Movie Scrapbook 1

/ Movies /

Businesslike Beauty
2017 03 19 Jan and I willl watch Les Damoiselles de Rochefort, Jacques Demi, this evening. I’m really looking forward to it: Catherine Deneuve, Françoise Dorléac, Jean Kelly … Michel LeGrand. I’m reminded of a favorite TV moment from around 1970. TV had an ad that promised Catherine Deneuve as a guest on the Dick Cavett Show. Oh goody, I like him and I love her.

“Catherine_Deneuve”
thanx tasteofcinema

The hour arrived, Cavett announced her, she walked out, and Cavettt’s face froze. Deneuve didn’t miss a beat: she said, “You’re startled that I’m not very pretty.””Um, er, yes, said Cavett, missing only a fraction of a beat himself.
“The camera likes me,” explained the most beautiful silver screen star of the 1960s.
Fantastic. No ego. She knew who she, she knew what she was, she didn’t waste time worrying about what she wasn’t.
Photogenic, a first-rate actress. Move on. Bravo belle.

Santa’s 34th Miraculous Theology
2018 03 03 I saw Miracle on 34th Street (1947) in its original run, saw it again this week. Nathalie Woods’s death again in the news dealt the prompt. I liked it as a kid; held it in contempt this time but loved the current exposure. The plot comes straight out of Dickens: David Copperfield mocks “education” obessed with “facts”; would prefer us all going mushy-mushy. Maureen O’Hara plays the “reality”-obsessed mother, says she honors the truth but tells noting but lies: truth is sacrificed to career. Natalie Wood is her Dickensian daughter: tells Santa to his face she doesn’t “believe in him.”
There’s a trial in Manhattan’s court house on Pearl Street. Everyone interrupts everyone, the prosecutions makes rulings for the court without consulting the judge, the judge is a sychophant to the pols anyway. The court deludes itself that it’s competent to decide on Santa’s identity: there’s a cute moment when a convoy of mailben deliver 50,000+ dead letter office letters to Santa. The PO is answerable to the fed, the state supreme court bows to the fed, no state’s rights here.
The movie is pitched to people who know better than to get into controversial arguments, especially where Black Friday is concerned. By a white whisker, commercialism is safe, safe as popp mythology: white kleptocrats are Christian, Christians are nice …
more in a min
Fed versus States
Versus the town of Appaloosa
2018 01 19 Appaloosa, the 2008 movie, is pretty cute. I make space here to try to say a couple of things about it, my difficulty being that I’m getting older, and blinder and deafer faster than I can compose new K. modules. So screw me, screw all of us, I’ll try anyway, ever repeating the same learning failures.

American easterns showed British Puritans, WASPs, thinking that WASP civilization had a right to displace “wilderness”. Westerns showed American WASPs, utterly innocent of memory, making the same wrong assumptions over again, and all over again: bumping rudely into the cosmos, and learning nothing. Appaloosa does a cute job of the same and with an intriguing cast. Ed Harris is so macho-photogenic; Ariadna Gil is so female in herself that she alone is a stellar excuse for exposing film and sharing the result. Plenty of other male thespians demonstrate that male character actors display multi-talents: Timothy Spall, Lance Henriksen …
But never mind any of that, here’s what I really love: the infinite set of wrong assumptions: WASPs being WASPs: grow a town: now fill it with violations of God-alone – trinity fallacies. Pretend that men have the political right to write laws: then divide: then repeat: write a constitutions, pretend to derive principals out of it, bump against experience, learn nothing.
Men write the Bible, blame it on God: lie, and lie, longer and longer, then write secular hubris: learn nothing.
Appaloosa reiterates fed vs state bull, over and over.
It all adds up to a display in a cosmic wax works, see? they learned nothing! But, boy, did they look good doing it!

