Fight Like Apes! Another animal-named band! Is there a big overlap between indie bands and frustrated zoology majors? "Tie Me Up With Jackets" doesn't do much for me, (not-so-lovely-noise), but blessedly it's brief. Just there for the video. I'm a sucker for that "Waking Life" animation-vibe, didn'tcha know?
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Dan Simmons' "The Terror"
Just like in "Beaufort", the men in Dan Simmon's "The Terror" are trapped in a stronghold in the middle of a desert. This time the fortress is a ship, (that titular "Terror", lodged in the Arctic ice in 1846, along with its sister "The Erebus"), and the barren wastelands are white instead of a sandy orange, but the men still go through the same combination of methodic, martial boredom and then... well, terror. It's the title! Simmons, (whose recent excursion into Dickens territory with "Drood" is on my Q), has long been a melder of genres, whether he's working on science fiction or fantasy mode, and here he takes the nautical adventure novel in the fashion of Herman Melville or Jules Verne and adds... well, a MONSTER. Melville in particular would have loved that mysterious white entity that prowls outside the keeling vessel, bursting out of the snow to rip the sailors apart- and this is a novel as deeply symbolic in its way as "Moby Dick". It's also less syntactically tortured. (Sorry, White Whale Fans!). As for this book's killer white creature, whether it's a Polar Bear a la "Lost", an Innuit Spirit, or the incarnation of disencarnation, it won't matter once you're in its maw. If the scurvy doesn't get you first.
A Melville quote about the fear inspired by whiteness in nature is key to the novel's approach to death. Whiteness is ghostly, an unnatural color, precisely because of its blandess. People may be afraid of the dark, but I think the dark at least holds promises. ANYTHING might happen in the dark. It is far more terrifying to face a white blankness and know that NOTHINGNESS awaits.
“This elusive quality it is, which causes the thought of whiteness, when divorced from more kindly associations, and coupled with any object terrible in itself, to heighten that terror to the furthest bounds. Witness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the tropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the transcendent horrors they are? That ghastly whiteness it is which imparts such an abhorrent mildness, even more loathesome than terrific, to the dumb gloating of their aspect. So that not even the fierce-fanged tiger in his heraldic coat can so stagger courage as the white-shrouded bear or shark.”
Joseph Cedar's "Beaufort"
The great sage John Rambo taught me this:
You can't build a warrior, then take away the war. Shit WILL go down.
The ancient, titular fortress in Joseph Cedar's Academy-Award nominee "Beaufort" has stood as a symbol of the Middle East's uncertainties for centuries. A Crusader's enclave in Lebanon, it has often switched military allegiance while never quite losing its majestic authority over the landscape; at the time we enter its ramparts, (and you WILL feel like you have entered them and lived in its cavernous depths), Beaufort is occupied by Israeli forces who- for reasons they don't fully understand- are retreating and abandoning the place to the Hezbollah attacks that make every bathroom break both boring and terrifying (boredom and terror being the two constants of war).
Why is the war over? Are their leaders clueless? If the mission has been accomplished- or botched- why aren't they home already? If they do get back home, how will their friends and family look at them? Heroes? Killers? Losers? And why are they dying to defend something they've already lost? The questions transcend the specific politics of any particular side. This movie works like Wolfgang Petersen's "Das Boot": no matter how you feel about Israeli occupation of the area (there, I said it, sue me), you will care for the mystified soldiers.
"Beaufort" also works a lot like "Alien" or "Dune": the men and their weaponry are an unwelcome anomaly in an otherwordly desert; their weaponry and gadgets cover them like futuristic projections; the fortress' claustrophobic, reinforced corridors are the spaceship from hell; the enemy an invisible, inhuman pest.
The mystified soldiers are headed by Liraz (Oshri Cohen), who's hot-headed-but-you'll-get-to-know-him. Aside from one other character that gets shockingly dispatched in the movies' sole surprise, Liraz is the one you'll recall as he watches his men revolt and squirm under the weight of his patriotic conviction. Like many a soldier, he's constantly forcing himself to believe that he's doing the RIGHT THING, even if situations suggest otherwise. He's like that earnest veteran who hauntingly looks you in the eye and shares his logic:
"We were doing the right thing, because if we WEREN'T doing the right thing, I lost my legs and my buddies in vain, and I couldn't live with THAT. Hence we were doing the right thing."
Be warned the movie has its share of war-time cliches. Like, why can't soldiers learn? DON'T fuck it up by wistfully telling your buddies: "Just one more week, and I'll be back home in my girlfriend's arms. Want to see her picture? I love her so much. Just gotta make it through this LAST DEADLY MISSION, and it's sweet street from there on out." Might as well pop back a grenade, dude.
I said the movies' more gripping moments transcends politics, but that doesn't mean the filmmakers do. You never get a sense that they understand the guys over at Hezbollah are going trough exactly the same monotonous wartime chorus, aching for their family and fearing death in precisely the same way as their Israeli counterparts. But "Beaufort" is not propaganda: the decision to almost entirely cut direct enemy confrontation turns it into a pensive movie about isolation and the unlikely bonds that get formed among people locked together into comradeship. Two or three cliches less, and it might even have DESERVED that Award nomination.
You can't build a warrior, then take away the war. Shit WILL go down.
The ancient, titular fortress in Joseph Cedar's Academy-Award nominee "Beaufort" has stood as a symbol of the Middle East's uncertainties for centuries. A Crusader's enclave in Lebanon, it has often switched military allegiance while never quite losing its majestic authority over the landscape; at the time we enter its ramparts, (and you WILL feel like you have entered them and lived in its cavernous depths), Beaufort is occupied by Israeli forces who- for reasons they don't fully understand- are retreating and abandoning the place to the Hezbollah attacks that make every bathroom break both boring and terrifying (boredom and terror being the two constants of war).
Why is the war over? Are their leaders clueless? If the mission has been accomplished- or botched- why aren't they home already? If they do get back home, how will their friends and family look at them? Heroes? Killers? Losers? And why are they dying to defend something they've already lost? The questions transcend the specific politics of any particular side. This movie works like Wolfgang Petersen's "Das Boot": no matter how you feel about Israeli occupation of the area (there, I said it, sue me), you will care for the mystified soldiers.
"Beaufort" also works a lot like "Alien" or "Dune": the men and their weaponry are an unwelcome anomaly in an otherwordly desert; their weaponry and gadgets cover them like futuristic projections; the fortress' claustrophobic, reinforced corridors are the spaceship from hell; the enemy an invisible, inhuman pest.
The mystified soldiers are headed by Liraz (Oshri Cohen), who's hot-headed-but-you'll-get-to-know-him. Aside from one other character that gets shockingly dispatched in the movies' sole surprise, Liraz is the one you'll recall as he watches his men revolt and squirm under the weight of his patriotic conviction. Like many a soldier, he's constantly forcing himself to believe that he's doing the RIGHT THING, even if situations suggest otherwise. He's like that earnest veteran who hauntingly looks you in the eye and shares his logic:
"We were doing the right thing, because if we WEREN'T doing the right thing, I lost my legs and my buddies in vain, and I couldn't live with THAT. Hence we were doing the right thing."
Be warned the movie has its share of war-time cliches. Like, why can't soldiers learn? DON'T fuck it up by wistfully telling your buddies: "Just one more week, and I'll be back home in my girlfriend's arms. Want to see her picture? I love her so much. Just gotta make it through this LAST DEADLY MISSION, and it's sweet street from there on out." Might as well pop back a grenade, dude.
I said the movies' more gripping moments transcends politics, but that doesn't mean the filmmakers do. You never get a sense that they understand the guys over at Hezbollah are going trough exactly the same monotonous wartime chorus, aching for their family and fearing death in precisely the same way as their Israeli counterparts. But "Beaufort" is not propaganda: the decision to almost entirely cut direct enemy confrontation turns it into a pensive movie about isolation and the unlikely bonds that get formed among people locked together into comradeship. Two or three cliches less, and it might even have DESERVED that Award nomination.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
ART: The F is silent.
