You are not a victim of Bertolucci’s film making. Or are you? Wait! Let me put that another way: When will the left learn? When will liberal thinking people grasp reality? The pathway to right above wrong is not traversed through political-correctness but through those who don’t give a fcuk. But there is a way to get to the ice-cream truck where butter flavoured joy awaits us all and the one who will serve you should be Marlon Brando.
Warning: minor spoiler alerts to a film I highly recommend even though it’s not Bertolucci’s best.
Bernardo Bertolluci is a brilliant film maker. Even though it’s not one of my favourite films, Last Tango In Paris is a really cool movie. In fact, I used to own the novel version of it. That little paperback has since become one of those rare books I lent to someone and never got back. Gee, I wonder why. Could it be because I highlighted the butter scene in it? No. That can’t be why Giuseppe never gave it back to me. Remember when they wrote novel versions of movies, dear worst-reader? Oh, they only do that these days with Star Wars because there really is no place for a butter scene in such a story. Or?
The thing about Last Tango In Paris is that I always compared it to Hitchcock’s Psycho. I saw both movies in the early 80s. Hitchcock desperately needed one thing in all his movies: sex; more scary sex. Bertolucci needed one thing in his movies: less scary, a lot less scary. And so, we have one of the scariest characters ever filmed and guess who gets to play him? Mr. Scary himself, hence take note of the letter on his shirt in the pic above. No. Wait. What should the world do with bored, confused, middle-aged white men who get a kick out of objectifying objects and who are scary, really scary? Indeed. Make movies about them. But I digress.
The moment in Last Tango In Paris where Paul’s wife is revealed in a state of decomposition really through me for a loop. Like I said, having seen Psycho only a few weeks prior, the imagery was uncanny. Nothing else in the film really got to me. The sex was kinda titallating and the actress was hot, even if she did have a jungle-forest “down there”. And the moment with the butter? My first thought was: is butter the best choice for what’s about to happen? But all kidding aside. Let’s quote Marlon:
It’s just a movie.
And you know who else pulled off scenes that were just as fcuking great! For all you believers in purple unicorns and tasty rainbows–for all you who can’t face reality and hide behind your false sense of righteousness and shiny über-glorified pussies (i.e. grabbed vaginas)–just check out the brilliant sex in The Dreamers or Stealing Beauty. For those of you don’t know, Bertolucci is obsessed with sex in his movies. It is inevitable that such an obsession deal with rape as much as deflowering. Indeed. A rape scene in a work of fiction, as traumatic as it was for the actress to portray, means that it’s now time to ridicule the story teller? Or will Maria Schneider finally press charges? Cause I’m about fed-up with all this talk without the walk. Anywho.
Now that the world must face the consequence(s) of political correctness in the form of sexually degenerate American presidents and a renewal of anti-feminism, what’s left? Are we gonna now dismantle one of the greatest film makers of all time? Bertolucci’s depiction of sex, especially in Tango, is innocent by today’s Internet standards. Not to mention the fact that we now live in a world where one president makes blow-jobs with White House interns dinner table fanfare and another president makes… Well, you get the grabbing picture.
A rape scene in a piece of fiction from forty years ago is NOT the same as the abuse you experienced while living among the broken-ness of #americant or getting caught up in a no-means-yes frat-party or worrying about your pussy being grabbed–by your fcuking presidential imagination.
Oh well. The good thing is, at least all this uproar will mean that a few politically-correct-obsessed young people might see a great movie that they otherwise wouldn’t have seen. Either that or Bertolucci needs some money from DVD or iTunes sales of Last Tango. Go get’em politically correct nut-bags. Go grab something.
This is a really cool little documentary. If you can call it a documentary. If you don’t call it a documentary then what do you call it? A movie? A film? A TV show? A theatrical trailer for a film that is actually a warning to future generations about the pitfalls of…
Not being able to chose your parents
It’s not worth it anymore to actually work for a living (and for that you can thank your parents).
But I digress. And here comes the spoiler. Would you believe that some schmuck from a rich family who had everything paid for him from birth to his education and then even provided him a van to live in while he sought the meaning of life struggling to work for the only industry left in #americant–the financial sector–and then, out of life-frustration bagged it all so he could sail around the world in a f’n boat? That’s right, dear worst-reader. The star of this film is a kid who was born with PTSD or became so confused with his rearing that in order to cope with the pitfalls of having to work among other greed-mongers and automatons he lost his sh*t and decided to prove to the ocean that things float. When he finally realised that all his floating was done, guess what happens? He docks his boat and continues his travels on land and finds the trash-heap of the earth, India. While in India he catches typhoid fever and f’n dies.
Let me repeat that because Stupid needs to be repeated about as much as Stupid needs to have documentary films made.
This kid takes something like a three year journey around the world on a (relatively) cheap, used sailboat, partying the whole time with his friends, alluding to the trauma of his family, and when he’s done he realises that all he’s achieved is the humdrum of his birth. And because that’s not enough he continues his pseudo-thrill-seeker bullsh*t life and goes off to India without getting any immunisations–because he so smart from the first world!–and catches typhoid fever and dies.
Now let’s make a documentary film TV movie about this kid.
Oh. And here’s another spoiler . I guess you could also call it the catcher of this film. Right at the end the film maker(s) throw in the thought that maybe this whacked-out rich kid ain’t dead after all. Really? How original. I mean (sarcasm on)… the world really is gonna miss this kid (sarcasm off).
Still. Since I love sailing, it is a movie worth seeing. Hence my worstwriter recommendation. And so. May stupid white people that have created this f-upped world find their cheap thrills and then catch some fever and go, finally, away.
Prosit stupid people and be careful when you drink India’s grey water.
The only thing I could think about during recent FRA > BLR flight was my little dog in his crate attached to a palette. I could see him from the lounge where I tried to drink my sorrows away with free bier, wine and nuts. Just before we boarded I could also see the ground crew shoving my dear little friend into the rear fuselage of our B747-8. Pronounced: seven four seven dash eight. The tears started brewing that moment while walking down the gangway into the opposite end of the fuselage. I tried to gather my thoughts while boarding, refocus on what’s at hand. Not even the cute, slit-skirt stewardess could take my thoughts away. I walked down the aisle looking for 11D. What a fancy plane, I thought. I then adjusted my stuff, putting carry-on in the upper bin, loosening my belt for the long haul, catching my breath. But the angst for my dog started to set in even deeper than before. Luckily take-off was a blast. I think the pilot was in a hurry because we were at cruising altitude in no-time. Did my dog feel the powerful ascension? All the emotion made my already hyper bladder want to do some business. Or was it because I had too many drinks in the lounge and had to get to the loo to wipe my eyes which were soaked during taxi and take-off–and missing my little friend. Besides, I didn’t want anyone seeing me balling my eyes out because I was worried sick about my dog–who had never been stuffed into a fuselage before. Thank goodness for all the room in business-class where I could hide my tears. Or? In fact, since we were at the end of the business-class section, there was this huge space between the back of our comfortable seats and the bulkhead that separated us from coach. Actually, let me put that another way since LH has changed seating configurations in coach over the years in the name of profits, profits and more profits, I guess. Directly behind the bulkhead was LH’s new premium economy class. It’s the class I’ll probably be flying from here on out. The only time I get business-class is when I fly officially with better-half and her company pays for it or I upgrade using her miles. I think LH premium economy is only a few hundred bucks more than regular economy and the seats look as big as upright business-class seats. The difference is that you can’t recline as far back and all the other amenities aren’t available. After flying business class a few times the past few years, I would gladly give up on “amenities” for roomier, more comfortable seating. As I was saying. Behind our business-class seats was a space big enough to accommodate my best friend in the world. Although our crate wouldn’t fit there, he certainly would have. On the other hand, even though it rips me apart thinking about him stuffed in the fuselage, I know LH took care of him and that if we were safe, he was safe. Besides, I’m sure once the hectic of take-off and ascension was over, he would just buckle down in his blanket in the crate, drink from the supplied water as he needed, and sleep till landing woke him–in eight hours. And that’s pretty much how it worked out. Except for my weeping like bitch worried sick about him. And speaking of bitches. To help cope with worrying tears, which also meant I was too preoccupied to read anything, I decided to watch a movie. Of the numerous films to choose from, I picked Black Mass. Upfront? I thought it was a pretty good movie. It was so good I don’t understand why it wasn’t up for Oscars. Or maybe it wasn’t that good. Hold a sec. (Pause.) §I love it when Johnny Depp acts and doesn’t entertain. You know, he’s done some serious big screen thuds recently. I guess that’s the byproduct of being so successful (financially) with those pirate movies. Just afford to make another movie–even if it sucks. I guess he can make any movie he wants after that. I’m always interested when I hear he’s doing a real film–as opposed to some big screen, kill two hours entertainment orgy. But don’t get wrong. I enjoyed the pirate movies Depp made. They are perfect for getting rid of two hours. Black Mass, on the other hand, is a serious film and a pretty serious story. I entered adulthood in the 1980s and I vividly remember hearing the name Whitey Bulger in the news. I especially remember, by the late 80s, when I was clearly on my way to becoming an expat, hearing about the (love) triangle Bulger had between his brother and his former boyhood friend turned FBI agent. Even then I thought the whole thing to be an unbelievable #americant entertainment story. I’m amazed that it’s not being written about more–especially the part about Bulger’s state senator brother. Does that mean worst-writer should have a go at such a story? Nomatter. §Black Mass is worth seeing and I’m planning on seeing it again on account I think I missed a few things. With that in mind, it’s no grand film-making effort and I don’t quite know why I’m thinking that way about it. As a film, it simply gets the job done. Although it won’t go down as one of my fav Depp (acting) movies, after watching it I’ve concluded it probably doesn’t deserve the accolades that my initial instincts conjured. Or? I was seriously hoping, when I saw the initial trailers for it, that this would be Depp’s time. But allow me digress on that note. Writing my thoughts about Depp only serves