Melancholia

Oh my god. I voluntarily watched a movie with Kirsten Dunst as one of the leads. I don't know what came over me to make that decision, but what's come over me now is a deep - yet somehow floating - depression.

Melancholia.

It opens with slowest-mo you've ever seen, set to classical music (the internet informs me it's Tristan and Isolde by Wagner). Just all sorts of wacky next-level shit going on. Things that beg such questions as "why is that horse sitting down?", "boy, that's a lot of butterflies, innit?", "should a golf course be that squishy?" and "why is Kirsten Dunst wearing clothing?" as well as, "when did she become a Sith Lord?"

Oh, like you're so magic, Kirsten Dunst.

It's since occurred to me that it was only done that slowly because they were trying to make each vignette feel like a painting. God damn that's fancy, and not at all funny. Work with me here, movie. You just made me use the word vignette on my blog.

Fine. Be that way.

Although, a film about the tense relationship between two sisters while an enormous planet hurtles through space on a collision course toward Earth is hardly where you'd go to get all chucklehouse. Unless you're not only desperately bored, but also probably confused into thinking it's a science fiction-y space romp. If such a thing exists.

(I googled it. Nope.)

Melancholia is separated into two parts - each part focusing on one of the sisters. The first part is devoted to Justine (Kirsten Dunst), the second to her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg).

Part one centers around the wedding reception for Justine and Micheal (Alexander Skarsgård). I'd love to speak in detail about the absurdity, discomfort and "oh no she didn't!" that resides within, but I don't want to ruin it for you. Suffice it to say that it was absurd, uncomfortable and oh hell yeah, she utterly did. All of those things. Also, Claire's filthy rich husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland) is privileged buttface who owns a golf course with 18 holes and don't you dare forget it.

O rly, Kiefer?

What you learn in the first part is that Justine is either severely depressed or has reached and exceeded such levels of "I can't be paid in gold doubloons to care" that even Simon Cowell would be like, "Damn. That's kinda rude."

Claire's part of the story answers the question as to whether or not these rich people know that a large planet is headed their way, aiming to greet their upturned faces with a mighty smack. They do - they just think it'll pass right by, no big whoop. Probably slipped that planet a hundo.

Should have tried at least twenty large.

Let's just stop for a moment right here and talk about the "science" in this movie. If you have even a general interest in science or astronomy, paired with consciousness, you are going to have to suspend your disbelief so hard, it'll likely bruise you. Lars von Trier doesn't just take artistic license, he takes it from behind and he did not buy it dinner.

Now, back to Claire's part of the story, which occurs at some point after the wedding reception. Justine arrives all by her lonesome at her sister's palatial property (where the reception took place) pretty much unable to give herself a bath, so heavy with the weight of the world is she. Although, this does afford one a few glimpses of Kirsten Dunst side-boob, so there's that. But, the closer Melancholia (the name of the planet coming to eat Earth) gets, the more functional Justine becomes while Claire starts to come apart at her under-fed seams. John tries to comfort his wife, but it's hard to take anyone who walks around his own damned house wearing a vest while looking through telescopes and cooking sausages on the terrace seriously, so I get it.

Kiefer, darling. It's okay to take a casual apocalypse is a-coming day.

Now, some people call me fancy (Logan), but I honestly have a hard time with a film like this. I often sit there in utter confusion for most of it, just dazzled by the shiny stuff, yet understanding nothing. Color me shocked that at the end of 2 hours and 10 minutes, I didn't feel robbed of my time and actually came away with something that made sense. In my own brain. Which you really don't want to explore.

Although, immediately after, I really just wanted to kill myself. Or hug a puppy. And a box of kittens. While feeding sticky rice balls to a slow loris.

To sum up, this is the first time I watched a movie with Kirsten Dunst and didn't spend every moment she was on screen thinking, "God, I fucking hate you, Kirsten Dunst. Put your goddamned pants on and stop jumping around like brainless twit. You and your damned adorably crooked teeth. Eat a bug, I mean it."

Anybody want a peanut?

Should you watch it? I dunno. I just watched it for you. I suppose if people complain that you're too damned cheerful, this might bring you down to Earth. Which is about to be hit by Melancholia.

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Let's Omegle

In honor of election day, I'm going to sit here and eat Greek yogurt, be as greasy as possible, and force you to witness my new hobby: Omegle chat.

For the uninitiated, you are matched with a stranger to have a "conversation". You can also opt to be presented with a question that you discuss with a stranger, or ask a question you can watch two strangers discuss.

In my infinite boredom and insomnia, I spent a few nights skulking around this place, addicted to asking questions, and here are the results.

This is a great place to start, because it informs why the freaking hell I was even there:

As you'll see, the questions I ask, and the replies I make are not indicative of sobriety.

Those jerks tried to get scientific on my ass. That's not cool at 5am.

Speaking of science:

I think this is probably fact. Also, it's blueberry Greek yogurt, because I know you were wondering.

I'm dubious. I wish he'd allowed Stranger 1 to weigh in on this issue.

This question is honestly not based in my mental craziness. I promise. Watch this.

I'm pretty sure I had the wrong answer, there.

God. Now I'll never know if my balls are freezed. Fuck me!


But this ... this made up for all of it:

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