Hollywood makes this kind of movie nowadays; it ought not to be made, it never was nor would have been made – if America survives, it never again shall be made. This is an ugly movie; but we must understand the argument behind our disgust. Why the insignificant actors, action, and craft? Jennifer Aniston plays an upper-middle class hippie. The new century’s liberated woman reduces man to his sperm. Her derring-do is such that she once wore a playboy bunny costume to a party… She is neither beautiful nor bright nor passionate. Artificial insemination is her only claim to attention…
People are not paragons of any virtue. But falling in love offers insight into virtue: we think our beloveds paragons of virtue. Hence, the problem of romantic comedy: if my beloved is perfect and my very soul, why should my beloved love me? Nevertheless, our experience is worth more than the pettiness this movie shows. The woman, unimportant in people’s eyes, feels worthless. She has no chance to do anything admirable. This is the death of movies and the suicide of poetry.
Behold her would-be mate and best friend now: apparently, the banality of life has made immoderation utterly necessary. It becomes reasonable to be unreasonable; because crazy is better than lifeless. By comparison, she’s pretty, spontaneous, and attractive. He is as nothing, the death of mankind – Nietzsche’s last man in NYC – Woody Allen’s conformist alter ego. Nothing manly is known to him. His life is not worth living. Of course, the actor fits the role like a palsied hand in a moldy glove.
Mocking beautiful actresses this way is the peculiar achievement of the progressives which have overtaken Hollywood. Their abject situation is the cause of our own misery. These progressives, feminists, and radicals, activist or academic, are unerotic creatures. The promise of immortality and the burning problem of happiness are as unknown to them as the imperatives of progress are unknown to us. Woman’s beauty means nothing to them. The beauty of a story less. They are jargonistic creatures; when their ideas become stories, either some talented poet’s self-hatred makes a disgusting story – or this bland stuff appears, lowly and ignoble, politically correct.
To wit, neither man nor woman shall anymore aspire to greatness – we would ignore nature and God. In return, we would be allowed the liberties of senile creatures living in comfortable madness. No great love would breach our conventions or teach us about our souls. If stupid pleasures would have us well deceived, the new, as unnatural as politically correct, will have us ill deceived. This story – never was a human soul sold for less, never was man more indifferent to woman or woman to child–