"I find the word 'cured' to be very difficult to define." --Julie Andrews
I am not going to dissect Arlington Road in the same manner that I attempted to flake from the mica of The Brothers Rico as a film; this is in part due to the fact that the agenda of Pellington and Kruger speaks for itself in the more contemporary narrative. The threat is from within, that the American self-reliant frontier mindset is its own cancer, perhaps a crab incurable, and as dark as any ultra right wing mentality with which it might be compared. Pellington also offers Easter eggs for the flavor of any ideologue.
These are my main points of complicit ambiguity, however, with the understanding, on your part, that I do not have access to the full technical issues surrounding the making of the movie:
1. Was the child Brady a deliberate lure, whether or not Fenimore was switch hitting on bringing Faraday in, or was intent on framing and sacrificing Faraday from the opening frame?
2. Was Hope Davis used in a dual role as girlfriend / operative to suggest that no one can be trusted? Towards the close of the film there is a student, a plant from Fenimore's apparently huge resistance to the federal, progressive sensibility. I cannot tell from the credits whether this woman is an extra cast because she looks like Davis, or she is Davis in a game of masquerade, but the implication is the same.
3. What were Pellington and Kruger implying when Robbins ends the film by telling Cusack "They'll let us know."?
Perhaps homo sapiens is limited and self-deluded by First Cause entrapments in politics and physics alike.
The cult of the icon, however, is the least plausible when it comes to the validity of fronts, props, and powers behind the throne. Are the Clintons, for instance, part of a left centrist snow job? No, not in the Machiavellian sense. Hillary did not drive Vince to his death. She and her husband have a passive aggressive self-justification that was perhaps not the best thing for the US at the time, but they did not run around DC saying "Kill the bastards."
I am not in the Hillary glee club, however, and I never liked her in any of her incarnations, though she receives a passing grade for getting out of State without causing riots in Montana. Marooned taps into the psychic scar tissues that the modern autocracy makes us pay, exacerbating them. Gregory is all too convincing as the operative who has to keep the government safe from its own fallibility, and this makes it more than a movie and closer to a crumbling edifice about the price we pay for the right stuff, how the feminine is hated even in stock objectification. That no one would raise a hand to the mechanized astronaut's wife doesn't mean she isn't discarded because it is necessary, and she knows that she is complicit in the deception thrust upon her.
In Rico the government is like a binary switch. On or off, dismissed until it is a necessary last resort. In Marooned, personified in the abstract of NASA, it is the new secular religion, and in Arlington, it is a duped and impotent eunuch.
Showing posts with label marooned. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marooned. Show all posts
Friday, March 22, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Wandering Rock
...the individual brain, even if outstanding, was lagging farther and farther below the dizzy peak which science and technology in their totality had reached.-- Alexander Blade
Part of the reason I chaff over Ulysses is that I plod, not making the time for an autopsy of due diligence, and should not have then spent the money, though it went to a good cause, as I am the child of the aesthetic underdog, but something about the Joycean idiolect gives me epileptic seizures, and this goes back to my reading of Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man when money wasn't my primary concern. Perhaps it is not important that I grasp it for you right now, why Marcel Proust is soul food and Joyce is an orbital emergency to battle. I should be able to appreciate the subversive characteristics of the leprechaun, and do, but there is an undercurrent of antagonism when I enter Joyce, as if I am being conned. With Sterne this is central. Frustrated expectations essentially serve as the reader's antagonist in this early post modern exploit, which I read, reread, never seem to finish, poor Shandy, still waiting for me to allow his mum to enter into labor, but it takes me more and more of an effort to accomplish my goals, brushing my now dry and brittle hair, hour and a half to dress, and that on a good day. I am wasting too much time, but if you go, and my physiology allows, I will see you here:
Part of the reason I chaff over Ulysses is that I plod, not making the time for an autopsy of due diligence, and should not have then spent the money, though it went to a good cause, as I am the child of the aesthetic underdog, but something about the Joycean idiolect gives me epileptic seizures, and this goes back to my reading of Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man when money wasn't my primary concern. Perhaps it is not important that I grasp it for you right now, why Marcel Proust is soul food and Joyce is an orbital emergency to battle. I should be able to appreciate the subversive characteristics of the leprechaun, and do, but there is an undercurrent of antagonism when I enter Joyce, as if I am being conned. With Sterne this is central. Frustrated expectations essentially serve as the reader's antagonist in this early post modern exploit, which I read, reread, never seem to finish, poor Shandy, still waiting for me to allow his mum to enter into labor, but it takes me more and more of an effort to accomplish my goals, brushing my now dry and brittle hair, hour and a half to dress, and that on a good day. I am wasting too much time, but if you go, and my physiology allows, I will see you here:
A dinner to benefit Bloomsday | ||||||
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Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Ostler Lone
The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Thomas Paine
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Transgressio, Urban Analogs
"... for the Baghdad I knew then seems now closer to the time of the Nights than it does to our own times." --Hussain Haddawy, The Arabian Nights, 1988 edition
Strange, the predilection for translators ventilating on their under-appreciated art, this failed child of the sixties marooned in the void between Drexel, Temple, and University of Pennsylvania campuses, respectively, the latter of which is not Ivy League, but sticks its nasal accent up your ass with well mannered decorum, though what it shares with the other two is the specter of inner city crime hanging over your shoulder. Our society both was and wasn't the film that, though now fallen victim to kitsch, is in some ways ruthlessly modern, minimalist. The female actors potted plants, aerosol air and glued eyelashes, tears and widow weeds ready. It owes a debt to Kubrick, as does Mr. Soames. District 9 pays subtle homage to analog aspirations, and Blomkamp takes his work seriously. Earned undying gratitude.
I should be going to sleep, and this post may not ply so deeply due to this salient fact, but perhaps I should refine my parameters. The hate in my marrow has more to do with the void closing in on me, like our bodies daring the overwhelming entry into space, and our sheer insignificance in it. This is not the constriction I wanted to settle for, state socialism, an exploited body everyone else earns a living on, though I too, must plead guilty of having done the same. I am imposed upon, with fewer and fewer choices not to be so, but let's get Copernican. We all know Manhattan is the center of the universe, representative of every urban environment, whether cosmopolitan or provincial slummers who never get much beyond the radius of their street block, with an encompassing loss or longing, an interior with its own macular degeneration. I lived in Manhattan, never fully absorbed it, exactly the same and not the same as Philadelphia.
Strange, the predilection for translators ventilating on their under-appreciated art, this failed child of the sixties marooned in the void between Drexel, Temple, and University of Pennsylvania campuses, respectively, the latter of which is not Ivy League, but sticks its nasal accent up your ass with well mannered decorum, though what it shares with the other two is the specter of inner city crime hanging over your shoulder. Our society both was and wasn't the film that, though now fallen victim to kitsch, is in some ways ruthlessly modern, minimalist. The female actors potted plants, aerosol air and glued eyelashes, tears and widow weeds ready. It owes a debt to Kubrick, as does Mr. Soames. District 9 pays subtle homage to analog aspirations, and Blomkamp takes his work seriously. Earned undying gratitude.
I should be going to sleep, and this post may not ply so deeply due to this salient fact, but perhaps I should refine my parameters. The hate in my marrow has more to do with the void closing in on me, like our bodies daring the overwhelming entry into space, and our sheer insignificance in it. This is not the constriction I wanted to settle for, state socialism, an exploited body everyone else earns a living on, though I too, must plead guilty of having done the same. I am imposed upon, with fewer and fewer choices not to be so, but let's get Copernican. We all know Manhattan is the center of the universe, representative of every urban environment, whether cosmopolitan or provincial slummers who never get much beyond the radius of their street block, with an encompassing loss or longing, an interior with its own macular degeneration. I lived in Manhattan, never fully absorbed it, exactly the same and not the same as Philadelphia.
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