Almost a masterpiece.
Off the rails.
Better than Bean.
Almost a masterpiece.
Off the rails.
Better than Bean.
Maybe think I’m not taking this writing thing serious.
To rethink fundamental things.
Perhaps not as solid as show.
But big difference feature length to sitcom squash.
Can I ever regain?
Wait for next episode to see Bean Cannes.
But, at root, watching a film.
See it again.
Welcome to the trauma of real life.
All. Like Dostoyevsky.
Art has dribbled out since Podesta débâcle.
And then we come to QAnon.
Real or fake?
What would Orson Welles make of this PSYOP?
War of the world.
Buried deep in a movie review.
I cannot say for sure.
I hope it’s real.
A good movie.
This movie is kinda like LSD.
Not that I would know.
But from what I hear…
If you come into it with fear and anxiety, it will be a grating, disorienting, annoying experience. Frightening.
But if you come into it at peace and relaxed, you might just have a wonderful time viewing this movie.
The first third of the film was tense for me.
Everything is tense for me.
Thank God for drugs.
And so the rest of the film was quite charming and (dare I say?) meaningful.
We probably all know the Pee-Wee story…how he got caught whacking off in an adult movie theater.
But everyone deserves a second chance.
Sure, a guy who wakes up in the morning wearing lipstick and rouge might be a little suspect to some, but this whole film is fantasy.
Back to psychedelics…
It’s only appropriate that my old computer has just come down with the trippiest virus I’ve ever seen.
But no matter.
We push on.
Five more days.
Yes, Pee-Wee is like Mr. Bean.
And when Pee-Wee dances, it presages Napoleon Dynamite’s talent show jaw-dropper by some years.
Paul Reubenfeld –> Paul Reubens –> Pee-Wee Herman
In Hollywood, you can be anyone you want to be.
That’s entertainment (as The Jam sang).
But we have to give a shout out to the adorable Elizabeth Daily who plays Dottie.
Madame Ruby only accepts cash…even on a rainy night.
But she also does income tax.
Sure, Pee-Wee looks a little too comfortable in his Audrey-Hepburn-meets-Laverne-&-Shirley frock, but that’s part of his oblivious joy.
Large Marge is, of course, unforgettable.
Diane Salinger is really great as Simone.
With that aching dream to get to France.
I know. This dream.
I lived it.
And how I’d so like to go back.
“Au revoir, Simone…”
Nothing like sitting on a tongue…watching the sun come up between some teeth.
But then we get my hometown.
And a lot of it!
Please don’t think we all speak like Jan Hooks 🙂
As an amnesiac, Pee-Wee can recall but one thing:
“Remember the Alamo!”
So let’s see…fainting after bike theft (Truffaut) followed by EMS and oxygen? Check.
Amnesia after being thrown from a bull? Check.
Hospitalization after riding a Harley through a wooden sign? Check.
I am remiss to mention that I forgot the appendectomy in Spies Like Us.
These signs that God is looking out for us.
A story which didn’t resonate during my youth.
But only after I’d fallen in love to Messiaen.
Only after I became Tropic of Cancer.
A duck in Milton Berle’s pants is enough to get Pee-Wee on set at Warner Brothers.
What ensues is truly a zany take on the car chase cliche.
Then Pee-Wee frees the animals at the zoo. XMAS
And with handfuls of snakes, faints again (trumping Truffaut) before first responders revive him.
Breaking the rules was a way to promotion in the 1980s.
And when it’s couched in playful imagination, it is charming indeed.
When it’s funny. A farce. Comedic.
Pee-Wee as bellhop is like Jason Schwartzman’s understudy in The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Director Tim Burton deserves heaping credit for making this an actually timeless film. It is creative throughout.
It’s really a joy to see.
Just don’t take the brown acid.
When you’re having a crappy night.
One thing after another.
Life is beating you with a one-two combination punch.
And a couple of jabs.
You must go to your contingencies.
When the situation is not good, you must move forward.
No laissez faire nor wu wei at this point.
So you push on.
