Loki’s Purse

ak | 26 | CA

a really excellent kiss or makeout session is so underrated imho…working from home has me so spoiled some of the best kisses of my life have happened during my stretch breaks

vellicour:

“The long con is to get you to believe as deeply as possible that attaching your one infinitely precious self to these endlessly mass-produced mockeries of art and forming up a human shield around them is in fact a moral act.” CHRIS THOMPSON

cryptid-sighting:

'Space Jam: A New Legacy' Is A Hell Known Only To The Undead | Defector
It used to be that shitty movies won by getting you to buy the ticket, and would just accept the critical pounding to follow. That was the t
Defector

There’s a horrifying short story by Richard Matheson called “The Dance of the Dead,” about a teenager in a post-apocalyptic future who goes to a seedy hellhole of a nightclub where a nightmare cocktail of substances is used to animate corpses and make them dance luridly on a phantasmagoric stage. Things go poorly. After it’s over, perhaps the most upsetting part of the story is how changed the teen is by the experience, how irreversibly warped and tainted she’s become, and you wonder whether it’s the corpse or her that’s truly in hell. I think that’s us! I think we’ve dragged too much shit out of our comic books and crappy old sitcoms, and mined enough of what was once this or that artist’s authentically original or at least authentically self-respecting style, and rechewed it like big stinking wads of cud, and now we’re just ruined! Ruined! This is what I was thinking while watching this fucking movie! Granny gloated “I’m goin’ old-school on his butt” about an isolation matchup with some sort of mechanized, time-warping Damian Lillard(??), and a bright red light exploded in my brain. This thing, on this scale, with this level of visibility and prestige, is simply not something that anything but a terminal culture would produce.


A certain type of reader is going to form a certain sharply negative impression of what sort of person I am when I say the things I am about to say. I will admit that’s normally something that would bother me very much, but I think I am too tormented and unclean by the experience of having done this to muster up much more than a grim shrug. (Though I do want to note that I was assigned this blog and told it was not optional.) Here goes: It’s a bad thing—meaningfully bad, bad at a cultural and societal level, urgently bad—that Dumb and Bad are now viable genres of motion picture. It’s bad that people give dumb and bad movies credit for their pandering, mocking performances of art, and it’s especially bad when that credit is given to movies that are the cinematic equivalent of a Pine Sol tweet with just the word “bae” atop a photo of like Kevin Love scrubbing a countertop. It’s alarming and sincerely bad that we seem to have thrown ourselves so willingly into some sort of bizarro world where studios ever more boldly express contempt for their audiences by exploiting an earnest, incomplete, and possibly premature 21st-century critical reassessment of pop entertainment, while simultaneously exploiting a Gen-X–powered tidal wave of nostalgia for cultural artifacts that should’ve been left where they died. That the resulting pap—that’s what all of this is, pap, in the very literal sense of the word—is so often cynically fortified against criticism by broadly liberal-seeming bonafides and by the psychotic Gamergate-esque militance of diehards is all the more frustrating and dispiriting.


It used to be that shitty movies won by getting you to buy the ticket, and would just accept the critical pounding to follow. That was the trade, and it was a fair one: We got to call garbage garbage, and from time to time we would admit to ourselves that sometimes this or that hunk of garbage was our particular flavor of garbage. But now, I think, in the era of online, an unredeemably beshitted movie industry wins by getting us suckers to dig and fortify rhetorical battle trenches around some new derivative horror show, out of pure tribal loyalty and near-religious sentimentality. My hating this movie and writing about it is the prize, because I am providing it with a vector into some fresh corner of The Discourse. I haven’t worked out the more intricate mechanisms whereby this improves the Q Score or whatever of quite literally the most famous basketball player on the planet, but I know in my ruined soul that ticket sales are no longer the point. The long con is to get you to believe as deeply as possible that attaching your one infinitely precious self to these endlessly mass-produced mockeries of art and forming up a human shield around them is in fact a moral act.


