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2015 09 15 I’ve long loved great movies: American movies, foreign movies: New York, New Jersey, Chicago, Hollywood movies: Rome, Paris, Bombay … As I keep saying these days, up to here in great movies what with DVDs and streaming, the world awash in budgets for dreck, I’m getting more of a kick than ever from the inundations of trash: I’m now streaming Blue Crush for more than the third time. I made sure I took in the teeny tush when it was released, despised it as the Ivy Leaguer is supposed to do, but watched it twice to gorge on the ass, the bikini crotches, the teeny faces, the hair. Great surf photography tumbles the girls leg over board over pussy, us with a view like a washing machine window. We had gotten a peek at Kate Bosworth in The Horse Whisper: yes, we all wanted more. Blue Crush gave it to us, and Michelle Rodriguez too: and better yet, Sanoe Lake … plus, plus, plus … OK. I’ve said that. So last night I was sampling more of Blue Crush as I crucified my gorgef on slice after slice of Liv Ullman’s Miss Julie. Awesome, tough to take, awesome … The casting, three caste members, exceeds the acting limit of ordinary film footage. Colin Farrel is so familiar, so riveting, each camera shift is like we’ve never seen him before!
I remember vividly my first time reading Strindberg. Eric Bentley saturated us with the foundations of modern drama. Ibsen, Strindberg, it was too much: and Flaubert and Dostoevsky in other classes. Throw the book across the room, gasp, pick it back up again. So what happened? I’ve subsequently read zinions (zillions of minions) of Shakespeare, or Checkov; how come I’d never gotten back to Strindberg? except through Woody Allen wisecracks.
Miss Julie’s three actors fill a universe with class awareness, as though kleptocratic hierarchy is writ in our DNA. Miss Julie likes to throw her weight around: her father-the-baron’s valet, John, likes to apotheosize stubbornness, like ignoring a tide, likes to resist his betters throwing their weight around. The cook likes to put up with everything and go to church gripping her prayerbook. Just remember, Christians, The last shall be first. Jesus himself said so. So when kitchen slaves get fucked in the ass with a marble phallus, just remember, you’re really first: and those doing the fucking are really last!
Reality isn’t reality;
the opposite of reality
is the real reality.
Actually, you don’t need Strindberg’s dialogue to understand why Jessica Chastain’s Miss Julie is all in a lather; all you need is Colin Farrell standing there. Miss Julie’s bitch is pregnant again, by the stable mutt, the cook has brewed an abortion: painful, near fatal. John, whose neuroses are all things to all lunatics has his straight razor handy when Miss Julie seeks a solution.
(Ah, now that’s a well-made detail for the new kind (1888) of well-made play!)
Point is: we see these people drilling themselves in repetitions of free will all the while they keep slipping back down into predetermination, like an ant unable to scale the antlion’s trap-wall. John said he loved Miss Julie in the woods with her flowers, dappled in sunlight: and that’s exactly how we leave her.
So: our three gasp-chix in Blue Crush don their cute little powder blue hotel cleaning crew uniforms, almost as cute as their round-the-rest-of-the-clock bikinis. They enter the room of some 300 pound Hula Bowl offensive lineman and find that he and his orgy mates have shit at the toilet and missed, puked everywhere without missing and spewed all hotel furnishings with oozing scumbags. Now our girls are back in the washing machine again, head over tush, the camera in their twat, as they react, Euwww! Disgusting!
That’s it! defies Kate Bosworth. Now she’s on strike, in assault mode. She attacks the hotel beach, all the beef boys playing on wave jumpers. “What did I win?” says Fatso. Cute little Kate holds up his ooze-dripping scumbag and demonstrates that he could have dropped it into the waste basket.
No! That would have been like letting the shit go inside the toilet bowl.
Do you see my point?
Kate Bosworth’s surfer girl is like Colin Farrell’s John: she thinks it’s up to her how many humiliations from the owners she has to put up with! She thinks disciplining the VIPs is up to her. You shit the shit in the toilet, Bozo; not on the floor! She thinks she can rewrite her contract, while on the job!
The understanding was “Clean the room”. She thought the understanding was “Clean the room: unless it’s dirty.”
Then you can make it up as you go along.
No, no: it’s the king, the senator, the magnate who can make it up as he goes along; not Jude the Obscure.
