UK film board stops sale of Japanese horror movie

Wed Aug 19, 7:58 am ET

LONDON – Britain's film board banned the sale of a Japanese horror DVD, saying Wednesday its violence is so extreme that it could cause psychological harm to audiences.
The film "Grotesque" devoted most of its running time to the sexual assault and torture of its two main characters, the British Board of Film Classification said.
"'Grotesque' features minimal narrative or character development and presents the audience with little more than an unrelenting and escalating scenario of humiliation, brutality and sadism," the board said in a statement.
The board has refused to classify the film, meaning it cannot be legally sold or supplied anywhere in Britain.
The board said the movie's nonstop scenes of torture — including amputation, eye-gouging, castration and evisceration — make it impossible to edit the film in a way which would make it acceptable for British viewers.
The board, which rates about 10,000 films for DVD release each year, said the ban was "very rare."
The last movie turned down by the board was 2004 film "Murder-Set-Pieces," which was rejected in early 2008. In 2005, it refused "Terrorists, Killers And Other Wackos" — a film that carried clips of real torture and execution.

El póster de la peli. Que se note que me curro mogollón las entradas.

9 from the vaults Oh baby!

1. Que el anuncio fuera real - NO
2. Que el anuncio fuera realmente lo que el artista opina - NO LO CREO (beneficio de la duda)
3. Que, a la hora de defender el anuncio, una persona jure y perjure que no ha notado la homofobia presente en el anuncio porque es que ni siquiera sabe lo que es, porque a él desde pequeñito le criaron en la igualdad e incluso tiene amigos gays y todo. Para él, el ballet es un deporte muy admirable y si esos tipos quieren ponerse un tutú y maquillarse le parece fantástico - SÍ

#74 - Impatient Subway Boarder

There’s nothing worse than a cold shoulder to the face as you try to leave the train for work. It reminds you:

a) That you actually have to go to work
b) Work is in a cubicle
c) Most people in this world are so dumb, it’s sad

The thing is, we can look past not being able to locate Iraq on a map, or believing every word posted on Wikipedia is fact. What we can’t comprehend is how people think trying to get on a packed train first, before others have exited, is a good idea. It’s fucking mind-blowing.
We just don’t get it, we really don’t. It’s almost as if these humans aren’t human at all, but in fact brainless salmon people, desperately trying to swim upstream any chance they get.
If that’s the case, and we’re pretty sure it is, the best way to clear a path through these creepy fish folk is to cast a couple right hands and see who bites.

Current Mood: sueñito

5 from the vaults Oh baby!

• blog sexo
• blog de sexo
• sexo blog
• sexo blogspot
• mascotas porno
• sexo con mascota
• bolg de sexo
• blog sexo
• sexo blog
• sexo
• bolg sexo
• blog del sexo
• miblogdesexo

17 from the vaults Oh baby!