I feel so inspired by David Lynch's photographic exhibit, that it's almost like I'm bursting to the seams with that gaseous feeling known by the German as "Ein Art". I don't think I've given my prodigious artistic talents their full due. I mean, I own a picture camera, and I KNOW I can borrow a beret from my cousin Chadwin- why aren't I being feted in Manhattan?
Well, I was dicking around with the camera, took a few shots, but then it fell down in my bathtub. (You don't need to know why I had my camera in the bathtub, just accept it sank like the Titanic and no longer works.) But can anything deter the steam engine of "EIN ART"? (Answer: Only the rusty coin of commerce on the tracks!) I realized what I've always suspected: anyone can make art- but it takes a true "EIN ARTISTIK" to talk about it incomprehensibly.
So I took some old boring pictures off the Net, made by nameless suckers no doubt, and much improved them with my titles. If genius arouses you, it's ok. You don't have to feel ashamed about it anymore.
Title: "Child. Labor. Child Labor. Child IN Labor. Child in LABORatory. Rostchild's Factory. Factory Roast Child. Capitalism Bad."
Title: "Mother, Why Are People So Ugly in Old-Timey Photographs? It Makes Me Sad."
Title: "Stop Being Such an Asshole and Give me a Sandwich, Rich White Photographer Dude, Version: #23,459,432"
Title: "I held you in my hands and your hair was a dazzling cloud, and your body lapped away like the desirous sea, but, really, all I wanted to do was get into your boat, if you know what I mean."
Title: "Marilyn, Reading."
Alternate Title: "Marilyn, Fucking Hot, Reading."
Title: "Death is the epitomic conversion of community involvement into caloric waves of unified field theory and art is the exploratory counterpart to that, as well as a confluence of love and intellectual potentiality that must be manifested in the form of political engagement."
Title: "Patent(ly) Iron(ic): or I Ruined Another Shirt, Why Does this Keep Happening to Me???
Title: "All Right, maybe she's no Marilyn Monroe, but listen, I just caught the ghons in Vichy, I can't be too picky about this."
Well, I was dicking around with the camera, took a few shots, but then it fell down in my bathtub. (You don't need to know why I had my camera in the bathtub, just accept it sank like the Titanic and no longer works.) But can anything deter the steam engine of "EIN ART"? (Answer: Only the rusty coin of commerce on the tracks!) I realized what I've always suspected: anyone can make art- but it takes a true "EIN ARTISTIK" to talk about it incomprehensibly.
So I took some old boring pictures off the Net, made by nameless suckers no doubt, and much improved them with my titles. If genius arouses you, it's ok. You don't have to feel ashamed about it anymore.
Title: "Child. Labor. Child Labor. Child IN Labor. Child in LABORatory. Rostchild's Factory. Factory Roast Child. Capitalism Bad."
Title: "Mother, Why Are People So Ugly in Old-Timey Photographs? It Makes Me Sad."
Title: "Stop Being Such an Asshole and Give me a Sandwich, Rich White Photographer Dude, Version: #23,459,432"
Title: "I held you in my hands and your hair was a dazzling cloud, and your body lapped away like the desirous sea, but, really, all I wanted to do was get into your boat, if you know what I mean."
Title: "Marilyn, Reading."
Alternate Title: "Marilyn, Fucking Hot, Reading."
Title: "Death is the epitomic conversion of community involvement into caloric waves of unified field theory and art is the exploratory counterpart to that, as well as a confluence of love and intellectual potentiality that must be manifested in the form of political engagement."
Title: "Patent(ly) Iron(ic): or I Ruined Another Shirt, Why Does this Keep Happening to Me???
Title: "All Right, maybe she's no Marilyn Monroe, but listen, I just caught the ghons in Vichy, I can't be too picky about this."
David Lynch's "Dark Night of the Soul" (with Danger Mouse, Sparklehorse)- AND Iggy Pop
Now David Lynch is mind-freaking you with PHOTOGRAPHS! Can he be stopped?
"Dark Knight of the Soul" is a multimedia event currently being exhibited at the O.H.W.O.W. Gallery (worth the seeking out if you're in Miami). There's the book, with some 50 Lynch captures, and then there's the accompanying album curated by Danger Mouse and a guy perilously named Sparklehorse. "OOOOH, eat your asparagus, kids, or else I'll call SPARKLEHORSE on you!" Maybe if he learned from his buds and called himself DANGER Sparklehorse I would be kinder. You know how I feel about "Twilight" and things "sparkling"! (I'm kidding, Sparklehorse: any friend of Tom Waits is a friend of mine.)
ABOVE: Celebrated musicians Sparklehorse (left) and Danger Mouse (right).
Basically you listen to the album as you peruse Lynch's stuff. Supposedly the thing to do is go to the gallery and pace yourself so that you sync the pics and the tracks, (with contributions by the Flaming Lips, Julian Casablancas, Suzanne Vega and Iggy Pop: more on him below). Some ridiculous copyright hold-up means you get a blank CD when you order the book and are supposed to dig for the dumb tracks- thanks for making me work extra, Danger Mouse!
That one thing irked me inmensely: as far as I'm concerned, selling you an album of music and then telling you: "Oh, it's blank for copyright reasons" is absolute extortion- particularly when the seller follows that statement with: "You can just download the tracks off the Internet and burn them on the CD yourself- you DO know how to use the Internet, don't you? Chuckle chuckle."
Well, thanks, douche, that's brilliant. Companies need to stop selling CDs with music and being like: "Just put whatever you want in there. It's called 'customer interaction', it's the Internet era's fresh paradigm that frees you as an adventurous listener from being subjected to the artificial track listing of a traditional music publisher!"
NO, it's called BULLSHIT and assuming I have time to waste tracking down the songs you should have given me in the first place. Here's an idea, I'm going to get a blank book, call it "The Free Daytime of the Wavelength Bunnies", put it at the bookstore, and charge you 25 bucks for it. When you say "But it's blank", I'll say: "USE YOUR OWN IMAGINATION, SQUARE! What, you want me to DREAM for you too? Chuckle Chuckle."
I hate people.
Except Iggy Pop, whom I met at the Lynch exhibit. He's all right.
Side Note: Poor Iggy. The guy is majorly off. IRL you see the canyons around his eyes and you can tell he hasn't had a day on Planet Reality for some thirty years. His handler has to be there behind him all the time to more or less keep him from keeling over and having his face further mawed by rats. I felt sad for Iggy. He kind of wavers druggily like a shot up flag, and every second of his attempt at life is punctuated by some asshole like ME going: "OMG it's Iggy Pop can I take a picture with you Iggy Pop you're so cool Iggy Pop wow this is unbelievable wait until I post on the Internet that I saw Iggy Pop this is better than that time I saw Jewel shopping for incense!" To me it was a fun incident- to this dude it must be a horrifying recurring nightmare of hazy strangers that pop up in front of you every second while you smile politely and take the picture or autograph a CD. Then take two more steps- another guy pops up: "OMG it's Iggy Pop." Repeat. Take another step, someone new: "OMG it's Iggy Pop." Being famous like that is like an impossible level on the worst-designed RPG ever, where every step takes you to the same fight scene and what's worse is, if there ISN'T a fight then there's nothing to do and that's even more devastating. Being forgotten.
Not that that's REALLY possible, this being America. Right now someone who was on season 2 of some sitcom called "Seven is Quite Sufficient" is being recognized at an Arby's by someone who's like: "OMG you're that girl from that show aren't you can I take a picture with you you're so cool wait until I post it on the Internet that I saw you!" And I bet it happens to HER at least five times a week.
The only way to win the role-playing-game of fame is to die.
Where were we? "Dark Night of the Soul". Lynch is a great image-maker, of course, and he gets a lot of mileage out of juxtaposing the large and small. But if you want a Lynch photograph- why don't you just make stills of his actual movies yourself? You do know how to use the pause button on your Blueray Player, don't you? Chuckle Chuckle.
