And I have no desire to see it at this point to determine that it was overrated and apparently, others echo that sentiment.. :-({|=

^^^^See...thats why I cannot respect your opinion. Your saying its overrated...bad...etc....SEE THE MOVIE!!! Your basing your entire opinion on reviews....White nouse reviews sucked yet you say ignore them. AVP reviews sucked,. yet you ignore them


your being hypocritical

I could give a fuck whether you don't respect my opinion or not and don't give a fuck whether you or anyone hated AVP or White Noise and NO, I don't have to see MDB to say it's overrated cause it is and looks like others have echoed that sentiment and you folks knew they would..

SPOILER WARNING

ESPN Writer Talks About M$B

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=bayless/050225&num=0

Let's KO 'Million Problem Baby'
Page 2
By Skip Bayless

Allow me to disqualify myself the way Hilary Swank's final foe would have been disqualified in "Million Problem Baby."

At least, that's what I've renamed it.

But understand, I'm a frustrated movie critic. Only a Barry Bonds media session can frustrate me more than a movie that insults my intelligence while turning into a box-office smash or -- worse -- an Academy Award bandwagon. I get especially infuriated if the movie pretends to capture the inside essence of something I know a little about -- sports.

That's why I vow never to watch my favorite show of the year, Sunday night's Academy Awards, again if Clint Eastwood's "Million Dollar Baby" wins Best Picture or Best Director or turns into this year's "Lord of the Rings" with an endless parade of acceptance speeches.

If "Baby" wins by knockout, I'm throwing in the towel.

The day it opened, I didn't rush out to see it. I'd caught the trailer, which gave off the faint odor of just another hokey sports movie. But because I'm fascinated by the not-so-sweet science and had the privilege of covering Ali's last five fights, I figured it was my duty to check out Clint's ring debut eventually.

That Friday night, I attempted to see another movie. Sold out. I was surprised to find that "Baby" wasn't. Then again, it had generated almost no Hollywood buzz.

I made it through about half of "Baby" before walking out.

That's right: I said no mas to a movie Sports Illustrated eventually would proclaim "the greatest fight film ever."

Maybe I've taken too many e-mail punches.

But my intelligence was sucker punched from the opening scene on. As we first see Swank, playing a boxer named Maggie Fitzgerald, she has just won her fight on the undercard of what you soon realize is a heavyweight contender's fight at the Grand Olympic in downtown Los Angeles. I know the building. It seats about 6,000, and as Maggie watches from the wings, it's packed with screaming fans.

A female boxer would have to be reasonably accomplished to get a shot on that undercard.

Eastwood, as Frankie Dunn, trains the heavyweight contender. After Frankie's fighter wins, Maggie waits for Frankie and begs him to train her. Of course, Frankie gruffly brushes her off with: "I don't train girls."

Yet Maggie shows up unannounced and unwanted at Frankie's hole-in-the-wall gym and starts trying to punch a bag. She looks as if she has never boxed before. Frankie and his right-hand man, Eddie "Scrap-Iron" Dupris, played by Morgan Freeman, cringe at this pathetic sight.

But of course, Maggie hangs around day after day, ignoring Frankie's insults and pathetically punching that bag, until Frankie's heavyweight fires him and Frankie finally says, what the hell, he'll train the girl. They start from scratch, with Maggie taking on the weakest competition.

Time out: I'm supposed to suffer punch-drunk amnesia and forget that Maggie had won a fight on the undercard of a fighter one step from a heavyweight title bout?

If the movie had opened with Maggie walking into Frankie's gym in her waitress outfit and pathetically punching a bag, I'd have been intrigued. And if Clint's boxing dialogue hadn't been so stilted and the wisdom he imparted to Maggie so painfully hokey, I might have forgiven that opening plot device. Obviously, the screenwriters wanted you to see Frankie at his height so you could appreciate his plunge.

But that's what makes me crazy about overrated sports movies like "Bull Durham." They pander to the audience's superficial and romanticized perception. They're basically sports fairy tales. "Bull Durham" was filled with caricatures and exaggerated stereotypes, with fake Southern accents and silly dialogue, yet "Bull Durham" became a classic.

Bull-loney. Give me real.

Don't give me comic relief with a cartoonish character such as "Baby's" mentally challenged "Danger," who suffers delusions of grandeur along with the worst Texas accent in movie history. Don't give me Maggie's family living in a small Missouri town but sounding as though they're from Mississippi, just to make them seem more like trailer trash.

