Carried Away

Carried Awayⁱ is a very strong story massacred by a monumental cop-outⁱⁱ, perhaps the most egregiousⁱⁱⁱ application of that venerable narrative device to the cinematic arts during their entire, century-long (and otherwise quite torturous) existence.

The story is the usual "young whore walks into a bar" ; the cop-out is that "she's gotta be insane". I do not dispute the factuality of the arrangement, by the way. Sure, adolescentine erotomania is often the first, and occasionally the only symptom. Sure, actual psychopaths do exist (and yes, they're preponderently female in actual clinical practice), and sure, hurray for an acctually accurate, realistic depiction of the affliction for once. Just... holy god man, why be such an Indiana retard, what the fuck. This is like the story of the man who found a billion in gold and went to market and bought beans, except not even funny, why the blazing hells would anyone do that to himself!

All that regrettable aside, this is definitely the breakthrough role for Amy Locane^iv, and so strongly she breaks through she blows poor old Hopper right off the angel's pin's needlepoint. He's exquisite, by the way^v -- the man who created that most memorable old con produces such an absolute, picture-perfect rendition of the midwest my one slave born there wept throughout for painful recognition ; yet it's not enough. Because, properly speaking, nothing can possibly ever be enough, once the teenaged whore's put her warpaint on and lowered the visor... that's the fuck that, and move the fuck on.

Nor is, nor should be, nor can in fact "society" be the means and ways for mediocre everyones to "reduce" that situation. Hear her roar, for she's my slave -- and unlike you, I love her.^vi Perhaps also write her better stories ; for I'm growing old and in any case tired of being strictly the only one doing it.

1. 1996, by Bruno Barreto, with Amy Locane, Dennis Hopper, Amy Irving. Yes, that's right, Locane gets top billing, for she deserves it. [↩]
2. "But MP, what could they have done ?!"
   "Uh, how about 'No, I'm not going to marry you. I am going to marry the young slut. You will have to be our maid, and serve her in bed.' for instance ? That'd have fucking done it, as well as a myriad other approaches. Anything, really, anything whatsoever besides George Costanza's worldview. For fuck's sake!" [↩]
3. I was definitely going to review it, then last night I decided I won't, because fuck that dumb shit.

   I'm writing a wreck report in the morning light, regretfully. Why is everyone such a coward, anyway ? [↩]

4. This chick is perhaps the finest object lesson in why they must be killed -- painfully, publicly, humiliatingly, and right now. PPHRN FFS!

   So after this and Cry Baby (1990) there she was, right, proper and ready to rumble. Do you know what they did to her ? They put her in Melrose fucking Place! There, in a stable of tedious, whinny nags twice her age, to... you know, "learn how to be less of a woman and more of a cow". Just like them. So she stops "throwing the curve" for all the dumbasses everywhere. And that was rightly it for her, if you don't count the fact that somewhat later she got convicted a cvasi-record five times for the same god damned "offence", which really... I'm not even kidding, just as she had "served" "her time" they kept coming up with inane bullshit like "we don't think she was sufficiently contrite in admitting her fault so here's another eight years". Because this is the problem with having female judges : you will never get enough actual women to fill all the slots, and so there you go, cowjustice instead.

   Do you know what quote they put on her IMDB profile ?

   I realized early on that I always hated girls who used their femininity to get what they wanted.

   Fuck that dumb shit. Fuck that dumb shit with a red hot poker ; and while at it let's make another point perfectly clear : there is absolutely no problem, nor do I see anything wrong, with some rando fuckwit allegedly called "Seeman", as if that fixes anything, having to die a mangled, painful death holding her guts on the side of the road because Amy Locane felt like driving drunk that evening*. Nor with any of the rest of the idiotic bullshit you're over-preoccupied with. The problem is, and always has been, and won't long remain, that three-century stale naivite about "all the people" and "reason" has been coopted by a bunch of tedious, whinny nags and inappropriately applied towards their own goals, predictably miserable on the strength of their mediocrity. The only crime is for the lesser to roam free. There's no other. Until and unless the laughable pile you self-importantly call "laws" reflects this fact we really have nothing to say to each other, for nobody could possibly care about the imaginary "universe" you imagine yourself larping within.

   ------
   * Gimme a fuckin' break, she was at .23, which has nothing to do with drunkdness even in boring Caucasian females, let alone whores. She was doing like 80, which is less than what she's supposed to, and she hit some fucktard doing 3 (!!!!) kmph "because he was turning into his driveway", which seriously, they should be flayed alive and then flogged with salt-cured leather whips for that sort of dumb shit. If I were the judge I'd have had the surviving "victim" fined. [↩]

5. And between the two of them they lift some inconsequential supermarket clerk (or whatever the hell she is, amateur actress, the pliable daughter of a bunch of faggoty Greenwich-village era pseudoartists & fakeintellectuals like they had in the colonies) right off the ground, there she goes, Amy Irving floating through the air while invisible chorus lines sing their sweet symphonies because coincidentally she shares the christian name of the goddess and happens to be physically present. A large enough explosion will send rocks flying just as well as birds, while the events last, and so that Irving broom fired acting once, doubtless the highlight of her existence. Hard work and good luck and all that, you know how the tale tells. [↩]
6. Meaning I love her and I don't love you, uppity boi. Nobody gives the first fuck about whom you misrepresent your incapacities as supposedly directed towards. You're like a quadriplegic forgotten in a corner at a party, looking through the room trying to decide whose feet he's stepping on. The answer's right there : nobody. Ain't a matter of "who you love", and stop acting as if anyone asked you, or there's even the vaguest possibility of confusion. When I say "unlike you, I love her" what I mean is exactly and obviously the same as when I say "I eat meat but not soy", no possible doubt about it. [↩]