Pretty damned funny.
And yet, not artful.
No Borat here.
But still funny as hell.
In the head.
Pretty damned funny.
And yet, not artful.
No Borat here.
But still funny as hell.
In the head.
It’s been a long time.
And a rough time.
Cousin died of a heart attack.
Freaked me the fuck out.
I was sick for two months.
Had to start taking heart medicine.
Thought I could sleep it off.
But, more so, overwhelming fear.
My cousin went at age 43.
Like a thief in the night.
And here I am sittin’ at age 40.
Jesus has happened to me.
A funny thing happened on the way to my mid-life crisis…
Sure 🙂 Whatever…
Doesn’t matter what you call it.
Just matters that grieving can fuck you up.
Our minds are fragile.
And I am not used to death.
I am not a hardened individual.
I have seen a lot of things.
But I haven’t seen a lot of death.
So my cousin’s death fucked me up.
But I’m back.
And I’m getting better than ever.
Which brings us to this film: The Big Lebowski.
You know, I used to be such a snobby prick.
Probably still am in some people’s eyes.
But believe me: life has brought me low.
And so I say prayers…all the time…for anyone I’ve ever hurt.
Anyone I’ve ever insulted.
Karma follow us.
And thus the East-West divide of The Big Lebowski.
Cowboys as Confucians.
My cousin was a cowboy.
Big, Copenhagen-dipping hoss!
I miss that motherfucker.
Shit, I miss Copenhagen 🙂
The city and the tobacco…
Well, at least Denmark.
Never been to København.
My new readers (if I have any) might be wondering, “Does he have to curse so much?”
I’m working on it.
I don’t know how to be me.
I love God.
I believe in Jesus.
And I drop f-bombs everywhere…when I write.
Let me explain: Pauly Deathwish is a persona.
It’s me, to a certain extent.
But it’s also the badass (failed) musician who toured the world in Young Heart Attack (yes, you read right) and Lost Bayou Ramblers.
I am that guy.
And I am getting back to music.
After 2 1/2 torturous years in business school.
Now I have a BM and an MBA.
[bachelor’s of music is the first one…in case you were wondering]
The Big Lebowski.
Is a masterpiece.
This is The Beatles’ of films.
Everyone loves it.
And should love it.
Film snobs will scoff at it (as I once did).
But I have seen the error of my ways.
Life is too fucking hard to forego a laugh.
I needed this film tonight.
I needed John Goodman.
I needed Jeff Bridges.
And I needed les frères Coen 🙂
Being a snob is a hard habit to break.
Critic is just another word for snob.
And cursing is really hard to quit…once you’re balls-deep.
“What the fuck are you talking about…man?”
The exception that PROVES the rule?
I don’t know.
Etymology has shifted.
Words have taken on their opposite meanings.
Much stranger than dialectics.
Defined by opposition.
No, that is much simpler.
Yin and yang.
But language is slippery.
And, so, do not fear…dear friends.
I am back.
I am scared as shit.
But here I am, writing my ass off.
Trying to bring you some glimmer of REAL in this world of fake.
That is the whole point.
We are searching for those treasures…
We want to keep our best moments.
We love vérité.
I owe to Jesus my salvation.
I am a sinner.
No better than any other man or woman.
I have a long road to walk (God willing)…to get back to the godliness I once knew.
But the point is simple: all glory to God!
It is not my doing.
I am saved by the grace of the Lord.
This may sound like psychobabble.
That is fine 🙂
Don’t worry about a thing, my friends.
Love one another. And seek God.
God is love.
I hope to bring you many more film reviews.
I praise God for this opportunity to share my writing with you.
Thank you for reading.
God bless you.
I love you all.
This is a perfect, imperfect film.
Like Russell’s paradox.
And I hope director Lisa Langseth won’t go all Frege on me and jump out a window.
I have spoiled nothing.
And my words are almost completely inconsequential.
