Satanic Critics Pan The Passion

ccording to director Mel Gibson, film critics from across the nation have proven their fealty with the dark lord Satan by panning his latest film The Passion of the Christ, a gruesome religious horror flick released to overwhelmingly negative critical response last week. This novel reaction to film criticism has raised questions nationwide over whether the 48-year-old actor and filmmaker is merely berserkly fanatical, or just completely insane. Not helping Gibson's cause is the director's non-figurative conviction that Satan tried to keep his film from being made, and might have succeeded if not for the intervention of the Holy Ghost. Unfortunately for Gibson, the Holy Ghost was unable to prevent Satan from pointing out to film critics the film's turgid tone, plodding pacing, uneven characterization and excessively pointless violence.

"They are the forces of Satan or the dupes of Satan," Gibson offered charitably, giving non-fans the choice of being either evil or stupid.

"Holy shit was that a bad movie," disagreed Satan's minion Elvis Mitchell of the New York Times, who must've been typing his review while drenched in lamb's blood. "That piece of shit was worse than We Were Soldiers."

The film opened to sellout crowds after months of speculation that it was going to be really offensive to Jews, generated by Gibson cashing in on his "Jews Killed Jesus" Catholic offshoot faith and his father's reputation as a notorious Holocaust denier to market the film with the catchy tagline "The Jews Hate It," despite the fact that no religious groups had seen or commented on the film at that point.

In interviews, Gibson has explained that his Traditionalist Catholic faith, which rejects the Vatican's exoneration of the Jewish race for the death of Christ, grows from his bond with his father Hutton Gibson. In either a brilliant marketing ploy or disturbing evidence of inner turmoil, Gibson's answers to requests to clarify his own stance on the Holocaust have been rambling and evasive.

Unable to go five whole minutes without saying something unnervingly kooky, however, Gibson's response to New York Times writer Frank Rich's article pointing out that the director was inventing nonexistent Jewish outrage to market his film was like something straight out of The Passion itself. "I wanted to kill him. I want his intestines on a stick. I want to kill his dog." Luckily for Gibson, from all reports Rich's dog is one of those "turn the other cheek" sorts who is unlikely to accuse the director of speaking for Satan.

The relentlessly masochistic tone of Gibson's film has caused some to ponder the director's obsession with torture, as evidenced by the mandatory torture sequences contained in nearly every film in which Gibson has appeared. From being electrocuted in Lethal Weapon and drawn and quartered in Braveheart, Gibson even went so far as to insist on adding an unscripted toe-smashing scene to Brian Helgeland's Payback. Though he was unsuccessful in similar attempts to add a testicular electrocution scene to the chickflick hit What Women Want, it was not for lack of trying.

Meanwhile, The Passion's large opening box office is sure to inspire imitators, and early word that such knock-offs as The Passion of the Weekend at Bernie's and Friday the 13th XI: Run, Jesus, Run are already in the works. Additional reports hint at an upcoming franchise of movies where Belgian marshal arts expert Jean-Claude Van Damme will beat the shit out of Jesus for two hours in various exotic locales. Whether the makers of those films will be able to pull off Gibson's brass-balled bluster, claiming that critics of The Passion's blitzkrieg of violence are merely deficient in character and unable to handle the power of his flawless cinema, may well depend on how closely they can duplicate that crazy look in his eyes.

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Tony and I may have had a verbal disagreement, perhaps even one that came to fisticuffs. And some present may argue that I did not come out on top in this exchange. Some hysterical individuals have even suggested that I was bitch-slapped. Bitch-slapped? Come now; let us not get carried away here.

I merely suggested that a low-yield Mutual Fund would, in all likelihood, outperform Tony's hotshot "stock of the week," given the market's present course and well-established seasonal trends. And this was apparently enough to send Tony into a pre-verbal tantrum. I guess I should have taken mother's advice: if you don't have nice financial advice to give, don't give any at all. Touché, mother.

There was a row, I'll admit. And regrettable words were exchanged. I'm sure Tony also regrets some of his physical actions as well, like when he struck me about the head and neck with that radiator. Oh, the foolish things we do whilst in the grips of a spirited debate!

I've certainly been guilty of the same a time or two. Remember the time you were trying to convince me that ascots were still in style, mother? And in the heat of the moment I suggested that you were very occasionally mistaken in your conclusions? Oh, how many long nights did I wish I could have those words back! So I could certainly understand where Tony was coming from when he was attacking me with that rubber hose.

You know how those sorts are over at the Faberge Room, mother. They'll invent stories in their entirety just to have something to gossip about. And yes, they do indeed often involve bitch-slapping. It's a favorite subject in certain unsavory circles, I assure you.