as filler at this point. Moving on. §Like I worst-said, I was hoping that the/a movie would take my mind off my dog being stuffed into a cargo hole–but it didn’t. Both during Black Mass and after I was still thinking about my dog. Maybe that’s why Black Mass came across as mediocre or why I found it to be unfocused. Yeah. Unfocused. That’s the ticket. Was Black Mass about Depp/Bulger or one of the other two in the (love) triangle? I hope a second viewing will change how I feel about this movie–because I’m rooting for Depp. I’m certainly not rooting for Leo who just won the friggin’ Oscar. I want Depp to win an Oscar. Why isn’t Depp winning Oscars? Oh, yeah. The movies he makes. Anywho. §After Black Mass I was still needing to get my mind off things so I scanned through other movies on the LH inflight entertainment system. Could I get through another movie–at my age? Boy, does LH have a lot of movies to choose from. And some pretty new ones, too. I considered watching a few of the ’15 Oscar nominated films but quickly gave up–nothing interesting there. Luckily, getting toward the end of the movie list, Spectre popped up. So let’s bring that one behind us, shall we? I still had six hours of flight time. §My mind was occupied with tears and thoughts of cute little dogs that grow on ya and a bit here and there about moving to India for up to three years while my wife tries to expand her career in an ever-shrinking globalised world. With that in mind, why not hit the play button. §There were two interesting things about this new Bond film. One: Monica Bellucci. She didn’t get enough screen time. Two: the regurgitation of Blofeld and how he got that scare is a grand idear. And that’s it. That’s the whole movie. I don’t know if it’s because Craig is struggling with his characterisation of the great killer-spy or if the producers are running out of writers. Heck, all the desert scenes looked like they were shot at the same time as Quantum of Solace. The explosion of Blofeld’s facility looked cheap and underfunded. And the big goon that almost kills Craig on the train? I found myself rooting for him for a sec or three. But let me leave my worst-criticisms at that. I’m just not a big fan of Craig’s blue-eyed, tough guy 007. I prefer elegance, grace, wit and hidden manliness. That the producers are able to get all these actors to play him differently is worth praise, but at some time, I think, these nuanced differences get old fast. Yeah, bring back the British navy commander who doesn’t act like he’s feeding a pack of millennial spoiled rotten babies. But then again, even if a Bond movie is bad (Brosnan), they’re still good (Dalton). §Bye-the-by, after a second film on the flight, I still had four and half hours to go. I de
cided to give in to some tears and went to the loo to have them. Rant on. -tommi
The task of American TV binge-watching is not a small one, especially when competing with one’s better-half who is usually at least two shows ahead of me. The reality is, I’m losing the challenge of who can get through the shows the quickest. Lost big-time, in fact, with recent binge-watching of The King of Queens. It took my better-half less than a month to get through all nine seasons of that show. Lots of free time during Eurowasteland’s xmas vacation helped a bit, too. I know, I know. I know what you’re saying dear worst-reader. “Don’t you guys have anything better to do than watch mindless American TV?” Well, to be honest, as the minions and automatons of Germania and the western-world remain preoccupied with consuming-to-survive and/or procreating and/or subjecting themselves to hapless subjugation, my better-half and I live a life of semi forced and unforced early retirement. Put another way: once we’ve gotten through most of the daylight hours, completed most of our chores, popped open a bottle Tuscany joy after tee-time–where we plan our next vacation–there really isn’t much left to do. Ok. We could sex things up a bit more but to be honest, at my age, it’s a good thing that the storm & drang of gettin’ my nuts off is waning. But I’m off subject again. §I was trying to explain the pseudo-detriment of binge-watching American TV. Which brings me to the show Alpha House. I finished the second season last night–again losing to my better half who finished watching three nights before. And it is a pretty good show. I guess. But one thing stuck out after only watching the first few episodes. Are you ready for this? Alpha House is the best show yet where #americant conservatives and republicans might finally get the last laugh. Wait. What? Ok. Get this. Ever noticed how on #americant TV, of all the shows that make you laugh about politics and society, almost all the jokes are made at the cost of conservatives. Conservatives themselves, of course, are not funny. But making fun of them is hi-larry-us! Hence, #americant has shows like The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, etc. Pretty funny shows–if you like that sort of thing. My problem with those shows is that once you’ve seen one of them you’ve seen them all. That’s the price of comedy that ONLY makes fun of someone. Since Jon Stewart and Colbert have quit–because I’m sure they were madly bored of making fun of stupid people–it’s time to rethink political comedy. But what’s still funny? What is there left to make fun of? Liberals have been laughing there asses off because conservatives make the better joke. Yet isn’t it time for conservatives to start making fun of liberals? Enter Alpha House. This has got to be the funniest conservative take on liberals–ever! Seriously. As I watched the show I couldn’t help but feel that conservatives wrote it, produced it, and even starred in it. The fact that Bezos owns it, and he also owns the Washington Post, well, I guess that can’t have anything to do with anything. Or? Then again, Alpha House might just be the first TV series with a particular political party being a native ad. But I digress. §Another subject itching me since I’m dealing with “streaming”. Would you believe that I’ve been an Amazon prime user for years but only recently started using it for movies and TV streaming? And now that I’ve (finally) discovered it, I’m kicking myself in the ass having used iTunes for all our digital media all this time? I can’t tell you how much iTunes sucks. In fact, the whole Apple echo system is starting to suck. And to think I wasted all those hours curating my iTunes library only to realise that it sucks! Ripping CDs or DVDs here and there, then buying superfluous software to expedite getting it all into iTunes… And for what? I bought a Raspberry Pi last fall in order to finally rip and watch Blurays. Plex media server along with Rasplex on the Raspberry Pi opened my eyes to a whole new world. No more meta-data-BS or mp4 codec krapp so that something would play in iTunes or on my friggin’ iPad. Heck, even my limited bandwidth at home works great with Prime. But get this. I gave up on German streaming years ago. Germans (distributors) are assholes about dubbing all their movies–unlike the Dutch or Scandinavians who all offer movies in OV (original version). But when you dub a film and then use that as a profit centre when selling movies on DVD or Bluray… that’s when you can kiss my ass. For you see, dear worst-reader, I have learned that not every DVD or Bluray is worth the money you pay for it. Indeed. And so. Before purchasing a disc that I will rip for my home media library, I always check the back of it for specs. Does the disc contain all applicable audio tracks? Does it have the worthwhile audio encoding, aka DTS, HD Audio, etc.? Some do, some don’t. This is where German distributors get in the way of progress. They will actually remove language and audio tracks from DVDs in order to save costs on dubbing and audio codec rights. A good source of DVD movies for the past year as been the German mega retailer Aldi. They sell DVDs of varying movies for around 8€–which is usally always a few buck cheaper than an iTunes download. But you have to look on the back of the DVD covers to make sure the OV is available. Can you believe that these jerk-offs will sell a US movie without the English version included. They’ll also sell one with the English version but they will not include high-end audio with it. Of course, Blurays are even worse because they are capable of having even more audio capability. I don’t know about you, but audio is really the only turn-on for me when it comes to home movies–as I have the audio equipment to play it. Aldi just started selling Bluray discs for about 10€. And, true to movie distributor greed-form, if you read the back of the disc covers, you’ll notice that only the German track includes the best audio codec. Which means, I won’t be buying Blurays from Aldi unless the proper codec is offered. Oh well. No fear. Back to buying my digital media from used sources or trading with friends. Because digital distributors are assholes. And they wonder why file sharing is so popular! §Btw, for those interested in whether or not I infringe on copyrights, I have a documented list of where all my digital media comes from. I also have the original physical discs stored away that I have ripped. §Ok. Wait. What was I worst-writing about? Oh yeah. Alpha House. Alpha House is an Amazon exclusive comedy but it is also much more. It is a propaganda show about #americant conservatism. Yeah, right. Rant on. -Tommi
In a galaxy far far away corporate automatons wear helmets that all look the same.
Disclaimer: some small spoilers but no big spoilers. And so it is done. And now that it’s done, I’ve been thinking about how to worst-write about it. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:
It was good but…
Liked it except for…
Getting too old, seen too many movies, been there done that (in 70s!)…
Guess it was good–I guess…, etc., etc.
Yeah, worst-reader. I saw Star Wars last night and I’m still not sure about my expectations. Obviously my expectations were high–or were they? Or maybe my expectations are a bit out of the norm. Nomatter. Forget expectations. What is clear is that I feel comfortable saying this: If Hollywood wants to save itself, it better start hiring some writers. The most shocking thing about the new Star Wars reboot was the writing. It sucked. Having said that, two things saved the movie. The cinematography and the acting. With that in mind, allow me to worst-say this: bad writing can, in very rare instances, be saved by actors. There were moments, especially with Carrie Fisher, where I thought: Oh boy, this is embarrassing. But, in Carrie’s defense, she did the best she could with what she had–and I’ll always just dig her! As far as the cinematography goes, the movie felt just like the original movie from the 70s with the added bonus that the CGI finally worked. The daylight dogfight scenes are stunning. The big lightsaber fight in the forest, though, wasn’t as good. On the other hand, the crashed Star Fighter did look a bit out of place compared to the real sand that actor was walking on. Ok. I’m nitpicking. At least the forest lightsaber fight was über-cool because a new badass Jedi is born. But that’s not much of a surprise, or? New characters become old heros. Old (original) heros fade in front of you like a sunset–until they start speaking poorly written lines. Yet something holds this film together. I think that something is due to the Star Wars myth, the legacy, the history. With that in mind, JJ Abram’s (work) doesn’t stand out. I expected the director to give us something like what he gave us with his Star Trek reboot–where I found myself on the verge of tears because of the beautiful relationship between new-Spock and new-Kirk. But there is no new-Luke or new-Leia. Which is probably ok–depending on your expectations. So what does this film and its hot director deliver? Ok. I’ll just say it. This is the dullest multibillion dollar movie everyone on the planet should see–and not because of who directed it or wrote it. People should see this movie because of one thing and one thing only: George Lucas.
