Strange bit with the cop.
Pretty good film.
Strange bit with the cop.
Pretty good film.
The Trump Presidency officially has a new high-water mark.
And it came today.
The epic excoriation of Western media (and, in particular, the woeful American branch of that diseased tree).
I have largely refrained from treating political events for the past months.
This was for a variety of reasons.
But today’s Trump victory was a feature-length (*) reminder of why we elected this guy.
I didn’t see it live, but I watched the interview in its entirety later in the day.
With the utmost irony, I will be using and referring to the “official transcript” which has just recently been posted by The New York Times.
It’s only befitting that they continue to precipitate their own downfall.
Keep in mind that the NYT is getting their transcript from Federal News Service: a subsidiary of The Economist Group.
As in The Economist.
As in, that spineless, globalist rag which completely forgoes bylines (à la Chatham House rules).
As in, the opposition.
Keeping that in mind, let’s see exactly what the hero of the free world had to say today.
First, President Trump bemoaned the treatment of his cabinet selections.
Indeed, the Democratic Party in the United States has become the embarrassment they wish to project upon Donald Trump.
The Democratic Party has, it seems, absolutely no cogent strategy whatsoever at this point.
And so, indeed, the only real political chaos is within that camp.
To clarify…it’s not just a BAD strategy which the Democrats have adopted in an effort to keep their ragtag band of poseurs on political life-support, but rather A COMPLETE LACK OF STRATEGY which characterizes the sum of their pathetic tactics.
Yes, Mr. Trump: “the people get it”.
We rednecks. We of middle-America.
Many colors and creeds.
Yes, we fucking get it.
You are the man!
As a student of (and holder of an advanced degree in) business, I bloody well understand why the world of commerce is welcoming Trump.
It’s those trite words which are pounded into every MBA’s head.
There’s no Bernie-Sanders-ing our way out of the current quagmire.
Only a leader with tremendous cojones could even have a shot at successfully pulling off the rebuilding of America.
Because we have squandered our position in the world.
At the expense of truth, we have fallen down a muddy chute.
And the free-fall (while not apparent to all) has been going on for some time.
So we are, indeed, putting a great deal of faith in Mr. Trump to right the ship.
Really, we’re like the goddamned Titanic over here.
But business has to work.
There’s no willy-nilly socialism which is going to patch up our death-wound which is bleeding money.
There’s no value creation in that.
Try it out.
It doesn’t work.
Which isn’t to say that rapacious monopoly capitalism is the answer.
But we are a capitalist country.
And China’s ascent has not been due to some new interpretation of Marx.
“I’m making this presentation directly to the American people, with the media present, which is an honor to have you. This morning, because many of our nation’s reporters and folks will not tell you the truth, and will not treat the wonderful people of our country with the respect that they deserve.”
Yes, dear friends…the election of Donald Trump was a referendum AGAINST THE CORPORATE MASS MEDIA.
[first and foremost]
And this same media is still living in denial.
Their allies are reprobates.
And they reach out their desperate tentacles for shadier and shadier sustenance.
And so, though it be hard to fathom, the mass media in the U.S. is actually GETTING WORSE.
That’s because it is dying.
Donald Trump is no idiot.
His assessment of The New York Times as being a terminally-failing (publically-traded) company is business analysis.
And it’s unequivocal.
But you know what?
The media hated Trump all along.
The old media.
And he didn’t, as it turned out, need to curry favor with them after all.
He spoke to the crowd.
He went around.
He outflanked the biggest, most puffed-up hegemony in the world.
So we’re giving Israel a chance.
We’re giving Trump a chance.
I’m not a Republican.
I’m just a schmuck who voted for Trump.
You can make the call as to whether I’m erudite enough to have such a privilege.
But Donald Trump has taught me to have pride in my country.
To have pride in the United States of America.
To be grateful for those who serve in the military.
To be grateful for those who serve as police officers.
That’s the positivity I get from Donald Trump.
It’s probably the Norman Vincent Peale in him.
But I also see a very strong leader.
A person who doesn’t take any shit from anyone.
