Yoga Hosers (2016) Movie Review

Colleen C. and Colleen M., two best friends who spent most of their time being stuck at school or staying glued to their cellular phones, are begrudgingly stuck working during a boring, mundane evening at the Eh-2-Zed, which happens to be a convenience store located in Manitoba, Canada. Their store manager has run off for the weekend, which is all the more coincidental considering that one of the adolescents' parents is with her. Disgruntled, but not discouraged, the young women call up two male familiars, inviting them to their place of employment in the hopes that they can still party and have something that constitutes as fun. After the men arrive, an old evil begins to resurface, terrorizing our heroines. This particular menace? Nazi sausages that kill their victims by entering through their colons, all while shouting nonsensical German gibberish. The girls slowly unravel the origin behind these miniature threats, and it will remind them that paying attention in history class sometimes has benefits after all.

Story time:

When I was a relatively immature and underdeveloped young man, I had a rather questionable taste in cinema (there is a debate that I still bear this at the age of thirty). In particular, my main attraction seemed to be to flicks of, well, lesser quality. I'm comfortable enough at this stage in my life to confess that I willingly saw dreck such as Tomcats, Almost Heroes, and The Animal in theaters. However, my exposure to the works of Kevin Smith, an independent mind from a small town in New Jersey, changed that. He proved that a large budget and array of highly paid actors were not pivotal to a film's quality. Sure, there was an absurd of vulgarity to be found in his screenplays, and you could probably lose count with how many times his most famous creations uttered words that would make your parents grimace, but there was still a clever and surprisingly intelligent edge to them that could charm nearly anybody with a working brain. He was speaking for the little guy (figuratively speaking), the geeks, and the oddballs.

Fast forward to 2016, and the man who I always assumed was critic-proof is anything but these days. Beginning with 2010's fairly abysmal Cop Out, his critical accolades have been diminishing over the seeming lack of effort and divisive writing in most of his recent projects. While I admit that yes, I have been fairly confused and disappointed by these pictures myself, I still respect his commitment to essentially saying that he is going to do what most truly great directors do, which is delve into whatever territory that they wish to, and without the pestering of big Hollywood studios or disgruntled performers being able to interfere with their vision. Given Smith's previous output in the previous two decades, including beloved independent classics such as Clerks and Chasing Amy (two films that I would be more than happy to put onto my own personal top 100 list, should the demand for that ever come about), I'd say that he's earned every right to make a picture such as Yoga Hosers, his third foray into the realm of horror, and second into its mostly-beloved offshoot that is branded as horror-comedy.

Likewise, as someone who paid their hard-earned money to see the writer and director's newest cinematic release, I feel that I have earned the right to say that Yoga Hosers is a gigantic, ugly pile of clutter masquerading as a motion picture, and could serve as the final straw for those who have been struggling to defend Smith's weakest output over the years. However, there is no plausible way to dismiss the cynics this time around. With all of its way-too-obvious flaws being thrown right out into the open, it almost seems like it's mocking you for making the decision to see a terribly made film. Mind you, I have said time and time again that one can find an obscene amount to enjoy in movies that are so bad that they are good. But, those come from people or producers who set out with the honest-to-god belief that by making these mediocre screenplays and scripts into something that can fit onto the silver screen, they are creating genuinely good films. When you set out to make a bad feature on purpose, you usually end up with a festering heap of garbage that nobody outside of your circle of friends and immediate family will likely enjoy.

The big gist of Yoga Hosers' humor seems to come from one thought that crossed Kevin's mind (and presumably while he was very, very high): Canadians talk funny. If you were to make a drinking game with how times every single character, which ranges from the leads to cameos from two people who can not be that desperate for a paycheck in the day and age of nerd culture being so popular, utter the same old, tiresome clichéd Canadian slang ("sore-ree, aboot" ey," or a combination of all three), you would be dead from alcohol poisoning before the first act has even concluded. If you took Bob and Doug McKenzie and turned them up to eleven, you still wouldn't be able to equal the stereotyping churned out here. In small doses such as the brief appearance of the Colleens in connected movie Tusk, this can be mildly amusing. But when you are hit with a barrage of it over the span of ninety minutes, plus jokes as lackadaisical as Canadian citizens eating cereal such as "Pucky Charms" and "Honey Nut Cheeri-Eyys," it just leaves you feeling a bit stone cold.

....hey, it's better than anything in this fecal waterslide. Trust me.

