I love Lord of the Rings like I love my retarded children. When the characters are not under the influence of cocaine (see any of Frodo's expressions), killing each other, or making sweet love, they are in search of a giant, flaming vagina.
My favorite parts are the audience clue-ins, like when Faramir taps on the map 1,230,980,982 times to "inform the characters of his wherabouts" or when an orc says "He'll wish he'd never have been born," to no one in particular. But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can surpass Denathor's death for sheer ignorance of the laws of cinema, physics, and general intelligence. Denathor--or, this man--
catches the firey wrath of Gandalf and lands on his preemptive funeral pyre. After catching fire, Denathor runs the length of the castle and climbs a bunch of stairs before catapulting off the none-too-short phallic edge of a convenient cliff. This takes ten minutes and twenty eight seconds. Well, okay, more like one minute, but it stretches out during my moments of remeniscence.
As the battle storms on, twenty minutes after the death of Denathor, my friend Madeline nudges my arm and says, "What they don't realize is that Denathor's still burning. He's running to the top of Minas Tirith to jump off again".
"Actually, I believe he's still falling," I replied.
This very same Denathor dismissed Pippin from his service, telling him to die in "a manner best suiting you". Sounds like another quiz for Seventeen Magazine! Customize your perfect death in five easy steps! It'll be right next to "Burn that Fat!" and "The Perfect eyeshadow to match YOUR season!"
Oh, and the title of this post? The actual name of a movie of a certain genre (cough cough)I accidentally caught the end of on HBO when I was twelve.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Does anyone else want to live in the J.Crew Holiday Catalogue?
It was shot in Iceland--more specifically, in Kirkjubaejarklauster--where every roof is red and Mommy and Daddy go a-boating to the nearby glacier in order to procure a Christmas tree. Or that's what it looks like at jcrew.com.
Exhausted blonde Icelandic children of murderous appearence lean against their "mothers", their heads topped with red paper crowns bordered with glitter. And even though they aren't pictured, the beaches of Iceland float above my mind. They are black sand beaches. Products of Volcanic ash. I guess I'd scowl just as much if my country were bankrupt. Oh, wait...