Had Bernie Sanders such a spine, the protests would have gone for broke at the Democratic National Convention.
But too bad.
You had your chance to dethrone your greatest foe.
And she was in your own camp.
You know, I actually feel sorry for the Democratic Party…
No political party should have ever been represented by such a lousy candidate as Hillary Clinton.
But that was the “now-or-never” moment.
And we who embraced the market system which rewards hard work…we won.
[and it doesn’t take a genius to understand why]
Complaining after the fact doesn’t cut it.
Get out and vote.
Blood, sweat, and tears.
If you lose, you lose.
But if you half-ass it, probability is not in your favor.
We Trump supporters took immense heat.
We’re “racist”. “Bigots”.
Blah blah frickety blah.
But it doesn’t matter what you pathetic losers think.
Because, believe it or not, we actually want prosperity for you too.
Because maybe someday you’ll thank us that we still have a country left.
But I’ll just leave you with one zinger which sums up our entire Zeitgeist.
You wanna know Donald Trump’s take on the media…in one pithy jab?
“The press — the public doesn’t believe you people anymore.”
That carried the day.
The anti-Trump media (which is at least 80% of the American airwaves and newsstands) needs to go back to their Sun Tzu, their Machiavelli, their Clausewitz, and their Jomini.
Because they’re losing this fucking war.
The decimation is more laughable than honorable.
Unlock your little brains, liberals.
Come out and play.
And leave the deck-chair-rearranging to Schumers.
This is one of my favorite films ever made.
Maybe Jacques Becker was just a minor auteur, but he holds a large place in my heart because of this film.
It’s what we can’t have in life.
Back that reification up.
The pretty blond.
The girl will pay us no mind.
Because we are just carpenters.
No, even lower than that.
We are failed workers.
It makes you wonder whether Hitchcock felt most alienated from the objects of his desire while directing them?
There’s that reification again. Thingification.
If we’re learned anything from Marxism, it’s that.
Humans are not “its”.
But our language is structured to make them so.
Blonde on blonde.
Perhaps a pickguard on a Telecaster.
Even in black and white we can tell that Simone Signoret is a blond.
Her beauty is flooring.
Serge Reggiani had to play the role of a traitor in Les Portes de la nuit, but here he is the hero.
The perfect friend.
Criminals stick together.
And it is touching.
Because the code can bite the big cheese in the ass.
Different systems of justice.
The criminals don’t call the police.
Justice is swift.
It’s all a bit savage.
But how else should we describe the heart in love?
Here we see Reggiani maddeningly in love.
With her hair helmet.
Completely lost in translation.
Everyone has a mustache here.
Maybe that’s why I can relate.
Reggiani plays a schmuck like me.
And it works.
Someone falls in love with him.
All he has to do is be himself.
But most of all this film shows the sadness of love.
All the many things that can go wrong.
The tunnel vision.
The heroic focus.
The jealousy of spectators.
Two in love.
Why can’t they be let alone?
To be happy.
Here it is again.
Just as À bout de soufflé passed on some fashion (garments) to C’est arrivé près de chez vous, so too Casque d’Or hurls that word at a key moment.
Perhaps we pay too much attention to the story.
We all love a good story.
But the mark of the genius filmmaker may be found in their method of narrative. The art of how they tell their stories.
To be quite honest, I wasn’t thrilled to return to this Fritz Lang masterpiece, but I’m glad I did.
It is very much how I feel about Hitchcock’s Psycho. It is a wonderful film, but it’s not something I want to throw on once a week during the course of kicking back.
M, like Psycho, is a supremely tense film. Nowadays, when we think of Hitchcock, we might reflect on his tastefulness. Think about it (says Jerry Lee). In Hitchcock’s day (a long, productive “day”), things which are now shown with impunity were positively disallowed for a Hollywood filmmaker. Blood and guts…no. Hitchcock was forced to artfully suggest.
The strictures guiding Fritz Lang (29 years earlier) were even more conservative. But even so, M is a genuinely terrifying movie.
Terrifying films are rarely relaxing. They are not meant to be.
