Once Upon an Irishman with Knives Out

Excuse me, I know I’m VERY late to this party, but I only just watched the Golden Globes and didn’t even know what and who was nominated (except that there were zero women directors nominated) for reasons that I think will become very clear in this post, but can I just say real quick, Knives Out? KNIVES OUT?! Knives fucking Out.

Look. I love a good murder mystery. I love a GOOD murder mystery. This was an okay murder mystery with a MASSIVE plot hole that is so egregious it erases any cleverness that might have been squeezed out of this tired fucking script. Spoiler alert. If the housekeeper had bothered to tell the police she saw Chris Evans rooting through his father’s nurse’s medical bag, there would have been literally zero mystery. Case solved.

I can get on board with genetically engineered dinosaurs running around an island. I can (not really) get on board with Leia FLOATING THROUGH ACTUAL SPACE USING THE FORCE (come on). I can even get on board with people believing Ryan Reynolds is attractive. But the housekeeper not telling the police she saw the man she literally hates rooting through his father’s meds moments before said father dies? That’s too far. TOO FAR.

And I know, I KNOW, that I have a habit of yelling at the screen things like, “Take the fucking weapon with you!” and that the movie would literally end if the heroine didn’t insist on leaving the weapon NEXT TO the “dead” bad guy after “killing him,” but the leap in logic taken in Knives Out is somehow worse. I’m sure they could have figured out a way to have the housekeeper divulge this MASSIVE PIECE of information and still maintain the “mystery” of the murder mystery.

And let me tell you, I would watch Daniel Craig cut his own toenails. I would gladly listen to Daniel Craig do one of the worst Southern accents I have ever heard (and I’ve seen Forest Gump). I want to fold Daniel Craig up into a tiny cube, like origami, and put him up my vagina and keep him there and take him out once in a while to look at him. But Best Actor? BEST ACTOR? Is the Hollywood Foreign Press HIGH? Don’t answer that. I know they are. Best actor. Come the fuck on.

AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON JOAQUIN PHOENIX. Get your fucking shit together, dude. Enough already. You are a toilet stain. Your performance in Gladiator deserved a massive thumbs down. The kind of thumbs down that SHOULD HAVE had you fed to the fucking CGI tiger from that OSCAR AWARD WINNING BEST PICTURE (Seriously. Go back and watch that movie. I haven’t seen Cats, but I’m willing to bet it’s better, stone cold sober, than Gladiator.). Joaquin, you’re right, Hollywood keeps giving you chances and you keep acting like…you. You are the EPITOME of straight white male privilege. Go take several laps and come back when you can act like a fucking grownup. You shit heel. (Full disclosure: I haven’t seen The Joker, and it looks terrific, and I’m sure his performance is great. That doesn’t negate any of what I just said. Annie Hall is a great movie, Woody Alan is a cretin.).

Daniel Craig’s performance in Knives Out can be summed up by him going, “I say, I say, I say… Boy, I say, you’re all about as smart as a fart in the wind!” and doing a mildly funny thing while listening to Abba or some shit on a walkman. Come on.

The biggest travesty of Knives Out, the real crime committed here by The Hollywood Foreign Press is that Us is a FAR superior movie on so many levels and kind of has the same sociopolitical message (Us vs. Them. And before you come at me about how I misunderstood Us, let me tell you, I researched a lot* about it. *Read a few articles and watched a few interviews. AND, Jordan Peele and I dated when we were, like, 14, so I THINK I know what I’m talking about), but tells it in a far scarier, more compelling, more poetic way.

And while we’re on the topic of Us, you want to tell me that Quintin “Bloated, lipless, sack of egomania” Tarentino, who finally managed to make a movie without the N-word in it (I think. You couldn’t pay me to see Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.) deserves ANOTHER award? And Martin Scorsese, for that matter? Martin Scorsese has been making the same movie over and over since the dawn of cinema, with characters who are only a hairs-width less stereotypical than my friend Liz’s impression of all New Yorkers (Elbows bent, fingertips together, bending her wrists back and forth like an old Italian grandma, “Ay yo! I’m gonna miss da layst ferry to Sta’in EYElin!!!”). To paraphrase Jack Palance in City Slickers, “I’ve taken shits more interesting than The Irishman.” (Again, assuming. My time is precious. I’m not wasting eight hours of it to go see The Irishman.)

As long as Hollywood and its bloated sack of old white dudes who decide what happens in it continues to choose regurgitated cud like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood or The Irishman or the infinitely more interesting than those two, yet still needless Knives Out, over Us, I’m going to…continue to be super cranky about it.

And before you get snarky and ask, if you hate what’s being made so much, why don’t you make your own stuff, I will remind you that I am writing my own stuff. I just haven’t figured out how to get the money to make it.

Maybe if I write about old, smug white guys with weapons I’ll get my projects financed.

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Happy New Year, Happy New Blog

Hello! Hi! Hi! Hello!

Welcome to my first posting on my new website! I’m currently in the process of migrating everything (including my domain name) to WordPress, so none of the content from my previous site is up here yet.

Come to think of it, maybe I’ll just go ahead and start nice and fresh here, and we can all make a brand new start together. Shall we? That way, I don’t have to put in the hours figuring out how to migrate everything, we can all forget my new years resolutions from 2019 which I posted about and didn’t see to fruition, and we can wipe any knowledge of the relatively sub par posts I made last year.

I will continue to write about gender issues as they pertain to my own evolution. Depression, I’m sure, will be a recurring topic, no matter how high my dose of Cymbalta gets (my psychiatrist seems to be performing a one person study on me about how many milligrams of antidepressants one can ingest before they float off the planet from medicated euphoria). Parenting and my generally bumbling attempts at it. And whatever I can say about Hollywood without sounding like a bitter, rage-filled, psychopath (I’m not sure how anyone could exist for more than five minutes in this industry without losing their minds). Along with whatever nonsense strikes me.

Monty has been on vacation from school since December 21st. Of last year. There’s another seven more days of vacation before he goes back. Honestly, I may not make it. I may stick my head in the oven by Wednesday (spoiler: I will not be committing suicide any time soon. And if I were, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.). I suppose it goes without saying that you should be okay with suicide humor if we’re going to be cyber-pals (meaning, you read my blog and that’s the extent of our relationship, unless I know you IRL, in which case, you already know I joke about killing myself frequently and you’ve either chosen to stick around anyway, or you’ve already run for the hills.)

Anyway, my point was, that Monty has been on vacation from school and will be for another week, and I have found it next to impossible to find time to write because he’s in a phase where he makes noise from the minute he gets up in the morning until the moment he’s asleep. This phase has lasted approximately 1000 years which is weird because he’s only six and a half. And so I’m either trying to keep him entertained, trying to keep myself from going insane, or trying to hide from him by sleeping whenever Kurt is home.

But, here I am writing this post now to say that I’m migrating to a new website host and this is where you should come from now on for all things me-related. If you’re so inclined. I INTEND to post more often this year, as I’m trying to gt a book deal. So, if you have a pressing issue that would be best addressed by me, let me know! I’ll write about it. Maybe. Or maybe I won’t. Like, don’t ask me to write about something ignorant like “toxic femininity” (because that’s not an actual thing), or why abortion should be illegal (because it shouldn’t. Ever.). But if you want me to rank every James Bond theme ever, I will. Or if you want me to tell you why I barely speak to my parents anymore, I will open another bottle of wine and get going.

Yes? Good? Good.

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