But similar things have been said about La Règle du jeu.
And I disagree with that.
In 1939, Jean Renoir made an unqualified (perfect) masterpiece with that film.
I qualified it only to distinguish from my initial example.
And so Pure (the title of this Swedish film which is currently on Netflix in the U.S.) is much like Asia Argento’s almost-masterpiece Incompresa.
I will be quite blunt.
Lisa Langseth stretches in almost the exact same dimension that Argento did with her fine film.
But the real similarity is acting perfection.
For a young child, Giulia Salerno was magnificent (really!) in Argento’s film.
And so Ms. Argento had the secret weapon.
A (very young) actress capable of cine-magic.
Ms. Langseth was blessed with more-or-less the same thing.
But even better.
[perhaps because the actress was a little older and more experienced]
Alicia Vikander makes Till det som är vackert go.
I mean, really…this is an acting performance unlike any other.
And so my only gripe with Ms. Langseth, the director, is that she stretched the story TOO FAR.
But that’s ok.
Because, you know what? Maybe I’m wrong.
Langseth and Argento both seem to be trying to tell every story they’ve ever lived…IN ONE FILM.
Argento is the guiltier party.
For most of Pure, Langseth sticks to a taut plot.
Buttressed by Vikander’s exquisite acting, the sum total is ecstasy.
And so, I find myself reacting against the Hitchcock tendency in two films.
Some directors NEED a good dose of Hitchcock.
Wes Anderson, for example.
That guy is so saccharine…that when the fingers come off in Grand Budapest, we finally have a filmmaker.
But Langseth and Argento are telling GRUELING stories throughout (in Pure and Misunderstood, respectively).
And so the heavy bass note…the one which when slammed births the 9th harmonic…it doesn’t work here.
Because the tritone.
To progress through the harmonic series.
And resolve on a tritone.
It takes a special auteur to do such.
And these two ladies are not the dodecaphonists to do so.
They have not worked out a coherent system to justify their heart-ripping atonality.
But fear not.
Pure is so, so, so worth watching!
This is as close as a film can get to masterpiece while still being flawed.
And it’s so very close, I’m wondering whether the flawed one is me.
Let me correct the record (ouch…David “Scumbag” Brock)…
We get noodles with ketchup.
I mean, this film is Gummo real.
So I want to give some BIG compliments.
Till det som är vackert is the best Swedish film ever made by anyone not named Ingmar Bergman.
In fact, it’s BETTER than several of Bergman’s films.
Shall I name names?
Pure is worlds (WORLDS) better than Fanny and Alexander.
Bergman was in poseur mode.
That flick is so overrated.
And Lisa Langseth totally smokes (eats the lunch of) Bergman.
Further, Till det som är vackert is (in my humble, masculine opinion) the greatest feminist film since 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days…and in some ways EVEN BETTER than that timeless masterpiece.
And so, in general, I bow down in worship to Pure.
We have homelessness.
We have mental illness.
We have resilience.
Naturalism. Grit. The bird-soul of music…
The only thing we needed was an editor.
About 20 minutes before the end.
Because Ms. Langseth wants to give us redemption.
She just seems to have her Raskolnikov in the wrong pocket.
I’m the daftest son of a bitch on the planet.
One last thing…
This movie moved me so much.
The bulk of this film.
Did something to me.
And sublimely enlightening.
And so I thank God for Lisa Langseth and Alicia Vikander.
God bless you.
Thank you for making this kind of art.
As Nick Cave sang,
“It’s beauty that’s gonna save the world now”.
My dear friends, it is so good to be alive 🙂
But very difficult to be sick.
I must admit, it took me two days to watch this film.
This one hit a little too close to home.
But that’s ok.
Yes, I am finally feeling better on the allergy front.
Now I am struggling with that old nemesis of mine: nicotine.
Yep, that’s right.
Trying to kick that habit.
