If you’re an American, you probably don’t like kickball that much. You probably think that a bunch of guys in short shorts barely scoring is too much like your 7th grade gym class, so you’ll quickly turn the channel. I’m here to equip you with the soccer acumen that will win you the respect of even the swarthiest, neck-bearded, Slovakian bedecked in his best tracksuit.

Now, let’s break down the groups:

Group A

Mexico: Some people (Matt Cale) think they are nothing more than a festive brown race who does nothing more than mow lawns and make anchor-babies, but nothing could be farther from the truth. They’ve made vast, rich cultural strides in recent years (the Dos Equis man and George Lopez show). Anyway, they’re a team built on speed (but that goes without saying for a people that must continuously elude the border patrol), but just because they are small and fast, doesn’t mean they are weak– these little pepper-bellies are as feisty as they come and won’t submit to intimidation.

South Africa: Most people don’t know much about this country or team except that sharks frequent the beaches (thanks to Discovery Channel’s Shark Week) and they filmed District 9 there. Fucking drug-addicted aliens with badass weapons, what an awesome movie! Anyway, the South Africans have home field advantage, because ALL the games will be played here. It’s kind of unfair, but so was Apartheid, so… yeah. They have a fantastic squad of kick-stoppers, and good height, so expect them to put up a fight against pretty much anybody (except the English or the Dutch, we all know how they fare against them historically).

France: The French are great at nuclear power, cheese, and body hair; however, in the realm of competitive sport, you get the feeling that most of the players will fall victim to that classic French ennui, and quit mid-match to write a poem about a listless summer’s evening. They have players named “Sebastian” and “Florent.” In America, you know what gets named Sebastian and Florent? Fluffy Persian cats. These war-losers are one and done. Or is this thing double elimination? I have no fucking idea.

Uruguay: This country is pronounced, in American, “You’re a Gay.” Finally, a country the homosexuals can root for! Nothing wrong with being gay. I’m all for gay marriage and gays in the military. I’ve got gay friends. I even let them use the bathroom in my house. It’s no big deal to me. Anyway, let’s get to the breakdown: this team’s rear defenses are often breached, but they are known to possess superior ball control, and often use manipulation and loud colors to persuade officials.

Group B

South Korea: A quality squad with soul, who actually have an advantage in South Africa’s hot sun, as they are already squinting, and won’t have to make the large facial adjustments the roundeye westerners will. Their best player, No Nuk Mi, is famous for running so fast he burns a line down the middle of the field, which he then dares the opposition to cross.

Argentina: They’ve got a guy on the team named Lionel Messi who is like the Michael Jordan of soccer, so I’m giving this team the edge to win it all. If MJ can get a ring with the likes of Bill Winnington, then Messi can take home the cup. I don’t care if he has to play with Stephen Hawking, Air Bud, Sinbad, and Natalee Holloway’s ghost, he’s kicking circles around the fucking world to win this thing. Argentina in six!

Nigeria: I thought they were part of South Africa or something. Didn’t they shoot Blackhawk Down here? Or Hotel Rwanda. Oh right, that was in Rwanda. Is this where they cut off kids’ hands and make them work in diamond mines? How in the world can a kid mine diamonds with no hands? That makes no sense, but I’ll keep telling my girlfriend that anyway to deter me having to buy her a ring. Point is, more Americans should learn more about Africa. I’m going to google that shit right after writing this. Anyway, I give them a good chance to win some games because genocide makes a country strong and strong countries kick the ball real hard.

Greece: The inventors of democracy… and fucking little boys. I bet if Rome played Greece in a kickball game, it would just turn out to be some giant pedo orgy. Their best player, Jesse Katsopolis, is going to miss the tournament because his band, The Rippers, have a gig that weekend at a teen club. My prediction for the first game: Greece fades in the fourth quarter to get their asses handed to them in a classic 1-0 soccer blowout.

Group C

Algeria: I know nothing about this country. Where is it? It could be next to Mongolia, You’re-Gay, or Alaska, I have no idea. The flag looks a little Communistic, so that’s cool. I bet if they lose the match, all the players will have to go back to their jobs in the pants factory, because everybody in the whole fucking country wears the same pair of pants. To each according to his needs, and they all need to dress alike. I think Trotsky wrote that. I just went to their web page and saw one of their players got amnesty from FIFA. What the fuck is FIFA, do they make wind suits, like the American knock-off of FILA? Or did they just sponsor the World Cup, in the same way Tostitos sponsors the Rose Bowl?

England: I sure hope Jason Statham is on the team, and since he’s probably the biggest dude on the whole island, I’m guessing he is. I’m kidding myself, their best guy is most likely named Pip Shillingsworth and he’s slow, wears tube socks, and keeps his monocle tucked tightly in his bum during matches. Oh, I forgot about David Beckham. Nevermind, isn’t he always hurt? That classic frail English bone structure will never hold up over time. That’s why you’ve got about 6 million guys in London named Oliver who walk with a cane before they are 40 years old. However, our English brothers from across the pond are always clever, cheeky, and resourceful, so you can’t ever count them out. I think they’ll make it to the sweet sixteen.

Slovenia: Isn’t this where Vlade Divac is from? Great, a whole team of aging floppers who talk like Boris from Bullwinkle. You know the best thing Slovenia produces? Slutty porn actresses who do the most depraved, indecent things you will ever see (south of Germany). Plus, I’m pretty sure this team hates each other by now, they probably split into 3 separate teams based on ethnic division during the team’s continental breakfast in a Holiday Inn. The super-kickers are fighting with the infielders. The defensive backs are fighting with the wingmen. It’s probably complete chaos. I bet by the time they have their second match, ethnic cleansing has already taken place in their hotel suite, and five Serbians show up for the next game too tired to even jump for the tip-off.

United States: I, like most Americans, can tell you who is 5th on the depth chart in the Buffalo Bills receiving corps, but I can’t tell you the best soccer player on our team. All I know is we will probably win the whole fucking shit! I’m an American, that means I have confidence without reason. I think I can beat all of you up. I think my dick is the biggest here. I think I’m smarter than every person to walk the earth before me. Oh hell, I think I could probably fly a plane if left alone in one for about ten minutes. Even if we lose, we’ll probably just take another bite out of our cheeseburgers and not give a shit. That alone makes us winners. You know what happens when Ghana loses? A few buildings get burned down and the players all get beheaded. I can’t even comprehend getting that sad about soccer. It’s just kicking a ball! It’s like the oldest game ever! How is that even popular? You don’t see Atari having Pong tournaments popping up all over the world! There are way better games invented, get with it! In football, we’ve got the play action pass, the corner blitz, the double reverse…these are complex strategic plays implemented with the greatest precision by the greatest athletes in the history of the world. How could we care if a guy named Alexi kicks a ball in a net? You know what the best thing a soccer ball ever did? I’ll tell you– it was keeping Tom Hanks company on that deserted island.

And I know there are some other teams, but as a soccer expert, I feel pretty confident that I’ve covered all the relevant ones.

Miranda July

Born in 1974 in Barre, Vermont, likely to a bearded mid-wife as the winter wind whipped a patriarchal moon, Ms. July, merely responsible for the criminal act otherwise known as Me and You and Everyone We Know (“merely” in a way that Stalin merely purged his republics of entire generations), is perhaps the decade’s most emblematic atrocity; a self-absorbed, self-involved, dull-witted razor across the wrists of a dying culture who so upped the quirk quotient that we’ll likely never again witness a straight face. Her maiden cinematic effort, the type where her sweet-tempered cancer of a character asks only that you call her at 3am, utter the word “macaroni”, and return to your obsessive navel-gazing, left me reeling for the better half of the decade, and at last gave the Mark David Chapman in me my own personal John Lennon. And then, as if to nudge us ever closer to the brink, she released a collection of smirking short stories, No One Belongs Here More than You, coupled with the short film, Are You the Favorite Person of Anyone?, which posits that if someone, somewhere isn’t thinking about you every minute of every day, it’s best to fill the gap yourself, preferably with doodle-ridden post-it notes. Among her other accomplishments, she wears funny hats, goofy glasses, and wide belts, and isn’t above going out in public sans bra. She also believes that if it can’t be done with a dollop of gay, a cup of whimsy, and a bucket of menstrual blood blessed by an Apache medicine man, it isn’t worth doing at all. Thankfully, she’s left us the world’s worst website (www.mirandajuly.com), which obnoxiously shifts everything to the right side of the screen, while proving that any revolution worth its salt must first figure out the ideal daily affirmation to leave on one’s pillow. I’d wish a brutal rape upon her vile soul, but she’d only turn it into an award-winning performance piece.

Erin Brockovich

Every decade needs its feminist icon, and who better than a self-righteous, screeching slab of entitlement fury portrayed by Julia Roberts? Oh, that Erin, having all those kids by all those different fathers, flying into a rage when her free babysitter has the audacity to move away, or believing that big tits and a gaping vagina are reasonable substitutes for a law degree. She’s the All-American gal: pushy, vain, and compensating for her mental midgetry with sassy put-downs and the kind of reverse-snobbery only a white trash mother could love. And why not? While others slave away with the actual heavy lifting, she’s sitting on assorted couches listening to sob stories and bullying boob-struck men into letting her photocopy sensitive documents. By all means pay her millions of dollars! Yes, she’s the kind of woman who fucks degenerate bikers, quits jobs where she’s not allowed to dress like a prostitute, drops out of school in the 3^rd grade, and nastily rebukes anyone who isn’t charmed by her abusive demeanor, all while bemoaning the unfairness of a cruel world. And yet, she’s consistently rewarded for her efforts, as if to argue that because women aren’t cut out for life with accountability, they should chug any cock that will sign their paycheck. It’s not a bad argument, if only the film meant it. No, Erin is the bulldog heroine in the best populist tradition; the relentless bur in the backside of corporate greed and masculine indifference. In reality, she’s the decade’s flowering of femininity: the world will forgive your hateful, bitter, brain-blasting ways so long as you look good in a mini-skirt. Act like this with the mug of Betty Friedan, and guess who’ll be collecting unemployment.