But as I had seen this one before, I was able to focus more on the method employed by Lang. The truth is, M is a masterpiece. It really is the treatment of a brute subject (murder) with incredible subtlety.
What is most radical about M is its counterintuitive take on crime.
Within this film, crime is divided into capital and noncapital offenses.
In M, a band of criminals exists which seeks to put a serial killer out of business. It may seem a strange turn of phrase, but this killer is bad for the business of other criminals (mainly thieves and such).
A town in terrorized. The police regularly raid establishments. You must have your “papers” with you at all times.
And so those who survive on crime are so desperate as to adopt (temporarily) the same goal as the police: catch the killer.
It is not giving much away to tell you that Peter Lorre is the killer. This is not a whodunit. It’s a “what’s gonna happen”. That I will leave to your viewing pleasure.
While I am on the subject of Lorre, let me just say that this is one of the finest, weirdest performances in cinema history. The final scene is one of absolutely raw nerves. Lorre is not the cute, vaguely-foreign character he would become in The Maltese Falcon or Casablanca. Lorre is stark-raving mad.
His attacks of psychosis are chilling to observe. But really, it is his final outburst which tops any bit of lunacy I’ve ever seen filmed.
Today there would likely be plenty of actors ready to play such a macabre role, but in 1931 this was a potential death wish.
That Lorre put his soul into it tells us something important about him. First, he was capable of being more than a “sidekick” (as he was in the previously-mentioned Bogart films). Second, he was dedicated to the art of acting. Lorre was not “mailing it in”. Playing such a role can’t be particularly healthy for one’s mental state.
But there’s a further thing. His final monologue is filled with such angst. Let us consider the year: 1931. In the midst of the Great Depression.
But also we must consider the country: Germany. These were the waning years of the Weimar Republic. Three important dates would end this democratic republic: Hitler’s appointment as Chancellor (Jan. 30, 1933),
9/11 the Reichstag fire (Feb. 27, 1933), and the Enabling Act (Mar. 23, 1933).
The era of M (1931) was the era of Heinrich Brüning’s “deflationary” monetary policy as German Chancellor. I put deflationary in quotation marks because Wikipedia’s current description might better be termed contractionary monetary policy.
As Wikipedia would tell it, Brüning was essentially instating fiscal austerity (that hot-button term of recent times) concomitantly with the aforementioned monetary approach. This was, of course, the failure which paved the way for Adolf Hitler to take control of Germany.
And so we find that the historian Webster Tarpley is right when he refers to certain modern-day policy makers as austerity “ghouls”. Either conservative/fascist leaders across the globe have no grasp of history, or they are looking forward with anticipation to the next Hitler or Mussolini.
It should be noted that Tarpley is coming from a socialist perspective rooted in the Democratic Party of FDR. His opposition, therefore, would likely brand him as liberal/communist and through slippery-slope logic see the policies he espouses as paving the way for the next Stalin or Mao.
And so goes the political circus…ad nauseam.
Returning to film, we must at least consider this situation in Germany. The country was still paying war reparations from WWI (though this was becoming impossible because of the internal economic woes).
What is perhaps most astonishing is how much Peter Lorre’s character prefigures the Hitler caricature which has come down to us from history.
War-based societies have a compulsion to kill. Germany found out the hard way that this is not a healthy default. Sadly, today’s Germany has not checked the most warmongering modern country on Earth (the United States) enough to make any difference.
The United States has, for a long time now, been breathing…seething for a war. The “masters of war” are all wearing suits. Only suits want to go to war. A true warrior does not want war. Only those who will go unscathed actively invite war.
But there is an insanity in suits. A compulsion. Don’t let the suit fool you. A suit is, for us grown-ups, the equivalent of a piece of candy…or an apple…or a balloon for a child. A suit advocating war is saying, “Keep your eyes on my suit. I know best. Trust in me. Look at my impressive degree.”
The suits like places such as Raven Rock Mountain. The suits won’t be on the battlefield. And don’t let the 10% who actually fought in a war fool you: they were in non-combat operations. Their daddies made sure of it.
