Landman

I have a longstanding need to tell the Yellowstone fans in my life that Taylor Sheridan (creator of Yellowstone) used to make movies (Sicario, Hell or High Water, Wind River), which are far better than his TV shows. Problem is, they don’t know who Taylor Sheridan is. They think I’m just misremembering Kevin Costner’s name… my sister lives near and knows Kevin Costner, and my parents are Costner fans, and star-driven when it comes to entertainment. But I have nearly begged them all to see Sheridan’s movies, because they are his best work, made before he became the go-to king of Red America TV—sort of the red-state answer to Shonda Rhimes.

Now a dynamo of productivity, Sheridan has launched around ten TV series on the heels of Yellowstone’s success, the latest being The Madison. The problem is, Yellowstone is where it all started to go downhill. The other problem is, most of what he cranks out fuels the CBS/Paramount megalith in much the same way Jerry Bruckheimer once did—sucking all the oxygen out of the world and making something like a manly MAGAscape out of TV Land. Each time I’ve watched one of these shows, I’ve seen the seeds of smart themes alongside cringeworthy stereotypes and bravado. I’m convinced that Sheridan is smart enough to know exactly what he’s doing when he writes, directs, or even stars in (yes, he was a ripped mercenary in Lioness, etc) these shows. Landman is probably the best of them, both sincerely and ironically.

Landman is about a Texas oilman of sorts—an expert in drilling and exploiting fossil fuels, and holding complex leverage over competing interests, governments, drug cartels, and most of all, his rampaging, gonzo family. Billy Bob Thornton keeps all this from spiraling out of control by giving perfect deliveries of masterful monologues and jerkwater insults. His character is, in many ways, the straight man for a carnival of stereotypes—men and women, but mostly women—where “stereotype” is concerned. It’s all highly entertaining. It’s not quite “great television,” but it’s loud, proud, and informative in a skewed way (sometimes lapses into almost PBS-educational bursts about geology and sociology, revealing that the show is based loosely on a podcast about the oil industry). 

Most episodes have one poetic pause where a thoughtful theme such as mortality is engaged… and then we’re dunked into sloppy seconds on Landman’s oily hormonal wife, or his shameless cocktease daughter who is always caught in the maw of a leering camera lens that makes anyone familiar with the term “male gaze” check the attitude of other eyes in the room. This of course feels gross, and seems like a Taylor Sheridan obsession at this point. BUT, he’s always throwing curveballs (very obvious ones). For instance, Landman’s wife, Angela, loves strutting her stuff, greasing her cleavage, using sex as a commodity/weapon/honey trap, but she ALSO loves the elderly (spends half a season rescuing a retirement home from death-by-boredom by getting them alcohol and sex toys), does some domestic goddess stuff, and mercilessly attacks anyone who threatens her family. In short, she’s one tough bitch, as well as a whore with a heart of gold. You can fire “misogyny” potshots at the scripting, but there’s plausible deniability because Angela is, in theory, a tough cookie with a lot of pride and triumph. She’s also a shameless, shallow, mostly awful person you would hate in real life—ultra self-indulgent and spoiled, but she owns it.

Their daughter is even worse, but again, gets thrown little bones of decency to portray, between showing her tanned ass to geezers and going to college for little other reason than to chase a hunky football player, and showcase her privilege. We are occasionally treated to dialogue where she reveals she is smart enough to know the score in an “interpersonal economics” way, but she lives, like her mom, in a completely shallow, unexamined life, fueled by material girl concerns. Taylor loves to run her (and nearly all “hot females”) through the Texas tastemakers’ gauntlet of leering men, protective fathers, horny boyfriends, and woke culture clashes. There’s an elderly lawyer and an oilfield roughneck who both live in the community house with Landman’s family. Both men are treated daily to tantrums by Landman’s wife, and bikini stretching by the daughter, so there’s a ton of regretful ogling and figurative cold-showering, as well as apologetics from the Landman.