Chapter Two
When I was a kid the idea that God had a right to declare laws seemed to simply come with human culture. The idea that humans lacked the knowledge, the wisdom to dictate laws also seemed to be mere common sense: until the “Enlightenment”: then, suddenly, Jefferson’s declarations seemed natural, sense saturated. Preposterous.

I just read someone’s online sarcasm that racism seemed to be OK so long as it was whites who were being put down. Yes, it’s ironic, indeed; but not unreasonable. I don’t doubt that non-whites have comparable capacities for evil, and, if you look around, there are bad behaviors everywhere; but: the Jew in the concentration camp can’t afford to worry about what the watusi might do to him, in a different universe; what you most want is the Nazi to stop what he’s doing, right now. Sure you can theorize about how the blond might rape the brute in a different world; but this world has some claim on coming first: to those tortured.

Anyway, I iterate: orthodox monotheism holds that man is no good, by nature. Even if you doubt that position, it still doesn’t follow that the human who maybe isn’t automatically so evil, so irrational is therefore now capable to writing philosophy and not looking like a horse’s ass.

Hayek as Frida
2017 12 18 Jan and I rented Frida, Salma Hayek’s great bio pic. I’ve already mentioned it several times, but never with more love or enthusiasm than this time. One awesome thing is watching Hayek play Frida as a mischievous your girl. Switching back and forth between cripple and exuberant girl is no mean feat either. Meantime, seeing a little Rivera / Rockefeller history is welcome. I also commend the music track! Wonderful. I also urge everyone to read Salma Hayek’s oped piece on sexual harassment from Harvey Weinstein! Revealing look at the zillion classes of rape.

Safety Last
2017 11 27 One day I was walking from 52nd Street toward Time Square. On 7th Avenue in the 40s a burst of laughter stopped me. There was a ghostly silence, then another burst of laughter. I loked around. Apart from a uniformed doorman, there was no one around. I was in the space in front of a theater, day time, mid day. Another peel of laughter made me notice the sandwich board by a pair of speakers near the curb. The sandwich board read “The mike is ‘live, the laugher you hear is going on inside right now.” Another gasping silence, another peel of laughter. I followed the speaker cord to the curb, I looked up. There was animated mannikin of a man hanging from a clock. The marquee read Harold Lloyd Festival.
It would have been the early 1960s. Maybe I was in the army, stationed downtown at Whitehall Street, living uptown, Morningside Heights with my girl friend. Or maybe I was in graduate school: should be home, studying. But I bought a ticket, entered the theater. The laughter from the speakers blended seamlessly with live laughter. I looked at the screen and found myself laughing in perfect rhythm with the living audience.. I couple of hours later I joined the spill from the theater,exhausted, purged, by laughter.
As a kind I saw Charlie Chaplin again and again. I saw plenty of the Marx Brothers too. In the mid 1950s a feature made the rounds, silent comedy: plenty more Chaplin, Marx, Buster Keaton, a but if WC Fields, Ben Turpin … Fatty Arbuckle, Mack Sennet’s Keystone cops: laugh myself sick. But I’d barely heard of Harold Lloyd. Now there he was, I’d seen a couple of hours of him.
Now all you need is to go to YouTube, request Safety Last, and laugh to exhaustion.

Seraphine
2017 11 20 Masterpiece! Full of things to discover, genius, inspiration engulphment. I’d never seen or heard of Seraphine Louis: here we meet her and her many overlapping talents: painter, paint chemist chef. Her compositions evoke ideas about the cosmos and its structures way ahead of classical physics, anticipating chaos, fractals … The actress who plays her is a treasure. It’s also wonderful to meet her discoverer, her paytron, developer, manager, fan. And she wasn’t his only discovery: Rousseau I’ve known and loved since the mid 1950s. There’s great art and important history galore, the movies many types of makers head over heels with their subject.
How come so many early Twentieth-Century artists were institutionalized? VanGopgh, Claudel … Now I have to see Claudel 1915 again.

