Humourless Marxist Reviews: La La Land

lalaland

La La Land is a film about two bourgeois artists seeking apolitical success in the landscape of the post-2008 global financial crisis Los Angeles, and their oppressor nation heterosexual romance, and also there is some song and dance.

You would think Worker’s Spatula, a brutally honest Marxist-Leninist news source which starts every conversation about US politics with a statement about the centrality of national liberation movements against such parasitic class and national elements, would have no time for such flights of bourgeois fancy. You would think we wouldn’t like this film.

But you would be motherfucking wrong, comrade. Because Ryan Gosling is a Grade A dialectician, and has only acted in films which are in some sense designed to teach the masses about dialectics, ever since our people got the script for Half Nelson to his agent all those years ago.

Gosling, a real Hegelian, realer than that fraud Žižek for sure, only accepted this script because his character got to talk about jazz in a way that is but a transparent veneer for his real intended message, that things are always in motion, always changing, guided by internal processes which we characterise as “contradictions”. Gosling, a proper Marxist, only accepted the script because his character’s attack on the “samba-tapas” restaurant was clearly intended to explain the inevitability of the commodification of all things under capitalism.

Gosling, a philosopher king, would never act in a film, bourgeois or otherwise, that didn’t include such a magnificently dialectical conclusion as the final scene of La La Land, which we encourage you all to pirate and watch with your Hegel reading groups.

Apart from the unavoidable critique of its lack of overt themes of national liberation and class struggle in the largest city in Aztlán, and of course its lack of a groundbreaking approach to gender politics onscreen, our only substantial criticism of this film, extremely entertaining and dialectical for a Hollywood production, is that we did not even for one moment get to glimpse Ryan Gosling’s bumhole.

This particular factor was not only disappointing because the audience wants to see Ryan Gosling’s bumhole. It was disappointing because the audience needs to see Ryan Gosling’s bumhole. This unfulfilled longing haunts the viewer from the moment Gosling’s face is first shown onscreen until the credits are rolled.

Gosling’s bumhole could have been worked into the film any number of ways. It could’ve been snuck in during the credits, like the penis at the end of Fight Club, for which our team of reviewers waited anxiously after everyone else had left the cinema. It could’ve been worked in during Gosling’s predictable onscreen relationship with Emma Stone, with the latter prying it open with her fingers.

More daringly, perhaps Gosling’s bumhole could’ve been featured in an act of homosexual penetration. Or even more daringly, perhaps we could’ve simply been treated to a shot of Gosling defecating with a camera in the toilet, as his bumhole opened up to let out his excrement.

None of these options were apparently seriously considered by the studio, or if they were, they were foolishly prevented from finding their way into the final cut. More than the whitewashing of gender, national, or class relations in Los Angeles, this choice speaks to the disgusting lack of bravery on the part of director Damien Chazelle. Shame on you, Damien Chazelle. Shame on you.

Perhaps even this glaring oversight could be ignored if there had been a shot of Gosling’s urethra, or perhaps simply some close-up shots of his skin pores opening and closing, but alas, even this is too much to ask from the bourgeois hacks who waste Gosling’s amazing talents in the hollow pursuit of profits.

I hate Damien Chazelle and everything he stands for. I hope he gets hit by a bus. No matter how much I and the rest of the team enjoyed La La Land, nothing can fill in the hole left by the absence of Gosling’s hole in that film. Even a written apology clearly stained with Chazelle’s tears and with several photographs or even video footage of Gosling’s anus attached cannot make up for this slight, nay, this affront against art.

Go fuck yourself, Damien Chazelle.

Good film otherwise though.

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