Just cuz

So, I checked it out, and on a daily basis I break 8 of the 10 commandments.

So, it was like a giant drum circle?

77 BOADRUM

If you weren't there, you're a communist. Because it was awesome, and communists hate awesome.


And here I am being happy about being there.

Sorry guys, it's summertime, and I won't be watching movies for a while. I'll probably be in the park.

LOCK AND LOLL!

Wild Zero (2000) Tetsuro Takeuchi

So, I keep picking movies to write about that largely speak for themselves. Wild Zero, for those who missed it, was the Rock 'n Roll zombie alien gender-bending guitar-sword-spaceship-slashing epic I had been waiting for my whole life. It's chock full of Guitar Wolf's sloppy, noisy punk antics, complete with excessive hair combing and beer drinking as well as concert footage (R.I.P. Bass Wolf). If you're not already totally convinced that you should run out and rent it right now based on what I just said, ummm....we're not friends anymore.

I could review this movie, instead of listing genres that it could possibly belong to (guitar-sword-spaceship-slashing? Whatever). But it's not that kind of movie. It's way too Rock 'n Roll. Which brings me to what I've really been thinking about.

Rock 'n Roll is NOT over, baby! Rock 'n Roll NEVER DIES!

So can we all just go out sometime this week, buy some cheap beer, put on the Cramps, or the Ramones, or Elvis, Guitar Wolf, or hell, even the Murder City Devils, and remember that anyone with a guitar can be a hero for 5 minutes, and we aren't above loving them for trying. In fact, God Bless the talentless, scrawny boys of the world who first picked up a guitar because they thought it could get them chicks. God Bless them, every one.

My heart is all aflutter...

Go watch Tears of the Black Tiger RIGHT NOW! I'mna watch it again...



Have I ever mentioned how much I love epically stylized movies saturated with bravado, heroism, and heartache? Yeah. Well it's a lot.

Vent

I'm about to feel sorry for myself. Please ignore me, I just have to throw this out into the void. Because I have nowhere else to release it to.

I'm in a new city (well, 7 months isn't that new, but it's new enough) at a new job. My closest friend is my husband, who is having some problems right now and taking them out on me. My job is very exciting, but as a 23 year old with naught but an undergraduate degree I'm responsible for a million dollar, multi-site R01; and a very ambitious one at that. They finally got me an assistant, but she won't be able to help with any of the development, technical or theoretical, that's giving me a heart attack right now. I've been given an impossible task: to replicate a study and add novel techniques and measures to it without purchasing any of the equipment used in the former study. So I've been laboring away; writing software, modifying hardware, attempting to adjust the functionality of neurophysiologic tools we do have that were designed for completely different purposes. And I'm doing it. And I'm doing it well. But I'm not doing it fast enough for them, we have NIH deadlines and recruitment schedules, hospital administration breathing down our neck...all because when they hired me to do this no one considered that we might need the equipment neccesary to perform the experiment.

On top of that, my husband does not seem to think it's important to pay me back any of the money I've loaned him over the years, and in fact lost his job (and me) because of his problems with alcohol. And I'm flat broke. So I work nights as a phone sex operator on a no taboos line, pays OK. I get up every morning at 7:30, go to the hospital, frantically try to pull off nearly impossible feats of coordinating folks at three different sites in three different states, do my best to not have any bad news for them regarding the development I'm breaking my back over, get yelled at anyway because it wasn't done yesterday, and then get snide little snaps from the psych associate who has decided I'm disorganized and lazy even though she has nothing to do with my project and has never seen my work output. Then I try to clean my house, as well as feed myself and my kitten, before I have to log into the chatline at 7 and then have phone sex with strangers who are allowed to discuss bestiality, pedophilia, rape, and drugs until 11. I'm pretty good at everything but the black and the domination lines, although most of the young girl calls end up being domination anyway. I have no outlet for human contact or support, because I have no family and my husband just lashes out at me and tries to hurt me as much as he can whenever I try to talk to him about his problems, let alone mine. Other friends I have shy away immediately if I even come close to opening up to them; they want to have fun with me, drink sake and talk about movies or hear my crazy stories and dance to the cramps all night long, but not hear me talk about myself. My husband said once, when he was really mad at me, or just hurt because I told him I couldn't be with him anymore unless he stopped drinking, that I was a bitch all the time, and that's why no one cared about me. I've been assured by my friends that this is not the case. However, none of them care enough to listen.

Happy summer.....

everyone....

Ode to Brigitte Lahaie

When my girlfriends invited me to go see a midnight viewing of Pirates last night, my first thought should have been: "Arrrrrr," followed by brash enthusiasm; but all I could think was 'God, and stare at Keira Knightly for nearly three hours?' Now I know, I know, that the main draw of the movie is Johhny Depp, followed closely by both swash and buckle; but what happened to the days when this kind of crowd-pleasing fluff included some cheesecake? Why even have a female lead if she's going to look like a 12 year old boy?

Now, I believe that the trend towards slim models and actresses has about as little to do with teen eating disorders in America as Metallica has to do with Columbine, or whatever nonsense people spew about that sort of thing. My problem with Keira Knightly and, for that matter, every other plain faced stick figure on the big screen today is not the example they are setting for the youth of America. Their presence in big budget Hollyood productions says something terrifying about America's relationship with women. And I'm not even sure what it is.... but I know it has to be negative. The sexuality exuded by Keira Knightly in the Pirates movies is...non-existent? Completely! And what is a pirate movie, really, except for treasure, violence, and heaving bosoms in hot corsets? (also rum) At least in the era of Russ Meyer, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Lahaie, Barbarella, Isabel Sarli, and Reiko Ike, female sexuality was celebrated. Russ Meyer's movies are joyful; filled with bouncy, big breasted, oversexed women who can be badasses too. Brigitte Lahaie and Isabel Sarli shared with us two of the most beautiful naturally occurring human forms in history. Mansfield and Ike are flawed women that we love to love anyway, because of their ability to go to extremes, to touch us where we haven't been touched (giggle)...and, well, you get the idea. In essence, we were at one point getting off on women getting off. And that's hot. So whatever happened to cheesecake? Where is the Brigitte Lahaie of 2007? Jenna Jamison? Seriously? I'd rather take the GRE again than watch her take her clothes off. And what is the Barbarella of recent years...Aeon Flux with motherfucking Charlize Theron? Is that what we've been reduced to? What are all these joyless, sexless hags doing on my screen?

I think that one of the causes of this problem is that there's no joy in filmed sex anymore. Russ Meyer loved tits, and it's his genuine enthusiasm and fetishism, as well as the burlesque-esque writing style and tone he adds to his films, that made them great. Brigitte, Isabel, Jayne, and Reiko were in movies because they had presence and were physically representative of the ideal woman; and not because they were made of plastic and willing to do double penetration. Or, alternately, whatever it is that makes people hire Keira Knightly. It sure as hell isn't talent, or screen presence, or physical attributes. The best thing I can come up with is that as a celebrity, her name is a marketable attribute, and will draw a certain number of viewers. Or something. Really, I just don't know, it's totally beyond me. So what happened in between the late 80's and today that made us stop valuing female sexuality? Why don't we feel comfortable with celebrating joyful, overblown vampiness anymore? Why aren't we actively demanding the return of the sex-kitten?