And everywhere you go you get lame. Rudeness. Snobby. Ageist.
Walking on hot coals for capitalism.
Which is to say that the two Starbucks I visited tonight were worse than lackluster.
Starbucks chokes the American market.
But there is variance from store to store.
There are a lot of problems to be witnessed.
As a daily customer.
With no better options.
But Starbucks isn’t improving. They are happy where they’re at.
And so they are ripe to be made obsolete.
How would that happen?
Most importantly would be to hire Mr. Bean.
Not the actor. But the real guy. The character.
The inspiration. The gaggle which became one.
And please test in San Antonio.
Because our fair city is lethargic and uninspiring.
We never have what we need.
How can we remain happy?
I remember a time in my life that was so fair.
Humorous. Laughful. Lifefilled.
A time when a girl’s laugh meant ANYTHING IN THE WORLD’S POSSIBLE.
She’s married now for a second time. Was never my wife.
But something much more. A love. A love for which Rembrandt or Van Gogh would have fought.
And so I must tell myself that maybe someone in this world will find me charming.
It’s a sad clown to be used up.
This is, of course, a great episode of Mr. Bean.
They’re all pretty damn good!
Nobody’s like him.
And nobody’s like me.
But I’ve been beaten.
You know the law enforcement dealing with the burkinis?
They are fashion police. Not completely unprecedented.
But never nearly as absurd.
I’ve been beaten up. And so I have a little pile of clothes.
The machinery has ripped into my forearms and tendons and screwed up my hands.
I already needed something happy.
And then it got bad.
And bad progressed to worse.
But I fought the good fight.
Reading in the dark.
Prussian blue. Watteau. Niantic.
Keyhole. In-Q-Tel. NGA. KH recon. Corona.
Pokémon Go. And Google at every stage.
John Hanke. “Foreign Service”.
School of hard NOCs.
Twigs dipped in Marmite.
First, a short list of Hulu failings:
-Pootie Tang (shite)
-Lars and the Real Girl (epically shite)
-The Voices (shite)
-Mystery Team (shite)
-Hot Tub Time Machine 2 (shite squared) [catalog dilemma]
-Anchorman 2 (shite to the second power)
-Beverly Hills Cop II (repetitive shiteness) [catalog dilemma]
-Cannonball Run II (must see first episode to appreciate this shite)
-Teen Wolf Too (now with word shite!)
-The Naked Gun 2 1/2 (quasi-decimal shite)
-The Naked Gun 33 1/3 (LP shite)
-My Best Friend’s Wedding (shite)
-Dear White People (shite)
-Everything Must Go (shite)
-Jerry Maguire (shite)
-The Skeleton Twins (shite)
-Trailer Park Boys (shite)
-Novocaine (sic shite)
-Dark Horse (Judeo-Nepotistic shite)
-Little Paradise (shite)
-Frances Ha (epically shite)
-Stranger Than Fiction (shite)
-8 Heads in a Duffel Bag (shite)
-C.S.A.: The Confederate States of America (ambitious shite)
-Trees Lounge (depressing attempt at shite)
-King of California (total shite)
-Dead Hooker in a Trunk (go-back-to-film-school shite)
-Are You Joking? (more Judeo-Nepotistic shite)
-And Now a Word From Our Sponsors (shite)
-Falling Star (Kosher Casino shite)
-Jewtopia (no comment)
-The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (Swedish shite)
-Heathers (cruel shite)
-Sleeping Beauty (barely shite)
-Gold (Irish shite)
-The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (quintessential shite)
-Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (lazy shite)
-Mission: Impossible (a colon-full of Scientologist shite)
-Space Milkshake (actually, not too bad…)
[I hate to say it, but the number of films by mediocre directors named Schwarz is really astonishing.]
Now, you might reason: these are just the rantings of an anti-Semitic film snob.
I admit I don’t laugh easily.
It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry.
Mostly I don’t like waste.
Entitled filmmakers are more likely to make shite.
They didn’t earn their stripes.
They have an uncle who works for Sony Pictures.