Billy Bob’s character is the ultimate pragmatist and truth-teller. He usually dominates his surroundings by knowing more and being fairly aggressive in the telling, but he also gets his ass beat by Mexican cartel goons (who compete with big oil for territory) and his wife, who is capricious and chaotic. His superpower is having everyman wisdom while also being a Dr House of delivering devastating lyrical whoop-ass that breaks people’s balls—the blunt bastard who is right, goddamnit!

Then we have the hot chick corporate lawyer. She’s Landman’s answer to Beth from Yellowstone. This gal is less vindictive than Beth, but she still fills Beth’s ecological niche: sharp-tongued bitch who will hand you your ass in court, or right here if you can’t wait. Also like Beth, she will spread her legs right quick if you’re man enough. I’ll call it a touch of “Red Sonja Syndrome,” after a character from Conan the Barbarian who essentially keeps to the code of “will bed a man if he can beat her in combat.” Not super healthy and kinda rapey by today’s standards. Taylor Sheridan likes weaving “law of the jungle” into his works, for sure.

Cooper, Landman’s son, is a reluctant hero who eats a lot of shit from his sister and raw circumstance, but he shapes up to be the sleeper genius of the fam. In his first year of oilfield exploration, he catches up to his dad in drilling acumen and soon has mad successes in Texas T. It’s way more complex than Jed Clampitt shooting a gun right into a gusher, but in the big picture, Cooper’s operating under lucky stars. His big hurdle is that he falls for a gorgeous señorita recently widowed by an oilfield accident. Coop then has to run the gamut of ways to prove his good intentions to her, win her love, and battle his way through the roadblocks of Mexican culture that might keep them apart. Mostly, he has to prostrate himself before her folks and abuela, while also showing enough machismo to fend off the jealous Mexican bros of her dead husband. I can’t say that Taylor Sheridan is wrong in his computations of this culture clash, but it’s often jammed on us hard with pithy quotes about “what (Mexican) women want.”

 Just when you thought you had all the stereotypes in this basket, here comes Sam Eliot to be the broke-down geezer grandpa. He’s Landman’s dad, pulled from a nursing home but ready to tussle. He will punch a guy in a cattle sale barn (a fave shooting location for Sheridan) and get in bar fights, but he’s introduced to us in a wheelchair—maybe its was just the despair of being “in a home.” The biggest problem is, this is Sam Eliot without a mustache. He still has the voice, but without the mustache, he has the face of the turtle from the 1970s Tootsie Roll Pops commercial. Fucking tragic. But, his character is a moaning trailer park casualty who never shuts up about sunsets that rip his soul bare like he’s snagged his dick with a treble hook. His dead wife—Landman’s mother—was apparently the worst rampaging mentally ill bitch who ever lived, and her nastiness had a “cowboy up” effect on her son but for her husband it was 100% “cowboy down.” Grandpa is all regret—until he gets a voluptuous stripper for a physical therapist (in the pool, no less). Suddenly he’s all charm and boners. And I will admit, one or two of his redneck “carpe diem” speeches not only put Landman in his place, but also achieve snippets of poetic impact. His miserable complaining sometimes crystallizes into life clarity, which is impressive for a live action Abe Simpson.

There’s also a side quest where Demi Moore survives her husband, Jon Hamm, and has to manage her inherited oil empire with the financial aid of the Mexican drug lord, who goes from being Landman’s deadly enemy to being his dangerous ally. This graying old drug lord also has a gorgeous wife we get to see in gowns, swimsuits, and underwear, so that’s nice. But the real thing to notice here is, when your side story stars Demi Moore and Jon Hamm, you know you’ve made it. Taylor’s rich pageant of character types and story tropes are so subtle you can hear them coming a mile away, but the drama that ensues now commands top talent and big ratings.

Did I mention that the pants-bulge of the Texas oilfields loves steak, beer, country music, and tits? Landman won’t let you forget it.

Stay tuned for a review of my favorite two-part storyline, where Landman’s daughter goes to college, gets a soulless non-binary roommate with a ferret, they hate each other, but then find mutual respect on the sports field. It’s enough to make you love-hate TV.

