It's a crusade the WWF refers to in the hardened terms of war.--the Warren and Baker expose of an ethical dilemma long predicted here by the spastic dowager
We often put up with the wooden acting of Jet Li, prevalent even in his Chinese biopics, for the improbable calisthenics of his martial arts training. No one human being, whether Lee or Li, can truly prevail against such a fusillade of forces arrayed against against him, but the fantastical exploits so carefully choreographed, offer the human imagination a transcendent appeasement. Kiss of the Dragon (2001) 14 years young, is actually not a bad mesh of sub-genres. Martial arts meets softened variation of the French thriller as an exported imitation of the American formula. Virtuous and focused Asian cop goes up against diabolical French enforcer of corruption, and Bridget Fonda offers the mew of tarnished American innocence offered the requisite redemption via application of Oriental virtue, the Hollywood seal of approval for why Chinamerica is, after all, a beneficial mirage for both Asia and the northern hemisphere. Chris Nahon may also have unwittingly or deliberately directed what is essentially a revenge fantasy for the Yangtze Agreement to which the European powers gave consensus in the first year of the 20th century in the aftermath of a naval power's rather unpopular victory in the Opium Wars. What does Karyo's character do? Kills an Asian dealer for self-preservation? What did the British armada achieve in gaining access to China's coastal region? Profits. The entire plot of this film contravenes the reality of Mao's cultural revolution, while Xi, who is Maoist 2.0, with Google's acquiescence, is going to solve the problem of poverty as a moral failing, which senior fellow Niall Ferguson says cannot be solved, through the implied process of extermination. For my part, I'll side with neo-imperialism, however irrelevant our actions appear to be anymore. What a bummer.
Showing posts with label bridget fonda. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bridget fonda. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Cuckoo's Forfeiture
My point is that illness is not a metaphor, and that the most truthful way of regarding illness---and the healthiest way of being ill---is one most purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking. -- Susan Sontag
Meryl Streep presents herself as a translucent mirage in Dark Matter (2007), a progressive caught between multicultural faith and the reality of academic politics. Forget extrapolations. Chen’s direction and Shebar’s script are irresponsible in their rendition of events that transformed Gang Lu into a spree killer, with his goal perhaps being the elimination of an entire department. Liu Xing is too sympathetic as an alter, and the triggers that lead him to kill Aidan Quinn’s Reiser foreshadowed on the cheap, with tai ching intersplices dispersed between scenes; its binary closures of the women racing, both the attache and the mother, in a fatuous attempt to contain the damage. The Virginia Tech massacre was a real and traumatic event, one that perhaps forever pierced the notion of intellectual ambition as a form of insulation against the vulgarity of urban violence.
In many respects, I am a radical advocate of free speech, doomed and dwarfed thereby due to the worrisome rise of the digital global conglomerate, and rarely engage in the moral chastisement of cheap theatrical manipulations, but Bridget Fonda’s Single White Female falls into the same category as Chen‘s lame interpolation. The unedited scene of deceptively forced fellatio between Jennifer Jason Leigh and Steven Weber was a masturbation stimulant that I did not need to incorporate in the psyche of my delayed sexual maturity, but the scene made an indelible impact, this out of nothing but a B grade slasher formula dressed up by psychological excuses for purposes of justification, just another patriarchal brick thrown at the shrieking and hysterical female, not a few leagues past the range of veracity.
I’ve needed a bit of rest, trying to finish some much needed chores, remind myself that I actually was a writer before portals and search engines. At my age it's increasingly difficult, and in the rare instance that I view television to escape, I did not need that unexpected tantrum of blood and guts with a shiny Colt revolver and a bling starburst.
Meryl Streep presents herself as a translucent mirage in Dark Matter (2007), a progressive caught between multicultural faith and the reality of academic politics. Forget extrapolations. Chen’s direction and Shebar’s script are irresponsible in their rendition of events that transformed Gang Lu into a spree killer, with his goal perhaps being the elimination of an entire department. Liu Xing is too sympathetic as an alter, and the triggers that lead him to kill Aidan Quinn’s Reiser foreshadowed on the cheap, with tai ching intersplices dispersed between scenes; its binary closures of the women racing, both the attache and the mother, in a fatuous attempt to contain the damage. The Virginia Tech massacre was a real and traumatic event, one that perhaps forever pierced the notion of intellectual ambition as a form of insulation against the vulgarity of urban violence.
In many respects, I am a radical advocate of free speech, doomed and dwarfed thereby due to the worrisome rise of the digital global conglomerate, and rarely engage in the moral chastisement of cheap theatrical manipulations, but Bridget Fonda’s Single White Female falls into the same category as Chen‘s lame interpolation. The unedited scene of deceptively forced fellatio between Jennifer Jason Leigh and Steven Weber was a masturbation stimulant that I did not need to incorporate in the psyche of my delayed sexual maturity, but the scene made an indelible impact, this out of nothing but a B grade slasher formula dressed up by psychological excuses for purposes of justification, just another patriarchal brick thrown at the shrieking and hysterical female, not a few leagues past the range of veracity.
I’ve needed a bit of rest, trying to finish some much needed chores, remind myself that I actually was a writer before portals and search engines. At my age it's increasingly difficult, and in the rare instance that I view television to escape, I did not need that unexpected tantrum of blood and guts with a shiny Colt revolver and a bling starburst.
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