Categories
Arts

So what’s the deal with porn?

Graphic by Katie Brioux

Man. There’s something about the sex trade, isn’t there? Pornography is an international multibillion dollar industry that has been around for centuries, in the underbelly of society. Now, having never watched a full feature-length erotic film before, I was decently okay continuing a porn-free lifestyle. Honestly. I could take wild guesses at the works of thousands of silicon-based porn stars, and I was happy – ecstatic, even – to be unaware of the details.

But when Seinfeld A XXX Parody started showing at Cinema L’Amour, even my curiosity was piqued. I like the original show, so it only seems right to check out the smut it’s inspired, right? But, dear readers, curiosity is a fickle friend. And once you’ve seen two hours of raunchy, sweaty bodies committing unspeakable acts, there’s no return from that. So for this last Spoiler Alert, I’m giving you something a little outside the box. You thought Lady Gaga was edgy? I watched the Seinfeld XXX Parody so you never have to – unless you’re hard up and have specific ’90s sitcom fetishes.

First off, it would be against my journalistic morals if I didn’t mention that I decided to download the film, saving myself from those unsavoury theatre seats of Cinema L’Amour. I stand by this decision. Porn is not a social enjoyment, and people who think it is are – honestly? – a little fucked up. Secondly – being fucked up is alright. And few are more fucked up than the characters of Gerry, Elaina, Gorge, Crammer, and, oh yes, the Porn Nazi (no guesses as to his tagline).

Now. The story: Gerry and Elaina are really into this new adult DVD rental place. Elaina pisses off the owner, the Porn Nazi, by simply being annoying. Gerry and Elaina go back to the apartment and start watching porn, breaking the moans from the TV with painfully neurotic dialogue. Sex scene ensues for half an hour – no cuts, no edits, one shot (cinematically speaking).

Meanwhile, Crammer is unable to “jack off to porn anymore.” His idea is to make his own movie, renting a camera, porn stars, and a craft services table. Sure, he could probably cut down on production costs by walking into a bar and picking up a rando, but his way works too. Another half-hour sex scene with two girls on a picnic bench and a fully-clothed Crammer occasionally (and awkwardly) inserting his dong into various orifices.

Elaina goes back to the Porn Nazi to complain, but the Hot Female Asian Employee offers to give her the name of a secret distributor instead – “but you’ll have to do something for me,” which is, of course, code for inventory room girl-on-girl sex with magically appearing dildos.

The rest? “Noman” has trouble delivering Crammer’s completed film, Seinfeld’s new girlfriend has orgasms while watching the news, Gorge is basically George but less annoying. Throw in a few weak comedy routines (“What’s the deal with fake boobs?”) and awkwardly positioned laugh-tracks, and cap it off by Gerry gettin’ dirty with a massively-titted audience member on stage for, like, 20 minutes before credits roll.

But you don’t care about that. You just want to know what I think. Now here’s the thing – I had major expectations going in. I was a little nervous, had heard all these things, but I’d had a long and serious relationship with Seinfeld. And if it’s going to be your first time, it should be with something you love, right? Totally anti-climactic!

I could forgive the writing (no porn aficionado’s expecting classic Larry David-esque banter in all 15 minutes of dialogue), but it was mostly the sex that disappointed. Come on, porn stars and director, this is your trade. This is how you bring home the cash and cocaine. You live, breathe, eat, and fuck sex. If I’m going to sit down and watch a feature film in which the main selling point is 90 minutes of naked moaning professionals who are paid to have sex on film, let’s dive into the deep here. We all know the regular moves. I expect semen-stained pages ripped out of the Kama Sutra on the linoleum; perfectly agile, flexible bodies with new and fresh ways of penetration. Where’s the educational aspect of Seinfeld XXX? High production value isn’t going to cut it in porn anymore, Lee Roy Myers, director of this and many other sexy parodies. Time to get kinky.

Categories
Arts

Who’s afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?

Man. There’s something about werewolves, isn’t there? It’s basic human psychology to want what you can’t have, and there’s nothing more unattainable than paws, claws and fangs. At least, this is the reasoning that Catherine Hardwicke, director of the first Twilight movie, relies on with her latest, Red Riding Hood. And she’s not entirely wrong – especially when the object of affection is a tall, dark, brooding social outcast with bad-boy edge and knitted eyebrows. And let’s be honest, that’s always going to be the case in her movies. This week’s Spoiler Alert is on the magazine-glossy, dark and mysterious bastard child of the Brothers Grimm story we all know and love. I watched Red Riding Hood so I could save you hours of post-movie Hardwicke-esque sighing and sulking. You’re welcome.

The movie is crammed with beautiful people and Gary Oldman. This is a perfect role for Amanda Seyfried, whose pairing of blonde hair and creepily-huge vacant doe eyes will never allow her to play anything but an innocent, slightly dimwitted tease. She’s not the femme fatale or the ass-kicking brainiac; at best, her characters will surprise us if they have a single good idea. As Valerie, a.k.a. Red Riding Hood, she’s a male’s plaything, torn between two brooding gentlemen and kicked around like a little puppy by the rest of the men in the town. Her primary love interest, Peter, played by Shiloh Fernandez, which I guess is Spanish for Robert Pattinson, is a mysterious woodcutter who lurks around the forest. Their love affair is interrupted when two things happen: Valerie is forced into engagement with Henry, some rich pushover in town, and her older sister is killed by a werewolf. Shit’s gettin’ real at this point. To deal with the werewolf, the town enlists the help of Gary Oldman, a totally deranged werewolf hunter who reeks of child molestation charges and illicit drug-fueled paranoia.

