Children of Men

By Mark Ramsey | 2007/01/08

Why talk up Children of Men instead of Night at the Museum? Because who needs a movie about walking dinosaurs when your cast includes Dick Van Dyke and Mickey Rooney?

Besides, people have actually seen Night at the Museum. Whereas the theater for Children of Men is so lonely that the usher prefaces the movie with a pat on the back and a big hug.

It’s 2027 and women can no longer bear children – in part because they can no longer bear the men they have them with and in part because infertility is the only way to stop fueling the degrading parental humiliation that is “MTV’s The Real World.”

It turns out when people can’t have kids they get testy. That’s funny, because anybody who has ever been in a checkout line at Wal*Mart knows it’s kids who create testy parents.

So there’s panic on the streets of London, panic on the streets of Birmingham. Yes, Children of Men is a British movie which is another way of saying it might as well be happening on Mars, or at least that corner of Mars where people drive on the wrong side of the road.

There are no more children left in the world!

The last one was killed when he wouldn’t sign an autograph for a fan. Although, technically, the autograph would have been worth a lot more if you had killed him anyway after you got one. Think, desperate people, think!

I said there are no more children left in the world!

A world with no more movies full of kids fathered by Steve Martin! No more reasons to watch the same animated crap DVD’s hundreds of times in succession!

A world where Disneyland is Gay Day, every day! – This week: Mickey borrows Minnie’s clothes and Pluto dons some handsome leather chaps!

A world where Pixar gives up movies for CG-animated Select Comfort Sleep-Number Bed commercials, and where Nickelodeon is sliming octogenarians which, for some reason, isn’t nearly as much fun.

Worst of all, there are no more Fanning sisters!

“The Fannings are Hollywood’s most renewable resource,” said an MGM spokesperson. “Put two in a cage and a day later you have a dozen.”

“Without Fannings,” he added, “our development slate includes James Bond in a mad ejector-scooter chase up a stair lift and the latest Rocky movie, where an 80-year-old Sly Stallone, in peak physical condition except for suspiciously withered gonads, is throwing punches at thin air, his retinas having long since packed the bags under his eyes and retired to Florida.

Clive Owen stars, thanks to a top-secret casting formula that goes like this:

Clive Owen = George Clooney minus $ minus charisma

Clive learns that he’s transporting the last pregnant woman in the world. And wouldn’t you know it, Angelina Jolie already called dibs on her baby!

And how does this woman reveal her pregnancy to Clive? By taking off all her clothes, of course. How come nobody in real life ever announces their pregnancy that way? “I was going to tell her I had three balls,” Clive said, “but I couldn’t get my pants off fast enough.”

This woman’s soon-to-be-born child is the future of all humanity. Assuming, of course, the child doesn’t mind procreating with some very old farts. “Finally, the world needs me” says 90-year-old Warren Beatty, now using his penis as a walking cane.

Julanne Moore can now add “terrorist” to a resume that also includes “Revlon spokesperson.” Says Julianne: “Nothing enhances a fight for freedom like flawless alabaster skin!”

“These fierce fashionistas must be stopped” announced American president Jenna Bush. “This catwalk isn’t big enough for both of us.”

Julianne playfully blows a ping pong ball into Clive Owen’s mouth, thus putting to rest any questions about why folks don’t have babies. “What a turn-on,” says Clive. “Next time, let’s use a bowling ball.”

Clive is nearly blown up, and the ear-wrenching noise lingers. “Ringing in the ears is the sound of ear cells dying,” Julianne tells him, as he unsuccessfully tries to answer every phone and banana in sight.

Michael Caine is a hippie iconoclast who resembles the bastard brother of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. “I tried to make a baby with Melissa Etheridge,” said Caine, “but my sperm stopped at a pub en route and had to be carried home by a couple’a blokes.”

Children of Men has been getting plenty of praise from critics who get to see it on DVD in their living rooms, but I found it to be rather overwrought.

Even Jane Austen would have penned a bleak dystopian future that included a good dance sequence.


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