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This, my friends, is what we call a teaser:

So he pulls his pants down, and off... he's not wearing underwear... and the camera's pointed up his legs at his scrotum. From underneath, with a little nubbin of dick peeking over. The crowd howled with delight. Eventually, Ratner had most of his black suit on and the scene ended.

By now you're dying with anticipation to find out exactly why a crowd was howling at the sight of Brett Ratner's exposed genitalia. After the jump, an operative reveals the horrifying secrets of a screening of the Sarah Morris short film Los Angeles at CAA:

Went to a screening of the 'art film' LOS ANGELES at CAA Friday night. Skipped most of the pre-film cocktail event in the lobby, which was heavily populated by Gay Mafia types and slutty-looking pseudo-models. Apparently the event was hosted by Brett Ratner, which explains the presence of some of the empty heads in the room. As the audience filed into the theatre, who should appear but Bob Evans... with his butler in tow.

The film was a series of shots of LA set to ambient electronic music. A documentary with no verbiage. The director, an overstylized hipster wearing heavy makeup and a bright lime green dress, seemed nice enough as she introduced her work. The film itself presented LA as a prison of the big-time movie business. There was a ton of red carpet footage from the Academy Awards, and we followed film people around as they pretended to be 'real'. The crowd laughed loud at footage of a pharmacy featuring Xanax and cheered when people they knew from the biz appeared on screen.

It was superficial - the film presented one narrow-minded version of a city of 10 million. It was pretty, with great camera work and great music. But pointless and shallow. I suppose this was her intent, but that's an act of onanism, not sophistication...

The coup de grace was a long sequence of Brett Ratner in a limo. He had a butler with him (Evans' butler), and he was talking frantically on a cell phone. Then he began to change clothes, still chattering... first we were treated to the sight of his man-boobs and puffy stomach. All flab and slack flaps. The body of an old man. As he removed clothing, the butler would hand him pieces of a suit. The gist was that he was so important, so busy, he had to change clothes on the fly to get to his next big appointment. The camera was positioned across from him.

So he pulls his pants down, and off... he's not wearing underwear... and the camera's pointed up his legs at his scrotum. From underneath, with a little nubbin of dick peeking over. The crowd howled with delight. Eventually, Ratner had most of his black suit on and the scene ended.

It wasn't a flattering shot. I guess somehow it fits the definition of 'keeping it real', but for fuck's sake... inviting people to the screen debut of the underside of your balls?

The film ended. The audience stayed in their seats, expecting some sort of closing remarks since the whole thing was only about 25 minutes long. So, from the middle of the theater, Bob Evans stands up unannounced and addresses the filmmaker. He rambles on about how the movie was 'just excellent!' Eventually he seems to run out of blather, reaches a natural stopping point.

The audience gets up to leave. At which point Evans starts rambling again. People ignored this second impromptu effluvium and walked out. For about thirty seconds Evans was still muttering something like he was addressing the Roman Senate as people left the room...

In the lobby, I saw somebody rush to congratulate the butler on his performance. Said he was 'really great' in the film.

It was fucking depressing, the whole lot of it.

For those of you wondering, New Line cinema has just signed Brett Ratner's balls to direct Rush Hour 4 without the interference of the rest of the hack director.