Do you think it's a bit unfair that people are comparing Kong Skull Island to Peter Jackson's King Kong movie as a way to point out how Jackson's Kong is an overall better movie or vice versa since both movies are obviously going for two different directions with each other like how Legendary's Godzilla 2014 movie is on a different direction then what Shin Godzilla took?
I’ve been getting the opposite - most folks I’ve spoken to find Skull Island to be the superior film, and their reasoning is that PJ’s Kong is either too long, takes itself too seriously, etc. I think that both films are flawed, but Jackson’s is considerably more flawed, but largely because it takes more risks, and therefore, has further to fall when something doesn’t work. And in a way, that’s quite admirable. Comparing Kong movies has always been tricky because each Kong film is so wildly different in tone and execution from the others.
The original is a fun adventure film and a milestone of cinema, but also suffers from underwritten characters and ages somewhat poorly (mostly in gender and racial representation), so it requires a lot of historical context to appreciate fully.
Son of Kong is considerably poorer than its predecessor, but makes up for it a bit by being more lighthearted and by giving Denham a surprisingly complex character arc.
King Kong vs Godzilla, in its original form, is an outright comedy. Some have tried arguing this with me by claiming its comedic elements are purely a result of its age and campiness, and in doing so, are indirectly stating that Japanese filmmakers from the 1960s were somehow incapable or incompetent at making intentional comedy (these people are also scientifically categorized as pricks or horseshit melon-fuckers). True, the film slows down a bit when it’s trying to be perilous or anything other than self-referential and silly.
King Kong Escapes is, quite literally, a live-action cartoon, and contains elements of James Bond, Godzilla movies, and Saturday Morning Kids Show logic. If one can embrace these elements and work past that fucking hideous Kong suit (that grows on you over time), then it’s damn entertaining.
King Kong ‘76 is…not a great film. Like PJ’s, it was ambitious, but in the wrong ways. No dinosaurs, no real fantasy, and not much in the way of fun, the main reason to see it is for the production value and that incredibly awkward Jessica Lange scene.
King Kong Lives is……………………………………………well, it sure is a film. Like other offshoot Kongs before it, seeing it for the sheer spectacle may be reason enough. Otherwise it’s kind dopey and the acting is….weird. Maybe would make a great future MST3K.
PJ’s King Kong is, again, overly ambitious and, while overall a decent film, is still too goddamn long and indulgent in ways that don’t really pay off or are interesting to watch. There’s a good movie in there, with lots of emotion and pathos, not to mention great effects and wonderfully realized production design. But its reputation for being a little *too* loving of the source material, and itself, precedes it to the point where a critical re-evaluation should be in order. It’s a film that only fails because it had too much of itself to give.
Skull Island is a raucous, indulgent (in a good way), explosively fun monster movie that knows what it is, what it’s audience wants, and delivers on both fronts. I’m sure as time goes on I’ll have some more unkind words for it, like a few superfluous characters and some kinda cringe-worthy ADR/voiceover to water down the onscreen action a bit too much, but for the moment, it’s the overall best Kong movie since the original, being nearly edged out by KKvsG for its comedic value and PJ’s Kong for its ambition and quality filmmaking.
Some good things come from Texas, like Daniel Johnston and the Butthole Surfers But the best thing to come out of Texas is Jack Johnson, the boxer No, not the surfer musician, I’m talking about the first black heavyweight champion The turn-of-the-century fighter who had more balls than China has plates More balls than me or you or anyone listening to this piece of music currently living in the United States When he went to Australia he didn’t have the luxury of complaining that it took eighteen hours by flight He didn’t even complain that by boat it took maybe sixty days and nights He fought his rounds, came back with the heavyweight title There’s a great book on him by Teresa Runstedler And even an album dedicated to him by Miles Davis
Cielo azul, brisa de verano Reflejos del sol en el lago… algunos desnudos, bañados de espuma Un paisaje entre alpino y tropical Los árboles en flor, los frutos hinchados y húmedos.
Una comunidad mixta, familias caucásicas compartiendo el pan con sus hermanos negros y orientales Manos que acarician cabellos, abrazos y tonos sosegados Nubes blancas que parecen pintadas Las cimas de los montes coronadas por nieve fresca El trigo dorado, el susurro de los insectos, olor a miel, a naranjas.