I just hope Rodriguez's remake of Barbarella will remind America of what we once had, and how silly it is that we don't have it anymore.




Update: Dolly Parton is the shit. Linked is a decent article about why, exploring some of the female sexuality related issues I'd like to have something bright to say about.

P.S.- I got no beef with skinny girls, or androgynous girls, just the role Hollywood MAKES them play in representing female sexuality (although, Shane from the L Word, you rock it Japanese pillow book old school and make that skinny, androgynous look wicked femme positive). Seems to me that typically these girls are made to represent women who do not embrace their own sexuality, which I got beef with. I know it can be a thin line to walk, in between exploitation and celebration when it comes to female sexuality; but especially in a medium where female sexuality is not just the icing but the cake( I'm talking 'bout pirate movies...): somebody's gotta try! And, as is evidenced by the L word, when you put forward genuine representations of female sexuality, it's legit even though it's hot! In fact, it's more legit because it's hot! Whatever, ask Dolly Parton, she's smarter than me.....

Double failure

Possibly even triple.

So I know I'm not doing Acephale anymore, but some things just gotta get said. Basically, I just had the most amazing sex ever, twice, followed by a brief cuddle session that lasted exactly the right amount of time so that I didn't have to ask him to leave. I let him out, still feeling that glow, took a hit and hit play on my computer, and it's fuckin' Elvis's 'Do the clam" on my itunes. If anyone in the world is in a better mood than I am right now, I'm really happy for them.

Failure!

I'm a total failure at writing about movies right now.

HOWEVER- my new apartment has an ant problem, and I was about to be really bummed about it, when I remembered what Richard Feynman wrote in Surely you're Joking, Mr. Feynman, about ants. They navigate by smell, and confusing their scent trail will...well, confuse their trail. So I dosed my kitchen sink liberally with some perfume someone gave me at some point, and what do you know: now my kitchen is ant free, without the use of pesticides; and it smells like that French girl I made out with in high school. So I guess reading that book wasn't a complete waste of my time after all...

Grindhouse cinema

As we are all being forcibly made aware of grindhouse film by the illustrious Mssr. Tarantino, I'd like to put in my two cents about this genre, which is near and dear to my heart. While I have yet to see Tarantino's (or Rodriguez's) nod to one of my favorite kinds of movie, I am reasonably sure that Tarantino's attempt at emulating this will be a failure, since the elements of exploitation cinema that interest him appear to be those stylish, cool-factor bits and not the raw ugliness that comprises what is really interesting in these films. Additionally, Tarantino's dialogue heavy format and bent for pseudo-philosophical content will not lend itself well to the genre, and I seriously doubt he can manage to broaden his scope. I might be wrong, but I'm willing to bet that I called this one.

So I will review one of the ugliest, one of the worst, and one of the most representative grindhouse features that I'm aware of: Lucio Fulci's New York Ripper.

New York Ripper is barely a film. It barely has a plot, it barely even has a premise, but of all the messed up junk I enthusiastically show to whomever will watch, this is the one that most frequently elicits: "That changed me," and I certainly will go back and watch it, and watch it change people, again and again. The film opens with an elderly gentleman tossing a stick for his golden retriever in a recognizable, NYC location(a classic feature of grindhouse flicks, which were predominantly shown in the 42nd street grindhouses). In a trite, cheap shot moment, the obliging pooch return to it's owner carrying not a stick, but a severed human hand. And it only gets worse from there. The basic, overarching premise of the film is that there is a serial killer on the loose, targeting women in the manner of Jack the Ripper, antagonizing the police, and generally being up to no good. Character development is achieved largely through the assertions of other characters in the film, and "she has an IQ of 142," is supposed to be enough to convince us that some simpering blonde nitwit who behaves like she couldn't put her pants on by herself is smart. Similarly, much of the police work/mystery unraveling is necessarily made by a leap of faith; "After reviewing these tapes, it is clear to me that the killer is well-off, from a cultured background" (after listening to a tape of a man saying "you're stupid" in a donald duck voice). Like many grindhouses, this film exists as a vehicle for two or three truly shocking set pieces, and the rest of it is poorly connected, compulsory plot-furthering situations. So I'll review this film how it should be reviewed:

Set pieces:

1) Razor to the nipple

2) Razor to the eye-ball

3) Broken bottle to the crotch, w/ crotch POV shot

4) Foot rape

Themes/gimmicks:

1) SM

2) Voyeurism/exhibitionism

3) Donald duck. You heard me.

Grindhouse films are ugly. These films were made to deliver a blow, to touch something in members of society who wanted to feel: anything. I think things like this are worth seeing because they are a naturally occurring phenomenon that I find fascinating. Those things that are most telling about them now, (their emotional salience, themes of misogyny and violence against women, one of the only glimpses into the lives of certain fringe elements of society, one of the truest glimpses into the real fantasy life of at least one section of Americans...), came from someplace true and important to understand. This particular type of escapist relief, this particular kind of head trip, is deeply interesting but a sad and curious artifact of deep hatred and loneliness; of film-makers and film viewers. If Tarantino delivers as much emotional scope and complexity in his polished, kick-ass retro piece as I take away from New York Ripper, I'll be very surprised.

The Host part II

Or 'insomnia part 80 billion' or something.

I still don't have the energy to really say anything about 'The Host,' but I will relate this anecdote to those of you who have seen it. So I work in a Children's Hospital, and right outside the door to my office is a wall where the feeding disorder kids hang their art therapy projects. These kids are between the ages of 2-10, I'd say, and were probably almost all born prematurely. At any rate, I am always largely impressed by these projects, and am particularly enamored of the work of a young girl of about 4 named Claire, whose last project "snazzy feet," I actually considered stealing before I realized what I was considering. This week Claire has painted a large, watercolor mural; of a river flowing, and the sun, and some plants, and.... a large, indiscriminate amphibious looking blob? And the word HAN scribbled in big yellow kiddie letters, with an arrow pointing to the river. Now I'm sure there's some perfectly reasonable explanation for this; if you figure it out, let me know.

Science!

Hi all, sorry for the shocking lack of content in recent weeks. Tomorrow I am off to IMFAR (International Meeting for Autism Research) to present a paper; this is why I haven't had any time to write about movies. Although I haven't managed to stop thinking about them... At any rate, wish me luck, it's the first thing I've ever been first author on.

Feminism, apparently

Alright, let's talk about vagina. In film. I'd like to preface this by saying that I am by no means a feminist, educated about feminist theory, or even really a huge fan of feminists as they appear to me to exist today; nor am I really very similar to most women and therefor close to being able to understand how they feel about gender roles and all that jazz. So here goes what looks to be pretty much a shot in the dark.

I specifically want to talk about feminism in the context of two films: Catherine Breillat's 'Anatomy of Hell,' and Peggy Ahwesh's 'The Dead Man'. Both of these films purport to be explorations of female sexuality, sans "the usual patriarchal-porn trimmings" (Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader, on The Dead Man). Both are adapted from literary sources (The Dead Man from the short story by Georges Bataille, Anatomy of Hell from Breillat's own novel Pornocracy). And both are very focused around one overwhelming mood: revulsion.

I didn't choose to talk about these movies because they are good, and, in fact, I'm pretty sure Breillat's movie sucked, but they did make me think.