Just diggin’ the episode names of tv series. Especially like “.asf”. Reminds me of the Win95 world that so many are still stuck in. Been hearing lots about this show on the various podcast that I subscribe to. Curiosity wins, I guess. Usually I just buy discs and rip them to my library. Saved a pretty penny or three doing it that way. But then again, if anything defeats the purpose of digital content it’s the pricing of digital content. I can’t believe what’s being charged for some of this stuff. I mean, how many people own analog content and if they want the same content in digital form they have to pay full price again? Come on. Of all the examples of how/why things are so screwed up, digital content has to be in the top five. But. Again. I’m off subject. Rant on. -tommi
Kept putting it off. Didn’t want to go there. Must adhere to minimalist principles. It’s the only way to live. Or? Yeah. Oh what the heck! Life’s too short. I broke down and ordered my first blu-ray drive Thursday. It arrived Friday. No player for me, though. It’s an internal LG unit that fits perfectly in the second optical drive bay of my mid-2010 MacPro. Was a little nervous about getting this device because there is no official Mac support from LG for it. So I went ahead and trusted some of the reviews I read. It’s supposed to work out-of-the-box with MacOS, requiring no extra drivers or software. Once I got it installed I fired up the Mac and BOOM! Second optical drive recognised immediately. New icon at top of menu bar provides open/close function for both drives. New keyboard command using “alt” key and disc eject open new drive, as well. Although the drive did crash once where I couldn’t eject disc, subsequent system restart seems to have cleared that up; haven’t had a crash since. But here’s the real kicker.
I’ve been itching to get my hands on Celebration Day, the 2007 benefit concert where Led Zeppelin reunited in London. And I didn’t want the old DVD version this time. I already have Led Zeppelin DVD and The Song Remains the Same. But I’ve put off consuming blu-ray technology because of the massive data storage requirements. DVD, depending on encoding, average around five to seven gigabytes. Blu-rays, on the other hand, average three-times that amount. I’ve also noticed that it’s getting harder and harder to find DVD with DTS. Oh. And remember. Storing data is one thing–backing it up is another. Nuff said there.
Over the years I have accumulated quite a substantial media library. As an Apple household, though, I’m frustrated with Apple’s media products, especially iTunes. Did you know that because of Apple’s bullshit and greed, I am unable to stream movies or music from my MacPro’s iTunes library to my iPad or iPhone? According to some forums and support groups, Apple has programmed a caching glitch in iOS’s video and music app that prevent it from being able to access large iTunes libraries. Can you believe that krapp! And that’s not all. Again. Because of Apple’s greed, the company doesn’t pay licensing fees thereby preventing it from enabling DTS audio on AppleTVs. Can you believe that krapp! Needless to say I’ve been searching for an alternative for sometime.
Enter the Raspberry Pi 2. Bought one a few months back. Ran Raspbian on it for a few days. To my surprise, not only is this little credit card sized device an alternative to the Intel/Microsoft monopoly-cabal but it’s a totally functioning PC. You can browse the web, write a novel on it, or install RasPlex, together with Plex on my Mac, connect it to your flatscreen or AVR and… Get me some iTunes salvation. Not only does the little Pi device deliver incredible high-end audio but the video quality is outstanding, as well. The only problem it has is that it can’t stream the high quality using wifi. Ethernet’s good enough for me.
As far as my first blu-ray experience? You can see the strings of Jimmy Page’s guitars vibrating. You can almost read the writing on Jason Bonham’s drum sticks. Robert Plant has split ends (that’s right, his hair). John Paul Jones wears a pair of boots that look like they might cost ten grand. Oh. And then there’s that sound. The beautiful, luscious sound of every instrument. DTS HD shouting out brilliantly through six speakers, aka 5.1. The .1 is a 700w yamaha subwoofer (behind flatscreen in pic above). Front left and right are B&W DM305’s (yes, the low ends). Rear or surround left and right are Yamaha NS-G25’s. Centre speaker is a Yamaha NS-GC27. All are connected using banana plugs and Oehlbach 2×1.50mm copper to a Denon AVR 3808. Did I mention that you can even ear Jimmy Page’s pick rubbing the coils of his strings?
You know, I’ve even been contemplating getting out of the surround sound bullshit. As you can see from the pic above, I don’t believe in putting the speakers in their 5.1 positions. Reason? Well, I guess, because I haven’t had this level of audio quality yet. Indeed, dear worst-reader. It’s nice discovering alternatives that work and that also make ageing equipment work even better. And one more thing on the Celebration Day blu-ray. I found myself getting a bit emotional watching Jason Bohnam fill his dad’s shoes in such a glorious way. Way to go Jason!
Oh my. Does splurging give your conscience a rotten milk feeling? Some people like rotten milk, don’t you know. In fact, they like it so much they do not know they smell (like) rotten milk. I suppose the same goes for garlic. But let’s not confuse things. Ever smelled rotten milk? I mean really smelled it? Wait. Let me put that another ‘way. Ever been scared off by it? Btw, some call it cultured milk, others sour milk. Funny how the best word(s) to describe something aren’t used on account it has to be called something else so as to be able to sell it. Do they call that: palatable marketing? (Probably not; just made that up.) And then there’s butter milk. My mom buys a form of rotten milk, aka butter milk. And it’s chunky. The politically correct name for the smell of it is: tart. (I think.) If you don’t know the smell of rotten milk then go to Morocco. I almost lost my sh#? in a kitchen there once. My better half had organized a cooking class for us. The whole reason to go to Morocco was because we enjoyed cooking Tajine. Some people see fish, they go scuba diving. Others see snow, they go skiing. Our travels are based on kitchen utensils. (Or maybe not.) Oh yeah. Where was I? Rotten smells. In Morocco they call rotting dairy products used in the kitchen: rancid. A rancid butter almost forced me out of the kitchen. The chef-teacher kept telling me to go outside and take a deep breath and then return. Each time I returned my pale face darkened (although only ever so slightly). Eventually, the chef said: you’ll get used to it. He was right. Although I could still smell it, with a bit of training/conditioning, I continued with the expensive cooking class. Obviously I didn’t get use to the rancid (stinky) stuff to cook with.
And so, worst-writer has a question: can you become so conditioned to misogyny that you no longer understand what it is?
Ok. Me nose is sensitive. Seriously. And. At my age my eyes are getting weaker and weaker, too. My hearing is going. But my nose works great, though. (I think.) And you know what they say about the senses, don’t you worst-reader? They say that your sense isn’t the same as someone else’s sense. The old adage applies: Your blue isn’t my blue. Your blue could be my green and my green could be her red, etc. How do you/we know that to one person salt may be sweet and sugar bitter? Your sense of pain isn’t mine, either. But one thing does stand: Beethoven’s 9th is the same in your ears as in mine. Or? Which brings me to the idear of misogyny and how it is, like the senses, subjective and also quite rancid.
The first seven minutes of the film Gone Girl made me start to smell two things. The first was my conscience and the second was rotten, rancid, cultured milk. In case you’re wondering, the two do smell different, albeit they reek all the same. Gone Girl, btw, was film #2 that I saw while traveling across my beloved Atlantic. Usually when I fly this route I do a lot of reading. But this trip was different. I was/am preoccupied. Some crazy stuff about the world and where I’m from is on my mind. Also. I couldn’t focus on Das Capital or Infinite Jest. Perhaps both are not the best books to be reading side-by-side. But reading hasn’t been going well since the start of 2015. Not sure why.
Again. Gone Girl was the second film I watched on the trans-atlantic flight. The first film I watched was Interstellar—more on that here. After Interstellar I went to the Airbus A330’s mini bathroom for number 1 for about the sixth time. Upon returning to my seat I sat down, buckled my seat belt and tried to read. Btw, I’m actually impressed with Karl Marx’s ability to write. He’s easier to read than Milton Friedman. But it wasn’t happening. I didn’t even bother opening Infinite Jest (on my Kindle app). So. I gave in to the urge. Both Gone Girl and Instellar were on my to-see list since the beginning of the year. But since one had a Oscar winner in it, the other oscar nominated, the iTunes prices remained silly-high. (For you see, out of principle, I don’t buy stupid-priced digital content.) Even the DVD price in stores was high. Obviously neither one was worth that much to me. So when when I saw they were being shown on the flight and I knew I wasn’t in the mood for reading, I gave in. Something for nothing—is the old adage/saying. And so. On these long flights I try to do two things. 1) Busy myself (which is supposed to include reading). 2) Drink as much water as possible. When I leave my seat I either get more water or go for number 1. I unlatched and did my business in the cubicle bathroom. I wiped my diddle a bit (yeah, I’m at the age of post-trickle; sorry for so much info), flushed and washed my hands. Yes, in that order. It was time to watch film #2.
Say. How ’bout that flush mechanism on airliners, dear worst-reader? Does it remind you of those little rockets where you fill them with a bit of water and, using a little air-pump, you pressurize them and them shoot them off for a thrilling three seconds of nonsense. If it worked you could get under the rockets trajectory and feel a little rain on your head in July. But I’m off subject. No need to talk about sexual escapades either, which, once, where like rain in July, too.
That’s when my conscience hit me. I was splurging. As I said, I had just finished watching the movie Interstellar. I didn’t want to watch another movie. I wanted to read. But, as usual, I was tired. These flights are getting to me. Well, it’s not the flights that’s the problem. It’s the days before the flights. I guess I’m getting more and more nervous about flying. It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s more about the fear of my destination(s). After all these years I might have had enough. But I’m off subject again.
I was trying to compare the smell of rancid milk (products) with the film Gone Girl. Why, you ask. Well, this movie really took me for a loop. A loop of questions where women are at the centre. The center of what? The center of everything. And let me tell you, in this movie, the women can’t be at the center of anything. And yet, the story comes from a female. Which can only mean, at this moment, I must praise this female. What a grand piece of writing she has achieved. And I must also say, since this movie stirred me to nothing good (in my mind) I’m almost motivated to read the book. But the movie was directed by a male. So. Will I read it? Nomatter.
I paused the movie at exactly seven minutes, twenty seconds into it and asked this question: Will I be able to get through this movie? Oh no. Jump to 44:44 in the movie, several bathroom and water visits later and I’m still not intrigued. But I am a little bored and there were always various Airbus A330 bathroom visits. And so the question is: how it will this movie end? That’s all I kept asking myself. There was nothing else redeeming in the film. No character development. No cinematography. Nothing. For you know, dear worst-reader, when the vulgarity of film making is taking to this level—the other film that comes to mind is Django Unchained—the only way to sell it is to provide an absolute cliff-hanger ending. Or?
Ok. Let me get it over with. (That is, let me get over this pseudo-critic krapp I keep worst-writing.) The story behind Gone girl is ludicrous. Ben Affleck is still the Ringo Starr of acting. The dialogue is so bad that it actually makes the mediocre acting shine. Don’t get me wrong. There are moments when the movie is AOK. But that can also be the acronym for a German insurance company. Boring is the word at hand—and also the word I kept repeating with every Airbus A330 plastic bathroom visit. With all that in mind, here’s the jist of what I think about this movie. Suck can’t get any better. Or. If there was ever a way for a patriarchal society to channel misogyny then this is it. How else can a world driven to the realms of hell portray what it truly thinks of the modern, western, human (and #americant) females? Either that or the author of the book that is the basis of this movie… doesn’t actually like women. But I digress. Rant on. -Tommi
Warning: spoiler alert (I think) regarding the film Interstellar. Good luck.
