"he is such a tool!"-- dated slang, isn't it?
To the extent the three commercial networks are still relevant, ABC caters to our high school sensibilities, through shows as divergent as Ugly Betty, American Crime, and How To Get Away With Murder. I can respect Viola Davis even if African American pathology has scored on me once too often. She wears world weariness just like a stocky David Morse with breasts, moral guilt transcribed on their countenances. I only saw the season finale of _Murder_, and to the extent these legal dramas have changed, embodied in The Good Wife, they feed our cynicism, confirming sleaze tactics of the powerful. Davis may be a good actress, and I may even agree with Ebert that she elevated Doubt, as a movie, which was supposed to have more moral ambiguity embedded in it, something theater may do better than celluloid, but I haven't missed anything through lack of interest in her serial. The diarrhea scene in the Norwegian Half Brother was worth a million minutes of US air time, though the kinetic motion of this European serial didn't seize me either. CBS either deliberately or through inability, cannot evade a made for television look, and NBC clings to Dick Wolf.
Taken was a nice pilot, suitable for the Trump era, however brief, or otherwise entrenched the Trump administration may be, but the sneak peak makes it little more than a tactical Criminal Minds, with its work wife hills and dales between the ensemble. Fuck the profile. It is the sniper training that counts, and became instantly anti-climatic thereby.
I am very depressed. If I could, I'd roll away from Riverside Presbyterian tomorrow, with chump change in my checking account, a fecal stained foam cushion under my dry buttock with its rectal hidden pressure sore. I do not believe human compassion, human pity, will help me, but the lance of fury beneath my ribs cannot withstand it much longer. Exactly how do I think I'm going to avoid medical incarceration? Magic? Someone on social media will loan me a garage? I have not acted, yet, with my jabs at HUD (fuck them) and the Philadelphia Human Relations Commission. Tom Earle, their chair, met with me in 01 and did nothing, absolutely nothing, to investigate the trauma Liberty Resources practiced on my ensuing calamity, which their case management team plied with compounded interest through 06. I keep telling myself to wait, put the dossier together, find some legal help. I am not going to make it. What I've had to carry has a time limit; too much to endure.
As I have stated before in earlier posts, there is a part of me that wants to return to the hard Roman Catholicism of the past, the brutally hard faith that makes Mel Gibson believe his anti-Semiticism is its own self-justification; the kind of hard faith that allows for anti-homosexual attitudes, in point of fact. I am not hostile to the civil expansion of gay rights because I am repressing my sexual desire to eat pussy and suck boobs. I had my trial by fire. I am anti-homosexual because celebrating and making this orientation equal to the positive life force of procreation is a moral corruption, even if it has perfectly acceptable biological explanations. Biology, indeed, the very process of evolution is brutal, and that brutality has plenty of side pockets for evil to fester, just as most of us feel that a cancer, just sitting inside the body, doing its thing, is evil, even if its cellular mechanisms can be objectively explained as a process. In his Granta essay about his disease and his drug use, and Granta loves this detached descriptive darkness of our interior destructive impulses, I've read enough of the periodical over the years to know this even without concurrence, Will Self writes that he had to come to hate his drug use in order to survive and overcome it. I wanted to write to Will, on the heels of finishing his essay, and have not. His dissonance would not necessarily connect with mine, and he is working his assignments; I have yet to reestablish myself. To take from his example, however, while my epidermis shrivels up and crunches, a pork rind, I am forced to use intolerance for the same ends: to survive being a loser and treated like my former supervisor's whelp bitch, and my trust again violated by Josie Byzek, I have had to roll up the draw bridge. Something of this dynamic is what John Patrick Shanley deploys in Doubt (2008 for the film); my hearing loss is an issue in my attempt to view this movie properly, but I saw it again this morning in the full force of its impact, and the way the theater parable was translated to the screen actually makes me thirst to compare a well directed stage performance. Even though this is my third view of the movie, I am too moved at this moment for aesthetic distance of the sort that no doubt would give me a larger and more comfortable audience-- but I am sacrificing popularity for the sake of my agenda, even if that agenda will not necessarily be preserved by a current content account. Somehow, maybe my outcry will survive, and in the future, the worst of CIL cruelity can be reformed and held in check.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ubi_caritas
And, by the same token, the worst of public housing contracts which lead to corruption and hypocrisy can one day be held in check. But I will mention one or two things about this film. The set director nailed the historical context, even with the sisters' habits, though I am not familiar with the particular type of bonnet the nuns wore, and I enjoyed Philip Seymour Hoffman as Father Flynn. It was a well nuanced performance, one of the few times his talent really honed in with trouble and ambiguity.
