Corman's Austerity Complex

Rebecca is a grim anatomy of wifehood. -- Nina Auerbach

What conceits does Ray Milland bring to bear on patriarchal assurance? An underlying unease, doubt, and a splintering breakage as doom closes in or threatens to overtake him. He sacrifices the blond goddess in much the same way Jon Avnet seems to be having a dialectical argument with himself over the torture and asphyxiation of Asian women. Avnet needs to cease directing films; his repugnance is different in kind from the cult affections we reserve for Roger Corman. Why do we harbor them? Corman knew how to use the anxiety of our mastery, unlike Nita Farahany, who believes we can regulate our genomic modifications to ourselves. Now now. Dr. Farahany holds her own with the boys and their age old junk swagger, knows her science, and can unravel a red herring, or two, but if we accept the science of Carbon 14 dating and other empirical measures of time, life on Earth is roughly a billion years into existence, and may have died and started again under many big bangs and impactions, not to imitate Liu Xing, so it may not be all that precious in evolutionary terms, but any species ought to be cautious over Utopian manipulation.

Corman takes Milland on jump cuts that Jeff Goldblum would not dream of in remakes of old classics, (though women risk it all for the tight wad and the naughty Jewish lad gone astray for nearly the same reason) and I think it would be difficult for any madman to gouge out his own eyes, but X is the cracker jack at the dawn of medical model hygiene as a police state, and anticipates our own dismantling through magnetic resonance imagining, at least through indirection.

The dilemma for radical libertarianism is that as a philosophy it is already and quite fatally doomed. Google may be a quite playful giant, and it has allowed me to skirt the edges of some not so trollish sentiments. Amazon is just a huge retailer that gets its innovations and conveniences down, though how good it is for complex thinkers is an open question. NSA perishes with American power, regardless of what future interest builds on its technical prowess, but Mitchell's world of corporate holocaust down to the last resort is already here, and it will take over, regardless of Snowden, or the fact that Bradley Manning is an enemy of state because he wants a vagina. 

Epicanthic Majority

"I do this because I do not want to be silent anymore." Bia Ling

Some party officials involved in the toppling of Bo Xiliai must have been aware of Jon Avnet's ponderous, top heavy, flat on its face film, Red Corner. Taking in the reversals as mere stand in mechanisms, the playbook of corruption and paralysis is virtually the same in the mediocre legal thriller and in real world events in Chongqing.

Part of Avnet's problem as a director is that he creates an atmosphere of asphyxiation, then traps his actors in it, which neither realism nor dramatic tension can repair, aside from his fixation with the mutilation of the Asian female figure.

As to my irresponsibility with my terms of reference, this is laziness, and on better days my torpedoes will have better aim. One of the first activities I engaged in as a consultant for Liberty, when they were wealthier and rented space on city line, was feed an old woman in a chest brace spaghetti at a hastily organized luncheon which I believe was my responsibility. Whether it points to the utter uselessness of a higher education, I'll let you access for yourself. How it is indicative of human worth?

My vascular system is probably going to wig out in the near future, and I am going to try to get as much online detail up as I can before that, as disability center governance has always been a strategic game of spank the monkey.

It is due to the amazing tenacity of Allison Joseph, a woman who should be nominated as literary resource agent in chief, that one discovers more promising markets like Pentimento. I have not had time to study its content, but it has a better aesthetic focus than Breath & Shadow. I do not know if Chris Kuell is still with Ability Maine (he is), but it stands to reason that a blind editor should feel no shame in requesting sighted assistance for proofreading galleys. Pentimento may signify some incremental progress on the issue of quality standards.  