This front of that campaign—the Space Jam: A New Legacy maneuver—is just appallingly brazen. The plot is nonsensical, but who cares. The acting is horrendous, but who cares. It looks bad, but who cares. The updated Looney Tunes characters are just bone-chillingly gross and distorted, like the screenwriters were given two-word descriptions of Bugs and the gang and had otherwise never heard of them before. The runtime is full to bursting with little winking asides that will mostly sail over the heads of anyone young enough to enjoy all the disconnected sweaty mania of the action (Bugs warns LeBron, “DIS AIN’T DA MIAMI HEAT, YOU KNOW,” when LeBron wants some good players for his team), but are not in any sense “jokes.” There’s a Michael Bay–style montage where Looney Tunes characters are gathered willy-nilly from scenes in non–Looney Tunes movies—Yosemite Sam is somehow in Casablanca; Elmer Fudd is in Austin Powers—that I swear to God was the most boring thing I have ever endured in my entire life, even though it was almost certainly the seed and inspiration for this entire movie’s existence. The script is pure Joss Whedon/Seth MacFarlane crapola, where characters have no real distinguishing personality traits that cannot be swapped at a moment’s notice in order to have a specific one of them deliver the next samey and deeply unfunny one-liner. Respectable actors are paraded across the screen—Wood Harris, Sarah Silverman, Sonequa Martin-Green, Steven Yeun, Lil Rel Howery, Michael B. Jordan—but are given nothing even approaching interesting or funny or original to say or do. Whole huge chunks of the plot are shamefully yanked right out of Futurama and Hook. Everything is a reference to something else. Scenes and music and whole big sequences overtly reference Wonder Woman and The Matrix and Mad Max: Fury Road, but the movie is too ingratiating and chicken-shit to reach for parody, and so it winds up just sort of thirstily grasping for the lowest hanging fan service shit: recognition.


I have never repeated any word or words as often in such a short period of time as I groaned the words “oh my god” during this movie’s 115 minutes, and I have performed the Hallelujah Chorus before. Porky Pig’s dreaded rap battle is punctuated by Ernie Johnson saying, “He was spitting hot fire.” Who wants this? Who is this for? But I have the feeling that I am supposed to root for it, somehow, because LeBron is firmly established in the culture as A Good Dude, and because it can’t be very harmful to have a little fun with nostalgia, and what kind of asshole evaluates Space Jam: A New Legacy on its merits as a movie? Have some fun! But this trend is ruining us equally: I am becoming like the crew of the Event Horizon, tearing my eyeballs out and hissing scary Latin phrases, and you are twirling in a field like the poor teen from the Matheson story. We’re both fucked.


There is a moment toward the very end of the movie where it appears very much like the filmmakers have killed off Bugs Bunny. To heck with all spoiler sensitivities! As an audience member you are supposed to feel Feelings about this, because of course you love Bugs Bunny and do not wish him dead. I grew up watching Bugs Bunny, I do love Bugs Bunny, and I did feel something. I felt regret that I had not been given the opportunity to choke the blasphemous unlife out of this reanimated corpse of Bugs Bunny with my own quivering hands. Alas, you will not be surprised to learn that it was all misdirection. Bugs returns moments later, with no explanation whatsoever, and is fine. Once again you are invited to feel Feelings. I felt bad, after all that suffering, that neither of us had been allowed to simply die.

(via exeggcute)

i swear to god imagine if they unfroze Hugh Jackman from his theater kid cryo tank (regular cryo tank but it plays the score to Chicago the entire time) dusted him off and were like ok Hugh we’re gonna make Wolverine fuck Loki and he was like Who and they were like oh you know Loki the gay sex symbol of the Marvel franchise and Hugh well I am nothing if not a man who keeps it tight and looks like he’s held a dick before show me the lad and we’ll get cracking and they push a photo across the table to him and he picks it up in one weathered Australian hand and it’s this guy

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you have to fuck him

now at we all seem to agree that Loki should be having gay sex onscreen can we please get Lokgn back in the running for the most popular Loki ship. mostly because I know hugh jackman would be absolutely down to do whatever and tom hiddleston has an ironclad “no gay stuff until I get cast as james bond” clause in his contract that only the presence of wolverine could break

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if you don’t want to see tom hiddleston forced to say “hellooooooo logan” in a gay little voice IDK what you’re in this game for

eroscestlavie:

I really hope that in the timeline with alligator Loki, Odin just…stole an alligator off of Jotunheim and tried to pass it off as his son

and of course just as in the original timeline Loki gets kicked out of Asgard not for being an alligator, but for being a gay alligator specifically

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