CHAPTER 133: MAN, DEVIL, GOD- THE END

While the five masters flee from the dreadful scene, Althotas slumps in his wheelchair. (Earlier, when Joseph came in to pick up Lorenza's corpse, the old wizard extended those claws of his in his student's direction: "Acharat! Do not abandon me!" But Joseph was, understandably, not interested in bonding at that point in time, and went down the trap door with Lorenza's corpse without dedicating Althotas a single glance.)
Now, the maddest of scientists thinks mad thoughts like:
"Ungrateful coward! I sough to give him eternal life, and he gets snippy over a little temporary death! He tainted the woman on purpose, I know that, he meant to trick me, he wants to steal my life's work, he wants to murder me!" Insanity dances a jig in Althotas' face as he howls: "And he can kill me, and he HAS killed me, but Althotas won't die just like that! Beware, Acharat! Don't you know of my power? Don't you know I have kicked stones into Styx? Don't you know I've had talked to seven angels at the top of Mount Sinai? Don't you know I can call on the Devil AND God? Don't you know I can summon FIRE and LIGHTNING?"
No one's there to be impressed by these claims, but Althotas eases off:
"You're a pathetic fool, Acharat, if you think I can die in some vulgar way. But I forgive you. Come back! I promise I won't use demons! But, please, help me live... Please, get me a baby to bleed, a virgin to kill, and do it tonight, and everything will be fine between us again!"
Even if Joseph WAS around to hear these particular appeals, I doubt he would have dug them. So Althotas grows incensed once more:
"Very well, DON'T come, but if you think you can steal my wisdom from my dead hands, if you can inherit centuries of my knowledge, then I have a little show prepared for you!"
And his deranged eyes scan that room full of old tomes, of notebooks with alchemical formulas, of colorful bottles and (of course) of bathtubs full of blood.
"You think I'm weak, Acharat? FIRE, then, FIRE!"
That's when the trap door in the floor opens, and Joseph Balsamo finally re-appears in the room.
"Acharat," Althotas says, in his version of contrition. "I knew you would see the error of your ways. If you had taken a second longer, I would have set this room, with all its treasures, on fire. I guess it's been a stressful day for the two of us. I am thirsty, child. Bring me some water."
Joseph just stares at him.
Althotas: "Fetch me some water. NOW."
Joseph stares at him some more, with a look that, translated from the French, means: "You have got to be fucking kidding me."
The desiccated lips in Althotas's face draw back, sneering: "What's the plan, Acharat? Watch me die of thirst? Starve me? That's not how a man who was nearly a god dies."
And with a supreme effort, the old wizard rolls his wheelchair away from his student and towards a shelf, snatches a particular bottle from it, and breaks the bottle's neck on the arm of his wheelchair. A silver liquid splashes all over the cushions of the wheelchair, all over Althotas' clothes, and, in contact with the air, explodes into tendrils of fire, while the madman laughs triumphantly like a spirit in his element.
"It will all burn, child!"
And the fire leaps hungry to the manuscripts scattered on the floor, to the volumes of Egyptian wisdom on the shelves, to the walls. Althotas snaps bony fingers, and a ball of fire forms over his hand. Like a salamander, the old wizard sits in the middle of his burning wheelchair, laughing captain of his infernal machine.



The ancient body burns before Joseph's eyes, but that equally ancient face appears not to feel pain: instead, something like a holy peace appears in the mad eyes, and this prophet of fire says simply:
"If I can not live, then I die without regrets. I knew all that men could know. I wanted eternal life- eternity might have to do. I wanted to be a god: I will have to settle for joining God."
At those words, the flames roar renewed, as in mockery, and Althotas is finally consumed. His face burns away. The grinning skull laughs for Balsamo.

Finally repelled by the heat, Joseph escapes down the trap door, and slams it shut over-head. He makes no attempt to stop the flames: saving his mansion means nothing to him. He lays down on his back, defeated, his eyes fixed on that trap-door. All night long the fire makes its animal sounds over him, and Balsamo waits for it to burst through and end his own suffering, but no such thing happens. Trapped within stone walls, devoid of air, the raging beast inside the room eventually extinguishes itself after devouring all.

Our sorcerer, who called himself the Great Copt, who played with the destiny of a continent, who could see the past and the future, now has nothing. No co-conspirators, no friends, no teacher, no wife. No love. The man who was Acharat, Joseph Balsamo, and the Count de Fenix doesn't even have a name anymore.

THE END.


OF PART 2 OF THE SUPER ABRIDGED MARIE ANTOINETTE SAGA- "JOSEPH BALSAMO"!!!

Handle with Care

French thrillers are catching my eye, but the Swedish are NOT being too shabby, either. Stieg Larsson is not the only one with best-selling books and hit movies. John Ajvide Lindqvist (no, I dunno how to pronounce that) also rules with "Let the Right One In."



Lindqvist is considered the Swedish Stephen King- a bold claim after only two novels- but the recently published "Handling the Undead" does sounds like what would happen if you took a Stephen King novel and processed it through one of those translating programs. It's a little stilted, but it's the same recognizable combination of scares, mild social commentary, pop references, and appeasing sentimentalism. This is about zombies, but, you know, "it has a nice message." I am generally weary of horror that pulls the claws in, but "Handling the Undead" does introduce a (new?) twist : what if the dead came to life, and instead of roaming the streets for brains... their grieving family members tried to "handle" them? What if they're not the undead... But the RE-LIVING?

Great idea.

Not so great book. Sorry. The problem is in the plotting. I'm not sure if it's the translation, but after a fantastic beginning, the middle section moves with the pace of a stumbling, disoriented corpse. Too much goes unexplained. Sometimes it's also a little hard to UNDERSTAND what Lindqvist is saying- like listening to a corpse whose rotting tongue has fallen off. I feel brain-dead writing that, (BOOK WAS HARD, MANY WORDS, I GOT CONFUSED, WAH) but at points I honestly wasn't sure what was going on.* Like a corpse who's trying to re-adjust to society.

No more corpse similes for a year.

*ADDED: (I was just very, very relieved to notice that all the reviews on Amazon also note how confusing the book gets. Great! I haven't gotten stupider than usual! Or at least I'm only as stupid as everyone else!)

High Tension Again?

2003's "Haute Tension" was fatally flawed, but it did signal that the French horror film had arrived and meant to outdo the Yanks. For a while in the last decade it seemed as if Asia was the place to go for the extremities of fear, (while American scares skewed tame and, horror of horrors, "inspirational"). But France was REALLY where the new blood was being drawn, unbeknownst to me. Europeans noticed, though, labeling this as "The New French Extremism." Some even threw Gaspar Noe in there, (although horrifying does not necessarily equal horror.) My own favorite of these movies is Pascal Laugier's "Martyrs," and by favorite I mean that I pray I never have to watch it again (it's a compliment.)



Abel Ferry's "High Lane" comes from that general burst of scariness, but no one will argue it's a classic. I will be kind, though, and say that this is a very well-done, lushly photographed, decently acted, effective movie. Derivative and by the numbers? Oh, God, yes! BUT it hits those numbers correctly, which some of the movies it's imitating can't always claim. This movie is "Wrong Turn," for instance, but it is much better in almost every aspect. It is also "Texas Chainsaw" and "The Hills Have Eyes" and "Wolf Creek" and "The Descent," except it's more like "The Ascent"- climbers, instead of spelunkers.

So stop me if you heard the one about the inbred redneck monster who likes hooks and chains and collects animal bones and body parts. This time is a CROATIAN redneck monster. And hey, here come the likable city kids having an innocent fun climbing trip that will go awry! Likablest of them all is Fanny Valette, (who was in "Moliere.") Fanny looks a little like Lizzy Kaplan, and God bless her for borrowing the white top from Eliza Dushku in "Wrong Turn". Every time she leans forward you think: "Fine, ok, I'll watch for another five minutes, but if nothing original happens I'm done."



Then, she leans forward again, and again, and you stay until the end of the movie. Nothing is learned, but... nice cleave, mademoiselle.

I Believe in Beatles, I Believe My Little Soul Has Grown

Dear Imaginary Reader:
HALLUCINA made a list of its obsessions for informative purposes, and was going to post it here. Then HALLUCINA realized it was a list of such sensible obsessions that it was superfluous. Did you not know we heart Bob Dylan? The Beatles? Shakespeare? Until we develop some curious fetish for Burmese proto-punk from the 70s, let us just be emo and quote a David Bowie song.

Because we're still afraid on our own.



I wish I was smarter
I got so lost on the shore
I wish I was taller
Things really matter to me

But I put my faith in tomorrow
I believe we're not alone
I believe in Beatles
I believe my little soul has grown

And I'm still
So afraid
Yes, I'm still
So afraid
Yeah, I'm still
So afraid
On my own
On my own

What made my life so wonderful?
What made me feel so bad?
I used to wake up the ocean
I used to walk on clouds

If I put faith in medication
If I can smile a crooked smile
If I can talk on television
If I can walk an empty mile

Then I won't
Feel afraid
No, I won't
Feel afraid
I won't be
Be afraid
Anymore

Anymore
And then I just won't be afraid
Anymore
And then I just won't be afraid

I Did It All For the Nook (E?)

