Believe it or not, a good bit of thought goes into my creative output, in particular where exactly in my figurative empire that output fits best. Should I post an article here, or behind a paywall on my Patreon? Is the idea better served in readable text, or does it function more smoothly spoken conversationally on a podcast? Would people rather read it, or hear it?
After a micron of consideration, I decided that the article you are now reading belongs here, where the dark heart of my professional animus resides, among hundreds of things that I useta like. The choice was easy; for one thing, I’d prefer that anyone with internet access be permitted to read these words, for free. For another, I’ve pondered for as long as I can remember about expanding the proprietary concept to include Movies I Useta Like, but the title is less catchy, and invariably I’d want to include TV shows. Plus, that’s an idea I’d prefer to explore in cartoon format, which as we all know, takes me forever and a day to finish.
So I kicked the idea around some more, and last night it dawned on me that what I’d really rather do is something in the vein of People I Useta Like. Not people I know personally, because that’s gossipy and libelous, and no one cares about which contributor to my movie repeatedly kicked me out of his house (literally, with his foot) during the lowest point of my life, before later blowing off one of his fingers while sleeping with a handgun. (Great story, if you aren’t part of it.) No one cares about whomever cut me out of their life because I dared to make a joke about “Garbage Pail” Greta Thunberg, or because I openly criticized some activist group that later (to no one’s surprise) was revealed as a pernicious money-laundering scam. I’d rather let sleeping dogs lie, and besides, that’s all banal personal gobbledygook.
Last night, I did something that I do from time to time, as regular readers of my words can attest; I watched something that set the world on fire a few years previous, to see if I’d denied it a fair shake. I actually enjoy the taste of crow, and being proven wrong; it helps me grow as a human being. I was wrong back in high school when some girls practically forced me to watch Heathers, a film I was absolutely convinced I would hate, and ended up adoring to this very day. I was wrong 20 years ago when my pal Joey told me to see Freddy vs. Jason, which I had been unfairly prejudiced against, thanks to still-healing wounds from witnessing the abhorrent shitpile known as Alien vs. Predator. Few things thrill me more than loving something I fully expected to dislike. It buoys me.
So last night, because it was free, and because I needed something to watch while doing art and eating dinner, I finally took in Avengers: Infinity War, from 2018. Historically I’m more of a fan of DC than Marvel, but as I said, my intentions were to give the movie a fair shake, and find out what I’d missed that so captivated audiences years ago. I like Josh Brolin a great deal, and from what I’d already seen, his portrayal of “Thanos” was both visually convincing and dramatically compelling. The opening scene, with its abundant eye-candy and sincere depiction of classic space opera style, was on its way to hooking me for the next couple of hours.
Then, like a slap in the groin, I was reminded that this particular saga features, as its “Incredible Hulk”, a person who once made videos of himself topless, ostensibly as a method of supporting historic presidential catastrophe Joe Biden. Suddenly I’m watching this poltroon banter about made-up ice cream flavors with a guy who used to break into houses while out of his mind on drugs and believing he was a goat. This former fuckup made headlines lately claiming he intends to leave America now that Trump has been re-elected, which any schoolkid can tell you means he was probably engaged in unholy acts at P. Diddy’s mansion that are rapidly catching up with him. That, or he’s just a huge, simpering pussy.
As this bloated CGI punch-fest dragged on, I was subjected to endless, zero-substance quipping about favorite foods and restaurants from every male hero save one; the late, sainted Chadwick Boseman as “Black Panther”, who hails from the secret mystical land of Blackpeopleinventedeverything-ia. You know, that place with the magic spaceships and protective force-field where the elite warriors chuck spears and bark like dogs. Until Black Panther appeared, I had totally forgotten that I’d seen his titular solo movie, one of the dumbest, most egregiously idiotic things I have ever seen. Credit where due; Infinity War isn’t that insultingly stupid.
It’s pretty close, though. Here’s a breakdown of practically every scene in the film:
a. Male heroes (except Black Panther) meet and bicker like ladies in a nail salon about food and outfits.
b. One or more female heroes appear and angrily upbraid the male heroes for acting like children.
c. Punching and CGI destruction ensue.
By the time the film reached its death-snap climax and mercifully concluded, I was reminded of myself at the tender age of 12, when I came to the realization that Marvel comics weren’t just created for kids- they were created for stupid kids. Maturity in a Marvel comic book meant that the editorial department decided that it was time for a well-known superhero or villain to DIE, and thus gin up flagging sales at the newsstand. Good Marvel comics were always the exception, never the rule. You were lucky to get an issue where every word was spelled correctly. For crying out loud, Jack Kirby is revered as the king of the “Marvel Method”, and literally every face he ever drew looked like Ernest Borgnine, regardless of gender. In the early days of Marvel, men who worked the fastest and cheapest gained the most clout. Zillions of kids read Marvel comics because zillions of copies, on cheap shitty newsprint, were available everywhere. Our parents threw them in the trash because that’s what they looked like, and the cover price didn’t offer much argument.