And yes, there's creepy broken dolls, Dear Imaginary Reader, and "artsy" (read "moronic") subtitles to add "meaning". My untintentional favorite howlers: "Will evolution diminish before our very eyes?" And this mindblower: "Think about the world you know."
I'm thinking, I'm thinking, but I don't like what I'm coming up with.
"Dark Knight of the Soul" is a multimedia event currently being exhibited at the O.H.W.O.W. Gallery (worth the seeking out if you're in Miami). There's the book, with some 50 Lynch captures, and then there's the accompanying album curated by Danger Mouse and a guy perilously named Sparklehorse. "OOOOH, eat your asparagus, kids, or else I'll call SPARKLEHORSE on you!" Maybe if he learned from his buds and called himself DANGER Sparklehorse I would be kinder. You know how I feel about "Twilight" and things "sparkling"! (I'm kidding, Sparklehorse: any friend of Tom Waits is a friend of mine.)
ABOVE: Celebrated musicians Sparklehorse (left) and Danger Mouse (right).
Basically you listen to the album as you peruse Lynch's stuff. Supposedly the thing to do is go to the gallery and pace yourself so that you sync the pics and the tracks, (with contributions by the Flaming Lips, Julian Casablancas, Suzanne Vega and Iggy Pop: more on him below). Some ridiculous copyright hold-up means you get a blank CD when you order the book and are supposed to dig for the dumb tracks- thanks for making me work extra, Danger Mouse!
That one thing irked me inmensely: as far as I'm concerned, selling you an album of music and then telling you: "Oh, it's blank for copyright reasons" is absolute extortion- particularly when the seller follows that statement with: "You can just download the tracks off the Internet and burn them on the CD yourself- you DO know how to use the Internet, don't you? Chuckle chuckle."
Well, thanks, douche, that's brilliant. Companies need to stop selling CDs with music and being like: "Just put whatever you want in there. It's called 'customer interaction', it's the Internet era's fresh paradigm that frees you as an adventurous listener from being subjected to the artificial track listing of a traditional music publisher!"
NO, it's called BULLSHIT and assuming I have time to waste tracking down the songs you should have given me in the first place. Here's an idea, I'm going to get a blank book, call it "The Free Daytime of the Wavelength Bunnies", put it at the bookstore, and charge you 25 bucks for it. When you say "But it's blank", I'll say: "USE YOUR OWN IMAGINATION, SQUARE! What, you want me to DREAM for you too? Chuckle Chuckle."
I hate people.
Except Iggy Pop, whom I met at the Lynch exhibit. He's all right.
Side Note: Poor Iggy. The guy is majorly off. IRL you see the canyons around his eyes and you can tell he hasn't had a day on Planet Reality for some thirty years. His handler has to be there behind him all the time to more or less keep him from keeling over and having his face further mawed by rats. I felt sad for Iggy. He kind of wavers druggily like a shot up flag, and every second of his attempt at life is punctuated by some asshole like ME going: "OMG it's Iggy Pop can I take a picture with you Iggy Pop you're so cool Iggy Pop wow this is unbelievable wait until I post on the Internet that I saw Iggy Pop this is better than that time I saw Jewel shopping for incense!" To me it was a fun incident- to this dude it must be a horrifying recurring nightmare of hazy strangers that pop up in front of you every second while you smile politely and take the picture or autograph a CD. Then take two more steps- another guy pops up: "OMG it's Iggy Pop." Repeat. Take another step, someone new: "OMG it's Iggy Pop." Being famous like that is like an impossible level on the worst-designed RPG ever, where every step takes you to the same fight scene and what's worse is, if there ISN'T a fight then there's nothing to do and that's even more devastating. Being forgotten.
Not that that's REALLY possible, this being America. Right now someone who was on season 2 of some sitcom called "Seven is Quite Sufficient" is being recognized at an Arby's by someone who's like: "OMG you're that girl from that show aren't you can I take a picture with you you're so cool wait until I post it on the Internet that I saw you!" And I bet it happens to HER at least five times a week.
The only way to win the role-playing-game of fame is to die.
Where were we? "Dark Night of the Soul". Lynch is a great image-maker, of course, and he gets a lot of mileage out of juxtaposing the large and small. But if you want a Lynch photograph- why don't you just make stills of his actual movies yourself? You do know how to use the pause button on your Blueray Player, don't you? Chuckle Chuckle.
And yes, there's creepy broken dolls, Dear Imaginary Reader, and "artsy" (read "moronic") subtitles to add "meaning". My untintentional favorite howlers: "Will evolution diminish before our very eyes?" And this mindblower: "Think about the world you know."
I'm thinking, I'm thinking, but I don't like what I'm coming up with.
3-EP: MECANONE (Double Set)
LINER NOTES: Just me. The house band's on a gig at the Royal Fat Albert Hall, so I thought I would play you some old songs I love. These are my (very very very loose but emotionally and musically accurate) English-language tranlations of a few songs by the Spanish pop group Mecano- my admiration for which I've previously stated plenty. These lyrics are then best credited to J.M. Cano, I. Cano, and H. Castro.
NO FUN (EL CLUB DE LOS HUMILDES)
I'll pay you for the window pane
Just keep me from this hurricane
And would you kindly ignore the time I went insane
And thought I wanted to be one against the wind?
What can one conclude?
I went and understood
It's no fun to make it without you
- To check my weather when I'm weak
And cure my nonsense when you speak
And when I feel this humbled ship begins to leak
I'll wave a flag for you, so send your boat to me
What can one assume?
I guess I'll make you room
It's no fun to make it without you
And if I act like dirt again
If I relapse and flirt again
Feel free to smack me twice and wash my mouth with rain
So that I realize and come the hell back in
What can one conclude?
I went and understood
It's no fun to make it without you
FUTUREWORLD
Why don't we rent a room
Away from this sonic boom
Put on your best perfume
And I will text you what to do next
Send me your fax
Full of sex
Out from the solar glow
Into the net we go
And on the virtual show
You're going to learn the best way to dance
Some techno-waltz
Flamenco-trance
And nothing changes and we're dreamers on and on
I'm planting flowers on this artificial lawn
You're sending kisses through your robo-phone
Buying tons of ice cream for our second clone
Nothing changes and we're dreamers on and on
Went to the condom shop
Got one with zoom and pop
Twirls with vibrating pearls
Has a GPS to the G-Spot
And gets you a discount with all the girls
And nothing changes and we're dreamers on and on
I'm planting flowers on this artificial lawn
You're sending kisses through your robo-phone
Buying tons of ice cream for our second clone
Nothing changes and we're dreamers on and on
I FIND IT HARD TO FORGET IT
Between Heaven and Hell so scalding
There is someone slightly balding
From
Thinking of your face
And that someone who tried to beat your
Big premiere with my double feature
Loves
Tragical displays
This radio single is a jingle for an ad
The hidden track is devastated
It could use another edit
I find it hard to forget it
I find it hard to...
Find it hard just to find my beer
Raise a glass to the bright idea
Of
Giving up on you
Giving up on your daily splendor
For the wisdom of this bartender:
"Chicks!
Whatcha gonna do?"
But it was me who set you free and let you out
It was always me I hated
It was me who ruined my credit
I find it hard to forget it
But I know that all things equal
We should never have a sequel
Yes, I know we can't reset it
And I try not to regret it
I find it hard to forget it
I find it hard to forget it
PAWN TO BLACK KING
I came out black and short with a big head
No need to guess:
A black pawn in chess
I'm daring, tenacious and adhering to the rules
I played by those pale fools
And made it as pawn to the black king
-But I was still a pawn
Holding a lamp on the lawn
And I'm a boyfriend to the killing,
Blood spilling,
Courageous mercenary
Better kill Whitey or face submission
That's our mission,
Our fight is legendary
(See, the thing is that our Lord, with his sword
Wants to tangle with that Rook
And the Queen is open minded, or blinded,
And the Bishop loves to look.
