by Kerreanna DiMauro
The Revenant, with its characters who eat animals, wear animals and are threatened by accidents, diseases, tribes and wars, shows us the real “world.” The whole film looks like it was shot in numbing cold, which is my favorite season. I have it on good authority that, despite Bigfoot-and-Jack-from-Titanic erotic fanfic, Mr. Leonardo DiCaprio was not “raped” by a “bear” in the course of the film.
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The movie, Carol takes place in the early 1950s when love between “two” women—wait, women are in this film? Whoa, mind blown.
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Mad Max: Fury Road is all speeding, chasing, bouncing and exploding with literal blood bags, maniacal rulers and geriatric biker “chicks.” Most of the leads are played by supermodels; each one thin and pale as to be almost transparent and looks as if she’ll die in a photogenic way, which is petite bourgeoisie. This movie tries to pedal a “purely feminist” agenda. Interesting how the movie gets labeled a Feminist Film, but still needs a man’s name in the title to garner attention. Now, I don’t know if Fury Road is a street in Camden, New Jersey or how your eyes bleed after an excruciating 50-page flashback. “Can” an intellectual please advise? “Thanks.”
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Adele’s album, 25, is effective pop entertainment that relies on “emotional” sludge. To no one’s surprise, the new album references the singer’s past relationships and the whimsical farrago of psycho-melodramas that she alone has created. Oh great, she’s had boyfriends. Meh. Enough already. We get it, Adelaide. Where’s the Male Dominance? Where’s the word “pussy”? I’m not “very into” nostalgia, probably because I’ve been a 75-year-old morose-looking rocking chair and “smug stepfather-type” since the “day” I was “born.”
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Billy on the Street tells the “tale” of every striving American underdog. One man politely shines a flashlight on a group of refugees armed with a knife and offers each selfie-happy refugee a hot meal and a dollar as they stroll down a cobblestoned lane in “Rhode Island.” Apart from the host’s very, very weird Boston accent, it’s serious LITERATURE.
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The Irish Broadway musical about Alexander Hamilton called (oddly), Hamilton, contains patriotism and music you can dance to. Show folk have told me this. I’ve never danced. The Obamas loved it. See it, I guess? Anyway, carry on.
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Hillary Rodham Clinton: I don’t care for “her” privileged family, “her” looks, “her” too few women friends, “her” too many famous male friends, “her” money, “her” sexual ignorance, “her” charmlessness, and “her” methods of travel. Just thinking about “her” makes me sleepless. I hasten to add that this is a review of Edith Wharton. I “apologize” for any confusion.
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Hoverboards: they’re a hot commodity—so hot that they keep catching on fire. Are they merch from The Hunger Games trilogy? Oh “god.” And those books were written by a woman, right? Forget reading. Train your “hover legs,” glide your hoverboard into a jewelry store, do a board-balancing pirouette, perform origami for the security guard and then cruise out of the store. The trick is to make it appear that you’ve floated in there for a slick heist, but, of course, you don’t steal. Stealing is bad. But “female” aspiring writers are worse.
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The popular Netflix documentary series, Making a Murderer, is sure to ignite your sense of outrage. If “real-life” injustice is what you crave, simply scroll through the sad ravings of Franzen parody Twitter accounts accusing me of being a “birding curmudgeon.” I’ve kissed a bird on the mouth. So what. I consider “outdoor cats” to be evil. So? I currently use an old-fashioned flip phone made out of bamboo that doesn’t have an internet connection. What? Edit your Twitterverses about me three times a day. I don’t care. Hecklers aboard the Franzenny snark machine don’t matter. Oh look, dopey digital dilettantes are trying to make sense of the world, “but” can only handle a superficial understanding. You think of retweets as opinion and 140 characters as a delicious smack down. I just pictured all of you cracking yourselves up in front of the typewriter. Pathetic. I can and do bewail the flawed technology. This gently satirical documentary is certainly a benchmark of some sort. Namely, it reminds me that I don’t “have” Netflix.
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Kerreanna DiMauro is a writer and screenwriter based in Boston, Massachusetts. Her work has appeared on websites like McSweeney's, FrostedTip, and Points in Case. She sleep-tweets @100HungryMuses with an emphasis in dream sports and fantasy books.