Arthur Penn Again
2017 11 13 The Chase, 1966: Marton Brando, Robert Redford, Jane Fonda, EG Marshall … and a whole bunch of Texas white party tush. It missed me altogether in 1966, I caught it last night for the first time, now I have to watch it again if I hope to follow the plot with anything like accuracy. My impression first time araoune, aided by my beloved Jan, holding her hand making it all bearable:
Robert Redford breaks out of jail, accompanied by a bad guy. The bad guy mugs some guy for his cash and his car, killing him. As the movie progresses it seems that Redford was serving his sentence for somebody else’s crime entirely. So: we have two types of convict: the innocent (or only slightly guilty) and the guilty. Redford tells his accomplice to take it easy on the victim: too late, he’s already killed him. Redfored gets fingerprints all over the fresh corpse. (Is that possible? Finger prints on belts and bucks, sure, on corneas, bot “all over”?)
Before I proceed let me assure K. visitors, reminding repeat visitors, that pk does not believe in human laws or human courts or human judgments: where guys are in jail it’s always society that’s the villain.
Notice, Hollywood in its automatic value systems is very like pk, all anarchist, but only for the belly of the movie, for climax, we’re all fascists, Nazis.
This movie is worth visiting for its cast: all these hippy, fat-bottomed women.
Redford and associate escape, associate kills driver, drives off, leaving Redford, “Bubber”, without money, transportation: an American Robinson Cruso.
Meantime, it’s Arthur Penn’s universe: the white people “own” everything, none of the ownership legitimate, none of it visibly endorsed by God. The blacks have clearly been pushed down, hard: so too the Mexicans. The society is conqueror, and conquered: conquered last year, conquered this year: and forever. (Except to watch Hollywood / TV revisions of culture: the remake will have to show Everybody’s best friend is a black couple: oh, and spics too.)
Everybody is very rich, about to get very much richer, or very poor, about to lose everything.
Redford’s wife is Jane Fonda, she’s having an affair with Redford’s best friend. Redford’s other best friend is a black guy: and we get the full panoply of racist sabotage from the very rich, about to get richer, kleptocrats. But dig it: maybe Redford’s “crime” was actually committed by his black friend? See? he’s no racist! The black guy, lives in a junk yard: lots of ald wrecks, nothing runs.
I’ll breathe for a moment, and return. Meantime, remember, this is Penn: Bonny and Clyde
And meantime, anticipate this question: who pays for the destroyed junk yard? All the drunken orgying white kleptocrats invade the black guy’s junk yard: it’s junk, but it’s his home: and he’s one of the heroes here. They sabotage the place, burn and destroy. How is the bill presented?
Or, like everything else, will it have to wait till Judgment?
When God presents all the bills, will God also see that they get paid?

Shit on the Menu
2017 11 09 I’m watching an offensively vulgar teen flick, Jennifer’s Body. Mothers of teens say “shit” obsessively: ditto “fuck”. The lead girl, a demon apparently, dismisses the creep with the pierced lip slirting with her, aside to her friend, “My dick is bigger than his”. Fortunately I didn’t pay money to attend a theater, I’m just watching it on the Mac: therefore I can bailout at any time. And I have, more than twice; but thus far I keep going back. I like the friend, played by Amanda Seyfried: there are moments when the girl, Megan Fox, is attractive, sexy …
Meantime, I reminded oof an episode I had in a restaurant in the early 1970s. Manhattan, evening, Chinese cuisine probably. I was dining solo, three women were there, presumably as friends, and everyother word out of their mouths was “shit”: I’m tring to eat, and these girls are going “shit,” “shit,” “shit,” “shit,” “shit,” “shit” … “shit”. Liberated? or just plain filthy?
The trouble with liberation is how it enslaves passers bye.
After a while I said, “You say shit so often: is it on the menu? It should be the only dish served to girl-unrestrained by courtesy.:
Who else was discomoded? Maybe no one, just a buhch of Chinese waiters in the backc, English alien to them.

