"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale of Jackal
Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:
- genocide is politically generated
- resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
- war is an invention of modernity (right)
I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game.
I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades.
"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.
