Blue Crush

The Sewer cannot argue with Blue Crush. There were no expectations, at least, no expectations of taking the thing seriously. Anyone who takes this movie seriously is either my 12-year old niece Jennitha or someone who recently shoved a radio antenna into the brain through the nostril.

It occurs to me that in the Spanish language body parts are never preceded by possessive pronouns, completely eliminating gender confusion; for example it is always ‘the brain’ instead of ‘their brain’ or ‘his or her brain’ as in the pitiful English language. But I digress, we’re talking about a movie with a bunch of buff teenage girls in bikinis surfing and goofing off.

Golden Globe nominations are a limited possibility, if you catch my drift, and no-one expects them anyway. Even so, Hollywood does manage to mess up a surefire thing once or twice, such as the repetitive nature of the pivotal competition sequences, which look like identical 10-minute episodes played over and over, hammering us with the theme – “don’t psych yourself out” – like endless 20-foot waves.

But, as I said, who can argue with a bunch of buff teenage girls surfing their butts off? Not me, though I feel even more the flabby slug watching them from my couch, gut growing by the second, brain power…flagging…must…get…beer.

Hell, there are 13-year-old girls out there getting the arms bitten off by sharks, and they keep surfing.

So Blue Crush hasn’t a brain in its head, and you know the times when you want to see that stuff. Rent it when you’re feeling good about your body and bad about your intellect.