Just before I submitted this piece, it occurred to me that “The Matrix/Weiner Heresy” would have been much more apt, but I didn’t have the noive.
Archive for June, 2011
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged James Bondian misogyny, Klaus kicks ass, Louis Jourdan likes little girls, Maud Adams in need of botox, Movies, Roger Moore's flabby behind, Sean Connery, Sean Connery's neather regions, Spot Mr. Bean, The Jerk on June 13, 2011 | 23 Comments »
Hi, I’m The Jerk. You might remember me from that recurring dream you keep having about gym class.
You need some help. Just sayin’.
But I’d really like the world to remember me for my movie reviews. Or maybe my humanitarian work of gently correcting people in com boxes. Or perhaps my ability to consume large quantities of alcohol while driving.
In any event, Simcha doesn’t seem to care much about secure passwords (manh8ter) so it’s time for me to do my thing.
With pants on.
But wait, there’s more!
That’s right. There’s two of them!
In 1983, the world was thrown into chaos. Every year, juvenile misogynists looked forward to the latest installment in the James Bond series. The naked lady credits alone were worth the price of admission. But in ’83, we got two of them, both starring legitimate Bonds. Or as legitimate as Roger Moore could ever get. The center would not hold.
In June, we got Octopussy, quite possibly the worst James Bond movie made, aside from Thunderball. In October, Never Say Never Again, a remake of Thunderball, comes out, and it might be the best Bond movie yet. Sorry Lazenby.
I’d hate to.
Like every great story this one starts with protracted litigation. See, back when Ian Fleming was just a guy trying to work out his hatred of women through fiction, he was approached by some chumpy chump named Kevin McClory Chumpikins III interested in making a big screen version of Bond.
I think McClory either ran a projector at a theater once, or he gave classes in Catholic screen writing, anyway, the two of them wrote a screenplay called, Thunderball. It sucked, and the project never went anywhere. So Fleming, being a gentleman, steals the screenplay and turns it into a Bond novel.
Savor that one for a bit. You steal Thunderball. This is like wrongfully taking credit for the velvet Elvis.
As T.S. Eliot said, “Good writers borrow, great writers steal, and Ian Fleming eats poo.”
So of course this McClory chump sues when they try to make the Thunderball movie in 1965. And he wins. He got a credit on the screenplay, the novel, and the rights to make his own version 10 years after Thunderball gets released.
Think about that. You fight to claim credit for Thunderball. And you win. Oh glorious day.
That’s how we get to 1983. The year of Two Bonds.
Let’s start with the worst. Octopussy.
Granted, Ole Rog’ made many a stinker as James Bond, but Octopussy really stands out as some sort of fever dream of awful. Starting with, Octopussy? Are you effing kidding me? That’s the name of your movie?
See what I mean. Clown makeup. That’s not even the tip of this crapberg. There is some sort of indecipherable plot involving a stolen nuke, a mad Russian general, Faberge eggs, and Louis Jourdan as a villain.
Of course, we’re forgetting the exotic Octopussy, a strange, foreign woman of mystery and deadly beauty. On paper. In the movie, they just got Maud Adams.
This movie features Moore at his flabby, loathsome worst. (Floathsome?) Lame action, stupid gadgets, and scantily clad women. So, you know, a James Bond movie.
It ends with some sort of commando operation in which half naked women descend upon Louis Jordan’s castle. (Thank Heaven for Naked Girls?) What does it all mean? I have no idea.
Now for the good one, Never Say Never Again.
Of course, by good, I am still talking about a James Bond movie, so caveat emptor, sucker.
This one finds a sorta real life James Bond, a little past his prime, getting shelved by MI6 as obsolete in the modern world.
OK! That’s enough out of you about that.
Yes. Thank you.
Look, this movie actually works, in part, because it is one big middle finger to the whole Bond franchise. They age Bond, and he still comes off tougher than some unnamed, flabby boy.
The plot is one of those Bondian stolen nuke specials, but, c’mon! Klaus Maria Brandauer might be the creepiest villain to date.
Indeed, Klaus. Indeed.
