Platoon [1986)

The crusader.

The volunteer.

Ants.

Red and black.

On yer neck.

Except they’re constant.

Can’t advance storyline.

Driving you crazy.

Mosquitos.

Under your green towel.

Would even give up breathing if it meant the flies couldn’t get in.

Snakes.

Leeches.

More snakes.

What kinda watch you wearing?

It’s your shift.

Night watch.

Don’t fall asleep.

Recruited from the world’s greatest insomniacs.

Depends on where you’re deployed.

In Vietnam I would be a workaday, crack-of-dawn man in a gray flannel suit.

Night watch.

Digital foxhole.

Faster alone.

Not a diving watch.

Smeared with mud.

Rainforest.

Grime.

Now we develop.

And change.

From green.

To cynical.

But hard as nails.

Able to take it.

Until we break.

A new war.

Now.

Blew his arms off.

Don’t take the bait.

The village starts breaking you down.

Snap.

Changes you.

Supplying those that murder your friends.

War crimes are war crimes.

But you need warriors to win.

But war crimes are still war crimes.

And we lost.

Seemingly.

Vietnam was not a war.

Vietnam was a battle.

The war is just now getting started.

USA vs. China.

No American soldier died in vain in Vietnam.

It was the right decision to fight.

But we got our butts kicked.

How did America lose?

How did it come to pass?

That we had to retreat?

Making a stand against world communism.

Was successful.

And now the main fighting will ensue.

Johnny Depp wanted to kill the President.

And he said this in Vietnamese.

Then we see Vietnamese children being raped by American soldiers.

War crimes are war crimes.

Charlie Sheen stood up against the falsehoods of 9/11.

From playing a character.

To being the real thing.

WTC7.

You believe at first.

In the war.

But as the years go by, you may lose that belief.

Especially if the war becomes unwinnable.

Moronic leaders.

Bombing their own troops.

Calling in the wrong coordinates.

Some assholes know how to fight.

And how to stay alive.

And we need them.

But they can go wrong.

We need the crusaders.

But we need to remember who the true enemy is.

Vietnam was a war of ideology.

But it must not have seemed that way in the jungles.

You cannot see the forrest.

You do not have such luxury.

To think strategically.

Don’t discount the warriors.

And don’t discount the crusaders.

Because the crusaders can fight.

And be deadly efficient.

They may have active minds.

They may see the looming loss.

But they will fight their way out of an ambush.

And they will fare well.

Due to experience.

Study Pat Tillman.

How did he die?

Why?

War is hell.

It is barbaric.

It pushes the envelope in every direction.

War should be avoided.

Unless it is absolute necessary.

Oliver Stone almost loses the reins of this thing when Willem DaFoe dies.

Which is a shame.

Because DaFoe is magnificent in this film.

And so is Charlie Sheen.

Tom Berenger gives a powerful performance.

All men are sinners.

I don’t know how to fight.

But I know how to destroy.

There are no atheists in a foxhole.

As the saying goes.

We are on the frontline.

Have we been abandoned?

Power comes in owning your name.

In owning your actions.

In owning your words.

I am not anonymous.

If you fight, it is likely the man next to you will fight as well.

And the converse also holds.

Groupthink.

Bad.

But seething masses.

Good.

When directed.

CIMIC.

We don’t know if the war is still going on.

We might get off a few more rounds.

Before we are entirely disintegrated.

We have no comms.

How much do you want to win?

How badly do you want victory?

At what point have we become digital cannon fodder?

It went so fast.

Stabbed himself in the leg.

I missed it.

Thought he was stabbing a lingering enemy.

False-flagged his way home.

Where nations choose free market democracy, the USA must support them as much as possible.

Where nations are invaded by communism, the USA must protect those who have communism forced upon them.

The war is about to start in earnest.

-PD

El ángel exterminador [1962)

Dear friends…it has been awhile.  And I have been stuck inside a nightmare.