Gymkata

Is Gymkata stupid? YES.
Is Gymkata awesome? YES.

It is the action film that continuously asks, “How can we recreate “Enter the Dragon” for the tail end of the Cold War, using a gymnast as America’s secret weapon?” It also asks many other important questions, such as, “How do Kurt Thomas’s white pants stay so clean through so many battles to the death?” and “Can Kurt Thomas pull his white pants up any higher?” But most importantly, the age-old question: “Why, in the middle of a medieval hellhole town serving as an insane asylum for psychotic freaks so violent that none should still be standing, is there a crude-looking but otherwise REGULATION POMMEL HORSE?”

I first discovered Gymkata over a decade ago, on late-night TV, starting in the middle of the movie. This is the optimal viewing experience. Seen this way, the plot of the movie sloughs away, leaving the essential core: “A gymnastic, shorter version of MacGyver fights his way out of some kind of violent land of pure sadism. Surreal combat just won’t stop.”

Seen in its entirety, the movie drips with Hollywood clichés and cumbersome set-ups, not to mention the cheapest of twists. Our hero, Jonathan, must find his missing father, plus secure American military advantage in the sicko Islamoid (very ahead of its time in a Fox-News kind of portrayal of a backward nightmare Eurasian province) nation of Parmistan. Why the name reminiscent of an Italian cheese? You decide. For some fucking reason, this country makes all of its major political decisions based on “The Game,” a to-the-death footrace where a bunch of guys from different countries try to kill each other while a lot of low-skill ninjas also try to end their lives. If our man wins, America gets to put a Star Wars missile defense system there, or some shit. So, Gymkata kind of encapsulates the worldview of Ronald Reagan.

Parmistan is ruled by a nonsensical king who not only controls “The Game,” but also:
--resembles an offspring of Mark Twain and Joseph Stalin
--has a kung-fu badass daughter who looks Thai or Philippina, and is totally on our side
--is beloved by his people
--speaks perfect English and may not even be from his own country
--employs a military strongman who rides horses shirtless, spins and throws those 3-pronged knives that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Raphael uses, and lusts after the king’s daughter, AND commands the military (10 guys on horseback) in defiance of the king
--seems to run a nation of about 500 people

This film excels mainly at nonsense and offhanded cruelty. Our hero keeps it pretty clean, but even he succumbs once or twice to casual killing when killing is the name of the game. Highlights include: training montage where Jonathan learns to trust no one, and to anticipate silent attacks, culminating in the ability to walk up stairs on his hands; love triangle betwixt Jonathan, the princess, and the king’s chief guard; asshole international strength champion named “Thorg” who ignores our hero’s compliments, kicks our hero when he falls, then is killed by hogs and peasants with pitchforks; fights where gymnastic flips make even a glancing blow DEVASTATING; goddamn low-rent ninjas.

Where Gymkata really shines, however, is in its City of the Damned sequence. It shamelessly exploits actors with Down Syndrome and deformities to portray a place of psychotic inhumanity, but it also has a few genuinely bizarre, somewhat disturbing scenes:
--a priest in robes turns away, showing bare ass through backless garment
--a guy with a mask on the back of his head enters eerie combat after pretending to be a dummy
--a guy with a sickle chops off his own hand, apparently out of frustration for having missed his first swing at our hero
--stray dogs lapping at puddles of blood

The horror is constantly tamped down, however, by the onslaught of inescapably lighthearted gymnastic leaping, and of course the appearance of that universal symbol of hope and modernity, the pommel horse.

Finally, reaching his limits of endurance, Jonathan is pulled from the frying pan of dementia by none other than his long-missing father! They embrace, then a fucking ninja shoots Dad in the back with an arrow. He dies right away, gasping to his son, “Win!” Jonathan is juiced to the finish by this emotional imperative. He whips the remaining requisite asses, and luckily the princess beats a lot of ninjas down some stairs. One assumes that they will get to ride horses together, and hopefully get the hell out of Parmistan.