Actually, the film school rubbish on Hulu is astonishing.
It is completely venal in nature.
I just happen to have had some bad experiences with unfunny Jewish films.
What do I mean, “Jewish films”?
I mean exactly what Brandon Tartikoff was referring to when he first saw the Seinfeld pilot.
In that instance, Tartikoff (himself Jewish) was wrong.
Seinfeld was genius!
Seinfeld is a funny show.
Yes, it exists in a Jewish milieu.
Tartikoff thought the show was “too Jewish” to appeal to Americans in general.
He was wrong.
But, sadly, now we have a gaggle of filmmakers who think they are Woody Allen or Mel Brooks.
Status update: those two guys actually have talent!
Which is not to say they didn’t make some clunkers.
Hulu happens to have picked up two of those clunkers: Bananas and Life Stinks.
No one’s perfect.
But please…dear world Jewry,
Please tell your precocious sons and daughters that they aren’t all geniuses.
Who’s funding this shit?
Hulu: who the fuck is in charge over there!?!
Your catalog indicates that you enjoy wasting the monthly fees people pay for your woeful service.
A short list of Hulu successes:
-the Criterion collection
And so…what part of the Hulu catalog presently needs the most work?
Answer: the comedy genre of movies.
Second most problematic lack of imaginative curation?
Answer: the drama genre of movies.
[If you think that Hulu’s selection of movies might be lacking (based on my first two points of emphasis), then you are right: it is!]
Third crappiest category on Hulu?
Answer: the “action & adventure” genre of movies.
Even Hulu’s genres are ass-backwards compared to the pinpoint precision of iTunes.
Korean Drama? Really??? Ok. I guess Hulu is really killing it in Seoul (and Pyongyang).
CEO Mike Hopkins needs to take a long look in the mirror.
Whoever got the Criterion catalog, give that person an infinite raise.
The rest of them? Fire their sorry asses.
Beth Comstock needs to overturn the moneychangers’ tables.
Destroy YOUR business, Ms. Comstock.
Jason Kilar…you know what doesn’t work? Faux-dreams.
A catalog of shite.
Make a call. Do lunch.
“Anywhere, Anytime: Shite”
“For the Love of shite”
“Come Shite with Us”
Lot of people drawing a check at Hulu and turning out a subpar service.
The name Hulu comes from two Mandarin Chinese words…both of which translate roughly to “shite”.
Now, just to be fair…I wouldn’t sign up for Netflix if my life depended on it.
iTunes is a horribly antiquated business model (and offers very little value for consumers).
Amazon Prime Video was petty to disallow MacBooks (as incompatible devices) as late as last year. Not to mention that Jeff Bezos is just a wannabe Rupert Murdoch who bans books like Nobody Died at Sandy Hook. [And yes, Virginia, Murdoch is the great Satan.]
And so, with such a paltry selection of movies on Hulu, I’ve been forced to examine its television offerings. The prospects are not much better.
But I will give credit where credit is due.
Mr. Bean was an excellent pickup.
If you want a tight, seamless work of art (unlike this rambling, frothing review), then check out the episode under consideration.
You know, not even the childlike Rowan Atkinson was above making fun of old people (in this episode) or suggesting that continental Europeans be purposefully killed by British drivers (tourists). Check out his standup comedy album from 1995 for the latter bit.
Which just goes to show…we all lose our heads.
We all exercise poor judgment. We all have poor taste now and then.
You may not believe it, but I have put my own sorry butt on the line to stand up for world Jewry.
I will be the first to admit that my term “Judeo-Nepotistic” is incredibly crass and insensitive.
And still, I would ask that Jews (who are no doubt hard-pressed on all sides) please exercise some judgment of their own. Transparent nepotism is really tasteless. It goes against our better Jeffersonian principles.
