I fucked up.
I’m fucked up.
I fucked up.
I’m fucked up.
I was very apprehensive.
Because I loved the original so much.
Trying to remake one of the best films ever.
An unenviable task.
But Tim Burton was bringing it all back home.
1964. Roald Dahl.
But let’s take a step further back.
Camp X. Ontario.
“Established” December 6, 1941.
Yes. You read that right.
The day before the attack on Pearl Harbor.
It was established by the “real” James Bond: a Canadian by the name of William Stephenson.
His codename? Intrepid.
He oversaw British intelligence, MI6, for the entire Western hemisphere during WWII.
Roald Dahl, the author of the children’s book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, was one of the men trained at Camp X (today known as Intrepid Park).
So it should go without saying that we are not dealing with just any children’s author.
And herein lies the secret of Tim Burton’s success.
I fully expected full-on ball-tripping excess in homage to Mel Stuart’s “wondrous boat ride” of 1971, but Burton managed to restrain himself.
Indeed, the psychedelia of this film (and weirdness in general) is evident throughout almost every part of the film…EXCEPT THERE.
And so I must hesitantly call 2005’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a masterpiece.
Against all odds.
It’s only fitting that the lead child actor who plays Charlie Bucket (Freddie Highmore) was born on Valentine’s Day.
Yes Virginia, perhaps some things are fated.
Highmore is fantastic in a role created by Peter Ostrum.
And though we miss Diana Sowle and her priceless rendition of “Cheer Up, Charlie”, Helena Bonham Carter is quite magnificent in her limited scenes as the cabbage-cutting Mrs. Bucket.
But Tim Burton updates our story considerably to make it more relatable to the Harry Potter generation (and the service-industry pipe dream known as the “third industrial revolution”…for the “adults” in the crowd).
Yes, we needs must only revisit Eliyahu Goldratt’s “business novel” The Goal to remember the shortsighted “local efficiencies” which factory robots can produce.
By the way: there’s a father Bucket. And he runs into a patch of robot trouble.
But Tim Burton does not stop there. Whereas the original film focused tentatively on child spies (remember the purloined Everlasting Gobstopper?), the film under review seems to situate itself amidst the full-scale industrial espionage (and, in particular, intellectual property theft) which the United States attributes to China.
But let us pay our respects here.
David Kelly was fantastic as Grandpa Joe. Truly a wonderful performance! And we are sad to have lost his talents in 2012.
Reading from back to front:
-our Augustus Gloop is somewhat forgettable (save for his Low–era Bowie hair tint)
-AnnaSophia Robb is appropriately snotty as the overachieving brat Violet Beauregarde [How did Tarantino not hire this girl for his next refried kung-fu film?!?]
-Julia Winter (who strangely has no Wikipedia page) is really special as the mouthy tart Veruca Salt
-and Jordan Fry plays Mike Teevee (though they might as well have gone with “Hacker” Mike Xbox or some such first-person shooter sobriquet).
And that leaves us with the big dog himself: Johnny Depp.
Stepping into some very big shoes.
Gene Wilder. Taken from us just months ago. A truly magical being.
And so Depp and Burton needed a strategy.
And it appears it was something like, “Ok, let’s make him weirder. Like, lots weirder. Remember those sunglasses Keith Richards wore on Between the Buttons? And the hair like Brian Jones. Prim. Proper. Rocker. Ok, ok…but we want the Salinger recluse thing with some Prince or Michael Jackson oddity. Purple velvet. Ok, yes…we’re getting somewhere.”
Most striking, however, is Depp’s accent. Very Ned Flanders…but possessed by the thoughts of Salvador Dalí.
But the Burton touch shows through. That macabre glee.
A little cannibalism joke here. “Which half of your child would you prefer?”
Though tempered by quick-tongued childlike wonder, Depp is still a rather darker Wonka than Wilder’s fatherly archetype.
Yes, Depp could fit fairly well into Kraftwerk (especially germane had Augustus from Düsseldorf won the grand prize).
Johnny and his purple latex gloves.
Not a touchy-feely Wonka.
Doesn’t even bother to learn the kids names. [there’s only five]
Totally off his rocker.
Makes Gene Wilder’s Wonka seem like Mister Rogers in comparison.
But this is mostly secondary to the success of this film.
