There was never another time historically where having a conversation about the basic nature of reality- what we encounter in our lived experiences- would have made much sense. Rather, it would have come off as insanity, but here we are in our horrifying alternate-1985 wasteland engaged in a perpetual argument over what should be the prologue of the story.
Reality should be our starting point, the toolkit and blueprint for human greatness, not a prolonged debate.
But what the fuck is reality? Tough to know in a world of misinformation and unreality, served by people raised on the same deliberate bullshit. Modernity is a nice sounding hypothesis playing out in real time, but without an end-date to honestly access the damn thing. The people who drew it up are long dead, and what’s left are loudmouth idiots and unreality profiteers.
The harder we pull away from reality, the more reality commands our return- the misguided team behind “Ghostbusters” (2016) will learn this the hard way when the film opens. A successful mainstream movie must be a delicate balance between the kind of unreality that people want to believe and a significant-enough adherence to the memetic mechanics of real life; women aren’t disposable scientist vigilantes.
The extent of which the mainstream will accept the unreality of two silly ladies as Mrs. President will be answered in the final days of the campaign as they firebomb the countryside with enough guilt and shame to sweat out last-minute converts. When our favorite Alpha male puts his balls on the table against Team Idiot, we’ll get a read on where the mainstream is in their perception of reality. Female Ghostbusters may be too much for the normie to bear, but embarrassing old Hillary?
Impossible to know- but there will come a time where a future generation of men collectively label us a bunch of godamn faggots for even considering this shit show. You want me to vote for a woman, give me a once-in-a-lifetime Alpha female and sell me on the fucking thing; not this- not the silly idiot and her embarrassing bestie.
The Progressive narrative promises triumph over nature and an accessible command of reality- as long as you buy-into the fairy tale wholesale. That the more burdensome aspects of reality can be altered and sanitized; its weight can be alleviated. The Left is so determined to push transgender-acceptance, not for the handful of people that a ridiculous bathroom law would positively affect, but to protect the idea that we are only a sexually ambiguous sack of goo; not an identity built around race, ethnicity, family, gender, or sexuality.
This socially anarchic freedom, where it seems like we’re given the ability to self-define our identity from a rainbow of options, is only an illusion. The makeup of our identity is closely guided by a rigid authority serving as a controllable replacement for nature. A hot blooded, masculine man makes his own decisions but once you sap his testosterone and diminish his sexual options, suddenly embarrassing grandma has a voter.
Globalism is the logical end to this sanitization- a global economy that pushes the plebs through a big play-doh food factory where you walk away a media addict with a Facebook account. If you’re lucky you’ll get a VR headset, where you can sit in your dank shithole apartment, set the damn thing to “dutiful wife, Mckayla Moroney, moutain living” and zone out until the Chinese food comes- lunch special, “generous portions” according to the menu, so I’ll order two and keep a bit for dinner.
A modern man is lying if he says this idea isn’t seductive. I was going to say a modern single man, but who am I kidding? Married men will need the “dutiful wife simulator” the most… but as women can live out their unreality fantasies in the real world- playing the corporate powerhouse, Dr. Female Pediatrician, the lawyer in heels, all while being parceled out Alpha male attention in twenty-minute blocks; between wine, food, travel and their beloved Netflix… the male unreality fantasy must remain hidden, and increasingly virtual; spectator sports as a substitute for masculinity, video games as a substitute for achievement, pornography as a substitute for sex, and even YouTube providing doses of virtual femininity.
While females are trading their youth and beauty for endless casino nights, the majority of men aren’t leaving the house… but the dark cloud of reality looms, and the storm is coming.
There is an impressive self-awareness to RKO’s magnificent “King Kong” (1933), a movie about making a movie, decades before such a thing became hip. In the film, director Carl Denham, played by Robert Armstrong, laments the idea that his audience has already grown bored of African safari movies- surely a still-novel concept for 1933. Denham explains that people want to see a pretty woman and a love story when they go out to the theater. And on short notice he finds Ann Darrow, played by the stunning Fay Wray, to star as his heroin.
Perhaps taking their own advice, “King Kong” features a love story as its emotional center. The movie absent of romance would still have cool scenes like Kong fighting a dinosaur, and running amok in downtown Manhattan, but would ultimately come off more like a movie for kids. Adults inherently understand that the mating dance of man and woman- the romance and emotions that come with it, and the new generation of children that the union implies- is not only the height of beauty within the human experience but also its greatest depth of reality.
