Don't Believe The Hype. Because The Jews Control The Media.
Surprisingly, I once liked Jennifer Aniston. Not because of her performance in Friends, the show that launched a thousand shitty Goo Goo Doll haircuts and made New York women seem like neurotics on helium, but rather because of her pre-rhinoplasty role in Leprechaun. Her Valley-Girl-by-way-of-the-Sinai-peninsula hooknose made her look like she'd maybe spit up gold coins the harder I hit her, like a Semitic slot machine. I always found that combination of greed, anti-Semitism, and misogyny very satisfying, so I decided to follow her career. Sadly, after her plastic surgery, my interest in her waned as the gold fever passed, as I no longer fantasize about mining for diamonds in her genitals, or cutting slices from her tender flesh, is so sweetened by champagne baths and caviar brunches it tastes like sugared Kobe beef. Plus, after that, she kept starring in those romantic comedies marked towards housewives whose husbands take them to Applebee's and a movie on date night once a month, and then come home to have sex in the moments before Sports Desk comes on, still sucking the traces of a baked potato with Cheez Wiz out of their teeth.
And Rumor Has It hasn't changed my opinion. I was interested in seeing it because it's a sequel of sorts to The Graduate, and I was really dying to find out if Benjamin Braddock got into plastics or not. However, it did seem like it was doomed to failure from the very start, for commercial if not artistic reasons. The only people who liked The Graduate when it was released in 1967 are now spending their time finding their teeth or trying to remember if they have a daughter, not going to the theatre. And people who were young enough at the time to still be coherent now, with enough money available to spend on movie tickets instead of losing it to telemarketing fraud, didn't see the film when it was out. Youths at the time did not like The Graduate. What they liked was trading beads for quaaludes and having unprotected sex while trying to ignore the fact that their partner smells like turned wine and old leather. But, like as the peace and love generation spawned the mercantile avarice of the 1980s, so has The Graduate led to Rumor Has It, a blatant and shamefaced attempt to get my mother and her sister to spend $20 on movie tickets and popcorn.
Everything about this movie has middle-aged woman written all over it, in flowery cursive on scented rose stationary. Kevin Costner's in it, for one, as the grown up Benjamin Braddock, in his sickly jaundiced tan so superficial it seems his smile makes his wrinkles glow white like cracks in meringue. Then, there's Shirley McLaine as Mrs. Robinson, mugging desperately for the camera in between bourbon-laced drinks, with exactly the kind of broad, bland humor that would spice up an episode of Another World and have the whole sewing circle talk about how wild the movie was. Unfortunately, as I am neither a mother nor an unmarried, lonely aunt, all I see is a couple of faces like beef jerky trading barbs so dulled by age they sound like grammar lessons in middle school. Jennifer Aniston plays a young woman engaged to a thunderously boring Mark Ruffalo. She discovers that the novel The Graduate was based upon her family with sher dead mother as Katherine Ross, and her grandmother as Mrs. Robinson. It's an interesting enough premise, I suppose, but it's so lifeless and stale, like old Wonderbread, But then again, this is the kind of film that's marketed to people that feed their children ham salad. Unfortunately, my tastes are a little more refined that that. I prefer Jew meat.
Labels: Virulent Anti-Semitism