So keep your eyes open for the M of American cinema. Who is the next fascist to take the stage? Hitler had a Charlie Chaplin moustache. How dangerous could he be? Trump has a ginger comb-over. Surely he’s harmless, right?
Writing about film makes you appreciate the film.
What will I say about this picture?
This succession of pictures.
And so silently you ponder the ways to express true genius.
And how lucky we are to witness true genius.
The Criterion Collection has brought us many films which otherwise might have been forgotten.
Film didn’t begin with The Godfather.
It doesn’t end with Citizen Kane.
And so we need to see the other stuff.
We need to hear voices from outside of America.
Hollywood is international, to be sure, yet everything which enters there leaves marked.
It is a sentiment which Godard expressed in his magnum opus Histoire(s) du cinema.
And this is the other stuff.
You might only know Henri-Cartier Bresson. Don’t stop there.
Robert Bresson was the master of taking non-actors and capturing their vitality on film.
Pickpocket does justice to Uruguay as much as did Isidore Ducasse (which is to say, completely).
Martin LaSalle, a young Urugayan-French actor in his film debut, plays the lead role here of the pickpocket Michel.
LaSalle’s eggshell acting is essential to this masterpiece.
Yet, it is director Bresson who brings the ballet of crime to life.
Yes, it is like Orson Wells doing his magic tricks in F for Fake (his magnum opus).
Indeed, everything has an art. Even crime.
And as paper currency disappears from the industrialized world we see the migration of subway thieves to the ether in an attempt to pilfer Apple Pay “money”.
Yes, I’m afraid that soon everything will need quotes around it.
Perhaps I just don’t understand.
But, there is an art to everything.
Take accounting, for instance: the most boring subject invented by human beings.
And yet, there is an “art” to it…I’m sure…somewhere…deep, deep down inside.
But Pickpocket is of a different era.
Perhaps computer hacking and financial calculator operations require a certain finger dexterity, but nothing like the prestidigitation which Bresson brings to life in this film.
It is a noiseless ballet of lifts, drops, catches, exchanges, etc. Buttons flicked. Buckles finessed in one motion.
It reminds me of the one true line in Goldfinger…perhaps the only genuinely cinematic moment in that film (though I love the other 99% pulp)…
Delivered by the title character, as played by Gert Fröbe, it goes a little something like this:
“Man has climbed Mount Everest, gone to the bottom of the ocean. He’s fired rockets at the Moon, split the atom, achieved miracles in every field of human endeavor… except crime!”
Ahhh…the rolled Rrrrs of that final word. Like H.W.’s brief year at Langley. Like Kissinger at Iron Mountain. Ah! But here we run into a problem.
Hoaxes. Like Sandy Hook. Like Hani Hanjour.
And will Donald Trump have the balls to read a book? Perhaps Webster Griffin Tarpley’s 9/11 Synthetic Terror: Made in USA?
I doubt it.
Is Trump a provocateur or merely provocative?
Because if he shot his mouth off a little more pointedly he’d have my vote.
And I would stand with my immigrant brothers and sisters every day to see Dick Cheney take the stand. Under oath.
And Philip Zelikow. Under oath.
And Donald Rumsfeld. Under oath.
And Larry Silverstein. And Rudy Giuliani. And Richard Myers.
Somebody else did it? Then you got nothing to worry about.
Unravel unravel unravel.
Because Trump is wrong about immigration.
And Bernie Sanders is right about Snowden.
And I don’t like Trump or Sanders.
But Trump is the only one even tangentially touching on the real issue: truth.
Off the rails. Film review.
C’est la vie.
Don’t mind me.
I will just go back to watching films.
Go back to sleep.
Nothing to see here.
This is not a popular time to have sympathy for cops. That’s too bad.
This is not a popular time to have sympathy for the FBI. That’s unfortunate.
Not a popular time to champion the CIA. Pity that.
No love for the NSA. Shame…
We get one version of events. So much so that we chase after an alternative version. Which is credible?
Police have a very sacred trust. Once upon a time it was phrased as “to protect and serve.”
