Aaron R. Davis

Excuse me while I take care of some business.

Dear Joel Silver:

As far as I can tell, you’re the only one who doesn’t want to see a Veronica Mars movie. But you’re also the one who couldn’t make a Wonder Woman movie work, either, and your big innovation was to turn it into a coming-of-age story with a hot teenager in the role. Are there any women producers at Warner Bros. who could handle Veronica Mars — or any other movie about women — instead?

Sincerely,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Internet:

The humor value of simply pasting Mr. Bean’s head onto something has been vastly overrated.

Keep reaching for the stars,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear TMZ:

Talking about a teenager’s sexuality from behind a veil of stern disapproval and assumed moral authority is really just a less honest way of exploiting a teenager’s sexuality.

Seeing right through your bullshit,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Cute Overload:

How come you never think my bunny is cute? My bunny is so cute he’ll give you diabetes just looking at him!

Adorably yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Sarah Palin supporters:

Are you fucking kidding me?

Laughingly yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Dax Shepard:

I am prepared to fight you to the death for Kristen Bell. Do not test me on this.

Murderously yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Elmo:

Aaron didn’t used to like you. Aaron worked in retail when the Elmo Craze was going full swing. But now Aaron doesn’t mind you so much, because Aaron despises Abby Cadabby much, much more. So Aaron and Elmo are cool now.

Muppet fo’ life,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Apple fanboys:

“Get a Mac” is not actually helpful advice when I’m frustrated and trying to fix my PC. It is, however, a good way to get me to punch you in the throat. You want to talk Mac vs. PC some time, fine, but right now is not the time.

Warningly,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Family Guy viewers:

Please explain to me why spousal abuse is supposed to be so damn funny. Also: Quagmire’s a rapist … why is that hilarious?

Quizzically yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear kids on the Internet whining about whether or not Miley Cyrus’ clothes make her a slut:

There’s a gigantic oil leak. Go clean off some birds; it’s doing something for your planet and it builds character. Or get a job this summer. Or play sports. Or read a book (a REAL book, not Twilight). Or volunteer somewhere. Or lock yourself in a sensory deprivation chamber until your head clears. Anything to get some perspective.

Helpfully yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Twilight fans:

I just don’t get it. But you know what? I don’t have to for you to enjoy it. So leave me alone.

Sparklingly yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Internet:

Saying “internets,” “intertubes” and “inner tubes” is no longer funny. Act accordingly.

Editorially yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Rastafarian dude on Wife Swap:

You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re not as clever as you think you are. You refuse to work and take care of your family. Your religion is not an excuse to be obnoxious, selfish and judgmental. If you don’t shut the fuck up, I promise you Ja will provide a left hook to your I.

Punchingly yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear dudes on 16 and Pregnant:

If you really love your pregnant girlfriends, stop sticking them on the backs of ATVs. They’re pregnant!

Level-mindedly yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Guy Whose Website Has Pop-Ups That Won’t Close Because They’re Showing Seven Copies of the Same Annoying Video Ad:

Make peace with your life. Because I am going to track you down. And when I find you, I am going to murder you.

See you soon,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Tim Burton:

You used to be cool, man. What happened? Why have all your movies in the 21st Century been so damn bad? Leave the daddy issues to Steven Spielberg and get back to making movies that are fun or enveloping or at least watchable. Seriously, I just saw Alice in Wonderland, and it is your WORST movie. Worse even than the execrable (and unnecessary) Planet of the Apes remake. I went into it expecting it to be bad, and yet somehow, it was far worse than I could have possibly imagined. This is the kind of shit you’re passing off as artistry now? Wow, fuck you. What a bad, bad, bad, stupid, obvious, conventional, shit movie.

The only redeeming factors in the whole thing were Danny Elfman (big surprise, since he’s been doing the heavy lifting for you for years), the creative artistry of Imaginism Studios and Anne Hathaway having the grace to at least look vaguely embarrassed to be in such a stupid movie. I hate you for making this. I hate you because it’s sad to think of the kind of great movie someone could have made out of Alice in Wonderland with the resources you had at your disposal. And I hate Johnny Depp for giving up acting and becoming a cartoon at Disney’s beck and call.

Fuck this movie. And fuck you, Tim Burton.