Movies based on comic books were generally considered box office poison until 1989, when Batman came out. There was a brief period in the late 1970’s where Superman enjoyed a one-two punch of film stardom, before everything collapsed into a morass of fatal typecasting and Tinseltown egomania. The underdog success of 1990’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was a fluke, buoyed by the unexpected benefit of a cast of nobodies. Movie stars didn’t line up to be in cape-and-mask movies 40 years ago; they fired their agents for merely suggesting they take a role in one. Live-action comic book adaptations were strictly TV pablum prior to 1989, and even afterward, the small screen only dared to go as far as original creations inspired by the comic book medium, such as Xena and Black Scorpion.
In order for Marvel to develop a sustainable “cinematic universe”, they had to do the impossible; they had to make stupid comic books cool. This had already been done, but only in book form (Watchmen, Frank Miller’s Sin City and Dark Knight Returns), and not by Marvel. They had the sense to cast Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark for their first Iron Man movie, and lo and behold, they struck oil. They more or less learned their lesson from letting Spider-Man go to Sony as a desperation move to solve their latest bankruptcy, and thus RDJ became Marvel’s golden god.
For a couple of movies, anyway.
The Hulk was another story. First it was Eric Bana, gamely performing in a movie from a director so ham-fisted and myopic, he thought “comic book adaptation” meant that the film should literally have square panels and two-dimensional effects. Hey, how else are people gonna know it’s based on a comic book, right? Then it was Edward Norton, slumming in a movie that practically no one remembers. Third time being the proverbial charm, Mark Ruffalo was cast as the MCU’s Bruce Banner/big green angry monster.
That’s the hook, remember? It was the key element of the 1970’s Incredible Hulk TV show with Bill Bixby and Lou Ferrigno. Bruce Banner gets super angry, let’s say by hurting his hand while changing a tire in the rain, and due to his accidental exposure to “gamma radiation”, he transforms into an emerald-tinted muscleman who starts crashing through walls. That’s the lesson we learned from that show as little kids. If you get pissed off enough, you can become super-powerful and nigh-invincible, rather than popping a blood vessel in your brain and having a massive cerebral edema.
This of course was an inspiration for the “Saiyans” in Akira Toriyama’s Dragon Ball Z, a more recent example of media blamed by parents for making their kids turn red and scream in anger. But that’s neither here nor there.
My point is Mark Ruffalo, he of the noble shirtless Biden support and strident online activism. In Infinity War, he serves as an obvious metaphor for erectile dysfunction, unable to summon the necessary blood-rage to become the Hulk, until finally the Genius Ethno-State of Magical Negroes gifts him a mechanical apparatus in the form of a “Hulkbuster” suit so he can feel powerful and complete again.
If Ruffalo had done what so few movie stars are capable of today, which is keep his political opinions to himself, not to mention avoid blatantly wrong-headed endorsements, I probably wouldn’t be comparing him to withered genitalia. But the new breed of film actors are willing and ready-made mouthpieces for limousine-liberal agendas, eager faces of Frankfurt School faux-activism and Democrat pet-causes. They’ll schmooze with sex traffickers if the price is right. 21st-century movie stars have the moral fibre of public toilets. It’s a safer bet to assume they’re degenerates than otherwise at this point.
Every time Mark Ruffalo appeared on screen I was reminded of what a pompous asshole he is in reality, and the carefully constructed illusion of Infinity War was obliterated. Every time Robert Downey Jr. dropped in I remembered how the dude is so utterly compromised by corporate policy, that one of his best roles in the last two decades can’t be mentioned without accusations of “blackface”. To make matters worse, that character’s catch-phrase features the word “retard”, which any college student can tell you is even more of a hate-crime than using the “N-word” (“nigger”).
The entire point of those lines, from the 2008 comedy Tropic Thunder, was a criticism of actors who go hilariously overboard in their depiction of mentally retarded people, in the single-minded interest of winning some coveted screen award. RDJ’s character is shaming Ben Stiller’s “Tugg Speedman”, for starring as a stereotypical “retard” in a movie called Simple Jack. Here are a few examples of actors who went “full retard” in reality, for your edification:
Sean Penn (I Am Sam, 2001)
Rosie O’Donnell (Riding The Bus With My Sister, 2005)
Cuba Gooding, Jr. (Radio, 2005)
Juliette Lewis and Giovanni Ribisi (The Other Sister, 1999)
You tell me; including Stiller, what do these actors have in common?
Ben Stiller is the offspring of the legendary 1970’s comedy team of Jerry Stiller (Frank Costanza, Seinfeld) and Anne Meara (any 70’s sitcom you can name). Like fellow celebrity scion Rob Reiner, Ben no doubt spent his childhood being told how adorable he is by TV jobbers on the set of popular shows like All In The Family. His parents were too busy working to instill any positive virtues or ethics in young Ben, so he was left to absorb the trappings of a world built on money, lies, and playing pretend. Since that world does a far better job of concealing degenerates and perverts than more conservative environments (banks, hospitals, etc.), those behaviors became as normalized as marshmallows in breakfast cereal.
