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Tag Archives: Tom Verlaine
chthonic [2021)
So Pauly Deathwish comes out with a Sonic Youth cover.
“Schizophrenia”.
Sounds like Sade and Yoshimi-era Lips.
Like mental illness is no big deal.
Strange.
Almost bossa nova.
Like an elevator music rendition.
I dig it, though.
Bachelor pad music for hipsters.
Sounds like the chord progression is totally different.
This bloke gonna be locked up with Stravinsky in Boston.
Kinda Herbie Hancock doing Nirvana.
William Shatner.
But then that fucking piano comes in.
Like “Time” from Aladdin Sane.
Fucking hell.
Beautiful and fucked up.
Ratchet up Conlon Nancarrow.
Something Charlie Parker about this.
Impossible arpeggiator.
Talking the Kim Gordon lines.
Muted.
Lou Reed.
Leonard Cohen.
This is good shit.
Gets all ’80s.
Public Image.
Finally Thurston and Ranaldo drop in.
Shit gets real.
The harmonies on this song are insane.
Like Messiaen.
Definitely fits the scordatura.
Something Brian Wilson about this progression too.
Like fuzzed-out Smile.
My fiancee dumped me 12 days ago without even telling me why.
Four year relationship gone.
NEXT SONG!
Suzanne Ciani.
Real guitar?
Sounds a little Built to Spill.
Very circumspect.
Great harmonies again.
This dude didn’t cheat his Fux.
Creeping automation.
Ambient.
What will it do?
Some sad shit like Godspeed.
Silver Mt. Zion.
Hats get going.
In a Silent Way.
Bass drum drops in.
It is obvious Pauly loves “A New Career in a New Town”.
This vibe resurfaces in many of his songs.
But THIS song!
Very “Mayonaise” by Smashing Pumpkins.
Like Glenn Branca with a better childhood.
A long instrumental.
Slow, simmering fire.
Anger.
Sadness.
Mixed together.
Catharsis.
SLOW-LY building.
Arpeggiator about to get wild again.
Mothersbaugh.
Fuzz bass drops in.
Soft Bulletin.
Wow.
What a guitar tone!
Sounds like a fucking harmonica.
Great lo-fi…Devendra Banhart vibe.
But this is straight Velvet Underground.
BRMC.
An instrumental with ooohs and ahhhs.
Bottom drops out.
Drums chugging away like Primal Scream.
Fucking glockenspiel!
A’ight, mate.
Interesting touch, there.
Little bit Mercury Rev.
See You on the Other Side.
Chugging away.
Guitars enjoying themselves.
Ghost of Sterling Morrison.
Tune called “Catharsiss” [sic].
Must be some weird Godard reference.
And the last song of this maxi.
Similar start as track 2.
Strange flange/phase Shepard scale weirdness.
Truly chilled-out, mellow bathtub guitar.
Like Yo La Tengo.
Those fucking pricks.
Why did they block Pauly Deathwish on Twitter?
That’s uncalled for.
Bloke’s just a struggling musician.
But they are holier than thou.
Well, Pauly’s played Maxwell’s in Hoboken too.
YLT never hit a vibe this good except on “Pablo and Andrea”.
Fucking unblock Pauly Deathwish, you losers.
Twitter.
Cymbals Eat Guitars vibe.
Very chilled out.
A little “All Cats Are Grey” feel.
Good guitar noodling.
In a Verlaine/Lloyd way.
Why did my fiancee dump me?
She won’t even tell me why.
12 days ago.
The day before thanksgiving.
Drums kick in.
Good beat.
MBV would have gone for this.
Similar guitar underneath.
A little J. Mascis.
Living with my parents.
Are you in therapy?
Haha.
FUCK THAT.
Yes, I review my own albums.
Because no one else will review them.
And because I have put out 16 albums in one year.
I don’t have time for people to catch on.
I worked hard on this shit.
I’m the same age Alan Vega when he started.
About to be 45.
Old as fuck.
So, I have a lot in common with Pauly Deathwish.
I feel his pain.
His fiancee dumped him too.
12 days ago as well.
