Ever since that fateful episode of “Sex and the City”, when Berger says to Miranda “He’s not just into you,” I’ve questioned the validity of the statement “He’s just not that into you.” And why is the onus on the woman? On the contrary, what if he just doesn’t have any balls? What if he’s just a nut?

Not that you should date a ball-less nut, but the idea that if a man acts strangely it’s because not into you assumes the fact that all men are self-confident and emotionally available.

For every guy who knows what he wants, there’s another one who’s insecure, overly analytical, and/or just plain kookoo for Cocoa Puffs. For example there was a guy I knew who basically ignored me for 2 years until confessing his undying love for me in a drunken stupor. Then there was the super cute Mark Wahlberg look-a-like who had convinced himself that I would never go out with him. Um hello?! MW is HOT. I would go out with Mark Wahlberg’s left pinky toe.

This phenomenon is one which I like to call “He Just Doesn’t Have Any Balls.” Maybe he never had any balls or maybe he’s a leper and he lost them. Sometimes while I’m talking to a guy, I actually hear them drop and roll away. Yep sometimes you can hear a thud and the sound of them rolling away, much like a bowling ball down an alley. It’s enough to make me want to scream “WAIT! Go get your balls!! They’re rolling away!”

Alas that never seems to work. Take this situation with the Tin Man for example. We met at a coffee shop and hit it off right away. We had witty banter, the same sense of humor, a shared taste in music, and he was gorgeous. Unfortunately he didn’t have any balls.

On our first date the chemistry was thicker than the humidity of an Amazonian jungle. I went home floating on cloud nine, thrilled to finally meet a guy that seemed to be everything I was looking for. He texted me the next day to tell me what a great time he had, and how he couldn’t wait to see me again.

We texted back and forth and I mentioned going to Coney Island at some point, because what girl doesn’t like Ferris Wheels and cotton candy on a date?

And then….radio silence. I didn’t hear from him for 4 days. We were mid-convo so it made next to no sense. I wondered what could have possibly gone wrong. Was my idea that terrible? Did he have a secret girlfriend hiding somewhere? Was he abducted by man-eating aliens? Was he just not that into me?

Though I didn’t want to, I finally caved and texted him, because at the very least I felt he should let me know what happened.

Me: Hey did you get my last text? I never heard back.

Tin Man: I was gonna ask you if you want to hang tonight or tomorrow night and I was thinking about this weekend but I have obligations to help with a friend’s wedding this weekend so I was thinking of when we could meet and then you mentioned that you liked Coney Island but I don’t like Coney Island, so I was trying to think of something similar but I couldn’t think of anything.

Me: So you’ve been thinking about where to go for four days?

Tin Man: Yeah. Well I was thinking there is mini golf which is kind of similar but then I was thinking it might be too hot so then….”

And on his rambling went. His thought process involved more analysis than an episode of “Hardball”.  Instead of just suggesting something else, he analyzed his response for FOUR days. His lack of response was not because he wasn’t that into me, it was because he lacked the “balls” to make any sort of decision. Not exactly a flattering trait. I realized immediately he was more than I could deal with. Fortunately I had the balls to end it.

Like Marky Mark always said: “No Payne, no gain.”

Leather is just one of Max Payne’s fetishes, along with the weather (which, in this strange universe of perpetual twilight, alternates between snow and a heavy rain that never manages to wash the dirty banks of snow away). Payne himself is rarely seen without his leather jacket, while the gorgeous Russian mob boss Mona (a game Mila Kunis) squeaks right along beside him in her dominatrix trench coat whenever she shows up to blow away a bad guy with her trusty machine gun or act as a sounding board so that Payne doesn’t have to talk to himself to push across exposition.
And of course, there are those twitching, drooling junkies. Addicted to a blue liquid called Valkyr, none of them seem to mind that the drug calls forth visions of demonic angels, poised to swoop down and claw them to shreds. For a select few, Valkyr (a government project gone—yawn—awry) turns them into invincible warriors; and guess which group Payne falls into?
Whether or not those creatures actually exist and the drug serves as a key to another portal remains one of many questions that the movie never bothers to answer, along with what happened to Wahlberg’s talent. He spends the 100-minute running time frowning and snarling in a hoarse voice at everyone around him. So good at playing self-deluded men (Boogie Nights, for instance), Wahlberg can’t find anything in Payne beyond a thirst for vengeance. And watching one very grumpy man spurn all offers of help to continue on his suicidal quest grows old quickly.
As plot contrivances pile atop one another, one begins turning to the aesthetics of the film. Watched on mute, Max Payne could be a scary neo-noir version of the lamented New York of old, one filled with flickering fluorescent lights, pale green walls, abandoned buildings and grimy alleyways. Unfortunately, we’re able to hear Mona when she turns to Max and says in disbelief, “All of this about a drug?” By the end of the film’s climax, featuring the worst marksmen ever, you’ll be asking yourself the same thing.
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Max Payne
Directed by John Moore, Running Time: 100 min.
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