Tim Burton evidently didn’t feel making a true family film was beneath him.
And so, perhaps with a bit of inspiration from Wes Anderson, he made an immensely touching picture here.
Charlie Bucket is the kid we need in the world.
The chosen one.
The needle in the haystack.
And it is Wonka’s quest to find such a unique child.
Charlie almost gives up the ticket (sells it) to help his desperately poor family, but one of his four bedridden grandparents must have read Hunter S. Thompson at some point. And so Charlie is convinced to “buy the ticket, take the ride” so to speak.
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Enter Deep Roy (Mohinder Purba) as ALL (and I mean all) of the Oompa-Loompas.
It is in the short (!) song sequences where Burton’s debt to David Lynch emerges.
Kind of like Danny Elfman’s debt to Tom Waits.
Comes and goes.
Burton, being the mischievous connoisseur of all things dark, manages to make Veruca’s exit an homage to Hitchcock and Tippi Hedren (albeit with squirrels).
Sure, there’s some crap CGI in this film (not to be confused with the even more insidious Clinton Global Initiative), but it is generally restrained.
At a few points, it gets off the rails and threatens to damage an otherwise fine film.
But I tell you this…there are plot twists here which for someone who has merely seen the first film (like myself) truly baffle and surprise.
And they are touching.
So it is with no reservations that I call this a family film.
Sure, some of the jokes are a bit obtuse.
But the framing story (the Bucket family’s existence) is indescribably magical.
It is then, only fitting, that Christopher Lee be the one to welcome the prodigal oddball Depp.
Which is to say, this film has a sort of false ending…which is inexplicable…and genius.
It is at that moment where the film finds its soul.
Happily, Burton gives us a fairy tale ending in which the young mind can work with the eccentric master…and the eccentric master can once again know what home is like.
I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass.
This one starts out slowly.
Too long at the first location.
The river bathhouse.
The dread of boredom begins to creep in.
No girl. No gun.
Until Jana Preissová makes her first appearance.
It was unbearable.
A rainy summer.
Every day the same as the last.
In a small town.
A closed circle.
But like Fellini, the circus comes to town.
Thank God for the circus.
Cotton candy. شعر البنات
Is it girl’s hair? Pink. A one-piece pajama.
Or a pig.
It is like the sweet words of the beautiful Haneen Elhaj in Bethlehem.
Running on the electricity of a car battery.
Spinning sugary magic.
Sandy stone (when the mirror of translate is turned upon itself).
We want to know literally what
Heidegger Derrida was talking about.
And so it only took director Jiří Menzel two years to lose his voice.
It was perfection in ’66.
Ostře sledované vlaky.
That is the cynical view.
But we must realize that Menzel was literally walking a tightrope.
It’s not funny.
It’s not engaging.
By the end you see that Fellini is the right reference.
Capricious Summer (our film) bridges the gap between the antics of La Strada and the lovable freak show of local color that would be Amarcord (1973).
But this was 1968.
A very serious year.
The Czech and Slovak (respectively) socialist republics came into being the following year.
We know the legend.
All hell broke luce.
Even Cannes was cancelled.
But what is a film festival compared to an invasion?
Before our Capricious Summer was the Prague Spring of 1968.
Lasting well into the summer.
And blooming well before winter had ended.
January 5 – August 21.
Then the invasion. The Warsaw Pact countries.
Romania (and Albania), to their credit, refused to participate.
108 Czechoslovak civilians killed.
Liberalization. Decentralization. Democratization.
Like the beautiful Anna. Fleeting.
Because the circus always has to pack up and leave town.
Released May 24. During the Prague Spring.
Pražské jaro (or jar).
The only difference between my bank balance and Bill Gates’.
More zeros at the end.
Later these “Springs” would become manufactured (if they weren’t already).
We all know about color revolutions…but the Czechs would have a textured revolution in 1989.
From velvet…we could have had the corduroy revolution (ribbed, for her pleasure), silk revolution, cotton (the revolution of our lives)…etc.
The “nonviolent” Prague Spring resulted in the deaths of 96 Soviet soldiers.
84 of them by “accident” (friendly fire?)
and the accidental/”suicide” deaths of 10 Poles.
Apparently none of the Poles died conventionally.
