https://open.spotify.com/track/4vF8NQlomHxVFWqVcijgfD?si=558afc2b444345d3
Recommended if you like:
Teenage Fanclub
my bloody valentine
Kevin Shields
Loveless
Mercury Rev
Flaming Lips
Clouds Taste Metallic
Wayne Coyne
Primal Scream
Bobby Gillespie
Glasgow
Grinderman
T. Rex
Marc Bolan
Oasis
Jesus and Mary Chain
Keith Richards
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
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
What happens in war?
The CDC declared war on the psyches of Americans when it started counting probable cases of coronavirus and probable deaths resulting from COVID as ACTUAL cases and ACTUAL deaths attributable to COVID-19.
CNN declared war on Donald Trump and waged this war for four-straight years by way of merciless propaganda.
In 1980, an anonymous group erected a mysterious stone structure in the United States which prioritized their stated desires starting thusly: “Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.”
[the world’s population at the time was 4.43 billion (meaning that this anonymous group thought there were about 4 billion excess humans on the planet)]
In 1910, seven men met in utmost secrecy just off the coast of the United States on Jekyll Island to plan what would become the Federal Reserve System.
Georgia.
Jayne Mansfield was, in all likelihood, a Satanist.
She died when the car in which she was traveling crashed into the back of a tractor-trailer just east of New Orleans.
Did Hitler have tinnitus?
20 July plot.
Operation Valkyrie.
1944.
Could we call those Nazis heroes?
They tried to assassinate Hitler with plastic explosives.
It failed.
But they fucked up his ears.
Kevin Spacey embodies evil in this film (and some might say, in real life).
I avoided watching this film for a long time…strictly because Spacey was in it.
It is well known that he took a trip to Africa aboard Jeffrey Epstein’s “Lolita Express”.
Sexual assault charges have been filed against Spacey by multiple people.
And multiple accusers have subsequently died.
If there is such a thing as the New World Order (some might just call it the Bilderberg Meetings), then Kevin Spacey might well be the most thoroughly-connected Hollywood actor.
It’s just a hunch.
But one thing is certain: Kevin Spacey possesses an amazing thespian talent.
Which brings us to another point.
Do we have to approve of the lifestyles of artists?
Not necessarily so.
I love Pablo Picasso’s work.
I don’t judge his work based on the details of his life.
So I am somewhat remiss to say: Kevin Spacey is brilliant in this film.
And if he be evil in real life, then he had no problem channeling that force for this role.
For he is, undoubtedly, the villain.
And yet, he is human.
There is shading.
Like a Dostoyevsky character.
No one is completely good.
And no one is completely bad.
Which brings us back to war.
We must respect our enemies.
If they indeed demand our respect.
If the Central Intelligence Agency was to have a primary asset in Hollywood, that asset might very well be Kevin Spacey.
Again, just a hunch.
And so we can appreciate brilliance.
Brilliance in conception.
Brilliance in execution.
There are many battlefields.
Many geometric planes on which to do battle.
Kevin Spacey is an infinitely-talented actor.
It is almost scary how deft he truly is.
This movie may have saved my romantic relationship.
My engagement.
On again after four hellish days of arguments.
Because music saves us.
And we make music.
There is a connection which no one can get at.
Our DNA is musical.
Thinking back to Jayne’s measurements.
And songs I’ve written.
A timely shock of hair.
A jawline.
A purity.
Thank you for your service.
Few industries are as sick and corrupt as the acting and music industries.
I know the latter firsthand.
There’s no such thing as a former KGB man.
When life was carefree in Austin, Texas.
Before Antifa ruined it.
Anything was possible.
Everything.
Summer nights.
Potential bursting from every moment.
A sensual heaviness to the air.
Humidity.
Crickets.
The 2020 election was stolen.
And Georgia was centerstage.
Ruby Freeman got caught.
On film.
And (apparently) paid no price.
But this travesty gave us at least one American hero: Lin Wood.
And now L. Lin Wood stands as one of the few remaining beacons in the darkness which has settled over America.
But there were other heroes.
Like Jesse Morgan.
What happened to his truck-full of ballots that he transported from Bethpage, New York to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania?
His truck disappeared.
The 2020 election was a heist of the most grand proportions.
Analog, digital…you name it.
Ask Phill Kline what happened to that truck.
Ask Anthony Shaffer.