From
Aaron R. Davis

Dear TMZ:

I get it. You guys really hate Lindsay Lohan. The thing is, no one else cares anymore. Move on.

Up-jump the boogie,
Aaron R. Davis

Dear Mars:

Please make Coconut M&M’s FOREVER.

Tastily yours,
Aaron R. Davis

Aaahh … with all of that out, it’s time for me to enjoy my summer.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com.

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Aaron R. Davis

That word? Penis.

At least, that’s what my weird friend Harlan thinks.

Now, we can all tell from watching his films that Steven Spielberg is an emotional child, spending a life directing movies where men are weak and incapable, women are distant or emotionally disapproving and childhood is revered to an embarrassing level. But how, pray tell, are they also about the penis?

“It’s obvious,” Harlan says. “Just watch the damn things. Penis symbolism is everywhere. Spielberg is terrified of not being able to measure up, so it’s all about either conquering it or mastering it. And that’s it.”

Seriously? Well, let’s just ask Harlan what Spielberg movies are “really” about, shall we?

Duel: “A henpecked man is chased across the country by an 18-wheeled penis that might as well be named Patriarchal Disapproval.”

The Sugarland Express: “A henpecked man uses guns as penis substitutes in order to win the approval of his deranged wife.”

Jaws: “A hydrophobic man has to go into the water and prove that even though he’s not a scientist or a manly, crusty old shark captain, he can still conquer the 25-foot tooth-filled penis that’s terrorizing his island community.”

Close Encounters: “A henpecked man reclaims the wonder of his childhood by meeting aliens at the top of a giant stone penis.”

1941: “Submarines, planes and childish glimpses at garters. The whole thing is Spielberg jacking off to things he thinks he remembers from his childhood, even though he was born after World War II. It plays like it was made by a 12 year-old.”

The Indiana Jones movies: “It’s all about fatherhood: first he’s a big kid who apparently date-raped his substitute daddy’s little girl; then he’s a man-child whose best friend is a little orphan kid; then he spends an entire movie trying to gain daddy’s approval; and finally the roles are reversed and he’s the daddy, only he’s desperate for his son’s approval. Plus, he carries a big flaccid penis that he’s overly fond of — his whip — and he’s terrified of snakes. Come on, are you blind?”

E.T.: “A boy with an absent father and an emotionally distant mother learns to play with himself. E.T. is the penis; his neck even becomes erect when he’s excited. At the end, the boy’s penis is placed among the heavens.”

The Color Purple: “A man beats and rapes his wife for years because he wants his father’s approval. Penis as instrument of revenge and self-loathing.”

Empire of the Sun: “Boy dreams about flying his own penis.”

Always: “Richard Dreyfuss explodes while flying his own penis. Maybe he wasn’t careful enough. Has to find Holly Hunter a substitute penis so he can get into heaven.”

Hook: “Henpecked Peter Pan hangs out with children and can’t remember how to fly until he loves being a father enough. Because he made his kids with his penis. That’s why Captain Hook is such a dandy: he needs to dress up his flaccidness in order to hide his fears of impotence.”

Jurassic Park: “Well, it’s a creation thing: Richard Attenborough’s dinosaur ‘children’ turn on him because, I don’t know, he’s so emotionally distant or incapable or something. So, in this case, the penis is science, and what he created with his penis turns out to be uncontrollable. Daddy issues all over the place.”

Schindler’s List: “A man makes up for his past as an ineffectual wastrel by becoming an emotionally distant daddy to the Jewish people. And his factory makes penis substitutes — bullets, shells, bombs — that don’t actually work …”

Amistad: “Anthony Hopkins is a flaccid ex-president who becomes a condescending father figure to a patronizingly childlike but virile black man. Have you noticed that, after Hook, Spielberg really started deifying or forgiving the older, less virile men? I wonder what was going on in his life then.”

Saving Private Ryan: “Tom Hanks is literally a teacher; he teaches Jeremy Davies how to find the strength to use his penis (his rifle) to serve his country (by killing that Nazi at the end … with his penis).”

A.I.: “A robotic Pinocchio abandoned by his mother searches high and low for a real penis. Did you notice that even the robots aren’t masculine? Spielberg fears manliness as much as he craves to claim it. You know what I think they should’ve called that movie? Fuck You, Daddy, I’m Not Impotent.”

