Tuesday, June 30, 2009

#7: Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (Lewis, 1999)

casting call for the Annabel Chong gang-bang

Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (2008)

"Gentlemen, we found a vibrating brass cock ring buried inside Mrs. Chong. Please pick it up later today at 'lost and found.'"



Sex: The Annabel Chong Story is a documentary chronicling a woman’s attempt to fuck 300 men in one day of work. Annabel will inevitably be transformed from a giddy young porn starlet into a confused and insecure mess—and I simply do not care. She is tragic figure, sure, but her manically insipid dishonesty fails to generate in every scene.

Grover Cleveland may have once said, “Even lifeless documentaries are worth watching if they impart wisdom.” The Annabel Chong Story taught me that the University of Southern California is actually a pretty good place to meet sex workers, but I’m not sure if that’s what Old Grover meant.

I honestly wonder why Sex was ever made. Should I be impressed by Annabel’s attitude or accomplishments? (I’m not.) Moved by her relationship with conservative family? (I wasn’t.) Sickened by what we see of the porn industry when the curtain is pulled back? (I am, but certainly there are six million better ways to tell that story.)

Maybe Annabel and her friends are simply so intriguing as subjects, cameras can’t help but film their every movement (including movements from the toilet). However, Annabel’s trumped-up neuroses and predictable responses (“If I got AIDS from the whole thing, I’m not going to regret it. I had the experience. I lived.”) are boring and the other characters are worse.

And that’s a problem since Sex strives to be shocking above all else (e.g. one interviewee who never mentions Annabel is clearly kept in the film so he can say, “Why can’t you pay someone to suck your dick? Why is that wrong?”). Maybe this footage was riveting in 1999. I doubt it, but I don’t know. In today’s world, where you can’t throw a pretzel without hitting three people who have seen 2 Girls 1 Cup*, we aren’t shocked very easily.

A little research uncovers that director Gough Lewis dated Annabel throughout most of the project. The woman he cares for decides to fuck 300 other men and his reaction is “let’s film it!” What the hell? I would have rather have seen a documentary about him.

Instead we watch Annabel stumble over her own words and are asked to seriously consider her career path as a legitimate interpretation of feminism. Worse yet, the documentary is planned and executed terribly.

The editing is either sloppy or dishonest; we are asked to believe a secondary crew is already filming in her porn producer’s office when Annabel randomly decides to telephone them in hopes of negotiating a raise. The shot selection is amateurish (e.g. an extreme close-up of Annabel’s dark and shifty eyes for what seems like an hour—and yes, she looks as bored as I feel).

Near the end of this meandering, pointless little film, Annabel explains her love of gang-bang as a natural byproduct of her healthy psyche; in the next scene she gives us a tour of the random London flat where she raped by a dozen consecutive different men. The juxtaposing is ineffective and the sequence doesn’t work because neither the editing nor the subjects are trustworthy.

nothing cuts like your knife

Sex: The Annabel Chong Story (2008)

Annabel was emo before it became trendy.


Annabel finally admits making pornography is far less fun than it looks. She thinks being the subject of a 251 person gang-bang (I guess she cramped up before reaching 300) is the most torturous event a person can experience, but the only true test of endurance here is staying awake for 85 minutes worth of worthless documentary.

(NOTE: In one obviously staged scene, where our porn star slices into her arm in order to “let out the pain inside,” I briefly imagine Sex might be the worst documentary ever made. Fortunately for Annabel and company, I’ve also seen Kurt & Courtney.)

Final score: 16 out of 100.
---

*Sorry sickos, you're going to have to track that one down on your own.

#6: Keith (Kessler, 2008)

[NOTE: This film uses tired ideas to do some wonderful things. Embracing that theme, I’ve decided to riddle the review with fun clichés. See how many you can find!]

Keith is enjoyable, if not enchanting. In the interest of disclosure, however, I should point out its few substantial flaws before selling it to you as one of last year’s hidden gems.

Keith production still

Keith (2008) production still

Keith, why so serious?


This is director Todd Kessler’s first motion picture and traces of his inexperience are evident all throughout. The first scene focuses on a digital alarm clock reading “5:59” and a seasoned audience member can expect some beeping at six. Seconds later, our suspicions are confirmed and our protagonist crawls out of bed to face her day. At this point, I could very well be describing an opening sequence in hundreds of different novice works. Visual and structural bromides like these show us Kessler is not yet an auteur with a capital “A.”