'The Dead Man' was interesting in that it has been heralded as a feminist film, as is evidenced by the above quote, but damn if it isn't absolutely true to the Bataille story. In the story (and the film) a young woman discovers her lover's corpse. She leaves her country home and wanders, naked under a raincoat, out into a storm and engages in a series of acts that convey that she has completely relinquished her self control; the violent situation produces a series of violently unstudied actions. Our heroin, naked, soaking wet and already at the edge of experience enters a bar and things escalate until she is engaged in raunchy public sex acts with the lecherous local yokels; falling down drunk and not above squatting on the bar and urinating on one of it's patrons before being unceremoniously fucked on the floor. Ahwesh's treatment of the subject matter is pretty much verbatim, and I don't think Bataille would be at all displeased with her decision to include acting so bad it made the audience squirm almost as much as the image of one of her actors pulling on his limp dick, or the very long and simply shot sex scene on the floor, with all the drunken grunting and thrusting that that involved. As the original story was written by a man, and the film is, in fact, shockingly true to the tone of the story, it is interesting that it is considered a feminist film. My best guess would be that this is a reflection of the perception that works that are violently confrontational and have female characters that make us uncomfortable are feminist works. Exactly why it is important, to the end of establishing gender equality, that we be made uncomfortable, that we be confronted with a revolting woman, I can't say I know. Needless to say, I thought the dead man was the most awesome movie ever.

The Anatomy of Hell, on the other hand, was deeply flawed and at times obnoxiously preachy. It did, however, leave an impression, as some of the images are burned into my retinas until the end of time, or at least the end of this week. In this confused head trip, a gay man(aging Italian porn star Rocco Siffredi) happens on a woman, in a gay bar, slitting her wrists. They enter into an agreement in which he will be payed to watch her while she sleeps at her isolated country home. What follows is a lot of terrible dialogue about how revolting women are, and how (straight) men want to possess them. The heart of the film, however, is the imagery and without the dialogue obnoxiously spelling out what must have been basically the entirety of 'Pornocracy,' the mood in this film is basically the same as that of 'The Dead Man.' Important differences are that the female character in Anatomy of Hell is in no way rooted in psychological realism, in fact I'm pretty sure that as this was in conception and execution a feminist film, she must necessarily be less specific than that and be representative of women. In addition, she has complete control, and although she's asleep for most of the action (and she's quite a deep sleeper), appears to constantly be doing things to poor Rocco. Rocco does an excellent job of being deeply affected by all this, and calmly drinks the reddened water she prepares for him by infusing it with her used tampon, but I have trouble buying the importance of the shit that he's so deeply affected by. Also of note is that Rocco's big, hard, beautiful cock makes a number of appearances in the film and female anatomy is, well, made revolting. I guess we'd have to ask Breillat how this forwards the feminist agenda. The film is absolutely violently confrontational, although when coupled with the explicit feminist 'men want to own me period blood is OK' dialogue it seems as if we are being asked to feel guilty for thinking the disgusting, confrontational imagery is gross rather than being asked to push ourselves to the limits of experience, perception and understanding as I feel we are in 'The Dead Man.' Overall an interesting idea in that it's violent and confrontational about sex, but, well.

So those are my thoughts on at least this one specific aspect of feminist film.

Anatomy of Hell available through netflix, The Dead Man available for rental(16mm) from the NY film makers coop

Acephale

So, for all one (possibly two) of you who are wondering what's up with Acephale... The lovely foreign boy that I married three years ago and I are about to embark on that leg of the journey towards a green card in which, we have been told, the government will start to interview people, monitor our monitorable communications, and snoop around generally making sure we're really married. It might be overkill but I don't plan on losing this boy or this battle with the department of homeland security, so I'm going to kill Acephale temporarily. Given that it's taken 3 years to even get this far, temporarily might mean any number of things. At any rate, maybe it will give me some time to come up with new material. Damn shame about the timing, as I just found out that Mia shares Hitler's birthday, and more than a few of my interests...

!!!!

This isn't film related, but it was so cool.

I visited my grandfather on the north shore of lake Ponchetrain(outside New Orleans) over the weekend and last night as we were sitting on the porch drinking coffee we started talking about... well shit, I don't remember. Somehow music machines came up, and my grandfather pipes up with "My neighbor Randy collects antique music players and machines, why don't we go and ask him to show us?" We call Randy up and moments later he is graciously ushering me into the house, obviously tickled that we asked to see his collection, of which, my grandfather has told me, he is very proud. He starts in the dining room, with an old gramophone and a 50's juke box he has restored, with before and after pictures. Then he showed us the phonograph cylinders, and several music boxes that dated back to the 18th century, more juke boxes, and all kinds of things I can't even remember the name of, before taking us back into the room where he kept all the really good stuff. I don't even know what to call the thing I saw.... It was, I guess, a fully automated band from 1918, which read from a paper roll. It had been re-done in the 30's when an accordion was added and it was given an art-deco makeover. Apparently there are people, somewhere, who still transcribe music onto rolls for these things, and Randy said he had a bunch of Beatles and some Hank Williams from sources like that. Did I mention the size of this thing? It was monstrous, with the instruments a few inches above eye level and a giant organ in the back, filled with pneumatic tubes and machinery behind the green art-deco facade. He had it play us a few songs, and he showed us the Mills novelty Co. Violano-Virtuoso, which is a self-playing violin with piano accompaniment. So awesome. I might be 5 years old, but I love watching the keys on the piano move by themselves. And as a true appreciator of genuine weirdos, I have to say that this is one of my favorite types: the crazy collector in backwoods Louisiana whose hobby is worth WAY more than his house, and is totally awesome. If anyone else ever finds one, tell me and maybe I'll make a movie about it. Oh yeah! He also had a piano that could record and play back those rolls, how cool is that?

Still horrified

Two things I wish I had never overheard:

"Let's see... Maryland... Maryland... I just can't remember what state that's in "
- a Comcast employee, talking to a customer who was apparently calling from Maryland

"I'm really bummed they locked that gate"- my neighbour
"Why?" -his girlfriend

That last one isn't quite as awful out of context, but the gate to the back of my building has been locked and we now have to walk around a block of apartment buildings in order to get to the back, besides which the only reasonable answer to that question is "because I can no longer use the gate" in almost any context. I wonder what she's like in bed. Not very intuitive, I would imagine.

I swear to Jesus on the cross I'll watch some movies soon, and then write unbelievably interesting things about them.

People are so weird

I may be drunk, but I am rarely as horrified as I am right now, about this .

Die Walkure

It's not a movie, but Imna review it anyway.

Last night I saw the Washington National Opera's current production of Die Walkure, with 66 year old Placido Domingo singing the role of Siegmund. Unfortunately for me, he had a cold and was singing well but not at full volume and in full force. Whatever, now I can check "see one of the world's best tenors in one of history's greatest operas" off my list of things to do. The much in vogue Anja Kampe failed to impress me as Siegelinde, perhaps because her awkward body language and less polished stage presence must necessarily be compared to Domingo's performance, as the two characters play off each other constantly. Her singing was superb, but it was Domingo and the otherwise negligible Gidon Saks, as Hunding, who carried the burden of establishing her role as the downtrodden wife, barefoot and in the kitchen. No, seriously, they totally had Siegelinde barefoot and in the kitchen. I wonder if this is what director Francesca Zambello meant when she said she was making "an American Ring."