I have seen the light! (Emanating from my e-book reader.) I am a convert. Yesterday's reactionary reticence disappeared: E-volution is real. The funny thing is that, far from being the affront to literature I fancied before the recent purchase of a Barnes and Noble Nook, I am reading MORE, more lovingly, more interactively. I am more engaged. I know what you think, I was with you before: "NO! BOOKS! PRINTING PRESSES! Like it's always been, or for the last three or four centuries anyway!" But nothing here is lost: you get convenience, accessibility, visibility, portability. You lose the paper cuts.

Yes, Dear Imaginary Reader, I still love physical books, obsessively, don't you know me? But I also love my Super Nintendo. That doesn't meant the PS3 doesn't do some things better.

The frightened Luddite I was yesterday would have expressed my irrational fetish for murdered trees, and- I always used this one- THE SMELL OF BOOKS! But I was wrong. The love of library bacteria and poisonous glue binding is NOT a reason to fear the future. Believe me, they'll come up with an "old book scratch-and-sniff" app within five years. I see the paper book becoming an object of art, (the ones beautiful enough to merit so anyway), a collector's prize like a Ming Vase. Luxury books should continue to exist: your coffee table needs something bigger than a Kindle. But relax.



And ignore snobby shrieks like Seth Lehrer's review of Marjorie Gaber's "Use and Abuse of Literature" for the San Francisco Chronicle. The bulk of it is fine, if hysterical pretentiousness amuses you like it amuses me. But it was the first paragraph that made me hail my Nook. It has a few specific comments so condescending and ignorant that they border on the insult.

Let me address the first two lines:

"Why read? You'd think that with the e-book (...) the experience of curling up with a good book is as archaic as a buggy ride."

Does the writer know what an e-book is? Does he understand that e-readers were created PRECISELY so that one could easily curl up with a good book? Has he ever seen one or used one, or is he simply frightened by the civilization-destroying power of new things he doesn't understand? Isn't that the very fear that literature is supposed to help extinguish?

That first line is merely "old-foggy." It's the NEXT line I'm taking as an insult:

"You'd think, too, that with graphic novels and celebrity memoirs, and with Wikipedia offering their entries in "simple English," the very idea of literature itself had disappeared."

WOW. HOLD ON A DAMNED SECOND.

1) What kind of English would you prefer used-based Wikipedia had in its entries? Would you have liked this definition in "Complex English"? Which "hard-to-read", "literary" encyclopedia is the reviewer a fan of? It ain't Britannica! Some centuries back Seth would have snorted at Dante's plebe choice to "go vernacular."

2) Graphic novels are the end of literature? Yes, because recall: graphic novels are all illiterate adolescent power fantasies about guys in tights. And some have funny bunnies, probably. And they were all invented in the last five years- or at least that's when the New Yorker went crazy over them. Who knows! And why would anyone who loves literature ever bother to read a novel unlike the ones they're already familiar with? Let's read "Emma" again!

3) So graphic novels are cultural detritus, and somehow comparable to celebrity memoirs? This is like saying that the serious cinema is threatened by shit like "science fiction movies and infomercials about knives." What? Where's the link there? Maybe all that "literature" has severely compromised the reviewer's ability to make sense.

BTW, here's a few literature-killing "celebrity memoirs" for you, Seth:

"His Autobiography"- Benjamin Franklin
"The Education of John Adams."
"The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini."
"The Confessions"- St. Augustine.
"If This is a Man"- Primo Levi.
"Commentaries on the Gallic War," by Julius Caesar.
"Speak, Memory"- Vladimir Nabokov.

They're all available as E-Books for your E-Reader.

CHAPTER 132: THE FIVE MASTERS

Five horsemen escorting a carriage, five war-like men openly carrying five muskets, have entered the courtyard of the mansion on the Rue Saint Claude.
They dismount, exchange quick hand-signals, and split, blocking every scape route from the house, prepping their guns.
Meanwhile their five respective masters descend the carriage, advance on the house through the main door and make their presence felt to a confused Fritz, who, as we have seen, has run to alert Joseph.
The five men seat without ceremony in chairs around the salon, and when Joseph enters it, they do not bother to stand and salute their host.
Joseph does not seem surprised by this; and he does not seem surprised by noticing the chairs are arranged in a semi-circle around him, like in an ancient tribunal. He bows respectfully.
He is the accused.
The president, or at least the man in the center seat, speaks:
"It took you long enough, brother. It seems you understand why we're here."
Joseph vacantly looks away: "I'm not understanding much at this moment."
The president sneers: "Of course you do. Look at your face, defeated, pale, the face of a trapped animal. You remember that the superior committee of our order warned us against an attempt of treason made by one of our highest-ranking members?"
"Sure, whatever you say."
"We are here as the law, brother. Speak to us, answer our questions. We have not arrived at any decision unjustly, and you have the right to defend yourself before the evidence."
"Defend myself! Against WHAT evidence?"
The president continues:
"This is the evidence: after that communication was made, one of us had a vision concerning you. The association appointed five of our members in Paris to watch you. Not an easy task. You get around, but your house was visited by our enemies in the nobility, by the Marshal Richelieu, by the Countess Dubarry, by the Cardinal de Rohan. We held back: maybe this was part of your clever plan, and we never doubted your cleverness."
Balsamo groans: "Oh my God, you're so boring! Finish already!"
"Very well! Three days ago, five arrest warrants were signed by the King and given to Monsieur de Sartines. That same day, those five brothers who had been watching you were arrested. Two were sent to the Bastille, two to Vincennes, one to a cell in Bicetre. Did you know this?"
"No, of course not," Joseph waves him away.
"I have to be weirded out by that, brother. See, to arrest our five faithful friends, Sartines had to have access to the only paper that contained the names our brothers were meant to adopt. That paper was sent to YOU by the Supreme Council. The names were in Arabic characters, remember. And there was a sixth name on that sheet of paper. That name was the Count de Fenix."
Joseph gets sardonic: "Oh, wow. That IS a cool name."
The president says: "Explain to us, Count de Fenix... Why is it that five of the names get arrested, while the sixth is free and friends with Madame Dubarry?"
"Who knows!"
The president is baffled: "Come on, brother. At least make up something. The police set you free because, I don't know, they thought you were too powerful? Or maybe your name got smudged on the paper and they couldn't read."
"Eh, do what you must," Balsamo shrugs.
"That piece of paper was in a coffer. Our agents saw that coffer leave this very house in the arms of a woman, a beautiful woman who ran to the Minister of Police and gave him this coffer, and that's how our secrets were exposed. A woman attached to you in body and soul, under your command, cunning as a devil! A pretty little devil called Lorenza Feliciani!"
At this Joseph springs forward. In one motion, his right hand closes around the throat of the president, and lifts the stunned, choking man off the judging seat: "Don't you EVER say that name again!"
But the other four masters leap up and grapple Joseph to the ground; he makes no further effort. The president adjusts his collar and says: "You are here judged guilty of treason, Joseph Balsamo, Count de Fenix. There are two criminals pointed to the order. You, the Great Copt, a Master like us. And... that woman... who has been your tool and has injured our cause. We know how much you would defend her... clearly. We know you love her, we know she is more precious to you than all the world."
Each word contorts Joseph's face.
The president concludes: "And we also know that the real way to punish you... is through her. See, you ARE still valuable to us, your knowledge is our wealth. You are still our brother. We will simply show you the price of betraying the order. But the verdict? That... woman... we will punish her too."
Joseph's eyes widen, and a terrifying cackle issues from his throat. It makes the five masters step back. He stands up:
"Oh, that's it? That's the verdict? I see. Well then. You gentlemen give me a second, ok?"
And before the stunned members of the order can object, Joseph exits the room. Before they can reply, he returns...

...carrying Lorenza's rigid, discolored body in his arms. With every step he takes, her cut throat gapes wider.

"You wanted her punished, brothers?" Balsamo laughs madly. "Easily done. Here, have the only woman I've ever loved. She's been bled to death. That's a pretty serious punishment. Catch!" And he throws the corpse before the five masters.

Or rather the five screaming guys who run the hell out of the house on the Rue Saint Claude, followed by their confused soldiers. Horses are heard trampling in the courtyard, carriage wheels are heard spinning, the outer gate is heard grating.
And then Joseph Balsamo hears no more, except that loud silence one hears when hanging with the dead.


ABOVE: I couldn't find any picture of women with cut throats that WEREN'T creepy. This one is actually less creepy than most.

Heaven is a Place in Sweden- And some bitter musings about religion. Fanatics, avert your eyes or risk being offended.

"I'm going to say something I've been keeping to myself for 20 years. There is no sin. God invented sex, religion invented sin. Your church handed out lies and guilt so then it could enslave people and tithe them for salvation. I don't need to ask God for forgiveness, because He never condemned me or criticized me. Hypocrites like you did."
- "As It is In Heaven."

(Thank you, movie, for saying exactly what I mean to say right now.)



