I am once again both dismayed, disgusted, and jaded by the so-called "queer television programming" offered by LOGO. Fortunately, the latest train wreck suffered by LOGO wasn't quite as devastating as the A-List, but the network's recent lineup is headed down that path with just as much gusto.
"Setup Squad", the latest nauseating program in LOGO's ever growing ipecac-ian arsenal, aims to bring NYC singles -homo and hetero- out of their shells and integrate them into the New York dating scene. Fine. NYC can be a daunting scene. While I have never been on the dating prowl in NYC, I can't imagine I'd want to jump in that ring. Everyone and everything is bigger and better. There is no margin for error as everything you do, say, eat, drink, and wear is placed under a finely tuned microscope and scrutinized with judgment that would put Pat Roberson to shame. And that's if you're straight.
So, kudos to LOGO for attempting to lend a helping hand to those who are feeling the pressure of the Big Apple; it would certainly be me if I were in the same situation. The problem with this program, however, is that while the show's efforts may be admirable, the execution of their methods becomes both problematic and insulting.
On one of the more recent episodes one of the show's anchors, or wingman as they are noted on the show, attempts to integrate a recently-out Brooklyn man. He was admittedly very shy and ignorant of the NYC gay community and needed a bit of direction but when someone starts swimming, you put floaties on their arms and gently walk them into the shallow end; you don't cut their arms and shove them off the high dive into the deep end with sharks lurking in the depths anxiously awaiting.
So, to bring this young, and classically handsome, gentleman out of the closet, the wingman brings him to Chelsea; talk about wounded body tossed in with the sharks. Of ALL the neighborhoods in NYC to bring him, she dumps him in the warzone.
What becomes problematic here is that this very very naive gentleman knows little to nothing about gay culture and his introduction is likened to that of educating someone on American culture by dumping them in the deep south. His "education" included stops at porn shops, underwear stores, and culminated at Therapy, a chic bar saturated with late 20's/early 30's somethings all living in their own spotlight. My favorite moment occurred while he was at Therapy and was asking advice about how to be "gay" from some locals. Ironically the patrons of the bar were offended that he was using labels and told him if he wanted to feel more accepted he should wear tighter clothing and stop drinking beer and pick up vodka instead. At this point I had to refrain from punching the screen as this was no longer an exercise in educating this poor guy on the do's and don'ts of gay culture, but rather a painfully disgusting attempt at assimilation.
He, justifiably, left the bar feeling painfully out of place and the borgs once again claim victory. I just find it painfully ironic that NYC is supposed to be the cultural hub of the universe and can facilitate and nurture just about any interest, and yet the only lesson learned from this particular situation is that deviating from the norm is simply not welcome.
While I absolutely love everything NYC has to offer and certainly allow myself to fall victim of its seductive nature, I am simultaneously embarrassed by the way NYC gay culture presents itself, and even more devastated by LOGO's continued exploitation of it. What's worse is that the gentleman on Setup Squad met everything with resistance which could have been the result of a variety of reasons: perhaps too much all at once? Or maybe, Chelsea just wasn't appealing to him. Either way, the wingman kept reiterating that "this is gay life."
No, wingman, its not. No, LOGO, its not.
What LOGO needs to remember is that they are placating such a minor part of the gay community. We often wonder why it's so difficult for people to come out of the closet. Immediately we cast blame on unforgiving families or a turbid and bigoted government, but we have to consider what outlets we are offering up in which to come out. Often the criticism made by the gay community of those oppressing it is that gays have often felt like they were manipulated by heteronormative behavior: "think this way. dress this way. act this way." The claims are in fact valid, but LOGO's programming seems painfully hypocritical. Essentially they are just relocating from one manipulatively oppressive closet to another.
All I'm asking, LOGO, is to please consider those of us who do not subscribe to the standard. As a network priding itself on it's progressive television programming, you have an ethical and moral obligation to represent the whole instead of damning us. Now get on it.
