Author’s Note: this review contains spoilers, although if the premise of this movie appeals to you, you are on the wrong website, my friend.
Just in case whites haven’t inflicted themselves with sufficient shame to ensure a chronic recurrence of collective nervous exhaustion for the next thirty years, let’s give them something else to bewail: Hollywood’s horrible depiction of black characters in days long past. Could there possibly be any more degrading imagery than that of happy Africans eating watermelon and fried chicken, strumming the banjo, lolling in bed all day, and being scared into a ‘white’ hue whenever they encounter a spook, or a fake Scooby-Doo variant thereof? And need I even bring up the unfathomable horror that was blackface? Despite the fact that such depictions have been prohibited from tee vee broadcasts for over forty years now, such humiliation somehow managed to scar an entire generation of touchy blacks.
Clearly, lucrative compensation for this campaign of cultural mockery is in order. And Hollywood has responded by putting forth a plethora of movies advocating active white genocide ever since the late fifties. This is only fair, and doubtless will bring about that fabled Elysium of Desiderata any day now.
Speaking of masochism, I recently had the displeasure of sitting through the hippest cinematic fad of 2017, a favorite of white sophisticates and demimondes in the sheltered suburbs of Murika: Get Out, a cheap, stupid, non-scary ‘horror’ film of the type that used to clog up the shelves of the video stores of the 1990s and could usually be rented for half price. Amazingly, though, this bit of disposable celluloid not only was a critical darling, but also received a nomination for Best Picture, Director, Actor, and Original Screenplay by those media analysts convinced that Harvey Weinstein’s peccadilloes were a mere Tinseltown aberration.
The motivations behind this unprecedented honor become considerably clearer after you actually watch this abortion, though. To put it bluntly: Get Out has the distinction of being the single most anti-white movie I have ever seen, bar none.
And I’ve seen Django Unchained.
Things begin innocuously enough, with a black man strutting down the sidewalk of a stereotypically vanilla neighborhood after dark, muttering ebonically about how creepy-ass ev’yt’ing be. (What’s he doing there, then? Casing joints?) A car that has been none-too-subtly tailgating him stops, and a mysterious man knocks the black out and stuffs him in his trunk, while the hoary old chestnut ‘Run, Rabbit Run’ inexplicably appears to be playing on the car’s radio. Clearly, whoever this kidnapper is, he is one unhip guy. Remember that for later.
Prologue over, we are introduced to our protagonists. And oh, goodie….they’re an interracially mixed couple of a nauseatingly yuppified mien. I suppose they have names, but I can’t remember them, and really, why bother? As we will see, there are no characters in this movie, merely archetypes, as this is every bit of an allegory as Pilgrim’s Progress is. The only difference being that Get Out is political allegory rather than theological, and the action focuses mainly on Worldly Wise gleefully rolling about in the Slough of Despond, mistaking it for Paradise. Anyway, they’ve been shacking up for a while and decide for whatever reason it’s time to head out of the city to meet her parents. Boyfriend is skeptical of the wisdom of this jaunt, but Girlfriend assures him that her parents, though a little lame, are open-minded and will delight in him to no end.
Goin’ up the country, we are treated to a very long sequence where they hit and injure a deer and BF is unable to dispatch him, necessitating GF calling the police to do so. This scene has no seeming bearing on future events, except to provide some plot-contrived character (or rather, archetype) development. We discover that BF just doesn’t have the killer instinct, which bodes ill for him later on. We also learn that whites are inherently racist, as the cop on the scene mildly berates BF for not calling the game warden instead, prompting GF to give the cop a libertarian lecture about how they don’t have to provide him with any info, and ‘are we free to go?’, and the like. She also gets in a big speech about how Smokey wouldn’t be giving them so much “flak” if they were a white couple. Speechifying about racism is going to be a running theme all through this thing, don’t have any worries on that score!
