WHY I LOVE MEL GIBSONS MAVERICK (PART ONE)
As we all know, ol Mels vanity project The Passion, a lovingly rendered tableaux of Our Lord and Savior getting, quite literally, the holy shit beaten out of him has gone on to become one of the top-grossing R-rated films of all time. Across the length and breadth of this great land, humble folk have put on their Sunday best and headed down to the multiplex, going in particularly heavy droves during Easter weekend.
I would have gladly gone to see the flick, if only for the pleasure of watching the impossibly smug James Caviezel getting beaten like a gong, but for the fact I would be enclosed in a confined space with a tiny fragment of Americas swelling population of religious wackos.
People who havent left their homes since the film adaptation of Jonathan Livingston Seagull are not people I care to jostle with for armrest dominance in a movie theater. Not that Im picking on religious wackos. They have a hard enough time living under the constant gaze of their oil-painting headshot of Jesus that inevitably hangs on their wall. And they all have the same one. Everyone had a childhood friend with the scary parents who had one. Its the one where he looks like a doe-eyed, well-groomed assistant professor at Berkeley, three-quarters profile, lit by a golden light thats supposed to be peaceful and heavenly, but really looks sickly and slightly oppressive.
I fear I have strayed from my topic sentence
What Im saying is, I miss the old Mel Gibson. The movie Maverick changed my life. Ill tell you why shortly
As we all know, ol Mels vanity project The Passion, a lovingly rendered tableaux of Our Lord and Savior getting, quite literally, the holy shit beaten out of him has gone on to become one of the top-grossing R-rated films of all time. Across the length and breadth of this great land, humble folk have put on their Sunday best and headed down to the multiplex, going in particularly heavy droves during Easter weekend.
I would have gladly gone to see the flick, if only for the pleasure of watching the impossibly smug James Caviezel getting beaten like a gong, but for the fact I would be enclosed in a confined space with a tiny fragment of Americas swelling population of religious wackos.
People who havent left their homes since the film adaptation of Jonathan Livingston Seagull are not people I care to jostle with for armrest dominance in a movie theater. Not that Im picking on religious wackos. They have a hard enough time living under the constant gaze of their oil-painting headshot of Jesus that inevitably hangs on their wall. And they all have the same one. Everyone had a childhood friend with the scary parents who had one. Its the one where he looks like a doe-eyed, well-groomed assistant professor at Berkeley, three-quarters profile, lit by a golden light thats supposed to be peaceful and heavenly, but really looks sickly and slightly oppressive.
I fear I have strayed from my topic sentence
What Im saying is, I miss the old Mel Gibson. The movie Maverick changed my life. Ill tell you why shortly
I'd rather hear you had a thing for Mel Gibson.