Review: Miss Potter

Hats off to Jerry Bruckheimer and the development team at Fox Atomic for revealing the side of Beatrix Potter that few of us have ever seen. “Miss Potter”, the most sexually explicit, shockingly violent and frankly sickening film to have come along in decades, finally makes the author of “Peter Rabbit” seem at least semi-interesting. And in a nod to extending the appeal of the film to young male moviegoers, the producers manage to focus on the key events in the author’s life that just happen to mirror those featured in recent Hollywood blockbusters.

For example, who knew that the adorable little bunnies drawn by the author actually contained hidden code, warning London’s top mob boss of impending raids by Scotland Yard? Or that Peter Rabbit was initially just a signaling device, his cute utterances coded commands for the execution of alleged “snitches” in the South London underworld? Or that when suspected, Potter herself was stripped down to sexy lingerie and interrogated/tortured extensively by a sexually ravenous gang of London constables?

Bruckheimer also one-ups the producer of “Saw” by focusing on a little known episode in Potter’s life, experienced shortly before the engagement to her publisher.
In a plot sequence missed by most of her biographers, Beatrix is trapped in a dungeon along with Oscar Wilde and D.H Lawrence – held prisoner by a mad King Edward (an utterly convincing Ludacris), who has buried the key to their chains in the lung of one of the famous authors. I won’t reveal how “Miss Potter” worms her way out of this predicament, but suffice it to say that you’ll be surprised by her dexterity with a chainsaw, and skill at nude “no holds barred” cage fighting.

Finally, the “Miss Potter” team manages to keep the audience’s interest even after the author marries her nerdy editor. In the film, this milquetoast character also happens to be a swashbuckling, sexually ambiguous pirate who leads her on all manner of high seas adventures – including a hilariously unscripted stint in the port of Kazakhstan.

One comment should be made about the craftsmanship of the film, which is considerable. Despite over 150,000 CGI shots, every exploding werewolf, disemboweled vampire, and collapsing space station looks completely real. And I understand that Miss Zelwigger refused to use a body double, even for the gynecological close-ups, of which there were many.

“Hardcore”, “unflinching”, and “sick fuck” are terms that will undoubtedly be used to describe “Miss Potter”. And I truly believe it would be an Oscar front-runner, were it not for the many restrictions placed on viewers of the film (due to its graphic nature persons with heart conditions, the Amish, and the elderly are prohibited by law from seeing it). It’s a shame that imprisoned felons are rarely Academy members, as I understand that “Miss Potter” is the toast of the maximum security prison circuit. One is almost motivated to commit a merciless hate crime just to bask in the glory of this fine piece of filmmaking.

“Review: The Latest Book by Anne Coulter” (warning: political commentary ahead)

Anne Coulter’s latest tome, “I’m Going to Kill Michael Moore’s Children”, is radically right leaning, provocative and as saucy as La Coulter herself. The diva of the far right hasn’t written anything since 2002’s “I Hope Chelsea Clinton Gets Cancer”, but we clearly can see she’s been honing her rage in the last few years.

Right out the gate, a special dedication to Mel Gibson (and interestingly, Michael Lohan), sets the tone for the book, which includes a prologue that paints Darwin as a gay abortionist who created the theory of evolution to detract attention from his underage anal rape parties.

Yet the reader who expects more reactionary rants and crackpot right wing theories from Coulter will be disappointed. After a few perfunctory pages of Holocaust denial, racist diatribes and interment camp fantasy scenarios, Coulter gets down to the real business of her masterwork – describing, in shockingly graphic detail, how she plans to personally murder the pillars of the secular Liberal establishment.

Poignantly, Ms. Coulter first reveals a bit of her own personal struggles between her ideological theories, and here we can at least be a bit sympathetic to her. For example, did you know that Anne suffers from a rare disorder that requires her to devour the blood of Democratic children every full moon in order to survive the night? Or that she is often overcome by the uncontrollable urge to don Nazi jack boots and stomp upon little puppies, a malady only partially controlled by medication?

