Sexviolence--A Movie Review--and...Birds

I just got done watching a movie called Donkey Punch. If you don't know what that term means, I maybe suggest your looking it up on-line. Now, I am not a fan--at all--of the allusion (or the practice, for that matter) of a donkey punch, but the movie itself was a good one.

It had sexviolence--one word. That, in itself, is not a precursor to a good movie, but this one was.

I won't go into too much detail, but I will let this be known: The movie had quite a bit of violence and a little bit of sex and copious amounts of alcohol- and drug-use.... My kinda film!

Olly Blackburn directed it; it was his first feature-length film.

I got a kick out of the "Special Features" section on the disc. I usually like to get the director's opinion of his or her movie and Blackburn didn't disappoint. He talked about the film, about its violence and its sexuality and he spoke of it in terms that the movie was something akin to or as shattering as something like Deep Throat or Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Now, while good--no, uh-uh.

There was sex and there was gory violence, sure, but what really made me like the flick was the way in which the 20-something cast (three girls, four guys) played off of each other and made the script work.

(Maybe I'm just a sucka for sexviolence? Maybe I am. Maybe I am. But the movie worked. And I know quality screensmanship when I see it.)

The main reason I wrote this post? One, to get the word out on the movie Donkey Punch. I thoroughly enjoyed it and I hope others will, too. Two, something Olly Blackburn said. He said something to the effect (in the "Crowd Reaction" section of the Special Features) that, whilst the movie was being shown in Salt Lake, Utah, some Mormon woman, upon seeing some of the (banal) sex scenes, speedwalked out of the showing into the foyer of the theater...and promptly fainted.

To which I say this: Woman. Listen. You went to a screening of a movie called Donkey Punch. If you don't know the meaning of the term, fucking look it up. If you have a religious leaning, a religious "way of life," for God's sake (rice wine) know what the fuck you're getting yourself into. If you cannot see sexviolence on the screen, don't go to watch. Stay the fuck home.

...

[Or maybe I need to back off on her. Maybe she had low blood sugar, or some other pre-existing health condition. If so, I am sorry. I hope she got what she needed.]

...

But! If you fainted in the foyer of a theater from watching this movie?! Do your fucking research. Seriously. If you would be offended by breasts and asses and half-formed images of males' netherworlds, do yourself a favor. If you're offended by bloody deaths and knives and fatal punches and whirling deadly boat motors, do yourself a favor. In fact, do me a fucking favor: Stay. Home.

And...(smile)...to the rest of you: I recommend this movie. (winkwinknudgenudge) But I do. I do not recommend this movie to my mom, though. Just saying. She, and three other people (perhaps) read this blog-drivel, and so I need to make sure that I would not corrupt my sweet sweet Mom. (Mom, I do not recommend this movie to you. There. My Conscience is assauged.) To the rest of you: Watch it. Just make sure the kids are in bed.

[I can't get over that fainting woman. Shit. Get a grip, lady.]

Sexviolence. It's a new...cool...term.

(forpornography)

[Who said that?!]

***

In more pleasant news, a baby sparrow (I think) fell from the second-story roof of my mom's Tudor house and I sprang into action. (Just ask her.) With her help, I hustled the baby bird into a plastic Tupperware-like container and, upon her insistence, enclosed said box in a plastic bag. Off I was to the back porch, ladder in hand, whereupon I skimmied up the roof--with not a lot of handholds (I'd done it before)--thirty-seven feet in the air. Not a problem. I ain't scared o' no heights. The problem became when, near the chimney, I saw where the unfortunate fellow's home had been: Down a forty-degree grade, with absolutely no handholds, over the double-driveway. "This is where we part ways," I said to the baby bird. He blinked at me and squawked (probably for his Mammy.) "I hate to do it, but there aren't any things to hold on to, man. You're on your own." I angled the plastic box at the nest-in-gutter and let Baby slide. He tumbled, beak over ass-feathers, until he came to rest against a cylindrical roof vent. Okay, I thought, as I contemplated getting back down (coming down is always harder), he can't miss his nest. I am Superman. [cue music]

Well, as I was saying good-bye to my mother at her side door, I glanced to my right.... And who did I see? Seamus the Sparrow, much worse off for the wear after enduring two twenty-nine (?) -foot drops. Kid was not so spry, now. Kill him, my mind said. Put him out of his avian misery. I couldn't do it. My mom certainly couldn't do it. So we dug up a worm, and I cut said worm up, and we left the carcass, in the little plastic box, with the little damaged bird, and we, now, hope for the best.

Had it been me? Just me? I would have put a boot through his little head. I would have. Not to be mean, but to be (more) humane. I hate to see animals suffer. People suffering? Hell, I hate to see that, too...but to a lesser degree. Whatever. I'd have offed Seamus. Right then. I wasn't going to take care of the kid. My mom has bigger fish to fry, herself. She said to me, "I always hear about people taking sick birds in and nursing them back to health, but...."

Yes. I completely agree. She doesn't have time for it, I certainly am not Saint Francis of Assissi, the kid was mortally wounded...let it go.

(And it started off such a heroic story....)

I wish it weren't, but I believe this is how it will go: Seamus won't eat the worm-bits, he'll sit in the plastic coffin on the back porch for about two or three days/daze, and then he will succumb to both his injuries and also the lack of his regurgitating mama-bird. Sad story ends with baby-bird a Bustle of Nothing...nothing but feathers and a skeletal body.

And that is--kinda--the way the Animal Kingdom works: Survival of the Fittest. Yes, but....

But I coulda done better. I shoulda done better. I was so damned gung-ho to get the kid back in his nest, I didn't think ahead. I didn't think about the drastic slope of the roof on the driveway-side. Had I, I would have jammed a nylon rope in my pocket. Verily, I could have tied said rope tightly around the chimney and lowered myself carefully down the grade of the roof and gently deposited baby-bird into his nest in the gutter. And, with a rope, I could have clawed my way back up to the tippy-top of the roof. Would it have worked? Well, yeah, as long as the nylon rope held true. Is it worth risking? Absolutely not. I gave it a go; the baby bird tumbled, a second time, back over the roof (a mere three feet from his nest) and plummeted to his imminent death.

...

...

And that's why we're humans, and they're birds.

Fly free, Little One. Fly free.

=)