Linda Watson as Brunhilde and Elena Zaremba as Fricka were both outstanding, and haven't gotten the good press that they deserve. Bottom line, these folks can sing and most of them can act.

But now for the confusing part. Zambella made some head-scratch worthy decisions, and there was a lack of unity in the direction of the opera as a whole, not in terms of narrative and drama but in terms of sub-texts and allegorical interpretations. I was first caused to scratch my head when Hunding appeared, in boots, suspenders and a brown shirt. Huh, I thought to myself. Nazis. OK, we can bring Nazi's into this, I guess. Although why Hunding? Isn't that sort of an odd, re-appropriation and reinterpretation of post-Wagner conceptions of this work's significance, specifically in terms of political revolution and German nationalism? And if so, isn't it a bit of an over simplification? We get it, Hunding is evil. The Nazi's were evil. Is anything interesting being communicated? Or was it non-intentional? How could you unintentionally dress a character in Der Ring like a skinhead?

THEN: the ride of the Valkyries. The third act began with imagery that appeared to be lifted straight out of Apocalypse Now, a screen was lowered and images of helicopters and fighter planes were projected as the Valkyries entered the stage by parachute. Which seems to me to be a pretty strange way to go with that. THEN I noticed that the Valkyries were also dressed as skinheads. No suspenders this time, but that's sure what it looked like to me. So either it was a huge oversight on the part of the costume designer, or perhaps everyone who would get in the way of Siegmunde's victory over Hunding is a Nazi. Except Wotan, who was an evil capitalist, for some reason. So you can understand my confusion. I'm pretty unclear on what the director intended to communicate through these particular decisions, making it pretty clear to me that the direction lacked focus and theoretical continuity. And originality. I feel like the helicopter/parachuting ride of the Valkyries was in fact just lifted from Apocalypse Now, and I'm uncomfortable with the kind of reverse pop-culture reference being made. Also, the Wotan as evil capitalist angle was lifted straight from the '76 Bayreuth production, but isn't put into context at all. It is almost as if the director felt that precedent was enough context, and that this kind of superficiality is acceptable.

To top it off, all of these decisions inject war into the piece, and by her own admission Zambella was intending to make "an American Ring," and god knows that revolution and upheaval, the institution of a new regime, are the most overwhelming themes in the cycle. So where was our war? This was an amazing opportunity to do something really interesting with this piece, and they did nothing.

Don't get me wrong, it was spectacular, and as a music drama everything carried and resonated. But the art direction, set and costume design, not to mention certain thematic decisions, lay a strange and opaque film of confused allegory over an otherwise solid production of a wonderful piece.

The Black Lizard (1968)

The Black Lizard (Kurotokage) Directed by Kinji Fukasaku, screen
adaptation by Yukio Mishima

The Black Lizard is a noir-ish detective story based on the novel of the same name by Rampo Edogawa. The film centers around the interactions of two strong characters; The Black Lizard, played by transvestite actor Akihiro Maruyama, an elegant gender-ambiguous criminal mastermind; and Akechi, Japan's best detective. When Akechi is hired by a wealthy jeweler who has been alerted to a plot to kidnap his daughter, a battle of wits between Black Lizard and Akechi begins. Over the course of the film both parties develop a mutual appreciation and respect for the other. In the interims between the almost erotic mental battles these two engage in there is plenty of time for treachery, crime, plot twists, false identities, lavish set design, and flowery language.

This movie is similar to other Japanese crime films of it's time in that it is unabashedly stylish and saturated with bravado(Tokyo Drifter, Lady Snowblood, etc..) but the subject matter and it's treatment are unique. The gender-ambiguous title character is only the icing on the cake; the really interesting moments in this film draw their power from the sexualized battle of wits, to the death, enacted by our protagonist and the title character. Although predatory, their relationship develops into something overwhelming intimate and undeniably sexual.

The Black Lizard, although the villain, comes through as the most developed character in the film despite being the most reprehensible. Her acts are almost unconscionable, and the extent of her evil gradually unfolds throughout the film, building up until the viewer finally reaches her headquarters, decorated with stolen jewels and the taxidermied corpses of her beautiful victims, posed at the Black Lizard's whim for eternity (um, sorry Gunther von Hagens, but that does seem pretty evil. I know, I know... it was for science.) But we identify with her. We feel her loneliness, sense her intense attraction to beauty and danger,to intellect, and her keen desire to be bested by Akechi. The love that went into crafting her character; her appearance, her cruelty, and her desire to be dominated; must trace back to Mishima's script. This is the character that he identifies most with, and the power of his fantasy makes this callous, shallow, criminal highly empathetic.

I watched this film because I find Mishima intensely interesting, and got even more than I bargained for. Sets, lighting, costumes and acting are all spot-on. Subject matter is overblown (in the best possible sense of that word)outrageous and fantastic (in the original sense of that word). I'd be interested to read the novel and see how and where Mishima's influence really shaped the telling of this story; the dialogue is clearly representative of his tendency towards imagery, and the plot and characters themselves reek of his particular ability to sexualize death. It would be interesting to see where inspiration left off and deeply personal ideas and aesthetics took over.

Recommended viewing


Available for download from cinema obscura, previously secret cinema (http://www.cinema-obscura.com/)

The Fountain

OK. Here I go. So about Darren Aronofsky's "The Fountain": To the filthy hippies who brainwashed the maker of pi; shame on you! The Fountain sucked so hard it created a vacuum. What happened to the Aronofsky with potential? The Aronofsky whose movies interested me as a teenager, who used images and content in a really neat symbiotic way where some of the images were the content, who could shock and surprise me and make me feel stuff? I mean, sure, as a film maker he had a lot of flaws, but he had some pretty good, er, OK, some ideas. But the fountain is so empty of meaning and infused with obnoxious new-age self indulgent self important shit it makes me want to punch the next hippy I see in the face. It's so empty of meaning that even the mechanics of the film are empty gestures; sure, you made all that stuff happen on film without using a computer, but I couldn't tell. My buddy who watched the movie with me couldn't tell. Basically, you blew god knows how much money in some kind of new age film-snob revolt against digital animation techniques for no good reason. There are a million instances where there is a good reason NOT to use CGI, for example, if you are representing fire. Fire cannot be CGI. I don't care how good you think you are at it, you're not, just don't do it. But that hippy shit in the fountain? I thought it was CGI until I read otherwise. So, good job of not disrupting the flow and feel of the movie by not using CGI, it really made a difference. Idiot.

Also, a whole movie and all that overblown drama about some chick who dies of cancer? (Yeah, she dies, now you know the end so you don't have to see it.) Big deal. Something sadder happened to me on my walk to the bus this morning and you don't see me making a movie about it, especially not one in which I become some kind of ascetic who makes out with trees in the sky for eternity because of it. Also, brain surgery? In a drug trial? With results that are worth something in days? Whoever did the research for that aspect of the story deserves to be shot in the knees, because my kid sister could tell you that drugs enter the brain through the blood-brain barrier and drug trials last no less than 5 years. If you're developing a drug that requires direct access to the brain you're probably in Nazi Germany, and it's probably not a drug. My kid sister is pre-med, but my point still stands.

In conclusion: Return Darren Aronofsky to us, you filthy filthy hippies, and I will give each one of you a brand new filthy sleeping bag and some used dread wax. Seems fair to me.

