I like movie trailers. Even though you over-enthusiastic prats have a terrible habit of showing me all the funniest/coolest/sexahhhh-ist bits in your previews and completely spoiling me for the actual film, I appreciate the effort you take in showing how truly excremental the latest Jennifer Anniston RomCom is, or allowing me to make a rational and informed decision about where to place “See Mirror, Mirror” on my “Things I want to do this June” list. (right after “Develop colon cancer” atm)
But the “trailer for the trailer” bullshit has to stop. Seriously.
I don’t give a shit how good the movie is. I don’t care if you shot two solid hours of Kate Beckinsale making out with Liv Tyler in the back the Millennium Falcon, piloted by the ghost of Bill Hicks, scored with a heretofore unreleased 120 minute version James Brown’s ‘Sex machine’ (tell me you would not watch the FUCK out of that movie) – I don’t need to see a sneak preview of the mother fucking PREVIEW.
What’s next? A trailer of the trailer of the trailer? The sneak preview of the preview’s preview’s preview? Where does it end, a sane man might ask? And I’ll tell him where. It ends with me preferring to punch myself so hard in the fucking brain it kills my unborn grandchildren that see your goddamn movie.
The Two Minutes Hate is a semi-regular feature on this blog, where I basically rant like a pantsless hobo about something that irks me. Feel free to ignore me. I probably just need hugs.
Dear China Glaze Marketing Dept,
I understand that with no real point of difference to your product, you need to find ways to differentiate yourselves from the million other companies out there who
make young women feel insecure about the way they look Make With The Pretty. And tying in with a movie franchise, yeah, I can see a strategy like that selling some weight for you. But that sound you heard when the world awoke yesterday to news of your official Hunger Games nail polish? It was the sound of a million eyebrows racing each other towards their owner’s hairlines. The thunder of a million jaws dropping. The mingled harmonics of million simultaneous “WTF’s”.
First up – you called your collection ‘Colors from the Capitol’. I understand you probably haven’t read the books and all, but in the HG paradigm, the people who live in the Capitol are the FUCKING BAD GUYS. A morally bankrupt, decadent elite so numbed to the suffering of their fellows they consider it entertaining to drop 24 kids into an arena and watch them slaughter each other on live TV. This is akin to launching a range of Wehrmacht-inspired apparel to coincide with the release of Schindler’s List. What. The. Fuck.
Second – the scenes in Capitol where Katniss is being glammed up for the sake of the drooly-faced audience? It’s a figurative and literal exercise in objectification. Katniss isn’t made to look fierce. She isn’t made to look competent. She’s made to look pretty. It’s a damning indictment from the author about class and gender stereotypes, and it’s meant to make us feel bad that Katniss is reduced to a sparkly meat-puppet for the sake of winning a chance at sponsors (and therefore, increasing her chances of survival).
Anyone who’s read the books knows this. Anyone who hasn’t read the books and buys your pretty finger paint and then reads the books will feel like a sucker. You want to do some good? Release an official Hunger Games bow and arrow set, and hold classes about how girls don’t need to paint their fingers pretty to be taken seriously.
I know you need to make money and shit, but for the love of god, you folks could Miss The Point for your country at an Olympic fucking level.
The Two Minutes Hate is a semi-regular feature on this blog, where I basically rant like a pantsless hobo about something that irks me mightily. Previous outbursts can be found by selecting ‘Two Minutes Hate’ in the Select Category drop down menu in the right hand column.
Dear Makers of Doctor Who,
I get that you write a science fiction program. I get there needs to be a certain amount of latitude given by your viewers in terms of setting and technology. You have a police box that can travel in time and space, and even though its nav’ circuits seem perpetually locked onto “Present Day London”, I understand a certain degree of suspension of disbelief is necessary to even get an invite to this party.
But you know, when you have a device that can re-attach molecular bonds, detect strange goings-onses, intercept and send signals, remotely operate the TARDIS, burn, cut, and ignite substances, fuse metal, scan and identify anything, repair anything, amplify or augment sound, modify mobile phones to enable “universal roaming” (lawwwwwwl), disable alien disguises, resonate concrete to precipitate the single most deviant sexual relationship I’ve ever come across in film or television, and pretty much solve any problem your writers can’t think their way out of, all without a need, or indeed, even a means by which to program or modify said device, most people wouldn’t call it a “sonic screwdriver”.
