Full Metal Jacket [1987)

America is at war.

With communism.

With China.

And with those who collaborate with China to suppress freedom.

Some of those communist agents have risen to the highest levels of U.S. government.

It is not a stretch to say that America is now run by communist China.

Which means people like myself–people who like to have their votes actually count–are placed in a very delicate situation.

I am no longer under any illusion that my vote counts.

My vote was stolen by Eric Coomer.

My vote was stolen by Ruby Freeman.

My vote was stolen by Fulton County and Wayne County.

My vote was stolen by Philadelphia, Detroit, and Milwaukee.

My vote was stolen by Maricopa County.

My vote was stolen by Phoenix.

My vote was stolen by Las Vegas.

My vote was stolen by Arizona and Nevada.

My vote was stolen by Chinese hackers.

My vote was stolen by the CIA.

My vote was stolen by the Deep State.

I could go on and on.

My vote was stolen by Mark Zuckerberg and his pathetic wife Priscilla Chan.

My vote was stolen by Mitch McConnell and his pathetic wife Elaine Chao.

And her pathetic sister Angela Chao.

And the Bank of China.

My vote was stolen by China.

China who gave the world COVID.

On purpose.

America is in a war.

It is undeclared publicly.

I’m not sure our military is even smart enough to realize we are under attack.

Because many of our top brass appear to be corrupt.

My vote was stolen by Michael Hayden and John Brennan.

My vote was stolen by Gina Haspel and Avril Haines.

My vote was stolen by Bill Gates.

My vote was stolen by James Mattis and John Kelly.

My vote was stolen by Colin Powell and James Comey.

My vote was stolen by Andrew McCabe and Peter Strzok.

My vote was stolen and given to Joe Biden.

My vote appears to have been stolen by Mark Milley.

My vote appears to have been stolen by Chris Miller and Ezra Cohen-Watnick.

My vote was stolen by Mike Pence.

My vote was stolen by Brett Kavanaugh.

My vote was stolen by Amy Coney Barrett.

My vote was stolen by John Roberts.

My vote was stolen by Chris Krebs.

My vote was stolen by Christopher Wray.

South Carolina is where cars crash into trees.

Where drunks wreck their hoopties.

Fucked up on malt liquor.

Cheap wine.

Fuck it.

Beaufort.

You’re almost in Georgia by that point.

But you gotta go inland to find the Georgia Guidestones.

So transparently talking about global depopulation.

But still on the South Carolina border.

Heading towards Alabama hit Atlanta.

CDC.

Depopulation.

CNN.

Suppression.

Fake news.

Was it Ted Turner built the Guidestones or some other worthless fuck?

Some worthless piece of shit like Bill Gates.

Parris Island will get you to Jekyll Island.

Straight shot.

Where those filthy bankers plotted the Federal Reserve System in secret in 1910.

111 years ago.

Two world wars.

A Cold War.

Vietnam.

Afghanistan for us and the Soviets.

Iraq twice.

And now we can never get out of debt.

All goes back to 9/11.

False-flag.

I liked R. Lee Ermey.

Some might say.

Like liking Darth Vader.

But I don’t think so.

Because Stanley Kubrick is a (very talented) propagandist.

True, war is disgusting.

True, Vietnam was depressing.

But now you see what we were fighting against.

Was it misguided?

Perhaps.

But now Chinese communism has conquered our nation (with the installment of Joe Biden).

And so now the heroes of Vietnam–our American Vietnam vets–are truly heroes after all.

To stem the tide.

To buy us time.

And our politicians (and military brass) have pissed it away.

But mainly our politicians.

And our filthy intelligence (CIA) community.

America is not shit.

At its heart.

But Stanley Kubrick and all his commie fag friends want you to believe it’s so.

But we will not tolerate that.

We respect Kubrick’s talent.

But politely disagree with his artistic premise…that America is shit.

Wrong!

D’Onofrio breaks your heart.

And it is more schoolmaster bullying than anything.

Very British.

But it’s all plausible.

Yet Kubrick has to shoot it like The Shining.

Yeah, war will drive you crazy.

And real training should be the same intensity as the war you’re going to.

Otherwise, it’s worthless.

America is at war.

Now.

Already.

China doesn’t declare war anymore.

They just sneak around and poison you.

And fuck with your weather.

And buy off your politicians.

I love jelly donuts.

We’re not all cut out for the military.

But when the enemy invades the homeland (as China has done to us), all bets are off.

I am a digital soldier.

Born To Kill.

Matthew Modine good here too.

The terror.

In the eyes.

Kubrick was a genius.

An evil genius.

Yes, war is bad.

But Kubrick was a communist.

So, for him, a communist world was better than a war.

For me, a war is better than a communist world.

Because at least we got the chance of coming out the other side with some freedoms.