The Amistad Project tried to preserve “one person, one vote” in America.
So far, not a single court in the land (post-election) has had the guts to look at the evidence.
And the evidence is embarrassingly-copious.
Jamie Foxx is excellent in this film.
Don’t underestimate the thug.
Street smarts and book smarts differ.
The latter can earn you a living.
The former can keep you alive.
Staying alive in the world of crime and secrecy (a deadly combination) is no small feat.
Especially when the stakes are high.
For criminals, cops are bad.
Unless the cops are corrupt.
In which case, the cops may very well be working to supply the criminals (among other things).
Which makes me think of the highly-questionable Eric Holder.
And the genre this movie emerges from.
A franchise and a genre.
Fast and furious.
We are the scum that keep it alive.
We are the 7 billion people who will not make the cut alluded to in the Georgia Guidestones.
But romance continues in war.
As love is more desperate.
And each moment savored more so.
A morsel here.
There.
We get bold.
Nerds of the world.
Quiet.
Wallflowers.
Desperate times.
Measured.
Yes, we have no bananas.
Just writing songs.
A potential deserter.
Every man has his breaking point.
Ansel Elgort is also brilliant in this film.
Edgar Wright may be the most important film director working in the world today.
This film is a masterpiece.
The problem is (and it’s hardly a problem), all his films are masterpieces.
I watch them repeatedly.
Wright is truly an auteur.
He is truly an indispensable filmmaker.
I didn’t GET that at first.
Just like I didn’t GET the first Grinderman record when it came out.
Some things take time.
Each artist has their own language.
You must first learn the language.
Maybe you can only run so long.
Which is why an army is not one man or one woman.
That day will come when you are not so lucky.
If you only have one memory.
It is priceless.
Can bad people do a good turn?
Yes.
And we pray that they see the light.
Can quiet nerds be bad motherfuckers?
You better believe it.
But they never stop being (simultaneously) fragile.
It is a tenuous balance.
Breathe on it and it collapses.
Yet no hurricane could shake it.
Love.
Chase it.
Fight for it.
Enjoy it.
Be thankful.
Seek it.
God is love.
We must reward those who stick with us.
It is the sweetest honey.
Death is certain.
Life is optional upon participation.
God bless.
-PD
Mediocre film.
For those keeping score at home, let me fill you in.
Simon Pegg is perhaps the most talented actor working these days.
Here’s the films of his which I know to be masterpieces:
Shaun of the Dead
Hot Fuzz
The World’s End
Yes, that’s right: the Three Flavours Cornetto trilogy.
It really is that good.
One might not think such possible.
But it is the case.
Close, but not quite up to that level is:
Paul
Another notch down (though it is very inventive):
A Fantastic Fear of Everything
In some ways, I want to put those last two I mentioned on the same level, but Paul features Nick Frost as well. It’s just too hard to beat.
All said, that’s FIVE essential films starring one actor.
Granted, Frost is in four of those.
Which brings us to this “other” part of Pegg’s oeuvre.
A Fantastic Fear of Everything proves that Pegg can do it without Frost, but there are some bone fide clunkers in Pegg’s oeuvre as well.
Terminal is mediocre.
Worth watching, but mediocre.
And, sadly, I would say the same about Kill Me Three Times.
On a positive note, Pegg is MUCH better in this film than he is in Terminal.
Mostly it’s because he’s allowed to act.
Allowed to bask in the spotlight.
But Kill Me Three Times has many problems (which take away from Pegg’s performance).
Let’s break it down.
The Oldsmobile Toronado with Western Australia plates is a nice touch.
Metallic puke green.
And Pegg with a nice Grinderman ‘stache.
You might be ahead of me.
Indeed, one of the problems from which Kill Me Three Times suffers is an over-adoration of Quentin Tarantino.
The mustachioed hitman is by now a trite trope.
There can be only one Pulp Fiction.
[itself merely a good (not great) movie]
While the story is not entirely original, I would like to congratulate writer James McFarland for doing what director Kriv Stenders did not:
create art.
There is some art (not much) in McFarland’s script.
Conversely, there is no art in Stender’s film.
No thought.
No inspiration.
[and, one would think by looking at it, no cinematographer]
A very uninspired directorial effort.
Now.
You might be wondering why I am so bitter.
BECAUSE I BOUGHT THIS MOVIE!
