THE DUKE ON WIMBELDON
Kirsten - "Loves The Duke, Is What"
This morning what happened is that The Duke woke up sweating,
screaming, eyes wide and so on, the room dark and stinking of
fear and also the stench of genius, most likely.
The reason for it all is that I had a dream wherein Kirsten
Dunst phones me up and she says about yeah, The Duke, what I
want to do is maybe work with you on your next review or
whatever, but first I wanna read your review of my latest
picture, Wimbledon, about I play some tennis.
Obviously, The Dream Duke was just about to tell her where on
the web-net to find this critique, only to remember that fuck
me, man, I didn’t ever write that damn review.
The thought of being denied a chance to let Miss Dunst work with
me at some point in her career, and all because of The Duke’s
diabolical laziness, has therefore propelled me to put pen to
paper, except this is the 24th century or whatever and we don’t
do no stone age shit like that nowadays. What we do is type it
out on a keyboard, and then the words appear on a screen.
The night I went to see Wimbledon, The Duke was having what
could only be described as a motherfucker of a foul day. Even
the time when I came home from Vietnam to find my identity had
been stolen and that Yakuza sons a bitches were whoring out my
family to randy fishermen, even that day was pretty bearable in
comparison to the day when I went to see the new instalment in
The Cinema Of Kirsten Dunst.
Anyway, The Duchess and I were planning to see Collateral, about
Tom Cruise is a hit-man and has grey hair, but it had already
started, so we decided to see the film about Kirsten plays some
tennis, from the folks who made those films about Hugh Grant is
a loveable charmer who stutters a lot and then gets the girl but
then something awful happens, and a big misunderstanding of some
sort, and then it all works out.
So a rancid fuck of an afternoon becomes pregnant with
possibility. What glorious garments of joyous wonder would
Kirsten spin before our very eyes this eve?
First off, Wimbledon is a rarity in the cinema of Kirsten Dunst
thus far; it’s not a quirky, character-driven affair like The
Suicidal Virgins or The Eternal Sunshine or those sorts a
things. Also, it’s not a teen comedy like the one were she has
something to do with a Shakespeare play, or the one where she’s
a cheerleader.
What this is, is the only known example of the rather bloody
dull Kirsten Dunst film. If the character of Kirsten Dunst was
played by, say, Kate Moss, then I can’t think of a single damn
reason why a fella would sit through it, even if it was the only
choice since the Tom Cruise picture started ten minutes ago, you
unpunctual motherfucker.
It seems Wimbledon had started a couple minutes ago too, but I
don’t think we missed much of any real consequence. Maybe at the
start you find out that Kirsten has been killed and left for
dead, and that Wimbledon is just the first instalment in several-
volumes worth of films about how she extracts bloody revenge on
her assailants, the filthy bastards. This first one is obviously
about how she takes revenge by winning lots of games of tennis.
To be fair, though, I think it’d be pretty easy to win some
tennis if the balls were CGI and therefore added in later, as is
the case here.
Anyway, I didn’t see any of that shit, so I’m gonna have to
assume that it didn’t happen. This is also my stance towards the
death of Jimmy Hendrix, The English Civil War, and at least 59%
of D.W. Griffith’s filmography.
The plot develops along the lines of something about Kirsten’s
father is none other than Sam Neil, whom you may remember from
the film about there’s a park with all sorts of dinosaurs and
next thing anyone knows they go mad, and dammit, you shouldn’t
be playing God, is what.
Sam Neil wants Kirsten’s career to carry-on in the manner it has
been doing, ie, she plays lots of tennis and wins all the games,
and gets lots of money.
Enter Love Interest, who runs around trying to convince everyone
that Kirsten would be the least bit interested in him. I mean
come the hell on, he doesn’t even say motherfucker or mention
cannibals in the whole damn film. He does, however, play lots of
tennis, but on account of he’s shite, no-one cares much.
Love Interest and Kirsten hook up, and then loads of stuff
happens, and you wonder will he get the girl, or will Sam Neil
intervene and break it up, since Kirsten’s losing focus, or
maybe a comedy sidekick will appear, like maybe the fella from
Swingers who was also the kickboxing champion of the world in
Friends a few years back.
All this and even less happens, but who the hell gives a fuck?
Whatever Kirsten’s motives for starring in this flick were, we
can at be least 98% sure that they were honourable. Maybe the
studio executives fooled her into thinking it was a film about a
girl tries to find herself and then ends up going out with a
fella who thinks he’s a spider or something. They must’ve told
all sorts of heinous fabrications to get her to agree to this.
Or maybe it was just that the film is set in the United Kingdom,
and she knows that’s where The Duke lives. Maybe that’s what it
was.
Whatever the reason, the film’s rotten, very, very dull and, to
be honest, I can’t remember much of what the hell went on. I
remember Kirsten was marvellous, though.
Thanks folks.
