What I'm about to say doesn't exactly sound like a non-endorsement but, really, it is. Yes, if you submit yourself to a viewing of On the Road, you will be rewarded with scene after scene of Kristen Stewart like you've never seen her. You will catch many minutes of her truly spectacular handfuls of breasts. You will see the notoriously smug tension in her face burn down into something dark and wild and sexy as she relieves a different kind of tension in two men, at the same time, in a moving car. (positively the biggest moment for handjobs ever). And, for the dude-liking population, Garrett Hedland is the closest thing to Adonis that has ever risen from a gene pool. Just wait for the Reddit supercut, though, because buying a ticket is a deal with the devil: In exchange for eye candy, whatever fragment of the life-hungry 20-year-old is left in your body will die when he sees his credo take a trip down the shredder.
The whole thing was doomed from the beginning, really. Let's adapt the most episodic, plot-less novel in the canon for the big screen. We'll get a British actor, whose French-Canadian accent sounds like prostate cancer personified, to play Sal. We'll hope they mistake our lazy, pinball-y, inert script as symbolic for Kerouac's restless chaos. And, what our film lacks in momentum and purpose, we'll make up for with the most silly cameos since Mars Attacks!.
In fact, just about the only way to survive the spectacle is turning the absurd, Whack-a-Mole drop-ins—each lasting hardly five minutes—into a drinking game. You'll take a shot for a manic Amy Adams, a crying Elisabeth Moss, and an incensed Kirsten Dunst. And, when Sal and the Gang run into Viggo Mortensen, who takes a shit and then flashes you his balls, you will toss back another. And then three, maybe four more down the hatch in deference to Trooper Steve Buscemi, who jumps out of a figurative bush, takes it up the ass, and then stumbles off screen with a thank-you-ladies-and-gentlemen bow.
My advice? If you really want to reignite the mindless, what-now? apathy of your adolescence, just go to a bar. Any bar. Get silly drunk. Cover your eyes, spin in a circle, and get freaky with whomever your finger lands on, because this movie will not "make you mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved or desirous of everything." It'll just make you mad
The whole thing was doomed from the beginning, really. Let's adapt the most episodic, plot-less novel in the canon for the big screen. We'll get a British actor, whose French-Canadian accent sounds like prostate cancer personified, to play Sal. We'll hope they mistake our lazy, pinball-y, inert script as symbolic for Kerouac's restless chaos. And, what our film lacks in momentum and purpose, we'll make up for with the most silly cameos since Mars Attacks!.
In fact, just about the only way to survive the spectacle is turning the absurd, Whack-a-Mole drop-ins—each lasting hardly five minutes—into a drinking game. You'll take a shot for a manic Amy Adams, a crying Elisabeth Moss, and an incensed Kirsten Dunst. And, when Sal and the Gang run into Viggo Mortensen, who takes a shit and then flashes you his balls, you will toss back another. And then three, maybe four more down the hatch in deference to Trooper Steve Buscemi, who jumps out of a figurative bush, takes it up the ass, and then stumbles off screen with a thank-you-ladies-and-gentlemen bow.
My advice? If you really want to reignite the mindless, what-now? apathy of your adolescence, just go to a bar. Any bar. Get silly drunk. Cover your eyes, spin in a circle, and get freaky with whomever your finger lands on, because this movie will not "make you mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved or desirous of everything." It'll just make you mad
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