I was almost fooled into thinking that Moscow's English-language movie selection was improving. I can't remember why anymore. Maybe it was because blockbusters were being simultaneously released here and in the U.S. and that made me feel as if "progress," whatever that means, was being made. Now that I look back, however, I can't remember a single movie I liked all summer. Then again, I was high most of the summer on prescription painkillers, so don't take my word for it.
Whoa, wait a minute, I'm supposed to be a film critic, which means you've got to take my word for everything. It's okay, don't panic. Fact is, prescription pain killers do not affect one's critical faculties, in the pure Kantian sense. In fact, I would say that as a rule, good movies are made better by the influence of the poppy, while mediocre to bad movies' shittiness is amplified -- they bum your high, which is as objective a reaction as you're going to find. Something about opiates makes one clear-headed when judging visual arts, so long as the opiate-critic's eyes remain open during the important parts. So believe me when I say that this summer's movie selection was a scandalous waste of time.
When I saw this week's selection of English-language movies in Moscow -- Charlie's Angels 2, The Boss's Daughter, Down With Love , and some other crap whose name I forgot -- I was struck by gas pangs and had to sit down. No frickin' way was I going to subject myself to those four films. What was I, a prisoner in GITMO?
So I've decided to do something different this issue. A whore-r movie review featuring a whore movie critic critiquing a whore-r film.
Let's first go back a few weekends. I'm space-walking on time-release codeine capsules and in no mood to socialize. I take a taxi out to an open-air whore market on Leninsky -- taxi driver perking up as usual when he hears my plans to violate his womenfolk, offers to act as chief negotiator, good-cop/bad-cop sort of thing. First tochka , I pick myself up an 18-year-old whore from Kharkov, along with a side salad and a couple of beers. Her name was Alla. She wasn't particularly pleased to be picked by me -- she gave me a "Uh-oh, you're a blackass" look -- but she went along. Either that, or answer to her pimp.
Alla was exactly what I'd hoped for: cute, young, quiet. When you're as high as I was, the last thing you want to do is go out to a club or bar talking to some boring girl about her job, or worse, meeting one of the girls you've been dating to catch up on, yup, her boring job... or her boring vacation in Turkey. Where she laid out by the pool, ate, got hot, and fucked some Turkish towel boy. Don't want that. What you want, folks, is a quiet whore, whose every heartbeat you own until sunrise.
Alla was about 164 centimeters tall, long brown hair, big brown eyes, and an amazingly thin body with ripe melon breasts that started to rise up around the collar bone. Her only defect was her George Washington set of teeth.
She didn't say much and responded with curt answers to my slow, groggy queries.
"When did you come to Moscow?"
"A few weeks ago."
"How's work at the tochka?"
"It's my first night. Normally I work at home."
"Where do you live?"
"Nu, Leninsky, farther out there. I usually work at home. I live there with my sister. She's much taller than me."
"Well, cousin. She's very tall."
"Is she as pretty as you?"
"Yeah, only taller."
"What's Kharkov like?"
"It's all right."
"Do you know who Edward Limonov is?"
"The writer. He's Kharkov's most famous son."
"Maybe, I don't know."
"We're going to start off watching movies," I said. And I meant it -- the ideal evening for me. A mouthful of prescription painkillers, a whore paid to not make any trouble, and movies. My movies, not the American House of Cinema's movies.
I asked Alla what she likes.
"Komedia," she said. "Anything but horror."