She also didn’t tell him why.
She just started ignoring him like he was some piece of shit.
So I feel totally justified in helping Pauly out with this review.
To help get his music a wider audience.
Young Heart Attack feedback.
Radiohead clank.
“Creep”.
Back to the Badalamenti synths.
She just turned off her heart.
Maybe she doesn’t realize how much she is hurting me.
But I think she’s just a vindictive bitch.
-PD
41020 [2021)
A silver mt. zion.
Montreal.
Hotel tango.
Sighing synths.
Leonard Cohen.
Getting cold.
Lee Hazlewood.
Arizona into the Rockies.
Wyoming.
Road music.
Music of wide open spaces.
Charles Mingus checks in.
Bob Dylan.
Tumbleweeds.
Was QAnon bullshit?
WFMU seems to think so.
And all their hipster listeners.
Missing the Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
Chris Isaak.
My Bloody Valentine.
R.E.M.
Automatic for the people.
Rightly asking if this guy, Pauly Deathwish, is Borat.
Elvis working at the truck stop.
Nevada.
New Mexico.
Into French philosophy at a Barnes & Noble.
Film criticism.
Cinematic music.
The great philosophers.
Taking on Philip Glass.
Rachmaninoff.
Swedish version.
Poor girl with grey teeth.
Dirty bra.
Addicted to Kardashians.
And meth.
Smoking candy cigarettes.
Brutal, cold world.
No fall back.
Withdrawal back.
Wanna lock me for blood pressure.
It ain’t no cakewalk.
Ripoff.
Tech moves fast.
Write anything.
Better than nothing.
Bad press.
No press.
You have a printing press.
The Innocence Mission.
Miles.
Porgy and Bess.
A thousand planes.
Two ambient instrumentals to start this album.
Setting an amber tone.
Pensive.
Ex-pensive.
Time is a luxury.
And Miles comes in.
Bending notes.
Sighing again.
Like music from Big Pink.
John Simon.
Leonard Cohen.
Very much of the Deserter’s Songs type.
Song cycle.
Van Dyke.
And Coltrane leaps in.
No bends.
Solid sax.
Honky.
Low mids.
Leaping up.
Transposition.
A little noodling.
And WHAT THE FUCK.
Now we are in Blue Hawaii.
On a jukebox in Nashville.
Sawdust on the floor.
Just spit that tabaccy anywheres.
It really is Elvis.
Loaded.
Lou Reed.
Doo-wop.
We’re in east Texas with George Jones.
Straight country.
Classic country.
Bona fide redneck interpolation.
“Daisies on Your Doorstep”.
Troubled relationship.
Robert Altman.
Nashville.
Hitchcock.
Traut.
Birds.
Grandaddy invades!
Modesto!!
And back to EXPANSIVE verb.
Cathedral.
Serious shit.
Country gothic.
Phil Spector would have loved this.
The plandemic that killed Phil Spector.
Biggest celebrity to buy the farm.
Buy the farm?
Or sell the farm?
During this whole plandemic.
Write copy.
Boilerplate.
You have no publicity.
I block all reposts.
I wanna EARN it.
Organic.
Diminished 7th.
Dissolve into what?
More Mercury Rev homage.
Drums from “Desperado”.
Another lonely bloke ended by “Holes”.
Favorite song ever.
Happy end.
Drunk room.
Tom Waits.
The chord.
Spring.
Le Sacre.
Back to regularly scheduled programming.
Knife in the Water.
Austin.
R.E.M. again.
Big Star.
John Cale droning away on the viola.
No tremolo.
Swing it.
Ragged time.
Texarkana.
Arkansas.
And Texas.
Definite Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci nod.
Nick Drake.
Again The Innocence Mission.
Birds.
Pink Floyd.
Fairport Convention.
Psych barn.
The Byrds.
Gram Parsons.
Neil Young big time.
Stooges meet Beach Boys meet Messiaen.
But the Bowie knife is orange.
Made in Germany.
Kanye West and Wayne Coyne drop in.
An anti-hit.
When you can sing, but you get raped by auto-tune.
Loosen that shit up.