Up in their towers and high horses
With all their armored tanks and forces
Someone should give them the hook)
And I'm a boyfriend to the killing,
Blood spilling,
Courageous mercenary
Better kill Whitey or face submission
That's our mission,
Our fight is legendary
But should I fall during the struggle
No need to cry, this isn't Boggle;
Back in the box with all the pieces
The White Queen knows that this boy pleases,
After this game we all roll to that place
Where there's nothing like hatred or race.
THE 7th OF SEPTEMBER
They wouldn't have guessed
But even long after we messed
With too much conversation
We never break the vow
To make it every year, right here,
For our celebration
The same little corner
Where we used to get undressed
The same anticipation
- You should call ahead
Make sure that they've kept our reservation
And even though you're better as a friend
And we both know we had to let it end
Every year when we two come around
There are flames that even seas can't drown
With time I suppose
The lips that now are filled with rose
And prepped for this occasion
Will be thin and dry
Your hair look like a sky
So grey- and I'll be charged with tax evasion
We'll try to make fun
Out of the stupid and the young
The latest sad invasion
- And worry about the way things die
But not this celebration
The Seventh of September is
(It's our celebration)
Talk abour our husbands, wives, our kids, our boring situation
The Seventh of September is
(It's our celebration)
And we don't kiss in case we miss that old-time fascination
LAIKA
She was Russian and her name was Laika
She was just a normal doggie-girl
Quite an animated little animal
Then she was a star to the world
When they locked her up inside a cabin
She was so surprised she had to bark:
"Maybe I'll rather not become an astronaut
Let's go back to walking in the park."
Rocket men were waiting for a signal
No one said a word inside the base
Sudden came the sound that they had prayed for:
Just a yelp they swore went on for days.
There was peace for once back in the planet
Laughing, kissing, popping of champagne
Meanwhile Laika's heart was beating quickly
As she pressed her nose against the pane
"Why am I here floating in the darkness?
What is that fantastic little ball?
Wait until I tell this to the person
Who will gently catch me when I fall"
On the telescope, there's something shining
Some sort of mysterious satellite
Chasing at the sun if it's by daylight
Howling at the moon if it's at night
That's the legend just the way I heard it
I confess it makes me want to cry
Why would people kill a star among us
Just to put another in the sky?
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Jonathan Lethem's "How We Got Into Town and Out Again", in "Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse" (Edited by John Joseph Adams)
Jonathan Lethem is a science fiction writer. Sure, he runs around with that McSweeney's crowd, and "Motherless Brooklyn" and "The Fortress of Solitude" were proper bestsellers without (too many) robots, but no matter how they dress him up in the "New York Times Review of Books" it's not Philip Roth he means to be: it's Philip K. Dick.
ABOVE: "I like to watch 'Star Wars' to see how it syncs up with 'John Wesley Harding'. Wait until you realize that the Joker and the Thief are Han Solo and Jabba the Hut! It will blow the glasses off your face!"
Treat yourself to his sci-fi quasi-classic "How We Got Into Town and Out Again", in the apocalypse anthology "Wastelands." One more great reminder, as if I needed one, that Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is the most unoriginal, overrated book of recent years that didn't involve dogs-doing-Hamlet. A futuristic projection of "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" and owing its fair bit to Stephen King's "The Long Walk", Lethem's story contains a novel's worth of material. It details a future in which a poverty-stricken U.S. finds solace and entertainment on marathon runs through an insubstantial computer realm of virtual porn and nonsense and...
Ok, it's the Internet.
The apocalypse is now.
Great collection: Stephen King's classic "The End of the Whole Mess", + Orson Scott Card, Gene Wolfe, Cory Doctorow, the much missed Octavia Butler, and other such people who clearly nurse their nightmares.
ABOVE: "I like to watch 'Star Wars' to see how it syncs up with 'John Wesley Harding'. Wait until you realize that the Joker and the Thief are Han Solo and Jabba the Hut! It will blow the glasses off your face!"
Treat yourself to his sci-fi quasi-classic "How We Got Into Town and Out Again", in the apocalypse anthology "Wastelands." One more great reminder, as if I needed one, that Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is the most unoriginal, overrated book of recent years that didn't involve dogs-doing-Hamlet. A futuristic projection of "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" and owing its fair bit to Stephen King's "The Long Walk", Lethem's story contains a novel's worth of material. It details a future in which a poverty-stricken U.S. finds solace and entertainment on marathon runs through an insubstantial computer realm of virtual porn and nonsense and...
Ok, it's the Internet.
The apocalypse is now.
Great collection: Stephen King's classic "The End of the Whole Mess", + Orson Scott Card, Gene Wolfe, Cory Doctorow, the much missed Octavia Butler, and other such people who clearly nurse their nightmares.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Tom Waits' "The Early Years 1 and 2"
ABOVE: Handsome Devil!
It's tough to picture, but there was a time when Tom Waits wasn't a 300 years old ghoul. "The Early Years 1 and 2" is a playful, stripped down set of demos that find him in his 20s, tinkling up the ramp that would lead to "Closing Time" and "Heart of Saturday Night". Buy in tandem. Honestly, there are no discarded classics here- it's no "Orphans"- but Waits was never a boring kind of performer, even when prepping up for bigger things.
But enough with the OBVIOUS: had you heard MEATLOAF bombasting his way through my favorite "Closing Time" song? On the misheard-lyrics dept: first time I ever heard this song I thought it was about "Mother" and not "Martha." I was like: "Man, that guy really digs his Mom!"
Monday, November 30, 2009
Mew's Album with the Painfully Long Name
Dedicate five or six listens to Mew's "No More Stories Are Told Today Sorry They Washed Away etc etc..." Any less and you might not fully sink into their Danish dream-pop, but overbearing name aside, this album is every beat as beautiful as Grizzly Bear's overhyped "Veckatimest". Check out "Introducing Palace Players."
Sunday, November 29, 2009
CHAPTER 77: LOUIS XV DOES SOME MINISTRY WORK
If Versailles was a mill, then it would be a rumor mill. But it's a palace, so it's a rumor palace, and rumor has it that the Minister of State, M. De Choiseul (Tom Wilkinson), is going to be frantically searching the classifieds- possibly from a cell in the Bastille.
It's ten in the morning outside the King's work-office at the Grand Trianon, and little huddles of courtiers fear or anticipate the news. The Marshal of Richelieu (Jack Nicholson) is high-fiving the Viscount Jean, (Gerard Depardieu) at the center of a Dubarry-loving crowd, while across the aisle followers of De Choiseul pack bags for a possible long winter. It's a long hour, because the King (Robert DeNiro) rolls in at eleven, and rockets down the aisle to his office, ignoring everyone. Five minutes later, De Choiseul does exactly the same, clutching his portfolio like they might jack it right off his hands. Everyone pretends not to see the deadman walking.
Once Louis XV and his favorite employee are in the closed office, the King kicks back, boots on the desk:
ABOVE: De Choiseul sweating it out!
LOUIS: "Morning, De Choiseul! How are your tinglies hanging?"
CHOISEUL: "The tingles are hanging fine, and I am very grateful to your Majesty for not making the rest of me hang as well. But in anticipation of such a circumstance, I'm respectfully resigning from my role as Minister."
L: "Resign-who? And why is that?"
C: "Your Majesty, everyone is aware you've left in the hands of Madame Dubarry a letter announcing my dismissal, so there's no need to perpetuate my humiliation."
L: "Do you believe in ghosts and aliens too? Come ON, De Choiseul!"
C: "Your Majesty, EVERYONE knows you signed a letter that..."
L: "Hey, Choisy! Breathe! Didn't you ever tell your girl..."
C: "MY WIFE, Your Majesty!"
L: "...Didn't you ever tell your wife a little white lie just to have some peace at bedtime? But come morning time, don't you or anyone forget this, I am the King. Sometimes one throws a little honey cake for the women, to keep them busy. That's all. You do your job, and show up to do it every morning, and never pay attention to what Paris says. So what's on today's portfolio?"
