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das grauen hat keine Ende. Bobby Diaz hat auch eine Rezession zu "The Turning" verfasst. Wie kann man zus o einem belanglosen Film drei Seiten schreiben, fragt man sich? Ganz einfach, indem man sich in sinnlosem Palaver und den Fantasien hingibt... Hat da jemand Realitätsverlust gesagt?


When I received my DVD of Gillian Anderson’s “The Turning” in the mail, I remember exclaiming, “Finally, I get to see exactly what’s under those tent-sized trenchcoats, baggy business suits, and long topcoats!”  You see, Chris “Crusty” Carter (cc@1013.com, Anmerkung: Fantasieadresse, es gibt keine Domäne, die so heißt!! daran sieht man unter welchem schweren Realitätsverlust Diaz leidet...) mandated “Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, M.D.” to wear those concealing raiments on nine whole seasons of “The X-Files.”  The movie shows a scrumptious 23-year-old Gillian Leigh Anderson in three separate scenes, filmed a little over a year before paranormal Christopher took her under his protective wing.

In the first scene, we witness her convincingly acting the part of a shy, quiet, but clumsy waitress, by the name of April Cavanaugh, working in her father’s small, gas station café, softly voicing her feigned south Virginian accent.  When Gillian casually looks out one of the café’s windows, as she’s gathering some dishes from a table, she sees her ex-boyfriend, Clifford Harnish, who’s been gone for four years.  And is in such shock that she fumbles the dishes over some old customers.

The dowdy, white blouse that Gillian was wearing was so roomy and starchy that it, unfortunately, obscured the size and shape of her succulent, creamy breasts underneath.  Luckily, though, the short navy-blue skirt she wore, with the white apron cinched tightly at her waist, displayed her erotically flaring hips in all their sensual splendor.  And her black, opaque pantyhose accentuated her curvaceous thighs and calves.

Seeing Gillian in her sexy waitress costume reminded me of one of the fantasies I’ve had ever since I landed my first Manhattan job fresh out of graduate school:  I’m in a fancy restaurant where only sophisticated but horny adults are allowed to dine.  The waitress assigned to my table is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, as she’s only waiting tables until her “big break” materializes in her promising acting/modeling career.  She’s got long, titian hair cascading in thick lustrous locks down slightly below her supple shoulders, and the playful bangs over her forehead are deliciously naughty.

My fantasy girl’s waitress uniform is way beyond skintight, and is so sinfully short I can easily see several inches of the amethyst suspenders from her garterbelt holding up her shiny, silky stockings, all of which match her lilac uniform.  Since she isn’t wearing a bra, her huge breasts are coquettishly struggling to tear free of her low-zippered top, and her large erect nipples, proudly protruding through the taut constraints of the translucent fabric of her top, are screaming for attention.  And getting it.

As she smiles seductively, flashes me a slutty wink, and tantalizingly wiggles away after taking my order, I can’t help but notice that the bottom three inches of her ass cheeks are totally exposed, except for the very thin, vertical strip of her bikini panties that are enticingly tucked in between them.  By the time she returns with my dinner and sets the plates on the table, I surrender to the savage lust she generated within me, and I hike her uniform up to her waist, lift and place her down on the crisp white tablecloth linen, yank her zipper all the way down, thus freeing her jiggling juggs, pull the crotch of her lavender panties to the side, and proceed to make love to her like she’s never been made love to before in her life.

All of the male and female patrons and staff of the restaurant are surrounding our table and cheering and applauding the sights and sounds of the two of us making love with wild abandon.  Afterwards, everyone else returns to their respective tables, and the satisfied, thankful waitress and I take turns feeding each other tasty morsels from the dinner plates before us, as we bask in the soothing, nurturing afterglow of our blistering, simultaneous orgasms.

THAT is what I thought of when I saw Gillian Anderson in her waitress costume.  If I had been in Cavanaugh’s Truck Stop café in Pocahontas, Virginia, on the same day Gillian was, I would not have hesitated:  I would’ve slapped Gillian’s young, creamy tushy down into a bowl of milky cheerios on the same table the old coots were sitting at, and I would’ve proceeded to make love to her right there, right then -- fast and furious, rough and deep -- while her ex-boyfriend looked on in shock!

But alas, back to my film review.  In the second scene, gorgeous and delicious Gillian is seen sitting outside the same gas station café, while curiously looking at a couple of prospective commercial real estate renters of her father’s across-the-street property.  Mysteriously, although the day is slightly overcast, Gillian repeatedly raises her right hand to her forehead, as if trying to keep the sun out of her eyes, even though she’s already wearing a brimmed hat.  The director should have immediately realized that all she was succeeding in doing was casting an annoying shadow over her exquisite facial features.

It is during the third, and unfortunately final, scene that we see Gillian getting down-and-dirty right on the kitchen floor with the main character of the film, her neo-Nazi, socially inept, boyfriend, Cliff.  With her mother’s blessings, he visits young, ripe Gillian while she is alone in her house ironing in the kitchen.  Within three minutes of Cliff’s arrival, Gillian, true to form, always the slave to the volcanic sexual needs percolating within her, proceeds to help him off with his Henley shirt, while planting hungry wet kisses on his skinny chest.