I don’t have the money to throw away on such a piece of shit.
That, and it’s an affront to those of us who create in spite of severe monetary limitations.
Perhaps the only inspired shots involve the security camera footage in the microwave on the pizza setting.
A good bit, that.
Good special effects here.
Realistic-looking deaths abound.
The ending is good.
Kinda funny.
In an Aussie way.
It’s a shame this film couldn’t have been made better.
The script was fine.
The actors were plenty talented.
It is just such a BLAND mise-en-scène.
Luke Hemsworth is pretty good here.
But the only thing that kept this watchable (aside from Pegg) is Teresa Palmer.
I thought director Stenders might deliver a truly-artful moment…finally…at the end…in the shower scene.
I was wrong.
-PD
Simon Pegg is a genius.
And so is Nick Frost.
So I must start secondly by saying, “Disregard my reviews of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz.”
I didn’t get it.
The style.
You must read an auteur in their language.
If the language is unintelligible, you can’t read them.
Now I get it [marginally].
And I love it.
This film is a masterpiece.
A deeply-flawed masterpiece (in the grand scheme of things).
But these two blokes come shining through.
Pegg and Frost.
I first encountered them in the film Paul.
I really liked them.
That film is much less of the gore.
Not part of the “Cornetto trilogy” (yes, the ice-cream cone).
But I would encourage all who can to grab a box of Drumsticks (if Cornettos be not available) and delve into this oeuvre.
I almost didn’t make it through The World’s End.
I had almost had my fill of this “comedy horror”.
But the dialogue did it.
Specifically, the scene where Pegg get the “lamp” to fuck off.
Brilliant dialogue.
These films are just funny as fuck.
And the characters are lovable.
Pegg and Frost have a great chemistry.
You know, there have been several times in my life where I’ve encountered a creation that I at first hated, and then subsequently went on to love.
One was the first Grinderman album.
It was so hyped.
Overhyped.
There’s no way it could live up to the critical accolades that I had been smothered with before hearing it.
I made it a few tracks in and gave up.
Overrated.
Waste of money.
But then I came back to it.
Gave it a second chance.
And it blossomed.
It spoke to me.
And so I would like to thank Simon Pegg and Nick Frost (and director Edgar Wright) for making such enduring creations (though they be in the guise of vacuous shite).
It takes a lot of courage to foist upon the world something as bold as the Three Flavours Cornetto trilogy.
I am glad I “got it” before I chunked the whole thing in the dustbin.
Just barely.
-PD
There’s something special about Scotland.
Several of my favorite bands are from there.
The Delgados. Teenage Fanclub. Primal Scream.
And it is this final band which really sums up this film.
The British really have never learned how to make films.
There are two major exceptions:
Chaplin and Hitchcock.
Why would they be exceptions?
Because they made their best films in America. Hollywood.
It’s ironic.
Because Chaplin and Hitchcock are perhaps the two best. Ever.
Hitchcock was the better director. Perhaps the most important ever.
But Chaplin was the bigger genius. His talent was limitless.
So my insult is not meant to imply that the British can’t make timeless films.
They can.
But perhaps not in Britain.
But this whole British blah blah blah.
This film is going in my new category: Scotland.
Another of my favorite bands (Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci) is Welsh.
I hope to have that category someday. Wales.
And last but not least: Ireland.
Which is not to say I don’t have a fond place in my heart for England.
I do.
Manchester. Liverpool. Bristol. Birmingham. Newcastle. I could go on.
But we’re here to talk about Scotland. And this film.
Trainspotting is, at once, a great film and not a great film. Simultaneously.
Let me explain.
7/7
Looks like as much of a false-flag synthetic terror…the state attacking its own people as.
9/11
Heroin addicts don’t know what day it is. Not to mention the “date”.
Heroin addicts don’t know what month it is. Even the year is a bit fuzzy.
They’re fairly sure that a new century has ticked over.
Ewan McGregor is pretty great here. In his too-small shirt. Accidentally shagging a minor.
Oops.
Ewen Bremner is good here. Especially the job interview.
Beautiful to hear English which begs for subtitles.
Jonny Lee Miller has the best hair. Like Thom Yorke once upon a time.
Bleach-blond chop.
But McGregor has the utilitarian buzz cut. The sad skinhead.
Spud on the curb. Talking up at Diane.