Whoa (woozy feeling)…
Maybe did that a little too fast 🙂
But most of all, you know, every day I struggle with anxiety.
I don’t usually address it in such naked terms.
But it is fair here to talk about this biggest of all struggles for me.
Because Frank is a film about mental illness.
You know, if you apply for a job, you might get a “questionnaire” enquiring about your health.
America is very “democratic” and “fair” in hiring processes, but still these questionnaires persist.
And I suppose the last round of jobs I applied for (merely two) opened my eyes to the reality of my situation a bit.
Looking down the list of “conditions”, I realized I must (to be honest) check two boxes.
[Though the questionnaire was “voluntary”]
So I have “anxiety disorder” (big time!) and asthma (not so bad, but it can pop up).
So wow…I thought…man, these are listed as “disabilities” (if I remember correctly).
While some people might celebrate a disability condition, for me it’s not really cause for cheering.
But then I thought, “Wait…are these really disabilities?”
Well, I’m not going to give a medical/legal ruling on that (because, frankly [no pun intended] I don’t know).
But I know one thing: anxiety can be totally debilitating.
I’ve had a really hard time readjusting to “life” after two and a half years of intense graduate studies.
I graduated about a month ago.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum…
My body just kinda shut down…gradually…in different ways.
That momentum which had carried me across the finish line evaporated.
And so life hasn’t been a bowl of cherries.
Anxiety is a bitch!
When I have nothing to realistically worry about, I find something.
If there is something from which worry can be derived, I will find it.
And it will drive me nuts.
At a certain point, one has to laugh at the ridiculousness of such an impulse.
[It’s not something I can very well control, you understand.]
And that brings us to our film Frank.
Frank is a fucked up guy.
Imagine the Jack in the Box guy from the commercials with the big fake head.
And then have that guy lead a rock band.
This film really defies all description.
So we have to dig a bit to really delineate what is going on in this masterful film.
First of all, this film has caused me to create a new category in my global survey of cinema for a country which I love (for a multitude of reasons): Ireland.
Yes, Frank is an Irish film.
Funny enough, no one in the film has an Irish accent.
[Which begs the question, “Is it really an Irish film?”]
But I’m calling it an Irish film because I really admire the balls it took Lenny Abrahamson to make this picture.
Our director, Mr. Abrahamson, was born in Dublin in 1966.
Ok, it’s Irish (at least as far as “auteur theory” goes).
There’s something about Ireland which I get from the eccentrics.
James Joyce was the master of them all.
I will read Finnegans Wake till my dying day and still glory in the fact that I have no REAL idea what it’s truly about 🙂
But this film, Frank, takes us to a place I know very well: rock and roll.
And more specifically: indie rock.
It is a “genre” which attracts the most far-out individuals in the world.
And I must say, there were several times in this film where I could feel the spirit of one of my favorite bands of all time.
An Irish group.
Our director is 50. I’m 40.
Maybe our frames of reference are different.
Youngsters might think Animal Collective or even the arduous process which produced Arcade Fire’s tortured Reflektor.
But Frank makes me think of that early-90s noise-pop wave which was spearheaded by bands like (my favorite group ever) Mercury Rev and Rollerskate Skinny.
When I see Frank, I see David Baker.
But I know my history.
I’ve studied weirdos all my life.
So I also see David Thomas of Pere Ubu.
And of course Don van Vliet (a.k.a. Captain Beefheart).
Frank is certainly a film which the “Pitchfork generation” should be able to get behind.
I’ve had dinner with Roky Erickson.
I’ve seen what Frank is groping for.
Yes, it’s that madness which made Syd Barrett great.
But such madness comes with a price.
We can listen to that first Pink Floyd album (The Piper at the Gates of Dawn)…songs like “Lucifer Sam” where Barrett is brilliant.
And we can trace that brilliance to his solo album The Madcap Laughs…songs like “No Good Trying”.
But to be SO fucked up…to be SO far out…it ain’t fun.
