Netflix coughed up the new movie about Allen Ginsberg’s Howl last weekend. God, was I annoyed. I watched it for a half-hour and felt like throwing up. I don’t know what was worse, watching James Franco trying to imitate Ginsy (major fail—they'd have done better with Meryl Streep) or looking at those stupid Casper-the-Ghost animations flying around Manhattan. Just drape some guys in never-worn white t-shirts, show cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, a little saxophone music in the background, and we're transported right back to the Fifties, right, guys?
The worst of it was that the movie wasn’t—a primary feature of Howl—even funny. I returned this calamitous piece of shit to Netflix as soon as the objective circumstances permitted.
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The worst of it was that the movie wasn’t—a primary feature of Howl—even funny. I returned this calamitous piece of shit to Netflix as soon as the objective circumstances permitted.
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