De Choiseul flips through the papers, quickly eats the "You Can Shove This Ministry" letter he's written for the King: "Sorry, I must have skipped breakfast! What else is here? WELL, remember that outcry about those fireworks that caused a stampede? Parliament tried to pin the whole disaster on Monsieur Bignon, but Attorney Seguier gave a really nice speech and Bignon is off the hook."
Some squinting from the King: "Am I supposed to know who any of those people are?"
De Choiseul smiles- things are back to normal: "No, Your Majesty. In other Parliament business, I am much spoken against for refusing to support M. D'Aiguillon in his feud with M. De La Chalotais. I'm not saying he started it- I'm just saying we should finish him."
The King yawns: "Mon Dieu, why do people have so many NAMES to remember? How do we end that feud?"
C: "End all support to D'Aiguillon, and you'll benefit from it by having Parliament purring like a big ol' kitty, Your Majesty."
L: "Ugh. What about world news? I heard something about how I'm starting a war?"
C: "Correction: a GOOD war! Against the English. Do recall, Your Majesty, how you almost choked on scones! And they're hostile in India. Our officers have received orders- from you- to give them hell over there."
L: "Oh, who wants India, De Choiseul? Let them keep it. It's sooo far away, and I once tried to ride an elephant and the rash was unsightly."
C: "The danger is closer than that! The English clash with the Spanish over ownership of the Falkland Islands."
ABOVE: There they are! The contested Falkland Islands. See, my educational-value quota!
L: "But correct me if I'm wrong, which, as a King, I'm not: Falkland... Does that sound SPANISH to you? Clearly the Spaniards are on the wrong there."
The Minister is exasperated: "Yes, but they're wrong ON OUR SIDE! Leave it to me, your Majesty. You won't even NOTICE there's a war going on."
L: "All right, you get your foreign war- but you have to end the war at home."
C: "I'm pretending not to understand and/or be slightly offended!"
L: "I mean these squabbles between your crew and Madame Dubarry's. I know you used to get along with Madame Pompadour in the old days- hahaha, don't deny it, you old dog, I don't mind- but you have NOT tasted Madame Dubarry's pheasant! I insist, you will dine with her at Luciennes tonight!"
C: "But, Your Majesty! Tonight I trim my nose hairs!"
L: "I'm trying to please everyone. I warn you: make peace with that charming woman."
C: "There's only one Minister of State; there are many charming women. Ask Madame de Grammont. She's VERY eager to please your Majesty!"
L: "She can't please anyone if she goes into exile, De Choiseul." The King suddenly jumps off his chair: "HEY, forget all this nonsense, how long have we been WORKING? I'm not a peasant! We'll carry on later, I'm sweating here, bud!"
And Louis XV, dazed by a half hour's worth of laboral exhaustion, puts an arm around the safer-than-ever Minister and leads him out to the hallway. As the folding doors of his office are thrown open, the entire court reads the situation on the King's casual hugs and De Choiseul's gloating face. One half of the aisle breathes out happy sighs, but in a corner of the Grand Trianon, Jean Dubbary turns red. In turn, the Marshal of Richelieu turns yellow, but he shakes it off and runs to greet De Choiseul:
"OH, I had no idea you were in here, old chap... You lucky, lucky old chap. Anyway, what was that ridiculous report I heard about some letter?"
De Choiseul: "A letter! Haha! You know Louis, he's a jokester! Good day, Marshal!"
And the King and the Minister struts off while Jean starts punching a beatiful marble column: "He just lied to us! HELLSTICKS! THUNDERBUCKS!"
Richelieu is considerably calmer- even though he's just lost an easy bid at the Ministry: "There, there, Jean, watch how they run to the Little Trianon to laugh at us."
Jean howls: "How can you just take it?!?"
Richelieu smiles, displaying his magnificent set of fake teeth: "Because, my dear uglier member of the Dubarry family, I calculated something like this might happen. So the countess' plans failed. Big deal. Now it's time for MY plans to kick in. And those... Well, let's just say I don't DO failure."
It's ten in the morning outside the King's work-office at the Grand Trianon, and little huddles of courtiers fear or anticipate the news. The Marshal of Richelieu (Jack Nicholson) is high-fiving the Viscount Jean, (Gerard Depardieu) at the center of a Dubarry-loving crowd, while across the aisle followers of De Choiseul pack bags for a possible long winter. It's a long hour, because the King (Robert DeNiro) rolls in at eleven, and rockets down the aisle to his office, ignoring everyone. Five minutes later, De Choiseul does exactly the same, clutching his portfolio like they might jack it right off his hands. Everyone pretends not to see the deadman walking.
Once Louis XV and his favorite employee are in the closed office, the King kicks back, boots on the desk:
ABOVE: De Choiseul sweating it out!
LOUIS: "Morning, De Choiseul! How are your tinglies hanging?"
CHOISEUL: "The tingles are hanging fine, and I am very grateful to your Majesty for not making the rest of me hang as well. But in anticipation of such a circumstance, I'm respectfully resigning from my role as Minister."
L: "Resign-who? And why is that?"
C: "Your Majesty, everyone is aware you've left in the hands of Madame Dubarry a letter announcing my dismissal, so there's no need to perpetuate my humiliation."
L: "Do you believe in ghosts and aliens too? Come ON, De Choiseul!"
C: "Your Majesty, EVERYONE knows you signed a letter that..."
L: "Hey, Choisy! Breathe! Didn't you ever tell your girl..."
C: "MY WIFE, Your Majesty!"
L: "...Didn't you ever tell your wife a little white lie just to have some peace at bedtime? But come morning time, don't you or anyone forget this, I am the King. Sometimes one throws a little honey cake for the women, to keep them busy. That's all. You do your job, and show up to do it every morning, and never pay attention to what Paris says. So what's on today's portfolio?"
De Choiseul flips through the papers, quickly eats the "You Can Shove This Ministry" letter he's written for the King: "Sorry, I must have skipped breakfast! What else is here? WELL, remember that outcry about those fireworks that caused a stampede? Parliament tried to pin the whole disaster on Monsieur Bignon, but Attorney Seguier gave a really nice speech and Bignon is off the hook."
Some squinting from the King: "Am I supposed to know who any of those people are?"
De Choiseul smiles- things are back to normal: "No, Your Majesty. In other Parliament business, I am much spoken against for refusing to support M. D'Aiguillon in his feud with M. De La Chalotais. I'm not saying he started it- I'm just saying we should finish him."
The King yawns: "Mon Dieu, why do people have so many NAMES to remember? How do we end that feud?"
C: "End all support to D'Aiguillon, and you'll benefit from it by having Parliament purring like a big ol' kitty, Your Majesty."
L: "Ugh. What about world news? I heard something about how I'm starting a war?"
C: "Correction: a GOOD war! Against the English. Do recall, Your Majesty, how you almost choked on scones! And they're hostile in India. Our officers have received orders- from you- to give them hell over there."
L: "Oh, who wants India, De Choiseul? Let them keep it. It's sooo far away, and I once tried to ride an elephant and the rash was unsightly."
C: "The danger is closer than that! The English clash with the Spanish over ownership of the Falkland Islands."
ABOVE: There they are! The contested Falkland Islands. See, my educational-value quota!
L: "But correct me if I'm wrong, which, as a King, I'm not: Falkland... Does that sound SPANISH to you? Clearly the Spaniards are on the wrong there."
The Minister is exasperated: "Yes, but they're wrong ON OUR SIDE! Leave it to me, your Majesty. You won't even NOTICE there's a war going on."
L: "All right, you get your foreign war- but you have to end the war at home."
C: "I'm pretending not to understand and/or be slightly offended!"
L: "I mean these squabbles between your crew and Madame Dubarry's. I know you used to get along with Madame Pompadour in the old days- hahaha, don't deny it, you old dog, I don't mind- but you have NOT tasted Madame Dubarry's pheasant! I insist, you will dine with her at Luciennes tonight!"
C: "But, Your Majesty! Tonight I trim my nose hairs!"
L: "I'm trying to please everyone. I warn you: make peace with that charming woman."
C: "There's only one Minister of State; there are many charming women. Ask Madame de Grammont. She's VERY eager to please your Majesty!"