"The Kingdom of God is NOT coming with signs. It is not someplace you can point at and say "It's here" or "There." The Kingdom of God is within you." - Luke 17: 20:21.

I wouldn't take everything Jesus said at face value, (Christians ignore most of it, as you can tell from that quote) but I dig that. Or maybe there IS a Heaven, if the religious crazies can't get in: THEY would burn it down as soon as they saw people being happy in there. Kay Pollak's "As It is in Heaven" is a truly inspiring and beautiful Swedish contender for the Best Foreign Movie Oscar from a few years back, (it lost to Alejandro Amenabar's "The Sea Inside.") It is also a fine example of religion infecting all with its venomous shame; destroying intelligence with its lying, forked tongue; striking wherever it finds joy it cannot profit for; crucifying every bit of goodness in mankind.

Damn, ok, that was bitter.

Forgive me, I just made the rookie mistake of trying to discuss religion with a born again friend, with the obvious disastrous results. I really should have known better. Discussing religion with a religious person is like discussing a pregnant woman with the fetus inside her womb. They're inside it, but they're completely ignorant and unaware all the same. Soon they'll descend into parroting platitudes, judgmental attacks, or defensiveness: "I know it makes no sense... but... er PERSONAL REVELATION! FAITH! I'm being tested to believe something so stupid and provably wrong that God, who apparently only likes the gullible, might let me live in a house in the clouds forever, hopefully away from airplane routes! Respect my absurd beliefs, just like I respect your decision to burn to Hell!"

But discussing religion with a NON-religious person is equally unprofitable. They see the pregnant woman from the outside, but don't understand why anyone would be so stupid as to get in there. Why can't THEY understand ignorance, cultural saturation, youth, confusion, confirmation biases, the failure of an educational system, the indoctrination of predatorial organizations, peer pressure, the human need for easy-to-understand, comforting lies?

I find that the only viable religious conversation is with someone sympathetic to religious belief, who WAS inside the pregnant woman, got out, cut off the cord, GREW UP, and learned enough about comparative religion and science and history and philosophy and psychology to have an objective, logical conversation about the woman from the inside AND outside. Except that's someone like me and most of the people I call friends, and they just agree with me about things we all already know, so THAT'S pointless too.

Moral: do not discuss religion with anyone.

Discuss something safe, like politics. There is at least a ten percent chance a right winger might say: "Wow, you're right, I had never seen it that way, pulling oneself by the bootstraps IS a stupid comment that could only be made by someone who doesn't know anything about physics!" or that a left winger might say: "What's up all with those lazy rich homeless people? Why can't they get a job?"

The young and naive are, of course, easy prey for the proselytizers, but on the other hand, I have never seen a fanatic go like: "Oh, wow, great point! This IS complete bullshit! Now I might even read some Richard Dawkins or something! To think I've spent 50 years praying for sick people who died anyway, without realizing prayers are worthless and I was just talking to myself and making crazy "God" voices while I formed my millennial militia. I can't believe how silly I was. Thanks for this valuable information!"

NEVER. GOING. TO HAPPEN.

I may be bitter for seeing unquestioned tenets eat one more valuable brain, but "As It Is in Heaven" is not a bitter movie. It is indeed very sweet, about the power of Love, Art and Joy to make people put aside their differences and join together in a heavenly choir. It stars Michael Nykvist, and if you haven't seen "Together" and wonder why this pock-marked, balding guy got that big leading role in the Stieg Larsson movies, see his acting in this movie and you'll get it. (He speaks Italian and English, too!) Nykvist plays Daniel Dareus, a world-famous conductor who gives his (literally) sweat and blood for music until his health forces him back to the small Swedish town in which he grew up. There, he's promptly solicited as director of the Church choir- even thought there's some local suspicion as to his "worldly," "artsy" (read: non-religious) ways.

This town has all the expected types, good (the big hearts) and bad (the small minds.) The bad include the hypocritical pastor, all piety and machination; the wife-beating bully; the repressed, judgmental sex-deprived gossip. (Some will roll their eyes at these "cliches" as though these creatures didn't exist and we hadn't all met them.)

The good includes most of the salt of the Swedish earth people: welcoming, open to the sudden joy music has restored to their lives, principally Lena, (Frida Hallgren), a smiling, flirty girl (with phenomenal boobs to match that smile.) Naturally, Lena and Daniel strike it off.

And the tongues start wagging. People are having WAY too much fun in Church! No no no! Despair and confusion is what that business needs to keep on rolling!



"As It Is Heaven" is not as transgressive or original as "Together," but here also forgiveness, redemption, love and music carry the day. Also, like Chaplin would say, "a little smile, and a little tear." This is another GO WATCH NOW, one to share with family and friends. Can you keep up?

"And when Love speaks, the voices of all the gods make heaven drowsy with its harmony."
William Shakespeare.

There Will Be Sangre

I want to see "El Topo," I want to go to "Holy Mountain." Bits of both movies in my "Cult Cinema" college class made a great case for Chilean-Jewish director Alejandro Jodorowsky as the Wizard of WTF. Browsing through his epic graphic novel "The Incal" further intrigued/mystified me.




ABOVE: El Topo. The Incal. WTF?

Now here's 1989's "Santa Sangre"- a Mexican-Italian co-production only recently available in DVD/Blue Ray. WTF indeed!

Wonderful, wonderful WTF.


ABOVE: It doesn't really make any sense in context, either.

Other than ordering any lovers of the bizarre and grotesque to GO WATCH NOW, I could say "Santa Sangre" is a little bit like "The Phantom of the Opera" and Todd Browning's "Freaks" mixed with Hitchcock's "Pyscho," Fellini's "La Strada," and James Whale's "The Invisible Man" as perceived by a Mexican Shaman who's a huge fan of Mario Bava and Dario Argento, (Dario's brother, Claudio Argento, produced "Santa Sangre".) It is also an homage to perhaps that most famous of mimes, Marcel Marceau: in the 50s, Jodorowsky studied pantomime in Paris with Marceau's troupe.

"Santa Sangre" is a disturbing circus show of sentimental insanity, about the many murders- and sweet love affair- of an insane magician psychically controlled by his mother. You can guess from the above list of allusions that's an inept synopsis. Jodorowsky has created a visual assault of a movie that laughs at the timidity of other flicks: why would you have vampires, or zombies, or werewolves, or ghosts, or serial killers? DUMBASSES! Jodorowsky makes movies about EVERYTHING EVER!


ABOVE: When you clear away the Holy Blood, this is a really sweet movie about cutting the umbilical chord from a deranged religious past and allowing love into your life. I'm serious!!!

"Santa Sangre" features every possible Mexican low-class horror-movie fetishes, (which, and this might not surprise you, are pretty much like American low-class horror-movie fetishes, except Mexicans are much more into midgets.) Here is a SAMPLE of the things that will crawl across your eye-balls during "Santa Sangre":

An insane asylum; a naked madman; circus freaks; a midget in a turban; a cruel ringmaster/knife-thrower; a whorish "illustrated woman"; a little boy's chest tattooed at knife point; a scary apocalyptic religious sect that worships a pool of blood in which a girl was raped and dismembered; the Catholic Church disowning- and demolishing- the temple with the unfortunate heretics; a pretty, abused deaf-mute girl; an armless madwoman; a castration via acid bath; a bizarre funeral for an elephant; an obese prostitute servicing a group of Down Syndrome's people who are high on coccaine; zombies in a graveyard; a pantomime about the Creation of the World; a stripper in obligatory school-girl outfit; tigt-rope walkers strangled by their hair; a transsexual wrestler; a ventriloquist's dummy; "The Invisible Man"; detachable ears; a giant strangling snake that really DOES symbolize a penis; disembodied hands; hordes of Santeria-ready chickens; evil pianos; and lines delivered in such unintentionally hilarious manner they could have come from Tommy Wiseau.

The winner? After a character hallucinates the above-mentioned giant-penis snake at a grocery store, he falls to the ground-twitching in epileptic agony. A concerned clerk asks: "What's happening?" Our character stands up and tosses this gem, all non-chalant:

"Oh, nothing. It was just a hallucination."

OH, OK, it was JUST a HALLUCINAtion! Pheew, you had me worried for a second. Do continue shopping, please!

The only thing this movie lacks is demonic cats, and honestly, I'm not sure there WEREN'T demonic cats in it, I probably just missed them.

I've spoiled nothing. Nothing COULD spoil THAT parade. Like everything hiding behind a freakshow curtain, the barker can only preview it: you have to see it for yourself.


ABOVE: Oh, yeah, there's also a magical horse.

CHAPTER 131: DESPAIR IN THE AIR

Dear Imaginary Reader:
It's been almost a month since the last episode of the SUPER ABRIDGED MARIE ANTOINETTE SAGA. Shame, shame, shame!
If your memory needs jogging: Joseph Balsamo (Johnny Depp) has just discovered that his mentor, the old wizard Althotas (Richard Harris), has bled his beloved wife Lorenza Feliciani (Monica Belluci) to death, in a futile attempt to use her "virgin blood" as ingredient in his Elixir of Life.
Lorenza had just ceased to be a virgin.
The Elixir fails, and Althotas is doomed to death.
We left Balsamo cradling his wife's corpse.

