Magic Mike. Hmmm. Put me down as a firm “It wasn’t awful.” Nobody embarrassed themselves. Tatum Channing was sort of adorable. I had assumed the music would be pretty rockin’, rocktastic, in fact, but no such luck. It’s Raining Men is the only thing I can remember and that’s not much of a highlight. Tampa looked like Tampa; make of that what you will.
And the stripping? Considering the quality of meat they had to work with, especially considering that, it was amazingly dull.
I think you need to approach the fleshy arts with a certain amount of lechery to have them work and that was missing here. The filmmakers might not have been actually embarrassed by it all, but they certainly didn’t seem to relish the sight of Matt Bomer in a thong, either.
They seemed sort of resigned, let’s-just-get-this-unfortunate-business-out-of-the-way-shall-we?
When Joe Manganiello hits the stage after working up with a vacuum cock pump, I want to not only see the results, I want to linger on them. Instead, we get a fireman costume that would have passed muster on the Disney channel.
To put this in perspective, Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter was showing at the same theater and as we left, I wished we had gone to see that instead. How’s that for a review?
In other queer happenings (or mo mo news, as it were,) Secret Agent Fred, the Fashion Sensation and I are all going to see Magic Mike, a biopic ripped from the headlines about the lives and loves, the laffs and heartaches of stripperboys, starring Joe Manganiello’s titties.
Amazingly, Fred had heard nothing of this epic until Sunday at brunch, but once we had filled him in on the details (i.e. Joe Manganiello’s titties,) he was enthusiastically on board. I’ll report back as soon as I can get my lap back under the keyboard.
I don’t cry. I am not a crying person. I say that not as some testimony to how tough or butch I am (there’s an amusing idea,) it’s just not how I react. When R Man sickened and died, I made it through those very dark days without a tear, and not because I restrained myself; I just don’t cry.
Imagine my surprise tonight, then, as I watched the movie 50/50 and burst into huge weeping sobs. Wracking, wailing, misery pouring from several orifices. I had to pause the movie. I scared Saki. I sort of scared myself, a rational part of me watching horrified demanding to know what the fuck was going on. Could it be more than just reacting to cinematic mastery? Mmmmmmmaybe.
When the movie first came out and got such good reviews, I considered going to watch it, even though a film about dealing with cancer sounded like trouble after the last couple of years. Thank god I skipped it; I have a vivid mental image of myself huddled in tears in the men’s room of the Lowe’s metroplex. Yuck.
Maybe it was just a perfect emotional storm. I’m still sick; R Man’s death is (obviously, understandably) a sensitive part of my life; and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is both cute and effective in the role. Still, I just wasn’t prepared for this. I have so little experience with the phenomenon, I didn’t even know crying makes your face hurt. Does that seem fair? First you feel bad and then you feel bad?
Crying. What a stupid idea.
I just love crossing things off my little OCD To Do list.
1) Get my creaky old Mac upgraded and all the bugs lurking around in its depths expunged so that watching porn wouldn’t be so annoyingly slow. I had planned to haul the old dear all the way down to a very inconvenient part of downtown where the very idea of parking is to be laughed at when I remembered Secret Agent Fred’s boyfriend Duane works for Apple. He knows all the kinds of tech stuff required and which is at the fingers of an ordinary 6 year old, but beyond mrpeenee.
We had a very amusing afternoon as he beat the computer into submission and then we went over to Fred’s and rearranged his kitchen because we’re all gay and stuff. And now that my computer is blazing along, I realize how sluggish it’s been and how resigned I had gotten to it. No more, mutha.
2) Go see Dark Shadows. Also with Secret Agent Fred. I loved it, it looks great, so very Tim Burton-ish with lots of visual gags. Michelle Pfeiffer is very tough bitch, which I love, especially when she parks herself at the top of some stairs with a shotgun anchored on her hip, blazing away. Johnny Depp, of course, is wonderful. I had worried after seeing the trailer that he would just be some halfassed cross between Captain Jack Black and the Michael Jackson imitation from Willy Wonka, but nope. Interesting and funny and sexy, even under a couple of pounds of kabuki/dracula makeup.
3) Find a Christmas card, just to get ready.
Check, Check and Check.
I stopped going to movies a couple of years ago. I’m not sure why; they just seemed more trouble than they’re worth. Strange considering how wild I was for them when I was younger. I remember when the first multiplexes opened, I would sometimes wander in and go watch whatever was starting. Today, though, I actually went all the way downtown all by myself, just like a big boy, to see Hugo. After a hiatus of movie watching as long as mine, this might not have been the strongest choice, but maybe it was sort of easing back into the habit, I’m not sure.
I had gotten the impression Hugo was a dazzling steampunk adventure; instead it turned out to be a very well made, insipid little movie. Steampunk? Not so much. After about the third scene of the little kid running through the big giant gears, I asked myself “When is this actualy going to start?”
And was that Jude Law? I guess when you’re Martin Scorcese you can dial up just about anybody you want for what was essentially a cameo. “Yeah, come on in Jude, well get you out in time for your dentist appointment this afternoon, promise.”