He reciprocates by helping Gillian off with her grey sweater and the top of her country-girl dress, thereby revealing a pair of perfectly shaped B-cup breasts tightly ensconced in a diaphanous bra.  Then, he aggressively pulls the see-through bra down, thus allowing sensuously obliging Gillian’s young pert breasts to playfully flop out, while she simultaneously arches her back and pulls slightly away from him -- thereby affording the voracious spectator with an unobstructed view of her creamy, mouth-watering mammaries in all their unparalleled glory!!

Ahhh … Gillian Anderson’s large areolas (No wonder they keep “saying hello” above the tops of her evening gowns!) and turgid, bullet-sized nipples!!  I just knew during those nine frustrating years of watching “The X-Files” that Gillian was hiding under all those layers and layers of clothes a pair of outstanding areolas which were the absolute antithesis of diminutive!  Gillian, I dare say, ALL of your public “nip slips” are warranted -- and highly desired!

After Gillian and Cliff make love (which, idiotically, the camera doesn’t show, or was erroneously edited out), she lovingly says in her sexy southern drawl, “I wish you could stay this close for seconds, then minutes, then hours, then days.”  At which point, her boyfriend decides to walk away, without even so much as a kiss good-bye.  In other words, he gave Gillian a “Wham!”  And he gave her a “Bang!”  But he didn’t even give her a “Thank-You, Ma’am!”

 How Gillian’s character, April Cavanaugh, could have been so in love with a clod like this, I cannot cerebrally fathom, unless, that is, he was totally different before he abandoned her and walked out of their relationship four years prior.

If I would have had such a sweet, shy, caring, passionate, and beautiful girlfriend like Gillian/April, there’s no way I would have ever left her, not even with her tyrannical father swinging his tomato stick at me!  She’s precisely the kind of once-in-a-lifetime girlfriend who you would never even think of cheating on.  In point of fact, you would never have the need to even flirt with another woman.  Also, there’s no plausible way that an unattached Gillian/April would have been able to go an entire four years without having a whole bunch of young, horny guys coming around continuously and hungrily sniffing up her dress.  Absolutely impossible!

These implausibilities and other storyline defects, not to mention the director’s short-sightedness in not having Gillian appear in many more scenes, are among the reasons why this movie tanked at the box office during its limited release.  Going further -- and for those who incorrectly think that I despise him, I’m unreservedly admitting this -- if it hadn’t been for Chris Carter gallantly rescuing Gillian from the abysmal depths of obscurity in 1993, this sad little film would probably have been the last we would have seen of her in celluloid.  Oh, sure, Gillian would have probably continued modeling and appearing in the advertisements of a few magazines, here and there, but, as she would have grown older, and as the “bloom” would have slowly faded from her “rose” with each passing year, we would have seen less and less of her until … well, you do the math.

Thank you, Mr. Carter, sir, for bringing Gillian to the world.  If I had the opportunity, I would love to shake your hand in my sincere appreciation for the past decade of entertainment you have provided me with.  And for functioning as the primary cause of my being captured, like a mere insignificant iron filing, by Gillian’s irresistible magnetism.

Interestingly, only one of the other characters in the movie successfully made it into “The X-Files” ranks:  Clifford’s father was played by actor, Raymond J. Barry, who starred on at least two episodes as a Washington senator providing Fox Mulder with a little insider info.  (A lot of you will probably remember the “nano-technology” episode, where A.D. Skinner dies in a hospital emergency room and is then re-animated by a funky type of palm pilot operated by a long-haired Krycek.)

In fact, it’s been rumored that Mr. Barry was Gillian’s actual “sugar daddy” while she was living in the greater Los Angeles area.  She was penniless without him, and strategically took advantage of his sexually-induced generosity until she was able to achieve financial independence via her “Dana Scully” role.

From time to time, I’ve wondered why Michael Dolan, the runt who played Gillian’s boyfriend in the movie, never appeared on “The X-Files.”  In my humble opinion, he would have made a perfect deranged stalker and psycho killer, just the kind of guy that’s always hearing voices in his head

Anyway, the first night that I received the DVD through the mail, I paused it at the exact instant where Gillian’s left breast and areola and nipple flop out of their restraining bra-cup and fell asleep in bed while gazing at that beautiful, erotic, and hypnotic imagery.  What exquisite dreams I dreamt that night!  (Yes, dear reader, I realize that that’s the closest I’ll ever come to actually making love to Gillian.  Thanks for reminding me!

I would have given the film a full five stars, instead of just four, if Gillian Anderson had been gloriously displayed more often in the film.  But, alas, the director, Louis A. Puopolo, was not as farsighted as I would have hoped.

(Incidentally, Puopolo seems to have enigmatically disappeared from the face of the earth shortly after the release of this movie.  Me thinks Chris “Craniotomy” Carter, “The X-Files” creator, was jealous that he hadn’t gotten [in]to Gillian first and, out of pure vanity, had the erstwhile director dispatched permanently to parts unknown!  Chris shouldn’t be too ornery, though.  At least he beat her ex-husband, Errol Clyde Klotz, for quite a few runs around Gillian’s slippery bases during the pilot phase of “The X-Files.”)

Still, due to Gillian’s incandescent appearances, few though they may be, the DVD is definitely worth purchasing.  I plan to keep my copy forever!  Enjoy.

With great sincerity,

Bobby Diaz

( a/k/a  Gillianlaphile )

P.S.  Please visit and JOIN my Gillian Anderson Yahoo! Group at

      

         It is the absolutely largest Gillian Group that has ever existed. ja genau: existiert hat, was glaubst, du wem du es zu verdanken hast, dass die nun gelöscht ist? Ganz genau du schlaumeier

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