Your movie forecast
Competency Rating (just above perfect): Okay, mon amis. So recently, the most attractive and competent movie psychic this side of Moscow, namely, me, Madame de la Mort, has come under fire from some of the less attractive public relations departments of some of the more established entertainment conglomerates, who we will leave unnamed (although, if you were wondering, their name happens to rhyme with Porner Lovers, and their initials are WB), for giving their unattractive films less attention than the people who profit from them think that they deserve.
Some of these unnamed corporations happen to think that, I, Madame de la Mort, may spend just a little too much time talking about how skull-fuckingly beautiful I am and not enough time talking about how Owen Wilson should be skull-fucked for being so damned ugly while also delivering a less than stellar performance in “Starsky & Hutch.”
So, to appease these corporate gods of Hollywood, I will try not to talk about my gravity-defying ass too much today, or the silky smoothness of my perfect, sculpted abs, or the curvaceous silhouette of my hourglass figure or the strange, almost alien-like, symmetry of my sensuous face or the utter poutiness of my full, luscious lips that appear almost swollen with grace as if I had been hit in the mouth by divinity.
Instead, I will try to focus on the general insignificance of the formulaic, inbred disaster of the Hollywood megacinema-industrial complex, which shovels out more merde each year than every professional circus on the face of this earth.
In fact, one may argue that the vertical integration of the entertainment industry and the consolidation of media to only a few hands has stifled the creativity of the entire film industry in the United States and has traded art and form for Pepsi endorsements and product placement money from everything as varied as Armani suits to potato chips, making American cinema into one of the least vital industries in the history of man.
Since the creation of the blockbuster in the 1970s – and with the invention of the megaplex in the ”80s – one has seen a steady decline in the output of the major Hollywood studios; where the ”70s were a period of experimentation as the studio system enacted in Post-War era dwindled away, one has seen a slow, stinky pile of dog merde emerge from the ”80s, ’90s and now into new depths of stinky mediocre films for a new millennium …
Oh, who am I kidding! I could care less and less about their gargantuan mountain of product-endorsed merde! They can cry their greedy eyes out for all that I care, for I am the most DROP DEAD GORGEOUS SHE-BEAST TO EVER GRACE THIS POLLUTED WORLD WITH MY VERY PURE AND AMPLE PRESENCE.
Oh, look at me: I am Hollywood! Please give me nine dollars to watch a predictable outcome filled with clich퀌�s and reference to the consumer product of our parent company’s choice! Ouuhhh, feel sad for my greedy heart and my Ben Afflecks and my Jennifer Lopezs! Eat my popcorn and buy tennis shoes! Please be influenced by my droll way of living!
Fuck that, I am Madame Beignet de la Mort and I am one hundred times, no, a thousand times – a million times – more insatiable than the film industry. I ooze sex appeal the way that Hollywood leading ladies ooze Oscar speeches. I cannot be reproached – oh no, I cannot be contained!
I am ogled by the cosmos, the very heavens – who ogles you Hollywood, you pretentious little bitch! My goddess-given talent and mind-numblingly fit body refuse to be reproached by the less attractive likes of a consolidated film industry hell bent on incestuous relationships and familial descendents usurping star power at the expense of talent! Hey Hollywood, why don’t you go get skull-fucked by pit bull, you bad little poodle!
Your Movie Forecast for the Weekend of 12 March 2004:
“Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination London”: Okay, so for starters, the most amazing feat of this otherwise banal family film is that they have an 18-year-old guy playing a pubescent child. Only in the rank back-alley world of Hollywood would a man who cannot yet shave be rewarded for this. Beyond that, the cosmos tell me, that this film will be exactly like the first one: child spy likes spy toys, underage female love interest of man-boy child spy will figure out that he is a man-boy child spy, hijinx ensue, all things come to an end where man-boy child spy is able to save the world while also balancing his school schedule. Yes, this one will be just like that except that it will all happen in London. And that is totally different, non?
“Secret Window”: So this new film is based on a novella by the master of formula, Stephen King, and is about a writer who is being stalked by a psychotic man that believes this writer …
Oh, really who cares? I could tell you how this film ends, but it really doesn’t matter. It has Johnny Depp in it. Johnny Depp is possibly one of the sexiest pieces of man-meat on this goddamned planet and someone could film Johnny Depp sitting around his chateau in Southern France watching satellite TV and scratching his ass through his tighty-whities and we would still go see this because it has Johnny fucking Depp in it and his ass is oh so fine. So go watch this movie and ogle Johnny Depp for all that it is worth, for the film is pretty boring without Mr. Man-meat sexing it up all over the place.
“Spartan”: This is the new film from writer/director David “Oh look at me I am so fucking clever” Mamet. It will involve way too many unexplained and clever turns that no one – let alone a believable character – could actually plan out, even if they were the most thoughtful person on earth, there is no way anyone could live like a character in a David Mamet film. And that just gets me thinking, w …
[Editor’s note: Madame Beignet de la Mort was found dead over the weekend in her villa outside of Monaco. The body was in immaculate condition, although the house was in utter disarray, for at the time of her death, two sets of twin underwear models were at her villa and no one knows for sure how long they were in the villa unattended, defecating on the rugs. The cause of her death is unclear at this time, although the doctors seem to think that it was combustible attractiveness, (a scientific way of saying that she finally became to gorgeous to exist). One of the underwear models seems to remember seeing a bright flashing light outside of his cage. A time of death has not yet been established, for they have had to close down the morgue to stave off a necrophilia plague that has seemed to develop upon the arrival of Madame de la Mort’s body. One bystander commented, “Now, I am not sick or anything, but that is one beautiful fucking corpse.” We, the editorial board, would like to give our condolences to her fans, for this will be Madame Beignet de la Mort’s last column, printed just as it was found, but we would like to promise you that in the near future all of this space will be devoted to advertisements.]