Addendum: On viewing a recent episode of "Globe Trekker," which explored Armenia, I was struck by the many parallels to Gymkata. I'm not kidding. If you watch Gymkata and think, "Man, I'd like to experience such a fearsomely backward land," consider a trip to Armenia.

Buddha and Bachelor Pad

Atheists and Christians, Buddhists and Jain,

Gather y'all and hear a story of human triumph! Lo it was not written, but unfolded in its own space with the pressure of gravity, like a lotus.

In the land of spray tans and whores, where the champagne is on tap and the bunk-beds are stacked, a game that honors God's creation has emerged. It goes by the name of Bachelor Pad.

Holy shit, did you guys see what Nick did?

I'll try to be clear and direct for those unfamiliar with the show. 'Isn't that the show with all the whores,' you ask? Yes. Yes, it is.

Everyone gets drunk and has sex and fights and schemes for money and the whole time you're watching you're saying to yourself, 'Wow, what it wrong with me? Something must be wrong with me that I'm watching this show,' but you watch and you watch and you hope that you can find a way to justify it.

Well, I've found the righteous path.

For years, (has it been on like three years, yet?) I've been waiting for this stupid show to live up to some imagined potential. Finally, it paid off.

Nick, the quiet guy, did the shitty thing and won all the money at the expense of his partner. His partner, Rachel Trueheart (I can't even make that name up), who never wanted to be his partner, was devastated because she missed out on the money and didn't have the courage to try to screw him over.

In Bachelor Pad, if you are the final "couple" you can vote one of three ways: 1. Vote to Share. If you and your partner vote to Share, you each win $125,000. 2. If one partner votes to Share and the other votes to Keep, the Keeper gets $250,000, and the Sharererer gets zip. 3. If you both vote to Keep, all the losers not slick enough to ascend the greased up Slip N Slide get the loot.

Nick said Keep. She said Share. He wins the whole burrito.

It was truly fantastic. I'll tell you why (because I feel your glare) -- he owned it. He stood up and clapped for himself while the audience and contestants held mouths agape.

Neither partner really liked each other, but the gracious deal, and the safe deal, was to share all the same. He knew it, everybody knew it, and he gave her assurances that he would share. Then, he pressed the Me button.

Nick seemed to understand the sad truth about this Bachelor Pad game from God: It is a horrible game to begin with! No one deserves to win! Even the biggest turd, Kalon, -- OMG, he called Emily's daughter baggage -- understood that. The premise of these one-winner reality shows like Survivor, Big Brother or Top Midget (this is my idea -- contact me for funding options), is I matter and you don't; It's a big game of King of the Hill. It's the same with sports. It's the same with capitalism. It's the same with everything, and the reason we're all going to hell.

'Isn't that the show with the whores?' Yes, yes, but...

Bachelor Pad is a constructed environment. It's a safe tent in the desert where none who enter are innocent. Don't you get it? Can you see what I see?

The glory of Buddha is found in the middle path! The glory of Christ lies on the cross! The atheist likes carrot cake. I lost where I was going, but if we are honest with ourselves, we know the 010101 pattern in life is a give-take thing. Self v. the Whole. Desire leads to dakka, compassion to peace, yadda, yadda -- most translate Dakka as suffering, but it is something more subtle.

Do I have to spell it out? What's best for the whole  -- and the whore, by the way -- is to have some room to be selfish. Not a crap-ton, but a reasonable amount. In daily life, that may mean a beer after your gig at the donut shop. On Bachelor Pad, it means Keep. Thanks for being awesome, Nick.

 

Conan The Barbarian (2011)

On a quest to enjoy the new Conan, follow these simple commands.

1. Don't pay full price.
2. Disable your inner Ebert.
3. Embrace gore and glorious tits.

After hearing nothing good about this movie, and seeing its 19% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I decided it would be a foolish waste of 90 minutes and three dollars. Well, that's what movies are for, right? When you're foolish.

