Friday, May 13, 2011

“Cannes is in the Can!” “Don't can Cannes!” “French Can Can-Can all the Way To Cannes!” Etc.

OMG Cannes Film Festival is here! What do I really know about Cannes? Do I know what films are premiering? What the adjudication process is? How valuable a good Cannes reception is, anyway? I know absolutely nothing about any of these things! Why am I so excited about Cannes? Just look at all the famous people! Oh, the famous people. They're emerging from boats! They're defiantly killing thousands of birds for their latest ensemble! They are eating hors d'oeuvres from the taught, nude bodies of men named Sebastian who are really just trying to work their way through art school but wouldn't say no to giving John Travolta a $300 dollar hand job! $300 for a hand job?! YES! IT'S CANNES!

If you're shocked by my suggestion that John Travolta would be soliciting French hand jobs from nubile bodied 25-year-old men, then Cannes probably doesn't mean much to you. I pity you. I'm sorry you still think John Travolta is a happily married man. I mean, really? Did you ever even see “Grease?” I digress, though. If you are, however, a person who fantasizes about eventually being employed to shampoo, comb, and delicately scent all the fine, human-hair wigs kept in John Travolta's New Zealand Wig House (a house John keeps exclusively for his collection of wigs used to convince the Oprah audience he is a virile, hair covered, heterosexual), then I bet you, too, love this Film Festival. Cannes is, almost undeniably, a pageant of unbridled vanity and excess, a despicable singularity wherein all the worst traits of western society parade around in clothes that cost more money than any yearly salary I could hope make during the entirety of my life. And that's why I am so obsessed. Do I think that such a display heralds the inevitable downfall of civilization as we know it? Absolutely yes! I also believe that the scenes we see in Cannes are roughly the same sort of celebration that goes on among the upper echelons of Satan's followers; you know: fancy clothes and big parties and overindulgence in the sexual acts and pooping the bed. I believe celebrities, as a group, are probably notorious bed-poopers. What's not to love?

Oh, it's Adrian Brody. I wonder what he's promoting? Probably, he's not promoting anything. I used to really like Adrian Brody; he just sort of seemed like an eccentric, lanky Jew, which, in my opinion, is a likable thing to be. Lately, though, I dunno. He just seems a bit unhinged, anymore, doesn't he? I'm not really sure what's going on in Brody's life these days, but would it shock me if underground Berlin sex clubs were involved? No, it would not shock me. It would not shock me to discover that Adrian Brody performs under the name of Fritz in some sort of sick, German erotic Cabaret. Ugh, Germany just seems the weirdest, doesn't it? Also, with the beard, I realize that Adrian Brody bears a startling resemblance to a neighbor of ours growing up. This neighbor was one of those creepy baptists, if you know what I mean. I bet you know what I mean. Like, he belonged to one of those churches that called themselves “Eternal Light of the Flame Fundamentalist Advent Baptists” which seem to have no affiliation with the actual Baptist church and which require that all skirts be knee-length and yet, all of their daughters seem to get pregnant before sixteen. Yes, this is what Adrian Brody looks like: my weird Baptist neighbor growing up who was also an avid bow hunter. I also don't like the hat. This whole fedora thing has gotten really out of control. So, Adrian Brody: I'm just not sure. That's all I can say. I'm just filled with hesitation and confusion. Do you think Adrian Brody's death will involve autoerotic asphyxiation or an adult swing?