L: "She can't please anyone if she goes into exile, De Choiseul." The King suddenly jumps off his chair: "HEY, forget all this nonsense, how long have we been WORKING? I'm not a peasant! We'll carry on later, I'm sweating here, bud!"
And Louis XV, dazed by a half hour's worth of laboral exhaustion, puts an arm around the safer-than-ever Minister and leads him out to the hallway. As the folding doors of his office are thrown open, the entire court reads the situation on the King's casual hugs and De Choiseul's gloating face. One half of the aisle breathes out happy sighs, but in a corner of the Grand Trianon, Jean Dubbary turns red. In turn, the Marshal of Richelieu turns yellow, but he shakes it off and runs to greet De Choiseul:
"OH, I had no idea you were in here, old chap... You lucky, lucky old chap. Anyway, what was that ridiculous report I heard about some letter?"
De Choiseul: "A letter! Haha! You know Louis, he's a jokester! Good day, Marshal!"
And the King and the Minister struts off while Jean starts punching a beatiful marble column: "He just lied to us! HELLSTICKS! THUNDERBUCKS!"
Richelieu is considerably calmer- even though he's just lost an easy bid at the Ministry: "There, there, Jean, watch how they run to the Little Trianon to laugh at us."
Jean howls: "How can you just take it?!?"
Richelieu smiles, displaying his magnificent set of fake teeth: "Because, my dear uglier member of the Dubarry family, I calculated something like this might happen. So the countess' plans failed. Big deal. Now it's time for MY plans to kick in. And those... Well, let's just say I don't DO failure."
Josh Neufeld's "A.D.: New Orleans After the Deluge"
Talk about "Altered States": How's about Louisiana after Katrina!
...
(Sorry, that was oficially the lamest, most tasteless transition in HALLUCINA's historied history.)
Josh Neufeld's celebrated graphic novel "A.D.: New Orleans After the Deluge", originally serialized in SMITH magazine, is firmly grounded on the journalistic tradition of Joe Sacco's work ("Palestine", "Safe Area Gorazde"). Like Sacco, Neufeld wants to stick to reporting the facts about Hurricane Katrina's devastation, but his indignation keeps coming through. "A.D." is drenched in anger: at a failed FEMA; at a leadership that reacted in ways that are best explained by racism; and at that wrathful, random deity that rains- and rains and rains- on the just and unjust alike.
But mostly anger at our helplesness, at the realization that our ant-hills are not meant to contend with sights like these:
In a startling opening zoom-in, Neufeld does more to convey awe before Nature's whims than a thousand Weather Channel reports. The book then settles for the human: six survivors share their real life experiences, their features morphed into caricatures that universalize their plight rather than reduce them to "you had to be there" racounteurs. There's Denise, close witness to the horrors of the Superdome; Kwame, who watches his hometown disappear from afar; Abbas and Darnell, loyal friends caught on the roof of their sinking corner-store while rats swarm the nearby trees; the hurricane-party-throwing Doctor, a French Quarter fixture out of "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil"; and Leo and Michelle, probably the more "relatable" couple.
All of these people lose a lot- sometimes practically everything they have- but it is the not-particularly-dramatic tale of Leo that clearly gives Neufeld a place to quietly examine loss from a place dear to a cartoonist. Leo edits a music 'zine called "Anti-Gravity" but his pride and joy was a collection of some 15,000 comic books. On several panels Neufeld lovingly browses through these books, with the same detail he elsewhere dedicates to flooded neighborhoods. Leo is a fan of the Marvel and DC standards, of "Watchmen" and "Maus" and "Palestine" and "Strangers in Paradise", but it's the cover to the first issue of Warren Ellis' "Transmetropolitan", (about future-gonzo journalist Spider Jerusalem), that gets framed on the wall of his apartment.
When Leo and Michelle return there post-flooding, that truth-pusher journalist is the only superhero left standing. Neufeld latches on to that detail. It's appropriate: bearing witness to what happened may be the only way we have out of nightmares like Katrina.
It's also how we reach out to get our faith back: After hearing of Leo's plight on the internet, fellow nerds have sent him box after box of classic comics. He's getting his collection back on track.
...
(Sorry, that was oficially the lamest, most tasteless transition in HALLUCINA's historied history.)
Josh Neufeld's celebrated graphic novel "A.D.: New Orleans After the Deluge", originally serialized in SMITH magazine, is firmly grounded on the journalistic tradition of Joe Sacco's work ("Palestine", "Safe Area Gorazde"). Like Sacco, Neufeld wants to stick to reporting the facts about Hurricane Katrina's devastation, but his indignation keeps coming through. "A.D." is drenched in anger: at a failed FEMA; at a leadership that reacted in ways that are best explained by racism; and at that wrathful, random deity that rains- and rains and rains- on the just and unjust alike.
But mostly anger at our helplesness, at the realization that our ant-hills are not meant to contend with sights like these:
In a startling opening zoom-in, Neufeld does more to convey awe before Nature's whims than a thousand Weather Channel reports. The book then settles for the human: six survivors share their real life experiences, their features morphed into caricatures that universalize their plight rather than reduce them to "you had to be there" racounteurs. There's Denise, close witness to the horrors of the Superdome; Kwame, who watches his hometown disappear from afar; Abbas and Darnell, loyal friends caught on the roof of their sinking corner-store while rats swarm the nearby trees; the hurricane-party-throwing Doctor, a French Quarter fixture out of "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil"; and Leo and Michelle, probably the more "relatable" couple.
All of these people lose a lot- sometimes practically everything they have- but it is the not-particularly-dramatic tale of Leo that clearly gives Neufeld a place to quietly examine loss from a place dear to a cartoonist. Leo edits a music 'zine called "Anti-Gravity" but his pride and joy was a collection of some 15,000 comic books. On several panels Neufeld lovingly browses through these books, with the same detail he elsewhere dedicates to flooded neighborhoods. Leo is a fan of the Marvel and DC standards, of "Watchmen" and "Maus" and "Palestine" and "Strangers in Paradise", but it's the cover to the first issue of Warren Ellis' "Transmetropolitan", (about future-gonzo journalist Spider Jerusalem), that gets framed on the wall of his apartment.
When Leo and Michelle return there post-flooding, that truth-pusher journalist is the only superhero left standing. Neufeld latches on to that detail. It's appropriate: bearing witness to what happened may be the only way we have out of nightmares like Katrina.
It's also how we reach out to get our faith back: After hearing of Leo's plight on the internet, fellow nerds have sent him box after box of classic comics. He's getting his collection back on track.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Ken Russell's "Altered States"
It now strikes me as odd that people flock to noisy churches to try and discern God's will from under the boom of organs, the whoop of choirs, or (depending on your denomination), a soft rock band strumming bastardized covers of The Carpenters. No, the monks of early Christianity, or Paul Bowles, had it right: to find your own truth you must become a student of silence. If you get it from a concert, it's someone else's truth.
That extreme silence that awakens inner consciousness was its own fad under the watch of John C. Lilly and Timothy Leary, in the form of isolation chambers in which - aided no doubt by a variety of pharmaceutics- people (ok, hippies) would trip through canyons of druggy imagery. In Ken Russell's "Altered States", the good doctor played by William Hurt subjects himself to increasingly grueling stays in one such isolation tank, and what he drags out of the experience serves as an evolutionary summary, a send-off to the '60s, and a compilation of Russell's kitschy '70s visions (this IS the director of "The Who's Tommy").
Based on a disowned sci-fi script by Paddy Chayefsky (the screenwriter of "Network"), "Altered States" was Hurt's breakthrough movie. He's a mad scientist extraordinaire looking for the meaning of life at the risk of losing his life- his love interest, played by Blair Brown, despairs from extracting anything like an emotion from him- but his icy inhumanity is a compelling center as the psychedelia spirals out ever sillier. This is a weirdly entertaining movie, precisely because of its commitment to the silliness, (cruficied goats with many eyes? Huh?) Maybe one doesn't want to hear God's truth too loudly after all!
