Rise of the Planet of the Apes is an unquestionable hit. Since Friday, multiplexes have been packed with self-loathing, popcorn-stuffed humans all too happy to shell out $54 million of their rapidly disappearing dollars to cheer for their own extinction. And now, for Round 2 of its specious, antispecies crusade, Hollywood has adopted a more subtle strategy. It’s August, the month in which the most babies are born here in the USA. (It’s also the month in which the most sharks are irrationally feared, but that’s not important right now.) And so to head off any warm, fuzzy, fertile feelings we humans might be experiencing, the eu-geniuses in Tinseltown have recently unveiled three trailers, all of which should make birth-control sales — not to mention the popularity of Lord Varys — soar.
Today brought the trailer for Disney’s The Odd Life of Timothy Green in which a manic pixie barren couple (Jennifer Garner and Joel Edgerton) write down the characteristics of their dream kid in a wooden box, bury it in the backyard, and, overnight, grow a 10-year-old. Talk about locavore! Anyway, the trailer is both disturbing — the kid immediately begins scoring goals and doing his best imitation of a certain Brazilian statue — and alluring: Imagine producing a perfectly polite moppet without ever having to change a single diaper or confront the horrors of a talking backpack.
Yesterday came the preview for We Need to Talk About Kevin, the actually-quite-incredible-looking return of Scottish director Lynne Ramsay. In this Cannes favorite, perfectly normal human Tilda Swinton — and her husband, Dr. Steve Brule — give birth to the world’s most disturbing boy, a dead-eyed diablo who collects porny images instead of stamps and just might be responsible for a suburban massacre. Just the sort of thing to encourage a nation to strap on the BabyBjorns!
And finally for those unfortunate enough to have already reproduced comes David Gordon Green’s The Sitter. In his last pre-Atkins role, Jonah Hill plays (wait for it!) a crude slacker who, for some terrible reason, is entrusted with three actual living children. In desperate pursuit of Ari Graynor’s nether-regions, Hill drags these unfortunate, sharting bundles of
studio-approved one-liners joy on a Pineapple Express-y misadventure of minivan crashes, jive talk, and, mercifully, J.B. Smoove. The message: Children are cock-blocking, perfume-spritzing burdens. Better to remain on your filthy couch, fat and happy and kid-free, just the way Hollywood wants you. Consider yourself warned!