Since about the twentieth century, many aspects of western culture have been a juxtaposition of homosexuals aping heterosexuals, producing a spectacle that loves to display itself but provides little substantial to the people whom the culture is supposed to be serving. Consider, for example, "fashion," in which homosexual men design costumes for women. These costumes have consistently been awful waifish things, designed to de-sexualize women kept at unhealthy levels of reduced body mass, creating a homosexual ideal of slender adolescent men, rather than the preferred ideal of the heterosexual male who might be inspired to buy something emphasizing breasts or hips for his real-life partner. Status signaling has kept people scrimping for a $900 heroin addict's dress, which need is a separate subject, more akin to the cultural desperation of the now than to tailoring fabric costumes; nonetheless, the tailoring itself is a separate foul pustule.
The dichotomy with fat advocacy works wonders, here, because the zombie-skinnies, though frightfully disgusting, still haven't gotten into skull-reduction, and still retain albeit-starvation-level youthful faces, and look better than the proud obese. Marshaling opposition to the exploitation, and youthful pollution, of the fashion industry, behind a series of proudly chubby or antisexual objectors, has done, like the election charades of democracy, a remarkably good job at keeping people supporting crap they don't like just because some even-worse threat is presented as the other choice. It's like the old salesman's tricks, implying that if you don't buy some piece of crap a really bad thing will happen. Accustomed to honesty, peoples of earlier years were inclined to believe such things, because what kind of disgusting person in one's community would lie about such a thing? It's quite thinkable now, even predicted, because we're used to roving salesmen who lie, but that expectation had to be built, and was, and it had to evolve to this point, where we know that the people who come to our doors randomly, or randomly call our phones, are generally scum to whom we don't want to talk, but we're in this awful phase now where watching actors on television portraying "alternative to purchase" characters works really well, and we keep buying.
The situation with using male homosexuals to primarily subvert culture has been bad for both the male homosexuals and the target culture. In fashion, for example, all of the weird, interesting crap that the queers have come up with would've been great for the one-off wear of a quirky friend, Halloween costumes, ways to express individuality, and so forth; making it mainstream perverted the designers as well as the marks, filling their heads with ideas of setting trends for everyone, rather than what they were instinctively trying to do, which was to represent a particular kind of desire and lust. But the tiny number of them with impact are well-paid, so like J.K. Rowling, it's hard to feel bad for them. Nonetheless, the foisting on the public by immensely powerful corporations of this homosexual art has denied to male homosexuals themselves the ability to craft a discrete fashion and fashionable identity, which they could have used for so many better, more fulfilling things, if they didn't have unfortunately-normal girls trying to glamorize their product. Again, it's hard to feel bad for them, but you have to envision a world where governments aren't trying to destroy citizenry, and homosexuals are just a subgroup that exists happily out there, not goaded into reveling in their own crap too deeply to realize what was stolen from them.
(I.e., the claim here is that, if little Billy weren't given a bat and told to have fun by going to smash quail, he might learn his times tables instead, and ultimately end up a systems analyst rather than a garbageman. It's not that male homosexuals are intrinsically bad for wanting to design stupid costumes; it's that someone keeps giving them a bat and telling them "Go smash those quail!" so of course they're going to do that. Whatever you think about homosexuals, quail, or any of that, it really takes that subset of the population down from whatever heights it would attain to reward it for designing costumes instead of something else. If you have a problem with male homosexuals anyway, giving them that kind of cultural power to make clothing to show how straight men should see straight women is troubling; if you like male homosexuals, frittering their lives away on such dross is just as troubling. Either "they're subverting our culture!" or "they're wasting their lives..." is a correct and acceptable analysis.)
It's relatively easy, by contrast, to see the ill effects of homosexual age- and style-play on ordinary people. Thanks to feminists, we've all been barraged for years with the misery of women trying to conform to these insane ideals for young boys that the fashion designers have been trying to force on grown women and growing girls. The saner reaction to this battle was often, as aforementioned, a flawed understanding of the battle that was occurring, wherein people thought they were resisting the antisex leagues and the pro-obesity crowd by defending the awful male-homosexual-using fashion industry, as though it were a battle between shapely lasses wanting to wear pretty clothes, and fat women wanting everyone to dress in mumus. In fact, as with British Tory v. Labour, or American Republican v. Democrat, both artificial "sides" were the enemy, and everyone's worst suspicions among the citizenry were entirely correct. The queer men actually designing the "skinny 13-year-old boy" clothing for "32-year-old woman" may have occasionally been given industry-specific recognition, but aside from a few major brands where they often used a female token anyway, almost no one--except the same perverts who were actors or publishers fronting the industry anyway--knew who the designers were or what they looked like. And as some awareness of this trend has grown, it's largely become like American publishing, in the sense of employing fronts--where some named female designer is just a figurehead for the team of six queer men who actually design the clothing. Perhaps a handful were somewhat-known by an ad-addled public, but no more, and those who were known were usually branded actors rather than the actual designers.