Animales salvajes machos sobre la hierba alta, leones y osos. Niños acurrucados en su pelaje, dormidos plácidamente
Sonrisas limpias, carne abundante sobre las brasas y algunos hombres en
la ladera, entonando cánticos espirituales… realizando movimientos
Ningún símbolo religioso conocido, ninguna palabra familiar, ninguna marca comercial, ninguna máquina Algunas mujeres amamantando a sus bebés, algunas portando cestas con fruta, telas de estampados nunca vistos Ancianas que acarician lobos, niños corriendo, besos y susurros.
Tú estás muerto bajo las flores y las raíces
Las cuencas de tus ojos rebozan gusanos de seda. Tus vísceras, cargan de salvia a las hortalizas Y Tú… Tú estás muerto bajo las flores y las raíces, tú y todos los tuyos Tú y otros tantos como tú formáis una cadena de nutrientes subterráneos Vuestras facciones están deformadas, por sea lo que sea que ocurrió Vuestras ropas ajadas, vuestros gestos descompuestos por el horror…
Tú estás muerto bajo las flores y las raíces porque TODOS ESTAMOS MUERTOS BAJO LAS FLORES Y LAS RAÍCES
¿O pensabas que podías comprar todo esto con tus buenas acciones? NO… eso nunca ocurrió.
Every time I bring up something concerning gay trans people, a get a response that is overwhelmingly “that’s confusing!” Like, our existence is legitimately shocking to some people.
The problem with this is that it’s not actually that complicated at all. It shouldn’t be confusing. It’s not confusing when cis gay folks are spoken of. However, they reveal themselves. By this, I mean that people reveal what they really feel about the validity of trans people when they say this. They don’t view trans men as “real” men, nor trans women as “real” women. They forget that “trans” is an adjective, a descriptor, like the word “tall.” If I am a very tall man, that is something that shapes my experience in this world, sets me apart physically from other men. However, despite my different state of circumstance, it does not make me any less of a man. The same goes for a trans man.
Folks assume that the default for a transgender person is straight, and it’s not just because they assume that about cisgender people all the time. A lot of people have this particular misconception about transgender individuals: they see a trans person as a self-loathing homosexual who wants desperately to become straight via physical transition, which is a thought that is flawed so thoroughly in so many ways that I can’t even begin to count them. Obviously, this loops back to the first point very clearly.
I should add that, while this view is indeed very problematic, some folks who think like this are well-meaning people who want to learn and better themselves. Oftentimes, these views have been deeply internalized, and thus, it takes a lot of time to be rid of them (even for trans individuals). I add this because I spent a very long while speaking with a group of middle-aged and senior citizens (I know them all personally), all of whom were good, attentive listeners, eager to learn, humble with their questions, and honestly, most of them seemed to be very woeful at their lack of concrete knowledge on the subject. They gave me their heartfelt thanks for my testimony, and more than often they said something along the lines of “I wish I knew more, but I fear I don’t know enough to actually formulate a question to ask.” That is precisely why I encourage them to ask me any question, however ridiculous (especially since a lot of people are understandably uncomfortable with answering questions on the subject). Though I am not an absolute authority on the Trans Experience™ (because plenty of trans people experiences things differently than I do), and I make that clear, I’d rather have them going home with something resembling an answer where their assumptions would have been otherwise. That being said, it is important that they make the effort and take steps toward change themselves. That should be their responsibility.
(However, people who cling haughtily to this type of view with an unwillingness to learn, change, or grow are a different case altogether - usually, it’s a deliberately transphobic case).
”How To Cure A Feminist” by Kait Rokowski ”Step 2: open her eyes. Girls are basically designed to be brainwashed, it’s how they became feminists in the first place, too many strong willed women in their past or something. Reverse this nasty little habit with subliminal messaging. Example: place a tube of lipstick in your medicine cabinet. She will soon feel inadequate to the woman you are presumably cheating on her with. This will convince her, nay force her, into acting like a more civilized, submissive girl.
If it hadn’t been for my great uncle buying the house we lived in, Gods only knows where we would have ended up.
We knew we were poor.
Every year at Christmas my parents would tell us about Santa having a bad year, and Christmas might not be so great. This was code for ‘don’t expect a lot’ that was used around my baby brother.
We understood. Really we did.
One year was especially bad, and we were just thankful we still had a house to call home, and all that. We knew not to expect much.
