It's no secret that men have been objectifying women for years. Consequently, the average female in the movies is a big-breasted, perfectly-shaped amazon goddess who's just waiting for Mr. Mediocre, Mr. Low Self-Esteem and Mr. Small Penis (that's you) to come and sweep her off her feet.
However, if there's one thing that gives decent men hope in the world, it's that some women will hold to a higher standard while us dudes are off masturbating to pictures of the Barbi twins. Why director Lynne Stopkewich had to come along with her jumbled poem of a movie and expose the fallacy of this thinking is anybody's guess.
Her protagonist, Sandra Larson (Molly Parker), is a weird bit of woman, obsessed with death, dying and the dead. As a kid she finds dead animals, buries them and does a dance. Sometimes she rubs them on herself. As an adult, she gets a job as an embalmer and begins screwing her corpses. What's the message here, guys? The stiffness of your unit and your general usefulness are directly proportional.
This is all but confirmed when Sandra meets Matt (Peter Outerbridge). She boinks him too but it's just not the same. Soon Sandra is back with the dead guys and Matt is going crazy trying to figure out how he can compete with rigor mortis. There's some blathering at the end about the connection between love and death but it's all kind of moot by that point. It's obvious that men shouldn't be thinking about that kind of metaphorical crap anyway, since our only hope is to find a way to keep that woody up forever.
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