Far more powerful than fashion has been the movie business, which is to say the show business. The ethnic components of this assault have been rather obvious, and like the ownership and control of news media and the entertainment business, the antisex agenda has paid obvious dividends to the parasites upon the dying culture. Like fashion designed for women who presumably want to be looked at, movies and plays designed to sell tickets to men theoretically should include tits and ass, and the comparatively trace elements of female beauty displayed in the modern culture of male purchasing power, and the previous culture of self-avowed patriarchy and an increased sense of male purchasing power, included far less tits and ass than it should've included. Movie actresses since "Hollywood" began being famous have occasionally been pretty, and occasionally, like Julia Roberts, designed to make a female audience able to identify with and not be intimidated by the female lead, yet a tour of a handful of community theaters full of bad acting and incomplete plots should turn up at least a few actual beauties, just like a few high schools will turn up several bodies way more desirable than the people willing to gamble their whole lives on bit parts in commercials in SoCal, then screw Weinstein & co. for the privilege of emaciating themselves and having elective surgery in order to appear in some film. Truly, the pretty girl who goes to SoCal and does porn for a few years, then goes back home sad to be a waitress, is the more intelligent life-planner. Indeed, reviewing cheap freebie porn can easily turn up way more good looks than Hollywood has on offer, and a single acting class and lots of guided takes could swiftly produce equal or superior "acting."
The ethnic ownership of purportedly fiction and purportedly non-fiction media, and fashion, is perhaps well known now, but more compelling to the informed modern is perhaps the predecessors to these organizations, and the way they used homosexual men, and the lasting, profound impact that had on western culture. Think first of the "musical," or the stage play (with or without a bit of faux-casual acrobatics worked betwixt the lines), in which many generations of westerners have been raised on the belief that heterosexual coupling is best effected by mimicking the ideas of homosexual males. The western stage for at least the past hundred years has been much like western fashion, where male queers have not only said how straight women should look to straight men, but how straight men should court straight women. The "confusing" behavior of male leads in film and on stage is largely a product not of bad writing per se, but of male queers actually not knowing how to realistically portray the straight pursuit. And generations of kids, taking their cultural cues from either some imaginarily pitiful and nervous hero, or some overcompensating bravado-man, have been understandably let down by their culture.
The notion sounds at first western blush like some sort of angry sexualityist rant, but in fact, the employment of homosexual males in so many aspects of cultural demolition, excuse me deconstruction, has had a profound impact on queers also. Decades of homosexual activism has been heavily tilted against lesbians and introverted male queers and toward extroverted male queers (who tend to be the assholes, ergo the foolish cultural reaction against all gay people), an imbalance that still continues today, where queer men defined, and continue to define, society's intended embrace of their preferred extroverted lifestyle. Much like spending no or little time with some ethnic group can leave you arrogantly assuming they must be just like you, spending no time with male queers can leave you rather blind, but if you read their informal publications and talk to some real ones in different cities, there's this huge, sometimes latent but sometimes overt, rude attitude toward female homosexuals. It's like the fantasy image of patriarchy, but the patriarchs are all lisping male queers, talking about how incompetent and clueless the female queers are, when it's actually more often a real-world superiority in the other direction, where female queers are often better than male queers at balancing checkbooks, not pissing everyone off at work, not wanting to be seen kissing in risque places where straight people wouldn't be so vulgar and annoying, et cetera.