Here are Salma Hayek and Antonio Banderas: two people widely deemed attractive. Antonio Banderas has always had a sort of uncomfortable “Here I am, Moms who serve wine coolers to your children because you'd rather have them drinking at home than out god-knows-where, please devour my image in a manner which is sexual and yet not entirely threatening to your husbands. I'm Spanish!” kind of a vibe, but I actually think he looks pretty good here. The short hair is definitely an improvement, so good for you, Antonio! The outfit is a bit too Cialis-commercial for my tastes, and the necklace: yeesh! But whatever, he's Antonio Banderas. I imagine if you're married to Melanie Griffith you spend a lot of your time together dressed in matching denim outfits, letting her ride on the back of your motorcycle all the way to the glorious beaches of Santa Monica. I'm fine with that. As for Salma: is it just me or do her boobs look smaller? That's probably a totally anti-feminist thing for me to be noticing, but I mean, just objectively, without any sexual or male gaze-ing intent, does not her boobage look reduced? I'm sure that this Little Shop of Horrors bolero thing is probably skewing the perspective, bust-wise. I get that the choice of bolero and red leather are probably a nod to being a saucy Latina, but, gurl, you lookin' wack. Listen, if you're going to go with a tube dress and wicked rose shrug, then you might as well have either gone all out and worn a vintage Bob Mackie purchased from a private Cher auction or just relaxed and worn some crimson wrap from Diane Von Furstenberg. I said that wrap dress thing as a joke, but now that I think about it, wouldn't it have been nice? Just some high thread count, cotton wrap dress which flattered the boobs (which are totally wasted in this getup) designed by free-spirited DVF? It would have looked so nice when posed against the denim security of your friend, Antonio. And you could have just worn your hair down, maybe slightly mussed. Hell, put some kind of tropical flower in it if you want, but this, this is just--overwrought. And also, don't you get the impression from this photo that it's rather warm out? And here Salma is, dressed in pleather sausage casing and Michael's entire stock of red silk flowers. And where is the cleavage?!

Oh my God, I think I'm in love with Uma Thurman. I think I've always been in love with Uma Thurman, but just look at her! Uma Thurman always seems like she just rolls out of bed, looking all dewy and says to herself “Oh, I've got to go to Cannes today. What a bore! I guess I'd better pick something out to wear. Oh, this old thing will do” and then she just sort of pins her hair up with little effort and puts on a quick slick of lip gloss before dashing out the door and bam! This. I feel like, were you to meet Uma Thurman, you'd find yourself unexpectedly having a very lovely conversation about yoga and the finer points of Eastern religions during which she'd laugh delicately and touch your arm, gently, several times with a jingle of exotic silver bracelets. Normally, I can't stand people who talk about yoga and Eastern religion in casual conversation, but with Uma it would totally just be so lovely. I also like her lean in this photograph. I realize she's probably leaning because she is three-and-a-half feet taller than Jude Law and Robert DeNiro, but with any other celebrity this sort of pose would result in instant schlubbo. And yet, Uma manages to look as though she's just so self-aware and effortless. Let's compare the way she is wearing her Dolce and Gabbana to whatever Haunted Flower Crisis that was that Salma made the mistake of donning. I mean, obviously Salma Hayek is a gorgeous, admirably sassy lady, but just look at Uma! Meanwhile, Jude Law: you lookin' real old. It's time to just cut the hair short or shave it or buy a better hair piece or something. I'm sure you could visit the New Zealand Wig House for inspiration. The suit is very fine though, well-tailored and most likely covered in the varied secretions of Totally Very Talented Person, Sienna Miller. Then we have Robert DeNiro, fresh from the Focker Memorial Retirement Home. You know what, though? I am very sexually attracted to Robert DeNiro. Yes, even weird, doddering, old Robert DeNiro. I think DeNiro probably has a very tastefully decorated apartment and he looks like he's dressing for comfort which, fuck yeah, he's Robert DeNiro. DeNiro could show up in a heather gray Hanes sweatsuit with the elastic at the ankles while wearing a pair of Crocs and a fedora and I wouldn't have anything particularly negative to say. The man has acted in some of the greatest films of the past 30 years. Also his physique was awesome in “Taxi Driver” and, yes, I know he is playing a crazy person in that particular piece of cinema but, come on! Travis Bickle? You know that there was something really alluring about the whole screaming-at-oneself-in-a-mirror routine. I once got in an argument with my sister when she told me she felt most people were attracted to either Al Pacino or Robert DeNiro, almost never both, and she preferred Al Pacino by a long shot. This just seems wrong to me, as I have a feeling you'd find Robert Deniro awake and looking over the city skyline wistfully a lot when he thought you were sleeping and Al Pacino, who I also love, would just spend this time to down Danny DeVito's Limoncello and enjoy some manic yayo consumption.

