Hair on the Palm of His Hand

KIMBALL VS KILLOUGH | REVIEW

starring Tyler Kimball and James Killough

Today Tyler Kimball is in the hot seat getting run over by Killough as they slash their way through Steve McQueen’s Shame.  Killough makes it all personal, as usual.

Kimball rates Shame:

Killough rates it:

In Praise of Rage

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

When it is the fuel for creativity, when it engenders necessary transformation, anger can be a force of good.

I am watching what is going on with the OWS movement with a proud smile.  When I pondered in posts earlier this year if we Americans were ever going to get around to raising our fists and affecting real change, back when the Arab Spring was blooming, I honestly never thought I would see it reach this point.  It’s wonderful to behold, inspiring.

Go on, Eliot. You can do it. They need you.

True, OWS still lacks focus, but it is starting to happen.  The internet commercial for the movement shows a coalescing of consensus.  What we should see soon is the emergence of leaders who can articulate the will of the people and negotiate on their behalf.  If not, the movement will die on the vine.  I fervently hope not.

Oh, You Pretty Things

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

It has been quite a busy week here at Pure Film Creative. Our style guru, James Tuttle, went on location to file a report from sweltering Manhattan, covering art, theater, and fine dining in one devil-may-care swoop and, at the same time, showing us east-coasters what good hair looks like. Meanwhile, our ringleader James Killough’s Marcus Bachmann post went homo-viral, drawing more traffic than Buddha’s birthday in Seoul (Seriously. Have you ever been to South Korea in May? You can’t turn around without hitting your head on a paper lantern).

We apologize to most of our readers for having to post this shamelessly straight horror fanboy geek image, but Baker is in Jersey and, well, the heat... We did manage to locate a version of C.H.U.D. in French, however, to make it more suitable for this blog.

My role in all this was to sit back and go, “Hmmm,” which was a lot more work than it sounds. Because it means I was thinking. I was thinking that PFC is ostensibly an entertainment, culture, and arts Web site, in that order, yet politics has been poking its repulsive head out of the sewer quite a bit here lately, like an outtake from the imaginary remake of C.H.U.D. (For real, Hollywood. Get on that remake already). Although Tuttle has been keeping it real, Killough and I are guilty of milking the Bachmann name for all it’s worth in clicks. So, for me, no more bat-shit crazy congressional reps or their self-loathing, closeted gay husbands after today.

Men in Pants

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.

So Sue Me, Seema

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

This will no doubt be the most post-modern post I’ve ever written.  This is a comment to a comment left on Thursday by Seema Kalia, whose trials and tribulations I commented on in an earlier post.  The Daily Beast has also commented on this combustion of comments with two words: “No comment.”  This post itself will no doubt draw further comment, perhaps even some fire from Seema in the form of a frivolous lawsuit.

I should sue myself for not only having posted this image in an earlier story, but having Photoshopped it. However, I'm in America, snuggled under a blanket called the First Amendment, unlike John Galliano, who is facing prosecution in France for expressing himself.

Why frivolous?  Because the basis of Seema’s complaint against me, as well as The Daily Beast, is defamation, which as any TV legal drama will tell you is extremely difficult to prove in this country.  However, despite having a Juris Doctor degree that should teach her better, or perhaps because of it, Seema has limitless resources and seems to be keen to use them to tidy up her image.

As the old ad campaign goes, there are some things money cannot buy.

Love The Unknown

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | INDIA FILES

by James Killough

According to Indian Railways I shouldn’t be writing this.  It’s not like I’ve ever misbehaved on an Indian train, unless you count the time my mother and I were taking an overnight local from Jaipur to Bikaner—which would be a three-hour drive on American roads—and I was hoisting her up to the top bunk of the sleeper, and she kept falling off, and we were laughing so hard she said, “Oh, no, I think I’ve wet myself,” which meant she had to get down and the whole process was repeated again.

No.  The reason Indian Railways doesn’t think I should be writing this is because, according to them, I have been dead for twenty years.

This masterpiece of assemblage art is entitled "Attack of the Killough Blog, 2011," an homage to five months of PFC, by James Killough.