If I were still capable of writing pk fiction I’d launch a new short story: Jesus is on the cross, it’s late in the day, his broken rib has just punctured his lung for the 5,000-&-1st time since they nailed him there. And Jesus says, “That’s it! I quit!”
But Tiberius Caesar has already said, “You can’t quit.” Not God, understand: Tiberius Caesar!
2015 09 12 A couple of weeks ago an arrestingly attractive young woman put her mobile home on the lot across from me. I looked for chances to tell her she could borrow a cup of sugar any time … Understand, I’m 77, might look 87; she might be 22 or 23, looks 16 or 17. Anyone who knows me with my girl friend knows that I’m not looking to pick up children. Anyone who knows that my girlfriend goes to Nova Scotia on me every summer, abandoning me to my other dance partners from July to October, knows that in those periods I get kind of hair-trigger horny. So I flirt, without apology. And now that I’m so old, so gray, so pathetic, I get away with it! Women I flirt with see instantly that they’re safe with me, so they think I’m funny, and frequently flirt back.
The first couple of times I tried to approach this young woman proved awkward: I backed out. But then one time came, I said I don’t know how long you’re going to be camped on this site, but it’s nice to look out my front window and see “Ooo, a pretty girl! So, while you’re here, I hope you’ll stop over some time and get acquainted. She said her name, then added “How about right now?”
Whoa, I never saw that coming. We adjourned to my patio, she started telling me about herself, her marriage, her divorce, her college, her career plans: a lot, very fast.
Just as the meeting broke up, the Florida sun hit her distinctive face so the blond peach fuzz at the cleft of her adorable jaw shimmered. Wow. And I had a series of associations, then and still, of starlets with that face type.
Kate Bosworth has two different color eyes!
Kate Bosworth’s skull is more vertical, but she has a parallel jawline.
Even more so:
Emma Rigby’s on the same awesome jaw track.
E’en so, Emma Rigby doesn’t have the perfect point of my neighbor’s jaw.
Her pretty face ain’t all. This petite young woman is also slender! I bet her hip will look just as good as she ages: 30, 50 … 99 …
2015 09 16 Photos seldom mix qualities, people always do. My young neighbor looks so great, I look forward to glimpsing her; except when she’s smoking! which seems to be almost constantly! Ugh. But then she does this or that utterly arresting other little thing: she wears tops with bright colored trim that outlines her bra. Her bosom is cute but normal; the human female shape, no exaggeration: the trim salmon on cream, or red on gray. Arresting.
Then by coincidence I saw 21: more arresting employment of Kate Bosworth. Stupid, annoying movie (at least Kevin Spacey gets more than a little comeuppance). But Kate Bosworth’s facial type was striking me dumb.
So why babble in my Movie Scrapbook? Because the next thing I knew I was streaming Blue Crush. There’s no end to the pulchritude! Kate wears the bikini bottom of the century, makes Bond’s Ursula Andress look black-and-white drab. But there’s also Sinoe Lake! and Michelle Rodriguez!
And I think, I’ve seen Roshomon a dozen or two times. La Strada. The Seven Samurai … Right now there are about zero classic films on either of my NetFlix queues; but from now on I think I’m just going to watch Blue Crush! Surfer flix. Tom boy chix!
2015 09 16 Kate’s surfer girl has a little sister, years younger. But Kate finds her hanging on the dudes in the dance bar, looking adorable, looking like a nine year old Bo Derrick: Kate’s beach girl freaks. She’s in her early twenties, she’s no longer fail bait, she can orgy with the best of them, it’s OK: fair game, but little sis!? So I had to go back and check out this teeniest actress in the movie: so cute.
I called this scribble “Funny Face”: know please, Stanley Donan’s Funny Face, with Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn is a favorite film of mine. And that reminds me: the other night at the club I was dancing with Marty, flattering her ancient husband, flattering her elaborately, as I always do, and she gave me an extra bright smile: which stopped me in my tracks: “Holly Jesus, you look just like Audrey Hepburn!” I was tempted to stop the song right then, Buddy Canova playing, and take a vote.
Marty had changed her hair style, just a little, but the effect was radical.
Later, in the same vein, I just watched a Raquel Welsh western, where she’s the gun slinger! You couldn’t have gotten me to watch such dreck in 1971; now I’ve a taste for trash. Seeing how right the pessimists have been all my life keeps me going: though I’m ready to cash in at any time.
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