-----

The hours limp for the sad, sprint for the happy.
Joseph Balsamo, in his utter despair, has not felt them pass.
Althotas is ALSO in utter despair, crumbling in his wheelchair. He fancied himself a God, and has discovered himself on the verge of a grave. His eyes are fixed on the broken pieces of the vial, on the drops of the elixir tainted with a woman's oh-so-normal O-positive blood. The old man seems baffled by the concept that years of alchemy have been defeated by something as stupid as sex between two bulky bags of mortality like Joseph and Lorenza.
Balsamo is not thinking anything nearly as elaborate. The name "Lorenza" loops in his head. Three hours passed, and he doesn't even bother taking revenge in Althotas, because everything has ceased to exist for him except for the pale body in his arms, and even that seems incomprehensible. His mind is in darkness, until a bell rings three times.
Fritz, (Daniel Craig), is trying to attract his employer's attention.
The German butler calls again, and again.
Finally, Balsamo ackowledges the echoing bell, and slowly stands up, lifted by these thoughts: "It is something urgent. Perhaps danger. Perhaps someone has come to kill me. I hope someone has come to kill me."
Fritz must NOT come up, must not discover this shocking scene. That final motivation makes Balsamo walk to the trap-door that leads below, walk down the hall, descend the staircase towards the living room.
Fritz is already there waiting for him. The torch in his hand colors his alarmed face.
And when the torch lights Balsamo's face too, Fritz SCREAMS.
"What," Joseph says, not surprised by much.
"Master... Your face!"
"What about it?"
Fritz grabs his master by the hand and directs him to a large Venetian mirror at the bottom of the staircase.



Balsamo shudders when he sees what has scared Fritz. But then he smiles nervously: grieving people know about those unexpected smiles of extreme pain. Balsamo is smiling at what he sees in the mirror: a man who has aged twenty years after staring at the unthinkable. Kind of like Charlton Heston in "The Ten Commandments," but with a bloody shirt too.
"I see what you mean, Fritz," he says. "What did you call me for, anyway?"
"It is THEM! They're here!"
"Oh, that explains a lot, Fritz."
"THE FIVE MASTERS!"
You wouldn't think Balsamo could age an extra five years at this news, but he can.
"Did they come alone?"
Fritz shakes his head: "They each came with an armed bodyguard. The bodyguards were left in the courtyard. The Five Masters wait for you in the salon."
"I'll go then right away."
Fritz stops him, bold for once: "You'll go just like that?"
"How else?"
"A sword!"
"No."
"Please, master, there is a loaded, double barreled pistol in the ebony case on the stand in the salon."
Balsamo shrugs him off: "I won't need it."
"But master!"
"Walk away, Fritz. If they kill me, if I kill them, what does it matter? I'm going into the salon now."
And he does, to confront these mysterious FIVE MASTERS with his bare fists!!!

It's like a kung-fu movie all of a sudden.

Noe's Dark- "Irresistible" and "Enter the Void"

:SRELIOPS

I'm gasping out of a double dip into the stylish hells of Gaspar Noe: "Irreversible" and "Enter the Void." Need some breath.

First of all, these are two movies that you should GO WATCH NOW because they're simply provocative masterpieces of style, gripping and excruciating. (Intentionally excruciating movies succeed because they have made us care. Lars Von Trier, Lukas Moodysson and Michael Haneke excel at that. Unintentionally excruciating movies make you aware of your mortality, and the fact that times being a-wasted watching crap.) Gaspar Noe (accent on the e) is an awesome stylist, and I shall continue watching him. (Substance? We'll discuss.)



I had seen "Irreversible" when it came out in 2003. It is unforgettable, and I will assume you know its gimmick: it is told in reverse. Not exactly backwards. Its different, clearly separate scenes play forwards chronologically. It is not a confusing movie. You see the terrible ending, and then the scenes that led to it. Its two horrifying centerpieces are one of monstrous violent revenge, and, earlier, a nine-minute rape that prompted that beginning/ conclusion. Then you're dropped off at the happy ending/beginning of the night. That you know will go to shit. You're trapped in a backwards roller-coaster, and you're complicit on anything it runs over.

You were warned.

It is in many ways, a simple movie. There's this guy, Marcus. (He's played by Vincent Cassel, who was in "Black Swan," and the Mesrine movies, and in Ocean's 12/13, and "Eastern Promises," and... He's basically the current ubiquituous Gerard Depardieu-like French giant.)

Marcus has a BEAUTIFUL girlfriend called Alex (Monica Bellucci, Cassel's real life wife, who recently, alas, also suffered tragically in the SUPER ABRIDGED MARIE ANTOINETTE SAGA). Alex's ex boyfriend, Pierre (Albert Dupontel) still hangs around with them, in a friendly, healthy threesome of civilized people. Everything's going great and they're going to a party, and then Marcus gets high and starts behaving all retarded and his girlfriend gets pissed at his immaturity (for a particular emotional reason which I won't disclose, DO watch the movie). Anyway, Pierre wonders if maybe he should accompany Alex in her storming off, but she reassures him it's all right, she's just going to go home.

Then (before!)- and although I've warned of spoilers, you pretty much know this going into the movie- Alex, walking alone at night, runs into a psychopath who brutally rapes her and beats her. Then, (before!) Marcus, (who's understandably FUCKING PISSED OFF AND STILL HIGH) and Pierre (who's also understandably pissed off, but not high, and tries to be logical and appeal to calmness) track down who they THINK is the rapist for revenge- and that's fucking brutal and horrible too.



That's pretty much all there is to it. It is so well done that it does provoke discussion, and you WILL feel what mad revenge feels like, and you WILL feel what being savagely raped feels like.

It is a heart-pounding, amazingly directed movie. ALL STYLE, I said. Here are the problems with the substance.

Noe is working with three high-minded concepts. The first two he deals with in very shallow manner. The third, he simply leaves the audience to figure out and be uncomfortable with, and it is the one that makes this movie provocative.

The concepts are these:

1- REVENGE- and how it turns us into the very monsters we are pursuing;

2-RESPONSIBILITY- and how one dumb action (like getting inappropriately high and neglecting your girlfriend at a party) can lead to disasters and even deaths;

3-AUDIENCE COMPLICITY- Most of the audience will find Monica Bellucci desirable and understand why someone would love to have sex with her- BUT NOT LIKE THAT! Most of the audience will find the rape reprehensible and understand why someone would love to punish a m*******g rapist- BUT NOT LIKE THAT!

And that's where Noe winks: are you SURE "not like that"? Are you SURE you're not getting a little turned on seeing Monica in her nipply barely there dress? And imagine if your girlfriend WAS raped, are you SURE you wouldn't LOVE to bash that rapist's face in with, say, a fire extinguisher? Wouldn't it feel good to make him suffer for all the pain he's caused, and the beauty he's destroyed? Even knowing you're going to cause even MORE suffering and death and violence? And you'll just be perpetuating the cycle?

*wink wink* says Gaspar Noe. YOU decide what that all means!

Let's talk about the first two, REVENGE and RESPONSIBILITY, and how they apply to this movie.
Noe is making a decent case, although it might take a lot of objectivity to realize that, that revenge is NOT the way to go, that objectively, killing and maiming someone is EXACTLY like killing and maiming someone, doesn't matter whether the person you're killing and maiming is a nun, a carpenter, an electrician, a thief, a soldier, a child, an ugly pimp, or a pretty girl. Whatever it is that you're brutally killing, it makes YOU a brutal killer. And it makes it easy for YOU to get brutally killed in an expanding wave of violence for which all of humanity is suffering. This is as old as Greek plays, as old as Biblical commandments. If someone kills Cain for having killed Abel, then that someone is just as bad as Cain.

Couldn't agree more.

But... hey... from THIS movie? I can't imagine anyone NOT feeling like: "FUCK MORALITY AND WISDOM. A dude who raped and punched and deformed pretty pretty Monica Bellucci deserves as many fire extinguishers to the skull as can be found?"

So... Shallow.

Worse, in the responsibility area? In the idea that things are inevitable or irreversible? The movie crumbles, which is why it is a masterpiece of style but not of substance. There is no direct correlation between the triggering event, (Marcus losing control at a party) and Monica Bellucci wandering off alone into Rape Alley at 3 in the morning. That was HER decision. An unwise one, perhaps but is it HER fault she got raped? HELL NO! Maybe Pierre, the nice ex-boyfriend, SHOULD have been more insistent at accompanying her- is it his fault a rape happened HELL NO! He didn't want to seem pushy or needy or over-protective or step beyond his boundaries- and he certainly couldn't predict something bad would happen. How COULD anyone predict there would be a psychopathic rapist pimp abusing a tranny exactly on the same place Alex chooses to walk? No one could. So guess what, neither Marcus or Alex or Pierre or Alex are to blame for the rape. The rapist is. So the movie's logic crumbles and there are only two true morals here:

1) If you're lucky enough to be banging a world-class beauty like Monica Bellucci, don't be a douchebag to her, and don't let her run off into dark, evil streets alone in her flimsy dress. Call her a cab, for God's sake.

