of iced water down the front of your undies. No sooner is he railroaded into joining the battle for humanity against an army of alien bastards, for which he is hilariously under-equipped, than he falls into an inconvenient time-loop which is masterfully handled by director Doug Liman. It's easy to bore the audience to tears by repeating stuff over and over (see also Vantage Point, my BlogalongaBond reviews), but Chris McQuarrie's zippy script doesn't fuck about. McQuarrie and Liman ruthlessly shove the plot towards the all-important exposition while playing the scenes for LOLs, of which there are many - mostly gleefully derived from Cruise dying horribly. Watching him struggle to get the safety off on his ludicrous battle suit for fifteen minutes is almost as much fun as seeing Bill Paxton playing exactly the soldier that Aliens' Private Hudson would have become.
When the action moves to the beaches of northern France and a full-on barney with the bad guys, the cracks in the story start to show. There are obvious parallels with the second world war - much of this section plays out like a PG Saving Private Ryan - but for no clear subtextual reason. Edge Of Tomorrow is a knockabout sci-fi extravaganza, and it makes no claims to rival the existential crisis of Groundhog Day, which is fine but also a shame; the opportunity to have it actually say something is right there, but instead it's happy to be a film about Tom Cruise learning to be Tom Cruise.
How To Be Tom Cruise, Step 1: Run funny while pulling a daft face
At this point though, all is still well: Emily Blunt is fiery and caustic as the Full Metal Bitch who's the only one with the knowledge to help Cage through his predicament; Noah Taylor does the Basil Exposition thing well enough and everything is trucking along so nicely that when Cage understandably takes a day off from dying horribly to go to the pub, we're happy for the chance to see him take it easy. But at around the half way mark, the gags dry up, it all gets a bit serious and when the final act rolls around Edge Of Tomorrow reverts into exactly the completely average sci-fi videogame shoot-em-up I was dreading. At one point I thought Liman had stitched in scenes from Pacific Rim, so generic was the climax. It's an argument for another day, but why is Hollywood so scared of doing an original finale? It's like a comfort blanket filmmakers think we need so we don't go stumbling out into the night, confused and terrified by the slightest alteration to a tired formula.
Anyway, Edge Of Tomorrow does what it does very well, it's just that what it does is only partially interesting. Having turned out an hour of first class blockbuster entertainment, it chickens out, puts the safety back on and delivers a denouement that's merely fine. Then, as if to ensure the erasure of any leftover goodwill, it parps out a catastrophically confusing coda that makes literally no sense whatsoever. Still, you've seen Tom Cruise be a hero, you've seen him die countless times and you've seen a sweaty Emily Blunt get up off the floor in a sexier way than anyone's ever got up off the floor before, and you've seen it about half a dozen times. Something for everyone there.
The ineptly designed posters, embarrassingly abysmal viral videos and turgid press interviews farted out to promote Knight And Day have long been a mystery, apparently cunningly crafted to keep as many people away as possible. However, having now seen the film, it's clear what they were up to.
What we have witnessed is a textbook exercise in expectation-lowering, to the point where the inevitably average end result is a considerable improvement on the craptaculous cascade of cabbages the world expected. It's a bit like being phoned up at work by someone telling you your entire house has been demolished by a meteor, only to rush home and feel relief that at least the shed's still standing.
Let's not fanny about: Knight And Day is not a great film. All the money has been spent on the stars, and director James Mangold spends so much time on lingering close-ups to prove that it really is Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz that you eventually start to realise how old Tom's looking, and ooh dear I hope he doesn't put his back out making Mission: Impossible 4. Meanwhile genuine talents like Peter Sarsgaard and Paul Dano are left twiddling their thumbs in case they overshadow the Tom 'n' Cam Show.
Early dubious claims that Knight And Day was some kind of Hitchcockian romp are flimsily backed up by the fact that there's a scene on a train, a chase across some European rooftops and a MacGuffin. Well, The A-Team has a tall building in it but that doesn't make it Vertigo.
In its defence, the unspectacular and unoriginal set-pieces are at least shot and edited so that it's possible to work out what's going on, which is a bonus these days, the score is jazzy and interesting for the first half before it descends into bog-standard lowest common denominator tuneage and Tom does at least look back at an explosion on one occasion, which as we all know is against all accepted action movie rules:
Knight And Day's problem is that it's just so ordinary, with nothing new to add to the genre and nothing to elevate it above any other summer movie from the last fifteen years. As for the title, it's almost completely meaningless. You may as well name a film blog The Incredible Suit and then make it neither incredible nor in any way sartorial. And that would just be stupid.
There's an interview in this month's Empire magazine with Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz about their forthcoming action comedy Knight And Day. It's possibly the dullest thing I've read for yonks, and in fact I had to read it in shifts as I literally fell asleep half way through. I had been up past my bedtime the night before so maybe it was my fault, but seriously, Tom 'n' Cam - both of whom The Incredible Suit enjoys watching on screen - could bore for England. If they were English.
