A scarred fist POUNDS on the seedy motel room door. “Open up, bitch,” the pimp barks with baritone boom.
The frail black-eyed whore presses her palm against the key latch as she wails, “No, no more. I ain’t gonna let you hurt me again.”
The pimp sedates himself with a mouthful of city smog. He shoves trembling rage down into the pit of his stomach. He lowers his voice, “I thought you was holding out on me, that’s all baby. I just wanna say I’m sorry. Let me love you.” He coos, sweetly, “That’s all I wanna do. Just give you the kind of love you need.”
Her heart strings slink down her spine like living bondage, “You hurt me real bad, you know”
His rough fingers stroke the weathered wood around the peep hole, “But I won’t do you wrong no more. I love you. I just don’t know how else to show it. That’s all. Just let me in.”
She contemplates, desperate to believe. She unlocks the door.
At the sound of the lock’s clatter, the pimp kicks the door down and realigns his bitch’s eye sight with five across the side of her face. She hits the bed, sobbing.
He towers over her, removing his belt, “I can’t believe how stupid you are!”
He leaps onto her, tying her wrists to the brass headboard.
Stripping the nylons from her bruised calves, he tethers each of her ankles to a bed post, leaving her spread eagle.
The pimp grabs a wire hanger off the coat rack, and molds it into a painful phallic shape with the prowess of a party clown.
He nods toward the skirt fabric stretched across her thighs as his sweat-beaded lip curls into a grimace, “you ain’t gonna be able to give my money maker away for a LONG TIME.”
He moves in for a lesson that bitch ain’t ever gonna forget.
I’ve just described
I’ve never really understood the industry’s disdain toward its audience. It shouldn’t be THAT HARD to make an entertaining movie. But at the expense of establishing this bizarre master/servant relationship, I almost feel like Hollywood MAKES us swallow utter shit out of spite. How do you fuck up some of the commodities these studios wind up with? Filmmakers have obviously pegged the average movie-goer as an untaught, monosyllabic slope-browed nudnik who hoots and hollers like an ape over animated explosions. Even with that perception under their belts, I don’t understand how great, simple ideas somehow wind up more convoluted than they need to be.
The "Alien vs. Predator" franchise is a virtual x-ray of the average
Here’s another great example of how the retards in
“How,” you ask? Why, by substituting precious shit-blowing-up time with shots of Angelina Jolie pouting, of course. Give me a fucking break. This is how I see it: I don’t give a fuck about hot women unless they’re getting naked. And even then, if I can’t touch them, why should I give a shit? It's depressing. Unless Jolie’s lips are sating my shaft with their suppleness, then she can pack up her sweat shop clan and get the fuck out of my face.
There are a lot of people who make arguments FOR remakes, stating that they do nothing to tarnish the source material. Well, the fact that the original "Gone in 60 Seconds" isn’t any better known now than it was prior to the remake’s release blows that argument out of the water. Granted, the remake doesn’t at all challenge the value of the original film, but it's failed to generate any interest in the 1974 version by virtue of being a remarkable piece of shit. Trust me, no goes, “oh, this remake is a piece of shit. I feel inspired to go rent the original.” Spare me, asshole. No one in Hollywood knows what they're doing.
If movie makers were intelligent they'd stop remaking films, because all it does is clearly illustrate how bad they are at their craft by providing direct comparison.