Nip & Tuck

Yet another summarization post. Sorry.

Blades

I remember back in May, as a newbie Double-Edge razor shaver, spouting the truism that one should shave only with the grain, as doing otherwise, especially for black men, would result in the dreaded folliculitis.

Hogwash, stuff and nonsense, I'm happy to report!

I have been shaving with a Merkur “HD” (Heavy Duty) safety razor with Feather razors—the so-called Ninja razors—for some time now. Big deal, you say? Well yes, if you consider I've been shaving with three passes: once with the grain, once across the grain, and finally once against the grain. All with no ill-effect.

With my five-bladed Fusion barbarity, if I'd tried that particular adventure, I would be in shaving hell, looking like one of those acid-washed Indian brides. No sir, with the Merkur HD, I have been repeatedly getting baby-butt smooth shaves, period. Combined with the unfortunately named Bump Patrol, a locally available version of Tend Skin, I wager anyone can shave with something approaching impunity. I really cannot believe it, actually.

So gents, stay the hell away from all those multi-blade monstrosities, get thee hence to the nearest outlet (unfortunately, most of them online only) and get a Merkur safety razor.

 Next up, shaving with the ne plus ultra of shaving apparatus: the “cut-throat” or straight razor. This one will require some preparation, I think.

Healthcare

Or the lack of.

As usual, Monsieur du Toit dissects the topic with a command of the language and issues I would die to obtain:

Ronald Reagan said: ”We can’t socialize the doctors without socializing the patients.”

As with so many Reagan quotes, there’s an enormous amount of observation, learning and wisdom behind those simple words. But people who support socialized medicine fall into two groups: those who are unaware of what is meant by “socialized patients”, and those for whom “socialized patients” is the ultimate goal. The former, therefore, become the tools of the latter.

Aside: perhaps I should explain what the term “socialized patients” means. In its broadest sense, what it implies is that patients are, in essence, the property of the State—as they are the wards of State care. Because the State is the sole supplier of medical care, therefore, the State gets to define what constitutes “care”, and what, in fact, constitutes a “patient”.

This is not some doomsday prognosis; it exists today in socialized medicine, such as in Holland, where the State-employed doctor, and not the family, decides when to pull the plug on a terminally-ill patient. But that’s not all. The most pernicious example of this mindset has just been suggested in Britain, where the NHS is debating whether or not to deny healthcare to obese people with obesity-related problems, because obesity is the fault of the patient, and therefore the State has no responsibility to treat the illness. (It doesn’t end with obesity, of course: any “self-created problems” can disqualify State-provided health care.)

This, my friends, is what happens when you delegate the care of your body to the tender ministrations of the State, and become a “socialized” patient.

What he said.

Movies

My enforced hiatus yesterday allowed me to catch a movie— in between cleaning up after my crack whore of a cat—I wanted to see for a long time: Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. I was quite literally blown away. Proving that even age-old stories can be retold with fresh insight, the cinematography is both simultaneously exquisite and painful, a combination, I'm sure you'll agree if you've seen this, that is transcendental.

Jim Caviezel is resplendent as Jesus, conveying an intense combination of sorrow and pain that one senses is far more than simply physical. When he cries out the memorable “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do,” as the nailing Roman soldiers and other onlookers gape and grunt with guttural, animalistic pleasure at the crucifixion scene before them, the viewer gets the feeling of a Mighty Hand stayed from an instant, violent obliteration.

The flashbacks by which we see several events in the days leading up to the present are exquisite pools of rest in Jesus' otherwise “busy day,” allowing the viewer to catch his breath and perhaps stay the inevitable horror to come.

Pilate's conflicted feelings are portrayed with skill: whether to care about the Jewish bloodlust for the life of the scruffy, obviously deluded madman before him or the nagging sense that there's something significant occurring. The viewer can sense the mixture of emotions, relief edged with sadness, as he finally, literally washes his hands off the whole  nasty business. While the Bible doesn't report anything further about Pilate, I can only assume that he walks back in to his offices wondering yet again why he was assigned to this accursed corner of the Roman Empire.

An almost beautiful Satan appears in the story from time to time, gentle, and solemnly caring. “This is too much for one person,” he gently coos at Jesus in the Garden, his (her … the actor was a woman, Rosalinda Celentano) soft gray eyes imploring and beguiling, each motion of his supine body calculated, slow and methodical, like a well-rehearsed actor in the role of a lifetime.

The cinematography is excellent, the colors are vivid and captures the mood of each scene with skill and care. A particularly moving moment is when Mary endures a flashback to a moment when the boy Jesus falls on his face and mama naturally drops her cooking spoon and rushes to comfort her baby boy, only to realize it is happening again, a few yards in front of her. Only this time, he is bloodied beyond all human endurance and carrying a cross. And once again, mama rushes to help her boy. This sequence is so heartachingly exquisite that I do it an injustice in attempting to describe it.

What follows is yet another memorable snapshot, as Jesus looks through his battered, dropping eyelids and feebly gathers the folds of his fast-disappearing strength to reassure his mother: “See mother, I make all things new.”

The decision to have the actors speak in Latin and Aramaic is an interesting one that I believe adds to the authenticity of the movie. I can't see Pilate's terse, significant “Ecce homo,” replaced by the English without feeling a certain lessening of the mood.

Even if I weren't a Christian, I would still appreciate this as a well-told tale with great cinematographic technique and a great story. It's truly amazing. Those who think it's simply a crazy (literally crazy, they called Gibson) indulgence of the director's, or that it was a barely-concealed anti-Semitic screed, I can only dismiss as the real crackpots. This movie has merits beyond the religious undertones; like I said, this is movie-making excellence.