2) Sometimes, some real bad shit goes down and it clouds our vision and we make it even worse.

THAT'S DEEEEEEEEEEP.



You want even MORE style over substance? "Enter the Void." This movie is also dazzling visually, Noe's replication of a trip on DMT (Dimethyltryptamine, a psychedelic compound that can be found in plants, and there's a little bit of it already naturally occurring in people too. It's derived from the famous tryptophan amino-acid.) At least I THINK that's what this is. "Enter the Void" also involves "The Tibetan Book of the Dead," the tripper's stripper sister, sights fantastical, neurological visits to Heaven, lots of nonsense, lots of seediness, lots of transcendence. Very little substance. BUT a trip. I would suggest, if you're a law-abiding, scaredy Dear Imaginary Reader like me, that you GO WATCH NOW and enjoy a vicarious harmless drug trip. If you're a scuzzy junkie Dear Imaginary Reader, then really, why bother with a rental?!? Go get high!!!

Dear Abbey

You keep Victorian, I'll take Edwardian.

Masterpiece Classic's "Downton Abbey" is the classiest of soap operas, keeping eyes ("Upstairs Downstairs"-like) both on high class pre-WWI Britain and the intricate lives of the "low" classes that made the luxury and idleness a possibility. "Downton Abbey" is written by Julian Fellowes, who's been here before with his script for Robert Altman's "Gosford Park," and is suitably literate AND sudsy. You won't believe how bitchy those maids and butlers can get, all while keeping that stony British facade that makes communication an impossibility, or how involved you will get in this strict microcosmos and its fineries. If this sounds like your, er, cup of chamomile tea on a British garden, then GO WATCH NOW. (Series Two, please, inmediately!)

It's beyond me how the British managed to populate an Empire. If "Downton Abbey" and the such is any indication, this is how English sex transpires:



Sir Cavanaugh (looking away): "Lady Stanford, I daresay that..."
Lady Stanford: (turning away too) "Yes, Sir Cavanaugh?"
Him: "Why... Isn't it a lovely sky, that?"
Her: "Oh, I wouldn't presume to know."
Him: "That is to say..."
Her: "Yes?"
Him: "Urgent business require me in Germany."
Her: "Business is of the utmost importance, and a sensible man must attend to them."
Him: "But..."
Her: "Yes?"
Him: "Oh, nothing I would not presume to ask."
Her: "Very well then, if you please."
Him: "But, if I may be so bold-"
Her: "It IS a lovely sky, now that you point it out."

They both blush, have tea, discuss India. An hour later:

Him: "Furthermore, if I may be again be so fresh as to ask... Will you miss me while I'm in Germany?"
Her: "Oh, well, Germany isn't so far away."
Him: "So you will NOT miss me? Not that this would concern me either way, and certainly you are free to miss or not miss whomever you wish."
Her: "Now, Sir Cavanaugh, I did not say either that I would miss you or not miss you."
Him: "Then? I may die while in Germany."
Her: "That... that is, should that be so, it is perhaps decent to admit that I... might even regret it."
Him: "You would regret my death?"
Her: (tearfully) "Let us not speak of such terrible things."
Him: "Then you DO care! That is, not that *I* care, and..."
A moment of pregnant silence, then he says:
Him: "I have been intolerably impertinent, and you no longer consider me a gentleman. I shall die in Germany knowing full well that I have earned your everlasting hatred and contempt."
Her: (concealing a breaking heart.) "If that is what you choose to believe, then... Perhaps your cruel heart will be resistant to bullets."
Him: "What am I to construe from that sentence?"
Her: "Nothing. Farewell, Sir Cavanaugh. The sky is lovely, I have come to agree with you. Let us never speak again."

He dies.

****

Instead THIS could have happened, the honest-to-God American way:

Sir Cavanaugh: "Hey, so I gotta go to Germany, but I really like you. You wanna make out a little before I go?"
Lady Stanford: "Oh, thank God, I thought you would never ask, let's do it."

They make out on tea table, THEN afterwards share tea and discuss India, and he decides to forget about Germany and marry Lady Cavanaugh. She avoids many years of frustration and suffering. He avoids death.

The Girl Who Was in Movies That Were Only Ok

Noomi Rapace? Eeeh. Just not my thing. Does this make me a bad person?

I caught Stieg Larsson fever early. You know, the "Girl Who..." series: "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," The Girl Who Played With Fire," and "The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest." Stieg Larsson fever is kind of like chicken-pox: it's harmless and easily cured when you get it early on, but it can damage brain processes if you get it later. Otherwise intelligent people are walking around with the delusion that because he was Swedish and is (for the moment anyway) dead, he's somehow classier than, say, James Patterson or David Baldacci. He was a fine thriller writer- or a reporter trying inelegantly to be a writer- but that's about it. He's not even as good as Richard Castle.

After finishing the trio of Swedish movies, I am reaffirmed in my opinion. They play like decent television (indeed, ran as the "Millenium" mini-series in Swedish TV). They're routinely directed by Niels Arden Oplev and Daniel Alfredson. Call me shallow, but Lisbeth Salander in the book is an edgy, memorable, sexy wish fulfillment of a character. What Larsson originally meant to be a sidekick ran away with the books, and that's why she's up there in the title. The fantasy in my head?

It wasn't Noomi Rapace.

She's kind of fugly. And I love Mikael Nykvist for "Together" but he ain't exactly George Clooney. Disagreers welcome: beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I'm explaining what I behold. The Lisbeth I loved in the books was a sexy fantasy, just like Stieg Larsson intended, but there's zero sexiness in these adaptations.



It's not "disappointing" chemistry, like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor in "Cleopatra." THOSE should have been HOTTER together. Not only was I not invested in Noomi and Mikael getting together as the story ended, I was hoping they didn't. They have the chemistry of co-workers forced into the same mystery and hoping they can diverge when the clock hits five.

But why am I still on this wagon? I'm pretty confident the American version (and casting) will rectify the Swedish problems. I thought the American version of "Let the Right One In" was unnecessary, although it's probably pretty good (haven't seen it yet). But this is stuff that aches for Hollywood treatment. Give it dialogue that pops, visual thrills, accentuate the twists, here's material for a terrific thriller trilogy.

This one is only OK.

What's that you say? David Fincher is directing the movies. Who's that? He sounds like he could do a decent job.

Futurama Volume 3- and Godfellas

Fry, interrogating an Orthodox Jew-bot: "So, what's the deal? You don't believe in Robot Jesus?"
Answer: "We believe he was built, and he was a very well programmed robot. But he's not our Messiah."



There's more wisdom about religion in "Godfellas," (in Volume 3 of "Futurama") than in four centuries of nuns rapping kid's knuckles with rulers. There's more wisdom about EVERYTHING in any given episode of "Futurama" than in the repetitive lawyer/cop/doctor seasons that TV viewers seemingly can't get enough of. When people wonder why "Futurama" didn't find the mainstream success of "The Simpsons" despite being every bit as good- and often better- the answer is, sadly, that it was too smart a show. Smart shit confuses people. The fans know it's a classic, and resurrected it seven years after its cancellation, (to an even smaller, but devoted audience.)

Mio Amore, Nicole Atkins

I've been pimping and praising Nicole Atkins for a while. Her previous album, "Neptune City," carried the residents of HALLUCINA through many a night of fantasmagorical romancing. Now she's blown up at SXSW, (Time Magazine pointed her out as one of the 10 breakthrough acts there this year.)

"Mondo Amore" doesn't have an insta-classic like "The Way It Is," (a song that I've added to my sensible canon of all-time greats). This isn't "Neptune City II." Nicole has shed her label, the Sea (now her backing band is called the "Black" Sea) and supposedly a boyfriend, and you'll hear that in the music. This is a good reason to pack my bags, head for Jersey, and wait outside her door for an elaborately staged "meet cute." Ok, maybe Jersey might be too much of a challenge, but I love this chick. Saner than Cat Power, more approachable than Neko Case, not as repulsive as Amy Winehouse, drawing on good traits from all of the above. What she REALLY reminds you of is a muse hovering over Roy Orbison's shoulder, singing the hell out of "Only the Lonely."

What I said before about Nicole applies: the lyrics aren't the deepest ever written, her voice doesn't quite carry you a la Janis Joplin, but the whole package is impressive and worthy of your amore. No lameness here, but "Vultures,""Hotel Plaster," "Cry Cry Cry" and "This is For Love" are the stand-out potential singles.





Elsewhere, sample the faux-honkytonk-harmonica-rollicking-jamboree of "My Baby Don't Lie." It's a tough and funny warning that she's going to give a black eye to the bitch that's been spreading rumors about sleeping with her man. Then it slows down for the late night laments Nicole does so well, before the party kicks off again, with the admission that her baby has done her wrong after all, but don't worry, HE too is sporting a black eye for it.

This is my kind of tough romantic broad. In "You Come To Me," she howls:

"You will come to me, you'll come to me, you'll come!"

