the sheer gorgeousness edition.

paul cooney & christopher funderburg



Christopher: Paul, you know the drill: as a noted Gentleman of Leisure and professional Mueas de la Mafia super-fan, you are uniquely situated to decide which 5 films from the filmographies of the following 5 actors should be saved for all time  everything else in which they star will be irrevocably lost to a blazing fire.



Not so easy, is it, hotshot? Your potty mouth and unrelenting sense of self-regard are perhaps the only things that can aid you in such a pyrrhic task. The impending loss of such gems as The Lonely Guy and Fled would weigh heavily on the conscience of even the strongest of men, for even losing one frame of celluloid devoted to Salma Hayek's glorious bosom or Paul Walker's truly dynamite abs would be akin to the destruction of the Royal Library of Alexandria or the collapse of the Collossus of Rhodes, the kind of culture-defining devastation that happens only once a century. There are no happy resolutions to the problem before you. May god have mercy on your soul.

In all seriousness, looking at outrageously, upsettingly gorgeous human beings constitutes at least 34% of what makes going to the movies so awesome. If I wanted to look at ugly poeople, I'd go to Poughkeepsie. If you disagree with the idea that losing mediocre films starring almost inconcievably beautiful people like Salma Hayek and Claudia Cardinale is a tragedy, that losing the only proof and access to such otherworldly beauty is not something really disheartening then you're out of your mind - I would go so far as to suggest that you are scarcely even a human being at all. Beauty is the engine that powers humanity; it brings joy and meaning to a world that is essentially ugly and brutal. Lela Rochon isn't an actress, she's an existential signifier, an emblem of the only thing can justify slogging through the crud that is life: beauty is essential, humanity's only consistent redeeming quality... and nowhere is it better on display than in Hollywood California. They know what they're doing out there.

Also, today I didn't catch Descontrol (which means "Lose control!" incidentally.) Anything good happen?'


Jessie Camacho looked great... some mexican band leader sniffed her little waist covering when she was magnanimous enough to toss it to him. I bet you and mr. cribbs had a lot of trouble guessing my five from this fire... this might be the sexiest cinema rescue yet!

While experimenting in my laboratory I miniaturized the collected works and last known film prints of the aformentioned superstars and put them in my pockets for safe keeping.

This proved to be a mistake.  It is a well known fact that to relax me as I work in my lab I have Danni Cole and Alexis Love movies running on a constant stream of smutty goodness... in HD for jehovah's sake!

Their fevered exertions stimulate my creative juices, among others, but the drawback is that whenever I am in their presence they cause a combustion in my pants!

Hence the peril those microfilms in my pockets faced... as the fire in my trousers grew would they be seared to my swollen balls and lost for all eternity?

Did I dare reach into my pants and save them?

When my groin did ignite there was but time to save one film on each finger, by quickly jabbing my splayed hand below my waist and pressing a finger tip to each of the works I wanted to rescue.

Did I have time for even a quick caress of my region whilst I thought of Bridget Moynihan, used, discarded and probably lonely?

Most likely not, therefore, I resolved to eschew my own needs and save five films for posterity!  Was there ever a more noble act I ask you?  There was not!  It was a rhetorical device designed to highlight my heroism!  Now shut up and listen!

Walker, Paul Walker you magnificently beautiful bastard.  That was you in the Skulls wasn't it?  You handsome rascal... leading the fat faced Josh Jackson to ruin with your elitist machinations!  But how could I stay mad at you?  You were even named Caleb Mandrake.  Caleb Mandrake!  The instant I heard that moniker I murdered my invisible friend Phantom Pete and concocted a new translucent chum whom I promptly dubbed Caleb Mandrake.

Will my new imaginary friend Caleb Mandrake prove to be a more bosom companion, who won't stand silent and inert while pudgy priests grope me and flay me with rosary beads?  Damn you Phantom Pete!  I gave you an imaginary gun!  Why didst you not use it?

I digress... should I have saved The Skulls or was it in fact complete horseshit? were also Lance Harbor in Varsity Blues, Skip Martin in Pleasantville, and Dean Sampson in She's All That.  You have a knack for bearing great screen names in horrendous films.  You dare have me risk mini films being burned to my balls for such drivel Mr. Walker?

Hello what's this?  Joey Gazelle?  You were named Joey Gazelle?  And playing... an Italian?  What range!  Yes, that was you eating the muff of Vera "body double in Up in the Air... her body really ain't that hot" Farmiga while playing some sort of beautiful low level hood.

Does such a performance deserve rescue or shall I let it melt down to my taint?

Walker... will you be lost forever since you missed out on the best of the Fast and Furious flix, Tokyo Drift?  Imagine spending months alongside the human stain that is Vin Douchel ( I replaced Diese with Douche.... zing!) and then watching Lucas Black run off to Tokyo and drift up all over mixed race lovely Nat Kelley.  Do you even now plot the demise of Mr. Black for daring to travel to the Orient and usurp your rightful place between her drift worthy thighs?  

Hello, what's this? Do I smell the plot of Fast and Furious 5 or is that my seared nutsack smoldering fragrantly?  One in the same?

