Archive for November, 2009

What Women Want

November 30, 2009

I have, of course, never seen What Women Want, as I am already privy to the supposedly abstruse information to which the title of this film alludes. Yes, I’ll tell you what women want: food, water, shelter, warm clothing, oxygen, daylight. Fickle creatures. Here is my review of What Women Want:

Dead-eyed leatherneck. God-humping pork-for-brains. Wearisome sperm-sack. Nazi homunculus. Australian cadaver. Scrotum-faced inquisitor. Zealous pig-man. Rind Head. Holocaust-lovin’ colostomy bag model. There are many appellations for Mel Gibson, each of them reflecting a different facet of his unique and sparkling personality.

In What Women Want, Mel Gibson plays a louche and callow beavis who hawks his love from woman to woman like a disreputable seller of abject souvenirs. He is a fishy little monkey and the scourge of maidenheads everywhere. But then, through divine intervention, he develops a powerful form of telepathy that allows him to read the minds of females. Where once he was privy only to their melancholy loins, now he is the confidante of their most inmost hearts.

Inevitably, perhaps, Mel is disgusted by the lack of piety in the minds of modern womenfolk, and calls upon the Great Jehovah to wash them away in a furious unremitting tsunami of righteous misogyny. Everyone in the world with xx chromosomes dies, even the ones whose lives were spotless apart from that one time they went into church with their shoelaces untied. The sole survivors of the cataclysm are a small cabal of believers, who, like Mel, have boggly eyes, bandy legs and true, unstinting faith. Mel is cured of his roving, womanising ways and sets about ensuring the survival of the human race by inseminating a cow with his own hungry seed.

There are many who say that the Rom-Com is a frivolous and inane genre. They are the haters. Turn the other cheek my flock; turn the other cheek and poke them in their dirty pagan eyes.


Requiem for a Dream

November 24, 2009

Requiem for a Dream! Now there’s a film I should see. Until then, here’s my tiresomely long review of it.

Addiction is the spice of life. Not the kind of spice that enhances a meal and makes you high-five your spouse. No, addiction is the kind of spice that makes you cry and choke like a First World War soldier trembling in a trench. Yes, addiction is a horrid mustard gas that kills and chafes. No, or rather, yes, addiction has a bullet with your name on it and he’s coming for you. You might flee, you might assume another identity, but he will catch up with you and pump you full of hurt.

We are all addicts. Some are easier to spot than others. Alcoholics, for instance, have cheeky red noses and a whimsical line in conversation. In many ways they are the merry gnomes of the addiction world. Cocaine addicts can be identified by their regulation outfit: pin-stripe suit, shiny shiny brogues and silly face. Nymphomaniacs on the other hand may be singled out by the involuntary rutting motion they exhibit when exposed to Rockabilly music. Me? My addictions are too numerous to mention, but here are a few: dogs, eye contact, getting my shoes buffed, key changes, lists. Collectively they have cost me all of my friends, every job I have ever had, my youthful looks and my self-esteem. On the upside, when someone starts working on my loafers with a greasy rag, a small quantity of lickspittle and a large quantity of elbow grease, I know in my heart that everything is going to be ok.

Heroin addiction is a much-misunderstood addiction. A recent survey indicated that 58% of the British population thought that a heroin addiction was a charming compulsion to read novels and watch films with strong leading ladies. When informed that heroin is a drug that dirty people prick into their veins via rusty spikes, many of the participants cried and felt sad. But they awoke sadder and wiser people. Such ignorance is unacceptable in the twenty-first century. Accordingly, the film Requiem for a Dream is a primer for curious but simple people on the advantages and disadvantages of heroin addiction. Below is an excerpt from the opening monologue by the heroin of Requiem for a Dream:

“Daddy came back from Vietnam with a monkey on his back. And that monkey was a smack addict. ‘Course, we didn’t call it smack back then. We called it Horse, or Ho Chi Minh, or Sandwiches. Once we called it Ho Chi Minh’s horse sandwiches. That was a light moment in an otherwise dark period.

All of our money went into the holes in that monkey’s spindly, hairy arms. He was real vulgar too. He used to snort all mocking-like when Elton John came on the television. “He’s just trying to entertain people” Momma would protest. Of course, knowing what I know now, I realise that the monkey was trying to warn us, in his simple simian way, of the threat that that bespangled winking pianist posed to our upright American household. Anyway, the monkey’s heroin addiction got worse and worse. I think the final straw came when Daddy found him hunched over on the sofa, trying to draw up a vein in his tiny monkey penis. No American child should have to see that, Daddy said to himself. It broke Daddy’s heart, but he knew the only way to stop this unending cycle of self-degradation was to strangle the monkey in his sleep. That night he crept into the living room and groped around in the dark for a thin furry throat. Seizing upon it, he cried one salty tear, and throttled away as humanely as was possible. Suddenly he heard a bark. He stopped frozen, and the awful truth dawned on him. He had killed our faithful hound, Enchilada, by mistake. No doubt my Daddy felt like Judas at that very moment. And no doubt old Enchilada had something of our Lord about him as he expired like a martyr on the shagpile. He was a good dog.