"To be nobody-but-yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting." - ee cummings
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Our Undoing
I recently finished reading Aiden Shaw's autobiography - though I am rather skeptical about how much of this is factual information considering the rampant amount of drug he reports would leave anyone bereft of a memory - My Undoing: Love in the Thick of Sex, Drugs, Pornography, and Prostitution. Given the amount I read, it really is quite remarkable that this particular work has left me mulling over its content for quite sometime.
I should preface my rant by stating that I read more than half the book within hours of purchasing it - this is partially due to the fact that Shaw's writing isn't terribly demanding and requires little engagement from the reader. I did, however, risk a number of disgusted judgmental stares from passersby as I was reading the book while walking the dog and sitting on the train. Not only does the title rest on the cover in rather large print, but so does Mr. Aiden Shaw himself grace the cover in all his glory. Thankfully - or not- the photo cuts off just before it could land me in jail for disclosing obscene content to minors.
Now, what has baffled me, and I'm still not sure that I've come to any sort of conclusion, is why I was so compelled to devour Shaw's story as quickly as possible. Certainly the title is compelling: who doesn't want to read about the decadent sex life of a porn star as handsome as Shaw? Perhaps, though, the initial draw compels those of us who would like to think we are a bit less superficial than the average reader - and even perhaps the average gay reader. In other words, we hope that there is an unspoken agreement between author and reader: I've taken the time, and money, to purchase your book and hear your story because - I think - you have taken the opportunity to distinguish yourself from your peers by offering an articulate, and therefore perhaps a bit keener vantage than those of your counterparts into a profession and lifestyle otherwise thought to be void of thought, dimension, and coherence. It seems as if Mr. Shaw's story is perhaps going to undermine all preconceptions of not only prostitution and pornography - professions often regarded as below the bottom of the barrel, suitable only for the dregs of society - but gay prostitution and pornography which increases the superficiality exponentially.
OK, Mr. Shaw, I'll bite.
Shaw's preface to his story warns us that the excitement to share his story was commensurate to his fear of revisiting past haunts. He tells us that while nostalgia can be empowering, excavating old ghosts can be crippling. Ok, fine. He's about to peel back layers. Again, blame cannot be placed on me for falling for Shaw's ruse, as he's already promising something most gays can't: depth.
At this point, I'm really quite sold on the possibility of a deep introspection; a series of anecdotes offering insight as to why he found himself on what would seemingly be such a self-destructive path. Or, perhaps make a case in favor of his particular career choices, alleviating the misconception that only someone already resting on a downward spiral might make these decisions.
Instead, the only thing this book does debunk is that age old adage and that you can, in fact, on occasion, judge a book by its cover. Rather than offering method to his mayhem, this three-hundred page memoir -which I can guarantee is 300xs deeper than the content it purports to offer - Shaw strings together a series of drug induced sexual encounters - most of which are comedic flops (pun intended) as they are nothing more than groups of men pathetically staring at one another and their flaccid penises; a direct result of rampant drug use - and offers zero explanation to his behavior.
Shaw, tangentially, encounters elements that would be part and parcel of an autobiography during the moments he claims to be in love with a man, but these moments fall short of any lengthy personal consideration and are commentated only by fleeting haphazard reviews. Instead of really engaging the subject of his love life and narrating the hows and whys this particular flavor of the week has caught Shaw's eye and supposed heart, he punctuates these moments with sex and drugs. The conclusion I've drawn from Shaw's love encounters isn't really any major breakthrough, but one that repeatedly surfaces with this topic: he finds that it is easy to conflate love and lust. Shocker, I know. We've all been there before, but what is especially biting about Shaw's accounts of love is that he peddles his story as if its a tragedy of unrequited love. This is offensive for a number of reasons. To begin, Shakespeare already cornered this market much more eloquently than Shaw. Secondly, Shaw's romances read like MadLibs; it didn't take long to figure out how each "romantic" encounter would conclude. Finally, even if the melodramatics and the formulaic pattern of Shaw's love life were in fact accurate, we should at least be offended by his cavalier use of the word 'love'.