Minority Report: “Tom Cruise tries to outrun a bunch of metal penises and prove his heterosexuality by caring for a child who can see the future.”

Catch Me If You Can: “Leonardo DiCaprio impersonates a bunch of virile men in order to gain the approval of a parade of father substitutes.”

The Terminal: “Impotence; all of those flying penises and Tom Hanks is trapped in a vagina — er, airport terminal.”

War of the Worlds: “Penises attack from outer space. Come on, the plane crash alone … planes are a common Spielbergian symbol for cock — the flight of manliness. Oh, and God kills the giant alien penises with a venereal disease because they’re not using protection during their wanton rape of the planet.”

Munich: “Eric Bana tries to overcome his impotence by following in his father’s footsteps and killing Arabs. With his penis.”

Okay, I think he’s stretching towards the end, but some of it makes a terrifying kind of sense. According to Harlan, this stretches over into some of the movies Spielberg only produced, like The Goonies (“A kid plays in a cave until he finds his One-Eyed Willie”) and Transformers (“A kid plays with giant alien dildos to impress Megan Fox, then has a disturbingly implied three-way with his robot car at the end”).

All I’ve learned from this is that Steven Spielberg films are unconsciously horrifying. But so, readers, is my friend Harlan. He is a horrifying man.

And that’s without going into his theories on Pixar films and how they’re all about sexual inadequacy.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com.

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Aaron R. Davis

I’m not sure why I keep watching the MTV Movie Awards. They haven’t been funny in a decade, at least. Remember how they used to be? They were supposed to be the fun awards that no one took seriously; they were never as anti-establishment as MTV claimed they were, but the Movie Awards deflated so much of the pretentious self-love of award shows and reveled in its own ridiculousness.

At some point, I guess after the original MTV Generation got old enough to move on to other channels, a decision seems to have been made to take the MTV Movie Awards as seriously as the Oscars. They went from being anti-establishment to considering themselves, for people from ages 12 to 35, the establishment. And the seriousness with which they now approach handing out awards for movies tweens think are good only serves to highlight the incredibly bad taste of tweens.

Now, don’t get me wrong here. I was a kid once, too. They didn’t call us “tweens” then, but I was still in a marketable demographic. I know it sucks when some adult comes along and starts talking about how the things you like are stupid. But don’t worry: one day you grow up, rediscover something you absolutely loved when you were young and then you realize how damn stupid it really was.

That’s why the 80s nostalgia of my generation really makes me want to puke sometimes: I can only sit through so many terrible remakes of TV shows and movies from my childhood, so many watered-down versions of things that were generally meant to appeal to an untempered and inexperienced taste, without wanting to scream. Kids, my pop cultural touchstones don’t have to be your pop cultural touchstones, and I’d like Hollywood to realize that taking something as silly and fun as G.I. Joe and trying to make it something more “realistic” that appeals to both of our age groups only serves to highlight the inherent silliness in a way that isn’t fun. You guys should have your own stuff that I’m not supposed to like. Sure, the truly great things will shine forever — much like every generation (including mine) is sure it’s the first to really appreciate the Beatles — but some things are meant to stay behind in your childhood without following you into maturity.

In other words, just because you loved hopscotch as a kid doesn’t mean you should start forming pickup matches as an adult. Move on with your life.

This is the real problem with the MTV Movie Awards. Not that the categories are stupid — they should be — but that MTV wants to have things both ways. They want to create an irreverent, loose, fun, unserious awards show … but they want you to take it as meaningful and important in pop culture. And I’m sorry, but no one is ever going to take an award show seriously as a tastemaker when it’s giving its “real” awards to fucking Twilight.

And this is why I hate MTV. It’s now making demands on me that I take fucking Twilight seriously as cinematic art. It’s not the tween-friendly alternative to the stuffy old Academy Awards. It’s seriously saying that fucking Twilight is a major cinematic achievement.

Really. Fucking Twilight.

I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough of MTV taking the pituitary cases from Jersey Shore and telling me I’m supposed to accept them as legitimate celebrities simply because it’s airing on MTV and not on Animal Planet where it belongs. (I could at least accept that thing as an anthropological study of how privilege breeds a total lack of worth; I really hope, when our society collapses, the only thing future alien explorers have to judge our society by isn’t Jersey Shore.)

