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English Bob’s Englishmen
2017 04 08 Just saw Clint talking about Unforgiven, Richard Harris, English Bob. Richard Harris, Irish of course, leapt at the chance to have the part. He reports England emptying its jails of murderers, rapists, arsons to enforce “peace” on Ireland. So glad to learn that! I’ve hailed Unforgiven as Clint’s greatest movie since it came out: I’m glad now to double down on that opinion.
School Bored Dykes
2017 04 06 I’d heard good things about Lillian Hellman all my life. I remember my mother in the 1950s commewnting that Hellman was famous for her dialogue. I didn’t doubt it but somehow I never experienced it. Later in the ’50s I read and revered every word printed of Dashiell Hammett’s. I heard that Hellman was is girlfriend. I heard they were targets of the anti-Commies, I heard they were censored, persecuted:
just like Jesus! just like me!
Still, it wasn’t until recently that Netflix provided me with a barrage of Hammett / Hellman film footage. Ooo, and Hollywood got attractive casts to portray them: Jane Fonda, Jason Robarts.
Last night Jan and I watched The Children’s Hour: Two women, friends from college, work to succeed with a girls’ boarding school: rich parents send their daughters, influential friends help. Audrey Hepburn, Shirley MacLaine as the school marms who try to discipline one of the girls: everything blows up in their face. The girl convinces her rich grandma that the two marms are lessies. The girl doesn’t exactly know what that is, neither does grandma, neither does the society as a whole: perfect for witch-hunting: no one knows anything, everyone is convinced that they don’t have to know anythinng, God is on their side. If God is on your side you don’t need facts: you don’t need a valid epistemology: burn everyone at the stake.
Grandma gets key parents to pull their girls from the school. Our marms go broke over night.
Where’s pk in all this? I’m the deschooler. My FLEX offered society an internet of community-resource data bases: in 1970! Everyone seemed to understand what it was about: eschewing control! The public was invited to fund its own freedom. It didn’t. Instaed, the kleptocrats reached into all our pockets and funded repression: this internet: controlled information; not free at all. We paid, and paid.
We’ll go extinct, and will never know why: can’t find two brains to rub together to make one intelligent creature.
Well: Hammett had been published, made money, was famous. Hellman wrote some hits, also made money: with his help, but she also had the talent: in some ways greater than his. Then they got sandbagged: House UnAmericans! Gee, just like the school marms in Lillian’s play!
So, The Childrens’ Hour was an autobiography, staged in 1934! though Hellman didn’t get schmeered until the 1950s!
Notice: we know a little about all this now in 2017, but we don’t know it all. We will never know it all. The kleptocracy can’t know much as still be a kleptocracy. The witchhunters betray science, abandon reason, have no right to any quorum of facts. The witchhunters say they have the facts, that real facts don’t matter: not while they have control.
Notice: human kleptocratic nature makes science impossible: but that doesn’t stop the saboteurs from claiming that they support science.
Meanwhile, kudoes to the cast. Audrey Hepturn and Shirley MacLeaine are marbvelous. The school girls were good. The grandma is great. Fay Bainter!
I’m growing blinder by the day. Very hard for me to edit, to spell check. I can keep working while I live but the quallity takes a plunge-dive.
2017 04 05 the web was blathering this morning about whether or not Alec Baldwin know how old Niki Reed was when he, at 47 or so, filmed a racy scene or two with her. I was thinking that I didn’t know who she was but then it occurred to me that I had seen a movie called Thirteen. Ah so.
Now I ask how many people realize what a tongue stud is: on a young girl, a woman, a whore. Recall the line in Pulp Fiction: John Travolta askses the drug dealer’s wife why she has a stud in her tongu: “It help in fellation,” she says.
And now I remember the student screed at Colby in 1969 or so: some revolutionary laced his essay with four letter words, as though vulgarity equated with political courage. He omitted the three tail letters: s—, f—, c—, c— … Except for “fellatio: that one our revolutionary spelled out. Ah, thought I, whose office mailbox had been stuffed with this raunch, he doesn’t know what it means!!!
But I know what it means. and Quentin Tarantino knows what it means.