Freedom, motherfucker!

That thing I am using right now to write this blog.

That thing that guarantees I can insult the government.

I can make my views known.

I cannot be violent, but I can unleash a shitstorm of invective.

And my government is supposed to not be able to stop me.

Because they are constrained by our Constitution.

Political speech.

Is protected speech.

I wish no harm to anyone listed above.

Even if they have literally taken communist Chinese money (like Joe Biden).

I don’t wish them harm.

But I can’t vote them out.

Not anymore.

Which puts me in a very delicate situation.

Which necessitates that I study war.

To fight China myself.

Because my government has become (in many ways) one with China.

My loyalty is to the USA.

My loyalty is to my country.

America.

Joe Biden’s loyalty is to money.

And those who give him money.

He and his family have profited handsomely off of Chinese dealings.

And Ukrainian dealings.

China has released a plague upon us.

This is not the time to make friends with China.

But Joe Biden doesn’t understand that.

He just understands corruption.

He just wants his pockets lined.

And Joe Biden’s handlers don’t care about the plague.

For them, it’s just another opportunity to make money (off of vaccines).

And really, they worship the plague…because the plague let them dethrone Trump.

It was the only way.

To get the mail-in ballots.

But some, like Bill Gates (and Avril Haines), are quite obviously more privy to a deeper plan.

A plan to cull the herd.

Unfortunately for them, the rapper Pitbull is onto their Event 201 bullshit.

So it is not looking good for Gates and Haines re: stealthiness.

Do you remember Charles Whitman?

Lee Harvey Oswald?

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman does.

Them’s the facts of life.

The Virgin Mary.

Mary Jane Rottencrotch.

A man can only be pushed so far.

How many people voted for Trump?

What do the rotten bastards say?

69 million?

That’s no small potatoes.

Based on post-election polling, I’m guessing the current number of Trump voters who believe the election was stolen sits at about 46 million people or more. Maybe closer to 50 million. And this is assuming the 69 million total is correct (which it cannot, in reality, be).

But I am not here to lay out the evidence.

I have done it before.

I am sick of doing it.

Research it yourself.

Nothing could possibly happen on Tet.

Never has before.

There couldn’t possibly be a military coup.

Never has been before.

Except in just about every country on Earth (America not withstanding).

But what we have had are:

–a Revolutionary War (which birthed the country)

and

–a Civil War (which tore the country in two).

It was a rebirth.

China (and Russia) would like nothing more than to see us go through a civil war.

China because they want to beat us.

Russia because they still hate us.

But Russia respects us.

Not our leaders, of course.

But us.

Those of us fighting against the New World Order.

China owns the New World Order.

Or vice versa.

It is symbiotic.

Russia is on the sidelines.

More or less self-sufficient.

But a little nervous.

About their neighbor China.

And about the disintegration of the U.S.

Of course Russia wants the E.U. to collapse.

But the E.U. deserves to collapse.

Because it is Chinese communism in disguise.

It is the pet project of the globalists (the Bilderberg set).

Adam Baldwin is also the most real thing here.

But D’Onofrio breaks your heart.

And mine too.

Fat boy.

We fucked up.

But we all get the punishment.

Gotta accept Jesus.

It’s not communism.

It’s grace.

It’s mercy.

It’s harmony.

Order out of chaos (some say).

Sure.

But not cynical.

You gotta offer a choice.

God is the ultimate capitalist.

Free will.

A free market of souls.

Take your pick.

Look around.

Choose the Devil.

Or choose God.

Feel evil.

And feel good.

Make your bed.

Kubrick always goes a bit squiffy just when he could nail it.

Same in The Shining.

That stupid maze scene at the end.

More funny than scary.

Ruins a masterpiece.

Blood in slow-motion.

Empty filmmaking.

Kubrick doesn’t know…why…he’s doing what he’s doing.

Which is why this film is NOT as good (nor as important) as Apocalypse Now.

But Kubrick gets very close.

There’s a lot of Strangelove in this.

The irreverence of Joker.

A little bit of Cries and Whispers.

The gook sniper.

Kubrick is going for juxtaposition.

A nuke and Vera Lynn.

A war crime and the Mickey Mouse song.

Quite aware.

Marx and Coca-Cola.

Learn your lessons now, boys!

-PD

Homeless to Harvard: The Liz Murray Story [2003)

Happy Birthday to Thora Birch, my favorite actress of all time!

Yes, I know…I know.

A film critic whose favorite actress is a young 35-year-old whipper snapper???

Yes.

That’s alright.

Laugh at me.

If the question was, “Who was your favorite classic Hollywood actress?,” then I would answer, “Lauren Bacall”.

But I said favorite actress of all time.

You can search my “Thora” category here on my site for why exactly this actress is my favorite.

Because otherwise, we’re going to be here all day.