I’ve had enough of MTV throwing some kid whose balls haven’t even dropped yet in my face and telling me he’s the future of music. I was dubious enough when MTV took N’Sync at face value. I refuse to let them convince me that Justin Bieber is important, worthwhile, talented or even a person.

I’ve had enough of MTV worshiping at the altar of Michael “Accused Child Molester” Jackson as if simply being dead erases all of someone’s faults. Musical genius? Sure, once upon a time. Pop culture manipulator? Definitely. Relevant to music? Not since the 1980s ended, guys. Everything after that was a reclusive eccentricity that Howard Hughes would have found weird. Just because he recorded “Thriller” doesn’t mean it’s not weird that a grown man built an amusement park on his lawn and invited little boys to sleep over. I know, I know, Michael Jackson was acquitted. So was OJ.

I’ve had enough of MTV trying to convince me that Mike Tyson is cute just because he was in a popular comedy last year. The guy’s still a rapist and I don’t like seeing him frolic around with kids at an award show.

And I’ve had more than enough of MTV — and the entire news media — shoving the image of Scarlett Johansson and Sandra Bullock kissing in my face. It wasn’t funny, and it wasn’t hot: it was just predictable. It wasn’t even a kiss. They just put their faces together for an awkward second and the audience went crazy and started howling like masturbating monkeys. Stop talking about how they “made out.” You’re just giving MTV — and by extension, Justin Bieber and Mike Tyson and the Situation and fucking Twilight — the legitimacy they crave and don’t deserve.

I hate MTV.

Tweens, instead of enjoying the sensation of advertising dollar-driven programming execs kissing your ass and telling you how much your terrible taste matters for as long as they can make money off of it, why don’t you get off the Internet, go to the Gulf of Mexico and clean the oil off of some pelicans? We’ll all feel better in the long run. Sure, MTV cameras won’t be there, but these days, that’s how you know it’s important.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com.

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Aaron R. Davis

Living in a college town is especially wonderful if you don’t care what happens to your car. It’s unfortunate, then, that I do care what happens to Flynn, my 1996 Ford Escort. I don’t remember how long I’d actually lived here when I came out to find her passenger door had been effectively smashed. Yes, the kids here are so dumb that they can’t swerve to avoid parked cars. Maybe if they didn’t drive through parking lots at 35 mph, but whatever.

Driving on the road with these entitled little bitches isn’t exactly a joy either. A bunch of whinybabies who have no business behind the wheel, and they have to drive everywhere, no matter how close it is. All over town, driving 10 to 25 miles over the speed limit, making sharp curves around blind corners, driving the wrong way on a one-way street (yes, I have seen this, many times), and not realizing that they’re pulling out right in front of you until they’re halfway there.

And, if the police blotter is remotely accurate, at least 38 percent are drunk and/or high and/or uninsured and/or unlicensed and/or have a suspended license and/or have a failure to appear warrant out on them. I wonder if a cop wins a prize if he pulls over somebody with all of the above.

Yesterday was kind of typical of these punk kids. Sometimes it’s hard to pull out of my apartment complex, especially in the morning between 7:30 and 9:30. I live on a major street, and there’s just a lot of traffic. So, I’m waiting for some semis and such to drive past me on their way to the I-39 exit, and this girl behind me in an Oldsmobile Alero decides that two minutes is quite long enough for her to wait. Cigarette cocked in her mouth, sour look on her face, she honks at me. And it’s a slightly sustained honk, too, about five seconds long. Well, I can’t drive through trucks, so I just shrug and put up my hands. Sorry, your majesty. Life sucks, get a helmet.

Finally, almost a minute later, when I can pull out, she tears off after me. The street is wet from rain, and as I make the left turn into the left lane heading east, I hear her tires spinning on the pavement. After nearly getting hit by a garbage truck barreling towards her, she gets into the median lane, which is only for people on both sides making left turns. She gets next to me and does that swerve thing, pretending she’s going to hit me. I immediately start itemizing a list of what she’s going to pay to fix if she hits my car (no, your honor, my transmission was fine before the accident). Bitch speeds past me, cuts me off and darts ahead of me doing at least 45 in a 30. Then she slows down and we hit a red light. Apparently, she’s going to teach me a lesson about making her wait, because when the light turns green, she waits. And waits.

