I had to turn off the Animal Planet before I completely lost my shit on how cute newborn golden retriever puppies were and channel surfed until I came upon Current TV who was showing arguably the best Batman film that exists, Tim Burton's second in the franchise, Batman Returns (1992) with Michael Keaton as the titular character, Danny DeVito as the most complex and three-dimentional comic book inspired villain, Penguin, and the unforgettable Michelle Pfeiffer as the sexual icon Selina Kyle/Catwoman.
Now, strictly aesthetically speaking, because the Nolan films are a mainstream reboot of an otherwise cult horror tradition, I was expecting Anne Hathaway's Catwoman get-up to blow apart every incarnation that came before it. I thought it would be S&M on meth, with lots of pad locks, zippers, and leather embellishments. I thought it would be avant-garde and modern, yet harkened to a campy 50's style, exaggerated and fabulous. I wanted to get a headache from the bling, jealous from the cleavage, and finally enjoy Anne Hathaway, but how much was I disappointed when I remembered just how boring it's actually going to be?
It looks like a wet suit you wear to go surfing with a fanny pack around it and cheap costume store kitty ears that set you back 5.99$ on Halloween. What a major fake orgasm, or more appropriately build up to an orgasm that never happens, either way, it's trag-fest.
With all do respect to Julie Newmar, Michelle Pfeiffer was the greatest Catwoman, and with all do respect to Michelle Pfeiffer, her performance would have been nil without that suit. It is an instance where you have to really look the part to embody it, and when they put her in those Bettie Paige stilettos, and pleather body stocking that literally had to be sewn unto her, it was a definitive moment in our pop-culture history.
'Ahhh, there's my favorite pussy' -The Penguin
This goes without saying that Tim Burton has always been an aesthetic genius, and for a franchise like Batman, aesthetics are of immeasurable importance, you can't just throw someone into a cheap plastic costume and headband ears. Catwoman might be the most outwardly sexual superhero that was ever created by the minds of Marvel comics, and she's written to be deliberately over-the-top in her prowess (no pun intended). With the release date quickly approaching and anticipation brewing all over the place, it looks to me like The Dark Knight Rises (2012) dropped the ball on Catwoman.
I'm speaking strictly visually of course, but I don't think you have to sacrifice spectacle for the sake of character study. Perhaps everyone's playing it safe after the hyper-sexualized overtly ridiculous leather-clad Halle Berry version of Catwoman tanked like a fat kid in the deep end, but I for one am pretty disappointed that they've turned everyone's favorite horny femme fatale into a bad girl even grandma can get on board with.
Oh how we were all saying to ourselves, I can't wait until there's a shameless clone of an already painful-to-watch franchise like Real Housewives for me to look down upon and ridicule. Don't worry people, Bravo was listening and this month it premiered something that was half Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, half Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and all-around disgusting titled The Shahs of Sunset (premiere on March 11th). It focuses on a group of Iranian-Americans who are just as shallow, obnoxious, and classless as regular Americans and just like shows like this do, already sparked an enormous cluster-fuck of controversy.
If there's a group of people I truly despise in all of this, I would have to say it's not the executives at Bravo, it's not the fame-whores of Shahs of Sunset, but it's the 'outraged' viewers of whichever socioeconomic culture group that predictably takes active measures against the other two groups. Seriously viewers? Are you that surprised that a network like Bravo was going to exploit and skew a culture portraying it in a superficial light? Like they don't do that with every single walk of life? And did you not pay attention back in 2009 when Jersey Shore first premiered and the Italian American community flooded the halls of MTV Networks with lawsuits and sanctimonious hate-mail? Don't you know that resistance is futile and you're fighting a losing battle over the greatest trend in pop-culture today which is being shamelessly idiotic?
People like me with an esteemed education and reputable collection of pretentious books will tune in every week and then blog about it and soon enough, 'the Shahs' will end up on Anderson Cooper 360 where even serious hot-guy news journalist Anderson Cooper will have to pay attention to them. When Bravo shoves something down your throat you swallow it and say 'thank you sir, may I have another?'
Yes, it's racist, yes it's culture-skewing, yes it's deplorable, inaccurate, crass, demeaning, offensive, disrespectful, stereotypical, and consequential, and that is exactly why it's on TV. Don't get me wrong I don't expect this to have a long run, the Shahs will be back to doing whatever it is that they do in less than a season. I give it another two episode before Bravo pulls the plug because it's just too redundant, and neither my criticism nor anyone else's is going to get it off the show any quicker, in fact, it will probably draw people to it at alarming rates.
My real complaint with it is that it's nothing new, and just pandering to a demographic that is becoming a dying art; we all enjoy people being awful on national television because we all want to feel better about ourselves, and then fact that we watch shows like Jersey Shore, Real Housewives of... and now The Shahs of Sunset ironically only perpetuates this. It was once our greatest TV pleasure, but this show proves that blatant stupidity is only fun in moderate doses, and it's about to overdose. You'll see, we're all getting to the point where we put down the remote and pick up the Dostoyevsky. Just kidding. See you at The Pauly D Project viewing party!
I don't get it indie directors, are your skinny jeans so tight that they've cut off circulation to your private area? What is it about sex and being naked that is so repulsive to you that you always have to paint it in a bad light, literally. In every indie film I've seen recently either someone is portrayed full frontal nude because they're taking a long reflexive prison shower, or there's a painfully graphic sex scene between them and someone they don't like and are likely to shoot over tears later. Before you get all pissy and disagreeable yes, Blue Valentine (2010) is an exception. Moving on.
Sorry I'm going to be late. I have to existentially stare into the sunset and ponder the horrible decisions I made due to lack of options for someone in my current economic position before I go have weak and disconnecting sex with my semi-hot girlfriend. Still from Booster (2012) opened at SXSW in March.
