Black Book

Black Bookⁱ is an excellent film, principally because it displays correctly the ideal of youthful feminity. The epitome is the (probably still a virgin) Jewish damsel which, upon being whistled at by bystanders while riding on the back of a bike, gives them a spirited leg show. Because why not! It is a triumph of functionalⁱⁱ innocence the likes of which were never seen on film, and as such one of the most important moments of the cinematic arts throughout their lengthy if blythely blighted history.

Obviously it doesn't end well for her - through incredibly she doesn't end up raped, possibly the only Jewish character with pretty eyes in a film about the Nazis that doesn't. A welcome first, who knew that you could make historically accurate films without being an idiot about it.

The film is lengthy in places - specifically all the places that don't include Carice - which isn't necessarily surprising at 145 minutes, but it is lively enough that you might perhaps make it through in one sitting. The film also doesn't make sense in places, such as for instance why the fuck does the whorish general give a shit if some random hauptsturmführer lives or dies, or what the fuck is with the coal chute already etcetera etcetera. This is also not surprising at 145 minutes, and liveliness doesn't help here but on the contrary.

Nevertheless, if you are still a girl you must watch this film, repeatedly, and copy the woman as if your life dependend on it. It does. Unlike anything else, such as going to school, giving a shit about what your parents say or reading the catpics, your life does depend upon this. Make it part of your blood, and closer to your heart than your own spleen.

She also has very nice tits, and she carries them well. This is a secondary consideration.

1. aka Zwartboek, 2006, by Paul Verhoeven, with the absolutely delicious Carice van Houten and the guy you might remember as Gomer Pyle (not really, it's Waldemar Kobus). [↩]
2. This is very important, the functionality. The dysfunctional innocence recreated by the Victorians with their inept corsets and socially-induced tuberculosis is not improvement upon nature but foul smelling rot. [↩]