Garden State

We all know a guy like Zach Braff –  hip, smug, indifferent to the world’s turn – but how many secure the necessary funds to write and direct a motion picture? Fortunately, the world is unkind, though this film and its rush of imitators are enough to degrade our collective taste all on their own. Yep, there’s adorable Zach in the corner of the classroom, gripping his dog-eared notebook while he chews pensively on his writing instrument. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, flashes that unmistakable grin yet again, and quickly jots down another idea.  He’ll recall bits of a conversation he had the week before, adding a dash of color to push it along just so into the realm of the unbelievable. Here a scene, there a scene, all lacking continuity, of course, but making for brilliant set pieces in search of an idea. Year after year, Zach collects these tidbits and morsels of twee for the movie to come; the one he feels compelled to make, and will most assuredly bring him the fame promised by guidance counselors and smothering Jewish mothers alike. The hero, a drug-addled young man coping with loss, who believes recovery can only be found in the mad eyes of an eccentric epileptic who conducts hamster funerals when she isn’t collecting your tears in a Dixie cup. And be sure to add the kid who wears a full suit of armor at the breakfast table, or the Gulf War trading cards, or screaming with cathartic release next to a boat that’s been turned into a house, or maybe even a rich kid who invented something he calls silent Velcro. Or match the hero’s shirt with the wallpaper while a sad pop song plays on the soundtrack. Or even the odd duck of a black guy who becomes a detective to find out who exactly urinated on his video game console. My god, how we loved them all. Representative of no one, reminding us of even less, we were transfixed in no uncertain terms; imagination unhinged in the face of cruel conformity. He spoke at last for a generation that can’t stop talking about itself.

Zooey Deschanel

She first came to my attention in the fevered nightmare of All the Real Girls. She told me she had a dream where she invented peanut butter. Then she stood – like that – in the bowling alley. You know, the way one does when they want the whole fucking enterprise to shut down and look in their direction. She demanded love, and got it, because every man on earth should want the girl most likely to leave you 634 voicemails on the Friday you don’t call her back. She’s the girl who speaks in riddles, sing-song blather, and allusions to college radio. And then in Yes Man, where she fronts a group called Munchausen By Proxy, a bar band with three fans, just in case you wondered how she could afford to live in Los Angeles. And in case she didn’t have you convinced of her authenticity, she put a seahorse on her head to, you know, separate herself from someone who gives a damn. But again, you’ll love her, because she’s so cute and cuddly and warm and fuzzy and, well, psychotic, but in a way that might lead to anal. And then, in (500) Days of Summer, she’s the new Annie Hall, a la-de-da sweetheart for a new generation unaccustomed to sanity in their women. She has you at hello because she’s unpredictable, zany, and prone to chronic unemployment. She’s the girl who doesn’t have to try, falling back on soft tones, warm eyes, and a paycheck that involves leading joggers at 6am as they learn how to take pictures as they sprint. A fuckable Miranda July who loves video games, comic books, and your kind of music which is so fucking cool, if only you don’t mind the crying fits, bizarre disappearances, and requests to dance naked in the rain. She’s hot, but not too hot; approachable enough for desperate nerds everywhere who don’t mind a pink, spangle-dusted boot heel on the groin whenever you fall and fall hard. She’s irony incarnate, and gone by breakfast. She was also in my favorite movie of the past 25 years, which might be her most devious crime yet.

Juno

When the history of this most appalling decade is written, few need consult a source outside the comfy confines of Diablo Cody’s ode to the improbably articulate teenager; the one film of its time so pre-occupied with being clever and smarmy and whip-smart that it failed to realize its own rich status as the most conservative slice of American culture since the slasher film equated sex with violent death. But that’s our Diablo: so desperate to jam in allusions to cartoons and TV icons that pre-date our heroine’s birth by mere decades that she becomes the only pro-life advocate with pink hair and a guild card. Sure, young people do in fact speak in sly slogans and tele-speak, but the ones who get pregnant don’t exactly have two working parents around to gently poke their ribs. Hell, they don’t even stay in school. But rather than delve into the reality of teenage motherhood, with its poverty, neglect, and decided humorlessness, our sweet Juno makes it so damn appealing that we’d gladly submit our own for insemination if it meant they’d be as well-read and up to speed on classic rock. It’s the Hollywood gloss that grates, and the insistence that language should get us nowhere but the next witticism. There’s also a creepy condescension afoot, where Diablo’s sense of superiority is voiced by the stepmom-cum-nail tech, a stand-in for the armchair populist’s sense that expertise or accomplishment are diminished in the face of knowing the names of He-Man’s comrades. Where being flippant can get the job done just as well as training, education, and dedication to craft. And where even the most sarcastic, mean-spirited demon can’t Shop-Vac her spawn because being smart is always a cover for being scared shitless. Oh yeah, and Michael Cera. And the Daniel Johnston-inspired soundtrack. And the track team motif. And a mailbox overrun with Tic-Tacs. Because we all know the corner store that stocks them by the thousands.

Dishonorable Mentions:

Slumdog Millionaire – Because the most beautiful woman in India shall be sold into prostitution and remain a virgin.

Wes Anderson – Because you forever ruined “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.”

Adrienne Shelly – Because she’s dead and gone and I want to kill her myself for Waitress.

Lady in the Water – Because having a character named Cleveland Heep was not the worst thing about it.

Jennifer Hudson – Because she now has exactly one more Oscar than Stanley Kubrick for bleeding out eardrums worldwide in a ghetto fright wig.

The Pursuit of Happyness – Because homeless black men so rarely become millionaires. Or demand sole custody.

Rent – Because transvestites with AIDS should pay for their own damn cups of coffee.

A History of Violence – Because William Hurt is not Irish. Or a gangster. Or an actor.

The Passion of the Christ – Because I don’t like to mix my anti-Semitism with my homoeroticism, at least not in public.

The Brown Bunny – Because the biggest assholes always have the biggest cocks. Always, I says.

What the Bleep Do We Know? – Because New Age is the new Christianity. And stupid is the same stupid.

District 9

For sheer entertainment value, nothing touches this gritty and cynical sci-fi  masterpiece with a grim outlook on human nature. Based in the violent and  compromised urban slums of Johannesburg, it provides the perfect crucible in  which racial and economic issues create a melange of subtext  that provides food for thought. Despite the alien characters, it is a  consideration of what makes us human, as well as questioning whether humanity  has any value in itself. This allegory about apartheid also regards the devastating impact of losing an intellectual class and the cannibalistic nature of populations under pressure. Most of all, it was dead entertaining, with action to spare. In the coda, there is suggestion of either hope amidst the  decayed setting, or perhaps that we are most human when we betray our nature. Neill Blomkamp is a talent to watch, crafting a film for our times. In a year with homogenized films and lifeless CGI, a gory B-movie that runs roughshod over racial stereotypes in an unphotogenic city while playing with complex themes gave life to an utterly dead year. It would be hard to imagine a less marketable film. Perhaps there is hope for the medium after all.

Goodbye, Solo

A meditative work by one of America’s finest filmmakers, featuring flawless  acting by amateurs in a masterfully made character study. Ignoring any larger  point to be made, watching the two leads play off each other is endlessly  entertaining. Bahrani came into his own with the truly magnificent Chop Shop;  here the perfectionist director considers larger questions of humanity and  identity. Red West and Souleymane Sy Savane turn in natural performances in  one of the best films of the year. Any further attempt at description only seems to diminish its impact, so I will not even try.

Burma VJ

The future of journalism will not be the newsmodels who hide behind desks and monitors – it will be in the hands of impoverished and powerless guerilla  reporters armed with digital cameras capturing world events. Burma VJ tells  the story of one cell of journalists who managed to film the uprising in Burma in 2007 as the monks led the charge against the military junta that has maintained an iron grip since a coup in 1962 removed the elected leader. Many of these men  and women joined those monks in prison and shallow graves after the rebellion was crushed by the military. You will not see a more electrifying film this year, starring nameless people who have a far more profound understanding of the importance of democracy than we do.

Beaches of Agnes

This sublime documentary by and about the most unique and iconoclastic of the  French New Wave auteurs is a true work of art in its exploration of a  compulsive artist. The director of such diverse works as Vagabond and The Gleaners and I makes for a fascinating figure even when talking about herself. As she considers people and places important to her life, you get a feeling for who Agnes Varda is, without really knowing her at all; this is a recurrent theme in her work. This is a reflective film of a life fully lived while reviewing some of her better known films as signposts along the way. Beaches of Agnes is a free flowing essay about the life of Agnes Varda, a poem without rhyme or meter, nor underlying purpose, other than an expression of life. At least the way she sees life. As she gets older, she expresses the regret that memory begins to fade, and our recollections fall to dust as do our bodies. “Our memory ultimately fails. But it is still ours, and nobody knows us.” The director and numerous actors spend time walking backward in an expression of reflection without nostalgia. Varda is 80 going on 18, and has a great deal to say, even if we could only brush the surface of understanding her, or anyone else in our lives. “While I live… I remember.”

Summer Hours

This film makes subtlety its medium in an exploration of the meaning of the  things in our life when time and context change. Olivier Assayas evokes the  immortal Jean Renoir with his delicate touch and an intuitive sense of human  nature. As such, there is no real plot apart from how three siblings who have  drifted apart handle the estate of their departed mother; this description  hardly does justice to the depth of characterization that makes this an  absorbing film. As the destructive power of time works on our frail vessels,  the meaning of our lives and the objects we own (which in turn help define us)  changes dramatically. This becomes clearer in a final, seemingly irrelevant  scene in which the next generation appears to take a beautiful but worn  country house for granted, while one youth regards it with greater value than perhaps her predecessors did.

