__________________________
Yeah g'day. Munter here again. On with the celebrity sladging. That's midway between slagging-off and sledging. Learned it off the Australian cricket team.
The Scarlett Woman
Pick up any gossip mag this week and you'll find the same thing - the same awkward series of photos from the TomKat sham wedding on the front, with the pair of them desperately trying not to look like wax-model freaks, and Scarlett Johansson on the back or somewhere inside, telling you you're worth it. It'd be worth it to get her on her back and get somewhere inside... but anyway. All well and good but this is supposed to be an ad for Loreal's anti-ageing shit. Can someone explain to the Munter, in words of one syllable please, why the fuck anyone would listen to a 22 year old trying to sell you anti-ageing cream? If she was your grandma and she looked like Scarlett Johansson then you'd have a case for the product working two-fifths worth a bugger. Mind you if your grandma looks like Scarlett Johansson I'm coming along to your family Chrismas this year. The bigger question of course is whether she really IS worth it, and if so, what's the asking price. And can I get two for a discount. I was going to say something about Scarlett being welcome to sample the Munter's own brand of anti-ageing cream but I'm told that would sound crass. And that it's in point of fact it's more like tartare sauce and I should probably go see a doctor about it. (A real one, not one of your PhD quacks who got a Doctorate of attendance just for turning up to work three years in a row.)
Cinema Dodgé
But enough of that poofter Italian talk. At the movies this week we're reviewing the new James Bond fillum Casino Royale With Cheese. The cheese is the love story bit in case you were wondering. Could have done without that and made room for more explosions - other than that a decent outing for the new fella, who's been copping a lot of shit from anorak-wearing sad acts with too much time on their hands and too many hands on their home entertainment system, on the basis that he's blonde and he doesn't look like Sean Connery. Neither does Sean Connery anymore, he looks like Billy Connolly's grandpa. And what the world really needs is James Bond looking like a fuckin' geriatric. (A geriatric, of course, is where a German cricketer takes three wickets with consecutive deliveries.)
The other issue of course is that the bastard was 144 minutes long, including a couple of trailers for shitbox movies coming out in mid 2009 which look about as interesting as examining your own turds for undigested vegetable chunks, and a whole bunch of ads that are identical to the ones on TV except they look all grainy and shit when blown up for the big screen. Now I have it on pretty good authority that the book of Casino Royale can be read in a lot less than 144 minutes. Not by me, obviously, but your dodgy Doctor reckons it's a gimme and he can spell his own name so I'll take his word for it. Any time the book can be read faster than the movie watched, it's a fair bet you've got a director who should have spent a whole lot more time in the editing room than in his trailer with a box of Kleenex, because that's just about the best description of anyone who chooses to make a film 144 minutes long in which bugger-all really happens. The Munter will say this only once, like that vaguely fit French resistance chick off Allo Allo (she'd have had no resistance to the Munter let me tell you): no fillum should EVER need to go over 90 minutes in length. Maybe 93-94 mins with stoppage time added on. But that's IT. Right?
Like Alexei Sayle once said: I bloody hate Allo Allo.
It went on longer than World War Two, and caused almost as many casualties.
Of course the best bit of the film was French actress Eva Green in the role of the inevitable bit of tail that distracts Bond from actually doing his job properly so they can string the fucker out to 144 minutes. Now let's face it, the French have a lot to apologise for - nuclear testing in the South Pacific, bombing that hippie boat in Auckland harbour (apparently this was a bad thing), Gerard Depardieu, the Citroen 2CV and those Yoplait ads with the fucking annoying copper that you just want to hit with a tyre lever. Not to mention Sophie Marceau's hideous performance in the last Bond film to feature a hot French actress chickie - any time you get outacted by Denise Richards (playing a fucking nuclear physicist in a tank top and hot pants, for Christ's sake) you can't really say you've earned your paycheck that week, can you Soph? Mademoiselle Green (that's French for Miss Green - fuck I'm cultured ay) plays Vesper Lynd, an official from Her Vagesty's Treasury who've staked Bond a bunch of coin to go win a poker game, for no reason that makes sense at all - if they really wanted to make the card scenes realistic they should have got that smartarsed guy off ESPN to do the commentary. Anyway to noone's great surprise Bond bangs the arse off her. Sorry to give away plot detail spoilers, but there you go.
