https://share.stationhead.com/p16iVODtpFz
“You Still Believe in Me”–The Beach Boys
“Smokestack Lightnin'”–Howlin’ Wolf
“A Spoonful Weighs a Ton”–The Flaming Lips
“Maggot Brain”–Funkadelic
“All Cats Are Grey”–The Cure
“Perfect Day”–Lou Reed
“The Spark That Bled”–The Flaming Lips
“Cars Hiss By My Window”–The Doors
“Someday We’ll Be Together”–Diana Ross & the Supremes
“Big Me”–Foo Fighters
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4CjRv1svGJK5pQnEZaA5dY?si=c3df7ff52db94daa
https://share.stationhead.com/C9RoRNgOn1y
“Wonderful”–The Beach Boys
“Don’t Just Do Something”–Spiritualized
“Us and Them”–Pink Floyd
“A New Career in a New Town”–David Bowie
“Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 16: II Adagio”–Edvard Grieg
“Heroes”–David Bowie
“Here Come The Warm Jets”–Brian Eno
“Thirty-Five Thousand Feet of Despair”–The Flaming Lips
“Country Boy”–The Band
“High Coin”–Harpers Bizarre
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WMAxv394ul9NnhlUuTC3c?si=d0467807c99a4c4a
https://share.stationhead.com/WL3RPwNlkiF
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (closing music)”–Jack Nitzsche
“I’m Not in Love”–10cc
“Armenia City in the Sky”–The Who
“I Can See it (But I Can’t Feel It)”–my bloody valentine
“Trouble of the World”–Mahalia Jackson
“The Drugs Don’t Work”–The Verve
“In Germany Before the War”–Randy Newman
“The Kids”–Lou Reed
“Facade”–Iggy Pop
“Source Tags & Codes”–…and you will know us by the Trail of Dead
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1TvjapcJxUCgaah4Ck3znH?si=5c011ce2501a46a7
https://share.stationhead.com/THx9x4jXUBO
“Vita Nostra”–Ennio Morricone
“Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin'”–Journey
“Poses”–Rufus Wainwright
“You Got the Silver”–The Rolling Stones
“Chain Letter”–Todd Rundgren
“In the Air Tonight”–Phil Collins
“San Diego Serenade”–Tom Waits
“Bohemian Rhapsody”–Queen
“Tabula rasa: 2. Silentium: Senza moto”–Arvo Pärt
“River Deep – Mountain High”–Ike & Tina Turner
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1kttJTB325VlO2XoR6yviH?si=26ab905f8cec4777
https://share.stationhead.com/EfsvX7iV94J
“Tema d’amore”–Ennio Morricone
“13 Angels Standing Guard ‘Round the Side of Your Bed”–Silver Mt. Zion
“Let’s Get Lost”–Chet Baker
“Pablo and Andrea”–Yo La Tengo
“I’m a Fool to Want You”–Billie Holiday
“Purple Rain”–Prince
“Moonlight Mile”–The Rolling Stones
“Expecting to Fly”–Buffalo Springfield
“Holes”–Mercury Rev
“The Light Before We Land”–The Delgados
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TkK9YTwAjFgEg0sBv5qd3?si=f7ac3a85d5044581
A silver mt. zion.
Montreal.
Hotel tango.
Sighing synths.
Leonard Cohen.
Getting cold.
Lee Hazlewood.
Arizona into the Rockies.
Wyoming.
Road music.
Music of wide open spaces.
Charles Mingus checks in.
Bob Dylan.
Tumbleweeds.
Was QAnon bullshit?
WFMU seems to think so.
And all their hipster listeners.
Missing the Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
Chris Isaak.
My Bloody Valentine.
R.E.M.
Automatic for the people.
Rightly asking if this guy, Pauly Deathwish, is Borat.
Elvis working at the truck stop.
Nevada.
New Mexico.
Into French philosophy at a Barnes & Noble.
Film criticism.
Cinematic music.
The great philosophers.
Taking on Philip Glass.
Rachmaninoff.
Swedish version.
Poor girl with grey teeth.
Dirty bra.
Addicted to Kardashians.
And meth.
Smoking candy cigarettes.
Brutal, cold world.
No fall back.
Withdrawal back.
Wanna lock me for blood pressure.
It ain’t no cakewalk.
Ripoff.
Tech moves fast.
Write anything.