Available: doesn't matter, don't see it.

The Host

1) Go see Bong Joon-Ho's "The Host" immediately.

2) Actually, there is no 2 but I'll have more to say about this later.

ANGRY

OK, so I just got chastised for my apparel at work, by a doctor I work closely with, after someone else in the department (Dr. Palatucci) mentioned something to him. It began with the qualifier "I know this is something I've mentioned before...."

1) If you mentioned it before, it wasn't to me.

2) I'm wearing a button down collared shirt and dress slacks.

So I asked, "what exactly about the way I dress is it?"

Apparently, I need to cover more skin. Because I work with 8-12 year old mentally handicapped boys, blah blah blah.... I look down, to see what offending bit of skin I could have missed. Well, I can see... my hands... and.... my neck from the collar bone up, and then my face. That's it. So, a burqa? And some gloves? Or what? It's obvious that by "showing too much skin" he meant "I find you attractive" because I wasn't showing ANY skin and if a collared shirt and black slacks are inappropriate work attire then I have been severely misinformed about many, many things. So suck my fat dick, Dr. Palatucci, if you think it's inappropriate for attractive young women to work with young boys with developmental disabilities then maybe you should start hiring some ugly chicks, or MAYBE EVEN A DUDE. I know it's no coincidence that the majority of my co-workers are leggy 20-something female psych students with pretty faces, I just didn't want to hate you for it.

I don't mean to imply that I find myself attractive, only that the only implication the statement "showing too much skin" could have, under the circumstances, is that my sex appeal is inappropriate for the workplace.

Imagine what would happen if I started wearing make-up.

Notes on culture and perspective in film:

In my study of the human mind and human social cognition specifically (which is what I do when I'm not watching movies) I have become very familiar with a set of theories that I am beginning to think are relevant to my recent discussion of black cinema; specifically my post on Melvin van Peebles and the inaccessibility of his work to white audiences. This is also relevant to my more recent rant about how Sofia Coppola is an inane whiny bitch. Theory of Mind is the study of how people make inferences about the contents of other people's minds: for example, when a stranger opens a door at the train station and hesitates for just an instant, you have to infer from contextual cues whether this person is holding the door open for you, for another person they are with, or for themselves; and your behavior should appropriately reflect an understanding of their intention. If there is a failure to make the correct inference, you may end up bumping into this person or cutting off their aging mother... at any rate, you get the idea. The simulation theory of mind, which I am a proponent of, suggests that we are capable of making such inferences by simulating the mental state of the person holding the door open: in other words, we put ourselves in their shoes and infer what they will do based on an understanding of what we would do, given their perspective. This is a super-simplified summation (alliteration!) of the theory, but hopefully a useful one. In theory, from infancy we learn about our selves by imitating members of our species; everything from how to move our arms to language, and that we learn about inaccessible internal states of others by simulating their situation within our selves. This is, in theory, how empathy works. You feel the pain or joy of another human being because having access to the internal states of other people helps you infer what they are likely to do, and to behave appropriately given their mental state. OK, one final item, and then I'll get to my point: humans don't, and can't invent things. Yes, it's true that most people consider our ability to make and use tools one of the things that truly makes us human, and yes, we have devised a plethora of novel and useful STUFF, so how, you ask, can I make a statement like that as I sit here typing on a freaking computer for god's sake. The answer is that we are inventive, but the human mind is not capable of creating something out of nothing. It IS capable of abstracting information about objects and inventing new ways to combine, tear apart, or use objects, concepts, and thoughts that exist in this world. But it can't make something from nothing. Even monsters, creations of pure fantasy, are frequently composites of things that exist given a novel arrangement and context. (The griffin?) So what does this have to do with Melvin van Peebles and Sofia Coppola, you ask? Well I, for one, have a hard time identifying with the characters and scenarios in their films. It could be argued that I don't have access to the world's of these films because I don't have access to the minds of the film makers, because our cultures are so disparate. Not just because I've never been a blond millionaire or a black soldier serving overseas, but because these people belong to completely different cultures than I do; cultures in which elements present in these films are familiar, even if placed in a novel context. In the case of Sofia Coppola,I have no problem not identifying with her because I find her despicable; and I place the burden of responsibility on her to make a movie about the human condition, and not about the Sofia Coppola condition, which is apparently blond and spoiled. To some degree, I believe that all artists are responsible for communicating something to their audience. It should be something new, something that pushes us to see and experience new thoughts or perspectives, but if it's entirely inaccessible to an audience, then how can it change them? I probably shouldn't bring this up, because it's a bit of a scary topic to bring up in a public forum, but Wagner's infamous article "Judaism in Music" recently made me think about what I wrote about van Peebles (Oh god, I'm in trouble now). I will not touch upon whether or not I read the article as anti-Semitic, which I did, but will instead focus on one point that he makes. He seems to express that he feels Jewish composers of his era were unsuccessful in composing Opera in the western tradition because it had not been a part of their culture up until that point. This reminded me a lot of what I said about van Peebles work, that it was essentially outsider art that exhibits a lack of fluency in the art form, a form which up until the making of that movie had not been a part of van Peebles' cultural heritage. However, unlike Sofia Coppola, van Peebles does communicate with his audience: just not with all audiences. And at that time, it was very important to start to establish a black cinema, something for and about the experiences of that specific community. But it is also important for that kind of work to be accessible to culturally distinct communities: isn't the spreading of information what it's all about, in the end? In conclusion, I guess I don't really have a point. The issues that I (hope) I've brought up are these: what role does cinema have in culture, and what is the responsibility of the film-maker to communicate and inform audiences? How precious is the idea of a culturally distinct black cinema, a new form that serves specifically to express identities and ideas within a community? I don't have any answers, and I barely had any real questions, but this intersection of the anatomy of the real world (or in this instance, American culture) and our minds' abilities and limitations regarding empathy and understanding of minds separate from our own, really interests me. If that makes any sense.

Marie Antoinette

I never thought it would come to this, but yesterday I actually watched Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette. To clarify something for those of you who don't know any better or have been confused by positive media reactions to Sofia Coppola's films, THEY ARE NOT GOOD. Even Lost in Translation; not good. In fact, really, really bad. If you think you liked the movie, I hate to tell you this but it was actually just the soundtrack that you liked, and possibly some vague sense that Tokyo, Scarlett Johanssen, and Bill Murray are things that you should think are cool and that therefor the combination of those things, set to the chill sounds of My Bloody Valentine = a good movie. Such is not the case. In fact, that proclaimed "love letter to Japan" was just another weak, theoretically incoherent, inane movie about an attractive privileged white girl and how hard it is to be one, and in fact is insulting to the Japanese and completely marginalizes important issues like misogyny in Japan, among other things. But I digress. Marie Antoinette was, (surprise!) a weak, theoretically incoherent, inane movie about an attractive privileged white chick and how hard it is to be one. Sofia Coppola's main flaw as a film maker, besides a lack of talent, is a lack of perspective. Like many spoiled people, she only has one perspective, and it happens to be her own. All of her characters are representations of herself, and in making Marie Antoinette, she makes a pretty clear statement. She thinks she's royalty, and deserves our pity. Aside from my attack on the character of the director, which is directly related to the lack of value in her films, she's barely even trying in this one. The births and deaths of the children of the title character are represented by a 20 second montage of taking down and putting up family portraits; while at least an hour of the film is dedicated to shots of Kirsten Dunst's snaggle-toothed cackle as she gambles and, for some reason, runs a lot. Good to know what Sofia Coppola's priorities are. The dialogue is poorly written, with inconsistencies in style from scene to scene and between characters. Austrian characters speak English with a British accent(?) except for Kirsten Dunst, and her daughter is inexplicably the only character who speaks French. The only real attempt at making this a period piece and not a piece of card-board with the words "I am Sofia Coppola I have good taste in music and I want to be the queen of France I am so misunderstood identify with me!" written on it are the costumes and set design, which I will admit were kind of nice. But used to no good end. In conclusion, Sofia Coppola: shut the hell up.

