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.