anonymous asked:

Wait why are you pissed? And what's this about Rafa and Twitter?? Sorry love,, I'm slow 😂

don’t apologize, i’ll explain bc i feel like i’ve been like all over the place in the past hour since i’ve been awake.

so i woke up this morning and checked twitter right? only to see 1) that t***p is now banning trans people from being in the US Military, 2) a nasty video of a white male republican mocking a women with cancer regarding healthcare, and 3) that The Great Comet is ending Oak’s run and only gave him a 2 week notice. He came in late and is leave early. Why is he leaving early, you might ask? Because he’s being replaced with a more famous white actor because they want to increase TICKET SALES. fucking ticket sales.

anyway, so i tweeted about the whole Oak thing and Rafa responded telling me to say it directly to TGC by @ing them instead of just hash tagging #GreatComet. Which, I’ll admit, is something i should have done in the first place, so yeah. that’s basically it.

People who say Fiction = Reality would probably blame violent media and video games for their nasty behavior.

Like, it’s censorship. Stop.

Stop attacking writers for not believing in what you think is right or wrong.

Stop attacking artists for not drawing what you want, because it’s not meant for you.

Stop attacking creators for shipping something you don’t ship.

Stop attacking actors who act as the bad people, because it’s their job.

Stop attacking people for the things they enjoy.

Stop the censorship you force on to people.

Stop the thought police attitude.

Do remember this.

Sending Death Threats, Suicide Baiting and Call Out Post, do more damage then good. It’s also against the law.

So think first.

Before sending hate to a writer, to an artist, to a creator, to an actor, to a person, that your words are more real and damaging then any story written, drawn or acted out, because your words are reality the moment you hit that send button.


I will confess that my primary motivation for writing about this ridiculous movie is the place it occupies in my personal history. I may have mentioned elsewhere that I have been passionately obsessed with horror movies since before the time I ever even saw one, much to the chagrin of my hippie parents. When they would generously take us to the video store to rent BEETLEJUICE or LABYRINTH uh-gain, I would use the time they spent bickering with my little brother, who wanted to watch anything else but those two worn-out favorites, to slink into the horror section and pore with ambivalent fascination over sleazy clamshell boxes from Wizard and Gorgon and the like, whose contents I could barely imagine, and which would surely ruin my life if I had been able to actually see them. My persistent hunched position over these video nasties earned me the nickname Igor from the metalheads behind the counter; I kind of wish I could somehow run into them now and show them how I turned out.

So, at home, we were only allowed to watch the most morally acceptable fare, and even then, only in small, controlled doses, lest unmitigated, uncritical media intake turn both of us into jaded animal torturers. Not so at my best friend’s house. My friend, a mean-spirited, domineering little girl named Michelle, had befriended me due to my incurably submissive nature, and it was at her house that I saw my first “fucked up shit”. Michelle herself was kind of fucked up; she was filled with intense, pushy lies about seeing ghosts, being psychic, and also being part of some sort of feline race from outer space. In the service of that story, I mainly remember her eating tuna sandwiches and drinking milk, almost exclusively. Her mother was an angry chainsmoking lunatic who I didn’t see a lot of, because she was usually literally locked inside her bedroom with her Charlie Manson-looking boyfriend. They’d hang out in there watching game shows in their bathing suits, which I knew because once in a while one of them would have to emerge for more chips or dip. We were generally left to our own devices, or under the very casual surveillance of Michelle’s crazy teenage sister.

Inevitably, I saw my first two R-rated movies there. I was naive enough to confess this to my parents, whereupon I ate a humongous amount of shit for allowing Michelle to allow me to watch such things. One of them was NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 4–the second of the two verbotten films, since I hadn’t learned my lesson from the first incident. (My parents actually watched this one to see what I’d been exposed to, and my psychoanalysis-inclined father admitted it was sort of interesting) The first one was the infinitely more toxic SLEEPAWAY CAMP II, which would almost certainly have fulfilled all of my parents’ worst nightmares, with great specificity. This 1988 sequel to the grimy, effective slasher classic is about as over the top as any american horror movie of the period, and upholds all of the 80s genre cliches with extreme zeal. The kills remain to this day among the gnarliest I have ever seen, and that base layer of visceral impact is further exploded with copious amounts of teen sex, and really, more titties than any reasonable person would possibly expect outside of a porno. It is functionally a comedy, almost more of a Saturday morning cartoon, but it is also a movie you can feel, and even smell, whether you like it or not.

Tween mass murderer Angela Baker from the first film has grown up into a prissy, virginal counselor at Camp Rolling Hills, and…I mean, you know what’s going to happen. Her bubbly optimism about the naive joys of summer camp takes a major hit when she finds this year’s batch of campers to be a bunch of hard drinking, dope smoking, sexually rapacious juvenile delinquents without the slightest interest in weaving friendship bracelets or singing Kumbaya. Without a moment’s hesitation, Angela goes about the business of bludgeoning, gutting, mutilating, incinerating, and even drowning in a pit of human shit and leeches, each disobedient camper, until she’s got them whittled down to a final girl whose apparent virtue may or may not save her from one of these excellently horrible fates.

The plot is less important, of course, than the film’s raucous satire of its genre colleagues; Angela variously dons the famous accoutrements of Freddie, Jason, and Leatherface as she goes about her appalling business, slinging the kinds of eye-rolling one-liners that became a staple of popular horror cinema. However, I have a slightly alternative take on the film’s impact. I tend to see it as less of a sendup of the aforementioned franchises, and more as kind of a satire of Mary Whitehouse and contemporary censors like her. Usually, you have a faceless behemoth like Jason Voorhees or Michael Meyers act as the avatar for the audience’s ostensible desire to punish sin: To exact justice on young people, and especially attractive women, who have the nerve to enjoy life in a fashion that is contrary to public decency. In this case, we have a very particular sort of character, a prudish authoritative femme who–just like Whitehouse, the battleax at the helm of Britain’s witch hunt-like expurgation of unsavory rentals dubbed “video nasties”–wants everyone in her jurisdiction to remain in a state of unnatural innocence and extreme hygiene, whose purpose in life is to eradicate anyone found guilty of adult autonomy. In SLEEPAWAY CAMP II, the joke is on Angela, not on the campers who generically represent sexual precociousness, the enjoyment of recreational substances, and other such social ills.

I don’t mean to say that I necessarily believe that the director, of no particular renown, specifically intended this sort of socially conscious message–I just think that’s the best use of his wonderfully noxious film. The movie still gives me the fucking willies, even after all these years of horror exposure. Somehow, a scene that sticks in my mind the most clearly in this mire of gore, is a brief moment in which the most assertive of the sluts indulges in some meaningless, frustration-relieving sex in the woods with a pathetic stand-in for the guy who turned her down. In the sequence, the guy is lying on the ground with his naked back against a log, as the girl writhes on top of him. The two of them grunt miserably with every churn, sweat plasters hair and plant matter across their slimy skins in the unforgiving daylight, to no musical accompaniment. She gets up to leave, dourly, as he weakly indicates that he’d like to see her again. It’s the single most unhappy bit of gratuitous teen sex I can think of in any movie like it, and I still think of this as an impressive accomplishment.