I often fawn over testicular contractions: The New Yorker (MOTTO: "If we make you feel stupid, we've done our job."), a while back, also did a typical glowing review of the Cremaster series, with all sorts of poetic allusions and wide-eyed observations. The effing films are basically a mishmash of hallucinogenic imagery that some people think they can find a message in. I'm sure it's just me, but ye gods, if this is what it takes to be an art god in NYC, I'll settle for Jim Carrey films. Don't forget the last dahling was the guy who sawed cows in half.