Das Wilde Leben
Spurred by an amusing cognomen, elaborately equivalent to Calboni's Tre Scotchss, I screened Das Wilde Lebeni privately.
The item is constructed on the dubious proposition of retconning recent history, in the sense of re-arranging the lives of a lot of actually important men around the whims and self-perceived importance of some random fucktoy, entirely like and absolutely undistinguishable from so many countless nameless othersii -- at that time, and at all times. In this very tendentiousiii if entirely not-credible retelling, Mick [Jagger] and Keith [Richards] had nothing the fuck better to do one evening in the 70s besides showing up as very "proper" an' Platonic loverbois at this dumb bitch's door.iv Cocksucker blues never happened, the rockstars were doing home service, there at her feet bringing "you're special" cards an' lavish attention just like that! Why her feet specifically is never seriously considered, besides a vague "she's so beautiful" the economic imbalances incumbent are simply left unaddressed, there's two of them and two millions of her but that's okay, they'll queue at her door. What do you mean "that's not even remotely close to how it works" ?! Masturbatory fodder works whichever way the onanist wants it to work!!!
Given the foregoing batshit insane nonsense, Reiner Langhans being treated as little more than a tampon string doesn't even grate. I suppose the falsification might be somewhat remarkable on its own, but certainly Langhans was way the fuck closer to the infantile moron depicted than "Keith" or "Mick" were to present-day simpy, cucky boihood. Dieter Bockhorn is reconstructed minutiously inasmuch as mere appearance is concerned ; but otherwise the strawman is as hollow as any poster adorning the bedside wall of bourgeois adolescent twats everywhere, unsurprisingly if tediously over-preoccupied with "their own" (entirely imagined) self on the shaky basis of precious little besides exaggerated paternal attention and ill-advised encouragement. They touch themselves "secretly" under the covers while pretending he's asking them out or offering them his love or whatever the fuck -- he, the poster, "he" the mug smiling off paper taped to a wall. All the "he" they could possibly use as they are. In any case all the "he" they figure they need, on their own. Women aren't born but made for a fucking reason after all (and this film is an excellent summary of that very reason).
In such context, the sheer ridiculousness of relying on the creaky offices of a perfectly unremarkable, entirely unsexed v thirty year old to depict a wild fifteen year old hottie is barely worth the mention. Much like in the case of that other atrocity the viewer's left scratching his head trying to figure out who the fuck's bankrolling this untalented, unremarkable nobody's absurdist forays. Natalia Avelon is as inconsequential as any instatwat could ever possibly be, she's "an actress" of this thing alone and also "a singer" of a single item nobody can remember... at least Inna's sponsor bought her concerts, plural, and for a few years, okay ? When Taco-Taco Burrito commissions nonsense "films" of this ilk it makes at least some sort of commercial sense -- yes it's yet another riveting story of a chicano hotel maid that "on her great merits" ends up well married or whatever, self-actualized, but really, an hourlong commercial some moomoos can be found to pay to see ? Why not, it's cheaper than buying billboards and therefore comprehensible. What the fuck did this dork think she'd accomplish ?!
This thing is worth watching like footage of Creutzfeldt-Jakob diseased cows is worth watching : only if you're a veterinarian, and even then only once.———
- 2007, by Achim Bornhak (aka Akiz) with Natalia Avelon. Also called "Eight Mile High", whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. [↩]
- I'd have had a link here to the story of that nameless 1970s London go-go girl that died underage-ish after having been fucked randomly by anyone who could summon the interest since she was old enough to walk or something like that. I'm pretty sure I mentioned her somewhere, including perhaps a full-page shot of some period newspaper with her picture in it -- probably as part of a larger discussion on young women, unilateral intercourse, the 1970s etcetera. Perhaps it was in the broad context of that chick who used to "babysit" for all her stepfather's friends who also fucked her (you remember, one of Rachman's countless whores), or that black chick that nearly started a fight between Saturn and Mars (after a fashion), or maybe Carol, or Schneider, or who the hell even knows anymore. Needless to say I can't find it anymore. [↩]
- Apparently "thesist" is an unknown word in contemporary English ; though the practice's indeed very common. [↩]
- And then leaving unfucked, kissing the hands of the three other wallflowers to be found on the premises.
Tell you what, I've visited exactly equivalent dollies in their cramped, state-provided quarters on University campuses ; and I have sampled the charms of the roommates. In multiple countries, let alone numerous cities, over a good fucking decade. Because of fucking course, what the fuck! And no, I'm no "Mick" nor "Keith". I don't even play their instrument, let alone my own! [↩]
- In fairness it should be mentioned she's completely nude about half her screen time, so it's not like she isn't trying her diminutive ass off. [↩]