By Devin D. O'Leary
Worst of the Worst—In addition to the good films, there was also a steady stream of bad movies to filter through theaters this year. For every Sideways that made its way into theaters, there were two or three Garfields that raked in millions. Go figure. So, in the spirit of the hairball-puking hero of this summer's surprise hit, I present 2004's 10 Worst List.
Brown Bunny—Ick. I really could have lived my entire life without seeing Vincent Gallo's wiener. Greasy Mr. Gallo wrote, directed and starred in this deadly dull, monumentally self-centered road movie-cum-porn flick. I like my films mature and arty, but this is art house cinema at its most self-indulgent.
Surviving Christmas—Ben Affleck just needs to go away. Far away.
Catwoman—Boy does this movie stink. Catwoman, being a chick and all, is called upon to fight an evil makeup company? Puh-leeze. What studio executive dreamed up this sexist crap?
National Lampoon's Golddiggers—I'm sure you have no memory of this even hitting theaters, but it did, delivering teen sex comedy at its most crass.
New York Minute—This pre-anorexia, pre-college Olsen Twins bomb proves that their fans aren't old enough to drive to the theater. Most prophetic title of the year, describing exactly how quickly this one disappeared.
Van Helsing—Simply the worst example of over-hyped, over-budgeted summer “event” movies. Crappy computerized effects, ludicrous stunts, a howlingly silly story and three little words: worst ... Dracula ... ever.
Taxi—Thankfully, this example of the “buddy cop formula” at its most generic tanked. I guess people didn't want to see a wacky cop team up with a sassy female taxi driver in a souped-up supercar to battle Brazilian supermodels-
The Village—M. Night Shyamalan is either: A) a brilliantly original writer/director, or B) a total hack. This preposterous bait-and-switch is another solid tick in column B.
The Polar Express—Sorry, but after watching the still perfect Miracle on 34th Street this Christmas, I realized that The Polar Express isn't just the most unintentionally creepy holiday film ever made, it's also one of the most meaningless. Believe in Santa, kids, because ... um, you know, believe.
She Hate Me—Spike Lee's anger has become so cluelessly misplaced that his once promising filmmaking skills have dwindled to almost nothing. This splenetic “comedy” showcased Lee at his most out of touch.
La lengua de las mariposas/