Getting into the cast-side of things, I could begin with talking about the decision to cast young Harley Quinn Smith, the daughter of our aforementioned director, and Lily-Rose Depp (I'll give you two guesses as to who her father is) as protagonists Colleen M. and Colleen C. Before you accuse the film of nepotism, I would like to assure you that yes, it is blatantly obvious that this film is suffering from it. After all, I could dare you to try and catch all of the members of the Smith and Depp family if you can. Family-related favoritism is the least of Yoga Hosers' worries though. For the most part, the young ladies do seem to be enjoying themselves, and their decent chemistry with one another most likely stems from being close friends in real life. That's where the positive aspects of that spectrum end though. If you ever thought that Johnny Depp's prosthetic-heavy character of Guy LaPointe, the horrendous French-Canadian stereotype from Tusk, needed more screen time the same way that you thought the character Mater from Cars needed more exposure in its own sequel, then you are in for either a treat or a long series of sequences where you will be angrily leaning your fist against your cheek. Kevin Smith himself also shows up so that he may portray the Bratzis, who are brought to life via green screen and designed about as well as a modern day Puppet Master sequel from Full Moon Features. For a movie that cost approximately five million dollars to make, it looks remarkably cheap. And before anybody in particular jumps on me for that, Jeremy Saulnier's Green Room cost the same amount of money, and it looked far more impressive than this effort. Hell, Adam Wingard's You're Next was created for a fifth of what Yoga Hosers cost to make, and it also shines infinitely brighter by comparison.

Bad costuming and occasional effects aside, what Yoga Hosers thinks it makes up for in style more closely resembles that of when older, greedy executives attempt to cater to a generation that isn't nearly as stupid or easily amused as some people think that they are. Surprisingly, that group of higher-ups doesn't exist in a case such as this, because all of the feature's work belongs to, you guessed it, Kevin Smith. The plethora of such groan-inducing segments that constantly pop up time and time again (see below) can't be blamed on any other person but himself.

Note: I do NOT condone using your phone in a theater. However, when you are the sole ticket buyer, maybe it's understandable in cases like these. Also, really?

I can't stress enough about the repetition of Yoga Hosers, and why it's the biggest problem with the whole darn thing. A gag, such as the one that flashes an "Instacan Bio" every time that a new character appears on screen, is cute at first. The same can be said with having every resident other than our mainstays utter the title of this creation out of disgust once in a while. But, when it never seems to stop, it starts to get on your nerves, and ultimately makes you wish for every single person involved, be they good or evil, to just get off the screen and go back to taking part in better productions. Packing your picture with pop culture references, video game homages, or even throwbacks to other works of your past (catching nods to Clerks and its subsequent animated series does nothing to help its cause) can add to your overall fun factor. Heck, Edgar Wright's brilliant adaptation of Bryan Lee O'Malley's Scott Pilgrim graphic novels proved that. When it borders on pandering, and then ventures into desperate territory, you just come out feeling rather unhappy.

Factoring in the preplanned trip up north, plus the additional time it took for me to travel from Potomac, MD to the Arundel Mills shopping area (one of the two theaters within decent driving distance that happened to be playing this flick), I technically tracked seven and a half hours in my car so that I would get the chance to watch Yoga Hosers. I am uncertain if this is a record for myself when it comes to venturing out just to watch a stinking movie, but for the time being, I'll go with a yes. Kevin Smith's twelfth picture in his filmography (thirteenth if you count his segment in Holidays) also stands as the most depressing venture that I have taken to the Cineplex in several years. Yoga Hosers is what happens when a talented filmmaker throws a large array of ideas, be they silly or excruciating, into a blender. However, the individual has become too stoned to remember the fact that you have to plug in such a device in order for it to do its job, and the end result is just a foul-tasting, shockingly unfunny mess. If this is the New Jersey native's attempt to appeal to the teenage girl crowd, I think that sticking to something such as Chasing Amy, or even the wrongly-derided Jersey Girl, serves as a much better alternative. Kevin, I know that you will likely never see this review (although if you do, there's a very good chance that the negativity that I typed will be read aloud on your podcast), but as someone who will always identify himself as a fan before he ever gets tagged as a critic, I am asking you: put down your smoking paraphernalia and try writing something again with the intentions of it being a good motion picture. From this day forward, it seems like your intention is to have the movies that are trashed by the "haters" equal the amount of releases that are loved not just by your diehard fans, but by fans of cinema in general. And come on, the numerous amount of shots taken at the muckrakers and detractors in this movie, especially in a not-so-subtle manner, is beneath you and makes you look as petty and whiney as M. Night Shyamalan. I know that you are saying that at this stage in your career, you are choosing to make the movies that you want to make (which begs the question of when were you not?), and I will support your decision to take such a risk. Just remember: not everything devised and brainstormed on the Smodcast needs to be turned into an actual production.