At least the two Bulgar soldiers killed perished from intent.
The four Hungarians all slipped on banana peels in front of Škodas.
This is the tone.
Plucking the feathers from chickens.
The chubby wife returns.
Drench the nubile.
Menzel, then, was many months ahead.
Knowing that summer would really begin when autumn usually fell.
Another 20 years before the circus returned.
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.
This film contains everything.
As in, “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
It is truly vast like the sky full of pebble stars.
There is no translation for Federico Fellini’s masterpiece Amarcord other than “I remember”.
Ah, good God: memory!
I immediately think of George Stevens’ paean to family I Remember Mama (1948) and, of course, the king of memory Marcel Proust.
But this is Italy, not France. And Remembrance of Things Past is a “bad” translation. More accurate is In Search of Lost Time.
And that is exactly what Fellini is doing here.
Trying to reclaim the past.
Remember this? Remember that?
It is, I am guessing, a conversation with himself.
It is a small town (or at least it feels that way).
And we have everything.
A blind accordionist straight out of Tom Waits’ dreams.
A femme fatale by the name of Gradisca (“take what you want”). [Played by Magali Noël.]
We miss the translation now and then. Perhaps the Romagnol dialect?
That explains our title Amarcord.
“Jadis, si je me souviens bien…”
A season in hell.
And yet a season of beauty as well.
Uncle Teo (Uncle Uncle) says it best…up a tree…over and over and over and over again:
Voglio una donna!
Voglio una donna!
[like John Lennon writhing in pain on “Mother” or “Cold Turkey”]
Voglio una donna!
“I want a woman!”
Each incantation different.
The 42-year-old Teo up a tree…on a day out in the country…on leave from the asylum.
And a dwarf nun makes it all better.
It’s not what you think.
When you look at the cover for the film, is says SEX SEX SEX.
Sure, there’s sex.
But it’s very matter-of-fact.
This isn’t a film with gratuitous nudity (only one brief nude scene).
Sex is woven into the film.
It’s alright to talk about sex. 1973. Italy.
Fellini is a big shot by now.
It is art. It is life. It is artistic expression.
Everyone is portrayed lovingly. Everyone is subjected to the same pimple-precise criticism.
Films don’t get any more real than this.
Fellini introduces an element of magical realism here and there. [The magic is due in no small part to Nino Rota’s shimmering soundtrack.]
Sure, it serves as a bit of a distancing technique (Brecht?)…a defense mechanism, perhaps.
This material is too raw; too personal.
It is TOO sad! One has to laugh because of how sad it is.
And that is the tragicomedy which lived on in the great Roberto Benigni’s comedies and the grand-slam of naïveté: Giuseppe Tornatore’s Cinema Paradiso.
And so, to understand these latter-day…saints(?)…we must examine the old masters. We must get used to saying Nuovo Cinema Paradiso (the real title)…because cinema is barely a hundred years old, really. And so, we must look to Fellini as akin to Giotto.
We get so many perspectives here…
It’s one of the few times AMPAS has gotten something right. This film. Oscar for Best Foreign Language. 1974. Look at the list. Lots of misses.
Back to Amarcord.
Beauty goes away. The big fish in the small pond.
But the blind accordion player endures.
Vulpina (Josiane Tanzilli) the nymphomaniac fleshes out the family portrait.
Ah ah ah…
It’s no use.
This film is all about detail.
There is no use recounting the endless assortment of fascinating characters who make this thing go.
You will just have to see it for yourself.
For all of its pithy naturalism, it is really a touching film.
Fellini gets every little detail right. Such a formidable picture!
Sometimes a lack of words is sadness.
Down at the dancehall. “Auld Lang Syne”…
Old long since.
Long long ago.
“Long, Long, Long”
From Robert Burns to George Harrison.
“Standing in the Doorway”
You left me…
Bad as Me. “New Year’s Eve”…
Yeah, someone noticed.
It’s not as entertaining as “the rolls”.
…wisps of music on the wind with lonely snow.
There are good people in the world.
I can attest to that.
Whether they’re joking or not.
There are little miracles.
Like “the little tramp”…
A light flickering here and there.
“Caroline Says II”
It takes a long time to watch a movie like this.
It takes a lifetime.
In this fashion.