Going all Arabic on me.
Raga.
Spinal Tap.
Clouds of sound on almost every track.
A very ambient album.
Mood set.
Mood retained.
Mature.
Duran Duran.
Peaches DJ Berlin.
Where’s Warhol?
Nigel Godrich.
Jonny Greenwood.
Thom Yorke.
Grinderman.
Roger Waters again.
Microtonal blues.
Straight into Bjork.
Does she umlaut?
Sounds of a Mac.
Swan.
Alarm clock.
Gentle waking.
Paganini.
Rachmaninoff.
Elton John.
Stevie Wonder.
Sly Stone.
James Bond in Rio.
Drax.
Os Mutantes.
Jobim.
Korean frogs.
Shinto.
Spy guitar for reprise.
Tom Verlaine.
Richard Lloyd.
Paul Simon.
Rhythm of the saints.
Graceland.
Beethoven emperor concerto.
Slow.
Beloved.
Tokyo.
Press roll.
Sushi.
Kill bounce.
Phil Selway.
Colin Greenwood?
A masterful track.
“Icelandic Pastiche”.
NOW WE’RE TALKING.
Papa Trump back in the house.
For the apocalypse.
Rocky Balboa.
L.L. Cool J.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Second coming.
To save.
Vengeance is his.
Everyone given a chance.
A fair chance.
NASA.
I hear a single.
“Landslide”.
Wisconsin decertified.
Ramthun came through.
About fucking time.
There’s a riot goin’ on.
Paperclip Nazis.
Eric Carmen.
Smokey Robinson.
Tears of a motherfucking clown.
Oboe.
Michael Stipe.
Gil Evans.
Having the French horns get groovy.
Amelie.
Sketches of Spain.
Sunday morning.
Loveless.
Kevin Shields.
Belinda.
The Soft Bulletin.
Christ coming down from the clouds.
Like a ton of bricks.
Anvil.
Don’t call it a comeback.
Not all the way.
Staple Singers.
Rick Danko.
Rocket pans across stereo field.
Jesus talkin’.
Crucified.
Died.
Buried.
AND ROSE AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Jesus more space than NASA.
Really a masterpiece of sample placement.
Crystal-clear mix.
Clouseau.
Peter Sellers.
Bass solo.
Absolute Mingus.
Bloody jaw-dropping.
This is like a fucking lost Roland Kirk album.
This track!
Concerto for Booty and Orchestra.
Montreux.
Can never spell.
System hacked.
No more spelling.
Adieu au langage.
Flute loops.
Cocteau Twins.
Ties together album.
Last track coming on like Faust.
Built to Spill.
Silver Apples.
In memory of a bloke who bit it.
End of Night on Earth.
Real recorder.
Charity.
You will live forever, my friend.
I never knew you.
You aren’t forgotten.
Thought of you put in this track.
Catharsis.
Yerself is steam.
Smashing Pumpkins.
Siamese.
Great album by Pauly Deathwish.
Spotify.
iTunes.
Solid.
-PD
glitch [2021)
Cobra and phases.
Emptying a sampler.
Pierre Henry.
Schaeffer.
Always Flaming Lips.
A twist on bass.
Fridmann.
The church of Michael Ivins’ hair.
Jazz odyssey.
He wrote this.
Straight up.
Bold start to Pauly Deathwish’s 5th album.
Stretching out.
Space jazz.
Squiggle.
Sonic Youth.
Watch for upcoming single.
Cleared.
Glenn Branca.
Bitches brew.
Live eviL.
Mercury Rev.
Grassy.
Hit to death.
John McLaughlin.
Tribute to Jack Johnson.
Steve Gadd slow nerve action.
Hendrix.
Chuckin’.
Television.
Tom and Richard.
Hippies cool at CBGB.
Makeover.
Bowery toughened.
Are you experienced?
Paul Simon never sounded this tough.
Or desperate.
Always too cool.
But the lyrics give him a run.
Into Radiohead.
Another COVID album.
The best.
Pauly Deathwish.
Headlines.
Zeitgeist.
Epstein.
McAfee didn’t uninstall himself.