Better than nothing.
Bad press.
No press.
You have a printing press.
The Innocence Mission.
Miles.
Porgy and Bess.
A thousand planes.
Two ambient instrumentals to start this album.
Setting an amber tone.
Pensive.
Ex-pensive.
Time is a luxury.
And Miles comes in.
Bending notes.
Sighing again.
Like music from Big Pink.
John Simon.
Leonard Cohen.
Very much of the Deserter’s Songs type.
Song cycle.
Van Dyke.
And Coltrane leaps in.
No bends.
Solid sax.
Honky.
Low mids.
Leaping up.
Transposition.
A little noodling.
And WHAT THE FUCK.
Now we are in Blue Hawaii.
On a jukebox in Nashville.
Sawdust on the floor.
Just spit that tabaccy anywheres.
It really is Elvis.
Loaded.
Lou Reed.
Doo-wop.
We’re in east Texas with George Jones.
Straight country.
Classic country.
Bona fide redneck interpolation.
“Daisies on Your Doorstep”.
Troubled relationship.
Robert Altman.
Nashville.
Hitchcock.
Traut.
Birds.
Grandaddy invades!
Modesto!!
And back to EXPANSIVE verb.
Cathedral.
Serious shit.
Country gothic.
Phil Spector would have loved this.
The plandemic that killed Phil Spector.
Biggest celebrity to buy the farm.
Buy the farm?
Or sell the farm?
During this whole plandemic.
Write copy.
Boilerplate.
You have no publicity.
I block all reposts.
I wanna EARN it.
Organic.
Diminished 7th.
Dissolve into what?
More Mercury Rev homage.
Drums from “Desperado”.
Another lonely bloke ended by “Holes”.
Favorite song ever.
Happy end.
Drunk room.
Tom Waits.
The chord.
Spring.
Le Sacre.
Back to regularly scheduled programming.
Knife in the Water.
Austin.
R.E.M. again.
Big Star.
John Cale droning away on the viola.
No tremolo.
Swing it.
Ragged time.
Texarkana.
Arkansas.
And Texas.
Definite Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci nod.
Nick Drake.
Again The Innocence Mission.
Birds.
Pink Floyd.
Fairport Convention.
Psych barn.
The Byrds.
Gram Parsons.
Neil Young big time.
Stooges meet Beach Boys meet Messiaen.
But the Bowie knife is orange.
Made in Germany.
Kanye West and Wayne Coyne drop in.
An anti-hit.
When you can sing, but you get raped by auto-tune.
Loosen that shit up.
Going all Arabic on me.
Raga.
Spinal Tap.
Clouds of sound on almost every track.
A very ambient album.
Mood set.
Mood retained.
Mature.
Duran Duran.
Peaches DJ Berlin.
Where’s Warhol?
Nigel Godrich.
Jonny Greenwood.
Thom Yorke.
Grinderman.
Roger Waters again.
Microtonal blues.
Straight into Bjork.
Does she umlaut?
Sounds of a Mac.
Swan.
Alarm clock.
Gentle waking.
Paganini.
Rachmaninoff.
Elton John.
Stevie Wonder.
Sly Stone.
James Bond in Rio.
Drax.
Os Mutantes.
Jobim.
Korean frogs.
Shinto.
Spy guitar for reprise.
Tom Verlaine.
Richard Lloyd.
Paul Simon.
Rhythm of the saints.
Graceland.
Beethoven emperor concerto.
Slow.
Beloved.
Tokyo.
Press roll.
Sushi.
Kill bounce.
Phil Selway.
Colin Greenwood?
A masterful track.
“Icelandic Pastiche”.
NOW WE’RE TALKING.
Papa Trump back in the house.
For the apocalypse.
Rocky Balboa.
L.L. Cool J.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Second coming.
To save.
Vengeance is his.
Everyone given a chance.
A fair chance.
NASA.
I hear a single.
“Landslide”.
Wisconsin decertified.
Ramthun came through.
About fucking time.
There’s a riot goin’ on.
Paperclip Nazis.
Eric Carmen.
Smokey Robinson.
Tears of a motherfucking clown.
Oboe.
Michael Stipe.
Gil Evans.
Having the French horns get groovy.
Amelie.
Sketches of Spain.
Sunday morning.
Loveless.
Kevin Shields.
Belinda.
The Soft Bulletin.
