Some in Hollywood start production on a movie, realize it's terrible partway through, and bail on it, or the film simply (thankfully) runs out of funding. The following are some of those ideas.&&(navig
In 1969, the rights to The Lord Of The Rings were handed over to United Artists. Around this time, the Beatles were in talks to star in a live action Lord Of The Rings movie. And who did they want to direct it? None other than Stanley Kubrick. Paul McCartney was to play Frodo (why am I not surprised? No really...why?), Ringo Starr as Sam, George Harrison as Gandalf, and John Lennon as Gollum (That would've been very interesting).
I wish I were kidding. There were talks about this, and now I'm having flashbacks to Club Diablo and the psychadelic, anti-police force freak show (or movie) I couldn't help staring at between shots at the bar; Belgian Landrace porkers with billy clubs chasing alligators and----you know what? It now sounds like I'm describing one of Gary Busey's dreams.
Anyway, after Yellow Submarine flick, the Beatles must have been satisfied. Simply attempting to picture Lord Of The Rings with the bowl haircuts seen on the HELP! album cover with dirty rags and a gray-colored creature with circular, lightly tinted sunglasses whispering "My precious" in the creepiest way possible is enough for me to say no thanks. If the movie existed, I'd buy it, but...I'm glad it doesn't.
The other half of this story is that Stanley Kubrick barely considered directing the adaptation and made A Clockwork Orange, Barry Lyndon and The Shining. It ended happily for everyone.
Playing these comic book big names against each other is, of course, very expected. It's a Snuggie for many minds, I get that.
Frank Miller's graphic novel 'The Dark Knight Returns' basically set the standards (his telling of The Spirit set a standard of its own, as well: it can be used to induce vomiting).
Freddy's had it out with Jason in a number of locations and capacities (I expect them to soon battle in hell, on Pluto, or in Empire Market, refereed by Chad Vader), Alien fought Predator [and later moved in with him in New York so they could each look for love],
Maybe the big-wigs in Hollywood have finally realized that we prefer the dark and gritty superhero adventures, rather than George Clooney weilding a fucking Bat Credit Card*. After Joel Schumacker did ridiculous shit to Batman, and Bryan Singer made a Superman flick that was about as fun to watch as a Driver's Ed video, we're just at a very delicate point right now, and hopefully Hollywood realizes this...despite the creation and release of Yogi Bear. I love The Dark Knight and I read in just two (that's awfully reliable, right?) Internet articles that Chris Nolan is developing a Superman movie.
With that in mind, I don't think Batman and Superman will be duking it out or even working together any time soon.
* HOW IS THAT FUCKING FUNNY? THAT WAS AWFUL! I mean, you saw what that did to the Nostalgia Critic! That joke is enough to drive someone to a murderous rampage! The Bat fucking Credit Card is the equivalent of what Ryan Seacrest, Ann Coulter, Soulja Boy's music and the use of the word "seen" in place of"saw" are for me. They make me want to jab a fork in my ear just as a distraction.
I've never watched a movie Zac Efron has been in. The closest I get to having seen any of his work was the small spot he had on "Firefly" (great show cancelled by FOX in 2002) as Simon's childhood self. Efron seems, to me, like a good actor. I'm too old to watch the shiny, plastic High School Musical flicks, and a movie about a young man playing catch with his little brother's ghost isn't my thing either...especially when the trailer leaves you room to believe that Charlie St. Cloud doesn't make recovery progress until a thin girl with nice hair comes along to make out with him. Boooorrrrring. That's the male-suppressing equivalent of female-centric "romantic comedy" bullshit where sexual attraction cures all.
Anyway, I thought I might have wanted to see Charlie St. Cloud if it had been written by the screenwriters for the Jean-Claude Van Damme movie Desert Heat, or by Nicholas Sparks if he chose to return to whatever state he was in for the book The Last Song, but things are as they are: I'm left with my madness...and my madness is very creative.
Dig this: A young man is on a boat, checking the shackle, his face tilted at the perfect angle for the breeze to ruffle his attractively disheveled hair. He's just begun the biggest sailing competition in the state today, and winning might help him to find himself and begin pursuing his passions, as brief clips of conversations with Dad and a friend respectively will show. Our protagonist is Charlie Von Sunshine, and just an hour before the competition begins, he briefly meets and intrigues a girl his age with a good sense of humor and sharp eyes. She's in the back of his mind as he observes his surroundings onboard Lalin.
