*g* Sumuru is not actually the worst movie I've ever seen -- that honor belongs to "The Murder in China Basin" which is so full of non sequitur scenes that it shades into surrealism -- but it's the worst movie that I ever spent money on. I've only watched it once despite all the trouble I went through to navigate Amazon in German and in acquiring an all region player. (Though to be fair, I'd acquired the latter more to watch British imports than to watch Sumuru.)
Sumuru is everything I hate in old-style boy-wanking sci fi. Not even sleeveless Michael could not save it for me. Maybe if he'd been sans facial hair I could have overlooked the metal bikinis the women wore in the desert or the planet of busty women all hot for the last two breeding men in the whole universe...but, alas, he wore his chin rat to the set.
I was really psyched to see Robert Wisdom on my screen! I was happy to see they'd given him a wardrobe that fit but I kept expecting him to call Michael a Mud Monkey -- and for Michael's voice to drop an octave. Some day Vaughn will overwrite Uriel in my brain but Uriel was particularly memorable.
I have not been to it. I have spent less than a day in D.C. (omg -- that's just wrong given the museum slut that I am.) The Houston museum is, of course, much smaller. Truthfully, 3 hours spent dwelling on evil was sufficient for me to be extremely grateful for my privilege of being able to put away those events and concentrate on something not horrific and unimaginably depraved. I can't imagine spending an entire day there or however long it would take to get through a larger installation. It's the sort of thing that makes you despair for humanity and consider wandering into traffic as a good way to feel better, you know?
One thing that was cool was that the volunteers who greeted me are Holocaust survivors and they shared a little of their stories. It was powerfully moving and I wish I were better able to disassociate myself because their personal histories are important. It won't be too many more years before there won't be anyone to give those first-hand accounts. I don't know how one doesn't cry at it, honestly, because that's the tip of my emotional response to horror.
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Sumuru is everything I hate in old-style boy-wanking sci fi. Not even sleeveless Michael could not save it for me. Maybe if he'd been sans facial hair I could have overlooked the metal bikinis the women wore in the desert or the planet of busty women all hot for the last two breeding men in the whole universe...but, alas, he wore his chin rat to the set.
I was really psyched to see Robert Wisdom on my screen! I was happy to see they'd given him a wardrobe that fit but I kept expecting him to call Michael a Mud Monkey -- and for Michael's voice to drop an octave. Some day Vaughn will overwrite Uriel in my brain but Uriel was particularly memorable.
I have not been to it. I have spent less than a day in D.C. (omg -- that's just wrong given the museum slut that I am.) The Houston museum is, of course, much smaller. Truthfully, 3 hours spent dwelling on evil was sufficient for me to be extremely grateful for my privilege of being able to put away those events and concentrate on something not horrific and unimaginably depraved. I can't imagine spending an entire day there or however long it would take to get through a larger installation. It's the sort of thing that makes you despair for humanity and consider wandering into traffic as a good way to feel better, you know?
One thing that was cool was that the volunteers who greeted me are Holocaust survivors and they shared a little of their stories. It was powerfully moving and I wish I were better able to disassociate myself because their personal histories are important. It won't be too many more years before there won't be anyone to give those first-hand accounts. I don't know how one doesn't cry at it, honestly, because that's the tip of my emotional response to horror.