But of course!  From the engorged redness of my heated testicles I rescue Into the Blue!  I need not even consider the other films whilst knowing that this epic, this slice of heaven, this Albariffic batch of tawny goodness could be lost.  It has pirate treasure, drug dealers, the Bahamas, and lots of underwater nipple poking through bikini top shots.  Does it have camel toe too?  I'll have to watch it for the 12th time to find out!

Claudia Cardinale!  Mangia!  If only I could join you in that sudsy bath you were lounging in in Once Upon a Time in the West.  It would surely douse the flames that engulf my loins.  But what of my heart?  You're heaving wet bosoms bobbing on the soapy surface of that old timey bath set my soul on fire!  

Did you play more New Orleans whores in films?  You really should have cornered the market on that particular brand of role. Were you a method actress?  Lord knows I would have suspended my policy of never visiting Dixie if there were a chance to defile you by the delta.

How were you never a Bond girl?  Somebody dig up Cubby Broccoli and kick him in the nuts.  I endured Diana Rigg while Cardinale and Welch toiled in countless crummy flix that I have never even bothered seeing?

Salmita!  Though I've never laid out on a diving board with my rich mexican chum and jacked off to you, I do admire your chest and Frida was pretty entertaining. And although Puss in Boots hasn't been released yet and I imagine it is a cartoon, I am tempted to save it on principle.  Puss in Boots, indeed!  Puss in Boots, indeed.

Let's hope you embark on a streak of making films with overtly smutty titles and while donning tall black leather boots and little else.

As for your oeuvre.  I suppose the credit for the awesome After the Sunset should go to Brett Ratner.  How could it not?  The man is simply a master.  Coupling your bosom with Brosnan and the Bahamas was a stroke of genius.  Speaking of stroke... Puss in Boots?

I digress.  Fools Rush In?  Salmita you seem like a bright dame, romping around with Penelope and pulling turd pranks on Punk'd with the peerless Ashton Kutcher... but then why would you do something so foolish as to make a movie with Matty "2 fatty" Perry and his 7 chins?  Did he borrow one of your bras for his face on set?

For the future, less bloated pasty co-stars, more taking Selena Gomez under your wing and turning her into the ingenue we all know she can be!

As for Robert Rodriguez... the last sensible thing that hack ever did was get you to go topless.  You are like a cruel crack dealer now Salmita.  You gave us all a taste early on, but now withhold that sweet goodness.  You want to continue to be Mexico's greatest export since swine flu?  Get naked!

Robynn Douglass!  What happened, babycakes?  How could someone so lovely, and with such naturally big boobs, fail to catch on even after wearing such fantastic lingerie in The Lonely Guy?  Did you call Ronald Reagan a deluded old fool with an anorexic shrew for a wife at some Washington D.C. party?  Did you spurn Steve Martin and tell him that he would make two egregious Pink Panther movies in the future that a nerdy Clive Owen-esque fellow wouldn't even bother to see even though one featured Beyonce? Did you have B.O.?

Imagine being torn between the gorgeous jerk Hart Bochner and the winsome dork Dennis Christopher. One was rich and handsome, drove a Mercedes and threw a mean frisbee. The other was a skinny dweeb on a bike... but with an Italian accent! What broad could resist? And when he got his gangly jewish friend to play the minstrel whilst he serenaded you ... mama mia, your 70's era bush got moist did it not?  Of course it did.  There is no shame in admitting it precious! [This is Breaking Away he's talking about. - christopher]

Then he broke your heart cause it turns out he was a liar liar... speaking of which.. my pants remain on fire!  

Lela Rochon!  You were "Sunshine" in Harlem Nights.  You were "Dancer" in Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.  Both classic roles in classic films, but how can they compare to your turn as the wan stripper with a heart of cubic zirconia in Gang Related.  For the love of god you slept with Jim Belushi in that movie!  He probably smelled like a wet police dog!  What an actress!  

Why did you look so sad when you wound that curvy brown body around that stripper pole?  Did Belushi fart on set a lot?  Did Tupac yammer on with tales of his tattoos or how he played a mailman in Poetic Justice?

Knock Off! Rob Schneider. Jean Claude Van Dammage. Are there any screen giants you haven't worked with?  That film blew the lid off the illicit trade of knock-off jeans in southeast Asia at the turn of the century and made me wary of ever wearing pants in Hong Kong at all. As a result I am barred from Hong Kong. Thank you Miss Rochon!

You were rather angry in that film too. Listening to Deuce Bigalow and some Belgian idiot all day couldn't have done much for your mood. Coupled with wearing those booby trapped jeans... you poor hot Amerie-esque dear! Those pants were primed to explode, much like me when I watch Gang Related at certain hours.

My pants! My crotch is on fire. I yank my fingers out. Behold! From the depths of my scrotum I deliver to the world:





Christopher: As always, Mr. Cooney, you are a philosopher and gentleman. I expected no less than the truly classy greatness on display in this article, surely the finest bit of cinema criticism The Pink Smoke has ever had the honor of presenting. In celebration of your achievement, here's another photo of Salma Hayek from After the Sunset.

A toast:
To Brent Ratner! Cheers!


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