https://open.spotify.com/episode/4WBRAewr9PGkpHgDB6eeb3?si=5a2c7822d22343a1
Tag Archives: blonde
Last Night in Soho [2021)
First off.
I am in love with Thomasin McKenzie.
I think Saoirse Ronan has lost her touch.
Kat Dennings doesn’t even bother with films anymore.
And Thora Birch is too much of a liberal moron.
But then all actors are liberal morons, aren’t they?
Except for a precious few.
Jon Voight.
James Woods.
Rob Schneider.
Kirstie Alley.
Robert Davi.
Jim Caviezel.
Secondly.
This film is a masterpiece.
Edgar Wright is the best filmmaker in the world right now.
Is he better than Jean-Luc Godard?
No.
But Godard is not making films for mass consumption.
Is he better than Wes Anderson?
BY A MILLION FUCKING MILES!!!
Don’t get me wrong.
Wes Anderson made one perfect film.
And that film was The Grand Budapest Hotel.
And that film wouldn’t have been perfect without Saoirse Ronan.
That’s how important her presence in that film was.
Saoirse has made another perfect film.
Hanna.
But her others are mediocre.
Brooklyn.
Meh.
Lady Bird.
Even more meh (not a good thing).
Saoirse has gone astray.
Just as Thora Birch went astray.
Ghost World is a perfect film.
And American Beauty is close to perfect.
For my money, Homeless to Harvard is her other perfect film.
Kat Dennings films kinda suck.
Her masterpiece is actually 2 Broke Girls.
I’m serious.
But that’s not cinema.
Twin Peaks is cinema.
Even though it’s a TV show.
Histoire(s) du cinéma is the best film ever made.
And it was made for TV.
Homeless to Harvard is a Lifetime movie.
Made for TV.
It is not cinema.
Not exactly.
But it may be a perfect film.
Wes Anderson made his perfect film with Saoirse Ronan.
And he made a good film (Tenenbaums).
The rest are shite.
I did not understand Edgar Wright’s film language when I first saw Shaun of the Dead.
I thought it was crap.
How wrong I was!
Here is my contention.
Every Edgar Wright film is perfect.
Shaun of the Dead?
Yes.
Hot Fuzz?
Yes.
The World’s End?
Yes.
Baby Driver?
Yes.
Scott Pilgrim?
Yes.
And this film is perfect too.
But this is not quite the Wright you are used to.
This is a genuinely scary film.
But it stands up with Psycho, Rosemary’s Baby, and The Shining as one of the four best horror films ever made.
Edgar Wright films are all about detail.
But not the twee obsession with detail that Wes Anderson has.
Edgar Wright is overflowing with talent.
Wes Anderson is not.
Anderson needed Saoirse Ronan to make his perfect film.
And there was a bit (just a bit!) of grit in Grand Budapest.
Saoirse is missing from his other films.
And there is no real grit in any of the others.
Tenenbaums is good.
But the Wes Anderson players are tiresome.
Is Bill Murray amazing?
Yes.
But are his performances in Wes Anderson films his best work?
Absolutely not.
No more Jason Schwatzman (for fuck’s sake!).
Is Luke Wilson a great actor?
Yes.
What’s his best film?
Masked and Anonymous.
Maybe it’s Paltrow and Hackman which make Tenenbaums good.
For my money, Luke Wilson is the one who makes that film go.
But it is not on the same level as Grand Budapest.
Last Night in Soho is the Grand Budapest of the ’20s.
We’re in the ’20s now.
Are they roaring?
Like a fucking mouse.
Last Night in Soho is a gazillion times better than No Time to Die.
This film has everything the Bond film didn’t.
Substance.
Competent directing.
A story worth sticking with.
And so it is fitting that Diana Rigg’s last role should absolutely trump the death of James Bond.
The one George Lazenby film was WAY better than No Time to Die.
The death of love is more sad than the death of the hero.
Diana Rigg is the linchpin in the Bond franchise.
Pull that thread, and the sweater unravels.
Léa Seydoux is boring as fuck in the Bond films.
She was great in Blue.
But she was nothing compared to the one who carried that film (Adele Exarchopoulos).
Exarchopoulos made one perfect film.
Blue is the Warmest Color.
None of her other films are even good.
Wright makes what Youth in Revolt might have been.
He is not glib.
This is not a hipster film.
Michael Cera (who has made one perfect film [Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist]) is, mercifully, NOT in Last Night in Soho.
[correction…Kat Dennings DID make one perfect film]
Thomasin McKenzie’s obsession with ’60s London music is real.
It’s not a fucking Austin Powers joke.
Rita Tushingham is wonderful as Gram.
Excellent casting.
[take note, Bond franchise]
Thomasin hooks up with a black dude.
No big deal.
Take note, Bond franchise.
NOT EVERY FUCKING PERSON HAS TO BE BLACK IN ORDER FOR A FILM TO BE VIABLE!!!
Thomasin’s love interest is a black fellow.
I have no problem with that.
He does a good job.
For fuck’s sake…he doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page!
Michael Ajao.
Fine acting!
There can be important black characters WITHOUT A FILM BEING A WOKE FUCKING JOKE (like the recent Bond film).
No big deal.
Don’t make it a big deal.
It has to fit with the story.
The story is the most important thing.
The writers of the Bond film (Purvis and Wade) have allowed their name to be attached to the fucking pathetic shit of No Time to Die.
So you get a kiwi to speak in a Cornish accent.
GREAT ACTRESS!
Thomasin McKenzie.
Say that name with me.
Jacinda Ardern’s father (or mother?) was a horse.
Ugly bitch.
Ugly soul.
Thomasin McKenzie is the best thing to ever come out of New Zealand.
However, there has been one perfect kiwi movie: Eagle vs Shark.
Synnøve Karlsen is so fucking annoying in Soho.
And she was supposed to be.
So, good job (I guess).
Every film needs a villain.
And Jocasta (Karlsen’s character) is the real villain of this film.
Thomasin is different.
Jocasta beats her down.
Mentally.
A stingy spirit.
Can never share in any of her joys.
Do you know anyone like that?
But Thomasin is troubled.
Hallucinations?
Maybe.
Seeing ghosts?
Maybe.
