-- "That's
your Interpretation,
You Shit-Mouthed Galoot!"
Yo, Noni-- listen here, real close. Your movies simply don't work (-- after the '80s, that is. I have a soft-spot in my heart for '80s cheese). Asides from the reek of said "cheese", festering with "good time memories" that never were, your films from a more decidedly "modern era" of respectability STINK. They're god-awful. . . . . and Golden Globes n' Academy Award Nominations aside, they wouldn't be sitting in my basement in a stack of crusty old video tapes like a pile of shit if only everyone involved could have taken a step back, laughed at themselves, and not taken any of those projects so god-damned seriously. If you try "to be great", you'll fail because you're "boxed in" by stultification and can't bloom with the full flower of your spirit. Another big problem is that your films are written, directed, and produced by sniveling outsiders-- nerds, geeks, fags, dweebs, and liberals attempting "to get their revenge" on the traditional authority structure of white men. The compass that points "True North" is going to do a whole lot better than these petty deviations!
-- It may be hokey, but it points "True North" alright!
It's like a picture I've seen of your old favorite band, "The Replacements", looking like a bunch of Weimar Dadaists who would ascend "The Grand Ole' Oprey" like adrogynous, mop-haired crows and quaver into the microphone that they're too good for Hank Williams listeners in the blaze of "countrific" footlights. Needless to say, Paul Westerberg and his troupe would skin out of there like a bunch of jangled, hand-flapping chickens with egg-beaters and sword-canes up their gay behinds as they retreated to the cities, where their kind would be accepted. Let me ask you. . . . . whose problem is this? The audience's, or the tinny flatulence of rebellion that invited the bucking, Brahma bull jacked up on methamphetamines and sent through an alternative record store in San Francisco?
At one time, I might have been moved by "Edward Scissorhands" with a lump in my throat until my Johnny Cash-listening father, laying on the floor with his hands folded over his chest in his customary position and suffering through this heavy-handed Tim Burton confessional, broke the spell by asking "how does Edward wipe his own butt?". Needless to say, that would explain the boy's pinched, woeful, whey-faced expression in that skin-tight leather clothing of gothic self-torture and why everyone avoided him. I could never look at the film at the same way again, and found myself snickering evermore at this searing indictment of American conformity.
I get endless amusement of how the kids in "Reality Bites" carry on next to the essential aimlessness of life with all its clumsy hits n' misses where not everything is an overblown Generation-X soliloquy whose big sales gimmick is that it pretends to be "beyond such things" with caustic sarcasm. Such attitudes certainly roped in a lot of insecure people as the icons did "their mystery dance" of appearing not to care, making you fall into their void, where they then proceeded to do the ole' "bait n' switch" and sell you vanity products to apply to the incurable wound of your self-esteem. I'd love to see them in their off-hours, playing with themselves or on the shitter when you kick down the door with a SWAT team and a video camera, finding them at their most undignified. Truly, no one should step on the backs of anyone else to get ahead. . . . .
Anyone who poses like the girl at the beginning of this piece-- or any of the other grim imagery that reflects the face of moody discomfiture found in a totally different era-- really needs to change because that will never be enough to sustain a career when the ethical, conscientious moment has passed and we live in these vulgar, wayward times where the major selling point for an anti-Christian comedy is a fallen actress humping a ventriloquist dummy. Comedy, to be effective-- must know when "to splurge" and when to pull back. It's one thing to cross the line, and then step back. And you can get away with acting ridiculous and stepping over the line with sheer absurdity-- bringing in a marching band with elephants. But it's quite another to do it with sheer, dead-eyed depravity and to stay there. less a human being than a piece of shit as a pornographer, essentially, looks on with the unblinking lens of a camera.
I know you can do better. You may not be 25 anymore, but that doesn't mean that it's over. We all have to grow, change, and reinvent ourselves for the new coming renaissance if we will only believe in ourselves and take the path reserved for "warriors of the spirit". Who says women can't be warriors? Look at this poster!
Aren't you a natural blonde? (-- And incidentally, they pasted Arnold's head on my body and instead of a sword I'm holding up a keyboard)
The only thing I'll say about traditional authority structures, and where I stand in the schemata of things is--
(-- President of "Insufferable Industries")
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
© 2008 by Insufferable Industries
Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com