The Alamo opens this weekend.

Despite, or maybe because of, the generally bad reviews, If I can convince Angela to see it I might go (she's a transplanted Texan and therefore the control subject by which I will set the bullshit meter), but I must point out there has never--and I mean never--been a good movie made about the Alamo. It's a cursed property. The advance word on this one is particularly bad; months ago when they were running it for test audiences I heard disturbing rumors of Davie Crockett all but wetting himself during the battle. Call me a rube, but I prefer my heroes steely eyed and devil-may-care, and I don't care to see the King of the Wild Frontier gibbering in the corner with fear.

Excellent snark:
No one here gets out alive, not the director, not the screenwriters (a phone book's worth), not the cast, and not the audience, who, a few dollars lighter and a few hours closer to death, get a chance to glimpse their own mortality reflected in the dead, shark-eyed glare of the bankruptcy of another big-budget prestige picture.
That's just good writin'.

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