So there you have it. Bobby Fischer was a jerk. The Holocaust really happened. Not so sure about the gas chambers. You’re welcome Faurisson. The Earth is not flat. 9/11 was an inside job (and therefore not an Israeli job). Insofar as it was an Israeli job, the U.S. government was at least half-responsible. It was much more likely an Israeli job than a Saudi job. Much more likely a purely self-inflicted inside job (no substantial Israeli involvement) than an Israeli job. And finally, Israel is a criminal country oppressing the Palestinians in a most disgusting manner.
And for good measure, yes Donald Trump is a bigot. And he’s horribly wrong about immigration (both in regards to our Mexican brothers and sisters and our Islamic brothers and sisters). But he’s still the only real choice for President.
Sanders has been right about one thing: Snowden. Snowden’s a hero. But America is not a socialist country. Sanders would actually be a bigger step backwards than Trump.
The other candidates (Clinton and Cruz) are worthless.
So there you go, Hulu…I need some better circuses here!
To keep me out of the political arena!!
I could use some bread as well 🙂
In any case, I’m sorry for my vile ranting.
But film is my religion. Through film, omnism.
Stop defiling my religion, Hulu. Your thoughtlessness is ghastly.
Hire some people who love cinema.
Get your shit together.
No social skills.
Which makes him charming beyond description.
Like the “Velvet Gentleman” (Erik Satie)…six (velvet!) gray suits for six days of the week.
And Irma Gobb as Suzanne Valadon.
We can’t imagine Mr. Bean in the military. Would be like a rather mute Group Captain Lionel Mandrake.
And Satie? Well, it would have been more disastrous than Céline’s miserable stint.
Satie started an elaborate church, of which, he was the only member.
Popularity wrecked by eccentricity.
But preserved in little jewels throughout the piano literature.
I was dressing like a priest until yesterday.
Because of the tyrannosaurus rex threatening the manger.
Just what does he do for a living? Bean Satie?
Pelléas et Mélisande in 1902. And was Satie some sort of sage?
As Mr. Bean falls from the sky in the spaceship spotlight flown by St. Nick.
Every day is a miracle.
At the Schola Cantorum de Paris to learn counterpoint.
Returning to school at age 39. Same age as me. Same riddle. Same mystery.
Satie was a socialist. Later Communist.
And Bean? Which way would Bean vote?
No matter with this icy loneliness of Satie.
27 years and no one had every come to his residence.
But there is a difference.
Bean has the fire going.
A stocking for him and a stocking for Teddy.
Even a little stocking for the mouse in the wall.
That single, gold ornament. A bit of tree lopped off and pulled through the high window.
You must say…Bean looks cozy. Fire place and Christmas socks.
How does Mr. Bean remain so optimistic?
How is he so comfortable being alone?
Sure, there’s the old bump in the road now and then,
but Rowan Atkinson keeps his character full of wonder and ingenuity.
I have perused many abominations claiming to be films on this night and ended back with a trusted old friend.
Merry Christmas Bean!
Hang in there old chap.
Keep that great, positive attitude and you’ll go far 🙂
This one is darn near perfect.
And I needed it.
After an all-nighter devoted to a Power Point presentation, this got a hearty laugh from me throughout.
We really see Bean’s dark humour start coming to the fore here.
Likewise, we start to realize by now that Bean’s middle name must certainly be “Ingenuity”.
But his genius is a sort of Rube Goldberg variety.
For Bean, it’s all about the process…the journey.
It must be: he seems to miss his destination an overwhelming majority of the time.
Whether he makes it to the beach or not is immaterial.
It’s that he starts off by packing six cans of Heinz Baked Beans.
No can opener.
Just the beans, thank you very much.
For those of us in America, this makes less sense without a bit of experience.
My one and only trip to Great Britain was an eye-opener.
The English eat beans for breakfast!
Not only that, but some sautéed mushrooms and maybe a boiled tomato.
Sausage and a rasher of bacon.
And eggs: runny as Usain Bolt.
It all mixes together into a mélange of heartiness.
THAT is a true English breakfast!
A working-man’s meal.
Ahh, I miss those days.
So short and fleeting.
But with Mr. Bean, I am back in the magical mundane of English society.
The Royal Mail.
The grasp of my mother tongue.
