I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation.
I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate.
I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback.
Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology.
And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.
Showing posts with label la piovra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label la piovra. Show all posts
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Resurrection's Security Detail
"Kate Simon reveals the special charms of the Umbrian hill towns, the enchantments of the Etruscan tomb paintings." Jacket blurb, The Places In Between
The injury which Ken Wahl sustained on the set of Wiseguy during the Tucci Pizzolo segment was mere happenstance, luck of the draw, much as his neck injury was bipedal carelessness, something which fame may aggrandize, and yet, if Umberto Eco wrote a pendulous attack on hermeneutics with his convoluted novel Foucault's Pendulum (read more than twice), it is not so easy for humans to dismiss pattern recognition. We're configured for it, and the familiar things of more vigorous adulthood are sometimes recognized with shock, recollected schematics much easier to grasp in scope: As an actor, Ken Wahl wore his emotions and his retro-eighties shag doo hairstyle on his sleeve, for me, back then, just more disco culture transplanted onto an organized crime drama which was already part of a bygone era, an era which Mario Puzo captured and magnified for studio players to glorify. Michael Corleone's power, in other words, went the way of the Kennedy brothers as martyrs. We either bury the JFK, RFK assassinations, and move on, knowing the Warren Commission never answered the public unease, or drive ourselves crazy.
Cannell's show was window dressing the moral ambiguities of the 20th century coning to a close, which Kevin Spacey capitalized on to become one of the greatest actors of his time, great acting for which we nearly lack a syntax. Where Wahl is an open book, easily read, even if personally unknown, Spacey is a manipulative master of a humane but ruthless center, even in lesser films, he has the uncanny ability to keep his audience suspended on the wire, until delivery of the dénouement where he triumphs, whether or not Wahl's face was in the mix. Enter contemporary surrealism of 2016, since we're all on twitter with its massive micro data aggregation. I'm there, Wahl's there, and my cancerous aunt, the few thousand like her who find social media alienating aren't, but they, with the dowager and Ken Wahl only two decades behind them, are dying, in their last years, tick tock. A disabled woman makes an attempt to be heartfelt in her usual birdshot method, to a heartthrob of yesteryear who inadvertently took the punishments to his physique that his character sustained for dramatic continuance, followed him and retweeted his adoptive cause and he returned the favor, and to discover that at 2am, just transferring, sent a shot of adrenaline right through her heart, as if she could roll straight back to her hormone raging thirties.
I felt vulnerable, and emailed my sister like a squealing teen, as if tomorrow my knight will finally appear to ride me out of this corrupt African majority city because an actor was conciliatory, if cautiously so, as I also wasn't raunchy in my outreach, also careful, because his past brought me back to a collegiate womanhood before the worst wounds became an inhumane pin cushion, because he made me feel like an Italian American who would have her man, as was once hoped, instead of portents in busted legs getting injured by cameramen, signifying lack of heed for omens, for civilization under strain, the weight of lethargy a valve into which old age invariably gets bottled. I am not conciliatory. I did not vote for Trump because I think conservatives will give me vindication before I buckle under my own weight. I'm not one of the mogul's supporters. I simply understand his insensitivity, and since I wanted to make a choice, afraid of dying, I picked the lack of empathy I myself have learned and roared and got reported for numerous times already, knowing the Clinton mendacity would be worse than a dickhead from New York. As the national voice of Jewish motherhood, Marcus is already in histrionics, but fair is fair. My notes, too, however, are ossifying on a familiar scale, because all I have are the search for signs, the hope for magical evasions of burgeoning helplessness. You might ask what's wrong that a fleeting connection made me feel flush? Nothing, but it is the vain strength of days bygone, since every defecation, every move I make, is a balance on a tightrope whose safety net is effervescent.
The injury which Ken Wahl sustained on the set of Wiseguy during the Tucci Pizzolo segment was mere happenstance, luck of the draw, much as his neck injury was bipedal carelessness, something which fame may aggrandize, and yet, if Umberto Eco wrote a pendulous attack on hermeneutics with his convoluted novel Foucault's Pendulum (read more than twice), it is not so easy for humans to dismiss pattern recognition. We're configured for it, and the familiar things of more vigorous adulthood are sometimes recognized with shock, recollected schematics much easier to grasp in scope: As an actor, Ken Wahl wore his emotions and his retro-eighties shag doo hairstyle on his sleeve, for me, back then, just more disco culture transplanted onto an organized crime drama which was already part of a bygone era, an era which Mario Puzo captured and magnified for studio players to glorify. Michael Corleone's power, in other words, went the way of the Kennedy brothers as martyrs. We either bury the JFK, RFK assassinations, and move on, knowing the Warren Commission never answered the public unease, or drive ourselves crazy.
