Continuing Best For Film’s series of slightly mucky blogs in the run-up to Nymphomaniac‘s release tomorrow, our resident pervert Vincent has rolled up his sleeves and charged fist-first into the unexpectedly lavish castle of erotic inspiration (well, unexpected to everyone but Vincent) that is the Disney canon. Ever wanted to witness a grown man confess to fancying a fox? You’ve come to the right place.
We’re at the point now where, to a certain extent, we know what to expect from Wes Anderson. A charming screenplay, delightful production design, exquisitely composed cinamatography, and a barrel of actors we all wish we could take out for gin. The Grand Budapest Hotel delivers on all counts, as we knew it would, but…
Sex is awful isn’t it? Sweaty rutting that fails to stimulate a beneficial experience greater than the nerves, the physical exertion or the time you could have spent playing Final Fantasy XIV. Hello ladies, why yes I am single. Like most crippling personality defects, revulsion of sex probably stems from cinema. The great sex scenes are bad enough, creating a standard for physical beauty, ambient lighting and stamina that a mortal male could never hope to achieve, but it’s the terrible sex scenes that have really burrowed deep into your psyche.