-Wayne Rooney-

Doesn’t it excite you when a man makes a woman cry?

Of course it does, but for the hardcore among us that just isn’t enough. Our needs demand more than the scented tears of a streaming harlot’s eyes. No, for us; gratification lies in the successful navigation of maps that point to the raw wounds, a firsthand taste of the source’s pain. That’s what’s nice about the following clip. It’s only four seconds long but that’s all it takes.

Taken from Ninja Squad, we see a man with an impeccable sense of timing enter the room to the pitiful scene of a woman already in tears. And it gets better from there. He has no desire for the emotional contents of her hysterical inventory, nor the understanding one might associate with that of a sensitive faced man of good family.

His is a void that swallows her whole in waves of well-scripted meaning that could’ve come from any film with waves of well-scripted meaning.

Marvellous, eh?

What really impressed me in all of that is the use of human body parts; he walks in on his legs, points with his fingers (that are, themselves connected to some kind of baguette-shaped tool, an ‘arm’, if you will), while she sobs into small hands that don’t change size like some hands do. It’s wonderfully human and i challenge you to deny that it didn’t prompt in you a desire to enter the rooms of distraught women all over and set a few things straight. And, you know, those things could’ve been anything: those hurtful rumours with regards the allegations of the kid next door; the unpublishable -and thus- deeply shitty memoirs of a dead parent; anything.

I think frequently about what this scene means to me and it always points back to one thing: a need to watch it again and figure out what it means to me. And when caught without alcohol or friends it may just be this: I’ll never be that man, nor will that woman ever meet than man I’ll never be.

It’s a timed battle. Are you for Action or Ideas? How about  both? It’s not like there’s any going back to the womb. Not anymore; not now your Father said she wasn’t even your Mum to begin with. Grandma disagrees but she’s the biggest slut of all.

Where, you ask, is the hope?

You need only look at the man in the clip.  There stood a man dressed in vaguely army-themed attire, seemingly without cause or purpose. When he  used to ask  people about his purpose,  they couldn’t help but grin inward, turning their eyes to the ground. But now look at him, he’s managed to harness the power of Bootcamp Romance; one of the last surviving practices of the Old Country: the art of reducing already tearful women to shaking husks of womanhood. He’s a winner, a winner with (as far as I can tell) human arms.

Be That Man

–Des O’Connor.

Opinion divides opinion. Probably because it is opinion. Whether it’s the relative merits of an old man without hands beating-off into an empty bottle or the non-plussed reaction of a child to the retelling of a tale featuring Baby Jesus Christ and his short-lived adult self, non-baby Adult Jesus Christ; opinion, like art, must by its very nature, stand in opposition to itself, so that it may be judged in a suitable context.

Often a person may have an unexpected, visceral reaction to something. Other times, the same person is completely incapable of experiencing any kind of feeling without the consultation of another; in this case, said experience arrives delayed; relayed, as it is, as a pass-me-down; not quite your own and numb at the edges. The most sensible analogy would be the tingling you feel when overhearing your flesh-mother speak of her prolapse to the aunt you’ve never met.

In short: there’s a giant slash that cuts through everything, and you’re welcome to sit on either side of that slash, or, indeed, welcome to sit quite apart from it altogether.

However, there are exceptions.

Seventeen of them.

It’s hard to believe but there are people who genuinely doubt the impact ‘The Year of The Seventeen’; the year in which Godfrey Ho made one film and cut it into seventeen entirely different creations, has had on cinema, past and present, and the great debt all forms of art, event street art which isn’t really so much an art as a form of vandalism, owes to it

These are a sunless people, inhabiting of dreamless lands…

Tell them Citizen Kane was a great movie and they chirp back mechanically, ‘yes, Citizen Kane was a great movie’ but try telling them that Ninja Terminator was four times better than Citizen Kane because it featured not just fighting, not just several three-point Ninja stars, but shots of a beach during Summer, shots of steps that led onwards to Hong Kong apartments, and you’re sure to encounter an impenetrable wall of virginity and disappointment.

Such opinions are almost always biased.

I’ve got a question for you – if Citizen Kane is so good, how come Orson ‘I’m so fucking great I don’t even know how to shoot shit in colour’ didn’t shoot any of it in colour?

Huh?

Let me tell you something: Ninja Terminator was shot from frame-to-frame in full colour.

-   It’s fine to work within the confines of a budget Orson but, for God’s          sake, don’t compromise the colour of your picture.

It’s not just Citizen Kane that pales in comparison. Take the case of Blade Runner, for example.

How many love scenes in that picture?

One –

And is it with a real girl?

No, it’s not, she’s an android.

And how many love scenes, you ask, in Ninja Terminator?

Two!

And are the girl’s real?

Yes, they are!

-   What’s the matter Ridley, can’t afford human women?

Don’t get me wrong, both films are ok but the smothering power of an Illuminati and/or definitely Jewish-run cultural-opinion-machine has seen several better films overlooked in the cannon of classic cinema.

So are the doubters entitled to their opinions?

Sure, they are,

But would it help if their opinions were not based on that which they’ve had injected by an Illuminati and/or definitely Jewish-run-cultural-opinion-machine?

Most definitely.

Which brings me tidily to Roger Ebert.

Just because Roger Ebert tells you Tom Hanks is a good actor doesn’t mean Tom Hanks is a good actor. Tom Hanks is actually a very good actor but that’s not the point, the point is this: Roger Ebert might tell you Tom Hanks is a good actor but that doesn’t mean he really believes Tom Hanks is a good actor, which he is by the way, he‘s just being told to say he is. Why is he lying like this? I don’t know. Maybe they have his kids. Does he have kids?  The likeliest answer is no, and filthy lucre. Moolah and films go hand in hand and both are the biggest liars of all; bigger than Orson Welles, and bigger than anything anyone would care to say of Roger Ebert. Looking at it like that then, you might surmise that the great Tom “Look at me, my human name is Tom Hanks; Fuck off, I’m a fucking great actor’ Hanks is himself a liar, much like Roger Ebert, and you’d probably be right.

So the point is this: Roger Ebert needs to stop lying about Tom Hanks, Tom Hanks, while a fine actor, should also stop lying like Roger Ebert; Citizen Kane is less better than Ninja Terminator because it was inexplicably shot in black and white; while Blade Runner does not stand the test of time because next to Ninja Terminator’s two love scenes with real, non-synthetic humans, Ridley Scott’s ONE such scene featuring made-for-the-studio android women can’t ever fool the human eye nor touch the human heart.

It’s fine to hate, people – I, myself, haven’t ever been to Africa – but hate because you know in your heart it’s the right hate for the right part.

* At the time of writing, no such ‘Year of Seventeen’ books have been published, nor is the latter a recognised term; Godfrey Ho has always denied the claims regarding his own alleged prodigiousness between the years 1984 and ‘85, referring instead to cinematography, its many manipulations, and the sum total of his enemies. Not to mention a thing with an Illuminati/Jewish-culture—thing-that-sort-of–

Fuck if I know.

** This is not to say such tomes do not exist, just that, if they do, they’re yet to receive wider circulation. For what it’s worth – I find it hard to believe any publisher worth his salt could turn down such  a  coherent ordering of images and ideas; would that they existed. I will, myself, perhaps get round to typing them up at some point.

Best of luck,

Rask