(image via nytimesmagazine)
We laugh at Quentin Tarantino's foot fetish from afar because, well, he -- auteur du cinema -- was not self-aware enough to detect it in time, thus his early works air his little hot ghetto mess on-screen for all the world and untold generations to see. Funny. Graduate students of the future will deliver dissertations on the subject. The artist that is not self aware is an amusing conceit, and the irony of laughing at such a being behind his back is a delicious parlor game.
Then things got creepy.
Quentin flipped the script. Tarantino, seeking to turn the tables on his detractors, has more than acknowledged the fact that his ardor for arches is oily. In fact, his wallowing in feet can only be properly construed as "disgusting voodoo." Did we really need that lurid close-up of Uma Thurman's chaffing bunions in "Kill Bill." He embraces his fetid sexual fetishes now. In a magazine with photographs by Jean-Baptiste Mondino, no less. The goddam New York Times Sunday magazine!
Freaky li'l bitch. (image via nytimesmagazine)
In this photo layout with his Muse Diane Kruger, he creeps us the fuck out really and truly.
P.S.: We wonder how that conversation went. "Uh, Diane, I have another role for you. It is non-speaking and it involves your legs and feet and my mouth and hands and it will be in The New York Times magazine. Thanks, you're a real team player."
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