Worst Movie Ever

Started by IHeartPTA, August 22, 2003, 01:22:10 PM

0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.

cron

Quote from: soixanteOther good names for bands:

Quote from: Jeremy BlackmanThe Bum Diddy Diddy Diddy Bum Bum's
context, context, context.

NEON MERCURY

good band name: placenta milkshake

horrible film: renaissance man

Tictacbk

I had to watch You've Got Mail in some stupid class last week because my crackhead teacher was convinced that it has marxist views in it.

God that movie sucks.

panthera_tigris

I know some of you may GASP at my choice for worst movie, but to me it was ruthlessly absurd in how devastatingly boring it was: 28 days later.

That's right, I said it, do something.

Another bad movie: Iron Monkey
The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.
- Merchant of Venice: Act 4

Jeremy Blackman

Quote from: panthera_tigrisI know some of you may GASP at my choice for worst movie, but to me it was ruthlessly absurd in how devastatingly boring it was: 28 days later.

That's right, I said it, do something.

Another bad movie: Iron Monkey
You have made two very unfortunate choices, my friend.

How is 28 Days Later boring? Were you expecting an action movie?

And Iron Monkey is a great movie. Where else have you seen some one killed with a grape?

Find Your Magali

Quote from: TictacbkI had to watch You've Got Mail in some stupid class last week because my crackhead teacher was convinced that it has marxist views in it.

God that movie sucks.

They should have made the whole movie about the Heather Burns and Steve Zahn characters at the bookstore. She was impossibly cute, he was predictably hilarious and they were just about the only two worth watching.

Chest Rockwell

28 Days Later was OK, though I think it was a rather innovative zombie flick. I don't think it's really what she thinks of as the WORST picture though. She's probably trying to get us to talk back. Speaking of which, I think Magnolia is the worst film ever. What the eff was up wit da frogs?!?!?!

panthera_tigris

I wasn't trying to get anyone to talk back about my choice of 28 days later. I genuinely despised the movie. I expected it would be bad, and perhaps the whole "self-fulfilling prophecy" bit me on the ass cuz I only saw it as something bad and stupid for many many reasons. I don't wanna beat a dead horse though, so let's drop it.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.
- Merchant of Venice: Act 4

Jeremy Blackman

Let's talk about Dirty Dancing, then.

Anybody up for a Dirty Dancing chat, a la MST3K?

Find Your Magali

That's implying that a lot of people have access to that movie.

Or that you can convince a lot of people to be seen in the act of renting it.  :oops:

SHAFTR

I just bought Speed on DVD...and that reminds me...

Speed 2 is just horrible.
"Talking shit about a pretty sunset
Blanketing opinions that i'll probably regret soon"

MacGuffin

The Worst Movie Ever Made
The long, strange journey of ''Manos: The Hands of Fate''
Source: Entertainment Weekly

Out in the desert, almost 20 miles from downtown El Paso, stands a relic of film history. Of really, really bad film history. To view the area now is to see only broken beer bottles, a collapsed roof and floor, and such graffiti scrawlings as ''In memory of the dead'' and ''No one gets out alive.'' It looks like any other abandoned property-turned-vandals' delight. But here, 39 years ago, among the prickly pear cacti and mesquite trees — and just a stone's throw away from Mexico — a ragtag group of Texans banded together to make their own little horror picture. Little did they know they would end up creating what is widely regarded as, quite simply, the worst movie ever made. It is even ranked as such on IMDb.com, the encyclopedic Internet Movie Database. But this is a story about more than mere incompetence. It's about hope, possibilities, embarrassment, humiliation, tragedy, and — finally — redemption. It is the story of Manos: The Hands of Fate.

Leave it to a fertilizer salesman to make the crappiest film in history. Harold P. Warren (Hal to friends and family) may have sold manure for a living, but he dreamt of leaving a different sort of imprint in the soil. Warren was active in the local El Paso theater scene, wrote books and plays, and was constantly seeking new adventures. (Once, after watching his children Wendy and Joe play with LEGOs in the basement, the aspiring inventor came up with the idea of creating giant cement LEGOs to use for building real houses. He called them Superblocks. Okay, not exactly Edison material, but still. . .)