Also, 3-D seems like as big a disappointment this time as it was in the 50s. Certainly in the big, rushing-through-the crowd shots I couldn’t ever figure what I was looking at.
I did like the lovely homage to the early days of film making, with the studios of French cinema pioneers recreated and scenes both as they would have been shown and how they were made. And I have a crush on Sacha Baron Cohen so OK for him in his tight blue velour pants.
You know what I think would have made the whole thing much more worthwhile? Big titties.
Perhaps you’ve heard of this crazy French silent movie from 1902 Le Voyage Dans La Lune (A Trip To the Moon) that is considered the first science fiction movie made. The hand colored versions by its creator were thought to be lost until a version was found in Spain in the 1990s. There is an excellent story about the film and the new soundtrack over at NPR. You can see it here
The film looks to be both completely antique (much closer to vaudeville than what a modern audience would think of as a movie) and totally psychodelica, trippin’ like a thousand screaming monkeys. Apropriately, the soundtrack was produced by a groovy French band called Air, who I like but have never paid much attention to. Now, I’ve decided I need this soundtrack. Groove on.
So many, many people ask me “mrpeenee, what is your favorite big muscial about a psychotic mother pimping her daughter out into a life of quasi-prostitution?” I laugh tinklingly and reply “Oh, that would be Gypsy.”
Take it away Miss Mazeppa:
Once I was a schleppah….
Sorry, I can’t talk right now, A&E is running an all day marathon of Criminal Minds and I’m only halfway through. A day long orgy of grim, tight mouthed FBI agents and serial killers who giggle. Tip: if the guy sitting next to you on the bus is giggling, you’re in trouble.
A big part of Criminal Minds’ appeal is Shemar Moore
The FBI apparently doubles as a gay porn factory. Shemar also starred in Tyler Perry’s Madea: Diary of Mad Black Woman. I know this because I have been sucked into the vortex of black cinema on the On Demand channel of my cable. The “black cinema” turns out to be all Tyler Perry, all the time. It’s as if a “gay cinema” channel was dedicated to permutations on Cage aux Folles. Actually, that’s probably happened but I just haven’t found it yet.
There is on-going speculation about Tyler Perry’s sexuality, to which I respond with a hearty “duh.” And it’s not his choice of appearing in drag for his most famous role, it his directorial decisions that give away his big mo-ness. Exhibits A and B:
stars of a couple of Perry’s vehicles and typical of all the men in his movies all of whom are humpy beyond any human norm. It’s possible they are mutants. Perry’s set-up for the shots of female protagonists show the tender concerns of a dish detergent commercial, while the boys get an on-going soft-core porn thang.
Plus, the women, who are always strong , but oddly mistreated, usually look like they’re about ten years older than the men (strong, sensitive, caring, butch, Christian.) What’s with that?
Lastly, here is the big wedding scene from Madea’s Family Reunion.
Could anyone but a gay man with serious conflicts about heterosexual norms give the greenlight to this in his movie. Yes, those are live women strung up there with some harps. Did I mention various closer shots of the set included big muscley almost-naked men in frames with angel wings and trumpets. Why? Uh, the polite answer might be “I dunno;” the less polite supposition being Tyler owed some trick a favor and this was payback.
Anyway, I gotta go, I got serial killers waiting.
You know how deeply I lust after the enormous hunk o’ beef, Joe Manganiello, from True Blood. I have even taught myself to spell his name correctly, the better to write “Mrs. Joe Manganiello” on my notebook should I ever find myself trapped in homeroom again.
Word now reaches us he will be participating in the biopic of Channing Tatum, aka Mr. Potato Head, specifically on that sleazy portion of Mr. Channing’s life when he was a stripper. I had to make a short sidetrip through Wikipedia to find out who this Channing creature is; turns out he ground out some G.I. Joe movie. But wasn’t that Demi Moore before she got her Showgirl tits? I’m confused.
Not so confused that I’m not already salivating at the idea of seeing Joe peel down to a tiny little thong. Yay babay.
I have once again waded into the questionable waters of home decorating. I know I am actually better at oral sex than I am at Martha Stewart-ish projects, but that still stops me from neither one nor the other.
My latest plunge (into decorating, not blowjobs) was reupholstering the dining room chairs. Amazingly, I think they turned out splendidly, especially since the whole thing was so easy. The only thing I fell short on was my timing.
That staple of cornball good time cinema, Grease, was on television Sunday night. I knew the only point of the whole show is the last ten minutes when Sandy tarts herself up as a whore in order to lure Danny into her pants (poor thing would have probably done better with big ol’ dildo, both for her own love box and for snagging John Taravolta.) I decided to knock out the chairs while the rest of the film was struggling along. I did, too, but missed You’re the One that I Want by seconds and wound up with the decidedly second-tier big number We Go Together instead. Rats. There was the consolation of seeing a young, blonde-ish Lorenzo Lamas attempting to shake his ass, but still….
The velvet I used was on sale for 40 percent off (yay) and looked shocking pink in the store (fucking fluorescents.) In person, it’s a much more staid magenta, but I still like it.
Before. Tired and tatty.
After. Pussy Pink