The fact is, you're not just disappointing a longtime fan who even owns a signed Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back poster and two different trade paperback copies of the Clerks comic book. You're breaking my heart.





All of that being said, I'll see you at Moose Jaws. Just promise me that there won't be multiple segments involving bad singing.

Don't Breathe (2016) Review

Three young, small time criminals spend most of their time breaking into various homes, stealing only what is requested of their superiors or employers. Despite seemingly enjoying what they do on a regular basis, at least two are growing frustrated with this profession, longing to leave this life behind and begin anew. When one receives a tip about a residence that supposedly contains upwards of $300,000 in cash stashed inside of a basement, the group agree to one last heist. While on stakeout, they discover that not only is this abode inhabited by one, older man, but that the homeowner is blind. Later that evening, as the break-in is commencing, the solitary resident is revealed to be nowhere near as defenseless as he may appear to others, and that this dilapidated dwelling houses some very sinister secrets.

"I'm sorry, but North America just doesn't produce any good horror films anymore." 

As a movie lover and reviewer, if I may be able to request one thing these days, it would be that such a statement as that be put out to pasture. Over the last six years, we have been lucky enough to receive a large number of motion pictures that serve as not only adoring love letters to the fanbase and the genre's past, but a good chunk of releases, be they released to on-demand services or cineplexes, that have also managed to gather the necessary testicular fortitude to push it into a daring, new direction. Yes, there are still a myriad of unnecessary remakes and reboots that seem to come out more frequently than even I would expect, but they rarely affect the legacy of the originals, and are often forgotten about within a staggeringly short amount of time. Naturally, the response to some of the previously mentioned pictures in mind has been rather divisive, but that is expected from nearly anything to come along these days. To say that cynicism and hints of nihilism is a large problem in the communities of nearly everything that I personally like would be an understatement. However, with something as prominent as the "home invasion" sub-genre occasionally being forgotten about (save for gems such as Adam Wingard's You're Next), taking a risk by switching things up and having those who are burglarizing end up as the victims instead, is an opportunity that I believe is vital for the genre's survival.

As it turns out, 2016's Don't Breathe, written/directed by Fede Alvarez (Evil Dead 2013) and distributed by Robert Tapert and Sam Raimi's (Army of Darkness, Spider-Man) Ghost House Productions (Drag Me To Hell, 30 Days Of Night), is one of the best theatrically-released horror films that I have seen in recent memory. Heck, even though I am typing this in the month of August, I would not be shocked whatsoever to see this end up in my own personal "top ten" list towards the end of the year. A horror/thriller piece that is ripe with this much tension throughout its eighty-eight minute running time deserves all of the praise that is bestowed upon it. If you are the type of fan that pays good money to see horror flicks with the intention of being scared, or at least feeling so nervous that it could potentially induce nausea, this could be like discovering that the finest bottle of sake that you normally would go out of your way to seek is suddenly available right down the road. What a rather glorious feeling. What is sure to elicit the most amount of recognition during this feature's run over the course of the next month or two will be the wonderful cinematography and lighting, which is powerful enough to make the most claustrophobic and nyctophobic of people want to soil themselves. Unfortunately, that rules out the possibility of my own father ever viewing Don't Breathe, but you can't please everyone folks. It also packs a creepily effective score courtesy of Sexy Beast's Roque Banos, who knows not to be overbearing or obnoxious with a project such as this.

One of the wiser choices from somewhat-new heads sitting in the director's chair, as well as up-and-coming casting directors such as Rich Delia (Dallas Buyers Club, 2017's It), is to choose relatively unrecognizable faces as both heroes and villains. With this, Fede Alvarez manages to conjure up some exceptionally well done acting from our relatively minuscule list of performers. Evil Dead alumni Jane Levy is back after what seems like an eternity of absence from the big screen (hey, three years can seem that much longer in a horror fanatic's world), and reminds folks yet again about why publications and websites such as Forbes and Complex were so high on the very talented woman and her future in the world of entertainment. Her other companions, portrayed by Goosebumps' Dylan Minnette, and It Follows' Daniel Zovatto, are also in very fine form, with both adding more humanity to Don't Breathe to help keep it grounded and interesting. Quite often, you can pick out a weak link among any sort of ensemble, no matter the size, but that is far from the case in Don't Breathe. Admittedly, I have complained multiple times in the past about my personal gripes with how some characters act in situations such as these (it was my main reason for being unenthused with 2006's Them, a.ka. Ils), but when you consider their circumstances, personalities, and disappointing lives outside of their profession, being cross at them for taking certain actions becomes far more understandable.