But of course, dear old Clint became rich and powerful by rarely overestimating his audience. As long as he was The Man With No Name in spaghetti Westerns, I loved him. "Dirty Harry" worked for the make-love-not-war generation because Dirty Harry said screw it, somebody's still gotta make war on the bad guys. "Unforgiven" had Oscar-worthy depth and mold-breaking Wild West conflict.

But in the ring, Eastwood has no ring of authenticity.

"Baby" wouldn't last a round with Martin Scorsese's "Raging Bull," easily the best boxing movie. The first "Rocky" beats "Baby" by TKO. If you want a sports movie that "gets it" from the inside out, you want the smartest, funniest sports satire, "Caddyshack." If you want baseball movies that ring true, you want 1) "Eight Men Out" or 2) "The Natural," even though it turns into "The Supernatural."

But again, I disqualify myself. I'm now The Only Man on Earth Who Doesn't Think "Million Dollar Baby" Is Great.

The initial reviews I read liked but didn't love it. It didn't have a blockbuster opening weekend, nor is it anywhere near the year's biggest box-office hit. Yet somehow word-of-mouth momentum has built among critics and customers. It's as if one person gazed at an unclothed emperor and said: "My, what beautiful clothes." And slowly but surely, everyone else began to nod and agree.

But no, I'm not condemning a movie I saw only half of. I went back and watched the whole bloody mess from start to finish.

I disliked the second half even more than the first half. The first half was just a silly sports movie. The second half was a maudlin, manipulative, melodramatic B-movie.

Critics are saying Eastwood gives his "most emotionally raw" performance? Only because he finally cries on screen.

But for the record, I would not be devastated if Swank wins Best Actress or if Freeman wins Best Supporting Actor. Both rose above roles that defy nomination. Swank brings Maggie to life with a sweet toughness and a credible athleticism that cancel her bad Southern accent. Morgan's narration at least gives "Baby" some wise, witty mortar.

Still, if this thing beats "The Aviator" in a single category, I'm going down for the count. Scorsese made a big, bold Hollywood movie about a man who made big, bold '30s-Hollywood movies -- Howard Hughes. To think Eastwood could steal Best Director from a master, Scorsese, is sadly laughable.

Leonardo DiCaprio should edge out Jamie Foxx of "Ray" because DiCaprio got a little closer to nailing Hughes than Foxx did Ray Charles. Cate Blanchett was Katharine Hepburn. Both should win.

Comparing "Baby" and "The Aviator" is like weighing the merits of Chuck Wepner and Muhammad Ali. Hey, Wepner could really bleed. So can "Baby."

I'm probably wrong, but I've never heard of a trainer or cut man saving a fight by snapping a fighter's broken nose back in place so the bleeding would stop.

And I have never, ever heard of a fighter getting sucker punched as he (or she) walks back to her corner after a round, then falling against the stool the trainer has just placed back in the ring and breaking his (or her) neck.

That's what happens to Maggie during her big title fight. I'm not making this up.

Yet in the hospital, Frankie reminds her that, well, she lost. So does her heartless trailer-trash mother. Preposterous. Her opponent would have have been disqualified.

The mother is a sitcom parody. But instead of laughing out loud, people around me in the theater started crying when the Trailer Trash Mom pushes poor Maggie to sign away her boxing winnings.

And the Oscar goes to ... "Million Dollar Baby"? Oh, baby.

I think I'm going to cry.

minor spoilers ahead...

While I didn't hate the movie as much as the ESPN guy above, he addressed a lot of problems I had with the flick, and I agree to some extent with almost all of it.

I noticed a few of the same plot flaws too. I told my wife while watching it that there was no way in hell that boxer wouldn't have been disqualified in the final fight, and was trying to figure out how she was on the undercard in the first fight but appeared to have hardly any training or experience. I thought there were a lot of little flaws like that, but I was able to look past it and thought the first half was a decent (but not great) sports flick.

It was when the movie changed gears in the second half where it really went downhill for me. It turned into a friggin' soap opera/hospital drama. It was hokey, heavy handed, and terribly sappy. It just didn't mesh well for me. It got really long and boring during those parts. It definitely was well acted, and directed well, but was not any where near the best sports movie of our time. It's good to see a few others that at least halfway agree...

You're made out to be a leper if you have any sort of issues with M$B. More and more articles are coming out that question M$B's excellence.

