In fairness, 12 Years a Slave is said to be the best homoerotic SM flick since Cruising. But I and my fellow Celts are still atoning for our rejection of the Anglo-Saxons in the 8th century, and my offer to sit out 6 years in order to reduce the film to a manageable 67 minutes and skip the Brad Pitt deus ex machina stupidity was rejected. So off to a cat film set in Greenwich Village (“I can has folkburger”) we went.
Joel and Ethan Coen are still God, and John Goodman their most gorgeous prophet, and the film a splendid compilation of all the slights felt by anyone who has failed to get ahead, and everyone fucked Justin Timberlake’s wife. Tipsy free-association, with which one seeks to compensate for a lack of creativity and intelligence, quickly produced several important findings:
- All three cats are one and the same. Mrs Gorfein is lying when she says Cat 2 has no scrotum – no photo no talk – and the freeway mog is some kind of fucked up Freudianism referring to Diane’s retained sprog, and loss blabla.
- This is so obviously plagiarised from East End C’s dad’s novel about a schizophrenic man whose various personalities all resemble one another and all have the same name (publisher wanted).
Suzanne Vega said “I feel they took a vibrant, crackling, competitive, romantic, communal, crazy, drunken, brawling scene and crumpled it into a slow brown sad movie,” and she was always a complete fucking idiot, and the drunk hiccuping hipster arsehole with red trousers in the Hackney Picturehouse left before he was assaulted, and the chorus sang Tom Lehrer’s Folk Song Army:
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Loved, loved, loved it.
Glad someone did. It’s growing on me, as well.