But it was during a meeting with Oscar-winning screenwriter Stirling Silliphant at a Texas coffee shop that Manos was born. Warren had previously met Silliphant while filming a walk-on as a bus driver in an episode of the TV show Route 66. During the conversation, Warren boasted that making a movie wasn't so hard. Anybody could make a movie. Heck, even he could make one. Warren bet Silliphant that he could take a film all the way from conception to completion. Tellingly, the first outline for his master script was written right then and there on napkins. The story was standard B-grade horror — family (husband Michael, wife Margaret, and daughter Debbie) gets lost en route to a vacation and stumbles upon a horrifying fate. Less standard, however, was a half-man, half-goat character named Torgo, or the mysterious cult leader known simply as the Master who walked around sporting a robe with giant red hands on it. Perhaps the film's first sign of ineptitude was the title itself, Manos: The Hands of Fate, which translates a tad redundantly to Hands: The Hands of Fate.

After raising $19,000 from neighbors and friends, Warren went about assembling his dream cast. He started with. . .himself. In addition to writing, directing, and producing, Hal would also play the husband. The rest of the cast came mostly from either local theater (including Tom Neyman as the Master and John Reynolds as satyr Torgo) or the Mannequin Manor modeling school (from which Warren plucked women to play the Master's multiple wives who would spend the majority of their screen time catfighting in oversize girdles).

People were so excited that they agreed to work for free. In fact, the only member of the cast and crew to be paid was Neyman's 6-year-old daughter, Jackey Neyman (now Jones), who played Hal's on-screen daughter, Debbie. ''I got a red bicycle,'' says Jones. Jackey's pet Doberman, Shanka, who played the Master's evil sidekick, was also compensated for his efforts with 50 pounds of dog food. (He must have had a good agent.) The rest of the cast and crew were all promised percentages of the film's sure-to-be-vast profits. ''Everybody did it on speculation,'' explains Pat Littledog, who was then married to Manos cinematographer Robert Guidry. ''There was no money involved — just having little shares of the work. They were all excited to be a part of it.'' Only there seemed to be a few too many shares going around. ''I was getting 6 percent,'' says stunt coordinator-actor Bernie Rosenblum, who spent his entire time on screen in a car chugging tequila and sucking face with a brunette. ''But then we all started talking and realized that everybody's percentages added together equaled, like, 300 percent!''

With cast and crew in place, Warren just needed to find a place to film the thing. He didn't have to look far. Warren shared an office floor with a lawyer named Colbert Coldwell who was just getting ready to run for county judge. When Coldwell told Warren about his property, it seemed perfect. ''They wanted. . .well, I don't know what they wanted,'' says Coldwell, now 84, of that desert property, which he still owns and lives on. It might have been the collection of one-story-high columns that his father had hauled away from the federal courthouse when it was torn down in 1932, although Coldwell notes with resignation that ''they're not too imposing. . .. The director said he knew about films. I don't know if he knew anything much.''

Manos filmed throughout the summer of 1966. By all accounts, it was grueling. ''They were all working eight hours a day at their regular jobs and then going and shooting all night out in the middle of the desert,'' says Richard Brandt, a fan who has become something of a Manos historian. Although everyone was thrilled to be involved, it soon became clear that making a movie requires things like money, time, and talent — none of which Warren possessed in abundance. As a result, mistakes during filming were either missed or intentionally ignored. ''Everybody was always questioning Hal, asking 'How is this going to work?''' remembers Jones. ''When I would worry about the way things were going, he'd say to me, 'Oh, don't worry. It'll be fine. We'll fix it. We'll fix it.'''