Available from wherever total crap is distributed.

EEEEEEK!

Last night I went to the liquidation auction for Baltimore's Dime Museum, basically to check out a free freak show (auction items and those attending) and maybe pick up a little something something if it just happened that I happened to...... CHECK OUT THE AWESOME STUFF I GOT!

Hell with it

I've been very negligent of this blog recently, especially lame since I have a project this month that I think is pretty cool; to write about blaxploitation and some related genre films. But I have been seriously unmotivated, no idea what that's about. The only movie that got me really excited recently was not blaxploitation related, and all I was really inspired to say about it was
GO WATCH BLUE UNDERGROUND'S RELEASE OF SALON KITTY RIGHT NOW.

I'm not kidding at all, and I can't give any spoilers because that would detract from the immense cognitive effect of this film on the viewer.

I've been wanting to write about Blacula, because I love it and there's some interesting stuff going on there, but have been totally uninspired. What can I really say about Blacula? It's awesome, William Marshall's performance carries the piece and is astoundingly strong and dignified, traditional themes of sexuality and the complicity of the female victim are given a little nudge here; with Blacula's first victims being homosexual males and Tina's willing decision to join Blacula. Blacula himself becomes a tragic hero instead of a monster, he is not lured to his death by the female victim, she willingly joins him and he voluntarily walks into the sun and kills himself when he loses her. In any number of ways this movie turns the traditional themes of vampire films on their heads and emerges as a strong, interesting take on those themes and the way they translate given a different cultural context. So there, I guess I wrote about Blacula. Great movie, check it out if you haven't, available pretty much anywhere.

8 easy steps to becoming peniless and angry

1) kitten dies ($300) (animal hospital bills)

2) extravagant trip to amsterdam, because at the time you had the cash ($1,600)

3) new kitty to ease the pain, disease free this time ($350)

4) external hard drive death, replacement and data recovery ($1,000)

5) car accident in car w/ no collision insurance because of paperwork mix-up ($6,109)

6) new insurance policy downpayment ($1,900)

7) check fraud and identity theft ($1,500) (stolen from me)

8) Help out a friend in trouble ($1,500) (again, hen I had the cash)

and now, here I am, completely broke. thanks life. thanks a lot.

Abar: The First Black Superman (1977) Frank Packard

Abar may not be the greatest blaxploitation flick ever made, in fact it has been largely forgotten and is pretty tough to get your hands on at this point. But it is a novelty, and in a way, it's simplicity lays bare the issues at the center of black cinema and the blaxploitation movement. It's novelty is that it is, purportedly, the first black sci-fi movie. The premise is that an upper class, educated black family moves into a white neighborhood, and zany antics ensue! Dr. Kinkaide, the successful black scientist, and his family, are not welcomed into their new neighborhood. There is not a single sympathetic white character in the world of this film, and the good doctor's home is vandalized and the family threatened with violence. Abar, a youthful idealist who aims to end povery and racial discrimination, is hired as the Kinkaide's bodyguard. Meanwhile, Dr. Kinkaide has been whipping up a super-secret elixir in his basement laboratory that allows bunny rabbits to survive gunshot wounds. When the racial tension gets really bad, Dr. Kinkaide convinces Abar to down the potion, giving him supernatural honky-bashing powers. Production values are very low, the acting is even worse, and the premise and it's presentation are nothing less than absurd, but it's good camp fun with a positive message. Abar's speeches about making efforts towards social change by non-violent means and the unity displayed by the black community are heartfelt, if over-simplified, attempts to forward a positive political agenda. I also found it interesting that the (poor) black community stood up for the Kinkaides, because in many movies in this and related genres black characters who leave the community to live a more posh lifestyle are frequently denigrated and perceived as turning their back on their roots. There isn't a whole lot of action until the very end, when Abar gains an assortment of superpowers and there results a great big supernatural showdown between the racist honkies and the activist turned magical militant. All in all, a good bit of fun with some novel elements and an appealing camp aesthetic.

Available for sale at pimpadelicwonderland.com, and possibly for download at thepiratebay.org if anyone's still seeding

For the record

I spent the 14th watching 'let me die a woman' with my boy and the cat, who especially liked the operation scenes. Best Valentines Day Ever.

Goodbye Uncle Tom (1971) Jacopetti and Prosperi

"They have finally done it: Made the most disgusting, contemptuous insult to decency ever to masquerade as a documentary" -Roger Ebert on Goodbye Uncle Tom

I know I said I would write about blaxploitation exclusively this month, but it looks like the scope of the project is going to be a little broader, although still essentially the same. Goodbye Uncle Tom is not a blaxploitation flick, but it certainly is about black people being exploited and I have been thinking more and more about how this kind of exploitation movie (mondo, etc..) is really important to a discussion of exploitation in film and in this particular instance, black issues.
Jacopetti and Prosperi were a team of Italian film makers who began making "documentary" films in the early 60's, generally composed of shocking and bizarre images of non-western cultures, customs, and events. The genre of films that emerged from this are now called "shockumentaries" or more classically, mondo cinema. Their first foray into this dangerous and controversial genre was Mondo Cane, one of the best known and most visually and emotionally striking of their films. One of the characteristics of their films is that they are presented to the viewer as images of truth, as documentary footage, and this, I believe, is the most dangerous and intriguing element of this type of film.
Goodbye Uncle Tom departs from the structure of Mondo Cane, which was essentially a collage of unrelated clips from different exotic locales. Uncle Tom maintains the context of being a documentary, and the film makers and camera men are frequently in the shot, interacting with the players. However, the film these on-screen film makers are making is a documentary about slavery in the pre-civil war American South. I love this whimsical decision of the film makers; it establishes a very specific point of entry for the viewer: as it is a documentary, we are asked to believe that the events in the movie are true and to respect their power as images of real life atrocities, but we are constantly reminded of the impossibility that the footage we are shown is real. This decision may have been influenced in part by the public's reaction to Afrika Addio, which was presented as pure documentary and resulted in murder charges for the film makers. It also allows the film makers to include some very powerful directorial scenes and images that would not work in the context of a film that was presented as unstaged documentary: for example, one beautiful shot of a little white girl and a young black boy frolicking together in a sunny field filled with flowers, only as they draw nearer to the camera, the viewer is stunned by the realization that the black child is on a leash.
I will be the first to admit that this film is genuinely shocking, and not for the weak of heart (or mind, or stomach); but I also think it's an important and intensely interesting movie. Based on the track records of the film makers, it is not surprising that this film is loaded with intensely disturbing, violent, and controversial(some would call it offensive) imagery. Many consider the film to be overtly racist, and I can honestly say I understand that. But I feel that it is important, and appropriate, to make a film about the atrocities committed against African slaves that leaves us shocked, angry, and chilled to the bone. Holocaust films perform a similar function in educating and pushing forward a discussion about how such events can happen and how they affect us. The difference between many disturbing holocaust films and films like Uncle Tom is the shock factor, and the elements of horror and raw exploitation used by Jacoppetti and Prosperi. One of their most effective techniques is the use of sometimes breathtaking cinematography and Riz Ortolani's downright immorally good score, which, juxtaposed against the horror of the subject matter, creates quite the cognitive effect on the viewer. I love this movie because it moved and disturbed me, and because of the texture and richness of the visual and mental world I was unwillingly thrust into. A very powerful and disturbing movie, highly recommended to those who can take it.