This helps set the stage for book’s title theme, explored in detail in a chapter by the same name. Apparently, Michael Moore and other secular liberals are the core of evil, thus their spawn must be destroyed. With this rationale out of the way, Coulter is then free to describe how she will perform the murders, filling pages with highly technical explanations of sophisticated weaponry (all available at Wal-Mart), internal organ destruction, burial plans, etc. I understand that it took many weeks to complete this chapter, as Coulter was quickly seized with a series of violent orgasms each time she sat down to write it.

Readers should be warned that the most graphic explanations are reserved for the Al Franken killing scenarios, supported by detailed timelines, diagrams, and elaborate body disposal explanations. If you learn nothing else from this smart, sassy tome, you’ll at least have full knowledge of Franken’s daily schedule, home address, phone number, e-mail, and burglar alarm disable codes. One can only hope that the use of wood chippers and straight edged razors on human flesh will not splatter or otherwise sully the flawlessly blonde Coulter mane which we all know and love.

CSI: Cameltoe Division

CBS’s latest CSI installment, "CSI: Cameltoe Division" finally breathes life into the dowdy franchise by featuring what America has been demanding for decades: a bevy of beautiful Crime Scene Investigators whose glorious, pouting cameltoes are featured in every episode, scene and camera shot.

Julienne Moore plays the head of the Cameltoe unit – a tough, no-nonsense career veteran whose ripe cameltoe is often clad in serious fabrics like black cashmere and tartan plaid.

At her side is Kate Winslet, smart, sassy and the sexy one: not only does her cameltoe receive the most close-ups per episode; Kate’s character is literally never filmed without an enormous flesh colored popsicle in her mouth – even in strenuous circumstances like chase scenes, torture/interrogations, or physically grueling autopsies.

And finally is the newbie in the unit, a fresh faced Evan Rachel Wood, whose quivering, virginal cameltoe is ethereally bedecked in white linen and fabrics reminiscent of a Catholic schoolgirl uniform. I hope young women will see Evan, whose character advocates abstinence and self esteem, as a potential role model.

I most love how the cameltoes are flawlessly integrated into every plot, their sexual blatancy at times almost incidental. For example, in the premiere episode set in Bangkok (many of the episodes, interestingly, appear to be set here), the Julienne Moore character uses her cameltoe to help solve a crime, contorting it into any number of shapes and sizes until it matches a witness’s description (“is this him…? how about…now?”). Later in that episode, her cameltoe tackles and cuffs the perp, although how is beyond the capabilities of verbal description.

Unlike many other detective series featuring female crime fighters, in this one the women don’t flinch from getting their hands dirty. In the first few episodes, they go deep undercover as strippers, prostitutes, nudists, and in a poignant turn serving as a televised Public Service Announcement, underage cameltoe models.

A few flaws, in the interest of full disclosure: guest star cameltoes, such as those from Rosie O’Donnell and Bea Arthur, sometimes “just don’t fit”. The cameo cameltoe from CSI Las Vegas’s William Peterson is particularly jarring, and the one from Brian Dennehy is frankly horrifying. The theme song, a Bono number lamenting the plight of malnourished cameltoes, is a bit of a downer. But on the whole, I can easily understand CBS head Les Moonves’s enthusiasm for the series, to which I hear he has committed to 112 episodes. And of course the show cannot be anything but a vindication for the ACS (American Cameltoe Society), which has been pushing for more cameltoe roles on primetime television since the medium’s inception in the 1940’s.

Review: Spike Lee’s “When the Levee Broke”

Spike Lee’s new HBO documentary, ostensibly about Katrina’s tragic impact on New Orleans, achieves several ambitious goals: stimulating the viewer with hot, interracial sex scenes; indicting every white man in America in the tragedy, and convincing the viewer of the intellectual and sexual superiority of the black male, specifically Mr. Lee himself.

In this HBO doc, Lee offers up multiple fascinating theories that paint the New Orleans tragedy as anything but accidental. The guilty parties encompass all manner of white celebrities, all of which had much to gain from the Katrina tragedy. Some interesting hypotheses as to what started the flood in the Lower Ninth Ward:

• The Couric Conspiracy: After the sympathy generated from her husband’s (faked) death failed to propel Katie Couric into the 6:30 pm NBC night news anchor slot, she and her very much alive husband decided to create their own scoop by forcing underprivileged black children to destroy the levees.