Whether it was an evening scene being filmed in broad daylight, Margaret's scarf magically appearing and disappearing between shots, or car headlights appearing in the background during a scene allegedly taking place in the middle of nowhere, there were many instances in which the faith of cast and crew was severely tested. Yet Hal would always assure them of a magic studio in Dallas in which anything could be corrected. That's because that's what Rosenblum and Guidry had led him to believe. ''Whenever Hal got worried about something being wrong, Bob and I would say, 'We can fix it in the lab,''' laughs Rosenblum. ''Because we weren't getting paid, and it was getting old fast. And he'd be like, 'Oh, okay.'''

Warren's on-set demeanor also needed work. ''He was probably the least friendly of anybody on the set,'' says Jones. ''He played my father, but at the same time, we had no connection whatsoever. He kind of barked out orders and I personally tried to avoid him.'' One day, Guidry even mocked the director by showing up to set dressed like Erich von Stroheim. But there was always one person who could be counted on to lighten the mood: John Reynolds. ''He made it his job to keep me entertained with magic tricks and funny faces,'' says Jones. Little did she know that much of said silliness was artificially enhanced. ''I think he was high on acid the whole time,'' says Littledog.

That certainly would help explain Reynolds' unique performance as Torgo, the enigmatic caretaker with knobby knees. Seemingly operating in his own special universe, Reynolds bumbled, stumbled, and very slowly convulsed his way throughout Manos, with an awkwardness that for viewers is equally engaging and enraging. ''When you watch the film,'' says Jones, ''you gotta figure he was stoned the whole time.'' On Oct. 16, a few months after production ended, the troubled thespian/shipping clerk, the son of a military officer at nearby Fort Bliss, put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He was only 25. ''My mother was taking me to school when we heard it on the radio that he had shot himself,'' says Jones. ''I remember she was so upset she had to pull over.'' ''Obviously, he had some kind of a problem that he wasn't able to deal with,'' says Rosenblum. ''But it had nothing to do with the movie.''

On Nov. 15, 1966, Manos: The Hands of Fate made its worldwide debut at the Capri Theater in downtown El Paso. By all accounts, it was a gala affair with spotlights scanning the skies, and the stars of the film all arriving by limousine. Only one problem — it was the same limousine. Strapped for cash, Warren had only enough dough to rent one limo, so the actors were forced to stand out in the street around the corner and wait their turn to be picked up. ''We all waited in our fancy clothes and tuxedos like we were waiting for a bus,'' says Jones. ''And the limousine would pick up a few people, drive them around, drop them off, and then drive around the block and pick up some more people. And even at 7 years old, I remember thinking how silly that was, and at some point that someone was gonna realize it was the same car and driver.''

A ceremony took place in which Warren was presented with a deputy's badge by the county sheriff. The mayor was even there. According to Jones, ''It was one of the biggest things that had happened in El Paso up to that point, other than, you know, Lee Trevino, the golfer.'' And then the film began.

''Right away,'' says Jones, she knew they were in trouble. It didn't help that the first few lines of dialogue were delivered from people facing away from the camera. And it certainly hurt when the film began with a mind-numbingly long driving scene. ''The driving scene goes on forever,'' moans Jones. ''It's just horrible. It just goes and goes and goes. People were looking around. . .. I'm sure my parents were exchanging glances over my head and going 'Oh, s---.'''

It wasn't long before the looking around turned into something else. ''It took about six minutes,'' estimates Rosenblum. ''It was very quiet, and then there was one snicker, then a couple, maybe two guffaws, and then just out-and-out laughing their asses off.'' Perhaps the crowd had never witnessed entire scenes out of focus before. Perhaps they had never seen such things as a marking slate or an insect bumping into the camera lens actually make a final cut. Or perhaps they were trying to figure out why every single voice in the movie was dubbed — badly. (Since the camera used for Manos could not capture sound, all the dialogue was recorded in a studio by Warren, his wife, Neyman, and Diane Mahree, as well as two others who did all of the other voices.) Unfortunately, not all of the cast had been made aware of this development. ''Nobody told me that the voices were being dubbed,'' says Jones. ''So here I am all excited, and then I come on the screen and my mouth opens and it's some squeaky lady's voice. I just sat there and cried.''