Does the 13 year old girl know what it means when she gets her tongue pierced?
I remember streaks of good blow jobs I’ve had from young women. (In one I was in my forties, the girl had to be coming up on twenty. I met her as she ran the rope tow at Hunter Mountain: I was riding the rope tow with bk: he was still a child.)
What’s mama supposed to think when she sees her little girl hardwared like a street whore?
2017 04 05 Jan and I love Cole Porter. But we didn’t get hold of Can Can till last week: just in time for my audio to be off-base. Today I install new speakers, marvelous, but the other evening we went ahead and suffered the old audio. Loved it, loved it despite.
On first view, I, testing the system alone, reacted as my Puritan self: Can Can is obscene, disgusting. Frank Sinatra struck me as Wrong for gay Paree, his friendship with Maurice Chevalier was forced, Shirley MacLaine’s cabaret-madame was slutty … Ah, but then watching with Jan I simply loved all of it: as I love all of her.
Mostly though we were loving Cole Porter: and Cole Porter’s Paris. Ooo la la la, c’est mangifique. I love Paris in the springtime …
Actually, I don’t know Paris at all, not in person. But Jan does, Spain too. And last week we indulged in some Flamenco.
2017 04 07 Apropos, last night we streamed Gentlemen Prefer Blonds: Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell: beaucoup material for pk the Puritan to despise. I’ve seen much of Hollywood cenematic whoredom not in the 1950s but personally past 50, especially past 60: and in my 70s. So it’s with adult consciousness that I see things as a Puritan and as a highly experienced rake. Gentlemen and Can Can have multiple overlapping identities. Again it’s Paris that American meritricious profiteering chooses for its hunting park: morality, law … is strictly for our amusement, our benefit. Everyone, wink-wink-wink, is in on the fix.
pk is Puritan, pk is also the spoil-sport. MM & Jane wiggle their femaleness and all I see is a guy on his knees getting a wet fart in his face.
Notice: of course notning is more Puritanical (or more hypocritical) than Hollywood itself. It knows pussy-lust, it knows women as exploited exploiter. And just the other week Jan and I watched a Degas DVD, wonderful, all those gentlemen patrons sitting in their private boxes as their ballet-whores perform on the stage. Never for an instant though confuse English gentlemen and French gentlemen: different species. Both human, both kleptocrat, both hypocrite, but as different as Church of England(/Libertarian) / Catholic.
2017 04 08 It’s also wonderful to reflect on my Puritanism in the context of reading Steven Johnson’s great Wonderland: shopping as choreographed misdirection, church substitute, Byzantine Baroque.
I remember being handed my first porn. I was being gang-marched through the halls of my grade school, no latter than the sixth grade and no earlier than not much before then when some kid shoved a paper into my hand: like newspaper, blurry, not clear. It took me a second to decode it: it was a bare-breasted girl with her elbow thrown up and out. The gesture made her bosom stretch over a lot of ground. Bare, yes; big, no; expansive, yes. Who was that kid? Lenny? Could well have been. I eventually learned that Lenny was much older thyan the rest of us, he’s been left back more than twice: and sure enough, at work age, 16, he left: last time I saw him he was on a construction gang, muscles like Rafa. Anyway I came to know that that photograph was very famous, even then: young Marilyn Monroe, selling her tits to the worlds, certainly not for the last time. Let me explain: I liked the tits, I liked the blond, but the experience also hardened me against both. Even at that age, puberty only a hint toward arriving, I resented female attractiveness. Further, even that young I rebelled against the bleach, partly understood its implications, the virgin isn’t really a firgin: the “blond” is false.
So, Marilyn was my earliest nude. Mayilyn was also my first jaw set against being too easily attracted. PS the next porn I was handed, in the seventh grade, depicted a girl jerking a guy off into a Coke glass. Ugh, disgusting. The next was a girl blowing a horse: worse and worse. Anyway, MM invoked revulsion in me like a knee jerk. And Jane Russell in the 1950s went with MM. Here, yesterday, with Jan, age 78 1/2 (sitting with 85 1/2), Jane struck me as horse-faced. Worse, she reminded me of the cheap animes where the mouth moves but the face does not. A whore. A cheap whore: and by “cheap” I do not mean inexpensive.