A party, but a nightmare all the same.

On this New Year’s Eve when so many rush to their engagements…I have thanks to give…yet it all seems so surreal.

For many of us we battle mental demons.  Usually, we don’t mean demons literally.  And I certainly don’t.

Yet, the world is so strange that we can’t help wondering whether there is something beyond science which is driving certain events.

These sentiments…these questions, are the stuff of El ángel exterminador.  This is not a relaxing film, but it is absolutely essential.

It is a work of art which is irreplaceable in the global canon of creative thought and philosophy.

Luis Buñuel had immense courage to make this film.  And yet, he was an old hand by this point.

His first film (made in collaboration with fellow-Spaniard Salvador Dalí) was 16 minutes which shook the world:  Un Chien Andalou.  That was 1929.  The slicing of the donkey’s eyeball.  Before the stock market crash.  And verily, the cinematic parallel of Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps.

Outrageous surrealism.  Think of his collaborator’s La persistència de la memòria.  The same fount of Freudian cess.  From the pool of the taxed mind comes melting clocks…(and in the case of Un Chien Andalou those familiar ants).  We will always see Dalí as ants…as ants on James Joyce’s egg-yolk universe…Humpty Dumpty having represented the fall of man (“…sat on the wall/…had a great fall”).  [Or as Joyce so singularly put it:  bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner-ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!]

Luis Buñuel had the mad genius of Joyce.  In 1930, he followed upon his famous 16 minutes with 60 minutes in L’Âge d’Or.

I had the privilege of knowing Buñuel by way of his first two films and (in bookend fashion) two of his last three films:  Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie (1972) and Cet obscur objet du désir (1977) [his final creation].

But none of this could have prepared me for the devastating, scathing critique of Western civilization that is El ángel exterminador.

The genre known as “comedy of manners” becomes a grotesque apocalypse the hands of Buñuel.  In that sense, El ángel exterminador is closest in spirit (or subject matter) to Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie.

But it is very important to note that El ángel exterminador is operating on multiple levels.

Is it a damnation of the rich?  Sure.

Is it a mockery of polite culture?  Of course.

But the lethargy and incapacitation we see in El ángel exterminador are the result of very mannerly people being reduced to complete inaction because routine convention has been circumvented.  We see the short-circuiting of well-meaning people who do not know how to cope with change.

And on that level, this film is universal.  It just so happens that the overly-precious manners of the bourgeoisie serve best the filmmaker’s purpose.

Not to disappoint the more visually-stimulated among you, but there is no swooping angel of death in this film.  There is, however, a tense, suffocating masterpiece which makes Hitchcock gems like Lifeboat and even Rope look like the products of lazy philosophy in comparison.

One last thought…  For those who think that the wonderfully-bizarre Alejandro Jodorowsky appeared out of nowhere, El ángel exterminador sets the record straight.  Buñuel was taking aim at the impotence of religion before Jodorowsky was in short pants.  In this film we see the kernel of imagery (lambs, a smashed cello, bits of debris…) which would make La montaña sagrada the beautifully freakish creation it is.  Both were, incidentally, shot in Mexico.

Though Buñuel (a Spaniard) and Jodorowsky (a Chilean) came from different corners of the Spanish-speaking world, their lives would both include important time spent in Mexico and France.  Jodorowsky is, in some ways, still the future.  But to know the future, we must first know the past.

 

-PD

 

Umberto D. [1952)

Unglamorous stories.

That is what Italy brought us in the post-war years.

And every “new wave” which has followed owes a debt to the masters like De Sica.

Perhaps you know Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves).

Don’t stop there, dear friend.

Because here we have the precursor to Dante Remus Lazarescu.

Sure.  There is some humor in Umberto D.  A very, very dark humor.

As with Moartea domnului Lăzărescu.

But mostly there is beauty.

Sadness.

Reality.

Cinema.

There is the little dog Flike.  Not Flicka, but Flike (rhymes with psych).  Or bike.

