by Eric J Baker
It has become de rigueur here at PFC to lead off every other article with an image of a hunky, often shirtless, model or actor. Since blogmaster and militant gay activist James Killough decided to go with a Terry Gilliam-meets-Tetsuo look for his Devil’s Double review the other day, it falls upon me to continue the manflesh motif. Besides, my story from last week featured the movie poster for the 80s horror flick, C.H.U.D. (a clever political analogy on my part), so I guess I’m due to post some beefcake.
One of these men is not rumored to have slept with Bryan Singer to land the role of Superman, and it's not the guy on the left.
Before I explain the pictures, I must put to rest the controversy surrounding C.H.U.D. that is tearing our nation apart. Contrary to popular belief, which was propagated by the movie poster itself, C.H.U.D. does not stand for Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers. If you watch the film all the way through – and I may be the only person who has – you’ll discover the acronym actually means “Contaminated Hazardous Urban Disposal.” Now can we stop all this fighting?
BAKER STREET | REVIEW
by Eric J Baker
Wilting summer heat and latent homosexual tendencies: Putting asses in theater seats since July, 2011.
If you had said, “Captain America looks like a generic summer superhero movie, though, within its genre, slightly above average,” then you have reason to be excited. That is, if you get excited by being correct. On the other hand, if you had said, “Captain America seems like a highly abstracted remake of Stripes,” you’d be writing for Pure Film Creative.
Forcing Chris Evans to wax his chest for "Captain America" was just, well, un-American.
Consider: Both movies feature unqualified soldiers who, after some comedic side trips, rise to the challenge; an ornery veteran who deep down inside, cares; a sassy female soldier who doesn’t take shit from people and makes her own rules; a super-secret advanced weapon; and, ultimately, a pro-military, patriotic message. Continue reading