Frankly, I find her infantile behavior painfully funny at this point, and I start laughing so loud that she can hear me in her car. That just pisses her off, and as I make the “come on, let’s go” motion with my hand, she gives me the finger. Look, only dumb people give the finger, alright? It’s not clever, it doesn’t hurt my feelings and it just confirms my opinion of you as a dumbshit Neanderthal who shouldn’t even be driving, anyway.

“Are we going, or not?” I call out my window. Well, gee, I thought she was in a hurry.

All I can think of are the poor anesthesiologist and nursing staff waiting with a knocked-out patient for the brain surgeon to arrive.

Finally, she rushes off, remembering her appointment with the political dignitaries (well, it’s not like they’re going to wait for her). All she’s really done is given me enough time to write down her license plate number for later use. I mean, the fucking idiot lives in my apartment complex, it’s not like I haven’t found out where she parks yet. Moron.

My first thought was to call the police and give them her plate number, telling them that some woman was driving erratically and at high speeds, weaving in and out of traffic, and had tried to run me off the road. My second thought was to find out who she was and contact the parents who probably gave her the car so I could let them know that the next time their precious little darling sociopath harasses me it’ll be a legal matter. But now I think I might just let the air out of her tires.

Or I won’t do anything, because, honestly, what the fuck do I care?

Great job, parents. You’ve raised an entire generation of impatient, entitled me-monkeys who wouldn’t think twice about killing or maiming somebody just to get three blocks.

Anyway, just for the hell of it, I just came up with some rules. I wish I could post these around town for the college babies. Although the City Council seems willing to do anything that makes life more difficult for these kids, so who knows?

1. I drive the speed limit. 30 mph too slow for you? I don’t care. Go around me. And don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re going to hit me, because I will let you, and then you can explain to the cops how you’re too good to go the posted speed limit.

2. Don’t expect me to care or even know that you’re late for something. It’s not my problem that you’re too lazy to leave on time. I’m not going to speed up just because you’re late.

3. Honking and/or tailgating means one thing to me: you want me to slow down.

4. I don’t care what you do in front of me, just do it fast.

5. If you cut me off, at least give me the goddamn common courtesy of a signal. If you fail to signal, I don’t know where you’re going, so don’t be incredulous when I ram you and then claim the accident was your fault.

7. Don’t signal AFTER you’ve already started turning. What’s the point now? I already know where you’re going, you impatient little idiot.

8. Turn off your signal after you’ve made the turn. Stop making me guess what you’re doing. Show me a little goddamn courtesy and I will do the same.

9. Look both ways before pulling out, not as you’re pulling out.

10. Pedestrians do not have the right of way. My car is a constant on the road. You have to take that into account when you’re darting out in front of me, even when you see me coming. If you’re jaywalking across five lanes of traffic, don’t be surprised if you end up in the hospital.

Follow those rules and we’ll all get along, you dig?

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com.

Aaron R. Davis

Legendary Pictures announced recently that they’re going to attempt what Roland Emmerich made seem impossible: a good American Godzilla movie.

Obviously, I’ll reserve judgment until I see the film, but I can’t say I’m too enthused by the idea. I’m gun shy after dealing with what we did in 1998: a nightmarish creation, shambling around and destroying everything it touched in fire, noise and pain. And that was just the movie. There was also the lame Godzilla redesign to deal with, which took the familiar rubber suit and turned it into … a dinosaur. With a big chin. Which breathed fire.

So, since no one asked me and my opinion carries no weight in the real world, here is my probably-not-unique list of things the filmmakers behind the new American Godzilla should keep in mind.

1. Godzilla is not a dinosaur.
This was one of many things the Roland Emmerich movie got completely wrong. After all of the excitement that was built up through teaser trailers — one of which even went to the trouble of flat out showing us Godzilla was so much cooler than dinosaurs — what we basically got was an iguana that had been turned into a T. Rex. If it hadn’t been five years after Jurassic Park — and just one year after The Lost World — it could maybe sorta kinda have been impressive. But by that point, we’d seen it already. It was old hat.