Something else I watch on the Mac is a series called Life Below Zero. I’ve been sampling it an episode at a time, in order, for months: I really like it. There’s a guy, Andy” building a greenhouse above the arctic circle with his long-suffering wife, Kate. Andy says they’re free: they don’t have to ask anyone’s permssion to build: they don’t need to ask for guidance: no one is within hundreds of miles. Right.
Freedom isn’t a matter of politics; it’s a matter of population. If Andy and Kate of the only ones around they won’t need nukes very often.

Broad Consequences
2017 10 29 I rented the DVD for The Fellowship of the Ring thinking I’d be seeing it for the second time. I didn’t much like the Tolkien novels; still I presumed I would have seen the leading movie sometime within a decade of its release. No: I’d never seen a foot of Fellowship, I bet I’d avoided all of them. There’s a telling moment in Fellowship I choose as a cornerstone for the whole schmear:
Our heroes are laboring to transport the ring to Mt Doom, there to destroy it, as a key blow against evil. They’re all armed, wear armor, carry shields: feudal military preparation: there are broad swords, a bow, an ax … chain mail … Understand please: the broad sword is for severing limbs at a blow: decapitation, amputation. The broadsword is not a foil: not a quick light stabbing weapon; neither is it an epee: a quick stabbing weapon: pierce the guy’s wrist, I guarantee you’ll slow him down, make him think twice.
Understand further, feudal militaries typically carried their own seapons to battle: if you had a broadsword, it was your father’s, your grandfather’s. If your father didn’t have a family weapon, then you cut a tree from the wood, fashioned a pole: use it as a spear, as a club, as a staff: ward off attacks.
So our Ring fellows are practicing the broad-sword. But they’re handling the broad-swords, 1) as though they were quick, light slashing weapons: a saber; 2) as though they were mass-prduced, replaceable. No, no: it took your family generations, centuries to acquire a broad-sword: your farmer-neighbors were arming with a ploughing stick, with a tree root.
Anyway, there’s a slip with one of the broad-swords-being-used-as-an-epee, somebody’s finger gets scratched: Ow, that hurts! All mock hostilities instantly sease. Oh, I’m so sorry, Gee, I didn’t know anyone could get hurt.
Christ, no: the broadsword is for separating a target from half his shoulder and all of his right arm: anything less doesn’t count, not so much as a scratch.
Soon the fellows find themselves amid an army of armoured, broad-sword-weilding arcs, an infinitude of them: clones, clearly mass created, with pointy teeth, snot-saturated nosey faces.
Sean Bean looks like he could fight with a broad-sword, maybe Viggo Mortensen could too, a little; but not the old wizard, not the elvin princesses, and certainly not the hobbits, who seem to be born middle-aged and over-weight.

The Fellowship‘s cavalier attitude toward heavy-weight weaponry reminds me of a terrifying casualness about armaments I grew up with but hadn’t encountered so much in recent decades: a dance friend and her husband invited me to one of their Tea Party meetings. I went cause I like her and hope we’ll socialize more once my Jan returned from Nova Scotia: I’m getting to like her husband too a bit. Anyway, I attended a meeting with them, the North Korans had recently been acting up, throwing weight around, trying a little rhetorical terror. One Tea Partier spoke up: “It’s simple! Nuke ’em!” We certainly have plenty of nukes, have for three-quarters of a century: it’s ineplicable how come we haven’t nuked the whole world yet: it’s simple!
What I have never understood, is, has, at least two faces: Americans seem to think that God gave us nukes because we’re special, God wants us to thrive, to prevail. Somehow “therefore” no one else could invent or build nukes: nukes are a “secret”. Einstein saw whet they could be, Einstein tried to convince Roosevelt that he should think about developing nukes to defeat Germany, give the Jews a cance, and make billions for the armorers.
The government bureaucrats who believe that treason and theft are the only possible ways for nukes to proliferate show that what we’re up against is a stupidity that may as well be infinite: intelligence is what cannot be replicated.: there’s no place for imaginative caution. That Tea Party guy imagined himself and his allies to be safe from consequences; I see broad consequences: broad and deep.

