Recently, aboard a flight from Istanbul to Vancouver, I had the utter pleasure of perusing through a very extensive in-flight entertainment catalogue. Before you transatlantic raw doggers bother me about watching a movie — what else was I supposed to do for 15 hours? Twiddle my thumbs? Chew on my musty blanket?
Naturally, I chose to partake in cinema. Here are some of the highlights of my interesting cinematic escapade.
British Lady and Turkish Man
This charming documentary tells the story of Worcesterette, a British émigré who moved to Turkey because of the high cost of goat milk back home, and Emir, a goat herder from the northern part of the country. “I never expected to live in Turkey,” Worcesterette told the filmmaker at one point. “Now, because I married Emir and moved to Turkey, I can have over a dozen goats produce all the milk I could dream of.” The documentary captures her wandering the village, expecting people to speak English, and demanding free goat milk.
Worcesterette has earned the nickname beyaz kadın by villagers, a phrase she reckons is connected to Turkic Mythology. Honestly, what a bop of a film. I just hoped Emir escapes that toxic relationship for his own mental health — a man’s goat milk is his prized possession . . . until I saw a post-credit scene that explained how Emir had lied about his goat breed being superior in order to convince Worcesterette to marry him instead of his neighbour. Shame on both of them, I guess.
A 3-hour hair transplant infomercial
Do you have a layover in Istanbul with absolutely nothing to do? According to the propaganda I was forced to watch, you should consider a hair transplant surgery! Mind you, I have no idea why they would be playing this infomercial on the way back from Istanbul.
Before you flame me for watching this, please note that the whole airplane had this infomercial pop up as an ad. About halfway through the “film,” I heard buzzing noises coming from aisles behind me . . . I had to cover my head in fear that my beautiful, luscious hair was about to become a victim of capitalism. Hopefully the flight attendants are making a commission off of sales for the future hair transplant procedures.
To all the men aboard that flight — you don’t need hair transplants. Don’t fall for the propaganda. Your head is beautiful the way it is. Don’t be chopped because some influencer in the manosphere gave you an affiliate link to a sketchy Turkish hair surgery clinic.
50 Shades of Blue
In this avant-garde film (by what I presume to be a French nepo baby), the audience is exposed to 50 shades of still-shot blue objects. Such objects ranged from paper clips, to hair brushes, to a whip-shaped ice cream cone (still not sure how they figured out the physics to make it in this shape) — most likely to pay homage to its namesake.
I put on this film about 30 minutes before we landed, I was really in my feels and reflecting on my incredible experience. My five-star Letterboxd rating might not reflect the actual quality of the film.
So, long story short, it was a very interesting plane ride. However, the most interesting part came upon landing in Vancouver. As I lined up at customs, I heard the most strange pattering sound emerge from behind me. Funnily enough, it was beyaz kadın herself. “Worcesterette?” I said. “Aren’t you from that documentary?”
Nestled against the bridge of her nose were a pair of sunglasses. She was laved with a trench coat. “Please . . . the Turkish paparazzi can’t follow me home. I’m here on a layover,” she said. “My husband threatened to start charging me for his shite goat milk, the villagers all hate me, and I missed my mother’s Cockney accent. So I left.”
And that, kids, is how I met your mother. Just kidding. I have no quality goat milk to offer.
