tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59015368728981728312024-02-18T23:14:19.245-05:00HOUSE OF SINformerly JUSTINE'S LAIR OF PULP PULCHRITUDE & BADASS MAMAS
(Where we take delight on the corruption of the innocent)A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-72723857442793895582023-12-23T19:34:00.001-05:002023-12-23T19:34:00.137-05:00Merry Christmas<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuclCLnb7jfUkSpgzyMEyeNsF8dWVJNbnibAc8IYCJ8dJo4vnzoU1_BWZZzZTkzGl5Corh-RIWKsJ2ID9x2Xq8hZggqSMov54-zvnL1kcj_wVBbrBoh8irhvcYmRuQa24qjUBIklrssiDX31i-65Nv2cvEpKeFmn2hpdCa1JoWUG7PeKwj9dD4SLaWgIK/s640/BlondeSanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuclCLnb7jfUkSpgzyMEyeNsF8dWVJNbnibAc8IYCJ8dJo4vnzoU1_BWZZzZTkzGl5Corh-RIWKsJ2ID9x2Xq8hZggqSMov54-zvnL1kcj_wVBbrBoh8irhvcYmRuQa24qjUBIklrssiDX31i-65Nv2cvEpKeFmn2hpdCa1JoWUG7PeKwj9dD4SLaWgIK/w320-h400/BlondeSanta.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">A Christmas postcard from <b><span style="color: red;">HOUSE OF SIN</span></b>, done through AI art.</span></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-31512892457078753442023-04-18T10:50:00.000-04:002023-04-18T10:50:00.961-04:00Imtemporal beauty<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcXIchEaZDVWd0VQmJeA9CNR2nYrUWh3fkAq_aNj9jrKpW73EOSnjIAXaYXMTvql0NRLNmnst8DlvZS5i4yRaU12NhZqfZHffrVGO46SAvrrwHqtzb2w3-yAmG-ASifjK5qME7ByCpceRvcYbFkkLRhX_-6Nm4r-r8K88f8iSKO83jrUXpEQW-wcHqg/s1006/QUIZSHOW.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="547" data-original-width="1006" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcXIchEaZDVWd0VQmJeA9CNR2nYrUWh3fkAq_aNj9jrKpW73EOSnjIAXaYXMTvql0NRLNmnst8DlvZS5i4yRaU12NhZqfZHffrVGO46SAvrrwHqtzb2w3-yAmG-ASifjK5qME7ByCpceRvcYbFkkLRhX_-6Nm4r-r8K88f8iSKO83jrUXpEQW-wcHqg/w400-h217/QUIZSHOW.bmp" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">She appears
onscreen for just fleeting moments in Robert Redford’s <b>QUIZ SHOW</b> (1994). She has no name, and I don’t recall if she utters
a single line of dialogue. She’s just there. There with the
brevity of a breath, forever immortal on the perennial celluloid strip, morphed
into bytes in digital support, like an aesthetic infection wanting to live for
eternity, a virus of beauty spreading throughout the culture, throughout time.</span><p></p>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Her bejeweled glamour speaks to us as if from
the deep millennia of History. Hers is Nefertiti’s beauty, Cleopatra’s
devouring allure, Circe’s timeless spell. In the context of the film (if we can
so broadly frame her presence onscreen) she seems at the same time to contrast
and to absorb the two wives of the married men in the triangle of male
protagonists: she seems to be the very opposite of shrill Toby Stemple (Johann
Carlo), and a more posh, and yet less intelligent version of middle-class
beauty Sandra Goodwin (Mira Sorvino). Halfway between those two, she resonates
with contingent possibilities, a Schrödinger’s box of yet undecayed realities. She's at
the same time all possible women and a sole vision of desire, burning for a few
frames, and then disappearing into the river of unrealized eternal beauty,
leaving behind her, seared into the viewers’s retina, just one instance of that
realized potential.</span></span>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-38486328513911170162023-04-06T13:21:00.003-04:002023-04-07T10:39:04.809-04:00First day of Spring<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5hxsPZDSC1hr1z8VfdGGeD3Wr-0UtJIRjnDIxz6_QwTGJHoT2KkewjpIDOKEdFwoJBi2C6i-pottse1JIRYgzqGAO_crj3DNdwUrZSK3lujJFagq8SrQJzqUluvnz9KfTzJGzMMJ1UVg_n90Vxd6UgJoGRT3HXjUSg2T5JC1NbEhXYIfvoiA3WY-3A/s2000/GettyImages-505697585-2000x1125.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5hxsPZDSC1hr1z8VfdGGeD3Wr-0UtJIRjnDIxz6_QwTGJHoT2KkewjpIDOKEdFwoJBi2C6i-pottse1JIRYgzqGAO_crj3DNdwUrZSK3lujJFagq8SrQJzqUluvnz9KfTzJGzMMJ1UVg_n90Vxd6UgJoGRT3HXjUSg2T5JC1NbEhXYIfvoiA3WY-3A/w400-h225/GettyImages-505697585-2000x1125.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />I don’t like
winter. There’s no other way to put it. The cold numbs my brain. The grayness
outside, the low leaden clouds, the cold rain, as cold as if the sky was
melting ice, falling to earth bit by icy bit, drains my will. Winter is a great
annual unwanted parenthesis in my life.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But springtime…well,
that’s a whole other thing. A realm of different colors, smells and tastes. It
is a time of activity. Just as in soon to come summer, even idleness is an
activity in itself. The brain synapses begin firing like out-of-control neural
bombs, authentic fireworks of ideas daring me to give them form. In rest, inner
restlessness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The image above,
culled from a well known image bank, has been used for several ends. If I
remember correctly, I saw it in an advertisement for an insurance company. But
that is irrelevant. For it speaks of springtime, inner calm, sublime beauty,
quite eroticism.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Today is the first day when the weather outside
is really hot, with a balmy breeze gently rocking the cradle of this newborn Spring.
And I feel like that image draws me into the inner realm where the gentle
erotic ghosts of springtimes past still roam. And I am there, dancing among
them, while the sun shines down on a pair of beautiful legs.</span></span>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-84627342658504247622022-12-31T15:03:00.001-05:002022-12-31T15:03:00.149-05:00Happy New Year, you perverts!<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_bn6JmdFWdK3K1KJm5SEn1QlfBnywmiwxhownTyY3mvWxZ_e4gBypA23ykQSW8wlV9w0td9PPog8PUqHRRG2Kaeh7xJxGhkgMAYk7Oz_G-sdRNY6fxtBBB1QUQm8mpiLd2obzmcqzJ_TX_SgFTGXoVEn_JaQ__NcyyFsvQqWgYGwkCydfIUTbeANFxA/s1024/Molly%20Schade_02.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="1024" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_bn6JmdFWdK3K1KJm5SEn1QlfBnywmiwxhownTyY3mvWxZ_e4gBypA23ykQSW8wlV9w0td9PPog8PUqHRRG2Kaeh7xJxGhkgMAYk7Oz_G-sdRNY6fxtBBB1QUQm8mpiLd2obzmcqzJ_TX_SgFTGXoVEn_JaQ__NcyyFsvQqWgYGwkCydfIUTbeANFxA/w400-h216/Molly%20Schade_02.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">I guess there’s
nothing quite as relaxing, on a cold winter new year’s eve night, than to relax
on a hot spa, with a glass of sparkling wine, with nothing but a ceiling of
stars above you.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Knowing the world
is beginning its crazy merry-go-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">around</i>
the sun once more. It is strangely comforting, a way to clear one’s mind of all
the troubles that plague this same crazy world, behaving each day more insanely
than before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But then you had
to show up, right, you pervy peeping Tom? Hiding behind the shrubberies, like a
creepy stalker. Don’t you think the world is trouble enough, that I have to
cope with your gluttonous eyes as well?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjss_BUUbgy3dT6SASvzWRAsMi8RLjk851lgzMFHOq5sfgcvRVr3irUcR1tJyH4-Ct-9F-zv675Ysl8PpPC2iBt4Yuco4wP51Ze_ARdVlr1L48TPJgsNWzYm7QeH6-3kFcrN8yKR_jQdH4IkFd3FgxTtju6OliV22y9jJ2FElG_0mX5zeLYiInZ6Zt9vw/s1024/Molly%20Schade_06.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="1024" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjss_BUUbgy3dT6SASvzWRAsMi8RLjk851lgzMFHOq5sfgcvRVr3irUcR1tJyH4-Ct-9F-zv675Ysl8PpPC2iBt4Yuco4wP51Ze_ARdVlr1L48TPJgsNWzYm7QeH6-3kFcrN8yKR_jQdH4IkFd3FgxTtju6OliV22y9jJ2FElG_0mX5zeLYiInZ6Zt9vw/w400-h215/Molly%20Schade_06.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Don’t you have
nothing better to do on a night like this? Didn’t your mother taught you that it
is not nice to spy on naked girls when they’re unaware? Just relaxing,
defenseless, not wanting to care about perverts like you?<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB5xcb0JABsQxpynDGZX_Y7RXTmnaBJQK3ltf_OxJ3Ck8tnA25ehGDZUaD6jqBnQ2J9vc1DQIvjlRq2MGLan073EJpD9O1iMWC5h0Ga_3mnuu1TwXXuP5lZWbjiup9DtzeaVz3e5Gcw8tzCU-BzTLD6MmvQEEY1Z4gQtimYoAMOt3e9napUb_fsmQeA/s1024/Molly%20Schade_09.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1024" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB5xcb0JABsQxpynDGZX_Y7RXTmnaBJQK3ltf_OxJ3Ck8tnA25ehGDZUaD6jqBnQ2J9vc1DQIvjlRq2MGLan073EJpD9O1iMWC5h0Ga_3mnuu1TwXXuP5lZWbjiup9DtzeaVz3e5Gcw8tzCU-BzTLD6MmvQEEY1Z4gQtimYoAMOt3e9napUb_fsmQeA/w400-h215/Molly%20Schade_09.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">What? You never
saw such lovely breasts as mine? <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTZKK1QL9jCDIWXdaVge6WyvvBQfL4a9LNHcbkuF8W941INU7TppyH7PhjoMxGB4sDKZ-9fJgt1haZvc57RTAmZxxStRe-fOpcts_WkSeh8E0mutgoCiZ_k2cOr0tBM6tpscGCYE9QWLUOE3DJUyv4J5-TGLbkBK_Kxk31XAy_HmFxttMKUF83VYYkQ/s1024/Molly%20Schade_18.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="1024" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTZKK1QL9jCDIWXdaVge6WyvvBQfL4a9LNHcbkuF8W941INU7TppyH7PhjoMxGB4sDKZ-9fJgt1haZvc57RTAmZxxStRe-fOpcts_WkSeh8E0mutgoCiZ_k2cOr0tBM6tpscGCYE9QWLUOE3DJUyv4J5-TGLbkBK_Kxk31XAy_HmFxttMKUF83VYYkQ/w400-h217/Molly%20Schade_18.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Really? I can’t
see what’s so special about them. I’m sure you saw lots more breasts just as
nice?<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVs99YPUp6leuV1mtWGlz4-GA0-qYjepoCSDvpzc797StqXoHpXKTghJDbvfkUE3OGLBES1CsPC7cUorwvgF3QLaemzLzDnTRQHN57i_Wh_l62Oxi0upNv_dyRNf2L1zNSGoCdaQHore_49rGqtihDlQrYTyuROjnM1Okk4fU8uyVemAZ0j1luRPjxQQ/s1024/Molly%20Schade_19.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="1024" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVs99YPUp6leuV1mtWGlz4-GA0-qYjepoCSDvpzc797StqXoHpXKTghJDbvfkUE3OGLBES1CsPC7cUorwvgF3QLaemzLzDnTRQHN57i_Wh_l62Oxi0upNv_dyRNf2L1zNSGoCdaQHore_49rGqtihDlQrYTyuROjnM1Okk4fU8uyVemAZ0j1luRPjxQQ/w400-h214/Molly%20Schade_19.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">No? Really? Not in
a million dreams? Come on, don’t look at me like this. I can’t stand that sad
my-puppy-is-dead look.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6GfgsI7PTiNSn63kNvtMzS-Fw_Ee-TrXdBXB1afuRfYdFcuS8PUAAWwVPkaOjq7Ypt6e6viuDDrYhJxZcyZnB38BTyz-nRZTwPN0uaoJancw7wJpzS3Jg9kGhalyWEnZNynQpoQqiCD_9bhMv8QcvIuexFMfv0bwkqKMOJflYSpuOPyGILrcMl23Ow/s1024/Molly%20Schade_20.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1024" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6GfgsI7PTiNSn63kNvtMzS-Fw_Ee-TrXdBXB1afuRfYdFcuS8PUAAWwVPkaOjq7Ypt6e6viuDDrYhJxZcyZnB38BTyz-nRZTwPN0uaoJancw7wJpzS3Jg9kGhalyWEnZNynQpoQqiCD_9bhMv8QcvIuexFMfv0bwkqKMOJflYSpuOPyGILrcMl23Ow/w400-h215/Molly%20Schade_20.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Well, Ok. Take a
good look at them, you crazy pervert. And Happy New Year to all your perverts
out there!</span><p></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-38886221825509973682022-12-30T17:31:00.001-05:002022-12-31T05:50:27.830-05:00Pin-Up Bunty<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPczuxQCkBDdcHSlNe-NnIS96zRV9lQUzrvS75hWevYT5A5MYe9NFU-Uy7Ki8uPVEo_irNwI7x0eqSC7W90a2GK5o8iaUEiz-Koy5SGioV6zRr8iGzxVSQ9QPV5CgJo1xjgG1lkC6746KUrmSMZqd2Idjc5Z3hoCEwg9M41W6o2TH7n_kv2GRy13D_Vw/s750/128428.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPczuxQCkBDdcHSlNe-NnIS96zRV9lQUzrvS75hWevYT5A5MYe9NFU-Uy7Ki8uPVEo_irNwI7x0eqSC7W90a2GK5o8iaUEiz-Koy5SGioV6zRr8iGzxVSQ9QPV5CgJo1xjgG1lkC6746KUrmSMZqd2Idjc5Z3hoCEwg9M41W6o2TH7n_kv2GRy13D_Vw/w400-h240/128428.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">I can’t say that I’m
a fan of the popular BBC series <i>FATHER
BROWN</i> (2013-present), as I haven’t seen more than a couple episodes from
its fifth series (2016-2017), and those, caught by chance on TV, not in its
entirety. However, the character of Penelope “Bunty” Windermere, played by
British actress Emer Kenny, and of whom I always think of as Lady Penelope
Windermere, caught my fancy. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0iZLhPdU8cHkIb3ruGmjKX8rLnd7ePaSJ19F_1tkG8-rHsr5M8HadL0I3od8xGauB_w9Q5k2pttTtc3Mz1ocNkqh4kkfgvfRRVwzA6NmWt9jOTmZMvsX2fchE8m6KyyaTrwdYP6PI5fRosb0yVaZX-DbDeBnN6cPsV-kL12wPyY7qifenSmy96sVZg/s608/Penelope%20Windermere.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="608" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0iZLhPdU8cHkIb3ruGmjKX8rLnd7ePaSJ19F_1tkG8-rHsr5M8HadL0I3od8xGauB_w9Q5k2pttTtc3Mz1ocNkqh4kkfgvfRRVwzA6NmWt9jOTmZMvsX2fchE8m6KyyaTrwdYP6PI5fRosb0yVaZX-DbDeBnN6cPsV-kL12wPyY7qifenSmy96sVZg/w400-h271/Penelope%20Windermere.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><span style="font-family: arial;">Setting the series
in the early ninety-fifties, instead of the first third of the twentieth
century, like the Chesterton stories they’re loosely based on, allows for
wonderful fashion and beautiful cars, and Penelope distinguishes herself on
both counts. Now, Emer Kenny, in the few episodes I did catch, makes for a fascinating
fifties fallen aristocrat, at the same time daring and yet feminine, outspoken and
yet wise, haughty and yet compassionate. And terribly sexy.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoKjFJk6xNHkb9_0F13hM_hCSTWAP1zKZieM-bmgEBn2C-52V_djz8ExzNE4q88FL2UQYdMJdTAv0uzl12CHjWnrtNBQ_yZ1AsWwqR41rdq4Dd1FsxbsdVD1JD80FYIu_D7nwP11TYyPpLfUy9I2sQ-qWxfBr_0OI26LEpps9g_hB6zg5fjG8T0Zarw/s1200/830739bc6a1137ad4b55118c055efb2f.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoKjFJk6xNHkb9_0F13hM_hCSTWAP1zKZieM-bmgEBn2C-52V_djz8ExzNE4q88FL2UQYdMJdTAv0uzl12CHjWnrtNBQ_yZ1AsWwqR41rdq4Dd1FsxbsdVD1JD80FYIu_D7nwP11TYyPpLfUy9I2sQ-qWxfBr_0OI26LEpps9g_hB6zg5fjG8T0Zarw/w320-h400/830739bc6a1137ad4b55118c055efb2f.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Then, in the
episode “<i>The Eagle and the Daw</i>”,
Father Brown is incarcerated, framed for murder by a condemned woman that he
had helped convict, and it falls on the shoulders of Bunty and Mrs McCarthy to
clear him of the false charges. And while I was watching posh Lady Penelope
visiting the vindictive woman in jail, interrogating suspects, and even climbing a
ladder into the parish church’s rooftop to recover a decisive piece of evidence, always dressed in
those elegant fifties clothes, her lips properly glossed, her hair wonderfully
wavy, I found myself thinking that I would love to have a set of
posters/calendars/whatever of Bunty posing as a Pin-Up girl. You know what I
mean: those gorgeous fifties Pin-Ups by Gil Elvgren, with pleated skirts and
garter belts, tight sweaters and ballerina shoes, tight pants and naked torsos,
with slender arms covering trembling breasts…<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxh3UrHu2kT7f4i2uOAGIjscVJjOyn9i9ws8v7fb-mCwmA-GBuyEW0ohHTsNFGKfXuOHomxwudgRBtzamMbqo2OvlJjdK8Vwb7X6M25ZahLVOQjgQhBIBX-7ogu-0wexTcC8YIAM8aADF61SjHHsY16mf5yh8hy9T69hx4m2yzBWXzCAqhwYLV_zHuQ/s1039/Sem%20T%C3%ADtulo4.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="1039" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxh3UrHu2kT7f4i2uOAGIjscVJjOyn9i9ws8v7fb-mCwmA-GBuyEW0ohHTsNFGKfXuOHomxwudgRBtzamMbqo2OvlJjdK8Vwb7X6M25ZahLVOQjgQhBIBX-7ogu-0wexTcC8YIAM8aADF61SjHHsY16mf5yh8hy9T69hx4m2yzBWXzCAqhwYLV_zHuQ/w400-h201/Sem%20T%C3%ADtulo4.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8HAb7gmr2s5ERf1PHjVpeQbF_fzDfJbJ542IhQPiQK_MIDYSgLgQU_wV56be8CiJTGn2towEbiivUdNOZWTtQjKOlb6cF2HirQgbiJ-gjboguNJejDS8b9Z25DFKPb9iRii9kgTaoOM4vLvCYWOzSi2p62Wkty552FKaKv9kP8Cgl2n72l-Q_Q2e_A/s1048/Sem%20T%C3%ADtulo6.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="1048" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8HAb7gmr2s5ERf1PHjVpeQbF_fzDfJbJ542IhQPiQK_MIDYSgLgQU_wV56be8CiJTGn2towEbiivUdNOZWTtQjKOlb6cF2HirQgbiJ-gjboguNJejDS8b9Z25DFKPb9iRii9kgTaoOM4vLvCYWOzSi2p62Wkty552FKaKv9kP8Cgl2n72l-Q_Q2e_A/w400-h189/Sem%20T%C3%ADtulo6.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4nvlDFKTgBw6Z0axzNqZ5ZgC1Csj9W3LRmh0Lv5nfr57Ee6Ld6zmL9OhvlCZgpLdCOC0UefwFPECSm8j-uPMm5WOeej_piayi83ERa042_-JHhMjxynUCE-i1v_kXDOaRxG4Mwqm1CYDHu6fyFeI1ZFOYgNsuj5Kijzbu8jeboCTbAFv1DI0dVFB8g/s1049/Sem%20T%C3%ADtulo7.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1049" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4nvlDFKTgBw6Z0axzNqZ5ZgC1Csj9W3LRmh0Lv5nfr57Ee6Ld6zmL9OhvlCZgpLdCOC0UefwFPECSm8j-uPMm5WOeej_piayi83ERa042_-JHhMjxynUCE-i1v_kXDOaRxG4Mwqm1CYDHu6fyFeI1ZFOYgNsuj5Kijzbu8jeboCTbAFv1DI0dVFB8g/w400-h195/Sem%20T%C3%ADtulo7.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Those were images
that plagued my mind for a few days afterwards. Then, just two episodes after that one,
there came “</span><i style="font-family: arial;">The Crimson Feather</i><span style="font-family: arial;">”, and
the place that gave its name for the episode, was no more and no less than a
house of ill repute where, as fate demanded, Lady Penelope chose to infiltrate
herself in order to check if a missing girl was working there. And then, some
of the images in my mind gained form when Bunty appeared on stage on a casting
performance, clad in stunningly daring lingerie.</span><p></p>
<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglr7BojVclzQzAmxSP05y9CmVzciUDYlDYSReRllaouqa3kBOmStA1N_Au-PMCul5aJPmtqh6mXl3dpVVJfwHW2KTIwaW7KFpnoA-2Wl6GX-ba2Erzuwi3wu8mwvPIsExGJPab6VIERjGdpoKfYvLS7OiDi1G56k_isAb5Yr9JlfJsl3GlfFVc17MtqA/s2000/The%20Crimson%20Feather.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglr7BojVclzQzAmxSP05y9CmVzciUDYlDYSReRllaouqa3kBOmStA1N_Au-PMCul5aJPmtqh6mXl3dpVVJfwHW2KTIwaW7KFpnoA-2Wl6GX-ba2Erzuwi3wu8mwvPIsExGJPab6VIERjGdpoKfYvLS7OiDi1G56k_isAb5Yr9JlfJsl3GlfFVc17MtqA/w400-h266/The%20Crimson%20Feather.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">And I found it soothing…or should I say <i>fitting</i>…to find out that clearly I was
not the only one harboring such undignified erotic thoughts about Lady Penelope
Windermere.</span> <p></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-38896902837600373822022-12-28T18:40:00.000-05:002022-12-28T18:40:12.511-05:00Sights not seen<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnhy5Sg5C04B0CTshkcIHXCh3S08aF-w7SaLW05Rln2bgj_KAgkUQ0RU272YVSpIyif7_-3GQiUFx03Fg2CNqZTLAaNpa_w75w0iHX018__obFU6nw0RLy9XBVZltAUfBc6WbqlmLWpuUhcsHuIW-iOsKMeE2Q-AkOlK1QgTlHwQKj9RA_7aaXpq_vw/s1920/Heavy%20Metal%20(1981).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1920" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnhy5Sg5C04B0CTshkcIHXCh3S08aF-w7SaLW05Rln2bgj_KAgkUQ0RU272YVSpIyif7_-3GQiUFx03Fg2CNqZTLAaNpa_w75w0iHX018__obFU6nw0RLy9XBVZltAUfBc6WbqlmLWpuUhcsHuIW-iOsKMeE2Q-AkOlK1QgTlHwQKj9RA_7aaXpq_vw/w400-h216/Heavy%20Metal%20(1981).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Around the time </span><b style="font-family: arial;">HEAVY METAL </b><span style="font-family: arial;">(1981) was released, an
older cousin of mine had a poster of this scene on his bedroom wall. I would be
eleven, maybe twelve, he was already sixteen. After much cajoling, and begging,
and trading, I finally persuaded him to let me have it, unbeknownst to my
parents. He always had wonderful posters on his walls. I remember another one,
with a psychedelic Bob Marley painting that made his rasta hair seem alive like
that many colorful serpents, and another one of Björn Borg, and an unstapled
double spread from a music magazine featuring Agnetha and Frida from ABBA,
singing in very short skirts and fishnets. Later on, this last one would also
be mine. But right then no other image set my mind on fire like this one did.