The cartoonish unreality of King Kong and Godzilla having a fist-fight is meaningless without the core of Ann Darrow’s naive femininity melting the hardened exterior of highly masculine Jack Driscoll’s icy heart. And when Driscoll relents and shows a vulnerability in the presence of gorgeous Darrow, the emotional resonance with the audience is deep due to the established credibility of Driscoll’s masculinity; the moment feels special.
The modern beta-male is taught to start backwards, showing a vulnerability and relinquishment of masculinity foremost to women thinking that this alone is what attracted a Darrow to a Driscoll- this, of course, is unreality.
The over-arching theme of “King Kong” is a cautionary tale for those who attempt to control the inherently uncontrollable- between civilization and nature, nature will always win. When Denham captures the giant ape, he brings it to Broadway to serve as an attraction; Broadway, of course, as a symbol of controllable unreality.
Dangerous savagery doesn’t have a place amongst a civilized culture- the ape was destine to run amok, and New York City was given a lesson in reality.
Maybe a giant ape wouldn’t sell movie tickets sixty years later, but how about dinosaurs? “Jurassic Park” (1993) takes this idea further; the violent and uncontrolled reality of dinosaurs met with the sterile unreality of a modern theme park. Like Jack Dricoll in “King Kong,” Dr. Alan Grant (Sam Neill) is too preoccupied with outside interests to bother with family life- Grant doesn’t like kids and seems asexual.
The lack of sexual viability on Grant’s part seems like a deliberate move by director Spielberg, as a commentary on male sexuality. When Sattler meets “chaos theorist,” Dr. Ian Malcolm (icky Jeff Goldblum), he takes immediate interest and is able to behave with her in a far more sexualized manner than impotent Grant. Upon mentioning his interest in Sattler to Grant, telling Grant that he’s always looking for a future ex-wife, Grant- true to form- uncomfortably mentions his relationship with Sattler.
Spielberg represents unrestrained male sexuality as chaos- something negative, to be contained.
Hear that, white boy? Sit down, shut up, and do as you’re told. When the film resolves, and Dr. Grant comes around to the idea of having kids, this resolution comes in the form of a boring glance exchanged by the doctor couple- no physical contact until the proper documents are written up and notarized.
The point of “Jurassic World” (2015) isn’t the inherently destructive nature of male sexuality, but the idea that women must dictate where and when male sexuality is acceptable. Take the film’s beta-male character: a doofus, sitting at a computer, literally wearing a “Jurassic Park” t-shirt, as if the film is pausing mid-stream to say, “does this look like you, faggot?”
In what must only amount to a few minutes of screen time, this guy is not only sexually rejected by his equally awkward looking co-worker, but shamed for his lack of masculinity by the film’s female lead. Unlike in “Jurassic Park,” where male sexuality is permissible when it’s directly useful, the message is rather different for the slob in the kids t-shirt: go kill yourself, you’re a loser.
The film’s impossibly Alpha, ex-Navy, exceedingly handsome, fearless Velociraptor wrangling male-lead, Owen Grady- played by impossibly handsome, etc.etc.etc., Chris Pratt- is a carefree loner as the film opens. When he’s not training dinosaurs, he’s fixing motorcycles. Obviously. And it’s quickly revealed that Grady tried to date the stiff, Feminist career women- female lead, Claire Dearing- who rejected him for wearing shorts on their date. High five, ladies- for all the sexy men who left you cold after only a few scant minutes in a bathroom stall, you won this one. Dearing is played by the only marginally attractive Bryce Dallas Howard, which is another modern Hollywood trope: average is the new beautiful. Fay Wray she isn’t.
While I’d certainly rather be hot-as-fuck Grady over the gross, nameless masturbator in the “Jurassic Park” t-shirt, both characters share more in common than you’d think; they each exist for strong independent Dearing. While the masturbator only serves to bolster her ego in his emasculation, Grady exists as accessible Alpha male sexuality on Dearing’s terms.
When the two finally get together romantically, it is presented as the height of unreality. It isn’t Dearing’s own sexual viability, nor a display of her femininity, that attracts Grady but when she grabs a big fucking gun and blasts a rabid dinosaur off of him that he finally pulls her in for a kiss. What sealed the deal for Grady, and made Dearing irresistible, was her strength– not her aesthetics, nor sexual presence, nor a submission to his masculinity. This way Dearing can have her cake and eat it too, because we all know that the strongest women always get the hottest men… or something.
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