Pansy
Man
What is it about real man movies that makes them truly transcendent of all that is badassness? The score. The music. The sweeping, triumphant vehicles of harmonal ecstasy upon which we are raised to the heights of triumphant harmonal ecstasy. Or something. Why on earth would I waste my time with a movie propelled by such duds as Lulu's tearjerking song about growing up or something as bombastic and trite as Mozart's "Gran Partita" when I could be getting my movie ass-kickin' on to such gems of melodic wisdom, fire-lightin', and tire-kickin' as "Ooh-Ahh" and "Big Money Talk"? RECOGNIZE, BROHEIM!
But let us move on to the Man Movie of the Scholar. The film for the Warrior-Poet. The talkies, if you will, for the guy who is just as at home with his pipe and a well-worn copy of The DaVinci Code as he is at The Rockin' Taco Cantina, belting out endless choruses of "What's My Age Again?" delivered by dueling pianos, finishing off the night by beating the shit out of the guy who had the balls to smile at his girlfriend.
Warrior-Poet, Son
These defenders of the American Family are students of films like Troy, Gladiator, and Pathfinder. They don't just watch these celluloid scrolls of ancient wisdom, they live them. They feed off of them, taking in the teatmilk of strength and valor they need to do battle on the plains of money market investing and yacht sales. And believe you me when I tell you it's the music that truly captures their souls and ensnares their hearts with the puma-trap that is divinity.
The music of the culturally-ambiguous-period-epic-romantic-drama-disguised-as-warfare movie.
It is glorious music meant only for the gloriously-minded. It can only be appreciated by a man who can fully grasp the weight and import of Royal Shakespeare Company member, Commander of the order of the British Empire recipient, and Laurence Olivier Theatre Award holder Brian Cox delivering such ripe fruits of depth as "The Gods only protect the strong."
I Swear This Role was Not Beneath You, Revered Actor Who Played Dr. Nelson Guggenheim and Uncle Argyle
It's truly awe-inspiring to know that concepts of courage, honor, integrity, and terrorist-killing can all be transmitted through pounding, primitive-sounding drums, vaguely Bedouin melodies played on instruments which sound as if they were cobbled together from palm leaves and camel sinews, soaring strings that impeccably meld quasi-Celtic and para-Arabian orchestration, and, of course, the impossible-to-denounce-as-not-truly-Middle-Eastern-vocal-undulations-because-hey-like-anyone-watching-will-know-the-difference vocal undulations produced by some on-the-payroll soprano. I mean, this stuff is the shizzz! But don't just take my word for it; one internet pundit writes, "Gladiator is without a doubt the finest collection of music on one CD that I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. The music has a way of bringing you into it." I mean, that is HEAVY. DEEP. HEAVY and DEEP. Like our Mother, the vast Mediterranean, or something.
The Finest Collection of Music on One CD
Trite Pap