But Manos' badness went beyond mere technical gaffes. Even simple motions were carried out to unintentionally comedic extremes, like Torgo's impossibly drawn-out attempt to stroke Margaret's hair. The dialogue was ultra-repetitive (''There is no way out of here. It will be dark soon. There is no way out of here''), and yet almost every shot started and finished with an insanely uncomfortable amount of silence. The only truly scary thing in the film was during the final credits, when the words The End were followed by a big question mark, implying the possibility of a sequel. By that time, however, most of the audience — including Rosenblum and Guidry, who snuck out and went straight to a bar — had already left. Coldwell recalls his nephew Eliot Shapleigh (now a Texas state senator) even demanded his money back — although, he adds, ''I don't even remember him paying!''

The morning after the premiere, under the headline ''Hero Massaged to Death,'' The El Paso Herald Post reviewed the film, generously noting that ''perhaps by scrapping the soundtrack and running it with subtitles or dubbing in Esperanto, it could be promoted as a foreign art film of some sort or other.'' After a limited run at the Capri and a few showings at West Texas drive-ins, Manos: The Hands of Fate was dead. Hal Warren had won his bet, but lost his dream of cinematic immortality. And then, a funny thing happened on the way to the graveyard.

More than 25 years later, writers for a Minneapolis-based television show called Mystery Science Theater 3000 were sifting through a box of tapes sent from Comedy Central headquarters in New York City. MST3K specialized in showing really bad movies complete with a running gag commentary courtesy of a comedian (Joel Hodgson) and his two robot pals. But even they weren't prepared for what lay in store for them on the tape marked Manos. ''We started watching it, and had never seen anything like that,'' says Mike Nelson, head writer at the time. ''We kept saying to ourselves, There is no way we can do this movie, it is just too bizarre. But we finally decided, No, we must bring this to the world.'' On Jan. 30, 1993, Manos was not only back from the dead but playing to a nationwide TV audience. A new generation of fans — okay, a first generation of fans — was born.

The Manos episode became Mystery Science Theater's most popular episode ever. Nelson recalls going into a computer store shortly after the show aired only to see a Torgo screensaver running across every monitor. ''It really stands out among all the bad movies they've shown as being a movie that has no real content or purpose,'' says Manos buff Bobby Thompson, who was born more than 10 years after the movie came out and caught it on MST3K. ''It's like a train wreck — you just can't take your eyes off it. It's something you really have to see to understand. And even if you see it, you may not fully understand it.''

Through repeats, passed-around videotapes, and websites like Thompson's own Torgo-themed page (chosen because the satyr ''really conveys the entire badness of the movie''), the legend of Manos grew. Not one but two DVD versions of the film (the original and the MST3K one) were released, and a group of Canadians recently completed a documentary on the movie titled Hotel Torgo.

Unfortunately, the man who created it isn't around to enjoy the renaissance. After Manos, Hal Warren tried again, writing a script titled Wild Desert Bikers, in which a schoolteacher is kidnapped by a biker gang and dragged into the woods. He showed it to Guidry and Rosenblum, who politely declined to get involved, so instead he turned it into a book titled Satan Rides a Bike and shopped it to publishers. (They also politely declined.) While daughter Wendy Barbieri says that her dad ''was the first one to admit Manos was the worst movie ever made,'' he was also proud of the film, even going so far as to sport the Master's robe every Halloween. (Son Joe Warren now carries on the tradition.) ''He took something from nothing and got it to the end, and that was what the whole bet was,'' says Barbieri.

''My dad made a movie, and it turned out to be the worst thing known, but at least people recognize that he did something,'' says Joe. ''Here's a guy who was able to concoct this story on a napkin, and proved you don't have to be the George Lucases of the world to make it happen.'' Warren died Dec. 26, 1985, from lung cancer and heart problems. What would he think about being celebrated as the director of the worst movie ever? ''He'd love it!'' says Barbieri. ''He'd probably start lurking on different websites and then pop out and say, 'Hey, guess who I am!' And he'd be the first person to give anyone advice or encouragement.'' Rosenblum agrees. ''Say what you will about Hal, but that motherf---er did it! Now, what he did, I'm not quite sure,'' he adds. ''But he did it.''
"Don't think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it's good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art." - Andy Warhol


Skeleton FilmWorks

Pubrick

this is an open apology from the guy who wrote Battlefield Earth in which he blames his penis..