And Sick Boy always prattling on about James Bond movies. [like me]
Kevin McKidd is classic rifling through his VHS collection. Desperately.
Kelly Macdonald is a revelation.
But Robert Carlyle is really the only indispensable element of this entire film.
He’s not great. And yet he’s better than great.
Danny Boyle’s direction is generally daft.
It’s good. Then it’s great. Then it sucks.
But I’ll say this: this is an essential film.
You can’t know rock and roll without knowing this film.
Boyle lifted the DNA of rock (with the help of Irvine Welsh).
The story’s alright. The direction is passable.
But Robert Carlyle is a goddamned miracle.
He’s not conveying anything sublime.
But he’s conveying Scotland.
To me.
King Tut’s Wah-Wah Hut.
Yeah, I know…Edinburgh.
But it’s just as applicable to Glasgow.
I hear it in the music of Primal Scream.
And it shows up in the music of another of my favorites: Spiritualized.
And I hear it in the ravaging sounds of Nick Cave circa Grinderman.
The Anglophone world.
We Americans speak the weirdest.
Especially in my neck of the woods. Texas. The South.
But even New York. The Northeast.
There’s one more essential element about this film: Iggy Pop.
From “Lust For Life” to “Nightclubbing”, these tunes are moments of crystalized perfection.
Even Lou Reed is well-represented with “Perfect Day”.
If you wanna understand scumbag rock and roll, see this film.
Because the rockers are alive.
They have shite lives.
They live on nothing.
Unless they get lucky.
But there’s a vitality to their way of life.
See them in their natural habitat 🙂
-PD
[IVAN THE TERRIBLE, PART I (1944)]
Have you ever used Russian Wikipedia?
Because you can’t just type Ivan the Terrible.
You can’t even type Ivan Grozny.
Not least, you cannot type NBaH rpo3HbIN yactb I.
No, certainly not.
But by that point, you are close.
Funny thing about the Cold War was that it was cold.
No shooting.
At least the big guns.
Boom boom.
It was an economic war.
It would really be unfair to capitalism to claim that it didn’t win.
Ah, good old capitalism.
Capitalism is bad in a lot of ways, but it is an economic beast.
Communism is good in a lot of ways, but it got its butt kicked by capitalism.
But our story predates Marx and Lenin by centuries (even though it was commissioned by Stalin).
What we have here is a masterpiece of Soviet film: Ivan the Terrible (Part I).
It’s important. Part I. Часть I.
Because Часть II wouldn’t appear for another 14 years (Stalin was a fickle patron).
And Часть III would never appear. [It was destroyed after the director’s death.]
And what a director!
Sergei Eisenstein was a true auteur in every sense of the word.
When he died in 1948, Часть III more or less went with him.
Considering that, it’s amazing that Часть II itself even survived.
It was only the “Khrushchev thaw” which occasioned its eventual release in 1958.
But the year is 1944.
And the year is also 1547.
16 January 1547.
And Ivan (though he doesn’t look it in the film) is 16 years old.
It’s not Reims.
But it rhymes with…Bosco?
If it had a rhyme, Bob Dylan would have smacked it right down in the middle of The Freewheelin‘ or Another Side…
Good old Moscow! Москва́
Something like that…
And so we see a truly riveting coronation (this is not really a spoiler…1547).
We must remember what “the Terrible” meant.
Or means.
As I understand it…it’s neither good nor bad.
Terrible as in terror…but also as in “fear God”.
Perhaps I have botched it.
grozny (miniscule). As opposed to the capital of Chechnya.
Let me just say this:
Nikolay Cherkasov (in this film) is the spitting image of Nick Cave.
[God forbid an iconoclast get ahold of a spitting image!]
Some might need a further clarification.
I mean the Nick Cave from Warracknabeal, Australia.
Not the one from Fulton, Missouri.
Clear?
“2000 years of Christian history baby/and you ain’t learned to love me yet”
Something like that.
Ivan the Terrible “read that book from back to front”.
“It made a deep impression” (on his forehead).
But they didn’t have BBC Radio 4 in Russia in 1547.
So not even a gift of a chess set could cause Queen Elizabeth to beam a broadcast of Gardeners’ Question Time over to Ivan.
Alas, he was on his own…
Boyars be boyin’ [if you know what I mean].
I must admit, I’m rather proud of myself for figuring this out.
To wit, Михаил Названов looks like Gene Wilder as Jesus.
