"He was an anarchist, like all artists."-- Georges Simenon, adapted
You Before Me appears to be a bright and vivacious vehicle, witty with repartee, an icing on the cake of an impossible romantic fantasy, and there is nothing wrong with it, these idealized fairy tales. They triumph, like many an inspirational disability film before it. The studio system wants us to believe such exotic adaptations work, like King Kong and the blond Valkyrie, a forbidden love which has to be destroyed, or create an unequal level of sacrifice. In the litany of dirty laundry secrets, true quadriplegics drool for fully functional ambulatory mates, and even though I was never going to give you this biographical etude, mostly out of embarrassment, when I was 28 I met a 43 year old man who was as near a spitting image of the Professor Jerry McGuire--
will she shut the fuck up when the man finally dies, or what?
and the Spitting Image and I went on a date, pathetic lonely souls, one with ferrets, and I let my Jewish student dentist David Briller talk me out of the Spitting Image, mainly because I was panicking about fucking Ferret Man-- although it might have done some good, or maybe he would have done me a favor and beat me to death before I had to absorb so much more trauma. I cannot judge. I snipped the snip in a hasty telephone call, felt bad, and when I told a blind girlfriend about the ferrets, "he's lonely," she mused, but as a long lasting relationship, I know without knowing, it would have been doomed, and turned the Jewish David Briller into oral nuclear erotica instead. Yes really. My problem being I never met a disabled man my equal.
Crip ambulatory relationships exist, but there is often a significant level of pathology involved, on one side or the other, usually women willing to go without orgasm, since for some it is overrated, but there is no real marriage which ever bridges the gap, which is why Trump's mocking of Serge Kovaleski did us a favor, exposing the true sentiment the majority feel, when it isn't outright disdain. I wanted to iterate this trajectory out of the way before returning to Bonjour Tristesse as an important cross over link. Just trust me on that.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Foster Care Inconstancy in Millibars
"If someone gets shot they should stay shot."-- William H. Macy, or, as I like to say, "all cats are cats".
kimmy has her own peculiar characteristics, one of which is insisting I get off wretched fecal and urine sinkhole mattress when she insists upon it; her mew has a grating high pitch of protest even as she purrs on pillow above my head, bushing out her tail, and befriending the latest super mouse as opposed to killing latest super mouse, but as all my boys have died in this accursed Riverside studio, what am I to do? I applied myself to a grief counselor over Oliver and grief counselor iterated in bourgeoisie fashion that my male felines were my family. Oliver was put down shortly after mother drop in 11/05, and a part of me says fuck this shit, and another part is devastated beyond expectation over Joey's little brother.
By all of Jesus F Christ, Vincent was a difficult and badly behaved wingman, I should be relieved, by any objective measure, especially as I suspected feline senility, and in part I am, but would like to string some humans up, particularly my own sex, and smoke them like a flank of bacon. I miss my baby boys, and need to get out of this place. Most of you have little idea what a public housing transfer entails and I don't even have the money to pack even if a mega tantrum gets me an exceptional transfer in Sims district; more of the same petty vindictiveness of nigger class poverty, in my deplorable bar stool diction, nine years away from the section 202 age requirement, and I know I don't have them, those nine years.
No expert in astrophysics, I nevertheless assumed if our sun went nova that the destruction of Earth would be nearly instantaneous, so I am uncertain as to what Niven is saying in his dodgy North Hollywood metaphor, nearly certain that I'd hate Vancouver, playful and dynamic as it appears, it certainly doesn't appear to be cyborg friendly.
kimmy has her own peculiar characteristics, one of which is insisting I get off wretched fecal and urine sinkhole mattress when she insists upon it; her mew has a grating high pitch of protest even as she purrs on pillow above my head, bushing out her tail, and befriending the latest super mouse as opposed to killing latest super mouse, but as all my boys have died in this accursed Riverside studio, what am I to do? I applied myself to a grief counselor over Oliver and grief counselor iterated in bourgeoisie fashion that my male felines were my family. Oliver was put down shortly after mother drop in 11/05, and a part of me says fuck this shit, and another part is devastated beyond expectation over Joey's little brother.
