Megan Fox adjusts her "talent" before their next scene.

1. Dear Hollywood: Stop The Age Discrimination

Age discrimination is a problem in Hollywood. Seriously, what is the fascination with jamming twenty-somethings into every role? It doesn’t work. These young girls simply don’t have the maturity or the depth to play the parts of women. It strains credibility beyond the breaking point when they cast some silicon enhanced girl to play the nuclear scientist or the head of a corporation or. . . well, any woman in a position of authority. I know powerful women, professional women, and women with a great deal of maturity, and none of them look or act anything like Hollywood seems to think.

And please stop casting girls as the wives of old, old, old male actors. It’s creepy. Teri Garr and Richard Dreyfuss worked in Close Encounters because they looked like a couple. Septuagenarian Harrison Ford married to Megan Fox doesn’t. Not only can we not see them getting together in the first place, but we can’t see them as a “normal, loving couple.” Instead, the words “gold digger” and “cradle robber” and even “grave robber” come to mind. And holy cow, stop casting “mothers” who are only a year or two older than their movie “daughters.” Was there a plague in Hollywood that wiped out all the women over 40?

2. Dear Hollywood: Stop Cloning Actresses

Hollywood also needs to end its cloning experiments. It needs to stop rejecting actresses if they have the slightest trace of individuality or if their bone structure is 1% off the model. Seriously, this makes it impossible to cast people who look the part. Forget the nuclear scientist mentioned above, what about the average waitress or the mother of three or the cop? Real women don’t look, act or dress like Malibu Strip Club Barbie™. This is the female equivalent of casting only musclemen as extras, and is again kinda creepy.

"We are the Borg. We are ready for our close up."

More importantly, by casting clones, Hollywood guarantees that few modern actresses will be memorable because it’s the distinct actors we remember. Indeed, few of the top male actors fall into the “pretty boy” category. Outside of a Redford, a DiCaprio, or a Cruise, few leading men look anything like male models. Bogart was a small man with a crooked face and a lisp. Stallone looks like he lost a fight with a blender. Bruce Willis beat the blender, but it took 12 rounds. Jack Nicholson is the blender. How about James Cagney, DeNiro, Bill Murray, Charles Bronson, Steven McQueen, Clive Owen, Benicio Del Toro, Alan Rickman, Adrien Brody, Daniel Day-Lewis, Dustin Hoffman, Tommy Lee Jones, Richard Dreyfuss, etc. . . not a standard profile in the bunch. And when you get into character actors, the defects and distinctions multiply. . . Steve Buscemi anyone?

I’ll bet you could visualize each of these men as you read the names. Why? Because these men are memorable. They weren’t cast because they are pretty to look at, they were cast because they are distinct — they stand out both in looks and personality.

Believe it or not, the same thing has always been true with the great actresses as well. Look at the actresses we remember. Few of them can be called “classic beauties”: Lauren Bacall was rather butch, as was Katharine Hepburn, and is Sigourney Weaver. Lucille Ball was hardly a looker. Sophia Loren and Julie Andrews were beautiful, but not in a beauty queen sort of way. Loren was gorgeous and wild. Andrews had “girl next door” beauty. Betty Davis, Barbara Eden and Angela Lansbury all looked 60 the moment they were born. We remember these actresses because they stood out, i.e. because they were different. What’s more, we feel we know them because their personalities come across so strongly on the screen.

Now tell me how many of these you can visualize: Scarlet Johansson, Kate Hudson, Rosie Whitely, Cate Blanchett, Elisha Cuthbert, Rachel McAdams, Kristen Stewart, Jessica Biel, and Elizabeth Shue Banks. I doubt most people could pick them out of a line up and none of them have memorable personalities. In fact, most actresses today are so interchangeable that I wonder if anyone would notice if you swapped a couple out in the middle of the film. . . “hey, weren’t you blonder before?” And even when they do stand out, it’s usually for the wrong reasons: Megan Fox. . . idiot, Lindsay Lohan. . . train wreck, Anne Hathaway. . . bleached by aliens.

