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I have an elitist attitude towards mainstream Hollywood cinema.  I always come out of the theater complaining that the movie was not intelligent enough; not real enough; not thought-provoking enough; not nuanced enough etc. etc.

 

 

My friends say I have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to mainstream cinema; that my views have become deeply distorted related to cinema; that anything related to sane and wholesome entertainment escapes my warped sensibilities.

They laugh that my taste in movies borders on being quixotic, surreal, distorted, kinky and torturous for them.  My dossier of recent indie movies include lesbians making out in an oppressed foreign land, their passion expressed in sub-titles; a man fully masturbating in front of his mother, a sort of Oedipus complex; primitive stoning of a woman where her extreme pain and anguish is expressed in sub-titles.

 

Based on this premise, at most times I am a solitary figure at the movie theater devoid of any company.  I am a forsaken indie film buff!

I do enjoy the stark realism of indie films.  I enjoy the depiction of nuanced emotions embedded deep within the psyche–emotions that only several years of Freudian therapy can bring to the surface.  I enjoy the honest portrayal of psychoses, complexes and neuroses that most of us have, but hide from even ourselves.  Such psychological disorders in their stark nakedness are brought to the surface by brave indie directors.  I like the lack of glamour, the chapped lips, the “bitten to the bed nails” and the bedraggled hair—all illustrating palpable realism.

Lately I have been on a spree of watching indie films.  I saw the Iranian lesbian flick called Circumstance; Michal Fassbender as the deeply disturbed sex-addict in Shame; an Iranian son trying to take care of his dad with Alzheimer’s’ while going through a divorce in A Separation and Tilda Swinton playing a desperate mother to a sociopathic killer in We Need to Talk About Kevin.

I have come out of the theaters deeply depressed and melancholic.  The movies leave me with a lingering despondency for several days.  Of course, since the movies are well-made with intricate plots, they are hard to brush off and forget like mainstream cinema.  I analyze and re-live the movies spiraling into an abyss of somber pensiveness.

Imagine the extreme sense of loneliness one would feel if at Christmas you are eating alone an over-cooked dry piece of turkey in a lonely diner with a flashing neon sign named “EAT” in the window, except the letter “E” has short fuse and does not flash.

Imagine the plight of a mother whose sociopath teenage son takes a sick delight in masturbating in front of his mother.

Imagine two young girls living an oppressed life in Iran, but find solace in each other’s arms, except that one of the girls is married to the brother of the other girl.

Imagine, a sexual addiction being so overpowering that it prevents you from ever having a meaningful relation in your entire life, I mean ever!

You get the point right?  The despair, drudgery, hopelessness, agony, existential angst that is the essence of most plots of indie films.

Cinema is escapism.  It is entertainment.  It takes us away from our lives for a few hours and transports us to another world.  However, if the make believe world of cinema not only mirrors, but magnifies the shortcomings of real life, it ceases to be escapism and at some point becomes painfully torturous.  It becomes an affirmation of the misery in the world, the wretchedness of human existence.

Life is hard enough.  At most times it is a struggle.  Do we really need a confirmation of its trials and tribulations magnified on a 40 feet celluloid screen for a whole uninterrupted two hours?

I will always be an indie film loyalist.  But for the sake of sanity, I may become a temporary Hollywood neophyte.

 

 

A walk down the lingerie department of any store shows the “weight” that is placed on big breasts.  There is a head-spinning variety of chest contraptions designed for the sole purposes of “enhancing,” “lifting,” “enlarging,” and “amplifying,” the female bosom.  Words that conjure up images of torture at a concentration camp are used such as inserts, adhesives and tapes.  There is even a bra named “dramatic/extreme lift.”  I call it a neck-a-boo, the merger of the boob and neck!

Descriptive culinary words such as “cutlets” are used to achieve the décolletage effect that is apt to describe the ample bosom of culinary goddess Nigella Lawson.

