Doll Facei enjoys the distinction of having Carmen Miranda in there, dancing barefoot like you might remember it was done back in ye olde days (if you're old enough to have been around that long). Chick's really good at it, too ; unfortunately she's stuck in a box utterly inadequate for pretty much anythingii so she can't really give much proof of herself.
Besides this three minute bright spot, the production's absolutely incomprehensible. I suspect the people involved might have been simply demented. If plain insanity doesn't strike you as a likely explanation then I'm afraid I've no better, and what's more : you'll be stuck trying to explain all sort and manner of strictly inexplicable material. Do you know that by the lights of this bright crew it is conceivable for the producer of a Broadway show (who has turned down a readily recognizable stage star on the grounds of her "lacking culture", in the sense of being involved in "burli-q") to then not know or even bother to ask if the knock-around girl IS UNDER CONTRACT!!! Further : he complains. To her!!!! "Why didn't you tell me!" he says. A producer, with a straight face. Make sense of this for me, I'm all ears.
Seriously, so she's already much too fucked to be in his show in the first place, they apparently only do virgins or something, because whores are made of soap down there ? I don't know, maybe the idea is women are Venus fly traps basically, a kinda vegetable, those legs may look mammalian but really only open like half a dozen times tops per lifetime or some shit. They're made of wood, what! But then... when he changes his mind he (supposedly ?) he also changes his... memory ? Knowledge ? He simply does not expect that the well worn "burli-q" star might be... under contract. How about that! The thought does not occur, when he thinks of her perma-swollen sore pussy he magically doesn't also think of the... oh, what's the use.
Fiction, you understand, there's two kinds : to entertain, and to castrate. This is the second kind ; its entire raison d'etre is the representation of an imaginary competition of imagined cucks, wink wink nudge nudge, who knows, maybe you're dumb enough to monkey-see, monkey-do ? You're being "educated", through the enactment of the most impossibly, preposterously ridiculous of imaginary "contests". On one side, the out-and-out cucky cuck, an "intellectual" who gives Princess Cunt a ring on the terms that "she can hold on to it as long as it fits and if she wants to make it permanent she just says and if she's sick of it she just says also". Ain't that noble! What the fuck's the point ? But... wait, because on the other side there's the "anti"-hero cuck who's a "man of the people" (and you're supposed to identify with, if it wasn't plainly obvious enough let me spell it out). This guy (counterdistinctly from the other guy) gives Princess Cunt carte blanche to absolutely anything she wants or might cross her mind because... Uh. Right ? Fiction, dude, what the fuck "because". Why do "vampires" "suck blood" ? Because the intended readership is too shy an' self-awkward to rub that bud ? Well then, for the same reason these straw"men" here "do" things.
Most importantly though, the pepsi can on the left has also said The Mean Things (R) (TM). You know, stuff in the vein of "you gotta treat women rough", perhaps best typified by this exchange :
(very plaintive tone, literally asking for it) "I'm just trying to protect my rights!"
(stern) "If you don't button that face you're going to get plenty of rights. And some lefts, too!"
(suddenly happy, as if her life's found meaning) "Yes, sir!"
(old man approves) "See ? You gotta let 'em know who's boss."
As a factual matter that's how actual people managed the (back then, minute) amounts of female involvement in economic life, with its attendant toxic effects, a good century ago : unadorned ad baculum. It worked, certainly ; but it evidently doesn't scale, to say nothing of everything else.
Factuals aside, once the "street cred" of the cad's been "established" (through the idle parroting of the empty forms of whatever it is the parasites are trying to infect), the work of "educational" fiction can proceed its self-same, unchanging path : the "same guy" now turns around and does the cuck thing. The part where he says things as if he were something's the bait ; the part where he then turns around and tries to capitalize on whatever confusion he might've sown is the switch. "See, Johnny ?" That's how it goes. "Even Mr. Thisguy does it! Even Mr. Thatguy does it too! And everyone! It's just how it goes and... well, you have to understand. You believe Mommy now, don't you ? Hm ? HM ?"
In a word : your problems aren't in any sense new. Your lack of moral fiber is new (and "self-esteem" is proving in the field a very poor substitute) ; but otherwise the pathogens have been knocking on the door in the same way and with the same intensity since the dawn of time. You're just the first generation of positives to have let them in, that's all.———
- 1945, by Lewis Seiler, with Carmen Miranda and Vivian Blaine (Adelaide in Guys and Dolls). [↩]
- It's a lot like watching the best dentist of his generation trying to etch with wax utensils. Why is he etching in the first place ? He's a dentist not a draughtsman, what the fuck! And why's everything in his tray made of wax, what sort of perverse mind would go so far out of any conceivable way to make life difficult, and so pointedly pointlessly difficult at that ?!