I’ve heard about Roky Erickson’s time at the Rusk State Hospital for the criminally insane.
It’s not a pretty picture.
But let’s talk about this damn film 🙂
It had me hooked once I caught faint traces of those first two Mercury Rev albums (Yerself is Steam and Boces) in the sounds I was hearing emanating from Soronprfbs.
The perfect name to describe the obtuse band at the center of our story.
Here’s a band so weird, they don’t even know how to pronounce their own name (when they show up at SXSW).
[But I’m getting ahead of myself]
First, I was wrong about Irish accents.
Indeed, Frank is such a bizarre film that one soon forgets that Domhnall Gleeson is speaking in one for the entirety 🙂
Gleeson is in the right place at the right time.
It’s happened to me.
I once got a MySpace message (remember those days?) and spent the next four years in a Cajun punk rock band.
It can happen.
Those were the best years of my life.
But it’s HARD!
Taking a van back and forth (and back and forth) across the country.
Flying (I hate flying) to awesome, bizarre locales.
For someone with bad anxiety, these aren’t easy tasks.
And we see that in the character of Frank.
As I said, Frank has problems.
Somehow, Gleeson joins Frank’s band Soronprfbs.
And the rest is a whipsaw of insanity.
No, Frank is not a relaxing watch, but it is hilarious!
And very meaningful!!
Soronprfbs, as a band, is a shambles.
[not to be confused with Babyshambles]
There were several times when I caught glimpses of the weirdness that is another of my most favorite bands: The Homosexuals.
But, this film can hardly be reviewed properly without talking about The Residents.
Soronprfbs are mythic (if only in their own minds).
Their fame, however, grows.
And with fame, stage fright.
It happens to even the most grounded individuals (like Robbie Robertson).
But nothing fits the bill quite like Mercury Rev.
Soronprfbs are apt to have fights on stage.
Perhaps one member tries to gouge another’s eye out on a transatlantic flight.
That kind of stuff.
Sure, Oasis have had mid-air spats about blueberry scones.
And maybe The Sex Pistols only played to twelve people (or whatever) at their first show.
But Soronprfbs, for me, is that band which would hang electric guitars from the ceiling and let them feed back for the entirety of a show.
Which is to say, Mercury Rev.
But let me pull in the younger folks.
Think, for example, The Brian Jonestown Massacre.
Obvious mental problems.
Or is it just a put-on?
And let’s go back…
Jim Morrison being totally whacked out of his gourd onstage.
But no, Soronprfbs is weirder…and far more obscure.
Think, for instance, Alan Vega leading Suicide in a performance at CBGB’s.
The writers of our film (Jon Ronson and Peter Straughan) will probably know everything I’m talking about [were they to ever read this].
Because they (or at least one of them…Ronson?) know the mechanism which attracts so many of us to BANDS.
[“those funny little plans/that never work quite right”]
That mechanism is mystery.
But in this case, it is the mystery of reclusive eccentricity.
Put simply, madness.
[not to be confused with the band Madness]
So Ronson and Straughan even include the perfect musical instrument to act as a talisman for their tale: the theremin.
And they even get the character’s name right: Clara.
[after theremin virtuoso Clara Rockmore]
The theremin has a long history in eccentric rock and roll.
Indeed, late in Frank when we see our dejected main character sleeping in his bathrobe at the French Quarter Inn (a fleabag motel), his sartorial sense evokes Brian Wilson’s rough years.
Yes, the theremin goes back to at least “Good Vibrations” and the zaniness which was The Beach Boys’ album Smile.
But the theremin has come to embody the obtuse and pretentious in rock and roll.
And so it is no wonder that bands such as Jon Spencer Blues Explosion picked up on this wooziest of all instruments.
Which brings us finally to a salient point.
Frank includes at least one star:
Gyllenhaal plays stone-cold bitch Clara: Frank’s girlfriend.