Shaw dated out of convenience, not love. I realize the counterargument to this is his relationship with what's-his-name (see? the characters all sort of bleed into one another) living in Cali while Shaw was in London. While this wasn't physically convenient, it provided an emotional instant gratification. Though Shaw could confidently claim he had a counterpart, the only disclosure he made in his narrative was the fact that he was an emotional jealous wreck when he gave any sort of thought to what activities his boyfriend was engaging thousands of miles away. Otherwise, the rest of his so-called love affairs occurred briefly in whatever city he was currently visiting. After his departure these encounters seemingly lingered as nothing more than a sexual afterthought. If this was in fact not the case, Shaw did little to privy the reader to this fact. My criticism, then, stems from Shaw's repeated subversion of relationships. His decision to quickly label some club twink or drug addled trick an object of love and affection is ridiculous to the point of being offensive.
It would be remiss not to discuss what I assumed to be the crux of his tale. About half way through the book, Shaw suffers a horrific accident temporarily paralyzing and nearly killing him. This particular scene remains unsettled with me because of the means by which he decides to execute it in writing. This particular section of the book is told not only from his point of view, but accompanied by three others as well. It is unclear as to whether he took artistic license and composed what he thought were to be the thoughts and emotions of his friends present at the accident or he actually asked them to draft their own recollections. Either way, this is offensively narcissistic. It seems as if the only point he was attempting to make was the void he was leaving in everyone's life because of his incapacitation and perhaps how life would just be one series of bleak events after another in the event of his death. I suppose, to play devil's advocate, that this was Shaw's way of paying homage to his friends for sticking by his side but instead he managed to spin his gratitude into a shrine honoring himself. His only literary accomplishment here was finding another medium to blow smoke up his own ass.
Most of us are fortunate enough to have not suffered such a tragedy, but most of us have at least been brought to a moment in our life that forces us to reconsider the way we have been living it. Apparently, this wasn't so much the case with Shaw. This is a man, who prior to his accident, repeatedly treated his life with such gross disregard it was a shock he wasn't dead already. Rather than considering his accident as an opportunity to reconsider how seriously detrimental his life choices were and how lucky he is to have survived all of it, he simply squanders his mulligan returns right back to his decadent life.
Again, not once does Shaw offer any accountability. No one really needs to justify their behavior except in the case of an autobiography. If you're going to open the door for someone you can't just crack it with the chain still on. Shaw repeatedly tells us that he has frequent emotional breakdowns and often feels sad and depressed. The problem with these accounts is that it ends there. If Shaw was attempting to land himself among serious autobiographers than he needed to divest himself of these insipid terms and perfunctory accounts of his emotion and really work to excavate feeling.
Instead, this book was hurried along by the interspersed sexual encounters. While vivid and arousing, this isn't what was supposed to propel the book. I can look up one of his films - I did in fact - if I want raw visceral stimulation, but he promised us more.
In the preface of his book he informs us that he isn't sorry for his life, and I think I'm a little sorry that he's not sorry. Not once in his memoir does he acknowledge the repeated amount of times his life is in jeopardy. His refusal of an apology, to me, equates to a silent approval of unprotected sex and habitual drug abuse. In the long run, this book not only lacked any moral, but it lacked morals. We hope, I hope, that if we were to sit down at the age of, well, whatever age, and chronicle our existence we would want to see some growth and maturation; I can't possibly fathom how Aiden Shaw could read through his treatise and find growth of any kind (Note: I did not make any flaccid penis jokes here). In addition to his unapologetic disregard for human life, is the disturbing fact that Shaw operates under the delusion that he, unlike his professional counterparts, operates above the system when he is simply part of the problem. Shaw carries on as if his actions have no repercussions. In choosing to write this biography, he also assumed the role of spokesman - not THE spokesman, but one of few of the gay community.
Alas, after entering into my unspoken agreement with Mr. Shaw - taking the bait, hoping that someone, finally, was going to fight the good fight and dispel the stereotypes the gay community has rested itself on for so long - I regret to inform you that this was sadly not that book. Shaw only reaffirmed what so many have already come to regard as the standard queer: we are a shallow narcissistic people, motivated only by the prospect of attention in whatever form -famous or infamous - and perpetually imprisoned by the warmth of our own personal spotlight we believe to be forever highlighting our presence.