He and co-writer David Zabel have zero previous screenwriting credits. IMDB states their script is based originally on a short story by Ron Carlson. There’s nothing there to indicate Carlson borrowed his idea from the dozens of other artists who have been suckling the tit of popular young girl with everything to gain is seduced by mysterious bad-boy with nothing to lose for centuries. Honestly, if I didn’t have a thesaurus within arm’s reach, I probably wouldn’t make it through this review without typing the word “generic” a half-dozen times.

Are you excited to watch Keith yet? I told you just a few paragraphs ago that you should be—don’t let my uncontrollable urges to highlight flawed writing and lackluster mise-en-scene scare you away from the film's great acting and emotional resonance.

Keith is not groundbreaking in story (I won't detail all the romantic plot points, but know there are more clichés than a Uwe Boll marathon, though they are mostly excusable), several of the film’s best scenes are derivative but you might be surprised to find yourself smiling instead of groaning. Instead, Keith is a finely paced, spirited showcase for two talented actors who admirably embrace their characters.

Keith (Jesse McCartney) has seen Rebel Without a Cause (if not a few Neil LaBute plays) but is perhaps less disaffected than he aspires to be. McCartney is good in a role that doesn’t need him to be half as nuanced or charming as Natalie (played expertly by Elisabeth Harnois).

Natalie is blessed with academic success, a supportive family, and athletic prowess, but she isn’t the type to write “carpe diem” in her day planner. The girl will eventually meet the boy and this boy will profoundly change that girl, we've heard that tune before, but the characters give it a fresh life. She may have untapped potential, but Natalie’s interests, urges, and aspirations exist well before Keith enters the stage. It’s refreshing when she doesn’t need the insights of a wild-eyed new guy to awaken her character from a personality coma. (And it’s a minor miracle that she never dates a jerkish quarterback. There is a secondary love interest, Raphael, but he is by no stretch a hurtful or manipulative guy).

still from Keith (2008)

Keith (2008)

Keith's arrival makes Natalie reconsider her world view. Another classic example of the "4-WAY Stop Blues."



The two develop a bond in their chemistry class (you see what I did there?) and their friendship evolves naturally. As we would expect, Keith shows Natalie the fun in coloring outside the lines. Keith throws out the “picnic rulebook” in their first adventure; they sneak into the conference room of a busy law firm to enjoy a lunch of Twinkies and Slim Jims. When the pair is eventually noticed, Keith is actually saved by Natalie’s quick talking and creative wit. Scenes like these allow Todd Kessler to turn a generic concept into an endearing and genuinely touching movie.

Final score: 81 out of 100.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Overrated movies of the last 25 years (pt. 1)

It’s hard for my brain to comprehend that Battleship Potemkin (Eisenstein, 1925) is both a monumental film and a boring one. It may put me to sleep, but the technical achievements in editing and historical significance as part of Soviet montage are unparalleled. If a work of art is critical to the evolution is medium, can it still suck? Can it be overrated? I have no clue -- so we’re going to keep this span of inquiry to the past 25 years.

Dishonorable mentions for those near misses:
Bottle Rocket (W. Anderson, 1996), Casino (Scorcese, 1995), Cinema Paradiso (Tornatore, 1988), Magnolia (Anderson, 1999), No Country for Old Men (Joel & Ethan Coen, 2007), The Others (Amenábar, 2001), The Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick, 1993), Pan’s Labyrinth (del Toro, 2006), Sin City (Miller & Rodriguez & Tarantino, 2005), Thelma & Louise (Scott, 1991), The Thin Blue Line (Morris, 1988)

10. Crash (Haggis, 2004) – Modern melodramas dressed as cautionary moral tales are always showered with gallons of praise by those who want you to know how enlightened or socially conscious they are. It's a pedantic subgenre, and it's structured to thrive on a series of absurd contrivances that gradually increase the tension between characters (racial tension, in the case of Crash) until a boiling point is reached. Alea iacta est when a morally ignorant character lashes out horribly and violently toward a character of relative innocence.

