Against Garry Marshall

You probably don't know who Garry Marshall is. He was a comedian and writer for TV shows in the 50's, 60's and 70's. Now, he makes movies. Terrible movies. Well, no. That's a bit harsh. Not terrible, just thoroughly mediocre. So mediocre, through and through, that it's depressing even to learn of their existence.

You see, when a movie is bad, truly bad, there is something to be gained from it. A lesson, perhaps. Or a laugh. I'm not sure. The point is, a bad movie is a joke. We all like jokes, don't we? Yes, of course we do.

However, a movie that is designed and built expressly for the purpose of being mediocre is, well, a horse of a different color. There's nothing to be gained there. It's got no character, good or bad. It's not art. It's just... a thing. A blank entity. A hole in space and time. Last night I mortgaged my future by watching Jason Goes To Hell: The Final Friday. It was really bad. Among other crimes, it failed to live up to it's explicit promise of showing Jason Going To Hell. But I enjoyed myself nonetheless, because it was trash. Wholesome, stupid, doo-daa garbage. It was bad. It was funny. And it kept me company before night-night.

Today, I've learned that Garry Marshall has been paid - yet again - to assemble bankable actors into a romantic comedy that will be forgotten in less than a fortnight. He has been paid to give young couples a trifle to build a date around, before retiring to an unsatisfying night of dry-humping, or dejected masturbation. Now that I know, the knowing has made me sad. I do not yet have the means to make Garry Marshall sad in return. But I do have a blog with a readership of two. I have a voice. I have a means to shake my angry rooker in the air with impotent fury and condemn. And I do condemn. I condemn Garry Marshall to living death, and eternal hunger for living blood.