By all of Jesus F Christ, Vincent was a difficult and badly behaved wingman, I should be relieved, by any objective measure, especially as I suspected feline senility, and in part I am, but would like to string some humans up, particularly my own sex, and smoke them like a flank of bacon. I miss my baby boys, and need to get out of this place. Most of you have little idea what a public housing transfer entails and I don't even have the money to pack even if a mega tantrum gets me an exceptional transfer in Sims district; more of the same petty vindictiveness of nigger class poverty, in my deplorable bar stool diction, nine years away from the section 202 age requirement, and I know I don't have them, those nine years.
No expert in astrophysics, I nevertheless assumed if our sun went nova that the destruction of Earth would be nearly instantaneous, so I am uncertain as to what Niven is saying in his dodgy North Hollywood metaphor, nearly certain that I'd hate Vancouver, playful and dynamic as it appears, it certainly doesn't appear to be cyborg friendly.
Feline Penalty
[Just to be clear, I am writing this post the morning of 4/26/16, and my last little boy incurred a urinary tract block unexpectedly around 4/21. I was forced to have him manhandled and destroyed by animal control and I am driving myself to exhaustion beating down broken heart syndrome; I'm really not having an easy time.]
Signor, Signor!-- The Tragedy of the Medici
Bonjour Tristesse, as biting social satire, predates New Wave films by a few years, but certainly anticipates the shockwave that was to hit cinema within the next decade, thanks to Otto Preminger's brilliant eye for composition within the frame of the camera lens. Certain wicked correspondences occur to one, even without a full study of the biography of the ground breaking director. Both Henry James and Preminger studied law, and both were masters of structured narrative. Within the claustrophobic grasp of David Niven and Jean Seberg as the genitive father daughter, we not only see hints of incest, but recall The Golden Bowl as well, though there is of course no direct allusion, as this is undeniably Sagan's biting social wit at play, while true and perhaps dangerous exhaustion overtake me. I'll pick it up tomorrow, without back dating as I wished.
Signor, Signor!-- The Tragedy of the Medici
Bonjour Tristesse, as biting social satire, predates New Wave films by a few years, but certainly anticipates the shockwave that was to hit cinema within the next decade, thanks to Otto Preminger's brilliant eye for composition within the frame of the camera lens. Certain wicked correspondences occur to one, even without a full study of the biography of the ground breaking director. Both Henry James and Preminger studied law, and both were masters of structured narrative. Within the claustrophobic grasp of David Niven and Jean Seberg as the genitive father daughter, we not only see hints of incest, but recall The Golden Bowl as well, though there is of course no direct allusion, as this is undeniably Sagan's biting social wit at play, while true and perhaps dangerous exhaustion overtake me. I'll pick it up tomorrow, without back dating as I wished.
Existential Anxieties In Russian Poetry
"Do you know what a producer does?"-- Johnny Carson, gentle footwork with a child guest no one can recall, even with FBI harassment as a consequence
Few of us would be able to emulate the Jean Seberg as the representation of Sagan's pleasantly vicious Cecile, but the key interface to Preminger's heavy handed structuralist adaptation of the novel isn't the perfection of glamour as represented in these characters, but rather Deborah Kerr's nearly an old maid appearance. If Julianne Moore waltzes us into post 9/11 conceits with her damaged and emotionally fractured women, Deborah Kerr was the war era sacrificial victim, even in From Here to Eternity. She doesn't die in this exigent war narrative, as she does for Greene's penalties in The End of The Affair, but movie goers receive a credible sense of entombment after her character's passionate beach fucking with Lancaster; for its time the erotica is fairly heavy. We see absolutely none of this under Preminger's direction, only the over the top implications to manipulative exposure to inconstancy. We don't have to give credence to Anne's hypothetical suicide after seeing Niven's Raymond for what he is, loose and flinty, head turned by any well styled hair starch and bullet breasts, but this goes to Preminger's point: Anne's backlash creates permanent scars not to be soothed by extensive preparations with face creams, and the time we allot to the vanity of putting our best face forward.