And I have a movie to review!

One of my favorites:  Homeless to Harvard.

It is, indeed …The Liz Murray Story, but I will be using the shortened title hereafter for brevity’s sake.

It is my contention (and I have made the point elsewhere…probably on this very site of mine) that Thora Birch produced a trilogy of acting performances which are more-or-less analogous to Bob Dylan’s classic trilogy.

Let’s start with Dylan.

The three (at unity from a similarity of intense expression):

Bringing It All Back Home

Highway 61 Revisited 

and

Blonde on Blonde

And now the Thora films which correspond in my mind:

American Beauty

Ghost World

and

Homeless to Harvard

Sure…Birch didn’t direct these films.

But her acting is so strong, she might as well have.

By this point she was no longer a prodigy.

She was a mature actress.  A master of her craft.

And the story here is one to really sink teeth in.

[In which.]

We recently touched on homelessness here in the review of Alicia Vikander’s stellar turn as Katarina from Till det som är vackert.

Pure.

But the esthetics of Homeless to Harvard are different.

This isn’t European arthouse.  It’s a Lifetime made-for-TV film.

But don’t go running anywhere!!!

This is as gritty as any Lou Reed tale.

And it’s all real.

Too pure.

Heroin addict parents.

Mother schizophrenic.

Blindness.

Genetic.

Mother with HIV.

Father with AIDS.

Vice versa ice Ursa.

Father in homeless shelter.

Mother wielding knife.  Vomiting.

Alcoholism.

Really appealing, eh?

But you gotta stick with it.

This isn’t Darren Aronofsky mise-en-scène.

It’t not, “Let’s win an award at Sundance.”  Or, “Let’s sweep at Cannes.”

It’s more like one of Aesop’s fables.

It’s the message, man!

And so first, let’s honor the director.

Peter Levin.

Who knew a television film could be so artful?

Well, when you combine the history of Histoire(s) du cinéma with the precedent of Twin Peaks, you should know by now that television can produce good stuff.

Hell…

Your TV can even WATCH YOU! (as per WikiLeaks Vault7).

But I digress…

The weeper (no masonry) sob story…had me crying in my Junior Mints…we must attribute to the excellent writing of Ronni Kern.

Who the hell is Ronni Kern?!?

Male?  Female?

I’ve had less trouble finding the gender of completely unknown foreign movie people.

But Kern is pretty invisible on the Internet.

And maybe there’s a point here.

  1.  It doesn’t fucking matter.
  2. You should judge someone on their work, not their gender.

Hopefully Ms. Birch will appreciate this flash of liberalism should she read this review.

[I’m not holding my breath]

But we have just celebrated International Women’s Day.

And the fact that Birch’s character here is a “feminist” is a running pseudo-joke.

Which brings us to the performances.

Michael Riley is stellar, stellar (I know…) as Liz’s father Peter.

Kudos to the styling department.

That beard.  And that hair!

Crazy, man, crazy!!

But Riley’s performance is really special.

It touched my heart.

Long ago.

When I first saw this film.

And dare I say, this movie made me appreciate my own family.

It made me miss my folks.

And so I salute Peter Riley and Lifetime and all involved for that effect on my heart.

Jennifer Pisana is really fabulous as the young Liz Murray here.

It’s an unenviable task.

To precede Thora Birch’s entrance.

But Pisana is indispensable to this little masterpiece.

Those sweaters.

And the full pronunciations…”Mommy”…”Daddy”…

Ms. Pisana affects the necessary naïveté to be juxtaposed against the sad schizophrenia of Kelly Lynch (who plays Liz’s mom).

And Lynch is great.

Think Cries and Whispers.

[cris et chuchotements…(( (( ((…et chuchotements]

Robert Bockstael does a fine job as Liz’s teacher David.

Very convincing.  Excellent craftsmanship.

Makyla Smith is piquant in her depiction of Liz’s best friend Chris.

[God…the Magic Marker…and the pine box…fuuuuuuck]

Yes, friends…this is Lifetime Television.

So the brisure (bonjour, monsieur Derrida) is “crap”.

“Crap happens.”

Whoa…watch thy mouth, Kelly Lynch!

So again…Peter Levin does a fantastic job shoehorning a true X-file into PG territory.

We see a syringe here and there.  A tourniquet.

Riley cleaning a spoon.

But the real heartbreak is Wheat Chex with tap water.

Yeah…

Hello Gummo.

Ellen Page has a small role here.

And she’s good.

Fine actress.

But we’ve been waiting to roll out the big gun.

Thora Birch.

On this, her birthday, I am only just now getting towards a handful of reviews honoring her unique thespian gift.

What to say?

That every look is magic?

That every glance is gold?

That she has crafted her microexpressions in solitude…and wielded them like an Arthurian sword for the duration of this flick?