To see it once…as a kid…in high school…and swoon to the wallflower image.
And now 20 years later (at least).
This time we know “the rolls” are coming. Buzz rolls. Open rolls. Double-stroke. Scotch snaps.
“Auld Lang Syne”
It is the sentiment of Dean Wareham on that last Galaxie 500 album.
“Fourth of July”
I stayed at home…
This Is Our Music//
Ah…I’m skipping around. Snow blind.
Lost in a flurry. Of activity. Or snow.
Mack Swain…Georgia Hale.
And Charlie “Charles” Chaplin.
I don’t remember what version I saw as a kid.
Today. I learned of a new version. New being 1942.
Voice-overs by Chaplin. I resisted at first.
Yet, this may have been the version I saw as a kid.
I don’t remember. Cinema was just a dream in my heart.
But now I know.
For all the outcasts and underdogs.
I was asserting my personhood. Making my own choices. Silent film. What a rebellion!
And now I know.
The other side of the coin.
It takes a lifetime to watch this film.
In the dancehall.
Leaning on a rattan cane.
The world is meant to squash your dreams.
Some dream of Denmark. Sweden. Switzerland.
But I don’t live there.
And I don’t live much at all unless I let out a love cry like Albert Ayler.
Up on “Zion Hill”…
It don’t mean a thing.
It could be called Composition No. 173 like Anthony Braxton.
It’s the only way you know you’re still alive.
The only way I know I’m still alive.
The genius of Charlie Chaplin.
We didn’t know such things could be expressed.
And we were fascinated to find that they had been expressed so well so long ago.
I’ve run out of witticisms.
Which is a shame. Because I really want you to know about this film.
If you don’t already.
This is called quantum writing.
It is the sentence fragment equivalent of liberal ellipses.
It is the first episode. Vignettes.
Seemed like a throwaway scene years ago.
Now. So prescient. Then.
So pertinent. Germane.
She’s not really interested in becoming a movie star.
People selling kidneys to get a real casting agent and she’s not interested…
Lost in the world.
Pulling immigrants with the magnetism of illustrious decades.
East Germany. Dresden. Near Czechoslovakia. 1991.
My neighborhood. When I can pause for a moment and appreciate the diversity.
Another scene which ages well.
When I saw this I hadn’t been to France.
Hadn’t been to New York or L.A.
And you appreciate more. When you’ve been.
The loving portrayal. The in-between shots.
Maybe it’s the garbage can at Pink’s Hot Dogs.
A green trash bag. Liner. Someone sweeping up.
We’re blind to so many details.
And so Jim Jarmusch went and put ’em in a film.
Tom Waits soundtracking like Charles Ives with an accordion.
Why is it sad?
It should be funny. And sad.
It depends on your life.
If you’ve ever had a brush with the entertainment industry, then that first scene might get you.
Might punch you right in the gut.
And the point is that as one girl throws it all away (from a perspective) a bloke on the east coast is just trying to get a cab.
I’ve got money.
And home is Brooklyn.
It’s painful cold.
And as one family is dysfunctional in its uniquely Tolstoyvian way, another has no family at all.
It was too cold to shave today.
Save the money.
Money is not important to me. I’m a clown. I just need the money. But it’s not important to me.
And there’s your artist.
A mechanic works the art of grease.
A clown suffers in the tumult.
Please. Come in. Welcome to my taxi. It is very important to me.
Long night. On Earth.
You hear about Africa every year. Annually. On average.
A famine. A plague. An outstanding war. Out standing in the rain.
We never know just how it feels to live in Nigeria.
It is furthest from our thoughts.
And then we are reminded. That Africa exists.
The continent. Does not exert itself.
Comes down to capital. LLC. Land labor capital.
To LKM. labor Kapital material.
A lot has changed since Adam Smith.
And what makes the U.S. unique compared to Hong Kong or Tokyo? Land.
Room to sprawl. Endlessly.
But I digress. As a matter of course.
In the course of one speck of matter (Earth) running rings around the Sun.
Our sun. Not up yet.
The hour of the wolf.
Brings us to Rome. Ingmar not Ingrid.
It is comic blast #2.
We survived the sadness with laughter. In New York.
And now we book a room at the Hotel Genius. [Hotel Imbecile was full-up.]