Abuse of power disgusts us. The pendulum swings to the other end.
Jingoism breeds contempt.
There are several wars on in the world. The U.S. is involved widely.
It’s not a popular time to say something kind about the military. Bummer.
What is at issue in all of these parallel phrases? Justice and compassion.
Efficacy. Human rights.
Right and left. Conservative and liberal. Even the widely disparaged neoconservative movement.
I have been quick to find fault with the so-called neocons. But there is an interesting fundamental point about them that perhaps few know: they used to be liberals.
I am reminded of Realpolitik. Kissinger.
The tendency creeps in to apologize for the shameless.
An apologist, after all, works in myriad ways.
It is good that all of these thoughts come to the surface upon viewing what many “serious” film critics would consider to be sub-par pulp.
Let me start (continue) by saying that Sudden Impact is a brilliant film.
There are moments when the balance between directing and starring (acting) seem to be too much for Eastwood, but those few moments are mostly on the front end of this picture.
Though it be, perhaps, sacrilege to suggest such, this is probably the best Dirty Harry movie.
The reason is directly attributable to Eastwood’s auteurish guidance.
Though the setting of San Paulo somewhat mirrors Bodega Bay from Hitchcock’s The Birds, it is mostly the same director’s Vertigo which provides a wellspring from which Eastwood draws liberally for the symbol-laden mood of this affair.
Sondra Locke is formidable as the Kim Novak character. Though Callahan himself never succumbs to catatonia, Locke’s sister in the film does. It reminds us of Jimmy Stewart’s incapacitation after seeing Madeleine “die” the first time (again with the Vertigo references). Of particular note is the camera work which follows Locke’s first killing in Sudden Impact. The circular, woozy pattern makes us think of Novak’s plunge into San Francisco Bay.
And that’s just it: Eastwood had the balls and brains to drag Hitchcock into the Dirty Harry series (itself set in San Francisco).
What this film achieves is imparting humility to armchair DCIs (like myself) who think we have it all figured out. Sometimes distance is good…for planning. Sometimes you need to hear a few bullets buzz past your ears to realize that a hot war is on. It’s not always easy to know who’s shooting…and from where.
There are multiple fronts. I often ponder my own mental weakness. Ultimately, no one has died in vain. The challenge is for us as a nation and a world to get better…quickly. It ends up sounding meaningless, but it’s about all one can say about this spinning globe of chaos on which we live.
To reach a moment of genius. The genius must rethink. Through many blind alleys and breezy revolutions. Rehabilitated.
To speak of clever things. No. It does not explain this moment in time. Police vs. blacks. Continuation crime.
To quote Juvenal or Sallust. You have no recourse in the moment. You will have your name dragged through the mud.
And so we apologize. We are sorry that we weren’t more harsh. A final gob of spit before being shot once and for all.
A film by Jean-Luc Godard which achieves genius just as it is diverted.
Punched the producer in the face.
The revolution of everyday life. Vaneigem.
To speak of the actors would do injustice.
Anne Wiazemsky. Red flag. Black flag. And the wind of god. On the beach. The paving stones.
We have got it backwards because we don’t speak English.
Keith Richard. Sans s.
And my favorite drummer Charlie Watts.
And now we have let routine take over. Just as we asserted a revolutionary principle.
Through our fingers like sand. Run, run, run…little kitty. Machine guns for all.
Makes sense to whom? Makes no difference. Sense.
A review. A summary. A dissection.
An affront. An attack. An absolute about-face.
And so in 2015 we can only speak of Snowden.
We can only speak of extraordinary rendition.
We can comb the news like Matt Drudge.
He knows where his Red Sea is parted. Which side his bread is buttered. On.
We can rattle the cages like Alex Jones. Rattle rattle. Police gone wild.
We can blame everything on the Jews like Wayne Madsen. What a poor aspect of great criticism.
Mostly we can find the remnants of SMPTE for the devil at globalresearch.ca
Hot link. A sausage of…something. Upton Sinclair Lewis.
We can thank Michel Chossudovsky because we first knew him in print.
