Despite the fact that she has the IRS breathing down her neck, her recent film The Canyons has been rejected by Sundance, and she’s an all-around pain the ass to work with (according to this in-depth yet rather damaging article in the New York Times), Lindsay Lohan has turned down an offer to join the cast of Dancing with the Stars – reportedly worth $500,000.

Ostensibly, this seems like a terrible move on Lohan’s part – and a potential act of desperation for DTWS, which might be trying to rebound from their failed attempt to grab audiences through an All-Star-based season. However, DTWS’s attempt at securing Lohan may be the precise reason why she’s avoiding it at all costs.

According to Deadline.com, one reason why the most recent season of DTWS floundered was because “people didn’t want to see people who could dance. They wanted people who couldn’t dance.” If this is accurate, then Lohan and her reputation are surefire remedies for their sagging ratings. This is not to say that Lohan can’t dance. She reportedly spends enough time in clubs to pick up a few moves. But rather, the drama that follows Lohan around like her shadow would surely provide built-in drama for the reality series.

At the same time, it would – presumably – extinguish little of the Lohan lore of problems, outbursts, and tantrums that comprise her history. On the one hand, a reality show could be the opportunity to purports to want in order to prove that she’s changes her ways and wants to get back into focusing on becoming a serious actress. On the other, it could tumble that last precarious bit of opportunity Lohan seems to believe still exists that is not afforded by straightforward pornography.

This situation is much sadder than a simple report of rejection. It is a compendium of disappointments. Lohan herself, though she claims “dignity,” can’t hold it together long enough to expose herself on a weekly program wherein mistakes and slipups – literal and figurative — are part of the narrative arc and cannot be edited out in post-production. It also further elucidates her fragility. Lohan has long been associated with “train wreck,” and it’s likely that this show would confirm this on live television, but the criticism endemic to this series could also shatter her – even if she does nothing wrong. The show’s premise and appeal – like any other televised talent competition – is to construct judgment with the sympathetic judge, the one that looks from a business perspective, and the one paid to be rude and apathetic.

No doubt someone would bring up her “water bottles,” her compromising, underwearless photos caught by paparazzi, her stints in jail, her numerous court appearances, her traffic accidents, the bomb that was Liz & Dick, or the rejection of The Canyons. And then there’s the potential that she can’t dance, or can’t dance as well as others on the stage. She’ll once again be second-, third-, or fourth-rate.

She’ll be mocked on live television, regardless of her success on the show. She’ll become the full caricature of Lindsay Lohan.

The New York Times article is both damning and sympathetic. She has talent. She has her moments and – at times – she knows how to manipulate both the audience and the camera.

But turning down this show might do more to keep the dissipating pulse that is her career beating.

For those of you that have always yearned for a live-action version of Wall-E starring Tom Cruise, then Oblivion will quench your perverse thirst. Cruise plays Jack Harper, a drone repairman who stumbles upon a secret society of humans remaining on the dilapidated planet we once called Earth. The voice of Morgan Freeman plays the presumed leader of this society, and he informs Jack – and us – that “They lied to you. It’s time you know the truth.”

I’m sure there will be some sort of Planet of the Apes type reveal – or maybe something more akin to The Village – but my concerns and hesitation about this film stem from a line of dialog that centers on the last Super Bowl ever played on Earth.

Harper tries to explain the gravity and appeal of this moment to his partner, but it feels a bit inorganic and disingenuous.

His partner has no frame of reference or memory of the battle, except that “people tell [her] it’s a classic,” to which Harper reaffirms, “it was a classic game,” with “80,000 people on their feet, seconds on the clock” before the “QB throws a hail Mary.”

For such a classic game, it seems improbable that the QB would lose a name, or that such an apparent football fan who laments the end of football and the joy of victory in miraculous fashion would forget the hero’s name.

We don’t forget the names of heroes, particularly not sports heroes. Ask fans in the Yankee / Red Sox rivalry. Ask a football fan which BC quarterback threw the most memorable hail Mary in college sports. Ask a Met’s fan who bobbled the ball in Game Six of the 1986 World Series.

This might seem small in importance to the grand scheme of the film – though a miraculous play that snatches victory from the jaws of defeat will certainly be symbolic of a secret society on a seemingly defeated Earth, no? – it represents lazy screenwriting, proving that the author – or the editor or the highly-compensated actor — could hardly be bothered to provide a made-up last name in a made-up game in a made-up dystopia.

