Last year, Conservative columnist James Bowman wrote a compelling essay about how 12 Years a Slave failed to depict the many positive qualities of slavery due to the film's implicit liberal agenda. In a Something Awful exclusive, we've asked Mr. Bowman to give his take on the harmful liberal propaganda lurking within other notable works.
The greatest mystery in this interminable tome is not the identity of "Kitty," but rather, how the shiftless Frank family managed to pay taxes during their two-year holiday from hard work and obligation. The Diary of Anne Frank prattles on for hundreds of pages while Anne takes no heed of the beleaguered Nazis who, despite their numerous documented atrocities, were just trying to earn an honest day's pay -- something the author would have no familiarity with. Ultimately, the lack of sympathy for its antagonists makes The Diary of Anne Frank a hateful, one-sided take on World War II that could have greatly benefited from a more realistic portrayal of both sides. Are we to believe, sincerely, Ms. Frank, that every Nazi is a cruel beast hell-bent on stopping some silly little girl from forcing untold millions to read her pointless daydreams? The true story of our Greatest Generation deserves better.
A note to Hollywood: before you waste any more time telling me about the evils of genocide, how about letting me decide which party is in the right? Such is the plight of this execrable film, which depicts a unsuccessful hotelier (The Golden Palace's Don Cheadle, wasted here) and his attempts to drive a perfectly competent business into the ground through acts of selfish charity. Regardless of the fate of the Tutsis and Hutus -- Note to tribes: perhaps you could dream up some names that don't make me chortle into my 30-year-old scotch? -- one element severely lacking from Hotel Rwanda is how the slaughter of nearly one million lead to a measurable spike in machete sales, but leave it to liberal Hollywood to flagrantly dismiss any triumphs of Capitalism. Director Terry George and his politically correct agenda clearly had no space in Hotel Rwanda's 121 minutes to depict the success of a humble, self-made machete manufacturer, who, through hard work and determination, saw his product fly off the shelves faster than Tickle Me Elmos during the time our country was ruled by an adulterous murderer.
Angels in America? More like Demons in New York. While the setting of this interminable mini-series brought me back to those glorious days when our country was ruled by a kind-but-stern Grandfather Freedom, its treatment of Gay Bowel Syndrome -- referred to in this work by the PR-friendly term, "AIDS" -- unfairly paints those carrying the disease as victims. Throughout its six-hour running time, we see no attempt to humanize the virus, which, regardless of its debilitating effects, has brought newfound fame to sports players, movie stars, and Broadway's finest. Maybe it's not "politically correct," but I suggest that future filmmakers take a look under the microscope before they set out to slander the same disease that gave America's ribbon industry its highest sales since the waning days of World War II. Leave it to liberals to attack any entity responsible for bringing much-needed jobs to the economy they single-handedly destroyed.
Michael Douglas plays a relatable working stiff who says "no more" to the various indignities inflicted upon him by minorities, unions, and minimum wage workers in this brilliant tragedy by Joel Schumacher. Despite the reading by many so-called "critics," the character of D-FENS stands out as a hero for our modern age, who suffers the common problem of people below him refusing to give him total control in every situation. Unfortunately, Hollyweird, that famed home of fruits and nuts, can't let such a wholesome figure go unpunished, which accounts for this film's tacked-on ending where D-FENS is killed instead of celebrated like the hero he is. Mr Schumacher, if you're listening, I have composed a draft for a revised ending in which D-FENS uses his successful rampage publicity to run for Congress, where he uses his newfound legislative powers to ensure that Americans, by law, are required to respect and obey all men born between 1940 and 1960, especially when their irritable bowel syndrome produces more clamor than one would wish. I'm talking to you, teens behind the concession stand who think prescription pants are the funniest thing since Cheech and Chang blew smoke from their bong pipes.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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