https://open.spotify.com/track/5dCFHwcJtWdjXryXEPtuB8?si=8a5757ddd92a4ddb
Recommended if you like Primal Scream and The Chemical Brothers.
XTRMNTR.
https://open.spotify.com/track/5dCFHwcJtWdjXryXEPtuB8?si=8a5757ddd92a4ddb
Recommended if you like Primal Scream and The Chemical Brothers.
XTRMNTR.
https://open.spotify.com/track/3d2glwBXL2YW6dSNdxfuNY?si=c957cea7c39f4624
Recommended if you like μ-Ziq.
Brace yourself, Jason.
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
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.
“You got no fear of the underdog/
That’s why you will not survive.”
Britt Daniel wrote that lyric.
And it’s the only song by his band Spoon which has even the most remote bit of soul in it.
Such a soulless band, Spoon…
The ultimate plastic hipsters.
A male supermodel and his gang of H&M monkeys behind him.
It would almost be artistic…in sort of an Andy Warhol/Factory sort of way.
Except there is no humor in it.
Spoon are dead serious.
The irony is (ATTN: hipsters) there’s no irony here.
All that being said, Britt Daniel wrote one of the best songs I’ve ever heard.
And it’s the one I quoted above.
“The Underdog”
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter that my path crossed Britt’s path.
It doesn’t matter that I was invited to audition for his band Spoon as a keyboard player.
It doesn’t matter that he probably saw me in an outfit that wasn’t quite svelte enough and promptly canceled my audition before it ever happened.
Because he underestimated the underdog.
And that’s why he will not survive.
Last I heard, Spoon (or at least their godhead, Britt) relocated to Portland.
I suppose Austin wasn’t hip enough anymore.
Either that, or his shitty personality had shit off everyone in Austin and he needed a new lot of cunts to shit on.
But I digress…
Because, as stated, Britt had a point.
Once.
In one song.
[whether he learned the lesson he sang about or not is a different story]
But it is very much germane to OUR story–to this fantastic film:
Cuban Fury.
You almost always see Nick Frost in tow behind his partner in comedy Simon Pegg.
But not this time.
And so here we start a new investigation.
The test was simple: could Nick Frost carry a film by himself (without the great talents of Simon Pegg)?
And the answer is a resounding YES!
We start all Billy Elliott (that one thing upon which Admiral General Aladeen and his presumptive torturer could agree).
Ass kicked.
Sequins eaten.
A future star quits mid-stride.
What could have been…
Have you ever had such a moment in your life?
I have.
LIFE beat me up.
In the span of a couple of months.
And now, instead of laying down tracks on 2-inch tape, I’m making songs solely with an iPhone.
You can feel the excitement.
It had to have been at least 20 years for Bruce (Nick Frost).
He gave up his passion.
Thought he would never cross paths again with salsa dancing.
He had been on the precipice of the youth national title in Britain.
Then his life went humdrum.
Works an office job for a company specializing in lathes.
The most nondescript industry possible.
But he gets a new boss.
Rashida Jones.
She is excellent here.
She hits just the right notes in her performance.
She is Bruce’s new boss.
But, as fortune would have it, she (an American in Britain) loves salsa.
Bruce is gobsmacked.
Enough so to turn his life around.
To attempt to reel in the years.
Equally brilliant as the first two players I’ve mentioned (Frost and Jones) is Ian McShane.
You might remember him as the head of MI6 in The Brothers Grimsby.
But ironically, his role here (as Bruce’s former dance teacher) is far heavier.
Think Burgess Meredith with an occasional lisping Spanish one would expect to hear in Madrid.
And McShane injects some Keith Richards pirate couture for good measure.
This is a HARD man.
Drinking tequila the whole film.
And he’s a fucking dance teacher.
A TOUGH dance teacher.
He’s tough because he sees the potential in his student.
And he won’t let his student half-ass this endeavor.
Either you go “all in”, or you go home.
Passion.
El corazón.
This film is truly a joy to watch.
…to see Nick Frost regain what truly makes him happy.
To dance.
It’s the story of someone reclaiming themselves.
Rewinding life…just enough to relive ones happiest former version of being (and relocate oneself).
But here’s the other part.
The ladies.
Or lady, here.
They just see Nick as a fat schlub.
No way this guy could dance salsa, right?
Every day suffering insults from a particularly nasty coworker.
Let me illustrate.
