Movie Review - Star Wars: The Last Jedi

By movie critic, Scooter Van Neuter

It was with no small amount of anticipation that I went to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi yesterday. I wish I could say that anticipation was rewarded, but alas, I simply cannot.

On my arm was longtime girlfriend, Sissy, who looked simply awesome in her outrageously sexy Princess Leia outfit in honor of recently deceased actress Carrie Fisher. As it turned out, Sissy's wardrobe decision was a prophetic one, as Fisher played a prominent role in this movie.

Unfortunately, our moviegoing experience got off to a rocky start when the consistently crappy AMC Deer Valley IMAX theater failed to provide the VIP comped tickets and refreshments I had requested. I know for a fact that Rex Reed never has to pay for a ticket and is routinely provided with a spectacular meat and cheese assortment with complimentary wine. Message to AMC: If you want me to favorably promote your theaters, stop leaving the damaging Yelp reviews, and accidentally peeing all over the wall next to the urinals, I suggest you extend the respect my online notoriety demands. 

After paying an illiterate mutant a small fortune for the tickets, we proceeded to the snack bar where a surly, low-functioning teenager with black lipstick, nail polish, and what appeared to be large rubber grommets in his earlobes proceeded to anally rape us to the tune of $13.97 for a bucket of cold popcorn flavored with what may have been yak urine and the sweat from a South African diamond miner.

To add insult to injury, when Sissy went to the popcorn station to augment her snack, 'butter flavor' sprayed from the filthy, half-clogged dispenser all over her decoledge decoletage boobs, causing the big one to slip the surly bonds of her snug Princess Leia top and pile-drive the bucket of popcorn all over a weird-looking 10-year-old boy and his mother. While the mother was understandably upset, the boy thankfully was not, having just experienced the closest thing to sex he likely will have for the rest of his life.

Once inside the theater, the lack of professional courtesy again reared its ugly head when we found our seats were in the first row on the end. Screen images consisted of gigantic pixels that became identifiable forms 30 feet away. The trademark IMAX sound was, as usual, traumatizing - repeatedly ejecting Sissy's greasy boob, rendering me virtually deaf within minutes, and vibrating my testicles so bad I was unable to successfully participate in date night 12 hours later. 

I won't even mention the excruciating neck pain caused by looking straight up from the claustrophobic confines of the signature snot and chocolate-coated non-reclining AMC seats. Between the movie and accommodations, I've never prayed so fervently for a massive aneurysm, at least until the octogenarian Princess Leia croaked her first stilted lines onscreen - at that point, I started holding my breath in a vain attempt to force the fatal process, but blessed relief wouldn't come for another two and half miserable hours. 

The plot of Star Wars: The Last Jedi revolves around a bunch of pasty bad guys that are probably supposed to represent alt-right white supremacists, chasing a ragtag collection of scrappy-but-determined ethnically diverse rebels across the galaxy, and may have been the last thing written by Coco the monkey before she died. 

The star of the movie is a young female Jedi with the face and body of a 12-year-old boy and the acting talent of a dolphin. This is the first movie since Driving Miss Daisy where I was relieved the female lead didn't pop her top. Other actors included Mark Hamill, who, while dramatically better than Fisher and the girl, still reminded me more of the 90-year-old homeless guy in front of the bus station who spits at me every time I walk by, than Luke Skywalker. 

Even the action scenes were nothing new  - a bunch of X-shaped spaceships retardedly crashing into everything in their path and rebel ships again skillfully pirouetting through giant ass crack-shaped artificial canyons (note to white supremacists: Stop building those big cracks into your ships and maybe the rebels won't blow you up so much). As if the action scenes weren't disappointing enough, there was hardly any Kung foo, and precious little Robot foo, which I love. Boring.

Unfortunately, we were forced to leave early when the combination of bad acting, erratic pacing, retarded dialog, Special Olympics storyline, and 36,000 watt aural assault made Sissy puke a bucket of popcorn, one of those gigantic pretzels covered in cheese, a box of Whoppers, footlong chilidog, a big bag of Sweet Tarts, and a gallon of Mountain Dew all over the screen two feet in front of us. Thankfully, we received a partial refund due to what was obviously food poisoning.

All in all, Star Wars: The Last Jedi was a poorly written, poorly acted, poorly directed, too loud and too pixelated digital piece of sh*t that left us both anxious, angry, and covered with filth. I give it two rubber dog toys only for the fact Carrie Fisher is dead - significantly decreasing the likelihood she will ever appear in a future episode.