Yesterday I crossed the Atlantic yet again, this time in the reasonably uncomfortable uterus of one of these modern Airbus whales they have now.i What do you do to fill 10.5 hours' worth of flight ?
You weren't there, so I don't know. The people that were there mostly tried to sleep, or otherwise busy themselves with their gadgets. I count among this last set : while we flew, I reviewed Avianca's selection of movies. Here's the results :
If Beatle Street Could Talk (directed by Barry Jenkins (heh, I know right ?), with nobody in particular) is a fucking intolerable piece of shit, in the "niggers are white inside too" Oprah tradition. You should see the dumb bitches in this thing, with their impossibly intolerable "perfect" hairdos and shit. Jeez.
You can pretty much tell which way the fakeitude is gonna go the moment the intro credits roll by, "oh noes, every black person was born on Beatle Street" gimme a break. Integration is the name of the game, it's just not a game that includes any kind of future for black people ; or for any other fucking people. Pantsuit only, and they're cockroaches.
Vice (directed by Adam McKay, with Christian Bale and, to quote my ever helpful editor sitting this time quite physically on my left, "no one you'd know") is a tediously sad lump of hullaballoo. It reads exactly like it was written by the empty shellsii of social media, in a ridiculous if unsuccessful attempt to imaginarily reconstruct the world in terms that don't outright exclude them. The intensity of wank is indeed staggering, "the power" that bla bla etcetera... the whole production's amusing in this vein, I guess, but if you don't give so much of a shit about the never-really-was-all-that-great-America, the coulda-woulda-shoulda-but-sadly-missed-howsoever-closely-America, well... I can't imagine why you'd try and watch this.
PS. The white nigger female's just as nigger white as the nigger white female in the prior sadnessiii. The same exact pepsi's coming out of her mouth, too, it's like the only Hollywood notion of female's ~soda fountain, "all the variety of indistinct fizz you can imagine". As the Romanian expression goes... fis.
I'm not watching either Spider-Man: bla bla nor Mary fucking Poppins remakes. Nor Bernie the dolphin, what the fuck. So I guess we're left with
Creed II (directed by Steven Caple jr, with the hero of Paradise Alley and some Jordan dude.), which is a romcom in "boxing" flavouring. It has entirely nothing to do with boxing, beyond a (rather doomed from the start) attempt at hijacking some audience verticals. Who knows, maybe Joe Doe who dun give a shit about pantsuitism but likes boxing mistakes this for some kind of GED training video ?
That notwithstanding, it's still about some random precious cuntlet and the oh-so-overpoweringly important spawn thereof. I suppose we could say this movie's the cinematic equivalent of the chick that pretends to be interested in sports so she can get herself married into dependopotamus status. The very old Stallone is midly entertaining, I suppose. Remarkable how little five decades have changed that dude, he's still the same cheap hustler he started as. I guess simplicity breeds simplicity or something like that.
Ben is back I refuse to watch on principle -- I never watch anything with julia roberts in it, nor will. I'd rather watch Rosie O'Donnel's sex tapes. Besides, the thing sounds vaguely like that stillaffleck atrocity might be making a comeback, Erato protect and defend us!
Robin Hood I'm not fucking watching, it's a gimmick thing. You know how these idiots go about things when they figure they've got a gimmick -- and if you don't know, anything from the 80s with Anna Kanakisiv in it will serve just as well as this crap. Did you see the cool cars they had in that future btw ? Almost as good as the smooth lingo from this past, I'm sure.
The exact same also goes for Incredibles 2, Hotel Transylvania 3 (holy shit wtf is this, who can be fucked in the head enough to imagine this can be "a franchise" ?!), Avengers: Infinity War, leaving us with ~9 hours to destination and
Bad Times at the El Royale (directed by Drew Goddard, with Jeff Bridges), a movie rather preoccupied with locks. Locks, and the little bell for which bellhops are named, and other small mechanisms ; but unlike the foregoing tripe at least it's an actual movie. I guess one'd expect I'd say something apart about the revolutionary leader wannabe-etc, but I'm not so keen on repeating myself, and as I've already said, small mechanisms...
Jeff Bridges is indeed a great actor. It's all in the eyes. There's a momentary flash of the old man's blue eyes that definitively settles the point. The women do exceedingly well, both the magical child and the cynical loner, the Jackie Brown inexplicably caught here without her dirty red bandana.
I watched the whole thing (first time this occured with this list). I do not regret it. Quite the contrary : I recommend it, the movie's a little jewel in the style of Romanian neorealism
One'd expect Juliet, Naked (directed by Jesse Peretz, with nobody in particular) to be yet another tedious americanism about "making a porno" or something like that, on the strength of current mainstream "conventions", let's call thus the indolent imbecility petrified in turd form vaguely redolent of long rotten wood. Why the hell not, what MP did in the 90s was (inter alia) making pornos, so every two bit nitwit from Tucker Rogen to Seth Max is gonna be filming some verbose retard that showers with two pairs of panties on while she postures importantly. What, saying and being ain't the same ? What, existence fatally denies itself to the wallflowers idly pretending to existence by themselves in the corner ? What, feminism isn't the coming true of the inept dreams of all the pubescent morons ? What do you mean girls ain't women, what do you mean girlism is a sort of retardism ?! And etcetera and yet more etcetera, the budding precious cuntlets got yakkity yak to "say". On like, totally topics and shit!
Anyway, I suppose in a sense it is, exactly that, the grating pretense to an absent nudity once-removed and therefore only grating when you attempt to write the review. Who wouldn't be simply charmed to follow the blather of a herd of inept but indisciplined females ? With a couple of derpy dudes thrown in for good measure, of course, utterly failing at the self-obvious task of putting the bitches back into line. Because what'd a herd be without a coupla steers, or something. Whatever, if you're dumb enough to watch this crap, you're dumb enough to watch this crap. There's worse fates, of course (but perhaps a firm belief in reincarnation is a prerequisite).