Christ. Vivé la belle Francais, or something
The Munter HAS actually read the Bond books - back in the day it counted as modern English literature in my '2 Unit English For Farmers Kids' class at Southland Boys' High - and the interesting thing about this is how close the movie is to the book, despite the book being written some fifty-odd years earlier. Bond films haven't followed the books since the early 60s - the last one to even remotely use the plotlines of something Ian Fleming wrote would have been The Living Daylights, which was just a short story about Bond not killing a Soviet sniper in East Berlin because she was a hot blonde cellist who he wanted to bang the arse off. As you do. But Casino Royale, despite being the first of the Bond books, was for some reason never made into a Bond film - something about the rights to it not being packaged up with the other Fleming books when they were flogged off to the Bond producers - and as a result the late 60s movie of Casino Royale is actually a Bond piss-take with Woody Allen and David Niven in it, which goes completely fuckin' bizarro-world at the end.
But the most interesting thing about the book-movie comparison is something that an old mate of the World of Bollocks has pulled out of the ether via her only-a-little-bit self-indulgent blog, reminding us of the single most memorable line Fleming wrote in that book:
"The conquest of [Vesper's] body ... would each time have the sweet tang of rape."
Hmmm. Even round these parts it's still considered a sign of good manners to ask politely first, or at least use the velcro gloves. Fleming, as a writer, was an inveterate misogynist (the online thesaurus reckons that's a nicer way of saying he fuckin' hated chicks) and got called out over it by critics of his writing, even back in the fifties and sixties. The funny thing was that later on in the Bond series he tried to address this by writing one of the books entirely from the perspective of the lead female character. Of course she was a damsel in distress who Bond proceeded to save, then bang the arse off, but at least he was trying. Pity he buggered it up by having her announce at one point:
"All women love semi-rape."
The book in question, set in the pine forests of the northern US (no, I don't know why either) was called The Spy Who Loved Me - with disappointingly few sightings of hot Russian agents, submarine-swallowing supertankers or amphibious Lotus Esprits. 'Disappointingly few' equating to somewhere between fuck-all and none, actually.
Needless to say, this is complete and utter bollocks; if this really was a late 70s Lotus it would have broken down by now
And speaking of complete shitboxes...
Sharon Osbourne, that cranky old slag from the (s)hit reality TV show The Osbournes, has revealed how she responds to her fiercest critics: taking a crap in a carefully wrapped jewellery box and mailing it to them. Classy. The 54-year-old wife and manager of rocker Ozzy Osbourne said she'd often taken advantage of her high-fibre diet as a means of getting back at detractors. Her last target was a reviewer for an American newspaper, who'd caned her fat, obnoxious, wannabe-celeb children for being fat, obnoxious wannabe-celebs. Shazza allegedly attached a note to the artfully wrapped box from the famous Tiffany & Co jeweller which read: 'I heard you've got an eating disorder. Eat this'. Sounds like the Munter's kinda lady.
As most would be aware, the last time an Osbourne turd was packaged up for public consumption was Kelly's last CD.
Coming soon: The 'Carey Bares' Movie
Grammy-winning pop singer Mariah Carey is trying to block porn actress Mary Carey from trademarking her similar-sounding stage name, saying that fans could get the two performers confused. The Munter would have thought this would only happen if they were in the same line of work - and if Mariah's career goes any further down the brasco, they will be. At least that multi-octave range would get put to some practical use at last - and if the only other option for yodelling early '90s divas is to crack-whore it up a treat like old mate Whitney Houston, Mariah shouldn't be too unhappy about her new career move.
And with that, the Munter's off to the TAB.
Until next time... Copulater.
No comments:
Post a Comment