Charlotte Gainsbourg.
Lady Godiva.
A dentist chair in Florida.
Soros’s scumbag Rubin.
Forgot a fuck.
Not for kids.
Not safe for work.
F-bomb Ferguson.
Plastic Ono.
Primal.
John Paul Jones keys.
Real.
Frustration key of E.
The pitched song.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
Remember this connection.
“Montreal Heartbreak”.
Pure perfection.
Repetition.
Bravery.
Transient random-noise.
Hal Blaine on Harvest.
Trying to make it pay.
Hotel to Tango.
Stopped in Oklahoma.
Back when concerts were played in Austins.
Tonight’s the night.
Neil in Ontario.
A Canadian pastiche.
Bowie low.
Cohen Quebec.
Visconti.
The cure.
Ivermectin.
Hydroxychloroquine.
Disintegration.
The only artist to review his own albums.
Because, you know, fuck it!
9/11 will come out.
Everything building to a head.
First Zeppelin album.
Black mountain side.
Jimmy’s eyes glowing magenta.
They tell me he’s evil.
Maybe.
But you gotta know the story of the blues.
I tried to sell my soul to the Devil.
But I am saved by the blood of Jesus Christ.
Jesus protected me.
Satan wasn’t buying.
Down in the basement of the Gunter Hotel.
I tried to sell my soul for the world.
But God didn’t let it happen.
Thinking it was bad enough.
Only through Jesus am I saved.
The worst among sinners.
Trying to gain the whole world.
Willing to forfeit my soul.
God is good.
And I can out-produce Jimmy Page.
Because God is my guide.
I have a dirty mouth.
Mary Magdalene.
Go and sin no more.
We’re in a fucking war.
We gotta put Jesus first.
On the battlefield.
Out greatest stealth.
Delta blues.
Emerald Mound.
Barbecue.
Poor.
Rural.
I don’t know how to make copies.
And my black neighbors don’t know how to use the internet.
Joe Biden can get fucked.
But me, I like women with big tits.
Alex Jones quote.
I relate.
I don’t wanna be a part of this sick cult.
We need God on the battlefield.
Mercy is waiting even for Jimmy Page.
Turn from the evil ways.
Recognize King Jesus.
The sky is crying.
Hound dog.
Muddy.
Wolf.
Flange.
Phase.
Straight Thelonious.
With Coltrane.
Miles.
Pre-electric.
Second jazz tune.
Straight off blues.
The Monk solo.
Dissonant as a motherfucker.
MTHRFCKR.
Acciaccatura.
Who, me?
Carnival.
Honing in.
D.
Watery solo.
Buttholes.
Kuntz.
Is a joke?
Weird Al.
The Residents.
Don Cherry.
Malachi Thompson.
Soprano trombone.
Roland Kirk.
Reeded brass.
Klang.
Straight jazz.
Philly Jo.
Watch for first cover.
Unpredictable.
Mercury Rev.
John Peel.
Straight into a QAnon song.
Reggae.
Durham.
CodemonkeyZ.
Flynn, in fact, did not go to jail.
Spy dub.
Bob Marley gets all conspiratorial.
Haiti.
Obama gets arrested at his own birthday party.
Strzok blocked on Twitter.
Army Counterintelligence.
A bunch of cunts?
Not Seth Keshel.
The real deal.
Tony Shaffer.
Counterterrorism.
Will the FBI be shut down?
Department of Justice is the very heart of the Deep State.
Rosenstein is linchpin.
Bill Barr was miss.
Cymbals Eat Guitars.
Each given a chance.
Lou Reed.
Rollerskate Skinny.
Music like this hasn’t been made in 30 years.
Bowie would be proud.
The debris from the Nirvana signing.
The truly good bands.
Some Boo Radleys here.
Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci.
Beach Boys.
Good production.
Lee “Scratch”.
Black (Oak) Ark.
A disgusting record collection.
Mildew.
Lovingly preserved in filth.
Vinyl still good.
Cop shoot cop.
Strong statement against Antifa.
Dylan.
This guy is bold.
Deserter’s.