Wait a minute...is sex only bad when you're poor and have to do it on a sleeping bag in the corner? Why is it the uptight clean shiny rich people only get to bust a nut romantically on Egyptian cotton while the breeze flutters the candlelight? Why is Ryan Gosling's bod a million times more appealing when he's in The Notebook (2006)but NOT in Half Nelson (2008), good to go in The Ides of March (2011) but not in Drive (2011). Do indie films try to sell the idea of sex being subversive and cruel? Is that they're point 90% of the time? Unless it's an indie comedy of course. But who cares about them when you can tell endless and monotonous stories involving inner-city youths struggling with the decisions to commit wildly audacious crimes and/or becoming drug dealers, all while having improbable awkward simulated sex with an actress who is always way hotter than they are.
Ooooh yeah, I'd give up my inheritance and family name for you, depression-era guy from the wrong side of the tracks.
Sorry, I don't date meth-heads...or do I?
Is this some kind of socioeconomic plucky satire you're trying to sell which states that independently funded films can only be about people in the same class diaspora? and why are they all miserable and living in the filthiest shit ever? I used to live in shitty apartments too but I at least spruced them up to seem lovely with all kinds stuff that created the illusion that I wasn't completely starving and miserable. You don't have to throw a dishrag full of holes over the window a as a curtain and put cracks in every single floor board. We get the point indie film, quit beating us over the head with it.
One example that keeps coming up is poor Melissa Leo, who is just inundated with playing these types of roles. She's poor, or just out of prison, or white trash, or something that will eventually force her to stand around naked (not a pretty picture) for long periods of quiet time, pondering the bullshit that is her life. Why is it that only poor people seem to have these instances when they're naked and troubled and not the wealthy, glowing, and groomed folks?
Melissa Leo euthanizes dogs, cries about stuff, and walks around naked in Francine (2012), opened in SXSW in March.
I've seen a lot of these types of non-plot 'character pieces' drift through lately, and this is the trend I picked up on. Ironically, when an industry film with substantial financial backing comes out where the main characters are from unfortunate circumstances, sex is approached as a means or enlightenment and redemption.
I don't understand what is it about your place in the world in terms of the class system forces you to approach sexuality with such impunity and resentment, you would think that its the sublimest escape, but apparently it makes everything just spiral downwards uncontrollably until the protagonist kills him or herself, which is always a huge inevitability, or for the most part ends up staring into space again until it fades to black.
Goes without saying that I took my dear sweet time in subjecting myself to this film. It was released in November and armed with a pint of my favorite coffee ice cream and glass of wine, I relented yesterday. I felt like I needed to clear my mind before I had to focus on the premier of Mad Men with something relatively mindless, little did I know I would find it freakin' awesome pants.
Here's a brief history of my experience with the Twilight Saga films.
1. Saw the first one by Catherine Hardwicke, loved it, thought it was great as a cult-horror reboot for a new generation. Have it on DVD, and as a VLC file on my computer in case I lose the former. The only other film that I can say that about is Gone with the Wind (1939)
2. New Moon: Saw it when it first came out, matinee at the Lincoln Center. I was that kind of special hung over that you don't want to do anything, but you don't want to be home, so you take a cab 5 blocks that you just don't feel like walking and indulge in something completely awful. I left midway through.
3. Eclipse: I couldn't be bothered.
Jacob Black: No. I'm sorry, I'm just trying to appreciate your last night as a human. Bella Swan: Well, it's not my last night. Jacob Black: I thought you? Bella Swan: I didn't really want to spend my honeymoon writhing in pain.
So that brings us up to date me thinks. Now, I've never bothered to read Stephenie Meyer's opus, though I did pick it up once while at Strand and promptly put it back down and walked away shaking my head, so there's really nothing in it for me that's too particularly serious. I'm just looking at it in terms of cinematic and filth value, and I'm happy to say that I was quite fulfilled with this latest installment.
Both Parts I & II are directed by Bill Condon who understands the value of camp redemption, and does not hold back with the outlandish nature of the story. He makes it more vapid, violent, and cornball. That after all, is the essence of this saga.
For instance, I found it highly amusing and not at all offensive that Bella (Kristen Stewart) has to literally beg Edward (Robert Pattinson) to fuck her, and seems to enjoy the ensuing rough-play that inevitably occurs considering Edward is unable to get excited without breaking something.
I'm not sure if they mean to signify sex as death or sex as rebirth, either way, apparently it's highly painful and yet fabulously sublime. It's definitely other-worldly let's put it that way.
I loved how little finesse was applied to Jacob worrying that Edward would kill Bella with his crazy powerful vampire cock asking her frankly; 'are you stupid? you'll die'. Subtext, sex with me wouldn't be half as painful, although I do shed and slobber, but I'm hypoallergenic.
If camp is categorized by it's 'deliberate ridiculousness' then this film is a camp treasure, and really wonderfully executed. I could have done without all of the silly time-passage montages sent to hipster shuffle picks, but that's about the only complaint I have.
Moving on to Bella's death scene (sorry if I ruined it for you, but if you don't know that that happens eventually then I feel truly sorry for your thick self). She's having a 'demon-baby' one that is quickly sucking the life blood and just regular blood from ailing Bella who develops maternal feeling for the thing and refuses to abort it. The baby (which ends up being a precious cute-as-balls little girl) tears her body apart trying to get out, and Edward finally relents to having to 'change' her. i.e. fiercely biting into her every orifice with his sharpened fangs; the sound effects of which being so over the top it would have been strangely romantic if it weren't so delightfully disgusting.
Twilight drops some science on us.
