Hell Mission Statement #40079: Under the Tuscan Sun
It's the midnight witching hour. Can't you hear the distant screams? I stayed awake all through this open-heart surgery. Some of the people in attendance died. If you see them topside, will you hug them for me? Parts of my body will never heal. Will I be able to forget I saw this movie and learn to smile? Someday…
Under the Tuscan Sun is "Up-With-Hags" propaganda reminiscent of Hitler's black & white "Retards are Bad!" war film from the early nineteen-forties. It inspired me to light my eyes on fire and melt them. I implore any man to come back from this movie still breathing with a beating heart. I don't give a f*ck if you're gay, fat, or Hispanic, this heavy-handed vaginal flogging will render your x chromosome DOA. If you tell me you liked it, I'm going to call you a pussy-whipped liar. Even the brave will run from theaters, frightened. Don't let that bitch talk you into it; I'm giving all my male friends fair warning. You'll be feeling sorrier than Patsy Cline after a beer bath; your skin wrinkled like a prune. I'd rather watch two 80 year old Chinese guys give each-other a dick massage. Partaking in that activity would make me less of a faggot than sitting through this bulkish dishrag of a travelogue video. It's a feminazi. If the flick had fingers, I'd be challenging it to a fistfight. That I saw it on my Birthday means I truly am dwelling docile in Hell. They said nothing bad happened this September 11th. Wrong, this movie happened to me.
"DAMMIT!"
F*ck Diane Lane. She takes me on as her friend. She whines in my ear for two and a half hours. She makes me listen to every little problem that she has. She pulls me in close; the girl develops a relationship with me that could surely develop into other things. That's what I'm thinking. But no! First, she climbs up this huge hill to slurp the salty shampoo of some Italian Gigolo, making me watch every lasting minute of her gratuitous sexual act. Then, she comes home and expects me to sit by her side while she cries her eyes out over the loss of this macho douche bag? Yeah, right. She totally turned me into a pussy. I go along with it, because I think maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to sop up some of that left-over menopausal soup with my thick and crusty knob. Nope. She fools me again. In a moment of desperation, she calls on me to be her friend. I sit there, watching as she rolls around on the couch, complaining about her lack of a love interest, never once giving me my cue. How did I fall into this awkward position of platonic warfare? Can't she see me? I guess I'm just a shoulder to cry on in times of want and need. I reach to make my move, there, near the end, but instead, she goes for the handsome stranger that suddenly appears on her doorstep.
Bitch. It should have been me!
"IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!"
Why did I even waste my time? Diane Lane would never give me a shot. She never wanted to listen to anything I had to say, she just wanted to talk about herself the whole ride through this quaint Italian countryside. She totally made me into one of those gay guys on that faggot bus tour from the beginning of the movie. The one she takes because she just got divorced and doesn't want to travel with anything resembling dreaded masculinity. Yet, her main goal throughout the course of this epileptic drama is to partake in some "big dick f*cking." How I'm I supposed to feel sorry for this silver haired fox when that Italian guy ups and dumps her for a younger, prettier, tastier piece of cheesecake? Diane was never around for the poor, handsome fellow. She didn't really love him, or like him in the slightest sense of the word. That girl was purely using him for SEX. That's it. She just wanted her dry sugar wallet lubed up with spit. The whole affair was solely for her gratification. Not for the man she rapes, not for me, not for anyone in the audience.
But then Lane, the frail, shriveled-up senior citizen that she is, literally grabs me by the lapels and weeps huge wet chunks of rock salt into my sweater vest. Why is she crying? Well, it's my guess that she's feeling sympathy pains for her broken vagina. Boo-hoo. I don't want to hear it. By the end, where she hooks up with that young writer half her age, it looks to be an act of desperation. She needs some hairy balls in her life, and she doesn't care who they're attached to. I guess this work of masterful torture holds true to that old adage: "Women are like dog doo. The older they are, the easier they get to pick up."
Under the Tuscan Sun is an utter drag. Don't believe the hype delivered by the title. This is not some offhanded side-project helmed by George Lucas. There are no Sand People here. Not one Tuscan Raider. Though, you'll be hoping for some to pop out of this desert oasis and knock Ms. Unfaithful off a cliff. Gimme a machete, I'll slice her arm off myself.
I don't know how I can make this fact any clearer: You will be in pain. There's this one scene where a woman older than Lane (if that's even possible) is snuggling up to a duckling. The nag is rubbing it all over her heavily rouged cheeks (she's supposed to be a refuge from a Fellini film). I was dying, hoping, praying for her to take that baby duck and squash it in her hands, killing it. Yes, those are the kinds of thoughts that will race through your mind as you suffer this journey to the heart of menstruation.
There's another part where some young, dumb Pollock has entered a gay-as-gay-can-be flag-throwing contest. Well, he gets distracted by the hot super model he's attempting to woo, and misses the catch. That flag comes barreling out of the sky, striking him on the top of the head. I wanted to see it rip through his skull and come out the other side. I wanted to see him impaled. I wanted to see him die just for fun. I wanted an Italian mobster to come wailing in through the door with a machine gun; his sole purpose to mow every single one of these stupid, slack-jawed characters down.
Why do we even need this? The Shipping News did zilch at the box office. And while I liked My Life as a House, it failed to fuel those much needed ticket-sale flames associated with entertainment. Here we have the female version of those two recent calamities. Yes, this is another "House as Metaphor for the soul" connotations. The subtext is as thick as the hair on Diane Lane's back. The house she buys needs repairs inside. She needs repairs inside. As she goes along, readjusting the villa's plumbing, she does the same thing for her inner temple of strength. There's a faucet on a wall in her new home. She turns the valve and nothing comes out. After she has sex, the thing pours with water. Not too subtle, this jacked-off experiment in tedium. Your puzzle is genius. Congratulations. What, do you want some kind of prize?
I'm sure all the old ladies will love it. I heard them laughing; their cruel giggles of shame mounting and teasing from above the grave. I saw the film with the fallen angel Mormos. As part of his new torture regime, he's going to show Under the Tuscan Sun to those individuals in Hell that have become immune to the various forms of cruelty performed down here…
I want my seven fifty back. No, I want my soul back…
Avoid this black beast at all costs. It will shave all the taste buds off your tongue with a dirty razor. Then, it will kick your testicles so far up into your stomach; you'll be trying to dig them out with a fork for weeks.
And, as Sleeves himself, Mr. Casablanca (that fairy), might say, "That's the (God) awful truth!" Slung out the side of a mouth that's seen more dick than a Jewish Moyle…
Now…F*ck off!
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