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The Friday Article Roundup

SEX! Now that we’ve got your attention, read the FAR

Check out the hottest, wettest pop culture writing of the week.

This week, you will fall into bed with:

  • Willem Dafoe’s stunt penis
  • Hot queer hockey players
  • A stabbed actor
  • A misguided movie
  • Obscure art
  • Rob Zombie

The FAR thanks C.D. Ploughman and Bridgett Taylor for their hot and heavy contributions! Send your own picks throughout the next week to magpiesfar [at] gmail, post articles from the past week in the comments for discussion, and have a Happy Friday!

At Defector, Ralph Jones has the biggest interview get of the year: Willem Dafoe’s stunt penis (and the man it’s attached to):
Antichrist came near the end of Horst Stramka’s adult film career—he stopped working in porn in 2012. A German company got in touch with him to ask if he would be, as he put it, “all right to bring my penis in the scene.” Stramka, who had been doing porn for about 15 years, replied, “Come on, this is my job.” There doesn’t seem to have been an audition process, and Stramka found himself on the set of a very different kind of film altogether, paid 900 Euros a day for having considerably less sex than he would normally.

Evan Ross Katz interviews showrunner Jacob Tierney about the smash queer hockey miniseries Heated Rivalry:
These are people learning about each other and their relationship by fucking. That’s how they’re understanding each other. It’s how they play out their dynamics. It’s the only time, especially in the first two episodes, that they’re not lying to each other, that they’re not doing boisterous dumb boy stuff and being like, “Fuck you, fuck you.” This is when they get vulnerable with each other. This is when they get real. And then the other thing that was important to me is that like… why shouldn’t we get some horny good sex for gay people on TV?

Olly Hawes writes for The Guardian about getting stabbed in a performance of Julius Caesar — for real:
As everything went black before another scene came on, I pulled out the knife. That was when my heart started to race. Feeling strangely clear-headed, I rushed off stage into the foyer, my left leg going numb. I told the venue workers to call an ambulance. There was still a quarter of the play to go, and the performance continued, the audience and cast blissfully unaware. Even now, I don’t know what happened to the knife.

Alex Lei examines why A House Of Dynamite is very much not the movie of the moment for Splice Today:
There’s a larger problem with this kind of liberal-minded analysis of systems failure in that it necessarily presents a nostalgia for a system which never existed outside of The West Wing….Bigelow’s film posits a terror of “what if the military can’t save us?” through unnerved bureaucrats, coldly murderous generals, and a conflicted president (played by Idris Elba in serviceable if atavistic character). It’s not really a question I’d even think to ask given the completely hostile stance the government has taken against the people in America since January, while all that state apparatuses have done is protect the collective looting of the public sector while the hucksters, pedophiles, dilettantes, and dumbasses that are the face of the administration make enough spectacle that no one can really keep track of all of it or do anything about it even if they could.

David C. Porter writes at his substack about the centering steadiness of the obscure:
The incomprehensibly rapid rate at which culture morphs, mutates, and transforms itself now, of course, always outstrips the pace at which this homogenization occurs, but you can’t keep running forever. Sooner or later, you will either have to reconcile yourself to it, or build fortifications capable of weathering its assault – and there are no better, I believe, than those of continued, stubborn interest in things you have no “reason” to be interested in, in things which you gain no discernible benefit, social or financial, from being invested in. To be interested in records no one listens to, books no one reads, films no one watches, is to resist the encroachment of this especially pernicious kind of living death.

And for Hell World, David Roth considers what he has in common with an exhibit of Rob Zombie’s pop culture-saturated artwork:
There is a version of these paintings that I could do with the stuff that crowds my own brain—an endless parade of Mets grounding out to second base while the Night Court theme blares and the cast of Homicide: Life On The Street looks on—and you could surely do one with the stuff in yours. Like in a hoarder’s house, little pathways emerge between the wobbling stacks of stuff that you’ve decided to keep, or just been unable to throw out. You will still need to move around in there, but the pathways get narrower as the things pile up.