Again, as with this one's personal upset at the way a certain supermajority of white people get off on advocating for black people to become darker-skinned clones of those white people, this is effing annoying, and offensive in all sorts of moral ways besides. Like, if I know a bunch of lesbians who have stable jobs, stable lives, and it's really a surprise to people when long-time neighbors suddenly figure out there're a couple lesbians over there, then go on swapping lawnmowers and shit, but then you see the queer dudes and they're breaking up again and so-and-so had his little malicious mischief incident with the local building association after that one late rave and oh crap to make rent I'm gonna have to ask mom for money again don't tell dad, but they're making snarky comments about that checker at the store who might've been a lesbian and that's why she didn't do the change right, it's so damn annoying, almost like they're this mutation of the species that completely has no interest in the other sex whatsoever. But that's a separate subject, and yeah not all male queers are like that and yeah some of the women are damned annoying too, but nonetheless, the eager male employment in the total queer social movements is emblematic of anecdote and mass hearsay. And if you believe they're all answering those surveys honestly, you're a dumbass, and social research cannot trust the survey anymore, if it ever could, so all we really have is anecdote and hearsay, since people are all aware of what surveys are for, now: it's a sociological battleground to give or receive one, and answers are given not for truth--if that respondent is even capable of knowing what her/his feelings are on the subject--but out of the hopes of achieving some kind of agenda in the survey results. Like so many other aspects of this developing culture, we're going to have to go back to personal experience and talking to living people we trust to know what's going on, because the idea that we can produce scientific results by asking people to self-report their habits and feelings is a retarded fantasy we're just going to have to give up.
The effects of male queers' eager exemplification of the "total gay identity" for the advancement of their largely exclusive benefits--often not tangible, real-world goals, so much as the forced face-smearing by twisted extroverts that we live in now--has had a profound effect through their use as cinema and theater agents in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. So many movies employ gay actors aping straights as stupid that there are separate aspects to it, and the primarily ethnic-warfare purpose of the past century's corporate entertainment media certainly overshadows the queer aspect, yet within these trends themselves--as within the massively profitable in both financial and other ways fashion business--male queers have had a dramatic cultural impact.
Consider the changes in the musical during the time period in question. The musical is a beautiful idea, in that a plot can be conveyed more succinctly or dramatically via a song, the predecessor to the movie montage with which we're now familiar. The musical has gone too far, though, turning from a chance at serving the plot to a chance to demonstrate extroversion. The preponderance, nearly total, of male homosexuals in Broadway casts had helped set this trend, as gay men pretend to be straight men singing songs about how undeserving men are of women, how awful it is to fail at being a real man, and so forth. The flippant dancing and unnecessary qualms and motions of male stage actors owes a great deal to the inundation of queer males wanting to ape straight males while being watched to acclaim, and if one were very clever and owned many fronts of show business while wanting to destroy the social cohesion and birth rate of an enemy nation(s), one would hire queer men, flood the stage and the industry with them such that it came to dominate the character of the profession and steer straight men away from the idea out of a rightful aversion toward what it had become, and then produce such straight-mocking incidence as to drive home the stake.
Much as Hollywood would later do with the montage--eliminating it entirely but still showing scenes from the protagonist's incredible prowess after his exhaustive 16-hours-a-day training sessions that are never even hinted at, or the development of his enduring lifelong love after zero scenes together, as in Matrix, the musical began with its reality-condensing musical act, wherein songs became shorter, conveying less information, but the plot was assumed to have happened anyway, with the details to be filled in by the consumer, who was already so filled with the product line that further details were not necessary, similar to the way many other modern business now offers the incomplete product, where accessories and troubleshooting are presumed a given. A computer OS, for example, isn't concerned with being well-designed or understandable, but there are lots of "help" websites sponsored by the designing company where customers can share how they fixed this or that problem.
Consider, musically, the scene where a man and a woman meet and then fall in love in three minutes. That's fine, and we assume the three minutes represents their swift realization of how great the other is. Or a man's song about how he's definitely gonna get that girl, or a woman's song about how she's definitely gonna get gotten, either of which can convey minutes or years of thought or interaction just fine. It's justifiably artistic, even though it's disgusting to know that it has become an entertainment trend because, like the montage trimming minutes off a movie's plot to get more total audience turnaround per day, or modern literary traditions trimming books to shelf-size with the famous 100,000 word limit for new names for the covers. A scene of a bunch of young men planning a revolution, perhaps conveying the happenings over three months of political meetings, is still itself permissible, but the musical format itself, unless carefully crafted, tends to in this age commit fatal narrative breaks. For example, if the lone villain confronts a roomful or field full of his nemeses, and they do not use this opportunity to stop this troublemaker by summoning the police, or just mobbing him, despite very good reasons for them to do so, there is a significant problem with the plot. In the "we're falling in love" or "boy I sure do like that girl" formats, or even the "eighteen months of careful preparation" format, the musical works. It's a complete, plausible, logical, sense-making plot, by its own rules of "humans interacting," story, and the musical format is not in itself flawed.
