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Editors Note: I was lazy and wrote this after the movie, so it’s more of a review.

The dark shadows of the evil ultrafags.

The dark shadows of the evil ultrafags.

After a week of fever sweats and hacking on a lung, I was more than ready for movie night.  Add in the anticipation of Al Pacino going undercover as a leatherdaddy, and I was downright pumped.  My 101-degree blood was flowing at record speed as we settled into the couch, everyone’s little hearts aglow.

You see, few movies have come into SBMN with as much upward potential as Cruising.  The homoeroticism of flicks like Point Break and North Dallas Forty have made us laugh ourselves to the brink of tears.  The idea of Michael Corleone going inch by inch into Bravo’s primetime schedule seemed to be the logical end of this aim.  

The problem, of course, is that you don’t want the logical end of a good thing.  A little (or a lot of) homoeroticism is good in an overly macho movie; it keeps things relaxed, it’s funny, and, above all, you don’t have to watch anal fisting scenes.  In Cruising, you do, and there are some things you just can’t unsee. (That link is not tubgirl. Promise.)  It’s like a David Lynch movie: all the things that should be bubbling under the surface creating tension are being shoved directly into your face.  And there are some things you just don’t want in your face.  

Even if this movie weren’t so incredibly offensive (the main conclusion is that pretty much any gay man could be a killer or a rapist, none of them have any morals), it would still be terrible.  It’s 45 minutes of material stretched out to 102 minutes, Al Pacino just walks around and looks depressed the whole time, and the only redeeming thing is the mysterious 7-foot-tall-black-guy-in-a-jock-strap the police use to beat suspects.

Do not watch this movie.

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