Dec 21, 2015


Although a relatively prevalent phenomenon that effects many women, especially of the educated white middleclass sort, Hollywood seems to be totally petrified to touch issues relating to what is oftentimes colloquially described as ‘baby rabies’ when a woman who is approaching middle-age becomes desperate to get pregnant and have a child before her ovaries expire and she is doomed to live the sad and pathetic non-life of a perennially lonely spinster who has failed to accomplish the one thing indisputable thing that all members of the so-called fairer sex are put on this world to do. Of course, in an increasingly spiritually castrated post-feminist world where girls are practically taught from birth by both public schools and television that establishing a successful career and pretending to have a penis is infinitely more important than supposedly outmoded things like getting married and having children, it is easy to why the culture-distorting degenerates in Hollywood would ignore this rather relevant social issue as it would not be in the interests of the kosher clowns of Tinseltown to expose this pathetic yet perturbing trend, for it is arguably just one of the many natural intended results in their culturally corrosive campaign of post-holocaust anti-white hatred. After all, it is no coincidence that Hollywood also incessantly promotes so-called multiculturalism, miscegenation, homosexuality, xenophilia, and practically every other form of degeneracy, but I digress. Somewhat not surprisingly considering his fetishistic obsession with distinctly female issues that no man would ever give a shit about as well as his tendency towards exploiting estrogen-charged excremental emotions, Hebraic quasi-arthouse auteur Henry Jaglom (Tracks, Venice/Venice) is one of the few filmmakers that has dealt with the absolutely horrifying phenomenon of hormonally imbalanced women in their 30s and 40s that are dying to get knocked up, though he focuses specifically on bourgeois left-wingers of the largely Judaic sort. Indeed, Babyfever (1994)—a work that was advertised with the tagline, “For Those Who Hear Their Clock Ticking...,” which hints that Jaglom felt there was a sizable surplus of kid-craving women on the brink of sterility that the film would appeal to—is a nearly completely plotless piece of emotionally grotesque pseudo-philosophical gynocentricism where a bunch of hyper hypocritical hens of the largely professionally successful sort bemoan the fact they do not have kids because they have dedicated their lives to both their careers and weak male partners in what ultimately proves to be a great example of the seeming incapacity for most women to take personal responsibility for their actions.  Indeed, Babyfever might best be described as the yapping barren yenta show and naturally it is as aesthetically horrifying and radically revolting as it sounds.

 Starring Jaglom’s Shiksa second (ex)wife Victoria Foyt, who was also credited as co-penning and co-directing the film (not surprisingly, she has no other directing credits, thus hinting that Jaglom gave her a token credit), in a role she probably now finds quite embarrassing since she married and had two mischling children with the ‘auteur,’ only for him to divorce her for a younger woman about twelve years later, Babyfever is a vapid film about vapid spoiled spinsters of the nauseatingly narcissist yet neurotic sort who more than clearly demonstrate why most heterosexual men cannot stand to be in a room full of yapping chicks. Indeed, the film features women that are such loathsomely shameless navel-gazers that they act like getting some stupid chump to cum in their festering cunts and impregnate them is an insanely important issues worthy of deep philosophical discussion. Directed by a self-described “male lesbian” whose own brother, actor Michael Emil, resents him because he is proud of the fact that he’s an exceedingly effeminate wuss that loathes masculinity, the film depicts an insufferably insecure heroine who is terribly obsessed with becoming a progenitor yet cannot decide whether she wants to get knocked up by the lame ‘safe’ corporate asshole boyfriend that she doubts she even loves or a self-centered old flame of the tall, dark, and handsome persuasion who can wet her panties simply by staring into her weary eyes.  Not surprisingly considering it is a Jaglom whine epic, Babyfever also contains a sort of outstandingly obnoxious quasi-docudrama style film-within-a-film where the fourth wall is less than elegantly broken down and the actresses suddenly play themselves by staring directly at the viewer and candidly revealing their true thoughts on being melancholic barren women who feel extremely empty and discontent because they have wasted their entire lives on worthless careers instead of churning out progeny. Indeed, the only thing I could think about while watching these half-rotten hags excreting gallons upon gallons of fuming verbal diarrhea is how much they need some burly sub-literate bohunk to violently shove his purple-headed monster down their all-too-proper throats and give them a nice hearty wad of high grade baby batter. 