It’s essentially a formula designed to foster drama and pull at the heart-strings while also making a moral stand. If the script has integrity and allows the ending to evolve naturally, this can be a great way to tell a story (e.g. Syriana, Straw Dogs). Usually, though, these film scripts rely upon stupid characters with improbably bad luck to reach that “ZOMG, I can’t believe that just happened!!!” ending (e.g. The Virgin Suicides, Mystic River).

Crash

Crash (2004)

"I can't take any more of this liberal edification... Shoot us. Please."



Crash has three or four inspired moments buried under all the false manipulation, paper-thin characters, and atrociously unsubtle dialogue. It isn’t close to the worst movie I’ve ever seen, but people who find it life-altering piss me off. This is how those conversations always go:

Them: "Have you seen Crash?"
Me: "Of course. I can't believe James Spader fucks a chick in the leg hole!"
Them: "Um... What?"
Me: "Oh. You mean the one with Ludacris."
Them: “Yeah! It's intense, maybe the best movie I’ve ever seen. And it really makes you think, too…”
Me: “Heh. What does it make you think about?”
Them: “You know, racism, class struggle, how fucked we all are inside. It forces you to look at what's going on in society.”
Me: “Oh yeah? And what conclusions have all these thoughts brought you to?”
Them: “I don’t know. Racism is bad. People should look past skin color.”
Me: “Awesome. I'm going to go now, and stab myself in the eye with a fork.”


9. Any Christopher Guest movie. Pick any one, it doesn't matter.

I have no problem with documentary parodies. Häxan (Christensen, 1922) and Land Without Bread (Buñuel, 1932) are ancient classics. More recently, Borat is funny, Diary of the Dead is passable, and Drop Dead Gorgeous fucking rules.

But Christopher Guest? His mockumentaries are about as funny as chewing through a colostomy bag; it's the same drab actors having the same mundane conversations in every one. And when you comment on the lack of laughs, his minions will chastise you for not appreciating subtle humor. Oh, I enjoy a buried punchline as much as the next guy, but an uninspired gag about dumb hicks trying their hand at community theater isn't even mildly funny when stretched out over 90 minutes. He creates buffoons who think they are anything but and it makes us feel superior to laugh at them, I get it, I do. But if Guest really wants to do something "for my consideration," he should have someone film Eugene Levy bashing him in the face with a Louisville Slugger.


8. The English Patient (Minghella, 1996) – Alright, I need to confess. I never even saw The English Patient. I admit it. It's still overrated, though.

Every year, those kooky guys and gals running the Oscars arbitrarily pick one mediocre period drama and elevate it above genuinely great films. I’m positive The English Patient was their darling in 1996.

Even if it were, hypothetically, a very good movie, it isn’t better than the great ones it went up against. Fargo (Joel & Ethan Coen) and Lone Star (Sayles) are two of the best independent American films in the past few decades. Jerry Maguire (Crowe) is also highly underrated (as a sports flick and as a romantic comedy). And Danny Boyle’s colossally triumphant Trainspotting is better than all of those movies combined. I don’t have access to the algorithms used by whomever is behind the curtain to determines the “best picture,” but evidently any film set in a World War II hospital is a mathematical certainty.

(The English Patient has a low ranking because (1) while it may have won most of the Oscars in 1996, it has already been forgotten by most people. Thus it’s no longer rated highly enough to be egregiously overrated. (2) I never saw it, so there’s a 3.58% chance I have no idea what I’m talking about.

-----

Tomorrow we'll tackle 7 through 4…

(NOTE: Deep down, everyone knows Zoolander is dogshit, right? I’m not going to waste time writing about it here.)

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Something remarkable happened today

If you’re a cynic or a skeptic, stop reading right now. You won't believe my story. In fact, give me your address so I can mail you a t-shirt that says: “I lack faith because my parents didn’t love me. I am a destroyer of dreams. Misery gives me pleasure, for I am cynic.”

On Thursdays, I wander around my block in the morning to contemplate the in-and-outs of our corporeal existence. To my delight, today's walk brought me to a garage sale. I love garage sales, you guys. Great bargains, unique items, and, if you pay attention, you can learn a lot about your neighbors. (ex: Debbie Bergen’s weight bench was for sale because she separated from her abusive husband and he never took it with him. Thus I've learned, Debbie is a relentless harpy who drove her husband away and likely deserved each and ever beating she received.)