That extreme silence that awakens inner consciousness was its own fad under the watch of John C. Lilly and Timothy Leary, in the form of isolation chambers in which - aided no doubt by a variety of pharmaceutics- people (ok, hippies) would trip through canyons of druggy imagery. In Ken Russell's "Altered States", the good doctor played by William Hurt subjects himself to increasingly grueling stays in one such isolation tank, and what he drags out of the experience serves as an evolutionary summary, a send-off to the '60s, and a compilation of Russell's kitschy '70s visions (this IS the director of "The Who's Tommy").
Based on a disowned sci-fi script by Paddy Chayefsky (the screenwriter of "Network"), "Altered States" was Hurt's breakthrough movie. He's a mad scientist extraordinaire looking for the meaning of life at the risk of losing his life- his love interest, played by Blair Brown, despairs from extracting anything like an emotion from him- but his icy inhumanity is a compelling center as the psychedelia spirals out ever sillier. This is a weirdly entertaining movie, precisely because of its commitment to the silliness, (cruficied goats with many eyes? Huh?) Maybe one doesn't want to hear God's truth too loudly after all!
Yuki Amemiya's "07 Ghost'
Kapitel 26 of Yuki Amemiya's "07 Ghost": "Would You Like to Be my Date to the Gayzaar"?
Get the idea?
It's interesting to note how homosexuality in Japanese society talks loudest in cartoons- and how it's rarely addressed at homosexuals, but at young girls. As a sexual display it's hardly socially stirring and closest to those two straight chicks making out by the bar just because they suspect there's a camera- and free drinks from the guys- nearby. Still, it can be shocking to Westerners when the Japanese Teletubbies really DO give each other blowjobs. Season 1 of "07 Ghost" centers on the very gay friendship between Teito Klein and his beloved bud Mikage- and expands from that bishounen focus to a Churchy world of strict sexual roles encompassing celibate priesthood, ghost-battling angels, and nuns who (horrific but true) mock-fuck each other with knifes. Not the place to start an exploration of anime, but the initated, and the many fans of Yuu Watase's work, will feel at home with the deep mythology.
Get the idea?
It's interesting to note how homosexuality in Japanese society talks loudest in cartoons- and how it's rarely addressed at homosexuals, but at young girls. As a sexual display it's hardly socially stirring and closest to those two straight chicks making out by the bar just because they suspect there's a camera- and free drinks from the guys- nearby. Still, it can be shocking to Westerners when the Japanese Teletubbies really DO give each other blowjobs. Season 1 of "07 Ghost" centers on the very gay friendship between Teito Klein and his beloved bud Mikage- and expands from that bishounen focus to a Churchy world of strict sexual roles encompassing celibate priesthood, ghost-battling angels, and nuns who (horrific but true) mock-fuck each other with knifes. Not the place to start an exploration of anime, but the initated, and the many fans of Yuu Watase's work, will feel at home with the deep mythology.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Nick Hornby's "Juliet, Naked"
Dylanophiles - (particularly fools like me who mentally compare the released version of "Tangled Up in Blue" against that rare live version from August 1981 where Dylan flubs and says "Mangled Up in Glue")- get gently mocked in Nick Hornby's "Juliet, Naked". It's his best novel since "About a Boy" even though it allies all too predictably Hornby's twin concerns: music and maturity, (a.k.a., "when is it time to let go of your obsessive music blogging and actually pay attention to your neglected girlfriend?")
At first Horby's snipes at his own "High Fidelity"-loving audience irked me: this is the story of every-girl Annie, whose insufferable boyfriend Duncan is always pontificating on the work of punk poet Tucker Crowe ("Dylan-meets-Leonard-meets-Bruce" as the ad would put it). Tucker has been mysteriously aping Salinger since his last big divorce album, "Juliet", so it's kind of a surprise when Annie gets her hands on an exclusive demo-only version called "Juliet, Naked"- and hears it before her boyfriend does, the first in a series of escalating betrayals. When the mythical ex-star resurfaces to start an e-mail correspondence with Annie, can true love be behind?
Luckily, (LIFE SPOILER!) there's no such thing as "true love". Hornby has enough maturity to dole out some sympathy to all the characters- even Duncan the tool- so that as the novel proceeded I got over the fact that I generally I hate novels that target discontented women (and aren't all women discontented? If you're a woman, and you think you're not discontented right now, let's wait half an hour.) I guess I rebel against the soothing cultural message that seems to go: "Girls, if you're bored in your relationship, it's because the guy's an asshole. Guys, if you're bored in your relationship, it's because YOU are an asshole." Guys don't win. I HATE stories where the bored, wonderful girl wisens up and abandons her stagnating boyfriend with the lame blog for the dashing, interesting, REAL SATISYIN' MAN. I AM the stagnating boyfriend with the lame blog, bitches, stop abandoning me!!!
And how exactly is this song not worth writing about obsessively?!?
Thanksgiving Gratefulness
Thank you, Turner cable networks, for reminding me of how much I love the first two Godfather movies!
And the third one is okay, if you add lots of gravy and Thanksgiving goodwill.
And the third one is okay, if you add lots of gravy and Thanksgiving goodwill.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Steven Soderbergh's "The Girlfriend Experience"
Oh, Sasha Grey! I almost didn't recognize you without the anal beads!
Steven Soderbergh's "The Girlfriend Experience" is a bit much ado about... nuttin' much. The stunt casting of porn not-so-ingenue Sasha Grey as "Chelsea", a "high class" hooker with a heart-of-complete-emotional-emptiness, (what a stretch!) gets attention, until you realize you don't want her to put ON clothes and be emphatically less entertaining than she is in her over-the-top porn provocations. The movie attempts to establish a (too obvious) link between frantic pre-bailout Wall Street corruption and sex-as-a-Manhattan-commodity. Your eyes opened, yet? It's beautifully photographed with the meticulousness of a gallery shoot, unnecessarily chopped-up in time, (it's not "Memento"!), and loaded with improvisational dialogue more reminiscent of a James Toback movie than a solid Soderbergh effort. As for Grey, the movie suggests she's worth her $2000 dollars-an-hour because she provides more than sex, the "full" girlfriend experience. Maybe there are deleted scenes where she complains about her water retention and her cat's allergies, because all I see her do here is blankly strut a bath-robe while businessmen unload about how the recession is hurting their bonuses. I can't say she's a bad actress- she's true to the pretty, refined, vaguely threatening emptiness of women who approach their bodies as investments to be carefully guarded against illness, men's predations, and/or love, (something which one doubts she can feel): the heart, like any muscle, wears away with ill-use.
"The Girlfriend Experience" IS worth a little indie rental, but I think you'll find "Sasha Grey's Anatomy" far more stimulating.
Steven Soderbergh's "The Girlfriend Experience" is a bit much ado about... nuttin' much. The stunt casting of porn not-so-ingenue Sasha Grey as "Chelsea", a "high class" hooker with a heart-of-complete-emotional-emptiness, (what a stretch!) gets attention, until you realize you don't want her to put ON clothes and be emphatically less entertaining than she is in her over-the-top porn provocations. The movie attempts to establish a (too obvious) link between frantic pre-bailout Wall Street corruption and sex-as-a-Manhattan-commodity. Your eyes opened, yet? It's beautifully photographed with the meticulousness of a gallery shoot, unnecessarily chopped-up in time, (it's not "Memento"!), and loaded with improvisational dialogue more reminiscent of a James Toback movie than a solid Soderbergh effort. As for Grey, the movie suggests she's worth her $2000 dollars-an-hour because she provides more than sex, the "full" girlfriend experience. Maybe there are deleted scenes where she complains about her water retention and her cat's allergies, because all I see her do here is blankly strut a bath-robe while businessmen unload about how the recession is hurting their bonuses. I can't say she's a bad actress- she's true to the pretty, refined, vaguely threatening emptiness of women who approach their bodies as investments to be carefully guarded against illness, men's predations, and/or love, (something which one doubts she can feel): the heart, like any muscle, wears away with ill-use.
