Nine songs

There's fucking and then there's fucking. There's porn vid fucking, in which guys with very big cocks fuck pneumatic chicks for hours on end and everyone involved pretends to be enjoying it. There's Hollywood fucking, in which guys whose cocks you don't see fuck skinny chicks for hours on end and everyone involved pretends to be enjoying it. And then there's the fucking you and I do, in which guys with cocks that they worry are not big enough fuck chicks who worry that they're too skinny or not skinny enough for a few minutes and everyone involved pretends to be enjoying it.

Nine songs has the last kind of fucking. What seemed like several hours of it. And some guy buggering about in Antarctica. The sex is real, which makes it unwatchable. It certainly isn't a turnon. The relationship is real too, which makes it unwatchable too.

You cannot help feeling, why bother? Why bother making it, why bother watching it? A guy pulls an unlikeable but "mad" (read self-obsessed and needy) chick and has some uninventive sex. In between times they go to some pisspoor gigs. Sounds like my twenties. Sounds like all our twenties.

It might be of archaelogical interest a thousand years from now, when women have worked out how to eradicate us and they're curious what fucking looked like (although they'll be wondering why we make such a fuss about it). But art is about illuminating life, showing you ways of looking at things that give you new understanding. Nine songs doesn't even try to do that. It simply shows you what you already knew, in exactly the way you already knew it. Even the fucking is boring, although it's gruesomely real, and you are well advised not to watch the DVD when the vicar's round.

The music sucks too and the whole notion offended my sense of justice. If your idea of a good night out is a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig, you don't deserve any sex and you'll likely get what you deserve.

posted by Dr Zen @ 10:28 am