Week 3: The Motel

I think every indy movie can generally be categorizes in one of three ways:

1. Immaculate. Your life will be improved by watching this movie.

2. Horrible. A complete, dismal waste of time with a lot of cheap art house innuendo. For some reason you feel like smoking filterless cigarettes and reading Proust after watching this movie.

3. Feels sort of hazy and disjointed and ultimately uninterersting and makes me wish I would have rented Spaceballs instead because this movie is mopey and dramatic and I've had enough already.

The Motel fits into the latter category. Do I really need to know what it feels like to be a lonely, horny Chinese-American boy cleaning up dirty sheets in a seedy motel? Not really. So rather than tell you any more about this movie, I thought I'd tell you what I did during this movie instead:

1. Plucked my eyebrows.
2. Did sit-ups with my legs propped up on the coffee table.
3. Ate a Reese's Cup after the sit-ups. I've earned it, right?
4. Paid my mortgage bill.
5. Peeled the shells off some hard-boiled eggs I made earlier in the day.
6. Rolled my eyes repeatedly at the screen.

It's just one of those movies that isn't necessarily awful but is totally forgettable, unless you are a lonely, horny Chinese-American boy. I'm sure the studio executives were really thrilled with the mass-marketing possibilities for this one.