Hollywood Homicide (2003) — Forgotten for a good reason

“If I take my gingko, I can still remember where I put the viagra.”

Sue’s rating: I said I was sorry!

Sue’s review: Hollywood Homicide makes up my third and final mea culpa (yeah, this would be the mea maxima culpa) for getting so far behind on my review submissions that I was starting to have to leave the lights in my house off at night because Guido and Bubba (the finest enforcers Detroit money can rent) were camped out on my doorstep, scratching their heads and saying “Dur?” a lot.

Now I can give them each a cup of hot chocolate, pat them on their heads and send them on their way. Poor dears.

Oh yeah, the movie.

Hollywood Homicide might have come closer to becoming Wisconsin Suicide than either of the other kiss-n-make-up movies I reviewed for this little travesty of an idea (Catwoman and Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2). Let me explain why.

Imagine, if you will, that you’re sitting in a movie theater. It’s not crowded, but there’s a man a few rows in front of you. His cell phone keeps going off. The ringtone is the first six introductory notes of “My Girl”. It only has to go off twice before you realize that you will be hearing those six notes in your dreams and nightmares for the rest of your days. As the movie progresses, that phone keeps going off every three minutes or so.

You deduce that the guy is trying to work out some sort of real estate deal, juggling offers and counter offers in a growing frenzy of realtor desperation. It’s not like he’s trying to be subtle about it. I mean, there might be a wild car chase, or a frantic foot chase, or even a little bit of tantric tender lovin’ on the big screen, but that excremental phone just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing! Mr. Real Estate Mogul, oblivious to everything else around him, keeps wheeling and dealing, and you want nothing more than to choke the air out of him with a popcorn bucket and twenty pounds of Jujyfruits. As nice a person as you are, as civilized as you are, as kind to puppies and kitties and small children as you are, your hands are itching to wield a battleaxe for some quality evisceration time, baby. Your fingers are twitching, it’s just that bad.

But you can’t do anything about it. “Why not?” you ask me, in your empathetic way.

I’ll tell you why not, my friend.

The cell phone and the real estate brokerage are — and I am not kidding here — part of the movie.

Yes indeedy, that’s the grizzled, aging and clearly somewhat desperate for a job Harrison Ford with the phone, in the middle of what’s supposed to be an action/adventure/comedy movie extraordinaire.

Good Grief.

Regarding plot, the very condensed version is that four guys from a rap group get shot, two cops (one of whom is under investigation by Internal Affairs) are assigned to the case, and all of this is apparently secondary to the fact that one of them teaches Yoga, gets laid a lot, is wondering how his father really died, and is trying to learn the lines to “A Streetcar Named Desire,” while the other one just wants to sell a house and get a hamburger without mayo.

I’m reading over my last paragraph right now and my braincells are throwing themselves off a cliff by the thousands. That can’t be good.

The bottom line is that as hard as I try to find any single redeeming quality in this movie, I can’t come any closer than a foot pursuit involving a canal and one semi-humorous reference to duck poop.

Whoops, there go more brain cells. I’d better quit this before the voices get the upper hand.

So I’ll leave you with a new tagline, free gratis.

“Hollywood Homicide: the movie that kills you with the slow inevitability of a glacier. Watch at your own risk.”

Didja notice?

  • Eric Idle cameo? How the mighty have fallen.
  • Harrison Ford and Josh Hartnett practicing lines together might be the most wooden acting of wooden acting ever.
  • Lou Diamond Philips as a crossdressing undercover cop. Uhm… I give up.
  • Cell phones. Is there anything more annoying?
  • Possibly the most bizarre interrogation room scene ever. And I mean that.
  • Okay, does anyone really care that much about a stupid real estate deal?
  • When you count the bullets being shot, count carefully!

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