Hannibal's Antlers, Sauvignon Blanc

This last fact was the real issue, for the way grew straight from the moment one recognized that the poet essentially can't be concerned with the act of dying. Let him deal with the sickest of the sick, it is still by the act of living that they appeal to him -- Henry James

There is a preoccupation with 88 Minutes that is analogous to fascination with a ruined edifice, not that this is anything new in the subversions of how we entertain ourselves. Whatever Jon Avnet and Pacino intended, the end result of their two film partnerships, both of which I viewed as if invited to consume rancid mayonnaise, spells out a curious exhaustion, an interesting dialectic with superstardom, thriller formulas, going through the motions, slasher fears, and using Vancouver as a location, this last clause maintaining my consistency towards a dig at Canadian models. Look at William Forsythe's face as the film limps toward it's drooling close. The misdirected agent wants to be an obstacle to the (gangster) psychiatrist trying to get to the bottom of the puzzle. Forsythe is supposed to provide resistance. Pacino throws one of his hyper fits and the camera cuts to Forsythe's face as he simply says "okay". There is an unintended dichotomy here, as if Avnet falls out of the visual framework he never believed in the first place, and what we see is a worn out entity, the face of a tired character actor who might as well have been evocative of the Egyptian empire in disintegration after the death of Ramesses2.0.

Do we really believe in Pacino's vendetta riddled shrink? Julie Andrews gives a more plausible rendering as the analyst who gives in to being Burt Reynold's lover. She is able to exaggerate the clinician with more credibility than Pacino could command in this project. Whether he was on pain killers or not during filming, that he literally looks doped up sparks a conversation, perhaps not with the vibrant addict of Needle Park, but certainly with his dual interaction with Robert De Niro in Righteous Kill, which belies their struggle in Heat. Akin to what the end of Bronson's career signified via the Death Wish saga. Aesthetic malaise as a terminal disease.

My reference to Bryan Fuller's cinematic creativity with the countenance of Mads Mikkelsen has layered meanings I have left somewhat opaque, somewhat unexplained, but they apply here to both the Harris character and Pacino's aging flophouse strategy, its unintended disastrous result.

Fish, Chips, Tuberculous Hip

"Al Pacino was successful playing Richard the Third because he understood the nature of power." --Jerry McGuire, approximately

In the annals of local color, politics can still provide fonts of amusement, the representatives and constituents colliding like asteroids in the void. I am watching the auteur of the effeminate reconstructions implode Truman Capote, so I am typing slowly, still a student when I viewed his last television appearance--the actual person-- in 1984, obviously in the grip of alcoholic dementia, as is not quite the case with  Dick Cavett. We applaud Hoffman for his talent, and that seared underbelly he captures in relation to the wicked under bite of the homosexual male, one which provides theorists with their relentless apologias, yet if I assert how punishing LGBT interactions have been for me as a disabled woman trying to do the right thing on progressive rails, getting damaged, that is all of freak flag reactionism. In the end, it's all about the scaffold, how we build our towers. Weeping old woman, political aides. If I really do launch myself as a crusader in this twilight of my life, what will it amount to? Cripples will still sit discarded in lobbies, victims created on finer and finer threads of discrimination. Monogamy will still find its way into curiosity shops

Comfort food. Herring, hash browns, diced onion, oysters, olive oil. It took me two days to convince myself to prepare my favorite entree, to swallow my 1200 milligrams of salmon over it, and now I need my shower, to go buy tins of ground offal for my substitute feline children. The condition of my edition of To The Lighthouse is worse than the sweat of indifferent hygiene, however, a problem which seems to plague Jon Avnet's direction of 88 Minutes. The narrative is a world weary affect of an old man who pissed off his brand due to economic necessity. My heart still throbs when I look at Al Pacino on camera, but if you'd like me to strum it simply, I could kick him for being a mule. The opening rape scene is an exercise in graphic lack of tact, Pacino seems to wander around on location waiting for Hades to make up his mind about where the famous Italiano will spend eternity, and yet there is a sleazy subtext that someone like me recognizes, all the triggers that go off in superlative fucking of the mentor, or maintaining chastity in the sexual tension. I grew up with Mario Puzo. But his dramatic conceits which ossified the Sicilian stereotype was a love letter. Al seems determined to make us regret those dried petals in the scrap book, with that ridiculous bouffant. McDonough's first instincts to give up on acting were the correct ones.

I am beginning to learn that no one really knows what they're doing, and thus the exposure of the reporter will always be valid. I intend to keep going; if Google wants to shut me down when I hit hard, that is up to them. It is their service. I may obfuscate my agenda from time to time, but I do believe in my conviction that if I fight back, the next spastic may be spared the wicked corruption and trauma to which I have been subjected. Raising my voice has risks.

I am taking them.