Feeling rather “poorly”…
Yes, a glorious grasp on the language.
Of course, I could listen to the lads in Oasis talk all day long.
High and low.
And the Midlands.
God save the Queen!
We mean it, man 😉
This is more like it.
Perhaps the most classic bit of all.
Getting dressed in the Mini Cooper.
Brushing his teeth.
Rinsing with the windshield wiper fluid.
It’s bloody clever!
The dentist appointment is rather good, though it’s hard to follow the adventurous trip which precedes it.
The final picnic bit is rather lame.
But the very opening…yes, let’s go back to the top.
Bean, apparently, has an immensely difficult time waking up.
I can wholeheartedly sympathize with that.
He has his grandfather clock.
And then a small alarm on his right nightstand.
And finally a tea kettle alarm on the other nightstand to which he has affixed a hose which runs to the foot of the bed…to spray scalding hot water on his foot.
But there are no snooze buttons.
The little alarm is dropped into a glass of water.
The hose is stopped up by the muscle memory of his big toe.
And back to sleep he goes.
Which all explains why he must rush to the dentist in the fist place.
But let’s examine something else.
In this episode, Bean’s childlike nature is on full display.
He sleeps beneath an A-Team blanket (upon which Mr. T’s flannel, pastel head is displayed clearly).
But just as importantly, Bean sleeps with his teddy bear by his side.
For Bean, his teddy bear is a living entity…a toy doll with feelings.
So Bean tucks in the bear for some extra Zzzz…allowing his faithful friend to sleep in.
And thus begins the frantic race to the dentist.
Furthermore, Bean is solely interested in reading a Batman comic book at his dentist’s office.
None of the vast magazine collection in the waiting room will suffice.
And about that picnic scene…
At least it reminded me that Rowan Atkinson is essentially a mime on this show.
Indeed, he says only one word in his basso profundo voice during this episode.
“Bean”, he intones, as he arrives at the opaque receptionist’s window.
For those in search of art, look no further.
The man says one word. In the entire episode.
Not zero. And not 571.
But merely one.
Directors Paul Weiland and John Birkin were starting to get the hang of things with this one.
But don’t let your nose hair get caught in your Norelco (as Mr. Bean painfully finds out). Always reminds me of El Sayyid Nosair. And Meir Kahane. And the Jewish Defense League. MIPT (and by extension, Homeland Security) classifies the JDL as merely a “former terrorist organization”. (Jewish terrorists…imagine that!) Even the ADL gets it right regarding the similar sounding JDL: “thugs and hooligans”.
Kahane (founder of this former Jewish terrorist organization) has a nice little monument in Kahane Park in the West Bank. Which is to say, Israel seems proud of their terrorist martyrs. What hypocrisy!
Never get rid of a winner.
Director John Howard Davies had reeled in the first three episodes so that Rowan Atkinson’s brilliance was on full display.
Davies’ replacement by Paul Weiland and John Birkin was particularly painful here.
But there’s another possibility.
What happens when geniuses run out of material?
This really isn’t a very good episode of Mr. Bean.
But it does finally get going in the last bit: at the magic show.
Matilda Ziegler’s responses (Bean’s girlfriend Irma Gobb) as she sits in the audience are priceless. Atkinson’s unfamiliarity with the conventions of magic shows causes him to give away the game concerning several key props…all in a search for his pilfered wristwatch.
It really got a belly laugh out of me!
It should be noted that the previously-mentioned Matilda Ziegler was in a very highly-praised Channel 4 (U.K.)/CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) production with one of my favorite actresses of all time: the Romanian genius/goddess/immortal Anamaria Marinca. That television movie was called Sex Traffic.
Ziegler also teaches dramatic arts at the Norwich School. Norwich (in East Anglia) is, incidentally, a UNESCO “City of Literature” (along with such head-scratchers as Iowa City (USA) and Baghdad). Dear UNESCO, Have you been to Baghdad recently? City of Literature?? Really??? [UNESCO’s bestowal of this award upon the Iraqi capital was in 2015.]