Also, ONLY watch the blue underground release, which is the only available copy of the directors cut, has 13 minutes of extra footage, is better edited and is from a much better quality print than other versions available in America http://www.blue-underground.com/

Bones (2001) Ernest R. Dickerson

Bones is one of the most under appreciated horror movies in recent history. Not only does it star Snoop Dogg and Pam Grier (together at last!), but it actually adresses supernatural horror themes in some really interesting and innovative ways. The premise of the film is that a supposedly haunted house is purchased by a group of young aspiring musicians, who hope to turn it into a nightclub and rejuvenate their father's old neighborhood, which has become a slum. Slowly the story of how the neighborhood went downhill unfolds, including their father's involvement in the murder of Jimmy Bones(Snoop), who was trying to stop the introduction of crack into the neighborhood. This allows for some truly awesome flashback/background establishing scenes set in the 70's, with Snoop and Pam Grier in excellent 70's getup. The 70's scenes are shot with yellow filters, evoking the aesthetic of 70's film stock and the look of old blaxploitation flicks. From here, the structure of the story is reminiscent of rape/revenge movies of that era, except that it takes the form of murder/revenge from beyond the grave. This allows us to feel sympathy for the killer, and even admiration for his bad-assness (which is plentiful). While this movie certainly borrowed a lot from classic 70's genre cinema, it also contains the kind of snappy dialogue and catch phrases employed in later American horror films such as Nightmare on Elm Street. Influences from Italian horror can also be spotted, most notably in the gratuitous use of maggots, a staple of 80's Italian horror. The film makers really did their research, and the casting is superb. The chemistry between Pam Grier and Snoop is surprisingly good,and the story of Jimmy's betrayal by members of his own community, as well as the anti-drug message, is yet another example of a call for greater unity and brotherhood in the black community. The supernatural killing scenes are inventive and over the top, and invite the viewer to have some fun with this movie. It's funny, it's cool looking, there's maggots, Snoop and Pam Grier get it on, really, what more could you ask for?

I'm definitely a fan.

Available for rental through netflix, for sale on amazon

neat-o

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/6342659.stm

Spider Baby revision

It has come to my attention that Spider Baby, which I previously claimed was made in 1968, was made at the latest in 1964, and was only released in '68 due to some legal troubles. This makes my point about the gender dynamic in the film all the more striking. I will be more thorough in my research in the future.

Darktown Strutters (1975) William Witney

Darktown strutters is a favorite of mine due to its outlandish premise, riotous energy, and camp aesthetic. A badass all black all female biker gang, sporting threads Liberace would have creamed his pants over, take on an evil Colonel Sanders doppelganger who plans on cloning prominent black community leaders and programming them to be loyal consumers of his product. He kidnaps Cinderella, the mother of the gang's leader, and a slew of whacky adventures ensue, not least of all a chase scene with some motorcyle riding Klan members. And did I mention it's a musical? Although not neccesarily skillfully made or even really very good, this flick is definitely worth checking out and will most certainly leave you with a smile on your lips.

available to buy from www.superhappyfun.com/forsale.cfm?whereme=1605

Political scandal

Apparently Gavin Newsom, Mayor of my home town, has recently admitted to having an affair with the amazingly named Ruby Rippey-Tourk and is now seeking counseling for alcohol abuse. The press is widely praising him for acknowledging that he has a problem and setting a good example by seeking treatment. Remember the good old days when 'setting a good example' meant not abusing drugs and alcohol in the first place? Neither do I, but I am getting sick of people blaming alcohol for all their poor decisions. I'm also sick of the media and people generally for accepting a world in which it's clear that alcohol causes people to make poor decisions, and that the treatment of alcohol addiction will also treat all your other problems. I don't accept this because there is one enormous confounding variable that makes this assumption inherently unprovable: abusing alcohol is an example of a poor decision. So is it that people make bad decisions because they abuse alcohol, or do they abuse alcohol because they make bad decisions. Honestly, it's probably a little bit of both, in which case treatment for alcohol addiction is only a superficial short term cure that fails to address real long-term issues. The reason that people are willing to accept this meretricious causal story is because of the attitude towards alcoholism hammered into our heads from middle school onward, that it's a disease. This purely semantic distinction allows us to believe that it is out of our control, something which is absolutely untrue. In fact, it is only through self-control that we can overcome our addictions, because to the best of my knowledge they haven't invented a drug that cures alcoholism yet, and while treatment programs can do a lot of good, it's still only within ourselves that battles against addiction are fought and won. This is one of the reasons I think AA is so dangerous, besides being, you know, a cult. The language that AA has introduced into our vernacular has facilitated this kind of dangerous misinformation. All I'm saying is, the interesting question isn't 'would Gavin Newsom have had an affair if he wasn't an alcoholic' but 'would Newsom have admitted to an alcohol problem if he hadn't been caught with his pants around his ankles.'

Jack Hill Interview

Check it out.

http://dvdtalk.com/cineschlock/jackhill/interview.html

Coffy (1973) Jack Hill.

It's black history month, so I will spend it writing about one of my favorite genres: blaxploitation. Coffy is hands down my favorite blaxploitation movie, and not only because Pam Grier is absolutely luscious in this role. Although that may have a lot to do with it. Jack Hill is one of my favorite B-movie directors, whose work is characterized by thoughtful, interesting interpretations of B-movie themes. Case in point; Coffy is one of the first movies in this genre to have a strong, female character at the center of the film. In the role that launched her into icon status, Pam Grier plays a nurse turned bad-ass vigilante sworn to revenge herself on the people who got her little sister addicted to drugs. She uses her body, and men's assumptions about the abilities of women, not to mention her bad-ass ass-kicking skills, to seriously kick some ass. Blessed with the most beautiful body ever gifted to mankind and a smart, sexy attitude, Pam Grier was born to play this role, and every other role that followed. As a white male, Jack Hill does a pretty excellent job doing justice to a black, female character and African American issues. The overwhelming theme in the film is that of encouraging the black community to stand up for their own, and to fight the external forces which oppress the community; making a life of crime and drug use appealing. And in the end the film is about Coffy's victory over those forces, and about strength and perseverance. It's no wonder that Pam Grier became an icon in black culture. If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and check it out.

available for rental through netflix, and for sale on amazon

The Story of a Three-day Pass (1968)