 As anyone that is even vaguely familiar with Jaglom and his singularly self-involved oeuvre knows, he is a filmmaker that likes to style himself as an actor-liberating ‘passive auteur’ who gives his poor performers plenty of room to improvise and deliver erratic explosions of masturbatory histrionics (indeed, as he once proudly stated, “As a filmmaker, I don't direct. I take away. I extract. Orson [Welles] said I was like an old Eskimo carving away at a walrus tusk, trying to find what's inside.”).  Personally, I think Jaglom is really just an inordinately lazy psychic vampire who does not want to be bothered with writing a script or created a truly cinematic mise-en-scène and instead relies on his friends' pathology-ridden emotional outbursts for ostensibly enthralling film material (though I must admit that the director got a great performance out of Dennis Hopper in Tracks (1977)), which is no different in Babyfever where the viewer is forced to endure the largely verbal melodramatic gymnastics of superlatively shallow bourgeoisie Jewesses and Shiksa skanks who all seem to suffer from a sort of pre-menopausal psychosis as a result of the fact that they are too weak, self-centered, cowardly, and/or stupid to accomplish something that even the most mentally retarded of crackhead negroes can accomplish by getting knocked up and popping out spawn. Like virtually every single Jaglom celluloid circle jerk, Babyfever is first and foremost a vulgar vanity piece where the filmmaker tries in vain to convince the viewer just how important and deep the issues in his life are. Indeed, while the film might be about a self-indulgently neurotic chick whose vagina is starting to dry up, it is ultimately really a quasi-covert self-congratulatory tribute to the fact that, out of all the rich and successful men in Hollywood, gorgeous goy gal Victoria Foyt opted to despoil her genetics by practicing miscegenation and having a child with a whiny Hebraic wuss like jack-off Jaglom, who ultimately makes Woody Allen seem like a stoic and highly self-disciplined SS-Sturmbannführer by comparison.  Indeed, Babyfever unintentionally demonstrates that it takes a special kind of neurotic woman with low-esteem to succumb to the irrevocable racial sin of Blutschande. 

 At the very beginning of Babyfever, reasonably attractive brunette spinster Gena (Victoria Foyt, who only really appeared in her Hebraic hubby's films) is depicted looking quite melancholy while spying on little kids playing at a playground in a fashion that would probably inspire a concerned parent to call the police if she were a middle-aged man instead of a woman. Of course, as her visibly decaying physical pulchritude demonstrates, Gena’s biological clock is running out and the only thing she can think about is having a baby, even though she is constantly coming up with absurd reasons in her own mind as to why she should not have one. Unfortunately, Gena does not really love her talk, dark, and hokey preppie boyfriend James (played by overrated novelist J.D. Salinger’s somewhat less swarthy son Matt Salinger), who has more than enough money to buy a large house and provide for a fairly large family. At the beginning of the film after the two have seemingly lackluster sex, Gena accuses James of attempting to “trap” her “into getting pregnant,” even though she is the one that was responsible for refraining to tell her boring beau that she is ovulating and curiously neglected to wear her diaphragm. James is fairly eager about having a child with Gena and attempts to coerce her into being his baby-momma by saying to her in an insufferably sentimental fashion, “…you bring out the best in me and I bring out the best in you, and it would be a crime if we didn’t share that with a child.”  Of course, Gena does not see things that way, as she finds James to be too damn lame and tame to keep her interest for a lifetime as he is a mediocre man that uses golf metaphors when discussing the maturity (or lack thereof) of their sapless sham relationship.  As is hinted throughout the film, Gena is only in a relationship with James because she has suffered great heartbreak in the past and sees her boyfriend as someone that she can count on, even if he is a hopeless bore.  In fact, she much prefers her emotionally neglectful and proudly arrogant Hollywood actor ex-boyfriend Anthony Thomas (Eric Roberts in a cameo-like one-scene role), who pays her an unexpected visit at her place of employment under the pretense of needing her “financial wisdom” since he apparently suffers from “financial foolishness” in a shameless attempt to get her to have his baby, even though he has not seen or spoken to her in a number of years. Indeed, after describing how he began to develop an affection for children after being in a relationship with a woman that had a young daughter, Anthony states to Gena, “It made me realize I want a child more than anything in the world. When I thought about the reasons I wanted I child, I only thought about you. It’s not like wanting a motorcycle or wanting a horse; it’s wanting a life.” As Gena states to a friend in regard to Anthony and the sort of carnal spell that he has over her, “He’s got this strange kind of effect on me. I see him and I feel myself ovulating,” but unfortunately she cannot trust him since he treated her like trash in the past. Ultimately, Gena must decide whether she wants to let James or Anthony to impregnate her with their seed.  Naturally, as a navel-gazing neurotic, it makes for an impossible decision for Gena to make.