Dr. Carlisle Cullen: The fetus isn't compatible with your body. It's too strong. It won't allow you to get the nutrition you need. It's starving you by the hour. I can't stop it and I can't slow it down. At this rate, your heart will give out before you can deliver. Bella Swan: Then I'll hold on as long as I can and then.
Long story short, it eventually works and as we close in on her newly youthful and glowing face, her eyes open to reveal pupils blood red. She's now no longer loser can't-walk-in-heels, clumsily awkward, lip-biting, hair-playing, eats all the carbs she wants and never gains weight whiny Bella, she's Camp Queen Bella, the Vampire Goddess. Let's cover her in blood and give her lots of clever puns on death in her dialogue. That's my hope for Breaking Dawn Part II.
The highly awaited teaser came out today. Here it is.
Guess what everyone? there's a new person to hate on Mad Men, Don Draper's new wife, former secretary and all around horse face, Megan. She does everything wrong; unwittingly usurps some of Peggy's responsibility, sleeps in the buff when Don's kids are around, throws him lavish surprise parties that everyone in the office makes fun of the day after, unleashes some world class sex-as-a-weapon tricks on her husband that make us all question her motives.
That aside, the show has definitely mellowed out the role of the woman; Peggy is her fussy usual self and begins to fall neatly into the role of subservient girlfriend to her new preachy and self-richeous left-wing boyfriend. Joan is coping with the beyond universally difficult role of single motherhood as well as her own mother gets on everyone's last nerve, Jane (remember her? the 6-year-old Roger married in Season 2) acts bitchy and jealous, and Betty is no where to be found. All in all, without her the show's narrative has a much better cohesive flow, and her incorrigible character is not missed from the new storyline of everyone moving on with their lives.
Ironically could be the most iconic moment in Mad Men history heretofore; Don's blushing bride puts on some kitten heels and a mod dress and sings to an ever-growing chagrined crowd a hilariously repetitive song called 'Zou Bisou Bisou' which ended up trending on twitter within 5 minutes. Shocked? nope.
Life at Sterling Cooper Draper Price is as Ken puts it 'stable' which is as Pete erroneously describes as 'that level right before failure'. He's a new parent as well, though we never see baby Tammy, just Trudy walking around with post-baby fat still making her more attractive than most. Ken has a fiance, and if you're a child of the 90's you remember actress Larisa Oleynick from The Secret World of Alex Mack, she seems pretty open minded and closes a blind eye to Ken's inevitable philandering.
Layne, still upset from his inability to stand up to his father and marry the Playboy bunny he was so passionately taken with has decided to 'work' on his marriage, meaning ignore it for the most part, and bring his boner-killer of a wife over to the states for good. He entertains the idea of hooking up with a very very very young looking girl who's picture he'd discovered in a wallet that was left in the same cab he was taking, but it seems like he'll have to be sexually frustrated for quite some time more.
It seems like this season everyone is settling into their domestic roles which leads to a sedation over the sexual subtext of Mad Men at least for now. The most sexual apparatus of the show save for Don Draper is Joan Harris, who was kept in bathrobes and pajamas patiently rocking her new baby to sleep until of course she realizes that she might be replaced at any minute and arrives to the office wearing a gaudy hot-pink plunging neck line number all with baby in tow.
Stan Rizzo, art director and loose cannon at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce, keeps trying to nail Peggy to no avail.
A new character that Mad Men is starting to utilize better is Stan the man Rizzo. A feisty and blunt hunk of guy who's at it with whomever talks longer than 3 seconds to him. He's got biceps, tight pants, and a fantastic arrogance that though might not drive the girls from the secretarial pool to his office, but at least gets us viewers interested. His boyish charm and rugged physical construct, coupled with a twisted and yet sardonic sense of humor is a refreshing new angle to explore. Hopefully soon he will be promoted to principal cast, but we'll just have to wait and see. Great job Mad Men, seriously, I'm glad you're back. Keep it up.
Mad Men > Downton Abbey
Unpredictable romances and devastating results, stylized but believable that makes us truly nostalgic. substance vs. aesthetic.
(note I really like Downton Abbey, it's one of the best shows on television but Mad Men IS better folks, if we're comparing the two)
Dance Moms > Smash
Truth is stranger than fiction, a portrayal of performers that's truly devastating. Retrospective vs. Exploitation.
Cougar Town > Happy Endings
An estrogen farm that's not disingenuous. Satire vs. Sanctimonious Snark.
Portlandia > I Just Want My Pants Back
Hipster skewering manages to still be interesting and unapologetic. Comedy vs. Sarcasm.
Jersey Shore > Keeping Up With the Kardashians
The former manages to keep the most hateful types of people somehow endearing and vastly interesting.
Marketing genius vs. shameless self-promotion.
GCB > Hart of Dixie
Although teetering on exploitive, GCB manages to remain dirty and amusing while Hart of Dixie has always sustained a monotonous fish-out-of-water immaturity. Blunt vs. Bland.
Raising Hope > Modern Family
Chaotic and bizarre in ways that don't get cliche'd fast. Insight vs. Redundancy.
The Secret Circle > The Vampire Diaries
A show about mystical and mysterious sexualized hotties that's deliberately campy.
Ironic fabulousness vs. trying too hard.
Whitney > Are You There Chelsea
Although completely off on it's comedy, Whitney accentuates the filth and wins in the better-dirty-jokes race.