The portents here offer a shuddering sense of foreboding. If Seberg's death in Paris in 1979-- true dawn of modernity as it leads us into contemporary times, it is a bit spooky. Seberg's privileged liberalism caused a reactive autocratic response from the post-Hoover Feds, and she decided she couldn't cope, at a seasoned forty years of age. Her brittleness in the film a reflection of her psyche, which the dowager doesn't see as such an impediment as the critics who savaged her performance in the satire as merely a stand-in line reading. The dowager isn't prepared to defend Seberg's nascent acting abilities, yet it is also true she doesn't see the glaring flaws against Niven and Kerr. Cecille's outer narrative dialogue runs soft poached at times, calling herself "a perfect little beast," hardly highbrow castigation, but my fresh experience of the movie sees trace lines which offer an unintended foretelling of how we got here, wherever you'd like to locate that point on the graph. We don't have any swarthy Arabs on Raymond's Rivera, but one may surmise the insolent French maids knew an Algerian, or two.
If the FBI has a file on spastic for suggestive incitement, she hasn't yet seen the jazz concert, but would be delighted. Anything to up the profile of the indigence stricken, casting warnings to the enhancement driven.
Few of us would be able to emulate the Jean Seberg as the representation of Sagan's pleasantly vicious Cecile, but the key interface to Preminger's heavy handed structuralist adaptation of the novel isn't the perfection of glamour as represented in these characters, but rather Deborah Kerr's nearly an old maid appearance. If Julianne Moore waltzes us into post 9/11 conceits with her damaged and emotionally fractured women, Deborah Kerr was the war era sacrificial victim, even in From Here to Eternity. She doesn't die in this exigent war narrative, as she does for Greene's penalties in The End of The Affair, but movie goers receive a credible sense of entombment after her character's passionate beach fucking with Lancaster; for its time the erotica is fairly heavy. We see absolutely none of this under Preminger's direction, only the over the top implications to manipulative exposure to inconstancy. We don't have to give credence to Anne's hypothetical suicide after seeing Niven's Raymond for what he is, loose and flinty, head turned by any well styled hair starch and bullet breasts, but this goes to Preminger's point: Anne's backlash creates permanent scars not to be soothed by extensive preparations with face creams, and the time we allot to the vanity of putting our best face forward.
The portents here offer a shuddering sense of foreboding. If Seberg's death in Paris in 1979-- true dawn of modernity as it leads us into contemporary times, it is a bit spooky. Seberg's privileged liberalism caused a reactive autocratic response from the post-Hoover Feds, and she decided she couldn't cope, at a seasoned forty years of age. Her brittleness in the film a reflection of her psyche, which the dowager doesn't see as such an impediment as the critics who savaged her performance in the satire as merely a stand-in line reading. The dowager isn't prepared to defend Seberg's nascent acting abilities, yet it is also true she doesn't see the glaring flaws against Niven and Kerr. Cecille's outer narrative dialogue runs soft poached at times, calling herself "a perfect little beast," hardly highbrow castigation, but my fresh experience of the movie sees trace lines which offer an unintended foretelling of how we got here, wherever you'd like to locate that point on the graph. We don't have any swarthy Arabs on Raymond's Rivera, but one may surmise the insolent French maids knew an Algerian, or two.
If the FBI has a file on spastic for suggestive incitement, she hasn't yet seen the jazz concert, but would be delighted. Anything to up the profile of the indigence stricken, casting warnings to the enhancement driven.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Imminent Belgium
"Would you mind shining your light on someone else today?" Mark Johnson, a liberal writer I managed to infuriate with no one else's help
I went to bed early this morning and couldn't sleep for the agony in my jaw, not so simple now to find a dental hospital that could treat me; it is not simply a question of draining Pennsylvania's Medicaid allocation. I know what it is like sitting in that dental chair for hours on end being tortured with root canal. I now have gum disease, and I'm suffering from indoor allergens and other small secrets relative to quadriplegia, and believe I'm functionally dying, like my Aunt Marie, dragging herself along with less adaptive ability, as time goes by.
