Jennifer Lawrence is a no-talent goodie who blames her own failings on the perceived biases of others. Let's just start with that. Why would I say such an uncouth thing about a woman who has such an obviously high opinion of herself that she believes her own salary is a dramatic injustice to such an amazing human being?
In her rant for Lena Dunham -- wrongly labeled an "essay," Lawrence justifies her own biases by claiming "I wasn’t completely wrong when another leaked Sony email revealed a producer referring to a fellow lead actress in a negotiation as a “spoiled brat.” For some reason, I just can’t picture someone saying that about a man." This is her trump card; it is how she concludes her rant disguised as a persuasive argument. Is the use of "spoiled brat" an intrinsically sexist term? NO.
Allen West recently referred to President Obama using that expression (Huffington Post, 10/12/13). Last year, Hollywood Gossip slammed Justin Bieber with that label in a headline, claiming to have proven their case with 21 photographs of Mr. Bieber. Earlier this year, Miley Cyrus referred to Nicki Minaj that way; surely she wasn't being sexist. Online the expression appears to be used about as many men as women. She wants it to be sexist because that might be an indication that she is far more deserving of more money than she currently receives. The expression indicates someone who pouts and whines a lot -- rather like Ms. Lawrence's pity-party post.
When she saw the "Sony hack" in November of last year, Ms. Lawrence immediately thought of how much more the men were making than the women. She didn't stop to consider whether some of them were more talented than she is, or whether they were playing more important roles in the film than she was playing. She looked at no other factors -- not age, or skin color, or past experience. Instead she instantly concluded that she wasn't being paid enough because she is a woman. She has starred in one immensely popular set of book adaptations, but Lawrence wasn't selected because she was the best actress on the planet. She was a virtual unknown who was attractive enough to bring the right demographics (young females and young males) into the theater. She is lucky to have been asked to play the role. Most of her other work has been bland and uninteresting. "The House at the End of the Street" and "The Devil You Know" feature sleep-inducing performances. Her whole career is hit-and-miss, and most of it falls squarely into the "miss" category. She has been "hot" at times -- receiving awards from talentless people who enjoy giving them to other talentless people, but on the whole she is uninteresting. Her portrayal of Serena only serves to make viewers wonder whether Angelina Jolie could have saved the film.
She rightly blames herself for not negotiating the same percent of the proceeds for "American Hustle" as Bradley Cooper, but it wasn't her anatomy that created the disparity. In Hollywood, actors have to negotiate for every penny. Cooper said, "If you think that you only deserve a certain amount and that's not correct, it's about changing that mindset and sticking up for yourself the way that Sienna [Miller] did." In other words, Lawrence settled for less, so they paid less. That has happened to me and to quite a few others I know, but it's just the nature of the negotiation game. It has to do with what kind of person you are, and about what motivates you, and about being able to judge whether the other side will pay more. If those things are a priority for her, then she's no good at those things and doesn't deserve the additional money.
I just adore seeing rich people whine about how much richer someone else is. The truth is that she made more money on "American Hustle" -- the one for which she made less than Christian Bale -- than the average American worker will make in his or her whole lifetime. Yeah, we should all feel sorry for her sad tale of misfortune.
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/01/28/american-hustle-is-overrated.html
I noticed that nowhere in her complaints about what other people have made does she dare to suggest that all of them make far too much money.
Personally, I'd like to see a salary schedule for the whole industry -- capping out at $200,000 for someone with ten or more hit films and 30+ years of experience. I'll bet they'd all enjoy making exactly the same as every other actor with as many years of experience. Would it surprise you to learn that these same Hollywood glitterati who complain about what "CEO's" make annually often make more than the typical American CEO. Remember Ben (Batman) Affleck saying this?
"It’s like it’s just about getting by, or people can like let people go if they can get away with it, that there’s no deeper sense of right or wrong. The banks shouldn’t — people shouldn’t make such a giant profit off just moving money back and forth. And CEOs’ pay shouldn’t be 200 times the average worker. It used to be nine times."
What do you think a lead actor makes compared to a member of the camera crew? Hint: a camera operator makes about $80K; and a lead actor makes ... well...
Jennifer Lawrence demanded $20 million for film recently. The average CEO pay for a large US company is less than half of that. These poor little rich kids who whine about what tiny fortunes they make every year are exactly what Ms. Lawrence concludes her letter with: they are "spoiled brats."
