Saturday, May 29, 2010

Yes, Really with Wilde.Dash #10: Out of Africa

I drafted this post forever ago.  Forever = like a month ago.  That's a long time in blog years but really not that much of an expanse in the scheme of things.  I watched Out of Africa, but then I didn't feel the need to write about it.  What's there to write about?  Everything that can be said about Meryl Streep has already been said, and she's really almost unbearable in this movie.  You look at her and you just go, stop with the accents and the ability to act and the being so ridiculously pretty.  People don't look that good when they're running around in safari gear in the middle of a sun-scorched continent.  It's ludicrous. Simply ludicrous.

I liked watching Out of Africa at night because of Karen Blixen's Danish accent.  It sort of lulled me to sleep.  While I watched Out of Africa I thought of the band Toto, Barbra Streisand, and Manhattan.  Young Meryl Streep always makes me want to watch Manhattan, if only because that's the movie I most associate her early 1980's face with.  Now, reflecting on this, I want to watch Hannah and her Sisters, because I never much liked Hannah and her Sisters and I feel like maybe now that I'm older I could learn to see what all the fuss was about.  It would be like the difference between watching Annie Hall at 11 and watching it again in high school at a point when I understood, subconsciously, the manic pixie dream girl.  I'm not so sure anything will change though, largely because I've always been of the opinion that Mia Farrow just isn't that much fun in an Allen movie.  Just like their relationship wasn't that much fun.  I hear they have a son who's a prodigy, but otherwise, that was sort of a trainwreck.

The only full episode I've ever seen of The Marriage Ref was the one with Larry David, Madonna, and Ricky Gervais.  Larry David is sort of like Woody Allen, only perhaps even more vocally misanthropic and definitely taller.  On that episode, Larry David screamed and yelled about lizards being in the house.  Lizards shouldn't be in the house.  They definitely shouldn't wear hats. He wasn't just anti-reptile, he was also a terrible misogynist, but somehow on him it reads less offensive than it would on most anyone else.  Perhaps because he's just ridiculous.  Not ridiculous like the host of The Marriage Ref, that guy is just obnoxious.  The show doesn't need him or the ladies playing reference librarian.  This has nothing to do with Out of Africa, but the only thing to write about Out of Africa is nothing. 
Karen Blixen shouldn't have gone to Africa. It wasn't a good idea. It was like Michael Patrick King sending Samantha Jones to Abu Dhabi. Bad idea. Sure, Robert Redford was there but you already know that's not going to go well. I mean, (spoiler alert) I just sat there counting the minutes until he died. They always die, the men. Always. It's a conceit, I think. Hollywood loves to make estrogen biopics about women who did (or tried to do, or were tangentially involved in) great things and center them around the great romances that were thwarted by untimely man death. The men, they're always dying. This drives people crazy. It drives your mom crazy. I don't know what it is with moms, but as a rule most of them are bad at this kind of movie. Your mom has already seen Out of Africa and chances are she'll tell you it was boring, but if she doesn't tell you that, she'll tell you she totally cried. Fact. Call your mother. I'm not making this up. Tell her I said "word". But, there are lions in Out of Africa. And Toto songs that you can play from your computer while you watch the movie. New soundtrack. You just have to hit repeat and let it play about 32 times. Then the movie will be over and you'll officially have gone insane. I'm pretty sure Sydney Pollack listened to "Africa" 32 times while doing aerobics and decided that he needed to make a movie fit to accompany it. You should ask him.

There's nothing new you can say about Meryl Streep that hasn't already been said unless what you're saying about Meryl Streep is actually just a long string of lies about Meryl Streep but even that's chancing it because there are probably a lot of smugly jealous people in the acting world who have secretly talked smack about Meryl Streep and made up rumors about Meryl Streep bathing in the blood of Romanian virgin peasants and selling her soul to the devil (his real name is Warren Beatty) for neverending talent, neverending job opportunities, smarts, looks, and the adoration of everyone or, maybe they didn't, but maybe there's someone who has already plugged her name in as a proper noun in mad libs or written some strange, sci-fi cyberpunk-bent fan fiction about her shaving off her hair, plugging into an alternate universe, and sprouting mechanized iron wings.  Maybe.  Or not, but something in it must be true, and must have already been stated or done.  Hearsay.  I was just going to write a little story about Meryl Streep and precapitalist dialectic theory with African Grey Parrots, identity theft, and a brigade of albino 17th century centurion eunuchs who serve time travel J. Edgar Hoover hand and foot, but that's already been said about Meryl Streep.  She saved those eunuchs.  Everyone knows.  It's in the history books.  There's nothing new.  Not a thing. 

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