“I brought my portentous soundtrack from Cape Fear,” said Marty, although, as usual, he was speaking so fast only the neighborhood dog heard him.
It’s Leo DiCaprio in a coat so oversized he could hide the entire Jolie-Pitt brood and a hat which seems to be sucking in his head like an Oreck sucks in a bowling ball.
If Leo were standing on your desk at work you’d call him a bobble-head.
“No matter how old I get, I still look like I’m dressing up in my dad’s clothes,” said Leo, whose face is evidently foreclosing on his facial hair, sending it packing to Robert Downey Jr.’s face, where hair suffers a housing shortage.
“I’m hoping my hat blocks my view of the latest version of Heidi Montag,” sighed Leo. “That ride has been pimped one time too many.”
Welcome to Shutter Island! It’s a mental hospital for the criminally insane, not unlike CBS’s Big Brother house. It’s the spot where bad Boston accents spend their years behind bars alongside the careers of Stephen Baldwin and Lou Diamind Phillips.
“We ah duly appointed Federal Mahshalls!” said Leo. “And we pahked owa cah in Hahvad Yahd!”
And here on Shutter Island, the chief therapist is Sir Ben Kingsley.
“Wait a second,” said one inmate. “I’m being treated by the star of Species, BloodRayne, and The Love Guru, and they call me crazy?!”
Meanwhile, out on the grounds….
“Is that an electrified perimeter?” asks Leo.
“You mean the one around Marty’s sauce? Yes,” said Ruffalo. “On Goodfellas a production assistant ate one of his meatballs. That PA never worked again, and Marty’s balls have been electrified ever since.”
“Not since Charlton Heston have I been captivated by electrified balls,” said a wistful Leo.
The most dangerous inmates on Shutter Island are in an old Civil War era fort, presumably because there’s no better place to store crazed homicidal maniacs than in an impenetrable castle armed with cannons.
Seconds into his investigation, Leo finds a handwritten note hidden below a wood board: “The Law of 4. Who is #67?”
“I don’t know who #67 is,” said Leo, “but more than one Sports Illustrated cover model has closed my case-file on #69.”
Michelle Williams comes to Leo in a Dawson’s Creek dream, only to crumble to ashes when he holds her.
“Was it my big hat? My shoulder pads? My inconsistently distributed and Chia Pet-like facial hair? Was it Marty’s electrified balls?! Tell me it wasn’t the balls!”
Time for a disturbing flashback to Leo’s time as a soldier in the baby-faced war to beat all baby-faced wars: The Battle of Nickelodeon.
Back to the present and the worst weather in Hollywood history. Leo’s clothes get wet, so it’s time to don some Orderly-style whites. “I’m either getting to the bottom of this mystery or serve ice cream trying!” he said.
Leo had better watch his step, because the Warden is Monk’s Captain Stottlemeyer! “And tonight, said Stottlemeyer, “in the cafeteria we have the musical stylings of the Randy Disher Project. It’s an episode called Mr. Monk and the Suicidally Inclined Facial Hair that’s Ready to Ride the Rails like a Hobo.”
Shutter Island is just what the therapist ordered. It’s the best movie I’ve seen so far this year.
Bring your psychotropic drugs and pahk yoah cah in Hahvad Yahd.