Thank God for Charlie Parker!
I was looking forward to this humor for days. I knew the ending.
But I didn’t know my own age. In the mirror of cinema.
But, dear friends, all good things must end (and bad things must start).
“They say the darkest hour/Is right before the dawn.”
That’s the hour of the wolf.
And instead of Max von Sydow we get Matti Pellonpää.
With his Grinderman mustache.
Walrus. Circles the statue. In front of parliament?
Helsinki. Like a sinkhole. Cold. Hell sinky.
It is the end of the earth. And I only have my memories of being drunk in Kiruna. Sweden. Never made it further east.
And for a moment he just sits behind the wheel and stares off into space.
After it’s all over. As if he can see the ice-trails of orbits.
We travel the spaceways.
Every humble step of our lives.
From bakery to grain field.
But mostly streets.
Taxis. The poetry of snaking asphalt.
Sing the songs of the pavement.
Every passenger a sad story.
Every driver a priest.
If Jean-Luc Godard had never made another film after 1983, this one would have been his best ever. It is that good. But perhaps you doubt? Let me tell you why I believe this to be the case.
This may have been the film where Godard really nailed down his mature style. Really, there is no putting a date on such things. He has continued to progress to the current day.
But let us focus on a few salient elements.
One might expect a French (Swiss) director to pick Debussy and call the elements connected (we refer here to the orchestral piece La Mer). But Godard was always very analytical. And so Beethoven is a more natural choice.
But what Beethoven? Which Beethoven? It is the string quartets.
Must it be? It must be. It must be.
Godard began (continued?) to make films more like a composer than a movie director.
The art film genre allowed him to do this. And in many ways he formed and shaped this genre from the beginning.
To call art films a genre is generally not in keeping with standard film criticism practice.
But I don’t care.
If it helps to call it a genre here, then so be it.
But does it help?
It makes no difference (as Rick Danko sang).
But let us not neglect the ocean…the sea.
“I salute you, old ocean,” as Lautreamont said in Maldoror.
Indeed, Godard has some of that proto-Dadaist perversion in this movie. Perverse, as opposed to perverted. Both.
What is remarkable beyond Beethoven and the sea is Godard as an actor.
That’s right, Godard himself plays a prominent role as (what else?) himself.
It is really a caricature of himself. Or is it?
To wit, Godard plays a director who has gone crazy.
Early on we see him in an insane asylum.
There is something slightly frightening and menacing about him from time to time, but generally he is hilarious.
This film is replete with humor.
But it is not a comedy.
Sometimes a comedy of errors.
And so, Carmen? Yes, like Bizet. We remember Brahms being so taken with this opera.
Was it the music or was there perhaps an attractive alto in the production?
Alto. Viola in French is alto.
And who is our alto? Only one of the greatest actresses to ever live: Myriem Roussel.
I must at this point beg forgiveness from the universe for not even mentioning her in my review of Passion.
I blame Wikipedia (as I always do).
I admit laziness (as per usual).
Frankly, I knew it was her in Passion by the poolside. It is a small-but-striking role. Mainly because she is nude.
It is all very artistic, yet I see why Godard would cast the beautiful Roussel in revealing roles over the course of several films.
Yet here, Myriem is merely a violist. The viola in my life. Morton Feldman.
But it is neither Godard nor Roussel who carry the bulk of the dramatic action here.
For that we must credit Maruschka Detmers and Jacques Bonnaffé. The acting from these two players is outstanding!
Detmers plays the titular Carmen. Indeed (keeping with the hanging sonority), it is Detmers who spends a fair portion of this movie nude. But, to Godard’s credit, so does Bonnaffé.
But this is not just a gratuitous European pseudo-art film. This is the real thing.
The most beautiful moment occurs during a bank robbery.
A struggle for a gun. A man and a woman. Carmen. She has robbed the bank with a band of professional thieves.
And Joseph (Bonnaffé)…the gendarme responding to the violent robbery.
He leaves his post in front of the bank and exchanges gunfire with the trigger-happy gang.
And so it is that Carmen and Jo (Joseph) struggle for an automatic weapon. Both having been shot.
They crawl over each other. Win at all costs. To lose is death. High stakes now.
And climbing over each other in spurts of faint energy, they abruptly stop and begin passionately kissing.