For in it, there was an unexpected revelation: animated cartoons could also be
sexy.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As every preteen,
I watched lots of cartoons on TV, and just like any preteen, I felt that quite indescribable
pre-sexual tingle of arousal when a sexy cartoon girl – say, Sheila on the Dungeons
& Dragons TV series, for example – was in dangerous situations; or –
supreme pleasure – was captured by the bad guys and tied to a post in some damp
and dark cavern. In that image, however, in its printed immobility and glorious
color, was suddenly depicted everything my young mind struggled to imagine could
happen to my bound heroines. Or, more precisely, what was hidden beneath their
cartoon clothes. (Of course, I knew <i>some</i>
of it; at age seven I’d seen <b>SUPERMAN</b>
(1978), and Valerie Perrine’s stunning cleavage would haunt many a sleepless
summer night thereafter; as would Jessica Lange, bound and frightened as offering
to savage Kong, clad in ragged furs, in Dino de Laurenti’s <b>KING
KONG</b> (1976); moreover, Tarzan’s mate, Jane, didn’t have much in the way of
clothes, and Tarzan movies were my favorites when I was a kid). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">But I don’t recall
having seen a naked cartoon girl before I saw this poster. And the scenarios
this image of Taarna (I didn’t knew her name then), naked and bound, with proud
breasts exposed, and that defiant look in her eyes, would fire my fantasies for
years. What had happened to her? What would be done to her? At the time, I hadn’t
no way of seeing the movie. It didn’t play on my hometown cinema, never ran on
national TV, and when I got my first VCR I was already eighteen and, by then,
there was no way in hell that the real movie would ever reach the peaks of depravity
my mind had accrued around that scene and what was done to Taarna. And so, although
I have the film in DVD (I bought it as soon as it came out), I never got to see
it. And I guess I’ll never will. So Taarna will be forever tied in that
spread-eagled pose, looking defiantly at me, with gorgeous naked breasts,
trying to figure out what’s going on in my mind.</span></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-51392531018903786912022-12-27T13:00:00.000-05:002022-12-27T13:00:46.746-05:00Eros vs Academia: In Space No One Can Hear Your Mind Fart<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdhks1dPU5VbbgrKp67sBBfU_DzCg4Jjgx5A8C8PsIdB1I_-bKQ1pnrlk9t6tvAP9L3wEGvC2ULx1F_BL2Ga_HXkabR3IF1a17-azcNrd17N8GfbEaOAGmR-eP-8vr_3jepLYmEIFU9D0wMQ8AhgPRKoO5gQy60bPOEKvX6RDTtVf1Mzs3uutSagH_w/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_01.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdhks1dPU5VbbgrKp67sBBfU_DzCg4Jjgx5A8C8PsIdB1I_-bKQ1pnrlk9t6tvAP9L3wEGvC2ULx1F_BL2Ga_HXkabR3IF1a17-azcNrd17N8GfbEaOAGmR-eP-8vr_3jepLYmEIFU9D0wMQ8AhgPRKoO5gQy60bPOEKvX6RDTtVf1Mzs3uutSagH_w/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_01.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve only recently
began reading Douglas Keesey’s </span><b style="font-family: arial;"><i>Contemporary Erotic Cinema</i></b><span style="font-family: arial;"> (Kamera Books,
2012), and I did it with no lack of interest, as it promised to deal, not with
erotic films </span><i style="font-family: arial;">per se</i><span style="font-family: arial;">, but with </span><i style="font-family: arial;">erotic scenes</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> both in erotic films and
in films that, otherwise, may have no place on the ‘adults only’ shelves of our
video libraries. A concept very close to my heart, as you can well attest if
you find yourself in the unenviable position of being a reader of this humble
blog of mine. And the book couldn’t have a more promising start, tackling </span><b style="font-family: arial;">HEAVY METAL 2000</b><span style="font-family: arial;"> (1999), an animated
film that had been sitting forever on my shelf without I ever having had the
proper motivation to watch it.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> As I always do, I </span><span style="font-family: arial;">screened the movie prior to reading Keesey’s selection of erotic scene(s), and
started betting with myself which would be the one selected for analysis. You
see, although I concede that individuals may vary wildly as to what each of us considers
</span><span style="font-family: arial;">erotic, I </span><i style="font-family: arial;">do</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> also
believe that there is a huge common pool of libidinous tastes, aggregated
throughout the millennia by our shared biological identity, that form a vast
and dark repository of forbidden dreams and fantasies originating in our animal
ancestry.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">However, nothing
could have made me bet in the scene selected for analysis by Mr. Keesey. Or the
tone of the analysis itself. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">Maybe the error was on me, as I had already read Keesey’s <b><i>Erotic
Cinema</i></b> (2005), and had found it to be somewhat bland and aseptic, with
a marked tendency to bend before the politically correct crowd. But here, the bending
turned into fully abject prostration, and
he quit talking about erotica, to start spewing cant. Or, by other words, he
chose a scene that hasn’t much to do with erotics, but that leaves plenty of
room for political virtue signaling.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">What irks me the
most is that the film is ripe with scenes and moments that anyone would
consider erotic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It features shower
scenes…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGcrcLpPK6FnDzOQKicEiFfXtHvPC-ptBNbqoG93u53pZQdhE5vVfRKgy5byyGi_di2axa3EYyN-6xxP_Ah98tH6tO975JFskCCcm_1Jb49NfziXjN9ANKSCGxtOQptAmliLZXQC2aMIa42PWQvjFLj3vJKD2HD64FPq8i0w-MLcZ69yoD40bKbCIOjw/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_02.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGcrcLpPK6FnDzOQKicEiFfXtHvPC-ptBNbqoG93u53pZQdhE5vVfRKgy5byyGi_di2axa3EYyN-6xxP_Ah98tH6tO975JFskCCcm_1Jb49NfziXjN9ANKSCGxtOQptAmliLZXQC2aMIa42PWQvjFLj3vJKD2HD64FPq8i0w-MLcZ69yoD40bKbCIOjw/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_02.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">…a six-titted
stripper alien, doing a table dance in a seedy spacebar…</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiDOtVu2_rsR3VOSnGgT18vFl8v3QSQfaKy0bjJreyq3mUp6boGco0YN4ifgD5TrO9QQbVORYCaDUsQ5HBbSd3AMEtFpAX1VTrIVqSZgMf1RGed_q2C-I39ni4sS0OD6N7za56cXMpPsnxdn-JVfzxhEDWkoQsB8R_Q_eWA7QJRfnUJHZd_yzVaeB4g/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_03.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiDOtVu2_rsR3VOSnGgT18vFl8v3QSQfaKy0bjJreyq3mUp6boGco0YN4ifgD5TrO9QQbVORYCaDUsQ5HBbSd3AMEtFpAX1VTrIVqSZgMf1RGed_q2C-I39ni4sS0OD6N7za56cXMpPsnxdn-JVfzxhEDWkoQsB8R_Q_eWA7QJRfnUJHZd_yzVaeB4g/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_03.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">…a beautiful
captive girl chained to a laboratory table, having her breast ominously groped…</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeU4qdMGYTNRUaOjoquFi0-dDM7Nyf_b6_nbVE2Oh6oW2M4Xn-m62anVRITSvzuVXalVXUU4zeOLYLjr6Z8Q-kzS2emhJNhbmP79j7CQFWKcUV-268oj0o8_7LoW56taq6y6C5kULm6DrP0bQRDoBu5YVt2qRJtZObDPGIxgtwgYKiCvcxXA8j5Nms9w/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_04.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeU4qdMGYTNRUaOjoquFi0-dDM7Nyf_b6_nbVE2Oh6oW2M4Xn-m62anVRITSvzuVXalVXUU4zeOLYLjr6Z8Q-kzS2emhJNhbmP79j7CQFWKcUV-268oj0o8_7LoW56taq6y6C5kULm6DrP0bQRDoBu5YVt2qRJtZObDPGIxgtwgYKiCvcxXA8j5Nms9w/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_04.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFneRvO3ckGYaM7BcmEe-n6prAutuzFQH9P0Z576lZWOnb6uLhiNVXFv149EFqJJFm0SLHCCUi2eVpYojARZ7-zzBSZLR6orUj4XAqCeEWrx7rElBNArTEpu7RSBth8Xg7lkfXnr5qXCorWZiHsSzZnzvpx4uxo6ck1KTm33l9DfjESKpYMWoSWcK3Q/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_05.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFneRvO3ckGYaM7BcmEe-n6prAutuzFQH9P0Z576lZWOnb6uLhiNVXFv149EFqJJFm0SLHCCUi2eVpYojARZ7-zzBSZLR6orUj4XAqCeEWrx7rElBNArTEpu7RSBth8Xg7lkfXnr5qXCorWZiHsSzZnzvpx4uxo6ck1KTm33l9DfjESKpYMWoSWcK3Q/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_05.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;">…totally
inappropriate retro-futuristic female warrior costumes…</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqM_bkxOsw9dmAd7Y8-Jfrhftb0nHK5r9Mdq--CTllNd-HFcdYT2nkfijFZRNStijC_1xz9OK-oLhukzQzhq8UU5eZ1T5y_JzxjrRYlneVnMrkpzPAhBIlAA_5mhsWALGP_goBLQIMiJ5wAKOKk22giTLrPo6xNmi6fbfUrsRekDifyFvoxW9eum7lA/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_06.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqM_bkxOsw9dmAd7Y8-Jfrhftb0nHK5r9Mdq--CTllNd-HFcdYT2nkfijFZRNStijC_1xz9OK-oLhukzQzhq8UU5eZ1T5y_JzxjrRYlneVnMrkpzPAhBIlAA_5mhsWALGP_goBLQIMiJ5wAKOKk22giTLrPo6xNmi6fbfUrsRekDifyFvoxW9eum7lA/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_06.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">…a swim on an
underground mystical lake, in preparation of which our heroine is undressed and
caressed by two creepy acolytes of some futuristic techno-religious order…</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mjFv62rLwTE1WNIGjfBViMwMxkSweqpLqgPX81ftAEIIu5FG9kdXBvdMv-gEuNNAhfOZDqdE_vDWRnuQ3xSiw9TwPh3JFNvHG5Cht-JLMKLyIh4LkPXW1PpZsjV_XT8KxDm1dWdMwY_U6BchgM0o8XRjewcbjAhI0TvCDTrHPPOduLY3riDLr2HjIg/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_07.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mjFv62rLwTE1WNIGjfBViMwMxkSweqpLqgPX81ftAEIIu5FG9kdXBvdMv-gEuNNAhfOZDqdE_vDWRnuQ3xSiw9TwPh3JFNvHG5Cht-JLMKLyIh4LkPXW1PpZsjV_XT8KxDm1dWdMwY_U6BchgM0o8XRjewcbjAhI0TvCDTrHPPOduLY3riDLr2HjIg/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_07.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3HyH28tX5F1_ZQIpDtCvFKr9_SZ0sKGe_diniDhlx3xbyRU347cyyyejahtPl54R1uatxUvmxKMqGb_qLjR7VNM2Z1T-U48hN3dS4mPE9F0hooMjaww_996lblECdPprpfunyhOv3dLTBgTzGRU-5ypWPg7vsc3BuriDBVHYDW_Z8SO27MiXPLFczw/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_08.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3HyH28tX5F1_ZQIpDtCvFKr9_SZ0sKGe_diniDhlx3xbyRU347cyyyejahtPl54R1uatxUvmxKMqGb_qLjR7VNM2Z1T-U48hN3dS4mPE9F0hooMjaww_996lblECdPprpfunyhOv3dLTBgTzGRU-5ypWPg7vsc3BuriDBVHYDW_Z8SO27MiXPLFczw/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_08.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ilmex857Mi3T3Md4Gr1-ImFvkzJ8IXvfdhDGTlnCzr8OnM799xgQwyiw7To73_HZw98mQf0Q4xKIFr7cl0mCwUo2Mj6GoIK_j0Lqu1zBwtqI3cQ4ZEVIWrmATadMx9ZcEnXVXCDA-nH69U6eBEkrLghLJf2PN2xEKRfWa3ygPvD5aYp61Zt4dYnwUQ/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_09.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ilmex857Mi3T3Md4Gr1-ImFvkzJ8IXvfdhDGTlnCzr8OnM799xgQwyiw7To73_HZw98mQf0Q4xKIFr7cl0mCwUo2Mj6GoIK_j0Lqu1zBwtqI3cQ4ZEVIWrmATadMx9ZcEnXVXCDA-nH69U6eBEkrLghLJf2PN2xEKRfWa3ygPvD5aYp61Zt4dYnwUQ/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_09.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26JBxK-HxAi2NjLrSqGmneudP-sFiKsBWQ6-7895JhmWAK3owp8WtzBfcfNXTriGQ9J0QPC92WhsFnTolZRcV5n-KsayRg8v5cccb7_OkEciluof3Tnvalv8ABQoQmSN38hs_6yFbLPBeVbO3j7Iq0kJJUrgsVH3RgTmJDU-t_vW5I5_lFb4rBp5MRw/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_10.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26JBxK-HxAi2NjLrSqGmneudP-sFiKsBWQ6-7895JhmWAK3owp8WtzBfcfNXTriGQ9J0QPC92WhsFnTolZRcV5n-KsayRg8v5cccb7_OkEciluof3Tnvalv8ABQoQmSN38hs_6yFbLPBeVbO3j7Iq0kJJUrgsVH3RgTmJDU-t_vW5I5_lFb4rBp5MRw/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_10.png" width="400" /></a></div></span><span style="font-family: arial;">…and even an
intimate encounter between – again – our Julie Strain-inspired heroine and
Tyler, the man (and more than a man, thanks to his inadvertent contact with the
Loc-Nar) responsible for the destruction of her hometown and planet, to which
she pretends to comply just in order to attempt to kill him.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhcIF4f9ur8k1XRVeaePGgGaknDYbj9dS4K-9kyJOFheNxKZwFicNLhhRY6e62YyPFvYkGqhuFyHF6iA2wmBMIUBDQyyBOs-PXNQKxzj91YB-eg9AFnDmPi50jTJDoVLdvvAmcMiZMXxTfjPcg8VrPmIuay6IAjvLFP7X-01ZlcC8qHBv9WUGZik7dw/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_11.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhcIF4f9ur8k1XRVeaePGgGaknDYbj9dS4K-9kyJOFheNxKZwFicNLhhRY6e62YyPFvYkGqhuFyHF6iA2wmBMIUBDQyyBOs-PXNQKxzj91YB-eg9AFnDmPi50jTJDoVLdvvAmcMiZMXxTfjPcg8VrPmIuay6IAjvLFP7X-01ZlcC8qHBv9WUGZik7dw/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_11.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyb8D4P8FOM08CIqnoR2JHSqw40Jt2YjvpyqSJlNPYQwJzy0Bb3LQFKRsTwBSxjRAPaUNLVveY9wPVHfczvPMuG_7Mss1GlPyYXLAaxbCsVKjxXpvaHDL8-DbnUKuznHPYkuO5uB7epkNUz6rVr9JXo0LYVbyrxM5NQKGg_bkvDgl0kpOSSZuDvQZow/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_12.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyb8D4P8FOM08CIqnoR2JHSqw40Jt2YjvpyqSJlNPYQwJzy0Bb3LQFKRsTwBSxjRAPaUNLVveY9wPVHfczvPMuG_7Mss1GlPyYXLAaxbCsVKjxXpvaHDL8-DbnUKuznHPYkuO5uB7epkNUz6rVr9JXo0LYVbyrxM5NQKGg_bkvDgl0kpOSSZuDvQZow/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_12.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgVSryiMyW_-03q2YgHsr7YWJxdXrmzyJ--9AEW8AUeLVzAZSDPr35H_F1MeQ694jd3bSoa0E2Q9sL7VR_KM-dI38Ig2RJi8E0v9UWQpHMvfGJw_o9ILdni5C6NhFA7-cuAjlyctoFikxVVsukxjHBFpwI-tt6bowqKgL8OBrxQpAAgpUr2PSJHZh5Q/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_13.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgVSryiMyW_-03q2YgHsr7YWJxdXrmzyJ--9AEW8AUeLVzAZSDPr35H_F1MeQ694jd3bSoa0E2Q9sL7VR_KM-dI38Ig2RJi8E0v9UWQpHMvfGJw_o9ILdni5C6NhFA7-cuAjlyctoFikxVVsukxjHBFpwI-tt6bowqKgL8OBrxQpAAgpUr2PSJHZh5Q/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_13.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgALsQavvQY2kNk-cqkSofFsUk_ElpSxjYdpjnZm3Wr10PNdGqRfaJSLXvCj4KzxTvElAtEj8bbt_8d57NYJTerO20g_cBovsovgKiJAdmvWBrtCZaNon6T7XNvALnF_LAeTVho1oA3PKDwQcYfV5ClHelNcmQ8XGHATbcbcQ5iQOgX9qveeBdIjjCA/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_14.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgALsQavvQY2kNk-cqkSofFsUk_ElpSxjYdpjnZm3Wr10PNdGqRfaJSLXvCj4KzxTvElAtEj8bbt_8d57NYJTerO20g_cBovsovgKiJAdmvWBrtCZaNon6T7XNvALnF_LAeTVho1oA3PKDwQcYfV5ClHelNcmQ8XGHATbcbcQ5iQOgX9qveeBdIjjCA/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_14.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Keesey, however,
despite this erotic plenty, chooses as his object of analysis a scene that only
a fringe fetishist would deem to be so: in the streets of the far-out New
Calcutta Space Station, a vendor offers for sale a life-sized sex-robot,
designed to satisfy all the sexual fantasies of its owner, be it human or
alien. It offers ‘</span><i style="font-family: arial;">optional entry ports
with four speeds of suction (…) microsensor orgasmatronic technology and an
expandable vocabulary of over 200 dirty words</i><span style="font-family: arial;">’. Moreover, it has adjustable
breast-size to meet its eventual owner’s preferences. The scene is played for
laughs, as the robot is offered for sale to Julie’s inept and semi-villainous
side-kick, who feels almost intimidated for the plenty of sexual options. The