 Undoubtedly, the ‘centerpiece’ of Babyfever is a baby shower for Gena’s dumb blonde co-worker Diane (Jackie Moen, who had a small role in the Troma turd Class of Nuke 'Em High Part II: Subhumanoid Meltdown (1991)) where about a dozen or so pseudo-intellectual careerist chicks that wasted their most fertile years on college and work go on hysterical self-centered rants about their seemingly intangible dreams of pregnancy, disillusionment with weak and ineffectual men, and mixed thoughts on being the first generation of women to be seduced by the largely lesbian-led anti-male movement known as feminism, which a couple of these women criticize for not emphasizing the importance of motherhood. While the baby shower is supposed to be a joyous occasion where the guests celebrate the gift of life while acting like catty preteen princesses, the experience ultimately pushes Gena over the edge to the point where she routinely cries and even begins screaming hatefully at a brainwashed Christian negresses who proudly proclaims that her faith in the lord savior Jesus Christ will ultimately lead her to finding the right sort of god-fearing mensch to have children with. Indeed, like many barren women her age, Gena’s mind seems to be slowly but surely deteriorating to the point where she has developed her own idiosyncratic nihilistic Weltanschauung that seems change by the minute, so listening to the candid yet oftentimes contradictory thoughts of both mothers and spinsters naturally only compounds her progressive mental derangement. While Anthony has yet to try to contact Gena since he visited her at work, James is so keen on having a child with her that he offers to buy her a large house if she agrees to start a family with him. As James argues to Gena as to why they should get married and have children together, “We’ve talked about children. We’ve talked about marriage. We’ve talked about love. We’ve talked about commitment. We’ve talked about our lives together. I mean, hell, if you wanna be a yuppie, our careers even mesh.” Of course, like psychopaths, women are easily bored and Gena finds James’ perfectly planned proposal to be sterile and passionless and thus cannot imagine herself spending her entire life with such a patently prosaic pussy. Somewhat ironically, as their emotionally erratic rants during the baby shower segment indubitably demonstrates, many of Gena’s friends would love to have a beta-bitch like James.  Somewhat humorously, when Gena less than passionately describes his offer to buy her a home as “sweet,” James becomes fairly upset and complains in regard to being an accursed beta, “Sweet? The girls in school always used to call me ‘cute.’ I hated that word just as much.”

 Among other things, the seemingly unending baby shower segment demonstrates why there has never really been any great female philosophers as the viewer is bombarded with rant after rant by ostensibly intellectual college-indoctrinated spinsters who seem to be finally be coming to terms with the fact that they were tricked out of their birthright of reproduction by the resentful feminist dykes and commie agitators of the so-called ‘New Left’ who began destroying universities during the late-1960s. Undoubtedly what virtually all of these women have in common is that they are admittedly unhappy, even though they seem to have achieved all of their professional dreams, thus underscoring the idiocy of idealism. The only woman that does not seem totally miserable is a vain and vapid happy-go-lucky blonde who proudly proclaims while maintaining a stupidly smug smile, “I think that it’s really important for someone like myself to have babies because I have good genes and I think that genes are very important in the world. And all my brothers and sisters have very good features. And I’m bright. I was in all the advanced classes in school.” Of course, as her words rather clearly reveal, this dopey dame only wants to have children for selfish and superficial reasons and not because she has the undying urge to be a mommy. In another scene that hints that many women want to have children for largely selfish reasons, a less than fertile-looking dyke-like dame states, “I have four nieces and when I play with them or change their diapers, I see my family in their faces. And then it becomes very personal for me because it makes me realize I might not see my face reflected back.” Somehow how I doubt that this woman would be doing the world a favor if she sired more people with her sub-homely face, but I digress. Naturally, the estrogen-driven egomania does not end there, as an attractive dirty blonde is depicted ranting, “I thought for sure by now I would have at least one or two children and the fact that I haven’t makes me feel like I have been left out of the secret society; the society of mothers,” as if the sole reason to have children is so that you can fit in with other catty conformist cunts. 

 In a scene that seems to epitomize the quasi-sociopathic mentality that many modern women have, Gena shamelessly attempts to coerce her redhead friend Rosie (Frances Fisher of Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven (1992) and Brad Furman’s The Lincoln Lawyer (2011)) into intentionally getting pregnant without her unsuspecting long-term boyfriend's knowledge. Luckily, Rosie is somewhat more morally sane and responds to Gena by stating in an angry fashion, “There’s two types of women in this world that get accidentally pregnant: idiots and liars.” Clearly Gena does not care if she is an idiot and/or liar, as she is a slave to the to the curse of her seemingly perennial spinsterdom, thus making it seem all the more absurd that she will not allow her fairly wealthy boyfriend to impregnate her, but such is the perennial paradox that is the innately irrational female mind. Notably, towards the end of the baby shower, a wop-like chick with an oh-so chic goofy little boy hat states while seeming extremely desperate, “When I think about how the body’s natural response to a wound is to heal, it reminds me of how I feel that a woman’s urge to have a baby, or her desire to have a baby, is a way of the body healing itself. And I feel that it’s so strong and powerful and that, in some ways, that’s why we feel that we’re not whole, or I feel that I’m not whole, by not having a baby. It’s as if I’ve been wounded and if I get to have the baby, I’m gonna be healed.” Ultimately, the woman with the atrocious hat on her head seems to be quite right, as the film concludes abruptly with an astonishingly absurd tacked-on happy end where a glaringly happy Gena is depicted caressing her unclad pregnant stomach while proudly declaring with a self-satisfied smile, “I guess you’re wondering how this happened […] I met someone wonderful, you know, and it just happened.” As I have certainly noticed in regard to women I personally know, becoming a mother certainly seems to help to cure various forms of female neurosis. In the very last scene of the film, lead actress Victoria Foyt is depicted frolicking around a pool while holding her real-life baby daughter Sabrina Jaglom. Not surprisingly, a title reading “For my daughter, Sabrina” scrolls up the screen during this motherly scene, thereupon confirming that Jaglom largely made the film as a sort of celluloid baby shower. 

 While Babyfever seems like a sort of cinematic love letter to Jaglom’s wife and her struggle to find the right man to get pregnant (notably, when Foyt is featured at the end of the film pregnant and stating, “I met someone wonderful,” she is clearly talking about Jaglom in what ultimately proves to be a vomit-inducing scene of pseudo-sentimental masturbatory self-indulgence), the film feels like a cheap con packed with phony pathos and kitsch melodramatics when one considers that the auteur would eventually divorce the mother of his children for a redheaded Shiksa actress named Tanna Frederick that is young enough to be his granddaughter and bears a strikingly resemblance to his own daughter Sabrina. Somewhat humorously considering Jaglom’s ultra-left-wing politics (as revealed in the book My Lunches with Orson (2013), Orson Welles would oftentimes rebuke him for being such a hysterical “bleeding heart liberal”), Foyt, who has reinvented herself as an adult fiction sci-fi writer, was accused of ‘racism’ because her dystopian novel Save the Pearls: Revealing Eden (2012) depicts an inverted world where negroes make up a pernicious ruling class called ‘Coals’ who came to dominate the world because global warming has killed off most whites as a result of their melanin-deprived skin being too sensitive to the averse environment. In fact, Foyt was so ruthlessly hounded by pathetic social justice warrior types that the new politically correct owners of the long running American fantasy and horror fiction pulp mag Weird Tales decided to renege on their plans to publish excerpts from her novel after these resentful slave-morality-ridden pansies threatened to boycott the magazine (naturally, these same parasites of puritanical racial justice have also flooded book review sites with hysterical negative reviews). Of course, as a beautiful white woman that decided to commit Rassenschande and procreate with the proudly effeminate great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Jewish enlightenment philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, it is dubious to say the least to accuse Foyt of being a racist propagandist who writes novels to promote the survival of Europids (but then again, considering how her marriage ended with Jaglom, she might have finally wised up).  Somewhat curiously considering her mating habits, the eponymous heroine of Foyt's novel is a self-loathing girl that believes she is ugly because she has white skin.