Thus, as adults, people like Ben Stiller and Rob Reiner are the most insufferable, politically myopic halfwits to come down the pike. They literally can’t help themselves. It is impossible for them to grasp any perspective differing from their own. This is what happens when you are raised by professional comedy people. You wind up a delusional, hysterical, unethical monster that will blindly attack anything that threatens the Hollywood elite. You’d go to bat for rapists, murderers, and/or child molesters without blinking an eye, if those are the people who keep your privileged lifestyle afloat (and kiss your ass). You treat working-class, church-going, regular folks with malice and suspicion, never once considering that you’re projecting your own ingrown proclivity for evil.
And then you wonder why no one wants to hear from you anymore.
Let’s face facts; neither Ben Stiller nor Rob Reiner is funnier or more talented than a million other guys out there. There are literally hundreds of funnier women than Amy Schumer. These people merely occupy a slot that was invented for them by their relations, and nothing more. Nobody watches old episodes of All In The Family for “Meathead”; they watch it for Archie Bunker, an acknowledged racist and bigot, and his wife Edith, who loves and accepts Archie as he is. No one ever watched a movie specifically because Ben Stiller was in it; people regularly forget that the guy had his own titular sketch comedy show. People loved Rosie O’Donnell when she was an affable talk-show host, flinging Koosh balls into the audience and crushing on Tom Cruise. She was fun. She was likable. She played Betty Rubble in a stupid live-action Flintstones movie and she knocked it out of the park.
Somewhere along the line, these individuals got it into their heads that they’re better than us. That their opinions hold more merit than ours, and by nature of who they are, they deserve to be heard more than we do. They play at being regular, accessible people on social media knowing there will always be idiots who will buy it, because our lives are so dull and pathetic, we want nothing more than a moment’s attention from a “celebrity”. The odds are good that you have longtime acquaintances who would tell you to fuck off forever if you goofed on a particular celebrity or public figure, because subconsciously, they labor under the delusion that they’ll one day rub elbows with that person, thanks to social media. Their image of someone they don’t know, and will most likely never encounter in reality, means more to them than actual friendship with you.
Think for a moment of how many of your favorite movies were brought into being by a convicted serial rapist named Harvey Weinstein, who just happened to be the White House projectionist from 1992 to 2000. Think for a moment who was president of the United States during that time, the way he and his wife were feted by the media, and how he was ultimately dethroned by an act of forced sodomy on a female intern. I’ll bet you can come up with at least 10 movies you love that have Harvey Weinstein’s name somewhere in the credits.
Now tell me what you love about those movies. You better make it good, because you are justifying rape. A woman being forcibly penetrated against her will and permanently traumatized means less to you than a two-hour motion picture you enjoy. Go ahead; make that make sense.
Refresh my memory as to how you were held at gunpoint and forced to watch movies that involved Harvey Weinstein. That’s right; you weren’t. You wanted to see them. You spent your hard-earned money for the privilege, after waiting in line. Even after you knew the ugly truth.
It doesn’t make sense, does it?
One of the greatest directors, living or dead, is Martin Scorsese. No one would argue that his contributions to the world of cinema have been titanic, with brilliant films like Taxi Driver, King of Comedy, Goodfellas, Casino, and (in my humble opinion) The Irishman. Up until a few years ago, I rewatched and enjoyed each of these movies dozens of times.
Now I’d rather watch something else, where I don’t have to look at someone who’s revealed himself to be a condescending, elitist asshole who thinks he’s better than I am. Robert De Niro. Based upon his behavior since 2016, I literally can’t stand his face anymore.
I used to love the Coen Bros’ movie O Brother Where Art Thou?, and would recite lines from it with friends. “Well, ain’t this place a geographical oddity! Twenty miles from everywhere!” That was before George Clooney decided that anyone who didn’t fall in line with his imbecilic political agenda was garbage. Now I can’t stand his face either.
Not a single atom of the Hollywood bubble is necessary for my continued survival, or yours. No movie star puts food on my table, or a roof over my head. There exists not one person in the entire movie industry to whom I owe anything whatsoever. If anything, they owe me, for the enormous amount of my lifetime they’ve wasted with their useless, insipid bullshit. Putting someone else’s dreams and aspirations in my head, and tricking me into paying for it. Fooling me into thinking I could have what they have, or do what they do. Exploiting, for their own sinister purposes, my love of a dying format, as they themselves deal the killing blows.
But hey; that’s Hollywood.
No wonder no one wants or needs it anymore.
Personae non grata addendum:
Adam Sessler
Alec Baldwin
Alyssa Milano
Anne Hathaway
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson
Emma Watson
George Takei
Howard Stern
Jimmy Kimmel
Joaquin Phoenix
John Legend (and pigwife Chrissy Teigen)
Jordan Peele
Joy Behar
Kevin Smith
Lady Gaga
Mark Hamill
Matt Groening
Meryl Streep
Mindy Kaling
Oprah Winfrey
Sacha Baron Cohen
Stephen Colbert
Stephen King
Steve Blum
Timothée Chalamet
Whoopi Goldberg
Will Ferrell
Wil Wheaton
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