Raping Steven Spielberg: The Motion Picture
We were more than a little disturbed when a reader, having just read our post on the importance of remembering Steven Spielberg's Narrowly Averted Rape Day, alerted us to the existence of an anonymously produced film that would seem to run contrary to the spirit of this most joyous of Hollywood observances. Somewhat surprisingly, this Film Threat review of Raping Steven Spielberg calmed our fears about the project:
RAPING STEVEN SPIELBERG by Eric Campos (2002-04-29) 1998, Un-rated, 35 minutes, Rising Star Productions You know you have gold in your hands when you get a film by a cast and crew who refuse to be identified. This is also one of those rare films that could get by alone on it's premise — a homosexual rape fantasy featuring Steven Spielberg and the films that have made him such a household name.
A disgruntled aspiring actor, who tends to like man-on-man action, takes advice from a washed-up actress to write his own ticket and basically fuck his way to the top. So, how does one do that, or an even better question, who to fuck? Steven Spielberg, of course.So, the disgruntled actor devises this whole plan to rape Steven Spielberg, which will in-turn manpussywhip the director to this aspiring actor, making him the new hottest ticket in town. But the aspiring actor needs to rehearse to make sure his shop wrecking skills are in-check, so he elects his neighbor, a drunken balding man, as his practice grounds.
No doubt, this film is based on the true-life story of that weirdo who showed up not long ago at Spielberg's home in the hopes to tap that ass. And although the idea itself, as disturbing or side-splittingly funny as it may be to folks, has the ability to carry this 35 minute film, the unnamed filmmakers have a twisted sense of humor that keeps the laughs at maximum level. This is what true indie film is about — sticking it to the man and having some great laughs along the way.
As we hinted above, it was no small relief that the movie was merely a work of questionable taste by some iconoclastic pranksters, rather than the celluloid documentation of the perversions of the nipple-clamp-wielding fiend who masterminded the original auteurnapping plot. Still, our celebration of this holiday may yet be tainted by additional unpleasantness: once Brett Ratner discovers that Raping Steven Spielberg, the working title of his still-in-progress first memoir, has been previously used, he may abandon the undertaking altogether rather than spend the time to come up with a suitable alternative.
