Tonight I couldn’t stand myself alone, and that’s why I went to a movie.
Of course the choice was pretty clear, Mr. Alexander Skarsgård is a man you can’t say no to.
September 16th, first night of Straw Dogs in theaters
From LA to Mississippi, with no return; that’s how you feel when you go back to you car after the movie. More vulnerable than ever, but strong inside somehow.
No make up for my solo-movie date, but a touch of pink lipstick. A long black dress with military boots, naked shoulders, but I cover my cleavage with a black scarf, just to be sure.
We’re women after all, better safe than sorry. It sucks, it’s unfair, but that’s life.
“They were practically licking my body outside” she said all sexy sweaty after a barefoot morning run, while eating a peach.
“Well, you could wear a bra” he, the husband, replied.
“I dress for you, you know that, right?” she said again. “But I already know how you look like completely naked” he ended the conversation without even realizing what he had just said.
Remakes are always risky, but Straw Dogs did it, and did it well, in a very disturbing way.
David Sumner (Dustin Hoffman in the 1971's version, James Marsden in the remake) is not a mathematician anymore, but a successful screenwriter instead. Cornwall becomes Mississippi, the Deep South, and brutality becomes a modern portray of reality, deeper and even more frightening. Fire and beer, fully loaded, 'light' is not even an option, as well as credit cards; guns and blood; prohibited sex and sick perversions.
Skarsgård is disturbing and brutal in his own stunning and absolutely breathtaking Swedish DNA. His clean and perfect features make you instantly fall in love, until his deep and sick blue eyes silently rape you, and you feel the rape on your body, not on the big screen anymore. You can’t help but feeling paralyzed, and silently crying tears of loathing.
He does not only rape his former girlfriend Amy (Kate Bosworth), while her husband is trapped into an illegal hunting, but he watches his best friend raping her too.
His post-orgasm icy eyes are watching her cry and fight, while painfully penetrated and violated by a dirty pervert that makes you puke the first moment you see him.
The atmosphere is dangerous, sexy and controversial. It makes you choke.
You need air.
Music is musicless.
You need air.
An old colonial house in the middle of nowhere, it’s hot, it’s the South, alcohol and deep fried pickles. Men and women; a fight for survival and an animal wrestle that brings out the inner power a human being possesses to hang on life.
As I was saying at the very beginning, you don’t know how to feel after this mental rape. Because you almost surrender, and as a woman you feel disgusted and powerless, emptied and enraged.
I don’t fucking need to wear a bra if I don’t want to!
You have no right to violate my body and mind, just because I want my legs to be touched by a warm sun, or because I am beautiful.
I loved this remake, more that the original one. A psychological thriller that makes you want to run away, puke and meditate on how sick and wrong a human brain can be.
You never know who you really are, until you’re pushed to the limit. And no matter how sweet suicide might sound to your ears, no matter how hard you try to punish yourself with overdoses of self-hate, you will always fight for your own survival, if threatened by the brutal violation of your body, and soul.
The end, somehow, is death anyway.