We’re trying to solve a case here.
Cold case.
Maybe a lot of cold cases.
Maybe a serial killer.
To the Belle and Sebastian bedsit.
Salad days are short-lived.
Don’t underestimate Sandie Shaw.
Always something there to remind me.
1964.
Puppet on a string.
Gotta pay your dues.
As a wind-up bird girl.
Brian Epstein.
Giorgio Gomelsky.
Andrew Loog Oldham.
ABKCO.
The influence of Vertigo upon Last Night in Soho cannot be understated.
The red of the Café de Paris.
The blonde of Anya Taylor-Joy’s hair.
And Thomasin’s hair.
[also, don’t underestimate Bergman’s Persona]
The glance to the side.
It’s not Jimmy Stewart.
It’s Thomasin.
Allusions to The Way of the Dragon and The Lady from Shanghai in the mirrors.
Sure, a bit of Pulp Fiction.
But that’s just for the kids.
Edgar Wright’s grasp of cinema history is way deeper than some Tarantino bullshit.
And yet, he likes zombies.
And shitty horror films from the ’80s.
I mean REALLY shitty, camp ones.
Slasher films.
Back to Vertigo.
Kim Novak’s apartment is bathed in green neon.
But Thomasin’s bedsit is a red, white, and blue homage to Godard.
An homage to Une Femme est une femme.
Dancing.
Dancing girls.
Prostitutes.
Vivre sa vie.
Pink dress fembot.
Pew pew.
Thomasin is way sexier than Anya Taylor-Joy.
Thomasin is the girl next door.
The frumpy hair of Homeless to Harvard.
I love it.
It must be this way.
To juxtapose the transition to Swinging Sixties glamour.
Is Trump just culture jamming with his vaccine tack?
Either that, or the hero has become the villain.
Did the D.C. swamp make Trump into a swamp zombie?
Maybe no one comes out clean.
International law was broken.
War crimes.
All these Wright films have zombies.
Or robots.
Faceless automatons.
A bit of Dragon Tattoo.
We all like a good microfiche scene!
Is Terence Stamp her father?
If Sandie is her mother?
Could be.
Otherwise, she would be the daughter of a prick.
But Stamp tried to save Sandie.
Arsenic and old lace.
The ones you never suspect.
Sicario.
“Buried” in the walls.
Decomposing.
Poe.
Gacy.
Wright’s “sympathy for the serial killer”.
What happened to these people that made them monsters?
Don’t underestimate Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451 (his only English-language film…and a flat-out masterpiece).
In the world of Edgar Wright, it is records.
Vinyl.
Not books.
And sometimes the elderly want to die with their memories.
They are not going anywhere.
They are not fleeing.
It’s been a good life.
Going down with the ship.
Up in flames.
The shitbags want their deaths avenged.
After all, they were just horny, well-to-do dads who needed a little excitement.
Prostitution.
It’s the law, after all.
Murder is murder.
Crimes of passion.
By reason of insanity.
Not guilty.
Not insane.
But traumatized.
But Thomasin has been on the adventure.
She knows what Sandie has been through.
Trump was abused for four years.
That is true.
And he fought like a champ.
Is there no justice?
Is it culture jamming (I ask again)?
Confusion.
Keeping his enemies off balance.
Getting a foot in the door.
Truth Social will censor “hate speech” with a Silicon Valley AI bot.
In order to get on Apple App Store and Google Play.
But the roll out is delayed?
Lie about the vaccines.
“Safe and effective”.
Move in for the kill shot.
Against whom?
Big Pharma and the New World Order.
But we have to call out serial killers for who they are.
If you are saying the COVID vaccines are “safe and effective”, you are spreading misinformation that is endangering the lives of those who hear and trust you.
CDC: 11,879
Open VAERS: 23,149
Neither safe,
https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/vaccines/safety/adverse-events.html
https://openvaers.com/covid-data/mortality
nor effective.
https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-covid-deaths-2021-vaccines-b1963790.html
10,000-20,000 vaccine deaths should be read as 100,000-200,000 vaccine deaths because of this:
https://www.bmj.com/rapid-response/2011/11/02/underreporting-vaccine-adverse-events
And correlation does not necessarily equal causation…unless this (peep the myocarditis…you think that’s all JnJ? [nigga please!]):
https://openvaers.com/covid-data
But the election was stolen.
Or was it allowed to be stolen?
When will the other shoe drop?
Or does the other shoe even exist?
This charade is going to go on until 2024?
Maybe Sandie is not her mother.
-PD
MZFPK [2021)
Breakfast cereal video game.
Pauly Deathwish’s 3rd album.
I am behind.
I can’t keep up with this guy.
Out of the gates like Flaming Lips.
30,000 feel of despair.
The gash.
Right into Isao Tomita.
Doing Debussy.
Marching.
Martial.
Fantastic noises.
Like first Stereolab album.
Here Come the Warm Jets.
Cheyenne Mountain jams.
I can no longer see what I’m typing.