Plastic surgeons are laughing their way to the bank by performing multiple enlargements, enhancements and pronouncements per day.  Breast enlargements have become so ubiquitous that you see hoardings and billboards of women laboriously stooping on the expressways flaunting toll free numbers of such clinics; strip malls have breast enhancement clinics alongside of take-away Chinese dim-sum; magazines are splattered with ads for procedures at throw-away prices with very little to no downtime.  To add legitimacy to such procedures articles are written as to how breast enlargements can lead to elevation of the self-esteem, self-confidence and self-worth.

YouTube has videos demonstrating a whopping Nine Steps to breast enhancement!!  How could it possibly take 9 steps, I mean squeeze, push and voila va-va-voom!!

The old trick-of-the-trade of stuffing toilet paper down your bra for a cheap, non-intrusive lift continues to flourish.

Women’s vernacular consists of phrases such as “filling the dress,”  “creating an hourglass silhouette” “perking it up” etc. etc.

There are many facets from which a blog on flat-chested versus “enhanced” chested women can be discussed.  However, I will limit my discussion within the parameters of fashion.  If enhanced breasts are appealing to you for “lifting” your spirits, “enhancing” your self-esteem or “enlarging” your ego, then Bon Grandes!!

Time for a disclaimer here.  Some of you may be thinking right about now that this is a “case of sour grapes” blog for me.  Maybe, I the writer of this blog has always brewed a deep-seated resentment for the well-endowed woman due to my biological misfortune of “inability to fill my dress.”  Let me reassure my critics, this is not the case.  I have always been big-chested and believe me I still find the grapes to be sour!!

 

The irony is that these “enhanced women” tend to idolize women who are themselves flat-chested!!  Most women look at fashion magazines, runway shows and models as an inspiration for beauty and fashion.  Flip through any magazine or watch any runway show and you will see model after model with a pancake chest, displaying the latest styles and trends.  Fashion runways are strewn with flat-chested models walking sullenly down the ramp.

To add to the irony, most of the large-chested models you may see on the runway or in magazines are usually associated with eroticism and definitely not with style or fashion.  Most of such “enhanced women” are either posing for some erotic product such as condoms or in politically correct terms for products related to  “horizontally challenged” women.  I am sure this is not the effect the fashionable woman is aiming for.

Interestingly, most fashion designers opt only for flat-chested models.  The fashion industry lauds flat-chested women.  They are an indispensable and integral part of fashion houses.  The primary reason is that these women carry off the clothes better than big-chested women. Flat-chested women look modern; they look fashionable and uber stylish.  My point is further endorsed by the fact that I have never ever seen a big-chested girl walk down the Grand Palais runway for the Chanel show, or have seen one in a cerebral Prada dress or in a convoluted pose for a Marc Jacobs spread. Now in all fairness, high-end designers do want stick-thin models and unless you defy the norms of nature, it will be an oxymoron to be stick thin and also have big breasts.

I personally have never ever understood the lure flat-chested women have for big breasts.  Maybe indeed it is a case of sour grapes.  In my opinion big breasts are not fashionable or stylish.  They can be erotic, seductive, sexy but significantly hinder your fashion and style choices.

Most clothes do not fit well on big-busted women.  They are fashion-restrictive.  They hamper a full exploration of fashion as the styles  are limited.  You are limited to only a few types of necklines and silhouettes, unless you want to walk around looking like you are perpetually ready for an audition for the Playgirl magazine.  Stylish, edgy clothing is not designed for big-chested women.  Buttons pop constantly and you have to have a limitless supply of safety pins for security purposes.

In addition they even put a damper on enjoyment.  Dance moves are limited to avoid looking like a clip from Girls Gone Wild.  Sports and aerobics in particular require extreme contraptions.

To top it all, big breasts add weight to the overall frame and no fashionable woman wants that!

In the end, all my blogs return to the running theme of conformity.  Conformity dictates being big-breasted; non-conformity states shun the rules.  If you are blessed with being flat-chested enjoy it and consider yourself in the elite group of the likes of Kate Moss and Karlie Kloss.