Unfortunately, because Hollywood is looking purely for beauty, they aren’t finding great actresses anymore. To me, the test of a great actor/actress is whether or not they could have taken on a great role. For example, could any of the actor/actresses listed above replace any of the guys in Glengarry Glen Ross? The male actors listed above could have done it. Hepburn, Bacall, Weaver, Davis, Eden and Lansbury could have done it. . . Julie Andrews, probably not. But what about the modern actresses just listed? Don’t make me laugh. Nor could any of them have taken over for Bacall in To Have and Have Not or Hepburn in The African Queen. Sure, they can all take over Megan Fox’s role in Transformers or whoever’s role in the next romantic comedy, but that’s about it.

3. Dear Hollywood: Stop Lying About Strong Roles

Finally, we come to the issue of strong roles. Hollywood actresses have complained for some time about a lack of strong roles for women in Hollywood. I think their complaints are valid. But Hollywood doesn’t know how to fix the problem. So instead, they try to redefine the problem. Now we’re told about an El Guapo-like plethora of strong roles involving action heroines. But this is nothing but el toro kaka public relations.

Imagine you are a director and you want your daughter to have a “strong role” in your film. Here you are describing the role: “Basically, you put on a tight leather cat suit and some S&M gear. Then you run around shooting at people and flashing your chest and your butt. I will collect money from men who will reeeally enjoy watching you jiggle and bounce across the screen. Sound good pumpkin?”

"For an extra $10, I'll do an empowerment table dance."

Hollywood apparently sees no problem with this, as that pretty much describes most roles given to female action stars. But how is this a strong role? These women are acting out an adolescent male sexual fantasy. They might as well be in Hustler.

A strong role is one you would be proud to let people watch. It involves playing a character that either brings out strong emotions in the audience or it involves being the kind of person people respect. That means using your wits and maintaining your moral code in the face of adversity and pressure to surrender. It means overcoming the obstacles you face through strength of character. The leather-clad dominatrixes and slinky spies are not demonstrating some strength of character within themselves, they’re selling sex.

Mommas don’t let your daughters grow up to be actresses. . .

Am I right? What actresses would you say are great? And don’t you find it a little bit strange that a place as liberal as Hollywood would be so openly sexist and ageist? Hmmm.

Good grief, I would’ve had more respect for the National Organization for Women (not a high bar) had they just said nothing. Via Caroline May at The Daily Caller:

Note the progressive buzzwords:  “reverse racism,” which I never mentioned and is a silly concept (racism is racism, no matter from whom), and “scary Black people,” which I never mentioned either, yet seems to be the default spin thrown at Andrew Breitbart for pointing out racism in the NAACP.  The point of the article was that comments and actions which would have drawn the ire of the NAACP if made by white entertainers (can you imagine the response if Lady Gaga made a video where she wore a pointed hood and rallied a mob with torches and lead pipes?) were ignored when they were made by black entertainers—entertainers lauded at the Image awards. 

As some in the comments suggested, however, these entertainers cannot be racist, because racism is not about race but about power; only whites can be racist because only whites have the power to oppress.  Ridiculous as that is, let’s just assume that it’s correct for the sake of argument.  So if it’s not wrong for Ice Cube to refer to white people as his “enemy” and to rap about shooting white people– since as a black man, he cannot oppress a white man—is it wrong for Ice Cube (an Image award recipient) to rap, “Fuck and get up is how I do them stank hoes”?  Regardless of race, the Left cannot deny that men are still in a position to oppress women (just ask about Clarence Thomas), and the NAACP has been woefully silent on the open advocacy of misogyny and sexual violence amongst its Image award nominees and winners.

