The Longest Day [1962)

Two lines from Verlaine.

Fake them out so many times that they become crazy.

Now do you understand QAnon?

Be on the precipice of all out attack.

Call it off.

Ike did.

82nd.

101st.

Resist.

Vive la France!

Who will save us?

We are the resistance.

We are digital soldiers.

Rubber dummies.

Gliders.

Loveless.

My bloody Valentine.

You must defy all logic to win.

Logical thinking.

Our enemy is evil.

But they aren’t stupid.

When the CIA was headed by military.

Walter Bedell Smith.

Teddy Roosevelt Jr. on Utah Beach.

His son Quentin Roosevelt II on Omaha Beach.

Teddy made it a month more after the Utah landing.

The only general on D-Day to land by sea.

Age 56.

The oldest man in the invasion.

Had a heart attack one month later and died.

Quentin lived four more years.

Till 1948.

Plane crash in Hong Kong.

He was 29.

Robert Mitchum heading up (assistant) the 29th Infantry Division with his cigar.

Fort Belvoir.

Omaha.

Norman “Dutch” Cota.

Neptune.

Normandy.

It’s not where you think it’s gonna be.

It’s not the easy route.

It’s not the obvious point.

It’s the most difficult length.

It is different from previous modus operandi.

Robert Ryan heading up (assistant) the 82nd Airborne.

James M. Gavin.

But nothing beats the voice of The Duke.

A true American patriot.

Now being cancelled by the communist Left in the United States.

505th Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne.

Fort Bragg.

2nd Ranger Battalion.

Joint Base Lewis-McChord.

75th Ranger Regiment.

Fort Benning.

Jeffrey Hunter.

With the torpedoes.

Richard Beymer.

Must have missed him.

Red Buttons gets hung up.

Deafened by the bells.

A bit of comedy.

Sal Mineo.

4th Infantry.

Fort Carson.

Paul Anka.

Fabian.

Tommy Sands.

Bernard Montgomery.

Colin Maud with his dog.

Richard Burton is equally magnificent as John Wayne in this film.

Sean Connery is conspicuous.

Irina Demick brings us our only true beauty.

Using breasts as weapons.

As Louise Boitard.

Arletty.

Must have missed her.

Jodl wouldn’t wake up Hitler.

Who had taken a sleeping pill.

Lost time moving panzers.

Attack just after midnight.

Hitting beaches at 06:32.

Curd Jürgens knows the war will be lost.

Because Hitler took a sleeping pill.

Walter Gotell.

Must have missed him.

Heinz Reincke has good reason to be pissed.

Because the assets were in the wrong place.

Only two planes.

To counter 5,000 ships.

Peter van Eyck is annoying as fuck.

Pluskat suddenly sees 5,000 ships.

And it is too late.

Gert Fröbe will not be bringing any more coffee.

It’s too late.

This is not a masterpiece.

But it is essential viewing.

To understand the planning.

And the execution.

To have a great plan.

And things still go wrong.

Nothing will ever work out quite as you have planned.

And sometimes you have to attack during a storm.

-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

 

La Vie d’Adèle – Chapitres 1 & 2 [2013)

Sometimes we wonder whether the sadness is worth it.

In our epic lives which seem unbearable.

We only wanted a laugh for a second.

But we’ve felt too much.  Seen too much.  Too knowing.

All week long.

Misery.

And I have a letter in my heart.

But she won’t read it.

Won’t respond.

I am too sad to live.

Like Poe.  Like Baudelaire.  Especially.

Sitting for long hours in the café which really isn’t a café.

It’s a class struggle.

I can’t afford to be sad.

And I can’t afford not to love you.

This is Blue is the Warmest Color by Abdellatif Kechiche.

He.

Takes his time unwinding this story.

So delicate.  As lovers with mangoes.

Nobody’s listening.

Praise be to God!

I can’t.

Reveal myself to the world like that.

For it is Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux who have made the perfect film.

Real blood and real tears.

Cinema demands it.

From under the shadows of Godard, Kechiche.

Don’t let it scare you away.

Persevere!

Because this film was wholly deserving of the Palme d’Or.

It’s not a lesbian love story.

It’s not even really a love story.

It’s loss.

Walking away.

Lonely like Anna Karina or Louise Brooks.

Heels clicking pavement.

She couldn’t get close to anybody.

And when she finally does?

It’s devastating.

Devastatingly beautiful.

But devastating.

So many tears in this orgy of Frenchness.

Like Verlaine and Rimbaud.

“You’re gonna make me lonesome when you go”

I’ve seen one actress do it (Anamaria Marinca).

But I’ve never seen two actresses do it.

Together.  Like Ginsberg and Corso.

Perhaps.

Ouroboros.

Really, it’s just Exarchopoulos.

I could say the name a million times.

Thank you.

Typically French.

Untypically thorough.

Kechiche.

Tunisia.

France.

Greece.

There’s joy in those tears.

Because acting doesn’t permit this.

Cinema doesn’t permit this.

It’s not The Brown Bunny blue.

Blue is the coldest color.

Timing.

Pacing.

Nothing.

And beingness.

What?

Exarchopoulos.  Exarchopoulos.  Exarchopoulos.

And [poof!] she appears 🙂

Teach me something I don’t know.

The birth of the world.

The middle movement Mozart clarinet concerto like Breathless.

I’m too tired and my French isn’t good.

I’m literally at the end of breath.

But don’t go…

Stay a moment longer.

And linger.

Stay with me with the damned.

What can I offer them?

When my troubles have been so mundane.

No.

Love vastly, hurt immensely.

Learn the real life.

Of Arabic and real estate and dreams destroyed.

I will never be a movie star.

God damn it.

We just want our spark in a bottle to be found.

Our quark.  Her quirk.

Hair all down in her face.

Don’t get me started…

It’s not the Bond girl who fascinates.

It’s the girl of the winding arcades…

Straight and narrow.

Zaftig.  Not the svelte punk.

Lots of spaghetti like Gummo and a chocolate bar through the tears.

My God…

What did I just witness?

Sex is the least important aspect of this film.

Titillation misses the point.

It’s that connection that she so dearly wanted.

This is the loneliest job.

 

-PD