• Sí, mi segundo apellido es compuesto.
• La cocacola la tomo normal, con azúcar y cafeína y todas las guarradas con las que fue diseñada. Que sea hembra no significa que lo tome todo light.
• Sí, es mi pelo, no son extensiones, y no me parece especialmente absurdo llevarlo tan largo. Y me tiño de negro porque no me gusta mi color natural y además tengo las cejas muy oscuras.
• No, no me gusta el heavy metal. No, no voy de luto. Soy siniestra, me gusta el color negro y no estoy loca ni me paso el día llorando.
• Las clases a las que voy después del trabajo son asunto mío, pero si tengo que decirlo, son de ballet. Sí, ballet clásico. No hay muchos sitios donde den neoclásico, y dudo mucho que siquiera hayas oído hablar de ello.
• Soy muy friolera y me resfrío con una mirada poco cálida, por eso voy siempre tan abrigada. No es por no comer y no es que sea una lagarta.
• Mi calle es ésta (aquí iría un plano), entre estas dos calles que sí conoces. El metro que más cerca me pilla es éste (aquí iría otro plano), entre estas dos estaciones que sí conoces.
• El espectáculo en el que actúo se llama The Rocky Horror Picture Show (aquí iría un resumen de la película y una breve historia del musical, la peli y el fenómeno fan) con participación del público (aquí iría una explicación de en qué consiste) y lo hacemos en (aquí iría la programación con los bolos en las distintas fechas, salas y ciudades). Probablemente vendría un enlace al blog de RHPS, que para eso está. Por cierto, mañana tengo que acordarme de poner que ya tenemos fechas y sitios y ciudades en que vamos a actuar. Antes de que me preguntéis :-D
• Leo libros en inglés porque 1)se pierde mucho en las traducciones y 2)salen antes que traducidos.
• Que me gusten el terror, el gore y la casquería no significa ni que no sea capaz de asustarme, ni que sea insensible al sufrimiento ajeno, ni que sea una psicópata en potencia.
• Mi trabajo es (aquí iría una descripción de lo que hago, para lo cual necesito tener más datos...), en Indra, en Alcobendas (insertar plano zonal) y tardo una hora en volver al centro. Una hora. Una hora. Una hora. Que hay quien no se entera de que tardo una hora y que hay que contar con ello cuando se quiere que esté en un sitio.
• Entro prontito y necesito para llegar al trabajo una hora. Una hora. Una hora. Una hora. Eso quiere decir que no me puedo quedar hasta las mil haciendo algo, por divertido o maravilloso que sea, porque los zombies me gustan para verlos, no para serlo.
• No, no sé conducir, ni me corre prisa, y desde luego no, no tengo coche, y está claro que no, no tengo seguro para el coche porque no tengo coche porque ni siquiera sé conducir. Razones: a mí me gusta que me lleven. Además, me mareo muchísimo en los coches y no quiero tener el permanente olor a vómito como ambientador.
• No tengo la menor intención de tener hijos, ni siquiera me gustan los niños como concepto, el embarazo me parece repugnante, el parto me da pánico, que un crío me muerda para sacarme alimento me da grima, los llantos infantiles me parecen insoportables y no tengo ni pizca de instinto maternal. Yo lo que quiero es tener gatos.
• Los gatos no son malos. No son interesados. No son bichos en los que no se puede confiar. No son peores que los perros, que por cierto son un latazo. Son terriblemente dulces, cariñosos y bonitos y me gustan más que el helado de chocolate con cookies.Y dos no son demasiados más que teniendo en cuenta el espacio que tengo, que yo por mí tendría docenas (insertar dibujo de vieja loca de los gatos).
• No me gusta la lechuga porque cruje, tiene un sabor aburridísimo y me da grima su tacto.
• Si tengo algún moratón, herida, torcedura o similar, se debe a que soy extremadamente patosa a la par que desdichada. Soy torpe de nacimiento, es parte de mi personalidad. No preguntes, porque cada día habrá algo nuevo y no creo que te interese llevar la cuenta.
• Dudo muy mucho que con lo que fumo me vaya a suceder algo malo. Si fumara un paquete diario, quizás, pero actualmente puedo subir por las escaleras al cuarto piso sin que me falte el aliento.
• No he perdido peso. Te han engordado los ojos.

Current Mood: exhausted

17 from the vaults Oh baby!