2. Godzilla is not a dragon.
Yes, if you want to get technical, Godzilla is scaly and gigantic and breathes fire. But he’s still not a dragon. He’s something different, and shouldn’t be treated like any of the dragons we’ve already seen in movies, or like some kind of classic/medieval creature. Godzilla has to be something apart from that. Again, dragons are old hat now, you have to approach Godzilla differently.

3. Godzilla is a man in a suit.
Seriously, what else can you do that’s going to look right? So what if it’s cheesy—that’s the Godzilla that all of us Godzilla fans have known and loved for decades. It’s what works. Jeez, Godzilla even looked bad when he was animated for that crappy cartoon; what’s the point of monkeying around with design so much that it becomes something that’s no longer Godzilla? That mistake was already made. If you’re going to go CGI, you really need to stick as close to the established model as possible. Otherwise, it’s not Godzilla. If it ain’t broke — and it ain’t — don’t fix it.

4. Don’t hide your special effects.
Another of Emmerich’s mistakes was going into a Godzilla movie without any faith in the crappy computerized redesign. How do I know this? Because you never get to see Godzilla clearly in the damn movie. He’s always in the rain, in the water, in the darkness, in the muck, obscured by buildings, hit by explosions. Excuse me, but I didn’t pay good money to see half-glimpses of an iguana rex in the dark, I paid to see freaking Godzilla.

5. We all know what Godzilla is; there’s no need for an origin story.
Although I’m sure we’ll have to waste time on one and give it some kind of environmental message.

6. Nut up and give Godzilla a monster to fight.
We don’t need yet another American movie where the Army and New York react to some threat and then it all gets fixed because Ferris Bueller runs around a lot. God, I’m getting bored just writing that. Stop pussying out and only giving us Godzilla because you think you’re starting a franchise. That’s the mistake a lot of movies make, and we in the audience can feel your failure of nerve. Godzilla needs to fight a monster, not just rampage while everyone freaks out. Who cares? We all know the humans are always the most boring characters in a Godzilla movie. Especially if one of those humans is Matthew freaking Broderick.

(Corollary to the redesign notice: you can go nuts designing monsters for Godzilla to fight.)

7. Godzilla is a force of nature.
There’s no morality to Godzilla. The only reason he should ever fight another monster is because the monster is in his way. He doesn’t do it because it’s right or because the other monster is evil: he does it because he wants to kill it. Hell, in the past, humans have actually created monsters (like Mechagodzilla) just so that they could kill Godzilla with them. So none of Godzilla defending the planet from aliens or turning him into a child-friendly buffoon with silly comic relief or anything like that: Godzilla is a monster. He doesn’t have a Fay Wray.

8. This is the most important: the audience roots for Godzilla.
Godzilla is the hero of the film. He may not be the good guy, and he may be killing people, but he’s still the protagonist. The star of a Godzilla movie is Godzilla. Did you really want to see, in Emmerich’s movie, Godzilla getting tangled up in a suspension bridge and slaughtered with missiles while we watched as, in slow motion, his heartbeat stopped and the light went out of his eyes? I sure didn’t. It was excessive and cruel, and needlessly drawn-out.

Godzilla almost always goes back to the ocean in the end, and I think that’s how it should be. We love Godzilla the same way we love the other monsters of cinema, no matter how malevolently they act. And though we know they must die in the end, we also know that they don’t. Jason will return; Dracula can never be wholly defeated. That’s part of what makes these movies enjoyable. Keep that in mind.

You know, Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio wrote a pretty decent script about 15 years ago for the American Godzilla movie. It wasn’t perfect, and it also isn’t the one Emmerich used. But in that script, Godzilla rampaged for the first half, and then fought another monster in the second half. Then he triumphed and went back to the ocean. That’s pretty much the classic Godzilla story right there. You want to establish him as a threat? Give him half the movie to stretch his legs. But in that second half, there’s a lot more to do than just watching people get chased by dinosaurs at Madison Square Garden.

If Hollywood really thinks it can do Godzilla again, more power to them. I just hope they do it right this time, and not make such a shattering disappointment. But remember: Godzilla is the star, not Sam Worthington or whatever low-tier B actor ends up starring in the flick. The sooner Hollywood figures it out, the better the movie’s going to be.

Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at samuraifrog@yahoo.com.