Happenstance

11 06 2008

Moviegoers!  Caligula begs you to cease your pop-culture assassination of M. Night Shyamalan.  True, he is no Hitchcock, as he is unable to chill the nether-regions of the loins and soul, but being bludgeoned by his stilted messages and cring-inducing cameos provides the sick thrill of blunter abuse, a heady mix of mockery and condescension.  He’s like a boyfriend that beats you until you cry and laugh with gratitude and acknowledge that he has every right to assume he’s the Messiah.  And “The Happening” will be his greatest triumph of audience flagellation yet.  SPOILER ALERT: a description of the film’s ending follows below this delicious custom Mark Wahlberg desktop.

Buzz about “The Happening” would have you believe that the twist is: there IS NO TWIST.  But the false prophets of Hollywood do not have the augury training of your favorite Roman sadomasochist.  I have read the signs (ha! get it?) of sparrows and bluejays in the sky, and I have learned what torture Shyamalan has in store for us.  The twist is that there IS a twist when everyone thought there was NO twist.  That glorious, swarthy bastard!  

The climax unfolds thusly: Just as Mark Wahlberg and his terrified family are about to be devoured by the King of Trees (it will make even less sense when you watch it), all will go black.  Slowly, Marky Mark wakes up out of a fog and finds himself on a couch in a room strewn with gauche costumes and hair products. The New Kids on the Block stand around him, and his brother Donnie leans down to speak: “Marky, buddy, wake up!  You were having some kind of terrible nightmare!  Now let’s go out there and ROCK!”

“Go out there?” Marky asks.  “But I quit the New Kids.  It’s over.”

“Yeah,” says Donnie.  “But this is our 2008 Reunion Tour!”

Marky looks at the camera with pure horror in his eyes: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

And his wail crossfades into the sounds of a sold-out arena show by the New Kids on the Block. The last half hour of the movie is basically a low-quality concert DVD, and one of the most brilliant cross-promotional hackjobs you’ll ever see.

 

The New Kids on the Block need be neither New nor Kids to strike fear into your heart

Yes, Shyamalan could have really outdone himself this time.  Viewers would have found a new nadir for cinema.  The critics’ faces may have melted off when this ending rolls into focus.  

Unfortunately, even they will have vacated the theater in disgust by then.  

—Caligula

 

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Reader Response #1: Pegging The Peggers (Who Never Get Preggers)

9 06 2008

Any emperor worth his Oriental throw pillows will tell you he is nothing without his people—he doesn’t mean it, of course.  It’s just that these sorts of statements prolong your inevitable assassination a bit. Nevertheless, I am honored to answer the denizens poring over this blog in any queries or quibbles they may have, queer quests they undertake, or quaffing quorums they invite me to attend.

Caligula fan David Freericks writes:

“I am writing a leaflet on abherent paraphilias in the tri-state area and was wondering if you would share with us your personal experiences with strap-on sex, or pegging.”

Oh, Davus, if only I could condense that knowledge further than I already have in my forthcoming book, “Ménage à Blah: Why Paraphilic Sex In New York, New Jersey and Connecticut Just Doesn’t Work” (HarperCollins, $24.95). But I think you can judge by the title itself the central flaw in your otherwise promising leaflet’s conceit.

Because let’s face it: strap-ons and pegging, brutal/fun/hair-raising as they may be, are nothing without the thrill of adventure, perversion and transgression.  The tri-state area, though, has given us shock-jock radio, Albany and Joe Lieberman.  In other words, your cookie-cutter kink ain’t gonna cut it here. 

New Jersey in particular barely bothers to hide its cesspools of vice 

My advice is to up the ante.  Something groundbreaking, not the same old anally-receiving-a-fake-hard-plastic-penis-worn-by-someone-without-a-real-penis gambit.  The Marquis de Sade was violating himself with a whittled wooden phallus over two centuries ago, for crying out loud (he probably was).  And if you’re really wedded to this whole idea of artificial sex organs, I have a hint: think toasters.

—Caligula