Of course, what is a good horror movie without a diabolical reprobate? Avatar's Stephen Lang delivers one hell of a nerve-racking performance as The Blind Man (if my memory serves me right, our trio of robbers never learn his real name), and he is easily the most unique foe to come along in one of these films in several years. The aged citizen is cold, creepy, and underneath it all, assuredly deranged. While you do feel more than a few ounces of sympathy for the elderly gentlemen throughout the first half of the film's running time, its twists and turns slowly remind you that even handicapped individuals such as this one can keep terrible, awful mysteries hidden from the general public. At the risk of minor spoilers, to say that you experience a complete 180 degree turnaround on your opinion of the man, especially if you are a woman, is the most obvious statement of the year. It makes the events surrounding these poor souls, and Don't Breathe as a whole, that much more demented and daring. The Blind Man is also accompanied by a rather intimidating, relentless pet Rottweiler, who at times, manages to disturb and freak you out more than his own master can do. After witnessing the crazed canines in this year's Green Room, I think it may be safe to say that assorted writers in Hollywood have been doing a damn fine job of reminding audiences that man's best friend can be more difficult to deal with than you would think.

Don't Breathe is an often quiet, firm, yet exhilarating piece of suspenseful horror that both respectful devotees and casual fans of the genre will greatly be able to appreciate, while never feeling like it has to be desperate and scare the audience with cheap thrills and predictable cliches found in releases that are of lesser quality and take very few chances. No, it is well aware that have paid good money to be thrilled and frightened, and that after barking for so long that you "deserve a better class of fear," it is going to do the very best to stand and deliver on that request. As I have stated multiple times before, if you are willing to let yourself be sucked into a movie's world, absorbing every necessary detail and looking at these human beings as something more than just characters stuck in a scary movie, I am more than convinced that you can have just as fantastic of a time as I did. After all, when a sizable gathering of moviegoers* are eliciting several audible moans, gasps, and flat-out "NO!"s during a majority of the right moments when you are supposed to, you know that you have done your job as a filmmaker particularly well.

Now, perhaps if it isn't too much to ask for, can we hire someone to write a new character for Stephen Lang to play in the Marvel Cinematic Universe? Perhaps a "Reverse-Daredevil," ala the antagonist for the CW's adaptation of The Flash? Yes, I know that the actor is not legally blind, but one can dream, can't I?

......Wait, there are TWO OTHER individuals in the Marvel Comics world for him to potentially tackle? Well, I suppose that can suffice...for now....

Note: I only say "sizable" because, and I hate to say it, some moviegoers will venture into every picture in this field with the worst of intentions; sporting a defiant, arrogant attitude that says they lack a willingness to be scared. Don't be that person. Let your guard down. Be afraid. Be very afraid. :)

Sausage Party (2016) Review

It's another morning at local supermarket Shopwell's, and confident, excitable wiener Frank has only two goals for the day: to end up with Brenda, a neighboring hot dog bun, and to be handpicked by the hands of the "gods" themselves. According to legend, those who are chosen to take the journey to the great beyond will experience pure bliss, being treated like royalty while surrounded by their utmost desires. After one fateful, but rather messy day, the two find themselves separated from their packs, while the rest of their respective groups of friends are taken away to the promised land. Banding together with a whiny bread product named Sammy Bagel Jr. and a rather grumpy Vash named Lavash, the group set out on an adventure that will expose a horrifying reality for all consumable items that could change the very means of their own fragile existence and once-thought perfect future.



