“Pocahontas, That Tree Is Talking To Me.”

ETA: Trying to get back to business as usual, at least for the moment, though fair warning: there may be more political talk in the future. There may also not be; I don’t have any specific plans right now. But just so you know, the majority of this review, save some minor edits, was written before nearly half of America decided to vote for an unrepentant and unqualified bigot, so. Nothing here past this paragraph is election and/or protest related.

Okay. For a variety of reasons, my Disney Princess Movie Challenge had to be put on hold for several months, which leaves me with just under two months now to watch six movies and review them. This does not sound difficult until you understand that I am not a fast writer, and anytime I spend here writing for fun is, very unfortunately, time I’m not spending writing for money, and look people, I like money. I’m not even going to lie about that. Even if my rent hadn’t just doubled, which is sort of a consideration, I also like it when I have the opportunity to spend cash for things; I have, like, zero qualms about my materialism.

Regardless, I really would like to finish this particular challenge after failing so abysmally last year on Best Picture Winners, so I’m going to give it a shot. When we last left off, Mekaela and I had just watched Aladdin for the first time in about 20 years. Now?

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Now I watch Pocahontas for the very first time. God help me.

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“Did He Just Throw My Cat Out of the Window?”

Here’s one thing you can say about Wes Anderson: he has a very specific aesthetic. You will never, ever catch one of his movies on HBO and think to yourself, Huh, I wonder who directed that.

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The Grand Budapest Hotel is no exception, and yet the movie still feels like a bit of a departure for Anderson. The screwball comedy I expected, the cast of eccentric characters engaged in various shenanigans . . . I anticipated the wacky hijinks that did, indeed, ensue. But the darker tones? The comically abrupt violence? The actual ending?

It’s fair to say that Wes Anderson and The Grand Budapest Hotel took me by surprise.

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“Once Upon a Time, in a Shitty Little Town . . .”

In Casa Verde — otherwise known as the St. George household — we only have a few rules.

1. Bring chocolate.
2. Mock as if there will be no tomorrow.
3. Watch any Jeremy Renner movie that has absolutely no chance of being nominated for an Academy Award.

Case in point?

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Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters is silly and campy and hugely dumb sometimes. But I must say, it’s still not nearly as bad as I was expecting.

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“Well, I Can Respect Your Opinion. Sadly, I’m Not Good at Rejection. I’m Afraid You’ll Have to Die.”

The worst thing about not being a professional movie critic is that it doesn’t matter how much time you spend working a review—you could write your little heart and soul out, bleed yourself dry, and you’re still not getting paid. On the other hand, the very best thing about not being a professional movie critic is that when you stumble upon a film that you’ve told yourself to review—even though you know full well that it is the kind of cinematic trash that will make you weep blood, the very sort of abject horror that you can’t possibly stomach without vast quantities of alcohol in your system—well, you don’t have to watch it without vast quantities of alcohol in your system.

Thus, may I present . . .

. . . The Batman & Robin Drinking Game!

(Please drink responsibly. AKA, don’t use vodka. You won’t make it four minutes.)

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“It Was An Off Day.”

Clearly, I will watch a terrible movie at any given time, just to make fun of it, regardless of mood, circumstance, rain, or shine; I am there for mockery with bells on. But my sister and I had a particularly crappy day recently, and we needed something to take our mind off of it, something ridiculous and campy and stupid.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner.

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