The only logical response is: "Yes, ma'am! Gladly!"

May the Phoenix Rise

Osamu Tezuka was simply one of the most generous story-tellers of all times, and his beloved "Phoenix" manga is a soaring beacon among many ambitious works, (like his wonderful "Buddha".) The 2004 anime version doesn't do justice to the material. What was alive and primal and stylistically experimental on the page is cheaply animated and stilted on the screen. Adherence to Tezuka's design makes Tezuka's deep philosophy seem cartoonish.

The "Phoenix" saga works concentrically: from far history to the far future, these stories of reincarnation, love, sacrifice, pride and human failure converge towards the present. They're moving, touching, clever. For me, there are few episodes in literature as disarming and unforgettable as the one in which an evil queen punishes a soldier for protecting a boy who's attempted to assassinate her. The method of torture: being locked in a cave full of hornets. The soldier emerges from the cave howling with pain, deformed, his stung body all lumps and sores, his nose a swollen, disgusting blister. And the boy is waiting for the soldier who has been punished in his place. What does he do? He licks that disgusting nose, hoping his saliva will soothe the soldier's pain.

It's gross, it's disturbing.

It's an act of gratitude and love.

The soldier cries, in humiliation, shock, relief.

I kinda cried too, when that happened.

Read the books first. Then, if you must, go on to the anime.

By Isis and Osiris! My God, this Woman! # 542

God bless Elizabeth Taylor. I hope she doesn't rest in peace, she would find that boring. Had she died young, she might have wrestled with Marilyn Monroe as legends of flesh and sex and zest, but where Marilyn was vulnerable, insecure about her intelligence, Liz was assertive, she could argue you to your knees, and those violet eyes could melt or seduce any contender.



Who better to play the daughter of the goddess Isis, Cleopatra?

Joseph L. Mankiewicz' "Cleopatra" is magnificent and infamous. It was a huge hit (it made 26 million dollars at the time, the highest grossing movie of 1963. Eventually it would gross 57 million dollars), It was also a huge flop (it cost 44 millions to make.) To the people who measure things in money, that's 13 million dollars lost. That's a lot of money. If the thousands of people in the cast and crew had forced their families and friends and the friends of their friends all over the United States to go see the movie, it wouldn't have begun to start paying for this expensive, magnificent, boring, intelligent, unexciting, historically solid recreation of the epoch-defining encounter between Rome and Egyptian civilization.



Like "Ben-Hur" and "The Ten Commandments," "Cleopatra" equally doles out amazing sights and sensuality and boredom along the way. It's 4 hours long. Mankiewicz' original cut was SIX hours long, but that was lost. The 4 hours we have left are not exactly painful hours, but they're bloodless. It gets one thing right, and for that I love this movie: the average modern audience thinks of Greeks, Romans and Egyptians living among dusty historical ruins. But they weren't dusty historical ruins to its inhabitants. These were the luxurious palaces and thriving cities of civilizations as complex as New York, or Paris, London, Dubai. They were modern to their people! Cleopatra lives in a lavish, comfortable world of sensual pleasures and amusements and efficiency, there's bright parades and they're wonderful eye candy. Really impressive. But this civilization has grown self-satisfied, redolent, lazy, and it's about to be brought down by Roman imperialism and a new set of Gods. Conflict was tragic. When the library at Alexandria was burnt, it was the stupidest, defining funeral pyre of an era.

(Watch "Agora" for more on the Library of Alexandria.)

"Cleopatra" talks about all that. TALKS is a problem. People were expecting sex and violence, not a guided museum tour. "Cleopatra" is in Cinemascope, it creates awe. That's not lazy click-of-the-mouse CGI, those are really ARE thousands of extras dressed in period clothes. But to see that cast of thousands you have to stand on a height, far away. You're in the nosebleeds. You're looking through a telescope. It's not very involving.

People were also expecting some magical chemistry between Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Burton plays Marc Anthony very well, as a tormented soldier. Liz plays Cleopatra as flesh and silk on the outside, but there's calculating iciness in those milky eyes, her breasts are frosty. There's a lot of sex in this movie, but it is censored, cold, a political tool. Cleopatra's nubile slaves constantly make sure her seductive attires never reveal too much. You'll see them pulling up straps, smoothing out a skirt that might have let this sexy woman show too much. It is the restrained sexuality of a queen, so there's no particular scene for magic romance.



These were professionals, you know. Playing roles. Liz seems to be more into Rex Harrison as Julius Caesar, and when Burton and Taylor kiss for the camera, it's as actors who obviously cannot wait to finish the fucking drawn-out scene so they can get on with the real fucking.

The dialogue, drawn from Plutarch and aiming at the Shakespearian, is another doomer for this movie. When you compare the level of cultural intelligence and historical knowledge "Cleopatra" assumes of its audience with the level of cultural intelligence and historical knowledge a similarly expensive gamble called "Avatar" assumes of ITS audience, you can begin to cry for OUR civilization.

Again. MY GOD, this Woman!!!

CRITERION: Charlie Chaplin's "Limelight"

Dear Imaginary Reader:

Oh, wow, Charlie Chaplin's "Limelight" will make the clown make-up run down your cheeks!

As a cynical asshole, I was rolling eyes in dry sockets while the curtains closed, tugged down by melodramatic strings. As I sentimental fool, as a morantic*, I was bawling buckets of tears. Hold on a sec, cynic. Explain yourself, morantic.

Why is this a GO WATCH NOW movie?



(*morantic = romantic moron, as first used in "The Super Abridged Marie Antoinette Saga")

Calvero (Chaplin) is a has-been comedian, a drunkard whose stumbles are made sadder by his obvious artistic genius. Terry (the first big, beautiful break for Claire Bloom,Philip Roth's once wife) is a dancer. But. She can't move! She's paralyzed! He saves her from a failed suicide attempt. He nurtures her back to life. Together they can move, grow, laugh, dance. It's a miracle! They lean on each other, life finds its way back to the stage. He sacrifices himself for her, and, of course, a prize is paid at the end, but it is paid for ART and LOVE the worthiest of tributaries. This is "Black Swan" material, or more like "The Wrestler." You can imagine the end. The morantic me could barely watch, I wanted to jump on stage and hug Charlie so close, death wouldn't dare point its awful knobby finger at him.

The cynical me is like: "Gimme a break, at least give people a chance to run to the store and reload on tissues! Buster Keaton would have handled this differently." The cynic prefers Buster Keaton. The morantic me prefers Chaplin. Let's give this paragraph to the cynic and say that "Limelight" certainly would deserve watching for the scenes where Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin interact. To see the two giants of silent comedy as a vaudeville duo is a moment that only shrinks when I started wishing Harold Lloyd would show up. Movie lore has it Chaplin cut out Keaton's best bits, and that Keaton was humbly deferential with Chaplin while Chaplin barely acknowledged Keaton. (The realist me might interject that it's much more complex than that, but he didn't receive the invite to this screening, so, hush.) The cynical asshole says this is an overlong, self-referential, self-indulgent tear-jerker, so melodramatic that it includes both "beautiful crippled ballerina" and "sad, alcoholic clown striving for one final redemptive hurrah!" among its tropes.

Fuck you, cynical asshole me.



Morantic time.

"Limelight" is beautiful, moving, inspiring. It would have been the perfect, swan-song-ish way to top Chaplin's career had it been his last. It wasn't. "A King in New York," and "Countess from Hong Kong" followed, so critics and detractors had fun, and audiences, (the ficklest of mistresses) were nowhere to be seen.

Chaplin was always upfront: he wanted to provoke a smile and perhaps a tear. It's written right up there at the beginning of "The Kid." It was more like belly-roaring laughter, and the tears were bucket-breakers. "Limelight" has both. It is not as epic or complex as Marcel Carne's "Children of Paradise" but it shares the same tenderness, the same belief that life is worth living passionately, the same love of backstage on-goings and gossip, and the same old-fashioned sense that as an artist, heaven is there, bowing to your public in the limelight.

Have a Vice Day

You're excused for not remembering, but Jimmy Smits plays the very first undercover cop to be blown to bits in the pilot for "Miami Vice." He leaves behind a pregnant wife, (with whom he's had a convenient unresolved conjugal altercation, to add to the drama). This forces Don Johnson, (James "Sonny" Crockett) to look for another, more resilient, ethnically spiced partner. He finds just the such in Philip Michael Thomas (Richard "Ricardo" Tubbs), and coolness ensued.



Watching an older TV show gives you the unexpected pleasure of seeing great actors at earlier stages in their career. One can have lots of fun watching a younger Ed O'Neill, (aka Al Bundy, aka "Modern Family"'s patriarchal Jay) play an undercover FBI agent who's confused about his identity. Things like that make the first season of "Miami Vice" worth revisiting. Edward James Olmos is of course, great, as Lieutenant Castillo, the center of logic and decision, and you'll catch people like Bruce Willis, Jon Turturro, and Pam Grier dancing to that awesome Jan Hammer 80s soundtrack, (a sound I think of as neon synth).