Despite the fact that the chainsaw-wielding Leatherface has been featured in six separate films about massacring since Tobe Hooper’s 1974 classic horror flick, Texas Chainsaw 3D topped the box office this last weekend with a $23million draw, which falls a bit short of the 2003 remake starring Jessica Biel and above the 2006 prequel starring no-one-in-particular. As January is a breeding ground for horror films, and this installment was the only new widely released film of the year, it is no surprise that it edged out Django Unchained and The Hobbit.

What is a touch surprising is the epidemic amnesia from which young adults and older teens seem to be suffering. While this film is an extension of the 1974 film, it still follows – much like the previous five films – a similar arc: precociously curious teens encounter man who skins victims while disposing of them one-by-one with a chainsaw. There is nothing unusual or novel here – unless you consider the use of 3D, but this gimmick is also far from novel and hardly transcendent.

According to the Hollywood Reporter, “63 percent of the audience under the age of 25,” [source] which means that Texas Chainsaw 3D certainly appealed more to the younger side of those who saw the 1974 original. The 37 percent on the older side might have been drawn in by the memory of the original and the inevitable comparisons – positive and negative – that could be limned. However, these numbers only doubly confirm the rash of short-term memory. The most recent film was released in 2006, a mere seven years ago – enough of a window for these viewers to have seen it.

Granted, some of the viewers at the 25-year-old mark would have just been eighteen, and those under 23 would have been technically “restricted” from seeing the film, but this, first, assumes that the strictness of the “R” rating is upheld and that those under-17 could not have located a single “guardian” to accompany them. This metric also elides the ubiquity of Netflix, Video on Demand, Amazon.com streaming, and cable, all four of which don’t require identification checks.

What’s even doubly surprising is the apparent allure of Trey Songz, the male lead in Texas Chainsaw 3D. According to the LA Times, of those in the under-25 age group, “1 out of 3 said the main reason they showed up to see the film was because the musical artist Trey Songz had a role in it” [source]. This is all speculation because I haven’t seen the movie, but this is either a sign that horror movies will begin including more and more musical artists willing to promote their films on Twitter so that people come in droves to see it, or Trey Songz has a bunch of sadistic fans who just want to see him die at the end of a chainsaw. Again, I haven’t seen the film, but he’s the black guy. And, in horror films, if you’re an African American or someone who has sex, you die. (Judging by the above image, he falls into both categories.)

Regardless, a film that has hovered steady at 23% on Rotten Tomatoes has elicited $23million dollars over the weekend, and I continue to lament many decisions I’ve made thus far.

While you probably won’t see video evidence of Kanye West invading the black hole of advantageous exploitation that is Kim Kardashian and her uterus – at least, not until she’s too old to be relevantly attractive – you will be able to catch her spontaneously going into labor and pushing out her newest cash cow. Did I say spontaneous? I meant entirely staged and most-likely induced labor.

According to E! president Suzanne Kolb, “we love it when this close-knit family gets even bigger. We look forward to sharing the joy as they prepare for more diapers, more bottle and without a doubt, more fabulous baby wear.” [source]

In other words, We here at E! look forward to milking this for all its worth and continuing the Kardashian line. One that stemmed from a fortuitously “leaked” sex tape — a tape that has erupted in sales since the announcement of her impregnation [source]; one that has been perpetuated by a boring Playboy shoot / fabricated controversy; one that snagged a self-esteem rattled NBA star; one that staged an “out-of-the-blue” relationship, engagement, subsequent wedding, and convenient separation to another NBA star who’s more popular as a heel than a forward; one that moors a privileged, dysfunctional family together with a gilded carrot; one that doubly confirms that E!’s viewers teeter precariously on the line between Schadenfreude and misguided envy.

Kardashian’s pregnancy, much less E!’s use of it, shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. Last year’s finale that involved Kourtney birthing a second child garnered nearly three million viewers, a draw that edges out Kim’s marriage proposal the year before. It seems that E! and the Kardashian clan have learned that the only way to keep people interested is to arrange marriages and get knocked up — something that appropriately starts with a K, much like Kim’s last two celebrity boyfriends, a pure coincidence I’m sure.

It was only a matter of time before someone took the Stephanie Meyer path of selecting classic horror-film characters, poaching them from their usual mythology and forcing them to fit in other played-out genres, like love stories about ignorant, inexperienced, whiny teenagers. It was only a matter of time before someone saw Heathers, The Breakfast Club, or Pretty in Pink and said, “Zombies could work well in that story.”

