How to Lose Friends and Alienate People [2008)

This film is squeaky clean.

Antiseptic.

And that is not a compliment.

It is waste of great actors (and a decent story).

Jeff Bridges is good.

Great talent.

Excellent contribution here.

He plays what must certainly be a backhanded homage to Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair.

A magazine I used to read.

Dreaming of entering that glitzy world where my idol Nick Tosches wrote.

All is, in fact, vacuous in such a world (as this movie plainly shows).

Which brings us to me.

And this.

Dossier du cinema.

Pauly Deathwish.

I am almost done.

Being an addict.

Being a basket case.

Almost done.

Almost.

Maybe tomorrow?

Kirsten Dunst has great breasts.

Linchpin.

Melancholia.

Poor men love breasts (as it turns out).

Danny Huston falls like the last laugh of Murnau.

Wiping the shitter.

Riches to rags.

Saudi Arabia.

Gillian Anderson plays the villain here (of sorts).

Megan Fox is boring.

Skinny woman are, in general, unattractive.

Real.

Be real.

Keep it real.

Restecp.

White Russian as bridging mechanism.

Ms. Lebowski.

R. D. Laing.

Lord Byron.

The only cinematography is when Dracula is depressed.

I’ve been blessed (?) with a complete lack of suckcess in my lifetime.

Good bit with La Dolce Vita.

Reminiscent of the open-air movie in Cinema Paradiso.

This film could have been a lot better.

Simon Pegg is an all-world talent.

This kind of tripe is beneath his abilities.

 

-PD

A Fantastic Fear of Everything [2012)

I found this one difficult to watch.

Multiple attempts.

I’m still alive.

Lon-don.

Tell them I’ll call them back.

Hackney.

Hacked.

Hanoi.

Humbert Humbert.

This is a rather inventive film.

Insular.

Wrapped up in web mind.

Cobwebs.

Webby.

Super glues a knife to his hand!

For fuck’s sake!!!

That’s when it started to get good.

But God knows how long it took me to survive the punishing beginning.

Boredom.

My Beautiful Laundrette.

[sic]

Working Title Films.

Jackpot!

Bean, Lebowski, Ali G., Johnny English, Shaun, Fuzz, Paul, World’s End, Grimsby, Saoirse Scots…

These are my films.

The auteurs of comedy.

Bona fide.

The twins.

And the muse.

My journey through addiction.

Knowing you’re an addict.

And not a patient on medicine.

Step 1.

Can I recapture?

Which way?

What???

Scissorhand.

Shatterhand.

Forgot the soap.

An opera.

Slow-motion underwear.

Soiled with blood.

Dust.

Attic.

Beautiful curry.

Had burned off the hair on one side of his head.

Scrotum.

FaTE.

Very much like lovely bones.

Hatch.

Soft bulletin.

Swung open.

Brochure.

Kiss to remove my gag.

Little ‘Nam.

Indeed.

Martin Rev suicides the wrap arounds from Wal-Mart.

Blinking LEDs chasing across the brow.

Creepy as fuck!

But bathos.

Bathetic.

Maudlin.

Yet in the mold of Frank Giustra (suing Twitter for comments I and others made).

Free speech, mate.

Yes, you have a psychopathic vibe.

It is my human right to state so.

Fuck Canada!

Hackneyed serial killer.

Trite.

Headbutt dog and duck.

Scotch egg.

1001 nights…

The star here (besides our subject of study, Simon Pegg) is the beautiful Amara Karan.

Breathtaking!

Sri Lanka.

Bikini.

Atoll.

Darjeeling.

Investment banker (!):  M&As.

Get the fuck out!

Oxford,

not a terminal degree, but quite academic for iTunes fare.

Pegg’s least-purchased movie (it appears).

But really a fine job by Crispian Mills (Kula Shaker, wot?!?) and Chris Hopewell.

 

-PD

The Big Lebowski [1998)

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.

Double whammy.

Thought I could sleep it off.

Depression.

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.

Yes.

Jesus has happened to me.

No, really.

A funny thing happened on the way to my mid-life crisis…

Mental breakdown?

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.

Bad.

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.

Like baggage.

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?”

Exactly.

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.

Cinema.

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.

 

-PD

Pulp Fiction [1994)

I was wrong.

This film is a miracle.

Next thing you know I’ll be praising Schindler’s List.

But don’t get me wrong.

I’m being honest.

Pulp Fiction is a masterpiece.

I’ve taken a lot of potshots at Quentin Tarantino.

In reality (of course) I was only shooting at myself.

Because once something becomes too big and too popular…

it can be hard to relate to it.

[Like another masterpiece…The Big Lebowski]

Because I had a massive panic attack when I saw Pulp Fiction in the theater.

In 1994.

The needle.

No, the big one.

Adrenaline.

Shot to the heart.

I thought Tarantino gave America a bad name…gave cinema an empty way.

I was wrong.

I hope someday I will be testifying about my conviction in the veracity of the 9/11 commission report.

Snowball day in hell.

My Schindler’s List paean will have long been on this newsstand by then.

Which is to say, not bloody likely.

But there was something I always liked about Tarantino.

Less Miller, more Burroughs.

Hubert Selby meets Comic Book Guy.

Which is to say, me…basically.

Ok, not exactly…but close enough to be a band apart.

 

-PD