- What if I type in white? Ahh, yes. That does the trick. But it ruins my style. Louis-Ferdinand would not be happy. Totally Air. Pocket Symphony. Who is Kevin? Shields? Ayers? Fairlight. Synth clouds. Rich chords. Very sophisticated harmonies and arrangements. Cornelius from Japan. This sounds very modern. OH FUCK! Groove is in the motherfucking heart. Vogue! So on track two, we are straight up on a catwalk. But it could be Alan Vega or Martin Rev. Kinda Sun City Girls. Zoviet France. Fridmann never gets this crazy with bass. Wayne is driving it weirder. This was, from what I hear, done with ZERO budget. Is this a dance album? First you have poetry. Then you are prose. Amateurs. Into Odelay. That was a good drum break. The Strokes. Fuzzy vocals. Paliament/Funkadelic. Sly Stone! Later Stereolab. Tim Gane processing. Counter melody! For fuck’s sake. Somebody listen to this bloke. Whoa. What is up with this chorus? Roland Kirk? Like in Switzerland? Definitely hitting some Os Mutantes twee. Lo-fi as fuck. Great Godard tongue in cheek. Apparently about Neil Young and Rick James being in a band together when they were young and still in Canada. Yonge Street? Beats. Drake needs to hear this. Bit crusher lisp. Spiritualized at the grocery store. Swipe barcode. Song peaks at end. Masterful mix. A true climax. Savage mastering on every album. Whole mix jumps. It works. Needle skipping. American Supreme. Claustrophobic. COVID. Sad. Scared. Apocalyptic. The concept of the gaze in cinema. Bass drops in. Feel it in your sex organs. A sexy song. “Cobra Strike”. This is unequivocally a dance album. EDM all up in here. Lots of panning. Spliff it. Micro gestures. Pandemic planning. How long will it last? Soul-crushing. Zombie metaphor. Shaun of the Dead. Masterpiece. Beatle drums. First Velvets album. Rat trails. “Black Angel’s Death Song”. “The New Pollution”. Dr. No. Walther PPK. What does this kid know? He can’t possibly know, can he? Pure phase. Visconti. Lanois. Acid jazz. Nick Cave. Montage, mon beau souci. Flaming Lips. Jeff Tweedy drawl. Jesus and Mary Chain team up with The Cure. Disintegration. Heartbreak here. Who broke his heart? Bleeps and bloops. Robot noises. Heartbeeps. Jazz funk ’70s experimental upright. Great lyrics. Superimposition. Steenbeck! Fucking great lyrics on “Snip Snip”. Oh, damn. Glockenspiel at just the right time! Icy. Air. Virgin suicides. Dazed and confused. Blonde. Braids. Like glazed bread. German. Texas. Floating world. Old world. No one to smoke a doobie with and stare up at green trees. No tits. What is wrong with this world? Rambo. Fort Bragg. Delta. Boykin. Intelligence Support Activity. Send me. George Crumb. Black angels. Jungle echoes. 4thPOG. Ghosts. PSYWAR op. Make it loud. Romeo foxtrot. Shall we dance? Charlie don’t surf. Death on the dance floor. Public Image Ltd. Modes of limited transposition. Messiaen. Primal Scream. Standing with Johnny Rotten. #Trump2021 . But this is more about big tits. Giant opals. Garth Hudson. Telegraph. Total loss. Persona non grata. Window still missing. Swastika eyes. Paul Weller. XTRMNTR. Shoot speed. Kill light. Eyes owned 2020. The ugly had a chance. Masks work…if you’re ugly and need to get laid. Back with another block rocking’ beat. Private psychedelic reel. War metaphor. Is this about election? No. Too early. Look at liner notes. Living in COVID times was like a world war. War just beginning? Got my pina colada. Fuck it! Arizona. Living boldly. Masks have lost. Two weeks. Could have been a contender. Circuit bending. Talking about big titty schizophrenic. All footwork ruined. Toys. Falling apart gremlin workmanship. Awkward line about Thora Birch. Explicit warnings a little lazy. Getting a bit Lenny Bruce up in here. Russ Meyer. Second line. Double time. Crazy drums. Smooth as Sade. Tambourine is the star. One organic element. Wrote a song. She didn’t care. Wrote her 200 songs. She didn’t care. One has zero plays globally. She never bothered listening to it. Some things not meant to be. Liberals and conservatives. Go and create. Lobster. Work wasn’t. Bought her every flower imaginable. Thousands of dollars on flowers. Yoshimi laser warfare. A piano not standard. Some Tori Amos bullshit. Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli. Only the finest pianos. Internationally famous. Neither deserve it. Pulled the plug at the wrong time. Would he have still kept the same track listing? Maybe so. Heartbreak to rehash. Goes by quick. Good drum programming. James Bond future theme. Brian Wilson. Phil Spector. Absolute Nigel Godrich. Cinematic. The album that never was. But this one is worldwide, motherfuckers. Third this summer. And a fourth already out. I can hardly keep up. I need to review movies. Doesn’t Pauly Deathwish know I don’t have time for Galaga? Falling apart. Short-circuit. Charlotte Gainsbourg. Flashback to Bucolic.
- -PD
Napapiirin sankarit [2010)
Here is a masterpiece.
Not since Aaltra (2004) has a movie so perfectly made use of the dark humor pioneered by Louis-Ferdinand Céline in Voyage au bout de la nuit (1932).
Lapland Odyssey is Finnish film which is currently free to watch on Tubi.
I cannot give enough praise to the director, Dome Karukoski.
This is not just a miraculous feat of storytelling, but the mise-en-scène of a true auteur.
I was born 15 days earlier than Mr. Karukoski: 43 years ago.
Our director hails from Cyprus.
Where Eric Schmidt has recently applied for citizenship.
https://www.vox.com/recode/2020/11/9/21547055/eric-schmidt-google-citizen-cyprus-european-union
Funny timing, that.
Wouldn’t Eric Schmidt welcome a Biden Presidency?
Does Mr. Schmidt fear something in the United States?
Perhaps the former CEO of Google knows something we do not?
Might it concern impending public corruption trials?
And, just maybe, a reelection of Donald Trump?
Lapland Odyssey premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2010.
That was the same year that Toronto-based company Dominion Voting Systems acquired not only Premier Election Solutions (an American company [Ohio]) from ES&S (Election Systems & Software [Omaha, Nebraska]), but also Sequoia Voting Systems [California] from Smartmatic [U.K.].
PES had only been acquired by ES&S the previous year (2009). Before that, PES was owned by Diebold.
Premier Election Systems was formerly known as Diebold Election Systems.
Before Diebold bought it, it was known as General Election Systems.
Before General Election Systems bought it, it was known as I-Mark Systems.
You get the picture.
Dominion Voting Systems is now owned by American private equity firm Staple Street Capital (which has extremely strong ties to the Carlyle Group [George H.W. Bush’s former benefactor]).
https://www.osler.com/en/expertise/deals-cases/dominion-voting-systems
None of this would have been possible without Jussi Vatanen.
Vatanen is our hero.
He is tasked with the impossible.
Find a digital TV receiver (“digibox”) in one night.
After the local electronics store has closed.
This involves a trip to Rovaniemi: the main city of Lapland.
[population 63,032]
Hundred of kilometers to get to Finland’s 17th most populated city.
In Finland, Lapland is not only the northernmost province, but it is also the largest province of the country.
It bears mentioning that there is also a Swedish province called Lapland.