I love Miami, and this show captures the city as it was, on a cheesy but breezy vibe. Art Deco, "Cocaine Cowboys," Miami Sound Machine-in-the-background, yachts on Biscayne, an alligator named Elvis as a recurring character, Don Johnson rocks and dances salsa. These are all good things. "Miami Vice" has not aged as badly as you think it has, (and the soundtrack is maybe even better now as a nostalgia jukebox.) What I REALLY like about the show is that has a sense of place, and they get the details right. When they say they're going to meet on Biscayne and 15th, that's where they meet. Most of the shows set in Miami seem to me like they could have been shot anywhere else. "Dexter" and "CSI: Miami" treat the city with the eye of detached, serial killing tourists. "Miami Vice" had local LIFE.

And flamingos.

Also, Saundra Santiago. She gets three lines an episode but I really dig her Cubanity!

Now:



Then:

Blown Minds

To "Understand" is to dissolve. Science fiction fans have been begging for Ted Chiang to write a novel. This quietly comic novelette about what happens- or doesn't- when you figure it all out made me a fan. "Stories of Your Life: And Others" is an excellent place to start. Read "Understand" here.

Edge of Fifteen

They don't give a damn 'bout their bad reputation
Never been afraid of any deviation.
And they don't really care if you think they're strange
They ain't gonna change
And they're never gonna care about their bad reputation.

OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

Not them, them, them, them



Sometimes a blogger has nothing to say about Joan Jett and Cherie Currie (played in Floria Sigismondi's "The Runaways" by Kristen Stewart and Dakotta Fanning) except that you can get a better taste of Lita Ford and Sandy West and the other bassists in "Edgeplay: A Film About the Runaways." People who are threatened by girls rocking out, making out and drugging out might wig. But the girls had fun and there's no real tragic VH1 Behind the Scenes stuff. They grew up too soon? No, they blew up when they damned well needed to. Would you rather they had stayed home and played with their dollies? No way! They were nobody's jail-bait either, they chose when and if they wanted to have sex. Yeah, they were a manufactured girl power group, buy they produced some serious scrappy punk. HALLUCINA loves the Runaways, loves Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, and... naturally, rock and roll.

En La Cama Y En Roma (maybe NSFW?)

Here's a midly NSFW example of how two directors can treat the same concept idiosyncratically- and how one one of them made a couple of stylistic choices that reduced a good idea to soft core porn.



Matias Bize's Chilean scorcher "En La Cama" is an honest (if stagy) night-long conversation between two casual lovers who treat their hotel bed like a life-boat drifting in the sea of the everyday. The couple (Blanca Lewin and Gonzalo Valenzuela) make love, discuss sex while recharging, make love again, dance, make love again, and though they've been mostly naked throughout it's the talking that exposes things, dreams, fears, life aspirations, theories about their favorite movies. It is not a wildly innovative idea, but by limiting the movie to some sheets and the giddy motions of two actors who are realistically attractive, Bize creates something steamy but not tawdry, a date movie for the daring.

That was 2005. 5 years later, Spanish director Julio Medem remade the movie as an international lesbian story in "Room in Rome."



Now the couple (Elena Anaya, Natasha Yarovenko) are model-looking tourists, one Russian, one Spanish; they communicate through heavily accented English; they don't have sex so much as rub each other's lubricated skins like Hegre models; the hotel room is luxurious; and Rome pushes its gorgeous tits against their window. It's the same movie, but now it's Skinemax faking significance. You're no longer a voyeur- you're a paying customer.

Medem is undeniably one of Spain's great, distinctive voices. His biggest success to date has been "El Sexo Y Lucia," which turned Paz Vega into one of the most lusted after women in the world, (and which you should GO WATCH NOW), but my own favorite Medem is "Red Squirrel"- a mesmerizing psycho-sexual thriller which gained Stanley Kubrick's admiration, and contains one of cinema's most unforgettable scene of castration fear, (I won't spoil but let's just say that furry squirrels bite on nuts, don't they?). I loved that scene and I can't forget it, a decade later.



Medem makes smart movies about sex but he can get stranded in the uncharted territory that lies between provocative and pretentious. "Earth" and "Lovers of the Arctic Circle" are beautiful looking but make Antonioni (a clear influence) seem direct. The material from "En La Cama" had a "Last Tango in Paris" allure for him, but it was too simple. The story of casual sex, of how revitalizing it can be to make a connection with another human being didn's have enough poetic drama. So Medem makes everything so beautiful and slick that it's unconvincing and unimportant, and not as natural. A conversation that was already stagy and dreamy between two people who speak the same language becomes fake when it happens between people who speak in stilted accents. And then Medem further separates us from the experience with magical realism. What's that? Cupid's arrow has hit, you say? Let's have an actual arrow! Let's bleed roses! Let's have angels' feathers drift down!

It's like a very daring tampon commercial.

CRITERION: Steven Soderbergh's "Che"

Now this is what I'm talking about.



"The Motorcycle Diaries" wants you to light a candle at the altar. Steven Soderbergh's "Che" is more like a cold spotlight. It is simply his most ambitious, intelligent, massive epic. I like Soderbergh but his "I'll do anything" acts make him seem diffuse. He's kind of hit and miss with me. I adore "Traffic." "Bubble" did nothing for me. "Erin Brockovich" was alright. "Sex, Lies and Videotape" was cool. The Ocean movies are too slick. See?

Well, as a historical document, "Che" is triumphant and puts him up there with Werner Herzog.

It is also nearly impossible to love. You can only admire it. It's four hours plus (really, it's only tolerable as a two day event, and that's how I saw it). Soderbergh caters neither to the extreme right or the extreme left. This doesn't demonize or beatify, or pretends to explain Che. Is there NO bias? No, of course not. No one's ever made a movie without a bias. The moment you decide to aim your camera at something, you're biased. To pretend otherwise is foolish.

But Soderbergh isn't Oliver Stone. Yes, the movie omits the killings at La Cabana, (Che at his most cruel). You can read the list of prisoners who were executed without trials here. Most of them were personally shot by Che, and the best thing I can say about it is that he only killed two women. In interviews and press releases Soderbergh excuses the omission by saying that structurally it wasn't needed, (he also omits the Congo campaign, after all) and by saying that not even the staunchest Communist in Cuba stands by those murders. True- but isn't that exactly why he should show they happened? Soderbergh at least treats us to Che's fiery 1964 speech before the UN. ("Are we executing people? You bet! And we're going to KEEP on executing people!")

Benicio del Toro should have been nominated for an Oscar: he fades into Che, he IS Che. To watch this performance next to Gael Garcia Bernal's shows the difference between a likeable star and an ACTOR. The thing is, you might not notice how great he is. There are few close-ups, no way for you to get an emotional hang on this courageous madman. Sometimes you won't even recognize him among all the other olive-green clad bearded soldiers. Commercially, it's a lot to ask from the average movie-goer to watch someone for 4 hours, and to keep it cerebral and not invest emotionally.



If you don't speak Spanish, you simply cannot appreciate the movie. An Argentinean does not sound like a Cuban or a Mexican or a Venezuelan or a Bolivian, and that was integral to Che's disastrous Bolivian campaign. (What worked in Cuba did not work there. That was a revolution with popular support. But Che in Bolivia was a terrorist. Bolivians basically saw him as a scary foreigner who was trying to start a war they weren't asking for. You'll hear a lot from Che lovers about how the CIA tracked him down, but not so much about how the Communists wanted nothing to do with him either, or how his own guerilla people turned him in.)

Theoretically, the perfect audience for this is Cuban.

Here's where that gets tricky.

To the high ups in the Communist Party, this movie is simply not glowing enough. Che kind of looks like the dick he was. You don't see enough of a halo around his head. Also impersonations of Fidel are not welcome in Cuba, and the one in "Che" leans to the cartoon. As social networks ratchet up awareness in Cuba, official history might well be revised to show Che as a fiery hot head who wasn't ready to enjoy peaceful Communism, and then this movie will be useful, but not yet.

Most of the exile community won't watch this on principle.

And to the vast majority of Cubans, who already got Che looking down from every decrepit wall in Havana? This is as exciting as that recent 900-page "Washington" biography was to the average American.

SO? A good movie for most; an impenetrable, boring movie to many; propaganda for some; and a great movie for a few. I'm one of the few.

Movie fans might recognize among the huge, country-appropriate cast, the better known names of Catalina Sandino Moreno, Matt Damon, Franka Potente and Joaquim de Almeida.

CRITERION: Michelangelo Antonioni's "L'Avventura"

There are many things that make Michelangelo Antonioni's "L'Avventura" unusual. On the very face of it, it is a simple tale of an idle group of party people losing a woman in a rocky island. The woman, Anna (Lea Massari) is sullen and capricious and her relationship with her boyfriend, Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti) is a little on the rocks, awful pun intended, so when she disappears Sandro and Anna's friend Claudia (Monica Vitti) assume she's playing a bitchy version of hide-and-seek. They search the island to no avail, and that search continues on mainland, with Sandro and Claudia inevitably falling in love.

