Oh my God. You are not going to believe what happened today. So, I’m engaged in a perfectly civil conversation with a Cinema Blend co-worker, Katey Rich, and she mentions some recent water cooler chit-chat about throwing together a list on holiday-themed movies. Naturally, this notion of yuletide motion picture merriment piqued my interest, as I’m a kind of a big softie who secretly likes a pleasant rendezvous with family, gingerbread cookies and getting to third base under the chimney; so, I tell her I’m on board with lending a participatory hand. We warmly reminisce about Elf, Miracle On 34th Street, and some other favorites until she has the nerve, the blatantly offensive candor to bring up Home Alone 2: Lost In New York, arguably the worst movie John Hughes was ever even loosely associated with. You’re joking, I say, giving her the benefit of the doubt. But no. She was vehement about her infatuation with the product. Apparently, expressing enthusiasm while sitting through this mediocre, borderline farce of life itself is some kind of goddamn ritual in her family. Well, Katey, you ignorant slut, you may be my boss, but that doesn’t mean I can’t whip out my Dasher and spray Vixen all over your precious movie. Slingshot--Engage.
Since this is a sequel we’re discussing, it’s probably imperative I include a paragraph talking about the first film. I could get all polysyllabic and wax like I’m a real journalist right now with Peter Travers-like nonsense about ahead-of-its-time camera angles and beautiful art direction, but I was like ten the first time I saw Home Alone. And it was awesome. Macaulay Culkin was a four foot badass. Buzz’s girlfriend---woof. Some shit about John Candy and polka. It was all golden. I actually went home and included a Home Alone sequel in my before dinner prayer. I swear to God. I wanted more Kevin McAllister action that badly. Some people might say God listened to my childish hopes; more likely, the studio executives wiped their asses with my seven dollars and it felt nice. Either way, fuck that prayer.
You see--getting what you want isn’t always advantageous. Like so many other teenagers of the internet generation, I spent much or my youth discussing how much I would pay to see Britney Spears naked. The amount itself would fluctuate wildly depending on the day, but it was always far more than my allowance allotted. Then I got my wish. Horrifying, soul-crushing, vomit-inducing images of Brit Brit’s vagina soiled into my retinas forever. That’s what Home Alone 2: Lost In New York is--Britney Spears’ dilapidated vajayjay.
Say what you will about ridiculous plot holes in the first movie, but those bulbous craters pale in comparison to the mind-blowing ridiculousness of nearly every single goddamn event in the second film. First of all, there is no way fucking way Catherine O’Hara would be enough of a self-absorbed train wreck to lose her kid a second time. That’s just not possible. Have you ever seen mother’s of kidnapped children on Nancy Grace? They’re like Gemini or Nitro guarding the cylindrical hoop things in Powerball. Kevin probably wouldn’t be allowed to get his driver’s license until his mid-thirties.
And you’re honestly gonna sit here and tell me Harry and Marv would break out of the same jail at the same time? Have you seen how much noise Marv makes doing basic, day-to-day activities? He’s like a geriatric pissing everyone off with a damn scooter. Harry is the brains behind the operation, and he’s like forty-five or fifty years old. He’s not outrunning any guards or doing Catherine Zeta-Jones laser-avoidance gymnastics shit to duck underneath security cameras. He would break his hip or more likely, re-aggravate one of the thirty-seven thousand injuries he got in the first movie. Even Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman could tell you taking a blazing hot iron to the face might cause a few lingering scars, not to mention the emotional trauma of being manhandled and punish-fucked by an eight year old wiseass.
And you really think Tim Curry would let a fourth grader check into the Plaza Hotel? He’s not even smarter than a fifth grader. I know it’s not the Ritz, but I guarantee that elegant establishment would have some sort of policy in place against letting hoodlum children gallivant about. You don’t need to be the Hoover guy to figure out Kevin and his mischievous grin are up to no good. Plus, did you see Clue? Tim Curry figured out six murders in an hour and a half.
Don’t even get me started on that creepy pigeon lady! The sociopath neighbor with the sad eyes in the first film at least served his purpose in making Kevin think he might be the one out to get him. His mere presence created a climate of confusion and mistrust, but being lost and alone in a modern-day Sodom with two fugitives who openly admit they’d like to end your life is reason enough to get your Norman Schwarzkopf on. I don’t give a fuck if she was the same woman who cared for Joseph Gordon-Levitt in Angels And The Outfield. Home Alone 2 isn’t a horror movie. Unseemly old bird-enthusiasts don’t need to be wasting screen time when their only function is to force a moral on the audience during the last five minutes. I want cleverly-constructed booby traps, not saggy old, defecated on titties.
And how convenient is it that the owner of the FAO Schwartz knockoff happens to still work even though he should be in a goddamn bed with Charlie Bucket’s four grandparents? Pretty fucking convenient. And what’s with the turtle dove obsession? Who cares about turtle doves? Why do they become a central theme throughout the movie? Come to think of it, this entire film is strangely fixated on endothermic flyers. Robert Stroud probably did a few unaccredited rewrites on the script. Yes, I know that’s impossible. Don’t you think if I’m educated enough to reference Robert Stroud, I would know he died decades ago? Asshole.
Home Alone 2: Lost In New York sucks. It’s a terrible premise, rushed into production to steal as much money as possible before anyone realized what happened. Unfortunately, rubes like my current boss, Katey Rich, have so much nostalgia stuck inside their asses that they can’t properly evaluate this disaster. If it looks like shit and it smells like shit, it’s probably Lost In New York.
This is the part where I end the article and you leave me comments about channeling Scrooge or being related to Rudolph Hess. Well, blow it out your ass. I love Kevin McAllister and Fuller and pretty much everyone except Buzz’s fat ass from the first movie, but that doesn’t mean Home Alone 2 is watchable. It’s not. If a prime Marilyn Monroe rose from the grave, asked you to hang out, and then made you help her move, you’d still have an awful time. Why? Because moving shit from one place to another sucks. The inclusion of Marilyn Monroe’s fuck me eyes can’t change that.
Read Katey's completely deluded and naive Green Band Rant here.