Something else bothered me in Gentlemen: MM reminded me, more than once, of my mother! Mom was attractive to men in over-lapping ways, and more dynamically: not a blond, a red head.
2017 01 06 NetFlix streams docs galore, I gobble them up. God Grew Tired of Us had me in misanthropic fits, the world watched (and guided) as this and that government tried this and that dirty trick to claim control over jostled fragments of “countries”. Tens of Thousands of boys ran gauntlets of genocide, walking 1000 miles from one Sudan or an other to Kenya or Ethiopia or oblivion. One tribe sterilizes another, the boys tell of having needles stuck in their testes so they’d grow up sterile, yielding resources to this or that monopolist. I’m watching groups of boys replaced in PA, in Pittsburgh for example. From bloodbath to concentration camp to air flight to Brussels to US to PA, they eat styrofoam food, say they’ve never used electicity before, don’t feel comfortable that they’ll be able to do it: they attend classes in turning on the light switch, turning it off, and on again.
When I was a kid my friend passed his escapist library to me: Bomba the Jungle Boy, Tarzan, the Hardy Boys … In the jungle Tarzan knows everything: with his knife he can thrive, even flourish. With his knife he defeats the Germans, meets English virgins. Decades later Crocodile Dundee would go to Paris and discover, figure out the bidet. I loved it, I still love it. I love watching these Lost Boys of Sundan 1 2 3 being shown how to use a toilet: lift the lid, position the doughnut seat, pull down the pants … wad the toilet paper … Ah! Yes! Clean oneself!
Every day in every way inexperience makes the world new. Yesterday I wanted everyone who’s ever heard of Sudan to die in misery; today I weep for love of these Lost Boys. Some found Pittsburgh, some Syracuse.
One detail in this movie breaks my heart: we see the boys watching TV. What’s on the TV? Big assed buxom girls in workout bikinis, yoga costumes. These boys walked 1000 miles crossing countries when they were 13, 14: they livd a decade in a refugee camp, all male: now they have all this quim shoved in their eye. What are they supposed to do? What are they allowed to do. Charities give them clothing, food, shelter, what about women?
Bacon & Gance
2017 01 03 Jan and I have been watching movies for eight years. Initially the movies were all my recommendations: more recently she has the major voice in our choices. Over the new years I’ve been trying to catch up with a classic I hadn’t succeeded in chasing down: Abel Gance: 1920s, silents, famous for a monumental Napoleon … Blockbuster offered but then didn’t have the Gance candidates, finally NetFlix delivered. I watched La Roue disk 1, last night she sat with me as we both watched disc 2. Hard to take. I seen in an instant that the guy worked hard on developing a movie language, I see him laboring to match DW Griffith for imagery, I see him developing montage; but the stories are preposterous, unsympathetic: railroads, steam, soot, smoke: a girl, backlit All The Time!!
Jan left with a headache, but she’d stuck through to the end, we both made rude comments the whole time. OK, nuff said there. Now I’m watching The Woodsman with Kevin Bacon. Very hard to take, to sit still for: convicted pedophile tries to integrate with society. Pedophil watches other pedophiles, gets mocked, threatened, by the ahem, pardon me, normals. Gag.
Where I’m paused now we don’t know what he did with his little girls, only that he targeted 10 to 12 years olds (while the girls commonly lied about their age: but they didn’t claim to be 21). Riding the bus he meets a girl in the target age group, Robin, a birdwatcher: she senses his need, offers cooperation; he says, No, go home, Robin. I presume most peole believe the character’s claim that he doesn’t hurt them, his girls.
I hope so, but Ugh, very hard to take.
Meantime: bravo Kevin Bacon, and Kyra Sedgewick however hard to take.
A mystery remains: the film appears at NetFlix as recommended by me: four stars; but I don’t recognize any part of it! I wasn’t drunk: I haven’t been drunk, with no memory, since the late 1970s.