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Episode 41 -- The Anti-Hero
After saving the universe for the umpteenth time, the Awesome Yotta Man nodded his head slightly and descended to the ground. In the distance, he could hear the approaching crowd swelling with louder cries of "Yotta! Yotta!! Yotta!!!" His feet touched the ground as gently as though he were a feather, and at that moment he thought about the previous day's events -- when the United Nations Security Council had admitted there was nothing they could do without his help. Their praise, if accurate, had been too great. Now, with the deed done, at last he could return to concealment. Spotting a deserted alley nearby, Awesome Yotta Man ducked into it rapidly as the crowd neared. When they reached this part of Massive City, they would find only the unassuming Kent Parker: part-time coach of high school athletics. He had made this change many times, but this time something went wrong with the transformation.
He removed his helmet first as usual, but this time at normal speed. He stood motionless, jaw agape, for what seemed like several hours before coming to the full realization that his powers had ceased to function. For reasons unknown -- perhaps the whim of the Gods of Fat -- he was now fully ordinary. He finished the switch to his secret identity, not knowing whether it would matter, and stepped into the street. A large party had begun, with hundreds (if not thousands) of citizens celebrating the salvation of their planet. His visage alone was downcast. He alone was unhappy.
With the revelry still going on outside, Kent Parker downed another shot of Criptonoff Vodka. The elation around him was unable to assuage his own sorrow, or prevent him from crying openly as other drunks laughed at his expense. Then, the bartender called for Parker to settle his tab, and he realized he had no money. He had never needed it before, since his only home had been aboard the Yottalite Space Station, and he had never been hungry. Fifteen seconds later, his rear end was on the sidewalk outside Plusky's Bar. Three more seconds passed, and he vomited all over himself. Again the lingering crowd laughed loudly at him.
Kent clawed his way to a standing position, still sobbing, and began to stagger down the street. He had nowhere to go, but at least he could escape the celebration that conflicted with his mood of depression. He stepped in three consecutive piles of fresh dog manure, but what reason was there to scrape it from his boots? He kept walking, finding little purpose in anything else.
Out of the corner of his right eye, he noticed a tattooed drug dealer selling something to a teenage girl. She must have been fifteen, and the drugs were obviously one of the "harder" varieties. Two days ago, he would have flicked his pinky finger, with that simple gesture knocking the dealer backward into the nearest police precinct. Today he felt differently. Today he felt like scoring some heroin. He meandered over to the dealer, reeking of vomit and feces, and begged for a shot of heroin. "Twenty dollars," was all the dealer said as he looked away in disgust.
Kent Parker begged for a fix. Everyone on the street looked on with disbelief, disgust, and annoyance. Someone mumbled that the Awesome Yotta Man should rid the planet of scum like that. He ignored the reference as best he could, tugging on the dealer's arm. The dealer nodded, not toward Parker but in the direction of several members of his gang. Within a minute, a small crowd had gathered, cheering as the gang kicked and beat him. "Loser," they yelled repeatedly. As he lay in the street, bleeding and broken, a dog -- perhaps the same one whose scent already coated him -- stopped to urinate in his face.
"This was the greatest injustice in the universe," he thought as he righted himself. His anger grew until eventually it consumed him. Now on another block, lost and disoriented, an enraged and odoriferous Kent Parker marched up toward a prostitute and demanded sex. She winced and stepped away. With what little natural strength he possessed, Parker pushed her to the ground, where she lost consciousness. Onlookers called the police as he forced the streetwalker to do what she would have reviled. Who would have wanted to be him at this moment? Surely not the homeless, toothless man who kept mumbling, "I just don't believe it." The tone of his disgust was palpable. As he later told the police, "I'd have stopped him myself, but he was so violent...and he smelled like a sewer."
The police arrived and soon surrounded him in the street. Parker barely noticed them -- so consumed was he in his own misfortune. Several young men stood behind the officers as they closed the circle around Kent Parker. These were wearing Awesome Yotta Man pins, and among them was Chip Thomas: president of the Worldwide Awesome Yotta Man Fan Club. "Get him," Thomas encouraged the cops. They moved forward, spraying pepper spray. Parker's eyes stung like truly never before, and he let out a loud roar. Another officer employed a TASER, and Kent shivered -- falling headlong onto the pavement.
As the officers grabbed at his clothing to handcuff him, they tore open his shirt, revealing his costume underneath. The surrounding people gasped in astonishment, and with the speed of the Internet the video of the disgraced Awesome Yotta Man went viral. It was not thirty seconds later that children in Taipei began burning their Awesome Yotta Man comic books. Rather than suffer the further humiliation of a trial, the Awesome Yotta Man hung himself in his jail cell, unaware that he had caught a venereal disease from the hooker that he had raped. He perished utterly, being sick, broke, homeless, disgraced, humiliated, and powerless. "A Truly Wretched Man," proclaimed the Sludge Report the next day.