Like Webster Tarpley.
When books have disappeared, we will know that the technological age is upon us.
And so as something of an expert I admit that I know nothing.
It leaves me mystified. No more bands. No more groove.
Prisoners to click tracks.
The metronomic underground must assert like Radiohead hippies.
Godard would have preferred Beatles.
It’s ok. History proves him not wrong.
And I would be doing you a disservice if I condescended.
I must regard you as one mind with myself. Even if false, it leads to the path of truth.
We’re a humble website ready to lay down our arms…rather, our lives.
We are not revolutionary. Merely students. Research on globalization.
It begins like Vertigo…like Vivre sa vie…that barely noticed, unnecessary action of a person more or less staying still. Blinking perhaps. It is not quite corpsing. More subtle. It is a bold statement from director Ted Post. By the end of the credits we feel like those early audiences of The Great Train Robbery: staring down the barrel of a gun.
Post does a remarkable job of continuing the suspense of the previous film in this series (Dirty Harry) while working with an even more complex (and germane to our present times) plot. Inside job.
Over the course of the film we are made to suspect several different people…all of these essentially variations on the inside job trope. Almost like a continuum of LIHOP and MIHOP.
It begins with the strange rookie cops…taking some target practice in the middle of the night. Traffic cops. Kinda like those strange power-downs and repairs at the WTC leading up to 9/11/01. Something weird going on…
Eastwood smells it like the late John O’Neill of the FBI. But let’s back up to Briggs: Hal Holbrook. Reminds us of another “Lieutenant”…Richard Holbrooke. Should we be surprised that Richard’s original name was Goldbrajch? Of course not. Should we be surprised that he attended Brown University? Of course not. [see: Victoria Nuland, Roberta Jacobson, etc.]
Holbrooke served with “diplomats” like John Negroponte and Frank Wisner. Negroponte attended Yale…specifically Davenport College. Ah, Davenport…the alumni of this residential college include both Bush presidents, William F. Buckley Jr. (we’re really racking up the CIA/Skull & Bones points so far), Samantha Power, etc. It should be noted the physical proximity of the Skull & Bones “Tomb” to this residential college: literally a stone’s throw (right around the corner).
Wisner established the Operation Mockingbird propaganda program on behalf of the CIA. He also established “stay-behind” networks in Europe post-WWII. One can’t help wonder if these were the same (the Italian one at least) which were (was) activated for the false-flag terror in Italy as part of the “strategy of tension” (Operation Gladio). We won’t even get into Mossadegh and Árbenz. We will, however, point out the very interesting word found within the Iranian PM’s name depending on transliteration: Mossadegh vs. Mosaddegh. It seems Wikipedia is going with the latter spelling (interesting considering the recent admission [finally!] by the CIA that they overthrew the democratically-elected leader of Iran in 1953).
Back to Holbrooke…managing editor of Foreign Affairs (the official CFR publication) from 1972-1976. Holbrooke, like all good spooks, eventually ended up on Wall Street (Lehman Bros.) Ugh… Did you know the American Academy in Berlin has a Henry Kissinger Award??? …and that it was awarded to George H.W. Bush in 2008?!? Talk about a double whammy!! This “cultural exchange” was the brainchild of Holbrooke.
Chalk up for Holbrooke membership in the Trilateral Commission. He was also on the steering committee of the Bilderberg Group (I refuse to capitalize). All of this is a long set up to say that Hal Holbrook’s character Briggs couldn’t be more like Richard Holbrooke in terms of apparent philosophy.
When people like Briggs and Holbrooke have former Airborne Rangers and Special Forces at their disposal, things will end very badly for all involved. Unfortunately, the four rookie cops are some sick fucks! They’ve bought into the twisted philosophy of their ringleader Briggs. The Lieutenant must have been an early pioneer in the militarization of American police.
But the fuckers in charge forgot to check the titty bank (and the snatch bank). Enter Clint Eastwood.
The super-death in Technicolor and Panavision is not enough to shake the monk Harry Callahan from his herringbone duty. A can of Schlitz and a cold burger: Harry gets the job done.
