Terry Wright

The Film School for Scandal


Heroism is dead.  America lives only for head games.  Hubby hates you unless you wash with a Betadine surgical scrub prior to handling.  Flirting: this is harder.  The slammer is the place to be.  Pod mates give me the heebie-jeebies, and films about fractured families seem like another day at the Cleavers.  The MPAA rating system changed what we see.  You bet.  It’s the pink belly effect — a slit for an opening — a plastic cowboy with serious internal injuries.  Hemmingway’s Old Man is deep down sensitive.  His wife is a realtor.  Mr. Smith Needs More Prozac. It’s all aimed at our baser instincts.  Be clean.  Nuzzle with safety.  Blow your bottle-nose when setting parameters.  Film pioneers, more sleek than Our Savior on the silver screen, get particularly excited if you spend time with them afterwards.  They are unique animals — smooth and rubbery, especially in their natural habitat: the Academy Awards.  Never think they are nothing but a prominent lump — like Baptist preachers.  And, really, how green was my valley when the evidence mounts against stable households?  Talk about a fraudulent, crude matrix.  Babe the Pig better not try anything else.  I have no bones about this whole caustic bunch.  Is it my fault Magnolia made no sense?  Swim around that pulpit if you like.  Your suburban life will peak without props.  After the climax, Oscar contenders will go all out prehensile and want to mate with anything moving.