Shampoo
2017 10 02 Issued 1975, I only just saw it. Well, some of it was good: to very good; but overall … Actuall no, the cast is good, the females fabulous.

John Wayne/Ford
2017 08 15 Last night I watched The Quiet Man. The Irish setting had me instantly near tears. We associate Ford with his mythic western landscape, Monument Valley. But Oh, is he a wonderful painter of Ireland. I don’t like Ford’s patriotism: belligerent bullies. Then again, there’s something about Wayne: he so gorgeous, my eyes are misting.
He overdid it, for way too long. By the end he was a fat old man, abusing livestock by riding a horse. But oh, my god, from Stagecoach to The Quiet Man so was so gorgious: himself and his phis, the best propaganda.
I ordered the movie to resee it, after many decades of not having seen it; but I soon realized I’d never seen this movie. All the cast is great.

I catch things I don’t know when I would have first noticed them had I seen this mobvie in the 1950s: the John Wayne character is reluctant to fight his brother-in-law “because” a ring opponent is supposed to have died; but he too “quiet” a man to say so! Similarly his woman, boy oh boy, Irish redheads! gets away with murder on his hearth: he could break her like a twig, but he does’t: and when he’s perceived as being ready to it’s neighboring women who deliver whipping switches to him, with instructions, for its use and her improvement.

I was watching, at home, alone, but even had Jan been here, the whip might have slid by unremarked on.

Meantime, one other thing very interesting: This is a Hollywood movie wherever it was filmed.: and symbolically it’s Irish. But what Irish? Northern Irish? Norman Irish? Protestant Irish? or standard Irish, Roman Catholic Irish, a thorn in England’s side Irish.

If the Irish, the RC Irish, were marching on Charlottesville to honor lynch culture, would there be any ambiguity about what they meant?

Apparently Ford’s own life is ambiguous on the point: he was raised RC, but his wife was a divorced Protestant.
Note, these Irish priests in this fictitious Inisree, are married! That’s Church of England! That’s English Catholic; not English Protestant.

Wayne Note
We all know John Wayne was called Duke. What I didn’t know till browsing wikipedia last night is that the young Wayne was inseparable from a large firehouse dog, an airedale terrier, called “Duke”. Wayne himself, soon to be 6’4″, was called “Little Duke”. I think that’s hilarious.

Beware
The Wayne character was born in Inisfree but raised in Pittsburgh: goes back to Inisfree as Home!
Ford was born in Maine: but I can see him going “back” to Ireland: both RC & P!

Shane Kung Fu
2017 08 07 I’ve now sampled the first five minutes of a kung fu chick flick. The girls battle on the roof of a Hong Kong skyscraper. They were beautiful, skilled, acrobatic, fine. Then we see one of the pair arm wrestling some guy: she pins him. But it’s fiction! So what? anything can happen in fiction: Alan Ladd can beat up all the bad guys in the bar, Alan Ladd can outdraw Jack Palance.
There are rules of course. and the studio has to guess what they are. Whether the investors earn or lose depends on those guesses: one year the chink can get a lick in, another year there better not be any chink at all! (And if it’s a North Korean, how could we tell?

I’ll suspend my disbelief this month, but don’t assume it next month. And don’t think it’s conscious. We “know” some of what we believe, we’re at least partly aware of all the propaganda we’ve been fed. This month we seem oh so liberal, but don’t bet the farm. And if you get away with it once, don’t try for twice.

Me? I’ve had enough of these chix fights for the time being.