Sugar

The traditional sporting film dies a deserved death in this sublime tribute to  the sheer effort required to simply endure in the face of mounting pressure to  perform. The grand question is, if talent and hard work is not enough to  succeed, what then? Sugar goes toward this dark corner of the American psyche,  as we have become accustomed to ignoring the possibility of failure. Finding a  way to succeed despite failure shows greater character than winning. Sugar interweaves threads of cultural disconnect, the plight of the immigrant, and  establishing a sense of home. These threads intersect in the understated  ending in which a mere gesture speaks with greater resonance than any  dialogue.

In The Loop

Probably one of the most dense and economical films in recent memory, In The  Loop packages the political machinations at work during the run-up to the war  in Iraq. As a fictionalized account, it is just chaotic and stupid enough to nail how politicians act under pressure and how what appears to  be government business is the sum total of an army of individual bureaucratic  drones feeding their own ambitions. It answers a great many questions as to how war can be declared under such dubious circumstances, why the public was fooled, and why nobody seemed capable of stopping the monster that had been set in motion. The acting is flawless, the dialogue  demonically funny, and the intuitive screenplay is sharp as a laser. Peter Capaldi has a nomination (at minimum) coming for his part, as few have fashioned a more  magnetic and hateful cunt.

Crude

Texaco-Chevron spent the last two decades pumping oil out and pumping toxic  waste into a remote section of the Ecuadorian rain forest, causing billions of  dollars in damage and precipitating an epidemic of skin diseases, cancers, and  gastrointestinal hemorrhages amongst the indigenous people who live in that  forest. Sounds like a clear cut case that should result in a judgment against  the company, but in Crude you get a front row seat to the power of  multinational corporations to evade responsibility. Via payoffs, coercion, and  massive spending upon attorney fees, Chevron’s strategy has been to simply  stall until all of the plaintiffs living in that part of the forest have died.  And it is working. You will seldom see a more powerful and frustrating film  about the legal arena and how it can represent the potential to both redeem and destroy people’s lives.

The Informant!

The standard parable of corporate corruption is inverted in this deceptively  simple story of a whistleblower who is as corrupt as his bosses, and has a  great hunger for fame. Matt Damon disappears into a role that is scrupulously  effective, yet not flashy enough to garner much attention. The constant goofy  and relentlessly irrelevant narraration becomes one of the few useful windows  into the rather opaque Mark Whitacre. As a liar he is peerless, if for no  reason other than that he is utterly convinced of his own bullshit. It is left  to the viewer to decide what the ultimate motive is, since money hardly seems  to adequately explain the lengths to which he risked his family and fortune.  Even if one stands to lose everything, it seems to be worth the risk just to  be seen as a star.

OSS 117 -Lost in Rio

James Bond has been interpreted by many actors and directors, but only Roger  Moore seemed to come close to the essence of Bond as a smug know-it-all  dipshit who coasts on charisma and bumbles into terror plots. In OSS 117, Jean  Dujardin gets it right: he is an obtuse dumbass. This is how people around  Bond see him, ignorant of history and culture, disinterested in any subject  unrelated to poon. Beneath the comedy is a thug who ‘enjoys fighting’ and  pushes a colonial agenda, among the more clever jokes amidst the insane  mugging and underwear sparring. Compulsively watchable, goofy without being  distracted, OSS 117 is that rare comedy that will grow in your estimation with  repeat viewings.

And number eleven: Star Trek

This film deserves to be on a year-end list not despite its flaws, but because  of them. The wildly uneven theatrical franchise gets a reboot in the best way  possible with a pseudoscience mess of a time warp that by itself redefines the entire canon. The drill, the black hole weapon, the whatever science used to explain each improbable way that the story is set back on track; these things are logically indefensible, and along with awkward fistfights and aliens with variant forehead wrinkles make Star Trek what it is. So this film has it all in spades with solid action, surprisingly good acting (Zachary Quinto deserves a medal for his interpretation of Spock while standing next to the legend), and a playful feel  for science that keeps the geeks happy. After all, playing with science and the strange laws on its margins is what sci-fi is all about.

Near Misses:
Inglorious Basterds should be on the list above, but since Cale will do greater justice to its synopsis, I have deliberately left it off. Other strong films from 2009 include Outrage, Revanche, Munyurangabo, Katyn, Food Inc., Jerichow, 35 Shots of Rum, and Somers Town.

Lest I forget:
There have been many films unavailable for viewing due to our increasingly retarded film distribution system. Surely, some of these would have made the list if they ever crossed the fucking ocean or played in more than one theatre nationwide. Skin, Disgrace, Seraphine, Red Cliff (the full film, not the oddly butchered version), Bronson, Waterlife, Afghan Star, and the list goes on. And these assholes wonder why people download movies illegally.

If hope is the thing with feathers, its failure to materialize wears a decidedly Democratic skin, where the promise of flight is always grounded by the weakest of wills. We’ve known about the party’s inability to govern for decades now, its full-tilt retreat in the face of mere token resistance; where majorities are confused for cheap surrender, and power comes dipped in the veneer of cowardice and compromise. Yes, we buried the last of the Democratic fortitude with LBJ, as well as the unflinching, unwavering dedication to liberal principles best expressed by FDR. The high water mark of the 20^th century Left, the almost unimaginable days of the Great Society before Vietnam made Johnson’s presidency more about a re-establishment of American masculinity than the alleviation of suffering, is so far removed from the modern party’s identity that it’s more the stuff of musty, sepia-toned memories than any real inspiration. The two post-Johnson Democrats, Carter and Clinton, were supreme failures in turn, and did more to take the party to the center-right than had it been headed by Saint Reagan himself. And now, with Barack Obama, the man-child among the reeds, the circle is complete. Elected to change course, spearhead a new day, and rise to the challenge of healing a rudderless nation, he has instead disappointed to an unprecedented degree. Not even a year in, he’s lost control of his presidency, with only a mid-term rout and failed re-election bid on the bitter horizon.

Still, we had to know this would happen. As always, we were charmed by the possibilities, distracted by the glamour. Choosing symbolism over heft, experience, and the sack to actually govern, we assumed that having a different hue than his predecessors was enough to signal a changing tide. He spoke with poetry, dammit, and we ignored the assorted canaries who told us the coal mine was suffused with a shallow, though highly toxic poison. As such, Obama is the consummate campaigner; masterful on the stump, with crowds, and eye-to-eye. And yet, the hard work of the presidency – the long hours, the push and pull and soul-killing banter inherent in the position – seems, then and now, beyond him, as if he can’t be bothered to actually give a damn. Obama is, without question, a supreme intellect and rugged, complex thinker, but he hasn’t the stomach for the fight; he retreats at the very moment he should be showing his fangs to a defeated foe. He needs blood on his hands, and the willingness to hide the bodies of the vanquished. Trying so desperately to cast aside the blanket of rigidity he inherited from Mr. Bush, he as abandoned every shard of principle, all possible recourse to actually get something done. Believing in nothing, he has been made the fool, though only by his own design.

Few could be blamed for seeing a troubling continuity from the past eight years to the present day, as we differ little in either substance or tone from the Bush/Cheney era. We are still at war on two fronts, with more troops on the way, and the associated appropriations are, at this moment, continuing their dreary rise into the stratosphere of debt. Afghanistan, heretofore the most inexplicable of war footings, given its tenuous connection to 9/11 (the hijackers were, almost to a man, from Saudi Arabia, and most of the planning took place in European hotels and American strip clubs), long ago eclipsed a quagmire, and has become, in the blink of an eye, simply another hopeless stretch of rock and sand where the mis- and easily- led die for the all-but-privatized war machine. Obama’s policy here is not only not an improvement on Bush’s, it is monumentally worse, as it re-commits to failure, while betraying the promise that he would be markedly different. He is not. Obama, for all his charm, is a flaccid, simpering con artist without the skill or phallus to challenge the ultimate American orthodoxy: we eat, sleep, and shit war, and it’s just about the only thing we do anymore with conviction. And it’s not even about winning. Just stretch it out, line some pockets, inspire promotions, and lull us to sleep with faux patriotism and blather about honor. Modern war indeed protects American interests, though such “interests” aren’t found with earshot of the Constitution these vampires claim to defend.

And then there’s health care. Both houses of Congress, and here we are, one step from passing a bill so toothless it all but cedes even more control to the insurance lobby. From visions of universal coverage to a doorstop that mandates something or other without doing a whit for price control or flexibility, the bill currently under consideration is exactly what you’d expect to get when its chief defender, President Obama, surrendered his nads before the thing hit the floor. Instead of, say, staking his entire presidency on the most pressing issue of our time, he has been content to hide under the couch until the gutless slobs in the Senate spew mediocrity from their Big Pharma-carved colons. Obama has failed to communicate a single idea related to health reform, and has assumed that mere change, or the repetition of the buzzword, would be enough to win the ball game. He lost control of the story quickly, almost without challenge, and hasn’t done a thing to bring it back to his side. Instead of grabbing lapels and poking his finger in assorted chests until the bastards relent, Obama has made it priority one to stall, hem, and hopelessly haw. As the nation’s primary messenger, he’s abdicated the throne without a shot being fired, and will spend the remainder of his single term in utter confusion. Even a Carter-like cabinet purge won’t erase the stink. His base is clearing the room, his reluctant supporters long ago defected, and his haters are more determined than ever. And as vile as the Republican agenda is, at least it’s a stance. One they’ll most assuredly fight for.