Keep in mind, it is a James Bond movie, so it is silly. There’s a life and death video game match, shooting pens, a pretty good motorcycle chase, and some pretty explicit sex scenes for a PG movie, even a 1983 James Bond movie.
Oh, yeah. Kim Basinger is in it. She’s, umm, nice? Seriously, never understood her appeal, but she does give the movie makers a chance to stage a dramatic tango. Keep Dancing!
Like I said, this movie works. I think, aside from the whole grudge match energy it has going for it, this Bond outing greatly benefits from one Irvin Kershner, the director responsible for the only decent Star Wars movie.
So there you have it. I got through not one, but two movie reviews without writing “penis.” Happy?
1. Never mind “you can never step into the same river twice” — you can never dig the same garden twice. This is my fourth year gardening in this Heraclitean yard, and every year I dig up something that wasn’t there last year. Soccer ball-sized rocks, for instance, in a spot which was groomed and aerated to a fine, soft bed last year:
But also strange blue spoons, door knobs, legless action figures of obscure wrestlers, flattened marbles — and, unnervingly, what appears to be broken sections of sewer pipe. Probably just some extra pipe that isn’t for anything in particular, right, heh heh heh? Well, maybe I won’t have to fertilize this year.
2. My kids are lazy. L-A-Z-Y. They get plumb tuckered out after tugging feebly at a piece of clover or two, and have to go put their feet up and watch Wonderpets with some ice water for a while. I’d call them pansies, but . . .
3. I actually admire pansies now. I don’t generally care for floppy flowers, and the weird markings on their faces always reminded me of those irritating, simpering lap dogs:
But they are so tough! They bloom from early spring to late fall, they live through snow, they perk up after being stomped on. They just put their heads down and focus on being flowers. So now I like pansies.
4. I feel the same way about earthworms. How wonderful to be designed so simply, and to do one thing so well for your whole life! Or maybe I just can’t help identifying with something that’s really just all about digestion.
On the other hand, I guess you could say the same about mosquitoes, and I do not feel the same way about them. Stupid circle of life.
5. If I were you, I wouldn’t go up to a worn-out grandmultipara who is feeling old, haggard, useless, baggy, and drained and ask, “Mama, what does ‘gone to seed’ mean?” Even if you were just thinking about dandelions.
6. Also from the Department of Taking Gardening Too Personally: The seed packet says “thin seedlings when they reach a height of 3-4″.” We’ll see, we’ll see.
7. Some people truly don’t enjoy gardening, and do it out of duty or something. Some people start out all enthusiastic
and then suddenly hate it very much.
Still others have this expression on their face the whole time they’re working in the dirt:
but they are very, very happy.
Bonus 8: My daughter says she remembers how, last year, we used to go outside and EAT stuff, and that was FUN! And why we don’t have a venchable garden this year? (She doesn’t consider basil to be a venchable, I guess. What is this, June? Maybe it’s not too late!)
Yesterday, I was so sick (and unable to take any useful medication, like Sudafed or ibuprofen) that I was able to do exactly three things: drink tea, type, and whine. Out of those three came this post for the Register: Even More Faces of Mary, in which I repeatedly misspell Steven Greydanus’ name, because it seemed really, really funny at the time.
Follow-up question for you smart people: Why is it, do you think, that people used to routinely depict the holy family wearing the styles of the artist’s day — but now if you do that, people freak out? When did this change, and why? Modernist self-loathing? Mistrust of contemporary art in general? Cultural illiteracy (Rembrandt and Fra Angelico’s saints look fine to us because they’re clearly wearing old-fashioned clothes, and that supplies the necessary sense of historical space, even though it’s still off by many centuries)? Or have people always freaked out when artists did this, and I just don’t realize it? Or what?
Did you hear anything useful in the commencement address at your graduation? Did you hear anything stupid? Well, now’s your chance to hear something fairly useful and awfully stupid, all at the same time. Today at the Register: My Dear Graduates (the speech I’ll never get invited to make).
I pretty much hate plastic surgery, but is it a sin? Or just a morally neutral act which will hasten the downfall of civilization? Another objective analysis which will win me friends and warm feelings.
Nothin’ at all.