Watching Porn

Yes before pure porn (which is probably something like pure cinema. I don’t know. Ask zombie Robert Bresson), there were stories and so forth. Given that I didn’t have the nerve to actually buy it, I had to watch whatever VHS copies were available at the friends of acquaintances houses, which sounds itself like a porn movie, where a group of guys get together to watch porn as a joke and it soon devolves (evolves?) into a gay orgy. I wish. No, instead, it was not terrible erotic, not aided by the workman style of showing everything.

(Answer the following SAT question:

An endless car chase is to excitement what

a) people walking around corridors in horror films is to tension.

b) expositional dialog to character development or

c) anatomical close-ups are to, well, excitement

).

The point of films that for some reason you don’t want to see and that I do is porn: it’s all the bits that don’t belong, the dialog, camera angles, editing choices, acting tolerances that anyone who is either from this planet or has ever seen a movie made on this planet are awesome. And I’m not ruling out that the Glecknor antenna array might be able to descramble 1980s Cinemax. Come on. Radio waves travel at light speed. I’m trying to be realistic here.

The swordfights of In the Name of the King: a Dungeon Siege Tale? Who remembers? Mr. Jason Statham getting on his knees, face to face with Mr. Burt Reynolds’ crotchal area and ‘pledging allegiance to the king’ (see porn, above), who can forget? These moments, and the fact that my memory is both terrible and selective to the positive, make watching movies of this ilk a delight. At least in retrospect. Actually watching them is not something I would wish even on you. Why, you ask, do I hate you so much? Because you make me watch movies like this.