Tsk tsk, English Wikipedia.
Which is to say, Andrey Kurbsky is played by Mikhail Nazvanov.
Every epic needs a great beauty 🙂
And Lyudmila Tselikovskaya is no exception.
She is chaste (and chased).
English Wikipedia gives no hypertext love.
But there is an article.
She was from Astrakhan.
And here she portrays Ivan’s bride Anastasia.
Such a lovely word…tsarina.
And by Astrakhan we certainly don’t mean Canadian military fur wedge cap.
Clear?
Ivan the Terrible is basically Donald Trump (for anyone needing a reference).
Which is why Stalin identified with Ivan.
Putin is another good reference point.
For that matter, Pavel Kadochnikov’s effeminate, moronic character is a good symbol for the past 16 years of American presidency. Imagine W. as a metrosexual in 16th-century Russia. You’ve got it! 16 & 16.
Marriage is the end of friendship (in more ways than two).
And so Philip II, Metropolitan of Moscow heads off to the monastery.
But at this time he was just Feodor Kolychev.
Family Glinski mentioned. Family Zakharin mentioned.
But the House of Romanov takes an extra effort.
Anastasia’s side.
Do you remember Kazan from Quantum of Solace?
I never properly expressed my admiration for that film.
Tosca in Bregenz. Exquisite!
Back to Kazan… Poor saps vs. rich saps.
And military strategy comes to the fore. That of Ivan.
Their strength was sapped. One letter from tapped.
That would be Operation Gold!
There’s a Tartar sauce of brutality (?) reminiscent of ¡Que viva México! (remember the horses and the buried guys???).
Same camera angles.
En plein air version of coronation. The doubters. Maybe Eisenstein took a thing or two from Welles?
Because Citizen Kane was 1941.
The Soviet Union joined the Allies in June 1941.
Citizen Kane premiered the previous month and would open in theaters across the U.S. the coming September.
So we wonder whether one of the first “chess sets” of understanding was a copy of Welles’ film.
Back to these Tartars. That’s just the Western version of Tatar.
An extra R (gratis).
You may need some tarragon as well.
It certainly wasn’t “Palisades Park” for these poor Tartars.
No Freddy Cannon sound effects to distract them before being picked off by (demonym-for-people-from-Kazan) arrows.
It’s almost a Thelonious goatee. Pharaonic. Sun Ra-nese.
Over and over we hear of Livonia.
Reval (which is today Tallinn, Estonia).
An iron curtain required iron men.
Oprichnina. A policy.
Oprichnik. Of the Oprichniki. Political police.
Oath of allegiance (starting to sound like Dale Cooper).
But lets not get caught up in bikeshedding.
This film is a masterpiece throughout.
-PD
Quarante-et-un. Quarante-deux.
Quarante trois.
Goddamn, life is sad.
This is not a film to be watched once.
And not a film for young minds (though the pearly Lisbeth Movin gausses gossamer every vignette).
Form ever follows function. So sayeth Louis Sullivan.
Your gauss is as good as mien.
Meshes of the afternoon blur her tearstained smile.
Movin’ on up, now.
In evolution. Function ever following form.
Invocation vs. induction.
Carl Friedrich’s magnetic flux density.
88 miles-per-hour for all us schmucks out there.
Who is crazier:
the witches or the witch hunt?
The conspirators or the conspiracy theorists?
Myths overlaid like handiwork upon reality.
So that all of life is misunderstood.
Religion.
Not a theory, but a story.
A hall-of-mirrors lens.
Same.
17th century.
By my watch.
What century you got?
The witch craze.
The accusation frenzy.
Hysteria. Wisteria. Listeria.
Meanwhile, there was a fucking war going on.
Day of Wrath. Dies irae. Rachmaninov obsessed with the downward spiral.
Televised executions.
The Houellebecq method of citation.
Tag and seek.
Luddites invading Fort Meade.
Digital grinders. And grindermen.
That USJFCOM found an enemy at a propitious time.
Inviting Christensen down from Harvard Business School to disrupt.
From Häxan through the Swedish.
Most everything passes through Denmark here.
The last executioner.
The founder (with a Grinder man) of neuro-linguistic programming who was charged with murder.
Age differences in relationships. [Aha! A sesame seed!!]
Pagans. Odin. Wednesday.
