In the pantheon of legendary Westerns, few films subvert our expectations and push the envelope as far as Django Unchained (Quentin Tarantino, 2012). Compared to the classical westerns of say, John Ford [Stagecoach (1939) or The Searchers (1956)], or spaghetti westerns like Once Upon a Time in The West (Sergio Leone, 1968), Django Unchained is like, one hundred trillion times better because it’s not as boring as those old movies. Nah I’m kidding, those old movies are good too, but the purpose of this essay is to talk about how Django is in another ballpark entirely. It’s really something new and exciting. To put it succinctly, it represents the pinnacle of post modern revisionist Westerns. For those not in the know, a post modern film is anything made after 1994. Okay, all joking aside, let’s cut to the meat of it shall we? The central theme underlining the bold direction of Tarantino’s latest effort is simple and sublime; classical Westerns are racist. Tarantino has not just redefined the Western for a new generation of filmgoers, but also spawned the birth of an entirely new sub-genre: the Southern.
Archive for art
Léolo is a stinking gutter fuck of a good time. The worst that Internet porn has to offer, packaged in a neatly wrapped art house bow tie that actually predates the Internet, but predicts the burlesque grotesque-ity like a fortune teller dropping a massive deuce. Filled with semen, feces, bestiality, incest, fetishism, masturbation and girly men. It’s all here, and slut bag director Jean-Claude Lauzon is absolutely DGAF about it all. This film is incoherently blasé about good taste, but maybe that is it’s charm. Who is the judge of good taste anyway? Well, like all great art, it stirred an emotional response from me. The same emotional response one would get when you are offered money to have sex with a house cat in heat.