Eventually, they turn up at her parents’ country cottage in the wilds of New England – no, scratch that. The bloody thing is a manor, surrounded by a vast estate of trees. Despite the incongruity of the location, it seems from the suddenly ominous soundtrack that this is meant to suggest a Deep South plantation. And since it’s common knowledge that the wilderness itself is racist, we know that nothing good is going to come of this encounter. Sure enough, the meeting with GF’s family is as cringeworthy as can be expected, not the least because they go to great pains to adopt a liberal facade. Dad is a retired surgeon who embarrasses everybody else by blatting out such random platitudes as ‘I would have voted for Obama a third time if I could!’ Mom is an actively practicing psychiatrist and anti-smoking activist. BF is a smoker. Oh dear. Brother is a weird wannabe streetfighter/wigger type who openly admires BF’s muscular physique, while still expressing confidence that he could take him in a back alley slugfest. Bottom line: something is rotten in the state of Crackervania. BF, who is not shy about vocalizing his uneasiness around white folks to begin with, is getting seriously jittery. Why his choice of a ‘partner’, then? A mounted trophy head looks great in the parlor, but some people just don’t want to handle the entire beast when alive, I suppose.
Oh yes, before I forget: the family also has two suspiciously pliant black servants – a male handyman and a female maid/hostess. These two are even stranger than the family. They have a very Stepford Wives (or maybe HAL 9000) quality about them – outwardly very docile and eager to please, but with a noticeable inner angst and turmoil that puts a strain on their complacent words, a gleam of anxiety in their eyes, and a nervous sense of barely-concealed panic when they make mistakes. Take note of the maid’s near-collapse when she accidentally slops a pitcher of iced tea on the tablecloth while serving refreshments outside. BF attempts to make connections with both of these worthies, but fails miserably. His conversation with the maid, in particular, reveals both the depths of her tension and the heavy-handed ‘mofo Whitey’ motif that is prevalent through this entire picture. Courtesy of IMDb:
Chris Washington: All I know is sometimes, when there’s too many white people, I get nervous, you know?[pause, Georgina laughs creepily with tears in her eyes]
Georgina: Oh no, no. No. No no no no no no. Aren’t you something? That’s not my experience. Not at all. The Armitages are so good to us. They treat us like family.
And hey! Whaddaya know – character names! But as I frankly don’t care enough to remember them, let’s just pretend we didn’t see these, shall we?
For being in such a remote setting, GF’s family has a ton of white friends in the neighborhood, and they all constantly drop in to gawk at the glinting slab of black oak who has sprouted within their midst, taking great pains to pay him all kinds of awkward, insensitive, backhanded compliments, mainly relating to his people’s athleticism, virility, etc. BF is a photographer, and the one sympathetic white among the gatherings – a blind gallery owner in the metropolis – expresses interest in putting some of his pictures on display, but nothing comes of this. (More on him later.) GF slues back and forth between berating the awfulness of her parents’ kith, and expressing great admiration at the fortitude BF is demonstrating, but he’s thinking that making a run for the border sounds like a better and better idea all the time. Many of the guests are accompanied by blacks who behave in the same bizarre fashion as the two servants. In the first ‘big’ twist this movie presents, one day a fat white woman brings her black companion along…and it’s the guy we saw kidnapped at the beginning of this film. He’s doing a happy Stepin Fetchit routine for the benefit of everybody, but it’s obvious something is especially wrong with his frame of mind. When BF snaps a picture of him for documentary purposes, the flash sends him into an epileptic seizure. Upon recovery, he looks at BF and gurgles ‘GET OUTTTTT!!!!!’ Thus, we are provided with the title of the movie. I can’t help but think this line might also be meant to be interpreted as an order to any cucked white watching this to depart the premises (read: the country) immediately, lest he be caught up in the upcoming Helter Skelter of the black/white race war. And this movie is about to do its own part admirably in bringing that happy situation to pass.
