Justin Bieber - Never Say Never (2011)

Yes, i really did.

And, yes it was awful, but for reasons far beyond the fact that he was in it - if humanity were a pair of undies, Justin Bieber would be the skidmark.

Why is it awful? We'll get to that. But first, let me give you a bit of a background as to why I went to see the excrement that they are promoting as film.

Two Cinewisers 'wisely' dared me to see the Bieber Fever in action early last week. Hello, Manas and Becky. Because customer service comes first at Cinewise (yeah, right!) I immediately jumped at the chance, only to regret it about a millisecond later. I had to be true to my word and to show how far I can go and torture myself without going all emo.



My horror started when the self-service ticket machine wasn't working at my local cinema, so I actually had to go to the box-office and buy the ticket in person. The fact that the girl at the counter didn't even react to me asking for "one ticket to that Bieber movie, whatever it is called" says a lot about where I live. And here's the ticket stub to prove it.

To make up for being a little less awesome for a couple of hours, I also wore my Bad Motherfucker t-shirt. Here it is.

But, rest assured dear readers, Cinewise will never again stoop down to this level of "non-contributing zero-ness" (I am borrowing that phrase from Louis CK). This was just an experiment with a foregone conclusion: we are doomed and your teenage daughters are responsible for it.

Other than the Bieberrhea (thank you, Manas) that you will inevitably catch after watching the midget-face's film (thank you, Will Ferrell), what makes it so excruciatingly awful?

Here's why.

It would be incredibly hard to find a film so woefully boring as Justin Bieber - Never Say Never. Not only the supposed rags-to-riches story lacks dramatic chops, it is so banal that it made every single bone in my body racing to the exit, singing Metallica's "Enter Sandman" like my life depended on it. Exit life, enter night indeed. But I held on - even for the encore.

What is portrayed as the sad-but-true (2nd Metallica reference - zing!) story of a talented young kid from Nowhere, Ontario to reach the dizzy heights of Madison Square Garden (apparently playing there no longer requires musical integrity, but a moolah-bringing depravity) is not actually different from any band that made it big, about to make it big, or will never make it big.

His parents were divorced when he was a baby and his teenage mom brought him up at her parents' house. There isn't any abject poverty, abusive parents ... nothing. I'm not saying the story would have been more credible if there were, but the lack of anything interesting or captivating makes the existence of this film that much more insulting. It exists solely because of Dweeber's fame and nothing more.

So he was a hit on YouTube, which means he is about as relevant as that sneezing panda. And I actually like that panda.

But Bieber - I want to throw balloons filled with faeces at his face.

He is endorsed by industry heavyweights like LA King (or some douche with a similar name) and Usher. So what? Are they loving his talent (and the kid is talented, more of which later) or the money he will make for them?

He busked like millions of other musicians before him. He was refused airplay like millions of other musicians before him. He struggled for recognition like millions of others before him.

He is not special. At all.

The point of this film is to show how he has overcome all these obstacles (we call them life in these parts) to become the boy every teenage girl would like to do nasty things to.

And oh dear Mother Gaia, are those girls dumb. They are like the pathetic losers in the evangelical churches who writhe and shiver as if they are possessed by the demons, waiting for a dillweed to appear on stage and say a few things to cleanse their forsaken souls. It is no different than that. Which makes the film a passable horror flick, actually.

On a serious note, though, what is truly horrifying about the film is how much the kid's life is controlled by others. He may be loving it, he may just be the shallow, parsnip-faced dickwad that we see in magazines and videos. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Why? Because throughout the film he barely says two words in front of the camera. His whole life is narrated by others. Yes, he has the millions and when he needs some company (serious or fun) there'll be thousands lined up outside his door. He will always have people around him to support him, because he will support them with his money.

But I wish we heard from him about what he makes of the whole thing without his manager, vocal coach, mom etc in the room. When they showed early home movie footage of him playing drums to a few jazz numbers, I honestly thought I was misjudging him. Maybe he is talented. He picks up the guitar occasionally to play some chill-out songs. He could have easily ended up in an indie band (he is Canadian, after all). But no, it feels like when the opportunity rose they took away his musical ambitions and replaced them with celebrity ambitions instead. And that is sad.

There is no guarantee whether he was ever going to be a successful or good musician, but his looks forever denied him and us that opportunity.

This film gave haters like me a chance to get to know him and maybe change our minds. I still would have hated his music and his clothes and his hair and his fans and his religious devotion ("I want to thank the Lord and the Hawaiians for this pizza" - Yes he actually says that before eating a slice of Hawaiian pizza), but at least I would have known that the kid just got mixed up in this whole shebang and he is enjoying it.

Admit it, which one of us wouldn't?

But, no. Bieber was mute throughout. I don't know who Justin Bieber is after watching this excuse for a film. Have my feelings changed? No, I still hate the douche. And unlike Will Ferrell, I probably wouldn't be able to resist the urge to roundhouse kick him in his midget face.

To help me with that, here's Pantera. Enjoy.


Pantera - Walk
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