Authenticity vs. Gimmick
(another note: everything would be better than Glee so I'm not going to compare it to anything)
This post should have been titled 'When will they stop dragging Marilyn's name through the mud?' and the answer would be, not as long as there's a steady cash flow. It's difficult to say exactly when the Marilyn pastiche phenomenon began, one could argue that it started with her first unadulterated appearance in Playboy when in 1953, though the photographs published were actually taken 5 years prior when she was virtually unrecognizable, it marked the first time Marilyn's image was multiplied for the visual pleasure of others. Most could say that it initiated upon the release of The Seven Year Itch (1956) with mile-high billboards of her standing over a subway grate with wind blowing her lush white dress over her head, bright red lipstick adorning her effervescent smile. Basically, whenever it occurred, it was eventually going to surpass the human manifestation of its source. Marilyn's iconography has greatly exceeded any tangible conception that we as the public might associate with her.
It is believed that Marilyn herself was caught up in an identity crisis unable to disassociate her human attainability with her post-human superior celluloid sainthood. But we are not doing her any favors by chalking up flimsy and misguided 'bio's' of periods in her life in which she was at her most vulnerable and predictably self-destructive and then blaming the very methods we are using for destroying her.
First of all, that whole vulnerability angle is highly exaggerated and quite frankly a very simplistic way of looking at it. Yes, people are sensitive, particularly when they are under such immense pressure and scrutiny; loneliness, self-loathing, and despair ultimately become part of the equation, usually yielding tragic results, but this isn't a high school psychology tutorial.
Secondly, no one seems to be sticking to one thing or the other; pastiche vs. humanity. Everyone from Smash (2012 - ) to My Week with Marilyn (2011) is attempting to provide a confluence of the two, but that's highly improbable and doesn't make any sense. One must consider either the icon in it's manufactured and inorganic manifestation, or the person behind said incarnation. In a post-human sense, the two are fundamentally different.
The 'Marilyn' from which everybody is eagerly picking from is the representative illustration of a concept she had created as her cinematic identity. The person herself is in actuality a lot more complex than the bland and banal exploits of current films and television programs on the subject.
Thus, the Marilyn Pastiche is born. It is a literal jumble of ideas and hypotheses marrying the real with the unreal the intangible with the historical, attempting to create a more three dimensional, poignant, and explanatory portraiture of the existence of one of the most fascinating figures of the 20th century.
Why Marilyn is such an easy and popular target is because storyteller's framework functions to make public the private lives of iconic cultural representatives. With someone like Marilyn Monroe who's name and image is synonymous with pop-culture itself, it is undeniably tempting to try to discern the humanity behind the image. But when done with minimal guidance and proper historical citation, it becomes what we refer to as a pastiche, or in this case a pastiche's pastiche. It's a copy of a copy and thereby is highly irreverent and predictably inferior. I for one am tired of it, and practically intolerant to people passing these faux-intellectual and overly sentimental caricatures as insightful and researched portraiture. It's always a case of 'Marilyn: Behind the Scenes' but the behind the scenes part isn't even close to being genuine enough to be considered authentic. It's part of the hyper-extended reality that is created within the Marilyn pastiche that poses as fact but is a product of second-hand storytelling. Even the protagonist played by Eddie Redmayne (Colin Clark) who's first-hand experience with Marilyn Monroe is documented in the film My Week with Marilyn (2011) is only a very skewed and narrow view of the person she might have been. True to the title, he did only spend one week with her. I've spent months with people without ever learning their last name, doesn't make me an expert on their psychology.
This goes without saying that the Marilyn pastiche is unavoidable. It's fantastic fodder for people strapped for creative material because it's endlessly enigmatic. There's plenty of subjective drama one can add to such a tragic story coupled with such a high pedigree of iconography, and an attempt at coupling the two; making Marilyn both the mile-high billboard and the scared little girl lost is a promisingly fruitful challenge, but in my opinion, no one as of yet has risen to it.
Being able to have one of the ship's gargantuan propellers feel like it's falling right on your head, sure...that's fun. But I really hope (against hope) that our favorite village idiot James Cameron gives us more uuumf in the already awkwardly orchestrated anachronistic romance scenes aboard the Titanic.
1. I would love to see naked Kate Winslet (when she as 21) in 3-D. Make it happen Cameron.
2. When Leo's arm is pressed up against the glass (and it looks like a 13 year old girl's arm) I want it to be close enough for me to almost smell the sex sweat.
3. The corset tightening scenes could always do with a little 3-D.
4. Cal (Billy Zane) is pretty hot. I'd like to see more of him smoking disdainfully but right into my face.
5. Kate Winslet's boobs seem to always be heaving, as if they're trying to run away from her body because they know it's doomed. Explore those themes in 3-D.
6. The Titanic is a giant metaphor for a penis going flaccid after orgasm. In 3-D I want this to be more evident.
7. Is there anyway to make Leonardo DiCaprio taller than Kate Winslet in 3-D? Because that always bothered me in the original.
8. Please make that last kiss before inevitable death more romantic and less creepy between the two main characters. Here's hoping you cut it out completely.
9. Leo's hair needs to be more flowy and carefree in 3-D.
10. Dear James Cameron: please direct a 3-D porn version starring James Deen and Tori Black. Sincerely, Vera Ryzhik
That's all I have for now. I'll think up more whilst I'm watching it I'm sure.
Below is the trailer:
AND BELOW: One of the best Titanic parodies that exists by my favorite comedy duo French & Saunders. The fully version is available on the youtubes. Enjoy!
Still from The Babymakers (2012) opened this year at SXSW
This is a brave new world we're entering where everything that happened in Gattaca is coming true. There's nothing that defines a 'traditional family' anymore, and if your little swimmers are confused or your ovaries are shriveled up like a pair of raisins in Death Valley, it doesn't matter because science can solve your problem.
Hollywood has become obsessed with this notion of eugenics stemming from the idea that in these modern times we as a species can decide which first class man juice we want to eventually inhabit the DNA of our unborn children. The movie business in all of its maturity has converted this into crude semen jokes driving the point home that man gravy is fundamentally disgusting.
