Confession time.
It happened again yesterday. It's a phenomenon I can't explain. A strange gravitational pull that grabs hold of me, my senses and my ability to push a little button. The loss of all muscle control and no distraction can penetrate my enraptured gaze. I get sucked in, transfixed, mesmerized. It feels good. And I'm not sorry.
My attraction to trashy things does not stop at bad packaged food and body glitter. Oh no, I'm much more sophisticated than spongy cake filled with sugary crisco and cheetos colored day-glow red. I'm also a willing victim of a few horrible movies that I will never be able to pass up if they're playing on the idiot box. Played weekly on bad cable just for my viewing play-sure.
This time I'm talking about a little piece of cinematic genius known as, Staying Alive.
I love this movie. It has every cheesy 80's element you could want. A young, thin, uber-greasy version of John Travolta. (Seriously, his body is so rockin you'd want to eat a pita pocket off his pecks, if it wasn't for all the OIL). Head bands. Vomitous music that you end up knowing all the words to. (Don't lie to me, you know them). Floofy hair. Sex. Balads painfully forced out of the plastecine face of the lesser Stallone. White leather. The maximum capacity of zippers as fashion. Spandex wedgies. Gratutious male packages. A weak plot. And shiny, wet New York streets.
About a month ago I came across Staying Alive on HBO, not a butchered version on the USA channel. I was actually excited. Shut up. Yesterday I found it half-way done, but knowing it as I do, knew I'd discovered my dirty, secret pleasure with plenty of time to see the slow-motion dance scene with Anorexia Rhodes AND the highly dramatic and strobe-light flashy finale known as Satan's Alley. Feel the tension...
If John had only made a wiser choice and left out the violent shimmy in the middle of his pirated solo. It gives, in my opinion, the worst moment of ew, but now I just look away and am spared an inevitable vurp.
I don't know why I can't turn the damn channel when I encounter this piece of truly embarrassing theatric gruel. But really, who could resist Barbarino slathered in 40 weight motor oil. Bet you couldn't either. So NYA.
PROOF
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2 comments:
I actually paid to see it in the theatre, and good call on the violent shoulder shimmy. That was just gay.
I think what else made it great was the half-dozen gratuitous crotch shots as he walked down same wet streets.
Yeah...I am inexplicably drawn to flashy-trashy things, myself. It's good to know there are other women of taste who sometimes slip, as well. hehe
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