I enjoy blue eyeshadow. This is Urban Decay Haight.
Transformers 3: Dark Side of the Moon was oh, oh, oh so bad. I was so pissed that I wasted 2.5 hours (yes, TF3 was 153 minutes, WTF???) that I considered walking out. Even my husband said TF3 was the 2nd worst movie he’s ever seen, second only to Leprechaun. Freaking LEPRECHAUN, people.
Where do I even begin? The tasteless Katrina meets September 11th style destruction of Chicago? The baroque-to-the-point-of-insanity CGI monster truck characters? The misplaced, weirdly inappropriate patriotism that all but proves that America is teetering on the verge of economic collapse?
The ridiculous premise of TF3 is a lone surviving Autobot crashes into the moon sometime prior to JFK’s assassination and that the entire US/USSR space race is a giant cover-up. Michael Bay and Hasbro figure that if you can suspend your disbelief that a race of mechanoids evolved on a distant planet just happen to look suspiciously like a cross between standing primates and their gas-guzzling cars, then surely you can get behind mechanoids standing in for the US’s armed forces as world
warmongers police peacekeepers.
The irony of a scene where a race of beings evolved to look like petroleum-dependent motor vehicles slams around a bunch of turban-headed desert dwellers was almost too much for this viewer to handle. Gee, I couldn’t help but remember the two wars for crude the US is losing to the tune of a billion dollars every 24 hours. Kind of makes the Transformers 3 mega-budget look like chump change, however, a pro-military, obtusely nationalist pep rally for an oil-addicted empire disguised as a cheesy robot movie broadcasts the exact opposite message said empire wants its enemies to hear.
I can just imagine the thoughts of any intelligent non-American unfortunate enough to watch the TF3 debacle. He or she must assume that America is a very warped place that produces uniformly offensive, crazy, misogynist people. The first shot of a female character in T3 (Vickie’s Secret model turned actress Rosie Huntington-Whitely) is of her behind. She’s got a nice butt, granted. Perhaps the rear end is less off than her face, which resembles nothing as much as a pretty slack-mouthed anthropomorphic fish creature. I blame Huntington-Whitely’s fashionably overinflated lips. You can almost hear Michael Bay’s goblin-like snickering over Rosie’s DSLs: “Eat your heart out, Megan Fox!”
Not that any actual acting took place among the CGI extravaganzas and ridiculous car-robot voiceovers, but it’s a sad day when Megan Fox is a better actress than you. I’ve got three words for Huntington-Whiteley: STICK TO MODELING. The only thing bigger than Huntington-Whiteley’s lips is the
horrible acting ego of Shia LeBeouf’s character, who sees every life situation, including meeting his parents, as an opportunity to stage hysterical screaming fits.
The robots are equally melodramatic: the crux of T3’s plot is yet another scheme where the Decepticon bad guys want to take over the world, this time to use human slaves to build (presumably) more Transformers. Huh? LeBeouf’s character, Sam Witwicky, reprises his lame duck role as hapless protagonist, somehow surviving Titanic-like falls through floors of ruined buildings and seas of broken glass with nary a scratch and somehow walking from the Marshall Fields clock on 1 S. State Street to the corner of Jackson and Canal by Union Station in 15 seconds. I guess he must have teleported.
Eerily homoerotic in way only the most chest-beating, vehicle-exploding, gun-shooting movies can be, the Transformers series begs the question of how a bunch of male car-robots (ever notice that there are no female Tranformers?) reproduce themselves. Oops, I just gave Michael Bay his next multi-zillion dollar idea! Oh . . . NO. Rest assured that I’ll be skipping Transf***ers 4: Inside Robot Pants.
I’ve been taking life a little bit too seriously and I need to lighten up for sure. Last night my hubby and I laughed our fool heads off when he googled “Photoshop mistakes.”
Photoshop, in the hands of a careless/tired/overworked designer, can yield unimaginable horrors that would make even H.P. Lovecraft shudder. Whether it’s disembodied hands that appear out of other dimensions to grope unwitting victims or malproportioned or missing limbs, Photoshop can render chillingly innocuous images that, like a good horror story, reveal evil in its unabashed glory.
Analagous to horror stories, there is a moral. These weird aberrations make you acutely aware that nobody looks like a magazine in real life, and if they do maintain the visage of a covershot beyond that brief window of ten to fifteen years of youthful vibrancy, it is only achieved via the most brutal regimes of surgery, Botox, semi-starvation, and exercise.
Which brings us to Exhibit A.
HANDS FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE
I didnt’ know Thing from Addams Family and Jessica Simpson had any parts together, yet here he is! The plot: An innocent day of fun at the beach. She may have thought that itchy creepy feeling was sand in her hair . . . just think of the shock when she realizes that her dead ex-boyfriend’s amputated hand is getting ever closer to her neck!
This one is unbelievably scary. It’s not just the fact that she looks like an anorexic bondage queen who needs a veggie cheeseburger STAT before her tight hairstyle induces fainting, but there seems to be a deformed hand growing from her thighs!!! Rosemary’s Baby, year 2050. Aaaaagh!!! This one seriously gave me the dry heaves.
Which brings us to . . . EXHIBIT B.
Proving that the evil fashion corporate marketing empire deliberately creates in all females (and males vicariously) a deliberate chronic infection of body dysmorphia, we have some horrific portrayals of the skeletal feminine “ideal” gone terribly wrong.
When Scarlet O’Hara bemoaned the loss of her 18 inch waist in Gone With the Wind, I don’t think her visions of nostalgia went this far. If the dark-haired lovechild of Gumby and a Raquel Welch recently escaped from a concentration camp and accidentally tripped over an electrical cord and landed belly up on the guitar amplifier, this is what you would get.
True confessions: I despise the Ralph Lauren brand. They openly perpetuate an anorexic, snobbish, unattainable, creepy, dated WASP stereotype. This model is not this emaciated in real life. This is what happens when you let a recent escapee from the binge/purge unit of the psych ward loose on Photoshop’s Liquify filter. I do NOT want to know what was going on in this Photoshopper’s sick, tortured head.
Speaking of tortured heads, let’s get to the grand finale, shall we?
EXHIBIT C: DUDE, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?
The only thing that’s scarier than Eminem is the fact that our society has made him into the successful bankroll he is. Kind of says something about how we really feel about racism and misogyny, don’t it? Yeah I’m getting too deep for this blog.
If the Incredible Hulk had too much coffee after getting his eyes dilated at the optometrist and then accidentally got trapped for several days under a radioactive tanning lamp, you’d get this picture:
It has been said that you either love or hate Madonna. I think this designer hated her, even though he may not have known it at the time, as in subconsciously. Her forehead is so short that she appears to have suffered a terrible head-shrinking disease. I actually saw this mag cover in a Borders. It was nightmarishly scary.
Absolutely. Terrifying. When you see this image, first you will wish fervently that you hadn’t. The second thought you will have, if you are a kind-hearted person, is that you hope for the model’s sake that she does not look like this picture in any way. If Jim Carrey from the Grinch, Jack Nicholson from Batman, and Goldilocks were amalgamated in a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong . . .