American Horror Story: Asylum Watch: Episode 4 - I Am Anne Frank, Pt. 1
Conversion therapy: Thredson brings in a guy who also wants to help Lana. Only this guy is wearing a robe and nothing else. Lana looks far more distressed now than when her head was in a bucket. She’s wary of him touching her, but no, Thredson wants her to touch herself after the guy disrobes. What. The. Fuck. “Try to focus on his genitals,” is the doctorate-earning advice Thredson give. She’s soon coerced into fondling and stroking the guy of, until she gets entirely disgusted and throws up in the bucket again. The guy puts his robe back on and leaves. I laughed entirely too hard when Thredson tells Lana that his “expertise is telling him the therapy just isn’t working.” Don’t you mean your “sex-part-tease,” doctor? (Thinking of that pun was today’s most well-spent ten seconds.)
Thredson finds Lana in the public room later and apologizes, giving her the picture of Wendy to keep. In case you’re wondering, no he didn’t apologize by giving up his medical license and turning himself into authorities. He calms her worries by saying she only has to hide it until the end of the week, because though he doesn’t know how, he’s going to take her with him when he leaves Briarcliff. Which probably means he’s going to die before he gets to leave.
Despite the monumental discomfort in that therapy scene, this was kind of a humdrum episode, though it would be the most exciting episode of almost any other series. That’s the weird, and ultimately destructive, thing about AHS: there aren’t any characters for me to put any emotional value in, so I’m forced to connect with the scenes themselves. And though it’s is a show that runs on lunatic gasoline, it can still coast on the fumes of predictable horror storytelling, so if the fantastical spontaneity slows, it gives me more time to take a look around and notice what’s actually wrong. There is enough of that elsewhere on TV. Maybe I’ll go bitch about that to myself in a padded room. Until next week!
The Inane Asylum
My prediction: The monsignor has tasked Arden with altering human beings to make them heavier over-actors than Joseph Fiennes. And THAT is when Dylan McDermott comes into the story.
Never forget, the next time you are rude to someone, it’s almost like telling Anne Frank, “Don’t let them Jew you down,” before she stabs you with a broken beer bottle. Stop the bullying. The More You Know.
I don’t understand the point of Arden’s Nazi coin flip. Was he just choosing between girls? Would he give them ice cream if it was heads, and night terrors if it was tails?
When Anne was telling her story about living in Britain and meeting and marrying a New Jersey boy, I wondered how long it took her to learn English, and then I remembered that her diary was written in English, otherwise I couldn’t have read it. (Joke.)
I know I’m missing something here. Thredson tells Kit if he’s sane, they’ll kill him for the murders, but if he‘s insane, then they’ll keep him at Briarcliff. But Thredson doesn’t think he’s evil, and wants him to face the truth. And so, if Kit actually did kill people, and Thredson makes him realize this and accept it, he would have essentially cured Kit, making him sane, which means he’d be put to death. Is that how it works? Does it matter, since Kit probably isn’t guilty?
“Where is she now? Hiding in the attic?” The monsignor can be found this Saturday and Sunday at the Laff Asylum in Chicago.
“Are you purposely trying to make a murder baby?” I laugh, but there are people in this world who would probably utter that line with perfect sincerity.
Want to know how to cure chronic masturbation, Briarcliff? Don’t give said masturbator the loosest pair of shorts imaginable. Of all the weird imagery in the show, that would have been the worst one to try and explain to a child, or an extremely chaste grandmother.
Penis word of the day: Tumescence. Used in a sentence: Dr. Thredson totally referred to that guy’s junk as tumescence.
I’m going to watch Apt Pupil for the next six days, on the off-chance the Anne Frank conclusion pays homage to it in some way, hopefully in the robotic Nazi way. And if someone wanted to dig up Brad Renfro’s corpse and stick that in a scene, I’m fine with it.
After talking with friends, I’ve decided to make it my life’s mission to get James Cromwell, and now Zachery Quinto, to record an audiobook of the most nefariously vile things I can find at UrbanDictionary.com.
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