Cannell's show was window dressing the moral ambiguities of the 20th century coning to a close, which Kevin Spacey capitalized on to become one of the greatest actors of his time, great acting for which we nearly lack a syntax. Where Wahl is an open book, easily read, even if personally unknown, Spacey is a manipulative master of a humane but ruthless center, even in lesser films, he has the uncanny ability to keep his audience suspended on the wire, until delivery of the dénouement where he triumphs, whether or not Wahl's face was in the mix. Enter contemporary surrealism of 2016, since we're all on twitter with its massive micro data aggregation. I'm there, Wahl's there, and my cancerous aunt, the few thousand like her who find social media alienating aren't, but they, with the dowager and Ken Wahl only two decades behind them, are dying, in their last years, tick tock. A disabled woman makes an attempt to be heartfelt in her usual birdshot method, to a heartthrob of yesteryear who inadvertently took the punishments to his physique that his character sustained for dramatic continuance, followed him and retweeted his adoptive cause and he returned the favor, and to discover that at 2am, just transferring, sent a shot of adrenaline right through her heart, as if she could roll straight back to her hormone raging thirties.
I felt vulnerable, and emailed my sister like a squealing teen, as if tomorrow my knight will finally appear to ride me out of this corrupt African majority city because an actor was conciliatory, if cautiously so, as I also wasn't raunchy in my outreach, also careful, because his past brought me back to a collegiate womanhood before the worst wounds became an inhumane pin cushion, because he made me feel like an Italian American who would have her man, as was once hoped, instead of portents in busted legs getting injured by cameramen, signifying lack of heed for omens, for civilization under strain, the weight of lethargy a valve into which old age invariably gets bottled. I am not conciliatory. I did not vote for Trump because I think conservatives will give me vindication before I buckle under my own weight. I'm not one of the mogul's supporters. I simply understand his insensitivity, and since I wanted to make a choice, afraid of dying, I picked the lack of empathy I myself have learned and roared and got reported for numerous times already, knowing the Clinton mendacity would be worse than a dickhead from New York. As the national voice of Jewish motherhood, Marcus is already in histrionics, but fair is fair. My notes, too, however, are ossifying on a familiar scale, because all I have are the search for signs, the hope for magical evasions of burgeoning helplessness. You might ask what's wrong that a fleeting connection made me feel flush? Nothing, but it is the vain strength of days bygone, since every defecation, every move I make, is a balance on a tightrope whose safety net is effervescent.
Friday, January 22, 2016
The Strength of Apostasy, a good marina sauce
"A science that strives to understand apostasy as a thoroughly social phenomenon has much to gain by recognizing the members of this curious class [...] for what they are."-- David A Bromley, The Politics of Religious Apostasy, p 116
Ray Liotta's poc-marked projection of shell shocked disembodiment is perfectly diachronic between slumming it with Scorsese in Goofellas, to the complexities of the present day. Nothing is so clearly delineated anymore between our villains, our heroes, our collusions, and though one might grow weary of seeing him parody Machiavellian duplicity until his inevitable murder rectifies the situation, he's done it for so long that he manages to make it a high art in this new high octane series, though we might not take away anything fresh, and J-Lo is as Halle Berry still convincing herself she's the diva cop of yore, retreading Angel Eyes and Enough, as if we haven't seen enough of the tight T-shirt braggadocio to know its keynotes.
Italians have always known this however, even in the classic era. The Republicans assassinate Augustus to "save" the Republic-- in essence to keep power divested, only to initiate the monarchical divine reign of the aristocracy -- which only begins its real death throes in 1945, as opposed to 475 AD.
Perelli's La Piovra, with its grisly lurking cowardice, may no longer be "what it was," according to Wapo, but it is now organic, part of the entire textile which make up Euro-Asian societies as a whole, and it takes a special kind of apostate, one as zealous as Wozniak, to blow the whistle and cleanse procedure once boundaries get too muddied. Did the shock value of the homosexual liaison subvert expectations? Perhaps, but it seemed more like an exploitation fuck which thankfully wasn't overtly faked, the kind which victimizes wheelchair users repeatedly. If we were against Henry Hill in Scorsese's little blood bling, we look at Wozniak, and with secret glee hopes he walks out of a bloodbath with Liotta's trademark "ehnanana" Quite a turn within a quarter century.
Ray Liotta's poc-marked projection of shell shocked disembodiment is perfectly diachronic between slumming it with Scorsese in Goofellas, to the complexities of the present day. Nothing is so clearly delineated anymore between our villains, our heroes, our collusions, and though one might grow weary of seeing him parody Machiavellian duplicity until his inevitable murder rectifies the situation, he's done it for so long that he manages to make it a high art in this new high octane series, though we might not take away anything fresh, and J-Lo is as Halle Berry still convincing herself she's the diva cop of yore, retreading Angel Eyes and Enough, as if we haven't seen enough of the tight T-shirt braggadocio to know its keynotes.
Italians have always known this however, even in the classic era. The Republicans assassinate Augustus to "save" the Republic-- in essence to keep power divested, only to initiate the monarchical divine reign of the aristocracy -- which only begins its real death throes in 1945, as opposed to 475 AD.