Morally, I don't know what to do. Kill myself now, wait for the bloody stroke, or tell the nigger bitches in the office that they've won, and consign my fate to Inglis House after a life with so little joy to it. Sex was never much, not like it was for Linda and her telescopic exuberance. And I did not want to fuck her, despite my stupidly unwise outburst from which it took me so long to recover. What made me angry was my dialectical rivalry with the spastic bitch. She could have great sex between her two husbands, while my clitoris hangs out like stewing meat for an Italian casserole, with absolutely no memories of that good fuck, except for anal games with my discarded and no less turbulently deceased spic ex of a pig. I do not enjoy anal penetration, don't want to suck tit, and there it lies. My only memories are rift with friction of never fitting with the right man, a good man, or lesbians in a variety pack coming at me not because I was signaling them, but because they thought my emotional vulnerability made me a good butch. And they were lucky that I was too impaired to kill them. That is what would have happened had it gone beyond hitting on me in the wrong situation, or in environments out of my element, and now it's too late. Stresses beyond my control are killing me, enfeebling me beyond being a good advocate for righteousness, or to climb onboard Toomey's train, or even writing one decent scholarly work. Where am I going to get the energy?
I'm barely eating two meals a day, struggling not to be haunted by Frank's infantile gluttony. I don't want to be haunted by it, my remorse, contempt, and the fact I hated him but took pleasure in being a couple, but what else is there, except the olive tinge to his face? I knew my mother was dying, and so did my sister, but I suspect neither of us ever resolved losing our mother. It has been 11 years, and we can mark the same parallel with Frank. I knew he didn't have long, and wonder if he died to spite me. I can't know, especially as I interjected to stay in his life, as opposed to reconciling anything
When the time came, I thought, in the throes of death, I'd scream for Jerry, somewhat parenthetically, or go back further, to Raymond, whose emotional armor I was able to pierce, sibilant, manipulative teenager that I was, but no. There is a place where Joanne and all her longing is simply unraveling, coming apart, without bonds to hold her to the ground, constant tension from my jaw, my temple, strange declensions in my left shin, sturdy enough to linger on in torpor, to lose my time and place. Then I get mad, but it may not be enough, and my Roman father who despised my survival in the world, he may outlive me. The one twist in the endless stream of police procedurals from the European left: in "A Death in Flanders" the actor playing the retired inspector keels over dead on the train, staring at the woman passenger across from him as intently as the French predator he collared, an effective send up. But we're not all that lucky, with our broken, battered hearts. Those of us without looks, figures, or enough shallow ruthlessness.
I went to bed early this morning and couldn't sleep for the agony in my jaw, not so simple now to find a dental hospital that could treat me; it is not simply a question of draining Pennsylvania's Medicaid allocation. I know what it is like sitting in that dental chair for hours on end being tortured with root canal. I now have gum disease, and I'm suffering from indoor allergens and other small secrets relative to quadriplegia, and believe I'm functionally dying, like my Aunt Marie, dragging herself along with less adaptive ability, as time goes by.
Morally, I don't know what to do. Kill myself now, wait for the bloody stroke, or tell the nigger bitches in the office that they've won, and consign my fate to Inglis House after a life with so little joy to it. Sex was never much, not like it was for Linda and her telescopic exuberance. And I did not want to fuck her, despite my stupidly unwise outburst from which it took me so long to recover. What made me angry was my dialectical rivalry with the spastic bitch. She could have great sex between her two husbands, while my clitoris hangs out like stewing meat for an Italian casserole, with absolutely no memories of that good fuck, except for anal games with my discarded and no less turbulently deceased spic ex of a pig. I do not enjoy anal penetration, don't want to suck tit, and there it lies. My only memories are rift with friction of never fitting with the right man, a good man, or lesbians in a variety pack coming at me not because I was signaling them, but because they thought my emotional vulnerability made me a good butch. And they were lucky that I was too impaired to kill them. That is what would have happened had it gone beyond hitting on me in the wrong situation, or in environments out of my element, and now it's too late. Stresses beyond my control are killing me, enfeebling me beyond being a good advocate for righteousness, or to climb onboard Toomey's train, or even writing one decent scholarly work. Where am I going to get the energy?