The cleavage of these two Laplands dates to 1809: when Russia annexed the eastern part of Sweden and declared it the Grand Duchy of Finland.
My closest brush with this region was a single musical concert I played years ago in the town of Kiruna (in Swedish Lapland): Sweden’s northernmost town [population 22,906].
It was an experience which profoundly changed me and which stays with me till this day.
Finnish Lapland borders Sweden’s Norrbotten County. At Norrbotten’s northernmost point can be found Kiruna (north of the Arctic Circle).
At the southeast corner of Norrbotten County is Piteå: my favorite town in Sweden.
The town of Piteå sits on the Gulf of Bothnia–just across the water from Finland.
I also played a musical concert in Piteå.
It was, perhaps, the happiest time in my life.
So I can imagine Rovaniemi.
A city just four miles south of the Arctic Circle.
Jussi Vatanen plays the loser who makes good.
Which makes him, in fact, not a loser.
I can intimately relate to that.
I have lost my job (again).
I am addicted to drugs (again).
And I am addicted to alcohol (a first for me).
It is in these days, when I am having the first true experience in my life with alcohol withdrawal, that I come to this film.
It is the perfect film.
It is just exactly the film I needed at this particular time.
Because I, like Janne (Vatanen’s character), am trying my damnedest to get my life together.
Last week, I got engaged.
Actually, REengaged.
I exercise (pacing back and forth in my parents’ garage as my phone records my steps).
I drink less.
I exercise.
I drink less.
Nausea.
Dizziness.
ANXIETY.
And extreme fucking INSOMNIA.
When I was in Kiruna, the sun only went down for four hours.
I didn’t see the Northern Lights.
But you can see them in this film.
And they are glorious.
If it is CGI, then I am losing my touch.
Because I don’t believe it is.
I appears to be the genuine article.
Aurora borealis.
And headaches!
Lots of sunflower seeds.
Big red welts all up and down my arms and torso from nicotine patches.
I can no longer afford my General Snus.
Sure, I have some stashed away…
But my wise old psychologist once told me: “just move one thing at a time”.
- alcohol
- tobacco
- valerian?
- Ambien?
- Xanax?
I put question marks because I am unsure of the order.
Main goal is STOP DRINKING.
Or, should I say, the FIRST goal.
If I can get an MBA, surely I can stop drinking.
[God willing]
For every hero, there needs to be a doubter.
To provide context.
The hero forges forward (when it would probably be best to just quit).
The hero quits (when it would be much easier to just continue).
The hero is determined.
The hero gives energy and inspiration to those around him.
But the doubter adds richness.
Because it is human to doubt.
Will Donald Trump be reelected President?
We will find out when the Electoral College meets on my birthday to ELECT a new President-Elect.
Till then, Joe Biden is at best the worst kind of poseur.
He is doing exactly what he promised Chris Wallace and the American people he WOULD NOT do: to declare victory before the election is independently certified.
What a hypocrite.
https://www.foxnews.com/politics/biden-victory-election-independently-certified
Each state certifies its vote.
Biden does not have enough votes at the moment (by way of certified state votes and their concomitant electors) to declare victory.
N.B. It is the Electoral College which will ELECT the next President (who THEN AND ONLY THEN becomes known as the President-Elect).
And so we doubt.
Me and Jasper Pääkkönen.
Was there fraud?
I believe so.
And you may doubt in the other direction.
Was there fraud?
You doubt there was.
But I know there was.
Because I have basic research skills.
And I availed myself of Rudy Giuliani’s masterful delineation of the case for fraud.
[no thanks to American mass media (which completely blacked out all coverage of Giuliani’s press conference with Sidney Powell and Jenna Ellis)]
So we all doubt, each in our own way.
And someone may convince us.
The law may even compel us.
The U.S. Supreme Court may weigh in on the legality of certain ballots in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin.
Cold states.
Particularly Michigan and Wisconsin.
Fort Meade.
4thPOG.
Dark Horse.
Fly fishing.
Fort Bragg.
Timo Lavikainen is the late-bloomer.
Along for the ride.
But absolutely essential.
Able to love.
You must become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven.
Sibelius.
Karelia.
1893.
News of war.
Siege.
National anthem.
At some point we might mention the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
Which lasted about 500 years (until 1795).
For beauty, we have Pamela Tola.
She just wants a fucking digibox, for christsakes!
Something about those blonde bangs.
Then there is the villain.
A bit like Alex “Scott Evil” Soros.
A bit like Martin Vanger.
Kari Ketonen plays the boy who never got anything.
…and let it make him evil.
He plays the cheater.
The trickster.
A character with absolutely no morals.
Strictly driven by lust.
[and a good bit of narcissism]
He comes off looking a bit like Kip in another masterpiece of a film: Napoleon Dynamite.
Imagine Kip as an irredeemably-unscrupulous character and you will have a pretty good idea of who Pikku-Mikko is.
Little Mikko.
Short.
Short people.
Randy Newman.
Mikko moves in for the kill while the matrimonial bed is still warm.
Mikko false-flags his way into manipulating his enemy.
Mikko is a master of PSYWAR.
But God wins in the end.
And Moa Gammel is the real star of this film.
In a strange way.
Principal siren.
Debussy.
A Swede.
Almost the doppelgänger of Pamela Tola.
The Swede is the world image of beauty.
Alluring.
Beckoning.
The Finn is more quixotic.
Cute.
Harsh.
Soulful.
None of this, of course, means a damn thing.
And all the while Timo Lavikainen just wants to see Miia Nuutila’s tits.
License plate.
Ali G.
There will be helicopters.
-PD
Vi är bäst! [2013)
IF you want to see a bogus, bollocks feminist film, watch Free the Nipple.
But if you want to see the real thing…a really empowering, touching story, then check out We Are the Best!
IT’s in Swedish.
So you’ll have to use your brain.
And your eyes.
Unless you speak Swedish.
But it will be well worth your time.
Vi är bäst! isn’t trite acting from a bunch of pseudo-provocateurs who just want to take their shirts off.
Nej.
This is the story of three 13-year-old girls.
None of them fit in.
Everyone tells them they’re ugly.
One of them is ostracized for being a Christian.
[now THAT’S punk!]