Yeah, Davis is a little too prompt to the crime scene…kinda like FEMA on 9/11 with their Tripod II drill which so serendipitously helped Rudy Giuliani establish a new base after his bunker was brought down by controlled demolition (WTC 7). It’s splitting hairs to fixate on the date (September 10th, 12th, either way). They were there at Pier 29. Strange, don’t you think?
Bless you Ted Post, John Milius, and Michael Cimino for bringing us this death squad wake up in 1973. Rogue elements. It’s what people like Alex Jones have been saying all along. It’s not the whole police force. It’s not the whole CIA. It’s not the whole military. The criminal segments are elements (with high-level moles).
Enter Jade Helm. We hope Steve Quayle is wrong, but the idea is not outlandish (knowing what we do about our government).
May God make me misjudged. Like Callahan. The death squads can’t persuade him. Not like this.
Ruppert’s ghost lives on in cached posts.
It’s who you least suspect. No, not quite. Open your eyes.
We hate the goddamn system, but rough justice works both ways. Abide by nothing, expect the same. Dirty Harry is the cleanest of the bunch.
May God help us to survive the outgunned moment. Maybe it’s the USS Forrestal. James was right about Palestine. And now Wayne Madsen has strangely dispensed with the Drew Pearson citation.
Here be monsters!
Here. Ici. Godard=Picasso=Joyce. It may start with an Élie Faure quote concerning Velázquez, but that is just to set the stage for this ball of colored glass which goes beyond cinema. The politics come on stronger, but they are like that strangely succinct Butthole Surfers lyric about not giving a fuck about the FBI…or the CIA.
You must only dial M. Two murders by scissor. Furthermore, the only way to catch a thief might be in his fireworks. The tears of a clown…Clyde and his Bonnie…I can’t even keep track of their casual carnage. Two? 3? One thing is for sure: the excitement of Breathless returns…along with the high school musical version of Broadway…in a bare apartment…a girl and a shitload of guns. That’s all you need for this film. And a car. The spirit of Gene Kelly emerges later to spiff up the surreal song moments.
Pierrot doesn’t drive off a cliff. But he drives right into the sea. Yes, books were Pierrot’s downfall. He’s never gonna get that job at Standard Oil. Especially since he skipped town with a smokin’-hot murderer. Drive all night. Fuck it! I’m so sick of everyone. I just want to do what I want. You know, just get in your car and start driving. Find a town somewhere and start a whole new life.
Enid Coleslaw would doubtless have a certain simpatico with our lovers Marianne and Ferdinand (Pierrot [Belmondo]). But this paradise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A parrot, a fox, sure…but eating out of tin cans…Marianne, like Groucho Marx, wants some hot-cha-cha! And so the dance hall in town. It could be L’Atalante. It could be Casque d’Or. Why are the police not here yet? Because they like to let people destroy themselves. Victor Hugo meets Dostoyevsky.
More torture à la Le Petit Soldat. Use the whore’s dress. Polyester. An especially nasty asphyxiation. And so Ferdinand ends up back in the bathtub…where he started. Instead of reading the history of modern art to his daughter, he has just outed his lover. What a terrible 5:00 pm. What a terrible 5:00 pm. What a terrible 5:00 pm.
Maybe I will just let the train pulverize me. Why is it always damsels in distress? Damoiseau?
Ah, but it all makes so much sense in the end. Raymond Devos sums it up. That tune that’s always been playing. It is our comedic, pathetic love life. Yes, she betrayed us. And so he fails to not commit suicide.
A failed failure is a success. I’ve always had trouble spelling that word. I blame Bob Dylan. There is no k in success. And though I long embraced suckcess, I now remove the k and a c comes with it. Sucess. I have unsuccessfully spelled success. As a graduate student. In business.
Ah, but it’s really no use. One must stay optimistic. Realistic. Let’s face it: the chances are slim. It takes a lot to laugh. Hear that lonesome whistle blow. Maybe tomorrow Bob Dylan. Suckcess in all its glory.