They give up.
It is the moral.
Ah, but they DON’T give up! They join forces.
And so Joseph goes from cop to thief. All for love.
Oh no, I’ve said too much (as Michael Stipe once intoned).
Carmen needs to pee. Joseph has tied her wrist to his using his necktie. [What kind of gendarme doesn’t have handcuffs?]
And so they stop at a shitty roadside gas station.
The moral of the stop: even France and Switzerland have shitty roadside gas stations.
Away from the tourists. Off the beaten path. Where people actually work for a living.
And we have the most poignant scene. The most bizarre. A fat man has pocketed a jar of baby food (?) and proceeded to the restroom to eat it lustily with his fingers. Put another way, here’s a poor schmuck whose life at this moment (for one reason or another) has been reduced to shoplifting to sustain his life force.
And the poor schmuck gets a treat. Carmen needs to pee. So does Joseph. Joseph won’t untie her. And so she uses a urinal. And the shoplifter continues to make slobbery sounds as he licks his fingers while eating baby food in front of the bathroom mirror…nonplussed by the action. But he sneaks a peak…ah, whatever. He is entirely involved in his “meal.” Somehow this scene makes sense of the whole universe. It is hilarious, disgusting, and believable. The mark of genius is on this film throughout.
I must add one last thing. Just when the strains of Beethoven have become commonplace–just when the crossfaded splosh of waves has been drowned out by our psyches…it is at this point which Godard throws us the most gut-wrenching curveball: “Ruby’s Arms” by Tom Waits. Bonnaffé hugs the TV…resting his weight on the crappy 80s hotel console…and the screen is tuned to snow…static…fuzz…phasing lines of nothingness. Between channels. And as the song plays, Bonnaffé caresses the screen…caresses what might have been.
It is a most touching evocation of lovesickness.
Carmen is fond of repeating the line from the American movie, “If I love you, then that’s the end of you.” She may not work at a cigarette factory nor dance the habanera, but she is still the prototypical femme fatale. Yes, Jo…love is a rebellious bird.
I pray before this film. Before the thought of this film I bow my head in reverence. Every time 1984 is read and misunderstood, it is cheapened. Fahrenheit 451 was Truffaut’s best film. It has nothing to do with French or English. It is semantics.
W.K.L. Dickson. Not Henry. I votes in my hole. Wernher von Braun. SS. He was once Nosferatu. At Los Alamos. Now that vampire only exists in Anna Karina’s teeth. She has her father’s eyes.
And then there is Alpha 60…like Tom Waits meets Siri. Sigrid…und set! Beauty. Victory. Logic.
This was three years before HAL 9000 graced screens everywhere…tactfully letting us know what it couldn’t allow. “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
I pray before Alphaville because there used to be poets…Rimbaud, Beethoven, van Gogh. A computer will destroy itself trying to reason through the processes of such an
imbroglio. Why? Because. Write again. And again and again. The palimpsest is still readable with memory.
Thus the crux. Technocracy seeks to control memory. Through elimination. It’s history. Gone with the wind.
But speak a word of Eluard. The Capital of Pain. Sorrow. It comes off as a code of significance and meaning. Perhaps even A.I.-enhanced machines feel as if they are reading R.D. Laing’s Knots.
Planck’s postulate. E=nhv. E=hf? Tarzan versus IBM. Lucifer.
Are not to be found in the book. Ninotchka. Kisses for comrades.
2001. IBM and the Holocaust. Edwin Black. Yeah.
Is it Borges vs. Eluard in a fight to the death? No past. No future. Only the present. Nueva refutación del tiempo. Nueva York.
There is no time. It’s not just of the essence. New York. Lou. Lemmy. Bogart. What did Hume assume? Sentient beings destroy time by obsessing on the past. Memory. E = mc 2 (time would cease to exist). Beginning/middle/end. Not necessarily in that order.
And so Godard ruined Eddie Constantine’s career…and made him immortal. To achieve immortality, and then die. Aspiration in life. Melville.
Siri’s victory over death? No. Cortana. Nefertiticaca. Buxom Bolivia. Looks like Eva Green to me. Perhaps.
Larynx sphinx. Sphinx. Sphinx. Sphinx.
None of this matters. Erase erase erase.
I love you.