I should preface my rant by stating that I read more than half the book within hours of purchasing it - this is partially due to the fact that Shaw's writing isn't terribly demanding and requires little engagement from the reader. I did, however, risk a number of disgusted judgmental stares from passersby as I was reading the book while walking the dog and sitting on the train. Not only does the title rest on the cover in rather large print, but so does Mr. Aiden Shaw himself grace the cover in all his glory. Thankfully - or not- the photo cuts off just before it could land me in jail for disclosing obscene content to minors.
Now, what has baffled me, and I'm still not sure that I've come to any sort of conclusion, is why I was so compelled to devour Shaw's story as quickly as possible. Certainly the title is compelling: who doesn't want to read about the decadent sex life of a porn star as handsome as Shaw? Perhaps, though, the initial draw compels those of us who would like to think we are a bit less superficial than the average reader - and even perhaps the average gay reader. In other words, we hope that there is an unspoken agreement between author and reader: I've taken the time, and money, to purchase your book and hear your story because - I think - you have taken the opportunity to distinguish yourself from your peers by offering an articulate, and therefore perhaps a bit keener vantage than those of your counterparts into a profession and lifestyle otherwise thought to be void of thought, dimension, and coherence. It seems as if Mr. Shaw's story is perhaps going to undermine all preconceptions of not only prostitution and pornography - professions often regarded as below the bottom of the barrel, suitable only for the dregs of society - but gay prostitution and pornography which increases the superficiality exponentially.
OK, Mr. Shaw, I'll bite.
Shaw's preface to his story warns us that the excitement to share his story was commensurate to his fear of revisiting past haunts. He tells us that while nostalgia can be empowering, excavating old ghosts can be crippling. Ok, fine. He's about to peel back layers. Again, blame cannot be placed on me for falling for Shaw's ruse, as he's already promising something most gays can't: depth.
At this point, I'm really quite sold on the possibility of a deep introspection; a series of anecdotes offering insight as to why he found himself on what would seemingly be such a self-destructive path. Or, perhaps make a case in favor of his particular career choices, alleviating the misconception that only someone already resting on a downward spiral might make these decisions.
Instead, the only thing this book does debunk is that age old adage and that you can, in fact, on occasion, judge a book by its cover. Rather than offering method to his mayhem, this three-hundred page memoir -which I can guarantee is 300xs deeper than the content it purports to offer - Shaw strings together a series of drug induced sexual encounters - most of which are comedic flops (pun intended) as they are nothing more than groups of men pathetically staring at one another and their flaccid penises; a direct result of rampant drug use - and offers zero explanation to his behavior.
Shaw, tangentially, encounters elements that would be part and parcel of an autobiography during the moments he claims to be in love with a man, but these moments fall short of any lengthy personal consideration and are commentated only by fleeting haphazard reviews. Instead of really engaging the subject of his love life and narrating the hows and whys this particular flavor of the week has caught Shaw's eye and supposed heart, he punctuates these moments with sex and drugs. The conclusion I've drawn from Shaw's love encounters isn't really any major breakthrough, but one that repeatedly surfaces with this topic: he finds that it is easy to conflate love and lust. Shocker, I know. We've all been there before, but what is especially biting about Shaw's accounts of love is that he peddles his story as if its a tragedy of unrequited love. This is offensive for a number of reasons. To begin, Shakespeare already cornered this market much more eloquently than Shaw. Secondly, Shaw's romances read like MadLibs; it didn't take long to figure out how each "romantic" encounter would conclude. Finally, even if the melodramatics and the formulaic pattern of Shaw's love life were in fact accurate, we should at least be offended by his cavalier use of the word 'love'.
Shaw dated out of convenience, not love. I realize the counterargument to this is his relationship with what's-his-name (see? the characters all sort of bleed into one another) living in Cali while Shaw was in London. While this wasn't physically convenient, it provided an emotional instant gratification. Though Shaw could confidently claim he had a counterpart, the only disclosure he made in his narrative was the fact that he was an emotional jealous wreck when he gave any sort of thought to what activities his boyfriend was engaging thousands of miles away. Otherwise, the rest of his so-called love affairs occurred briefly in whatever city he was currently visiting. After his departure these encounters seemingly lingered as nothing more than a sexual afterthought. If this was in fact not the case, Shaw did little to privy the reader to this fact. My criticism, then, stems from Shaw's repeated subversion of relationships. His decision to quickly label some club twink or drug addled trick an object of love and affection is ridiculous to the point of being offensive.