• Dr. Phil’s Levee Molestation: Dr. Phil rounded up hundreds of underprivileged black children in the Lower Ninth Ward, piled them up against the levee wall, and molested them so forcefully that the levee shattered, flooding the city. Conveniently, Anderson Cooper helped gather and hold down the children (see “The Couric Conspiracy” for his motivations)

• The President’s Role: Mr. Lee posits his most credible theories towards Mr. Bush, a man so mentally disabled that he still has no idea of what happened in New Orleans, much less the ability to understand elaborate concepts like “levee”, “hurricane”, or even “water”. Although Lee credits Bush with no enmity, he does propose that the president, among other things:
- was born with a condition that can euphemistically be referred to as “profound retardation”, and institutionalized from birth right up until 2 days before the Feb. 1999 Republican primary elections.
- does not even possess the intelligence to control his own bodily functions – and in fact requires the assistance of three McKinsey consultants, using instruction with sock puppets, simply to achieve a bowel movement
- regularly looses consciousness when he “forgets” to exhale, which apparently happens up to sixty times a day

But despite the machinations of whitey, Lee offers hope that New Orleans, and black America, has what it takes to ultimately recover. And what viewer could doubt the natural self sufficiency of the black man, especially after seeing the director himself performing admirably in an orgy populated by a bevy of voracious white bitches? This is indeed the Katrina that you didn’t see on The Weather Channel .

Lee closes his poignant elegy with the modest suggestion that reparations be made by granting every black man in America a “skinny white bitch” to service his needs in perpetuity. My vote is that said first white bitch be Ms. Couric herself, followed by the Olsen Twins, Nicky Hilton, and Jon Benet Ramsey, all of which, Lee insists, conspired in some way to destroy The Big Easy.

Review: “Handicapped…Accessible?”

Brilliant filmmaker Michael Moore taught us to hate the greedy executives at GM, to hate the NRA and perhaps most eloquently, to hate those self important “soldiers” who died grisly deaths on the Iraqi battlefield. Now, in “Handicapped…accessible?” he goes after, with hyena-like intensity, the legacy of another American villain, the late Christopher Reeve.

Finally someone has the balls to expose the selfishness and pomposity of Reeve, his media-whore wife, Dana Reeve, the handicapped lobby, and perhaps most convincingly, physically and mentally handicapped people themselves.

Was Reeve’s paralyzing 1990 fall at Churchill Downs really an “accident”? Careful review and re-editing of the footage from that day suggest an element of deliberateness. It is also interesting how little information was given about this fall. A little digging on Moore’s part strongly implicates Dick Cheney, Charleton Heston, and perhaps even Hillary Duff in this so-called “accident.”

But in classic Moore fashion, “La Michael” hardly stops at Reeve. He leverages his usual combination of cunning, clever stunts, and relentlessness to uncover the truth that they don’t want us to see. Did you know, for example, that when dumped off of their wheelchairs, many allegedly “handicapped” persons are capable of some mobility, at least for a second or two? Or that severely retarded children are nearly as capable of self defense as other children when threatened with imminent death? To make matters worse, Moore ensemble players Susan Sarandon and Jeannine Garofolo must put up with police harassment while trying to help Moore prove these points.

Perhaps most compelling is the interview with Reeves himself, vintage Moore from start to finish. In this relentless, multi-hour interrogation, Moore gets at the truth under Reeves motionless exterior through a combination of combativeness, physical intimidation, and threats to Reeve and his family members. The result is impressive to say the least: tearful confessions from the paralyzed fraud just before he lapses into a stress induced coma (as an interesting footnote, Reeves never again regained consciousness).

With Reeve dispatched, Moore is free to go after his widow, who apparently had much to gain from Reeve’s mishap. As passionate and dedicated filmmaker as exists today, Moore stops at nothing to score the ultimate coup d’etat: a deathbed interrogation of wife Dana.