That matter of time has dissipated. Johnathan Levine, whose previous films include the underrated 50/50, has directed a film based on Isaac Marion’s Warm Bodies, a book that embraces the familiar trop of boy-in-high-school-who-everyone-dislikes and adds some zombie flare. The boy is R (Nicholas Hoult), a brain-eating zombie infatuated with Julie (Teresa Palmer), a young girl filling the shoes most often worn by Molly Ringwald.

In an interview with Movies.com, Levine notes “What we’re trying to make here is very different, very unique — the tone is a little ballsier.” On a captious note, something can’t be very unique. It’s unique, or it’s not. Second, this endeavor is hardly ballsy. If anything, it’s gimmicky. The world has found itself in a zombie-apocalypse craze that can be blamed on Night of the Living Dead, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, World War Z, 28 Days Later, or The Walking Dead (graphic novel or television show). Injecting zombieism, zombie love, or zombie makeup into a movie about unrequited love is not ballsy. It’s a cliche cash grab that plays on contemporary phenomena.

He also reminds us that “it has more elements of humor; it’s got cynicism and irony and cultural commentary.” I’m sure it’ll be funny. What isn’t funny about a zombie having his but cheeks glued together. And, what about death – or un-death – doesn’t scream cynicism? That’s practically built in. However, I’m most impressed with the “cultural commentary” that will certainly run through the topics of bullying, ostracism, and high-school hierarchy – things that are certainly “very unique” and haven’t been done ten to twenty dozen times over. At least, not with zombies. With football players, cheerleaders, rebels, vampires, Saturday morning cartoon characters, but not zombies.

In a sense, I suppose zombies are a safe target. There are no races or creeds involved, only schoolmates’ objections to maggots, decomposing flesh, an abhorrent stench, and the threat of being eviscerated in study hall.

This might be the only saving grace: R (like “rated”?) becomes so fed up with being dismissed that he goes on a carnage-based rampage and just scratches, licks, and bites everyone to zombifie (?) them. If he goes too crazy, the film will be panned – more so than I assume it will be, given the topic and its February release – on the ground of encouraging school violence. If he merely scratches everyone with a pinkie nail and spits in their mouths (I’m not super sure about the zombie indoctrination procedure), then it’s more about equality, not violence.

Though forced assimilation could draw some comparisons to fascism.

Huh, I suppose if Warm Bodies takes this route, then it will be unique. Ish.

I’m not one to completely revel in Schadenfreude, but can we finally acknowledge this recent development as a cry for help? According to the New York Post, they received a letter from 123Talent pushing Lohan as a hirable guest at birthdays and Bat Mitzvahs:

Page Six received an email pitch from 123Talent with the subject line “Book One of Hollywood’s Biggest Movie Stars Lindsay Lohan Now!” offering us the opportunity to request the presence of Lohan herself at whatever event or venue. [NY Post]

The Post is the last line of publications that anyone should consider reliable – unless they were pitted against monkeys working on Hamlet. However, they’re often accurate when it comes to celebrity gossip, so I don’t doubt that they received this email.

At the same time, 123Talent, which appears to be a real agency doesn’t list Lohan under any one of their drop down menus. I’ve never heard of most of the people under the client list and its subsets, with the exception of a few athletes, Paris Hilton, and Morris Chestnut, so it seems that they would be completely willing to put someone of Lohan’s notoriety on their site, if only to draw traffic.

If the Post is correct and 123Talent is truly pushing Lohan, then we’ve all found our go to when we’re not sure if the sloppy, half-dressed friend-of-a-friend can make an appearance at our respective galas.