Amy Helm?
Rambo.
J. Spaceman.
Jack Fate.
Dylan tongue cheek.
Summer 2020.
BLM.
Only person to listen to this.
Pet Sounds.
Bellingham.
Fredonia.
SUNY.
Boces.
Wanker jazz.
Deep.
Boys peeling.
Give the anarchist a cigarette.
This is a fucked up record.
Calling David Lynch.
Gonna be hard for the Left to write off this guy.
Paradigm shift.
This dude troublemaker.
Name fits.
Trail of dead.
We know you, but do you know us?
Debord, eh?
Capitalism!
Soundgarden.
Chossudovsky.
Deep Pieczenik research.
9/11.
Space Force.
Satellites.
Leonardo.
NRO.
NGA.
And the beloved NSA.
More accurately: CYBERCOM.
Not yet split?
Nakasone double duty?
Architecture?
Who could bring down?
Two QAnon songs in a row.
Beatles.
White Album.
Magical Mystery.
Macca bass line.
Welcome to the revolution.
Sgt. Pepper.
Euros Childs.
Megan Childs.
Gorwel Owen.
Beautiful breakdown.
Bert Williams.
Good shit!
The jazz and blues build up into rock and roll.
Conspiracy songs.
Fort Meade on repeat.
780thC.
Army G2.
Cheyenne Mountain Alerts.
Air Force Cyber.
MARSOC.
Strobo.
Marquee Moon.
Big Pink.
Rhythm of the saints.
Tuatara.
Crime podcast.
Tettix Wave Accumulator?
The Supremes.
Berry Gordy trippin’ balls.
A Lisbeth Salander ballad.
Noomi Rapace.
FBI + CIA.
Both worthless.
But serves to delineate.
Interior and exterior.
Intel romance.
Smarter than Strzok and Page.
Richard Lloyd.
Too fucked up to catch Velvets.
I hear you.
It’s a bitch.
Rick Danko.
Thom Yorke knob twiddler.
Eno in Roxy.
Bogart.
The big sleep date.
Noir and chill.
Mulholland.
Breathless.
The harder they fall.
Shoot the piano player.
Doug Sahm.
We are here in San Antonio.
We are making the best of it.
Driving around.
Eating ZZ Top nachos.
Beer drinkers and hell raisers.
A real jalapeno.
Australia to steam like teapot.
Last song.
Spiritualized?
Joshua Tree.
Bono.
Epic.
Adam Clayton.
Comes with new iPhone.
An anthem like U2 ain’t written for a bit.
This is Dublin territory.
Sexy God believers.
Cigarette.
Irish whiskey.
A Guinness.
Cloves.
The wraparounds.
Luna.
My heroes.
Sterling Morrison.
And Jack Nitzsche.
But Bono can sing opera.
A good dude.
Needs to drop the carbon bullshit.
Global warming is giant fucking hoax.
Just like COVID.
The Edge knows.
Grow some balls.
Stop kissing the Pope’s ass.
This commie Pope is a fucker.
Jesuit dipshit.
Epic lift.
Pauly can play guitar!
Fucking hell!!!
Album builds up to last song.
Even last song builds up.
Fucking brilliant.
Glitch.
iTunes.
Spotify.
-PD
Viaggio in Italia [1954)
We push ourselves so hard.
For what?
So that we may see beauty.
For me, it’s this.
Though I can barely hold my eyes open, I see it.
I see what Godard saw when he was just a lad.
A very mature film from Roberto Rossellini.
But by mature, we don’t mean sexual.
Actually, more nuanced than that.
A celebration of woman as human being.
A celebration of Ingrid Bergman as auteur.
Just as much as her husband, the director.
It’s there.
The collaboration.
And it’s unlike any other film I’ve ever seen.
Perhaps…
she fell in love with his genius.
The war trilogy.
We have talked about the great films.
Just after WWII.
Rome, Open City.
Germany, Year Zero.
And enfin…
Paisan.
[in not quite that order]
These are our English names.
But Journey to Italy is a weird feast of linguistic absurdity.
“…you shameless hussy”.
