For Me to Poop On

Not that I have seen it, but I'll take this guy's word on it, at least until it airs at 4 a.m. on TBS and I'm passed out drunk on the couch with the tube still on.

We! Are! Marshall! is dumb. Pointless. Bad. Poorly executed. Meandering. Clichéd. Sentimental in all the wrong ways.

Do go on.

We Are Marshall is the latest in a series of treacly inspired-by-actual-events sports films (Remember the Titans, Miracle, Glory Road, Invincible, The Greatest Game Ever Played), each worse than the previous, as the big studios attempt to mine every last fucking decent sports-related storyline to come out of the last
century, up to and until we are finally forced to sit through an inspirational
tale of 2004’s Pacers-Pistons “Malice at the Palace” and its aftermath (and true
to the “inspired by” template, the Pistons will be depicted as fire-breathing Nazis, 17 spectators will be mauled to death, and David Stern will execute Ron Artest by guillotine.

Interesting.

Seriously, in McConaughey’s long and storied career of loathsomely charismatic
roles, he completely outdoes himself here. He’s Dudley fucking Dooright with a
thick, honeyed drawl, and he provokes the kind of anger in me generally reserved
for Larry (the fucking) Cable Guy and the color commentary of Joe Theismann.

Uh-huh.

Of course, “The Young Thundering Herd,” as they are called, is no damn good...

Um, they still aren't.

Seriously though, I'd rather watch the Notebook for 48 straight hours than this pile of garbage.