Some might suggest that a movie like The Usual Suspects is overrated and garners undue praise because its narrative is predicated on a lie, namely one that Verbal Kint (Kevin Spacey) weaves for the duration of the film. Perhaps the critics of this style are correct inasmuch as the final scene really amounts to a stylized “just kidding.” At the same time, what saves this film from ending up in the unwatchable pile is, first, the acting – by which Spacey became a household name and conjured no surprise when he took home a second Oscar only a few years later as Lester Burnam in American Beauty. Secondly, the movie doesn’t overtly establish its agenda as one that intends to fool the audience and reveal a twist at the end. The twist happens, but the film doesn’t begin as a whodunit. Rather, the arc of the film begins with a lone survivor whose physical disability keeps him from partaking in the heist but leaves him as the closest thing to a witness. In a sense, director Bryan Singer and writer Christopher McQuarrie present a heist-film-gone-awry. Moreover, they challenge the conventions of the first person narrator by exposing the narrative “I” for what it truly is: unreliable. In the way that Kint is trusted – by both U.S. Customs Agent Dave Kujan (Chazz Palminteri) and the audience – it seems that viewers have blurred the lines between first person narrator and omniscient narrator – one that provides an objective voiceover of events in order to frame a story: think Morgan Freeman in Million Dollar Baby or The Shawshank Redemption. Despite his obviously human existence in both films, his narration becomes unquestionably omniscient, when, realistically, the information he has can’t be obtained at his proximity from the action. The same could be said for Ninny Threadgoode (Jessica Tandy) in Fried Green Tomatoes or the Stranger (Sam Neil) in The Big Lebowski. Admittedly, none of these characters has as large a role as Kint, but they still embody the role of first-person omniscient narrator.

That being said, imagine how successful The Usual Suspects would have been if Kint’s fabrication had been exposed in the previews. Granted, the preview might tip its hand a bit too much by showing Keyser Soze’s functional left hand, which in effect tries overly hard to convince the audience that Kint and Soze are not the same man, but what if the preview had intentionally showcased Kint’s ultimate walk from the police station that begins as a foot-dragging hobble and ends with an elegant gait and the cracking of knuckles that had been meticulously held frozen for a prolonged period of time. Would it have drawn the same viewership or acclaim? Would it have put Bryan Singer on the map or made Spacey a relevant actor in the late nineties and early aughts? For those who object to the narrative trickery in The Usual Suspects, I would recommend that you check out Richard Gere’s new film The Double – or at least watch the trailer.

Gere plays Paul Shepherdson (was Shepherd too obvious of a name?), a retired CIA operative who, in his prime, “was responsible for tracking down Soviet assassins.” However, there was one that got away: Casius, a cold-blooded, stealthy assassin whose trademark weapon is wire produced from his wristwatch. With this garret, he is able to quickly eliminate his target and then blend back into a crowd without needing to dispose of an incriminating weapon. And, in Shepherdson’s absence from the field, it seems that Casius has emerged from the depths of human camouflage, only to prompt Paul out of retirement and the introduction of Ben Geary (Topher Grace), a young FBI agent who “knows more about [Casius] than anyone” else in the FBI.

Thus, the audience has its tag team to root for. The problem that arises in the trailer is its display of Richard Gere subduing a presumed prisoner and then producing an identical garret from his watch, at which point the victim’s hoarse and shaky voice declares, “Casius.” This clip leads the audience to Geary’s dumbfounded “Oh. My. God” before revealing “the entire time, [Shepherd’s] been hunting himself,” just in case it wasn’t clear from the visual exposition during the trailer.

Of course, the entire trailer could be a red herring and a fabrication. Perhaps the true Casius is Geary, and perhaps Shepherd’s theory that “it would seem [you have found the real Casius]” is a clever way to insinuate to Geary that Paul is aware of the ruse and Ben’s cover is blown. This is all possible, but it seems rather silly, no? It just doesn’t seem plausible that someone would want to spend thirteen dollars solely to find out if Grace, in fact, plays the actual killer. Is it really worth that much money? Is it worth ninety minutes? (On a separate not, if this is the case, Grace needs to find a new agent. He played the double agent in Predators and was none too convincing in that either, but I digress.) If Shepherd happens to actually be the killer – as the trailer suggests – then the odds of someone paying the same thirteen dollars to find out what he or she already knows seems equally implausible and fiscally irresponsible.

In the end, showing your hand in poker draws a crowd. Doing the same in a movie trailer kills the luster and suspense.

Filmmakers are immune to the adage that those who don’t learn from history are destined to repeat it. Therefore, this is happening: Universal hasn’t given up The Wolfman and intends to reboot the series and create a film, tentatively titled “Werewolf,” that has more in common with George Waggner’s original 1941 film The Wolf Man than the character’s most recent iteration.

There were a number of holes in last year’s version and a number of wasted moments that were masked with cheesy metaphors like saviors arriving on white horses. However, the proposal to release a newer new version of The Wolfman seems rather unnecessary, primarily because there is not enough material to release a “series.” Werewolves are not superheroes. They cannot control their rage and aggression. This is why they are hunted. If a werewolf were a benevolent creature who stopped grandmothers from being mugged and rescued chickens from rogue thieves, then a few flimsy storylines – or at least one regurgitated with new characters – might be fabricated. However, Werewolves suffer from bloodlust and are the very thieves raiding chicken coops and cattle ranches, so creating a more faithful rendition to the original would still lead to the same place.

