When civilizations die, all manner of bizarre ideas arise. Twilight, the pop culture phenomenon that has swept millions of women up into flights of fantasy over a brooding pseudo-vampire named Edward and a virtually hairless, bare-chested werewolf named Jacob, signifies the end of masculine culture in America. The only thing that could have made the metrosexual victory over the detesticlized populus more complete was if the soundtrack was sung by Justin Bieber.
Teenage girls camping out for days in freezing temperatures to engage in an estrogen orgy with fellow Twihards displays the glaring vagina-like vacuum in our culture.
Women in the 1930s and 40s pined over the likes of the swashbuckling Errol Flynn, the debonaire Clark Gable, the rough-riding Gary Cooper, and the man’s man Cary Grant. Beginning in the 1950s, male heartthrobs began to be tailored to a younger audience. While Elvis Presley is not as androgynous as a singer in a 1980s boy band, his gyrations are a move in that direction. Even James Dean, as presumably dangerous and dashing as he was portrayed, shows a development into the Luke Perry mold of the teen dream.
We are now seeing a further morphing into the unreal that is becoming the iconic male. As our nation’s male leads transformed from men to boyz, it was expected at first for women to ask, “Where have all the cowboys gone?” But now we are seeing the rise of pure fantasy – not for manly men, but for undead underwear models who are a buck-fifty soaking wet. This cannot be a good sign.
It’s not even like the cinematic depictors of Twilight even bothered to pay tribute to the horror genre that gave rise to the modernized lycanthrope and vampire. The lead female character Bella Swan is portrayed by Kristen Stewart, a sour girl with the emotional range of a grapefruit. Her faithful eternal lover is Edward the vampire, a sliver of a man who is immune to daylight, need not sleep in a coffin, and barely has a taste for human blood. He is just, well, undead; and that means lots of light blue makeup, heavy mascara, and a tinge of blood red lip gloss. Her would-be werewolf lover is Jacob, a shirtless suitor with a swimmer’s physique, and the embodiment of raging testosterone. The love triangle never goes so far as menage a trois; but indulgence into transformation fetishes abounds.
Speaking of transformation, the cinema’s castration of men as a whole corresponds to the appearance of grotesque sexuality prior to the decline of civilizations in world history. In ancient Greece, for example, the play Lysistrata expressed women’s desire to end the Peloponnesian War – by withholding sex from their partners. Whether or not the idea of pussy whipping men caught fire before Athens was defeated by the Spartans and Sicilians is unclear; but surely, such a play had to be demoralizing since it trivialized the war effort.
Under the Roman Empire, sex was an object of magical spells, and pornography was openly displayed even in aristocratic households. Tales of debauchery under the emperors are world renown, the most famous being the depraved orgies of Caligula, though they surely were missing something without Helen Mirren. Sexual excess was a symptom of a general license the aristocracy felt, as it became further removed from feelings of responsibility and duty to the Roman state.
The British Empire, with its puritanical standards, was always at the extreme end of prudishness; counter-intuitively, the social aversion to even discussing sex in public fed feelings of guilt, and resulting fetishism in the bedroom. The lack of a culture that discussed healthy sex led to civilizational erosion, as women became frigid and men became freaky. Birthrates unsurprisingly declined, and the Brits were no longer able to maintain a hold on colonies spread across the face of the earth.
In America, we have been able to remain strong and vigorous by respecting virile men and culturally revering such masculine occupations as ranching, manufacturing, and military service. Now a snobbish effete elite have taken over Hollywood, and are regaling us with the insipid metrosexual fantasies of their insulated cultural milieu. That women have devolved into fantasizing about hairless werewolves and dickless vampires is a clue that maybe some real men need to start making some movies, and that includes showing women something real to fantasize about.