Homer on the Half Shell: Hollywood Atheism
2017 07 23 Just wrote theMarcus: Think with me:
The Ware That Killed Achilles made me itch to see Troy again, however ridiculous some of the stars looked, Bama, Bloom, Brad Pitt looked and moved or seemed to move fabulous. But by the time Paris fights Menalaus something was bothering the hell out of me:
Hollywood showed Achilles by showing Brad Pitt in costume, Hollywood showed Helen by dressing Kruger in a role, Hollywood showed Troy by building a model on Crete or somwehre, but when it comes to Zeus reasoning with Hera or Poseidon planning this or that, atheist Hollywood showed nothing.
Achilles visits with his mother at the shore, she’s a nymph, immortal, but when Aphrodite whisks Paris home to bed in the middle of his fight, misting men’s eyes as Homer is so fond of doing, Hollywood shows Nothing!

Hollywood is hilarious, Jews tiptoeing around Christian toes. Why? How do they make their diceisions? are the bankers present at every decision? I wish Homer were.
How come you can cast a nymph with a human actress but can’t cast the gods and goddesses at all?
Let’s film the Passion again, but next time without Jesus!

2017 07 22 Reading Caroline Alexander’s The War That Killed Achilles whetted my appetite to see Troy again. I’d liked a number of things about it when it came out, especially Brad Pitt as Achilles. So I ordered Troy from Netflix. Now I’m still watching it, bits at a time, liking it, enjoying the hell out of the casting for the most part, but also hating aspects I’d swallowed last time. Hollywood here has plenty of gall but no nerve for Homeric theology. For instance, the gods play active roles in the Iliad, but not in the Brad Pitt Troy. Paris, the fairy, challenges Menelaus: females both diving and human are suckers for Paris, Paris is snatched from his battle, Aphrodite befuddling Menelaus’ senses, and deposits Paris in bed back in Troy amid all his damn women, bathing him, stroking him, tending to his wounds and his ego. Homer shows the goddes interfering, why won’t Hollywood show it? The gods are “half” of the epic.
At least they showed Thetis in dialogue with Achilles. His mother is not a goddess but an immortal nymph. At least they cast Julie Chrisie!
Hollywood doesn’t scruple to show an immortal, but balks at a divine immortal.

For decades, at least six or seven decades, I’ve ranted against Hollywood unfamiliarity with war, with weapons: the combatants fail to harm each other with swords, say 36″ long, and never connect, never inflict hamr; so they punch each other in the jaw, with no extention but the fist, and always connect. In Hollywood prepubescent girls can shoot the bow, can be accurate; male archers always drop their bow-holding hand befor releasing the arrow: they would never hit anything, but they all live to make the same mistake tomorrow, and the next day … In Ivanhoe they drop their bow hand, in Troy: always, the bow-hand drops. They shoot themselves in the foot.
2017 08 19 I was just watching The Hunger Games, Mockingjay. Jennifer Lawrence plays a girl who’s supposed to have proved that she’s lethal with the bow. She’s introduced, takes aim, holds the pose: and, just as she lets fly, her expression dedicated, stoic, she drops her bow hand!
No, the stupid movie does not show her shooting herself in the foot.
You know, some of the movie toughies, Errol Flynn, Russell Crowe, really were tough, really could fight: but can any of them shoot an arrow on a true course? There’s be an army worth of them if bows were still in use. As is, it’s all fantasies, for feminist females.
Jennifer Lawrence’s ass is from here to there. Her boson is always on hand, stentorian. And if she’s no on hand, Milana Vayntrub is. So bless us all.

Unique Genius
2017 07 19 I’m watching Creation: Charles Darwin fathering his beloved ten year old daughter Anne, while she’s still alive, bless her. Jennifer Connelly plays Mama. Now tell me, how can Jennifer Connelly be so heartbreakingly beautiful in so many brilliant people roles? Charles Darwin’s wife? Wife to maths geniuses … She’s not the genus, but it’s clear that she belongs: even if she sabotages the men’s work.
They love her: and we love her too. Extraordinary.