scene even climaxes with the vendor’s joke that if he cannot afford the
sophisticated robot, he can satisfy his urges with a Fillatian blowfish, whose
lip-suctioning mouth-movements clearly explicits that it is no more than a
biologic substitute to any artificial blowjob implement (like the sophisticated
robot is), both implying the inability to get the real thing.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWEbTx4St1DO4rFvNO1mucZ5OlCGVDODPm1lxL3_esU1Zda68CD0wk3Ah-_qRwZoW9x4ClIJa94sCJEclQUwlrqg2xShSMYJyU5YhxlI3vlH9FLEsM0G8FXwiz7bA0LgDcAei3sxY9NrRGDnLu9hLGSmY1WcklsRp5_z_x6zjkWIXcysVA_1sIxnmNA/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_15.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyWEbTx4St1DO4rFvNO1mucZ5OlCGVDODPm1lxL3_esU1Zda68CD0wk3Ah-_qRwZoW9x4ClIJa94sCJEclQUwlrqg2xShSMYJyU5YhxlI3vlH9FLEsM0G8FXwiz7bA0LgDcAei3sxY9NrRGDnLu9hLGSmY1WcklsRp5_z_x6zjkWIXcysVA_1sIxnmNA/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_15.png" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">The sex robot in
itself isn’t particularly attractive or enticing, bereft of nose and of an
ashen coloration, underlining the fact that it is not comparable to a real
woman (unless it’s modelled on the female of another anthropomorphic species). The
only picquant – that dindn’t go unremarked by Keesey – is that the robot is
exposed like “<i>a debased female brought to
her knees, with her arms together in front of her as if chained</i>”. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">The</span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">erotic pose in which the robot is exposed, however, is
not erotic <i>per se</i>, just as a pair of
silk stockings and high heels on a mannequin aren’t. As a sexual implement, it
is no more exciting than a dildo exposed on a tabletop. Its erotic value is reduced
to what we anticipate it may be used for. And in this context, the arousing
pose is as much surrogate as would be to make love to it instead of to a real
woman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuas7i6e14PVNVcHpLtNH7gehNOlVEsaRqKkhP7Xe07X1BNdtJnWvTlW1ugpP5ikjsKSg2ZbaVUd8XX4xp9PPAsgradnSPXtKB8YKUi5g4XJHAp_Yu2bESATOLBOavx1CYs28hFx_FCdoEOHap79HYZLXHCGmThNlk8xZqenVetQLeSZBIgiSSUhqvA/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_17.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuas7i6e14PVNVcHpLtNH7gehNOlVEsaRqKkhP7Xe07X1BNdtJnWvTlW1ugpP5ikjsKSg2ZbaVUd8XX4xp9PPAsgradnSPXtKB8YKUi5g4XJHAp_Yu2bESATOLBOavx1CYs28hFx_FCdoEOHap79HYZLXHCGmThNlk8xZqenVetQLeSZBIgiSSUhqvA/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_17.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: arial; line-height: 115%;">But that is not
Keesey’s point. He doesn’t really care about the picquant of the scene. Its
limited erotic potential. What he cares about is that more than a female, the
robot imitates a <i>debased</i> female; that
Julie’s sidekick is fascinated but also frightened, as if “<i>the satisfaction of his desire [is</i></span><i style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">]</span></i><i style="font-family: arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;">
based too strongly on what he is conditioned to want, on what is sold to him</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: arial; line-height: 115%;">”. For Keesey, eroticism and beauty do not derive from
mainly innate biologic imperatives, even if tempered by millennia of social
life, but by economic conditionings, in a time and time again disproved Marxist
construct of sexual capitalism. His point – if he has one that goes beyond
feminist virtue signaling – is that “<i>curiously</i>”
(he writes just that, thus confessing his utter ignorance of how intimately
connected to this film Julie Strain is) “<i>the
character of Julie is voiced and modelled on Julie Strain, a Penthouse model
and B-movie actress famous for her big – and silicone-enhanced – breasts (…).
The film celebrates the power of Julie’s natural and human female sexuality –
ignoring the extent to which she herself is an artificially enhanced
commodified body-type</i>”.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZODlKnMxhLfTFE7WB1sguqdEFxj5L0p-1E8J1-lrtUTcRSrb-W3G_FZo6mozasitLdH_3luwCxrA_mY8QBoEHNCqdFrFQzjBW6OaYtv7tUEmBABXjz3nFFPOD45udBehot5ctl87wIp6gMAS0YC9LIGd9GXldnaq6luHAyGM-DKtQ7FyWDcmJFqSe0w/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_16.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZODlKnMxhLfTFE7WB1sguqdEFxj5L0p-1E8J1-lrtUTcRSrb-W3G_FZo6mozasitLdH_3luwCxrA_mY8QBoEHNCqdFrFQzjBW6OaYtv7tUEmBABXjz3nFFPOD45udBehot5ctl87wIp6gMAS0YC9LIGd9GXldnaq6luHAyGM-DKtQ7FyWDcmJFqSe0w/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_16.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">In other words,
Keesey procrusteanly forces a meaning into a scene that has nothing in itself
of inherently erotic (and only marginally sexual) in order to revive that old
hairy cliché of the objectified woman… implying, by way of compounding the
injury, that life imitates a cartoonish sexual ideal that is imposed by, one
imagines, the capitalist male mind. </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Curiously</i><span style="font-family: arial;">,
to ape Mr. Keesey’s turn of phrase, he could have made a more truthful
conflation of Julie Strain and the fictional Julie of </span><b style="font-family: arial;">HEAVY METAL 2000</b><span style="font-family: arial;">, in the context of a really erotic scene, if he
only had chosen the scene I would have chosen if I was in his shoes: </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pWWUvh_9iubnHYP4qkX2_0afdEddYuYHXetxlTJItmO7Wd_kO4qaqlA5p_5_cPfhSnDsJofHgAo6KTPNU0mv-C52HChR2mFxnEILeAHBpzR8_gpS39G0qiNKmQvI8avB7nFXYeoaL3_PL1wtcnua4jL4180Yg2q140gai1oEkPnbZGf5x8BElapbeQ/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_21.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pWWUvh_9iubnHYP4qkX2_0afdEddYuYHXetxlTJItmO7Wd_kO4qaqlA5p_5_cPfhSnDsJofHgAo6KTPNU0mv-C52HChR2mFxnEILeAHBpzR8_gpS39G0qiNKmQvI8avB7nFXYeoaL3_PL1wtcnua4jL4180Yg2q140gai1oEkPnbZGf5x8BElapbeQ/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_21.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Once arrived at
Urobonis, where Tyler has assumed power over a race of warmongering lizardmen,
Julie (now allied with local inhabitants and lizardmen opponents Odin and Zeek)
finds herself in the apparently unsurmountable situation of having to cross a
river of molten lava in order to proceed to Shantar, which is to be the site of
the final confrontation with Tyler. The fiery river is wide, the surrounding
landscape depressingly barren, the situation desperate. When Julie asks herself
out-loud, “How are we gonna cross?”, the answer comes from Chartog, the
self-proclaimed Guardian of the River. Well, not quite the answer, really, but
the supposed means to get to it: Julie has to kiss him.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JcfaIYuOYc3l-kw3V_seLYyYy7UQTuE8PxuOAPsDQw0ILBISouFWvcr6y8wsQkbFLoRHe0wh8TVTkl4_qj6v3ZtKB287I_ltOjaACQbY2xyXrTfHU3V6ZzYG4KK3XOtpApB5C_IHmlLVE36mpHZTOqYXzRXuUCK3EPVm_q63VN6S71DWDgCBcOMkpQ/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_18.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JcfaIYuOYc3l-kw3V_seLYyYy7UQTuE8PxuOAPsDQw0ILBISouFWvcr6y8wsQkbFLoRHe0wh8TVTkl4_qj6v3ZtKB287I_ltOjaACQbY2xyXrTfHU3V6ZzYG4KK3XOtpApB5C_IHmlLVE36mpHZTOqYXzRXuUCK3EPVm_q63VN6S71DWDgCBcOMkpQ/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_18.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">It seems something
out of one of Grimm’s twisted fairytales: the transformative kiss, that turns
frogs into princes, that wakens up damsels from their enchanted sleep, that
sheds light into darkness. But this is no fairytale, Chartog is no prince, and
Julie’s kiss has no magical properties. It is just plain and simple sexual
blackmail. And Julie’s reaction is one of appropriate revulsion.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKGbrp3SpSpd2Frh_8rYyx_81KMoVqRXUkOoZQoiazllmaPw3hyOkZfnWHaT7YpsUF0dGYbl5i7OHR9eRSK47Wc_VBNAWIobBb8Ca3wzUpg0GMP7IJT94tVTRTd7tIsYksz0eQpoYJ7Y4aQPKjV-XKklj8QNnY9u1E-tMQTrJQY2-HLOkNbpmXC9whw/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_23.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKGbrp3SpSpd2Frh_8rYyx_81KMoVqRXUkOoZQoiazllmaPw3hyOkZfnWHaT7YpsUF0dGYbl5i7OHR9eRSK47Wc_VBNAWIobBb8Ca3wzUpg0GMP7IJT94tVTRTd7tIsYksz0eQpoYJ7Y4aQPKjV-XKklj8QNnY9u1E-tMQTrJQY2-HLOkNbpmXC9whw/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_23.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">After all, Chartog
is quite the repugnant creature: a wobbly mass of warts and slime, a putrid
form that seems to be kept whole by means of malice alone. Snot that seems to
be a living thing runs from his nostrils, lips, and rheumy eyes, and the few
rotten teeth that inhabit its (one presumes) fetid mouth seem about to be dislodged
by a sudden bout of phlegmy cough, threatening to end up in Julie’s mouth. And
his tongue, his abjectly phallic tongue, contorts as a fat snake about to
prance on its prey. And Julie is the prey.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChDve3cKaWWWsKiyPSF64WKOOcAgYfGsELZYLlkfTyQMHogKwlVLhROuyhrUupN8sK8oFugY35Y2YbEbxlQl9p8wOuhYa9H2I2WbjRLAxnjuCsby-0yamYZxyQILAxW9aza66V-qkbTxtvwTNNiT5BHO-qH9TsST9VDErb4qkAHVvaWashYgq03eNDQ/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_19.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChDve3cKaWWWsKiyPSF64WKOOcAgYfGsELZYLlkfTyQMHogKwlVLhROuyhrUupN8sK8oFugY35Y2YbEbxlQl9p8wOuhYa9H2I2WbjRLAxnjuCsby-0yamYZxyQILAxW9aza66V-qkbTxtvwTNNiT5BHO-qH9TsST9VDErb4qkAHVvaWashYgq03eNDQ/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_19.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">With no way out,
Julie is subjected to a veritable tongue-fuck of her mouth, as deep an
intrusion as to go beyond a tonsils probe; one is led to believe that fat
tongue to be probing the stomach of our heroine, to be pressing the walls of
her very soul.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqMm5AYKDNmYKLZidnlPP0iGEw_s7WdTktxPoWuoY5cG2QsdmkQGo3TRaHN8CqsQJc7KY2Z_p2aiEtxxfWNcIL_vuxIylEcLpTW5-A3-itAKPYOg-7MhZnd2tcyicq-QhOGIQhfSTXDReVz8SkY67nROWOtg3tWd6VqWRbDyMIgOiRswm_-y8eqiszg/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_24.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqMm5AYKDNmYKLZidnlPP0iGEw_s7WdTktxPoWuoY5cG2QsdmkQGo3TRaHN8CqsQJc7KY2Z_p2aiEtxxfWNcIL_vuxIylEcLpTW5-A3-itAKPYOg-7MhZnd2tcyicq-QhOGIQhfSTXDReVz8SkY67nROWOtg3tWd6VqWRbDyMIgOiRswm_-y8eqiszg/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_24.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUWhFyC7cEcQxt0PYizOCtOwPNmQC0DyC_uT_ujTb3joQV9nG8gqVQaIPRycM6SJQKhIdOen3bIQxy9pR6LdSO-AaS4Ge7k9QMTcUM4XFzlEtuTjg2FZUCf8YAyeu7JjeXCxo7cNeo0aamMBXl7jnKBMNTAUT1QYiKENdFnr9DkF376lfWejjDNC92A/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_25.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUWhFyC7cEcQxt0PYizOCtOwPNmQC0DyC_uT_ujTb3joQV9nG8gqVQaIPRycM6SJQKhIdOen3bIQxy9pR6LdSO-AaS4Ge7k9QMTcUM4XFzlEtuTjg2FZUCf8YAyeu7JjeXCxo7cNeo0aamMBXl7jnKBMNTAUT1QYiKENdFnr9DkF376lfWejjDNC92A/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_25.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWSj00uP0VfP3vgR_efOHIQwVQVpwcm9NRKihMkOWPeoqf7D633TGhwN5bxEqL3rG-TaNs9VEzUlxcb2iExGAnS-aPSpaAo2CsNxdYkcjvGhxXPKBTyekMAObOPsBpkli-oq7l2o8QqG-82GDyDcYImP-SR7sleEHIv-WwsZ187prOOIBnVwwHG7BDg/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_26.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWSj00uP0VfP3vgR_efOHIQwVQVpwcm9NRKihMkOWPeoqf7D633TGhwN5bxEqL3rG-TaNs9VEzUlxcb2iExGAnS-aPSpaAo2CsNxdYkcjvGhxXPKBTyekMAObOPsBpkli-oq7l2o8QqG-82GDyDcYImP-SR7sleEHIv-WwsZ187prOOIBnVwwHG7BDg/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_26.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1MMCTQ6wE6LIUolyDXRGWFa8sANLnq_W5c2yiuzJq8PwhvhIBagGI_VPDuTs27gsLXtL1CDwekVyjEU2N4iy2xi42-S6OcswZxNclf7SRCOblxs6v8HY3NSngJW0E9GoPllCtU1NJMXiFOmgTLLf9kH336759jIr44tWgQcwCKM3gv9FHoTYMRiW0Q/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_27.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1MMCTQ6wE6LIUolyDXRGWFa8sANLnq_W5c2yiuzJq8PwhvhIBagGI_VPDuTs27gsLXtL1CDwekVyjEU2N4iy2xi42-S6OcswZxNclf7SRCOblxs6v8HY3NSngJW0E9GoPllCtU1NJMXiFOmgTLLf9kH336759jIr44tWgQcwCKM3gv9FHoTYMRiW0Q/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_27.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie’s eyes, pressed
close as if to escape that nightmare, open wide when the creature’s tongue
probes even deeper into her mouth, betray her disgust and revulsion.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVn_5Eb6DPY7bzXTjZV9a1AvCqnWus1_hXNw-7eTBwbzhHKTGd3cEIfzSkEf5W-_pe-h55hQfUfnFXUbXTsGZvle9XcJl0r6pRiEY_pBmB-SYxqi4aimIcemhkH7P_sUbgIJpUTLq8NDV5xn-74HRqoxNG7_ybMh5b89_7ON-y77STlRVICeSb2-ad2w/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_28.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVn_5Eb6DPY7bzXTjZV9a1AvCqnWus1_hXNw-7eTBwbzhHKTGd3cEIfzSkEf5W-_pe-h55hQfUfnFXUbXTsGZvle9XcJl0r6pRiEY_pBmB-SYxqi4aimIcemhkH7P_sUbgIJpUTLq8NDV5xn-74HRqoxNG7_ybMh5b89_7ON-y77STlRVICeSb2-ad2w/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_28.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwCNi3EuJXgP2spmuaq4nLaPW602Yh0uEQb97GILBc34svEshfihofX8HPVkfaF6zoi_AssYvRqN5cBIJH-wnb7iuFL-b0C6ICZbuOSfwHoB9bfnyp2nPWG7tZNfOGwfk8s1YvAxnUxVGrPdJhd8VpT5e4OPtphsRSzlP4tOFhwn-xOhwlBBPqij6gPQ/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_29.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwCNi3EuJXgP2spmuaq4nLaPW602Yh0uEQb97GILBc34svEshfihofX8HPVkfaF6zoi_AssYvRqN5cBIJH-wnb7iuFL-b0C6ICZbuOSfwHoB9bfnyp2nPWG7tZNfOGwfk8s1YvAxnUxVGrPdJhd8VpT5e4OPtphsRSzlP4tOFhwn-xOhwlBBPqij6gPQ/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_29.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">But she knows she
has to endure, for such is the stuff of heroes.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Even when his
disgusting paws dart to her firm buttocks, pushing her into his gooey form as
if wanting to absorb her shapely body, she endures. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And we know she
would endure even more. After all, she will offer her body to Tyler, consent in
having him pawing her breasts in an attempt to kill him. So, in order to cross
that river of fire that separates her from her objective, she would endure even
more from Chartog. More than the putrid pus that fills her mouth, runs over her
lips and dangles from her hair; more than the phallic tongue raping her mouth
like an engorged penis; more than the paws clutching her shapely ass. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHRtDq5dgvJdSCbhMHLJ9bBQw2G-fMJ8w8RWrqwSM4JLaZYYpjh1bMOYzuaskVycDPoKNnV4FG2peq_EZC-t03EKYPiJTGLh-bwrzfOvefmCX4MHpxNySLDzUDOFlW_TcuwFOyM6keSrlc4BeP6RNgXjVi5V_hSUFF0ba1eXxwfhWInFZPf8x78Mcomw/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_30.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHRtDq5dgvJdSCbhMHLJ9bBQw2G-fMJ8w8RWrqwSM4JLaZYYpjh1bMOYzuaskVycDPoKNnV4FG2peq_EZC-t03EKYPiJTGLh-bwrzfOvefmCX4MHpxNySLDzUDOFlW_TcuwFOyM6keSrlc4BeP6RNgXjVi5V_hSUFF0ba1eXxwfhWInFZPf8x78Mcomw/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_30.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">In the end, she