I'm barely eating two meals a day, struggling not to be haunted by Frank's infantile gluttony. I don't want to be haunted by it, my remorse, contempt, and the fact I hated him but took pleasure in being a couple, but what else is there, except the olive tinge to his face? I knew my mother was dying, and so did my sister, but I suspect neither of us ever resolved losing our mother. It has been 11 years, and we can mark the same parallel with Frank. I knew he didn't have long, and wonder if he died to spite me. I can't know, especially as I interjected to stay in his life, as opposed to reconciling anything
When the time came, I thought, in the throes of death, I'd scream for Jerry, somewhat parenthetically, or go back further, to Raymond, whose emotional armor I was able to pierce, sibilant, manipulative teenager that I was, but no. There is a place where Joanne and all her longing is simply unraveling, coming apart, without bonds to hold her to the ground, constant tension from my jaw, my temple, strange declensions in my left shin, sturdy enough to linger on in torpor, to lose my time and place. Then I get mad, but it may not be enough, and my Roman father who despised my survival in the world, he may outlive me. The one twist in the endless stream of police procedurals from the European left: in "A Death in Flanders" the actor playing the retired inspector keels over dead on the train, staring at the woman passenger across from him as intently as the French predator he collared, an effective send up. But we're not all that lucky, with our broken, battered hearts. Those of us without looks, figures, or enough shallow ruthlessness.
Monday, April 18, 2016
No Automated Mail Today
I am supposing I received my answer from Toomey's team in the form of a non-answer, despite the fact I cleanly let a little hair down. I know they are busy and not worried about an angry, powerless woman, and her blog account. Even if federal law enforcement wants to prick up its ears on my behalf, I'm old, hygiene challenged, and the parent rental company in which I'm trapped has every rational conviction to boot me, but that is my objection: terrorizing and humiliating me since the system of structures and supports collapsed over my head doesn't solve anything, despite so called HUD protections. I do not have much quality time left, and need to stop shrinking like a violet. Just not sure how to get there, aside from telling a gay politician to fuck off, between a vacuum of nothing and nothing. I do agree with many of Pat's convictions, not all, certainly. I have to run.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Prima Facie Periodontitis
I cannot even afford to go to the drug store to get self treatment for tooth decay, sent Toomey's people the most frank email I've ever addressed to a politician. Should I be worried that I'm annoyed? I could give you names but shall not. On the off chance any of them have read this account and figure I'm too hot, well, I've been paying paying that price, but blame liberalism, regardless of conservative hypocrisy, which I've never denied. I know a tad about Toomey's positions, and I don't care. That is not why I want in, calculating what buttons I need push. Thus far it's ambiguous, but between Dennis O'Brien, and gadfly Brian Sims, whose name I just fucking forgot, my cynicism about city council, and playing soccer with Toomey's offices, representative politics and ideology seem a bit of a crock. Yes, these are legislators, not necessarily victims rights advocates, and I'm a sow with little golden quality time ahead, a hypocrite too, because I've refrained from insulting Sims outright. He's just a cog in the wheel, but he is, nonetheless, a faggot attorney with a rock solid base-- not that I have a particular reason to be antagonistic, but I asked a man for help leaving an uneducated, nearly imbecile constituency on which he depends, and then got postcards from The Watermark about attendant care. Fuck Sims, putting it mildly-- not that Toomey cares either, but if my motives to get behind him is to strike back, let's see what happens, if I am not on the verge of dubious medical outcomes.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Missa debet restituere ecclesiae
I have been out of sorts, I know, and make poverty tenant living worse than it is, most of the time. It isn't simply that I hate Riverside to the point of risking imprisonment, however. Poverty housing in Philadelphia is mostly the same, a cesspool, like its public school system, and Riverside is just that, a cesspool of petty vendettas and doilies, better than most of any other units I've experienced, but that is partly the point. Even if I let another municipal matron like Nakea dictate the terms of my existence, and look how gracious she appears in her portrait as the preening nigress, it becomes more of the same. It is not fair that my life ended in a major trauma at 37, only for the next 16 years to be browbeat because I've sustained systemic abuse and prefer eviction. Last year, I barely and mean barely, evaded eviction by Presby, and only haven't given notice because I don't know if I can find some sort of shelter I can handle, and I've had COPD attacks, now my molar nerves are throbbing. WTF would I go? The local libertarians can't help me, etcetera, and yet, I'm sick with rage; it will break me, eventually, and padre is now moving into his second childhood, subtly. He isn't Murdoch.