Perelli's La Piovra, with its grisly lurking cowardice, may no longer be "what it was," according to Wapo, but it is now organic, part of the entire textile which make up Euro-Asian societies as a whole, and it takes a special kind of apostate, one as zealous as Wozniak, to blow the whistle and cleanse procedure once boundaries get too muddied. Did the shock value of the homosexual liaison subvert expectations? Perhaps, but it seemed more like an exploitation fuck which thankfully wasn't overtly faked, the kind which victimizes wheelchair users repeatedly. If we were against Henry Hill in Scorsese's little blood bling, we look at Wozniak, and with secret glee hopes he walks out of a bloodbath with Liotta's trademark "ehnanana" Quite a turn within a quarter century.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Pizzo
"Intuitive improvisation is the secret to genius"-- Christopher Walken, playfully Zorin
On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."
Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.
I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.
On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."
Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.
I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Immersion to the Abdomen
"Where are the important families?" -- Michele Placido
The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.
And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.
Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.
The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.
And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.
Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
La Cattiva Strada
Somebody moved behind the brown door: first on the left, then on the right; first footsteps, then a muted rumpling of fabric and the clanking of pots; the concierge's grey eyes seemed to penetrate the wood in pursuit of the invisible noise.-- Georges Simenon, The Engagement
It isn't that one doesn't perceive the strategism within the provincial puzzles of Andrea Camilleri; Simenon was one of his influences, and it shows in the flowering absurdity and pathos of his local color. His narratives are as much about the terrible transmutation of the Old World into contemporary materialism, the one vomiting into the other with the repugnance of centuries old collapse, as they are about the fraud and corruption which truly besiege the carabinieri and all of Europe. Less murder, more graft. In the States, regardless of ethnicity, to an extent, most murders are an emotional argument: kill the wife and stage a suicide, get rid of the bitch on my ass, or go serial predator to assuage the corrosion of pathological pain. Americans go postal, enjoy blockbuster slaughter. Europe, excepting the transplantation of the mafisio, whose golden age was killed off by the ruthlessness of the FBI, is a bit different. The players are dirty, do business off the books, and authors obfuscate their real critique by leaving a dead body around; that real critique takes aim at provincialism, dirty money, and the plight of migrants, like Pakistanis who leave the volatility of the Iron Triangle, only to be victimized beneath placid milk white surfaces. For the more swarthy Sicilians, who aren't as European as the Germans, the stigma may envelop Tunisians, but for Camilleri, it is the same formula as other mystery writers from the Continent, his progressive cues play out a bit differently than they do in American class conflicts. Spastic cripples like Bejou are simply what they are, dirty, unwashed, going off under stress, part of the comic poke of Italian effacement after centuries of diminishing hegemony.
The problem: Luca Zingaretti's screwball antics, especially when played off Peppino Mazzotta, feel forced by Rai television, and the mesh of the horrific lengths to which the criminal will go against the scatological gossip filling in the blanks doesn't quite work, not that Rai does err on the side of grandiosity, but Zingaretti is an insult to true Roman heritage, may he dormire con i pesci, grinding my teeth. You cannot win them all.
It isn't that one doesn't perceive the strategism within the provincial puzzles of Andrea Camilleri; Simenon was one of his influences, and it shows in the flowering absurdity and pathos of his local color. His narratives are as much about the terrible transmutation of the Old World into contemporary materialism, the one vomiting into the other with the repugnance of centuries old collapse, as they are about the fraud and corruption which truly besiege the carabinieri and all of Europe. Less murder, more graft. In the States, regardless of ethnicity, to an extent, most murders are an emotional argument: kill the wife and stage a suicide, get rid of the bitch on my ass, or go serial predator to assuage the corrosion of pathological pain. Americans go postal, enjoy blockbuster slaughter. Europe, excepting the transplantation of the mafisio, whose golden age was killed off by the ruthlessness of the FBI, is a bit different. The players are dirty, do business off the books, and authors obfuscate their real critique by leaving a dead body around; that real critique takes aim at provincialism, dirty money, and the plight of migrants, like Pakistanis who leave the volatility of the Iron Triangle, only to be victimized beneath placid milk white surfaces. For the more swarthy Sicilians, who aren't as European as the Germans, the stigma may envelop Tunisians, but for Camilleri, it is the same formula as other mystery writers from the Continent, his progressive cues play out a bit differently than they do in American class conflicts. Spastic cripples like Bejou are simply what they are, dirty, unwashed, going off under stress, part of the comic poke of Italian effacement after centuries of diminishing hegemony.
The problem: Luca Zingaretti's screwball antics, especially when played off Peppino Mazzotta, feel forced by Rai television, and the mesh of the horrific lengths to which the criminal will go against the scatological gossip filling in the blanks doesn't quite work, not that Rai does err on the side of grandiosity, but Zingaretti is an insult to true Roman heritage, may he dormire con i pesci, grinding my teeth. You cannot win them all.
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