Clever use of semen hasn't been utilized since the days of There's Something About Mary (1999) but now it's splattered all over the place. No pun intended. The Babymakers (2012) recently premiered at SXSW, starring former Parks & Rec principal Paul Schneider and professional do-nothing hot-chick Olivia Munn. Here's the remarkably bland and predictable story: They are a happily married couple who just can't make natural babies no matter how many times they accentuate just how supple Olivia's tits are. Paul Schneider's little Phelpses just refuse to swim damn it. He then suddenly remembers that he donated sperm about a bazillion times to get her a Tiffany's diamond and now wants it back because those batches were the 'good ones'. Ergo, he decides to pull a bank job...a sperm bank job. Hiiiilarious.
Filmmakers explored this 'risque' avenues with last year's The Switch (2010) because it's completely not-obnoxius to imagine what would happen if you accidentally had your sperm mixed up and your best friend decided to donate his creating a child that was strangely exactly like him in every way. Apparently people who work at sperm banks are highly incompetent.
The visual displeasure as accentuated by everyone's general discomfort with the sticky white substance. On the poster work for The Switch, it's half Jennifer Aniston staring at something at a far off distance and half Jason Bateman looking repulsively at a donation cup appearing to be sniffing it. In The BabyMakers, it is pretty predictable that someone, doesn't matter who, is eventually going to be comically covered in slimy baby batter, getting it all over his face, into his eye, making a sperm angel and slipping in it, causing him to be enveloped in it even more. And that's exactly what happens, serving as the comedic climax of the film. I was sitting in the third row, if that had been in 3-D I don't think I would have been very happy.
Even someone like me isn't above being slightly offended by this poster. It's too much of hitting the nail on the head...so to speak.
After his recent teary-eyed adorable triumph at the Oscars, Frenchy Frenchman Jean DuJardin was untouchable. Between starring in the sleeper hit and best picture of the year The Artist (2011), and charming everyone and their mothers with his inherent Frenchness, pencil-thin mustache, and acceptance speech crying, It would appear the world is his oyster voulete. But he's quickly learning that not all of his actions are adorable and sweet. Case and point: ads for his upcoming film reunited with Michel Hazanavicius (American title: The Players, original title: Les infidèles) sparked some controversy not just here in Puritanical hypocritical America, but (gasp) in France too.
It is consistently being called a 'very French film', I have no idea what this means in a contemporary context; is it full of shots of Eiffel Tower with Edith Piaf singing in the backgroundand everyone of the extras constantly smoking? I only kid, what I'm assuming it actually means is that it's uncompromisingly and unapologetically promiscuous. So basically, it's a film about sex with a lot of sex in it...starring Jean DuJadrin...and some other people.
Here's the thing, I don't believe the French to be that big of an authority on sex in the cinema, though they like to constantly state that they are. I think they definitely make coitus into a bigger deal than it usually should be in any given context and tend to chew the scenery with gratuitous thrusting in random and unusual places where everyone is crying after, but other than that I don't believe it to ever be an honest portrayal of any given person's sex life. Even someone like Catherine Breillat whom I greatly admire as a filmmaker sometimes goes overboard, and I'm not talking about a sensory overload of endless fucking, (which can be applied to most of her films) I'm talking about substituting basic plot and storytelling guidelines for scenes of immeasurable nastiness (watch Anatomy of Hell 2004, I dare you). It seems like French filmmakers do a fantastic job of convincing everyone how painful sexual relationships are, and how disillusioning the experience is. They often flout the idea that intercourse leads to nowhere good, and now they get to do so in High Definition and perhaps even at some point 3-D.
But not to worry fine upstanding asexual citizens, The Players is a comedy. Therefore, it's sure not to contain as much pubic hair as you expect from a French film. But wait wait, it's already getting some negative press for being overly provocative and sexist. And I'm not talking Mad Men sexist, actual sexism without irony. The poster art speaks for itself. Though the subject of infidelity is often amusing, it is in danger of crossing into the sleazy zone.
Thank you for spelling it out for me that a film called 'The Players'' involves men getting head. If you hadn't pointed it out in this poster, I would have assumed that it's a soccer movie. PS. If you run the caption through google/translate it says; 'It's (the line) going to cut, I'm headed into a tunnel'...hilarious? Photoshop Bill Clinton's head on this poster and we could rename it 'The Great American Tragedy'
I love a no-holds-barred sex comedy as much as the next filth blogger, but the ad campaign was way the wrong choice. It looks like a cover for a unintentionally hilarious 'classy' porno and quite frankly makes DuJardin look like quite the creep. I also found it funny that in the original poster art, DuJardin's tie is actually not swept for his shoulder but extended down as it is regularly supposed to do, making it almost look as if it's hanging right into the middle of whomever legs those are, providing a not-so-subtle double entendre. I just happen to think it's not in good taste.
DuJardin is clearly trying to establish himself as a jack-of-all-trades, but I don't think coming off as a serial philanderer is the correct route right now. He's trying to go from the universally adored soft-spoken DuJardin to the James Bondesque no-apologies swave as fuck DuJardin, but the transition is just not happening as smoothly as one would like.
And here is the French trailer for said film: My french is very poor but I'm imagining most of the dialogue goes something like: 'she just landed on my dick, I have no idea how it happened'.
Since today is International Women's Day, I'd like to do a total gladiator champion death-match between the two queens of cinema and movie stardom that ever cemented what it was like to be a female on screen. I'm speaking of course of the grand dames of old Hollywood: Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, rivals, bitter enemies, evil bitches both of them, and fabulous as all fuck. Each brought their own reverence into the spirit of womanhood and shoved everyone else aside so she was the only one left standing; proclaiming, 'I'm queen here, bitches. Now get me a large scotch.'