As you can probably tell, there is a dearth of memorable moments in this episode of Mr. Bean.
Just who does Donald Trump think he is???
Answer: Sam Walton.
It’s the big, goofy, mesh-backed baseball cap. The ones with the plastic snaps and infinitesimally small corresponding holes. And then the squishy, peaked frontispiece: “Make America great again” –or– (alternately) “Wal-Mart”.
That is the Donald’s costume…out on the campaign trail. It’s bold. Comedic. A bit like George H.W. Bush “shopping” for groceries out among the common folk and being dumbfounded by this whole newfangled barcode scanner.
Yes, Donald Trump: man of the people.
And so who did Rowan Atkinson think he was with Mr. Bean?
Well, that one’s a whole lot harder to pinpoint.
We might know Chaplin. And Sellers.
But then there’s all these other institutions which don’t quite translate outside of Britain…The Goon Show, Dudley Moore, The Goodies…
Just from whence was Atkinson pulling his stuff?
We want to think it’s all original. And perhaps it is.
But influence is unavoidable.
And so with the third and final episode of 1990, Atkinson gave us The Curse of Mr. Bean. [1991 would yield only one episode of the show.]
The curse…hmmm…certainly sounds like an allusion to Sellers’ Clouseau.
Whatever the case may be, Atkinson’s material is all tied together with a very cohesive theme this time: fear.
Fear of the diving board (afraid of heights).
Fear of public nudity or embarrassment (lost his trunks in the pool).
And finally the orgiastic grand guignol of laughter:
fear of movies.
It sounds like a pretentious art school pop album.
For instance, the Talking Heads’ Eno-produced Fear of Music (1979).
But for Bean, the horror was more of the Freddy Krueger type.
Indeed, by December 30, 1990 (this show’s airdate), there had already been five (yes, 5ive) A Nightmare on Elm Street movies.
Churned out of the dream factory like diabolical cotton candy, they appeared in 1984, 1985, 1987, 1988, and 1989. The series then would recommence in 1991. Which begs the question, just what was Freddy Krueger up to in 1986? Laying low? Vacationing? The Caribbean?
To wit, Bean is scared witless while on a date (yes, those things where aspiring romantics “go out”) with the absolutely adorable Matilda Ziegler.
For those of you (like me) who can’t live without pithy character names, Ziegler’s role (like my beloved Enid Coleslaw) is that of Irma Gobb.
And Bean, therefore, is the man-child…the everlasting Gobbstopper [sic].
[Which is to say, Ziegler’s character is a reoccurring one.]
Perhaps we need to look further back to find a precedent for Rowan Atkinson’s Mr. Bean…perhaps out of the world of comedy proper. Perhaps to the Dadaists? I can certainly imagine Mr. Bean dressed as a sort of human tampon à la Hugo Ball…with lobster claw hands. Or maybe Bean with a lobster telephone courtesy of Dalí. Certainly Bean would have a pet lobster to take for walks in the Bois de Boulogne with a ribbon for a leash like Gérard de Nerval.
But we perhaps perhaps perhaps need to look further. To the wry humor of Marcel Duchamp. To the childlike fancy and brilliance of a René Magritte or an Erik Satie. Even, god forbid, the humor of a Mauricio Kagel.
Conductors don’t have heart attacks mid-concert? Not according to Kagel’s Ludwig Van.
Yet Bean never crosses that line of pretension.
He’s never Anthony Braxton’s Quartet for Amplified Shovels.
No, Bean always remains funny.
And so, perhaps, nothing is more revolutionary than comedy.
This kind of comedy.
Absolutely scripted, miniaturist-perfect comedy worthy of Jacques Tati.
In that sense, we might say that Mr. Bean is like Peter Sellers having Charlie-Chaplin-like total control over a production. At least that’s the way it seems.
Perhaps we would be criminally neglecting the director of these first three Bean episodes: John Howard Davies.
But in such comedies, the thing really does speak for itself.
Rowan Atkinson fills every moment of screen time in these gems with his thoroughly inimitable charm.