Yes, yes, and yes.

[and an Oxford comma]

Because kids take it for granted.

Rich kids.

Harvard.

Penn.

Princeton.

Maybe…

But even more so the lesser ivied walls.

I won’t name names.

But the spoiled kids.

Not turning in homework.

Bragging about shortcuts.

Those, ultimately, will be life’s losers.

But Liz Murray worked her butt off to get into Harvard.

From sleeping on the B Train.

Four years of high school in two.

And Thora Birch has worked her butt off too.

She hasn’t gotten the roles her talent deserves.

But the roles she has gotten, she has largely smashed out of the park.

Like the Babe Ruth of leading ladies.

And so there are other actresses I admire.

But Thora Birch was the first.

The first to give me that magical feeling which only Neil Young has adequately described:

“I fell in love with the actress/She was playin’ a part that I could understand”.

Happy Birthday, Thora Birch!

And may all your days and films be filled with the joy which you have put into the world through your cinematic brilliance.

-PD

Viskningar och rop [1972)

Cris et Chuchotements.

…et Chuchotements.

This horribly powerful film.

No light reading.

From the lips.

Fumbling big-hand thoughts.

Like Brice Parain said, inseparable from language.

We can see this fount at which Godard drank.

We can see the borrowing of von Trier.

We can see the fealty of Wes Anderson.

It is Cries and Whispers of Ingmar Bergman.

Tired, aging Bergman.

Clear as a bell.

Static shots which must be achieved through moving pictures.

Just stop moving for a moment.

And be quiet.

That microphone.

Just out of sight.

No B-movie swoop-downs.

But absolute perfection throughout.

And yet the message is dark.

No hope.

Cathartic, maybe.

Always fade to red.

And reemerge through the color spectrum.

Yellow to white light.

Four women.

Three sisters and a zaftig maid.

Someone’s crying Lord…

Come by here.  In a dream.  See their lips move.

We should love the coquette.  The redhead.  Liv Ullmann.

She should dominate us like a Renoir painting.

A madder rose cinema has known not.

But is she not a fake, Maria?

Is she not just a color palette towards which we gravitate?

What worth in the façade when the heart is empty?

It had been a long time since Summer with Monika, but Harriet Andersson was here.

And yet, it is Liv Ullmann who gets the plastic surgeon insults of the doctor (Erland Josephson).

But Harriet Andersson has enough grief with which to deal.

No no, I have gotten mixed up with all these actresses of Bergman.  And don’t even mention Ingrid!

We will come back to poor, sweet Harriet.

But we must first deal with the witch:  Ingrid Thulin.

What kind of misery makes such a witch?

A tissue of lies (reads the subtitles).

I believe Thierry Meyssan had to deal with such proclamations (though I read them in translation).

What kind of lies here, though…specifically?

Loveless marriage.

Probably even more empty than simply.

Loveless.

No creative punctuation.  No flirtatious commas or semicolons.

But simply poetry written like a telegraph dispatch.

Full stop.

Desperate.

Depression unto madness.  That is Ingrid Thulin here as Karin.

But then we must come back to our sickness.

A true physical ailment.

A patient.

Bedridden.

Patience.

It is Agnes.  Painful.  Wheezing.  Horrible.  Ghastly.

A high-water mark of art films.

Top that, motherfucker.

Jerry Lee to Chuck Berry.  Worse than an expletive.

But what brings this whole film together?  Who holds this house against her bosom?

It is none other than Kari Sylwan.

Yes, there are no important male characters within.

Georg Årlin chews his fish like someone in the diplomatic service should.

And expects “a little consensual rape in the evening” (to quote the Nick Cave of Grinderman).

But such petty existence boils the madness.

The glass.

Shards of light.

Smeared with lunacy.

Against all this is Kari Sylwan as Anna.

The maid.

The help.

Priceless.

Humanist.

A believer.  As the sick believed more than the priest.

No real important male characters here.

But Anders Ek is the voice of reason.  The voice of poetry.  For a moment.  Touching.

Don’t touch me.

Don’t touch me.

Such damage in the world.

And Anna bears it all.

The only true hero.

Meek.

Equally tormented.

But strong.

Annas make the world go round.  Deliver the medicine.  Keep the world from splitting open.  Make sure the trains are on time.  Hugs.

The history of cinema is littered with sad brilliance.

Strewn with fictional corpses.

Troubled directors trying to come to terms with their own fears of death.

And in the end, such creations loom large because they closest resemble the art of the ancient world and the itch of the Renaissance.

Storm on!  And write all night long!!

Someone has stolen my beard, but my mustache is plenty weird.

We shall live to see Nietzsche bitch-slap Hitler.

And Tarantino will again work at a video store.  Where he belongs.  A very able clerk.  Like me.

 

-PD