But it's all opinion at the end of day, no matter how off.

Now, where are those articles calling Anchorman the single greatest comedy since Holy Grail? :razz:

Skip Bayless is a moron. In the early 90's he was a Dallas Cowboys' asskisser. Then he changed over to the 49ers when they beat Dallas in 95 Superbowl. He used to be on Monday Night Countdown on ESPN till everybody got tired of him.

You can verify Skip Bayless's credibilty or lack thereof with Cowboys and 49ers fans.

One thing about M$B was that it got everything about boxing WRONG!
Nothing,absolutly nothing is true about the boxing scenes.

The only argument I've heard against Freeman from critics and the like is that his work in M$B wasn't a stretch in any way shape or form (sort of the same basic argument against Swank). You can't blame Eastwood for typecasting.

I think M$B might end up being a bit of an enigma.

Maybe if Mystic River hadn't been released, the outcome would of been different.

Who really knows? It seems like there's a lot of Monday Morning quarterbacking over M$B's win.

Don't get me started on Anchorman! The fact that Steve Carell did not get nominated for best supporting actor burns my bottom. I'd like to see Morgan Freeman try to perform on a furry tractor and still maintain the level of quality that Carell did.

As for being a leper, I'm getting used to that roll. I don't think a movie I've picked to win an Oscar has done so since Patton won in 1970. But, next year I'll be rooting for Elektra - this may be my year!

OMG ESPN WRITERS DONT THINK THE MOVIE IS GREAT!!!! :Sleep: Who cares. loyalfromlondon trying to get at the movie with Espn Writers is pathetic. Skip is that retard on 1st and 10 with Woody Page, Woody Page thought the movie was great and Page > Skip

People can say oh the 2nd half went downhill or whatever you want - but thats why it won an oscar, if it was a straight forward story with everyone ending up living happily it wouldve have gotten jack squat, it pulls at your emotion even if you think it did it in a cheap way or not and thats why it won an Oscar instead of the emotionless Aviator.

That's where Anchorman dropped the ball. Instead of shitty Bill Curtis, they needed a wise old black man to narrate the story. And nobody does wise old black man narration better than Morgan.

I would love to see him narrate a snuff film.

"It seemed poor little Lucy would not live to be sodomized another day. A bloodied rectum is no different than a bloodied soul. Neither can be truly repaired, or so Rene Descartes once said. Her eyes had gone cold, her body limp, yet Fernando kept pumping away at her prepubescent frame..."

If Clint directed, can we say 3-peat.

Oscar Without Glamour

by Scott Holleran
March 1, 2005

Show business glamour is gone, long gone. That was clear from the moment crude Chris Rock stepped on stage to host the 77th annual Academy Awards and received a standing ovation—for just being there. By contrast, one of the show's classiest hosts, the late Johnny Carson, received a polite round of applause after a taped tribute. Thirty years of a top-rated show and several Oscar telecasts, no ovation—one minute of one show hosted by a foul-mouthed cable comedian, instant ovation. Is it any wonder more people don't watch?

Not that it matters; Hollywood's elite is too busy inflating their own importance, that is, among those who attended (and most stars—Hanks, Cruise, Gibson—did not). Sunday's awards were dominated by a gaggle of shrill, red carpet mongers, twittering about something called swag (free stuff), bling (flashy clothes and jewelry) and the Academy's stupid new rules. Presenters were relegated to the aisles and nominees were herded on stage as if they were being lined up for a firing squad, not an Academy Award.

At times, the show reflected the drift from director Martin Scorsese's Hollywood—where ability can be measured by how deeply one cares about making movies—to actor and director Clint Eastwood's Hollywood, where you get noticed with a slew of squints, sneers and gimmicks in pictures that are typically tragic and really about nothing at all.

Yet another promising actor reminded us that, in the new Hollywood, one's value is based, at least partly, on one's race—not solely on one's ability to act. Best Actor winner Jamie Foxx, like Halle Berry before him (and many before her), transformed an award granted for an individual's performance into a statement of allegiance to his race, which is racism. This attitude is exacerbated by people like Oprah Winfrey, whose quasi-Black Panther salute from the audience is rock bottom for a guilt-ridden billionaire with more power than practically everyone in Hollywood. What a fraud. Cheering a winner for a characteristic beyond his control—race, sex, nationality—is among the ceremony's worst traditions—it is an insult to every actor.

