The Yao Stays in the Picture
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Exciting news from the Gossip Desk! Following last week's epochal incites, we have been so inundated with calls, emails, and crudely fashioned death threats, that we were unable to completely fact check this weekz column! Look for more incites next week, but for now, please, readers, KEEP THOSE LETTERS COMING!
Meanwhile our good friend Robert Evanz, the head of Paramount Studios from 1967-1983, was willing to step in this week and write a review of 2004's hottest entry into the sports-doc market, a bit of post-Dziga-Vertov whimsy that is currently burning up student run pan-asian cineplexes and local Hollywood Video MVP cards, The Year of the Yao! Thanks BOB!
ROBERT EVANS REVIEWS "YEAR OF THE YAO"
Everyone in Hollywood knows that a Bob Evans production is the quintessential experience in high class, but lately, something has felt wrong. Here I am sitting in the lap of luxury, only luxury's got a 10-inch erection and I forgot to bring my inflatable hemorrhoid pillow. What's the problem Kid Notorious? Where's the itch that needs a scratch?
Turns out I'm being seduced yet again by my favorite mistress - risk. That's right, she's telling me it's time to throw the dice, because when the nation's most esteemed sports bloggers come by to Woodland to kiss the ring and beg you to review The Year of the Yao, a gambler like me just can't resist such crazy odds.
"I'll do it."
"Thank you Mr. Evans."
"Call me Kid," I say. "Only don't confuse me with Jason Kidd, because when I slap my woman, she damn well keeps her mouth shut."
But that's just bluster, believe me. I'd never hit a lady. For me the game is purely touch football, no rough stuff, at least not until you've signed her to a five picture deal just north of scale and she knows you're the man who made it happen. Granted, all bets are off if she does something crazy, like tell you her connection in Van Nuys has run dry of the pleasure powder and that the FBI has been tapping this deadbeat's phone for the past two months. But that's when you call Charlie Bluhdorn and tell him Cotton Club isn't the only runaway production begging Paramount Studios for a one-way ticket to disappear-ville, you've got a first class package with killer legs and a broken neck that needs immediate delivery to the bottom of the Puddingstone reservoir.
Sorry Charlie, I guess they can't all be Love Story.
Ain't that the truth. Take this Yao film for instance. The kid who played the big Jap was very convincing, first rate stuff. I doubt Polanski himself could have done better. That's right, Polanski the actor. I always thought it was a shame the little Polock never hit it big as a leading man in America. In Europe he's as well known for being a movie star as he is in America for screwing a 14 year old. Just goes to show you can make a fortune and then some for Gulf and Western, and the Academy still won't give you your due.
Me, I know first hand how lady luck can go down on you like a velvet curtain and then vanish right before show-time, leaving your balls as blue as Margaux Hemingway's eyes and your heart in your throat as you jack off into a coffee cup at one of those Spanish-language rest stops you find on the Pacific Coast Highway 100 miles south of tinsel town.
It hurts, sure, but chalk it up to the cost of doing business. And every good businessman knows that in Hollywood you can always find an eager queer with a box full of Polaroids and a head full of dreams, if that's your style. But I've got some pride, sailor. I won't fuck a man unless it's good for business. The ladies on the other hand, that's always for pleasure. Golden time every time. Just ask Ali McGraw, the most beautiful woman in the world, at least before Steve McQueen spoiled the party.
So if these young turks of sports journalism think it's going to be an easy ride to easy street just because Robert Evans is behind the wheel, they've got another thing coming. It's always about the bottom line and the bottom line is always green.
With that in mind, let me tell you what this film is in a nutshell: "Giant Chinaman plays sport and underwhelms at every turn." Replace "Giant Chinaman" with "short prissy jew," and "plays sport" with "makes films," and you have the life of Peter Bogdanovich. And who the hell would want to sit through two hours of that?