I was going to post a photo of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie here, but then I remembered just how boring I find them. I miss the days of Angelina making out with her brother and practicing dark, blood-based rituals by night and sleeping with ladies. I also miss her days of boobs and probable heroin addiction. I know I should be happy that Angelina Jolie seems pretty stable, but, I dunno, she just seemed like one of my people before. A real weirdo. And now she's just so—ugh. And poor Brad. Poor, poor Brad. Did anyone else see those paparazzi photos which came out a while ago where Brad's in one of his Beard of Despair periods and he's wearing a hat and holding a nice camera and he just looks so, so sad? He looks like he's thinking about how, sometimes, at night, when everything is quiet, he just lays in the bed he shares with Angelina and thinks about how life doesn't feel quite right. He stares at the vaulted ceiling and considers how, maybe, if he had stayed in Oklahoma, it might not have been all bad. He could have become a producer of fine marijuana. Not a major dealer, mind you, more of a grower-with-a-conscience. Maybe he would have married a girl named Susie, or Trish. Trish wouldn't have asked for much but she would give good blow jobs and they'd have had a couple kids. Oh, things wouldn't be perfect. There would be fights. Trish would want him to get out of the business, the weed-growing business, and get a job at the plant in town. Really, though, all in all, they would be pretty happy. There would be presents at Christmas and he'd save up for that old camera that had been sitting in the pawn shop for years. This is all I can see when I look at photographs of Brad Pitt, anymore, so instead, we have a pic of some woman, Woody Allen and Rachel McAdams. Woody Allen looks the way Woody Allen always looks. I'm constantly torn between great affection for Woody and being taken well into CreepTown. Anyway, he looks fine. I don't expect Woody Allen to be dressed in a Bespoke suit and wearing contacts, so here he is. No idea who this brunette broad is, but the dress looks like a member of the Elaine Benes collection or the Haute Couture wear of My Closet at the Age of Ten. Rachel McAdams looks good as a blonde. This is pretty much the most interesting thing I can think of to say about Rachel McAdams. Rachel McAdams looks nice. She is wearing a white dress. Sometimes, Rachel Mcadams is an actress. Is Rachel McAdams a good actress? I have no idea. I sort of feel like I'm suffering hysterical blindness whenever I see her because she just kind of appears as a blank spot on my periphery. I guess Rachel McAdams is okay. Mostly what I know about Rachel McAdams is that her name is Rachel McAdams, so I'm just going to continue using that. Didn't she used to date Ryan Gosling? I've never seen “The Notebook” so this coupling means nothing to me. Ryan Gosling doesn't really rev my motor the way he seems to with a lot of ladies. I know people were all hot and bothered recently because when “Blue Valentine” originally got an NC-17 rating, our ol' pal Ryan put out a press release which was something along the lines of “Feminist paradigms modern America cunnilingus beauty of female pleasure misogynist pressure ratings comission white people” which is a good thing, I know. It's always great when famous people are willing to admit that ladies are people and sometimes they enjoy a good, respectful sexing, but I just couldn't get my panties wet over this. I mean, ladies, if you want to find a man under the age of thirty who will thrill you all night long with talk of gender roles in contemporary society, then I direct you to the campus of every liberal arts college in the country. Some of these men will even have Devil-may-care, Gosling-ite beards. You're welcome.


Ah, Cannes. Such glamor! Such magic! Such famous fecal residues amongst Egyptian cotton bed sheets! Perhaps, even now, Karl Lagerfeld is hosting a well-attended Champagne Yacht Party featuring gold jello dunking and “Name-That-Cookie!” These, of course, are indulgences which you and I could not possibly understand. Not even in the wildest imaginings of our stout, plebeian minds could we create a game as shockingly luxurious as “Name-That-Cookie!,” nor could we possibly visualize what, precisely, constitutes gold jello nor that which shall find itself dunked in it. Celebrities are different from you and I; they are rich and altogether genetically, physically and spiritually superior to us. The greatest gift of these blazing fame-columns is that they allow us to freely gaze upon them in all their twinkling glory. So, thank you, Cannes Film Festival and thank you, actors of supreme accomplishment. You are our gods, now.

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