Movie that shall not be named

My reactionary papistbud Michael Gerardi saw THE DAVINCI CODE.

I have spent time more productively — watching “Man Show” reruns on the G4 channel. One of the sketches they had was “Movies Men Don’t Want to See.” And after describing such fare as ROSEANNE GETS NAKED, either Jimmy or Adam (whoever didn’t describe the movie) would say something disgusting or humiliating like “I’d rather wear Sally Jessy Raphael’s thong underwear as a ski-mask. While she was in them — than see that movie.” So in that spirit, these are:

Things Victor Would Rather Do Than Watch THE DAVINCI CODE

I would rather receive a pair of boxing gloves from Mike Tyson, with a card that says “let’s whisper sweet nothings again, Evander” — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather go to Mecca during the Hajj and smear myself in bacon while wearing a burkha patterned after the Danish flag — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather moderate a debate between Fred Phelps and Rosie O’Donnell in the Tehran University student union while eating shards of broken glass so small they only leave paper cuts on my tongue — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be the unborn child of Chelsea Clinton after Hillary finds out about her daughter’s affair with Sean Hannity. Which included a threesome with Rush Limbaugh — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather take a class on the Protocols of the Elders of Zion under Juan Cole’s new post at Yale, with Sayed Hashemi as his TA and Sami al-Arian as guest lecturer. No pass-fail allowed — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather have the Confederate flag tattooed onto my face for a Nation of Islam convention. While wearing an LAPD uniform with the badge marked “Fuhrman” — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather give Larry Flynt a piggy-back ride to the top of a Mayan temple, on the honeymoon cruise after our “wedding” sanctified by the Episcopal bishop of New Hampshire — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather lead a caravan of Toyotas sporting Wal-Mart stickers while wearing a frilly waitress outfit at an AFL-CIO convention that the Hell’s Angels are crashing — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be Jane Fonda’s PR outreach guy to the VFW and American Legion. And be paid from the grosses from MONSTER-IN-LAW — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather have my Cancun timeshare be next to J-Lo’s during the week she has PMS and sees the grosses from MONSTER-IN-LAW. And GIGLI — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather go to the Centre Pompidou during the Jean-Luc Godard retro and use a toothbrush and my tongue to clean the outhouses (that’s where the film prints should be) — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather glue my testicles to my penis with Krazy Glue. During a worldwide shortage of nail-polish-remover — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be stationed at the one-mile mark of the New York City Marathon and have to massage and apply ointment to the inside thighs of a just-collapsed Michael Moore — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather get a ride home over the Potomac on St. Patrick’s Day night from Ted Kennedy. Without there even being a chick in the back seat — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather watch a stripoff between Bea Arthur and Roseanne. With the loser nursing the winner — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be the first 12-year-old Bahraini boy to spend the night at Michael Jackson’s new pad, on the day after FedEx delivers his monthly supplies of Jesus Juice and Cialis — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather have Lars Von Trier tell me I’d be ideal for the lead of his new movie. Once I had a sex change — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather watch the “uncensored” video of what really happened “behind the scenes” during Cindy Sheehan’s visit to Hugo Chavez — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be a drummer for Spinal Tap — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be married to OJ Simpson — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be OJ Simpson — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather wear an external scapular, an alb and chasuble, and have rosary beads hanging from my waist pocket a meeting of the Jack Chick Admiration Society — than see THE DAVINCI CODE. (Well actually, that’s pretty much the same thing as my seeing to THE DAVINCI CODE.)

I would rather have to pick Cynthia McKinney out of a lineup the day after she had a new hairdo — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather get a 100 score from match.com as the perfect partner for Liza Minnelli — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather tell the Mississippi KKK Kleagle that his 11-year-old runaway daughter has been recovered, thanks to a tip from someone who saw her in an R. Kelly video — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather be a fly stuck in the mashed potatoes, on the spoon of Oprah Winfrey after she learns Steadman had an affair with Paris Hilton — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

I would rather drink a quart of Rohypnol an hour before my date with the Duke lacrosse team — than see THE DAVINCI CODE.

Speaking of long absences …

… it’s been 8 years since Whit Stillman’s last film, THE LAST DAYS OF DISCO. What Boston was to rock bands, and I to bloggers, Stillman was becoming to awesome writer-directors. A project to combine two unfinished Jane Austen works apparently came to naught, but there was good news from Cannes last week — Stillman has signed on to do his first film from another’s screenplay, an adaptation of Christopher Buckley’s “Little Green Men”. (Thanks, Mark.)I must say that, from the description at Amazon this novel doesn’t sound like prime-Stillman territory. It sounds more overtly satirical than METROPOLITAN, BARCELONA and DISCO — Stillman-penned films, while always comic and acerbic, never delved into the outrageous, parodic or surreal, or even really that much into belly-laugh territory. They were very specifically about human behavior and interaction within a social class. The Jane Austen comparisons for Stillman are obvious. But “Green Men” seems more like the work of the man who penned “Thank You For Smoking” (because it is, I guess) or maybe “Confederacy of Dunces” — more rollicking, less wry.

But this is nevertheless great news; Stillman himself says “Green Men” is “the kind of comedy that I would want to do, and a script that I saw as really well-done.” Which is reassurance enough for me. In a self-written “confession” in the Guardian, Stillman explains what he’s been doing and why he’s not produced a new film in eight years (though the Criterion DVD of METROPOLITAN is sweet … the best extra maybe being the Luc Sante essay in the booklet). The man’s prose is very much like his movies and what makes them so appealing to me — his dry sense of humor and ironic sense of self really come through without descending into sarcasm or cheap self-promotion.