I happily, lustfully voted for Obama in 2008, if only to protect the Supreme Court. His first appointment, Sonia Sotomayor, appears to be a suitable choice, though time will tell if she’s up to the classically liberal, fuck-you-Bush-Senior greatness of David Souter. The real impact won’t come, however, until the Court sheds a Scalia or a Thomas. With a one-and-done, it’s unlikely Obama will ever get that chance. So no, I don’t abide executive weakness. Lacking left-wing chops, Obama has made the long road to retaking the White House even longer, and I won’t buy into the bullshit ever again. Perversely, I’d like to see Sarah Palin take the helm in 2012, if only to watch Democrats light the fire, as they seem to be at their best when there isn’t a chance in hell their ideas will actually see the light of day. And Palin would make America fun again, if only because she’d at last fulfill our subconscious national desire to reward Miss America not only with a tiara, but the keys to the kingdom as well. Hell, we’re on the decline, spinning ‘round the toilet of our nightmares, so why not finish us off at last with a well-stacked scarecrow who substitutes winking for actual thought? We’d get a wasteland, but at least we’d expect it. With Obama, we believed. We threw up our hands and left it up to him. As a lazy, fat, ambition-deprived American male, I’m used to failure with my daily bread, but this is one betrayal for which I will not stand. Say good night, Barack.

They say God is kind. And just. And, in the face of all empirical evidence, merciful beyond compare. Any random chapter of world history would contradict such foolish naïveté, of course, but the belief persists as if indispensible to the human experience, much as an opposable thumb or the procreative drive. Why, in the 20th century alone, such omnipresence has stood achingly silent in the face of two world wars, several rounds of genocide, the atomic bomb, and more cases of starvation and neglect than one cares to count. Worst of all, the skies have stiffened with indifference while Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar — the former one of creation’s dimmest bulbs and obsessive consumers of ozone-depleting hair care products, the latter the cheeriest of glassy-eyed soldiers for Christ – have produced nothing but hearty, healthy, and all-too-vigorous progeny. From seduction, to cheerless mounting, to apple-cheeked delivery at the TLC network’s expense, the Duggar pair has never faced the burden of heartache, difficulty, or extended hospital stays.

Without a hit-or-miss in sight, the Duggar family has grown to a staggering eighteen children, all of whom are home schooled, deprived of friends, and told to practice humility, which for the Duggars means (if a recent episode of their show is to be believed) that even when running a charity marathon in the Arkansas heat, men must wear jeans and the women ankle-length denim dresses, all so the world can be spared a glimpse of sinful flesh. And dancing? The devil’s work, apparently, and one step from unmarried sexual indulgence. While the Duggars rot the minds of youth with the idea that the earth is 5,000 years old, or that man rode dinosaurs like prize thoroughbreds, or that an unemployed, uneducated housewife is best equipped to steer her children through brief lectures and on-line propaganda, God has refused to step in. If a mansion must be built, the money arrives as if dropped by an angel. Nothing interferes with the unending joy, no voices are raised, and Jim Bob can skate along the frozen pond of righteousness without a job, prospect of a job, or even children who see the need to work themselves. Even when the oldest son gets married, or revoltingly impregnates his own docile spouse, no one is expected to enter the real world of risk, danger, and circumstance. Sure, the Duggars are insanely cheap (no one has received a new article of clothing, well, ever), but they manage to keep the 20-man operation running like an Army barracks without a sunken cheek or growling stomach in sight.

Now, at long last, God has seen fit to make His presence known. He is, in fact, a loving deity, and has a biting wit to boot. The 19th Duggar child, named Josie Brooklyn to continue with the family’s fanatical devotion to the letter J, was born months early, being plucked from Michelle’s belly at a mere 1 pound, 6 ounces. As we speak, it is clinging to life. Barely hanging on. Touch – and dare we say – go. There is joy in Mudville, and for the first time, the Duggar family is about to taste life as it is lived, though the sting will be somehow less fulfilling, as no doubt husband and wife have already crafted a message indicating God’s need for Josie in the afterlife, for who else to spread Christ’s love than a half-formed fetus weighing less than a Big Mac? Still, let that be the public face of grief: lemonade from newborn lemons, cheerful acceptance, and a respecting of God’s greater plan. But in the shadows, when the cameras are tucked away for the night, let there be pain. And sorrow. And a gnashing of teeth so profound it rocks the very faith that keeps the Duggar brood in the darkness of forced ignorance. Let them bond with the owl pellet of a daughter; kissing it, cradling it in a warm saucer, only to lose it at the perceived moment of triumph. Let Western medicine promise hope, only to strip it away in favor of divine judgment.

This was the one. The miracle baby at an age when most women give up the ghost or settle for a Downie. This was to be a hope amidst darkness; a sweet lamb for a cynical age of terror and Negro socialism. But God has other plans. Not this time. Not on His watch. No more, He cries, planting down firmly his righteous fist of fury. You’re done, Michelle, and Jim Bob, if you can hear Me, put that thing away at long last. The line must be drawn here. God let so many go by, breeding arrogance, only to pull the rug out when it seemed to have never been possible. And when Josie’s heart stops, as it must, and is buried with full Duggar honors in the backyard, under that somber spruce planted so many summers ago, let this be a lesson to devotees everywhere. God is in charge. And pissed. And sick of the madness.

There are more notable filmmakers working now than at any time before. It’s just a matter of access. It is still harder to make a film now than to paint a picture in the 19th century, but there are a fuckton more people who are in a position to pursue a career in art. So I often wonder which films and filmmakers will be remembered during the impending dystopia, after the baby boomers finally collapse civilization under the weight of their greedy retirements. If I could take action on such things, I’d give you very short odds on Alexander Payne. While I can’t identify some special stroke of genius that separates him from any of the dozens of equally celebrated auteurs, he does have a central and universal theme that he has made his own. Payne is the poet laureate of the mediocre. That is, the vast majority of us, usually overlooked, especially by artists. I don’t know why Payne, who went to Stanford and then found some success with his first film and increasingly more with each one to follow, has taken an interest in, neither serial killers and drug addicts, nor presidents and revolutionaries, but in mid-level insurance men, high school civics teachers and novelists who are almost good enough to be published by small presses. However, he is clearly fascinated and nails every detail, from the cars his characters choose to the McAllisters’ bottled salad dressing in Election. Maybe his films are so funny because of this unusual choice in subject. In Sideways, Giamatti and Church are funnier in their pretensions, for example, because there is a seed of justification to them. Bagging a fat chick in the San Joaquin Valley who remembers you from an old soap opera role that led nowhere is funnier than, say, a total loser passing himself off as movie star to a dumb blond. Everything is perfect when Virginia Madsen lobs herself underhanded, right over the heart of the plate while out on the porch with Giamatti, only to have him freeze up and take a called third strike. Would the scene have worked if Giamatti had a National Book Award? Or even if we thought he might win one down the line? Would it have been so frustrating if he was just a joke or a junkie? Obviously, I think not, and the result is one of the most empathetic romantic scenes or record, as we connect completely with both characters simultaneously, as they disconnect. Payne realizes that the struggle between “good enough” and “not quite” is just as fruitful a source material as any. I doubt it’s a coincidence that his own film making tends to be just right, rather than revelatory or jarring. Maybe it’s because he went to Stanford and so forth and doesn’t share, with 95% of living creative types, the delusion that he is Charles Bukowski. Anyway, it’s good.

Best Gangster Saga – Election and Election 2

While the aughts will be remembered as the decade of television, the gangster epic of the decade is not “The Sopranos” by any criteria. It seems like, perhaps in the wake of “The Wire’s” greatness, more people are realizing how flawed David Chase’s opus was. You can’t blame anybody for being blown away by the absurdly high level of the acting and writing at the time. But by now you should be able to look back and see the moral, psychological and narrative impossibilities that culminated in a final season or two that was often unwatchable. The defining scene is when Tony–a minor mob boss–is sent a private luxury jet to fly to Caesars in Vegas to hang out and maybe gamble a few grand, the staff at Caesar’s supposedly having taken the same holiday from sanity and common sense that we were to take in giving a fuck if AJ would get into college or about Meadow’s feelings. With characters like this, at some point, you have to face the fact that they are murdering psychopaths controlled by greed. That is the driving force of the really great gangster films, beginning in recent history with The Godfather and The Godfather Too! , continuing through Goodfellas and the even better Casino (that’s right). Perhaps this sequence of films rounds off in Election and Election 2 (AKA Triad Election). Johnnie To’s films proudly pay homage to these predecessors, particularly in the final murder in Election, which is Fredo’s death combined with the deaths of Nicky Santoro and his brother.  Unlike most other HK flicks, including To’s own, there is a mastery of the techniques and material rather than an apprenticeship. If you agree with me that the greatest Godfather moment is Hyman Roth, Michael and some cronies cutting up a cake shaped like Cuba, while discussing how to slice up the people and resources of the country; if you wanted to see more of the decrepit, Machiavellian, Midwestern bosses hashing things out in Casino (”why take a chance?”) you’ll be absorbed by the focus on endless back room dealings and machinations in these films .