But it’s the story of three girls who come together and do the greatest thing possible: form a band.
Music!!!
And let me just say this: the acting is fucking fantastic!
Mira Barkhammer plays Bobo.
For me, she is the star of the film.
She is the outcast of the outcasts.
No make up.
No cool haircut.
She’s searching for her identity.
But she’s so smart. So truly unique!
She wears these little wire-rim glasses.
From one perspective, this film is her search for what’s behind the mirror.
Director Lukas Moodysson made a masterpiece here.
Bobo…
The name…
I think of Boris Diaw.
The whole scenario is aw-kward.
But so beautifully so!
And yet Bobo is not perfect.
Far from it.
It’s a team effort.
And teams, especially when they are ad hoc and organic, are inherently dysfunctional.
The actress who puts the dys in dysfunction here is Mira Grosin.
But she too is so wonderful in this film!
She is the inspiration.
The first one out on the limb.
The rebel.
The loudmouth.
She inspires her other two bandmates to fly their freak flags high.
But the most enigmatic is Liv LeMoyne: the Christian.
Director Moodysson is so deft in his handling of this dynamic.
LeMoyne’s character [Hedvig] has long, beautiful blond hair.
[At this point it is appropriate to address a strange form of class relations in Sweden: hair color.]
When I used to think of Sweden (which I did rarely), I would imagine everyone as a blond.
Perhaps the American vision of Sweden is a socialist paradise of blond bikini models.
At the very least, blondness seems to be the defining characteristic in the American popular imagination regarding Sweden (as far as I can tell).
This isn’t a scientific study, you understand…
But it is important to point this out.
The snottiest (in the stuck up, snobbish sense) characters in this film are mostly blonds.
The little girls who call Bobo and Klara [Grosin] ugly.
It is really heartbreaking.
These two BRUNETTE girls endure such humiliation throughout this film.
And so it’s no wonder that they want to start a PUNK BAND!
But they can’t play.
Like, not at all…
Their first halting efforts are in the vein of The Shaggs.
No, worse.
And that’s where the Christian comes in.
Hedvig is an accomplished classical guitarist.
It is, indeed, much like the story of Garth Hudson’s joining The Band.
Lessons.
So to speak.
Bobo and Klara are astounded at Hedvig’s talent.
They lament that they’ll never be as good as their gifted new friend.
But Hedvig is all encouragement.
It is [pardon the expression] a match made in heaven.
And so three misfits (for different reasons) band together (literally) and take on the cock rock ridiculousness of bullies like youth-center-rehearsal-room-“stars” Iron Fist.
The message is astounding.
I haven’t seen a film which does such honor to the idea of feminism since 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days.
But there’s no ulterior motive here.
This isn’t a George Soros production.
This is the real thing.
Just three young people (who happen to be female) wanting to make some noise in their world.
And we see how beautiful punk music is.
IT’s a catharsis.
Like Sonic Youth.
And we remember the true geniuses of the genre (like my hero, the late Alan Vega).
But we also remember the maxim: “three chords and the truth”.
Hedvig’s got the chords.
[Ah…harmony! What a concept!!!]
But Klara has the attitude.
And Bobo has the intellect.
They learn from each other.
“Here. Stay on this note. Good. Now move to this note.”
“Punk is about rebellion. It’s not about the school talent show. We’ve got to keep going. It’s a fight.”
“You really need to change your hair. Do something fun! Express yourself! Cut loose!”
Those are my translations of action, not dialogue.
But I can’t stress enough how great these three actresses are in this film.
Mira Barkhammer in particular is a prodigy.
But, as in the story, the trio is inseparable.
And for this kind of cohesion, we have but one place to look in thanks: the auteur.
-PD
L’Éternel retour [1943)
You might wade through theories near and far.
About the indestructability of energy.
And they would be true.
Great poets put their pens to page.
And poured out their hearts.
Rage!!!
Nay, sage…
Neigh, cage.
Nain, has a lot of courage to die in this way.
He’s not dying, he’s living.
He’s the positive man.
Wounded and scared.
Since the birth of the gun.
At least.
Must be hard to follow an endless stream.
As just a pebble.
And these my feet.
Right about now, the break.
Chalumeau.
Achille.
Zero acceleration.
Enormous forearms.
A clinically depressed quarterback.
Zero awareness.
Idiot savants all.
We welcome more to the eternal return.
Jean Cocteau. Wrote the film.
Auteur.
And Jean Delannoy directed the film.
Auteur?
World War II and two blondes are battling it out in love.
And the only brunette is mon oncle…with his perverse moustache.
They call him Mr. Blond (which makes things extremely confusing).
How you know you have become a writer:
I must write or I will die.
Some famous for writing diaries.
All manner of writing.
And when we first fall in love she is reading.
Like Anna Karina…near the end of Vivre sa vie…or was it Made in U.S.A.?
Should be easy from black white to Lichtenstein popping.
But I see colors when there is only the absence of color.
And specific colors in the full chromatic.
A white scarf.
We can get the sweat of the desert gun running Rimbaud from Jean Marais.
Aden. Mocha. Sanaa.
A hitch in there somewhere to Abyssinia.
In the time of the assassins.
We all descend on Aswan high as kites for burial rites.
Now that I’m flying, I don’t feel so tired.
Two blond specimens of perfection.
Lorded over by the brunette fuhrer.
A war film. Resistance. Don’t capitalize. To hell with the umlaut.
I’m feeling better, getting that out of my system.
That wave of sadness.
Regret and memories lapping at my feet on a Corsican shore. I assume.
Nietzsche to inspire Cocteau. (Occupied Cocteau?)
Cocteau always several orders of magnitude more brilliant than his peers.
Nietzsche was a foundational literature for the Nazis.
And Webster Tarpley has Nietzsche as a foundational literature for the neocons.
And so making this film in censored times. Under German occupation.
The only other film which jumps out at me is Les Visiteurs du soir (1942). And then our L’Éternel retour of 1943.
And so you saved something of the war.
Surreptitiously.
Filming even before the columns of tanks had left.
Rossellini.
Culture jamming meets national security state.
Woo-ha!
Each Spartacus.
It’s a miracle he fell in love with her.
A miracle.