Between herbal teas and Sega Dreamcasts, Anton Lo Pan offered the most exotic wares at the garage sale. Mr. Lo Pan is our town's second favorite Chinaman but, frankly, his booth reminded me of the creepy gift shop in Gremlins. Behind the bootlegged DVDs, next to the electric rice cooker, one particularly dusty item caught my eye.

Mr. Driller

Mr. Driller for Sega Dreamcast

In 1884, Europe's top physicists concluded that Mr. Driller is the greatest video game ever.


A Cannon X99, an authentic facsimile machine from the late 20th century.It compatible with a 56K modem and everything! This is exactly what I was hoping to find.

Mr. Lo Pan was willing to unload this device of wonder for less than market value because the it's supposedly haunted. He claims the Canon distribution center in Wyoming was constructed on an old Cheyenne burial ground. Furthermore, one of the previous owners died on September 11, 2001. That's honestly pretty sad. He wasn’t in the Twin Towers or anything; it was pancreatic cancer. I didn’t believe Mr. Lo Pan's tale before, but now I'm not so sure. Mr. Lo Pan sold the priceless relic for only $40 (if there is one ethnicity I’m really good at negotiating with, it’s the Orientals).

cancer is funny

Ottoman Empire

Cancer terrorized people on 9/11 too.


Returning home, I plugged in my Canon X99 and headed to the toilet. (On a side note, studies suggest a man’s wit is at its sharpest when he's pooping. It's all very scientific. When you push all the waste out of your body, only the best stuff remains, right?) I sat on the can and I thought. "I’m a worldly man. I took Econ at the community college. With this small purchase, I finally control some of the 'means of production.' Can this fax machine catapult me into the aristocracy? I wonder if --" A familiar sound interrupted my thoughts. Could it be? The fax machine was running on its own!

I leapt off the toilet, pulled up my shorts without wiping, and bolted to the living room. (Oh my God, guys. Don’t ever do that. Shit got on these nice shorts my Grandma sent me and I had to throw them out-- poop even ended up on the wall somehow!) I snatched the transmission from the tray; my eyes moistened as I read the letter. I don’t know if the content of the message brought the tears or if it was the realization that juice from my own feces slowly dripped down my leg. Either way, this is the fax I received.


To whom it may concern,

If my calculations are correct, this message has been sent to The Future. Do not be alarmed.

I come from a very turbulent time. One in which the walls of society are slowly crumbling and the end of the world is very fucking nigh. In your time (The Future), I am already dead. Mortality is a fleeting and fickle mistress.

As a survivor, I assume you are descend from the most resilient of our time. If you are still reading this letter, I must also assume that you speak English. If you’re still reading this letter but you do not speak English, I really don’t know What to tell you. There is also the distinct possibility The Future is ruled by intelligent apes. This isn’t preferable but it will suffice.

You may wonder what value is in dead man's letter. Please let me explain before use this as tinder. Lessons are learned from the past. Perhaps my correspondence will serve as a bridge between our two peoples. My people rule the Earth, the Seas, and—believe it or not—the stars. Our doctors cure disease; our scientists master fission (or fusion? I get them confused); our artists and philosophers show us what it means to be human; our teachers do stuff too. Chosen by all the people, our tribal chiefs lead with courage and dignity. Our world is magnificient but our time here is fleeting. No doubt you and your tribesmen roam the Earth scavenging for food and shelter. With my help, you can to master the land itself! If you're one of the ape men, I can even teach you about toilet paper.

If The Future hopes to avoid the bleak destiny of my present, you must learn from your past. In 184 days I will be dead. Our assassin is silent but lethal nevertheless. You see, when the clock strikes midnight on December 31, 1999, 99.9978% of my world’s population will die. My people call the beast “Y2K,” and even top scientists don’t know what to do.

I quarantined myself in my mother’s basement as a precautionary measure. I have many cans of Spam and even figured out a way to recycle my own urine (diminishing the need for fresh water). I left my compound only once this month, and that was to go see
The Matrix one last time before they end its theatrical run. You know not of what I speak, but take my word for it when I say the risk is worth it (Trinity is really hot). So, my new friend, I’m stuck here drinking my own urine with only a few movies and CDs to distract me from the looming end of days. (The Crystal Method is all that and a bag of chips, by the way. Techno is the wave of the future!)