Honestly, after pasting that poster and typing up that synopsis seen above, how does one even properly start a review about a theatrical release such as this? Admittedly, conjuring up something worth saying about a film that was most likely born out of way too much free time and entirely way too much marijuana and psychedelic use is far more difficult than it sounds. Writer/producers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, who at this point on are the furthest things from strangers to regular cinephiles, seemingly have some of the biggest balls in the entertainment industry. They have not only managed to keep the idea of the "stoner comedy" alive and well, but recently even managed to finally adapt one of the most popular comic books of all time to television after so many before them attempted or failed to do so. Conceptualizing and realizing a motion picture such as Sausage Party is just so incredibly strange though. After all, an animated tale about food that must band together once they realize that their ultimate fate is to end up inside the mouths and stomachs of those who they once cherished and revered? That....is a really, really silly basis for any big screen show that cost nineteen million dollars to make. In fact, it borders on just plain idiotic, with the possibility of this series of niche jokes wearing thin after a shockingly short amount of time has passed.


Thankfully, Sausage Party, directed by animation veteran Conrad Vernon (Shrek 2, Monsters vs Aliens) and relative newcomer Greg Tiernan, is also incredibly, absurdly funny. In fact, next to February's Deadpool (the argument for which flick is more crude will certainly pop up soon), I can't recall a time this year where I laughed this much in a theater. A sizable chunk of the movie's humor is built off of running with the "ridiculous" factor, managing to appeal to a wider array of fans than even those who viewed the trailer would believe that it could accomplish. True, most audiences will still consist of real-life counterparts of those who we saw throughout pictures like Half Baked and Harold And Kumar Go To White Castle, but it won't be made up of solely dopes like some critics think that it will be. It's like picking up a cheap item on the menu from a restaurant that you expect to be at least decent, but are surprised that its taste and size is actually comparable to that of the more expensive entrees.


For a premise that looks fairly simple on paper, there actually is more going on in Sausage Party that one would suspect. There are the food equivalents of race wars and divides, religious conflicts, and multiple discussions about sexuality that permeate throughout its crisp, smooth running time. Of course, the obvious hot dog and bun jokes are something that even your average eighth grader could come up with, as are some of the puns and one-liners from our primary antagonist of the picture (hilariously voiced by the supremely underrated Nick Kroll), but they're forgivable in the long run considering how many quips, one-liners, and amusing anecdotes manage to stick their landing so well. There is also a fairly funny allegory for arguments about one's views on deities. It also strays away from one of my very few fears that I had about the trailer by not shoving any sort of theme into the picture about not consuming certain products. Every single piece of produce, meat, spice, and sauce are treated equally in the film, and you feel horrible for any segment that involves their grisly demise. Mind you, there is a good chance that you will be laughing heartily during said sequences too like I was doing more times than I could count.


Some may complain that Sausage Party's animation is pretty average, and you wouldn't be incorrect. Hell, I can think of a myriad of pictures released by DreamWorks during the first half of the 2000s that look better than this. But if you were looking for that to be your main draw or attraction, then I believe that you are searching for the wrong type of flick. As one would also suspect, the voice cast is rather large and in fine form. Sure, Seth Rogen and his usual band of misfits and cohorts are here (ask me who in particular shows up, and I can answer "yes" to each guess before you even finish their full name), but after this many products have been released that feature his name attached to it, you should fully expect that. Some Saturday Night Live alumni also pop up, including Bill Hader (Trainwreck, Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs) as an aged bottle of whiskey who somehow manages to convince me that one can smoke assorted things through a kazoo, and Kristen Wiig (Ghostbusters, Welcome To Me) as Frank's buxom, fluffy love interest. However, snagging veteran performers like Edward Norton (American History X, Fight Club) and Salma Hayek (From Dusk Til Dawn, Frida) could not have been an easy task. Then again, if I was the former actor, I might relish the chance to voice a bagel who utters the phrase "mashugana cunt" if the opportunity presented itself to me.


I am well aware that there are younger people who occasionally check out my own reviews, but I would say that as a closet one myself, Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg are living proof that all stoners or potheads should not be stereotyped. Heck, movies like this were made to be enjoyed with friends who are equally sick-minded and willing to drink a beer or partake in smoking something that should not be illegal before the screening takes place. Sausage Party is a much more well-crafted project than it has the right to be, balancing outrageous, vulgar humor with some heart, a clever script, and a fairly good message about solidarity during times of chaos and violence. Oh, and its third act manages to jump the shark in the type of manner that drives it from "good" to "great." In a way, it's the foulmouthed, deranged cousin of another animated release from earlier in the year that also had fine intentions and preached what we all need to be hearing in this tough climate that we are waiting for to be over in several months from now.



Let's just hope that's the last time I ever compare a motion picture from Disney to another film containing rampant use of bath salts though.