2017 08 08 Watching BBC’s Middlemarch I see Juliet Aubrey embodying similar talents.

The Devil’s Advocate
2017 06 24 The other day Jan didn’t recognize Charlize Theron: so I named a few of her titles: still no recognition: so I ordered The Devil’s Advocate: quality from multiple sources: and we saw it last evening: she for her first, me for at least the third time: wonderful casting, funny script … But there’s at least one thing I hate about it. No, not them duplicating a plot twist of mine from a story of 1969 or so; no: their lame brained indulgence in the illiterate confusion between lawyers as stadning up for the law and lawyers as disgustingly paid knights errant. A trial is supposed to establish facts: that’s a goal separate from whethr or not the facts are repugnant. This flick establishes a straw man and palms it as a heroic struggle. The math teacher appears to be an abuser of underage girls: the school fed the pervert a stream of victims. It’s our young-lawyer-hero’s first case: and he’s suffering a non-existent crisis / whether to deend the skumball. No, no, no, no: the law requires the scumball to be defended: that one of the most basic delusions of state-based government, centralized power.
Humans know that they’re not very good at determining truth and that truth-telling is punished, not rewarded: a Jesus needs an outside source of energy. Simultaneously humans fall for the same state/church trick every time: if the people doubt that the church has a special relation to truth, then the king does: if this king doesn’t then that king does: revolution, revolution, revolution, with nothing important every changing for long. And if we put Newon in the palace then Newton’s son will be an idiot, or his daughter, his friends. If the republicans have about as much integrity as a Mississippi gambler, then oust them and enthrone democracy: or believe in communism instead: the early Christians did.
The early Christians believed a lot of balderdash, just like the later Christians.
Anyway, the current imbecility believes in rituals of law: if the communists and the royalists are similarly stupid then our survival will be entirely the result of luck: bad luck, we survivce.
Well this flick has Al Pacino as a Satan, Satan has a son, the lawyer, Satan steers resources to his son and heir: he wins case after case as prosecutor, then wins case after case as defense attorney, Satan always seeing that the guilty win, the guilty get off, the no-good lawyers live in the pentshouse.
That’s funny: Satan up top; just the reverse of usual theo-cosmology.
Anyway, our bed of delusions preaches that “fair trials” are a constitutional right, descended from all those churches, palaces, political parties. Satan’s son is good at it, his wife isn’t so sure, and … never mind; the accused’s defense attorney is still supposed to work to see that certain core rituals are observed: stack the jury, then declare the schmuck guilty: or innocent.
So what’s duplicated from my story? I had a solipsist being driven crazy by the noise of civilization: a neighbor is dragging boxes, the solipsist freaks out: “I know how to stop you!” And he blows his own brains out.
Steven King used the same gag: decades after I did.
Note: civilization doesn’t know what’s what if it allows the liars and the cheaters control over the “facts”.
We say we tried this and that: we don’t know what we tried: the media, the Times, the Library … something sould have to be truthful. Infallible.
But never mind: Charlize Theron is gorgeous, so is Satan’s daughter, the lawyer’s sister, Connie Nielsen. Jan loved it.

Inter-Species Intra-Tribal Warfare
The Jungle Book (2016 film)
2017 05 26 Disney’s Jungle Book is something else, great voice acting, great everything: but best of all for me today is the coincidence of watching it climax within hours of reading Chapter II ff. of Jared Diamond’s The World Until Yesterday. In traditional warfare groups form alliances, change alliances … States form, and war continues with alliances, betrayals … In this Kipling-based movie the wolves ally with the bear and the panther allies against the tiger, against the orangutang, the monkeys … Absurdly anthropomorphic? Sure, but not obnoxiously so. The deep symbolism is profound.
2017 06 21 Last evening I showed E.T. to Jan, she seeing it for the first time. Menacing federally organized, key-bearing adults scare the ets among California forest and hills: the aliens take off in their ship, our ET is left behind: he hides in the toolshed of our particular family, doesn’t hide too well, is found by our Elliott. Children and aliens are shown as natural allies, war is shown as natural between divorced families and federally organized adults: no fair play but lots of Terry Gilliam technology, nonsense ducts, tubes, plastic. But it’s all ET’s fault anyway: what an oaf to get separated from his group. Why didn’t the aliens nuke the adult feds? Why didn’t they burn everything, then study it?
Why? ’cause it’s Hollywood.

