Sunday, April 22, 2007

An Opiate for the Mongoloid Masses.

Ghost Rider
2007, USA
Mark Steven Johnson

I don't know why I'm surprised that Ghost Rider is a bad movie. It's a bad comic, so an adaptation is like trying to spin straw into gold, or more accurately, trying to spin a puerile pre-adolescent fantasy into something the whole hillbilly family can enjoy. And that's exactly what has happened here. It's as if the wet dream of every glue-sniffing tween too brain damaged to ever have an erection again has taken form on celluloid, all motorcycles and skulls and fire and chains. This whole movie is the paint job on a hot-rod, a decal on a monster truck, a drawing made during free time at a mental hospital for the severely retarded. In fact, that last comparison is the most accurate, for the following reasons:

1) Ghost Rider contains no sex. This is because the retarded have no sex drive. Firstly, they're too medicated to move most of the time, and secondly, they've deliberately not been taught anything about sex. It's mainly a preventative measure, since no one wants them to breed, and also because everyone knows that retards have the
strength of 10 men, so any copulation with anything but a chimpanzee or an elephant would result in the ejaculation breaking the spine of the poor victim. I mean partner.

When they breed, they make wrestling fans.

2) Ghost Rider contains no plot, or at least no plot that makes sense. That's because retards don't want to see things happen. They want to see things explode. Also, they like bright and shiny things, like chrome, and red. That's why Michael Bay keeps making movies, and the American Idol sets are all in primary colors.

3) Ghost Rider contains no dialogue, only explanation. This is because the retarded don't need to know why things are happening; they need to know what is happening. So, anything anybody ever says in this entire film is dedicated to a) explaining who they are, and b) explaining what is happening on screen. Lots of "I am Blackheart, a demon", and "We are fighting".

So, I can't really fault Ghost Rider, which stars Nicholas Cage as a daredevil who sells his soul to Peter Fonda, because it’s helping to keep the retards pacified. In case you’re wondering, the film is Faust for Dummies. In exchange for his father's life, Cage, as Johnny Blaze, is cursed to walk the Earth as the Ghost Rider, a vengeful spirit who punishes the wicked. I don't really understand why this is something the devil would want to do, but hey, I'm not retarded.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Sympathy For The Retarded Coat Hangers Of The Fashion Industry

The Devil Wears Prada
2006, USA
David Frankel

I think I'm done with the fashion industry. I know that may not come as a surprise to anyone who has ever seen me in person, with my stylish look mixing James Dean, homeless couture, and Evil Ernie, but what I'm trying to say is that I’m more than just rejecting baroque and meaningless excess of the fashion industry. No, I've been done with that for years. What I meant is that I'm done making fun of it, because that just brings every useless coke-sniffing twat involved in the industry more attention. Fashion isn't important. We all know it isn't important. It's a bunch of flamboyant poofs with no marketable skills crudely stitching garish fabrics together to drape over skeletal drug addicts with the same level of self-importance a scientist would have cloning Jesus. Then, fashion writers seeking to justify their paychecks arbitrarily pick which laughable vinyl atrocity is the trendsetter of the season, and which is a wearable version of an inflatable pool. The models, of course, are paid to walk a straight line and try not to get too pregnant. They are all, obviously, various incarnations of The Great Satan Paris Hilton, talentless and unbearably rich, hellish spawn that number legion, and in The Devil Wears Prada , Meryl Streep fulfills this role to a T, or more accurately, to an inverted cross.

Meryl Streep .

Anne Hathaway plays every girl in every teen movie where a studious young lady in frumpy clothes falls in with the hip crowd and takes off her glasses. Except in this movie she's a college graduate working at Vogue, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Meryl Streep is Lucifer, offering fame, fortune, and purses in exchange for learning how to stare down your coke nose at the girl working the counter at Starbucks. But I'm getting ahead of myself, already abandoning my vow to ignore the fashion industry. Instead, let's just focus on Streep's Oscar nominated performance as the Devil. Her muted, soft-spoken but ludicrously unreasonable demands toe the line between pure evil and paste-eating psychosis. And her smooth, seemingly paralyzed features present an agelessness that speaks less to botox than it does to a portrait hanging in her mansion which ages instead of her. Her black wings are leathery yet supple, and her enormous curled horns have been delicately arranged to be elegant with just the slightest touch of spontaneity. Her performance dwarfs those of her co-stars, partially because of its subtlety and reserve, but mainly because at 12 feet of winged glory, she literally towers over the other actors. Her forked tongue slithers and darts about like an eyeless black snake, and her eyes brim with sulfurous fire, pits of glowing darkness that reflect the majesty of infernal power. The heat from her internalized flame sublimates the cracked and blackened hide that covers her ebony bones, reducing it to clouds of black smoke that almost instantly coalesce back into thick skin covered in razor sharp bristles. While this description of Streep's character may have lost its grip on verisimilitude a while back, it's as distracting as her performance was, standing out from the mediocrity of the film like Mozart at the keyboards of a Yes concert. But most importantly, it keeps me from making jokes about the fashion industry.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Sunday, April 08, 2007

Full Metal Handjob

1987, USA
Stanley Kubrick

It's a shame that the best Vietnam war movie ever made will forever be known for popularizing the term "reach-around". I suppose I'd rather hear people quoting this than Scarface, but it's still reducing a complex, realistic meditation on war to a fag joke you can tell at a frat party. And while the first half of the film, the legendary boot camp sequence starring R. Lee Ermey as the foul-mouthed drill sergeant, is the more entertaining part of the film, it means nothing without the portion of the film that takes place in Vietnam. Both sections mirror each other, ending with a gunshot and a loss of innocence, and that similarity, that one shared point of reference, is what pulls the somewhat amorphous form of the film into some sort of structure.

Full Metal Jacket unfolds anecdotally, the only backbone to the scenes the linearity of time. Scenes are disconnected vignettes, pages from a diary, except instead of being full of breathless closet make-out confessions or details of an awkward handjob in a public park, it's details of watching a close friend's intestines pour out over their combat boots; dispatches from Vietnam, written in blood and stamped in gunpowder, and thankfully full of enough references to sodomy and fucking Asian prostitutes to make it appealing to young males who like NASCAR, as well as people who can spell things.

Wonder Woman: Warrior Princess, Queen of the Amazons, and Lord of the Retarded.

It's actually a fairly significant achievement, to have created a film that's appealing to both the mentally capable demographic and people who got sports scholarships to state universities. That's a broad spectrum. Normally, one could only please both groups by running an episode of Ali G in the corner of a screen playing 2001: A Space Odyssey. Nevertheless, Kubrick manages it, getting both demographics off at once, proving that not only is he a master of film, he's clearly a master of the reach-around, as well.