Christ coming down from the clouds.
Like a ton of bricks.
Anvil.
Don’t call it a comeback.
Not all the way.
Staple Singers.
Rick Danko.
Rocket pans across stereo field.
Jesus talkin’.
Crucified.
Died.
Buried.
AND ROSE AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Jesus more space than NASA.
Really a masterpiece of sample placement.
Crystal-clear mix.
Clouseau.
Peter Sellers.
Bass solo.
Absolute Mingus.
Bloody jaw-dropping.
This is like a fucking lost Roland Kirk album.
This track!
Concerto for Booty and Orchestra.
Montreux.
Can never spell.
System hacked.
No more spelling.
Adieu au langage.
Flute loops.
Cocteau Twins.
Ties together album.
Last track coming on like Faust.
Built to Spill.
Silver Apples.
In memory of a bloke who bit it.
End of Night on Earth.
Real recorder.
Charity.
You will live forever, my friend.
I never knew you.
You aren’t forgotten.
Thought of you put in this track.
Catharsis.
Yerself is steam.
Smashing Pumpkins.
Siamese.
Great album by Pauly Deathwish.
Spotify.
iTunes.
Solid.
-PD
Here is a strange case.
I thought I was watching a movie by Rainer Werner Fassbinder.
The first I had ever seen.
But I was not.
And I still haven’t seen a Fassbinder movie per se.
This movie was directed by the late- Wolf Gremm.
Gremm might be most well-known for the 1980 film Fabian.
For that movie, Gremm adapted a work of Erich Kästner.
Kästner was always a bridesmaid and never a bride.
Nominated four times for the Nobel in literature, Kästner nevertheless was an important writer in that he used cinematic techniques in his literature.
Think about that for a second.
What might that mean?
Jump cuts, anyone?
‘Tis now that we pay homage to the great Jean-Paul Belmondo.
AND to my favorite drummer ever: Charlie Watts.
Back to Kästner.
The Nazis burned his books.
These book burnings were instigated by (Psaki) Goebbels.
Kästner may not have really been a man of much integrity.
He wrote for UfA in 1942 under the pseudonym Berthold Bürger.
But you may know Kästner most for a Hollywood adaption of one of his children’s books: The Parent Trap.
Made twice.
Which brings us to our film by Wolf Gremm.
It’s true: Gremm and Fassbinder were close friends.
And I was tricked because Fassbinder is the all-consuming star of Gremm’s masterpiece Kamikaze 89 (alternately Kamikaze 1989).
Like a German version of Godard’s Alphaville.
Fassbinder is 100% Lemmy Caution.
But this whole thing needed a premise.
And that story was provide by Swedish author Per Wahlöö.
Before there was Stieg Larsson, there was Per Wahlöö.
Active between 1965 and 1975, and focusing on his character detective Martin Beck (a Stockholm policeman), Wahlöö collaborated with Maj Sjöwall on ten novels featuring Beck.
Like Erich Kästner, Wahlöö and Sjöwall were leftists.
Communists.
Marxists.
Not unusual in Sweden.
You will find the same idealistic naïveté in the biographical details of Steig Larsson.
Gremm’s film did well as Fantasporto in Portugal.
And for good reason.
Because it is a fucking masterpiece!
The soundtrack is even by Tangerine Dream.
Edgar Froese.
Lester Bangs would have been proud.
Bangs died about three months after this film came out.
We see Brigitte Mira.
We see Nicole Heesters.
Someone briefly gets naked.
We might even see Fassbinder’s junk briefly.
I’ve gotta hand it to Xaver Schwarzenberger.
This film is stunning.
It pops!
Like a more punk version of Nicolas Roeg’s work on Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451.
Schwarzenberger was (and is) perhaps the equivalent of Godard’s Raoul Coutard.
So what?
The world, in general, has not heard of Wolf Gremm.
So this film must be discussed in relation to Fassbinder.
Was Fassbinder as good a director as he was an actor?
I don’t know.
Was Fassbinder as good a director as Gremm?
I don’t know.
Did Fassbinder ever make a film as good as the masterpiece Kamikaze 89?
I don’t know.
Something else should be noted.
Fassbinder himself died two months after Kamikaze 89 was released.
Which is to say, a month before Lester Bangs.
Let’s talk about New German Cinema.
