Currylingus

There exist, on this wondrous dynamo of a planet, elitist thugs in every cranny. I am such a thug because many of my tastes have been lovingly culled from obscurity. I am also elitist because I value - actually, I'm downright proud of - my attraction to the...ahem...common circus (cheap ANTM thrills and The Hills). Having had the absolute pleasure of spending oodles of time with the quality-snob type of thug (cough), I have become quite protective of my trashy sensibilities. They really do complete me.

Circus is a good word to describe the lunacy I controversially partake in on a regular basis. Thank-you, Tyra Banks, for...EVERYTHING, and then some. I do believe that the unabashed pleasure I am comfortable in receiving from obviously rubbish programming, invaluably informs my ability to enjoy other types of absurdity. Specifically, the type that is critically discussed and is hence qualified as Good Taste.

The prettiest boy in the whole wide world, Diego Luna, plays a Michael Jackson impersonator who meets Samantha Morton's Monroe personified at a retirement home gig. He is convinced to fly away with her to the Scottish isles where her husband's hokey crew of impersonators is building their own Galt's Gulch. Like stereotyped Somewhere Born Confused Somethings, the impersonators seem to hold steadfastly to their alter-egos and gulching ambitions until real life begins to spider its way to uncomfortable proximity.

Oh yeah, Werner Herzog appears in priestly garb surrounded by nuns from Panama who deliver food aid by plane. He sometimes throws them out of said plane. Clearly, these occurrences form the best parts. CLEARLY.

Mine eyes were glued to the screen like mine mouth to strawberry Kit Kats. This is a departure from my viewing of Korine's previous effort, 'Gummo', which I liked but will never be able to watch without turning away at some parts. Bad boy is all growed up and spending time on creating wildly entertaining yet disjointed images. Even more disjointed is the nature of what Korine is trying to say. Identity and faith and community and iconography. Gratefully, the narration steers clear of the preachy path. In fact, it tends to get scandalously flippant.

From the precious opening sequence of a masked MJ riding a mini-bike with Bobby Vinton crooning in the background to SKYDIVING NUNS. This film is an exercise in quality absurdity. I would watch it again and some bits, yet again. Sometimes, shit doesn't have to be deep or mature or intellectually accessible to only the top 97th percentile to be good. Imagination is a funny thing. It equals the playing field for me. Watching blue habited nuns jump out of planes on BMXs becomes just as rewarding as watching Tyra's starving slave hopefuls posing in stilettos while climbing a rock wall.

Below is a clip of one of my favourite scenes, MJ doing his thing:

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