doesn’t have to. And she finds out that she needn’t have submitted to Chartog’s
unwanted advances. And she’ll deal with him accordingly. But none of that
matters. What really matters to us, the viewers, is that Julie allowed herself
to be used – sexually used - by a repugnant creature, in order to reach her
noble goal. She did what she had to do, even if it meant degrading herself. And
that, my friends, coming from the deep end of evolutionary millennia, is erotic
as hell. </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibGv5-HHG8sZ_alPZKh2Sf_fBVV1bBdf0RZb2gnvpi8dQMLQbh_xSfbAVhMF6oAEb1uf6x0QTgsp2wLcfGd6Y8nafMCmNHUqsJW9Nm33xU94OcdVP2eAPb4mOx846ltPXmFGbpzhW0va4K9W_8EcOM2Obd6AnNgclOhPXR_rs1B1_2Rooy2iTdCKARdg/s850/Heavy%20Metal%202000_31.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="850" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibGv5-HHG8sZ_alPZKh2Sf_fBVV1bBdf0RZb2gnvpi8dQMLQbh_xSfbAVhMF6oAEb1uf6x0QTgsp2wLcfGd6Y8nafMCmNHUqsJW9Nm33xU94OcdVP2eAPb4mOx846ltPXmFGbpzhW0va4K9W_8EcOM2Obd6AnNgclOhPXR_rs1B1_2Rooy2iTdCKARdg/w400-h219/Heavy%20Metal%202000_31.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">So, if Keesey
wanted to conflate the fictional Julie with the real Julie Strain, he could
have chosen this scene. I would have. I did.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">According to an
interview with Julie Strain quoted on the movie’s IMDB page, Julie Strain
considers "<i>(…) FAKK2 is me, if you
took me and put me in the setting of the movie. It's someone who means well,
loves [her] family and is willing to risk [her] life to make things right and
fight evil. Just an overall good person. She's a badass at the same time, and
she's not afraid to fight a man and kick him in the balls and do what she has
to do to survive.</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One is led to believe that Julie Strain, that
beautiful actress, would do just that if it was necessary to rid the Earth of a
villain like Tyler. And the sole thought, is just as hot.</span></span><br />A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-27759423324892687772022-12-24T07:42:00.002-05:002022-12-24T07:42:44.172-05:00Merry Christmas<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS9KST-9PNYPQqy4_t6e6_S-7VVDP2D-iOlYKIAIexC2wafEfkvvSh9n5Tr9OZtUNgTCfye9kN3g5OHBSRTDyIfRr0lepCHRXn0mCe4Q_x_uoFlD1ft1744J6YE7aa-oMibiHli3l1wFMq2avHIS3o-F6K7dvU9DFibOQ4FU-UDbl3Zs33R6VeVmzYzw/s853/Greta%20Scacchi.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="853" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS9KST-9PNYPQqy4_t6e6_S-7VVDP2D-iOlYKIAIexC2wafEfkvvSh9n5Tr9OZtUNgTCfye9kN3g5OHBSRTDyIfRr0lepCHRXn0mCe4Q_x_uoFlD1ft1744J6YE7aa-oMibiHli3l1wFMq2avHIS3o-F6K7dvU9DFibOQ4FU-UDbl3Zs33R6VeVmzYzw/w400-h225/Greta%20Scacchi.png" width="400" /></a></div>From childhood, I've always associated Christmas postcards with beautiful snowy landscapes of luminous pine forests and clear starry skies. Then came 1985, Dujan Makavejev's <b>THE COCA-COLA KID</b> (1985) and Greta Scacchi's scorching sex-scene dressed as Santa Claus. <p></p><p>From then on, every December the 25th I picture that hot Summer Christmas in Australia, when quiet snowy dreamscapes were forever substituted in my mind for a furious tempest of downy feathers and Ms. Scacchi's enticingly beautiful breasts emerging from the classic Coca-Cola Santa costume.</p><p>So, in loving rememberance of that Christmas past, Merry Christmas you all! </p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-27849633945435583492022-12-18T15:49:00.001-05:002022-12-20T06:27:10.863-05:00Face of an Angel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKb_MijKHeBcupgLPqtC4l1n1iKkyTutGKgflyM1Da4uxJOSW73Zs6vnu5D4XNgSZ6-XFp8LZHIx_1vUgBRBGMr7O9I1UXxNttTjkjFWWoVZCCZjql0nN2-2GJ5KwJg9qMDD8iZRTTOq-4VspZPvmKBxOpptkaG0eiBhbhHUppoEMSTjNubdFmL6FWw/s1024/Brodsky_01.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKb_MijKHeBcupgLPqtC4l1n1iKkyTutGKgflyM1Da4uxJOSW73Zs6vnu5D4XNgSZ6-XFp8LZHIx_1vUgBRBGMr7O9I1UXxNttTjkjFWWoVZCCZjql0nN2-2GJ5KwJg9qMDD8iZRTTOq-4VspZPvmKBxOpptkaG0eiBhbhHUppoEMSTjNubdFmL6FWw/w400-h225/Brodsky_01.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">The face of an Angel.
The body of a sinner. It doesn’t matter that she’s the villain of this
particular episode of </span><span style="font-family: arial;">BONES</span><span style="font-family: arial;">
(2005-2017), although one just finds that out in the end. This is, after all, a
nicely done whodunit-procedural-crime-series. And it doesn’t matter that I give
this info up ahead. One needs not be particularly attentive to the intricacies
of plot structure to figure it out when one first catches a look of Lena
Brodsky (then Emily Foxler, actually Emily Baldoni).</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0tqnBiwi0Lx7SKpKUdAZp4i8jZ9InYEA938WL8R6hZruMNO39-fR8CI3KTZBVabJOTyviv0iyjFkqlYIalLyFvErKSkpmrCf9AD_-hYEyl29yw-DvWKEfzWTcCnD6n1sv8cgPd6H6KpYD_FbRKWVmuIxg3wEZZJKjgd0jdFLOvs9wbnvXRFulx_A9Q/s1024/Brodsky_02.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0tqnBiwi0Lx7SKpKUdAZp4i8jZ9InYEA938WL8R6hZruMNO39-fR8CI3KTZBVabJOTyviv0iyjFkqlYIalLyFvErKSkpmrCf9AD_-hYEyl29yw-DvWKEfzWTcCnD6n1sv8cgPd6H6KpYD_FbRKWVmuIxg3wEZZJKjgd0jdFLOvs9wbnvXRFulx_A9Q/w400-h225/Brodsky_02.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Her manner is all
professionalism, and yet conveys some insecurity. Her Ukranian accent (how
refreshing that this was done prior to the 2022 Russian invasion, when Ukranians
could still be villains, and not just washed-up saints), or what passes for it
in TV-land, makes her voice </span><i style="font-family: arial;">oh so</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> sexy
and as inviting as those deliciously pouty lips and those clear grey-green eyes.
And those long, long legs… they just make you wonder… Can someone with legs
like these be so innocent as those sweet big eyes imply? Can someone so hot
really feel even a little insecurity? Or is it just a mask? A way of allay
suspicion, just as the bejeweled belly of a black-widow spider makes it look
just an object of natural beauty?</span><p></p>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Some women are just like that. They look so
sweet and so innocent, they makes us want to do things for them. And <i>to</i> them. And if you fool yourself, even
for a tiny moment, that you’re on top of things, they’ll bite your head right off.</span></span>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-60916509192145402082022-12-07T20:25:00.000-05:002022-12-07T20:25:18.881-05:00Goodbye Kirstie (1951-2022)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPzm8hHsCpScup5pMkX-JHXF4ogYijqSu2oxIwxUw_5sHJR05AQ8LIJIsYMqugrSfto_a6dlXoVqCGr7xNfWgPlQmfFvMbMUJZJBoJ-vOR8imldPxZRGX1r64RSaqvEbaCM3otRszTBmqJzY0GUnFllUHBxhFewqztxPLYJcVu6uFfGdf2YwTJbnEog/s755/Kirstie%20Alley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="593" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPzm8hHsCpScup5pMkX-JHXF4ogYijqSu2oxIwxUw_5sHJR05AQ8LIJIsYMqugrSfto_a6dlXoVqCGr7xNfWgPlQmfFvMbMUJZJBoJ-vOR8imldPxZRGX1r64RSaqvEbaCM3otRszTBmqJzY0GUnFllUHBxhFewqztxPLYJcVu6uFfGdf2YwTJbnEog/w314-h400/Kirstie%20Alley.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><p>I don’t like
obituaries. They tend to be mere <i>pro
forma</i> exercises, a kind of duty one feels bound to perform. They rarely
sound sincere. Maybe one cannot put into words true emotion when it is
simmering inside one’s heart like smoldering embers. Or, sometimes, they’re the
cold and cruel reminders that our objects of desire, our fantasies, are real
persons, living in the real world like the rest of us. Sometimes insufferable,
sometimes suffering.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIA50S0chEYZ0I58SU05hRhunYZcIlyVBhd690QsO1EjEWyPDjGHXS3NNy8yxlFr0kMZkHLe0IgKCww08frEUMh8vKttz0tYvVL1Zx6Osq1ExRfe_arZQGp-5HLQ45iQ3zn_FLEOJ3R9dESxcfitGLUjx5gUK2gAqBoFtXSWz7ow21R-6jpllRFJ09Q/s1354/Kirstie_03.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="1354" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIA50S0chEYZ0I58SU05hRhunYZcIlyVBhd690QsO1EjEWyPDjGHXS3NNy8yxlFr0kMZkHLe0IgKCww08frEUMh8vKttz0tYvVL1Zx6Osq1ExRfe_arZQGp-5HLQ45iQ3zn_FLEOJ3R9dESxcfitGLUjx5gUK2gAqBoFtXSWz7ow21R-6jpllRFJ09Q/w400-h217/Kirstie_03.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Kirstie Alley was
one of those persons. One of those objects of desire. I don’t have much to say
about her as an actress, although she was always delicious to watch in any
role. In my mind she’ll forever be Rebecca Howe of </span><b style="font-family: arial;"><i>Cheers</i></b><span style="font-family: arial;">, so funny and
lively, and full of life. So utterly sexy. Oh yes, Kirstie Alley was an
incredibly sexy woman. And she was one of the actresses that filled my teenage
years with wild imaginings. Strangely, however, despite her amazing body, it
was her breathtaking beauty that captivated me the most. Her exquisite, feline
face, her incredible grey eyes, and that sultry, warm, raspberry voice.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv05gR0neSDXn_k6pBEpXqKO1kMnWSjVkOtk1t1-k3pDqywuhas2WLtW1lud81d1OOphFSU6tCTRsfy9nF1ZKk1DM8WJC_8xG1_fEQLAysyq76oLTAAkPOKM_LcHHpptfCiKojK2At6I5_hBcC9Yu4B8PMHLOVFQzVqmyxcm1NSKsfo7Tg70WaStdDoA/s1353/Blind%20Date_02.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="1353" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv05gR0neSDXn_k6pBEpXqKO1kMnWSjVkOtk1t1-k3pDqywuhas2WLtW1lud81d1OOphFSU6tCTRsfy9nF1ZKk1DM8WJC_8xG1_fEQLAysyq76oLTAAkPOKM_LcHHpptfCiKojK2At6I5_hBcC9Yu4B8PMHLOVFQzVqmyxcm1NSKsfo7Tg70WaStdDoA/w400-h217/Blind%20Date_02.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I fell in love
with her long before I saw her in <b><i>Cheers</i></b>. Her beauty had caught my
attention when she was playing Virgilia Hazard in <b><i>North and South</i></b>
(1985-1986), and then in 1984’s <b>RUNAWAY</b>
, which I caught later on satellite TV, on a wonderful summer night, somewhere
in 1986 or 1987. After that, after <b><i>Cheers</i></b> got to an end and she starred
in <b>LOOK WHO’S TALKING</b> (1989) and it’s
sequels, I lost track of her. Babies are not my thing, alas, even if they’re
talking babies. In a somewhat misguided way it was for the better: my infatuation
with Kirstie Alley endured throughout the Eighties, and dissipated with the
arrival of the Nineties.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzDH7pI2BZSQFbQSOTwvI7qRyf9UZ_8obkx26SJyqnQSSka-5tkEyipMs1BHF8GNwwa3MDXGie77t3FI62mc1K3jQWar57kZS-A1fb8I0PZHm8ZVGRo5SY_wRN80pk1S5NIyzfcEZ_fh3W5ZR4F8PdlHIXnYOZkPuxS8hQS3ijV2DgI6TrszzPiHO_A/s1347/Blind%20Date.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="1347" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzDH7pI2BZSQFbQSOTwvI7qRyf9UZ_8obkx26SJyqnQSSka-5tkEyipMs1BHF8GNwwa3MDXGie77t3FI62mc1K3jQWar57kZS-A1fb8I0PZHm8ZVGRo5SY_wRN80pk1S5NIyzfcEZ_fh3W5ZR4F8PdlHIXnYOZkPuxS8hQS3ijV2DgI6TrszzPiHO_A/w400-h219/Blind%20Date.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">From the glorious Eighties
comes a minor masterpiece by Niko Mastorakis, the film where Kirstie looks more
luminous than ever: <b>BLIND DATE</b>
(1984). It is impossible for any red-blooded male to watch that movie and not
fall in love with Kirstie Alley, so young, joyous and full of life. By not
following her career after the end of <b><i>Cheers</i></b>, I’ll forever remember her as
she was then, an indelible memory of fun and joy that I ritually rekindle now
and then with a dip into my DVD collection.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So here’s to you, Kirstie Alley, in loving
memory. Cheers!</span></span>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-58299879781473293692022-10-31T12:32:00.000-04:002022-10-31T12:32:14.896-04:00Happy Halloween<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv55RR07yaeivZ7KwViFPghEjVyu5qcMMy2Im9JhcYwONvtO8RyR4WGZFFzhrmzCrNC1QXMbxd8ZXw3P1x0S5ThLPWpX0HLTmqAwmGQ8hgIuvYskWvFwREieguIvvq0ZL5pFYaAnqUv7cvpNPhIj48_XtOF6TX0YI9L0heRONUo-FBznV3P4jUyQWWgw/s600/Elvira_13.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="600" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv55RR07yaeivZ7KwViFPghEjVyu5qcMMy2Im9JhcYwONvtO8RyR4WGZFFzhrmzCrNC1QXMbxd8ZXw3P1x0S5ThLPWpX0HLTmqAwmGQ8hgIuvYskWvFwREieguIvvq0ZL5pFYaAnqUv7cvpNPhIj48_XtOF6TX0YI9L0heRONUo-FBznV3P4jUyQWWgw/w400-h283/Elvira_13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It was with some surprise that I noticed it's been <a href="http://groovyheroines.blogspot.com/2017/10/happy-halloween.html" target="_blank">five years</a> since I posted something on Halloween in this semi-dormant blog of mine. <i>Tempus fugit</i>, indeed. Well, maybe not to our cherished muse, Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. She irradiates such immortal beauty. Oh, Elvira, <i>tempus fugit, forma manet. </i>So here it is: Happy Halloween folks. <p></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-34561592692252341632022-10-08T12:22:00.000-04:002022-10-08T12:22:00.158-04:00I fell in love with Temperance Brennan…<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvL4XpspTNA2beCgaKQZ2Pm1OVF_d0BkNCd2fTSRqluBA9VjPD661rLJJ1y0DfvHquvc7K56V0MSS9X9TZX3U2ma3IIr5jbVCtVGWhAGc2X5y-dd0yuVVuIvo7vqWFvFFxjyqbiqHj-6PYl_x18DnSc9iuc5jlQ5l-Xjb9--1bV89plr23H6gGbGeRw/s1024/Bones_01.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvL4XpspTNA2beCgaKQZ2Pm1OVF_d0BkNCd2fTSRqluBA9VjPD661rLJJ1y0DfvHquvc7K56V0MSS9X9TZX3U2ma3IIr5jbVCtVGWhAGc2X5y-dd0yuVVuIvo7vqWFvFFxjyqbiqHj-6PYl_x18DnSc9iuc5jlQ5l-Xjb9--1bV89plr23H6gGbGeRw/w400-h225/Bones_01.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">…from the get go. Maybe
it’s due to the contrast between her bright brains and her sinner’s body, or
maybe it’s due to the nonchalant disdain for all things that our pop-bubblegum
culture thrives on. Truth is, I love her dedication. Her utter obsession
towards the task at hand. Towards solving the mystery.</span></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLcKOh8huStPhFnIql6JAKWbuyc4Trv4PhsWyWhbwNXKyemRfc8JNkMHqXOyRmvkuaSOie3-6bYH0lI5zCcDf0HYtF6AiSdkJ6g1Z4OdFluJx7eD3ZtL2tQo7Qqvo2Zm-NQGHS7nXefbh5OnFe7jsicAbVAOn3u-M0kTKCYvzjAGyIYNknrElbOiw6w/s1024/Bones_02.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLcKOh8huStPhFnIql6JAKWbuyc4Trv4PhsWyWhbwNXKyemRfc8JNkMHqXOyRmvkuaSOie3-6bYH0lI5zCcDf0HYtF6AiSdkJ6g1Z4OdFluJx7eD3ZtL2tQo7Qqvo2Zm-NQGHS7nXefbh5OnFe7jsicAbVAOn3u-M0kTKCYvzjAGyIYNknrElbOiw6w/w400-h225/Bones_02.png" width="400" /></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Her selfless quest
for truth and enlightenment almost erases her inner self. Piecing together the
puzzle of a smashed skull, the looks straight into the abyss of death, and
although the abyss looks back at her, her capacity for marveling with the
hidden truths and the cold equations of the universe, smothers that frightful
look, like vacuum killing a flame.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIft0kDKNsZYw00fV3adbCNo-LaffleegpD3yh19_iG59nRVs3D9UNGctujTm6mLBIx4rysRFc5OqTj5f2IGdJHzb0vGAfatJlIp1Hf1ucsF9XmmU_e_xorQJptS2u_sWWv9Ugvbmt_e53E6lzZ-0KR-GYXewJECn61LhyCMhe4d5_hl0izl1ZvlJWSQ/s1024/Bones_03.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIft0kDKNsZYw00fV3adbCNo-LaffleegpD3yh19_iG59nRVs3D9UNGctujTm6mLBIx4rysRFc5OqTj5f2IGdJHzb0vGAfatJlIp1Hf1ucsF9XmmU_e_xorQJptS2u_sWWv9Ugvbmt_e53E6lzZ-0KR-GYXewJECn61LhyCMhe4d5_hl0izl1ZvlJWSQ/w400-h225/Bones_03.png" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Working throughout