Further Reading
The Motherfucking Cinema Of Kirsten Dunst
Fling The Duke An Email
screaming, eyes wide and so on, the room dark and stinking of
fear and also the stench of genius, most likely.
The reason for it all is that I had a dream wherein Kirsten
Dunst phones me up and she says about yeah, The Duke, what I
want to do is maybe work with you on your next review or
whatever, but first I wanna read your review of my latest
picture, Wimbledon, about I play some tennis.
Obviously, The Dream Duke was just about to tell her where on
the web-net to find this critique, only to remember that fuck
me, man, I didn’t ever write that damn review.
The thought of being denied a chance to let Miss Dunst work with
me at some point in her career, and all because of The Duke’s
diabolical laziness, has therefore propelled me to put pen to
paper, except this is the 24th century or whatever and we don’t
do no stone age shit like that nowadays. What we do is type it
out on a keyboard, and then the words appear on a screen.
The night I went to see Wimbledon, The Duke was having what
could only be described as a motherfucker of a foul day. Even
the time when I came home from Vietnam to find my identity had
been stolen and that Yakuza sons a bitches were whoring out my
family to randy fishermen, even that day was pretty bearable in
comparison to the day when I went to see the new instalment in
The Cinema Of Kirsten Dunst.
Anyway, The Duchess and I were planning to see Collateral, about
Tom Cruise is a hit-man and has grey hair, but it had already
started, so we decided to see the film about Kirsten plays some
tennis, from the folks who made those films about Hugh Grant is
a loveable charmer who stutters a lot and then gets the girl but
then something awful happens, and a big misunderstanding of some
sort, and then it all works out.
So a rancid fuck of an afternoon becomes pregnant with
possibility. What glorious garments of joyous wonder would
Kirsten spin before our very eyes this eve?
First off, Wimbledon is a rarity in the cinema of Kirsten Dunst
thus far; it’s not a quirky, character-driven affair like The
Suicidal Virgins or The Eternal Sunshine or those sorts a
things. Also, it’s not a teen comedy like the one were she has
something to do with a Shakespeare play, or the one where she’s
a cheerleader.
What this is, is the only known example of the rather bloody
dull Kirsten Dunst film. If the character of Kirsten Dunst was
played by, say, Kate Moss, then I can’t think of a single damn
reason why a fella would sit through it, even if it was the only
choice since the Tom Cruise picture started ten minutes ago, you
unpunctual motherfucker.
It seems Wimbledon had started a couple minutes ago too, but I
don’t think we missed much of any real consequence. Maybe at the
start you find out that Kirsten has been killed and left for
dead, and that Wimbledon is just the first instalment in several-
volumes worth of films about how she extracts bloody revenge on
her assailants, the filthy bastards. This first one is obviously
about how she takes revenge by winning lots of games of tennis.
To be fair, though, I think it’d be pretty easy to win some
tennis if the balls were CGI and therefore added in later, as is
the case here.
Anyway, I didn’t see any of that shit, so I’m gonna have to
assume that it didn’t happen. This is also my stance towards the
death of Jimmy Hendrix, The English Civil War, and at least 59%
of D.W. Griffith’s filmography.
The plot develops along the lines of something about Kirsten’s
father is none other than Sam Neil, whom you may remember from
the film about there’s a park with all sorts of dinosaurs and
next thing anyone knows they go mad, and dammit, you shouldn’t
be playing God, is what.
Sam Neil wants Kirsten’s career to carry-on in the manner it has
been doing, ie, she plays lots of tennis and wins all the games,
and gets lots of money.
Enter Love Interest, who runs around trying to convince everyone
that Kirsten would be the least bit interested in him. I mean
come the hell on, he doesn’t even say motherfucker or mention
cannibals in the whole damn film. He does, however, play lots of
tennis, but on account of he’s shite, no-one cares much.
Love Interest and Kirsten hook up, and then loads of stuff
happens, and you wonder will he get the girl, or will Sam Neil
intervene and break it up, since Kirsten’s losing focus, or
maybe a comedy sidekick will appear, like maybe the fella from
Swingers who was also the kickboxing champion of the world in
Friends a few years back.
All this and even less happens, but who the hell gives a fuck?
Whatever Kirsten’s motives for starring in this flick were, we
can at be least 98% sure that they were honourable. Maybe the
studio executives fooled her into thinking it was a film about a
girl tries to find herself and then ends up going out with a
fella who thinks he’s a spider or something. They must’ve told
all sorts of heinous fabrications to get her to agree to this.
Or maybe it was just that the film is set in the United Kingdom,
and she knows that’s where The Duke lives. Maybe that’s what it
was.
Whatever the reason, the film’s rotten, very, very dull and, to
be honest, I can’t remember much of what the hell went on. I
remember Kirsten was marvellous, though.
Thanks folks.
Further Reading
The Motherfucking Cinema Of Kirsten Dunst
Fling The Duke An Email
