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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I find myself shocked and disappointed with all of the commune staff. No—more disappointed than shocked, with a hint of disgust. So much so I can't even address them, you, in person. I'm hoping to express myself and my disillusionment adequately in my usual space for ranting against outsiders. Oh! Disillusionment! I forgot I was disillusioned in addition to the disappointment, shock, and mild disgust I feel.

You would think my good, if somewhat comical, name would be enough after all these years of employing you ilk of questionable backgrounds. I stood by you when you needed me most. Everyone called many of you unhirable, and I proved them wrong. Though, true, they ultimately had the last laugh. When editors and website employers were treating you like something they scraped off their shoe, and not in a good way, I took you in and allowed you to spread your wings and soar. Except for Omar Bricks, who took the metaphor quite literally with that batsuit. But you know what I mean.

It's true, when we negotiated the contract to prevent you striking back in July, I made quite a few promises. It's also true I cannot keep all those promises now—for good reason. It's a matter of public record since I accidentally published a private diary page my brother Gay is in a legal fight to take over the commune. Fighting these allegations has cost a lot of money, money I don't have or don't want to personally spend. I have had to dip into the commune secret fund to prevent this hostile (and smelly, to boot) takeover. Therefore, obviously, I lack the funding I had previously counted on when negotiating contracts.

To see myself abandoned like this! It leaves me… well, see the first paragraph. Again threatening a walkout just because I have failed to follow through with a few of those promises. I thought we were a family. Apparently we are, like my deceitful no-good brother is family. But I thought we were a better family.

It's true, I can't afford those fancy ergonomic chairs for the office as I pledged to buy in December 2001 and again promised to deliver this year. If you ask me, your posture is good enough. Ergonomic chairs at this point would be tampering with God's plan to form your backs to his will—or Buddha. If you believe in Buddha. I can't make good on the chairs right now, or the staple removers to finally get those mis-stapled papers apart, but you know me. I'm Red Bagel! Sooner or later I'll make that promise again, and I'll keep it. I promise.

We are a low-traffic website with honorable intentions and lofty goals, but not much more. This was never a get-rich-quick scheme, and I never promised you folks a rose garden. Or actually I may have; if I promised a rose garden, I'll get you a rose garden, but I can't do it before this legal nonsense is settled. Until then, I can bring in a fresh bouquet of daisies daily until we get the rose garden up and running. This I promise to you. And it's not a lame never-kept promise like staple removers and the ergonomic chairs.

What about the promises I did keep? Did you ever think about that? Ramrod Hurley has yet to be put in charge of anyone else again, and has yet to find where we stashed his desk. You all got the piggyback rides. What do you want—blood? I can give you blood by the barrelful, if I thought it would help. It will just take me a few days to get in touch with my blood guys.

I'm full of self-pity over all this feuding. Self-pity for you. You have allowed personal greed and horrible spinal curvature to come between this family. Gay Bagel? Fuck Gay Bagel. He's no Bagel in my book. You guys are the real Bagels, as far as I'm concerned.

If you call the planned walkout off, I'll even put that in writing. Legal name changes for everyone!

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I used to have a music teacher who wouldn't tell you your grade, he'd just play that note on a tuba and you had to figure it out. Bastard. Not that I really cared, I just wanted to get a D flat so I wouldn't have to take the damned class again.

From what I read in the papers, not much has changed since then. Sounds like the bastards are still in charge. The latest hoopla is over these two college coaches who porked Lady Disgrace right out on the national stage and both balled their way right out of a job. One had a thing for underage college girls, for the other it was strippers, but those are just two ends of the same Madonna/whore complex. Some would hesitate to compare seasoned professional strippers to the Virgin Mary, but they haven't spent much time with underage college girls. They make Madonna look like the other Madonna, it's amazing.

Most commentators are taking these events as further evidence that college athletics are totally out of hand. As if Cro-Magnon jocks with bulging forehead muscles earning degrees in astrophysics for passing the academic equivalent of a roadside sobriety test wasn't enough, now the coaches think they're above the law of common decency themselves. And those commentators do have a point, though I don't really think college athletics were ever really in hand. It's always been a screwy system, but if somebody had told me years ago you could get a scholarship for being good at P.E. class instead of math, I probably would have tried harder at crab-walking through that damned obstacle course.

Anybody who has to deal with the public at all knows that the U.S. populace on average writes at about a third-grade level, and I'm talking about third graders who are more concerned with having perfectly crimped hair and the flashiest charm bracelets than excelling in their studies. People complain that the informality of email has led to the downgrading of written communication to the sub-literate level. What they don't realize is that before email, most Americans had no use for written communication beyond a sticky note on the refrigerator asking who tried to flush a pineapple down the toilet. Email hasn't dumbed down America's writing, it merely exposed how brain-shellacingly shitty it was in the first place.

But that having been said, I still think the real problem these shenanigans are indicative of is the issue of America the Oversexed. I'm not really sure if people are actually having more sex than they used to, but they certainly feel as if they're expected to. Nothing in America has any value any more unless it has sex appeal, it doesn't matter if it's a movie about Watergate or a jar of pickles. Anybody who's having sex with his normal-looking wife is made to feel like he's letting his country down, and God save you if you aren't having sex at all. Might as well put on one of those giant beefeater hats and quit kidding everyone, comrade.

If we really want to cut down on public figures having sexual partners we don't approve of, perhaps we should limit their exposure to a popular culture that demands all men should be having sex with 16-24 year old girls. Men displaying a shaky grasp of social mores would have their popular culture licenses suspended before they mistake an intern for a humidor or write "sorority kegger" in their dayplanners. You wouldn't wave a vodka and tonic under an alcoholic's nose, so why taunt these guys with Tom Green movies and Erotic Survivor?

Just an idea. It could work, and it's sure as hell a lot easier than teaching these young girls some goddamned self-respect. Man.

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