In the video portion that is part two of yesterday’s piece, there was so much to say about Lars von Trier’s Melancholia that didn’t make it into the review, sadly, or it would have been half an hour long. No doubt we could have waxed even more poetic about Kirsten Dunst’s breasts, too, but we seem to have given that enough air time as it is.
What didn’t make the cut is that Melancholia isn’t just a great film, it is the anti-Tree of Life, which in the footage now lying on the editing room floor, James called “pseudo-spiritual cack.” This is the film that should have won the Palme D’Or, not TOL. Robert De Niro, the head of the jury this year, is clearly becoming something of a sentimental old buffoon if he couldn’t see it.
But wait: those Hitler/Nazi statements of von Trier’s at the press conference. Forgot about those. Bad taste trumps great art every time, for a time. We take that back, Mr. De Niro. Carry on.
Oh, and James doesn’t really have jet-black eyebrows and beard, and beady, creepy eyes. We had to increase the contrast on the video to see Chris’ face properly.
There was some terribly sad news last Wednesday: Sarah Palin announced she isn’t running for president. The fact that the final gong on that tuneless, talentless cabaret act was utterly muffled by the untimely demise of a truly great man, Steve Jobs, was the definition of poetic justice, and will set the tone for the Moosehead MILF’s rapid slip into obscurity. However, I shall miss Tina Fey’s impersonations. Fuck, she was funny.
Hopefully this picture will soon be a still from Celebrity The Price is Right.
Joe McGinniss’s article in the Daily Beast had a decent paragraph that summed up just how dangerous this whole episode was:
Ask any red-blooded baboon: as repressed as the Victorians were, the bustle was a flagrant invitation to do nasty things from behind.
I miss the Victorian Era. It’s not just that I miss the high-waisted trousers and the frock coats, and the prospect of reading Dickens serialized in the paper every week. I am probably one of the few men in the modern era who can say he had two frock coats hanging in his closet at one point, made for me by my tailor in Delhi to my amateur designer’s specifications, based on yet another Yohji Yamamoto frock coat I brought in for him to copy. It’s not that thinking about the Victorian Era makes me miss when I had hair, either, which I usually wore long and curly on top and shortish on the sides, with my sideburns always down to my jawline. No, the real reason I miss the Victorian Era most is because had I lived then I would have been straight.
As every gay man knows, while inwardly guffawing at those misguided conservative poodles who incessantly yip that ours is a “lifestyle choice,” only an extreme masochist with a major reactionary streak would ever choose to be gay over being straight. Most of us believe we would make great straight men. We’d be wonderful fathers, we would seriously pay attention to our woman’s appearance, we’d never even tire of clothes shopping with her.
The reason a Ghey like me would have been straight back then is I would likely have gotten married, had kids, and nobody would have been the wiser. My wife would have been so repressed and confined by the rigid corset of social mores that she wouldn’t have admitted even to herself that I wasn’t banging her, much less to anyone else. She would have ignored the stable full of handsome young stable hands, who would have walked funny after I’d spent an afternoon “grooming my horse.” In the unlikely event of a complaint from her, I would have just yanked a lace in the back of her dress like a yo-yo string and she would have passed right out on the parlor floor like a rag doll, after being cut off from what little air she was getting to begin with.
The Victorian Era was basically when Western culture turned Japanese for a hundred years. It was graceful, fraught with fascinating social intricacies and niceties, but was, all kidding aside, clearly a real pain in the ass. Continue reading →