I penned the suckiest movie ever - sorry!

By J.D. SHAPIRO

Last Updated: 4:32 PM, March 28, 2010
source: NYpost

This month, "Battlefield Earth," the blockbuster bomb based on the novel by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, won the Razzie for "Worst Movie of the Decade." J.D. Shapiro, the film's first screenwriter, accepted the award in person. Shapiro, who also wrote the screenplay for "Robin Hood: Men in Tights," "We Married Margo," and is developing a King Arthur spoof called "524 AD" (524AD.com), explains what it's like to be attached to one of Hollywood's most notorious flops.

Let me start by apologizing to anyone who went to see "Battlefield Earth."

It wasn't as I intended -- promise. No one sets out to make a train wreck. Actually, comparing it to a train wreck isn't really fair to train wrecks, because people actually want to watch those.

It started, as so many of my choices do, with my Willy Wonker.

It was 1994, and I had read an article in Premiere magazine saying that the Celebrity Center, the Scientology epicenter in Los Angeles, was a great place to meet women.

Willy convinced me to go check it out. Touring the building, I didn't find any eligible women at first, but I did meet Karen Hollander, president of the center, who said she was a fan of "Robin Hood: Men in Tights." We ended up talking for over two hours. She told me why Scientology is so great. I told her that, when it comes to organized religion, anything a person does to reward, threaten and try to control people by using an unknown like the afterlife is dangerous.

Nonetheless, Karen called me a few days later asking if I'd be interested in turning any of L. Ron Hubbard's books into movies. Eventually, I had dinner with John Travolta, his wife Kelly Preston, Karen -- about 10 Scientologists in all. John asked me, "So, J.D., what brought you to Scientology?"

I told him. John smiled and replied, "We have tech that can help you handle that." I don't know if he meant they had technology that would help me get laid or technology that would stop Willy from doing the majority of my thinking.

I researched Scientology before signing on to the movie, to make sure I wasn't making anything that would indoctrinate people. I took a few courses, including the Purification Rundown, or Purif. You go to CC every day, take vitamins and go in and out of a sauna so toxins are released from your body. You're supposed to reach an "End Point." I never did, but I was bored so I told them I had a vision of L. Ron. They said, "What did he say?" "Pull my finger," was my response. They said I was done.

During my Scientology research, I met an employee who I instantly had a crush on. She was kind of a priestess, and had dedicated her life to working for the church by becoming a Sea Org member. She said that she signed a billion-year contract. I said, "What! Really?" She said she got paid a small stipend of $50 a week, to which I said, "Can you get an advance on the billion years, like say, a mere $500,000?" And then she said as a Sea Org member, you can't have sex unless you're married. I asked her if she was married. She said yes. So I said, "Great! That means we can have sex!"
As far as I know, I am the only non-Scientologist to ever be on their cruise ship, the Freewind. I was a bit of an oddity, walking around in a robe, sandals, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking fine scotch (Scientologists are not allowed to drink while taking courses). I also got one of the best massages ever. My friends asked if I got a "happy ending." I said, "Yes, I got off the ship."

But if you're reading this to get the dirt on Scientology, sorry, no one ever tried to force me to do anything.

Even after all the "trouble" I'd gotten into, people at the church liked me, so I read "Battlefield Earth" and agreed to come up with a pitch to take to studios.

I met with Mike Marcus, the president of MGM, and pitched him my take. He loved it, and the next day negotiations went under way. A few days after I finished the script, a very excited Travolta called, told me he "loved it," and wanted to have dinner. At dinner, John said again how much he loved the script and called it "The 'Schindler's List' of sci-fi."