What happened to Anna? Has she stormed off? Was she kidnapped or killed? Did she drown? Did she take a chance to start a new, meaningful life away from all the ennui?

I suppose 50 years of frustration with Antonioni means it's no spoiler to say that we never find out, and that's why the audience booed the film upon its premiere at Cannes in 1961, and probably also why the critics immediately drooled at the daringness of its nothingness: for some film intellectuals at the time "L'Avventura" was second only to "Citizen Kane." Both reactions are exaggerated because any immediate reaction to "L'Avventura" is exaggerated. It grows in time and demands reflection. I've seen it three times and hope to see it again, which is not something I say of many movies.



Antonioni backed up a quest that goes nowhere with undeniably beautiful black and white cinematography, and Monica Vitti is certainly worth the camera's attention. The movie is boring and slow only in the way that life is boring and slow: if you don't want to look at the beauty, you certainly won't see it, and if you expect neat resolutions from life, you must be very young and not understand how the passage of time erodes certainties.

But "L'Avventura" is not THAT impenetrable either. If you read Antonioni's Cannes statement, it's a pretty transparent comment on old morality vs. new morality. There are these two people, Claudia and Sandro, and it's clear to the audience that instead of looking for Anna they pretty much should be fucking happily, but they're tormented and can't connect with each other out of a guilty allegiance to something that doesn't even exist anymore. In other words, we can't find God, He's dead, non-existent, unable to save anyone, incapable of showing up, and it really doesn't matter, but we still walk around that void in aimless guilt, kept out of happiness by our inability to see that God is there when people love each other.

This "suggestive" trailer is AWESOME! No wonder people were pissed off if they were expecting an erotic journey and then got two and a half hours and not even a titty shot!

CRITERION: Charlie Chaplin's "A King in New York"

Charlie Chaplin's 1957 "A King in New York" is a satire in its first half, all sentiment in the second half. Chaplin plays King Igor Shahdov; revolution has landed this deposed royalty in exile and he ambles through American life, until he's irrationally and unjustly accused of Communist sympathies. Of course this eerily parallel's Chaplin's own situation in the late '50s, and the movie completely works as an attempt to expose the hysteria of the McCarthy era. It takes the hate-mongering insanity of a McCarthy to link Chaplin's liberal views with Che Guevara's guerrilla warfare, and revoking Chaplin's Visa is a perpetual shame to the United States.



Unfortunately, "A King in New York" failed for me in a lot of other aspects. It is very dated, a bitter, clueless movie. I spent a good twenty minutes getting used to Chaplin speaking: he didn't seem too comfortable with it either. His face grimaces and over-emotes in that silent movie way, and he simply seems a beat behind the other actors in time. That comes accompanied by that Gloria Swanson arrogance: a silent-era star being absolutely appalled by these stupid new movies full of dialogue, ("we didn't needs words, we had faces!"). He gets some easy digs at noir cinema, and those crazy movies about cross-dressers, but it's like Woody Allen making fun of Dylan or Bowie: he really does NOT know what he's talking about. Stupid modern technology makes him raise his eyes comically, and you don't even want to know how Charlie Chaplin feels about that crazy jazz-pop nonsense! What's that? Rock and roll is coming 'round the corner? That makes the little Tramp's bowler blow up in anger.

It is, frankly, an old fogey's movie. And that felt sad to me, specially after having seen something as enduring as "The Kid."

Hot Flashes

"Hot in Cleveland" is a simple little show, full of zingers that were old when "Golden Girls" rode their walkers over it, but it is also comforting for TV Land aficionados, (I'm one). It's like getting warm apple pie from a tarty grandma. You liked "The Nanny" or "Designing Women" or "Just Shoot Me"? You'll love this. You didn't like those shows? Well, by now, something like them will make you nostalgic anyway, so you'll like this. If you want this, but hipper, you watch "Cougar Town." If you're fine with watching three cougars spit off gags from the sitcom textbook, this is charming. Valerie Bertinelli, Wendy Malick and Jane Leeves know what they're doing.



What clinches this is, of course, Betty White, who doesn't even have to earn her laughs: she's almost 90 and can hit her cues as good as anyone and I just love her for it. She makes me feel good about my own life prospects. If I can stay this cute and funny into my 90s, everything will be alright.

Che and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

This is such Commie bullshit.



Ok, maybe that's my knee-jerk Cuban reaction to Walter Salles' 2004 "The Motorcycle Diaries." Do try to put yourself in my tight, cheap shoes. I see Che from every angle. Unlike Jeff Winger regarding "Glee," I totally get the appeal. The handsome, scruffy young hero out to change the world! Like Steven Soderbergh said about the man when promoting his own imposing Che-pic, "no matter what you think about him, this was a guy who walked his talk." The same can be said of every other militaristic gangster, but this is someone who died young, the Kurt Cobain of Communism: he didn't have the chance to "grow up" and throw people in mass graves and oppress a South American country or rant incoherently into his 80s.

I hate to fall into Godwin's Law so quickly, but Che is Hitler and I, like Sylvia Plath, might as well be a Jew, and as I watch "The Motorcycle Diaries" a parallel movie unfolds in my head detailing Hitler's youthful voyages, and merry-making with his friends, and talking about art and women to late hours, and most of all, Hitler brought to tears by the sight of his poor German people, crippled and abandoned and brought to poverty by imperialist, foreign pigs meddling in their turf. The imperialist pigs Che envisioned were American bankers, and the imperialist pigs Hitler envisioned were Jew bankers. That is the only difference. At the risk of seeming anti-Semitic, I'm not sure there even IS a difference.

I wouldn't be content to watch a movie about idealistic young Hitler, traveling through Europe, watching the suffering of his war-ravaged people, and then have that movie fade out with a black card that says: "Young Adolph Hitler went on to greater and greater heights, being loved and worshiped by the grateful people for which he'd struggled all his life, until Soviet Communist forces, with the support of American Capitalist armies, cornered him in a bunker in Germany. Rather than surrender, Hitler took his life. Unable to live without him, his wife followed suit."

That's all true. And yet, it's not REALLY the whole story, is it?




"The Motorcycle Diaries" defends itself by saying: "Ok, but I'm not telling you the whole story, just these early years, so keep your knee-jerk Cuban reactions to yourself." By eulogizing Che out of context, you forced me into that reaction. Here's the thing, I grew up brainwashed with Che. I wrote poems about Che looking down on the revolution from the clouds aiming us young Pioneers onwards to kill Yankees and build a bright tomorrow, and Che was the friend who would guide me along and show me how to be a young Communist soldier, never deviating from the straight and narrow path. To most of HALLUCINA'S audience, Che may be a counter-culture image on a shirt, a cool dude. To the young me, he was the status quo. I read his diaries like the good kid I was. I was told to worship him. I did. The Trinity was Fidel, Che and Camilo, (Camilo hasn't gotten his own international cult, maybe because he wasn't as photogenic or crazy? I think he's the cutest one)



But I happen to know people whose family members were personally killed by Che, so I can't help but think of him as another shit starter, lock and load, "Latino America Fuck Yeah!" douche-bag. Two (or three or four or fifteen) sides to every story.

I'll pretend this movie isn't propaganda backed by the ICAIC (Instituto Cubano de Arte e Industria Cinematografica) What do we have? It's beautifully shot. Like "Y Tu Mama Tambien," a cursory road trip through South America. And that's why Gabriel Garcia Bernal is there. Bernal who was cast for his enthusiasm and international recognition, clearly not for any physical resemblance. The casting session must have gone like this:

Garcia Bernal: "So, I get to be Che? You want me to imitate Che's mannerisms and his haircut and his Argentinean accent? Ok, I can work on it and..."

Salles: "No, no, no. Let's not worry about that too much. There's a little Che inside all of us. Che... he's like Jesus, you see? He heals lepers and he just loves the people sooooo much that he died for our sins. But there's a little bit of Che-sus in everyone."



Like myself and many a South American young man, Che grew up devouring the works of Emilio Salgari, and you'll find more insight into Che's character in any random Sandokan tale than in "The Motorcycle Diaries." Even this eulogy has to accept the inflexibility, the black or white, us vs them world, Che world view. And we see it often. He simply will not compromise. He will not tell a lie. Or say a nice thing to someone, really. Or help anyone. Take the scene where Che comments on a novel, the life-work of his kindly host. It's a bad novel full of cliches. When the writer asks his opinion, Che says: "Your novel is crap." The writer is then supposed to be touched by the honesty. Why couldn't Che say: "Your novel is heartfelt, but it looks like many other novels. These are the areas you need to work at. Maybe this plot can be changed like so."
But people like Che, remember, don't help to fix things. He's a shit starter. He starts shit, then leaves.
He had no real vision, not for Cuba, not for Latin America. He wanted to start a fucking Sandokan guerilla war 'cause that shit was AWESOME!
It WAS.

I get it.

It's ironic that the note of ambiguity comes at the end of the movie, from a Che Guevara quote, in which he admits that, yeah, maybe he tended to go to extremes. Yup, even Che, watching this, would have been like:

"This is such Commie bullshit."