I’m the dwarf. I’m Marais. I’m Murat.
I’m among those lining the street to see Madeleine Sologne’s parade.
Lovingly.
And all alone shot with the realization that I’ve found a reader. A genius.
A spark plug pulled from a pocket.
Must step over her bed. To access the stairs.
That’s a moment of love. Slow drag dancing on her cigarette.
As much as blondie’s fatted hair parted smart.
Hear your laughter at being upside down.
Heels over head.
Such a romance as only the French know.
And I know. I seek. Found. Find. No more.
Factories of love struggling with the lutte.
People married to their devices.
Too ugly to get a date.
There we go.
Me and Lester. And Chuck.
Throw some more guys from the skunkworks in.
The name. They work. All night long. Don’t bathe.
Maybe put in another day.
Don’t wash clothes.
Don’t even change clothes.
How “Skunk” Baxter got put on missile defense team.
You never know, folks.
There may be love yet to be had.
Pure love.
Mad love.
Keep your eyes and minds open.
And maybe if it’s even just a boring day.
Maybe there will be little pieces of art in the things you say.
Because you are toiling on something far beyond your current abilities..
So I praise film! And France!
First review written while sleepwalking.
-PD
Casque d’Or [1952)
This is one of my favorite films ever made.
Maybe Jacques Becker was just a minor auteur, but he holds a large place in my heart because of this film.
It’s what we can’t have in life.
Who.
Back that reification up.
The pretty blond.
The girl will pay us no mind.
Because we are just carpenters.
Workers.
No, even lower than that.
We are failed workers.
It makes you wonder whether Hitchcock felt most alienated from the objects of his desire while directing them?
There’s that reification again. Thingification.
If we’re learned anything from Marxism, it’s that.
Humans are not “its”.
But our language is structured to make them so.
Blonde on blonde.
Perhaps a pickguard on a Telecaster.
Even in black and white we can tell that Simone Signoret is a blond.
Her beauty is flooring.
Serge Reggiani had to play the role of a traitor in Les Portes de la nuit, but here he is the hero.
The perfect friend.
Faithful.
Criminals stick together.
A code.
And it is touching.
Because the code can bite the big cheese in the ass.
Different systems of justice.
The criminals don’t call the police.
Justice is swift.
It’s all a bit savage.
But how else should we describe the heart in love?
Here we see Reggiani maddeningly in love.
Fatal beauty.
Simone Signoret.
With her hair helmet.
Completely lost in translation.
Everyone has a mustache here.
Maybe that’s why I can relate.
Reggiani plays a schmuck like me.
And it works.
Someone falls in love with him.
All he has to do is be himself.
But most of all this film shows the sadness of love.
All the many things that can go wrong.
The tunnel vision.
The heroic focus.
The jealousy of spectators.
Two in love.
Why can’t they be let alone?
To be happy.
Les Apaches.
“un dégueulasse”
Here it is again.
Just as À bout de soufflé passed on some fashion (garments) to C’est arrivé près de chez vous, so too Casque d’Or hurls that word at a key moment.
dégueulasse…
Could have. Should have. Would have.
Métro, boulot, dodo.
As long as we try, we can rest our minds.
We have fought courageous battles of love.
Perhaps we have lived to fight another day.
The soldier must always retain optimism.
When faced with survival all alone.
In the middle of nowhere.
-PD
Ljubavni slučaj ili tragedija službenice P.T.T. [1967)
Something draws me to Eastern Europe. I blame Romania. Thank you Romania! Yes, there was something about the ambiance which director Cristian Mungiu conjured up in 2007’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days (4 luni, 3 săptămâni și 2 zile) which has stayed with me for a long time.
Really, it’s a rather mundane part. Near the top of the film. The goddess Anamaria Marinca traipses down the hall to find some soap…and cigarettes. The scene is a college dormitory in communist Romania (pre-December 1989). Girls in one room chat about beauty products. There seems to be a good bit of bartering going on. Marinca is mainly uninterested. Looking for a certain kind of soap (if I remember correctly). On the way back to her room she stops off at the room of a foreign student (non-Romanian) who sells cigarettes and gum and stuff. The whole film she is searching for Kent cigarettes (a few mentions of this brand). Not surprisingly, there are no Kents to be had in the dorm. She settles for something else. Perhaps. I don’t know.
She stops and admires some kittens which someone has taken in.
It is astonishingly real. On par with Roberto Rossellini.
Indeed, it might be said that all New Waves (from the nouvelle vague to the Romanian New Wave) have their birth in the neorealist films of Rossellini.
But Mungiu added a new wrinkle.
Marinca. [The goddess of whom I spoke.]
Marinca is unglamorous. No one is glamorous in 4 luni, 3 săptămâni și 2 zile. We get the impression that it is the waning days of Ceaușescu’s reign.
Times are tough. The policies of the state haven’t worked out so well. It bears some resemblance to a prison. Material items take the place of money (reminiscent of cigarettes as currency in jails).
What I have yet to define in this article is “goddess”. What do I mean by that?
Well, I’m glad you asked! Marinca (particularly in this film) is a goddess to me because she represents the opposite of the typical American woman in the year 2015. Her beauty is her soul. Her beauty is her loyalty to her roommate and friend Găbița. Her beauty is her dedication to acting. She is completely immersed in her unglamorous role…and it is eye-watering.
I have mentioned a similar impression (which further solidified my admiration for Romanian films) I got from watching Dorotheea Petre in The Way I Spent the End of the World (Cum mi-am petrecut sfârşitul lumii). This masterpiece by director Cătălin Mitulescu preceded Mungiu’s Palme d’Or-winning film by about a year (2006). I was again struck by another goddess of film (Petre) who, with the help of her auteur, created a character also in direct opposition to the meretricious, vacuous ideal of American womanhood in the 21st century.
And so it is that we finally come to the film under consideration: Душан Макавејев‘s Love Affair, or the Case of the Missing Switchboard Operator. Dušan Makavejev is Serbian. Out of deference to his country I have listed his name in Cyrillic script. Likewise, the title of the film (at the top) is in Serbo-Croatian. It is a grey area about which I am not completely informed. Suffice it to say that Croatia seems to generally use Roman letters (as opposed to the Serbian usage of Cyrillic). It is a bit like the distinction (and writing differences) between Urdu and Hindi [which I have heard described as essentially the same language, but with two different writing systems].