One thing is certain, however, those old B stock Roman empire films transmitted by local Delaware independent stations, are a riot. I do not really watch them, unless I suspect a modicum of historical truth, but what they lack in quality the certainly make up for in wardrobe. Perhaps I was crucified under Marcus Aurelius, or poisoned by the Medici, despite their flowering Renaissance. Even getting my shit together will never be enough. I've truly been broken, and I'm all to blame.
One thing is certain, however, those old B stock Roman empire films transmitted by local Delaware independent stations, are a riot. I do not really watch them, unless I suspect a modicum of historical truth, but what they lack in quality the certainly make up for in wardrobe. Perhaps I was crucified under Marcus Aurelius, or poisoned by the Medici, despite their flowering Renaissance. Even getting my shit together will never be enough. I've truly been broken, and I'm all to blame.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
And then, you still wake, alive
People will categorize, no matter what, particularly if they cannot handle something, and this I've learned; being online doesn't bring us together. Wedge issues drive us further apart. Why, in particular, do I hate a woman named Trudy Richardson? Because my pain is an instrument she uses to hurt me further, and the niggers can't handle it. That I have cause, and they make the government of Philadelphia as corrupt as a Kenyan treasury official. I've posted it before. I'll post it again: African Americans may belong to the DNC, but they do not understand what constitutes a civil right, and that is why they govern so badly.
Anemic Corn Beef
should I stay or should I go
I was trying to study this morning, my little free text on the Medici, and I didn't really succeed at sitting down and taking notes, part age, part I ought to just give up and let Alphabet drill a hole in my skull and plant its microchip, and now part of my left molar is rotting away. We all lose, eventually, but I am not certain why I need to mortify myself to the consistency of ground sand. There is this ontological state, with all my emotional pain, and there is cessation. Part of existence lies in seeking relief from it, and yet most of us do not want to die, until the agony of clinging becomes too much, and I fear my end, this morning, because the wounds tearing at me beneath my breast are like a lash, because I hate black women, black culture, and everything about section 202, the Presbyterian hypocrisy. Engaging in demolition against the property would provide me with a fleeting, transitory glee, masking more pain, that's all, I'd still hate, as an active, living verb, and I'll lose to it; don't we all, not even realizing I was part of a class action suit against ATT for its sales tax. I never signed onto that, and yet liberals insist they know what's best for me, and I am sure team Toomey needs such a snarling animal. I was going to go uptown today, but if I'm chomping at the muzzle without cause?
I was trying to study this morning, my little free text on the Medici, and I didn't really succeed at sitting down and taking notes, part age, part I ought to just give up and let Alphabet drill a hole in my skull and plant its microchip, and now part of my left molar is rotting away. We all lose, eventually, but I am not certain why I need to mortify myself to the consistency of ground sand. There is this ontological state, with all my emotional pain, and there is cessation. Part of existence lies in seeking relief from it, and yet most of us do not want to die, until the agony of clinging becomes too much, and I fear my end, this morning, because the wounds tearing at me beneath my breast are like a lash, because I hate black women, black culture, and everything about section 202, the Presbyterian hypocrisy. Engaging in demolition against the property would provide me with a fleeting, transitory glee, masking more pain, that's all, I'd still hate, as an active, living verb, and I'll lose to it; don't we all, not even realizing I was part of a class action suit against ATT for its sales tax. I never signed onto that, and yet liberals insist they know what's best for me, and I am sure team Toomey needs such a snarling animal. I was going to go uptown today, but if I'm chomping at the muzzle without cause?
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Orwell in Dubai
Italy is a peninsula that acquires the shape of a boot.
In his 2003 physique, Tim Robbins looks churlish naked. Perhaps he is supposed to look that way as Code 46 draws to a close, with Samantha Morton showing Deborah Winger how it's done if you you want to challenge ethnic types. There is a bit of Sheltering Sky to this speculative venture, one which doesn't add any additional spice with ad hoc contraceptives. Other than that, Winterbottom and Boyce paint a depressingly accurate portrait of our future, regardless of what we believe about the ability of neurologists to manipulate our minds.