the night she seems lonely, but one feels she’s never truly so, as if she’s
carrying the ghosts of all her broken, twisted, charred skeletons within her,
collecting experience – <i>lived</i>
experience – through the martyrdom of the victims she reveals in every episode. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgDDPS0iJhEgge6-Hts_GZ-NFtAb1iF7_xSAZJw1ljZe_wePtCpHsN5dWcrNjIslXLkdzv0dP1B4Mt9bcI_oyfgxALbDq5hO-00O8TipvvzJ46JQts3cdPrFm1SEtIJZZzQRSexaQj8nAtTNixGKWun-Cjz891tTBOpav2MrNXplfz29gJ4cRuv_WzDA/s1024/Bones_04.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgDDPS0iJhEgge6-Hts_GZ-NFtAb1iF7_xSAZJw1ljZe_wePtCpHsN5dWcrNjIslXLkdzv0dP1B4Mt9bcI_oyfgxALbDq5hO-00O8TipvvzJ46JQts3cdPrFm1SEtIJZZzQRSexaQj8nAtTNixGKWun-Cjz891tTBOpav2MrNXplfz29gJ4cRuv_WzDA/w400-h225/Bones_04.png" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">In a way, it’s as
if Bones (Brennan’s nickname, derived from her anthropological expertise) is
meant to give life to the Cartesian duality of body and soul. Something the
series – <b><span style="color: red;">Bones</span></b> (2005-2017) – hints at, but never quiet fully explores. Temperance,
Dr, Brennan, or simply Bones (Emily Deschanel), is a focused mind lodged in a
body she’s oblivious to, however a body that we’re all too aware of.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzA9ZXN5BuNSDtZjQROWVjRpf5ZS0EJVx-ttL5_hgTKs7nvEhAHAAa7Th099NWZGvBZstwB5rjXaCWZq4sVZHXJ6G2ZptKHbuPSKZ2Z2TWtZuCY8_iXw7Y7GodVdICmurycFiR3_E2MYo4m4-FL6wnnY7KTTabKxJ3WHVs9Ou8vvR4w5cmWvBxlR4IrQ/s1024/Bones_05.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzA9ZXN5BuNSDtZjQROWVjRpf5ZS0EJVx-ttL5_hgTKs7nvEhAHAAa7Th099NWZGvBZstwB5rjXaCWZq4sVZHXJ6G2ZptKHbuPSKZ2Z2TWtZuCY8_iXw7Y7GodVdICmurycFiR3_E2MYo4m4-FL6wnnY7KTTabKxJ3WHVs9Ou8vvR4w5cmWvBxlR4IrQ/w400-h225/Bones_05.png" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Although
to say she’s oblivious to her body is not the most truthful assertion, as she
keeps it honed as a lethal weapon through martial arts training. The more
correct statement would be that she thinks of her body as an instrument to her mind,
and so the attention she gives to it is the same we give our cars. It must be
kept functional, and clean, and impressive, but it is not who we are.</span><p></p>
<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZIoz6E6Dby6GS_yCBOeHU0pIpLL-vllqmtn7hGYG4HUT_DYhXUb3sQ7cxFiLovQjElHzMI-TLyUB1Q_N65sMHYKpDkKAVmcF91YbIniu_rnmzbRiUYnUAWleRGyoqlB20Rj1vtP6FeDAK_SK59k2d7jJM21ej5s0vz5YjmVLJnP5XvDRSd50fc71Bw/s1024/Bones_06.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNZIoz6E6Dby6GS_yCBOeHU0pIpLL-vllqmtn7hGYG4HUT_DYhXUb3sQ7cxFiLovQjElHzMI-TLyUB1Q_N65sMHYKpDkKAVmcF91YbIniu_rnmzbRiUYnUAWleRGyoqlB20Rj1vtP6FeDAK_SK59k2d7jJM21ej5s0vz5YjmVLJnP5XvDRSd50fc71Bw/w400-h225/Bones_06.png" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Not having met her
when I was kid, I didn’t fell head over heels for her, as I had for Wilma
Deering, or Daisy Duke, or Triple A. But I fell in love nonetheless. How can
you not, when such a sharp mind is housed in a body like hers? </span><p></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-18842711449698300792022-04-30T16:13:00.035-04:002022-04-30T20:21:09.043-04:00The Point of the Matter<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHCN34ULcGY83RTS0Wcqq1DOLuJVOyOcFNXflVKp9Fqlzshg1JTCcq4eUBKz9Pn0BJHp241L8b5EFRCQ9nsyG1JK7zSOgisupVePO36SflwDknxVTdEAasswWcpipz-mdmuwYaU0DL1D5l0TIUhEafT1Al6_zQVfzVXOR6m8HIjyX5U1-zDQSs98-H7A=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHCN34ULcGY83RTS0Wcqq1DOLuJVOyOcFNXflVKp9Fqlzshg1JTCcq4eUBKz9Pn0BJHp241L8b5EFRCQ9nsyG1JK7zSOgisupVePO36SflwDknxVTdEAasswWcpipz-mdmuwYaU0DL1D5l0TIUhEafT1Al6_zQVfzVXOR6m8HIjyX5U1-zDQSs98-H7A=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>There comes a
moment in Richard Linklater’s </span><b>A SCANNER
DARKLY</b><span> (2006) that beg the question that until then was quietly simmering on
everybody’s mind. And that is when Bob (Keanu Reeves), who’s in love with Donna
(Winona Ryder), not knowing that she is also his boss Hank, and being rebuffed
due to Donna’s repulsion at being touched, ends up on a consolation sex
marathon with Connie (Lisa Marie Newmyer).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgndCpODv6Bhar9rr1efE7MyDbwy0AF4D8WJM0FTwOcfHTC1bCrPEnfjOPLyRX32NaywFSOzDxh-s1-dOxvwfquZtz9hM6pa83WXAV-1LppfaBdZccJEyCwILOOjzkOW9z7LGP7CVuoPgNq4oztq11cwO_ee8srO2PWEZIy7dVNjZ7vZhVCFs64YmgIjQ=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgndCpODv6Bhar9rr1efE7MyDbwy0AF4D8WJM0FTwOcfHTC1bCrPEnfjOPLyRX32NaywFSOzDxh-s1-dOxvwfquZtz9hM6pa83WXAV-1LppfaBdZccJEyCwILOOjzkOW9z7LGP7CVuoPgNq4oztq11cwO_ee8srO2PWEZIy7dVNjZ7vZhVCFs64YmgIjQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSx_o7IQSCuHTiZO-gFlKWfYNik-bypPZoHomuFefVLSfNFxIGhrDggXxo-Hi9GJNezOAw7wIWfMp6ckbj4Av5eglFPMzNkyoNA3PfZBdSHA_vJCzFS0eQJwzs021EQCOxehyUVdnV6qWReudcY1M3PcC4wjxB9oYyw11geMJN_gC1WhM5dJAQvAofXg=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSx_o7IQSCuHTiZO-gFlKWfYNik-bypPZoHomuFefVLSfNFxIGhrDggXxo-Hi9GJNezOAw7wIWfMp6ckbj4Av5eglFPMzNkyoNA3PfZBdSHA_vJCzFS0eQJwzs021EQCOxehyUVdnV6qWReudcY1M3PcC4wjxB9oYyw11geMJN_gC1WhM5dJAQvAofXg=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Said sex marathon
is seen only after the fact, as Bob obsessively fast-forwards and pauses the
surveillance footage of his intense sexual athletics. However, waking up from
his post-coital slumber, and looking at her exhausted partner sleeping by his
side, he seems to see her morph into Donna. Not only her face, but her body as
well. And now, back at his voyeuristic observation post, his own identity
hidden from his co-workers by means of a scramble suit (like the one Donna uses
when being Hank), he freeze frames that fleeting moment when his mate turns
into his dream-lover, moving the footage back and forward, back and forward,
and even projecting that frame as a hologram for better to study – to worship,
to adore? – the naked dream girl.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioU-STWYsZvTU9Axx_ezHfjWFnPYAR-Qw-64GxvwMdiFWRHn1Vgcpvqzp6kmMC8aHH_3uDYbGi6crOkmOvmBkeGTN68qF8UjLJQHmq-f2vOQJCwd3n6NWWeiqGIXKOR-iu12xAsA5r9c6upXCGfn-mujC8l1eDSLzWd9vb3O9Wx1x56noJHoh7Gbmtcw=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioU-STWYsZvTU9Axx_ezHfjWFnPYAR-Qw-64GxvwMdiFWRHn1Vgcpvqzp6kmMC8aHH_3uDYbGi6crOkmOvmBkeGTN68qF8UjLJQHmq-f2vOQJCwd3n6NWWeiqGIXKOR-iu12xAsA5r9c6upXCGfn-mujC8l1eDSLzWd9vb3O9Wx1x56noJHoh7Gbmtcw=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg50MQHER0kQfbFrgZBFmel51xucC3KkSs0NmfXAYpzFznwNeUYe2UrreICaZ7vvoGK8LbX-pz0eyDjZ6zv2y8wDXrLnHHPGrIw4mYxsIosNdnWEL_zLV1h70j_F2rS0-xeIqrs-caxLxbEKvUufSr9gSN9ALpedozM6lxDnQ_VaMYL82m_ff-blv0izg=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg50MQHER0kQfbFrgZBFmel51xucC3KkSs0NmfXAYpzFznwNeUYe2UrreICaZ7vvoGK8LbX-pz0eyDjZ6zv2y8wDXrLnHHPGrIw4mYxsIosNdnWEL_zLV1h70j_F2rS0-xeIqrs-caxLxbEKvUufSr9gSN9ALpedozM6lxDnQ_VaMYL82m_ff-blv0izg=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpFt8jJsFWZBTLaxvctmT9yxuKgxeD6fGT2Lli5Lk3IsHCR4dgTrO03ygdaJigFLzNtsUruNhGySyGMgbUEzhNsC5xBQIN3IKo-kE2l_RnPW6q_ZIMEaXLfYK7-eE9V6lKHKm6sd2PX-gtZk7SMq6SUcPBJ5ff7Z55ZPcc27xHVRDewZp2TI_ktiN5Zg=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpFt8jJsFWZBTLaxvctmT9yxuKgxeD6fGT2Lli5Lk3IsHCR4dgTrO03ygdaJigFLzNtsUruNhGySyGMgbUEzhNsC5xBQIN3IKo-kE2l_RnPW6q_ZIMEaXLfYK7-eE9V6lKHKm6sd2PX-gtZk7SMq6SUcPBJ5ff7Z55ZPcc27xHVRDewZp2TI_ktiN5Zg=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>And it is at that
precise instant, with that wonderful freeze-frame of a topless rotoscoped
Winona Ryder, that the viewer feels the quiet question pressing the back of his mind, just as if it was the cold barrel of a metaphysical gun; and, just like Bob does, the viewer wonders: is that
really Winona Ryder lying there, breasts exposed? Are we really seeing her
topless? And, underneath that first, most obvious question, what one's really asking is: what is the point? Why did Linklater go the rotoscopic way?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRQTaFz_FEqwmVojBQLzbHNHbZY6FgaHxO06vxb7wCOEVkYO2f2jf6cDfRy10-5Ls-DIyXnszhhZ-wzRi6Zsy3hAWW-72zYyAz6QxBJJjmeifZ0b21n8N3aMc_ORFiEjAxJZakd8kQ-ZDaFDGNsbvlNiZBA9id16y1zLou5XuNneJgpfGgQU4TyFXIoA=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRQTaFz_FEqwmVojBQLzbHNHbZY6FgaHxO06vxb7wCOEVkYO2f2jf6cDfRy10-5Ls-DIyXnszhhZ-wzRi6Zsy3hAWW-72zYyAz6QxBJJjmeifZ0b21n8N3aMc_ORFiEjAxJZakd8kQ-ZDaFDGNsbvlNiZBA9id16y1zLou5XuNneJgpfGgQU4TyFXIoA=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeAs8jCUjBRnmgcRx-kcVDXVFBZpyXRPpDkMJd25RIdSTLRfn8gQ3Va2aiCAixMFU5uk7M8jLTyTsLNnBIsEXDJdsJylR9WLAKSpgEeVGFcAQV1vvyUZVc_BvuI0LUmgZblnlwXp3kbLRniO4MNyJdMuynrii90CtJgeJeQlK0zkYPw9glw6Ab7lB--Q=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeAs8jCUjBRnmgcRx-kcVDXVFBZpyXRPpDkMJd25RIdSTLRfn8gQ3Va2aiCAixMFU5uk7M8jLTyTsLNnBIsEXDJdsJylR9WLAKSpgEeVGFcAQV1vvyUZVc_BvuI0LUmgZblnlwXp3kbLRniO4MNyJdMuynrii90CtJgeJeQlK0zkYPw9glw6Ab7lB--Q=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3M-5ghGmRIekFr9EA4pZ7g4zz47E_-nT-l3QpkQsHoBdXZdSeWtakdcvxk3nR19F8_EgegZY0IE05TVEGgWt2spN7Eh6cBx5pjkLtj_2q2Qcm_dI4DSV5P5fW9mDywuBI5e5GctVfj_SLQSXKvY7dYwFQC2VZj4ATk-jSaIosikrf6vo9w04IfsLmvg=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3M-5ghGmRIekFr9EA4pZ7g4zz47E_-nT-l3QpkQsHoBdXZdSeWtakdcvxk3nR19F8_EgegZY0IE05TVEGgWt2spN7Eh6cBx5pjkLtj_2q2Qcm_dI4DSV5P5fW9mDywuBI5e5GctVfj_SLQSXKvY7dYwFQC2VZj4ATk-jSaIosikrf6vo9w04IfsLmvg=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I wonder if he
himself has the answer. Technical showoff, probably. Or because no one had done
it before (outside of spaghetti western’s opening credits back in the sixties).
Listening to the technicians themselves in the DVD featurette “</span><i>The Weight of the Line: Animation Tales</i><span>”
one’s puzzlement grows even deeper. Take, for instance, Christopher S. Jennings,
who was lead artist in the making of the film: answering his own question – Why
rotoscoping? Why drawing over footage? – he has nothing more significant to add
than to state the obvious, </span><i>that it is not
Winona Ryder’s voice over the animation, it is really her performance. The
actor’s performance</i><span>. Well, yes. But then, why do it? Wouldn’t one have the
same performance without painting over it with computer tools? In the same
featurette, trying to voice his wonderment, Woody Harrelson, one of the actors,
sounds equally puzzled, babbling about </span><i>painting
over the frame that exists</i><span>. Well, no shit, Sherlock. But why?</span></p></span><p></p></span><p></p></span></span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: arial; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Is it a way of superimposing
one’s imagination over reality? Of pimping out the actors’ performance to one’s
dreams? Is it really Winona’s tits one’s ogling, or merely the way the
animators imagine them to be? Early on on the movie, as Charles (Rory Cochrane)
and James (Robert Downey, Jr.) are ordering breakfast on a luncheonette, Charles
starts fantasizing that the sexy waitress Betty (Natasha Janina Valdez) makes
sexual advances to him while stripping down her waitress’ uniform. As the
girl’s breasts come into view, one again wonders: are they really the actress’
or the way the filmmakers and animators imagined them to be? Want them to be?
Are we watching drawn-over reality, or just the animators fantasizing the way
her breasts look, just as Charles is imagining them to be? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8125Md4Ub_GDzDq6NwXpTNu2hIXS_l2HUPGALtzZQ6BEh9TcqRnB3WFZwYk2MzUgsDJH_tB2a1YxGey61A8hlzQKIyK4-yBmZQ532KqY60AypLY1cVq8KUKL2XjUjYuvtj-RR_1kTAa3ZnS5ZNhkcCfHs1AP0t7_hNwzmZaFSN1cJW5LQbaf_W8i0xA=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLO7OveX2n5SRanX1nf5hlrD9Tsl-c9zfHFLLKBS9AHQrTDl4pRbxJXSdr2_CQ31BX1qP2xuBHWpp_E2SFIHbyuDTw7r4j1OjoUAJ4ngHTLS6BAD_rdVmPYes8ttdnFS-yW8Yr4XWq_Dw9tMZQeJ7nIiaMu2JrE-B176iuG9vmrAu8o5MRIBCcqP6ejA=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmhXudgX8v3RZlLRiA0Kbw9R9p7LE_WWv8vGsh5t1Q_XVXDG2Kazwb6KW2W22GhPwadKp66TrCefkq_JQUW72fY0Wrb2F1hZ3RL2T6guwuk7LdM-aveVQ8T7-X2-YjV7Egd-o2zku6Gz_BTmteQQjQcRSdYOgbeNRBepmpvNtq_GVTBFWBP3dKCSLNog=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjttOZ5vqGTI8lBYVnmKJZlQ-R4r0F3HFHDAv96_yLJUPze8HS2O8LMOsoyl7DQekzvWsLhmbL47jgHFULnFbsKoDDs7SonHvcwy-yxzXRFXl2bvatW98x_emA_fFjlJO5vjW8dlPbz1iZpaEmc_KQ03NNA9CqOPnmyOw3WVLAVZZsrwrZFQtO3BNPGXw=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5df35bATaEc0FmKoaIrzOhjE_dmKhOkH20AXvALt2MJKYcC2jo3faebgrx9_aq_1LakzZvJx-gSSnQYtmcDsV0-72TO8ZkmC0HHEoBz7MzSj6LPG0nlnZ_wbvIioZokYPdPZKR_mhk-sXnCGxvy_-GEENgDTnRXAF02XzfH6zHhR9GpLdpOIFMj3mDA=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtzIRZQ1S5W_z8mb_7uvmLJ38wYgZ6shdsRiXPOPVMTBvDYdJp1OgHlS1282ytExF8JZzkgLFg-GK8vJ5_u7SVhoBLznqXM8QpkCmAhlXsUp59PMe7CleTrOBvZm68HYtb6FTLMW9Wf0ixBAxDlBLPc1UwjVMPur6W63_PB3IhRx_ppN0SiGOYJLMcmA=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz5ggQzyMLwpgRF22p83JSkWjptWsFVL3bMWSSwj51r3nK8MVhktz59XqCJ6s8afYXiUrCCLf4LAYy-LHw8aOqxVcm0uvuDlhq5jd4HjJkTOpZ4OgoJq-PO_ZVaG_9xoWo2tZtqC18GRUv3RIUaPWmm0USKfq-LJH0UFpfC14UBWKs27p1ASBYQzvN0A=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Did Natasha Janina
Valdez, or Winona Ryder, or Lisa Marie Newmyer really undress for their
performances, or just like many before them, wearing pasties or capture-suits,
did they just lend their shapes to be molded by the filmmakers’ minds? And, if
so, then, what’s the point? Really. If all of cinema is illusion, what’s the
point in adding another tier of make-believe over the actors’ basic
performance? It gains nothing but an added degree of scrutiny of the cinematic
illusion. Making the viewer even more aware that all that he's getting for his money is
illusion? Isn’t that a defeat of the cinematic medium itself?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpjXP3s_gY2P6fc2VrFO0s1anao_N9R5_SklvvpI7tnT6yH1JVLYUVSY_a9P86QOto_I62FGX6Mo1kxjL27olrdTL0mpfJS6eZODNFjr01UUgElVlK2gAY3hZVutSMeMBulcPBGm0NRDi03UIEMqJXpP3So4Zg2GwoSdBSkdayIGUZrmwTfztfJPghsw=s1024" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpjXP3s_gY2P6fc2VrFO0s1anao_N9R5_SklvvpI7tnT6yH1JVLYUVSY_a9P86QOto_I62FGX6Mo1kxjL27olrdTL0mpfJS6eZODNFjr01UUgElVlK2gAY3hZVutSMeMBulcPBGm0NRDi03UIEMqJXpP3So4Zg2GwoSdBSkdayIGUZrmwTfztfJPghsw=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Like the
multi-eyed creature that at one point of the film seems to be checking the
inner workings of our reality, the viewer is prompted to challenge the sacred
implicit contract which, since time began (cinema time, that is), bound him to </span><i>believe</i><span> the lies he's been shown on
screen. And he believes, because fulfilling his part of the bargain, the
filmmaker strives to make those lies seem true. That’s what we call
<i>verisimilitude</i>. And that’s what got lost in the scalpeling of these scenes
prompted by their sheer artificiality.</span></p></span><p></p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: arial; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We know Woody
Harrelson dind’t turn into a giant bug. That is all special effects. We buy that.
