This basically looks like Darling, which came out almost 10 years later and gets all the love.
In addition to showcasing Dahl as a seductress, Wicked as They Come was somewhat ahead of its time in its attempt to provide a psychological basis for her behavior. The character’s ruthless use of the men in her life and her inability to enjoy normal sexual relations are traced back to a gang rape at the age of 15, a shocking development for a film in the still-pristine ’50s, when rape was rarely alluded to or discussed in movies. Of course, the violent episode is not dramatized here and Dahl’s sexual manipulation of her victims is more amusing than disturbing as she self-consciously telegraphs every move in her deceitful plan.
PLUS — I started cry-laughing around 45:00:
You’ll see a 40-something TOFA [Too Old for Abercrombie] wearing these clothes and my friends and I will laugh,” the man told Hajek. “You can’t control getting older but you can control looking like a fool.”
He paused. “I have gotten Botox three times in my life,” he added.
Contradictions like this were a prominent theme throughout Hajek’s interviews. The [gay] men he spoke with often said they were beyond youth culture, but still wanted to be perceived as young. While this desire is not unique to the gay community, it seems to be more prominent in a group traditionally typecast for its interest in appearance, attractiveness, and sex, according to Hajek. So how does a gay man at midlife cope?
“We’re scared of aging more than a lot of other people would be,” he says. “Ask younger guys what their future will be like, and a lot of them say they have no idea. They don’t perceive of a future, because they think they’re not going to have kids. They don’t have landmarks for progression through life that a lot of heterosexual people have.”
Instead of propagandizing young people with the fear-mongering lie how a homeless person is just the same as anyone else but for a few bad breaks, Miley would have done our culture a greater service by having her prop (let’s be real, he wasn’t really her date) admit to all of the awful life choices he made that led him to living on the streets.
How about this for a speech:
“I’m homeless and I’m living on the streets and I don’t want this to happen to you. So don’t do what I did. Don’t break into an apartment, don’t smoke pot, don’t break parole. Get an education and have a solid and dependable plan for a job. Don’t move to LA (one of the most expensive cities in the country) and don’t try to be a model (one of the most unreliable professions in the world.)
“Live right. Get an education. Get a real job.”
Or: You didn’t kill that.
Sounds trivial, but actually one of the most revealing glimpses into the left-wing mind you’ll ever see.
This 1960 period piece tells the true story of New York City’s first Italian-American police captain, and his astonishingly brave but ultimately futile attempts to wipe out the Black Hand in turn of the century Little Italy, before they could become the Mafia of today.
Still affecting and even shocking (see below) in parts, and obviously a must-see for anyone who enjoys/studies “Mafia” and/or American cop movies.
Wilson directs in the same docu-realist manner as Al Capone, with returning cinematographer Lucien Ballard providing the clean, unobtrusive photography that brings out the period detail in the street scene sets. While the film takes some liberties with its dramatizations, the screenplay is actually quite accurate to the story of the real-life Petrosino, who learned the various dialects spoken in Little Italy, earned the trust of the locals, and received commendations from both President Theodore Roosevelt and Victor Emmanuel, the King of Italy. Petrosino really did stop the criminal who threatened Caruso (and became friends with the opera legend as a result) and his squad was responsible for cutting Black Hand crimes in half during the years he ran the squad. He was so effective in the fight against the Mafia that he worked with Italian authorities to change immigration practices and traveled to Sicily to gather intelligence on criminals who may have fled Italy to establish the mob in America.
Pay or Die! also benefits from the low-key integrity of the squad that Petrosino forms, a group of Italian American officers who refreshingly avoid the usual stereotypes. Only one of the officers, local boy Johnny (Alan Austin), is given any backstory but Wilson gives all the actors opportunities to suggest the dedication of the individual members and the commitment to the squad. Their sense of teamwork and camaraderie looks forward to the special FBI unit in the iconic mob TV series The Untouchables.
D’Souza also pulls the old Conservatism Inc. trick of enlisting Martin Luther King Jr. Of course, King was an avowed leftist who attended Communist organizing camps—the same sin with which D’Souza charges Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. King would also disagree with D’Souza’s take on foreign policy, having preached that America is “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world.”
What you get after this slick parade of half-truths and lies by omission is a confused and contradictory mess.
But it draws enough on the symbols of the historic American nation to draw in whites hungry to see a movie telling them to be proud of their country. It’s just Politically Incorrect enough to get the Left to call it racist—which of course will make whites want to see it more.
But, after all the sound and fury, all it can tell us to do is vote Republican—just the message Conservatism Inc. wants people to hear.
My “idealist,” Mr. Liscious and his promoters do not mean “someone who believes that the immaterial is more real than the material.” Mickey is not giving lectures on Plato’s Republic. They also do not mean, colloquially, “someone who believes in a high standard of personal virtue,” since such standards would deprive Boylesque of all those boys who like “a dirty flashmob” and “a Tim Horton’s double-double served straight up.” They cannot mean that, because shame is what people with a strong sense of virtue often feel when they behave in a base or cowardly way.
The best they can mean is “unembarrassed promoters of some idea,” some fantasy of perfection upon earth, the Big Rock Candy Mountain, the dictatorship of the proletariat, a “better world,” and other gauzy dreams that earn you points at a beauty contest, while you tilt your head like a poodle and modulate your voice for caring and sharing.
And all I can say is that the last hundred years have been stuffed to the eyeballs with shameless idealists…
According to local residents, a typical 30 second burst will include phrases such as ‘please don’t have children’, ‘you look like a baptist’, ‘everything about your shoes sickens me’ and ‘your face seems to be inside out’.
Neighbour Martin Bishop said: “If he sees a woman in a burka coming towards him he’ll shout, ‘oh fucking hell, here we go’.”
PS: I was amused to see that Dawkins’ standard for “personhood” is the possession of… “human feelings.”
‘The raid followed a multiyear investigation into illicit activities by the secretive Kennedy group…’
Searching the three clapboard houses that compose the compound, investigators said they found numerous symbols consistent with intense fanaticism, including framed photographs of their late leader, John F. Kennedy, upon whom family members appear to have accorded a sort of godlike status.
Sources confirmed that the messianic figure spoke of a mystical “New Frontier” and believed the future of his people hinged upon making a journey to the moon, a mission he ordered his followers to carry out as quickly as possible.
Think about it: except for Rastas, there are no African-American equivalents to the beatniks and goths, mods and rockers, skins and Teds, punks and new romantics, hippies and hipsters or (God help us) Juggalos.
Not only that, but very few blacks dare (or care) to venture into these mostly white subcultures. When they do—as punk pioneer of Jamaican descent Don Letts will frankly tell you—they are generally embraced by their new white friends and shunned by their old black ones. To cite the subculture I’m most familiar with, the total number of well-known black punks fits comfortably into, well, one 66-minute film. (Directed by a half-white guy.)
Imagine that the vast majority of white Americans of all ages and classes dressed as Teddy boys, that virtually the only music on the radio was rockabilly—and that this had been the case since 1958. Yet such an absurd scenario lines up perfectly with the creepily clone-like African-American culture of today.