Franco Prussian Expressionism
2016 12 31 I’ve been trying to order DVDs of Abel Gance movies for coming up on a decade. Success didn’t arrive till yesterday, I’m watching La Roue. And I’m thinking of everything French: and the utterly American DW Griffith. But I’m also very much reminded of Murnau: and everything German! I pause and check dates: La Roue and Nosferatu were born within a year of each other!
I wrote “Franco Prussian” but I really mean “French-German”. Prussian and German are not really synonyms: Prussian is a subset of German, full of distinctions I don’t know.
2016 12 29 When I was a kid I saw far more foreign movies than the average person saw. Many of them were by Ingmar Bergman, half a dozen years before I heard the name Ingmar Bergman. They all starred Harriet Anderson and they all had a scene where she trotted skinny into the bay, flashing her cute bottom like the north star. I didn’t know Ingmar Berman, not as an artist, not as a concept. I didn’t know Harriet Anderson either, except as a winking bottom, often brunette. I saw those brief nudes thanks to my friend Al whose older sister bought our tickets for us. Rockville Centre’s Fantasy showed movies, Hollywood, American, domestic. That is, they were in English, starred John Wayne, and spoke in the same “accent” TV shows were scripted for: to sound American: mid-middle-middest American, with American directors: Alfred Hitchcock, Fritz Lang. American fourteen years olds didn’t know that Hitchcock was British or Lang German; they were Hollywood, as American as you can get. The Bergman movies that flashed Harriet Anderson were foreign, with a foreign accent; they were shot dark, they spoke Swedish … They all seemed to be called “Monika” and they were always the second bill. We would follow the marquee for Rosselinni, Open City, and also get Bergman, Monika. I bet I saw Monika six times beofore I ever saw Smiles of a Summer Night.
These days I see that all the movies are foreign: they’re shot is Spain, they’re cut by Poles, the cameraman is Czech, the gofer is Japanese. They’re in English, American English, but they’re not shot in English; they’re not show in any language: the audio is added later, in any language you want.
The Fantasy showed Hollywood, Alan Ladd, Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds (RIP) … The Malvern showed the foreign movies with the blonds and the bare bums. You had to be eighteen to see Harriet Anderson’s bare bum; unless you had Al’s older sister to buy all three tickets for you. Once inside she say where she wanted, which wasn’t with a couple of fourteen years olds: we sat where we wanted, away from our benefactor.
I’ll never forget the night when Ingmar Bergman became a distinct concept for me. 1958 or so, I was in my dorm room, it was getting late, there was a knock at my door. It was DeJong, grinning like a fiend, he had just seen the weirdest movie, foreign, The Seventh Seal: and he told me all about it. Back home my friend Rudy had told me every detail of every Mad Comic, every word, every detail of every picture; now I’ at Columbia and I’m hearing about Death playing chess, Death cutting down the tree the guy has climbed to sleep. “My tree”, the guy says; “My tree”, Death insists. And the monks swing censers to Dies Irae, flagellating themselves. No, not American; that was foreign.
Footy Degrees of Bacon
2016 12 27 Footloose came out in 1984, Kevin Bacon was making James Dean look pasty. Nevertheless it passed under my radar till recently and I didn’t see it till last night. Big city kid, acrobat, gymnast, dancer moves to hick town, the local preacher is trying to wed Savonarola to Salem: no teen music, no teen dancing. Ah but he, John Lithgow, didn’t reckon on his cute daughter joining forces with Bacon’s bubble-over. They have a dance across the tracks, and the locals provide buckets of great-white-hope. No, Michael Jackson wasn’t in this movie, about the only dancing Michael Jackson wasn’t in for those years. But his moves were there. These Oklahoma white boys do half a moon walk, three-quarters of a break dance. Lincoln took the land from the natives, the implants took the gymnastic dancing from the ghettos.
Don’t worry: the kleptocrats seldom notice what they’re klepping. Certainly not Hollywood. But it’s OK, the girl was cute, though not nearly as cute as Kevin Bacon.
Good Night, Good Luck, Good God
2016 12 26 Streaming Good Night & Good Luck, the movie about Edward R. Murrow & CBS going up against heavies such as McCarthy & Hoover is taking me days and days. It’s a heavy weight, it seems to be very well done, as black and white as the TV, WASPs in suits and ties, chain smoking, their cigarette’s held phallically erect. I remember those days, very hard to take. I’ll spurt some scrapbook comments, allotting forever.