[remember, Frank is the guy with the papier-mâché head…and he never takes it off…ever]
Gyllenhaal’s character is unlikable in just about every way imaginable.
And it makes me appreciate her acting.
Indeed, God bless Ms. Gyllenhaal for taking this film role.
It’s a lot like Charlotte Gainsbourg’s role in Misunderstood (2014) and makes me appreciate the dramatic tension of Gainsbourg’s role more than I initially did.
Which is to say, Gyllenhaal is very much the villain of Frank.
A bit like a dominatrix version of June Chadwick in This Is Spinal Tap.
Which is to further say, Gyllenhaal is playing off her typecast from Secretary of being one bad bitch.
And she pulls it off.
But Gyllenhaal is the least important element of Frank.
It would ruin things to tell you just how Michael Fassbender figures into this film, but let’s just say he’s indispensable.
[Fassbender, by the way, is half-Irish (his mother being born in County Antrim)]
A lot of our action happens in what could pass for Tarbox Road Studios.
Indeed, there is a lot of Wayne Coyne in the character of Frank as well.
But the sounds are closer to those which Mercury Rev conjured at SUNY-Buffalo for their debut album.
Likewise, the seclusion which goes into making the great Soronprfbs album reminds me of the ramshackle (yet bucolic) process which led to my favorite album of all time: Mercury Rev’s Deserter’s Songs.
As alluded to earlier, Soronprfbs eventually make their way to my old stomping grounds: the South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas.
I was a bit wistful seeing the Ritz Theater (now an Alamo Drafthouse) on 6th Street in one shot.
Indeed, I remember playing an “unplugged”, solo gig there back when it was still a cavernous, multilevel, piece-of-shit music venue (pool hall).
Funny enough, a lot of the tension in Frank revolves around that old chestnut of a band “selling out”.
Perhaps the funniest scene in the movie is when Frank presents his “most likable music ever” in the motel room.
Which is to say, this movie may not appeal to everyone.
But if you’re a rock musician (especially a weirdo like me), you’ve gotta see this.
There are a couple of scenes which make the whole thing worthwhile.
It’s funny that Soronprfbs bassist François Civil bears a striking resemblance to Dave Fridmann circa-1991.
[just another detail which cemented the genius of this film for me]
But there are other seeming references in this film.
A bit of Stereolab (with all the Moogy wonder).
The stilted “artfulness” of Blonde Redhead.
And even the bollocks, pulseless blech of Low.
Yes, Soronprfbs and their “side projects” seem to catch just about every hue in the indie rock kaleidoscope.
Director Abrahamson (and writers Ronson and Straughan) do a nice job of converting Domhnall Gleeson’s internal monologue into a social media thread which runs through this movie.
Gleeson is on Twitter, YouTube, a blog, etc.
But the funniest is the beginning…and it is the hook which reeled me in.
To hear Gleeson’s musical mind attempt to craft quirky pop songs out of mundane details of his Irish town is a real knee-slapper.
Because, as they say, IT’S SO TRUE!
So if you’ve ever written songs, witness in the first five minutes of this film the real torture it is to make lemonade out of a lemon life.
Be forewarned (or enticed): Frank is WAY OUT THERE!
Some elements of this film are so non sequitur that they were a bit hard for my weakened, nicotine-craving immune system to handle.
In the end, this is a sad story.
But with joy, pain.
There is great joy in Frank.
Sometimes we realize we’re not in Kansas anymore…
and it’s a rough patch.
The Technicolor of life can be too much to handle.
But take courage, dear friends…
Like Gong’s great song “Rational Anthem”…from that hard-to-find Magick Brother…their debut.
[Get on that, Spotify]
Miracles can happen.
And, to quote Albert Ayler, “music is the healing force of the universe”.
This might be the one great key of the 20th century.
The skeleton key, so to speak.
We have one of the great directors of all time (Fritz Lang) laying out the operational details of criminal conspiracies.
