We are truly metaphoric beings.
I was more than usually conscious of this yesterday watching Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, the insipid Christmas Carol rip-off that truly only posits one New Millennium question with any real success: How do actors get their teeth that white?
Unless, of course, one is in the Metaphoric Vortex. You know what I’m talking about… those Twilight Zone times when all universal matter (and references to said matter) gets sucked into the black hole of one’s interior condition, where it is then systematically deconstructed and re-fitted in an attempt to clothe the Naked Ache. Remember the skin suit that creepy guy sewed together from all those fat girls in Silence of the Lambs? Like that.
The film’s story led me through a junkyard of conditions: being young and orphaned, being beautiful but misguided, being beautiful and duped, being beautiful and dumped, being old and still hot, being old and boorish, being handsome and misogynistic, appearing misogynistic but really just misunderstood, being ugly and a loser, being gorgeous and a loser, being gorgeous and voiceless, being destined to win the girl, being the destined second fiddle. Me, in the dark, picking them up, poking them, prodding them, trying them on, casting them off, me completely unsupervised, letting them get to second base, letting them score.
So, I loved it. Would I recommend it to anyone else? Hell no. It was a terrible film. Clichéd, poorly paced, inconsistent.
Stitching together a significant metaphor from bad art is like trying to piece together a dress out of acetate: it unravels all the faster from the sewing. Good for one-time wearing only.
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