In a section of the film filled with dramatic intensity, Moore races against the clock to catch up with and ultimately destroy Dana before she expires from lung cancer. As expected, by the time the interview is over, we wonder how real this “cancer” is, particularly after Mrs. Reeves seems no worse even when her oxygen supply is cut off.

The film ends with an interesting epilogue: Moore openly questions the deaths of both Reeves, noting that the aforementioned Hillary Duff enjoyed unprecedented access to their bodies before cremation. Why is this? To put their money where their mouth is, Moore, Sarandon and Garofolo visit and desecrate the graves of the couple, a scene which at first seems unnecessarily scatological, but ultimately quite thought provoking.

This film is an inspired coup. Some may agree or disagree, but all will think twice before they write their next check to the Multiple Sclerosis Society or even hold a door open for a child in a wheelchair. I can barely wait for next fall, when Moore takes on those “starving” Africans.

Review: Schindler’s List 2

Yo homey, get yo ass down the multiplex to catch “Schindler’s List 2”, the blacktastic sequel to Spielberg’s multiple Oscar winning masterpiece.

Despite box office success, critical praise and academy awards, “Schindler’s List” was obviously remiss in its lack of African American characters and failure to adequately capture the lifestyle of the black urban superpimp in Nazi Germany. Consequently, studio research found that few African Americans saw the film, limiting its potential to extend into theme park rides, licensed toys, video games, etc.

“Schindler’s List 2” solves the problem by introducing the character of Coolie Williams (Chris Rock), a German nigga’ whose pimpin’ livelihood is threatened by the encroaching Nazi regime. Coolie suffers multiple indignities at the hands of The Man, in this case SS troops who hassle his Jewish, Gypsy, and other minority hos. In one of the most moving sequences in the film, the homophobia of the Nazi regime is brought to vivid life when storm troopers burst in on Coolie’s lesbian hot tub fourway, arresting all participants. But fortunately, not before we get to enjoy a 30 minute scene involving baby oil, strap-on dildoes (wooden of course, given that this is 1939), and vibrators (coal-powered of course, again this is 1939). What makes this scene all the more amazing is the fact that it takes place on a cattle car headed to Aushwitz, one of many notes of historical authenticity permeating the film.

After arriving at the Nazi concentration camp, Rock joins forces with Princess Chocolate (Starr Jones), former #1 ho to Joseph Goebbels, to battle rival Nazi pimp Gunter Hergen (the riveting Kevin Federline) for control of the lucrative hooker and heroine trade at the Nazi death camp.

I certainly don’t want to give away much more, but potential critics can relax: there are ample boodilicious black chicks, a satisfyingly blaring rap soundtrack, and enough gang fights and bloodletting to satisfy even the most discerning gangsta cineaste. A few other big pluses: the sex scenes, as I’ve noted, are frequent, explicit, and lengthy; the costume design is inspired, with most of the imprisoned characters dripping with blinding gold bling and enough velvet and fur to warm an entire city; and there is a virtually endless parade of pimped out Nazi-era rides, like Princess Chocolate’s 1932 hot pink Duesenberg, complete with crushed velvet breakfast nook.

So this reviewer hopes yo bitch ass enjoys “Schindler’s List 2”, a moving and inspiring new masterpiece that now can be truly appreciated by black muthafuckas everywhere. And I look forward to the superpimp version of the Armenian Genocide of 1915, from MTV films this fall.

Field of Dreams 2: Field of Screams

“Field of Screams”, where Kevin Costner must kill each ghost of the 1919 Chicago White Sox before finally offing the spectre of the father that brutally molested him as a child, is vastly more emotionally authentic than the weak and minor original. And one obvious problem is solved in the opening credits: the original films’ excised strap on dildo sequence has been digitally restored and inserted in a way that feels completely organic and seamless.

“If you build it, they will come”, Costner once again hears voices and this time they want him to kick some baseball ghost ass. Before long, he’s built another baseball diamond in his back yard that quickly becomes a deliciously satisfying killing fields.