It’s like this, see…
George Sanders and Ingrid Bergman are British,
but they’re speaking Italian.
This was so the Italians didn’t have to read subtitles.
But then George says to a prosititute,
“I don’t speak Italian” (or something)
in English…WHEN HE’S BEEN SPEAKING ITALIAN FOR THE FIRST HOUR OF THE FILM!
And then there’s the Italian tradition of postproduction.
No live sound.
In this film, no ambient noises.
It’s like George and Ingrid are touring Italy in a fucking Tesla Model S!!
And a bit of dialogue.
And a clip-clop and a cloche.
Get out of the way, donkey cart!
Such that at a certain point, we wonder whether Roberto was exploding not only genre (to reference James Monaco), but the Italian version of “the tradition of quality” against which the French New Wave set themselves so polemically.
🙂
It’s possible.
“Do you think I’m insane,” asked Elon Musk.
No, of course not.
You’re South African like me.
But at the heart of this film (this is a film review, right?) are the same marital arts (!) which made Benatar sing love is a battlespace. What?
Before Godard and Karina, it was Roberto and Ingrid.
And the tension rubs.
Gimme friction, said Tom Verlaine.
And Paul Verlaine said some stuff which was ignored.
And Rimbaud shot his hand. Or ran guns.
Back when Abyssinia.
Main point is this is beautiful film.
Plain simple.
And it’s no accident Mr. and Ms. Joyce.
-PD
L’Avventura [1960)
Was Monica Vitti the most beautiful woman ever?
Probably.
Is Monica Vitti the most beautiful woman ever?
Yes.
That sounds better.
This.
This is the most disorienting film I have ever seen.
Mulholland Dr. is child’s play in this regard.
A sort of sweet, pleasant nausea.
A feeling I didn’t know existed.
Maybe.
Maybe John Hughes was right in this regard.
[Vingt regards]
uno
hair, always hair…blowing in the wind…like tall grass
good lord…
due
the birds are men…flocking on the jungle gym bars…as she silently tries to sneak from the schoolhouse
Noto…UNESCO World Heritage Site…Samba de Uma Nota Só
tre
a purring in my headphones…a Foley artist diabolico-subliminal…and yes she curls up like a cat…
Quattro
she seems to be bathing in money…but it’s just the floor pattern…sometimes…the floor looks best in red…
and there is always a woman…or a man…and you hate to admit it
cinque
dreadful…dreary…making love above the cemetery…a gazelle with blond hair…thank you Google…5’7″…an essential function for the, functioning of humanity
sei
Uh! They’re all nudes. No nudity here. A goddess is clothed. Not an alabaster ornament by the fountain.
sette
I wanted to like it. Or I wanted to not like it. Camus. I said that.
otto
no man is an island…and no island a man…and no man a nomad…
nove
it all hinges (henges) on a funny face in the mirror…the genius…we create together…Vitti…Antonioni…Ferzetti
a bad habit I never caught…
dieci
andiamo…lots of andiamo…remarkable for a film with so little movement in such a big slab of its meat…
like formidable in French…Anna Karina…everything formidable…but that’s because she was Danish…speaking French…and her cute little accent…but before there was Godard Breathless there was Antonioni Adventure…like the second Television album…but moreover on Karina…before Vivre sa vie (I know…) there was L’Avventura…a little scene with a wig…and before that Louise Brooks…
undici
you think they will turn around nude
dodici
Nono, Luigi…it is the most intoxicating kiss…out of nowhere…WTF in excelsis…mamma mia!
tredici
David, del…frolicking…who says summer is over?!? bangs…Fiat…leaping off the pavement (!)
quattordici
they told me to learn…sotto voce…or sotto nightgown…les cloches…loaves…and fishes…twenty, or vingt-et-un…Van Johnson…I really blew it…the architecture…and a dog with lunar metabolism…
quindici
you fuck…and then get fucked…that is, the circle of life…like a lion…and an impala…gazelle…przygoda…
sedici
he collects dolls…a man…faints [Truffaut]
diciassette
the first girl…is not Vitti…wait a while…count the seconds
diciotto
oops…now comes the swimming in money…my house in Rome…and the other in Milan
diciannove
Michelangelo…Sandro…I threw it all away…and no one is listening
venti
another day, another dollar…pardon me ma’am, but do you have natural nails? I use a lighter. Better still, until they go wrong.
