Editor’s Note: If you’ve been reading this site long, you already know how much Chareth hates Kevin Smith, and how much I like provoking him. So when Mr. Smith posted the above picture of himself crying on Instagram after visit to the set of Star Wars: Episode 7, along with the caption…
…I knew what I had to do. Enjoy.
Look, I hate concepts of traditional masculinity as much as anyone. Most self-professed “real men” are basically human garbage and I’ll be first in line when it’s time to finally rise up and smash the patriarchy, swinging a Kate Spade tote full of birth control and dildos. But what Kevin Smith posted to his Instagram yesterday stirs something deep within my male viscera. I feel the sudden urge to jump a truck-nutted F-350 into a cyclone of beef jerky and Skoal in order to counterbalance this photo of a grown man crying over nothing. Actually, scratch that, he’s not crying over nothing. He’s crying over a movie. A movie about space wizards. MAN UP, YOU BE-JORTED COOZE. It’s possible to appreciate something without crumbling into a whimpering fanboy.
Remember when men were men? I mean, did you see my grandfather crying on the back lot of Casablanca? HELL NO. He was too busy being dishonorably discharged for hiding in a battleship latrine during Guadalcanal. But even so, he would have straight roundhoused me for even attempting to EXPLAIN the plot of Star Wars to him. His boot heel would have connected with my temple the moment I uttered the word “Tatooine.” And I’d have deserved it.
“But he’s not actually crying, dude, relax” you’re thinking to yourself as you read this on the elliptical machine, probably. “He’s just giving the new Star Wars his seal of approval” (you’re now going in reverse on the elliptical like a goddamned spaz). To that I say, EVEN WORSE.
Because at least actual tears would suggest earnestness, however misplaced. Instead we have this charlatan cynically fawning over the latest iteration of a franchise designed to sell collectibles. As Brendon told us yesterday, the cast is currently taking a two week break to weigh their options after Harrison Ford broke his leg, putting the film’s release date in jeopardy. So here’s comes good ol’ Kevin to the rescue of Bob Iger, assuring all of nerddom that everything’s A-OK. His friend JJ has got this! And notice in the caption how he did that thing that all Hollywood people do where they refer to a director by first name only? Don’t do that, Kevin. We all cringe when DiCaprio says “Marty,” so what makes you think you can get away with it, you clod?
And even if Harrison Ford hadn’t shattered his tibia, let’s all admit that there’s no way that the production is a finely oiled machine, hewing to a coherent plot. When he isn’t racing around set in a golf cart yelling PEW PEW into a bullhorn, George Lucas is in the editing bay demanding that Flimflorp, the breakdancing alien he just invented, be digitally inserted into every scene. “B-b-but, JJ Abrams,” you sputter while STILL on that ridiculous machine. Yeah, the guy who thought that a time-traveling smoke monster was a good addition to a cast of 78 people on LOST. He’ll surely tighten-up the script.
Face it, this movie is doomed. Come this time in 2018, after this monstrosity is finally released, you’ll be staring into the middle distance through your commemorative Flimflorp sunglasses, wondering why the fat man lied to you.
And the answer is sitting on the bridge of your pimply nose, you poor bastard.