I will write again.

Best Regards,

Vern Fishapple
June 26, 1999


True story. Every Word.

I bet now you wish you would have taken the blue pill.

#5: big block of cheese day

I watched (RE: endured) a shit-ton of movies in the past week or two. I'm far too forgetful (RE: lazy) to review them ex post facto, but I'll give them each a sentence or two and maybe we'll just count that as a single review towards this unrealistic end. Cool? Okay? Please?

Listed in order, from shit to THE shit:

Ghost Rider (M. Johnson, 2007) - No. No. No. My initial expectations were lower than a Tokyo Drifter's custom suspension, but no horrid review could prepare me for this kind of abomination. I refuse to even link you to the IMDB page, that's how much I hate it. 0 out of 100.

Fu Manchu does not approve:



Small Town Gay Bar (Ingram, 2006) - Documentarian Malcom Ingram chills 2 ounces of homosexuality and 1.5 ounces of drunken debauchery over a few cubes of Deep South intolerance, and garnishes his documentary with a wedge of transvestite kink before serving. Sounds like a mouth-watering cocktail, right? Wrong. The result is dilute to blandness and the aftertaste is bitter enough to make you cringe (and yes, I am now the proud owner of "the world's most embarrassingly contrived bar metaphor"). 39 out of 100.

I'm Reed Fish (Adler, 2006) - Meh. If you have the chance to marry Rory Gilmore, you do it (lest she give you the stare). Life really is that simple. 43 out of 100.

Kill Your Idols (Crary, 2004) - A rockumentary on the rise of No Wave in NYC. The roots of the movement are thankfully explored (as I'm no rock historian) in the film's great first half. Then the n00bs appear and everything turns to shit. When seasoned veterans from Suicide or Sonic Youth wax nostalgic it's meaningful, mostly because they know what the fuck they're talking about; when the scatterbrained hapa kolea from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs pontificates about her own importance, it's unbearable to watch. 59 out of 100

punk rock sucks

punk sucks

"They say punk is dead / It's all in your head / Art doesn't pay / I got a job instead"



Timecrimes (Vigalondo, 2007) - Satisfying, but not as good as Primer. Ebert breaks it down: "'Timecrimes' is like a temporal chess game with nudity, voyeurism and violence, which makes it more boring than most chess games but less boring than a lot of movies." 68 out of 100.

The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief (Clennell, 2006) - A fairly engaging documentary illuminating peculiar corners of the Japanese sex trade. If you didn't think Japan was weird before seeing this... well, you're a fucking idiot. 79 out of 100.

Smithereens (Seidelman, 1982) - Lumpy's 45th Axiom of Awesomeness: random films made during the '80s are inevitably more interesting (and revealing) than current ones set in '80s. "I got a scar, I'll show it to you for five dollars... it's in a real interestin' place." 83 out of 100.

The Last Detail (Ashby, 1973) - I don't say this about too many things over 35 years old, but The Last Detail is insanely funny. Jack Nicholson at his absolute best. I have too much dignity to call anything a "hidden gem," but I'm tempted. 93 out of 100.

Manhunter (Mann, 1986) - I can never say this enough: Michael Mann is a phenomenal (and underrated) filmmaker. Manhunter has everything I want in a thriller (except, of course, Sharon Stone's fluffy sausage wallet). 94 out of 100.

Tom Noonan hunts pussy

Manhunter (1986)

Michael Mann's classic film needed more pussy.



Talk Radio (Stone, 1988) - This movie is a double-tall Red Bull and awesome! It's very clearly a stage adaptation (98% dialogue, only two or three different locations), but that's not a detriment here. It's Network on meth. 95 out of 100.

Once (Carney, 2006) - Gorgeous in every measurable way. Wonderfully heartbreaking original music. Please see it now. 98 out of 100.

Yup, I've watched some epic movies lately. Except Ghost Rider. Which sucks.

--

Once more with extra Fu:
Nicolas Cage is Fu Mancu

Grindhouse (2007)

"This is my MECCA! muhahahahah"

#4: Street Fight (Curry, 2005)

Picard & Q discuss Netflix

"I understand what you've done here, Queue. But I think the lesson could have been learned without the loss of 18 members of my crew." - Captain Picard


My Netflix queue is almost always at maximum capacity. I don't get it, who doesn't have 500 movies they are dying to see?