It would be remiss not to discuss what I assumed to be the crux of his tale. About half way through the book, Shaw suffers a horrific accident temporarily paralyzing and nearly killing him. This particular scene remains unsettled with me because of the means by which he decides to execute it in writing. This particular section of the book is told not only from his point of view, but accompanied by three others as well. It is unclear as to whether he took artistic license and composed what he thought were to be the thoughts and emotions of his friends present at the accident or he actually asked them to draft their own recollections. Either way, this is offensively narcissistic. It seems as if the only point he was attempting to make was the void he was leaving in everyone's life because of his incapacitation and perhaps how life would just be one series of bleak events after another in the event of his death. I suppose, to play devil's advocate, that this was Shaw's way of paying homage to his friends for sticking by his side but instead he managed to spin his gratitude into a shrine honoring himself. His only literary accomplishment here was finding another medium to blow smoke up his own ass.
Most of us are fortunate enough to have not suffered such a tragedy, but most of us have at least been brought to a moment in our life that forces us to reconsider the way we have been living it. Apparently, this wasn't so much the case with Shaw. This is a man, who prior to his accident, repeatedly treated his life with such gross disregard it was a shock he wasn't dead already. Rather than considering his accident as an opportunity to reconsider how seriously detrimental his life choices were and how lucky he is to have survived all of it, he simply squanders his mulligan returns right back to his decadent life.
Again, not once does Shaw offer any accountability. No one really needs to justify their behavior except in the case of an autobiography. If you're going to open the door for someone you can't just crack it with the chain still on. Shaw repeatedly tells us that he has frequent emotional breakdowns and often feels sad and depressed. The problem with these accounts is that it ends there. If Shaw was attempting to land himself among serious autobiographers than he needed to divest himself of these insipid terms and perfunctory accounts of his emotion and really work to excavate feeling.
Instead, this book was hurried along by the interspersed sexual encounters. While vivid and arousing, this isn't what was supposed to propel the book. I can look up one of his films - I did in fact - if I want raw visceral stimulation, but he promised us more.
In the preface of his book he informs us that he isn't sorry for his life, and I think I'm a little sorry that he's not sorry. Not once in his memoir does he acknowledge the repeated amount of times his life is in jeopardy. His refusal of an apology, to me, equates to a silent approval of unprotected sex and habitual drug abuse. In the long run, this book not only lacked any moral, but it lacked morals. We hope, I hope, that if we were to sit down at the age of, well, whatever age, and chronicle our existence we would want to see some growth and maturation; I can't possibly fathom how Aiden Shaw could read through his treatise and find growth of any kind (Note: I did not make any flaccid penis jokes here). In addition to his unapologetic disregard for human life, is the disturbing fact that Shaw operates under the delusion that he, unlike his professional counterparts, operates above the system when he is simply part of the problem. Shaw carries on as if his actions have no repercussions. In choosing to write this biography, he also assumed the role of spokesman - not THE spokesman, but one of few of the gay community.
Alas, after entering into my unspoken agreement with Mr. Shaw - taking the bait, hoping that someone, finally, was going to fight the good fight and dispel the stereotypes the gay community has rested itself on for so long - I regret to inform you that this was sadly not that book. Shaw only reaffirmed what so many have already come to regard as the standard queer: we are a shallow narcissistic people, motivated only by the prospect of attention in whatever form -famous or infamous - and perpetually imprisoned by the warmth of our own personal spotlight we believe to be forever highlighting our presence.
Friday, March 4, 2011
That is so gay.