Deranged by grief, Daddy picked up the strung-out monkey he had failed to kill, and bundled him up in an old bowling bag. With the bag wedged under his powerful armpit, Daddy ran to Suicide Point. What Ho Chi Minh and all of his crazed communist witches had not achieved, guilt did. Shedding a second salty tear (Daddy was a thrifty weeper), he leaped from Suicide Point into the foaming brine. But what Daddy hadn’t counted on was the monkey waking up from its junk-induced stupor, freeing himself from the bowling bag and dragging Daddy to shore. Momma subsequently speculated that before the monkey leaped onto Daddy’s back in that Saigon brothel, he must have belonged to a Vietnamese Houdini-style escapologist. Pastor Whiteman said the monkey was guided out of the bowling bag by the hand of God. Whichever it was, the monkey had more miracles up its bristly sleeves. When he dumped Daddy on the sands of Suicide Beach and put his ear to his chest he realised that Daddy’s heart had stopped beating. As Daddy came to, the monkey was employing a sort of primitive primate CPR by beating him about the chest with both of his small leathery fists. Moved by the monkey’s efforts and by his own near brush with death, Daddy decided to spare his rescuer. The whole experience must have affected the monkey too, because the next day he booked himself into a rehab clinic. When he came out a month later, he was a new monkey. He opened a hardware store on the high street and joined the National Rifle Association.”

Interested? If so, Requiem for a Dream is available from all good filesharing websites. If not, I’ll see you after a while friend. Keep your beak out of the bad stuff until then.

Movie Trivia: Brokeback Mountain

November 21, 2009

My contacts within the Moloch Machine that is Hollywood have fed me another powerful fig of gossip concerning the Ang Lee film Brokeback Mountain. As a dutiful servant of truth, I have reproduced it below:

Prior to signing on for Brokeback Mountain, Jake Gyllenhall insisted that a condition be added to his contract. The clause stipulated that in all of the scenes in which he is required to perform congress, a flannel of the director’s choosing, but no smaller than 4″ by 4″ and scented with Heinz Beef Soup, be interposed ‘twixt him and the other actor. “It is paramount,” stated the clause, “that Mr Gyllenhall’s dignity and person be preserved from compromise and that the flannel stand as a very shield between Gyllenhaal’s person and infamy, and that the invigorating fragrance of Beef Soup be never more than a sniff away while ever he is required to participate in bouts of simulated or unsimulated love-making.”

After filming was completed, the soup-inflected flannel was sold for $400, 000 in a charity auction. The successful bidder was one Mr Muff, an eccentric inventor of sweets, who hoped to distil the essence of the flannel and convert it into delicious confectionary which he called ‘Beefy Soupy Sex Nuggets’. Sadly, Mr Muff died before the formula could be perfected. The flannel was subsequently stolen by an employee, who lost it in a leisure centre toilet, where it was discovered by an ornithologist, who fed it to a majestic falcon. The circle of life is a truly wondrous thing.

Movie Trivia: Robocop 3

November 20, 2009

Here is a hot sliver of movie trivia for all of you factophiles out there. 

Perusing ‘Tits ‘n’ Titanium Trousers: The Life of Paul Verhoeven’, I came upon the following revelation. Robocop was not always titled thus. Its provisional title was Policebot, but it transpired that another movie had taken that title: to wit, a government information film on the dangers of being kettled about the rump by truncheon-happy lawmen. Who knows whether it be coincidence or one of those snickering Hollywood in-jokes that Robocop 3 features a degenerate drug-dealer developing tetanus of the buttocks after the titular cyborg paddles him upon the bottom with a hydraulic hammer? No one knows. But one thing is certain: robot-man + blunt instrument + reprobate’s bum = a whole heap o’ entertainment.

Screen Legends 3: Matt Le Blanc

November 20, 2009

Matt Le Blanc is chiefly known for impersonating a stout sybarite, led by his overweening priapism and nauseating gluttony to the very brink of damnation. A confirmed fornicator, given to lewd ribaldry and base dissipation, who, when satiated, lay with a belly swelling up to the heavens as if to affront his maker, in a bed besmeared with sweetmeats, quince and sperm: the character of Joey in the hit sitcom ‘Friends’ was so memorable that he got his own spin-off show. Sadly, it tanked. But, as Barack Obama pointed out in a speech to a Wisconsin Women’s Methodist group, “there are only so many jokes you can make about being a fat man-slag before it just gets depressing.”

‘Friends’ taught us that wherever you go, you will always have friends. It also taught us that a social network comprised of an equal number of males and females could repopulate a city if each couple had four children and their courting habits were strictly regulated to prevent inbreeding. Yea, Joey and Phoebe begat Joshua and Sara who begat Noah and Ruth who begat Ralphy and Zipper who, unfortunately, didn’t get round to begetting as Season 9 was never aired.