I am not ashamed to admit it: I am a great big fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I previously have acknowledged my identification with the titular Buffy. I have confessed how I have in the past medicated myself with liberal doses of pop culture in those bleak spates of my darkest soul, and Buffy has always topped the list of my pop-pharmacy. Plus the show is just so clever. I am a total sucker for cleverness.
I never saw Buffy when it was actually on air. Everything I’ve come to love in the Buffyverse I’ve come to love from discovering the show on DVD when I was home sick with the flu about six years ago and at the insistent behest of my friend Bee, who refused to rest until I accepted several seasons of DVDs that she pressed to my palms. I now own the first five seasons, which in those bleak times I’ve watched on endless repeat until I got bored with them or the depression lifted, whichever came first.
Buffy was remarkable for a couple of episodes that flew in the face of television convention. One of these unusual episodes was Buffy’s fourth season “Hush,” which flouted television convention for being completely silent for 27 to 29 minutes, depending on what source you look at. Another is the sixth season’s “Once More, With Feeling,” the musical episode of Buffy. Buffy, Spike, Xander, Giles and the rest, all singing and all dancing.
Only the latter episode, “Once More, With Feeling,” has the kitsch potential for public performance, and a couple of years ago, a Rocky Horroresque midnight show of it has popped up around the country, usually in college towns. The show, complete with a cast acting out the musical and the lyrics on the screen for karaoke-style singing and a little bag of props to be used at plot-appropriate times, draws long lines of Buffanatics, some of whom dress as series characters.
Last night I went to a show here in Gotham with my friend Bee, another friend of mine visiting from Miami and a couple of Bee’s friends, one of whom dressed in Buffy's white prom dress from season one and the other dressed as a generic Faith and both of whom had whittled stakes just for the show. I didn’t dress as anyone. No one wants to see a forty-four year-old woman dress up as a teenager, except maybe her boyfriend.
The line for the show was singularly festive. We all waited fairly patiently in the balmy night, fiddling with our little Buffy goody bags and watching this intense and inscrutable operatic drama unfolding in this clutch of African-American teens of ambiguous sexuality and gender outside a neighboring coffee joint. And then when the doors to the theatre finally opened, we all scrambled to our seats like pre-teens.
The show opened with a trivia game whose answers largely and comfortingly eluded me. I definitely feel mollified by knowing that I don’t retain as much useless Buffy information as some others. One of our group, the girl dressed as prom Buffy, competed in the trivia challenge and won a chance to be part of the Buffeoke competition, and she did splendidly. I’m pretty sure the guy who won the trivia competition, a tall dude dressed as Xander, was a ringer, but whatever.
After that warm-up, the show began in earnest. The cast acted it out below the screen, and I sang along with Buffy, because hers are the only lyrics I inexplicably remembered and my range and Sarah Michelle Gellar’s are similarly narrow. I watched, tried to remember which props I was supposed to use when, screamed out, “Shut up, Dawn!” when prompted to, and found tears running down my cheeks from the beginning of the show to its end.
Songs in musicals usually act in two ways. Either they act in place of dialogue and advance the plot, or they act like soliloquies in Renaissance dramas and explicitly narrate the character’s emotions. Generally, musicals are happy. Sure, there are exceptions—for example, there is West Side Story, which is a downright deep tragedy, and there is Threepenny Opera, which ends in a parody of a happy ending, and there is Rent, which as it’s based on an opera has to end badly. In general, though, musicals are the province of the unremittingly sunny.
Which is another of the points that differentiates “Once More, With Feeling” from the rest of its genre. If Joss Whedon has a penchant for creating pop art that works against its type—his Buffy empowers the skinny blonde girl who is usually the lowest on the horror food chain; his Firefly treats outerspace like the West in a carpet-bagging post-civil war reconstruction—he certainly took that sensibility and ran with it. This musical nearly writhes in emo agony.
I find season six of Buffy an incredibly painful watch. Buffy has been wrenched back into being after sacrificing herself for the greater good; she isn’t sure who she is or what she’s doing now that she’s spent time dead and at peace. No one else seems really sure where they are either—Giles is readying his return to England; Anya and Xander are prepping for a marriage neither one is certain of; Willow and Tara seem to be torn apart by the magic that brought them together; Spike finds himself impotent and hopelessly in love with Buffy; and Dawn is entering full-blown adolescence. In this season, the Big Bad is, famously, life itself, and life is kicking Buffy’s ass.
In “Once More, With Feeling,” nearly every one of the characters sings of his or her own private desolation. Giles sings of his inability to be a proper father to Buffy; Tara sings first of her love for Willow and then of realization she’s been betrayed by her; Anya and Xander sing of their incompatibilities; Spike sings of his preference for death over Buffy’s iciness; and Buffy sings that she wishes she were back in he-aaa-ven, her voice cracking as she does so. (Oddly, Willow doesn't confess anything in this episode, but then she really doesn't sing.) Make no mistake: this is a musical about love, sure, but mostly it's about loss. Loss in all its keening, unutterable, and palpable manifestations.
And the thing is, sitting in the big auditorium, surrounded by a hundred like-minded people who have escaped and escaped again and again not from—but to—Sunnydale, sitting among this group who share with me the inexplicable and mildly embarrassing passion for this television show, I cried and I clandestinely wiped tear after tear off my face. My make-up was a mess. I wanted to be there, and sing along, and be part of this thing that was bigger than me and comforting as a group hug, but I’m not sure it worked.
I’m not sure that, kitschy as it already inherently is, it makes sense to make super-kitschy, publicly kitschy, kitschy with kazoos and the wave and thrown underwear this episode of this episode that aches with rawness. I’m not sure it works, but I’m not sure it doesn’t either. “What can’t we face if we’re all together?” Buffy sings, and asks the question central to the show as a whole. Nothing Buffy does, does she do exactly by herself, even if she doesn’t do it all exactly with others either.
And this is the aspect that has always comforted me about the show: the idea that I am both alone with my sea of troubles and that at the same time I am not. And I guess that at the end of the show, after Buffy admits that she can’t feel and Spike offers that he’s dead too, after the two of them kiss with surprising passion for two people who have just avowed lifelessness, after all that and after I have wiped my eyelids free of transient mascara, I suppose the kitsch matters less than the fact that we were all together, unembarrassed and loving the hell out of this long-dead series that lives on, not unlike Buffy herself, who died a lot.

