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MCN Columnists
Mike Wilmington

By Mike Wilmington Wilmington@moviecitynews.com

Wilmington on Movies: Tim and Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie

TIM AND ERIC’S BILLION DOLLAR MOVIE (One Half Star)
U.S.: Tim Heidecker-Eric Wareheim, 2012

I have just one thing to say about this sorry excuse for a movie — this nauseatingly taste-challenged, almost putrefyingly preposterous goulash of scatological gags, failed nonsense, barf jokes, poop jokes, piddle jokes, jokes that make you want to barf, poop and piddle — one thing to say about this inanely unfunny, deliberately misdirected or undirected farce about two nincompoops named Tim and Eric (played with zero zest by the cult comedy writer-directors Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim, of the prize-winning, well-regarded web series “Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!”), who blow a billion dollars of mob money (the Schlaaang Mob, run by Robert Loggia as demented gangster Tommy Schlaaang and William Atherton as right-hand crook Earle Swinter) spending it all on a moronic movie, starring an inept Johnny Depp impersonator (Ronnie Rodriguez), and are consequently marked for either full psyment of the squandered billion or a double-whack by the Schlaaang gang… but who manage to escape to the heartland and the sleazily ramshackle and falling-apart-at-the-seams Swallow Valley Shopping Mall –a bankrupt commercial “mecca” whose gallery of failing schlock shops are a sure cure for shopaholics — a hellhole inhabited by more idiots and a wolf or two, including the uncredited John C. Reilly as the affably deranged halfwit Taquito, the uncredited Will Ferrell as the stomach-churning con guy Damien Weebs, the uncredited Zach Galifianakis as the rustic simpleton Jim Joe Kelly (at least I think he was a rustic simpleton), Jeff Goldblum as “Chef” Goldblum, Twink Caplan as the strong-stomached love interest Katie, some poor shmo who owns a boutique that sells used toilet paper (this is not a joke), and the uncredited Bozo McWhizzy, in a cameo appearance as a talking hemorrhoid (this is) — all of whom should have refused credit but all of whom nonetheless take part courageously in this less than socko if mind-bogglingly daring entertainment in a series of quasi-comedy scenes so lacking in comedy that they seemed to have been dreamed up by the Society for the Prevention of Laughter for a semi-annual telethon on stamping out humor — a mind-boggling fiasco that sometimes made me feel as I’d been shrunk to the size of The Incredible Shrinking Man and dropped into a spittoon… in any case, I have zero stars and, as I said a while back, one word for the flabbergasting dreck that is Bill & Ted’s Billion Dollar Movie (excuse me, Tim and Eric’s Excellent Adventure, er Billion Dollar Movie).

Awful.

One Response to “Wilmington on Movies: Tim and Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie”

  1. Kevin says:

    You suck. Go watch Lorax with the rest of the baby boys.

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“Chad Harbach spent ten years writing his novel. It was his avocation, for which he was paid nothing, with no guarantee he’d ever be paid anything, while he supported himself doing freelance work, for which I don’t think he ever made $30,000 a year. I sold his book for an advance that equated to $65,000 a year—before taxes and commission—for each of the years of work he’d put in. The law schools in this country churn out first-year associates at white-shoe firms that pay them $250,000 a year, when they’re twenty-five years of age, to sit at a desk doing meaningless bullshit to grease the wheels of the corporatocracy, and people get upset about an excellent author getting $65,000 a year? Give me a fucking break.”
~ Book Agent Chris Parris-Lamb On The State Of The Publishing Industry

INTERVIEWER
Do you think this anxiety of yours has something to do with being a woman? Do you have to work harder than a male writer, just to create work that isn’t dismissed as being “for women”? Is there a difference between male and female writing?

FERRANTE
I’ll answer with my own story. As a girl—twelve, thirteen years old—I was absolutely certain that a good book had to have a man as its hero, and that depressed me. That phase ended after a couple of years. At fifteen I began to write stories about brave girls who were in serious trouble. But the idea remained—indeed, it grew stronger—that the greatest narrators were men and that one had to learn to narrate like them. I devoured books at that age, and there’s no getting around it, my models were masculine. So even when I wrote stories about girls, I wanted to give the heroine a wealth of experiences, a freedom, a determination that I tried to imitate from the great novels written by men. I didn’t want to write like Madame de La Fayette or Jane Austen or the Brontës—at the time I knew very little about contemporary literature—but like Defoe or Fielding or Flaubert or Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky or even Hugo. While the models offered by women novelists were few and seemed to me for the most part thin, those of male novelists were numerous and almost always dazzling. That phase lasted a long time, until I was in my early twenties, and it left profound effects.
~ Elena Ferrante, Paris Review Art Of Fiction No. 228

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