Let’s just cut through all the play-by-play and get down to brass tacks: our shocking primary plot twist. All these loser whites aren’t there merely to gawk at BF’s awesome prowess. No, sir: they actually want to become BF! And thanks to GF’s innovative grandfather, that can become a reality! Y’see, he perfected the art of brain transplants decades ago and, passing that esoteric knowledge onto his neurosurgeon son, he set up a secret society dedicated to transferring essences into younger, healthier bodies. Initially, there was no racial component in the picking of donors, but as post-modern Whitey yearns to be as hep as kangz, it has morphed into a wholesale usurpation of the black race by parasitic and hedonistic Caucasians. The generic fat white broad from before has begun the process by having her former husband’s brain transferred into the kidnapped black man.
This is the great statement of racism and identity politics that all the upper-crust progressives are fawning over? Using a plot device more suitable to the campy Frankenstein flicks cranked out by Hammer studios in the 60s and 70s? I realize that soft-genocidal movies like Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner don’t really pass muster with audiences anymore, but even so the depravity of this premise is appalling. ‘Oh, you don’t get it!! This is satire!!!’, parrot its defenders. I seriously beg to differ, but even granting that, this is wretched satire. From this point on, the movie will degenerate into little more than a black-themed installment in the Saw franchise, played absolutely straight. Some acerbic wit there, hey? The few morbidly satiric elements that have been presented before could just as easily have been lifted from first drafts of A Modest Proposal, written by the decidedly white Irishman Jonathan Swift. Ironic indeed that a black filmmaker is working in a genre created, defined, and appreciated by whites, only adding plenty of Ebonese, four-letter words, and politics to the left of Angela Davis to make it exclusively African.
And yes indeed, BF has been chosen to undergo a similar process. He has been prepped for the operation by Mom, who, under the guise of committing him to a stop-smoking regimen, has been drugging/hypnotizing him so that his subconscious mind will revert into a helpless black pit, where it will remain forever while his brain is replaced with that of a prospective white. And yes, the movie explains this concept every bit as poorly as I just did. Just prior to the Big Day, we are also treated to another incredibly shocking plot twist: seemingly tolerant and broad-minded GF is right up to her empty head in this wicked cabal! Her bringing BF out to the ol’ homestead to meet the folks was a big ruse all along. And she would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you pesky kids! Ooops….I’m attributing a sophistication to this movie that it in no way warrants. Let’s move on.
This brings me to another salient point: Get Out has many white characters in leading, supporting, and bit roles, but not a single one of them turns out to have any redeeming traits whatsoever. None. Remember the empathetic blind art dealer from before? Well, guess who won the donor lottery to have his brain transplanted into BF, that he might see the world through his ebony eyes? Not only does GF turn out to be a Judas, but she also has pulled this stunt with lots of other guys before – she even has the chutzpah to tell BF, ‘But you were my favorite among all of them’! After BF tells Dad about the deer that they hit, the old dear (hee, hee) launches into a spiel that not so subtly foreshadows his true feelings toward blacks:
You know what I say? I say one down, a couple hundred thousand to go. I don’t mean to get on my high horse, but I’m telling you, I do not like the deer. I’m sick of it; they’re taking over. They’re like rats. They’re destroying the ecosystem. I see a dead deer on the side of the road and I think, “That’s a start.”
But of course, this in no wise deters his own innate lust to take possession of a fine specimen of Mandingohood himself. Is this meant to be a subtle rejoinder against legitimate white grievances regarding black rape? I think it very well could be.
Well, if we’ve learned anything from Tarantino, we know there’s only one way for BF to remedy this situation: kill the lot of them in sadistic, horrifying fashion. And he proceeds to do just that. The blood flies profusely during this last part of the movie, and it bears little artistic difference to a snuff film. Dad’s death is especially poetic, as he is impaled with a pair of deer antlers incongruously hanging on the wall of his den. Did Kipling ever use this image in any of his works? GF, with ample help from the two Uncle Tom servants, puts a pretty good licking on BF, though, and his fate seems to be a grim one….but fortuitously, his Best Pal shows up with the cops just in time to save the day.