Why “God” in my title? McCarthy’s committees demand that this and that witness “swear by God that they’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, etc. (Gotta restart.) I recall the moment in grade school when “under God” was inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance. As a kid, I took God seriously, I still do, see from my writing. Also see that I don’t mean the same thing by such words twice in a row, but I do, unlike others, define my terms, again and again: and indulge in sarcasm, irony, insult, again and again.
If rational discussion were possible in this society, in this species … notice my testimony that such has never occurred to me in my life time, not in 1954, not since, and neither before. Anyway, I deny that McCarthy or the Senate or CBS or America in general or human beings in general had or have any right to swear anything by God.
If people really believed in a supreme being, an truthful supreme being, incapable of error, would any of us really behave the way we do? Would the Pope? Maybe Francis would, maybe Theresa; who else? except maybe me.
I could prove that the lot had no right to such terms if I were allowed to speak uninterrupted by a group capable of understanding the arguments.
(PS I’ve been among individuals capable of understanding, but not groups.) (Can’t help spurting, try to understand: or go somewhere else.)
This country was created by deists, a fancy tern for atheists. Jefferson, Franklin believed in themselves, in their “reason”. They didn’t imagine that anyone would ever deride their potential for reason; they thought they’d achieved it.
Everything in McCarthy’s career was bullying, shoving: there was no discussion. None possible, none wanted.
This such was not obvious to everyone at the time or since is proof of what I say.
Forget God; If McCarthy really believe in “America” would he have been able to behave the way he did?
2016 12 12 I’ve finally managed to watch Splendor in the Grass, William Inge, 1961, DVD, all the way through, from beginning to end, fidgeting and pausing every five minutes. So it took all day, but now it’s done: and I’m proud to report that I resisted the tickle I felt throughout to write my thoughts and feelings as it proceeded. Nathalie Wood, wow, how could a whole half century have slipped past me without seeing this famous role of hers. Inge’s script got an Oscar. But it was the script that kept triggering my need to escape: that and personal associations. Those associations turn out to be misplaced if not outright wrong. I’ll try to clarify: the first half of the film shows high school girl Nathalie Wood’s instincts for love, pleasure, and procreation being interfered with by the culture as championed by her parents. Of a piece are hunk football hero Warren Beatty’s own insticts: they’re hot for each other but they hold off, as instructed. It’s bad enough trying to remain chaste and continent till they get out of high school but now Warren’s oil-man papa wants his jock dude to go to Yale: then — if he still wants her — he can marry Nathalie. She doesn’t last that long: off to the nut house with her. Meantime Warren’s idea of Yale is playing solitaire.
The cut-rate Freud was driving me nuts: doubly in the context I was imagining for it. Inge was doing great in the 1950s. I didn’t see any on stage; but I loved the movie Picnic. And I thought I had a special ringside seat on Inge and cheap Freud:
1958 or so my buddy Al and I ran the Si Como No on Macdougal Street for owner Al while he went to Mexico to restock his goods: pre-Columbian pottery, Mexican chotchka. There we were hanging out on MacDougal Street, getting visited by Al’s nuthouse friends. Such friends included a young man and woman, my age or perhaps a hair younger, takinga weekend from a New England phunny pharm whom I understood to be Inge’s kids: write about neurotics while breeding your own special crop.
Could that have been true? Inge was born in 1914. Maybe he had kids young? I was twenty, Inge would have been forty-four: could have have had a willowy blond daughter around 16 or so? Possible, I suppose. More likely I’m simply wrong, those loonies visiting the Village that weekend were somebody else’s kids. So, Knatz, stop blaming the playwright.
I did, just in time. Very good movie. Great Nathalie. Strong ending. Good use of the Wordsworth quote finally the final time through it.
Excellent cast, Nathalie outstanding but Barbara Loden is also something and I recommend that you let Zohra Lampert’s own dark beauty stands amid the company.