There is also an aura of fatalism about European/American individualism invariability giving way to Asia's sheer mass. Was this intentional? The film ends with Morton's ironic glance of knowing the pleasures of defiance, enough to suicide by or take comfort in. In the past, Tom Reid and I would have talked about it for awhile; it's the type of film which would have interested him. I no longer have college friends, and but for digital props, it was as forceful as The Man from Earth, virtually free of anything but good acting and Tony Todd engaging in cream puff antics better suited to Forest Whitaker having a mood swing. There is depression, and there is the downer of an accurate portrait of where our societies are headed.
In his 2003 physique, Tim Robbins looks churlish naked. Perhaps he is supposed to look that way as Code 46 draws to a close, with Samantha Morton showing Deborah Winger how it's done if you you want to challenge ethnic types. There is a bit of Sheltering Sky to this speculative venture, one which doesn't add any additional spice with ad hoc contraceptives. Other than that, Winterbottom and Boyce paint a depressingly accurate portrait of our future, regardless of what we believe about the ability of neurologists to manipulate our minds.
There is also an aura of fatalism about European/American individualism invariability giving way to Asia's sheer mass. Was this intentional? The film ends with Morton's ironic glance of knowing the pleasures of defiance, enough to suicide by or take comfort in. In the past, Tom Reid and I would have talked about it for awhile; it's the type of film which would have interested him. I no longer have college friends, and but for digital props, it was as forceful as The Man from Earth, virtually free of anything but good acting and Tony Todd engaging in cream puff antics better suited to Forest Whitaker having a mood swing. There is depression, and there is the downer of an accurate portrait of where our societies are headed.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Sickly Hues of Milk
This TV plays games with those of us on the cheapskate, much as we play games with the frustrations of touch interface, or online paranoia. Steve Jobs has neither my gratitude nor my fetish zeal, although one can look at Tim Cook's libertarian streak in his battles with the FBI as a paradoxical quagmire. Most of what we get from This is mediocre: mediocre space opera, mediocre war movies, shoveling shit to those worried about IVC Filter implants.
Once in awhile something you want to eat comes along: The Burrowers, District 9. Code 46 seems to have the same nutritious texture, but caught me off guard, because I was busy having an insurgency tantrum about Blogger's HTTPS update, figuring they want to muzzle stiff necked intransigents such as yours truly. (Is my rebellious despair all that important?) I will have to catch its rerun over the weekend, but what I saw of the first twenty minutes certainly had an unsettled effect, at least in terms of cinematography, which contributed as much to the dialogue as Morton's oozy Caucasian journey in an urban environment anesthetized to the residue of humanity within it. All I did was log on to research what I was looking at, wasted over 2MB getting upset about HTTPS encryption and security protocols which I certainly don't understand, missed getting grocery on time, and now have to roll to the Pakistani at the 7-11 to waste money on bad franchise food, hoping they still have wings, as that is their most tolerable selection. Obviously, we need time off now and again; let's see how I tap dance around an overage gigabyte, shall we? I'm worried about my castor tire, and if that goes, so do I. Live it lovely.
Once in awhile something you want to eat comes along: The Burrowers, District 9. Code 46 seems to have the same nutritious texture, but caught me off guard, because I was busy having an insurgency tantrum about Blogger's HTTPS update, figuring they want to muzzle stiff necked intransigents such as yours truly. (Is my rebellious despair all that important?) I will have to catch its rerun over the weekend, but what I saw of the first twenty minutes certainly had an unsettled effect, at least in terms of cinematography, which contributed as much to the dialogue as Morton's oozy Caucasian journey in an urban environment anesthetized to the residue of humanity within it. All I did was log on to research what I was looking at, wasted over 2MB getting upset about HTTPS encryption and security protocols which I certainly don't understand, missed getting grocery on time, and now have to roll to the Pakistani at the 7-11 to waste money on bad franchise food, hoping they still have wings, as that is their most tolerable selection. Obviously, we need time off now and again; let's see how I tap dance around an overage gigabyte, shall we? I'm worried about my castor tire, and if that goes, so do I. Live it lovely.
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