Last night I got a chance to watch a 35mm print of Melvin van Peebles 'story of a 3 day pass' and damn, was I pleasantly surprised. van Peebles, who is known for his blaxploitation classics 'Sweet sweetback's baadasssss song' and 'watermelon man' has always left me slightly conflicted. The screening last night really brought to my attention those elements of van Peeble's work that I find both problematic and intriguing. van Peebles began making movies in the early 1950's and refers to himself as self-taught. Sweetback is an important but difficult movie, and most of van Peebles work exhibits some lack of technical expertise and fluency in the grammar of cinema. However, sweetback was, essentially, a work of outsider art. But in this case, the outsiders were a huge demographic of American film viewers that hollywood had seriously underestimated, and this indie film's world left white viewers outside. The political atmosphere of Hollywood at the time created a double split; on the one hand, van Peebles is excluded from the world of Hollywood because of his culture, allowing him little access to traditional Hollywood techniques and resources. On the other hand, this makes it so that the viewer is excluded from the world of the film unless they are a part of that culture. In this way representation of black identity and by default the identity of the film maker(who was also the star) become the most powerful elements in the film. The story is disjointed, the pacing drags painfully, moments of false bravado and posing make us wince a little, but we all know that this movie is something special. Before making sweetback, van Peebles lived and worked in Europe, where he experienced less discrimination and was given a grant by the French government to turn a novel he had written into a film. With that grant he made 'The story of a three-day pass,' which he then screened in San Francisco as a foreign film, gaining entry into Hollywood. The film exhibits the same clumsy pacing and naive use of images and editing present in sweetback, and also betrays van Peebles tendency to write from his own experience. This film is of particular interest to me because it explores quite articulately a deep rooted fantasy of the writer/director: to sleep with a white woman. This is a recurring theme in van Peebles work and at first it didn't interest me, perhaps because it was something so far from my own experience that I had no access to it. This film makes the issue tangible and touching, and the end result is a warm, human piece. A black american soldier gets promoted and is granted a three day pass, and goes to Paris to celebrate. He meets a young french woman at a bar, and the rest of the film is a short, sweet love story. The real strengths of the film come from stylized, theatrical performances that stretch and strengthen crucial moments in the film, and fantasy sequences that reveal the true mindsets and intentions of the characters. Particularly fantastic moments include an overhead shot, in which the white girl and the black soldier act out an awkward dance around the bed, before finally kissing. This was followed by the sex scene, which was interrupted by the fantasies of both parties: his, of riding up to a castle in tights and feathered hat to meet a princess, and hers a quasi-rape fantasy about being captured and carried off by African tribesmen in elaborate dress. I like to interpret this fantasy as an innocent one, in which the girl betrays her excitement about sleeping with someone so exotic, much like his; it is portrayed warmly and not in a negative light. While touching on such weighty subject matter, the film remains light-hearted and playful, and much more elegantly conceived and executed than some of his later works.

Availability: actually, available for rental through netflix, although I don't know how similar the DVD version is to the print I saw.

Memories of Murder(2003)Joon-Ho Bong

Based on the story of Korea's first serial killer, memories of murder follows the police investigation of a series of brutal rape-murders in rural Korea. Joon-Ho Bong quietly paints a rich picture of the horror of murder, rural life, and the political atmosphere of Korea in 1986. The police's actions, and their frustrations, are as much a part of the atmosphere of fear and uncertainty as the actions of the criminal. This multi-dimensional take on the crime film genre is refreshing and engaging, coherent, cohesive, and skillfully orchestrated. The meticulous cinematography, clinical attention to detail, and quiet editing style bring the creeping terror of the story to the forefront, and contrast strikingly with the mental states of the cops, whose story this really is.

I liked it.

available for rental through netflix, and for sale on amazon

Lovedolls superstar (1986)

This slightly-less-low-budget sequel to the low budget "Desperate Teenage Lovedolls" is a prime example of cult awesomeness, shot on super-8 and featuring the likes of Jello Biafra(as the president), Kim Pilkington, and Victoria Peterson of the Bangles. Killer soundtrack featuring Redd Kross, Sonic Youth, Meat Puppets, and the Dead Kennedys. The movie satirizes everything from the music industry to Charles Manson, Patricia Hearst, the Jonestown massacre, hippies, and Bruce Springsteen (and the De Palma 'dancing in the dark' video). What it lacks in sophistication (read: technical competence) it makes up for in inventiveness and energy. So, if you're looking for a good time, and a sledge-hammer to the face of 80's pop culture, check it out.

p.s.- How ironic that Jello Biafra turned out to be a filthy, stinking hippy after all that. Dharma punks my ass.

Little muffin!

Very distracted.

New kitten

Sorry for the lack of film reviews, I've been distracted.

Spider Baby , Jack Hill, 1968

I love this movie for a million reasons, and they are damned good reasons. It is an early directing attempt of Jack Hill (Switchblade Sisters, The Big Birdcage, Foxy Brown, Coffy!!!) featuring Lon Cheney Jr. and Sid Haig among a cast of relative nobodies. It's shot in beautiful black and white, and with a great premise and perfect horror setting. Bruno (Lon Chaney Jr.) has vowed to look after the progeny of his deceased master, and to keep their terrible family secret, which is that years of inbreeding have resulted in a unique mental handicap passed from generation to generation. Bruno has resolved to care for the last three members of the family in the isolated family mansion, and it seems that these four will live out their days in peace until greedy distant relatives show up to try to lay claim to the property.
With this film Jack Hill displays a deep understanding of genre cinema, and references his roots by casting an aging Lon Chaney Jr., whose performance is inspired, and has him discuss his appreciation for the wolfman and the mummy in a dinner scene with the whole, less than wholesome family. His treatment of women is, as always, very interesting. In fact, although Bruno and the Uncle Peter character play large roles in the narrative, the source of dramatic tension in this movie comes from three female characters, the two sisters protected by Bruno, and evil Aunt Emily, who is trying to get her hands on the property and the supposed family fortune. All three of these characters are menacing, powerful, and genuinely feminine. It is very rare in any horror movie, much less a horror movie from '68, to create a world with this kind of gender dynamic. Sid Haig's portrayal of a mentally handicapped youth is amazing, and his interactions with Aunt Emily make the film for me. Strong characters, skeletons in the closet, a creepy old mansion, dead-on performances from the whole cast, some good old fashioned genre-cinema fun, and real, multi-dimensional female characters make this a very strong early film. Overall, a solid, kick-ass horror flick that can't be missed.

available from netflix and for sale on amazon, although you could probably find it cheaper somewhere else.

Film still #2

Day of 1,000 posts

But seriously, this has to be said.

I called my bank today to ask if there had been any checking activity on my account, because I ordered checks several weeks ago and never received them. I had a nightmare last night in which the missing checks had been stolen, and decided to quiet my paranoid fantasies by checking with my bank. Turns out 3 checks, for a total of $1,200, had been cashed into the bank of America account of one Antoine Hopewell. I changed my account number, cancelled the checks, and called the police, handed over my copies of the forged checks, complete with the criminal mastermind's name and account number, and that's that. So I will have my money back in 20 days, and this genius will be a convicted felon in hopefully not many more. So here's to intelligence, larceny, and 3 counts of fraud.

misinformation

Misinformation:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/6278907.stm

Clarification:
http://helios.hampshire.edu/~jwcCS/PrisonersDilemma.pdf
see page 23: Evolutionary Theories