Butter Her Up
2016 12 04 Bernardo Bertolucci, Last Tango in Paris
That movie makes headlines today as Bernardo Bertolucci reveals that he and Brando planned the rape scene where Brando tells Schneider to “get the butter”, he plans to fuck her in the ass and wants a lubricant. Schneider was still a teen: nineteen, Brando was 48. Bertolucci was more than old enough to be able to weigh everyone’s behavior. They let her walk into a butt rape blind, not nice; was it good art?
I remember it all vividly. I discussed seeing the movie with a favorite FLEX volunteer, Rochelle, from Cony Island. Rochelle was sixteen or seventeen, very beautiful, had me in her deep throat within the first half hour after meeting. She had called me, wanted to come over, see how she could help. She went to an alternate high school, I was an alternate hero, the deschooler, her love making had been trained by a senior yoga, guy past sixty. Other girls were getting boob enhancements, Rochelle was having excess breast tissue removed! so she’d merely be very buxom. 1971 or ’72, Hilary was on one of her long weekends to Georgetown to visit her father.
I supply details so you can see in part how ludicrous me inviting Rochelle to see Last Tango in Paris. I was 33. Bertolucci a bit younger.
Rochelle decided not to see it, she’d heard it was extreme. She regarded herself and her mind as a pure mountain stream. She did not want her purity polluted. I thought this was hysterical, not that I wanted to argue with her. This girl arrived by subway at FLEX headquarters, my apartment, Riverside Drive and 103. Within a minute she was showing me her model’s portfolio, another minute later her pussy was spread over my face, my maleness was batting her tonsils, but she’s not sure she want to see Last Tango in Paris: a question of purity.
Well, I thought that was funny. She took the lead, I let her take it. Memorable.
That has nothing to do with Bertolucci and Schneider and Brando. And those relationships are complex, ambiguous. Does “art” justify a suspension of the ethical? ever? My own opinion there has changed, at least once. I regret at least a couple of my decisions in favor of the art, wish I hadn’t. Apologize to those I trespassed against.
PS I remember one other detail about the day I met Rochelle. She stayed till late, it as dark, I rode her back to Cony Island on my Yamaha. We ate shrimp for diner: Cony Island boardwalk seafood. I delayed my departure back home by hugging her, amazingly huggable girl. Then I vroomed myself back to the upper west side of Manhattan: and caught a damnable sore throat, got really sick.
PS I think Rochelle may have been right to fear Last Tango in Paris as dangerous to spiritual purity: whether she was pure or not, the Last Tango in Paris parades sin. I saw it, I saw it alone, never repeated.
2016 11 30 I commend the British series on the British / English monarchy: The Crown. It launches in the wake of WWII. Elizabeth (II) becomes engaged to Philip, they marry, Charles is born, etc.
I invite you to know if you’re new to browsing this site that I am a Christian anarchist [Note]. I despise kleptocracy, I oppose monarchy, royalty. I oppose all forms of entrenched privilege, and so forth. But I find myself loving this movie. It’s the cast. I’m ravished by Jared Harris’ performance as King George (VI), Elizather’s father. Everyone is good, but besides Jared Harris I’m staggered by John Lithgow’s performance as Winston Churchill. 2017 02 08 All “Churchill’s scenese are terrific but my favorite thus far comes in the episode on the lethal London fog of Dec 1952. The government had been warned about pollution as a danger, Churchill threw away the correspondence: great speech maker; otherwise, another moron.
2017 02 21 Human cultures fundamentally misrepresent themselves to themselves. The English believed, Churchill believed, that order was necessary to survival and that without the right policial faction there was no order. Nonsense, there’s no such thing as no order: or, if there were, we couldn’t detect it. Churchill sees himself as the last bulwork protecting civilization. He cannot see that he’s the fascist, the nazi, the chaos. So: the fascists monopolize the resourses for protection: leaving us vulnerable. For the thousandth time: Jesus gets crucified if he tries to show us a new truth: Copernicus, Kepler, Darwin … Jesus is a symbol: never mind whether or not he’s actually said anything true. Jesus is ambiguous: he stands for authority, he also stands for truth. He stands for opposites. Point is, the civilized believe that survival has already been looked at rationally; when the opposite is true: the cop is your friend; the cop is your enemy.