Smallfoot noty, "a bright yeti" herpitty derp, something tells me it'll about how "even yetis think pantsuited atrocities are great [if they're smart, or at any rate if they're the sorta morons pantsuited atrocities make movies about]". No Kin either, no The Little Stranger, by now it's code, if "family" is mentioned you know the damned thing's gonna be of by and about dumb cunts. The Predator's utterly not worth watching, I'd rather watch Battlestarwars Galatiquetrek or w/e the shit's called. O look, star wars is next in line! Moving right along, to...
The Greatest Showman (directed by Michael Gracey, with nobody in particular) is an honest musical, I suppose. This is a term of art in our colonies, it denotes overgrown ads. The automated photochopping (of the faces in particular) gets rather tedious rather quickly ; the massacre of chords (and musical phraseoloy more generally) to produce "catchy" tunes or whatever the crap jingles these are becomes intolerably repetitive in short order. But the costumes are nice, I suppose, the decors interesting, it's a piece of work, whadda ya want.
Like a keg of salted herring, or #5 nails, or whatever else in that vein. Three fucking hours of it, too. Neeext....
It ain't gonna be The Shape of Water, that's for sure, "high security government laboratories" of 1962, gimme a break, what's this, The World According to Cosmo Kramer ?
I suppose we have to give Phantom Thread (directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, with Daniel Day-Lewis) at least a cursory glance. Meh, twenty minutes' worth of tedious tediousness later we'll pass, and gladly forget this nothing was ever made. You've seen one of those Alfred Nubsv porcherie, you've seen them all.
Pitch Perfect 3 (directed by Trish She, with some unremarkable chicks) is a steaming pile of horrible with that grimacing dumb whore whatever her name is. The one from the film with the moron wanna-be secret-agent-killer-batman with the clown nose. Bleeergh, made all of seven minutes through this very
Hot Uncool Topic.
Assassin's Creed meh, wasn't this a computer game ? Wtf is it doing in Avianca's movie line-up ?
But Fracture (directed by Gregory Hoblit, with Anthony Hopkins, Ryan Gosling) is absolutely fucking great. Have I even reviewed this ? Seems not ; definitely worth one, and definitely must-see, too!
Needless to say "Marvel's Iron Man 2" ain't fucking happening, nor is "Harry Potter and the this or the other". Then Crazy Heart (directed by Scott Cooper, with Jeff Bridges) is mildy interesting, I suppose, but by the time he's hanging out in bed with that "reporter" chickvi specifically dressed so she can appear naked if you film her portrait-style, three inches below clavicle and no furter... well, the plan's landing and I got shit to do. I doubt I'll have it sought out, and so...
Here ends our little cinematic escapade. Let's count together now, 26 movies while crossing the Atlanticvii. You know... it occurs to me everything about this is incredible luxury. I think of the sad Romanians of the 80s, plenty of whom lived their entire wanna-be "intellectuals" life without seeing two dozen "capitalist" movies, and then never crossed the Atlantic at all, not even once, and then if they had it'd have been more like thirteen to fifteen hours, and so following. I think of them, but I do not weep. Every lord his fate, right ?———
- I must say the new, soft, flexible, plastiplanes are visibly better than the heavier, rigid full-metal planes of three decades ago. Much unlike the plasticar, that doesn't work, the plastiplane works, and works well (and cheaply, too!). The reasons have to do with ye olde discussion of the sea (because no, the ocean of air's no different and nothing besides the ocean of water), and with the impermanence of the object : a plane only has to be in flight a day or so at most at a time. As it turns out, chaging a third of the parts every third flight is a better approach than hoping the all-metal, CNC-milled jesus bolt holds up the decade -- and especially so if the plastiparts cost a cent the dozen.
In any case, computer-assisted thrust vectoring has advanced to the point where the dual jet system palpably enjoys hysterezis, a situation that'd have been simply unthinkable in the older days. What, seriously, asymmetric thrust from the engines, as a going concern, and pulsating back and forth ? Holy hell, on a plane ? Yet with the more tolerant designs of the day, not merely flexible but tolerant of that flexibility being actually put to use... well...
There's been a revolution in aeronautics sometime in the past decades, plain and simple. There's no hiding it. [↩]
- The original Russian expression'd be "dead souls". [↩]
- Particularly offensive is the sheer hatred for any productive activity whatsoever. By the lights of Pantsuited Hilarity's accursed spawn, the only respectable activity and the only legitimate enterprise a male may engage in is the wondering in wonderment at the "miracle of life" while awaiting the scrip Goddess Inca cuts his way. That's fucking it, and don't you go around affixing wires to poles or anything. Not anything whatsoever, ye hear ? Any one thing no matter how small, insignificant or inconsequential that the male may find fulfillment in, is StRiCtLy VeRbOtEn!1!1!1
Vorwarts etcetera, warts and all. [↩]
- Warriors of the Wasteland, 2019 After The Fall Of New York, there's plenty of options. What, you thought Mad Max is new ?
- Albert Nobbs, n. ed. [↩]
- With a kid in tow, of course, of course, it is after all made in soviet lands -- but at least here it fits, what the hell else is an ex-star with ten dollars in his pocket gonna settle "down" for ? And the way they mention it, too, perfunctory, throw-away line, oh rezistenta prin cultura, your current name's Jeff Bridges! [↩]
- This wasn't their limit, either. They had plenty more lined up for my vita brevis. [↩]