Let's have a clean fight ladies...who am I kidding it's going to be an all out glorious blood-bath, so let's not stand on ceremony and start the show.
In this corner, weighing in at 105 pounds, she's the queen of shop-girls, a superbitch on the set and at home. Her daughter might despise her, but we can't get enough of that that my-way-or-the-highway attitude. She hates wire hangers, but she loves her some married men. The former Lucille Fay LeSuer, Miss Joaaaaaaaaaan Crawwwwwwwwford!
And in the other corner, right out of the blue-blooded east coast, coming in at 120 pounds, but sometimes more, with legit D-cups and a crazy-large pair of peepers, she's been married and divorced four times, and loved every minute of it. Don't get in her way or she'll go Of Human Bondage on your ass. It's the First Lady of Film and the Fifth Warner Brother, but don't call her that to her face or she'll throw her drink at you, Miss Bette Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavis!
Ladies, let's have a good fight, no slapping, no biting, no hair-pulling, and no scratching, no backstabbing, no manipulating, and definitely no attitude...yeah right.
These two queen bees would have a life-long battle for all to see in both their public lives onscreen and their private lives at home. Always one-upping each other, they were destined to be competition from the word go. For two women that were constantly contending against one-another, it's almost astounding at how fundamentally different they were.
both had how shall we say it delicately, a plain jane past. This is Joan at 15 before the glossy glitz of the MGM style machine took hold of her aesthetic.
Let's review. Crawford was poor white trash from San Antonio, Texas who moved to New York and developed a reputation as fast and loose party-girl whom F. Scott Fitzgerald coined the term 'Flapper' for. She packed her bags for Hollywood when she was 19 and came to MGM as a dance extra for hire. In the next 5 years she transitioned from floozie to bona fide leading lady, and became her studio's hottest commodity next to Clark Gable. That same studio would betray her when she was labeled box office poison around the early 1940's and dumped her like a stray dog. But she had her revenge when she stooped to audition for MGM rival Warner Bros. hot new property Mildred Peirce (1945). But guess who was at Warner at the time and didn't like that one bit?
If you can believe it, this is Davis at 19...not 90.
Davis came from an upper-middle class family from bumblefuck Massachusetts, with a determined starry-eyed stage-mom that chose Bette over her sister to be the cash cow of the family. She didn't exactly look like a knockout, so began training as a 'serious actress' of the stage. She moved to Hollywood at 19 with mommers and scored mere extra work also until some genius casting agent fished her head shot out of the garbage and handed it to John Cromwell who was getting ready to direct Of Human Bondage. From then on Jack Warner latched on to Mrs. Ruth Elizabeth Davis and milked her career for close to 15 years, but he had no idea Ms. Davis had a pair of cast iron testicles and no one was going to tell her what she could and couldn't do. Becoming a royal pain in Warner's ass, also in the late 1940's, Davis splintered from her home studio and became one of the first high-ranking movie stars to fly solo without a studio deal.
Crawford and Davis both in they're 50's in the climactic art-imitating-life showdown circus that was the film What Ever Happened to Baby Jane (1962)
The friction between Crawford and Davis goes far deeper than just competition over film roles, and started decades before when Davis first started appearing on the scene playing tough and independent young ladies with a gritty realism; a role Crawford had been honing for quite some time at that point, but her boss Louis B. Mayer never gave her quite enough of a punch in the parts she played quite like Davis got. Ironically, Crawford always seemed softer, quieter, and more subservient in comparison with Davis' fiery and staunch personalities.
A masculine, tougher Joan Crawford emerges in the 40's, none so better illustrated than her character of Mildred Peirce, with the exception of Johnny Guitar of course.
Both were 'resurrected from the dead', as Davis once put it, after each had been divorced from her respective studio family, Crawford with Mildred Peirce (1945) for which she won the Academy Award, and Davis 5 years later in All About Eve (1950) both characters at odds with their age and subsequent place in the world while leading extraordinary lives of both extreme success and failure, and coping with the societal and personal struggles of being a woman with power.
The quintessential Bette Davis role was as Margot Channing in All About Eve (1950) who was pretty much an amalgam of Davis herself, the tough exterior, but vulnerable core, arrogant and loud, but tender and romantic; a woman that does everything in excess, drink, perform, and love.
Backtracking for a moment: when both hit their mid-30 mark and started settling down and having kids (in Crawford's case adopting kids...well in all fairness, buying kids off the black market because adoption services all over the country saw that she was too crazy to be a candidate) anyway! The competition only intensified, when Hollywood leach and supercunt Louella Parsons, a devoted slave of William Randolph Hearst, and basically the inventor of the tabloid reported that Bette Davis' newborn daughter B.D. was the most beautiful baby the world had ever seen, Joan promptly showed up to a press conference the next month with not one but two newly adopted babies. That's just one example.
Strangely, or perhaps not strangely at all, both BD and Crawford's daughter Christina later wrote scathing tell-alls against their mothers alleging all kinds of abuse and mistreatment. Christina's of course being the more famous of the two, and one has to wonder if that competitive air between Crawford and Davis transitioned into a competition between their daughters.
Bette Davis with daughter and mini-me BD Hyman on her wedding day. (Bette let her marry when she was only 16 by the way). BD's memoir about her mother (titled My Mother's Keeper) was, unlike Christina's, published while Bette was still alive, and had such an affect on the elder Davis that it caused her to have a second heart attack. Needless to say Davis later severed all ties with her daughter. and I for one like to think of BD as an ungrateful bitch. but that's just me.