Discussing sexism in rap is nothing new; I won’t linger.  But do check out this analysis by Edward G. Armstrong.  It’s old, but it’s thorough.  And there are a few egregious examples to focus on:  if you can stomach it, read the lyrics to “Giving up the Nappy Dugout” by Ice Cube, and keep in mind that all of this Polanski-esque perversion is a fantasy involving a 17-year old (he states, “I know she’s a minor and it is illegal, but the bitch is worse than Vanessa del Rio”).  Also note that, with many of the examples I gave of Image awards being given to entertainers with racist lyrics, their nominations were for other works of art.  However, in 2002, Ja Rule won an Image award for his song “Living It Up,” which states, “Half the hoes hate them, half of them love me / The ones that hate me only hate me ‘cause they ain’t fucked me.”  And finally, consider the case of Nelly’s 2008 song “Tip Drill,” whose music video features the artist sliding a credit card through a woman’s buttocks.

The NAACP has said nothing to criticize the debasement of women in these songs.  However, have no fear.  They really hit it out of the park with that Hallmark card that warns black holes that a recent graduate is going to be successful in life.  They’ve got this violence against women thing down pat.

But criticizing rap is old hat, you may say.  That’s just part and parcel of a subculture that has nothing to do with the NAACP (despite their Image awards given to woman-objectifying rappers).  Touche, progressives.  I submit to your superior logic.  But what about Image award recipients and hosts whose sexism has been ignored by the NAACP?

D.L. Hughley, the 2008 host of the Image Awards, said to Maryline Blackburn, who beat out Sarah Palin for Miss Alaska, discussed Palin’s performance in the 2008 Vice Presidential debate on his CNN show.  When Blackburn said Palin became a good public speaker through beauty pageants, Hughley suggested, “If you had a thong and couldn’t talk, you would still get my vote.”  Black commentator tells a black woman her underwear is more important than her thoughts:  no comment from the NAACP.

Spike Lee was honored with the Hall of Fame award at the 2003 Images.  Lee’s depiction of women has long been considered misogynistic, from his exploitative nude scene with Rosie Perez in Do the Right Thing (her words, not mine) and his 2004 film She Hate Me which depicted a throng of lesbian couples paying the film’s protagonist 10 grand to impregnate them (and not through clinical sperm donation).

And, you’ll love this:  in 2001, Bill Clinton– the textbook case of a politician using sexual harassment to control women—was given the President’s Award.

Silence on racism, awards given to racists.  Silence on sexism, awards given to sexists.  Accusing non-racists and non-sexists of racism and sexism with no evidence whatsoever.  This is the modern NAACP.  How does this fulfill their titular goal of advancing people of color?

Tonight’s awesome line-up:
the great John Gibson!
the delightful Juliet Huddy
the awesome Carrie Keagan!
the fierce and incisive Congressman Steve Kingston
Tomorrow: Felix Dennis.
Yes, the man who fired me more times than Steinbrenner did Billy Martin!

I go to bed full of hate and wake up the same.  I hate blacks, Hispanics, gays, women, abortion doctors, liberals, Lefties, Democrats, you name ‘em, I hate ‘em if they’re not like me. I especially hate President Obama for being black. Just ask Janeane Garofalo, although being a Stalinist Socialist doesn’t help Obama’s cause any with me. Fact is, Obama could be a GOP Michael Steele Uncle Tom, and I’d still hate him even more than liberals hate Steele. Skin color trumps all. Thank God I was born the right color, or I’d probably kill myself. Wait, the hoods are dry! Be right back.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Joe is my hero and role model, Archie Bunker a distant second, Ted Nugent a close third. I have posters of all of them lining my walls, alongside such conservative Republican heroes as Dick Cheney, George W. Bush, Richard Nixon, Adolf Hitler and Darth Vader.

I used to have one of Robert C. Byrd, but he lost me when he left the Klan and became the Conscience of the Senate. Whatever that means. Didn’t know the Senate had one. But I never understood that. How can a white guy in good conscience leave the Klan? But I digress.

I have a mega-gun collection and a huge stockpile of hollow-point Teflon-coated ammo that’s just itching to be used. Haven’t decided yet on which abortion doctor I’m going to target next. Maybe I’ll just go down to the border and shoot brownskins for sport. dHs, sToP mE BefORe I KilL aGAiN!