Hair parted right down the middle like John Waters’ mustache migrated due north (prove that you’re not a robot).
Professional videogame player?!? Where’s the market for that…
And, of course, The Gambia. No industrial light nor magic there.
White white white.
White man say all good thing come from him.
White man invent every innovation.
White man naturally attracted to white woman.
A Victoria’s Secret Angel with leprosy. Yowzah!
Norwegian jazz. A bit like Utah jazz.
But, most of all, yodelers!
Which is how I got on this string.
The grave importance of string theory.
Because her needlepoint tells a story.
A mother walking hand-in-hand with a son.
But the mother is the younger one.
The two mothers.
One a goddess of archetype.
The other a bored housewife.
You actually have to go back to 1590 for this kind of boredom.
But it comes alive. Kiss.
Thanks to Dreyer. A true auteur. A true Danish genius.
Anna Svierkier acts her flabby behind off.
Thorkild Roose looks like Hume Cronyn in Brewster’s Millions (1985).
Such sad perfection from Sigrid Neiiendam.
It is not the hero role for Preben Lerdorff Rye.
No Ordet, this.
He might be stuck in the bog. Or he might have gone around the bog.
It’s like a bad porno.
But Movin is a star on the order of Adrianna Nicole.
The Blue Bunny.
Brown is the Warmest Color.
Somebody please cast Adrianna Suplick in something.
Suplick? Movin. [Golly.]
Which is to say that Lisbeth Movin fills up the screen like a supernova.
Collapsing. Prolapsing. Yikes…
Her husband cofounded the works at Hellerup.
Ketchup.
Godspeed you b!ack emperor tomato
Spells ALM. And nobody thought code.
Fearsome beauty of genius.
-PD
This might be the most depressing film of all time.
And that’s not nothing.
I seem to remember. Thurston Moore.
A Rolling Stone review of Lou Reed’s album Berlin.
The fucked-up kids will always search out these masterpieces.
Because they are forbidden.
Like the strange death of James Forrestal.
The first U.S. Secretary of Defense.
But let’s back to cinema. [sic]
Let’s active.
Trains.
I often dream of trains.
Such an important part of my lineage.
Whether there were drunkards or not, I have no idea.
But train men there were many in my family.
Enough.
We think it’s gonna be like La Roue of Abel Gance.
That 273-minute behemoth.
But it’s only the trappings which match.
Perhaps, dear reader, you are more perceptive than I.
But I couldn’t have seen this ending coming in a million years.
Like the Maginot Line being overrun.
This was 1938. Jean Renoir.
Madness. Madness.
On the precipice of World War II.
Not history.
But present.
It must be ever present.
We must be terrified of history.
And to each of us is given a special area to study.
I long labored in the musical mines. Studying birdsongs.
But one day I escaped my cage.
And I lived to see the blowout.
Jericho, Kentucky.
But now I am given over to film.
Because I am too old to be a rock star.
“My face is finished/My body’s gone”
It would be a miracle of spectacle for me to be relevant again in the most venal of concert halls.
And so we move on to opera. Silent film. Quail eggs.
Madness vs. madness.
When magazine was a store.
And journal was a newspaper.
When was that?
The false-friends attack of language. Cognates. Faux.
Gripping his steam engine. A night without sleep.
La Bête Humaine. The human beast. Monster.
Fighting it. Fighting it.
The banality of evil had already suffused Europe by 1938.
And so we live with a corpse throughout most of this film.
Pocket watch. Wallet full of dough.
But Simone Simon is already flirting her way to destiny.
Der müde Tod.
Femme fatale. Serial. Concatenation of sickly sweet roles.
Roles.
Jean Gabin.
Here’s to you, my friend!
And Julien Carette. Always sucking on that cigarette.
We begin to covet the boring comfort of his life.
Living from one cigarette to the next.
Vive le tabac!
Piss-poor English Wikipedia will not tell you that Monsieur Carette was an integral part of Renoir’s masterpiece La Règle du jeu. Not, that is, if you are looking at his page.
And so, dear reader, I am here to make those connections for you.
Perhaps they will mean nothing.
Perhaps they will mean everything.
Let me just say this…
La Bête Humaine was an extremely brave film to make in 1938.
More Hitchcock than anything Hitch had made up till that point.
Ahead of its time, yes.
But most particularly…symptomatic of that age of anxiety.
-PD
paulydeathwish 