But perhaps even more, we have the fine line between genius and madness which Hitler was beginning to toe.
It is important to note that Hitler was synonymous with the Nazi party.
He was their God, so to speak.
And yet it seems to me that Hitler was not particularly bright.
A fiery orator? No doubt.
But not really a criminal mastermind.
No. There were others.
Things were just getting going in 1933.
become enthralled by intellect.
As our minds are stimulated, we sometimes lose track of any ethical grounding.
Which is to say, intellectuals are the most dangerous.
I would like to fancy myself an intellectual, but I will let the Order decide that.
Yes, dear friends…there is no other way to put it.
Fritz Lang, the prophet, is clearly delineating a criminal Order which would come to rule the world in the 20th century.
His message is far-reaching.
The methods outlined in Das Testament des Dr. Mabuse are perhaps most applicable today.
The 21st century (which began on 9/11/01).
Terror for the sake of terror.
The man behind the curtain.
It is no small detail.
Every detail drives Otto Wernicke to the brink of madness.
He is the portly J. Edgar of this affair.
In Wernicke’s case, his opposition are mad geniuses.
Goethes of crime.
Rudolf Klein-Rogge sums up the problem.
Knowledge is inextricable from high-level criminal insanity.
Dr. Mabuse has studied too much.
And so he spools out reams of handwritten blather.
He reexamines language.
Hinting at post-structuralism.
Language, year 0.
Whirls and whorls and squiggles.
And slowly the comatose “brains” of the operation finds himself a new body.
Each one well-paid. And each compartmentalized in their knowledge.
We must come back to Max Weber for this one.
A couple of times the word. simuliert.
That he could be faking it.
Madness. To avoid the punishment he deserved.
But it seems rather that the psychiatrists have been infinitely engrossed in the case histories of their patients. [Which is to say in their patients themselves.]
The psychiatrists have the secrets of the 20th century.
And the science rolls on.
On the one hand, we have Ewen Cameron of Project MKUltra.
On the other we have Dr. Steve Pieczenik.
And it is at this point which we need to discuss the counterintelligence apparatus of the Order: 2-B.
It’s not Abteilung. Something different. Less significant. But tasked with the dirty work. The cleanup.
Mord. Murder. Nipping the stragglers. There’s no leaving the Order.
And so is it any wonder that Goebbels (or Garbage, as Charlie Chaplin rechristened him) had Das Testament des Dr. Mabuse banned in Germany?
Because it gave away all the secrets.
The secrets of control. Each level glued together by terror.
And the controlled chaos. The buildup of addictions. The incredibly farsighted chess game of our conspirators.
The reign of crime. A lusty pronunciation.
Vs. a homicide detective wont to sing strains of Die Walküre here and there.
Germany split in two.
And something as simple as a love letter.
When one least expects it.
Few films deserve the label masterpiece quite like this one.
I’ve had this feeling before.
It’s almost a great movie, but I’m not even sure it’s a good movie.
That is the mystery of cinema.
How easy it is to miss the mark.
Sure, there are performances within which are genuinely touching.
Mary Stuart Masterson on the bus is convincing.
But Johnny Depp’s a little blah here.
It’s not his best work.
The concept for this film was fantastic.
Somehow director Jeremiah Chechik didn’t or couldn’t get the performances out of his leading actors which would have made this a truly special film.
I watched the whole thing.
I’d always been curious.
It’s an almost. A very touching story not quite brought to fruition.
It’s strange because Chechik had previously directed the masterpiece National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.
Maybe the shitter was full.
Depp needed to be weirder here. Between Scissorhands and Hunter S. Thompson. Somehow his performance just seemed a little bland.
It must have been difficult.
The trick was probably trying not to overpower Masterson’s performance.
In that respect, he does a nice job. He shows restraint.
But it just doesn’t translate as a film.
The subplot between Benny (Aidan Quinn) and Ruthie (Julianne Moore) is frankly boring.