And though I really hate homos like the Good Book says I should, I spend a lot of my free time cruising aiport rest rooms and tapping footsies like Larry Craig. If I’m lucky, I’ll get some real teabagging in. If not, I’ll try to get some in at my local Tea Party. Of course, my shotgun wedding Handmaid’s Tale wife with the nice tooth doesn’t know about any of this. She’s usually home watching Jerry Falwell and the “700 Club” most of the day, and role-plays being Sarah Palin for me at night. Is that kinky or what? God, I love my wife! Would never be unfaithful to her with another woman.

As to being with other men, well, nobody in the GOP’s perfect. But it beats being a liberal! Except for the part where they get away with murder, and we get stoned for jaywalking.

Our favorite day is Sunday, named after our favorite radical fire-and-brimstone preacher Billy Sunday. We sing hymns like ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ and wash ourselves clean in the Lord. Really necessary for me. A conservative Republican can get real dirty during the GOP workweek. Good thing my wife’s family is rich. Her toothless redneck dad gave us a beat up ‘78 Ford pickup with NASCAR and confederate flag bumper stickers and an Easy Rider rifle rack. Pride of the Bayou!

I want war. Lots of it. Want the economy to get a boost? Works every time! Bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran! Of course, in the interest of disclosure, I must confess to being a consultant for Blackwater, Halliburton, the Carlyle Group and Big Oil. And so what if we all staged 9/11? Made a ton of dough and dusted enough Islamist ragheads to fill the new Yankee Stadium, didn’t we?

Liberals are such pussies! And screw Global Warming! I WANT the world to burn! Only then can Jesus bring Paradise to earth. Speaking of which, where’s that landing strip for Christ in Yosemite National Park James Watt put on order? Days are gettin’ short! And don’t forget, Jesus is white, and might is right. I’m sorry, what was the problem with slavery again?

Actually, I have to confess yet again. All the above is only what I aspire to be, i.e. the best GOPer Repug Nazi I can be. Like most mortals, I fall far short of my goals and dreams. I don’t even own a gun or hollow-point Teflon-coated ammo, but I support the Second Amendment, which is just as bad. May as well be a co-conspirator with Scott Roeder and James von Brunn.

I detest the corrupt Mengele-like genocidal statutory rape-hiding abortion industry that needs reform even more than Iran’s government, but support a woman’s LEGAL right to choose. It’s the law. Until and unless it’s overturned, what can you do? Shoot up clinics? Ya, in my Rethug dreams!

I’m really not a bathroom footsie player, or like cock and hairy ass in general. But gay marriage is legal in my home state of New Hampshire and I haven’t been sodomized yet, so live and let live. What can I say, I’m weak. And even though as a six-year veteran I believe in General Douglas MacArthur’s axiom that “no one hates war more than the soldier,” sometimes they just gotta be fought if civilization as we know it must survive. Be it a cold war with the Russians or hot ones with Hitler and bin Laden, the dirty deeds must be done. And without quarter until victory is complete.

Fight a war to the end or don’t fight it. You can’t do both. One way assures victory, the other defeat. The Art of Fighting Without Fighting doesn’t work with the abu Musab al-Zarqawis of this world.

Worst of all? I was born and raised in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Now THAT’S a confession! How can I ever face my conservative redneck Republican sister-banging moonshine-guzzling Zionist drinking buddies at the NRSC and AIPAC again?

I put it all on the table, people. Now, if only liberal Democrat lefties would freely admit to all the world that they’re all hypocritical, mentally disordered, drug-addled, tree-hugging, America-hating, nihilist anarchist recruiting office-bombing, terrorist and dictator-loving, tinfoil hat, limp-wrist pansy spoiled brat full-grown trust fund Stalinist toddlers who couldn’t get gangbanged by the Green Bay Packers hard or fast enough (practice squads included), maybe we’ll get somewhere in this country.

I seek progress, not perfection. We can all sit down together and have one big ideological circle jerk. Get it out of our systems, you know? Hey, we’re all Americans here! Confession is good for the soul. Or your metaphysical, Pagan or Wiccan existential plane of being, depending on your religious or non-religious proclivities and inclinations.