"The Girlfriend Experience" IS worth a little indie rental, but I think you'll find "Sasha Grey's Anatomy" far more stimulating.
HAPPY INDIAN SLAUGHTER!!!
Dear Imaginary Reader:
Enjoy this holiday! Do not stab family members, no matter how sharp the carving knife is or how infuriating their political opinions are!
Enjoy this holiday! Do not stab family members, no matter how sharp the carving knife is or how infuriating their political opinions are!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Woody Allen's "Whatever Works"
I had to watch Grandpa Allen's latest movie, "Whatever Works". This time I can blame it not on England or Spain, but on Evan Rachel Wood. Woody and Wood had to meet at one point, that much was obvious. As for Larry David alter-egoing as a slightly taller Woody Allen, it seems a little much- one wishes David had brought a little of the modern acerbity and improvisation that "Curb Your Enthusiasm" has, instead of simply reading Allen's lines- which is a spade imitating a shovel.
The plot, recycled from Woody's "funny" years, (meaning that back then he put it aside knowing it wasn't up to snuff), is ridiculous and fizzy, but also relatively tight compared to Allen's formless filmmaking of the 2000s. Boris Yellnikoff (David) is a cantankerous insulting creep that finds a bordering-on-minor lovely Southern ditz called Melodie (Wood) in his doorstep, and after a barrage of put downs they get married. It actually works out less creepily than you would imagine, and there are some twists when Melodie's family shows up- (Patricia Clarkson and Ed Begley, Jr. are pretty good, as are Michael McKean and Conleth Hill as Boris's buddies). But the speechifying is so familiar, Woody's condescending attitude toward people who aren't him is appalling, and the one-liners are scarce for a script that supposedly comes from the halcyon days. I did like Evan Rachel Wood, (PARTIALITY ADMITTED!) She clearly has fun playing dumb instead of the manipulating/tormented object of prurient interest she's so often forced to be.
Yes, it's third-tier Woody, but third-tier Woody is better than fourth-tier Woody ("Cassandra's Dream", remember that one?).
The plot, recycled from Woody's "funny" years, (meaning that back then he put it aside knowing it wasn't up to snuff), is ridiculous and fizzy, but also relatively tight compared to Allen's formless filmmaking of the 2000s. Boris Yellnikoff (David) is a cantankerous insulting creep that finds a bordering-on-minor lovely Southern ditz called Melodie (Wood) in his doorstep, and after a barrage of put downs they get married. It actually works out less creepily than you would imagine, and there are some twists when Melodie's family shows up- (Patricia Clarkson and Ed Begley, Jr. are pretty good, as are Michael McKean and Conleth Hill as Boris's buddies). But the speechifying is so familiar, Woody's condescending attitude toward people who aren't him is appalling, and the one-liners are scarce for a script that supposedly comes from the halcyon days. I did like Evan Rachel Wood, (PARTIALITY ADMITTED!) She clearly has fun playing dumb instead of the manipulating/tormented object of prurient interest she's so often forced to be.
Yes, it's third-tier Woody, but third-tier Woody is better than fourth-tier Woody ("Cassandra's Dream", remember that one?).
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Laurent Cantet's "The Class"
Laurent Cantet's "The Class" made me realize how undemanding we are of our movie spectacles. We usually don't ask for or need didacticism, but here is a great movie that teaches, and expands you as a human being. You will emerge from it having experienced- in two riveting hours- what it's like to be in an urban classroom in France for a year.
I meant that riveting; it's an overused reviewer's term, generously handed out to thrillers, but recall it comes from being metalically pinned down. I was hungry throughout this movie, but I couldn't stand up and walk away from it. There's no moment where the movie isn't being fascinating and immersive, there are no pee breaks. You swim against it in the same confusion in which you swam against those hallways crowded with adolescence. And this is all without car chases, or ticking bombs, or much drama, really: the closest moment "The Class" has to action is when a heated up African student bolts out of the classroom and accidentally injures a school mate, precipitating an unfortunate expelling. Unfortunate, notice. Not tragic. In an American movie we would have been treated to a schoolyard shooting, innocents slayed. Here we just have a well-meaning teacher destroy a student's life out of bureaucratic procedure.
Classrooms are warring microcosmos. I'm not French but if I've learned anything from recent French movies as diverse as "Cache", "Lila Says" and "Aborigines" is that immigration is the national guilty obsession. (America only THINKS it has a race problem. France is seething. Never forget that one of the most chest-thumpingly liberal countries in the world is built on a gruesome history of class warfare, racism, anti-semitism and imperialism that makes America look positively pure.) But don't be put off by any of that, this isn't a heavy symbolic movie. It's too honest and humanistic for that, drawn from Francois Begaudeau's experiences as a teacher- he also stars, in a self-effacing, unsparing performance. This isn't "Mr. Holland's Opus", no tributes to martyred instructors: the moments in which the adult slips and bares his teeth to the unappreciative teens are frequent.
And that delicious, subtle pay off at the end! (Spoiler? This isn't that kind of movie.) Francois has dismissed- and indeed insulted- a girl throughout the year. He finds her common and insolent, and as the students recapitulate on what they've learned, the girl says she's learned nothing and read nothing. The teacher is hardly surprised, and snarls: "Not even outside of class?" "Actually, I did read this one cool book on my own," says the girl, and the teacher rolls his eyes (in anticipation of "Twilight" possibly).
The girl says it's called "The Republic."
Yeah. PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
See, it's about this dude, Socrates. And he goes around telling people to think, and argue, to distrust the shit they're fed, to examine where they got their ideas about God and love and society and all that stuff. TO QUESTION THEIR TEACHERS. She leans back and licks her lips triumphantly.
Consider the Teacher Pwned.
GO WATCH NOW!
I meant that riveting; it's an overused reviewer's term, generously handed out to thrillers, but recall it comes from being metalically pinned down. I was hungry throughout this movie, but I couldn't stand up and walk away from it. There's no moment where the movie isn't being fascinating and immersive, there are no pee breaks. You swim against it in the same confusion in which you swam against those hallways crowded with adolescence. And this is all without car chases, or ticking bombs, or much drama, really: the closest moment "The Class" has to action is when a heated up African student bolts out of the classroom and accidentally injures a school mate, precipitating an unfortunate expelling. Unfortunate, notice. Not tragic. In an American movie we would have been treated to a schoolyard shooting, innocents slayed. Here we just have a well-meaning teacher destroy a student's life out of bureaucratic procedure.
Classrooms are warring microcosmos. I'm not French but if I've learned anything from recent French movies as diverse as "Cache", "Lila Says" and "Aborigines" is that immigration is the national guilty obsession. (America only THINKS it has a race problem. France is seething. Never forget that one of the most chest-thumpingly liberal countries in the world is built on a gruesome history of class warfare, racism, anti-semitism and imperialism that makes America look positively pure.) But don't be put off by any of that, this isn't a heavy symbolic movie. It's too honest and humanistic for that, drawn from Francois Begaudeau's experiences as a teacher- he also stars, in a self-effacing, unsparing performance. This isn't "Mr. Holland's Opus", no tributes to martyred instructors: the moments in which the adult slips and bares his teeth to the unappreciative teens are frequent.
And that delicious, subtle pay off at the end! (Spoiler? This isn't that kind of movie.) Francois has dismissed- and indeed insulted- a girl throughout the year. He finds her common and insolent, and as the students recapitulate on what they've learned, the girl says she's learned nothing and read nothing. The teacher is hardly surprised, and snarls: "Not even outside of class?" "Actually, I did read this one cool book on my own," says the girl, and the teacher rolls his eyes (in anticipation of "Twilight" possibly).
The girl says it's called "The Republic."
Yeah. PLATO'S REPUBLIC.
See, it's about this dude, Socrates. And he goes around telling people to think, and argue, to distrust the shit they're fed, to examine where they got their ideas about God and love and society and all that stuff. TO QUESTION THEIR TEACHERS. She leans back and licks her lips triumphantly.
Consider the Teacher Pwned.
GO WATCH NOW!
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