Everything is cold calculation; strategy driven only by self-interest and self-aggrandizement. Some abide by a system of honor, but it quickly becomes evident that the system is revered as a method for stability and profitability as an alternative to constant war. With sufficient corporate streamlining, even these ethics can be cast aside and buried alongside their adherents. These men have nothing in common with the Flintstones. Their families don’t humanize them. Contrast an early scene of our protagonist having dinner with his son to another of his son watching him bash in a friend’s head with a rock. If anything, these men drain away any sympathy we might be inclined to feel for their innocent family members. And it is getting to the true ruthlessness of the gangsters that makes this line of films so compelling. We have moments of understanding, of course–they are still human. But perhaps the guilty pleasure in such films is that the coldness of accurate depiction gives us the emotional distance to happily watch psychopaths position themselves and bump each other off like game pieces. And there are some magnificent bump-offs, from quick and brutal daylight hits to a very convincing argument made with sound reasoning, a sledge hammer, a meat cleaver and some German shepherds. Even when a kung fu guy chops up multiple attackers (they had to do it once, they are Asians, after all) the tone isn’t broken. To’s powerful visuals are evidently at their best when applied solemnly, though there are spots of dark humor. The Hong Kong setting–often a pleasure, even in the hands of hacks–gives the gangster epic a fresh surface. The history and the traditions of the Triad are seamlessly integrated with the traditions of Scorsese and Coppola to create something new. And finally, these HK crime epics are well written. Whereas many (or most) of the more celebrated HK films work around the script, these films realize great scripts. It’s said that you can watch them independently, which is true. But you’ll miss some interplay, including direct and subtle allusions, and lines of thought left for the viewer to take up. Watching the films a year apart, it might not occur to you that the viewpoint of Big D, the destructive hot head in Election, is largely vindicated in Election 2. As good as Casino, Goodfellas and the first two Godfathers? Nobody said anything about “films of the century.” But there’s a viable epic here, which I never would have believed.

Best Biopics – Sun

On the one hand you’ve got Sun, Soukrov’s praised but still underrated piece on the downfall of the emperor of Japan. Some found the film dull, perhaps because it is emotionally hollow, but the beauty of the filmmaking more than makes up for that. Anyway, emotions are for girls. After meeting the Hirohito to negotiate some details of his part in the surrender, MacArthur says what I had been thinking. “He’s like a child.” The Emperor agrees to disavow his divinity–an act that highlights the absurdity of the Japanese arrangement. You can’t agree to stop being the son of a god, you can only agree to stop pretending. Though the Emperor is extremely intelligent and refined, unchecked indulgence has indeed fostered a perpetual child who collects photos of movie stars (why do all dictators love Hollywood?) and practices “marine biology” by dicking around with a microscope while his country lies in ruins. He’s aware of internal tensions, but doesn’t really grasp the external realities, as evidenced by his nightmarish visions of aquatic monsters bombing Japan. Hirohito plausibly theorizes about the reasons for Japan’s defeat, but fails to see that, at the heart of each bad decision, is an antiquated social structure based on personal status and deference, rather than the competition of ideas, and that he is the center of the broken system. All of this is captured in one of the decade’s most subtly great performances by some Japanese guy. The unceremonious MacArthur offers him a box of Hershey bars as a consolation prize.

American Splendor

On the other hand, you have American Splendor, about a schlub of slight notoriety. The mixing of media might seem obvious or trendy after the fact, but it’s perfect and seamless in the movie, as when Harvey’s eventual wife looks for him at the train station, imagining different depictions from his comic books, brought to life with animation. The inclusion of Harvey and his friends works so well because the film is the conclusion of the story. Giving them major roles magnifies the effect the film has on itself. Not only have these dorks from Cleveland, who inhabit a world in which Robert Crumb is fucking Lincoln, occasionally reached the periphery of public attention; there’s a Hollywood movie about the whole thing now, and they’re in it. What makes the film great–apart from stuff like the acting and direction–is that it chooses to focus on a small success story from within a small subculture. Not that Ruthless is on par with a moderately successful series of independent comic books (someone, please cut the breaks on my car tonight), but I was only a bit less shocked to see this site mentioned in The Guardian than Harvey was to get a call from a Letterman producer. Every DIY dork who’s almost died from a boner over selling 500 CDs or getting an article into an obscure magazine that they liked will understand what such small victories mean. It’s not only finding an audience, but finding an audience among people who share your unusual tastes and therefore must be brilliant and discriminating. The film is also a suitable requiem for, and a fun look back at all of that DIY shit, from ‘zines to obscure record collecting. Nerds will compile limited editions and misprinted Wheaties boxes ’till the end of time. But now such practices are marketing ploys and symptoms of social disorders. They were back then too, but they were also part of how unheralded forms of expression forced new outlets. The days when there were veins of creative material only obtainable through “underground” social networks are pretty much gone, unless you’re into kiddie porn, and it’s fun to look back.

Best Crime Film: Bubble

Who says social realism requires the threat of starvation? In America, the joyless existence of the underclass is best represented not by a bicycle thief, but by wares of The Hamburglar. Soderbergh and writer Coleman Hough glean every idiom and detail for his portrait of the struggling middle American. So, as an added perk, this will always be a window to what it’s like in a time and place, which is the most underrated quality a movie can have. I’ve been to New Baltimore, Michigan and New Hartford Falls, Iowa plenty of times. If you want to soak it in without actually having to visit, here’s your chance. The experiment in dialogue must have been tried 20 times per semester at every film school in the country–”I know you’re not an actor, Chase, just talk like you do on the quad. I’m capturing… reality!” But pulling it off so well is fresh and memorable and hinges upon the all of the awkwardness and pointlessness being perfectly designed. There are many moments where we can tell that a character is saying what experienced judgment tells them is the right thing to say in order to fill up a that particular space. The relationships and motivations underlying the mundane and the murder are likewise, sparse but perfect. Martha, our killer, is not only a stepping stone, but one that would only be slightly missed and has already nearly sunk in the mud. Her clumsy and irrelevant gestures around the time of crime–like some random gifts, given in a final effort to inject herself meaningfully into the life of her “friend”– verify that, even as a murderer in a small town, she’ll be forgotten in a year’s time. As an irrelevancy who killed a trivial person who was kind of a bitch anyway, Martha will be denied even infamy.

Man Getting Hit By Football: Punisher: War Zone

Originally, I was going to make this into an 80’s Action Legacy award of some kind. But, if I did that, I’d feel compelled to give the spot to the impeccable Rambo, which is the better movie and also has Rambo in it.  But in this case, I’m going against the more cerebral work and with the movie that had me grinning like an idiot the whole time. Yes, Punisher: War Zone has some flaws, including the characters and the story. But then we must also consider what a mighty achievement it is to salvage the fucktastically ridiculous “Loony Bin Jim” character with a single line: “Let me axe you a question.”  Another motivation here is that I know most of you have denied yourselves this film, though I sense that it is creeping towards becoming a cult fixture. It is a fact that every single person who has ever seen this film has enjoyed it, and I want you to share in that enjoyment. I’m being serious now.  If you are going to see a movie for the action, why would you see some pile of shit like Iron Man, rather than Punisher: War Zone?   Iron Man is a story (that makes absolutely no sense) for little boys about some guy who flies around in a magic robot suit. The action is not cartoonish.  It is cartoons.  I defy anyone to make a significant, qualitative distinction between the CGI cartoons of guys in stupid, magic, robot suits slugging it out at the end of Iron Man and the CGI cartoons of, say, Shrek arguing with Donkey.  What, Shrek is cuter? And that makes it OK? Hell fucking no.  Look, if you’re going to see Shrek, by all means, see Shrek. It’s a better and far more intelligent film than Iron Man, Fantastic 4 or, for that matter, The Anal Rape of Indiana Jones. But, if you are going to see an action movie, see shit get properly fucked up. In this movie, while it does contain a bit of comic book silliness, The Punisher decapitates an old lady!  He jams the leg of a chair through someone’s eye! He runs a man through a glass recycling machine! I’m pretty sure the script is just a string of such exclamations, but director/kickboxer/woman of the century, Lexi Alexander, realizes it beautifully with tension, surprise, humor and some pretty slick filmmaking.  Perhaps Ebert’s condemnation is the best recommendation:

“The Punisher: War Zone” is one of the best-made bad movies I’ve seen. It looks great, it hurtles through its paces and is well-acted. The soundtrack is like elevator music if the elevator were in a death plunge. The special effects are state of the art. Its only flaw is that it’s disgusting.”

Best of all, it looks like real action, not a super glossy version of the Saturday morning shit I outgrew at some point during elementary school.  I get that we Americans are too pussy to see images from the actual wars we start that kill actual people. But goddammit, at least our fake violence should be real and it should include sadistic heroes, one liners and a novelty death every twelve frames. Football in the groin, not nerfball in the stomach.

Best Horror Film: The Descent

The Descent is about an international group of hot women in their late twenties to early thirties who go on annual adventures. This year, they’ve chosen to explore caves in the Appalachians of North Carolina. One of the girls, hoping to create a truly special experience rather than a run through a “tourist trap,” tricks the group into going into totally unexplored caves, rather than taking the tour they have mapped out. In these unknown caves, they find an enclave of creatures that are kind of a cross between bats and humans–having evolved to survive in total darkness and remaining undiscovered for millennia, though they sustain themselves by preying on whatever animals stumble into the caves. Now, this is a horror movie, so of course you have to suspend disbelief. I mean, a bunch of hot chicks banding together to escape male attention so they can be supportive of each other and pursue their collective interest in geology? But it’s worth letting these things slide to get to some great horror. What sets the movie apart is that it is an excellent thriller even before the ghouls show up, to the point that it doesn’t even need them.  The underground setting is beautiful and dangerous, the interactions between the characters seem real and the danger they face is already terrifying. They could plummet to their deaths, be instantly crushed, or they could be trapped and die of starvation, during days of total darkness. It’s also a good problem solving movie, as the women devise plans and utilize tightly fixed resources to maximize their limited chance of survival.  When the ghouls show up, they actually could have ruined a good movie. But instead, they make a great one.  They are scary, there is not too much CGI and the creatures’ strengths and weaknesses don’t wildly vary depending on if the story’s need for them to be fought off or not. The rest of the film follows the formula, but with some nice twists and one that I think is exceptional. Much has been made of the different endings, one for North American rubes, the other, the original. Though the original ending is immediately darker it’s kind of disjointed. The American one (as I’ve heard it described) still works.  Without getting into details, I kind of like the idea of a survivor left to tell the tale, never believed, and to carry the memories of the horror. It’s like the renegade cop who leaves one hoodlum alive and says, “Tell Mendoza. I’m coming.”  Either way, I think the real gut punch of the film comes in what the women do to each other in the cave. One mistakes a friend for a ghoul in the dark, and another finds out what happened without knowing the reason why. Some other stuff happens in between.  The way this story line unfolds is ice cold, but conflicted.  So this shit is just relentless. Woman against nature, against monster, against woman… there are multiple points of tension at all times. Oh shit. I forgot to say, “spelunking.”