I prefaced this article on Ljubavni slučaj ili tragedija službenice P.T.T. with my own backstory concerning Eastern European cinema because it is relevant to my approach going forward.
Before coming to this, my first Yugoslav (1967) film, I opened up the can of worms which is Czech cinema by reviewing Closely Watched Trains (Ostře sledované vlaky). Jiří Menzel’s sexually-charged film poem from the previous year (1966) was a major revelation for me. And so it is that Dušan Makavejev’s bittersweet confection shares more than just a communist framing with Menzel’s aforementioned erotic portrait.
Yes, Ljubavni slučaj ili tragedija službenice P.T.T. is about our old film-school standbys: sex and death. I can never combine those two words (in the context of film) without remembering the ridiculously funny scene of Jim Morrison at UCLA screening his student film in Oliver Stone’s The Doors (1991).
The fictional Morrison, then, would be trying to hop on a nonfictional bandwagon represented by the likes of Menzel and Makavejev. Morrison’s time at UCLA (1964-1965) not only coincided with the staggered births of “new waves” around the world (particularly in Europe), but also occurred while Morrison’s father (US Navy Rear Admiral [RADM] George Stephen Morrison) was the commanding officer of a carrier division involved in the Gulf of Tonkin incident.
Jim Morrison lived fast. Entered UCLA in 1964. Graduated with an undergraduate degree in film in 1965. Was dead by 1971. But those years in between… It’s no wonder Jim had an Oedipal complex (evident in the song “The End” [1966/1967]) when considering his father was involved in false-flagging the U.S. into a suicidal war against communism. What a disgrace…
No, the real hero in the family was not RADM Morrison, but rather Jim. He turned on the dream-switches of so many kids. To put it quite bluntly, he was part of the counterculture in America which caused kids to start giving a fuck about the world and politics and geopolitics and confirmed charades (frauds, shams, etc.) like the Gulf of Tonkin “incident”. Such a sanitary and slippery word: incident.
It fits perfectly, in that there was no incident.
But while Morrison the Younger had gone off into Brechtian pop-rock, Serbian director Makavejev was busy making Love Affair, or the Case of the Missing Switchboard Operator. It is equally stunning, for its medium, as “The End”.
Sex needs beauty. A really luscious film like this needed Ева Рас (Eva Ras). She is a bit like Jitka Zelenohorská’s character in Closely Watched Trains…mischievous, bewitching… But there is one great difference between Ras and Zelenohorska: Ras is a blond.
Though our film is in black and white, it is clear that Ras’ silky hair is rather fair (a detail which would not have escaped Hitchcock). It must be said, however, that Makavejev did not give in to the easy femme fatale portrayal when it came to filming Ras. Izabela (Ras) is a complex individual. The film tells us that she is Hungarian. She is different…other. She needs sex. She is passionate.
All the same, her portrayal by Ras is poetic and tender. Really, what we are seeing here is a tentative feminism expressed by Makavejev which would become a thundering symphony of women’s liberation in Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days.
And it is good. It is good for men to see these types of films. We men idolize and reify women in the West, but we don’t often enough stop to really observe the trials of womankind.
In the best spirit of socialism, this film has something for everyone…men, women…ok, maybe not children.
Love Affair, or the Case of the Missing Switchboard Operator is really an intense film. If you have seen (and made it through) Stan Brakhage’s The Act of Seeing with One’s Own Eyes (a film I, incidentally, once made the mistake of showing at a party), then you’ll be alright. For those faint of heart (I generally fall into that category), there are a couple of rough moments in this film (in the context of criminology).
In all, I am very proud and happy to have seen my first Serbian movie. As a resident of San Antonio (and fan of the San Antonio Spurs), I feel it gives me a better glimpse into the life of one of my favorite basketball players Бобан Марјановић (Boban Marjanović). I highly recommend this film…and Go Spurs Go 🙂
-PD
L’Avventura [1960)
Was Monica Vitti the most beautiful woman ever?
Probably.
Is Monica Vitti the most beautiful woman ever?
Yes.
That sounds better.
This.
This is the most disorienting film I have ever seen.
Mulholland Dr. is child’s play in this regard.
A sort of sweet, pleasant nausea.
A feeling I didn’t know existed.
Maybe.
Maybe John Hughes was right in this regard.
[Vingt regards]
uno
hair, always hair…blowing in the wind…like tall grass
good lord…
due
the birds are men…flocking on the jungle gym bars…as she silently tries to sneak from the schoolhouse
Noto…UNESCO World Heritage Site…Samba de Uma Nota Só
tre
a purring in my headphones…a Foley artist diabolico-subliminal…and yes she curls up like a cat…
Quattro
she seems to be bathing in money…but it’s just the floor pattern…sometimes…the floor looks best in red…
and there is always a woman…or a man…and you hate to admit it
cinque
dreadful…dreary…making love above the cemetery…a gazelle with blond hair…thank you Google…5’7″…an essential function for the, functioning of humanity
sei
Uh! They’re all nudes. No nudity here. A goddess is clothed. Not an alabaster ornament by the fountain.
sette
I wanted to like it. Or I wanted to not like it. Camus. I said that.
otto
no man is an island…and no island a man…and no man a nomad…
nove
it all hinges (henges) on a funny face in the mirror…the genius…we create together…Vitti…Antonioni…Ferzetti
a bad habit I never caught…
dieci
andiamo…lots of andiamo…remarkable for a film with so little movement in such a big slab of its meat…
like formidable in French…Anna Karina…everything formidable…but that’s because she was Danish…speaking French…and her cute little accent…but before there was Godard Breathless there was Antonioni Adventure…like the second Television album…but moreover on Karina…before Vivre sa vie (I know…) there was L’Avventura…a little scene with a wig…and before that Louise Brooks…
undici
you think they will turn around nude
dodici
Nono, Luigi…it is the most intoxicating kiss…out of nowhere…WTF in excelsis…mamma mia!
tredici
David, del…frolicking…who says summer is over?!? bangs…Fiat…leaping off the pavement (!)
