![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Aug. 14th, 2013 09:58 pm
Nothing to see here
Where Eskimos Live is an odd movie. Although set in Bosnia (during the war, natch, because apparently nothing worth making a movie about happened there before 1992 or after 1995), everyone involved in this production is Polish--with one sole exception. It stars Bob Hoskins (who is apparently playing a Pole, but it's hard to say in a world where virtually everyone is speaking English all the time).
That also makes it impossible for me to critique this with anything approaching the slightest sheen of objectivity because (as I may have mentioned once or twice in this space) I think Bob Hoskins may just be the sexiest man to ever walk the Earth. Years ago now, an LJ Friend posted a still of him starkers from Mrs Henderson Presents and someone commented, "That man is so hot I can barely believe he exists." And with his dark goatee and vaguely foreign growl, he may be at an apex of hotness in this picture.
He's basically in every single scene, leaving me in such a constant state of distracted semi-arousal that I scarcely noticed the coherence of the plot or the credibility of the acting. He could've been catching bullets with his teeth and shitting napalm and it would hardly have mattered to me, frankly. That said, there's not much of his trademark nudity on display--just one off-camera scene of bouncy-bouncy that leaves him briefly topless. But for someone traversing a war-torn country with only a backpack and a small duffel, he has an extraordinary number of changes of clothes. Trenchcoat Bob, Wifebeater Bob, Tailored Suit Bob, Army Pullover Bob--they're all here.
Oh yeah, the kid is good, too. I guess. I don't know if their relationship is particularly deftly drawn, since it essentially served me as a vehicle for projecting powerful daddy fantasies. Seriously, I feel like someone took the notes from a month of sessions I had with with a neo-Freudian psychotherapist and used them as the basis for a screenplay. Why does he scour the damn country for the moppet who told him to fuck off when literally any 9 year-old boy with four limbs and most of his wits would do? All that matters is that he does and I'm there to savour the moment of their reunion.
So, sorry, but no apologies for the non-review here. If no credible critic (at least that I could turn up with a Google search) could be arsed to do a proper job on this low-budget flick that apparently no one saw, why should you expect any more of me? Now I've got things to do.
That also makes it impossible for me to critique this with anything approaching the slightest sheen of objectivity because (as I may have mentioned once or twice in this space) I think Bob Hoskins may just be the sexiest man to ever walk the Earth. Years ago now, an LJ Friend posted a still of him starkers from Mrs Henderson Presents and someone commented, "That man is so hot I can barely believe he exists." And with his dark goatee and vaguely foreign growl, he may be at an apex of hotness in this picture.He's basically in every single scene, leaving me in such a constant state of distracted semi-arousal that I scarcely noticed the coherence of the plot or the credibility of the acting. He could've been catching bullets with his teeth and shitting napalm and it would hardly have mattered to me, frankly. That said, there's not much of his trademark nudity on display--just one off-camera scene of bouncy-bouncy that leaves him briefly topless. But for someone traversing a war-torn country with only a backpack and a small duffel, he has an extraordinary number of changes of clothes. Trenchcoat Bob, Wifebeater Bob, Tailored Suit Bob, Army Pullover Bob--they're all here.
Oh yeah, the kid is good, too. I guess. I don't know if their relationship is particularly deftly drawn, since it essentially served me as a vehicle for projecting powerful daddy fantasies. Seriously, I feel like someone took the notes from a month of sessions I had with with a neo-Freudian psychotherapist and used them as the basis for a screenplay. Why does he scour the damn country for the moppet who told him to fuck off when literally any 9 year-old boy with four limbs and most of his wits would do? All that matters is that he does and I'm there to savour the moment of their reunion.
So, sorry, but no apologies for the non-review here. If no credible critic (at least that I could turn up with a Google search) could be arsed to do a proper job on this low-budget flick that apparently no one saw, why should you expect any more of me? Now I've got things to do.