Here's the catch: A sudden, bad storm kicks in, coloring the sky with different unhappy shades of gray, and other mariners listen to the uneven, booming thunder. Charlie can't fully concentrate, though, because he has another problem: by the time he pulls back to the docks, finished and relieved, a large number of people will probably see his clothes torn and body covered with hair.
That's right, hair. Charlie Von Sunshine is a werewolf. Awesome, isn't it? Oscar gold, like Howling 2: Stirba Werewolf Bitch.
Maybe Charlie wins the sailing competition, and not only faces trouble with his peers and and loved ones. Perhaps we go into the backstory of how he is the son of a Haitian Creole woman cursed during pregnancy by a vengeful witch doctor who thinks werewolves are the worst creatures ever. If we're really lucky, there could be an upset, followed, of course, by a protest, because should hairy, part-animal mythical creatures be allowed to walk away with sailing trophies?
I have such amazing writing talent. I can feel your envy from here.
Imagine the Sex Pistols, quoting their own music at you, seconds into a movie. This is not preparation, though, for what is to come. "Who Killed Bambi?" is a blissfully short script that was never realized. Some dreams should die, like the screenplays for The Garbage Pail Kids or Cool As Ice.
There are townspeople lined up outside the unemployment office, waiting, with a judge nearby, as well as a few hookers (of course). Very quickly, a proby ("I'm a star maker!") draws everyone's attention as he steps out of his limousine. He's made it clear that the UK has, in this film's world, reached its lowest levels of employment since the Great Depression, and that he alone can bring "rock for the downtrodden". The first person to step forward at his request is a man who seems to be in his 90's (at the youngest), a judge.
Part of the script goes exactly this way:
I'm holding auditions!
Where are you from? The B.B.C.?
Of course not! I'm Proby! I'm a manager - a star maker! Now who here wants to be rich?
The judge tries swivelling his hips and singingpart of Elvis Presley's "Blue Suede Shoes". When others in the line see the judge's bravery and the proby's interest, they immediately step in to upstage him. An Irishman starts things off (with "Danny Boy" - ugh - of course. Way to cheapen it, buddy. Who wrote your part? The people behind the Italian mother & son in Transformers: Rise of the Fallen?), then a bar-maid, and my favorite part is when three hookers take a chance as if they're the new Andrews Sisters ("Chattanooga Choo-Choo"), only to be interrupted by the judge returning to the spotlight full-force thanks to a couple of cronies. It's fuckin' nuts. Soon enough, the Sex Pistols show up again, Sid Vicious does his weird sunglasses dance and Johnny Rotten trips a unicyclist. I know the previous sentence seems like something you'd only find on Googlism.com, but those really were actions in the second scene of "Who Killed Bambi?", according to the screenplay Roger Ebert provided on his journal for the Chicago Sun-Times online.
I could go on and tell you more of that, or about the scene where Sid Vicious kisses his mother, but this is truly one of those experiences you should only have if you want to, wherein you decide when to stop, so below should be a link to everything Ebert has provided about the Who Killed Bambi? time in his career.
Honestly, if the movie existed in full, on film, packaged---I'd own it, and admittedly, I don't know what that says about me.
A while back, James Cameron had plans to make a Spiderman flick with Dr. Octopus as the main villain. The one and only Arnold Schwarzenegger was being considered to play the good doctor, too! That accent combined with his voice is ridiculous and fantastic, like the moment when Robert Pattinson told Details magazine that he's allergic to vaginas. The point, here, is that James Cameron loves to go big---epic---but he combines attention to technology and good acting with the apparent desire to waste our time.
Unfortunately, there's little else I can say about this piece of clay that was never molded into something distinct (by distinct, I mean...something very reminiscent of two '90's films...or a long Romeo and Juliet reference at sea with a girl who's well over fourteen) and real. I've found claims from writer Rebecca Keegan about what Cameron's Spiderman idea entailed, as well as a so-called script-ment for the film on altervista.org. I'll put a link below.
Obviously, both Cameron and Schwarzenegger have moved on. It seems we'll never have our pupils mauled by wondrous color and near-rip-offs of other movies and a friendly neighborhood part-human.