The Doors [1991)

#pizzagate

The silence is deafening.

And as John Lydon sang, “Anger is an energy.”

Just yesterday I was surprised to run across several articles on the pizzagate scandal.

They jarred me a bit.

Brought me back to that fever pitch of intensity from our election.

That intensity from which I had had to step away.

But there these articles were.

I couldn’t resist.

I read.

And they affected me.

And so I made a conscious choice to write about J. Edgar Hoover last night.

[more or less]

But today was a different kind of weirdness.

Today, absolutely no mention of pizzagate on my favorite news site.

And conversely, Google (which is censoring pizzagate research by way of its YouTube platform) is showing strictly fake news as part of its masterly algorithmic results.

If you Google “pizzagate”, you will get these fake news sources:

-The Washington Post (Jeff Bezos’ little pet paper…for when Amazon.com bores him)

The New York Times

BBC

The New Yorker

The Guardian

NPR

Newsweek

CNN

Time

NBC

CBS

plus sycophants like Snopes, The Daily Beast, Huffington Post, Slate, and too many other media losers to succinctly list.

So let me reframe:

as the alternative media went silent today on this topic, the mainstream media (which had been shirking its duty of journalism) went into hyperdrive to cover pizzagate in a very narrow, deceptive manner.

And I can’t lie:

this made me very angry.

But I would like to share a name with you.

It is the name of someone doing truly priceless research on pizzagate.

His name is David Seaman.

And YouTube is where to find him.

So why, then, The Doors?

Because “When the Music’s Over”…

Robby Krieger’s dive bomb guitar.

John Densmore gunshot snare drumming leading out of the pauses.

And Jim Morrison’s screeching howls of ecstatic catharsis on the downbeat.

This film.

Truly changed my life.

Just like my first rock concert (The Black Crowes).

It’s not a perfect film, but it teaches us some important lessons.

The right (politically) must understand art.

All of the arts.

The power of art.

And we must know poetry.

We must cogitate from a place of knowledge as we see Oliver Stone’s camera pan over Rimbaud, Artaud, and McLuhan.

And at some point we must make a faltering effort to pronounce Artaud.

We must get into the arena.

[sand]

Open our ears.

The first time we heard Godard’s name…pronounced relatively correct…out of Ray Manzarek’s mouth.

And we must revisit.

Damn!  Is that Dale Cooper?!?  And that “d” on the end is not really necessary.

Years and years…of stars and bars…and miles of aisles.

I haven’t had the energy to be angry.

Until today.

Must be getting better.

It comes and goes.

Energy.

But we must value anger.

Meat-eating humanity.

Visceral disgust with our fellow humans who would harm children.

And sober vigilance and sense of duty to see that no child’s life nor future is swept into a crack.

The current psy op in progress is one to try and wrap up (with a bow) the entire pizzagate conspiracy into one deniable package:  Comet Ping Pong.

One astute researcher has even mentioned the possibility that the central casting which provided us with the Sandy Hook hoax might have supplied the useful idiot who supposedly stormed the aforementioned establishment.

The psy op is to wrap up the package.  To denigrate “fake news”.

To cordon off the “scene” in service to damage control.

But YouTube’s actions taken against David Seaman just make us want to know the truth that much more.

And so there you have it.

Adam Schiff needs a brain transplant.

And Tucker Carlson deserves a raise.

But people like David Seaman are the real rebels here.

Like Jim Morrison, they understand their medium (McLuhan) and they channel their anger through highly-sophisticated, articulate journalism.

To paraphrase my hero Alex Jones, I don’t think the mainstream media and the Clinton camp (the Podesta brothers) really want to get into “the briar patch” of trading punches with the alternative media.

Alex Jones and Matt Drudge are about to squash any dilettantes at the major networks.

And up-and-comers like David Seaman will also be firing truth torpedoes to sink the already-listing ghost ship known as the MSM.

There be monsters…

 

-PD

 

 

Pumpkin [2002)

This is almost a perfect film.

Because it’s better than perfect.

Like Napoleon Dynamite, what should have been a larf was generally a sobfest for me throughout.

If you’re having problems in life, you need to see this movie.

Hollywood is so denigrated these days because the vast majority of popular cinema is utter shite.

From the very beginning, Pumpkin is different.

We should thank American Zoetrope.

And for that we have to thank Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas.

Do you even know what a zoetrope is?

Well, I do.

And they did.

And it was le mot juste.

A zoetrope is special.

Let’s call it retarded cinema.

A more pure form.  Slowed down.

Pumpkin grossed $308,552 at the box office.

No, I didn’t forget a comma and an additional three digits.

But the Bureau of Labor Statistics has no way of predicting the sort of inflation Pumpkin will experience in the annals of cinema history.

For any who have ever doubted Christina Ricci:  this is her masterpiece.

As lead actress and coproducer, she gives a performance which goes deeper than even the esteemed Thora Birch in Ghost World.

Yes, this is that sort of film.

Indispensable.

I have overused it of late.

But there is no other word.  Pumpkin and Ghost World and Napoleon Dynamite are not second-class films to such as I fidanzati.  No.  They are equals with Ermanno Olmi’s masterpiece.

But don’t get confused.

Pumpkin goes in a direction completely “other” than any film I’ve ever seen.

Sure…it starts out tongue-in-cheek.