Surprisingly interesting but weak film. Second thought: Long on the drama, unnecessary drama, weird drama. Obviously I’m confused about what the story of the movie is about. Or should I just say: the visuals are fantastic, the film has incorporated an odd, maybe twisted sci-fi story that doesn’t quite take anyone anywhere, except into space, I think. Or wait. Maybe there’s a love interest in the story? No. There might be a bad guy or even two? Maybe. And then, hidden deep within the event horizon of a blackhole, there is an evil plot to rule the world. No. Not quite. The world, the earth, is ending. So there’s really nothing left there to be evil with. (If that makes any sense.) But there is the mysticism of black-holes. Oh boy. I’m confused. Or maybe not. Let me start again.
I read a review of the movie Interstellar when it first came out that said it was a new generation’s 2001 Space Odyssey. Wow. That’s a hell-of-a claim–especially since I believe Kubrick’s masterpiece will be shown in a thousand years. So after I read such a pretentious review I decided there was no hurry to see the movie. Please. Why would anyone want to compare it to 2001? Better put, is this the director’s failed attempt at topping Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece? Seriously? I mean, to me, that’s like saying [insert any pop musician here] is going to top Beethoven’s 9th. But I digress.
Since the iTunes price hasn’t fluctuated–from Apple’s greed-pricing–there was still no motivation to see this movie anytime soon. When I saw that this was being shown on my USAir/AA 701 flight from FRA > PHL, I thought: what the hell. And let me get this out of the way since I’m having a hard time keeping it in. Adding Matt Damon’s character’s flip-out served absolutely no purpose whatsoever in this film. In fact, Matt Damon was such a distrubance, I almost wanted to hit the stop button–but instead I hit the pause button and headed to the Airbus A330’s plastic bathroom made for people that are skinny. Wait. All airliners are made for skinny people, right? And I assure, dear worst-reader, I wasn’t even close to being the biggest person on the flight. In fact, I was smaller than most of the ageing, old-bat stewardess that for whatever reason serve travellers plastic meals at the thirty-thousand feet for the rest of their lives. But I’m off subject again. So let me get back on it. Interstellar is a movie that does nothing but feed the arrogance of a director. There. I said it. And I’m starting to seriously like it. There. I got that out, too.
When the price of the DVD comes down earth I want to own this movie. It is truly a fascinating visualisation of interstellar travel–even though the story is borderline ludicrous. For example. What’s the point of only subtlety portraying how Man has ruined the planet and thereby is in need of interstellar travel? I mean the whole global warming discussion has turned silly anyway. Or have you not read Michael Crichton’s State of Fear? Can’t wait for them to make a silly movie out of that one. Which brings me to this question: Why can’t the motivation of Interstellar just be the science? Or maybe just higher knowledge? How ’bout laughing at religious nutbags? Seriously. Each time the lead opened his Tex-ass southern draw mouth I hoped to the scientific high heavens that he wasn’t gonna spew some gospel krapp in which case I had the stop-button ready to push, ready to pee in the skinny bathroom of the A330 once again. And the fact that all there is to eat is sand and corn… What’s that all really about? Sand and corn and interstellar travel? Yeah, that’s the movie. Or is there a message embedded somewhere? No. Probably not. For this is most certainly no one’s 9th symphony. Yet. Those images! The film making. The idears and the science and the… post 1970’s Star Wars animation which told us we need robots to function in the future. What a robot this movie has, too!
And what about the science? Explanations of time travel and blackholes kept me pinned to the screen, especially when Matthew McCaughnehay wasn’t talking. The visuals and camera work of (Nolan’s) space is brilliant (and probably the only valid reason to watch the movie). How other worlds are imagined and then presented, though, is kinda weak. Three planets are visited, one of which is inhabitable, is at best a nice try but I don’t know who to blame for what feels like a cop-out. Seriously. The director could have taken a few hints from the director of Avatar. In fact, I still have dreams of those floating rocks! Anywho. What science is behind these worlds the movie shows? One has waves (Hawaii), the other ice (Greenland) and the last one, which is only shown for a few seconds, could be… (Arizona). Obviously in this sci-fi future it’s still not possible to know whether a planet is accessible only through a warm-hole. I mean, who did the director consult to come up with that mess?
One thing that really stuck with me while watching this movie was the threading of the supernatural. Or was it incorporating a higher being? Whatever it was the weirdest part of the story was also the only way to make the physics of it plausible. The “They” that was referred to through out the story was odd enough. God is now a pronoun. And the fact that “They” are somehow in control of more than three dimensions. Yeah, and? It reminded me of a similar thread in the movie “Contact”. In that movie the “They” are the ones that send the information to earth on how to build the warm-hole machine. The “They” appeared before Jodie Foster’s character when her vehicle lands on the beach after traversing a worm-hole. The difference to Contact though is that it doesn’t require “They” in order to make the physics of the movie plausible. I find this a weakness in Interstellar that is borderline unforgivable. Either Nolan or the writer (who is the writer) felt that something else was needed to justify the physics/science. An odd choice of duplicity, dichotomy, contradiction, etc.
Having cherrypicked enough, dear worst-reader, I’ll leave it that. Sorry if I’ve spoiled anything with this worst-writing (rant) but at least you can be assured of this: the movie is worth seeing for its visuals alone. The characters and actors that portray them carry no weight whatsoever in the film, anyone could play them. Parts of the story, although silly, get quickly submerged in the ether of something. But I don’t know what the ether is nor do I know what the something is–which I guess is the point of calling it ether. Or? At best this film is someone’s wonderful failed attempt at topping Stanley Kubrick’s 9th Symphony. I guess. So if you haven’t seen it, see it right now.
Today a few thoughts on another movie (Fifty Shades of Grey) I won’t see. This post is NSFW. Or maybe not. Good luck.
Every generation has to have its own mainstream how-to fuck film. I say mainstream because the porn industry isn’t really a how-to fuck industry, although that’s probably a shame on account it does provide a lot of obviously needed information on The Carnal. (Seriously. Where would #americant be without porn? Childless? Fewer lost boys? Women walking around with donut glaze on their faces? Etc.) But then the question becomes: since so much porn is being consumed why is it that most young people still don’t know how to fuck and thereby, for all practical purposes, require how-to films? Could the answer have anything to do with misconstrued morality? Puritanical shame? Or how ’bout this:
Romantic-love should die?
Indeed, dear worst-reader. The reality is, romantic-love has run its course and it’s time to move on. Seriously. It would help humanity a great deal. Just drop it. Get rid of it. Be done!
That said. I have nothing against romance (and sex) as a transaction–which is all love is these days as defined by its culmination: marriage. But I do have a problem with going against nature. And. Fucking is nature. Making love is… anti nature. Or maybe not.
Which brings me to this part of this attempt at opening a can of worms: What’s with the debate on marriage rights? You know. We shouldn’t be debating whether or not one group can marry and another can’t. What we should be doing is getting rid of the institution of marriage outright. Obviously, in the wake of the past hundred or so years, as an institution, it is an utter failure. Get ride of it. By doing so, we can kill two birds with one stone. Offing marriage’s head could finally save the children. It could also save females from themselves. Be done!
Oh yeah. I was worst-writing about romantic-love in the context of feminism vs emancipation vs porn all motivated by silly films. Wait. Or was I…? Nomatter. The how-to fuck film of my day was called 9 1/2 Weeks. A silly bourgeois cinematic romp where a female couldn’t decide what to do with the confusion that arises between (her) biology and the inevitability of husband hunting–which often gets confused when the libido takes the first step off the cliff (great job Kim Basinger). And when I think back on that movie the only thing I can remember is the confused look on my then girlfriend’s face regarding her puritanical upbringing juxtaposed with being raised in the wake of 1960s flower-power and being fed cherries on the kitchen floor while wearing fancy pyjamas (or the like).
Did you know that romantic-love has no purpose? It used to have a purpose. Back in the day when Das Volk loved feudalism, birth entitlement, aristocracy, monarchs. Oh wait. We still live in those times. Nomatter (again.) Something about getting daughters from wealthy houses to marry into other wealthy houses where the groom wasn’t the best match or vice-versa was the only way to play the patriarchs game. Today that game is the same but played in the vein of the same-difference. Marriage, and by default romantic-love, as an institution, still provides the patriarch rulers the mother teat. And he sucks joyously upon it. So go and fight about your silly marriage vows. When you give-in to institutions it doesn’t matter what you suck on. Doom is neigh.
Ok. I’m confused. And I’m way off subject. The subject is how-to fuck films and why they are so stupid. It has nothing to do with porn and exploitation as Chris Hedges so rightfully points out (see link below). What it is about is what Mr. Hedges misses. The reality is how-to fuck films are about something much deeper. They are about the mindset of the indoctrinated human female who is either Barbie or August Ames*. The confusion the female, the child bearer, the mother faces today, now that porn is mainstream, must be horrendous. Yet so few females voice anything above and beyond what they themselves have trivialised by exploiting romantic-love which can only lead to the transaction of marriage which ultimately leads to the mass silliness we have today–half of which all end in expensive and child ruining divorce. And so. Maybe there needs to be an alternative to the fiction that we are forced to make real that is romantic-love and maybe that alternative is buried deep in the subtext of how-to fuck films. Or maybe not. Whatever.
And on a side note. Even though worst-writer doesn’t believe in much, you know, as in gods and mysticism, there is something in me that does believe in nature which means that there is a slight thought or three regarding the validity and/or possibility of reincarnation which in-turn makes me shudder at the thought that I could come back as a female. Aghast!
