Without fail St. Patrick’s Day always hurls two evils my way: a skull-clogged hangover and some knuckle head struggling to convince me The Boondock Saints is the coolest of the awesomest of like… all things cinema. I don’t see an end to either of these problems, especially the latter now that Boondock‘s writer/direct/super-douche (see the doc Overnight) Troy Duffy announced—on St. Patty’s no less—the sequel is filming this summer. Considering Duffy’s infamous bridge-burning douchery, I’ll believe it when I see it. Scratch that, I won’t see it unless bagged, gagged, and dragged to the theater; I have a cyanide tooth just for this situation though.
Let me put it in the simplest of terms. I. Fucking. Hate. The Boondock Saints. And I’ll never understand its cult popularity. Never. Never. Never. Ever.
What is it about this movie that submerges the I.Q. of a few intelligent fans (the multitude of mouth breathing admirers* needs no explanation) and persuades them this flick is even remotely watchable? I mean c’mon. The movie props Billy Connelly up as the ultimate badass and it gives us Ron Jeremy without a python shot. That alone is enough to condemn the film’s uncovered negative to a humid vault.
As a piece of filmmaking, The Boondock Saints is an abortion in where the patient dies, the doctor gets shot, and the killer commits suicide afterwards. Nothing survives this movie. There isn’t a real script here, it’s a thudding copy and paste hack job from rejected Quentin Tarantino wannabe scripts but with all wit evaporated and countless scenes existing just because Troy Duffy had “actors”, film in the camera, and plenty of smokes and beer on set. Every aspect of The Boondock Saints treads tired, Tarantino derivative territory (well I guess the heroes don’t dress in all black…they wear blue jeans!). In fact, it’s so goddamn derivative that the word and all its synonyms fail to truly capture my meaning. So I propose “duffy” as a new word to describe something that’s derivative of derivative. As in Troy Duffy’s duffy direction follows this simple equation: no shots without slow mo + spinning handheld shots – logic + listless pacing – any recognizable technical skill + clunky editing + generic rock + generic, pompous chorale music + being a total douche bag = You gotta be kidding me that people enjoy this ineptitude without irony? Troy Duffy never shot a scene Kevin Smith couldn’t pull off better.
I mean, the filmmaking is atrocious at best, which means… is it then the amateur-hour acting pulling the suckers in? Why yes, I savor the parading of Lucky Charms accents, laughable tough-guy posturing, and performances that consist of nothing but screaming variations of “fuck.” By the way, I’m from bizarro world where Uwe Boll just won his fifth Oscar. But Davey, what about Willem Dafoe? What about him? Keep the huzzahs for Dafoe to yourself. The poor man embarrasses himself to such a degree it could make Speed 2 look like the defining role on his obit clip reel.
If The Boondock Saints was a Guy Richie just-for-kicks ride, fair enough. My hate would end at the incompetent filmmaking. Yet, what pisses me off the most about the movie is it takes its horseshit vigilante philosophy seriously—well philosophy is probably too weighty of a word. This film is as pretentious as Lars von Trier huffed up on marker fumes and barricaded in a room full of Dirty Harry DVDs and Batman comics. However, there’s nothing there, just arbitrary thoughts firing off like random electrical currents in a dying brain. I can’t decipher any coherent meaning from the film other than it appears to ask a question on par with an online instant-poll: Is vigilantism good or bad? Wow. Profound. Batman better be paying attention to the results. Sure there’s some pseudo-Catholicism wrapped around this vigilante-themed hotdog, but Duffy’s sole reasoning behind the religious stuff seems to be that crossing yourself in slow-mo looked awesome(!) and Samuel L. Jackson’s bible recitation from Pulp Fiction was an idea worthy of pilfering—how duffy of Troy Duffy.
So when the annual dipshit tries to convert me into the Boondock brigade, I’ll break out these issies. And the only response I ever get is “Screw off, the movie was fun!” Yeah, and I bet some people think riding hungry grizzly bears while smeared in bacon juice is fun too. But count me out.
*I want to thank YouTube member weedismylife386 for posting the film and allowing me take a refresher course on its shittiness. I think his/her name says a lot about the fanbase.