I’m watching a Lot of British history recently. I suspect the cause is related to my discomfort as an American helpless in a tide of imperialism, especially in the wake of a particularly repellant presidential election.
Once upon a time I was specifically unhappy at the amount of smoking and drinking Hollywood exposed us to. Bogart’s cigarettes and booze expressed emotion. Then things reversed: smoke and booze reflected critically on characters. But I have to reserve here that King George gets great milage from the cigarettes flunkies are forever lighting and handing to him: he’s got concer, a malignant tumor just cost him a lung, the remained lung is no good, he understands that his time is short, that the smoke is shortening it further; yet he sucks it in, demanding comfort from the poison. Superlative.
Note: Christian Anarchist
Yes, it’s an oxymoron. Anyone trying to understand what I say and write should succeed; anyone dedicated to quarrel will surely succeed. What I mean by both “Christian” and “anarchist” is ubiquitous at K. as elsewhere. Here I feel I have to emphasize one meaning:
Who’s a Christian? There’s only one opinion that matters: God’s. The Church has sanctified Mary? I want to hear it from God.
Also keep in mind Ivan Illich’s wonderful joke distinguishing loosely what it eans to be a Christian. He asked:
Are you a Christian?
Or Are You A Son Of A Bitch?!
You want to know what I mean by Christian? Think of Tolstoy. An idiot might think of Tolstoy as an atheist, and not be wrong. But no, he tried to be a saint. He wasn’t a saint, but he tried to be a saint. Because it’s the only thing that make sense to him.
Or to me.
2016 11 29 I’m preparing to watch a DVD. Coming Attractions have turned me into a zombie. The manipulators have my emotions running hot and cold like a faucet when a tad of consciousness triggers me into rebellion: Clint Eastwood, worshp mode, then barf, rebel, they over-did it. Same again now with Morgan Freeman, Matt Damon. A second later tears are streaming down my cheeks while my pants restrain the stumulus of Sandra Bullick as the black giant’s mother. Cheez, when is the real movie going to start? But wait: I’ll postpone the title movie: gotta vent this idea. Hollywood movies, movies conceived in a studio by a studio are segregated in a new way: Sandra Bullock stars in a movie in which there are No Racists! Such movies are separate from a host of other moview, the majority of other movies, in which Everybody is a racist: it’s inconceivable for anybody to not be a ractist: hip-hop on the track, foul mouths reign.
How would we react to a movie in which some were ready to lynch while others are ready to forgive and forget?
I don’t know, with the camera up Bullock’s round rear, it’s hard to think of anything but booty.
2017 04 22 Jan joined me at the streaming monitor last evening. I recommended she try The Crown: so I’m watching it again with her: loving it, amused by how readily this anti-monarchist forgets Windsor family details. Some scenes I don’t remember: maybe age makes me a sieve; maybe NetFlix is flexing a different edition! In any case:
Elizabeth gets married, the crowd calls for the king! The hell with the princess, bring us the king! Then the Montbatans travel to Africa, Nairobi. Masai royalty, red-robed position themselves to see the queen. They believe their kings are magical, they believe the English is magical. The royals with their Church of England theology don’t understand the dynamics they provoke. Philip had winked at a Masei, I like the hat? That’s not a hat, Liz says, that’s a crown! Morons, I love it. I’m reminded of the scenes in Tolstoy where every damn fool Russian royal goes chasing all over the palace after the Tsar: the vortex of the magic. I’m further reminded of my German friend Inge going crazy when Nixon was visiting the part of Long Island where we were that day. I can imagine my kraut friend going nuts had Hitler been present. God identifies the shan; but some shamn identify themselves.
Movie Scrapbook Note
I moved scribble here to a series of archive files, now I’m emptying those files into individual / Movies / posts. Now that overburdens the / Movies / menus: somethin’s gotta give.
|Older entries get moved to the Movie Scrapbook Archive:||Movie Scrapbook
Movie Scrapbook Archive
|Movies Menu A — L||Movies Menu M — Z|