This is particularly annoying whenever I stumble across an awesome looking softcore lesbian foreign "film" and the site won't let me queue it up. Since I know that I'll forget the name of That Movie with That French Chick immediately after navigating away from its page, I have a conundrum. I can...

1) ...Forgo watching I Kissed a Mongolian Girl (and I liked It) altogether.
2) ...Prune a random film from the list I wasn't likely to watch in the first place (I'm looking at you, Rollerball).
3) ...Stream a queued "instant" movie through the Netflix website, after which a spot will be freed.

Tonight, I chose option three.

Streaming a movie through a browser is a bit different than watching it on a disc. The picture quality is pretty good, but not as great as DVD and nowhere near Bluray standards. There aren't any subtitle options, which annoys the screenwriter in me. And you don't get any special features (i.e. director's commentary, deleted scenes). I decided on a documentary ((1) less emphasis on picture quality, (2) likely was never a screenplay, (3) low budgets often result in very few DVD extras).

I picked Street Fight (Curry, 2005). Curry gives us a good documentary about the 2002 mayoral election in Newark, NJ, focusing mostly on the grotesqueness of urban politics and barriers that prevent new ideas and new candidates from dismantling "the machine."

The subject is compelling, Curry's style was adequate for a "follow you around" type doc, the footage was intimate, and the characters say provocative things ("We ask our black children to get educated. And they do. Then we call them white.") Street Fight is a good film, I thoroughly recommend it, etc., etc.

What really fascinated me was this glimpse into Newark. It's a fucking disgusting city in every respect, I really had no idea! If the occupants weren't speaking quasi-English the whole time, I would have assumed they were filming in Port-au-Prince or something. The police are corrupt, the buildings are rundown, the candidates are unapologetic criminals who are consistently re-elected by the stupidest constituents to ever be captured on celluloid! Newark is the fucking asshole of the entire hemisphere.

Who knew?

Newark in Street Fight

Street Fight (2005)

Even buildings kill themselves when forced to live in Newark.



And the film's most random exchange:

LITTLE BLACK GIRL: "I just touched Booker. If you don't believe me you can smell my hand"
DOCUMENTARIAN: "Um, does he have a smell?"
LITTLE BLACK GIRL: "Yes. He smells like... he smells like THE FUTURE."

Final score: 78 out of 100.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

#3: Thelma & Louise (R. Scott, 1991)

Remember when I was going to review 100 movies in one month? Well, I got distracted. Sue me. Since the last review, I celebrated my 28th birthday, graduated from my university (kind of), and purchased the awesomely distracting Rock Band 2. I've re-focused, though; I'm back!

Thelma & Louise

Thelma & Louise (1991)

"If you've murdered a man and there's no turning back... press five now."


I had somehow never seen Thelma & Louise and geez-louise (get it?) did it turn out to be overrated.

The dialogue is cheesy, the supporting characters are embarrassingly one dimensional, the jokes are flat, and the plot is ludicrous.

If the movie featured male leads, critics would have called it an average-- if not cliched-- road movie. Instead: it's a feminist masterpiece! I don't know. If it's empowering to women, great. Really, good for them. But it bored the crap out of me.

The film's saving graces are:

1) Geena Davis (as Thelma). Her character has a fun arc and the acting is spot on. This is in contrast to Susan Sarandon's Louise. Sarandon overacted the entire time.

2) DP Adrian Biddle (who has enjoyed an uneven career) does some interesting things with the road shots. The film is particularly beautiful when the duo reaches the Grand Canyon. Maybe I'm giving him too much credit-- he did have THE GRAND CANYON to work with.

Thelma & Louise

Thelma & Louise (1991)

Much like the female gender itself, T&L is pretty to look at but boring and just a tad shallow upon closer inspection.


Overall, Thelma & Louise didn't do much for me. And the way Ridley Scott handled the ending was especially stupid. The alternate ending included on the DVD was longer and actually more appropriate.

Thelma & Louise alternate ending

Thelma & Louise (1991)

The alternate ending doesn't have the cheesy freeze frame. It shows the fucking car go into the Canyon. Which is cool.


Final score: 45 out of 100.