However, like the abuse of the "cinema" format, the "musical" has developed its own serious problems over its lifespan in the media-promoted western theaters. Like galleries for illustration or sculpture, cinema, fiction literature, and the rest of the Entertainment Product® to which we're exposed, the musical tends to show major, intrinsically omnipresent flaws, perhaps due in part to the character of the male homosexuals courted into the role of production and display, and certainly due to the maliciousness and oblivious to art-ness of the producing group.
Unlike illustration and fiction literature, the flaws in cinema and the musical are often far less apparent. This is because in cinema and on the stage, the experience draws upon the work of set and costume designers, who are not always gay men, but in fact who are often incredibly good artists and computer technicians, producing scenery and backdrops, CG characters and settings, and so forth, which lend an often beautiful realism or surrealism to the viewed experience behind some terrible hired faces reciting roles that the dialogue coach spent weeks practicing through with them before the best of the eleven takes is selected for production and publishing. As Pollock, Martin, and certainly Rowling have showed us, this stands in contrast to literature and illustration (or "visual art" if they can't even draw nor paint), in which the pap is so bad that it has to be more heavily promoted to get anyone to choke it down. The latest crappy movie about repressed sexuality and/or sexy time travel in Elizabethan England is remarkable in terms of human visual capacity, though, at least for its airbrushed or fully artificial scenery.
The musical is the same, because genuinely skilled vocalists can be planted into a role, and their skillful renditions make not only a low quality plot, but flat, empty songwriting and composition itself, look good, because just like a CG of Hannibal's armies on some fantastic geography can create a sense of setting that pervades even the "aging actor looks angrily at his table indoors," making some crappy film seem to be amazing, people like the sound of human voices on pitch with feeling, so a few good vocalists can make a musical seem incredibly good by themselves.
Despite all the wonder of seeing cool CG of a helicopter dodging skyscrapers during some chase of the hero's futuristically-angled car, though, human surprise and interest at seeing things so lushly portrayed will continue to fade. Much as just seeing a movie is not in itself enough anymore to excite sufficient consumer mass, seeing the most detailed, better-than-lifelike take on the yeti of the central Alps will become boring, and so on with VR and increasingly lifelike entertainment experience.
That, though, is the province of other discussions. More specifically as to musicals and, to an extent, movies being entertainment venues, is the nigh-negation of movie introverts, and the total negation of musical ones. Though both formats often portray purported introverts, the temptation has proven too great for producers to avoid turning them into extroverts with introvert-badges, sort of like when hot chicks go to comic-book conventions now in revealing video game costumes. The movie introvert ends up being inevitably drawn out of her/his shell, "forced" to talk to the camera or other characters, and the musical introvert even more necessarily gets involved in singing massive, loud songs to the audience, other characters, and so on. Again, a movie format could portray one well, though other than questionable intervals with a plot where the introvert is in some way forced to become an extrovert to the camera or at least one chosen friend--which they have to change their character to do, anyway--this can hardly be done, given the amount of time and thought it would take. Herein comes the extroverted male homosexuals influence again, where so many sweet, supposedly introverted female characters, are turned by the musical into empty dresses of entertainment who are screaming their feelings to the entire cast by the end.
The absence of an entire somewhat common human trait from all casts, or the breaking of character inside a single narrative, should be of concern to the appreciator of the arts. Much like the idealization of the female form, or the female face, as "older male adolescent" and "disaffected heroin addict, but with makeup," respectively, the tendency of the musical to not only exult in extroversion, feminine displaying for the male, and the diminution or utter negation of sweet, modest women who don't want to make their feelings the center of everyone's attention, the art form as it stands now seems designed for male homosexual extroverts; as offensive to many females as well as to a few male homosexuals and most other human beings besides. As with Rothko, though, the capture of culture proved effective, where most people needed that guidance so badly they just assume they should like it, and trusting to the institutions of what they'd assumed since birth to be their culture, they tried to conform to liking professional sports and newspaper-covered fine art and Potter books. Since in the imaginary supposition of belonging to a culture that no longer exists in any Europeoid ancestral homeland or previously acquired wilderness, the paper in your language distributed where you live is supposed to not create trends, but only to report on them, everyone is doing all those things, and worse, thinks they're experiencing "people with my genetic basis competing physically with no technological aids" and "art," and therefore, like feeling they've won a victory by overcoming the enemy in some false dichotomy. It really is like rats in a maze, with challenges and rewards parceled out to make you feel you're accomplishing something. It's such a filthier theft of life than simply putting people in a prison camp, because they think nothing's being stolen.