This film either needed to go into hyperrealist Harmony Korine mode or needed to be a whole hell of a lot more magical and creative in the Depp-centric trajectory I delineated previously.
Too late now. Too. Late. Now.
Now we all have our own lives to live.
Our own films to make.
Learn the lessons.
Honor the mystery.
One of my ancestors was hung for being a witch.
When I speak of it or think of it, it gives me chills.
As Danish director Benjamin Christensen makes so clear in this masterpiece.
Häxan is Swedish for “witch”.
Our film was released by Svensk Filmindustri: a Swedish film production company which still exists to this day.
Thus the Swedish title. And the Swedish premier(s) in 1922. And the Swedish intertitles.
The Danish would be Heksen.
Swedish, Danish, English…
Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered.
This is the horror of religion. The horror of irrationality. Violence against women. Abuse of the elderly. Mistreatment of the mentally ill.
Christensen’s film is a masterpiece precisely because it combines the clarity of modern thought with the mists of medieval superstition.
It begins almost as a documentary.
Unlike me, he lists his sources.
But then the film takes on a life of its own.
As if the director was not quite sure whether to dismiss superstition outright.
As if some dark Freudian specters were haunting his deliberate phantasmagoria.
It was meant to be a lucid montage.
But the letters became transposed.
Lucid, Lurid. Live. Evil.
Miles Davis had it right. And Howlin’ Wolf (by way of Willie Dixon) [not to mention Howlin’ Pelle].
Svensk Filmindustri. Founded a mere three years before Häxan.
Only fitting that the parent company (Bonnier Group) should have its roots in København.
Because Benjamin Christensen is brilliant as the Devil.
And now for the juicy stuff.
Not Hell, but Hellerup. Denmark.
Birthplace of Stine Fischer Christensen (ooh la la!).
But we’re mainly interested in ASA Filmudlejning.
Or are we?
An unfinished symphony of horror.
…eine Symphonie des Grauens
Possessed by self-punishment.
And even more wait.
Tom Waits for no man.
I was tricked.
Must have been needles and pins. Voodoo.
He can’t even remember her name.
Ripped my heart from my chest.
Call it punk rock.
Moloch. Bohemian Grove.
If it’s all a bunch of bollocks, then these blokes are just bluffing, right?
-George Creel (investigative journalist and propagandist)
-Harlan Crow (this guy…son of Trammell Crow…buddy of Clarence Thomas [more on him later]…Thomas, who gave Crow the Bible of Frederick Douglass [what the fuck?!?]…Crow…owns at least one painting by Hitler…Napoleon’s writing desk…the Duke of Wellington’s sword [ca. 1815]…but weirdest is his Alec Trevelyan (006) / Janus sculpture garden which includes such spoils of war as Lenin, Stalin, Castro, Marx, Mubarak, Tito, Ceausescu, and Guevara)
-David Gergen (of course)
-John Lehman (9/11 commission)
-Henry S. Morgan (cofounder Morgan Stanley)
-Reagan (Owl’s Nest)
-George Shultz [sick]
-Tony Snow [“]
Weaving spiders come not here.
My hair hurts.
This is one of the miracles of cinema.
Every frame a painting with a caméra–stylo.
One critic will boil it down to “mental illness”.
And Monica Vitti does that very well.
Red hair. Red desert.
But we should know Antonioni by now.
This is that existential nausea you used to hear of at coffee shops.
Except the coffee shops no longer exist.
And Manhattan is a ghost ship with no one on board. Saying nothing.
No doubt Kubrick visited this for 2001. And George Lucas for THX 1138.
But we are more interested in Godard.
Il Deserto rosso is a film for filmmakers.
Mulholland Dr. stands no chance.
Because, yes, we all feel like this.
The floating world in Japanese mythology.
No doubt Kurosawa pinched the end bit for Dreams.
That’s what makes Il Deserto rosso a watershed film.
