Nevermind that she's a spineless
demotard access blogger. Put aside the odious moral cretinism she affects on behalf of her warmongering party. Ignore the fact that her mindless
cheer leading is so annoying it could give every massive stone head on Easter Island a
migraine.
Marcotte has plumbed the abyss of pandering to the lowest, most cowardly, most cravenly toadying
demotard and
dredged from the slime an Oscar nod for
shlockteur Quentin "One Trick Pony"
Tarantino's Inglorious Bastards.I suppose it takes a
real feminist like
Marcotte to praise one of
Tarantino's sub-juvenile revenge fantasies. Not like all those fake feminists who can recognize Quentin's "men with breasts" characters when they see them.
Marcotte's odious brand of
faux-feminism, in which women are free to act just like men, fits nicely with the boring ripoffs of
grind house tropes
Tarantino has been putting on to his dick flicks since
Reservoir Dogs. (For those of you unfamiliar with
g'industry palaver, a 'dick flick' is a movie made to appeal to adolescent boys. Essentially the other side of 'chick flicks.')
Taratino's masturbatory cartoon violence must be as comforting to smug, clueless
pwoggies like
Marcotte as it is exciting to the pud-pulling nose pickers that comprise the film's target audience. On those few
occasions when they hear about God-Emperor
Obama's latest foray into bloody-handed violence in Afghanistan or Pakistan, they no doubt imagine something very stirring and cinematic like
Bastards. None of the dirt and grime of war from Kathrine
Bigelow's by-miles-superior
The Hurt Locker can be allowed to
disturb the beautiful
pwogwessive minds of
Marcotte and her Amen Chorus. Truly,
Marcotte's film preferences are as repulsively,
contentlessly shallow as her politics.