Best Movie That Is Just A Bunch Of People Standing Around And Talking–On the Occasion of Remembering the Turning Gate

To the best of my knowledge, the French invented this kind of film and Eric Rohmer perfected it. Nothing earth-shattering happens. People sit, walk, eat and talk and we have a window into pretty unremarkable lives. It’s surprising that this can work as well as it does. It’s even more surprising that, once a few filmmakers figured out how to make it work, very few others were able to successfully emulate them. And no approach to drama is more excruciating when it fails. The formula only works with good (but not necessarily great) acting, understated direction and seemingly organic story and dialog. It is best if the characters are attractive, intelligent and interesting, but none are astronauts, and you probably know 20 people who’ve been through more “drama,” especially if you are homosexual. The key seems to be the writer/director’s ability to convey what is going on in his characters’ heads, without doing anything intrusive or interrupting the natural flow of events. Ultimately there should be an illusion that the main creative force behind the film is merely trying to stay out of the way, even when he is slipping small cues into beautifully framed shots. Then, you just get sucked in by the these characters and their stories for no immediately obvious reason, as you are to Sang-soo Hong’s soap operas about nothing. An Occasion for Remembering The Turning Gate has a betrayal, remorse, and requited lust that turns into unrequited love (or at least longing), but these things happen in a few, key moments. The rest of the film is the pedestrian shit that leads up to and comes after the “big” events. It’s the unspoken jockying for position between romantic rivals, the manipulations of suitors by the desired and the winner immediately weaseling out of commitments after the game is over. There are also ancillary events that don’t really lead to anything, but might have. The characters are sympathetic, or not, depending largely on the tendencies of the viewer. The important thing is how real they seem. You can argue that Hong’s films, much like Asian people in general, are all pretty much the same, and I’ve found a couple others more entertaining. I just picked this one because it seems like an answer to a favorite Woody line: that the only love that lasts forever is unrequited love.  True, but because we idealize them at some point, all loves wind up feeling at least partially unrequited and this lingers into future relationships. This is one reason you will never be happy. I assume the final shot of the gate in a downpour is meant to evoke, not only the titular myth about a princess ditching an infatuated peasant to execution, then ditching him again after he finds her in reincarnation as a snake, but also, Rashomon. Each relationship is a potential version of the protagonist’s love story.  It’s not so much the same events perceived differently from different individual perspectives, as the individual wavering between his own perceptions of what has been, could have been and could be. For example, towards the end of the film, the protagonist runs into a girl who he saved from bullies when they were children. It sounds like the beginning of a Kate Hudson movie and he and she are suitably intrigued.  He decides that maybe there’s a reason he didn’t remember her (plus, she is married) and gives up after a brief pursuit, but only reluctantly and wondering.  All of this is sedate to the point of being relaxing and conveyed mostly through conversation and static shots. And some graphic, bareback banging.

Best intellectual exercise: Inglourious Basterds

I have only have a little to add to Matt’s review. That is where you should start. I read it before I saw Inglorious Basterds, which, based on the trailers, I had been leaning against, as the film looked like it overestimated our willingness to savor the suffering of an otherwise unknown man because he wound up fighting for an evil cause. So I luckily had my eyes open early on, when The Jew Hunter gives his little speech about how we hate certain beings without really considering why. If it didn’t dawn on you until later that QT was massively fucking with the audience, and everything else that the film touches, it’s worth rewatching. Basterds is also worth another look because it is fucking great. Anyway, rather than regurgitate or slightly tweak too many of Matt’s points, I just want to reiterate how special an achievement the film is because there are so many who would to diminish everything Tarantino does. I remember the one film class I took in college, when the professor said that Tarantino was not so much good at making movies, as at stitching together other people’s movies. This is a common criticism. The justification is that he–holy shit!–is influenced by other filmmakers and often reworks what they’ve done. I sat in intimidated silence, not wanting to be like some kid who struts into ethics 101 (or any other class), proudly touting Ayn Rand. But I really had to wonder which little Asian film, known only to QT and his critics, had so pithy, smooth and entertaining a commentary on how we are “fooled by randomness” as Pulp Fiction’s sequence in which Jules is luckily missed by gunfire at close range, becomes a man of faith, and then doesn’t flinch when his ally, Marvin, is shot dead by a freak discharge midway through his personal conversion. So, these people who want to diminish Tarantino’s work are generally the people who go to museums where you eat a piece of candy and they are like, “that’s the art!” I actually enjoy conceptual art and the idea of playing with interaction between the artist and viewer. But you can’t have it both ways and celebrate the museum piece and disparage one of our great filmmakers because the wrong people like him, especially in this case. If you saw Basterds with an audience of more than a dozen, you almost certainly saw people in a movie theater sadistically hooting and cheering at the deaths and suffering of characters on the screen. They were so delighted because they despised these characters who were… sadistically hooting and cheering at the deaths of characters on the screen of the movie theater they were in. Tarantino actually gets the audience to act out the parts of the villains on screen, the very characters they were cheering the deaths of, to the point where it felt like someone is flipping a switch back and forth between the two, making one cheer, then the other. And the attackers of the hooting, Nazi audience in the movie are the filmmakers, who reveal a message of condemnation covertly slipped into the film, before attacking from behind the screen and from within the projectionist’s booth. Tarantino is playing with his audience, but is he condemning them? The characters are actual, fictional Nazis, but the audience is just watching a movie and it’s not like Tarantino opposes violence in cinema. Maybe he’s just making fun of all parties for not being able to make the simple distinction between real suffering and actors playing with fake guns and blood. In any case, out of the millions of attempts to incorporate the audience into the art, you’d be hard pressed to find one so slyly yet directly successful and you won’t find one on such a massive, international scale. And, it wasn’t like, “that’s the art!” That was one flourish of art incorporated into an entertaining movie that was full of them, including one legendary acting performance and a few very good ones, a few laugh out loud moments and Tarantino’s, now barely noteworthy command of both dialogue and the visual. You can weave interpretations forever about the film as the end of the historical film, or a critique of propaganda, a commentary on the nature of terrorism and a Godard-inspired deconstruction and a bookend to his Les carabiniers and on and on, and you’d be right to do so. But I doubt Tarantino had some central, propaganda point of his own in mind. He just puts so many cards on the table that he must be playing more than one game at once–or at least some game I can’t totally decipher–about movies, their relation to real life, history, war and violence. Just take something small. Did Tarrantino, who can have any actor he wants, chose Eli Roth (Hostel, the “torture porn” discussion) for a big role in this film about movie violence just because they are pals? Quite possibly. But that’s just one card on the table.

Best Zucker Movie:  OSS 117: Lost in Rio

Obviously, the real David Zucker caught syphilis, went insane and made An American Carol, so the torch must be passed, but only after it is used to burn the script of the upcoming Scary Movie 5.  The OSS 117 movies are celebrated like few others in our forums, but I’ve found only one English review of OSS 117: Lost in Rio online and it was written by a gorilla. The online review claims that the OSS films rely upon “a refusal to go for the easy joke” which is the exact opposite of how they work. The films take every easy joke that comes their way, though they usually finesse it to perfection.  The “easy” jokes are mixed with more subtle humor, wit, parody and satire in equal parts.  There is no less original film on this list.  The OSS films are based on a real OSS 117 series of  “serious,” Bond-style spy capers from the 50’s and 60’s.  They owe a lot to the Zuckers and Jim Abrams. Obviously, making fun of spy movies and the “hip” film techniques of the 60’s is nothing new. It was actually being done during the 60’s.  Nor is the guileless, political incorrectness of the bungling master spy, Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath, particularly innovative.  It is impressive, however, that the films take so many influences and approaches to humor and blend them into a perfect cocktail. Michel Hazanavicius’s films wouldn’t be David Zucker films if they didn’t misfire here and there, but that’s part of the charm. Jean Dujardin stars and is one part the actor you wish Bruce Campbell had become, one part Leslie Neilsen. I don’t think humor translates across language and cultural barriers as well as people like to pretend it does, but Dujardin really does git r done here with a comic performance bordering on genius.   Doubtless, some of the humor is still lost in translation, but I was laughing out loud pretty much throughout the film. Americans will appreciate how La Bath’s imperial arrogance mirrors the caricature of the Ugly American. Take the film as an overture to mend the resentments between the two countries. Frenchmen and Americans are both self-important pricks and this should be a cause for unity.  There are two films in the series so far, OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies and OSS 117: Lost in Rio.  I probably chose the latter, more recent film because I just saw it.  However, it also refines the OSS 117  blend even further. Like Austin Powers, OSS 117 borrows much of the earnest appeal of the very films it parodies, including exotic settings. There are some beautiful, and hilarious uses of the Rio setting here. And, yeah, it’s meant to be a joke that the oafish spy is swimming in scantily clad, model-caliber ass, but it’s by design that the audience gets a good look as well. So for hot chicks in leather costumes and cheap jokes about Chinese accents, you turn to little-known French films. For winding deconstructions of film, violence, war and war and violence and film that integrate the reactions of the audience into the movie itself, you turn to $100 million-grossing Brad Pitt movies. We’re in Rand McNally, people.

