Akerman had me going! Oh man, she was being so subtle with the potatoes and the mailbox, shoot, I thought I might be in the presence of an artiste! She had me googling "Jeanne Dielman song, radio"--it was a clue, and I bet it was! But then Junior's fucking monologue.
Take my cat Eleven. Please (da-dum). Crazy girl. Which made her vicious, unprovoked, unpredictable attack on me so shocking. Now I really don't know what she's going to do, I don't know what's going on in that little feline brain. I can't think like a cat, at least not a female cat. So today, horny as a motherfucker, rubbing on me, not leaving my side, she was sitting on my desk. In the afternoon. When she's supposed to be asleep. And she was perfectly still, which she also never is. And was sitting there inches from my face looking directly in my eyes. She has never done that before. For like, no lie, 60 secs. At first, "Aw", she likes me. At second, "friend or foe?" With one swipe of her razor paw she could have nicked my carotid and I would have bled out right where I'm sitting. At third, I noticed her yawn once and she was not perfectly still, she was swaying almost imperceptibly, but definitely. Finally, "She's so tired she's woozy," and picked her up and took her into the bedroom and lay down with her. She went right to sleep.
Now Ackerman. Now feminists. This is a feminist film? A film about a woman who seems normal to everyone around her who goes nuts and offs a customer of her chosen profession. And now Akerman goes and fucks up this monument to feminism by providing reason and accountability. And what reason? Oh: God! Morality. Human empathy. Victimhood. You're not insane if you have a reason, Akerman! Eleven's here, I gotta go.