My script was very, VERY different than what ended up on the screen. My screenplay was darker, grittier and had a very compelling story with rich characters. What my screenplay didn't have was slow motion at every turn, Dutch tilts, campy dialogue, aliens in KISS boots, and everyone wearing Bob Marley wigs.

Shortly after that, John officially attached himself to the project. Then several A-list directors expressed interest in making the movie, MGM had a budget of $100 million, and life was grrrrreat! I got studio notes that were typical studio notes. Nothing too crazy. I incorporated the notes I felt worked, blew off the bad ones and did a polish. I sent it to the studio, thinking the next I'd hear is what director is attached.

Then I got another batch of notes. I thought it was a joke. They changed the entire tone. I knew these notes would kill the movie. The notes wanted me to lose key scenes, add ridiculous scenes, take out some of the key characters. I asked Mike where they came from. He said, "From us." But when I pressed him, he said, "From John's camp, but we agree with them."

I refused to incorporate the notes into the script and was fired.

I HAVE no idea why they wanted to go in this new direction, but here's what I heard from someone in John's camp: Out of all the books L. Ron wrote, this was the one the church founder wanted most to become a movie. He wrote extensive notes on how the movie should be made.

Many people called it a Scientology movie. It wasn't when I wrote it, and I don't feel it was in the final product. Yes, writers put their beliefs into a story. Sometimes it's subtle (I guess L. Ron had something against the color purple, I have no idea why), sometimes not so subtle (L. Ron hated psychiatry and psychologists, thus the reason, and I'm just guessing here, that the bad aliens were called "Psychlos").

The only time I saw the movie was at the premiere, which was one too many times.

Once it was decided that I would share a writing credit, I wanted to use my pseudonym, Sir Nick Knack. I was told I couldn't do that, because if a writer gets paid over a certain amount of money, they can't. I could have taken my name completely off the movie, but my agent and attorney talked me out of it. There was a lot of money at stake.

Now, looking back at the movie with fresh eyes, I can't help but be strangely proud of it. Because out of all the sucky movies, mine is the suckiest.

In the end, did Scientology get me laid? What do you think? No way do you get any action by boldly going up to a woman and proclaiming, "I wrote Battlefield Earth!" If anything, I'm trying to figure out a way to bottle it and use it as birth control. I'll make a mint!

under the paving stones.

ᾦɐļᵲʊʂ

"As a matter of fact I only work with the feeling of something magical, something seemingly significant. And to keep it magical I don't want to know the story involved, I just want the hypnotic effect of it somehow seeming significant without knowing why." - Len Lye

Pubrick

this does not deserve it's own thread so i thought i'd post it here for us to all enjoy..

GT recently linked to this on his blog, it's a review of Sex and the City 2 that almost justifies the existence of that abomination. seriously just read it, it's not that long, and will give you good quips to repeat to the idiots you know who will go see this film:

Burkas and Birkins
I Watched 146 Minutes of Sex and the City 2 and All I Got Was This Religious Fundamentalism
by Lindy West


We've been thinking it for two long years. All of us. Gnawing our cheeks at night, clutching at sweaty sheets, our faces hollow and gray, our once-bright eyes dimmed by the pain of too many questions. Sometimes we cry out, en masse, to a faceless god and a cold, indifferent universe that holds its secrets close. What...  rasps the death rattle of our collective sanity. What is the lubrication level of Samantha Jones's 52-year-old vagina? Has the change of life dulled its sparkle? Do its aged and withered depths finally chafe from the endless pounding, pounding, pounding—cruel phallic penance demanded by the emotionally barren sexual compulsive from which it hangs? If I do not receive an update on the deep, gray caverns of Jones, I shall surely die!

Please don't die. The answer is... fine. Samantha's vagina is doing fine. She rubs yams on it, okay? She takes 48 vagina vitamins a day. It accepts unlimited male penises with the greatest of ease. Now let us never speak of it again.