I can tell you're getting bored and/or lost at this point, so I'll just leave it at the following:
Both Davis and Crawford created a female persona of unfathomable standards back in Hollywood's golden era. They were absolute consummate professionals of their craft and each defined what it was to be a star, what it was to be powerful, and what it was to be a woman. Both exuded qualities of extreme toughness and yet raw vulnerability, and every woman working in Hollywood right now owes those two a debt of gratitude.
Honorable mentions would of course include Barbara Stanwyck, Marlene Dietrich, and Katherine Hepburn, but when I think of a female movie star, I think either Crawford or Davis, and I usually think of both at the same time, because even though each had very different technique, style, and aesthetic, there's no winner to me. They are both just an inch above the rest.
If you want to see their bitchfight truly culminate, you have to check out Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), where they basically play themselves in the autumn of their lives; former child actresses, now completely discarded, still at odds with each other and ready to destroy one another...quite literally. In a nutshell Bette has to take care of sister Joan because earlier she had injured her enough to cripple her so out of guilt becomes almost her servant, resents it, cooks her a dead rat. Then there's drinking, bondage, and gruesome fighting. It's absolutely fantastic.
Below are some clips from both Crawford and Davis that I thought you might enjoy, more for people that are getting a crash course in the two. If you know your shit you can skip over them. Actually don't, watch regardless.
Unlike Bette, Joan got her start in silent film. Before she was everyone's favorite shop-girl, she was the wild and flirtatious nightclub dancer, this is way before she polished the 'Crawford persona' and developed her trademark, which is why she looks so different. She's considered 'the ultimate movie star' because she covers the entire spectrum; started out as a chorus girl, moved up to the flapper of the silent era, then transitioned successfully into sound. After which crested for a bit, and made a huge comeback in her 40's, a battle year for any actress. She was the personification of resilience.
Bette in her big break as Mildred Rogers the sluttish cockney waitress that ruins an idealistic young man (Leslie Howard) in Of Human Bondage (1934) (based on the classic novel by W. Somerset Maugham). She later said her career had two periods: before-Maugham and after-Maugham.
The trailer for that classic bitch movie The Women (dir. George Cukor, 1939) where Joan is the villain but somehow comes out everyone's favorite.
Bette Davis was actually the frontrunner for the wildly contested and coveted role of Scarlet O'Hara, but what kept her from eventually landing the role, which Warner Bros. was slated to give her was that she had only the year before done a part very similar to it, that of the lovelorn Southern Belle Julie in Jezebel (1938), for which she won her second Oscar.
Crawford made many films with the other giant MGM star at the time Clark Gable, with whom she had a longstanding passionate affair. This is one of my favorites, Strange Cargo (1940) a lot of the roles they played back in those days were along the same lines, but it's awesome to see those two commanding personalities duke it out. It's something I never tire of.
A very Crawford Christmas. A radio broadcast Crawford did with her children in 1949 which wreaks of being staged to the point where it's almost ridiculous. Christina Crawford would later cite how much she hated Christmas because of how stifling and unspontaneous the whole affair would be.
Bette Davis in perhaps her best role as uber-bitch Regina Giddens in The Little Foxes (1941) directed by long-time collaborator and some-time lover William Wyler. No one has yet pulled off being so deliciously evil.
Joan Crawford parodies herself and her onscreen persona (particularly the kind she culminated with Mildred Peirce) for It's a Great Feeling (1949)
The infamous 'lunch' scene from the ubiquitous camp opus Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962) When tensions between sisters Blanche (Crawford) and Baby Jane (Davis) come to a disgusting head.
An old and wise, cynical, profound, and courageous Davis reflects.
Joan in a wonderfully ridiculous outfit in her last televised interview reminisces about her golden years in the industry and about the great loves of her life: Gable and Tracey.
Like the rest of the country, male of female, I am completely outraged and appalled by Rush Limbaugh's comments made last Wednesday, February 29th against law student Sandra Fluke and I couldn't sit idly by and not add my voice to the uproar. This is egregious and shameful, and I am beyond infuriated that this kind of thing still goes on in our country.
Now, was I surprised that Rush Limbaugh said something offensive and vehemently wrong? No, that's what he does. He's a professional asshole after all, and his 'public criticism' sub-category page on Wikipedia is longer than it's history page of the Soviet Union. But enough is enough. He's lucky he gets to wave the first amendment in our startled faces every time verbal diarrhea projects out of that filthy sewer he calls a mouth.
Now, because this blog is regarding the media, I think I'm entitled to cover radio, though despite what anyone says, it is a dying medium. Alas, Rush's talk show still manages to reach and influence a huge amount of the nation's populace.
And just like he stands behind that great American tradition of Free Speech and Free Press, I would love it if Sandra Fluke would introduce him to that other great American practice - lawsuits. Under the constitution, what he said is protected, but I'm sure he'll get across the board 'guilty' verdicts from any jury following a defamation of character suit, and that wouldn't be punishment enough as far as I'm concerned. For someone who so openly and shamelessly preaches sexism, misogyny, and chauvinism, it's shocking that he still has a syndicated radio show. Now, it has been reported that no less than 8 sponsors have pulled advertising from his program, which is clearly a sign that you can't just say whatever the fuck you want in this country and not expect there to be ramifications such as public humiliation total loss of respect from your colleagues and peers.
If you've been living under a rock, here's the gist of what happened the other day. Sandra Fluke is a 30-year-old graduate Law Student at Georgetown University (so right off the bat, you know that she's had more education than Limbaugh) who testified to the democratic members of the House of Representatives in favor of contraceptive being covered by health insurance clauses. A very important request to make, and something that should be seriously considered. Rush, being the classy, reasonable, and thoughtful gentleman that he is immediately took to the airwaves and called her, among other things, a 'slut' and a 'prostitute' and said, and I quote:
"So, Ms. Fluke and the rest of you feminazis, here's the deal. If we are going to pay for your contraceptives, and thus pay for you to have sex, we want something for it, and I'll tell you what it is. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch".