That I spend my time watching movies/film is a gross understatement and of that time spent, most fall under the genre of gay cinema. "Gay cinema" - talk about gross statements. We've all been spoon fed the timeless maxim that art imitates life and while I tend to agree, I also shudder at what this means for the gay community. In the event that you aren't entirely certain on where we currently stand, all you need to do is thumb through the latest TLA catalog or shuffle through a few pages of the Gay & Lesbian section on Netflix. Here you will find that most movie covers are ornamented with at least one - if not a group - of nearly naked men. Again, we come to another timeless tenet: don't judge a book by a cover. Well, thankfully these aren't books. The content of most of these films tend to be just as sexually saturated as the cover might suggest. Now, don't get me wrong: I'm very much a fan of movies where the protagonist is a 6'3", toned, dark haired Adonis wielding a 7.5" - well nevermind - but I enjoy it when it falls under the porn genre.
It seems, though, that filmmakers are taking far too many cues from the porn industry and integrating it into as much cinema as possible. This creates a series of problems. The first being that a number of gay films actually do cast porn or hopeful porn actors into these films. If there is one thing we all enjoy about porn - besides the obvious I mean - is the stellar acting quality exuded by these "actors". So you might be saying to yourself, "Well, maybe if the plot is engaging and compelling, I might be able to overlook the stilted dialogue and often constipated look of the acting ensemble when attempting to execute said dialogue." Right. And if you are able to overlook her laundry list of legal transgressions and gushing bat shit craziness, Lindsay Lohan might be a good person.
There is good reason, my friends, that the plot of gay cinema also fails to be its saving grace. I am going to let you in on a little Hollywood secret and after my brief tutorial, you too can draft your own screen play! So, here we go. In order to write your own gay screenplay, just follow these few simple steps.
1. Protagonist: Choose ONE: Gay man OR Lesbian....
2. Setting: ...moves to (Choose ONE) New York City OR L.A...
3. Plot: ...because (Choose ONE) they want to be an actor/actress OR oppressive community/family OR spontaneous decision to "find themselves".
4. Character sketch: You may choose more than one, but I would suggest no more than two. 1. AIDS Victim 2. Closet Case 3. Drug Addict 4.Drag Queen/Transgendered 4.Prostitute/Male escort
5.Plot twist: this typically involves the "romance" portion of the film. (Choose ONE) Main Protagonist 1.Falls in love with 1.AIDS Victim 2. Closet Case 3. Drug Addict 4. Drag Queen/Trangendered 4. Prostitute/Male Escort 5. A Heterosexual. Please make sure that character sketch options and plot twist selections are not corresponding otherwise, how will the nail biting question of "How will such two polar opposites ever be happy together?" ever develop? (Yes, my stomach is turning too)
6.Denoument: Choose ONE: 1. Protagonist dies. 2. Love interest dies. 3. Both die.
6a....by means of, (and feel free to get creative here because even though the options are limited you can mix and match): 1. Murder 2. Suicide 3. Overdose. We can pause for a moment here and look at what our options might be. Murder: sure that's an easy one. A trigger happy/stabby neighbor/parent/religious group/angry lover could do the trick. Suicide: well c'mon, all fags and dykes are eternally depressed. But lets look at what COULD be. We could do a murder/suicide. You're protagonist could be so in love with a hetero and decide that if he/she/it can't have him/her then no one can! As a result your protagonist just can't take the cruel world anymore and goes out in a blaze of Dido-esque glory impaling him/herself with a sword. (Don't worry about the symbolism here - it words for any gender). Or we can do the classic Romeo and Juliet/Thelma & Louise scenario and decide that life is too cruel (yes cruel again) to live if we can't have one another/it's a man's world baby and just swan dive off a cliff while doing shots of Red Bull and Clorox. Have some fun with it! This is the most important part of your film as it's what viewers are going to remember because THE BULK OF GAY CINEMA BLURS INTO ITSELF!
Gay cinema is anomalous to baking Christmas cookies. Sure you might have a few different shapes and a couple different colors of frosting, but the combinations are few and VERY finite. The novelty runs dry VERY quickly. And perhaps the most crucial thing to remember: it ALL tastes the same going in and is indistinguishable coming out.
So please, Hollywood, future filmmakers, aspiring screen writers, stop playing mad libs with gay cinema. It just hurts.