But when the filmmakers ask us to believe that all they’ve done is to scrawl
over the actual performance of the actors, we wonder not only if those are
Winona Ryder’s real breasts, masked by virtual ink, but also about
Reeve’s and Newmyer’s sex romp: did they do it? Is that really Keanu Reeves’
post coital dick still erect? Or is that part of the illusion, hidden under the
artists' virtual pen? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxj6rApV7fgndUfLPsFGEMATWrqB97faP7KpKqRpxdMcGL5bbRjwLJB2kIRM9lNikEQHiW8448Itebumz_0KBSiupNzH_ecc0w0x-wNWU_b7i58yTuhAIc-PHlwuzxsG-KksVCzCtKlIsSs9pdZ4_v2ntepbqGZXm3RiNSZuIHPycBKzTjZxRXAwtx1g=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>If it isn’t Reeves’ pecker, or Ryder’s,
Newmyer’s, or Valdez’s tits we see there, than what’s the point? If this is
some kind of virtual body-double, why go the trouble? Why do you need the
actors after all, and not only their voices? Why not use traditional animation,
or 3D rendering, to convey your imaginanings? Wouldn’t it be more honest?
Wouldn’t the illusion be truest?</span> </p></span><p></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-85319531504654969372022-02-10T19:54:00.000-05:002022-02-10T19:54:12.345-05:00Summertime and guns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3YX0jix3njWCSS4LLjn_xKERIT1PwoCuwnTy6fzgnseJvcHzMywn4KLDtP7gR2eORX6qo2tiqPc6ZxY2C72kEt4_gYVsln__IGNhGBo6yJzZw6nya_TPN7KlCZYgY68ed6bIutNug8nkvS78f0YxmAuTwIfNe4kE01p7vXkt2p3Uy8pBQdgHKdBjiZQ=s1500" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="947" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3YX0jix3njWCSS4LLjn_xKERIT1PwoCuwnTy6fzgnseJvcHzMywn4KLDtP7gR2eORX6qo2tiqPc6ZxY2C72kEt4_gYVsln__IGNhGBo6yJzZw6nya_TPN7KlCZYgY68ed6bIutNug8nkvS78f0YxmAuTwIfNe4kE01p7vXkt2p3Uy8pBQdgHKdBjiZQ=w253-h400" width="253" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I like the barrenness
of this beautiful film poster for 1988’s </span><b style="font-family: arial;">BACKFIRE</b><span style="font-family: arial;">.
I like the way the paucity of information fires up the feverish search for
meaning in a thunderstorm of firing synapses. I like the way its emptiness
invites us to pour our feelings into it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It gives us
nothing, as if it has nothing to give away. There’s only color, and light, and
shadow, and a pair of beautiful leg, and a gun. And us. Mesmerized. There’s no
place to speak of. Just surfaces. Somehow I think of a beach house. And of a
summer morning. Maybe it’s the way the light pours in from left side that makes
me think if that shadow is that of an open door. A door that opens onto the
beach, onto the ocean. If so, his she leaving the house? Is she waiting for
someone to come? Is someone lying behind her on a rumpled bed with light linen
sheets, in a pool of blood? Blood, yes. Red is the color we don’t see on the
poster but as a flimsy trim around the film title. But that’s the red of
burning embers. It speaks of passion, of sweaty sex. The idea of blood comes
from the huge gun on the woman’s slender, elegant, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">left</i> hand. Somehow one feels the imminence of something drastic. A
crime, perhaps. Is she the perpetrator? Is she about to become the perpetrator?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And who is she? We
don’t know. We see only those long, firm and sexy legs. Are they Karen Allen’s?
Are they the same shapely legs we saw dangling above the Well of Souls in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK</b> (1981)? It doesn’t
matter, for that is just the actress playing the mysterious woman whose light
summer dress the cool summer breeze – a sea breeze, perhaps, coming through the
window above the blood-soaked bed? – is pulling aside to allow us to ogle. Those
legs. Those enticing legs, so relaxed. No, if there is a crime, the deed has
already been done. And, again, somehow, one feels she’s the culprit. Those legs,
so perfect, suddenly bring to mind images of a slim anklet, and other mesmerizing
legs, those of Barbara Stanwyck as the primordial femme fatale in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DOUBLE INDEMNITY</b> (1944). Surely, that’s
what our girl must be. A femme fatale. A killer. A man eater. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And yet, all that
blue, all that sense of a luminous morning seem to want us to dispel the nightmare.
That light, that summer dress, those naked legs, I don’t know why, makes me
think of my favorite of all Edward Hopper’s paintings, 1943’s <i>Summertime</i>. It's as if they are the same
girl; perhaps some kind of girls find themselves in the same situation, facing
the same choices, having to overcome the same adversities, throughout time. In
Hopper's painting, there’s also a wondrous summer morning, awash with light. A
curtain flutters on an open window, just like the skirt of our unknown woman’s
summer dress. Also, in Hopper’s, there’s a girl with a half-bent leg and a
summer dress, a light seethrough summer dress that also reveals much of the
girl’s legs. And she is there waiting for someone (or maybe just leaving the
building where a similar drama has played itself out?). Her left hand is hidden
from view. And one wonders, is she holding a gun? Has there been a crime? Is
she the culprit? I love that painting. The paucity of information fires up the
feverish search…</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-24807063665186073092022-01-19T05:38:00.000-05:002022-01-19T05:38:02.518-05:00Time traveling with a sense of nostalgia<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCSToxFXeRJP6FgWX_c6T6ZEFtiYeB1jrsHXPMSwk7zeiPWM2UgS4fIeVBeufdPnI9hemeieGtZkJzmz19S3z0225vTwKASw4-w82-0XNeObtKKjO4mYhAbyGeGq3wRCdvYtbdfIdXSH5ZnyDp9j24nSzZ_8Ae1d-W3bKAdoPfpxqIyEA-WwqH1VJxKQ=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCSToxFXeRJP6FgWX_c6T6ZEFtiYeB1jrsHXPMSwk7zeiPWM2UgS4fIeVBeufdPnI9hemeieGtZkJzmz19S3z0225vTwKASw4-w82-0XNeObtKKjO4mYhAbyGeGq3wRCdvYtbdfIdXSH5ZnyDp9j24nSzZ_8Ae1d-W3bKAdoPfpxqIyEA-WwqH1VJxKQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We are a fortunate
lot, alive in an epoch when we can carry time-machines in our pockets, have
time-machines in our homes, able to operate them without risking a collapse of the
time-lines. Of course, I’m not referring to anything as expensive as a
radically costumized DeLorean. But I’m referring to something that, contrary to
all the science fiction inventions, really does work: the VHS tape, the DVD,
the Blu Ray discs, the tablets and smartphones with access to vast virtual libraries
of film and TV. With cinema a tad older than comic books, and TV a tad younger,
in the almost 120 year-history of these visual art forms it is amazing the notion
of vertiginous –yet unbroken – social change forever recorded in those cultural
artefacts. Thanks to them, on the whim of a moment, one can visit another
time-line; say one where it would be excitingly daring for a lady to lift her
skirt above the knee; or unseemly for that same lady to sit at the dining table
without waiting for a man to pull it back for her. On another whim, we can
travel to a time when Janet Leigh is still alive and in her thirties, lying on
a seedy motel bed in only a virginal white bra and a rumpled skirt. Jump after
jump, we may by searching for a time when we ourselves were young and alive and
attuned with the times, instead of surfing the timelines like lost retronauts
in search of archaeological memories.
Excluded from the present by the ever-growing reach of the politically correct
cancel police, one must dwell in the glow of days gone by.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNRxg5PxJ_qvUHJy8hE-hlI2v6kb6MdZUuwouVkB0jixUAcKuP298YqeunXNSj9oBjMrt4VXPf5cu_i07tIR4YikPQnEnlRN7bYG0ZPooppsFb6cOvltyLo8bTfUG5ll0wN2VrUskEQzjDBAQjOUKaWTbBr_hKfLnscncSFhS0AO9Z2p-T15KwzdlGow=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNRxg5PxJ_qvUHJy8hE-hlI2v6kb6MdZUuwouVkB0jixUAcKuP298YqeunXNSj9oBjMrt4VXPf5cu_i07tIR4YikPQnEnlRN7bYG0ZPooppsFb6cOvltyLo8bTfUG5ll0wN2VrUskEQzjDBAQjOUKaWTbBr_hKfLnscncSFhS0AO9Z2p-T15KwzdlGow=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjevlO0_rtZgJ7-FN0an8rgwbiZR19Une4r0PjKmhJL9BtE2htO7gQs7xD5NstCuYNEInwkOQs6wxmnZHhWLVVNqdX0UGvqRKXMptIIozbjTywJ2dbNkmZ9EIVyjkwn-ys5MJXQeUlaa1joSanTPKJ02osSdEqXHgym2Cj7WuqgdnutOGYhd_Fp1zZF8Q=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjevlO0_rtZgJ7-FN0an8rgwbiZR19Une4r0PjKmhJL9BtE2htO7gQs7xD5NstCuYNEInwkOQs6wxmnZHhWLVVNqdX0UGvqRKXMptIIozbjTywJ2dbNkmZ9EIVyjkwn-ys5MJXQeUlaa1joSanTPKJ02osSdEqXHgym2Cj7WuqgdnutOGYhd_Fp1zZF8Q=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxZDrgm90SETXo0FvXzhB1V743am1iGk0Zy10jquXUla0r5XQ8GeYfUN_qz7LvYrVVdi-L3AQ0wqBnQPXnnefLXFbKuC1JiAuxI2K0pqb5HIOji6vro6bBxO1sdl9tD7fbxm67qayRi35-gE12C_82IGkQ9a9ec3XdwNbMB7hkqAHKpulXH5gOPP5hCA=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxZDrgm90SETXo0FvXzhB1V743am1iGk0Zy10jquXUla0r5XQ8GeYfUN_qz7LvYrVVdi-L3AQ0wqBnQPXnnefLXFbKuC1JiAuxI2K0pqb5HIOji6vro6bBxO1sdl9tD7fbxm67qayRi35-gE12C_82IGkQ9a9ec3XdwNbMB7hkqAHKpulXH5gOPP5hCA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On one of those
jumps, I landed once more in the time when I was no more than twelve or
thirteen, enjoying life and the endless pleasures only childhood allows, one of
them being THE DUKES OF HAZZARD on TV. Bo and Luke Duke, just like Tom and Huck
before them, were the epitome of youthful daring and sunny adventures. They
lived in a fantasyland of dusty backroads and dense tree forests, of crystalline
creeks and sun-softened two-lane blacktops. They drove a muscled up 1969 Dodge
Charger with a characteristic charging horn and a Rebel Flag on its roof. And they
had a cousin, Daisy Duke, that was as hot as the Sun and as cool as the Georgia
rivers, and sexy as the sins country bumpkins went to confess in husky tones before
Sunday mass. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ0zULxmpKQdS-0QEFdR-P94mrtiu-iRxXo43CG_HaUDL5RnggD3Xiw0Vzo5nWbYnFBQ659zx2mjLoj4pR8iRZNoz4AUBvwuOfPLhUei3fguJdook49AI4W6KsrCvocYId0pRyZEwO0fYRcymvh2znV3UltrOKKPJJekzhJlI9vY5bLpRvnYL1n7OUTw=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ0zULxmpKQdS-0QEFdR-P94mrtiu-iRxXo43CG_HaUDL5RnggD3Xiw0Vzo5nWbYnFBQ659zx2mjLoj4pR8iRZNoz4AUBvwuOfPLhUei3fguJdook49AI4W6KsrCvocYId0pRyZEwO0fYRcymvh2znV3UltrOKKPJJekzhJlI9vY5bLpRvnYL1n7OUTw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This time around I
landed in episode two of the second season, “<i>Gold Fever</i>” (1979). The plot, revolving around a gold swindle that
almost puts Boss Hogg on a three million dollar debt to some Texas crooks, and
Bo and Luke behind bars, is of no great concern to us here. What is, is a scene
where, as the country narration of Waylon Jennings tells us, in order to
impress the (to him, unbeknownst) swindler, Boss Hogg “<i>shut the Boar’s Nest down, dressed Daisy up, and went all hog</i>”. And
the Texan swindler is dully impressed. Who wouldn’t be, with Daisy (Catherine
Bach) dressed up in a frilly, v-necked mock-up of a French maid costume, all of
it short skirt, black pantyhose and deep cleavage. Daisy is a wet-dream come
true, and while the family-oriented comedy tone of the series makes us unmindful
that she’s only working for Boss Hogg because he had loaned money to Uncle
Jesse and the boys at a specially low-interest (to purchase the entry fee to run
with their car, the General Lee, on a competition), the exploitative role of
her attire makes any male viewer sizzle with desire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Obviously, Daisy
Duke is a country bumpkin caricature. But Catherine Bach has made the
caricature come to sizzling live and throughout the entire run of the DUKES OF
HAZZARD (1979-1985) she was able to turn Daisy’s sometimes unbelievable naïveté
into one of her most charming assets, portraying her as negotiating a fine line
between knowing she’s super hot and not believing that fact at all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiHU6h3Vga5pZpg6QqkdUWt09FLWbcBbWXQFV13uRS-wLtAJw55b0M64rhal1DLunzBUq6kbroFyBqGu4elaRitYZUPJIBRNQHK0dSrQod4Z4iuAMqZQJdSmgsSt_IcdGPPgHUfyk86vfcxTosoz-nNg9D5FSrBfiKgMcAfIIKC3dz4bFUemhFIq3RQg=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiHU6h3Vga5pZpg6QqkdUWt09FLWbcBbWXQFV13uRS-wLtAJw55b0M64rhal1DLunzBUq6kbroFyBqGu4elaRitYZUPJIBRNQHK0dSrQod4Z4iuAMqZQJdSmgsSt_IcdGPPgHUfyk86vfcxTosoz-nNg9D5FSrBfiKgMcAfIIKC3dz4bFUemhFIq3RQg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI5mZFx45S2mHNbMa2iyuEn2mtemMblFI8l5KkOTDZ1hGDiNXREzQMFEgDJ1tv3llbYW_v4RcI3V9KHg7-pR0zf5KKK_B1GDbwr0vhKtOoGgZRt2853rcAGeSUWgKVGr_GW50pqCjHuc_Xpg9l2AjYR6FlqbfNNoVfLKs9GIUkcLM06T5uEYZ1xaC18g=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI5mZFx45S2mHNbMa2iyuEn2mtemMblFI8l5KkOTDZ1hGDiNXREzQMFEgDJ1tv3llbYW_v4RcI3V9KHg7-pR0zf5KKK_B1GDbwr0vhKtOoGgZRt2853rcAGeSUWgKVGr_GW50pqCjHuc_Xpg9l2AjYR6FlqbfNNoVfLKs9GIUkcLM06T5uEYZ1xaC18g=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg29gpGA7DGlD52Ks_IxYGN-c3pr7yoqSndMbsLRYafPjjSB_hEwrXFjpBgFls0rkHCwNRl6xM-5_sAAk8Q04S1wUc4uOhmXwsNPnBJawjhQZagJZnj-RkLI-2NXjwQB5oTu94r9Xou7rTDZsXkXlHurVzE52ryWxznGH-VhZLIXzQJHrmx-kM8jn1pxA=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg29gpGA7DGlD52Ks_IxYGN-c3pr7yoqSndMbsLRYafPjjSB_hEwrXFjpBgFls0rkHCwNRl6xM-5_sAAk8Q04S1wUc4uOhmXwsNPnBJawjhQZagJZnj-RkLI-2NXjwQB5oTu94r9Xou7rTDZsXkXlHurVzE52ryWxznGH-VhZLIXzQJHrmx-kM8jn1pxA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not that Daisy is
being naïve on the scene I’m considering here. When Boss Hogg keeps urging
Daisy to put more food on the plate of his guest, she is plainly aware that
when he answers with a subtly impolite “No, thank you, little darling, I’ve had
quite enough. (Pause) Food, that is” he is plainly staring at her generous décolletage.