Racism's corollary, multiculturalism—the idea that all cultures are equal—had time in Oscar's spotlight, too, with Salma Hayek, Penelope Cruz and Antonio Banderas celebrating a folk song sung in Spanish that was awarded Oscar's Best Song over superior work by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Glen Ballard among others. Million Dollar Baby's toothy Hilary Swank chimed in, citing her own subculture—trailer trash—as a claim on the Best Actress award. Someday, sometime, some lone actor will have the self-confidence to rise and say, simply, "thank you." And walk away.

Of course, there were the movies. Mr. Scorsese's The Aviator, whatever its flaws, was lavish, grand moviemaking about a larger than life subject—and that, apparently, was its downfall. Too little death, gloom and doom and not nearly unremarkable enough—the new Hollywood regards high aspirations, Mr. Scorsese's trademark, as showy and arrogant. There is no place for the exalted—only the downtrodden, preferably done with mediocrity.

Mr. Eastwood, like other conservatives, appeared content to have gained the approval of others, especially liberals. His Best Picture winner, Million Dollar Baby, seems to have dragged even producer Albert S. Ruddy—who produced Mario Puzo's The Godfather and once sought to make Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged—into what Miss Rand called "the cult of moral grayness," which in Mr. Eastwood's case means a bleak world drained of color, purpose and life.

We watch the Oscars for a sight of Hollywood at its best. While it hasn't been pretty for years, we keep looking, hungry for a glimpse of someone who sparkles with the confidence of having achieved something—something good. We look for our favorite movie stars, we root for our favorite movie, we wait to be moved, touched, humored—and, in that rare instance, enlightened. But, year after year, it does not happen. That's why Hollywood is losing its luster, in television ratings, in theatrical attendance and in general.

The glow of Hollywood's Golden Age stems from splendor on the screen, and that was replaced by unending assaults on both sense and sensibility long ago. Real glamour is gone. Increasingly, and encouragingly, so is the audience, which may cause Hollywood to give them a reason to return.

Of course, there were the movies. Mr. Scorsese's The Aviator, whatever its flaws, was lavish, grand moviemaking about a larger than life subject

lol, oh gawd. Though very flawed it was still a big budget movie about Hollywood so it shouldve won Larger then life my ass

Yet another promising actor reminded us that, in the new Hollywood, one's value is based, at least partly, on one's race—not solely on one's ability to act. Best Actor winner Jamie Foxx, like Halle Berry before him (and many before her), transformed an award granted for an individual's performance into a statement of allegiance to his race, which is racism.

This guy is a complete joke

The backlash for this movie and the amount of critics lambasting it's win does suggest something in the end.. It is rather interesting the amount of criticism after the Oscars this film is receiving instead of beforehand..

Yes, 2 count them 2 SPORT WRITERS!!!!!! The blacklash is incredible!!!!!

:rofl: Awww Man.. That's the Best..

That explains everything.

http://www.ifctv.com/ifc/insiderNews?CAT0=5827&NID=10947&CLR=orange&BCLR=FF6600

The Oscars: An Elegant Million Dollar Bore
by Alison Willmore/IFC News

Morbid being that I am, my favorite part of the Academy Awards is inevitably the "In Memoriam" segment. With all those choice film bits cunningly edited together and the strings swelling in the background, I can get teary-eyed over just about anyone.

This should have been a great year for "In Memoriam"—a veritable army of film legends shuffled off this mortal coil (the lack of Hunter S. confirms for me what I always suspected—they must put together the montage by calendar year, and the January/February theatrical wasteland is not only a bad time to release a potentially award-winning movie, it's also a bad time to die), but, as I sat there watching the great Marlon Brando morph from young, beautiful, inarticulate "contender" to spectacular Jabba the Hut-style Mafioso through the magic of montage, I felt completely unmoved. This year's joyless, terse, tastefully dressed ceremony had sucked all emotion from me. Like Hilary Swank's long-sleeved, high-necked Guy Laroche shroud of a dress, the Oscars this year were completely subdued and stifled by their attempts to be classier and leaner than ever before. By the time she turned around to reveal that her frock was daringly backless, no one was looking.

It's hard to have it both ways—the Awards are, admittedly, a chance for Hollywood to congratulate itself on how important it is to the cultural canon, to the world, to all those little people out there who make it all possible. But it's also supposed to be an event those little people actually watch, and those little people, having shaken off any lingering sense of Oscar obligation, are not watching in droves.