It seems, though, that filmmakers are taking far too many cues from the porn industry and integrating it into as much cinema as possible. This creates a series of problems. The first being that a number of gay films actually do cast porn or hopeful porn actors into these films. If there is one thing we all enjoy about porn - besides the obvious I mean - is the stellar acting quality exuded by these "actors". So you might be saying to yourself, "Well, maybe if the plot is engaging and compelling, I might be able to overlook the stilted dialogue and often constipated look of the acting ensemble when attempting to execute said dialogue." Right. And if you are able to overlook her laundry list of legal transgressions and gushing bat shit craziness, Lindsay Lohan might be a good person.
There is good reason, my friends, that the plot of gay cinema also fails to be its saving grace. I am going to let you in on a little Hollywood secret and after my brief tutorial, you too can draft your own screen play! So, here we go. In order to write your own gay screenplay, just follow these few simple steps.
1. Protagonist: Choose ONE: Gay man OR Lesbian....
2. Setting: ...moves to (Choose ONE) New York City OR L.A...
3. Plot: ...because (Choose ONE) they want to be an actor/actress OR oppressive community/family OR spontaneous decision to "find themselves".
4. Character sketch: You may choose more than one, but I would suggest no more than two. 1. AIDS Victim 2. Closet Case 3. Drug Addict 4.Drag Queen/Transgendered 4.Prostitute/Male escort
5.Plot twist: this typically involves the "romance" portion of the film. (Choose ONE) Main Protagonist 1.Falls in love with 1.AIDS Victim 2. Closet Case 3. Drug Addict 4. Drag Queen/Trangendered 4. Prostitute/Male Escort 5. A Heterosexual. Please make sure that character sketch options and plot twist selections are not corresponding otherwise, how will the nail biting question of "How will such two polar opposites ever be happy together?" ever develop? (Yes, my stomach is turning too)
6.Denoument: Choose ONE: 1. Protagonist dies. 2. Love interest dies. 3. Both die.
6a....by means of, (and feel free to get creative here because even though the options are limited you can mix and match): 1. Murder 2. Suicide 3. Overdose. We can pause for a moment here and look at what our options might be. Murder: sure that's an easy one. A trigger happy/stabby neighbor/parent/religious group/angry lover could do the trick. Suicide: well c'mon, all fags and dykes are eternally depressed. But lets look at what COULD be. We could do a murder/suicide. You're protagonist could be so in love with a hetero and decide that if he/she/it can't have him/her then no one can! As a result your protagonist just can't take the cruel world anymore and goes out in a blaze of Dido-esque glory impaling him/herself with a sword. (Don't worry about the symbolism here - it words for any gender). Or we can do the classic Romeo and Juliet/Thelma & Louise scenario and decide that life is too cruel (yes cruel again) to live if we can't have one another/it's a man's world baby and just swan dive off a cliff while doing shots of Red Bull and Clorox. Have some fun with it! This is the most important part of your film as it's what viewers are going to remember because THE BULK OF GAY CINEMA BLURS INTO ITSELF!
Gay cinema is anomalous to baking Christmas cookies. Sure you might have a few different shapes and a couple different colors of frosting, but the combinations are few and VERY finite. The novelty runs dry VERY quickly. And perhaps the most crucial thing to remember: it ALL tastes the same going in and is indistinguishable coming out.
So please, Hollywood, future filmmakers, aspiring screen writers, stop playing mad libs with gay cinema. It just hurts.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
And we have liftoff...
I made an attempt at this once before and I found it to be extremely cathartic, but for some reason, I abandoned it the same way Charlie Sheen and LiLo abandoned sanity. I suspect it had to do with the fact that I was waist deep in grad school crap. That I was overwhelmed with writing is a gross understatement. At the time blog writing sat towards the bottom of a very long list of leisure activities.
Why start again you ask?
For a few reasons: the first being that I have a ton of time to kill at work. Shh. Don't tell my boss.
Second: I'm finding myself increasingly more observant particularly of the gay community.
Finally: I need a place to vent. So here I am.
Why start again you ask?
For a few reasons: the first being that I have a ton of time to kill at work. Shh. Don't tell my boss.
Second: I'm finding myself increasingly more observant particularly of the gay community.
Finally: I need a place to vent. So here I am.
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