Magic Mike: The American Dream

Happy Fourth of July, bitches. I trust that my all fellow Americans are having a grand, ole American time enjoying family, friends, freedom, and staring bemused at Jeff Goldblum wielding a laptop computer with a mobile phone attached, I repeat, attached to it. I know I am. Yes, I have no doubt this is happening in homes across America as far as AMC programming can reach. Outside, I hear the occasional pop and blast of distant fireworks. Although I am happily typing on my computer and enjoying the physiological effects of ice cream, beer, and spaghetti bolognese, perhaps I need to celebrate this day of independence with a little more fervor and enthusiasm. Perhaps it is the boundless wisdom I have acquired in my wizened twenty-four years that has prompted me to appreciate the little things in life. Then again, perhaps it is the stirring sound of President Bill Pullman's voice blasting out of the living room that fills me with hope and pride.

One of the little things I am grateful for that America has given me is the gift of Magic Mike. Oh yes, last weekend, America gave me the gift of Magic Mike, and I eagerly accepted this gift. Thank you, America. This is the national treasure that even Nicolas Cage cannot snatch. Jenna's post-wedding posse and I journeyed out into a night that would change our lives forever. At least for about two hours. It was a night that transported me back to my splash-zone seat at Thunder from Down Under, and a night that reminded me to be thankful for my health, home, and Ginuine's incomparable hit, "Pony."

Never before has a film inspired me to enter all domains henceforth in a flurry of smoke and laser lights.  And why not? I believe that all Americans, nay, all peoples from all corners of the world should have the privilege of crossing a threshold shrouded in smoke and laser lights. Going to work? Smoke and lights! Getting on the train? Smoke and lights! Going to Luby's? Smoke and lights with minimal flashing so as not to induce seizures. Not since Harry Potter have I heard such spirited cheers and colorful comments from the audience and have aforementioned cheers and comments met with equally zealous cries of approval and agreement. Everyone in the audience was cordial and respectful of one another. We were respectful because there was a greater agenda at hand, an agenda that united us as a people, and it involved disrespecting a man in a thong.  Magic Mike took me to church, and when the preacher shouted, "Get it, girl!" I cried, "Amen!

Much like church, I left the holy gathering feeling cleansed and spiritually uplifted. I was reminded of what is important in life, to not stress out about silly things like designer purses, grown-up jobs, and whether or not Chad will think I'm pretty at our high school reunion. In our short time on Earth (which would have been even shorter if Will Smith hadn't saved us), we need to spend more time enjoying ourselves and less time worrying. Why is this fireman not seeking out the source of all this smoke? Don't worry about it, he's not going to be a fireman anymore once the uniform comes off. Why is Matt Bomer still wearing socks while he gyrates atop a woman on a gurney? Details, baby, details. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.

I highly recommend Magic Mike. It is an inspirational film that teaches life lessons of appreciation, motivation, and acceptance. Upon viewing it, I appreciated the wide assortment of men presented to me in such pristine physical condition. Then I was motivated to work hard in life so as to be able to afford a plaster bust of Matthew McConaughey's head and matching oil painting to adorn my future house with. In the end, I realized that Channing Tatum is about as eloquent as Independence Day is realistic... and I accepted that.

Torrance Shipman Is Sad

Last night I watched the latest Lars Von Trier film Melancholia. It stars Kirsten Dunst as a woman suffering depression during the end of the world. Literally, the end of the world. The planet Melancholia is due to collide with Earth and destroy life on this planet. Ready the vodka, grab a towel, and pray for daylight. I don't think I'm spoiling anything, but don't read if you don't want to be spoiled.


My eyes were quite pleased with this film. The opening scene is very beautiful, showing a series of long shots in super slow motion where people and objects appear to float. Another of my favorite scenes is the last scene of the planetary collision where the lights get increasingly bright before finally destroying everything on screen. I mainly loved the sound editing of that scene because it begins softly, the arriving of destruction is almost inaudible. Gradually it grows to this overbearing and eerie hum coupled with an epic piece from Wagner. Simply terrifying. You can play the Melancholia hum with Wagner while I try to split a check without a calculator, and I will soil myself in fear.


The story in Melancholia is a little underwhelming and cliché. A normal white lady is sad. She also comes from a very rich family. Mindboggling! My mind is both blown and boggled! While I do think that Kirsten Dunst portrayed her character incredibly well, I think that she could have been written better. We never quite get to the root of her depression so she is a one-dimensional character throughout the story. For all we know, she could have been sad because some dumbass didn't split the check right at dinner. She had to pay what everyone else paid, but she only had soup. It's an outrage! I'm going to continue believing that this is the reason for her depression until Von Trier explains otherwise.


Another reason why I kind of hated Dunst's character is that she is selfish and spoiled. You know that bitch probably picked the restaurant that nobody else liked, and then she just ordered a cup of soup because there's nothing good on that damn vegan menu anyway. In the film, her sister (played by Charlotte Gainsbourg) and her sister's husband (played by Jack Bauer) pay for her lavish, fairy tale wedding. It's in a goddamnn castle, and she marries Swedish-Sycamore-of-a-man Alexander Skarsgård! On top of that, this girl actually has her very own pony that she beats the shit out of. That ungrateful  bitch. You know the acting is good when you learn to hate the character.