Shout-out of the evening: Dieter Hallervorden. Just watched the German tragic-comedy “Honig Im Kopf” (Honey In My Head). When I first heard about the movie I didn’t give it much attention. Up until the passing of my stepfather last August, I had seen two other films about Alzheimer’s, “Mein Vater” and “Away From Her” and I had had enough of it. All of these movies though are very good. But the one that will forever stand out is the one written and directed by Till Schweiger–who also happens to star in the movie. That said, Hallervorden steels the show. He delivered not only some incredible acting but one of the best portrayals I have ever seen… of my stepfather and the whole reality of Dementia and Alzheimers that my family went through for almost a decade. Even though I haven’t seen anything from Till Schweiger in a while, I also have to say that he nailed this film with his directing and story telling which is co-written by Hilly Martinek. And let me not forget the young grandchild played by Schweiger’s real-life daughter, who also deserves credit for some serious work. Her screen presence is at times mesmerizing and she really drew me in to every scene where I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say or do next. There is also an interesting comic-relief element in this film which is portrayed by Till and his on-screen wife. I’m not sure if Till was really going for the comic-relief thing, though, but if anything took away from the movie, it was that part. I don’t say that to diminish the actors and their struggle–because I think they did struggle to incorporate that element of the story (which is a good thing). They did a fine job. But it is not clear if they are supposed to be the comedy or some other element, e.g. family drama. If they are the latter than there is something missing in the movie. If they are the former then Till has to work on his comedic delivery. But none of that matters because, again, and it can’t be said enough: Hallervorden is brilliant. The man deserves a friggin’ Oscar! Great movie.
Spoke to soon? Said this week that I’m getting too old for movies. Just finished my second one in a week. Wow. Oh well. At least I have yet another excuse for posterity as to why I’ll never finish any of my deservedly unfinished novels.
And so. Here’s a quesiton for ya, dear worst-reader: How does one make a bad movie great? Answer: ask Luc Besson. Finally saw “Lucy” last night. €4,99 rental on monopolists iTunes. Neat thing about this movie? Only half-hour download of “HD” version–which is 720p according to monopolists Apple. Almost 4Gb downloaded within the ubiquity of the Interwebnets in less than a half-hour. Wow. That’s pretty cool. Also. It was the first time I’d seen a movie visualisation of the monkey/human known as Lucy. The connection Besson makes with this anthropological discovery is really, really cool. But that is overshadowed by really, really bad movie making and, perhaps, end of the assembly-line quality control. The film begins with horrific dialogue between Johansson and her fling-boyfriend. The way he tries to convince her to deliver a suitcase for him to his drug dealing overlords borders on the absurd. A few moments later she delivers the suitcase and Korean is spoken and there are no subtitles–just blood and more bad acting. Seriously. Johansson’s acting is so bad that it’s funny. For the life of me I don’t know how Besson let this happen or did he realise in post-production that it was just too late to re-shoot? Of course, to get something out of any actor, even the most mediocre, the writing has to enable it. No. Wait. Even bad writing can be compensated with directing. Or? Yeah, that’s the ticket. Luc Besson didn’t give a shit if the acting was bad. That’s because he’s Luc Besson. I guess. Heck, even most of the special effects of the movie are so bad that there’s only one word to describe it: corny. Seriously corny special effects. Anyone remember the Superman movie where he reverses the rotation of the earth thereby reversing time? Remember how bad those special effects were? Well, Lucy special effects are even worse. But what can one do when we live in a world of monopolists that deliver 4Gb of movie in half an hour for a few Euros? And Luc B is a monopolists dictator–I mean director of his movies. Which he can get away with because he made so many great movies. I love Fifth Element because it’s such a in-your-face Hollywood movie–from a French guy. Wait. Nomatter. Lucy is a complete and utter cliché, and the only thing that holds it together is the terrible acting and the bad trip Lucy takes. That is, the drug induced, mind altering trip that Johansson takes that leads her back to the big bang and literally becoming one with the universe–but not before leaving humanity with all the worlds knowledge on a USB stick. And with all that pseudo-criticism in mind, I’m gonna watch this movie again tonight (before my rental self destructs). I love this movie. Luc Besson is the master of making bad great. And bless him for it. He could collect a bunch of old tin, galvanised trash cans, a camera, and make a movie. Hats off to him.
It’s hard watching movies these days, dear worst-reader. I think that’s due to 1) my age, 2) I’m movied-out. Wait. Those two things probably aren’t exclusive. Nomatter. One of my hobbies is to curate my own little personal digital movie library. Using Apple’s (the great monopoly) iTunes as my media server, I purchase most of my movies through happenstance and used DVD shopping. An example of happenstance purchasing is the movie Essence Under Skin, which is one of those rare movies that I actually rented on iTunes (but only because it was offered for .99c). Boy did that movie really do a number on me. In fact, it was so good, as soon as it was over I purchased the ebook and read it in two days. The other means of acquiring movies is when I’m assigned to carrying my better-half’s shopping bag. I usually sneak away at some point and go to the DVD racks. I buy films on sale, never paying more than five to seven euros for a disc. I then bring the disc home and rip it to my library. Which brings me to Killing Them Softly. I picked it up in one of them big metal baskets on wooden pallets at a German electronics store. The sign said: DVDs ab 3,99. I think I paid 4,99 for it. And so. Happenstance and a key bargain shopper persona lead me to this really good mediocre film. And without further ado, here my worst thoughts on it.
The movie had me sold right from the start. Why? It is a satirical parody of #americant. I love #americant parodies. (Btw, here’s more worst-writing on #americant parodies, if you’re interested.) Through out the film one constantly hears and sees via a TV set either Dubya (dipshit) Bush or Barry Obama spewing #americant dysfunctional propaganda that Das Volk can’t get enough of before and during the 2008 election. Underneath the spewing the film tries to tell the story of a bunch of two-bit hoodlums who, obviously, parody the people of a country where everybody either wants to be or knows they are a king of their own personal household and/or corporate cubicle fiefdom. The hoodlums are Americans who just happen, for the sake of movie action, to get all caught up in a death spiral of guns, profanity and, of course, the lust for cash. That, along with a less than cohesive storyline, makes this movie very mediocre. What makes this movie shine is its subtext–which is the critical study of the world’s greatest experiment in nation-statehood slowly rotting from within. The only acting that caught my eye in the movie is James Gandolfini. He is f’n brilliant as a washed-up hitman. As far as Pitt goes, well, what can one say. Without him this strange adaptation of George V. Higgins book would have probably never been made. The only problem with his character is that he doesn’t really shine until the very end when the parody transitions to reality and a brilliant piece of writing his inserted in the book… I mean the movie. (I haven’t read the book but I’m guessing this text ain’t in it and if it is, wow! What a coincidence. Then maybe I should read it.)
Driver (a corporate mafia rep played by Richard Jenkins): Look up there. (Pointing to TV above the bar where Obama is giving 2008 acceptance speech.) Those words are for you.
Jackie (Brad Pitt): Don’t make me laugh. For one people. That’s a myth created by Thomas Jefferson.
Driver: Oh, now you’re gonna have a go at Jefferson, uh?
Jackie: My friend, Jefferson is an American saint because he wrote the words ‘all men are created equal.’ Words he clearly didn’t believe since he allowed his own children to live in slavery. He was a rich wine snob who was sick of paying taxes to the Brits. So yeah, he wrote some lovely words and aroused the rabble and they went out and died for those words while he sat back and drank his wine and fucked is slave girl. (Pointing to TV screen where Barack Obama is giving his 2008 presidential acceptance speech.) This guy wants to tell me we’re living in a community? Don’t make me laugh. I’m living in America and in America you’re on your own. America is not a country, it’s just a business. Now fucking pay me!
I reckon this movie should appeal to libertarians everywhere, especially the ones blinded by their beliefs. Indeed. The #americant way. My the blind lead the blinded. Or something like that.
When I first saw Devil’s Advocate I was impressed. Not too much horror to make me bite my fingernails, enough intrigue to make me hang on to the story, and a perfect mix of brilliant writing and direction. Reeves is, like w/ most of his work, a mediocre actor that’s just hard to dislike. Theron is luscious to look at and listen to in a pre-surgery way. Pacino, on the other hand, truly carries this film and he does so as any genius serpent wallowing around the tree of knowledge would. That’s what always brings me back to this film. That is, over the passed year or so, while breezing thru my movie library when I know I’m not going to watch a whole film (on account of other worst-writing constraints), I call up films and skip through to the money-shots, i.e. moments of dialogue/writing that downright thrill me. I do this a lot w/ films like Casablanca, almost anything Woody Allen, Monty Python, etc. In this particular film all I ever re-watch is the dialogue w/ Pacino, the Devil incarnate. Below a small example. The underestimating scene.
KEVIN: I figure you came to court to make sure I didn’t fuck this up.
MILTON: Maybe I did. But don’t get too cocky. No matter how good you are. Don’t let them see you coming. That’s the gaff, my friend — make yourself small. Be the hick. The cripple. The nerd. The leper. The shit-kicking surfer. Look at me — I’ve been underestimated from day one. Do I look like a master of the universe? That’s your only weakness as far as I can tell.
KEVIN: What’s that?
MILTON: The look. The Florida stud thing. (Southern accent.) ‘Scuse me, ma’am, did I leave my boots under your bed?’
KEVIN: Never worked a jury didn’t have a woman.
MILTON: You know what you’re missing? What I have? This beautiful girl she’s just fucked me every way she knows how — we’re done — she’s walking to the bathroom — she turns back — and there I am. It’s me. And she smiles — it’s like a veil coming down across her face — and that smile, that’s a question mark, because she’s looking at me, she’s wondering, how did that happen? And see, right there, from that moment on, she’s got a secret. I’m the hand up Mona Lisa’s skirt. I’m the whisper in Nefertitti’s ear. I’m a surprise. They never see me coming. That’s what your missing.
While we’re at it, dear worst-reader, let’s throw in one more for fun. This short piece of writing genius is rivalled only by Burroughs (when it comes to writing about that whole god thing.)
MILTON: Let me give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He’s a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do, I swear for His own amusement, his own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It’s the goof of all time. Look but don’t touch. Touch, but don’t taste. Taste, don’t swallow. Ahaha. And while you’re jumpin’ from one foot to the next, what is he doing? He’s laughin’ His sick, fuckin’ ass off! He’s a tight-ass! He’s a SADIST! He’s an absentee landlord! Worship that? NEVER!