Though sometimes accused of misogyny, we at Ruthless will happily march arm-in-arm with our sisters when the cause is just–whether it be for more nudity in JCVD films or against reactionary, sexist propaganda, such as Gremlins. We have always opposed criticism that over-thinks or politicizes films to meet the agenda of the reviewer.  Yet, the patriarchal propaganda that is Gremlins is too transparent to ignore.  With a little analysis, we can see that the message of Gremlins is that society cannot function without a rigid patriarchy that produces obedient women. Given free reign, female behavior will land somewhere between that of animals and children and society will descend into anarchy.

The central figure in Gremlins is, of course, Gizmo, a mogwai. Mogwai represent women in a neutral state. The superficial similarities are obvious. Gizmo is cute, seemingly harmless and vulnerable and calls upon our protective instincts. We want to take Gizmo in, provide for him and snuggle up in bed with him. To grouchier feminists, this initial presentation of Gizmo/woman might seem condescending, but it is not so far from the reality of many male/female relationships. At worst, this depiction is conventional or conservative, but it is the starting point of a deeply reactionary fable.

The extreme, patriarchal expression begins with the three rules of “owning” a Mogwai/woman.

1) Don’t get them wet. Water, a classic symbol of fecundity, is taken a step further and is also a symbol for actual semen. The well-trained Gizmo avoids water. This is because Gizmo has been raised in a firmly patriarchal society (China) and both literally and figuratively kept in a box. But freed from control and supervision in the decadent West and left in the care of an immature man who lacks a firm hand, even virtuous Gizmo can’t avoid coming into contact with water. He goes into an accelerated labor, and painfully ejects his offspring. One minor slip up, and Billy suddenly finds himself with several more mouths to feed. The poorly managed woman, even if virtuous,  is portrayed as a source of ever-increasing burdens.

Gizmo’s offspring lack his strict upbringing and revert to their natural, insatiable desire for water/semen and offspring. Each poorly raised mogwai is governed by a mad desire to reproduce, but the most burning urge belongs to Stripe, who is a stand in for Reagan’s mythical “welfare queen.” Stripe reproduces indiscriminately, seeking water from any source available, including a public pool (bathhouse). He cares little for his offspring and even abuses them, but he expects the rest of society to provide for them. As Stripe’s spawn absorb the town of Kingston Fall’s resources, the remainder trickles up to Stripe who helps himself to the best of it. A rigid patriarchy is essential. A single generation without it leads to a cycle of reckless breeding as one batch of valueless baby factories passes it’s behavior to still larger broods in the next, dragging society into economic collapse, then chaos.

2) No bright lights, especially sunlight. The metaphor here is more subtle but again, sunlight is a common enough metaphor for openness and exposure. This rule is more patriarchal than misogynistic, as mogwai, and even gremlins, must be kept from exposure to light for their own protection. The analogous duty is protecting your women by not allowing them excessive exposure to the outside world. According to the worldview of Spielberg, writer Chris Columbus and director, Joe Dante, women left to their own devices will invariably dress like prostitutes, literally exposing their skin to sunlight or worse, the pulsating lights of “da club.” Of course, the immediate danger is not sunlight itself (though decadent women quickly become obsessed with “tanning,” and risk skin cancer), but the fact that men are entitled to rape women who dress in such a way. Even if such a woman is somehow not raped, a man like Spielberg or Dante will assume she has been violated and is therefore soiled and useless, effectively ending her life. Also note that one of the most common ways gremlins are killed by light exposure is with flash cameras, which is analogous to a woman appearing in pornography or (in 2009) posting shameful pictures of herself on the internet. While camera flashes and significant sunlight are lethal to the mogwai, women who are allowed excessive freedom will immediately demean themselves for sexual attention, couple with shady men or, less commonly, grow intellectually curious and absorb dangerous ideas.  Any of these things can render them useless as daughters, sisters or wives. As the keeper of a mogwai/woman, it is your responsibly to rigidly control their exposure to harmful elements so that they might maintain their virtue and purpose.

3) Do not feed after midnight. The lesson here is not to overindulge your woman and spoil her. Women who are allowed to live modestly are grateful to their breadwinners for sustaining and sometimes even treating them, as Gizmo is to Billy. We see this in Billy’s mom as well, as she remains grateful and respectful towards Billy’s dad, even though he is a poor provider and the family lives modestly. Billy’s mom is the uncritical representation of the homemaker portrayed by Friedan. She is fully occupied maintaining the home, excels at it and is a force for order. As though cleaning up after her husband’s destructive inventions was not enough, she is able to use her household appliances–most memorably a blender and microwave–to dispatch some of the first gremlins. Only Billy, however, is allowed to wield the sword against the gremlins, in his first step towards authentic manhood.

Though women’s willing contributions are essential to maintaining the patriarchal order, boundaries must be drawn. Once overindulged, women become insatiable, greedy and entitled. Because the patriarchy is ultimately victorious in the film, most human women are prevented from reaching the gremlin stage, but a human woman who is “fed after midnight” would turn out like Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian. Sustenance is not only taken for granted, but becomes a vehicle for aimless ostentation and excess. This is exacerbated by the fact that women care little for practical or intellectual gifts, favoring hallow expressions of exclusivity, wealth and idleness (We get a glimpse of this in the movie with Mrs. Deagle’s motorized chair up her stairs), in accordance with Veblen’s account of conspicuous consumption in women. When they become spoiled, their desires easily spin out of control. As their wants become impossible to satisfy, they become unhappy no matter what they are given. For example, a diamond ring has no purpose other than conspicuously displaying of the expenditure of resources. Perhaps one or two such items can be given to a woman to mark special occasions, but if there are no limits the display becomes increasingly meaningless, and therefore increasingly gross and unsatisfying until the woman is adorning her dog with expensive jewelry to show her total disdain for the labor and resources that have gone into it. So, indulged without limit, the woman has moved from a contented being, grateful for sustenance to a monster of consumption and waste–from Gizmo to a gremlin. Just as the overindulged woman will buy expensive clothes to wear once, or often not at all, gremlins destroy as much as they consume, smashing glasses after they drink from them, then demanding more. The gremlin/spoiled woman would neither dream of working for the resources they consume, nor pay the slightest respect or consideration to the effort of those who do work to provide those resources

Women with money, mistaking their luck for superiority and consumed by status, are notoriously callous and cruel to service and others they deem beneath them. This is demonstrated in the film by the relentless and shortsighted abuse dished out by the greedy heiress, Mrs. Deagle. Deagle, clad in ridiculous furs, is clearly unhappy herself and abuses her power at the bank. By hastily foreclosing local businesses and being inflexible with borrowers, she is a threat to the long term survival of the local economy and ultimately the bank itself. We see similar behavior as the gremlins torment Kate (Phoebe Cates) as she tries her best to serve them in the local bar which they destroy in a shortsighted display of power and excess. Kate has emerged as a virtuous woman in a corrupt society. This is only because Kingston Falls is an idealistic depiction of 1950s nostalgia: a representation of what is being lost. In any case, the Gremlins take special joy in harassing a modest and contented woman, just as they do her analog: Gizmo. Of course women who have been “fed after midnight” tend to express similar disdain for, say, housewives or working women.

So we can see the collision between the patriarchy and the liberation of women on a few fronts. First there is Kingston Falls itself: small, almost magically anachronistic town, not yet soiled by the general “progress” of American society and the 1960s in particular. Even the music played on the radio in Kingston Falls is pre-Woodstock. The town teeters between the traditional, patriarchal society represented by China, and the corruption of post-feminist America. It is no coincidence that Gizmo is brought in from Chinatown in New York City.

The faces of patriarchal order are Mr. Wing, the revered father figure who is ignored at first, then vindicated and acquiesced to and Gizmo, the figure of the woman who is content and happy to literally live in the box created by the patriarch. Billy represents the weakened male who no longer knows how to control the new generation of mogwai/women.  So they become gremlins: ungoverned women who erode society, almost to the breaking point, never realizing that their uncontrolled desires are ultimately self-destructive. In reigning in the anarchy created by the gremlins, Billy becomes a real man. Importantly, Billy needs the help of Gizmo and Kate, female figures who understand their place and therefore are as much a part of the patriarchy as he is. Only then, is Billy able to both restore order and begin a relationship with Kate, who intimidated him when he was in his weak state. Also important is that part of Billy’s maturation is realizing that he must take a secondary position in the patriarchal structure, in deference to Mr. Wing and hope that Wing is right in saying, “perhaps someday, you may be ready.”

Commentators, politicians, and people of every stripe have started yet another predictable cycle bemoaning the recent downturn in civility, particularly as it pertains to the national political dialogue.  They claim that shouting has replaced rational debate; sound bites have replaced intelligent discourse; partisanship has replaced compromise; and confrontation has replaced deference.  Many point to the anonymity of the internet, where flaming and trolling are valued more than contributing to and participating in the community.  Others point to the breakdown in traditional family values and the slow, steady decay of public institutions where respect, courtesy, and manners once reigned supreme and uncouthness was regarded as the province of the lower, uneducated classes and something to be shunned.  Still others point to the associated rise of popular music, television, and movies that celebrate rudeness and elevate vulgarity to an art form on equal footing with poetry and the great classics of literature.

Well, fuck them.  At long last, I say!  Random acts of incivility are the last true and honest expression of the human spirit in our politically correct age of un-enlightenment.  Of course we no longer debate issues in an open and rational manner.  Agreeing to disagree has been substituted for reasoned debate to the point that if you tell me a woman should be stoned for not covering her face in public because your faith says so, I can’t call you a backward savage because I’m expected to understand rather than condemn.  And no wonder since we’ve replaced the god of reason with the twin gods of multicultural tolerance and consensus.  Today, every child is a special snow flake, every life is precious, every point of view has merit, everyone’s a winner, and all voices deserve to be heard and have a seat at the table.  We have become, as our own Matt Cale is fond of saying, a bunch of sentimental grandmothers offering fake sincerity in place of honesty.