In the shed. Surrounded by water.
Roman atavism at the group level.
I’m not getting anywhere.
The critics will cry “overwrought”.
What we have here is really a sick sadness.
Feel too much.
Bowie’s Low title is above the artist in profile.
And that color.
Bow down to the master Michelangelo.
One of the true auteurs.
For the uninitiated it will seem unbearably pretentious.
Or just confusing.
It will seem that there is no plot.
And, indeed, in space there is no “up” or “down”.
There are simply bodies with sufficient mass to exert gravity.
Is that the way to say it?
Is that how it works?
Because we are all floating, right?
32 feet per second per second.
Acceleration of falling bodies.
God bless her…
Always a sinking feeling.
Because her husband is a vapid jerk.
And the most sensitive guy can’t get close enough…cause she’s nuts.
Makes perfect sense.
Our own worst fears played out by the players on the screen.
Sei personaggi in cerca d’autore.
Logic bombs and bombs of illogic.
The latter in Dadaism.
Hackers who terrorize simply to make their point.
Legacy networks and newer nets introduced in phases…
Allowing for GDP, profit margin, and public sector infrastructure.
Which is to say, DARPA.
And where does the film critic fit in?
Merely as a voice…reminding…don’t forget your Sun Tzu.
Everything else will be diverted to slag heaps and holding tanks.
Opaque tanks…glowing green like antifreeze.
Does this sound like a fun adventure?
Then Il Deserto rosso is for you.
And for me.
Because I identify with Monica Vitti’s character so much.
Afraid of everything.
My hair hurts.
Ah, the great Nordic beauty Candice Bergen.
The first female host in SNL history (four episodes in).
This is quite a good episode.
But we start off with the first wholehearted attempt at Gerald Ford klutz (clumsy) humor with Chevy Chase.
Yes, before there was the fumbling, bumbling, broken banjo known as George W. Bush, there was Gerald Ford.
The humor had been leaning this way since the start of the season.
And finally Chevy got to do a proper piece (the start to the show, no less).
We also get the Landshark skit in this era of Spielberg-induced panic.
We must remember that Jaws had come out that summer (a few months prior to this show).
But the overwhelming star of this episode was undoubtedly Andy Kaufman (again).
It is the Foreign Man character (which was parlayed into his Taxi success as Latka).
Andy is a revelation here. Yes, you need to be a little sick in the head to do comedy like Andy Kaufman.
The whole point, I think, was in how much he could get away with.
It was the game.
How far could he push it.
And so Foreign Man almost starts crying. It is a miracle moment in television.
All great practical jokers (foremost among them Orson Welles) had this ability to suspend disbelief, but Kaufman was doing it live…out on a limb.
An excursion on a wobbly rail (to quote Cecil Taylor).
And so Candice was right when she introduced Andy as a genius.
What could follow that?!?
Well, sadly Esther Phillips starts off with a fast number.
Esther was the musical guest.
A fine singing voice, but the most annoying, lingering vibrato I’ve ever heard…like a WWI fighter plane…a machine-gun at the end of every phrase.
She was, no doubt, imitating the Billie Holiday of Lady in Satin (that last, great album of drugged-out soul).
But the problem is that the Billie Holiday vibrato doesn’t work on fast songs.
Yet, Esther uses it anyway.
And so Esther’s first number comes off as a head-tilting performance art oddity equal to Andy Kaufman (only I don’t think she knew it).
But all sins are forgiven later when Esther does a ballad.
Ahh…that’s the right repertoire.
Albert Brooks regresses to the mean with his film in this episode (a mashup of possible bullpen shows for NBC…including the awful-in-all-ways Black Vet).
All in all, this is a fine show. Aykroyd is great. Belushi is great.
In fact, the most touching scene is a talk between Gilda Radner and Candice Bergen about femininity/feminism.
Gilda Radner was such a beautiful person…such soul!
What a show!!!