Sex and the City 2 makes Phyllis Schlafly look like Andrea Dworkin. Or that super-masculine version of Cynthia Nixon that Cynthia Nixon dates. Or, like, Ralph Nader (wait, bad example—Schlafly totally does  look like Ralph Nader in a granny wig). SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled cunt like it's my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car. It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache. This is an entirely inappropriate length for what is essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls. But I digress. Let us start with the "plot."

Carrie Bradshaw: At the end of the first SATC movie (2008)—after eleventy decades of chasing his emotionally abusive jowls through the streets of Manhattan—Carrie finally marries Mr. Big, the man of her shallow, self-obsessed dreams. It has now been two years since their nuptials. Carrie already hates it. She hates that he sits on the couch. She hates that he eats noodles out of a take-out box. She hates that he wants to spend quality time with her in their incredibly expensive and gaudy apartment. She hates that he bought her an enormous television. When Big suggests that they spend a couple of days a week in separate apartments (they own TWO apartments, because life is hard!), Carrie screeches, "Is this because I'm a bitch wife who nags you?" Congratulations. You have answered your own question.

Miranda Redhairlawyerface: Miranda is a lawyer who has red hair. She also has a child. As a working woman, Miranda is forced to miss every single one of her child's incessant science fairs (as though children know anything of science!). Also, her lawyer boss is a cartoon dick. Miranda quits her job, and everyone is much happier. This is because women should not work. It is terrible for the children.

Charlotte Goldsteinjewyjewsomethingsomethingblatt: Life for Charlotte is unbelievably difficult. As a wealthy stay-at-home mom with two children and a live-in, full-time nanny, she sometimes has to bake cupcakes! Also, one time her little child got finger paint on a piece of vintage cloth. Therefore, Charlotte cannot stop crying. "How do the women without help do it?" Charlotte (crying) asks Miranda. "I have no fucking idea," Miranda replies. Then they toast their disgusting glasses of pink syrup. To "them." To the "women without help." "If I wasn't rich, I'd definitely just kill myself right away with a knife!" says everyone in this movie without having to actually say it. Clink!

Samantha Jones: I told you we are never to speak of this.

In order to escape their various imaginary problems, our intrepid foursome traipses off to dark, exotic Abu Dhabi ("I've always been fascinated by the Middle East—desert moons, Scheherazade, magic carpets!"). When they arrive, Carrie, because she is a professional writer, announces, "Oh, Toto—I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!" Each woman is immediately assigned an extra from Disney's Aladdin to spoon-feed her warm cinnamon milk in their $22,000-per-night hotel suite. Things seem to be going great. But very quickly, the SATC brain trust notices that it's not all swarthy man-slaves and flying carpets in Abu Dhabi! In fact, Abu Dhabi is crawling with Muslim women—and not one of them is dressed like a super-liberated diamond-encrusted fucking clown!!! Oppression! OPPRESSION!!!

This will not stand. Samantha, being the prostitute sexual revolutionary that she is, rages against the machine by publicly grabbing the engorged penis of a man she dubs "Lawrence of My-Labia." When the locals complain (having repeatedly asked Samantha to cover her nipples and mons pubis in the way of local custom), Samantha removes most of her clothes in the middle of the spice bazaar, throws condoms in the faces of the angry and bewildered crowd, and screams, "I AM A WOMAN! I HAVE SEX!" Thus, traditional Middle Eastern sexual mores are upended and sexism is stoned to death in the town square.

At sexism's funeral (which takes place in a mysterious, incense-shrouded chamber of international sisterhood), the women of Abu Dhabi remove their black robes and veils to reveal—this is not a joke—the same hideous, disposable, criminally expensive shreds of cloth and feathers that hang from Carrie et al.'s emaciated goblin shoulders. Muslim women: Under those craaaaaaay-zy robes, they're just as vapid and obsessed with physical beauty and meaningless material concerns as us! Feminism! Fuck yeah!

If this is what modern womanhood means, then just fucking veil me and sew up all my holes. Good night.


http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/burkas-and-birkins/Content?oid=4132715

---------------

"a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls."

now THAT's marquee material.
under the paving stones.