Maybe they could squeeze a sequel out of it, and instead of having the movie end with a death-driven “blaaagh,” the protagonist will wake up in a barn in the presence of someone who has discovered his alternative identity, and this someone must be compassionately understanding and want to help our afflicted canine protagonist … during the next full moon … a month from then.

As I gather my Bible, Torah, Koran, copy of Watchmen, and print of Dali’s “St. John on the Cross,” I ready myself for the inevitable uber-undulating of the Earth that will occur around 6pm EST. As I’m preparing to barricade myself in an Astoria apartment with silver bullets, whittled crosses of what used to be a dining set, and a makeshift machete fashioned from a refrigerator fan, I wonder whether Harold Camping, the 89-year old radio broadcaster, Christian Evangelist and impetus of my paranoia was initially swayed by Michael Stipe, who initially prophesied the end of existence on the 1987 album Document when he proclaimed “it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, [and] an aeroplane.”

Perhaps he wasn’t far off inasmuch as Camping has declared that 6 pm on May 21 will bring “this tremendous earthquake that’s going to make the last earthquake in Japan seem like nothing in comparison. And the whole world will be alerted that Judgment Day has begun.”

These earthquakes will continue in succession as each time zone hits 6 pm, which means that at certain moments you will be able to see territories that have been divided by human mathematics shake, undulate, and rupture while you stand on the solid ground beneath your feet, thanking the heavens that you and your family were dedicated individuals who “have quit their jobs and left their families to get the message out” like those who are “passing out tracts and reading the Bible” because they “don’t see the need for one more dollar.”

Within those with such dedication, I see something noble in trying to save as many lives as possible, and those who don’t listen only have themselves to blame for not listening to Camping, who, with “no formal religious training” has only one time before made a prediction that didn’t come to fruition when he prophesied the end of the world in 1994, but he can’t truly be blamed for a math error that was caused by the denseness of Jeremiah, a rather intricate book in the Old Testament.  Besides, when publishing 1994?, he “put a big question mark after [the title], and in the book it also indicated that 2011 was also a good possibility,” so he was merely kindling fear, not necessarily mongering it.

This time around, the math has been meticulously reviewed and proves that “we know it is absolutely going to happen with no question at all.” After all, how could you doubt an equation that factors in the number of books in the Old Testament (46), the Deadly Sins (7), the Cardinal virtues (4), Jesus divided by pi, pi divided by Judas, the number of miracles performed (33) and is divided by the cosine of the Apocrypha (9). This time my friends, it is fool proof, not like the wealth of other biblical contradictions that condone and denounce slavery, homosexuality, masturbation, pre-marital sex, birth control, and capital punishment.

And, if there is any way to prepare for the beginning of the end of the world, it would be to refer to the most helpful tips provided to us by cinema:

As per 2012, a movie that missed the mark by a year but gets an honorable mention, we know that earthquakes and natural disasters chase cars and target specific people, so don’t try to run. It’s best just to stay in place as if you were evading a tyrannosaurus rex, one of those fictional monsters fabricated by opponents of intelligent design whose only evidence boils down to fossils.

When the earth similarly turns on us, we can always recall the wisdom of The Day After Tomorrow, in which we learn that large ships can navigate themselves through a narrow city covered in ice. But most importantly, wolves are survivors that are impervious to the elements, particularly when they hunger for blood from a perpetually brooding male figure that shows anger, frustration, sadness, and contempt all by crossing his arms and scowling.

We’ve also learned that it’s sometimes best to be rogue and worry about your own existence, but if you’re going to partner up with someone, it’s best to have an African-American in your corner. Morgan Freeman kept the heads of our country cool in Deep Impact, Denzel Washington became the preacher of a new civilization in The Book of Eli, and Will Smith saved the world from interplanetary annihilation in Independence Day and fought off a wealth of preternatural creatures in I am Legend. Lest we forget Tina Turner in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome?

If perchance, a Will Smith-type figure is not around or has been melted by a fire-weilding angel, it might be best to locate a down-on-his luck, trying to atone for his transgressions blue collar worker like Randy Quaid in Independence Day or Bruce Willis in Armageddon. Self-sacrifice is often an admirable quality in someone that is not you.

With that, I bid you all adieu and hope to see you on the other side of the apocalypse.