Things start badly when they talk about Alfred Hitchcock as a reference for Knight And Day, and specifically North By Northwest. Now this is a very dangerous thing to do. If you're going to invite comparisons between your film and what is clearly one of the greatest ever made, you had better be sure you can live up to that promise.
After that Cruise and Diaz ramble incoherently over another three pages about how great each other is, how great making movies is, how great the crew is, how great various legendary actors and directors are, blah blah blah. That's not an interesting interview, that's autopilot actorspeak.
The article's crowning glory, however, is a picture of a handwritten note by Tom Cruise using five words to describe his co-star:
Quite revealing, I think you'll agree. Apparently Cruise finds Diaz talented, wom, furrrig, armnutteal and seriewu2. Now that's a scoop.
If you thought last week's 2011 preview was a bit, well, previous, then let me just give you a glimpse of the world we currently live in, and hopefully you'll understand why The Incredible Suit felt the need to be uncharacteristically upbeat about the future.
In the last seven days alone, I was faced with the following news stories:
Remember Tom Cruise as a fat, hairy, sweary film producer in Tropic Thunder? Not very funny was it? Nevertheless, Paramount are planning to make an entire film about him. Nobody asked for this. NOBODY.
Sequels and reboots that are about as welcome as a turd in your porridge are not only being announced almost daily, but are apparently being given titles by people with the creative skills of a full nappy. Apparently Die Hard 24/7 was originally to be a Die Hard / 24 crossover. Thankfully that idea has been flushed away, but the title remains like a lingering stench that requires a window to be opened, sharpish.
Undaunted by the catastrophic Indiana Jones And The Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull, plans are afoot for a fifth geriatric shuffle for the once-great hero. The Bermuda Triangle angle has since been denied, but the only way I'll see this is if they call it Indiana Jones And The Incredible Suit. Which is unlikely.
I can't even be bothered to waste my fingers typing anything about a Fantastic Four reboot.
I haven't seen any of Joe Carnahan's films; for all I know he's the next Alfred Hitchcock. That's not the point. Preacher is an amazing comic that will never be done justice as a film. It's like doing 2001: A Space Odyssey as a half-hour sitcom. STOP THIS MADNESS NOW.
Having absorbed this cackstorm of awfulness, I was about to impale myself on a sharpened toilet roll holder when news came through of a new Toy Story 3 viral clip and a preview clip of the new series of Futurama. That'll cheer me up, I thought. This is what I got:
That's just racism.
And then, just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, I found out that Jackie Chan has grown a ridiculous moustache.
Well if there’s one thing that Movie Santa delved deep into his sack for over Christmas, it’s a sleighload of trailers for filmy delights we can look forward to, or look forward to ignoring, over 2010. Let’s have a look at some of them together, shall we?
Everything inside me tells me this is going to be so awful that I’d rather have carnal relations with Medusa, but this trailer’s quite good isn’t it? I can’t be doing with all that rock music, and I think they’ve blown it by showing the Kraken, but this looks like silly fabness on toast to me.
I can take or leave the first one, but Iron Man 2, or Iron 2 Man as it appears to be called at the end of the trailer, looks like it might be taking things a bit more seriously. Let’s hope it’s more Spider-Man 2 than The Dark Knight, eh? Oooh, controversial.
It’s Gladiator 2, set in the East Midlands! Groovy. I can’t bear Russell Crowe and Ridley Scott doesn’t do it for me any more, but I’ll go and see this because you have to go and see a new Ridders film, it’s the law. Rubbish trailer though.
New Tim Burton films must also be seen by law despite their decreasing quality levels, although this one actually looks quite spectacular. In a hallucinogenic acid trip kind of way. I imagine.
Cruise and Diaz are slowly edging away from ‘must-see’ to ‘barely tolerable’, but this looks like a big pair of funbags with cherries on top. And no, I’m not referring to Cameron Diaz’s hooters.
I don’t know what in the name of John McClane is going on here. Bruce Willis appears to have regressed to Hudson Hawk levels of comedy, and that other guy, who seems to be called Tracy, is about as funny as medieval methods of haemorrhoid removal. Has Kevin Smith made a good film since Clerks? No.
John Cusack! Time travel! The 1980s! Chevy Chase! What’s not to love? Nothing, that’s what. Best film of 2010. That’s a cast-iron The Incredible Suit guarantee.
OK, so obviously this is clearly going to be the best film of 2010. I never said the Hot Tub Time Machine guarantee was cast iron, did I? I did? Oh. Well forget it. Inception is going to be a mind-blowing cake with brain-frazzling icing and hundreds and thousands made of tiny shards of holy crap that's amazingness. That’s a cast-iron The Incredible Suit guarantee.
