The studio calls this a “futuristic Casablanca set in the distant future starring a buxom barmaid.” I think a fag must have written that blurb because Pamela Anderson knocks the white bobby socks off Humphrey Bogart.
Lame artsy back-room film aficionados may drool over Humphrey Bogart’s numbskull performance, hacker’s cough and casual disdain of the fairer sex – screw them! – give me a busty broad with style, attitude and legs that go on forever (golden globes to boot) any day of the week.
This flick was made in 1996, back when gays were still firmly in the closet (where they belong) and the femi-nazis hadn’t yet utterly obliterated the sublime, ineffable allure of all things female. Barb Wire is their arch enemy.
This babe (uh-oh, “Don’t you call me babe!” Boom- slam- dish- bah!) puts your teeth on edge worse than fresh spinach. She’s sexier with clothes on than any sagging, silicon centerfold sexpot fully nude and air brushed to perfection.
Barb Wire in black leather is better than hot cream of wheat on a cold winter morning.
This film is set in the future, alright – close enough to the present day. The screenwriter hit it on the nose…
We’re as close as you can get to a second civil war in America. Obama’s jack-legged Nazis control the whole country, stamping out resistance wherever they find it.
That director Bigelow dame (oops! Lady!) just got stiffed for a Golden Globe for her job on Obama’s glorious story “Zero Dark Thirty.” She included a realistic torture scene that has the liberal ass wipes in Hollywood regurgitating their caviar aperitif topped with confectionery cocaine.
“Bar Wire” Bigelow is the only dame in the dark, smoke-filled domain of Hollywood, alright.
Feminism is frappe’, and women are only “with it” who practice reproductive health via the pill, regular abortions, systematic use of the day-after pill and every other femi-nazi-sanctioned means to gut the female reproductive system – Draino, coke, crack, clothes hanger – whatever floats your boat.
Barb Wire is a hard-boiled lady who flaunts her stuff, dances with the lonely soldier boy in her nightclub, adores her blond alcoholic brother more than life itself, respects the law, hates the wieners in Washington, and takes time to enjoy a nice soapy bubble bath when the rest of the world is going straight to hell and back.
If that’s not the ultimate in femininity, then I don’t know what is.
Thanks, Barb. You’re a keeper.