No problem, right? If you have mice, you dial an exterminator. If you have a werewolf lurking around your ‘hood, you call in Gary Oldman. It would be as simple as that if everyone in this town wasn’t completely batshit nuts. Literally all they do is stagger around glaring at each other suspiciously, murder small bunnies and make up shit about werewolves.

“A werewolf always changes back into human state after they die.”

“If you’re bitten by a werewolf under a blood moon – but only under a blood moon – you become a werewolf.”

“The only way to kill a werewolf is by stabbing it in the heart with silver.”

Where do you even get this freakishly specific information? I didn’t know Google existed in the medieval times. And everyone is so fucking sad in this movie. Smiles and jokes are only doled out during drunken celebrations, like when the townspeople think they’ve killed the werewolf after hunting down what appears to be the only wolf in the entire forest.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter because the werewolf comes back and Gary Oldman starts his mad ranting again, telling all the townspeople to start suspecting each other and randomly shoving children into boiling cauldrons. Don’t worry, it’s all werewolf-prevention.

Maybe I’ve been writing this column for too long so my standards are slowly diminishing. There’s a lot I could say to shit all over Red Riding Hood – the dialogue is flatter than Amanda Seyfriend’s chest, every character is one-dimensional, there’s really weak chemistry between the characters who are supposed to be in love, and on top of that, it’s pretty degrading to women. But this movie was never intended to be a cinematic triumph – it was supposed to be a mystery filled with beautiful people with open collars trudging around in snow.

The only thing you were ever supposed to do was sit there, watching these characters skulk around and keep wondering who the wolf is – and in that regard, it’s a success. Plus, you pick up a few tips for avoiding werewolves along the way.

 

Categories
Arts

Valentine’s Day throwback

Ladies. Valentine’s Day, am I right? Men, take a break. Girls, pour yourselves a tall mojito and settle back. If you weren’t with your significant other on Valentine’s Day, then hopefully you were with some other lonely hearts. Or maybe you just stayed at home and studied, which is cool too. But me, I invited Ashton Kutcher, Anne Hathaway, Jennifer Garner, Patrick Dempsey and some other A-listers over to my living room and we rang in the most dreaded day of the year together. Or – I just watched Valentine’s Day, drank a strange mix of colourful and unconventional liquids and ate discount Hershey’s Kisses by myself, hallucinating celebrities. Your call. In any case – that day? Kind of sucks. But why not live vicariously through people who know love enough to star in a movie named after V-day? So yeah, I watched 2010’s Valentine’s Day, so you never have to – not that you would ever want to.

Okay, you know that saying, “The British do everything better than Americans and, kind of, Canadians?” Oh wait, it’s not actually a saying? ‘Cause it probably should be. Let’s count them out. They have given us the English language, candy (Don’t believe me? A Cadbury Curly Wurly is like a chocolate caramel explosion in your entire mouth. No joke), vintage shopping, celebrity tabloids and dentistry – okay, so maybe not dentistry. But movies? Hands down, 100 per cent. Like when Love, Actually came out and we loved it so much we had to get the prettiest people on the continent and recreate it, shove in product placements for Blackberry, and slap Garry Marshall, the king of rom-coms, in the opening credits as director. There’s even a scene running through an airport!

Ashton Kutcher is in love and newly engaged. Tobey Maguire is dating a sex-line operator. Jessica Biel is inexplicably single and bitter. Eric Dane is a gay football player. Patrick Dempsey is two-timing Jennifer Garner. Everyone else is either in love or advising the poor saps who are. Unless they’re Jamie Foxx, whose only role is being the racial minority (along with Queen Latifah and George Lopez, who are also painfully stereotypical depictions).

If this isn’t clear enough after an hour and 44 minutes in, he emphasizes it by shouting, “I am the chocolate!” after Biel demands her fifth candy enema. Foxx is also super supportive of minorities, judging by his lines after Eric Dane’s character officially comes out: “What does this mean? Will there be more house music played in the locker room? […] I stand behind you, Sean – metaphorically.”

Adorable, right? Man, don’t we all love love? And Taylor Swift? Because she’s not only in the movie as, surprise surprise, a ditzy cheerleader, but her song is played twice during the movie. And, girlfriend, does she work that role, seriously. This is her first film, right? Because she BECOMES the blonde bimbo, you know? Oh, wait.

Ending comments: if you hate Valentine’s Day, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to watch this movie. If you love Valentine’s Day, whether you’re in a relationship or not, and you’re just really down with the chocolate and pink sweaters – don’t watch this movie. As for me, I’ll go back to rummaging through my medicine cabinet for a night cap. Thank fucking God it’s over.

Exit mobile version