(Devil’s Advocate Screenplay by Jonathan Lemkin and Tony Gilroy)
Back in the day, dear worst-reader. Back in the day. I’m referring mostly to the 80s and 90s when I still had it in me. In fact it was so in-me that I couldn’t get the idears out of me. It was truly all I could do at the time for I knew that the end was near. The career end, that is. Yes, indeed, it ended with the millennium. Yeah, like you, I was working for the man thinking I had a career but reality dictated that it was all just another hire and fire job. Even though these “jobs” had served me well, unlike you, I wouldn’t give up on that other thing in the front (as opposed to the back) of my head, that thing that lead me down every road born of imagination and lingering of a thick pudding-like ether of dreams. And. The only way to express it ALL was through something written, usually dialogue. And so. Sit down, Tommi, worst-write another play. Which I did. But I never did it enough. Because there are those plays that I didn’t right. Oddly, some of them are still with me. Of course, as we all know, being a failed playwright has it’s advantages. But I won’t get into that here. For what I want to get into has to do with a movie that I recently (re)saw but for the life of me can’t remember when I first saw it. Or can I? Certainly I did see it. I know I did. More than twenty-five years ago I saw this movie. Even though it was very controversial–because of its costs and criticism. Is Heaven’s Gate in hind-sight a film before its time? Or. Is this (worst-post) an example of losing one’s mind, as is the case when getting old? Nomatter.
The movie I recently (re)saw is called Heaven’s Gate. This movie is embedded in my mind’s eye because it contained something that I new was a seed. The seed, aka an idear for a play, was supposed to be about Feuds. Feuds in my beloved #americant. I wanted to write something about Hatfield and McCoy, Earp and Clanton, and the grand fight between Mr. Rich and Mr. Poor, etc. For moi, there was always something singular about these feuds, something that bound them all together. Right or wrong. Left and right. Conservative, Liberal. And, yes, Poor and Rich. The film Heaven’s Gate is about all those things, especially the last one. And I know I saw it at a screening at State University of So-n-so sometime between 1984-88. The for-profit-state-institution had a huge auditorium that served, depending on requirements, as a lecture hall, theatre or cinema and it was a grand convenience. One of the things I often attended there were lectures given by the prominent. Various elites would appear at this place. I saw actors (Richard Dryfuss, Graham Chapman, etc.), TV personalities (numerous famous journalist who need not be named) and sometimes politicians (Jessie Jackson, Michael Dukakis, etc.) But one time there was supposed to be a prominent personality there but he didn’t show. It was either Kris Kristofferson or Jeff Bridges. (I think it was Bridges that we were supposed to see because he was less of a star.) The prominent was supposed to give a short speech about… Gee, I don’t know. Being #americant or something like that and then his/her movie would be shown. Well, like I said. The prominent one didn’t show. But the movie did. And I remember it because it was like four or five hours long. I remember enjoying the movie but also taking a lot of breaks. I remember standing in the isle-ways of the seats in order to rest my butt from sitting for so long. And I remember half the audience leaving the hall to never return. And then I remember the seed. The seed this movie planted in my head. This seed would be planted from other films, as well. I’m referring to Dances With Wolves, Dr. Strangelove, etc. These were films that questioned the #americant ideal. The ideal of greed, authority, subjugation, etc. Oh yeah! It was a great movie.
Now, so many years later, while reading a über-winded tech-book on #americant business and technology, the film Heaven’s Gate was mentioned because of the triviality of having brought down a Hollywood studio, United Artists. This in turn distracted my reading and I immediately took advantage of modernity and streamed the film via iTunes. Supposedly this is a new release of the film, hence it was only just over three hours. But enjoy it I did. In fact, it reminded me of a seed that still remains–perhaps waiting for its code to click-on so the germination process that has been so dormant in worst-writer’s mind can give it a go once again. Or maybe not. Nomatter. The thing I wish to worst-convey today is nothing more than elation regarding a wonderful film. A film that depicts the true heart and spirit of #americant–as negative and positive as that heart and spirit can be. And after seeing it again and realising what has become of my home, the place that raised me, I laugh. Indeed. #americant is in ruin because of empire, war-mongering, greed-society and our inability to transcend feud(alism). Heaven’s Gate is a movie that depicts #americant at the turn of the century. Or should I say that Michael Cimino depicts it all? In a way, during that turn of the century, a seed was also planted. A seed that would lead to the #americant century–the 20th century. Heaven’s Gate is a film that every #americant should see and then be required to write a short essay on and turn that essay into shit-for-brains teacher at bat-out-of-hell school for the mind-blind. Perhaps then, after all the worst-writing, enough Volk will realise the ills of our ways. Or maybe they’ll just see the beauty of something that has been misunderstood for so long.
Meanwhile, farther up the literacy scale, many thousands of would-be writers display their tragically unrecognized wit and insight as movie critics, using mass distributed blogging software and mass produced computer hardware to illuminate mass distributed films (the prevailing assumption being that an audience, however small, is proof enough of authenticity and individuality.) -Deer Hunting For Jesus, Joe Bageant
With the above quote in mind, dear worst-reader, I saw the new Transformer (2014) movie last night. And to prepare for worst-writing something about it, I just googled “transformer girls”. Ok. I’m good now. Onward. What an awful movie. I mean it was really bad. How can someone like the guy staring in it even be called an actor? Just get anybody to wake up in the morn, give him/her this script and start filming. I’m afraid to even say his name. It was like watching a movie that was written and directed by a three year old who can program action scenes as though he just made them up in the room his nut-bag parents grounded him in. Unbelievable. But I paid so I guess I deserved it. Still. Hats off to the honest people who worked hard to make it–even the other actors who obviously gave all they have. I guess one or two Bay movies out of four ain’t bad. That’s right. Not afraid to admit it. I liked some of the other Transformers, especially the the first one.
First. Julia Roberts can’t say the word fuck. She just can’t. I swear, in this film she tries, she really tries. But every time those innocent broad lips open up all one can see, because astonishment clouds sound, is her promoting that well-branded laugh that somehow spews effortlessly through a mouth that seems to have no end to its width and a limitless shine to those teeth. This woman, like the burden of the smile of a Dolphin, will forever be associated with the burden of one thing and one thing only. That laugh she barks in her bourgeoisie portrayal of how much fun it is to be a whore… Well. Nuff said.
Oh yeah, the smile. Roberts goes for cursing all the same but this time instead of taking the sure way she just spews the word fuck–through the same mouth so many people adore. And when she calls her dying mother–with nothing less than that same mouth: “you fucking bitch”, I couldn’t help but imagine a beautiful little girl finishing kindergarten and given an opportunity to speak at her graduation where she says the same thing to her lost and lonely teacher. You fucking bitch. Indeed, dear worst-reader. There’s seriously something wrong with that picture and with Julie Roberts struggling to say the word fuck. But more. There’s something wrong with the lack of astonishment from the Julia Roberts adoring world. Because. Hey. She’s Julia Roberts.
Second. The best thing about this movie is Juliett Lewis’ portrayal of a husband hunting bimbo. She really nailed it and I never thought she could do that again because she already did it so well in the movie Kalifornia across from Brad Pitt. Hats off to her!
And as far as… what’s her name goes… what’s her name? Oh yeah, Meryl Streep. As far as Streep goes, I saw cracks in her sunglasses and I think, if I were to re-rent this film on iTunes, I might be able to even prove exactly where those cracks are–because if you look closely when she fakes her smoking, the smoke comes through the cracks of her glasses. Seriously. Oh wait. iTunes doesn’t allow you to do anything with rented movies except watch them within 24hrs of starting them… Wait. Does Meryl Streep know this?
But enough about worst-writer’s attempt at criticizing a film. That sort of thing is better left to others more privileged. Still. I can’t wait to download the play and give it a read. Tracy Letts has obviously nailed it with his play. Transferring it to film went pretty well, too. Since the movie starts with Sam Shepard, a writer I (used to) read religiously–especially his plays–I couldn’t help but compare this play-to-film transfer to Shepard’s own Fool For Love, which was transferred way back in 1985. Short pause…
Warning: slight spoiler alert.
Of course the moment in Osage County when my thoughts of Shepard were sealed was when I realized that there was an incestuous affair about to be revealed. The same thing, of course, is in Shepard’s play Fool For Love. So. Tracy Letts was influenced by Shepard. Or? Goodness. I hope so.
Either way this was a beautiful film that I thoroughly enjoyed watching from start to end. Brilliant writing, acting and cinematography. I also thought it was a bit strange to categorize this film as a comedy. Seriously. A comedy? There are a few funny moments, especially the brawl between Streep and Roberts, where, after the film, I got to thinking that it wasn’t funny at all. If I could question Letts about his play it would be why he chose to put obvious male mind-set characters into female bodies. But that doesn’t really matter. He’s got a female name and so does his dead dramatic patriarch. All hands clap for men named Beverly.
In the movie Iron Man 2 Tony Stark finds in the diorama of his father’s design for the World Expo a formula for creating a new element that will save his life. While analysing the formula through a 3-D generated image, Stark is able to reduce the design to its essence. I say this, worst-Reader, because I want you to apply the same scrutiny, that is, remove all the unnecessary elements in analysing the film Blue Jasmine by Woody Allen and…
Wait. Stop the presses.
Gonna cut this post short on account I just came across a spoiler. I mean, I’ve literally come across my own spoiler. While doing a quick Wiki search of the film, in the “critical response” section of the wiki article the same claim I wanted to make is made. After watching the movie last night, seeing Cate Blanchett sitting on that park bench with her hair freshly unfinished and undried from a shower a few moments prior, it hit me. This film is not only a great tribute to Woody’s ability to write but it’s also a tribute to spastic females that can’t seperate their emotions and feelings from reality.
Some thoughts motivated after watching Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained.
Anyone want to know how to ruin a potentially good spaghetti western? I suppose the same applies for ruining a (less) potentially good spaghetti world war 2 movie. And why you’re watching both, it’s probably a good thing if you don’t know much about two things. One is history and the other is why, in America, certain words flaunted are probably not appropriate because when used inappropriately those words trivialise something that is über important. Two recent movies have proven that Quentin Tarantino is brilliant at trivialising things. He’s also a great film maker. Wait. Contradiction? Pause. More on his film making in a worst-second.