If you can get through the first ten minutes, you're on the road to payoff. The main hurdles are Ron Perlman looking like Harry (and the Hendersons) of the Hill People, and a young Conan reminiscent of Ernie Reyes Jr, in martial precociousness if not in looks. It's actually not bad, mostly. Conan gets his lessons in patient pugilism and ice-capades. The bad guys are ridiculously, inhumanly bad and monstrous, which seems to justify their many spurting demises. Sometimes Ron Perlman seems much too wise for someone so visually smelly, but then, they do live in a wintry land that perhaps suppresses overwhelming body odor.

Other dumb things include:
Two or three big moments of REACH TO THE HEAVENS AND CRY VENGEANCE, Rose McGowan's witchy, bulbous forehead, and that old-but-tough guy from Avatar and Terra Nova. I mean, is he the ONLY old-but-tough guy available? I guess he'll do.

On the plus side:
A tribute to blacksmithing, a very pretty main girl, oddly helpful pirates, Conan volunteering for prison, winning the loyalty of a little guy, toe-curling torture revenge, cool backdrops, intimidating kung-fu gravel zombies.

Things to ponder:
The bad guy has a gross mask. First it is made of metal, with a flimsy broken piece that makes you think, "even if he glues it back, it will break again during any rigorous activity." Then he gets the piece back, which makes the whole thing turn fleshy and grip his face. Kind of sick, like a facehugger in Aliens.

The big penultimate fight with the flailing Cthulu octopus is visual spaghetti. I lost my bearings, and so did the film editor. Chaos slathered in CGI tentacles.

Considering the source material, a showcasing of worship-worthy tits is more obligatory than gratuitous, so don't beat yourself up about it. Actually, I don't know the source material, aside from the Frank Frazetta covers, always dripping with heroic flesh.

Jason Momoa (this Conan), who also plays Khal Drogo in A Game of Thrones, apparently has certain requirements for his services, much like Van Halen's legendary color-sorted M&Ms.
1- Executions by molten metal.
2- Pale, virginal leading ladies.
3- Glimpses of slave girls with the most spectacular racks in the realm. Breasts that break wills and wear down rewind buttons.

Despite their commonalities, these projects are not equal. If you consume only one fantasy epic this year, let it be Game of Thrones.

Overall, there's fun to be had here. Go in with low expectations and you might be pleased. Jason Momoa makes a more wily and rootin-tootin Conan than Arnold did, though both have their charms. The old version was more bleak, with greater attention to metaphysics. This one has more enjoyable scenery, jauntier travels in a richer world-scape, and of course, bloodier tits.

The Fury of "Latin Dragon"

she's as pretty as she is well mannered

The CW served up another 2 hours of awesome crap last weekend. Gary Busey leads a no-star cast, but if you watch, you will recognize several people enough to go, “THAT guy!”

for instance, this guy

Super-tatted Latino gangbangers and their super-slut stereotype ho-bags rob and destroy a market owned by one “that guy,” the Asian laundry man from Seinfeld. Then they unsportingly kill this old guy from a building marked “KARATE SCHOOL.” For some reason they seem to know a bunch of kickboxing or something even though they obviously rely on guns. The top bastard kicks the karate teacher off a high staircase into a pool, which ends his life. I think he also shot him, but for some reason the kicking was emphasized more. All in all, they screwed the pooch, because Latin Dragon disapproves of killing his old sensei.

Unfortunately for Latin Dragon, Gary Busey is behind it all. Ruining lives is his business and business is booming. He even has a scale model of his his big dream development, which he lords over like a bastard son of Mike Brady and The Kingpin.

The leading man does pretty good martial arts but his face is almost comedically emotionless. He is like a stuntman who demanded a leading role and surprisingly got it, then found his niche in being stony-faced.

HIGHLIGHTS
Opening Title: The word “LATIN” comes swelling out of a wall of stone masonry. Then the word “Dragon” comes blazing under it in a script of red fire! These heavyhanded fonts prime even whitey’s senses for action. No fuddy-dutty typography here, old son.