it’s too packed full of dolphins
too many Bibles and Catholic eeriness
spring breakers…island hoppers
if it had ended
no
just give me macaroons and sports cars
il mio amore
-PD
Une Femme mariee [1964)
I want to write about the weirdest scene in Godard’s filmography up till this point, but I don’t. It’s not a pleasant scene. It is uncomfortable. Unnerving. I want to write about the pointy bras which figure visually into so much of this film, but I feel silly. Pointy bras.
I want to talk about Macha Méril‘s hair and how once again Godard evokes Louise Brooks, but I…what?
The title. It had to get more vague. No.
There’s really no way of talking about this movie other than in its own language. I often do that. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But many times it is the only way. Here.
It slips through the fingers so quickly. If you do not write immediately, it is gone. I take a break. I charge my computer. It has escaped.
Truth be told, I never had that good a grasp on it.
I have to get worked up to talk about a film like this. I can’t check the news headlines for ten minutes on waynemadsenreport.com and then come back to it.
She is married. Unhappy. Every day she pretends. She is an actor dating an actor. Not the same. The theater and its double.
Artaud is on the tip of his tongue. Godard. What is he driving at?
This is elusive film. A cubist film. Fragments. If I stop to pause, it leaves me again.
I cannot give this treatise any ground. Yes, a treatise like Debord. In little mini-paragraphs. Theses. Something. I don’t know. Je’n s’pas.
It’s quick. Before she’s said it [bam!] it’s gone. He cuts. Montage. Gone.
Roger Leenhardt. I did not know. We don’t know. Barnes & Ignoble. Ig Nobel. Banana peels. Friction. Slippery slip slopery. Splits.
Does she say Thalidomide? It moves so fast. You are not French. You have audible French, visual wordplay, puns everywhere…unfunny puns on soul, angel, sea. Words in the middle of words. Treatise. trEATise. Focus on a part. How does the part tell a different story than the whole? Passage. Pas sage. Unwise. Not wise. No sagacity.
You have to be on your toes with Godard…even to this day. His mind is the quickest, slickest, oiled mechanism. The actor…just a mechanism. Is that a good translation? It matters. Are you reading the subtitles?
Some nights maybe you don’t feel like subtitles. You want to watch National Lampoon’s Vacation…
My queue. It is the same. Juxtaposition. Beethoven. No accident. Accidentals. We reach like bad Joyces. James…
The Holocaust comes into the oeuvre. Why the barbers? Indeed, she says…
Memory. For him, integral. For her, rien. Give me ten more pointy bras. Let me measure my breasts…nipple to nipple. The world turns on the tips of tits. No truer words ever spoken. Into the arms of Venus de Milo.
Her laughing is like a rodent…a squirrel perhaps. And then a woodpecker. It is almost indistinguishable from sobbing. Laugh tears. Oh James…
Ingmar got nothing out of it, he says. Godard took the long shot (extended take) and perverted it. Torture. Orgasmic laughs meant to liven up a marriage. The couple sit and fidget. Will they put on the Cal Tjader?
And then the husband threatens to rape his own wife. Is that translation correct? A significant line. Vital. Play acting? I don’t think so.
Truth in jokes. Expressed nowhere else. Why the barbers?
If you sought an insular review, you have found it. Only a cryptologist would claim spoilers. And thus we can justify that this is indeed film criticism. Mere reviews…
If you could double the size of your breasts with a Peruvian serum, would your husband blue you and make you Jell-O-sated?
All the brunettes are neutron blondes in the negative print. Hitchcock has sensors under your seats to know when your butt has arisen. Orly.
And the doctor cannot explain love. Where does sex end and love begin, or vice versa? Science still compares. Love is neurochemically like OCD. Quitting Facebook brings on symptoms akin to drug withdrawal. Which drug? How addictive?
It’s over.
-PD
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