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Is the female experience awash in gasoline to the extent others think you like the smell? Either way they’re lobbing matches? Scarlett Johansson bops someone on the head with a rock in this movie and it’s an indictment of all the skulls we’ve had wonderfully flopping apart since CGI took my boyhood. She lures the job. The amoebas do the rest. Is the female experience be yourself at the cost of a slit throat? Your enemy can’t pontificate without a harness. Is the female experience that I keep saying female experience? That a man made this movie and another reviewed it? Well, my sperm forces me to chat. It’s okay. I’m a double agent because I can’t recall ever being right. And him, he made Sexy Beast. We totally love you. We totally try. We’re not simple exteriority jocks. We adore all the goop inside, too. Actually, we’re pretty fanatical. Watch out. Maybe you’re someone’s happy meal. I know I need directions. Meanwhile, let’s form a conspiracy of the unexplained before they say what’s missing. Yeah, they’re going to tell us what this movie meant. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do? Just stop existing? Oh yeah? I’m one of them? Alright. We hadn’t a flicker of connection? I’m dude number fifty, right? Fuck it. Anyway, imagine Bowie and Johansson in the same spandex. The costume too sinewy for sex. Imagine Nicolas Roeg consulted by Tarkovsky. Imagine another critic throwing out some names because he wants to impress anyone. Anyone petite? Alright. You’re better. You’re yourself regardless. Cool. Look at me. I haven’t had an opinion since high school. I enjoy when a formal beauty proves they have art. Gosling did. Even Shia. Franco tries. We all mean well. There’s lots of ways to feel pain besides being ugly. I’m not sure what those could be in tandem. Ugly people get the trunk and it’s somehow nice.