I have devoted plenty of time to my favorite (the Nouvelle Vague aka French New Wave).
But I do not recall ever having broached the topic of Neuer Deutscher Film.
I will say this.
I think Werner Herzog may be the most overrated filmmaker of all-time.
Right next to Tarantino.
I hate to fucking admit it, but Tarantino (whom I hate) has WAY more talent than Herzog.
But hey: my favorite director ever is Godard.
We first join Fassbinder about 1974 with Ali: Fear Eats the Soul.
Eight years later, Fassbinder would be dead.
At age 37.
From a cocaine/barbiturate overdose.
I have lived seven years longer than Fassbinder.
Fassbinder crammed his career into his 30s.
Bangs died of an (accidental?) overdose of an analgesic opioid (Darvon), Valium, and cough syrup.
Bangs was 33.
Someone else important died at that age.
Bangs had a great mustache.
Fassbinder had a weird beard.
A nasty, seven-day stubble.
But Fassbinder fucking had style!
1975 saw him come out with Fox and His Friends.
Fassbinder was married for two years.
He then divorced.
I feel that.
Ingrid Caven.
A beautiful lady.
They say.
Hanna Schygulla.
Godard’s Passion.
1982.
There’s a reason I like Fassbinder.
I think.
Because Fassbinder liked Godard.
The Merchant of Four Seasons.
This precedes my earlier introduction.
1971.
The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant.
1972.
Fassbinder was bisexual.
He bought Günther Kauffman, who appears in Kamikaze 89, four Lamborghinis over the period of one year.
“calculatedly provocative”, they called him.
A verbal kamikaze.
I feel that.
The Tenderness of Wolves.
1973.
As actor.
I have focused on films available in the United States.
On iTunes.
I am.
Pauly Deathwish.
Twenty years coming.
10/11.
-PD
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.
Teenage Fanclub.
That glow in The World’s End.
But a sadness.
THE sadness.
Emily Dickinson.
Unrequited.
Unattainable.
My Bloody Valentine.
Sloshy grunge hats.
Edge echo.
Chris Bell.
I Am the Cosmos.
Yerself Is Steam.
Slowdive.
Rutti.
Brian Eno.
The disappearance of Madeleine McCann.
Tom Petty.
You don’t know how it feels.
J. Spaceman.
Abbey Road.
Air.
George Martin.
Beck.
Badfinger suicides.
Loser.
Spiritualized.
Royal Albert.
I can only give you everything.
Rick Danko.
Loping.
The Delgados.
Dave Fridmann.
Black magic warded off by honesty.
Good timing.
Divine.
Sigur Rós.
Nigel Godrich.
Pocket symphonies.
Charlotte Gainsbourg.
Serge on the way.
Lenny Bruce, even.
Hit to Death in the Future Head.
Wait at least until track three to break it down.
Southern Harmony and Musical Companion.
Gorecki.
Arvo Pärt.
Deserter’s Songs.
Absolutely.
The confusion of ridiculous counterpoint.
Aaron Copland.
Tonal, yet dissonant.
Thick Billy Corgan.
Siamese Dream.
Definitely a sadness here.
Dawn Upshaw.
Tabula rasa.
Death.
Immense Mellotron.
Tchaikovsky.
Abrupt modulation.
Sugar plum.
Lou Reed.
Ennio Morricone.
Cinema Paradiso.
All you need is hate.
Upstate.
Chaliapin.
Basso profundo.
Jussi Björling.
Dvořák.
Memorial day.
The Inflated Tear.
Columbus, Ohio with duct tape.
Debussy.
Posing with a bass clarinet.
Primal Scream.
Get Duffy.
Rock ferry.
Smokey Robinson.
Sad clown.
Dead clown.
Kinks.
Grasshopper.
Suzanne.
Woodwind quintet.
Did I ever write one?
Yes, I did.
César Franck.
Saint-Saëns.
Organ symphony.
Or is it contrabassoon?
Nadia Boulanger can tell you.
My teacher’s teacher (twice over).
The Left Banke.
LSD.
Herb Alpert?
Hummel.
Handel.
Strawberry fields.
Stereolab.
Unequivocally.
Transient Random-Noise Bursts with Announcements.
A little lo-fi.
Vocal doubled.
Vox continental.
Great hook.
Changes that pull at your heartstrings.
More melancholy.
A fucking marimba solo?!?