So, this post could be a rant on how the value of children-aimed cinema has taken a dastardly turn, relying on bodily functions to kindle laughter, desensitizing younger viewers to vulgarities and decomposing all thought-provoking and intelligent humor into a – dare I say, literal – cesspool; however, Dane Cook’s success has already proved this point, so I’ll take my tangent in a different direction:

The commercial easter’s facade obscures the rise of the oligarch and the disenfranchisement of the proletariat.

All religious aspects of Easter aside, the symbol of the commercial Easter holiday is undoubtedly a tandem of colorful eggs and various versions of chocolate bunnies and bunnies hocking cream-filled eggs for Cadbury, a company without the need to change their ad campaign for two decades, declaring “Nobunny knows Easter better than Hersheys,” which is clever enough to substitute “bunny” for “body” as a form of subliminal advertising that makies “bunny” part of our holiday vernacular that posseses a sacrosanct connotation.

In turn, this gives the mammal power over all others who try to stand-in as the spokesperson for the holiday, an arrangement that is doubly confirmed during the “Cadbury auditions,” where a pig, a cat and a lion all try nobly to wear the bunny ears, but fail miserably. As cute as the commercial is, particularly the pig wearing bunny ears, there’s an agenda to all of this that glamorizes the beautifully soft, delicate bunny and villainizes the producer of the eggs that we covet and color each April: the chicken, a worker toiling behind the scenes whilst the holiday is emceed by a non-egg-laying mammal. In the end, this propaganda glamorizes the figurehead and taints the worker, leaving him undesirable.

Don’t believe me? When was the last time you sorted through an easter basket, bypassing the various branded eggs from Reeses, Snickers, Butterfinger and the like in order to eat all of the Peeps, those crusty, slightly amorphous, marshmallow filled, mutated jelly molds?

Hop does nothing to dispel this agenda, and, instead, reinforces it by exhibiting an Easter bunny that lives with his son in a statue on Easter Island, both reaping the benefits of being the symbol of a major holiday. Evidence of this can be seen not only in a glimpse of the son’s room which is replete with toys, posters, books, and musical instruments, but also in the scepter that the Easter Bunny holds, a traditional symbol of royalty and authority. In addition, the Easter Bunny’s son is named E.B, which portends that there is also a tradition of primogeniture in the works here, where class, status, and wealth are passed from the patriarch in the family to (most often) the first born son, allowing the inheritance to flow freely from one generation to another.

However, in order for this wealth to flow, the line must be untainted, which also presumes that the Easter Bunny must maintain complete control of his affairs, and those of his son, which is suggested by the egg-shaped globe within their home. While this might seem strangely cute to some, the truth is that the Easter Bunny has fabricated knowledge for his son to attain and has limited his growth by propagating false information, even in regards to Copernican theories.

In addition to confirming the oligarchic and dictatorial grasp that the Easter Bunny has on nature, Hop also further castigates the producers of the candy that the Easter Bunny is tasked with delivering once a year in order to stay in business. However, with his supply of bunny lackeys it seems more probable that he’s outsourcing his work and taking a cut of the proceeds. Regardless, when E.B ventures out on his own, causing his father to send out a search party, the factory staff is partially depleted, and Carlos, the lead chick, stages a coup, overthrowing the Easter Bunny and taking control of the factory. But, the problem here is fabricated, and the viewer is forced to side with the Easter Bunny, labeling Carlos and his ilk as “villain.”

It is apparent that the only contact the Easter Bunny has with his employees is on the observation deck, high above them, monitoring their every move as if he were the foreman overseeing the progress in an ant farm. What’s doubly offensive is that the Easter Bunny has put no work into producing the candy – much less laying the eggs – and his position is acquired through previous acts of primogeniture that might very well have gestated through the Great Chain of Being, a belief that royalty was appointed by God, and thereby an extension of God. (Please see King James I / VI’s Basilikon Doron.)

Perhaps Hop ends with a power sharing agreement between the two, and perhaps it ends with a banishing of Carlos from the Easter Island lair, relegating him to a symbol of the dangers of uprising, training future chick generations to know their place. If it is the former, perhaps Hop II will be an installment more analogous to the political climate of Zimbabwe. If it is the latter, then the iron grasp of the dictatorship will cease to loosen and all that is solid for the Peeps will melt in the air.

In the words of Percy Bysshe Shelley, I say to the chicks and their Peep brethren, “Let a great Assembly be of the fearless and the free”! Vive le Peep!