quattordici
they told me to learn…sotto voce…or sotto nightgown…les cloches…loaves…and fishes…twenty, or vingt-et-un…Van Johnson…I really blew it…the architecture…and a dog with lunar metabolism…
quindici
you fuck…and then get fucked…that is, the circle of life…like a lion…and an impala…gazelle…przygoda…
sedici
he collects dolls…a man…faints [Truffaut]
diciassette
the first girl…is not Vitti…wait a while…count the seconds
diciotto
oops…now comes the swimming in money…my house in Rome…and the other in Milan
diciannove
Michelangelo…Sandro…I threw it all away…and no one is listening
venti
another day, another dollar…pardon me ma’am, but do you have natural nails? I use a lighter. Better still, until they go wrong.
it’s too packed full of dolphins
too many Bibles and Catholic eeriness
spring breakers…island hoppers
if it had ended
no
just give me macaroons and sports cars
il mio amore
-PD
Mulholland Dr. [2001)
How not to start a symphony. With a rest. #5 (7)j j-j o ^ (7)j j-j o
Beethoven started with a pause. A pause, in this case, is unheard. Felt.
No hay banda.
Il y a n’est pas d’orchestre.
I wish I was more confident in my French memory.
The Spanish is simpler.
[silencio]
It could be Roberto Benigni in La vita è bella reeling off a priceless punchline.
[silencio]
It could be John Cage forcing us to listen in 4’33”.
Painfully good. A perfect film. Mulholland Drive. Dr. Mulholland.
I’ve either gained you or lost you by this point.
Dr. Benway.
You will excuse the word virus at work.
Perhaps the word bacteria predates Burroughs.
Always a cut-up in class.
And those classy suits.
It’s a talent to be weird, though Charles Mingus would argue otherwise.
A talent to be simple.
You have to stay with me like Lord Buckley or Lester Bangs.
I got yer Oxford comma right here.
, and don’t I know it!
She takes Hayworth’s name from Gilda.
Rita.
Laura Elena Harring. Laura Harring if you’re into the whole brevity thing. Concision of expression. Bthvn.
If you really wanna impress the familia, it’s Laura Elena Martínez Herring. Miss USA 1985. Just missed 1984.
Or well, Wilbur…
Mr. Ed. Paging Mr….
Herring. Pink. She is a living Modigliani onscreen for a brief moment on a couch. A stippled nipple in deep focus.
But this is not her film. She is a MacGuffin in heels.
No. This is Naomi Watts’ film. Boy is it ever!
But let us pop this balloon before it goes all Vivre sa vie on us.
Is this the best Amer-ican film ever made? Probably.
Dog Star Man has a steep mountain to climb without a soundtrack to blow Sisyphus to his zenith.
F for Fake is to American cinema what Histoire(s) du cinema is to the French pantheon.
The only real challenger, then, might be Gummo.
But let us return to Maestro Lynch. David Lynch. Montana Dave. The Cowboy…
This is, to reiterate, a perfect film. Such creations do not come along often.
As such, we should savor each morsel of finesse embodied in this feast for eyes and mind.
And don’t forget the ears. Badalamenti. Badda bing, badda boom.
What would Chico Marx have made of this film???
Who cares… It’s Chico stuffed into a dough ball suitcase with $50k and Groucho and Harpo mashed up
with even a good portion of Zeppo as Little Mr. Sunshine in Naomi Watts’ first character Betty Elms.
Nightmare on Elms’ street.
Mulholland Dr.
Great minds think alike. Cannes premier of this film May 16, 2001. Radiohead’s Amnesiac album? June 5, 2001.
Rita. Camille. Diane Selwyn.
Kryptos. Jim Sanborn. Mengenlehreuhr.
Set theory.
(0,2,3,5) Le Sacre du printemps.
Spitting espresso into a napkin, strikes fear in the hearts of the most hardened capitalists.
Fear.
The Flower That Drank the Moon. Not a real film.
The Big Sleep. She. H. Rider Haggard. Angel-A.
Finnegans, upon waking, diapasoned Wachet auf.
Just call me Death. Everyone else does.
We don’t stop here.
We push on. Like Gene Wilder on a magical fucking river of chocolate.
You can’t split the existential atom any further. Kubrick tried in 2001. And now Lynch had arrived at the same year.
If you open a MacGuffin, you will find nothing.
I have a bag full of money and I can’t remember my name. That is Hollywood.
This is the girl.
And the gun.
24x per second.
Truth before the big lie even sprouted wings. L’Effroyable imposture. Vérités et Mensonges.
It’s like the old Edison tone tests. Hit the lights. Who’s playing? The phonograph or the violinist?
Like looking at L.A. through Roy Orbison’s glasses. A blur…a haze.
No one has split the literary atom any further than Louis-Ferdinand Céline.
[…]
Those three little dots.
The rhythm of speech. From Modest Mussorgsky to Harry Partch.
Boris Godunov was lousy so we had to shave his armpits.
We would have never gotten to know each other so well, Boris and I. Henry. Mr. Bones.
Yeah, I keep on sloggin’ and get diminishing marginal returns.
Just a fancy way of saying less and less. Nothing (more or less).
And then nothing turns itself inside out.
Naomi Watts goes from gee swell to Valerie Solanas.
The key. CERN. When they rev it up.
What does it open?
Möbius (stripped bare by his bachelorettes), even
[The Large Hadron Collider]
Mimesis. Die a Jesus.
Greatest goal in life?
To achieve immortality and then die.
J. Hoberman. J. Mascis. J. Spaceman.
Putrefaction is merely Der Untergang des Abendlandes. The decline of the evening lands.
Rises east, sets The West.
Civility.
L’Usine de rêves.
That killer blonde that we all want. From Kim Novak to Daniel Craig.
Monty Montgomery. Hope you only see him once more.
Good v. Bad, 410 U.S. 113 (2001)
The abortion of Newtonian physics.
Twice.
Thrice.
Michael J. Anderson as Larry Silverstein.
We don’t stop here.
This is the girl.
Maybe the smartest thing to do is pull it.
And we watched the building collapse.
That would be the shadow government.
An accident is a terrible event—notice the location of the accident.
Who gives a key, and why?
-PD
paulydeathwish 