Since I’m on the subject of trivialisation, a few worst-lines about worst-me. I like being middle-aged. One reason for that is I can’t wait to get old. With out soliciting boo-whos, my youth really, really sucked and the whole idear of getting old is quite comforting. Also. I believe that the best thing about life is that even though most are born into it alone and with nothing, it has one free gift for everybody: you get to leave it the same way you entered it. Alone. Hooray! That means life is a grand comforter, the cutest puppy, delicious booz or favourite dessert only so that you can choke, suffocate, have a stroke or heart attack and then, finally, depart. Alone. But there’s something else. It’s all the other stuff between being born alone and dying alone. For example. Young people. I feel really bad for young people today. I wonder if there are any other parents out there that feel the same way. Of course none of them can feel the same as worst-writer. Part of the problem is, most parents believe–this claim is based on their actions–that children are property. And so. Every new generation must scramble their mind and body more than the previous generation. Hence the continuation and perpetuation of westernidiocracy. But is there somehow hope out there? Hope for a new & improved consume to survive world?
Youth.
Ah. The pressure(s) that young people have today. Pressure due to misconstrued biology and bottomless mind-pits full of all-things uncreative, bureaucratic, meritless and driven mostly by greed and hate. It’s no wonder that young people have to grow up with texting, youtube, red bull, Facebook, Pringles and Quentin Tarantino. But let’s also not forget sexting or learning about sex thru internet porn and all that contrasted with parents that are stuck in a world of lights-out, under the covers, embarrassment, door locked, pretend you’re not doing cartwheels with her and finally, ooops, i’m pregnant. Talk about misconstrued biology, eh. When is Tarantino gonna make a movie about all that? It seems like a subject-matter that he could deal with much better than… Nonevermind.
Pitiful.
I reckon what young people have to deal with these days is both admirable and pitiful. When I was young and my parents were young, it was all just pitiful. Boo-fuckin’-who, eh! But I must ask: are times changing? Have things progressed? Neverevermind. The question I really want to ask is: Will there ever be a time where young people aren’t slaves to old people? Or should I replace “old people” with “the past”? In other words, as an American, is it possible to trivialise slavery and racism? As a parent I take comfort in one thing. I’ve been completely honest with my son. Honesty and truth is my counter to the lies and shame that was given me having been born of a certain past. I have told my son and will continue to tell him: do not be like your father, do not be like your grandparents, think for yourself, be your own man, care, love, etc. Who knows if that will ever lead to anything. Indeed. I’ve learned that children are a gift that parents do not deserve. Shame we don’t treat them better, shame we really don’t respect them, shame we can’t offer them something better than this.
Quarrel.
Which brings me to Django Unchained. My son wanted to see the movie and I didn’t. I was pissed-off after watching Inglorious Bastards because that movie trivialised certain aspects of ww2 that made it silly. (SPOILER ALERT: A Jewish suicide bomber kills Adolf Hitler? Please.) Once I started reading reviews of this new spaghetti movie-making endeavour, motivation waned. Like I said, if you know nothing about history and perhaps you like movies that should ultimately be comics (or something like that), then check out Django or anything Tarantino. That said, there is no doubt that the man makes entertainment. Heck, I’ll even admit that Quentin Tarantino is a great film maker–as long as you look at it as a craft. He certainly makes hits. But I never liked Alfred Hitchcock films either. (Not that the two are even comparable.) My quarrel with Tarantino is the content and mis-direction of his stories and characters that he seems to dump in the lap of a very young and influential audience. Is that the parent in me coming thru? Tarantino makes it more and more obvious that since we live in such confused times, times driven by greed and fear and hate and violence, that such a maker and grand story teller should choose the easy route of trivialisation.
Great Characters.
Tarantino movies all have one or two characters that make them worthwhile. In Pulp Fiction it was Harvey Keitel as The Cleaner. In Inglorious Basterds it was Christoph Waltz who played a Nazi even though his Nazi was less a Nazi then the whack-job played by Angelina Jolie’s husband. And in Django, Tarantino obviously saw the light and got Christoph Waltz to do it all over again. But this time he got Waltz to be a sympathetic German who was also part of the Abolitionists that saw the light regarding a fledgling country’s true nature and intentions. And so. Before the movie began, I once again told my son about the world I grew up in and the N-Word. For most of the movie and its N-Word I did ok. Waltz’s character worked as a cushion for all the portrayal of my heritage’s hate. Tarantino really created a jewel with Dr. Shultz. But then something happened. During the negotiating dinner at Calvin Candie’s house, adolescent albeit southern hospitality table manners suddenly became the voice of Hollywood and perhaps the hidden true nature of a film maker. Candie, played by Leonardo DeCaprio, teases Dr. Schultz about his affection toward women with darker skin.
Candie to Dr. Schultz: “You might have caught yo-self a little dose of nigga-luv. Nigga-luv is a powerful emotion, boy. Mmmm. It’s like a pile of black tar that once it catches yo ass…”
Did he just say “tar”? It’s one thing to trivialise both slavery and racism but does he have to do the same to luv? Heck, I could have even gotten through the trivialisation of two people with different coloured skin gettin’ it on. But to then throw in the word “tar” as the element that brings two people together, that literally sticks them together? You’ve got to be kidding me! Add to that the fact that a slave holding white man in 1858 Mississippi knows anything about the elixir and afro-disiaq qualities of tar…? No. Sorry. The text makes no sense. Tarantino couldn’t come up with something better? Were there no people reading the script before he filmed it? Or. Perhaps. Someone is a little bit obsessed and preoccupied with the N-Word and is then at a loss for all other possible words. Ok. Maybe I’m nitpicking. But then again, worst-writer could have done it better.
Racism.
Worstwriter is a child of parents, that is true. But my parents were not human. Therefore I was hatched. Who then were the ones that kept my egg warm, you ask. Well. Their names were Racism and The Cold War. Here I will only focus on Racism, for he was a grand old bitch, with a little example of how he tried to raise me. During my first day of middle school in suburban hell American’t we were all sitting in the gym waiting to be given instructions regarding our indoctrination. This included various speeches by teachers, handouts for class schedules, assigning lockers and even a short film about Duck & Cover. When the teacher(s) left us alone, a young boy, who was sitting one level below me on the bleachers, stood up, turned around and bitch-slapped me. My first reaction was complete and utter fear. My second reaction was to not piss my pants. The young man was black and I had no idear what I did to motivate him to do what he did. But he, obviously, had a motivation. I remember him vividly. He was a beautiful young man with light brown skin, freckles around his nose and his hair was more dark brown than black. He was the same height as me but perhaps a little thinner. He wore brown pants and a dark green shirt with short sleeves. And up to that point in my life, other than his race, he was just like most other boys that I got into fights with over nothing. But was this nothing? I didn’t shoot the back of his head with spit balls out of a straw. I didn’t whisper worst-sweet-nothings about his clothes in his ear. And I most certainly didn’t say anything about who we were, where we came from and what toothpaste preferences we had. All I did was just sit there, trying to control my freaked-out bladder, I had yet to fight a black boy. Luckily. Nothing else happened. And I suppose he did what he had to do. There were a few taunts by other kids who had seen his deed, but all-in-all, silence, shock and total regression into myself was what got me through that horrible indoctrination. Years later I learned that what I experienced that morning was not unusual. Check out the first few minutes of Henry Rollins vid below.
First two minutes of this vid are relevant to this post. Henry is relevant to everything beyond this post.
Fortunately that young man and I continued with greetings and a few handshakes all the way through High School. Unfortunately we never became anything else and we never talked about what was between us. Somehow, through all those years, that moment belonged to us. But it never really connected us. I suppose to this day, having been traumatized by such an event, that’s the only thing I’m really bitter about. But at least it set me down a path of higher knowledge regarding what my white American heritage was truly about. I knew, because one of my parents was Racism, that what this young man was bitch-slapping wasn’t just me. He helped me realise that there is a lot of wisdom in the fact that children cannot choose their parents but more importantly we can also not choose our history. A slap is great way to realise that. But. At least. Just before we were both about to graduate High School, this young man and I exchanged a few words. That exchange went something like this:
Tommi: Hey Cornelius, congratulations. You made it.
Cornelius: Thanks, Tom. Congratulations to you, too.
Tommi: Thanks. Say. You remember that slap?
Cornelius: In middle school? Yeah.
Tommi: My baby sister could slap better than that.
Cornelius: Oh yeah…
And so. It is heart wrenching to see people my age, who grew up different but the same as me, doing things that trivialise something so important and they do it on such a massive scale. Race and slavery have yet to be dealt with. Heck, we haven’t even begun to deal with the American Indian. So the slippery slope of time progresses and it makes me uncomfortable when something as important as our history is trivialised–which is just like telling a lie. Way to go Quentin. Many thanks to Henry Rollins. And…
Denial. Repression. Avoidance. Lie. Project. Ah, growing up in American’t. Where would I be today if it weren’t for the child rearing that moulded me? But more on that in minute. I’m kinda pissed at the recent headlines regarding Michael Douglas trying to sell his new movie Behind The Candelabra. The thing is, my mom used to watch Liberace on American TV all the time. He would either be featured as a guest on some variety show or he’d have a show of his own. The man was truly loved on the boob-tube! Of course, at the time (60s, 70s), Liberace’s sexuality was never an issue because 1) where I come from no one ever talked about being gay, and 2) his extravagance represented everything sexually repressed Americans lusted after–in silence, of course. It wasn’t until his death from AIDS, followed only two years later by Rock Hudson’s death, that the whole gay thing became not-so-repressed dinner table chatter. Indeed. It was that lust of silence in closets or under covers, with locked doors, forced entries or forced jerk-offs and the ultimate take the pain until he’s finished, that moulded many a youths perspective on sex in America. I guess with all that it’s no wonder Americans love their guns and their violence and their horror. Nomatter. The truth for me is, looking back, gayness was everywhere–and not just on TV. Growing up in sexual repression is indeed an abhorrent experience. It is a cesspool environment that breeds abuse on a grand scale. In fact, I’m convinced that it is exactly this abuse that is the reason baby boomers have ruined everything in American’t today. I’ll even go so far as claiming that baby-boomers are probably the greatest generation of child abusers in human history–forget the whole Catholic priest thing. And this is all because baby boomers are a bunch of reactionary sexually repressed monsters. But I don’t want to get to far off topic.