For me, supporting President Trump brings me daily grief.
Every day I am made aware (by “liberals”) that they hate me.
I am treated badly.
In person.
At work.
Online.
Simply trying to start my romantic life over and date.
I am very upfront.
Listed front and center: “I voted for Trump.”
Kind of like an, “Abandon hope, ye who enter”.
But more like: Let the Buyer Beware.
I lay it all out there.
“I live with my parents.”
etc.
And I get some shitty shit.
Which is why, every once in awhile, I think God is looking out for me.
I think maybe that God sees what I go through.
I’m not mean.
I’m not rude.
I don’t proselytize in a political sense.
I try to show warmth to others.
I try to show God’s love with my actions.
And boy do I end up throwing my pearls before swine sometimes…
Often, perhaps.
Lots of swine.
And it gets me down.
But I thought today was gonna be better.
Since last night.
Things had been going really well for me.
And now, here at 4 in the morning, I find myself back in a similar spot.
But it’s ok.
Because God loves me.
And if a bunch of braindead bitches wanna ignore the underdog,
then we won’t be surprised why they didn’t find happiness.
So this is a love story.
Forbidden love.
Nick Frost is in love with his boss.
Because his boss is perfect…for him.
It’s FaTE.
God puts us in the position to win.
But true winning is not always capturing first place.
“You can’t always get what you want…
But if you try sometimes,
you might find,
you get what you need.”
Where have I heard that song these past four years?
Ah, yes.
She was never supposed to lose.
Hillary Clinton.
She underestimated the underdog.
That’s why she did not survive.
Before this goes totally off the rails.
Love is the greatest victory there is.
But love has to be reciprocated.
If you’re a superstar (and I know you are, my dear reader), then you deserve AT LEAST as much as you give.
When you give love, compliments, gifts, affection, etc.
If you find yourself always to be the giver…and never allowed to be the taker (because nothing is given to you), then you just might be in the wrong situation.
I know I was.
And, praise God, I am out of that for the time being.
Except for at least one catch.
The world, our world, is primarily composed of takers.
Ingrates.
People without manners.
Humans unfamiliar with common courtesy.
Unpracticed at recognizing fairness.
People who have very little conscience (if any whatsoever).
And they are either unaware that they are such assholes, or they are aware and they simply do not care.
So again, it’s just me on this computer here.
Sitting in the dark.
Typing.
But that’s ok.
Because in this movie, a fat guy gets a beautiful girl.
And he gets her because he’s good at something.
Do you feel me?
But we must be righteous too.
Let us not underestimate OUR personal underdogs.
Let us not defile the name of God by letting superficiality reign.
God will show us the way.
Let us do what is just.
I ask that all who read this may be helped.
That each of them may know that God loves them.
And I ask this in the name of the Son of God.
I ask this by the power that is in the name Jesus.
God works in mysterious ways.
Our loving God will not be mocked.
God will not lose in the end.
We are entrusted with great responsibility.
But we know who wins.
And we know that the ending is magnificent.
And we know that all are welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven.
God only asks that we have humility.
The humility to ask forgiveness.
And God does not demand perfection.
The coin which God accepts, for eternal life, is faith.
And God charges no interest on this coin.
It is given freely, yet it is the most valuable thing in the universe.
Praise be to His holy name.
Indictments = start.
-PD
Here is a masterpiece.
I was wrong to dismiss it so suddenly.
On first viewing.
The fairy godfather and the schmaltzy song by the pool I couldn’t stomach.
But I tried again.
Because the juicer is so good!
AND THE KITCHEN DANCE (!)
So it’s true.
Jerry Lewis made AT LEAST TWO perfect films.
This one and The Nutty Professor.
And it gives me hope with which to plumb the depths of his full oeuvre.
The little mattress on the big set of springs.
The one cheap sheet hiding this dismal arrangement.
AND THE DINNER!
Holy crap!!
That is my life!!!
Forever catering to the whims of dickheads.
Forever going back and forth…for sugar cubes.
And to pour the wine.
And to light a cigarette.
[but mainly to sugar caffeinated beverages]
Out of breath…
Jerry Lewis.
Overworked.
Mucho trabajo, poco dinero.
Pablito!
This film celebrates us nerds!!!
Revenge.
Sure…
But really it’s a much sweeter, more pure vindication.
Nothing nasty about it.
Jerry combing his hair in the toaster’s reflection.