Latin Dragon and his muy caliente girlfriend go out to eat at a nice Mexican place. Right in the middle of a calm—even boring— discussion, this big Thor-like wrestler motherfucker strides in wearing very tight jeans. He pushes Latin Dragon beyond the limits of his cool by delivering some lines like “I hear you beaners like your tacos real hot!” Then he dumps hot sauce on their food and says something about illegal wetbacks taking American jobs. I think he says “beaners” TWICE. So they fight, which is the best part. But that’s not saying much. The Thor guy has to be beaten up two times in a row, because he’s full of meaty menace.

For some reason, the bad guys are into all the classic mistakes of the gloating villain: Lorenzo Lamas thinks he has corrupted Latin Dragon’s cop brother, so he commands him to shoot the chained-up Dragon. But the brother waffles, demands to “do it his way,” then unchains his brother and points his gun suspensefully. Then, Dios Mio, he has a flashback to playing guns with his brother in their childhood. So his brotherly love wins out, and he tries to shoot Lorenzo and Thor. But it’s a trick! His gun is empty and they shoot him. BUT, that gives Latin Dragon the moment he needs to unspool a lightning round of tight-jean kicks on his oppressors. Thus, they are finished, the crooked pricks!

Meanwhile, Gary Busey has been trying to force the hot chica to sign a bill of sale in the privacy of his car. For some reason, even though murder and such do not bother him, he will not attempt forgery--he needs that real signature from Latin Dragon’s lady. He gives her the pen. She gives him the pen back--jammed all the way through his hand--Ha! Sweet justice. Then I think she ran away.

Finally, Gary Busey’s last stand. He points a gun at our hero, but one more twist--it’s out of bullets! They are in a train station, so Latin Dragon does a flying jump of about 20 feet and kicks Busey out the door, onto the tracks at the instant a train roars by. Busey=obliterated. So they all go to church to pray for their neighborhood, but Latin Dragon goes to the pier to straddle his motorcycle in the tightness of his pants.

OVERALL
Points scored for pretty good fights (not by Hong Kong standards, but better than, say, Walker Texas Ranger), Gary Busey, dumbness, and considerable hotness of leading lady. I give Latin Dragon 6.5 out of 10 spicy peppers.

The Viking Sagas

I re-watched this movie and took notes for this review, then lost the notes. My wife said yesterday--"you mean we watched that movie a second time for nothing!?" So in the interest of imbuing life's suffering with meaning (and from memory), I give you: "Viking Sagas" starring Ralf Moeller.







Click here for trailer on You Tube.

First thing I noticed during the credits was lots of Scandinavian sounding names--good sign, right? Guess not. The main problem with this movie is the lead actor-- he's a German body builder who makes Schwarzenegger look like a true thespian. His range goes from stony-faced (used most of the time) to stony-faced with buggy eyes (used for killing people and having sex). He's a lumbering hulk. The story goes that he's the son of a warrior chief who didn't want him to be a warrior, so never trained him to fight (so how he got to be twice as beefy as all the other warriors?) Any way, the bad guys kill the father--who buys Ralf some time by disemboweling himself and then wrapping his intestines around a giant standing stone. This is by far the best scene in the movie. So Ralf escapes and goes to find The Best Warrior Ever to train him up so he can avenge his Fadder. When he finds him, he's like a paunchy middle aged Oak Ridge Boy with a mullet and a leather headband, and Ralf gets to deliver this classic line: "My Fadder wrapped his guts around a stone so I could find you." Well, they chuck the old spear around a while until Ralf can catch it in mid-air and whip it around and throw it back, then he's ready to go save the princess, defeat the bad guys, etc.

Other weird things about this movie: all the Vikings wear kilts (?), and the sound track is mainly didgeridoo. Oh, and they ride these tiny Icelandic ponies around, which is probably historically accurate, but looks silly as hell.

The landscape, which is Iceland, is actually really pretty, and I'll admit to enjoying the surreal spectacle of this muscle-bound beefcake bouncing along the barren countryside on his pony, holding his feet out so they don't drag the ground, while the didgeridoo warbles--but even that wasn't enough to make this worth watching, twice.