Are you kidding me???
Makes sense.
Pauly Deathwish collaboration with Gordon Gano of Violent Femmes.
Lost Bayou Ramblers.
Gordon knew him as Death.
I have become death.
96 Tears.
Farfisa.
Partials.
Tim Gane tone.
Faust IV.
Doogie Howser?
Scary.
Impending.
Suspense.
Rock bass.
Ozzy.
Black Sabbath.
Amazing Grace.
Pete Townshend.
Front.
Back to J. Spaceman.
Dirty ass rock and roll with pristine horns.
Expensive drugs.
Sophisticated changes.
Éminence grise?
Is this the artist we’ve been waiting for?
Rodriguez?
R. Stevie Moore?
Wesley Willis?
Sounds like Jack Nitzsche.
Major Velvet vibes.
Suck-ceed twice.
Dylan with P-bass.
Mick Taylor.
Too much attitude.
Keith Richards.
Let it Come Down.
Shakespeare.
Fucker kicked the bucket.
First to be vaxxed.
Maricopa.
First Suicide album.
Bossa nova.
The Soft Bulletin.
Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space.
Gimme some lovin’?
Steve Winwood?
How old?
La Monte Young.
Slow changes.
First rehearsal tapes.
Alan Vega.
Martin Rev.
New York City heroin.
Warhol Factory torn down.
Across from YMCA.
Trump dances.
Great throwaway lyrics.
George Harrison.
Sound of universe.
Spacemen 3.
Savage tone.
Revolution.
Direct into mixing console.
Fried signal.
White album.
Sonic Youth.
Derek Bailey.
Lou ecstacy.
Late Lou.
European son.
Blood pressure rising.
Brutal.
Frankie Teardrop.
I think I’m in love.
Dub bass.
Will the circle remain unbroken?
When I had dinner with Roky.
13th Floor.
First Velvets album.
Heroin.
Drug rush.
Invincible.
But you gotta buy it.
Dirty Baltimore.
Cop shoot cop.
Cheree.
On the jukebox.
Eat at the gas station.
On tour.
First time in Texas.
American Supreme.
Iceland.
13 Angels.
It’s definitely Bowie.
New career.
Same town.
New old.
Old is new again.
Mercury Rev.
Savvy programming.
Dynamics.
Break beat.
A fuck ton of flutes.
Flute loops literally.
Bowie sax.
Little fluffy clouds.
Every drop.
Gay glam chorus.
Tony Visconti.
Don’t underestimate.
Pere Ubu.
First album.
Méliès.
Boys peel out.
Boces.
Inspector Clouseau.
Phone.
French ambulance.
Pants.
Gives me pants.
Videogames.
Cutting hole.
Pink Panther.
Herbert Lom.
A Shot in the Dark.
Grandaddy.
Under the Western Freeway.
Weeping willow.
Under that.
With Sean Mackowiak.
Square waves.
WarGames.
Tympani.
Rollerskate Skinny.
Dublin.
Kevin Shields.
Comes back loud.
One song mastered soft.
Definitely Low.
The main influence of Pauly Deathwish’s debut album.
Honegger.
Pacific 231.
Chariots of fire.
Vangelis.
Such a groove.
Nancarrow.
Polyrhythm.
Immense sadness.
By the side of a freeway.
Under an underpass.
Not like RHCP.
Much darker.
Like Godspeed.
Philip Glass.
Eno.
Blackstar.
How did a Trump supporter make this album?!?
I thought all Trump supporters were redneck morons???
This is way fucking better than Ariel Pink’s dabblings.
This sounds like a debut album.
Songs saved up.
Like The Strokes.
Cinematic as fuck.
Glitch Radiohead.
Trail of Dead.
Makes sense.
Because Pauly wrote the string arrangement on IX.
Dark.
Killers.
Disco compression.
Distressed.
These lyrics!
Johnny Rotten.
Trump 2021.
Snot on the crowd.
Arcade Fire.
Makes sense.
Lost Bayou Ramblers lost sessions.
Montreal studio.
This was all made on an iPhone?!?
Guy Debord.
Aladdin Sane.
Time.
Rick Wakeman?
Olivier Messiaen.
Major 7ths in uppermost range of piano.
Almost indistinguishable from octaves.
Eerie.
Slight.
Only for the sensuous ear.
The Wall.