Prior to viewing Melancholia, I was warned of its tragic story and feared that I would  be subsequently depressed. Surprisingly the film left me invigorated and hopeful. I was damn near chipper this morning! For the past week I had been suffering my own depression. I seemed to have misplaced my wig. I was wary of seeing Melancholia for fear that I would identify with it, and thus it would send me to absolute Hamlet-style breakdown. I did identify with Dunst's character. She had been a copywriter at an advertising agency, and later she is promoted to Art Director on her wedding night. That's me! I'm currently trying to get into Art Direction and Design! Now I understand my future. I will be a sad, rich, white lady who beats up ponies. 


I decided to bend time and space and stop it  before it happens, like the Doctor but with more excellent eyebrows. This film woke me up. It showed me images of Dunst's character wallowing in cheerless misery over an ill-fated cup of soup and said to  me, "Don't do this! Don't be like this ungrateful bitch!" Yes yes, I read you loud and clear. Put on my pants and get over it. I would really appreciate it if other films had this inverse type of message, like Twilight. While we see teenagers engaging in mutually abusive relationships, it is telling us, "Don't do this! You see what they're doing? DON'T DO IT!"


Overall I recommend this Melancholia. I think that the media has sensationalized it as something avant garde and visionary. It's no unicorn, but it is still worth a peek.

Richard Martin = Travis Birkenstock

I am a frequent traveler of time. I travel time quite often. In fact, I traveled over a year backwards in time just this very minute when I opened my forsaken livejournal and sampled life from January of 2010. I may as well be the goddamn 12th Doctor with my frequency in traveling time. At least I have a set of fantastic eyebrows, Mr. Smith. Oh, you have a Daisy Lowe? Do you now? Ah, touché.

This week I found myself in 19th Century England. It all began when I watched the 2011 film Jane Eyre. Wait, no, it began when I happened upon the 1997 A&E adaptation of Jane Eyre on Ovation one night. Crestfallen that I had already missed thirty minutes of the story, I remembered that I possessed the 2011 film on my computer, just waiting for me to watch it. I was saving it for the perfection conditions to properly experience a Gothic love story: after having eaten far too much dinner and feeling remorseful and rather distended. It is common knowledge that one does not simply watch Jane Eyre willy nilly just as one does not simply walk into Mordor. I had wanted to see this film since even before its release, but workings of the universe were not in my favor (perhaps the universe was trying to spare me the sorrow). It spent a short time in theaters and once it hit movie limbo (no longer in theaters, not yet released/leaked) I was devastated. What can I say; I thoroughly enjoy period dramas because I possess such refined taste, sophistication, and class. Oh and Michael Fassbender's fine-ass self is in there. CanIgetaAmenLadies???

So I watched Jane Eyre in all its Gothic glory. As expected, I was left visually pleased in its memories but regretful, resentful, and still distended in its passing. Very much like a bad date. In dire need of levity and a resolution that doesn't make me want to punt a panda, I decided to watch the 2009 mini-series of Jane Austen's Emma. For the next three days it was 1814 Highbury.

When I returned from 1814 and back to 2011, I missed Highbury very much. The fashions consisted of Empire silhouette dresses with lace and ribbons, causing me to question my not one but two purchases of booty shorts. The weather required the use of parasols and bonnets yet allowed for the donning of layers. It's so goddamn hot here in Texas that it's no wonder I bought two pairs of booty shorts! The characters have daily teatime with biscuits and cake. Today I baked cookies by opening a frozen package of Pilsbury cookie dough and baking it. My biscuits tasted like shit so naturally, I ate two of them. The communication between Austen's characters was eloquent and witty. For instance, after Emma's condescending slight against Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley berates her saying, "It was badly done, Emma. Badly done." Had I been Mr. Knightley, I would have said something to the effect of, "Girl you done fucked up," all whilst wearing booty shorts and my prostitute eyes (because that is what I wear to a picnic on Box Hill). Alas, this is why I shall never be a lady of the manor, for I do not own the manner.

I am greatly tickled by the comedy of manners. I find that this sort of humor is lacking profoundly in today's mainstream entertainment, and was not Emma a mainstream novel in its time? While I thoroughly enjoy the films consisting of John Cena shooting his way through a world that happens to have a very explosive atmosphere of unstable gases, I equally love films (and books) whose plots rely on verbal sparring as opposed to that of bullets, blades, and bodies. I believe that my occasional favor for stories dominated by witty banter resides in that they give me a more realistic fantasy to fall into. Quite simply, I find solace in the fact that I can verbally destroy you and cause you to feel shame and defeat because I most likely cannot fire two guns in your stupid face whilst jumping in the air and going, "Aaah!"

Perhaps I will follow up this mini-series with another glorious adaptation of Emma: 1995's Clueless. Because I experienced Clueless as a child before even knowing what Emma was, I can't help but say "Ouch that was way harsh, Tai" when Emma basically tells Miss Bates, "Shut da fuck up" in both reading and watching the story. I really enjoyed watching Emma, and Romola Garai making lulzy facial expressions. I laughed out loud when Mr. Elton proposed to her in the carriage because her face made me believe that if but for a moment she was about to say, "Aaaas iiiiifff!!!" Overall this series is quite beautiful to look at. The scenery is beautiful as well as the costumes and of course, Romola Garai (I shall add a piece of her magnificent hair to my legendary wig of destiny). The genteel mannerisms rubbed off on me as well, further inspiring me to be a classy lady. See, I only used "goddamn" twice in this entry. That's class.