Yeah, I watched it. American Trash. And let me tell you something-this one doesn't ask for your approval. It doesn't play nice, it doesn't clean up its face to make you comfortable. It bleeds. It burns. It tells the truth-the kind you buried under years of lies, trash, and plastic smiles.
I don't particularly care to explain nothing to you.
I don't look up at you for any reason to bring my report card home anymore,
and neither does this film.
LaSardo don't act here he remembers.
You can see it in his walk, in his voice, in the dead stare of someone who's lived through it and didn't come back for your applause.
These aren't characters, they're the ones you labeled, discarded, locked up, pushed out. And they still exist.
We're done begging for your stamp of approval. This movie doesn't ask if it can speak-it screams through the cracks of a rotting system. You call it trash? That's a mirror you're looking into-and it scares you.
The pain in this film is earned. It's the raw, twitching pulse of people who've been run through the gears of your machine and spit out half-alive. It's trauma, survival-it's love in pure form. The kind you don't understand because you were too busy pretending everything was okay while the world burned behind your gated walls.
American Trash ain't trying to make you feel good. It's trying to make you see.
The blood, the loss, the wild truth beneath the makeup of your civilized sickness.
But what can you teach other people?
That's what I'd like to know too.
Because society already thinks it knows.
But society is just a jellyfish controlled by the people who move the sheep around.
I endorse this movie.
Because it doesn't pretend.
Because it remembers the forgotten.
Because it's real.
And if that makes you uncomfortable...
Good
Feel free to honor your programming on anything that does not conform to your standards that live in a basement posturing in authority to the rats that run your keyboards.
Charlie Manson.