Waters delayed bass.
No nonsense drums.
Humble Pie reference?!?
Ha!
Great lyrics!!
Predating new Bob Dylan album.
Check SoundCloud timestamp.
This is definitely the QAnon anthem.
This hook should be on a million conspiracy videos.
“10 Days of Darkness”.
Tell ’em Large Marge sent ya!
My end is my beginning is my end.
Grinderman.
No pussy.
Early-’90s.
Nirvana’s wake.
Finnegans Wake.
Great debut album (if I do say so myself).
Usual suspects.
Spotify.
iTunes.
Pauly Deathwish.
-PD
Here is filmic perfection.
God damn!
Fucking hell!
Excuse my Tourette’s outburst.
But it’s like a geyser.
Because this film really, really (REALLY) got me!
[the boy who cries wolf must get ever more creative]
Wolf!
A big, bad, beautiful wolf here…
I had no idea coming into this film–what I was getting into.
No idea about country of origin.
Or province.
No idea about actors or director.
No idea about language.
Or subtitles.
Just the least thumbnail sketch of plot.
But other than that.
Nothing.
Rien.
In French it’s shorter.
Nothing is even less of a thing in French.
By three letters.
An economy of means.
And that serves as as good a point as any (whew!) at which (yikes!) to start talking about this MASTERPIECE MASTERPIECE MASTERPIECE.
Because I don’t have to get drunk.
I don’t drink.
I don’t have to get high.
I only take my boring medications.
As prescribed.
But you know what really lights my fuse?
Cinema.
And love.
And love when it is cinematic.
And hope.
Optimism.
The hope of love.
The promise of love (however distant the possibility) when it is expressed cinematically.
In a film I feel like I’m the only one watching.
So i must first [sic] thank the universe for Julianne Côté.
As Borat would say, wah-wah-way-woe!
For nerds like me.
That little in-between haircut.
But fuck it…
Hair doesn’t matter.
It’s soul.
It’s shining through.
Ms. Côté is a very attractive girl.
But not in the meretricious sense.
That is left to the less-than-sterling character played by Catherine St-Laurent (who’s also great in this film).
Every film needs a villain.
Frenemies!
As the singularly-poetic Liam Gallagher once penned (and sang):
“You could be my enemy/I guess there’s still time”
Yeah…
But we need to get back to Julianne Côté.
Because she changed my DNA with this film.
She wrecked me (as Tom Petty might have said).
She took my soul and balled it up like dough and made gingerbread men out of it.
[ok, that’s stretching it…]
Because Catherine St-Laurent is the magazine cover girl.
It’s no accident we see her in a bikini…poolside.
But Ms.Côté just floats on the foam spaghetti.
Submersed.
Weightless.
Her face as beautiful…as the moon.
I MUST STOP HERE TO SAY THAT A GOOD MANY OF MY MORE SUBLIME THOUGHTS JUST DISAPPEARED DUE TO SOME COMPUTER GLITCH
And it is only appropriate.
As Nicole’s life is a grand series of fuck-ups and almosts.
Yes, thanks a fucking lot, WordPress.
And Apple.
You jerks.
Ten minutes of writing down the drain.
Ok, so the milk is spilt.
How to get back on track?
I don’t know where I was.
I spun my loveliest sentences.
Turned my most gossamer phrases.
And hit “Save” ever fucking second.
But it didn’t matter.
So we will go to tech metaphor.
Always fall in love with the typewriter.
Even the electric typewriter (like Histoire(s) du cinéma).
And give Microsoft no quarter.
Granted.
They are, for once, innocent.
The answer is.
There is no getting back.
Not some Thomas Wolfe trip.
But simply to say that nothing I can write will sum up the brilliance of Stéphane Lafleur’s direction.
I am exercising zero hyperbole when I say that THIS IS A PERFECT FILM.
And nothing will ever sum up my admiration (yes, love) for Julianne Côté’s performance.
Nay, for her.
Let’s quote Elton John…
“Someone saved my life tonight…”
Yeah!
Thank you, Julianne!
I will just say Julianne from now on…because my computer doesn’t like diacritical marks 🙂
I’ll say it again a few times.
Tu dors Nicole has changed my perception of film.
Of cinema.
Of what a movie can be.
It’s that good!
It’s that important!
I can’t believe what I just saw… […]
-PD
paulydeathwish 