God, I feel so good now. Got it all out. Okay, let’s hear it in the comments section now. No holding back. That includes you, Unrighteous Bubba and Cognitive Dissonant. Tell us about all the kinky things you like to do with tinfoil, Vaseline and vacuum cleaners while watching sick online German porn in your mothers’ basements

This past Friday, my wife and I picked up the kids from their Catholic grade school in Alexandria, Virginia.  As the two girls were being dropped at a friend’s house for the day, we decided (on the spur of the moment) to surprise the boy with a trip to the movies.  We figured “Land of the Lost” would be harmless enough for an eleven-year-old boy and might provide a few laughs for the adults.

All you need to know is that I was compelled to ask, “What the heck is this rated?” within the first five minutes of the movie.  Kids, this was not your father’s “Land of the Lost.”  I might have only been about my son’s age when the Sid & Marty Krofft TV show was a Saturday morning staple 30 years ago, but I am 100% sure that I would have remembered it if one of the characters had dropped the F-Bomb. 

For 45 minutes, we sat and squirmed and waited for the laughs to come.  Instead, we were treated to the little ape man Chaka repeatedly fondling the heroine’s breasts, the dirty sidekick getting hot over two Slestaks of unknown gender preparing to, in his words, “tap that ass,” an extended homoerotic drug scene involving the two male leads and Chaka, and our hero Will Ferrell letting loose with the aforementioned F-Bomb as in “F#!k you, Chaka.”  By the way, the movie is rated PG-13.  My wife and I were shocked that for the sheer abundance of sexual references, filthy language and breast fondling, it didn’t merit a solid R from the MPAA.

As the parents, we were faced with a dilemma — how best to handle this delicate situation.  The theater was packed with teenagers.  Our son must have already felt a little embarrassed to arrive with Mom and Dad.  To get up and leave might have been worse than grinding it out.  I know some of you more perfect parents are thinking, “What dilemma? I’d have stormed out at the first dirty word!”  But I’ll hazard a guess that you also would not have been thinking that at 11 years old, your kids are hearing and seeing worse on the school bus.  And since we’ve established that our kids (like their parents before them) hear it on the bus or in the cafeteria or in the dugout, then you must accept the possibility that your kids have uttered a few of these choice words themselves. It’s what they think about it all that counts.  That’s where the parenting comes in.

At any rate, I kept a close eye on my boy.  He’s a smart kid.  We talk about these things at home.  We talk about language and why gentlemen don’t use dirty language in mixed company or in front of children.  I tell him that on occasion, I’ve let loose with a few choice words, but that I strive to use it sparingly.  He’s even asked about sex and I’ve been honest about it.  Unsurprisingly, he’s never dissolved into a pile of dust.  He just feels more comfortable talking to us about whatever is on his mind.

So, at about the 45 minute mark in the movie, he turned to me and said, “We don’t have to stay for any more of this.”

I replied, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, this is awful,” he said.

So we got up and walked out.  My wife told me to go and ask for a refund.  I told her that it was my fault for not checking the reviews, not the theater’s for not posting a warning.

I learned two valuable lessons that were well worth the $28.00.  First, always read the reviews no matter how innocent a movie may seem from the ads, previews or ratings.  Second, my son is a very smart boy.

As we were walking out he turned to us and said, “That was dirty, awful and disrespectful to women. It was disrespectful to Mom.”

Good kid, my son. Smarter than his father.

As soon as I got home, I fished out the newspaper and found the reviews.  For once, the reviews were as bad as the movie.  I also found out that because my son had the maturity to walk out, we missed being treated to the sight of Will Ferrell being eaten by a T-Rex and subsequently excreted by said dinosaur.  I owe the boy big time.

Note to Hollywood, most parents will not be as forgiving as I am.  I only hope that most eleven-year olds would have the guts to get up and walk out on the crap that Hollywood has grown accustomed to shoveling at them.

Mark Corallo is a partner in Corallo Comstock, Inc, a public relations firm based in Alexandria, Virginia.