For the next two years, scientists studied his case. Psychiatrists debated how a man could so quickly degenerate into everything he had hated. The saddest commentary came from the physicists who had observed his salvation of the universe. "It was a glitch caused by his direct contact with the nuclear event and the blazing sun. His powers would have returned in six hours."
He removed his helmet first as usual, but this time at normal speed. He stood motionless, jaw agape, for what seemed like several hours before coming to the full realization that his powers had ceased to function. For reasons unknown -- perhaps the whim of the Gods of Fat -- he was now fully ordinary. He finished the switch to his secret identity, not knowing whether it would matter, and stepped into the street. A large party had begun, with hundreds (if not thousands) of citizens celebrating the salvation of their planet. His visage alone was downcast. He alone was unhappy.
With the revelry still going on outside, Kent Parker downed another shot of Criptonoff Vodka. The elation around him was unable to assuage his own sorrow, or prevent him from crying openly as other drunks laughed at his expense. Then, the bartender called for Parker to settle his tab, and he realized he had no money. He had never needed it before, since his only home had been aboard the Yottalite Space Station, and he had never been hungry. Fifteen seconds later, his rear end was on the sidewalk outside Plusky's Bar. Three more seconds passed, and he vomited all over himself. Again the lingering crowd laughed loudly at him.
Kent clawed his way to a standing position, still sobbing, and began to stagger down the street. He had nowhere to go, but at least he could escape the celebration that conflicted with his mood of depression. He stepped in three consecutive piles of fresh dog manure, but what reason was there to scrape it from his boots? He kept walking, finding little purpose in anything else.
Out of the corner of his right eye, he noticed a tattooed drug dealer selling something to a teenage girl. She must have been fifteen, and the drugs were obviously one of the "harder" varieties. Two days ago, he would have flicked his pinky finger, with that simple gesture knocking the dealer backward into the nearest police precinct. Today he felt differently. Today he felt like scoring some heroin. He meandered over to the dealer, reeking of vomit and feces, and begged for a shot of heroin. "Twenty dollars," was all the dealer said as he looked away in disgust.
Kent Parker begged for a fix. Everyone on the street looked on with disbelief, disgust, and annoyance. Someone mumbled that the Awesome Yotta Man should rid the planet of scum like that. He ignored the reference as best he could, tugging on the dealer's arm. The dealer nodded, not toward Parker but in the direction of several members of his gang. Within a minute, a small crowd had gathered, cheering as the gang kicked and beat him. "Loser," they yelled repeatedly. As he lay in the street, bleeding and broken, a dog -- perhaps the same one whose scent already coated him -- stopped to urinate in his face.
"This was the greatest injustice in the universe," he thought as he righted himself. His anger grew until eventually it consumed him. Now on another block, lost and disoriented, an enraged and odoriferous Kent Parker marched up toward a prostitute and demanded sex. She winced and stepped away. With what little natural strength he possessed, Parker pushed her to the ground, where she lost consciousness. Onlookers called the police as he forced the streetwalker to do what she would have reviled. Who would have wanted to be him at this moment? Surely not the homeless, toothless man who kept mumbling, "I just don't believe it." The tone of his disgust was palpable. As he later told the police, "I'd have stopped him myself, but he was so violent...and he smelled like a sewer."
The police arrived and soon surrounded him in the street. Parker barely noticed them -- so consumed was he in his own misfortune. Several young men stood behind the officers as they closed the circle around Kent Parker. These were wearing Awesome Yotta Man pins, and among them was Chip Thomas: president of the Worldwide Awesome Yotta Man Fan Club. "Get him," Thomas encouraged the cops. They moved forward, spraying pepper spray. Parker's eyes stung like truly never before, and he let out a loud roar. Another officer employed a TASER, and Kent shivered -- falling headlong onto the pavement.
As the officers grabbed at his clothing to handcuff him, they tore open his shirt, revealing his costume underneath. The surrounding people gasped in astonishment, and with the speed of the Internet the video of the disgraced Awesome Yotta Man went viral. It was not thirty seconds later that children in Taipei began burning their Awesome Yotta Man comic books. Rather than suffer the further humiliation of a trial, the Awesome Yotta Man hung himself in his jail cell, unaware that he had caught a venereal disease from the hooker that he had raped. He perished utterly, being sick, broke, homeless, disgraced, humiliated, and powerless. "A Truly Wretched Man," proclaimed the Sludge Report the next day.
For the next two years, scientists studied his case. Psychiatrists debated how a man could so quickly degenerate into everything he had hated. The saddest commentary came from the physicists who had observed his salvation of the universe. "It was a glitch caused by his direct contact with the nuclear event and the blazing sun. His powers would have returned in six hours."
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