Joel: Ho-ly shit! I'm glad we weren't able to get together for our weekly screening/popcorn/pillow fight this week. I had no idea this was going to be such a spank-tacular film.
Joel: I consider myself a director first and crashophiliac second. And boy did this movie tickle both of those fancy-bones.
Michael: What are you talking about?
Joel: First and foremost, Crash is a film about boning. The characters in this indie classic, like me, can only achieve orgasm when intercourse is followed by a violent car wreck. As a closet crashophiliac for years, watching this movie was the closet I've ever been to achieving full satisfaction since bumper cars at the local adventure park in the fifth grade. My inability to get aroused in the presence of a female was oft misdiagnosed by my priest as homosexuality, but this flick repaired the damage done by years of mandatory participation in the Scared Straight program.
I want really big tits, out to here, so the audience can see 'em get all cut up and crushed on the dashboard.
This movie related to me in such a way that I felt it was made just for me. It stars a film producer who is sexually awakened after getting in a gnarly accident then sees a breast. While he is recovering he realizes the raw sexual power that can be derived from vehicular accidents. He joins a crashophiliac club where they spend their nights watching cars crash (or crashing cars themselves) and then sweet, sweet skin slappin' happens.
... but wait! This isn't your grandma's crashophilia. This is crashophilia 2.0 with stump-fucking action. Trust me, as a director myself I know how hard it can be to convince actors that stump-fucking can be both artful and stimulating to an audience. I tried to orchestrate such a scene between Emilio Estevez and Demi Moore in St. Elmo's Fire, but back in the 80s it wasn't considered socially acceptable. So rather than be bitter, I found it a joy to finally see my vision on the big screen with Estevez and Moore replaced by Rosanna Arquette and the always classy James Spader.
You had sex with all those men in cars? Only in cars?
...And just as soon as I find out where Michael went, he can give you his "entertaining" two cents on the film.
*Five minutes later*
Michael: Sorry about that, folks. I had to go kamikaze on the porcelain harbor. Where were we? Oh, yes. Crash...into me...
Joel: Don't you dare!
Michael: ... ... Baaaaby!
Joel: Goddamn Dave Mathews.
Michael: Crash is a film, first and foremost, about race relations, aka, dealing with *whispers* black people.
Michael: Yes, a film about *whispers* black people, which is why it was a terrible choice to pick such a racist "director" like Paul Haggis. Let's recap:
-Rap star Ludacris--turned into an ironic criminal.
-Mexican dude trying to care for his child? Can't protect her from a bullet; she needs a magic jacket for that.
-Don Cheadle bangs a Latino. Too black for a white girlfriend, Paul?
-South American black lady gets two fingers from the Flamingo Kid, while her black black husband stands by.
-Tony Danza is little more than a glorified extra. Might as well have called The Boss a dego. Apparenntly Italian-Americans aren't even off limits from Haggis' visual lynching.
And the whole thing wraps up with "white guilt," a cheap devise to get votes from the Academy for an Oscar. A fellow friend on the Academy, for instance, thought it was a great idea to vote black, remembering how his co-black led film was held down by the man in 2003. Turns out, Paul Haggis, not so black. Maybe that "friend" will have to finish the Bad Boys trilogy and rightfully clean house like that goddamned movie where all the hobblets ran around with trees for nine hours.
Fucking black people, huh?
Any way you cut it, this is heavy stuff for a film that had the working title Speed 3: Crash, a "spiritual sequel" to Speed 2: Cruise Control that unfathomably turns even the homely Sandra Bullock into a racist. Honestly, what the hell--
Joel: What the hell are you talking about? This movie was about car crashes and fucking!
Michael: Joel, just because a movie has a car crash and sex does not mean that is what it's about. I know you get distracted sometimes.
Joel: Seriously, I don't even remember seeing a black person, and I've been sober for 25 days. Just crash, sex, crash, sex, plot burst, crash, sex.
Michael: I'm pretty sure you're thinking of that weekend in Cancun with Nic Cage.
Joel: Dude, who the hell is Paul Haggis? The movie was directed by that hard-fucking guy David Cronenberg.
Michael: ...You...bonehead. You watched the wrong Crash.
Joel: Well, how was I supposed to know? Netflix recommended this based on my history. Why would we watch a movie about racism when we can review artsy, fetish porn, anyways?
Michael: Ahhhh, snigglefritz.