The recent barrage of headlines regarding Michael Douglas’ potty-mouth has an air of trivialisation and superficiality to it that demands explanation. I’m convinced that there is something extreme and deep that Douglas is trying to hide by making such a dubious and frat-boy comment that serves only the projection of what he thinks is his heterosexuality. Now don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying because Douglas plays a promiscuous gay man and kisses Matt Damon that he is gay. Sean Penn in Milk did the same thing. Yet ask any gay man what turns him off the most. I’ll bet you licking a vagina is at the top of his list. That said, I could give a hoot what Douglas’ preferences are. My gripe at this moment is that he is obviously a sexually repressed man and he has yet to come to terms with that and I don’t feel like putting up with his immaturity regarding the issue which borders trivialising cancer. To say something as ignorant as cunnilingus causes throat cancer is mind-boggling at best and silly at worst. For one thing, is Douglas blaming women for his cancer? Or is he potentially blaming his own promiscuity? Wasn’t he caught up in a scandal before marrying Zeta Jones about being addicted to sex? Of course, there need be no mention of his own personal behaviour that involved making too much luv to cigarettes and alcohol. Indeed. Who knows what. What I do know is that Michael Douglas is a boomer and he is of a generation that taught both repression and abuse. The state of the world today proves that. I only wish that Liberace could have been kept out of this.
Pseudo review of the movie Synecdoch, New York by Charlie Kaufman
Oh, it weighed heavy on my conscience having recently gone to the cinema. It’s just not something I do. It’s like youth, and it’s a good thing that it’s gotten away from me. But I did it and there is a price to pay. Subsequently I was compelled to find something spectacular to bring me back (to reality). To pay the piper, they say. Oh, how I yearn for a world where creativity is at the forefront of every (dirty) deed – as opposed to the status quo conservative world of living in the past we are all (de)faced with now. But enough about me.
Today we’re going to worstwrite about the brilliant writer Charlie Kaufman and the wonders of Crémant. Was in a store a few weeks back and the DVD of “Synecdoche, New York” was available for some ungodly cheap price. This is the usual way I consume movies these days: cheap DVDs and retailer supply surplus nightmares. In most stores here in z’Germanland they usually put a krapp-load of DVDs into a crate and the all-knowing consumer has to sift through it. Attached to the crate is a sign that reads “DVD ab 4,99”. I have long since realized that what they actually throw into these crates are no more than four or five different movies but there is such a huge and abundant unsold supply of them that people will stand there sifting through the crate and never wondering why they keep finding the same film. What they don’t get is that there is never a DVD in the crate for the price advertised. But that’s neither here nor there. Usually I pass these crates because I have already seen Brides From Hell, Part IV or Return of the Martian Females, Part VI. But as I was passing by a crate on this particular procrastinating day something spoke to me. Or should I say… something made its presence known to me. I mean, Synecdoche is a strange title and since I’m attracted to letters and words more than images and pictures, it’s no wonder that this particular title spoke to me and Wife-Zilla’s Return, Part II did not.
Now, here’s the thing. It took a ridiculous price to get me to buy “Being John Malkovic” so I went ahead and splurged once again and gave up my 3,99. But let’s look at something more important than just price, shall we? (Shame Amazon, to the right, can’t match what I paid, eh?) My guess is, the DVD of Synecdoche was thrown into this B-movie crate by a cynic. For I soon discovered, as I waddled through the store to get to the cash register — and this has to have something to do with the psychology of association — there was another special offering of artsy-farsty films all under 5,99 in the another part of the store. Of course, the artsy-fartsy stuff, the stuff that might make people think (I know, I’m being high-brow, but what the heck!), was in the back, in a dark corner, creativity is relegated to obscurity. So I hope I’m making this clear. If this DVD wouldn’t have been in the wrong place — if it weren’t put there by someone who was trying to make a statement — if it were in the place that the others of its kind were, then I would have missed it. For I am, at this point in life, immune to advertising of all kinds and I usually only go to stores if 1) she makes me, and 2) I know exactly what I’m going there to get. (On this day I was in need of a coax cable.) Although I cannot empirically prove it, there is some truth that this DVD, in the wrong crate, communicated with me — and perhaps even knew that I would need it after seeing the new Snow White movie. So I bought and added another Charlie Kaufmann film to my collection titled: “non brain-dead movies”.
Eventually I ripped the DVD, put into my iTunes library and got caught up in doing something else, which included a few days of worstwriting, fighting with my website and concerned that my son is overly preoccupied with the erdbeermund of the chick who plays Snow White. Even though all these other activities prevented me from immediately viewing Synecdoche there was something else that compelled me to wait for the right moment. After viewing the new Snow White (mis)interoperation it was time to purge my innards of being exposed to too much anti-creative-ness. Yet, even after that it took a few more days to get to Synecdoche. Obviously what we’re dealing with here, dear worst-reader, is the problem of submission and not admission. How easy it is to juice yourself up with what’s required to go to the cinema and watch pop movie making. But to do the same with the brilliance of all things creative? Luckily on this particular evening, my better-half was open to me suggesting what film we should watch. So I gathered the perfectly chilled bottle of Crémant, a few snacks of black olives, dried tomatoes, crackers and viola!
It didn’t take long before the main question was asked: Is this an artsy-fartsy movie? Indeed, it is my dear. So I poured her another glass of Crémant du Jura, offered that we watch the new Sherlock Holmes movie (that gets my thumbs up only because of the director!) Luckily (for me) she noticed my enthusiasm for Kaufman, so we continued with what we had begun. For you see, there is no other living writer today that makes me love and hate writing more than Charlie Kaufman. He makes me love writing because of the movies he’s written. He makes me hate writing because of the movies he’s written. Whenever I watch a Charlie Kaufman movie it takes me days to once again sit down at my desk and start hammering away. The whole time I’m thinking: there is only one writer worthy of writing; the man is so brilliant in his carving out of proverbial stone idears and words that it makes me cringe — but cringe in a good way. Being humbled every once ‘a’ once is also a good thing. It’s good to walk the earth with feet firmly planted. Thank you, Charlie Kaufman. And thank you to France for coming up with such a brilliant (and affordable) alternative to Champagne. After my dearest had her second glass of Crémant she fell asleep and I could continue watching the brilliance unfold while nibbling for hours on one black olive.
Broke down and went to the movies yesterday. I don’t go to the cinema anymore. Reason? Nothing motivates me to go. And, at my age, it’s getting’ hard to sit still in the dark for 2hrs. Also. Movie making in general has long since run out of stories to tell. For you see, according to everything worst, the art of writing stories is no longer nurtured. Proof in the pudding, baby. Creativity has had to give way to consuming. Enter comics, computer animation and remakes galore. In this new & improved world directors and actors and money have finally pushed aside the part of the mixture where all the creative stuff starts. Oh, the future is brightly bleak. But that’s neither here nor there. Why do we even need stories anymore? There is an endless source of stuff to be regurgitated.
Because I don’t go to the movies I miss the few times that movie makers actually do make something worthwhile. The last time I missed something was Terry Gilliam’s The Brothers Grimm – but I eventually caught it on DVD. What a great FREE interpretation of all-ready whacked out story telling. I mean, the Grimm stories in their original are truly grim and that’s what makes them so cool. The mis-interpretation by Disney and Hollywood up to now of those stories contains mounds of proof regarding what has gone so wrong (worst) with our world. When the new Snow White was announced, I thought, Hey, I’ll give yet another interpretation of Grimm a shot.
I actually enjoyed watching this new (re)re-interpretation of Snow White. There are some huge flaws in the story* but, unlike Gilliam’s work, this piece actually tried to stay somehow tuned in to the original Grimm story (accentuate somehow intended). The fact that this interpretation withheld the misnomer of romance as the plot driver made it all the more interesting. Seriously. The thing that made me scared about seeing the movie was how they were gonna do that prince, princess, white horse and kiss thing. I was so tickled that Snow White was kissed by two guys that I almost clapped and yelled “you trollop” to the screen. The simple fact is that Disney’s misinterpretation of romantic love based on a perversion ofSchneewittchen has lead generations to think that their marriage and family life has a speck of something monarchial in it. Mix that with a sexual revolution that has given the world the likes of Madonna, Lady Gago & Co., and it’s no wonder that half of all marriages fail. BTW, while the United Mistakes embattles and preoccupies itself with its silly-talk regarding gay marriage, it should consider just getting rid of marriage completely. Other than containment and control, Tommi’s cynical (and somewhat bitter) mind can find no significant social, cultural or political use for marriage anymore. If you must, make rules or laws about taking care of children, but get rid of all the other chains that legally bind two people together. Yeah, baby. Free! Freedom at last.
Anywho.
Seeing this movie with my son, who is gaga for the Snow White actress (and I am for Charlize Theron), was some cinematic fun I hadn’t had in a long time. Boy, I forgot how much I miss popcorn in Amerika, too.
*Story Flaws? Actually these are just some thoughts I jotted down after running this movie through my head. (1) If the evil queen was powerful enough to know that William had tricked Snow White with the apple when they were children – hence the reason that the queen could appear as William with the apple and give Snow White a second chance to bite it and then poison her – how then could she not know that it was the Huntsman’s kiss that would wake her up from the poisoned apple and then plan for that accordingly? (2) Although I loved the dwarfs, why couldn’t they get some real dwarfs? (3) The magic in the movie, from the queen and her mirror to the emerald-like forest with its ferries, lacks in verisimilitude, and almost separates it from the rest of the movie where there is no magic. The story behind how the queen killed Snow White’s father is clear. But what did she do with the kingdom? There was something missing about the power she had and how she wielded it. What was the movie about? Snow White? The evil queen? Directors and actors and producers making money? Writing no longer being nurtured? Etc., etc.
Back in the day, dear worst-reader. Back in the day. I’m referring mostly to the 80s and 90s when I still had it in me. In fact it was so in-me that I couldn’t get the idears out of me. It was truly all I could do at the time for I knew that the end was near. The career end, that is. Yes, indeed, it ended with the millennium. Yeah, like you, I was working for the man thinking I had a career but reality dictated that it was all just another hire and fire job. Even though these “jobs” had served me well, unlike you, I wouldn’t give up on that other thing in the front (as opposed to the back) of my head, that thing that lead me down every road born of imagination and lingering of a thick pudding-like ether of dreams. And. The only way to express it ALL was through something written, usually dialogue. And so. Sit down, Tommi, worst-write another play. Which I did. But I never did it enough. Because there are those plays that I didn’t right. Oddly, some of them are still with me. Of course, as we all know, being a failed 
worstwriter 