Then, one day, while my parents were out playing helper elf we heard a car on the driveway. Maybe I should explain, because I’ve spoken to city folk, and they didn’t understand. We’re rednecks. We lived out in the boonies. Our driveway was ¾’s a mile long. The only people that ever used our driveway were a) lost b) jehovah witnesses, c) family, b) lost jehovah witnesses.. So we learned pretty quick how to identify a car if it’s a family members or not by the sound. IDK, I can’t explain it right. I just learn what my family’s and friends cars sound like, and people think that’s weird. *shrug*
So, anyway, my parents are out playing elf in the city, when we hear a car on the driveway. We looked at each other. It wasn’t family, and it anyone’s that we knew, and it was too danged cold for people to be getting lost and going down weird driveways. (Seriously, now that I think about it, our house was like the kind that you see in scary movies. Like, waaay waaaay out there. Like point of no return.)
So, we did what any inquisitive child does. We ran to the door and peeked out the window (we would hide if it was bill collectors or something). And as the car turned the last corner we got very squinty-eyed.
“I think it’s Sanna.”
“No look guys…”
The car stops, and out steps, Santa Claus.
I start freaking out. “HE’S REAL HE’S REAL!! THEY LIED! WE HAVE TO GO TO BED!!”
But my brothers were a little more skeptical, and they shoved me and lil bit behind them for protection.
Santa, in full gear (and not some chinsy chaffey mass produced kind. it was soft and warm.) stepped out the car, readjusted his hat and then went to his trunk, and pulled out a massive box.
I started jumping again, “WE HAVE TO GO TO BEEED!"
This time my brothers stayed quiet as they watched the man approach. As he got closer it became obvious that the beard was not fake. The suit was not fake, the smile wasn’t fake.
Santa Claus drives a Grey Lincoln Continental and no one can tell me otherwise!!
So, Santa made it to the door and we hid a little so he wouldn’t think we were creepers. He knocked and my brothers answered.
"Ho ho ho! MEEEEEEEEEERRRY CHRISTMAS.” I was sitting on the couch with my lil bit having a fucking spaz fit. The ho ho ho wasn’t forced. The Merry Christmas sounded so genuine. “Are your parents home?”
“Uh.. no, they’re in the city, sir.” My brother answered.
“Oh, well, I have some gifts here for the Dunn kids…”
I’m not screaming into a pillow, cause there’s no way Santa’s gonna trust us with our own gifts.
“I suppose if you kids wouldn’t mind sitting on the couch and letting an old man enter your house a couple of times, I can put these here gifts under your tree. That is, if you don’t mind.”
By this point my brothers are believers. Santa Claus came to our house, like a WEEK EARLY. My brothers nodded, fastened the door so it would stay open, bundled up with me and lil bit under blankets on the couch, and we watched, intently, as Santa brought in 2 or 3 boxes full of wrapped gifts and arranged the gifts around the tree.
We. Were. SPELLBOUND!
As he finished my brothers lemented to Santa that we lacked Milk and Cookies (this seemed to surprise him a little.) but he said it was okay, that seeing our smiling faces was enough for him.
“Just promise me, that you won’t open these gifts before Christmas, that’s all I ask.”
We were nodding like bobble heads. “We Promise, Mr. Sandy Claus!” I chirped from behind a pillow (if I hadn’t held onto the pillow, I prolly would have tackled him with hugs.)
He laughed, a real genuine Ho Ho Ho, and then waved goodbye.
We ran to the porch, waving to him as he left. He rolled down his window and shouted “Ho Ho Ho! MEEERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL! AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!”
We. About. Died.
We spent the next several hours squeeing over Sandy Claus, and watching the presents. Never touching, just LOOOKING on them from the couch.
That evening when my parents came home, you could prolly imagine their surprise.
“What. The. Hell??”
“Did one of your uncles or aunts show up?”
*Heads shook no in unison*
*Heads shook no in unison*
“Someone from church?”
*Heads shook no in unison*
“Did you lot seriously let some fucking stranger into our house?”
I started vibrating again.
My parents looked at each other. “Did you sign up for this?”
“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
My parents weren’t ones to ask for handouts. They might ask the preacher from church if they could get food from the food pantry, but they never asked anyone for money or GIFTS.
Apparently, people at church thought we needed some help too, because one of the ladies “adopted” us and gave my parents a couple of big bags worth of presents. They didn’t have the heart to tell her that someone else had already done so.
And that christmas morning, what could have been the worst christmas ever, turned into the Year In Which We Had To Dig The Christmas Tree Out From Under The Mountain of Presents.
Afterwards, my parents, each separately asked around to friends, co-workers, parishioners at church, if someone had put their name in some special thing where Santa Claus made a home visit.
We never did figure who he was.
And that’s why I say, He is real, and he drives a Grey Lincoln Continental.