Director McG not only knows rap, hardcore sex and nudity, he knows graphically violent horror flicks. In a nice touch, each of the Chicago White Sox, from Shoeless Joe to “Lefty” Williams , soon appear, but now with a special power that makes destroying them that much tougher. To kill them, Costner must execute an elaborate dismemberment ritual, including beheading and castration - an exercise in gore that makes “Kill Bill” look like Sesame Street. But watching each Soxer die in blood spewing agony is supremely satisfying - because as we all know, all these guys were cheating, game throwing little fuckers in the first place.

Asia Carrera (“Best of China Vagina”, “Chew Mai Asian Pussy”) replaces the mousy Amy Madigan as Costner’s wife. She spices up the original yawnfest by inviting the dead players’ hot wives inside the farmhouse for a different kind of recreation with the team’s baseball bat. With Asia distracting the wives, Costner is free to stalk the blood drenched baseball field, dispatching the team with a combination of spiked nunchucks, a farm plow, and a woodchipper.

I can see where the battle between Costner and his father earns the movie its NC-17 rating. I don’t want to give away too much, but let’s just say this scene of poetic justice includes key elements of films like “Caligula” and “Star 80.” It will have every member of the audience cheering, at least as soon as they’re done becoming violently ill.

Congrats to McG, for replacing the tepid, effete original with a movie with some real balls (no pun intended). For he truly knows what makes a great American movie: porn stars, stomach churning special effects, and a hip soundtrack filled with moving favorites from the likes of Jay Z, Paris Hilton, and Tenacious D.

Sneak Preview: Quentin Tarantino’s “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix”

After coming out of an advanced screening of the fourth Harry Potter film, I can honestly say that Quentin Tarantino has truly “aged up” this sagging franchise. “Order of the Phoenix” is an exploding whirligig of blood, human waste, and sexual emissions that may alienate a few die hard fans but is sure to bring millions more into the fray.

New cast members initiate the transformation: Michael Jackson is perfectly cast as the new headmaster of Hogwarts. His transformation of this legendary school of magic into a carnal playground filled with cross dressing Sinhalese male prostitutes is just what the doctor ordered. And Jenna Jameson delivers a spellbinding performance as Headmistress McGonagall, replacing Maggie Smith, who basically dialed in this role in previous installments.


Of course, Harry, Ron and Hermoine are all grown up now, and Tarantino takes great pains to make this point. The quadruple penetration scene (professor Dumbledore and Hagrid help out), punctuated with an explicit human sacrifice, erases any memory of the giggling prebubescent teens of “Harry Potters” past. Plus, it’s probably one of the most interesting opening credits that I’ve seen in a while.

Plot elements are hip and topical: Muslim terrorists run rampant through the school; Mel Gibson appears, spewing anti-Semitic expletives; Hermoine becomes a rabid anti-abortionist, then a white supremacist, then reverses course and uses her magic to perform abortions and disembowel racists; Dumbledore has a raging meth problem.

And we finally see Harry consummate his relationship with Hooter, his owl. In this richly satisfying sequence, Harry and Hooter perform a coital ballet that covers everything from brown showers to fisting to Dirty Sanchezes. . The scene is a bit awkward at first, but completely engrossing by the time its 70 minutes are played out. Best of all, anatomically correct camera angles make it hot, and opera music in the background makes it classy. PETA activists made a fuss when it was revealed that a real owl was used in this scene. However, I doubt the owl was harmed in any way, he in fact looked like he was rather enjoying himself. And as for the gerbil, I doubt that he was anything more than slightly bruised and a bit dehydrated.

I don’t want to talk too much about the controversial finale, except to confirm that yes, persons with heart problems and pregnant women should probably skip it. I have also heard that cuts will be made so that the film can be viewed by all audiences, vs. the death row inmates for whom it has been exclusively approved for viewing thus far. For my money, I believe that only one of the five extended anal rape sequences needs to be cut to get to an NC-17 rating.

Harry Potter and friends have truly grown up, and the franchise is ready to be embraced by tweens everywhere. If you don’t believe me, check out next years’ junior high school fashions – I’ll just bet they’ll include more than a few Satanic genital tattoos and swastika’d strap on dildos. See the movie and you’ll know what I mean!