Real Housewives? Your colon and the lost ‘Hancock’ joint

HOUSEKEEPING: Sorry to subscribers who get the WHOLE ENTRY in the notifications. I’m still ironing out some bugs. Be patient.

Onward.

Is it me, or is there this weird new genre? MILF TV, where older women are flaunting their sex appeal, has replaced T-and-A TV. I’m not dissing it, I’m saying it’s kind of taking over, certainly in the reality TV game.

Reality TV either features young women, gay men, or older, ass-hot spankable woman your older sister probably went to the mall with. Which is kinda hot. For me, most of the women of reality TV aren’t old enough to be my mother, like the term “MILF” signifies. But a few are, and that’s OK with me.

I don’t know why some cats chase after these young chicken-heads, man. Younger women, while hot horizontally, are headaches in high heels. As I get older, I find that older women are highly underrated. Square biz. That may change when I hit my 60s. But given the way ladies are taking care of themselves? Maybe not.

I guess I’m confused about whether turning in underage T-and-A-type TV for older T-and-A-type reality TV is a good thing, given the fact that most of these vacuous reality-show women look to have had work done. I don’t know if that’s a positive message to send to viewers, a negative message or a net wash.

Like, I used to have a thing for Vicki Gunvalson, not entirely unrelated to the fact that 1) she resembles someone very close to me and B) I’m on record as an ass man, and Vicki’s packing some action in the back, if you get my drift. Anyways, imagine my dismay when I found out she’s had work done — I was devastated.

I’m in the minority, maybe, but I prefer the natural beauty of a woman, wrinkles and all — with maybe an hour of yoga or spinning class a day —  the Booty Bot-chicks you see who are, like 30 percent plastic, all strings and gurneys. As I say on my joint on The Root, I’m really looking forward to Real Housewives of Atlanta even if most of the women are in my age range.

Random picture time … this one from a vegetarian march in The Village early this summer. Carnivores — like me — this is supposed to be our colon. On Parade.

Moving on.

Okay, so I did a joint on Hancock that never made it to market. So I thought I’d put it up here.

Enjoy.

Seeing is Believing

Hancock, if not the best film of Will Smith’s career, is second only to Iron Man as best film of the summer. And to think, I almost didn’t see it, because the critics were panning it like an Adam Sandler film, and I think I understand why. Film critics are so used to mindless summer fun-type of films with little plot but lots of laser beams, grumpy aliens and maybe some brief nudity for Dad or pre-pubescent Junior. Every summer film has one thing in common: a plot that can be summed up in one line. As brilliant and subtle as Iron Man is, it is still a movie about a rich guy in a magic suit who triumphs over evil. This logline describes every incarnation of Batman or Superman to ever make it to the big screen. Iron Man stands out because unlike Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark is not just a rich asshole with anger problems. He’s a complex hero, not altogether likable but not above redemption. John Hancock is a character with just an unbelievably satisfying twist that doesn’t involve radioactive spiders or anti-war rhetoric. At the moment of the reveal, I gasped audibly. Vincent Ngo has written the most perfect superhero movie script since …. well …. Iron Man.

Hancock is not a color-by-numbers summer blockbuster. It’s not a popcorn-muncher. Although kids should see it, it is certainly not a kids’ film. This film sells itself as a superhero story, and that’s a necessary deception. Will Smith, whose Overbrook Entertainment is in on the money-side, needed to put butts in the seats. You see all the CGI stuff in the commercials, and that’s fine and dandy, but Hancock was mispromoted with good reason — it’s not the kind of film Americans go see. Unlike Men In Black or Independence Day, two of Smith’s summer blockbusters, it can’t accurately be described in one line. There’s no Jeff Goldblum, no wise-cracking, chain-smoking worms. And sadly, no Rosario Dawson. There are lots of explosions and special effects, but the film is layered with incredible, unexpected complexity.

What some are describing as an “implausible plot-twist” at about midpoint — or top of the second act — of the movie is, perhaps, the most remarkably simple explanation, the most ingenious plot device ever seen in a superhero movie. Ever. Consider, that Superman in merely the secularized legend of Jesus the Nazarene re-told: The son of a powerful benevolent being sent to earth to save us all from ourselves. This point, not unrelated at all to why I don’t understand that Hancock requires more suspension of belief than any other film. The premise behind Hancock is not only plausible, but — if you are a Believer — probable. The problem is that it isn’t film for Americans, for people that don’t read much or expect much from film beyond entertainment. It’s an American film with a lot of subtle foreign film sensibilities in the writing — it’s not another Hollywood carbon-copy storyline. The critics missed the boat on this one and did the public a great disservice, kinda. I say “kinda” because, despite the reviews, Hancock beat the competition and did even better overseas. Small wonder.

At the center of this film is a heart that has more in common with films like Wings of Desire or Leon, foreign films about impossible, seemingly implausible love affairs with intricate, unexpected narratives. Hancock is not the story of a superhero with a drinking problem. Rather, it is a nuanced tale of biblical mythology, love and longing and the very real possibility that soulmates should not necessarily be together. Not only should you see it. You should see it twice.