When I first heard this, there wasn't enough Pepto Bismol to keep my lunch down. He also made a sick joke about how abortion is akin to sticking 'an aspirin between your knees' and other things that I don't even want to repeat.
This broadcast was so hateful, that it made me seriously resent the first amendment and makes me wish that there was an exception clause in it at the very end; an asterisk with Rush's name next to it and state: 'Should apply to everyone except the following'. Of course, we as free citizens can just all do the clearly right thing and not listen to him, but that's not going to happen. He's popular specifically because he makes wildly outrageous and incendiary comments and then apologizes about them later to keep the money for his show rolling in. Of course he's going to be crucified in the court of public opinion, but that's what he wants. He wants to be able to call himself a martyr of free speech, when all he truly is, is a monger of hate speech, and a sorry excuse for a human being.
All that aside, it's just a shining example how we as women in 'the free-est country in the world' are still second class citizens and are subject to this kind of torment and insult in this 'very progressive' society. It's a hypocrisy and Limbaugh is king of the hypocrites. By the by, he only apologized after severe public pressure to do so and threats of pretty much all of his sponsors to pull the money they invest in his show. So basically, he's not sorry and he did mean what he said.
Here's the transcript directly from his show. Listen at your own risk. If you vomit all over your computer and have to go to the apple store and replace the logic board I'm not taking responsibility.
Derek, the arrogant, womanizing director of the Marilyn musical ends up having a passionate affair with Ivy, the ambitious young star of said musical, and surprise surprise, he's kind of just using her and doesn't care about her as much as she does about him. How shocking.
It's 4 episodes into Smash (2012 - ), and I'm really started to get riled up, which is very cute to everyone around me, but I can't help feeling personally offended somehow by this show. Bare with me.
As someone who knows entirely too much about Marilyn Monroe, and I'm talking about the real Marilyn-Norma-Jean-Miller-DiMaggio-Baker-Mortensen-Monroe, and not the two-dimensional poster child that Smash keeps making her out to be by stating asinine things like 'they never paid her as much as she was worth' and 'she said she didn't want to be made into a joke', barely scraping the surface of the intensely complex and layered character that she actually is, I am consistently annoyed that this show can't hire just one Marilyn historian, or at least do a couple hours of homework reading a biography or two.
Look it's all fine to skim the surface when creating a Broadway musical about your subject and take creative liberties in order to punch out spectacular numbers with plenty of pizazz, but don't try to get serious by cramming in scenes between the writer and producer in which they lament over how sad Marilyn's life was over drinks like they've lived it. Please.
Listen I haven't lived it either but I don't pretend to.
Moving on, it's kind of a bad sign when by episode 4 you already hate every single principal character. They have been shoving all of their imperfections down our throats so blatantly that you can't help but be completely annoyed by all of them. Even the characters with whom we are all supposed to identify; Karen Cartwright the unlucky outsider, Ellis Tanchereon the lowly insignificant intern with ambition, Julia Houston the awkward but successful loner unlucky in love, and so on and so forth, but they have become the most repulsive characters on the roster.
And now, they've brought in Nick Jonas and squeezed in a couple of Adele songs to make it more catchy, but it can't mask that the show is royally failing, just like it's musical.
Ivy later seduces Nick Jonas, who plays this hot-shot teen star named Lyle West who's musical is worth 80 million dollars. She was feeling jealous that Derek inevitably reverted back to his womanizing ways and so it made it ok for her to have sex with a 15 year old. What?
Overall, this is supposed to be a show about the dog-eat-dog yet alluring world of the Great White Way and everyone in it; from the chorus to the star. It's supposed to be some kind of satiric tell-all about this business we call show, and how people will do anything, and anyone apparently to get to the top and stay there. It's trying to be the new television juggernaut that breaks down barriers by giving its audience an in to an otherwise exclusive atmosphere, but even the flashiest gimmicks cannot mask the terrible and trite writing and execution of this show. It is trying so hard to be a combination of All About Eve (1950) and A Star is Born (1954) through the All That Jazz (1979) filter, but it just doesn't have the originality, sincerity, and if you'll forgive me, gaul that its predecessors used to make themselves so memorable.
And let me point out something extremely lacking and also extremely important to the whole scope of this series; Marilyn's raw sexuality. Poor Megan Hilty (who is cast as the titular character in the fictitious Marilyn musical) is very talented, and is a showbiz veteran, i'll give her that, but imitating Marilyn's high raspy voice, and sultry seductive movements is just not enough. It's just another notch in the doomed pastiche of television's fascination with musical theater.
There is simply nothing sincere in any sexual scenario that is presented in Smash. Do impressionable ingenues sleep with producers for a part? Yes. Are busty blondes appealing to most audiences? Yes. Do affairs make it awkward for one to work with that same person later? Yes. We get it. You're not teaching us anything new Smash, and you're certainly not capturing the sexual spirit of Marilyn.
If there is one more karaoke-bar scene, this show is going to officially pass into the kitschy fluff, And with lines like 'go back to the chorus, there's nothing safe about being a star' had me gagging on my chocolate chip ice cream.
I'm going to give Megan Hilty an 'A' for effort, but it's going to take a lot more than a pearly white smile and tight-ass sweater to endear her character Ivy to the audience, and even more to make us believe that she can pull off Marilyn.
I was going to let that 3rd episode slide, but now that we're on our 4th and you still haven't shown us anything really sincere or genuine about Marilyn or the world of Broadway, I'm going to go ahead and give you a second strike. One more left, hope you nail it. So to speak.
