The Comfort of Strangers
The Comfort of Strangersi is a rehash of that retarded story, except this time from a "oh noes, Donald Trump" perspective. In the fucking 90s! or to put it in other words, the libertard pussy's been itching for a grabbing for thirty years now.
Yet somehow the notion that "couple problems" actually denotes something other than a case of the woman being being fucking obnoxious and in desperate need of daily whippings to monotonously increase in intensity until she comes to her fucking senses and epiphanically realises that holy shit she was incredibly happy and "please god let just things be the way they were, oh please!" just can't go away, now can it. Which is how we know you aren't beating them, now are you. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Natasha Richardson is this particularly, distressingly ugly broad with nice hair. We're talking Barbara Streisand level of gorgon, there's better looking tree trunks out there. Rupert Everett is this stick figure that ran off from Cartoon Farm to find his fortune, and apparently nobody at Reteitalia noticed. Fuck knows what they were doing. At least he gets punched.
The whole pile is a colossal waste of Walken's time and not much more. Yes, it's true the libertard male gets killed and the libertard female freeranged, but then again you don't need a film to state the obvious banality of the world. Or at least, I don't.
———- 1990, by Paul Schrader, with Christopher Walken. [↩]