We’ve been raised, conditioned, and taught conformity in our reactions, not the rules because somewhere along the way the rules themselves became sexist, culturally biased, xenophobic, and oppressive.   Since when did pointing out asshole behavior become worse than the offending behavior itself?  Some selfish prick, full of entitlement and who has been taught that he’s above the rules because he’s a special individual, is in the self-checkout express line at the supermarket with a full fucking cart and suddenly I’m the asshole if I say anything?  What the fuck?  Not only have we sacrificed the normal rules of behavior on the altar of civility, we have replaced them with far more irrational rules that designate too many areas of debate and behavioral reactions out-of-bounds.   We swallow our emotions, dance around issues, and walk on egg shells for fear that someone somewhere might get their feelings hurt if we make a judgment.  “Can’t we all just get along?” has become the guiding principle that has turned us all into a bunch of sniveling little pussies.

We may very well look back at Joe Wilson shouting, “You lie!” from the floor of Congress as our generation’s “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going take it anymore!” moment.  A spontaneous instance of incivility in which two words conveyed more honesty than any speech delivered in that hallowed institution within my lifetime.  Of course Wilson is full of shit and an asshole to boot, but his behavior, like that of his fellow Right Wing town hall disrupters is not cause for alarm but cause for celebration.   The recent spate of alleged incivility has torn away what remained of the Republican Party’s respectability, exposing them and their supporters as the racist, classist, uneducated, fundamentalist, corporate cocksucking assholes that they really are.  At long last – public validation of what we only dared to whisper among close friends and like-minded associates for fear of being branded as intolerant.   Democrats, too, should prepare themselves for a maelstrom of criticism for their own collective pussification and compromise brought about by their position as a constant bottom boy in the D.C. orgy of special interests.  At least the Republicans are butch enough to actually do some pitching instead of cowering on all fours playing the submissive with a welcoming ass.   One can only hope that the long-simmering passions of the Left will at long last shrug off the shackles of civility and pacifist non-confrontation and opt for an in-your-face, sarcastic, and caustic style of mean-spirited ridicule, like Barney Frank’s response to one of the town hall downies.  If we can’t drag these people and their ideas from the shadows of tolerance, then we will taunt them kicking and screaming into the light through open confrontation.

We are on the cusp of a magical time when the stars align, the heavens open, and the people of this country might just awaken from their anesthetized slumber of apathy masquerading as consensus and shout in unison with one loud voice, “FUCK YOU COCKSUCKER!”    It doesn’t matter who that cocksucker is because your cocksucker may be different from my cocksucker, whether it’s the fundamentalists who have been allowed to use the law to deny equal rights to others based on their own narrow, twisted version of morality; the race-baiters who have used our collective guilt to avoid addressing their own community’s long-standing and culturally toxic problems; those who march in gay pride parades dressed in leather chaps carrying signs that decry gay stereotyping; every Asian who has ever sat behind the wheel of a car; third generation immigrants who demand bilingual classes for their fourth generation immigrant children; women who complain about the glass ceiling from the comfort of the home they won in their divorce, along with full custody of the children and weekly alimony; teachers, medical professionals, and parents who make excuses for their asshole kids by claiming they have learning disabilities or ADHD; white people; corporations who cry poverty and expect public bailouts for their own piss poor management decisions; or idiotic G20 protesters who smash the windows of a Subway store because they think they’re sticking it to The Man.

So, let it out.  Scream it from the rooftops.  Don’t wait your turn.  Forget about censoring yourself or moderating your ideas.  Flip someone the bird.  I’m an asshole, he’s an asshole, she’s an asshole, we’re all assholes.  Wouldn’t you like to be an asshole too?  To hell with civility!  For fuck’s sake, just be an asshole.  Trust me, you’ll feel better.

Hubert Selby Jr: It’ll be Better Tomorrow, is a solid film about a writer I’ve never read but would probably like.  He dropped out of school after the 8th grade and became a merchant marine during WWII and therefore a drunk.  We’re told that he only turned to writing after narrowly escaping death and being debilitated by TB.  Selby’s most famous book was Last Exit to Brooklyn which sold a bunch of copies, largely because of two idiotic obscenity trials.  He made a bunch of money and squandered it on drugs before rebuilding his life, continuing to write and becoming a popular teacher at USC.  The part of the film that actually sets out to tell his story does so quite well.

However,  about a third of the film irritated the fuck out of me, not because of unusual sins, but because of typical ones found in the biographical doc.  If you’ve watched any number of “Real Men of Genius” documentaries such as Sketches of Frank Gehry, or Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes; Crazy Sexy Cool you’ve seen the breathless fawning and hyperbole and, depending on the time in which the person lived, the celebrity hob-knobbing and circle-jerks.  Look, Henry Rollins has injected himself into the situation in act of self-promotion number 10,000.  Here’s Anthony Kiedis for no reason.  Selby overcame a drug addiction, so let’s get Robert Downy Jr. to narrate.  That’s how good a writer Selby was.  Huh?

The truth about greatness is that it’s a matter of increment, rather than orders of magnitude.  This is most clear in more objective endeavors like sports.  The most commonly cited example is golf, where one stroke separates Tiger from the field and the field from the club pros.  I like the example of football though–bear with me you unclean foreigners.  Football is a multi-billion dollar industry and meticulously scouted athletes conform to a narrow range of physical attributes.  You can rule out 99.99% of the population from a given position just by watching them run ten feet.   Yet the differences between the greatest of all time and the home town heroes are so subtle that you could build a team almost exclusively of first tier, all-time greats who weren’t even noticed by college scouts and wound up at barely-known programs.  Build an offense around Walter Payton, Jerry Rice, Randy Moss, Jackie Slater, Larry Allen, Gene Upshaw and a properly sedated Terrell Owens and you’re in pretty good shape.  Steve McNair is probably your quarterback and though, he’s “only” a borderline hall of famer, he wasn’t even a Dvision I player and your team would still score 80 points per game.  Yet nobody could tell that any of these guys were good enough to play for Iowa.

Within the arts and academics, where success is more subjective, greatness is just as hard to spot and narrowly achieved.  You probably know that Confederacy of Dunces was only published under improbable circumstances after the author committed suicide as a failure.  There must be hundreds of such books that were never discovered. Marconi and Tesla tied on inventing the radio.  Leibniz and Newton tied on inventing calculus.  A bunch of other people would have also tied with them, except they died at age seven because they crapped in their drinking water.  Only a handful of living filmmakers will be remembered through the centuries, but nobody really has a clue which ones.  Will future generations believe that Sokurov is ten times better than Scorsese?  Will there be hundreds of professors specializing in “The Simpsons” or “The Wire” who look down their nose at film from this era?  Will Hubert Selby Jr. be completely forgotten? It all seems possible.

Again I don’t have a huge problem with the strictly biographical elements of this film and the footage chosen of Selby.  Nor is my argument that the great people who are separated by timing, chance and marginally better ability are any less great or interesting because of it.  In fact, the things that make up those little differences are far more interesting than the scenario of the typical hagiography, wherein the genius is a comic book hero.  If some people just popped out of the womb with IQs of 300 and the ability to throw a 180 MPH fastball, their stories would quickly become boring.  Warranted hagiography is fine, but what are the nuances and idiosyncrasies that allowed the subject to shine?  Selby talks about his style, but only briefly.  There has to be more to say about the man and his work that could be included at the expense of cameos testifying to his freakish genius.

In fact, with rare exceptions, other celebrities should usually be excluded from these films.  Anyone who’s ever listened to a DVD commentary knows the mechanism at work here.  Celebrities, though usually talented and deserving, have still just scraped past other talented and deserving and people to achieve their status.  Insecure and unwilling to face this fact, they establish a tacit contract whereby all parties wildly exaggerate each others ability.   Maybe the producers casting the voice of ALF thought it was a coin toss between the guy who got it and the next guy at the time.  But now, we can see that he was unbelievably fucking brilliant!  I’m not saying that Selby is the same as the ALF guy, but I did want to throw up when an actress from the film of his Requiem For A Dream declared that the chance to give voice to his words was “one of the great gifts of my life.”

The best part of the contract is that even those giving out the blowjobs benefit.  Not only is there the understanding that they too will be blown down the line (the guy who did the voice of ALF will talk about the stunning vision of the producers of ALF),  there is the implication that they have earned the right to understand and opine on the genius by being brilliant themselves.  Why is Richard Price in a film about Selby for like fifteen minutes?  So he can say, “Hubert Selby is a Genius.  I ought to know… I’m Richard Price.”  And Michael Jordan loves Ball Park Franks.  They plump when you cook ‘em!  Obviously Rollins, who is a genius at tricking people into believing he’s not an idiot, is the more gratuitous example.  But it’s specifically because I’m fine with Price that I mention him.  I know Price deserves a spot on the totem pole that is invisible from my own.  But, apart from perhaps a few words on Selby’s influence, that has absolutely nothing to do with Selby the man. Long after it’s explained to we uninitiated why Selby was great and what he did, we still hear from Price and the like.  Give me more from his students at USC.  His mailman.  Hell, maybe the guy himself.  There’s a decent amount of footage with Selby, but seeing as he is the subject of the film, maybe he should be in it more than Darren Aronofsky.

Apart from just being fed up with this hagiography approach in general, I think it irked me so much in this particular film because Selby comes across as unbelievably modest and unconcerned with stratification of status.  He wasn’t a monk, but it seems like if he knew a film was being made about Robert Downy Jr, it would never even occur to him to involve himself.  When he called for a job at USC he wasn’t sure they’d have one for him because he never seemed to realize that, according to one testimony, there should be a wing of the Harvard library named in his honor.   So I doubt he’d believe that his legacy is best conveyed via celebrity endorsements.