As is Boss Hogg: “Careful, Daisy honey, the eyes of Texas are upon you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinNDFbCGpnsRa-kyWkgMa7_USyDo71Ju2SwuSkrpwrAtKgMfleKJJIAx23GnIaPQZEAYdYpIqEk1vHXwjOpX_0rSfmYRFsMsEOlQcqUMuGdSrUnRS4FpgZuxJp4opu-4tMaAkOOREsq_pWEkFrRKlTE_wAI43mAJba0jBERe9Hjr8zzhl_h_QwCUv61Q=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinNDFbCGpnsRa-kyWkgMa7_USyDo71Ju2SwuSkrpwrAtKgMfleKJJIAx23GnIaPQZEAYdYpIqEk1vHXwjOpX_0rSfmYRFsMsEOlQcqUMuGdSrUnRS4FpgZuxJp4opu-4tMaAkOOREsq_pWEkFrRKlTE_wAI43mAJba0jBERe9Hjr8zzhl_h_QwCUv61Q=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Daisy is there as
mere eye-candy, an object of desire that Hogg exhibits as a way of mellowing
his new business partner, impressing him; but also as a proud business man would
exhibit one of his expensive acquisitions. And one could even perceive in Boss
Hogg’s attitude a certain undisguised Georgian pride about the way this
Georgian beauty is firing up the Texan’s concupiscence. Hogg and the Texan
crook are on the same wavelength; Daisy however is not. She just rolls her eyes
at such infantile infatuation and nonchalantly proceeds to embarrass Hogg by
mentioning that a noise that came from the adjacent kitchen (Bo and Luke
inadvertently tumbling some trays) came probably from the usual rats that dwell
there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiUnfh1ZZ0SsyZ3ktZvMDzBDk_NxGuLeLapu21Orq_PvL358yEuQ5jvjNVM6kX4IAgBLVtl3PVxtSXEHOtqk6j_J5b6EDXkUZUO44pT8BYx2f2C54sM-8r52z6ey6iCSvzgWXkl4gRJoTncXyuU7OtBjb8GAzG3J3XxCV9cnAY3pQiTUnF5uj0DP7YUA=s768" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiUnfh1ZZ0SsyZ3ktZvMDzBDk_NxGuLeLapu21Orq_PvL358yEuQ5jvjNVM6kX4IAgBLVtl3PVxtSXEHOtqk6j_J5b6EDXkUZUO44pT8BYx2f2C54sM-8r52z6ey6iCSvzgWXkl4gRJoTncXyuU7OtBjb8GAzG3J3XxCV9cnAY3pQiTUnF5uj0DP7YUA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">This nonchalance
on her part is what makes light – literally disarms – what could be perceived (and
surely is, by today’s thought police) as the troubling objectification of a
beautiful young woman in a family-oriented comedy/adventure series. For Daisy
is at one with her hotness. It is part of her and who she is, and is something
to enjoy and allow others to enjoy – <i>on her</i>
<i>own terms</i>. The generosity of those
terms made the happiness of countless kids in the late seventies and eighties,
and will keep doing so while we’re able to travel back in time, to more simpler
and happier days, through the oceans of time preciously stored in our jeweled plastic
libraries. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span> </p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-82996194561889805302022-01-09T10:50:00.001-05:002022-01-16T13:46:33.953-05:00Ghosts of Summers Past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgj4mKr_DDsH51xOo1jOzM0--ChDShbK9-eKc6MR5pSmsw2vx0OdVBKfDUXIJLEfw1bMJfMPmMYPPIj02oo28Rewp2iOu9HpXwRK0xakbf7GVruVkg_Yv_ssPQyS4kW9L_8Rze3-ZOHyy153Y0wGH-qyZ_hpWnACxpq_ztTvDCXG340EFfbxgLkmZx7wA=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgj4mKr_DDsH51xOo1jOzM0--ChDShbK9-eKc6MR5pSmsw2vx0OdVBKfDUXIJLEfw1bMJfMPmMYPPIj02oo28Rewp2iOu9HpXwRK0xakbf7GVruVkg_Yv_ssPQyS4kW9L_8Rze3-ZOHyy153Y0wGH-qyZ_hpWnACxpq_ztTvDCXG340EFfbxgLkmZx7wA=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Back in the
nineties, I enjoyed staying up well into the night, just writing. I used to
tell myself that it was the sound of the world asleep that helped the ideas
flow. But there is something more to it. The sense of going against the grain
of society, just like a modern day vampire. It adds a frisson all its own. For
at night, one becomes someone else entirely. Even if only inside one’s mind.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFYgoGFeqqkGrUJcgbFpRoqr94kZ4qkhJlfpjYFTmW8bIzGq2D9LsVh8E0X3-dFzVQzswT55TXxF13D94f5SNZ3CR90F7ecTUk5uPmt2BU9IdO5Q9MK30I2Nbz46T1TRYMuSuVeR1Iypw55ppVv_jrVCjjfcpB373rgGS8WzMizY63WzQN0hJVSMKTRQ=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFYgoGFeqqkGrUJcgbFpRoqr94kZ4qkhJlfpjYFTmW8bIzGq2D9LsVh8E0X3-dFzVQzswT55TXxF13D94f5SNZ3CR90F7ecTUk5uPmt2BU9IdO5Q9MK30I2Nbz46T1TRYMuSuVeR1Iypw55ppVv_jrVCjjfcpB373rgGS8WzMizY63WzQN0hJVSMKTRQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjndJm4oQofe1VHoo4-Ohaf3AmW9AnYPTsgqIaW1h5UYHV25IoguFA8fsHWERsyQCcriSdOrNFXjWd1F_yGKajnSrLQKTuhqP6BfF3uMnpZRo2t4RCVOvrp0O5xlbEvUvv2LAIoDBvYWJ7TiSvTcCdY3LH1eKZDATZpId8vf-ivee58CoTxjEiD5_rqAw=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjndJm4oQofe1VHoo4-Ohaf3AmW9AnYPTsgqIaW1h5UYHV25IoguFA8fsHWERsyQCcriSdOrNFXjWd1F_yGKajnSrLQKTuhqP6BfF3uMnpZRo2t4RCVOvrp0O5xlbEvUvv2LAIoDBvYWJ7TiSvTcCdY3LH1eKZDATZpId8vf-ivee58CoTxjEiD5_rqAw=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The light
of day brings clarity. It shines on one’s limitations, brings forth the smallest
imperfections; it draws you inwards, as the world presses down on your…hesitation.
Yes. One hesitates a lot more during the day hours. Things are less certain.
The clarity of form, breeds insecurity about intent. Can you reach what you
desire? If so, will it live up to your expectations?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEheavE_VyoNg20Qlv_GzckBM7wHepQLOYK117riHuAz29pAgMw7n97ZyoxE6LF9DUwRzNlyzkd7Sc1_6Pp0F-Zxlc-tHM_zSUfWzP2X_q-bm45ZbNyDHDcZhijEGeM_7sTQLzzeGmv5HKqOUvEF80Bdef4XKnasEe9wh5j6ze4Pa_G3M46aJdI0fedVwQ=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEheavE_VyoNg20Qlv_GzckBM7wHepQLOYK117riHuAz29pAgMw7n97ZyoxE6LF9DUwRzNlyzkd7Sc1_6Pp0F-Zxlc-tHM_zSUfWzP2X_q-bm45ZbNyDHDcZhijEGeM_7sTQLzzeGmv5HKqOUvEF80Bdef4XKnasEe9wh5j6ze4Pa_G3M46aJdI0fedVwQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Somehow you
withdraw when life proves willing. Again, you feel insecure. Unsure about
making the choice, taking the step, accepting the risk. Again, yes, you
hesitate. You fear to miss the right choice of words, to provoke the careful filigree
to dissolve in a hapless mess. You fear failure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjn7Ry_Y0pe46qcrX3fko9Amkt1l_rQZWFEvoGJ-_nIL8GefUjI3fwz5D8yO66v4xyWf99ysOVk5cKMpwY8zqkJkUh3cBgZnIodDD-_k5SjRcgBqtxW9WLGGucQJ09ccjr5Xqbfqf8ACNC5g--bT2VPcQxCQ0NFhe00Dfup_4F6Rm0SRunDUqpsihQitQ=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjn7Ry_Y0pe46qcrX3fko9Amkt1l_rQZWFEvoGJ-_nIL8GefUjI3fwz5D8yO66v4xyWf99ysOVk5cKMpwY8zqkJkUh3cBgZnIodDD-_k5SjRcgBqtxW9WLGGucQJ09ccjr5Xqbfqf8ACNC5g--bT2VPcQxCQ0NFhe00Dfup_4F6Rm0SRunDUqpsihQitQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHRFzNW8AAPllv-E5npvws7vUbtovg-NKwEA3tr-DVN0JPyfExkX46TWmdy4O79ZN0zhsfVvpatcj6Y26jbH9bxyrXG4V3qnGOn471wi4TCRbOsZRfF1KsHXErmoVHGeJe5q58R2TdtA0F1RcKD2xSqPJDxVEk7KcHywIra-LmHMbDUPTJB5vn4xQHjQ=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHRFzNW8AAPllv-E5npvws7vUbtovg-NKwEA3tr-DVN0JPyfExkX46TWmdy4O79ZN0zhsfVvpatcj6Y26jbH9bxyrXG4V3qnGOn471wi4TCRbOsZRfF1KsHXErmoVHGeJe5q58R2TdtA0F1RcKD2xSqPJDxVEk7KcHywIra-LmHMbDUPTJB5vn4xQHjQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Oh, but at
night. The whole world changes. Working at night, especially in those hot
summer nights when the sweat runs over your skin on the wee hours of the night,
like a cool blanket of molten lava pouring from your erupting, feverish mind, the
ghosts of the day come alive. And all of life palpitates with promise.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxLiazDr0RAOb6FuuNKDqyc30yeOjIQlua1p217DPNCouOSSJSRqk_VvufKhXYV5Ij3U9EFtoVOB2Mnlf2NzdD9_TIxOuVlqpLz81qDyQpog0Mq4UsJvDMHjLnKMC1svVmpMdkCDxZ4tX-uYH6_CNJJJ2cfnQl3wEkUnKhsPmTSN-_ENUftrF_cwsGfg=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxLiazDr0RAOb6FuuNKDqyc30yeOjIQlua1p217DPNCouOSSJSRqk_VvufKhXYV5Ij3U9EFtoVOB2Mnlf2NzdD9_TIxOuVlqpLz81qDyQpog0Mq4UsJvDMHjLnKMC1svVmpMdkCDxZ4tX-uYH6_CNJJJ2cfnQl3wEkUnKhsPmTSN-_ENUftrF_cwsGfg=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTzzkAuQ8nfdpHNZ9bFoWWw_YrS2dbB7PVM-zMli2QV1QPCOQdDoamApvvMwvrzCPSEDS9M6ZNl4FM0HgrwlJ145FvIakIgtvgKWCYwS_n-rIDjFHCrHxHhxE2rmCa_qJ9eyG5GNuQ2l2SYDhkUwTWIYPvgV3CpKwNGGRQnoNXMU807JERNSXFsDn8rw=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTzzkAuQ8nfdpHNZ9bFoWWw_YrS2dbB7PVM-zMli2QV1QPCOQdDoamApvvMwvrzCPSEDS9M6ZNl4FM0HgrwlJ145FvIakIgtvgKWCYwS_n-rIDjFHCrHxHhxE2rmCa_qJ9eyG5GNuQ2l2SYDhkUwTWIYPvgV3CpKwNGGRQnoNXMU807JERNSXFsDn8rw=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpGsEaxhDdrztKv51ayDPTGXPYygk6-dNrGazaaEARaU6Un8DTTsuzT6r9rJtRZ-SYZiCokKESeuik1h8kGims9tnzhzIU4o5YrgvJD-DnSytlo1LRNNnsfuFD0rmo6Q73DPm-Txl61_2aS_TUejblowUAsqihnZspiageOHICEHeOCG2dHl4YhdqPVQ=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpGsEaxhDdrztKv51ayDPTGXPYygk6-dNrGazaaEARaU6Un8DTTsuzT6r9rJtRZ-SYZiCokKESeuik1h8kGims9tnzhzIU4o5YrgvJD-DnSytlo1LRNNnsfuFD0rmo6Q73DPm-Txl61_2aS_TUejblowUAsqihnZspiageOHICEHeOCG2dHl4YhdqPVQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Loosing yourself
on the stillness of the air, without the merest hint of a breeze to flutter the
curtains, you’re the sorcerer supreme of your all multiverse of desire. All
hesitation is gone. Action seems incapable of error. Imperfection is erased,
failure not a possibility. What you have denied is now yours to grasp. The
stuff of your dreams is now putty in your hands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu_a5mSbSPjBIXbGICgFGxVsyp997rmTOmKwWdwPrhaw7Vl4k6siRrrKJhhmciR0VjaWmb_32J_sv9TJwFfUFiB9G1fsUA2huXJX4k7bK7-rd0i3qbsv7MlcPB4TYuLhfq9lDCd16EZJgOCpWagc2vc-bZG1euq-EM2uQVDySUJlN5e8fkCEsFOshCcw=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu_a5mSbSPjBIXbGICgFGxVsyp997rmTOmKwWdwPrhaw7Vl4k6siRrrKJhhmciR0VjaWmb_32J_sv9TJwFfUFiB9G1fsUA2huXJX4k7bK7-rd0i3qbsv7MlcPB4TYuLhfq9lDCd16EZJgOCpWagc2vc-bZG1euq-EM2uQVDySUJlN5e8fkCEsFOshCcw=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuaBT8eP7KItcwzK26J76fXDA9YMjc9RU5qLWBE9bANZ47ohuMaA1jNu1vjXhohMNfzaVh20vscqXEw7PPNgY78moqJ7aiJ2oGT2V4ISMh60rBC3eWh3rKfVZNYeBxwF1Z_iT1lcLU2M6QjQHgVsFRv7rm56u1CCYWs3SVZfhcJMxAyNEQMvuZ38KpEQ=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuaBT8eP7KItcwzK26J76fXDA9YMjc9RU5qLWBE9bANZ47ohuMaA1jNu1vjXhohMNfzaVh20vscqXEw7PPNgY78moqJ7aiJ2oGT2V4ISMh60rBC3eWh3rKfVZNYeBxwF1Z_iT1lcLU2M6QjQHgVsFRv7rm56u1CCYWs3SVZfhcJMxAyNEQMvuZ38KpEQ=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And once
day comes again, its light is no longer frightening. Hesitancy is gone. Every
trembling doubt is answered with crystal clarity in the afterglow of
creativity. You have beaten the blank page. You poured your dreams into the
world, bereft now of insecurity, naked for all to see. Unashamed. Confident.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgC350jyJlZze0e1TleS2Te0iJ3vUH8o_EXpF2Kw0hGVoE3Il6gBgeo-KEb6E4Dy6Xl8kWGgxUg-TxNKi6gbglGd9DpIbTf7UGc02ZY0NU99aRcsfKOiu4r37mtL2UJCQcKd0vHEL-AbHZfNTb0s_bS_PSt6ZCCX2ilm2amlX7myw_CRIY00i1I2tUA1w=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgC350jyJlZze0e1TleS2Te0iJ3vUH8o_EXpF2Kw0hGVoE3Il6gBgeo-KEb6E4Dy6Xl8kWGgxUg-TxNKi6gbglGd9DpIbTf7UGc02ZY0NU99aRcsfKOiu4r37mtL2UJCQcKd0vHEL-AbHZfNTb0s_bS_PSt6ZCCX2ilm2amlX7myw_CRIY00i1I2tUA1w=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSjqE1k8J2cUwYlYmEINEGg6OlhnVIPlLhJWyuGOHAU3LUQwr0lqS9n5uw-34Ziw4TK1g2x8I9dnVt4F1jYMHftYGbfAS65zcJ_2p7bvepCM_agRwW9isMbMJdIvb4ea_OlbyxUMgRveL7yuCy6XSYYR96Ua31xoiPmCEj59OQ4nigNAmYtXnikXZRvA=s708" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="708" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSjqE1k8J2cUwYlYmEINEGg6OlhnVIPlLhJWyuGOHAU3LUQwr0lqS9n5uw-34Ziw4TK1g2x8I9dnVt4F1jYMHftYGbfAS65zcJ_2p7bvepCM_agRwW9isMbMJdIvb4ea_OlbyxUMgRveL7yuCy6XSYYR96Ua31xoiPmCEj59OQ4nigNAmYtXnikXZRvA=w400-h271" width="400" /></a></div><br />Such is the
intensity of realisation, that you erase yourself from the picture. Your dreams
have taken form and, when morning comes, they’re all that remains. Like ghosts
of hot summer nights. <p></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-77953453875039007382021-12-31T19:50:00.002-05:002022-12-08T20:16:28.495-05:00What the Future Brings<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghg2kiEqiznaVlkG7Z6Zpx559h3J7Sj9xS6p-aJ_o6F3L4pB4fs6CDI0sunO10rViBXXO0faLi2XwQ0j85427KE1qWjd8FUaoebISLCM2gLxGCDm3hPgBSlobfbd2OhQqcv4MlwE7i-XxnrfOZGQPAdepa_qaPO3BpPbcQ8Zj2SpsSE5_GCbEnogr32w=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghg2kiEqiznaVlkG7Z6Zpx559h3J7Sj9xS6p-aJ_o6F3L4pB4fs6CDI0sunO10rViBXXO0faLi2XwQ0j85427KE1qWjd8FUaoebISLCM2gLxGCDm3hPgBSlobfbd2OhQqcv4MlwE7i-XxnrfOZGQPAdepa_qaPO3BpPbcQ8Zj2SpsSE5_GCbEnogr32w=s320" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So the wheel of
time keeps turning, and once more there comes the painful time when one must
look back into his past achievements and take measure of his worth. And,
looking back over my shoulder, blog-wise, there’s not much to be seen… nor to
be said. Just the vast empty space of posts unwritten, the silent digital
wasteland of unfulfilled ideas, of promises unkept. As one year dissolves into
another in the vertiginous movement of our rock around the sun, again there
seems to be a springtime of the mind. A whispered promise that everything will
be different this time. Will it? Or will it be just the same newfound impetus, bound
to die on the first confrontation with the empty sheet of virtual paper on
screen? Does it matter? To anyone but me? Will 2022 be just 2021 with a new
coat of paint? Let’s wait and see. Let us brave it, and find out. Welcome to
the new year. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-38457338223434226902020-05-16T12:16:00.000-04:002020-06-10T09:59:49.703-04:00I envied him.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcC-1jwaoiSDcvAJ4fCFhXjw8taPvgq1Aa_TYcZTUzNFc6-EQY2cRr7XSxosWAM0Mpqr3hWkAQkTXWa15XbNdNNDGBLst-nXqQVEyQW7VNkHZ7yFN8VlQrVi89Nca7-11MOO5NIU8mZC8/s1600/Ed+Wood+Script.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="474" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcC-1jwaoiSDcvAJ4fCFhXjw8taPvgq1Aa_TYcZTUzNFc6-EQY2cRr7XSxosWAM0Mpqr3hWkAQkTXWa15XbNdNNDGBLst-nXqQVEyQW7VNkHZ7yFN8VlQrVi89Nca7-11MOO5NIU8mZC8/s400/Ed+Wood+Script.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau) and Ed Wood (Johnny Depp) are strolling down Hollywood Boulevard on a sunny morning, when the above dialogue takes place. It is the morning after the riotous premiere of <b>BRIDE OF THE MONSTER</b> (1955) in a fleapit cinema, and they’re referring to the moment when one of the wild teenagers runs up to Vampira and grabs her breasts.<br />
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The movie is, of course, <b>ED WOOD</b> (1994) by Tim Burton, and Vampira, the TV persona of Maila Nurmi, is played by then Burton’s wife Lisa Marie, a model turned actress that was one of the most beautiful women of the nineties. So strikingly beautiful, in fact, that she was able to turn a non-speaking role in <b>MARS ATTACKS</b> (1996) into an iconic science fiction trope.<br />
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The scene above culminates in an impromptu autograph session when some passersby recognize Lugosi who is in a sunny disposition. It is a heart-warming moment. Watching the movie for the first time, one doesn’t realize that in the immediate scene, Ed will be told of Lugosi’s death. When Lugosi mischiviously says to Wood that he envied the kid who took a grab of Vampira’s breasts, he’s not envying him just that fleeting grope. He’s envying him the daring of youth (minutes before, when driving to the cinema, with Lugosi pressed against Vampira in the back seat of the cab, she tells him to watch his hands), the mindless hormonal rush ignited by the movie frenzy that practically tears the theatre down. He’s envying him the promise of a future that he senses he no longer has.<br />
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In a way, I guess, Lugosi was enjoying the chaotic walk down the aisle, with the howls of the savage hordes of teenagers reviving in him, for the last time, the long lost sense of success, of being a figure instantly recognizable by any, and all, moviegoers. As he still is, today.<br />
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Who really envies the kid (actor Johnny Meyer, I think) for his daring raid on the bountiful breasts of Lisa Marie, is the rest of us, immersed on the dream world of the movies, wondering if the kid understands that he is groping Lisa Marie, playing Maila Nurmi, playing Vampira, in an Escher-like illusion of erotic bliss. The envy we mere mortals feel towards those like us who get to touch the sublime.<br />
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A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-68559683481726846572020-04-05T11:57:00.001-04:002020-04-05T11:57:55.192-04:00As time goes by<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Time is an endless river that swallows us whole, dragging us down with it into oblivion. Sometimes its course is a short straight line, others a winding circuitous journey through harsh rugged terrain. Others yet, it goes underground, seemingly disappearing forever. Sometimes it surfaces again. Not always. It’s the same with blogs like this one. Time has been such a rare commodity, life’s interests so varied that one never seems to find the right moment, the right post, the right idea, to come back to it. And so it lies dormant, seemingly dead, the river never resurfacing again.<br />
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Until one braves the harshness of time and comes back to it, hoping to find it yet free of the ravages of mould and decay. Beautifull in its stilness, still plyant and suple, although pale for the recent lack of sun and warmth.<br />
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It’s been almost three years, and one still remembers how alive it was before – but it wasn’t, really, it never was… is was just a game. Full of promises and ideas, but always a second thought. But not to my mind. Not to me. It reminds me of joyfull hours spent with wonderfull films, books, and other blogs. Strange images and outrageous scenes.<br />
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But, just like Dr. Hichcock, it was I who killed beauty. True, it wasn’t something violent and bloody like a staking through the heart, the wood, herdenned by fire, puncturing the soft warm breast of a defenseless sleeping victim.<br />
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No, no, nothing like that. It was through sheer neglect of a willing partner. Too much of that, not enough of the attention she needed. In my defense, I should say it was due to some eagerness to go beyond the limits, to fill myself with too much of its promises. Erotic thrillers, damsels in distress, the defilement of innocence…<br />
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No, it was not something violent, it was not murderous in intent. But it happened. However, just like Dr. Hichcock’s Margaretta, maybe the blog is not dead yet. Maybe it is just dormant. Maybe it can be brought back to life if I can shock it with the spark it needs.<br />
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That’s something to be tried, for sure.<br />
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And so, here I am, not like a slayer, but like a vampire, stalking the sleeping victim in a mirror image of the dreaded necrophiliac I could very well be.<br />
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Sure, there’s something of parodic in this ritual. The undead, not quite alive, approach the as yet living, intent on turning them into something else. There’s something of religious in there, and obviously something sexual. The hands of the vampire are drawn to the heaving breasts of its victim as if by undying instinct, as dead moths trying to cling to the living warmth of the flesh.<br />
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There’s something of obscene in it, as well, of corrupting, as sometimes the victim is fooled into willingness. She welcomes that embrace most foul, allows herself to be swept through the door that separates being from eternal non-being. At least when you’re dead, you leave something behind…like a blog.<br />
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Can it still be revived? Can it be kept alive?<br />
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Only time will tell…<br />
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A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-54016444284558802782017-10-31T13:40:00.001-04:002019-12-01T19:32:23.497-05:00Happy Halloween<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't know why, but every Halloween makes me long for <b><span style="color: red;">House of Sin</span></b>'s cherished muse: Elvira. Sensuality and a hot moonlit night. That's Halloween. Share the moon, folks! Share the moon!A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-63108577703680240942017-07-15T11:30:00.000-04:002017-07-16T10:55:49.255-04:00Dreaming in a Darkened Room<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's a scene in Tullio Demichelli's otherwise simply entertaining <b>ASSIGNMENT TERROR</b> (<b>EL HOMBRE QUE VINO DE UMMO</b>, 1969) that illustrates why movies are just like dreams, when one's in that magic moment between sleep and wakefulness, apparently able to control what's going on in the deepest recesses of one's mind.<br />
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As one lays asleep, the monsters stir in the shadows of the night. They prowl in search of prey, and they hunger. For what, we do not know. Theirs is the will of the unconscious, where dark desires brew and bubble in unseen cauldrons.<br />
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<br />
