I absolutely adore South Pacific. I always have. I saw it for the first time on the Disney Channel when I was about six, and it was love at first sight. I had adoration for Mitzi Gaynor, who always looked delightfully matte even in the midday tropical heat, fun stirrings in my nether regions during any scene where a man appeared shirtless, and a “Mommy Mommy that’s not the South Pacific, that’s where we live on Kaua’i” sense of wonderment.
As an adult, I look back at the Rogers & Hammerstein masterpiece and I’ve come to the realization that everything I’ve needed to know in life so far, I’ve learned from this treasure of American stage and screen:
There’s absolutely nothing at all homoerotic about singing about your blue balls at a beachside sausage luau.
There’s nothing like a dame. True that, boys, but I’m sure y’all found a way to make do.
When your racist sensibilities force you to jilt your murderous French lover, it’s abundantly clear the least Lesbian way to cope with the situation is to enjoy a shower with your other short-haired gal pals and sing a peppy song about how you’re through with men forever.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in that situation. Thank God that beach is close by.
Of course we can’t blame poor Nellie for confusing Asians with black people. The producers did it too.
When a man feeds you a line of bullshit, you immediately fall back in love with him because by contemporary standards, you’re a woman, and therefore an idiot.
He does have an awfully nice house, and I just bet the shower’s probably indoors, too.
Pimping out your daughter to white foreigners on temporary assignment to your island is a foolproof plan for getting them married off.
“You try, you like.”
And finally, it’s “Sur LA table.”
“Correcting my French eh? Just wait till I find out how to say ‘woodshed’, you little shit.”
All kidding aside, I really do enjoy South Pacific. Ever since I got the idea from The Divine Miss Mitzi those many years ago, I’ve been washing men out of my hair ever since.