City Of Boning

These past two weeks were way too stressful. First, they commit a serious felony of making Ben Affleck the next Batman, like it wasn’t enough to ruin one comic book franchise; and I’m thinking, maybe we’re out of the loop. Maybe this year, they want to do a Batman spoof. Spice things up!

Then they try to commit another misdemeanor going on felony by trying to make Charlie Hunnam Christian fucking Grey? Excuse me, 50 Shades of Jax Teller? And what’s up with that 50 Shades fuckery, anyways?

You know how they say the world is ruled by powerful men? Well, Hollywood is ruled by teenage pimply girls, my friends. No matter how many great, quality screenplays lie on producers’ tables around town, most of them will never get made (unless your name is Wentworth Miller).

Where the screams are, that’s where the money goes. Quality? Don’t be daft. Hey, I’m all for a flash of feminism disguised as girl power; but 50 Shades is just too subordinate for my taste.

The equation is very simple. It’s all about sex, really. There are pre-teen girls. They don’t have sex. There are middle age moms. They have barely some sex, routine sex or no sex. Girls scream loud and publicly. Moms scream quietly, in the privacy of their homes when the kids are asleep.

Sex runs this planet. Actual sex you have, planned sex, or pretend sex. And the type of sex that moves it the most - THE ONE YOU DON’T HAVE. The one you long for. The safe one, the one you WATCH on screen or READ about; there’s no rejection there, it’s exactly the way you imagined it.

No sex equals screams. Screams equal cash. Cash equals projects being made. And all together, they create phenomenons. Best sellers. Movies that make 300 million, books that sell 100 million.

Who’s screams are they trying to please with the Batfleck fiasco? Minivan, middle age in dire need of their own mainstream man in tights? How about 50 Shades of Grey fuckery? All this mind-numbing search for Christian Grey? All this for not even the original manuscript but Twilight’s weird ass fan-fiction turned midlife crisis mom porn?

Poorly written material with no artistic value other than taking the clothes off the actor women get the hots for? It’s all about sex, Hollywood, and it goes both ways, we get it. Great, we accept. But let’s at least make some sense of it.

Why Charlie Hunnam? Why ruin the cult of Jax Teller? Because we need to see his butt? Onscreen sex? On Sons Of Anarchy, Charlie fucks his girl next to a dead dude he just killed, in the bathroom during a porn party, in the shower, he screws a stripper from behind, and let’s not even go towards the original, UK Queer as Folk where he regularly got sprayed on by another dude (a glorious Aidan Gillen, no less).

There’s plenty of onscreen sex featuring Charlie Hunnam. We’re good, thanks. Why not mess up someone else's career, if u must?

Stressful week, I tell you.

What’s one to do when the whole parallel universe called entertainment goes mad? Go to the theater, of course! Wash down the fuckery with other stuff. Undo it.

The Butler? PLEASE go see it.

Jobs? I will NEVER walk into the Apple Store the same way again.

Mortal Instruments: City of Bones? What on earth is that?

Theater people say; it’s very popular, ma’am.

Hmmm, let’s see; I like the poster, there’s shit flying around, there are creatures in the back, people on it have this serious save the planet face; there’s a teamwork vibe going on; sold!

Let’s do it. For crying out loud, It’s like everyone and their mother wants to write another Twilight! A chick, two boys. Love. Lust that never becomes.

I google the movie quickly to the dismay of the nice decent moviegoers around me, and voila - the scream formula is right there. 5 books, 6th coming up. A movie. Fangirls. Mortal Instruments: City of Bones? Fuck that. Let’s take it from the top. THE CITY OF BONING. I decided to rename it.

What did we say above? Sex moves the world. Especially the kind of sex you do not have!

The recipe for these books/movies and around 90/100 mill they make is so simple and absolutely brilliant. The first rule, it has to be fiction. A fantasy. It’s a must. You can’t be making any real love stories. If you have your leading man wake up, eat breakfast, snort, fart, and do all these annoying real human shit - ain’t happening. It can not reach a phenomenon level if it’s real.

It needs to be a fantasy, where no one has time to eat or sleep, they are fighting demons or vampires or werewolves or whatever supernatural shit the author decided to google that day, (whoever our heroes are, the other creatures from legends are enemies).

They bust shit around, they run, they scream, women can never look clingy or needy, for Christ's sake, she is discovering all that supernatural shit, she’s running for her life, she doesn’t HAVE TIME to be whiny. She can't text him why he didn't text her, he's out there saving her life!

Also, there are always two guys. One is a no-brainer choice who we all cheer for; usually in the second book/movie, the other one appears. By the third book, she’s in doubt, and by the end of the saga, what we all knew would happen happens, but we paid them 300 million in theater tickets to find it out!

Hey, I’m not complaining. I loved the CITY OF BONING. I loved the flippancy of the author who created the enemy so broad and indescribable both verbally and physically and put them under the demon folder! Hello, research? Talk about getting the most with not even working that hard at it.

These demons turn into some sort of mush, there's shit coming out of their necks, they roar and they look ugly! They must be DEMONS!

And our heroes wear the badassest leather shit I ever saw, au-contraire to Twilight, and their beige and light blue J-Crew shit that would make Bram Stoker do saltos in his grave.

The clothes gave me orgasms; men’s knee-length sleeveless leather vests = a serious hard-on.

And I love the spin in the mandatory obstacle these stories all have between the leads. There are 6 books altogether, so it needs to be good - SPOILER ALERT: they are freaking brother and sister!

The sheer brilliance. Let me guess, by the third book, they actually aren’t?

Forget everything I just wrote; you shouldn’t listen to me when it comes to recommending these books/movies. I’m way too easy. All you've got to do with me is throw in a blond Brit, plaster some leather on him, and I’m sold.