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Darth Vader is the product of a single mother, one-itis and white-knighting

Anakin Skywalker grew up with a single mother. There was no father there to shield him from all the feminine attention and coddling that he got from her; and perhaps to teach him through his presence that one will, in life, always have competition over a woman’s affection and, often, lose.

Be it as it was, he was her one and only object of love, lacking siblings as well. He was parentized in another way, too, in that he was, at an age of, what, 8?, the one working and making sure that there’s food on the table; at least that is my impression. Granted, they were slaves, but we do get to meet him through the work he does for that flying insect thing. He developed considerable skills and got praise for that – but he also got used for it.

All this developed in him a superiority complex. As a young boy, he already shouldered the emotional and wordly responsibilities of an adult male. One can only wonder how much his own emotional needs got neglected for this. In his own eyes, he must have been quite a superhuman being. Taking care of his mother, the big love in his life, and getting all her praise.

When he meets Amidala at a later stage in life, having long been separated from his mother, he got infatuated with Amidala. Surely the fact that she reminded him of that time back on Tatooine was an important factor to him. He wanted to be to her what he had been to his mother: The one and only recipient of her love and attention and praise. Her hero.

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Thoughts on Star Wars The Blah Blub

Sorry, I forgot the title. Was it Force Awakening? Awakening of the force? The force awakens. Ah, who gives a saber. I was eager, but very reluctant to go watch this movie and the reason is that I was scared shitless of the idea of a strong female lead. I was also annoyed by the fact that I knew I would then come back home and search for stupid reasons to say that she is a stupid whore and that it is propaganda or whatever. An old compulsive habit. Rationalization.

But fuck it. I thought that it is about time that I confront this irrational fear and hatred of female confidence – that is, free emotional expression of females. To give it some attention and to acknowledge it instead of going on another rant to justify it. It does not need to be justified. It just is.

There is a lot of envy in me when I see a confident woman. More so even than when I see a confident man, I think. Having suppressed my own emotions and masculinity for most of my life to accomodate the emotions of females that seemed to always be encouraged and glorified while nobody gave a damn about mine – actually, shamed me for them – inspired a certain undeniable rage. And I am tired of hiding it and justifying why it is right that I hate. I simply do. Maybe the reasons are not the ones I think they are. But I know that nothing happens without a reason, so whatever is in me is there for a reason.

And perhaps all this madness actually started in the moment when I started justifying my emotions instead of expressing them, thus always being afraid to be found out that I felt them. I did not have the courage to say I hate women, no, instead I tried to find reasons why I am better than women, thus making it the only plausible thing to do. But blast it. I do not need to be better than women to hate them or look down on them or wanting to fuck them. I just need to let myself feel hatred and condescension and lust.

But then again, even the hatred and condescension are fading, to the point where I barely recognize them. Ironically, the more I allow myself to feel hatred without justifying it, the more it vanishes. When I allow myself the freedom of emotional expression that I envy the bitches for, there is nothing left to be envious about and the hatred is replaced by cool indifference and love. No, not what the mad people call love, not that codependent clinging; I mean this peaceful sense of self-satisfaction and openness.

So anyway, a few thoughts on the movie.

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James Bond: Spectre and Hollywood’s denial of death

I watched James Bond: Spectre yesterday. The intro was lovely, a nice tribute to death, madness and fear. It reminded me of my psychedelic trips a bit, with the tentacles and arrangements of eyes. Quite intense. The song in the intro unfortunately was very weird and seemed to lack the typical Bond chords. Probably an overly eager wish to innovate. Well, so what.

About a week back, I saw the movie 13 Assassins, which left me mesmerized. So did the movie Ghost Dog. Both share one commonality: They look forward to death, each in his own way. Samurai Shinzaemon in 13 Assassins smiles in existential joy as the cruel result of torture of the corrupt lord Naritsugu is revealed. He in no way fears death; quite the opposite: He is glad to finally face an opportunity to die honorably, in the battle against a worthy monster. This is not accompanied by orchestral soundtracks, no, it is just laid out as what it is. The honest warrior likes his enemy, because he needs him. Despising the enemy is to despise fighting itself.

A kind of maturity that can not be expected from Hollywood.

James Bond Spectre is not a bad film per se. It is actually quite fun. But I will use it as an example of a pattern that I notice in Hollywood. It is the crude reliance on the audience’s ingrained fear and alienation from death. This creates dread and puts the viewer into a mode of dissociation, waiting for the terror to stop, yearning for that final release when the evil boss is killed. There is no room for the hero to fail; it would be emotionally unacceptable for the audience.

The self-pity and alienation from death is only underscored by the orchestral score of today’s movies, as it is in the score of James Bond: Spectre. Whenever the hero is in danger, sad music makes sure that you understand that death is shameful and unacceptable. As is failure.

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Jurassic World – finally a great red pill movie

There are movies which have more or less obscured red pill messages – consider Pirates of the Caribbean; other movies offer an alternative reading – consider Ex Machina. Yet in the long run, it is frustrating to live the life of a hidden revolutionary who has to pick up breadcrumbs of satisfaction only not to starve, wishing for one big, tasty meal that is not poisoned with leftist propaganda and weakling sentiment.

Yes, there are good meals out there. A couple not-to-be-ever-known DVD releases and edgy series like Breaking Bad or Sons of Anarchy. But one lusts for being swept away by a great production without the stress of worrying about one’s sanity.

Jurassic World is that great production.

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50 shades of a oneitis – meet Christian “Nice Guy” Grey

This is a movie review of “Fifty Shades of Grey” and a great study on the wicked way women want men to be.

How many women have lived here? – Fifteen. – That’s a lot of women. And it’s a lot to believe, too. Christian Grey, self-proclaimed people’s person, looks away in annoyance and shame when he sees a confident guy make out with Ana’s friend.

E. L. James’s so-called dominant is a bit like me, the perfectly controllable covert narcissist. On first sight, Christian Grey is an absolute alpha, desirable and intimidating. But Fifty Shares of Grey was written by an obese woman who doesn’t feel worthy of – if entitled to – such a man, so she needed to castrate Christian by making him obsess over Ana. James conceived a bland feministic narrative that ostensibly exposes the sickness of man’s sexual aggression, yet unwittingly demonstrates the uncompassionate cruelty of a spoiled girl’s fantasy. Oh, well, it’s just entertainment and a harmless fantasy. Wrong. Everything has a meaning.

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