 Personally, I see it as a fairly tragic and soulless thing when a beautiful woman that is desperate to get knocked up decides to hook up with a ‘safe’ but prosaic beta-bitch because he provides her with security, but such sad scenarios seem increasingly common, especially in our abstract technocratic world where physical strength and masculinity are becoming increasingly obsolete in the eyes of many women, who seem to have lost their maternal instincts and never seem to consider that reproducing with a weak, ugly, and/or racially hostile fellow can have catastrophic consequences in terms of the progeny she sires. Indeed, while Babyfever somewhat depicts otherwise, most women will always choose a wealthy man that they are not attracted to over a middleclass man that they are madly in love with, as they are cold and calculating and have special archaic instincts to control their emotions, or as Esther Vilar wrote in her classic text The Manipulated Man (1971), “We have already mentioned woman’s lack of emotional capacity. The fact that women make every attempt to suppress man’s ability to express his emotions is a certain indication of this. Yet she still contrives to create the myth of feminine depth of feeling and vulnerability […] Women really are callous creatures – mainly because it is to their disadvantage to feel deeply. Feelings might seduce them into choosing a man who is of no use to them, i.e., a man whom they could not manipulate at will […] What an advantage a man would have if only he realized the cold, clear thoughts running through a woman’s head while her eyes are brimming with tears.”

Of course, while Babyfever is full of emotionally grotesque women crying, the only sincere tears shed are those of self-pity. Indeed, I think Jaglom’s identifies with woman because he can relate to their tools of emotional manipulation, which is indubitably the director’s most glaring ‘talent’ as a singularly vainglorious filmmaker who has made a career out of shamelessly whoring out his and his friends' toddler-esque temper tantrums and pity parties. Although Jaglom likes to think of his films as “Rorschach drawings of his emotional condition,” they have no more depth than the petty phony tears a woman will shed when she has betrayed a lover and wants him to forget that he is mad at her. After all, normal individuals who are genuinely miserable do not go around flaunting their misery as if it is a glorious badge of honor, yet Jaglom thinks that is an act of sheer artistic brilliance to make a film like Always (1985) where he immortalized his first divorce by casting himself and his first Shiksa wife in the lead roles and reenacted some of the moments leading up to the disintegration of their marriage. If one learns anything from watching Babyfever, it is to stay clear of clear of childless women in their mid-30s to early-40s, especially if you’re a dignified male that values your sanity, as baby rabies make PMS seem like child’s play by comparison and will inspire women to decidedly desperate things that might include destroying your life, not to mention the fact these sort of women tend to carry tons of emotional baggage and rarely stay with their partners.  Although a sort of quasi-rom-com, the only humorous aspects of Jaglom's film seem to be accidental, including grotesque Jewish caricatures (e.g. real-life Jewish real estate developer Zack Norman portraying a super sleazy fictional real estate developer who is so desperate for money that he upsets his wife by neglecting to tell her that he has taken a painting that was hanging on the wall of their family home to get it ‘appraised’) and the largely ridiculous tears of spoiled lapsed beauties who refuse to accept the fact that they long ago reached the peak of their pulchritude.  Ultimately, watching Babyfever felt like spending nearly two hours in a sort of early-1990s Hebraic Hollywood spinster hell where a strategically multicultural cast of dumb and obnoxious dames in obscenely outmoded clothing demand that the viewer endure their incessant whining and complaining about problems that they are largely responsible for, thereupon making the film the perfect audio-visual torture device as well as something that can be utilized to clear out an entire room of people during a party. 

-Ty E

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