Please mother, you must know without asking that your son more than held his own. I got in my licks as well, you can be sure. While Tony was closing the piano lid on my skull I fired off some particularly tart remarks regarding his breeding and manner of dress. As they say mother, fireplace pokers and piano lids may break my bones, but smart words hurt the worst.

Yes, I'm sure I can imagine what your friend Deidre would have had to say about the affair. "Who's your daddy?" Really mother, that's far too rich. I don't care if she was seated at the next table over; your bridge partner's debauched imagination is no proof that I announced to a room of socialites that Tony was my real father. I don't care if he'd had my arm twisted behind my back, I still wouldn't have said such a thing. You know father was my real "daddy," rest his soul, and I've got the switch marks to prove it.

I know father didn't raise me to be a "sissy," mother, that's why I saved my most cutting retort for last. While Tony was rolling the dessert cart back and forth over my neck, I let loose with a withering appraisal of his character that few in the room will likely ever forget, if they heard it over the crashing sounds and the shocked gasps of the many patrons present who had a weak stomach for blood.

Yes, mother, I did use the word "uncouth." I'm sorry. If Tony didn't want to hear that kind of language, he never should have stomped those broken shards of tableware into my privates. And yes, mother, I know you raised me better than that. I guess I just inherited father's ugly temper.

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It takes a lot to shame Rok Finger, friends. Three counts of indecent exposure, a national trial for treason and a bastard child in Spanish Harlem have all failed in the past. But I have to begrudgingly admit that like a Nazi eating a ham 'n' Russian front sandwich, I've bitten off more than I can chew. I am a failure as a physical trainer.

In my brazen youth of two months ago, I volunteered to help my nephew Camembert, a scrawny wire-thin nerd for whom the very word "wormy" was invented, get back into top peak physical condition, like yours truly. It was an embarrassing incident to say the least, for both myself and poor Camembert, who to this day is still checked into a clinic for those with critically poor self esteem, listed in stable but serious condition.

Camembert, son of my wife's sister Gretastock, was recently in a severe car wreck and had been milked like an attractive cow by the insurance company during his stay in the hospital. On top of everything else, now they wanted him to hire some expensive physical trainer of vaguely Swedish descent to get back into shape. Ha! I'd rather him die than be taken advantage of like that! Camembert wasn't ready to go quite that far, but through arrangements with my wife, Arvelyn, I put myself in charge of his physical recovery.

Well, needless to say the first few weeks are better left unmentioned. It was nobody's fault, to look at it objectively, Camembert was way too eager to please and I rushed in a little uninformed. I still say he walked a good minute like a veritable stallion, even if the doctors with their all-powerful "medical science" say the spine is broken and he'll never walk again. I was disappointed, sure, but I could still do a lot for upper body strength even if he was paralyzed for life. Still, you should have seen him walk for that minute, it was quite a sight.

As most of you know, I don't like to work out with fancy gym equipment, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my jock. So I was damned if I'd let Camembert do the same. The first step was to lift my car, just like I used to keep in shape. And let's be fair, people--it's a Volkswagen, it's not a Cadillac or anything, I'd say it's fair game and definitely not "cruel and unusual punishment" like the Geneva Convention says in that quote the judge cited. But, admittedly, perhaps Camembert was a little out of practice to start so big. I say if you can do it there's hardly a greater confidence booster. I surmise with his legs all floppy thanks to Mr. Toothpick Spine that fiery little Camembert couldn't quite get the leverage he needed. I assure you when I set it to neutral I was only trying to help him in his effort and of course I wouldn't have done so if I had any inclination the car would roll on him, but I guess that's why they give you a driver's manual, to detail these sorts of things.

I was at my most desperate by this time, as you might guess, and I had basically given up on my proven methods of training. And knowing me, you'd probably say, "Rok, acupuncture?" Yes, acupuncture, you precocious, smarmy bastard. And when did we get on the first name basis all of a sudden?

The eastern art of applying needles to pressure point seemed like a sure shot to overcome Camembert's numb legs and now-broken arms. I thought I might at least stimulate the muscles and keep them in shape while he was incapable of moving them. Let me tell you now, good people, acupuncture is the biggest Chinese put-on since that papier maché wall they constructed. It's clearly just a scam to earn back from gullible round-eyes the money they lose in their restaurant buffets. Either that or a specific kind of needle is required that they keep secret, because I can tell you the crochet needle is not an effective replacement.

Camembert forgives my well-intentioned mistakes, at least while the demoral fills his bloodstream. Whether or not I'll ever forgive myself is another story.

Okay, I did. Phew. It was hard to live like that, but it's taught me a lesson. There are just some things Rok Finger isn't cut out to do in life. But I'll always know I should try it first just to make sure it is or isn't one of those things. Who knows? Maybe there's still a carpenter, beer distiller, opera singer, or astronaut in me still waiting to get out.

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