I grew up believing war could be fixed, racism could be transcended, ignorance overcome. I was deeply offended to notice that Hitler believed that war is inevitable, why not try to win it? to profit from it? Now I agree with Hitler, but don’t expect anyone can “win” anything for long. “Profit” from destroying the environment? Absurd.

This is a famously loveable movie, but it sure breaks a bunch of standards for stupidity.
Steven Spielberg references Peter Pan in parallel throughout. Faith-based magic, healing powers: no consequences that can’t be overcome: so long as morons run society.

ET sure does cast for adorable children: the blond girl in the frog-dissection class is world-class female: the one Elliot climbs on a human ladder to kiss. So I looked her up! Damn if this Erika Eleniak didn’t become a Playboy model! But she was totally beautiful in ET, twelve or thirteen years old!

Now there’s a fuss about some kid going to North Korea, getter mashed, railroaded: who before dumb Americans would have thought cultural trespassers should be safe?!

Download Diamond’s Yesterday: Check out the photograph of the first encounter:

That‘s what ET would look like! realizing he‘s for dinner!

Once upon a time people were wary to venture from their hearth to their yard. Go back far enough and you didn’t dare to have a yard. You cowered in the cave, there were no yards. The were extremely wary to venture through their style to the neighbors. If your neighbor didn’t have you for dinner yesterday does not mean that he won’t have you for dinner today. It helps if you saw him in church last month. Maybe you were an usher at his daughter’s wedding. It doesn’t matter: watch your back, watch your front, watch your sides. Recognize that you’re a hypocrite. It stands to reason that you’re a hypocrite. It helps to believe that you control your God, that God forgives you, no matter what you do, even if you crucify and torture his own son. He wants to forgive you, the fool.
If you don’t trust him you can always trust Hitler.

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.

Under Age

Niki Reed tongue stud
thanx 13

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?

CanCan
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.

MM
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.

Tarzan’s Toilet
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.

Foreign Movies
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?

Close-Call Splendor
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.

Crown Royal
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.

Segregated Hollywood
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.

Crowned Magic

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.

Pidgeon Cousins
2016 04 28 On a Greer Garson binge, watching Mrs. Miniver: first time in years but not the first in adulthood. And every member of the cast has been in one binge or another: Theresa Wright sent me on a goose chase as I thought I remembered her from The Wild One: except she wsn’t in The Wild One: she appeared with Marlon Brando, yes, but not there. Then I realized, of course, The Shadow of a Doubt, Joseph Cotton.
It’s always been the case that people in the movie business, people with money, people with a budget, especially a professional budget, can order a viewing of many a film, get it by messenger the same day with a bit of luck, but even futurists didn’t imagine streaming movie after movie, getter DVDs in the mail, disk after disk. Yet that’s what we’re doing.
Anyway, I was looking forward to seeing more Greer, leapt for joy when I remembered that we were also watching Henry Travers, one of England’s most beloved character actors … but what brought on this scribble wasn’t Greer, wasn’t Travers, nor Theresa; its Walter Pidgeon. And as I look at him, I realize: by golly, he’s combining Gregory Peck with Ronald Reagan! Marvelous.
Meantime, everything is fascinating: Greet Garson married the actor, twelve years her junior, who plays her son!He too does a good job, Richard Ney: a little Jimmy Stewart-like.

2016 05 05 I notice further: Jan and I are enjoying revisiting stars who are approximately our parents age!

Advertisements

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
This entry was posted in movies. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s