Best Pal? Yes, I have deliberately withheld mentioning him until near the movie’s end, even though he, too, is a major recurring character. He, too, is a black man of a rather excitable temperament who is glued to his phone in virtually every scene he’s in. However, as an avid connoisseur of alien abduction stories, Tuskegee Institute folklore, the entire ‘kangz’ mythos, and the like, he is far more ‘woke’ than BF is, and pieces together the entire conspiracy based on pictures BF sends him throughout the course of the movie. Take that, Hercule Poirot! He also serves as a reminder that this movie was not the independent production of some grassroots Black Lives Matter cell, but a slickly nuanced piece of brainwashing fully funded and endorsed by the upper reaches of the Cryptocracy. For BP also happens to be a TSA agent. A very, very proud TSA agent, as he drops a reference to his authoritative intrusive government pretend-job every chance he gets. And he does so again, most disgustingly, in the movie’s climactic showdown. Jitterbugging away with his trademark ADHD after dispatching the last remaining villains (vanillains?), we get this immortal passage:
Rod Williams: I mean, I told you not to go in that house. I mean…
Chris Washington: How you find me?
Rod Williams: I’m TS-motherf***in’-A. We handle s**t. That’s what we do. Consider this situation f***in’ handled.
So, I don’t know, dumb goy. You tell me. Think the death wish against you might emanate from way on high, according to the meta-narrative we’re being hypnotized with here? Did I mention the producer of this paean to white hatred is one Jason (((Blum)))? If you require further convincing, wait until I reveal the final ‘shocking’ plot twist. Those two weird black servants? They’re none other than GF’s dearly not-departed-merely-transplanted grandparents, who couldn’t resist partaking of the dark meat themselves, when all was said and done. (Remember the maid’s ‘they’re just like family’ remark from before?) There’s a final kick in the gonads for you. White envy towards blacks isn’t just a modern phenomenon. No, your ancestors were also self-loathers who yearned to cloak themselves in the strange epidermis of Ham, as well. This insult is further established in our minds over the end credits, as we’re treated to another crackly refrain of ‘Run, Rabbit, Run’. Isn’t the cinema a powerful means of education and edification?
In years past, such hyper-incendiary Marxist garbage could convincingly be branded as ‘imminent lawless action‘ – a.k.a. incitement to riot – and been banned outright. But that’s not how things operate in this even more current year than previously known. The depressing fact of the matter is: there’s no arguing with the numbers. On a modest budget of $4.5 million, Get Out grossed almost $255 million worldwide, all but guaranteeing at least one sequel – and there’s no reason to think this won’t be developed into a franchise should the sequel prove similarly successful. It also has a dedicated following among the left wing of the Christian community – which is basically the entire church anymore. One of the ‘Christian’ proponents of the film is none other than F&H’s favorite mack daddy Lamont English, who saw fit to post a picture of himself and his trophy white wife watching the movie – he aghast, she amused – under the heartwarming tagline ‘who wants to let a brutha lay on their couch tonight?’ This prompted a spirited discussion from his Hekyll-and-Jekyll-ish posse, with the poetic descriptor ‘bruh’ liberally used and comments along the lines of ‘she ain’ ebben scar’d an sheeeit’ not uncommonly stated. Perhaps she should be scared of an uprising a little more macro in scope than what she’s likely to see on Netflix, but somehow I doubt she is. And do you think director/writer Jordan Peele might display even the slightest hint of gratitude towards guilt-laden honkies for automatically catapulting him into Hollywormwood’s A-list? Not on your life! In an astonishing interview on the importance of his cinematic vision, Peele went so far as to berate whites for complimenting his masterpiece! If the experiences of his fellow ill-humored black suburban success story Lecrae are any indication, though, that won’t stop white acclaim from following him around in waves, like supplicants bestowing their liege for a simple pat on the head.
Still, when all is said and done, I would strongly urge every kinist out there to take an hour and a half to watch Get Out. Not because of any quality the movie possesses, but because it provides a stark lesson into just how far the genocidal agenda against us has progressed. The herd is being whipped up into a stampede, and we don’t want to be caught hog-tied in its path, utterly helpless to do anything to deal with the onslaught. Forewarned is forearmed. Deus Vult.