Flike.  Like Céline’s cat Bebert.

And then there is the stunning (STUNNING) acting of Carlo Battisti as Umberto.

There are few performances which can equal it.

Ioan Fiscuteanu did it as Lazarescu.

And that’s about it.

Rarefied air…these two actors.

Let me put it another way.  Umberto D. was Ingmar Bergman’s favorite film.  Do you know what I mean?

The director of Smultronstället and Sommaren med Monika.

Picked one film.  And this was it.

Appropriately, this was Carlo Battisti’s only film role ever.

As the star of Umberto D.

He wasn’t an actor.  He was a linguist.

God damn…

It’s just unreal how good this film is!

But we must also give credit to the indispensable Maria-Pia Casilio.

It is through her eyes that we see the ants…formica in Italian.

In English, we think of a hard composite material.  Formica.  A table top.

But a sort of false cognate brings us back to the archetype which Dalí and Buñuel so evocatively exploited in Un Chien Andalou.  That was 1929.  A film.  The famous eyeball which gets “edited”.  And then the ants were back in La persistència de la memòria.  A painting.  Soft clocks.  You know the one.  And the only differences between Spanish and Catalan in this case are the diacritical marks.

But she burns paper.  To chase the ants.  And the stray cat prowls the roof at night soft as a snowflake.  And the grated skylight is her canvas to dream stretched out in her bed.  And nothing is more morose than a contemplative face at the window looking out on a dingy world.

We sense it did not go easily for Italy.  After the war.  Because when you choose the wrong side you will be punished.

And though Germany was divided and Berlin was the most surreal example of this (being wholly within East Germany…like a Teutonic Swaziland–a Lesotho leitmotiv), Italy still suffered.  We see it in Rossellini.  And we see it here.

Neorealism.  A update on the operas of Mascagni and Leoncavallo.  A continuation of Zola.  A nod to Dostoyevsky.

Verismo.

The star is an old man.  He is not really a hero.  He doesn’t save the world.  There aren’t explosions.

But (BUT)

he does something most extraordinary.  He survives…for a time.  What a miracle!

Ah!  The miracle of everyday life.  We have survived another year.  Another day!

Do you think there will be a war?

[Shame.  The shame of having to ask for help.  Begging for the first time.]

When your bed is a joke.  Newspapers and dust.  And there is a goddamned hole in your wall.  Perhaps.

A missile.  Or The Landlord’s Game (which became Monopoly).

When you are cold with a fever.  As an elderly person.  All your glamorous days have passed.

And you need your coat just to provide a little more warmth.  On top of the blanket.  To make it through the night.

As long.

As long as this film survives, humanity has a chance.

Really.

-PD

Easy Virtue [1928)

Justice is just ice…frozen water under the bridge of sighs…

It was a long night.

Night of the long knives.  Knives out.

I had the thousand-yard stare.

Easy Virtue is almost an unwatchable movie for any reasonable 21st century human being.  Watching ants roam in lazy lines is more interesting than this early Alfred Hitchcock picture.

Decanter?  I thought he was de Rabbi.

God…what we wouldn’t give for a little Chico Marx in this film.  Hell…Harpo would be even more suited to this silent snoozer.

Isabel Jeans looks fantastic…even when she’s taking a tennis ball to the head…dans le Midi.

Sure…there are faint parallels to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari…perhaps a door here and there like Nosferatu or Dreyer’s Vampyr, but this just really isn’t Hitchcock’s bag.

Yes…I grew up to that old adage…people who are bored are boring.  Something like that.  Well, I guess I’m a spoiled Internet-addicted loser with a paunch…and boring to boot…because this here film bores the ever-lovin’ socks off me.

I could make up some excuse or talk about how great Henri Langlois was (he was!)…but it doesn’t change the Britishness of this dire picture.

Dreadfully sorry…  Mercifully ending transmission here.

-PD