And so we have this half-hearted attempt to broaden the Oscars' appeal while sticking to the tried-and-true tone of This Is An Important Event, America. And somehow everyone got screwed—it was neither entertaining to watch nor fair to those receiving awards. Nominees in the lesser categories gathered awkwardly onstage as if waiting to hear who would be named Homecoming Queen, while others had to stay in their seats as the camera panned over them, lingering on one pair of winners as the others in their row had to stand up to let them out to make their speeches in the aisle. For a night of supposed non-stop glamour, it was for a moment, curiously reminiscent of a crowded airplane.

For all the fuss generated by host Chris Rock's pre-show comments about, oh, what was that controversial thing he said? Gay men like the Oscars? Outrageous! Rock was pretty much declawed, calling Toby Maguire a "boy in tights" and such, but otherwise taking such stock swipes (Tim Robbins talks about politics too much! Halle Berry was in "Catwoman," and it was bad!) that they might as well have just had Billy Crystal up there again. The only really edgy bit was a taped segment in which Rock went to the Magic Johnson Theater in South Central and asked the crowd in the lobby if they'd seen any of the films nominated for Best Picture. As person after person admitted that they hadn't even heard of "Finding Neverland" but that "White Chicks" was really funny, you could hear the crowd at the Kodak squirming—"But we had four black nominees this year! "Ray" was about Ray Charles, for Chrissakes!"

Other less-than-choice moments: Charlie Kaufman, winning a well-deserved Best Original Screenplay award, is caught, stricken, deer-in-headlights style, by the menacing speech countdown on the teleprompter. The typically grand, indulgent opening segment is reduced to an oddly chosen selection of films cobbled together to end with Shrek digitally inserted to kick a hacky sack with Charlie Chaplin. It's supposed to look like they walk off into the sunset together, but instead it seems like Chaplin's trying hard to scurry away. Antonio Banderas, Beyoncé and Josh Groban manage to make the completely forgettable Best Original Song nominees agonizing, while Santana isn't fooling anyone by attempting to hide behind sunglasses. The plodding, painfully dramatic "Million Dollar Baby" picks up most of the major awards—Hilary Swank, if you really want to be America's clean-scrubbed, slightly buck-toothed sweetheart, maybe everyone doesn’t need to hear you thanking your lawyer.

Bright spots: Jorge Drexler wins for his "Motorcycle Diaries" song and sings instead of giving a speech, temporarily soothes the previous egregious song performances from memory. Jamie Foxx gives a funny, classy, touching speech about his grandmother: "when I would act the fool, she would whip me... And after she would whip me she would talk to me and tell me why she whipped me, that 'I want you to be a Southern gentleman.'" That's what speeches are supposed to be like—of course, Foxx pretty much had a lock on the award since he was nominated, so he's had some time to work on it. Dustin Hoffman slips in "you're beautiful" to his co-presenter and "Meet the Fockers" spouse Barbara Streisand. Babs is thrown off for a second, I'm charmed despite myself.

And the tribute to Johnny Carson managed all that "In Memoriam" didn't—watching his wry "For those of you just tuning in, this is day 164 of the Oscars" made us feel tight-throated for not only the man but the old Academy Awards, the bloated, extravagant, keeping-us-up-too-late event with those stupid choreographed dance numbers set to the Best Score nominees and people yelling their speeches over the rising music attempting to sweep them off stage, and Cher wearing some gaudy car crash of a dress, and, hell, even Joan Rivers, sans parasitic daughter, back from TV Guide channel exile and bewildering all the celebrities she verbally assaults on the red carpet. Because when it was messy excess, we were all in it together, because we loved the spectacle, as silly and self-important as it was. When this year's ceremony skidded to an end a good 20 minutes before midnight, throwing awards that should have gone to the glitzy, empty "Aviator" to the grim ensemble chamber piece instead, there was nothing left to do but make some tea and tuck ourselves into bed at a perfectly reasonable hour. At least before, we had something to talk about.

My love for monkeys?

Among other animals.



Didn't you end up taking her to prom?

That brings back memories.

Let's just say it was very easy to get to 2nd base as she kept rolling over on her back.

We never made it to the prom. She got old and couldn't walk. I wanted to get a doggie wheel chair, but my dad said disabled dogs are worthless. My dad took her for a walk in the woods and she never came back. He said she found somebody else and left me because I was ugly and worthless. It was a depressing year in the trailer park.