They’d call it a fucking MAGIC WAND.
Dear Peter Jackson,
I’ve seen Bad Taste and Meet the Feebles. I know that beneath your Academy Award winning glitz, you’re a basement-dwelling roleplayer nerd, just like me. You know how this shit works. And we are both well aware that Charisma is a dump stat for Dwarven Warriors.
I know you need smex appeal in the Hobbit to get the ladiez along for the ride, and the source material (13 short dudes and an even shorter dude doing lots of walking) doesn’t leave much to work with. But Aiden Turner is too good looking to play a Dwarf.
Study the picture. Note the long flowing locks of raven hair, blowing in an inexplicable breeze. The three-day dusting of finely-sculpted stubble that couldn’t even remotely be considered a beard. This ‘dwarf’ would not be out of place beside Orlando Bloom at some uptown Mirkwood cocktail party. If it was your intention to cover the internets with with tide of Kili/Legolas slashfic in which God himself could drown, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
Unless the rest of Thorin’s mob are a pack of dreadlocked, tubby trainwrecks, with manky hair and beards you could hang Christmas decorations from, and unless they spend the entire two movies giving Fili stick about how pretty he is…. ah, hell, who am I kidding. I’ll probably see it four times anyway…
I understand that we are not a race of giants, and 6’7 can’t be considered “normal height” anywhere outside the locker room of the NBA, but your seats are too goddamn small. The Imp from “a Game of Thrones” couldn’t fit into these things comfortably. Of course, who’s to say if he could’ve sat anywhere comfortably, given that his brother and sister were making naughty in each other’s pants. God knows that would leave me feeling out of sorts on a divan made entirely of playboy bunnies. But if there were a place that a vertically-challenged bystander to sibling incest could rest serenely, I assure you that your bastard seats would not be it.
I appreciate that you’ve supplied me the option to pay extra money for the privilege of not sitting with my knees under my chin for four straight hours. But in the event of a crash, wouldn’t you prefer to know that it will be a freakishly tall man ripping the exit open, all bare chested and glistening*, rather than the octogenarians or plump middle-aged women who can actually afford to pay the extra cash? Are you hoping I’ll be able to leap from my plebeian seat and assist the manicured Dolce&Gabbana horse in her struggles with the emergency release? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ll be too busy unfolding my legs from around my fucking head.
*Dramatization. May not have happened.
Dear fellow males,
Please stop talking to me at urinals. Don’t even try to make eye-contact with me. Jesus wept, you’re there for business, not to find a Best Man for your wedding. Stare at the wall. Say nothing. If I am on fire, like literally being consumed by flames at that very moment, you are permitted to mention it to me. BRIEFLY. If the Z-Virus has gotten loose from R&D and my co-workers are roaming the halls, hungry for the sweet gamey tang of human flesh, no, SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH. Do your thing, zip up, and walk the fuck away. I’ll find out about the zombie thing when I get outside.
Why do I even need to explain this? Where was your father when you were growing up? His job was to teach you two fundamental rules about toiletry: 1) Don’t get it caught in the zip. 2) Don’t run your mouth to another man while you have your JUNK IN YOUR HAND.
Maybe you grew up without a dad, and the shocking erosion in basic toilet ettiquette is indicative of society’s greater decline. But please. For the love of God.
Akira is widely lauded as one of, if not THE greatest manga of all time. It’s a work of sweeping scope, beautiful artistry and frightening vision. It’s no great shock that Warner Bros have bought the rights to it. What is shocking is that all eight male actors who have been solicited to play the lead roles are FUCKING WHITE.
The notion that white audiences will not go to see a blockbuster movie with asian leads is condescending, narrow-minded and goddamn insulting.
The author of this story was Japanese. The setting is neo TOKYO. The lead characters are named “Kaneda” and “Tetsuo“. This is bigotry at it’s worst, akin to casting a whitey to play the lead in Othello. I thought we lived in the 21st century.
Click this link and STOP IT.