Do yourself a favor and watch "Arn the Knight Templar" twice instead.

Another Classic

I saw Red Riding Hood this weekend, but even though it was weak, it isn't really worth writing about. We got free tickets and free popcorn from a friend. In the darkness of the theater, she also handed us chocolate balls from the depths of her purse. They turned out to be soaked in the grape essence of a leaking container of grape-scented moist towelettes, which are called "wipes" here in the 21st Century, but for some reason I'm still uncomfortable saying "wipes.

Anyway, I had two realizations about Red Riding Hood. First, that it takes place in the spikiest village in the spikiest sylvan locale in existence. Don't let your kids do any running in this village unless you want to collect them later shish-kabobbed. Second, I felt dumb that it took me more than an hour to realize I was watching, essentially, a Twilight movie—same sort of teen protagonists, same director, same lame. I haven't actually seen any Twilight movies, so how was I to know? 

Therefore, I offer a remastered classic from 2010:

Just watched the last half of a good candidate for Worst Movie Ever: The Next Karate Kid, with a toothy young Hilary Swank doing a lot of crotchy walking and hambone squirrely acting. I mean, it's exactly the sort of movie one wants and expects out of the CW on a Sunday afternoon, so I can only express my gratitude for the following lessons:

As a rule, the greatest wisdom comes instantly, after no experience, no suffering, and only minimal contact with Pat Morita.

The more of an old Asian man you are, the more you radiate unearthly peace and power.

If you rub your hands together, you can heal any wound with the warmth generated.

As far as I could tell, the movie was written by a committee of 4th graders who were asked to raise their hands whenever they thought of a heartwarming cliche or a scary high-school threat.

Highlights include:

Swank gets in trouble for killing a roach in the monastery, thus pissing on all of life's sacredness. Later, she finds a praying mantis in a field and all is forgiven. As bonus wisdom, Pat Morita tells her that mantises touch one knee to the ground before striking, so she tries it and explodes with radical new power. She can now kick while jumping in slow motion... and with great wisdom.

Monks swing burlap sacks of grain to hit a teen girl unawares: on the third try, Morita tells her to focus, and she attains a sort of sixth sense for unseen attacks.

Pat Morita and the other "Karate Monks" drive to a bowling alley in a VW bus and end up beating the pants off a cocky bowling team whose captain wagers a dollar per point and makes fun of the monks. Using unorthodox bowling styles, the monks reap many strikes. The other guys, who are serious enough about bowling to have their own shirts, bowl terribly and end up having to pay like 300 dollars to the monks, who accept the money with great mock-honor. How did they do it? "Bowling zen."

Swank and her boyfriend go to a high-school dance after Pat Morita buys her a perfect-fitting dress even though there's no way he would know her size. He also tricks her into learning to dance by showing her karate moves that emulate a waltz. She is very pleased to find that she is now a natural at romantic dancing.

In the middle of the dance, paramilitary teens careen down from the ceiling on cables and smash the decorations, apparently just to show Swank's boyfriend that he mustn't have any fun and he'll never know peace until they grow tired of challenging him in public. They walk off with great lack of wisdom.

A mean paramilitary teen throws sand in Swanky's eyes during their fight. The tide turns against her, until Morita says FOCUS, and she regains her sixth sense by putting her hands together, thus sensing the impending kick. She swats her opponent away with great wisdom.

A near-slow-mo fight finale between Pat Morita and Michael Ironside that proves 1) good triumphs over evil no matter how old, 2) no one involved in the production knows any martial arts, 3) freak-out paramilitary teens who just torched your car and gang-beat your boyfriend will see the error of their ways when a small Asian man defeats their mentor in mild combat, and 4) the best way to end a fight is with humorous mercy--in this case, blowing lightly in the face of Michael Ironside instead of gouging his eyes out.

Unlike other Hilary Swank movies, we luckily never see her bush.