The Onanistic Oeuvre of Oliver Stone
by Kurt SchlichterEven in the vast annals of Hollywood sycophantic suckuppery, the recent UK Guardian profile of Oliver Stone by Carol Cadwalladr is in a class by itself. It is a fawning treatise hailing everything about Ollie, from his unique artistic vision to his unique attitude toward self-love – and, unfortunately, I’m not referring here to his narcissism. Yet this hagiography still provides some intriguing clues about a question that arises every year or so when Stone puts out a movie: Why does this pretentious clown still get taken seriously?
I think it’s because entertainment journalists seem to think he’s hot.
I mean, after all, Stone “is a man’s man… a sort of latter-day Ernest Hemingway, an action man with a reputation for women and drugs who won the Purple Heart for bravery in Vietnam “
Wow, a Purple Heart “for bravery” – glad we have the MSM’s famous layers of fact-checkers and editors hard at work making sure reporters don’t make basic, embarrassing errors. But I digress.
The overriding theme of the profile – and Stone’s own personal narrative – is simply how hunky the auteur is. Whether he’s palling around with Castro and Chavez or simply talking about his Daddy issues – which, trust me, are nowhere near as terrifying as his Mommy issues – we learn that Ollie is all-man, all the time. (more…)







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