And a little touch-up in the reflection of the Rolls’s front grill.
And that haircut!
Buzz cut.
Except for the little shock of normality above the forehead.
Anna Maria Alberghetti is fantastic as Princess Charming!
So light.
So airy.
So sweet.
But it all goes back to the kitchen dance.
Post- puffs on a ciggy.
Dropped in the sink.
To mimic the entire Basie band.
Rahsaan would have been proud.
To feel it.
The touch notes on the piano.
The little Basie accents.
So lazy.
So classy.
And the air drums.
Brushes.
Buh-da-loop da loop.
Buh-ruh-rump!!!
And that sax, man!
Bari!!!
Blowin’ out the cheeks like Dizzy ( )
Duck walking.
Chuck Berry kicks.
A whole sax section in one mouth.
Fucking genius!
In truth, there are a lot of plot parallels between Cinderfella and The Nutty Professor.
We almost sense Buddy Love in the staircase scene.
But Jerry comes out verbally bumbling.
And humble.
AND HE DANCES LIKE JULIUS KELP IN THE PROM WHITE SUIT!!!
Manic, man…
Bloody jaw-dropping.
-PD
I didn’t know movies could be this good.
Where have they been keeping this all of our lives?
Us.
When I was young I stumbled into The Gold Rush. 25/52.
And I lived at the end of a flower in City Lights.
So I knew.
But I forgot.
That Charlie Chaplin was the most vivid outcast—the great romantic on rollerskates.
And the miracle?
Claire Bloom lives.
No Sylvia Plath ending.
And Charles Chaplin lives.
As much as Baudelaire’s vieux saltimbanque.
It was her first film. Bloom.
Age 21.
And now she is 84 years young.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
No one told me films could be miracles.
It’s kinda like Thora Birch.
Buster Keaton.
People thought she stopped working.
But it wasn’t true.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////
No greater love have I seen for an art.
Like Pierre-Auguste kissing the canvas…and then painting.
You can’t simply say Renoir in film and let it linger…
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Tell Tchaikovsky the news.
The first chord. In Moscow perhaps. And all 122 pages fall onto the keyboard.
A thunderous vibration like Chaliapin.
Фёдор Ива́нович Шаля́пин
Boris Godunov.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
A drinking problem.
Stage fright.
Torn and frayed.
At the edges.
In the wings.
Wings.
Ah yes…I haven’t heard that name in a long time.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The piano was unprepared.
A cage of equal temperament.
And so we removed the great nest
of cosmic dissonance.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Don’t get me wrong.
I love a good cluster chord.
An honest, flawed note.
Take your dissonance like a man…someone said…maybe Henry Cowell.
On second thought, ’twas Ives.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
I’ve spent my life in a drum.
Like Keith Moon.
A human projectile.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
88 ways to look at a blackbird.
I’ve never seen one person leave it all on the stage quite like that.
A lifetime’s work. Painted.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The film was in black and white?
I didn’t happen to notice.
Because behind my eyes the colours were bursting.
U.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
And so like those little speckles in the concrete which the moon caught.
As I dreamt of being a composer.
And I too dove headfirst into the void like Yves Klein.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
And for us it was no sleight of hand.
There was no airbrushed net.
And I landed hard.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Gandhi is smiling and that’s all that matters.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
between yell and Yale
bell strut feet dill old pod loot. Look!
88 ways to be a composer and an itch ain’t one (bite me!)
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Film is completely unimportant when writing about film.
Take Hubert’s Flea Circus on 42nd St.
I would never have known were it not for Nick Tosches.
And my favorite book:
Where Dead Voices Gather.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Yeah, but it’s like Picasso’s musicians.
You think I’ve really cracked up. Craquelure.
“Any fish bite if you got good bait.”
They tell us in economics there’s only one Mona Lisa.
Because the painter is dead.
Only one…
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Because he’s not alive to paint another.
Another Mona Lisa.
Unlimited supply. EMI.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
You’re driving at something.
I just know it.
Because the film was too long. And too good.
Not possible, Likert.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Many aw-kward moments of perfection.
Where Chaplin hit too close to home.
Was it Dave Davies?
“Death of a Clown”
Yes, precisely.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
It can’t be described conventionally.
You can’t just go to the Grand Canyon and say, “Vast.”
Was ist das?
Ja!
That is what I’m trying to say.
-PD