The most philosophically evil film of our time. A post-TMZ, post-Perez, post-Reality TV hand-held dialectic in which the argument is not about the virtue of seeking fame, but rather the absolute necessity of recapturing it at any cost. Replete with bullshit about being a warrior and going down to die by the kinds of people who’d cry if you snapped their asses with a wet towel.

Through technique and dialogue we are shown the worst possible fate of anyone even once remotely famous: working a regular job. But this makes a certain amount sense; the function of middlebrow entertainment is the persistent reaffirmation of the general cultural assumptions of the upper middle classes, and like my main man Derek Raymond said, after a fatuous decade of hardcore gossip addiction, memes and America’s Next Top Model, it’s a Whole New Ball Game.

You could argue that the film is a subjective portrait and thus unlikely to challenge the assumptions of its main draw, but in making that argument, you’d be an idiot overlooking the fact that Mickey Rourke’s character is challenged on every single front except his embrace of fame. The one place in which the filmmakers agree with their otherwise loathsome (and working class) protagonist is in his embrace of the showbiz– he might get cut up, beaten to a pulp and have a heart-attack (spoilers!) but at least he’s suffering in the limelight, unlike the suckers working nine-to-five. Just like that lovable Billy Crystal!

The perfect film for the present. Welcome to the Obama years, did you buy your commemorative dildo?

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P.S. Sick again.