It is perhaps a dystopia which is best summed up by the saccharine mise-en-scène of The Truman Show.  But where The Truman Show fails (and that is in many places), Pumpkin succeeds at telling a timeless story.

The story is the cast.

[Thank you Marshall McLuhan.]

Ricci is a thespian goddess here.  Real skill.  Real goddamn skill!

But neck-and-neck is Hank Harris.

I can’t nail it.

It’s something I saw long ago.

At my college orientation.

A bit of Sam Shepard and some other playwrights.

Sure.  It is Steinbeck.  Of Mice and Men.

But it’s more.

Sweeter.  More optimistic.  More frothing with disgust.

All three.

A concoction.

Frozen yogurt and 1400 on the SAT.

Harry Lennix is indispensable to the story.  [start counting]

He is the angry poet.  Not a college professor.  And this is not a class.

This is a poetry workshop, motherfucker!

Even Julio Oscar Mechoso is indispensable in his short role as Dr. Frederico Cruz.  [where we at?]

But let’s talk about some buttresses.

Melissa McCarthy is indispensable (truly) as Julie.

It’s not an easy role.

And yet, she’s not as bad off as Pumpkin.

Who’s Pumpkin?

Is it Christina Ricci with her jack-o’-lantern-perfect bob–her Chantal Goya -meets- David Bowie Low surf perm?  That one little curl…so perfect…all the way ’round?

No.

It’s Hank Harris.

He’s Pumpkin.  Napoleon.  Lothario.

But Sam Ball is especially indispensable here.  [Ugh…]

He is Ken (actually Kent) to Ricci’s Barbie.

Tennis pro.

Spitting image of Ryan Reynolds.

Or Whitney Houston…

Anyway.

This cast brings it together.

Bringing it all back home are directors Anthony Abrams and Adam Larson Broder (neither of whom have a Wikipedia page).

BLOODY HELL, HOLLYWOOD!  HOW COULD YOU CHURN OUT SO MANY FILMS AND NOT SEE THE BRILLIANCE OF THESE TWO BLOKES!?!?!?!?!

But in the end it’s just Ricci and Hank Harris.

The brilliance of a duo.

A truly timeless film.

I’m inclined to agree with many (including Dr. Steve Pieczenik) that Adam Lanza did not exist.

But Pumpkin Romanoff (a nod to Michael Romanoff, the storied Lithuanian restaurateur of 1940s/50s Hollywood?) most certainly did exist.  For me.  Tonight.  When I needed him most.

This is immortality.

 

-PD

Week-end [1967)

You will not learn much on Wikipedia.  In this case.  It is a common problem.  The length of an entry indicates its importance to the English-speaking world.  You will not get a true sense of what this film is about.  To the English-speaking world, this film is apparently insignificant.

And so we turn to images.  Language has betrayed us.  Our mother tongue.

There we immediately find a better representation.  The Hermès handbag.

Yet still the film remains elusive.

Some might say barbaric.  Others, a film about nothing.

They are both right…and wrong.

It is Mozart who proves them wrong.  I will not give you a Köchel number.  We can’t be experts about everything.

This is not academic writing.  I take my leisure seriously.

Taken out of context, it is the rage of a spurned Hitchcock.

It is the red stub of Blandine Jeanson (c’est-à-dire Emily Brontë).

Perhaps it is the groovy sounds of Jean-Claude Vannier?

As Paul Gégauff plays (?), the man with the shovel shuffles away.  He is our stable element…briefly.

You see the trouble.

Is it barbarism to cradle the contrasting beauty?  Is it nothing to show that everything is something?

Not easy being cheesy…

This is why it is better not to attempt…to explain.

It has been done.  What’s the point?

Each tenured prophet will find his/her own signs.

The important thing is to give the immediate impression.  Do not go for a snack.  Attack the film, but not to analyze.  Attack your own feelings and emotions…and wrest them from oblivion to perhaps live a life of their own.  This is what we do.

From the first words, we cannot start like the rest.

The great folly would be to make Godard into God.  The greater folly to ignore the breathtaking precedence.

In art as war, pity the one to go first…running from the secure positions.

And so we embrace the greatest uncertainty.

The varieties of human experience people…have not visited my corner for census.

Nor Jean-Luc’s…here.  We can celebrate the hulking awkwardness of a master who is perfectly describing chaos.

It is not sloppy.  It is calculated.  But it is a non-terminating number.  An infinite precision.

Balance on one finger and eat banana cream pie.

Perfectly upside-down.

It is not clean and crisp.  Not easily digestible.

We look longingly for personality, but none is found…

And then a film like Week-end…all personality.  Character.  Eccentricity.  Color.  Vigor.

Buried in the footnotes of civilization is a question about civilization itself.

This.

It explains why we never succeeded in life.  Had we done so, it would have been a fluke.

We were not meant to succeed.  Search your heart and then regard the world…

There is an intrinsic disharmony.

Language is a popularity contest…gang-raped by technology.

Thus the survival of mankind depends on code:  poetry.

Poetry does not discard words.  Poetry constantly expands…like entropy.

No one predicted the end.  Google will fail.

When we stop mirroring our mirror.  It is too boring to relate.

Salvation is buried deep.  Takes some digging.

We have forgotten how to be properly disgusted.

-PD