Out Of Sorts: Exodus Review


(It means “leave.”)

Well, it’s that time of year again, Folks. Just like last week. The time when Your Humble Reviewer has to borrow some more money for movies so I can do these sorry ass write-ups on shit you shouldn’t need to see in the first place. But it’s a living. Sort of. Not really.


Let’s begin!

So I got an e-mail last weekend from the Ed (Editor-In-Chief, or “EIC”) saying she wanted me to review Exodus. I asked her which one, there are a lot of them. She says just go find where it’s playing and write about it. “Ha HA!” I bellowed at the keyboard in front of me. “I’ve already got a copy!” She seemed perplexed. “Like a bootleg or something?! Fuck it, never mind. Just review the shit and write me something.”

So I did. Exodus was one of our favorite metal bands back in our skateboarding teenage years (we didn’t know shit about punk music back then; The Ramones were those “Pet Sematary” guys as far we were concerned). We made do with metal in lieu of punk, and when choosing which Exodus album to review for the purposes of this article, I chose a personal favorite of ours from around 1988, Exodus’s album “Fabulous Disaster,” and decided to give it a listen again after all these years. This was on an old cassette mind you, so it sounded like fucking road rash, but I listened just the same! Oh, hold on a second, the phone’s ringing, I’ll be right back.

Okay, I’m back. That was the EIC again wanting to know how the review was coming along. I yelled back, “I’m trying to listen to it right now, you mangy, diseased bitch! How am I ever supposed to get any work done with you hounding me like a foxing party day and night?”

“What do you mean, ‘listen to it?'” she asked, hesitantly. “WATCH IT.”

“Fine! But don’t call me back until after Track 13!” I hollered into the phone and hung up. Then I turned on the TV for a moment and saw a trailer for some movie called “Exodus: Gods And Kings” starring Christian Bale and some other guy who I don’t know. After carefully rewinding the Exodus cassette and trying to forget about the last 30 minutes and most of my teenage years, I quickly caught a cab downtown to see…

EXODUS: GODS AND KINGS, directed by Ridley Scott. He’s the cat that did “Alien” (favorite), “Blade Runner” (favorite), “some other films” (favorites, no question about all of those), was brother to Tony “Top Gun” Scott (favorite, but mostly just because he did “True Romance” and something else, I think Bruce Willis was in it, but it looked like a Tony Scott movie), and finally bringing us back to “Alien” territory with its pseudo-prequel “Prometheus” (did see it. Many times. For “favorite” or “not so favorite” status, click the PayPal link below).

Sure, I directed ‘Alien.’ But I also did ‘Black Rain’ with Michael Douglass. Win some, lose some. Mark about 5,000 points in the ‘LOST’ column on this one.

Ridley Scott is a badass. Even if he’s English. Or Scottish/Irish, whatever the fuck he is, the clyde can make a movie. Can’t tell a story to save his limey/plunker/mick ass and I sure as hell wouldn’t buy so much as a used tractor from that bastard, but he can sure make a film.

First of all, it’s better than last year’s Aranofsky picture “Noah.” A lot of pictures were better than that movie. “Birth Of A Nation,” for example, taught us the glorious history of American racism. By white people. (For more current coverage, turn on your television. What, you don’t have a TV? Why? Because it’s in COLOR?!!! RACIST!!! Sorry. It’s a thirteen-year-old’s joke.) “Gone With The Wind” taught us that African Americans actually liked being subservient caricatures in a gleefully Briar Rabbit-hollow-infested landscape as long as everything was in 70 mm Technicolor (NOW who’s the racist?!!! Okay. Me). And “Road House” taught us that the only thing greater than seeing Kelly Lynch’s snoobs, some guy saying, “You could be my regular Saturday Night Thing,” and Patrick Swayze ripping dudes’ throats out in fights where he’s clearly undermatched, is watching him getting staples installed after a fight and saying, “Pain don’t hurt.”

Patrick Swayze’s not in it (he’s on temporary hiatus, because he’s dead) but all the pictures I found of him saying “Pain don’t hurt” feature him with his shirt off, and I feel weird about that.

That reminds me, a little over a month ago, I was taking a walk around a 5-mile lake around 8 or so at night. The onset of winter had changed from a slight gust to an almost tubercular wheeze, and the previous night’s rain had frozen on the sidewalk. Needless to say, while trying to make my way through this riff raff, I slipped, hit my head on the merciless concrete below, and was unconscious for some time. When I finally regained consciousness, I made my way to the emergency room and thedoctor decided to staple up the scalp wound I’d self-administered in the world’s most pathetically misconceived suicide attempt—with 20 staples. I’ve gotten so used to getting knocked around at this age that the staples didn’t hurt. But not once when he asked me, “Are you numb enough?” did I answer, “Pain don’t hurt.”

So anyway, Christian Bale’s in this movie, right? And some other little prick, I couldn’t quite place his name. Anyway, it’s about a bunch of brown dudes (Israelites) and other brown dudes (Egyptians) and they’re all played by white guys who speak perfect English. I can’t remember who wins in the end (but I was betting on the white guys to really pull through on this one), but the title thing at the beginning of the movie said “Based on some real shit” or something like that. Someone should totally write a book about this, because it seems like a pretty cool story, but I missed most of it because I was writing this review.

Christian Bale, seen here in his period-accurate Moses costume


One Hour Later: Shit. I accidentally typed up and sent the “Exodus: Fabulous Disaster” review to her by mistake. Well, maybe this will give me time to actually go back and watch the movie. Or maybe she just won’t notice.

That notwithstanding, Everybody Wang Chung tonight, and I remain,


Now I just sit across from her at our tiny table, staring her down, in a lounge that no longer exists.