9 from the vaults Oh baby!

¡Ouch! Estaba buscando fotos de Isabelle Huppert para comentaros que esta mañana he visto lo que según internet era una muestra cultural gala pero que según los carteles de la calle y mis propios ojillos eran simplemente 120 fotos de la pelirroja, cuando sin previo aviso le he visto las entretelas. En cualquier caso, no deja de impactarme que una mujer que en España sólo es una actriz europea más sea motivo de exposición -en el Jardín Botánico-, pero a fin de cuentas lo mismo me pasó por la cabeza cuando hicieron "Cómo ser John Malkovich", y todo el mundo lo encajó con bastante naturalidad. Algunas cosas no tienen razón de ser, y sin embargo son.

"No estarás hablando mal de mí, ¿verdad?
Si soy más sencillota que una galleta María Fontaneda"

La peli de ayer, "El caso Slevin", no se parecía en nada a lo que yo esperaba. Sí, había tiros, había mafiosos, había una estúpida Lucy Liu, e incluso un Bruce Willis haciendo, como siempre, de Bruce Willis... pero tiene muchos más puntos cómicos e ingeniosos de lo que esperaba, de modo que no me he aburrido como temía. El giro del final es posible que provoque jadeos de placer en algunas personas, pero me temo que me lo vi venir un rato antes; como recurso está un pelín gastado. Ya sabéis, practicad sin descanso la mirada de "bambi herido", da resultado ;-)

Iba a dedicarme los próximos diez minutos a hablar mal de Lucy Liu, a la que podría sustituirse tranquilamente por un peluche en todas las películas que rueda porque tienen la misma expresividad facial y por lo general no resulta tan odioso (por no mencionar lo divertido que sería; imaginad las escenas de cama... ¿¿¿Es que nadie más ha visto "Deja la sangre correr"???), pero he decidido mantenerme en el saludable plan "Litio, di no a la úlcera", y hacerme un té en vez de soltar espumarajos por la boca. 


 

El remake

Current Mood: Decidida

Current Music: I Put a Spell on You - Nina Simone

18 from the vaults Oh baby!