This is (sort of, in a very loose sense of the term) a Movie Review of the film Rent that I wrote for my cousin’s website (rcjohnso.com) years and years ago.  I haven’t revisited the film since, nor seen the Broadway production, but after rereading my review tonight, I more or less stand by my nineteen-year-old-self’s reaction to it.  My one major caveat in rereading my review is this: Besides having awesome boobs and being in the “seemed-really-cool-(and fucked up!)-at-the-time” film Kids, I can’t really think of any reasons why I thought Rosario Dawson was such a “fine actress” when I wrote this.

She does have awesome boobs, though.  And she was in that really cool (and, like, totally fucked up!) film Kids.

God.

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RENT
OR: EVERYBODY HAS AIDS!

Tonight I drove down to Old Town Arvada by myself and bought a ticket to see RENT at 10:45, at the ghetto theater, which still costs seven dollars. I used a student I.D. expired three years ago, and the lady asked to see my regular I.D. because I was paying with a debit card. In case somebody stole Zachary Johnson’s debit card and was using it to see RENT at 10:45 on a Sunday night.

I can’t even tell you how bad this movie is. Because I couldn’t even stand to finish it.

Sometimes I like to go see bad movies that promise to be a little bit inspirational, sad, and fun. My forgiveness for bad/fun movies runs pretty deep. I liked The Phantom of the Opera. I liked Coyote Ugly, for Christ’s sake.

RENT is so awful that you want to punch every single person that was involved in the face, except for Rosario Dawson, who was the only member of the cast that didn’t annoy the fucking shit out of me every time she opened her mouth, or even kept on breathing. Rosario Dawson is a fine actress, and somehow even managed to sing the shittiest lyrics ever without seeming completely ridiculous. I’m not going to applaud her for that, though. I’m mad at her.  I almost want to punch her in the face too.

Example of shittiest lyrics ever:

ROSARIO DAWSON: “You have strong hands, like my father. Do you want to dance?”

PUSSY ROCKSTAR (nervously): “With you?”

ROSARIO DAWSON (sarcastically): “No, with my father.”

PUSSY ROCKSTAR: “My name is Roger.”

My name is Roger? Are you fucking shitting me? I thought this musical was supposed to be a gritty but poignant portrayal of people dying of AIDS on the mean streets of New York. I’ve never seen the play, but it has the same lyrics and songs as the movie, so it is now on my shit list too. In fact, RENT is the only thing on my shit list. I created my shit list tonight, because of RENT.

And people like this musical. I mean, I went to acting school, and people raved about it. Christ, I can’t even remember the last time I saw a movie that I hated so much. And I liked Uptown Girls, for God’s sake, so my standards aren’t too fucking outrageous or anything.

Sheesh.

Also, the pussy rockstar character affected his voice to sound like the pussy rockstar Scot Stapp (from Creed) so much that I almost wanted to kill myself every time he started to sing.  Another example of shittiest lyrics ever: When singing an indulgent song about how he used to be addicted to smack with his old girlfriend, who died of AIDS, he refers to himself, I swear to God, as “the pretty-boy frontman,” looking so pleased with himself and mopey that you want to punch him in the face. Who the fuck is proud of being a pretty-boy, and so much that they think it’s a good thing to mention in a song about their dead, crack-addicted, tragic ex-girlfriend. I swear, everybody in this movie except for Rosario Dawson, you want to punch in the face. And that includes the director, Chris Columbus, and whoever it was that had the indecency to write such a feel-good, empty, saccharine musical about people dying of AIDS in the first place. The movie’s not even good enough to be called manipulative; we can accuse a movie like I AM SAM for using unfair methods to make you want to cry, for pulling obviously at the old heart-strings, but it at least succeeds in that. I mean, I AM SAM, good or not, sort of makes you want to cry.  It doesn’t make you want to punch Sean Penn and Dakota Fanning in the face.

I wanted my seven dollars back, but I didn’t ask for it. A little more than halfway through, I got out of my seat, walked to the exit, and stepped outside, smoking a cigarette on the way to my car. While I was driving home, I passed an ambulance parked in a deserted lot, next to a vacant building with tall, empty windows. I didn’t think about anything at all the entire drive home. Except I wondered at one point if I was speeding, but I looked down at the speedometer and I wasn’t.

The terrible thing about a movie like RENT is that it makes you question any tender emotion, any trying experience, any poignant recollection that you’ve ever had in your whole entire life. It makes you want to be hard as nails, and make fun of everybody and everything, just to be sure that you won’t ever, ever end up creating anything that could be even distantly, unfairly, remotely, or even mistakenly comparable to RENT. From now on, if I ever quietly remember a soft, slow kiss of a girl, or remember feeling safe and scared, her slender, shivering body next to mine in the dying light of evening as I lay with wet eyes next to her, watching the New York skyline become shadowy and blurry, feeling her stomach breathe in and out regularly, like a child’s, asleep next to me …  If I ever find myself focusing on such a moment, I will suddenly want to go lock myself in the bathroom from sheer embarrassment. And I get nostalgic about that sort of thing all the time. Jesus.

Thanks a lot, RENT. You fucking asshole movie.