Besides ‘Friends’ and ‘Joey’, Matt Le Blanc has only starred in ‘Lost in Space’, in which he plays a plump astronaut who is impregnated, against his will, by a sinister Caucasian arachno-pod. The irony was not lost on anyone, least of all Le Blanc. After a huge egg pops out of his rectal cavity and cracks, allowing a thousand nasty little spiders to hatch and scuttle all over the space ship, Le Blanc looks down at his brood and winks. ‘How you doin’?’ he exclaims, lasciviously, as the scene ends and Le Blanc fails to get another significant movie role for a few years.


Screen Legends 2: Armand Assante

November 18, 2009

Armand Assante is all gizzard and no comb. That is to say, the core of his acting ability lies in his neck, which he can inflate and deflate like a balloon-throated warble-tit or, as it is known in the Antipodean wilds wherein it abides, a facking bustard, on account of the ‘fack-fack’ noise it makes when in heat. Indeed, in Australia, where Assante is more famous than Dolph Lungren and Jason Bateman (individually, not put together), he is affectionately called the Facking Bustard.

Assante has starred in more than 3000 films. Here are a few of them: ‘Unsafe Danger’, ‘The Wishing Well’, ‘Submarine!’, ‘Who’s Gonna Kill All These Boglins?’, ‘Meat Buttons’, ‘Mitten Bitch’, ‘Slapdown’, ‘Moby Dick’, ‘An Incensed Ninja’, ‘Cicero: the life of a Latin Lover’, ‘Nicholas Bottom’, ‘Monkey Fun’, ‘HIV Bomb’, ‘Slapdash’, ‘Hungry for Muffins’, ‘Michaelmas Treat’, ‘Hunter/Hunted’, ‘Slap ‘n’ Tickle’, ‘You Gotta Be Kidding Me’, ‘Slushy’, ‘Let’s Go, Men!’, ‘Nightmarish Dreams’, ‘Node’, ‘Diode’, ‘Cathode’, ‘Catheter’, ‘Catherine of Aragon’, ‘Deathmeat’. Notably, Assante has never appeared in a sequel because he believes them to be ‘tawdry’ and ‘loathsome’.

Many of Assante’s films will undoubtedly be lost in the slurry of time. But in ‘Deathmeat’ Assante has a monument to himself that will endure until judgement day. Yea, upon that occasion, when St Peter and the Archangel Michael and Jesus and his dad assemble on one side, and the Antichrist and the Whore of Babylon and Jeremy Clarkson assemble on the other, perhaps, in a brief moment of repose in between the fearsome battles, they will put aside their differences as did the Germans and the British on Christmas day during World War 1. But instead of playing football as the soldiers did, they will sit down to watch ‘Deathmeat’ and enjoy a moment of sweet aesthetic bliss before the world ends and the fate of the universe is settled for ever. Perhaps St Peter will say ‘Armand sure injects that inanimate shank of deathmeat with pathos. I’ve never seen anyone imitate a pork chop so movingly.’ And the Whore of Babylon will laughingly agree and have a swig of Vimto. Then, as Assante’s proud, gizzardy face fades into the credits, the holy war will renew and life as we know it will be over.

A one sentence review of True Blood, highlighting a hitherto underexplored improbability in one of its central premises, pertaining to matters neurological and dermatological as well as reproductive, to which is appended a glossary, by the author of ‘Screen Legends 1: Peter O’ Toole’

November 10, 2009

Surely, I thought to myself, as two of the characters from True Blood cleaved to and chafed against one another like amorous, melanomic lobsters, those sub-Mason-Dixon-Line Americans are too stunted to know where to put it.


Lobster: a streamlined crab

Myself: a less streamlined me

America: the result of a 1956 experiment in which 150 million people were cloned from one of Bob Hope’s hair cells. Like the Boys from Brazil, but benign.

Screen Legends 1: Peter O’ Toole

November 5, 2009

Peter O’ Toole, with his azure eyes of the azurest shade of steely azure, can look into your soul, download it into his mind and then replicate it to such a convincing degree that, if he so chose, he could go round to your house and get your mum to make him treacle sponge. Never mind that he is 96 and wrinkled like unto the venerable tortoise. And never mind that you are but a lumprous adolescent, all bandy legs and Kleenex. Such is his thespianic acumen he can successfully pass himself off as anyone that has ever lived: Lawrence of Arabia, Lawrence of Watford, Gordon the Gopher… anyone!

His filmography is slight, like the man himself. He chooses his films carefully and shrewdly, like a prudent mother hen selecting the choicest chunks of meal worm with which to grace her noble beak.  To date he has only starred in three films: Lawrence of Arabia, Peter Stringfellow’s Arabian Nights and Robocop 3: Descent of the Gastropods.  His role in the latter, as a tourist forcefully demanding that Robocop rescue a bunch of weaklings from a vicious quasi-Arabic snail was a tour de force.

He is survived by Prince Philip, the concept of schadenfraude and himself.