We all are quick to condemn Valentine’s day as something spewed out by Hallmark in an attempt to make more money and force emotionally distant men into a day of honesty and intimacy. But truth be told, once you get past the stupid norms that pop culture thrusts on your regarding Valentine’s day and the expectations therein, you realize, it’s a perfect excuse to drink some wine with someone you love, listen to some sassy jams, and potentially do the horizontal hula until both of you are laying there in a shiny layer of sweat-glaze, hair tussled just so, wrapped in a post coital embrace. Wow, that last sentence might be the best thing I have ever written. A good writer would make a mental note of that. I, on the other hand, am masturbating myself about it, out loud, so that should let you know where I stand for tonight. Having said all that in one breath, allow me to now present to you a playlist, perfect for you and your lover to get sideways and shiny to. Thank me later in nine months by naming your baby Remy. Spoiler warning, these are some sexy jams.
For those not familiar with Pollyanna McIntosh’s body of work, it seems clear to me that the woman (see what I did there?) prides herself on choosing roles that are extremely challenging to both herself, as well as societal norms. Sex, death, and even the domestication of women are just a few concepts she has breached in the roles she has chosen. Just to have your first paying gig as a stoner in Irvine Welsh’s Acid House garners a massive amount of points from me. And she does it all, and remarkably well. Not many can balance beautiful and horrifying, but Pollyanna does it with flair. Just see Exam, 9 Lives Of Mara, and The Woman to get an honest idea of what I ma talking about here. All that aside, I would be lying if I were to deny that it was her titular role in Lucky McKee’s disturbingly brilliant The Woman, that caused me to sit up and take notice of her. Playing a feral woman who is captured by a very George Bush Jr style republican, and then brought home, chained up, and slowly “housebroken”, for a lack of a better term. While I refuse to ruin the nuances and twists of the film for those who have yet to see this epic 2011 movie, it is safe to say this woman rises up and does what needed to be done, leaving us with one of the most memorable final shots in any film I have ever seen. And with an incredible body of work behind her, and much more to come, in the form of both acting and directing, I just wanted to sit down with Pollyanna and pick her intriguing brain. I was quite persistent, and she relented, to my absolute joy. Also, this is the last time Pollyanna will be talking about The Woman, so I feel honored that she chose to have that final discussion about that amazing film, and her amazing role,with me.
If you listened to music in the nineties, it seemed like everyone was angry. Or secretly gay. Yet, if you turned on the TV, it seemed like everyone had a really annoying neighbor who was just allowed to walk into their home and make a scene anytime they chose. Or cough out words of advice when the family needed it most. Life wasn’t really like that, though. So, in other words, if someone only listened to music and watched sitcoms in the 90′s, it seemed like the world was full of angry people with retarded neighbors. Man, we all thought the nineties were so cool, but now I am starting to wonder. Anyway, here are the five annoying neighbors from 90′s sitcoms who most likely were hiding far more salacious intentions by being in your home and around your family than would appear in the surface. I gotta warn you, you may never look at Wilson from Home improvement the same way again.
We can all stand on the highest perches, over the most undulating oceans, and we can scream at the top of our lungs. We can scream so long and hard it feels like our lungs are ripping out of our chests. We can scream so intensely, it feels like our eyes are going to bleed. We can scream our vocal chords raw, begging all the world to hear us. We can beg ten people to hear us, or we can scream so loud we demand hundreds of people to hear us. But the truth, beating, deep inside of those screams, carrying themselves through the air like ghosts, is that most of us would be truly happy if just one person would hear us. The one who just never does. The same one who is so oft the one we love most. Which begs the question: Why are our voices the most quiet, solely to those we wish could hear us? I am not asking seeking an answer. I am simply screaming this from my mountaintop, my perch, and everyone will hear it. Well, almost everyone. That is the irony that lies at the heart of all this, but fret not. For we are all unheard. Every single one of us. Love like deaf ears and wide eyes. Or….
I need you all to gather near,
lean in close and lend an ear.
This is a tale that never gets old:
The Greatest Orgy Never Told.