Quills

As many fellow conflicted yet faithful Netflix subscribers know, last week marked the beginning of the separation of Instant and disc-only memberships. I had been trying to whittle down my streaming queue for a few months, but we all know that is a nearly impossible task with that devilish recommendation list appearing every time you go to the site’s homepage. Suffice it to say, my queue had actually grown since the announcement, making the budgeting decision for me. One of the films at the top of my queue was 2010’s long-awaited gay love story I love You Phillip Morris starring the forever not-sexy Jim Carrey and the always delicious Ewan McGregor as two convicts head-over-heels in love with each other. I could spend an entire column writing about this rapid, surprisingly honest and tender romance sprinkled with deception and humor, however my greatest take away from this man on man sexiness was the unexpectedly hot chemistry (and subsequent love scenes) between Carrey and McGregor.

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I can still remember the first time I watched a sexy movie with my mother as an adult. She made one of those comments that stay with you forever: “Only the English let their fat old men walk around naked.” I looked over at her, shocked by her observation. Until that moment I hadn’t even thought my mother knew what a fat, old man looked like naked and, two, that she had a breadth of English movie knowledge large enough to make that remark. Well, before I could recover she followed that statement up with “I mean, you look at him laying there, all limp and unexcited, and you say to yourself ‘I never want to have sex. That doesn’t look fun at all.’” And with that, I died on the spot. The film in question was The Governess, starring Mini Driver as a, you guessed it, governess and Tom Wilikison as her employer and man she eventually begins an affair with. A movie so bland and forgettable I had to ask my mother before writing this if she could even remember that story or even what movie. Without missing a beat, she jumped right back on her soap box and reiterated her original statement, which still makes me both laugh and cringe. It also brings up an interesting point. Why is it so common for European films to feature realistic situations with full-frontal male nudity, whereas that remains one of the few light taboos in American cinema? And when […]

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Criterion Files

One of the unwritten wish-fulfillment articles I’ve had in mind for Culture Warrior that nobody will ever read is an overview of cinematic adaptations of the work of the Marquis de Sade, including anything ranging from an early cinematic adaptation of his work in the landmark Surrealist film L’Âge d’Or to his comparatively more mainstream embodiment by none other than Geoffrey Rush in Quills to osbsure examples from all over the globe like Czech filmmaker Jan Svankmejer’s part-live-action/part stop-motion animation film Lunacy. At the center of this hypothetical list, of course, would be arguably the most famous and easily one of the most divisive adaptations of de Sade’s work, and one of Cole Abaius’s all-time favorite films, Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975).

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published: 12.19.2014
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published: 12.18.2014
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published: 12.17.2014
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