Picture six dudes watching NFL together: fat dudes, hairy bellies spilling over their belts, but genuine long-time friends having a genuine good time appreciating their take on that particular game. And in a moment of sadness, one of them speaks up during the commercials, hey, instead of getting together around the TV, why don't we go to that park and throw the ball, kick the ball, play a little 3v3 game with one defense and one quarterback and one receiver on each team, we could make our own fun, it'd be good for our health, we wouldn't have to have commercial breaks, Dave could take his nightly dump at the park instead of stinking up one of our six houses every so often, I used to play when I was a kid and it was so fun, why're we watching these spoiled millionaires play on fake grass when we could be enjoying ourselves on real grass...tragedy strikes, because the poor fool who said that just opened up so many cans of worms he didn't know existed. Lifetimes of ignoring imaginary failures by vicariously identifying with corporate figures; lifetimes of being privately embarrassed about weight and worrying that no one cares enough to help you and exercise is so damn boring; lifetimes of being afraid that moving is acting like a kid and you don't do that anymore; oozing shielded explosions of sorrow over needing so badly to pretend through others because you're afraid it can't be real to live yourself anymore. So they have a fight, five people agree that one person is an asshole, and life goes on with a smaller retinue of TVs to gather in front of each game. The truth hurts, and the truth isn't wanted--the whole point of all this is to not have to deal with it.
What character traits the extroverted male queer has that motivate him to ignore the existence of those not like him is a related, but separate, subject. The high incidence of forcible extroversion suggests a preponderance of latent worries about the self, the self's desires, and the inability to find true validation in the self therefore the need to seek it in others--which is obviously not coming personally, but through the medium of paying a straight girl to sing for aging straight people who would like to remember the affections of youth. Interesting, but a separate subject, as is the intelligence of the entertainment companies who have so strongly preferenced extroverted male queers for managing the production and delivery of their product. The design and choreography of dancing spectacles is similarly affected, wherein the styles of performance are equally homosexualized, such that the male ballet dancer has become such a partial view of masculinity that few bother to try otherwise, because everyone knows that, worldwide, all but a few trained prospects are incorrigible moody queens. And that's another huge separate subject, because it's so much easier for most people to see it in movies and musicals, whereas dancing just leaves most people thinking "Um it's queer when dudes dance" showing how profound and long lasting has been that job. Like the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries of dying western performance art, what has not been created nor shared will never be known; there are countless incredibly would-be good actors, vocalists, and dancers who never thought to pursue those callings not even because they wouldn't fuck some disgusting Weinstein, but more simply because they just didn't show any interest when they were five since they had an accurately eerie feeling about all that artsy stuff.
...which isn't to say that homosexual extroverts shouldn't have the right to put on shows where men excitedly strut around holding out their arms looksatme, whether on stage or in cinema. It's the finger on the scale that offends; the manipulation of children by choosing one particular type of desire and forcefully expressing it to the world. If, say, Rowling--or Rothko, Pollock, Martin, et cetera--had actually come up with the setting and plot et al. for the work ascribed to them, it would've been just fine for them each to be some person on the internet producing panels of photoshopped color or short stories about risque aristocratic sex, candy, or House points, and maybe some little internet communities would've included some fans who sort of drifted away and stopped logging in after a couple months. It was the choice of, shall we say, big money to make each thing popular that made so many children assume that this was good art which they should experience to be part of the now. The artless and the heartless choosing for those without the brain nor strength of character to choose on their own, like if you spend money to knock Vito's Meats out of the farmer's market, yes people could still go to Vito's storefront, but actual expression means they're going to just continue at the farmer's market and buy from Stu instead. Most people need that guidance from their society, would be nightly viewing feces-smearing competitions if the entertainment cartels had decided on that, and the particular problem with saturating the market with exclusively male homosexual content is that it enlivens the intellectual laziness of the masses to pick of what they partake.
Meaningless; they're not going to stop, and most people are going to need that feeling of community only the entertainment cartels can provide. Cut off the drip, and would they start trying to find things that drew them in of its own merits, or would they just watch reruns until they died, miserable at the lack of manufactured novelty?
As ever, this is too big a problem for any one or a million people to cure. In this dark age, not everyone, nor most, nor even a sizable minority can be saved. This one examines the musical, and the rest of it, not under the illusion that the veil of artificial-popularity-creating-actual-popularity can be commonly pierced, but only in the hopes that one or two little souls might feel something grasping back at them while they fumble through the dark.
Not all gone, yet.