She lies asleep, a vision of beauty, placid and defenseless, unaware of the menace that defiles her solitude like a stray thought from Fuseli's notebook. Maybe it hungers for blood, or maybe it's all an arcane erotic ritual being played out in our mind's backstage. Maybe it's just our dormant limbic system uncoiling its darkest dreams, yearning for simpler, more primitive times, when we just took what we wanted.<br />
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<br />
And, in our dream, we're commanding the nightmarish presence, telling it to go forth, to take advantage of the beautiful young girl lost in her own dreams. Or it may be she's having a nightmare. Maybe our dream is her nightmare. One feels tempted to wonder if we're dreaming her, or are we a figment of her dream of someone dreaming her awake? For she wakes. As if sensing something's amiss. As if the mere weight of the evil satanic look upon her body gives her the shivers. Or as in any good nightmare: you cannot be scared if you're not awake, even while you're sleeping.<br />
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And, by this time, we're turning and tossing in bed, near wakefulness, feeling the dream trying to slide from our grasp, the things happening out of control. She's wake, for god's sake. Don't let her scream. That would spell the end of the dream. But she only gasps. The nightmare is just beginning.<br />
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By now she's in that moment of the nighmare where you try to run through molasses, your limbs sinking in invisible mud that seems to extend to the earth's core itself. That's why she dreams she's being mesmerized, the monster's gaze glowing like a misjudged imitation of Cristopher Lee's iconic vampire in <b>HORROR OF DRACULA</b> (1958).<br />
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You, meanwhile, feel a surge of adrenalin in your dream. Or is it serotonin? The drug of happiness. Things are under control after all. You are there along with the vampire, looking down at your prey - that's how dreams and movies go: you can look, but you can't touch.<br />
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Although there's nothing else you'd want more. To touch her - she's Karin Dor after all, in the prime of her youth - and she's hipnotized, doubly asleep. Touch her, you cry in your sleep, at the same time shutting up the uproar of indignation from your sleeping counsciousness. This is a dream. In your dreams, you can be the monster if you want to.<br />
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And so you do it. The monster of your dreams does it. It's a monster after all, why should he keep the moral standards you live by in your waking hours? Arent' you dreaming when you go to the movies? Don't you close the door of dreams on the face of reality? Don't the actors lend their bodies and souls to embody your yearns? And if the director is of the right mind - if he directs his movies as you try to run your dreams - magic can happen. You look at the screen and, just like a toddler trying to warn Zorro that the soldiers are behind the barn doors, you find yourself commanding the action on screen. You say touch her, and the monster touches her.<br />
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Yes, that's it. And then you think, strip her. Tear that nightgown from her. Rip it off. After all, this is a dream. Only a dream. And you shout at the screen, come on, do it. And you feel surprised when the monster obeys you, the film obeys you, the director obeys you...<br />
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<br />
...the paw sliding up Karin's breast...<br />
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<br />
...clawed fingers anxious but gently curling around the nightgown's collar...<br />
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<br />
...bunching it up, prepping for yanking it down...<br />
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<br />
...and you're amazed of the power you have over dreams, over reality, as you keep mubling to yourself, yes, yes, do it, do it now, come on, DO IT!<br />
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And, as always, someone opens the door ans shatters the dream. He even comes dressed with the markings of science, as if to remember us that reality always trumps the stuff of dreams. And you're left with just a memory of what could have been. And you dream once more, of Karin Dor. Asleep and dreaming herself, safe from the monsters. That's life. That's cinema. <br />
<br />A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-89874827533576868772017-06-10T08:30:00.000-04:002017-06-10T08:30:41.745-04:00The Erotic Thriller: Bodies in Motion - First Brief Notes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">CRUISING</span></i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">
(1980)</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There may have been others
before. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PLAY MISTY FOR ME</b> (1971)
comes naturally to mind. But it was in the early to mid-Eighties of the
20<sup>th</sup> Century that (sub)urban males got to explore the late-night urban
fantasyland, a seedy neon-lit world of night-clubs, strip-clubs, whorehouses,
femme fatales, sex, crime and violence. More precisely, in 1980, fresh out from
a series of successes in such films as <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">THE
GODFATHER</b> (1972), <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GODFATHER II</b>
(1974), <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SERPICO</b> (1973) and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A DOG DAY AFTERNOON</b> (1976) Al Pacino
played an undercover cop hunting for a killer that was staking the homosexual underworld
as his killing ground in William Friedkin’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">CRUISING</b>. The film was based in real life police officer Randy
Jurgensen (who plays detective Lefransky in the film) who, in the early sixties,
had gone undercover into the homosexual community in order to (successfully)
capture a similar killer. Friedkin’s hypnotic update of the story into the
Eighties presented a fascinating world of leather and neon, dress and sex
codes, and tremendous sexual ambiguity that converted the night into an
alluring new frontier to be explored by a generation of bored middle-class men,
bound to routine by the shackles of their well-paid rat racing, mortgages,
marriage and children.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Soon several of those men
were looking for an excuse to cruise the empty streets of the neon-night-world
in films such as <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">BEDROOM EYES</b>
(1984), <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AFTER HOURS</b> (1985) or <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">INTO THE NIGHT</b> (1985), there to find a
roller-coaster ride of danger, adventure, and, sometimes, even horror; but also
sex with sultry vampire-like women or modern-day femme-fatales, who combined in
their sensuality both the erotic and the terrifying. In those initiation trips,
white middle-class men were confronted with the staleness of the American
Dream. Conformity and boredom were the price to pay for financial security,
upward class mobility and freedom from venereal disease. The candy-colored suburban
dream was lacking in the excitement that only the marginally dangerous, the
dark underside of the dream, could provide. And provide it did, in spades.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXWtErcKQKkwgeCNZc8i9dCXshcAiZiO-KXeM3S2gYK8WyXDvwyjHWgXuU9Jg74Sk0SFSp6vfzllD0RKDG_3k6D76x6Kgpc5XjUso3JjDEKFCZNI3slRxaMY74v4mGnxUOyM5dlQIG7G3/s1600/Linda+Fiorentino+%2528After+Hours%252C+1985%2529.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXWtErcKQKkwgeCNZc8i9dCXshcAiZiO-KXeM3S2gYK8WyXDvwyjHWgXuU9Jg74Sk0SFSp6vfzllD0RKDG_3k6D76x6Kgpc5XjUso3JjDEKFCZNI3slRxaMY74v4mGnxUOyM5dlQIG7G3/s400/Linda+Fiorentino+%2528After+Hours%252C+1985%2529.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Linda
Fiorentino in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AFTER HOURS</b> (1985)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Suddenly, barbecue-loving
wannabe-Kens were leaving their imagined-to-be Barbie wives in search of the
dark, risky pleasures promised by nipple-pierced punk nymphets of the likes of
Linda Fiorentino’s character in Scorsese’s magnificent <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AFTER HOURS</b>. However, it soon became clear that, sometimes, the
darkness would follow you in. And it did in the shape of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">FATAL ATTRACTION </b>(1987)’s über-psycho-bitch Glenn Close. Delighted
with the illicit pleasures of extra-conjugal bliss, this recently freed man
cannot imagine that this new amazing world he has just discovered can harbor
among its denizens someone who might aspire to the shackles of suburban
conformity. The collision of two separate worlds, much as in George Costanza’s
famous dictum, dictate the annihilation of this new “independent man” and
threatens to collapse the very distinct life-lines of safe family environment
by day, and exciting thrill-seeking by night. Those two spheres had to remain
separate in order to avoid all risks of contamination. To avoid that night-side
inhabitants (like <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">FATAL ATTRACTION</b>’s
Close) should cross the dark mirror to the sunny side. When that happens,
amidst the violence and familial and personal mayhem of Adrian Lyne’s opus, the
middle-class trespasser in the land of dreams goes back to his shell.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><br />
<br />
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<![endif]--><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Worlds colide in Adrian Lyne’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">FATAL ATTRACTION</b> (1987)</span></i> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The newly-free man of the
Eighties retrenches in suburbia and becomes the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">c.u.n.t.</i> (caring uninteresting nineties type) that Nicholas Royle
so appropriately christened. The thrill of the adventure is substituted by the
fear of getting caught. Risk taking is not an option anymore. He has to go back
to his old comfortable ways. More than that, he even fights back – the same
Michael Douglas that pisses out of the pan in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">FATAL ATTRACTION</b>, is then played as a patsy in Paul Verhoeven’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">BASIC INSTINCT</b> (1992) and finally
turned into a cry-baby that is ‘raped’ by hot-boss Demi Moore in Barry
Levinson’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DISCLOSURE</b> (1994).</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial Narrow","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With men thus dully
chastised, it was then time for women to explore the dark new world with which
they had had a first brush by their husbands’ tribulations. After all, it was
to be expected that the same dangerous thrills that so enthralled their men
would also have a mysterious allure for them. Women would then embark in the
same initiation voyage, through the dark labyrinth of sensual danger to the
ultimate goal of personal enlightenment and sexual fulfillment. Perhaps not
surprisingly, that trip would closely mimic that of their male counterparts. It
is thus absolutely natural that said journey should also begin on the same professional
realm, with a police woman going undercover to the seedy world of strip-clubs
to hunt down a killer that’s been preying on strippers.</span><br />
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A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-22494269216028942982017-02-20T17:49:00.000-05:002017-02-20T17:49:23.779-05:00Thinking of Shannon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A couple days ago I found myself thinking of Shannon Tweed. The actress will turn 60 next month (March 10, to be more precise), which puts her in her late thirties when she was the undisputed queen of the Erotic Thriller in the mid-1990s. As such she was a frequent presence in my old VCR, and I can well remember how great it felt, when I was in college, to run one of her films once in a while to clear my head from all the crap one had to stuff there in order to graduate. Well, maybe that is not entirely true. After all, she always played the woman (one can not think of her as a <i>girl</i>) one imagined one day one would get. With her stunning body and next-door-girl good looks, Shannon Tweed had something of an earthly quality, some indefinable and appealing mix that made one relate to her. She seemed <i>real</i>, unlike main competitors Shannon Whirry and Delia Sheppard who could never quite discard their self-conscious aura of sex fantasy come to life. Moreover, whether playing the competent professional, be it sex-therapist or talk show host, or the well-to-do unoccupied rich wife, Tweed always managed to seem troubled, preoccupied, as if partaking with us the woes of real life. Although not a great thespian - no Glenn Close or Meryl Streep there, thank goodness - she was able to brand a definite home-video period as her own.<br />
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I guess what prompted this unexpected trip to the past was my recent reading of a few works on the genre, that left me somehow unsatisfied and wanting more; wanting something that would directly address the allure of the genre for the viewer. Instead I suffered through the pompous academic prose of Linda Williams' <i><b>The Erotic Thriller in Contemporary Cinema</b></i> (2005), Nina K. Martin's curious hit-and-miss approach in <i><b>Sexy Thrills: Undressing the Erotic Thriller</b></i> (2007), and the totally clueless essay "<b><i>They Kill for Love: Defining the Erotic Thriller as a Film Genre</i></b>" by Douglas Keesey, published in volume 56 of <i>CineAction</i> back in 2001. What they all had in common was best summarized by Aneta Karagiannidou in her not less clueless thesis <i><b>Getting Away With It: The Erotic Thriller and Its Fantasies</b></i> (2006): "<i>Like Slavoj Žižek, 'I never feel guilty about enjoying films that are generally dismissed as trash'(...) Erotic thrillers are definite candidates for the trash category, so that writing a PhD thesis on such a contested genre was a great challenge. I realized early on that unless I were very careful about the way I handled my topic [my thesis] would be dismissed as lacking academic seriousness (...)</i>".<br />
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Well, we all know what academic seriousness does to truth when we're dealing with the (post)modern social 'science' and humanities departments. However, with more or less seriousness, all these authors handled the Erotic Thriller with long pincers, as if afraid it could contaminate them, or, worse, as if they feared they would enjoy such trash. But the most frustrating of all, was that they all tackled the subject as if they were making some kind of ritual sacrifice to the irate gods of tastefulness. Why someone would choose to study a field of the arts for which they have no affinity is something I'll never understand, unless they're invested in some kind of cultural-political-ideological crusade - which I guess most of them are - intent on <i>procrusteanly</i> squeeze even the smallest drop of confirmation for their stick-legged intellectual elephants. But for me, personally, what was really, really, galling, was that I found almost no connection between the readings they were making and the films I had watched. Was my memory tricking me? So, I decided to go back to some of those films and jot down some viewing notes and, if I have the time, the will, and the discipline, I'll share those notes with you, dear (and possibly non-existent) reader, under the heading <span style="color: red;"><b>The Erotic Thriller: Bodies in Motion</b></span>.<br />
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And so it was I started thinking of Shannon Tweed, the epitome of the Erotic Thriller heroine. When I finished college and opened my own practice, I was sure I would someday meet my own Shannon Tweed. I was in my late teens and early twenties when she was reigning over the erotic thriller, and now that I'm entering my late forties, I feel that she is still the same alluring blonde professional in her early thirties and that she's still plagued by unfaithful husbands, killer voyeurs or sex-psychos, and in need of some help dealing with them. I still think of her every time my door opens, but I know the woman I was hoping to catch is now the woman I never got. Somehow, time, and life, have passed me by, leaving her still an earthly, tantalizingly close dream... but a dream nonetheless. A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-69267597592806351032017-02-15T17:31:00.000-05:002017-02-15T17:31:00.463-05:00The Unfathomable Workings of the Censorious Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The first time I heard of Cirio H. Santiago's <b>STRYKER</b> (1983) was through a whitewashed trailer on an old (although then new) VHS tape of <b>THE HITCHIKER</b> (1986). Sucker that I am for all things post-apocalyptical I immediately fell in love with that weird <b>MAD MAX</b> (1979) and <b>MAD MAX II: THE ROAD WARRIOR</b> (1981) derivative cash-in. Among the usual murder and mayhem on desolate landscapes that is usual in such pop-cultural artifacts, there was a fascinating scene of a full-bosomed chained beauty having her shirt ripped open by a pair of unmistakable villains. I swear I can still hear the paper-like screech of the garment being torn, background hiss from the mono tape included.<br />
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As soon as I could I tracked down a copy of the movie in my local rental shop and nested in the sofa to cozily enjoylife after the end of the world as we know it, Phillipino style. However... something was missing from the movie. Not the murder, nor the mayhem... No, all the violent shenanigans seemed to be there, but there was no sign of the eagerly expected shirt-ripping scene. Weirdest of all, the capture of the girl - Delha, played by Andrea Savio (although credited as Andria) - was there; as were some glimpses of her body hanging from the chains, with shirt clearly torn, being interrogated by Kardis's henchmen. But not the reason why it was so. Needless to say, it was true in all other copies I watched since then, be them VHS tapes from other labels, or .avi files found online. So much so that I began to doubt if I had ever really seen the blouse being ripped open, if I had really heard that forever remembered dry tearing sound.<br />
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For, as enticing as it is to glimpse such a scene in a trailer, the lack of context is galling. In the trailer she is just a well-endowed woman in chains. Sure, it's great eye candy and hot as hell, but the imagination hungers for more. When the time comes in the film proper, she is no longer an anonymous pair of breasts. She is Delha, a survivor, a warrior, a capable soldier, and the love interest of the film's titular hero. <br />
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The contextual efect is much stronger, almost Christ-like (as her hanging from the chains with spread arms is unmistakenly intent to evoke), after we had seen her escape before by eviscerating one of the disposable henchmen that such villains as Kardis seem to have in unlimited numbers at their... welll... disposal. She's no longer just a sexy woman playing at soldiers, and to be so <i>defeated</i>, exposed, touched, begets an altogether different response from us, the viewers. For the censor, for whatever reason, to have cut the scenes of such unspeakable sexual violence, while retaining the run-of-the-mill punching, knifing, shooting and blasting, mainly among men, speaks volumes from where come so simplistic readings as those that take man-to-man combat as a substitute for hidden homoerotic desires. <br />
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Now, thanks to Kino Lorber's recent Bluray edition of this cult favorite, I feel vindicated after almost thirty years of unbearable doubt (I exaggerate, of course, but I want you to feel my anger). Together with the missing footage of the blouse ripping, I found restored almost a full minute of cut footage that cast aside any doubt that Delha was (gang) raped after refusing to provide the information her torturers wanted her to... but that I'll leave for another post. For now, let us celebrate this historical moment, in all its bruised and battered glory.<br />
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And even in the silent, frozen beauty of the screencaps, I swear I can still hear that shirt tearing sound. <br />
A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901536872898172831.post-5588777334329906522016-01-10T18:52:00.000-05:002017-02-06T07:46:31.151-05:00Place Holder (for a Future Long Overdue Post)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />A. Sherman Barroshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11993841605520936806noreply@blogger.com1