This is, of course, entirely the Raja of Kotwara’s fault.  Creepy bastard.  I’m not talking about the New Raja, but the old one, the New Raja’s father.  I never knew his name because I just called him Raja-sahib like everyone else.  But he certainly knew mine.

Breakdown Freddie vs The World

BAKER STREET 

by Eric J Baker

The time to confess a dark secret has come: 37 years ago, I tried to kill someone. I do not know if there is a statute of limitations on attempted murder, but I’ll have to take my chances. The guilt is eating me up, and I’ve just learned that, to the new generation, 7 to 10 years in prison isn’t all that long.

The Guidos of "Jersey Shore" belie how hazardous it is to grow up in the Garden State.

My victim was Breakdown Freddie, a kid in my neighborhood. The scene played out like this: He hit me softly with a fuzzy slipper. In what might be described as one of the most unreasonable overreactions in the history of random kids from New Jersey overreacting, I kicked him down a flight of stairs.

Giant Robots and the Supermodels Who Love Them

BAKER STREET | REVIEW

 by Eric J Baker

And for my next trick, I will attempt to write intelligently about Michael Bay and the Transformers franchise.

My qualifications for doing so are:

1. I’m not a movie critic.

2. I’m not a Sci-fi summer blockbuster fanboy who drives a yellow Camaro with a BMBLBEE license plate (I swear to Your Deity that I saw that very thing in the Costco parking lot the other day and laughed heartily).

3. Megan Fox vs. Rosie Huntington Whiteley in a no-holds-barred, bikini mud-wrestling extravaganza. This isn’t really a qualification, but today is Str8 Sunday here at PFC and I get to girl the place up for the next 24 hours.

Megan Fox (left) and Rosie Huntington Whilteley, brought to you by Maxim Magazine, casting summer blockbusters since 1999.

First, I’ll address the fanboys’ case… Lads, saying, “But Transformers movies are supposed to be stupid!” will never be an impressive counterpoint to any argument. And now, moving onto the professional reviewers…

The Underage-Sex Reverse Richter Scale

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Editor’s Note: This marks the 100th post on the PFC blog, which wouldn’t mean much if this were TMZ with a dozen fluffy gossip posts an hour, but a PFC piece requires a lot of TLC to create.  It’s only appropriate that Eric Baker take this honor because it is he who kicked us over the 4,000-views-a-day mark on Friday with his Duran Duran story.  — James Killough

We were talking movie directors here the other day (actually, I was talking movie directors and Killough was like, “Yeah whatever, Baker—shut the fuck up—I know”) and Roman Polanski came up, not for his movies but for his marriage to Sharon Tate. The Polanski-Tate union suffered from the dreaded Billy Joel-Christie Brinkley syndrome years before medical science had even identified the disease, which occurs when an ugly, talented man marries a beautiful, possibly talented, but who cares, she’s a goddess, woman. And Sharon Tate was a goddess.

But, Sharon, why Frodo? WHY?

You may know that Tate was murdered in 1969 by Charles Manson’s gang and that Polanski went on to perpetrate a sexual act against a 13-year-old girl in the mid 1970s.

I’m Too Sexy For My Car

BAKER STREET

 by Eric J Baker

Welcome to Pure Film Creative or, as I like to think of it, Tiger Beat for intellectuals (and perverts; you know which one you are).

Regular readers of these pages will often find us opining on who is sexy (Ashton Kutcher, Duran Duran, Mary Elizabeth Winstead) and who is not (Killough’s former landlady Susan Blais, Russell Crowe, pre-Raphaelite painters). It’s easy to do when you’re talking about movie stars and fashionable pop bands, since good looks are a prerequisite for such roles in society. With political figures, the distinction is murkier. Much like the sewage most of them crawled from.

What's not sexy about an Aussie thug in a tub with a stogie, a brew and phone he's about to brain the hotel maid with?

I don’t find ugly liars attractive, but I seem to be in the minority. Last week, before the shocking truth exploded, I wrote on PFC that Anthony Weiner couldn’t have e-mailed his cock-bulge photo to a 22-year-old woman because he’s not that dumb. What I thought, but didn’t write was, “Who the fuck wants to see Anthony Weiner’s dick, anyway?”