For by the 1970's, opposition to the allegedly uniformitarian strictures of the Enlightenment was rampant throughout universities in Europe and America," Isaiah Berlin's Counter-Enlightenment, Vol 93--Joseph Mali, Robert Wokler,eds.
Though it surpasses anything on American public broadcast, Anno 1790 is a disgraced handmaiden in comparison to Nicolas le Floch, so blatantly as it follows the French model. Jerome Robart may play his titled detective as sympathetic to the hysterical masses in France who would behead poor Louie 16 and his hated queen, but Jerome's Nicolas understands the aristocracy in its concourse with mercantilism, and his role as a chameleon between the court, his boss, and the bug-eyed piss pot Parisian barker, serves as the sinews trying to hold things together. Anno 1790 is somewhat more strident, messier, a bit gruesome, less playful, and no audience truly cares about corruption in Sweden's historical court. Without so much as a breath on Google, name a Swedish monarch.
Exactly. Where Floch is more piercing about sexual duplicity, Anno is more intense about the consequences of forbidden sexual liaisons, offers up incest, anarchy, serial child murder, the torture of the police state and the guerrilla strikes against it, abortion, the struggle for woman's suffrage, all in one breath, and Protestants could have hardly been so progressive in the fin de siecle close on Immanuel Kant as the greatest moral philosopher of the era, if in the 21st century, the doxology serves as a shield for corruption, negligence, in the essential incompatibility between individual choice and social conformity . This blogger's hostility toward homosexuality and its mimical evasions runs counter to personhood and choice, and counter to the necessity for a falling birth rate, the culling of the elderly, and the advocacy to terminate known disabled fetuses, and yes, I believe it would have been more merciful to let the majority of spastic quads die in birth.
For my regular viewers, seriously, what's my future, even supposing I pick up limited employment, pop a few tranquilizers? It is difficult to provide you with a description of how I might have defined success before biological entropy, but Presby's agents constantly browbeating me over cleanliness wasn't it. Like Steve Jobs, I stick my imaginary feet in the toilet. He died a cult icon over fetish for touch interface. I'll be lucky to leave Race Street in one piece, not pining for fame, but a sense of accomplishment, that is another matter.
Showing posts with label nicolas le floch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nicolas le floch. Show all posts
Monday, November 9, 2015
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Zandy's Bride
"It is helpful to follow Kant's lead, and to think about the Enlightenment as a series of interlocking, and sometimes warring problems and debates."--Dorinda Outram
There is a fleeting moment in Nicolas Le Floch, in or around the 2010 series where young Louis has yet to meet the guillotine, where Jerome, in costume, lying on the grass, is in process of proposing marriage to the casting director's vision of Nicolas's true love, an admiral's daughter, if I am not mistaken, and both actors momentarily merge irony and come out of character with a shared complicity between them, and if I was even seven years younger and healthier, Jerome Robart would have my shallow exuberance of candy gloss lust stalking his heels because of his ability to seduce with such imperfect witticism, such beautiful eyes, so prospective, limpid almond irises reminiscent of my puppy love for the instructor who wanted to upper track me for Harvard, I can never allow myself to long like that again, but remember. Where were we, John and I? Chance meeting in the dim murky interior of the library. He sat, as I am always sitting-- what is it like to walk? I can never know-- I said something, one of my spastic things before my contorted sensibilities fell over themselves in my dormitory bunk. I said something that amused the Tassoni with a fuller mane on his head, weird hair, almost frizzy, and his his eyes too held what a man's eyes hold and any woman worth her salt wants and dared to hope.
No one thinks about dropping acid at such times, or his alcoholism, or the belabored cutting of rejection curdled into bitterness, or his pedagogical dryness so easily settled into in middle age. I don't know Gail at all, but can easily project myself into their relationship and hold my nose apace while she tugs John along by his nose ring. (I knew him well enough once to know that all his intellectual efforts as a good environmentalist are to please her, and part of me says "ew!")
I never had that look that Jerome projects with such tasty poignancy. I've had men, and Frank, but Frank is too stupid to realize, within himself, that he wanted me so that I would pamper, baby him, and let him manhandle my body like an impotent rapist; as a half bred pig, that was neither desire nor love, and the very fact that he didn't fight to keep me says enough about that, in our fickle human hearts, why an invalid dared to aspire to that level of normalcy in her youth, still does, not partial, barring sensory deficits like blindness or hearing loss, to disabled men, not accepting the reality of ableism, that I can't say. Activists, like the ailing Cassie James, might say it is a delusional escape valve, but neither masculine class ever really chose to see me before they saw the spastic savant, and as Jerome said, with a trill of bemusement, relieved that the take was concluding, "C'est dure!"
Clarity Media sent me my severance commission, and that too is an irony of embittered circumstance, wondering if I'm waiting for a final breaking point despite the shattering crises of the turn of the century's fresh decade. What do we have left within the embers?
There is a fleeting moment in Nicolas Le Floch, in or around the 2010 series where young Louis has yet to meet the guillotine, where Jerome, in costume, lying on the grass, is in process of proposing marriage to the casting director's vision of Nicolas's true love, an admiral's daughter, if I am not mistaken, and both actors momentarily merge irony and come out of character with a shared complicity between them, and if I was even seven years younger and healthier, Jerome Robart would have my shallow exuberance of candy gloss lust stalking his heels because of his ability to seduce with such imperfect witticism, such beautiful eyes, so prospective, limpid almond irises reminiscent of my puppy love for the instructor who wanted to upper track me for Harvard, I can never allow myself to long like that again, but remember. Where were we, John and I? Chance meeting in the dim murky interior of the library. He sat, as I am always sitting-- what is it like to walk? I can never know-- I said something, one of my spastic things before my contorted sensibilities fell over themselves in my dormitory bunk. I said something that amused the Tassoni with a fuller mane on his head, weird hair, almost frizzy, and his his eyes too held what a man's eyes hold and any woman worth her salt wants and dared to hope.
No one thinks about dropping acid at such times, or his alcoholism, or the belabored cutting of rejection curdled into bitterness, or his pedagogical dryness so easily settled into in middle age. I don't know Gail at all, but can easily project myself into their relationship and hold my nose apace while she tugs John along by his nose ring. (I knew him well enough once to know that all his intellectual efforts as a good environmentalist are to please her, and part of me says "ew!")
I never had that look that Jerome projects with such tasty poignancy. I've had men, and Frank, but Frank is too stupid to realize, within himself, that he wanted me so that I would pamper, baby him, and let him manhandle my body like an impotent rapist; as a half bred pig, that was neither desire nor love, and the very fact that he didn't fight to keep me says enough about that, in our fickle human hearts, why an invalid dared to aspire to that level of normalcy in her youth, still does, not partial, barring sensory deficits like blindness or hearing loss, to disabled men, not accepting the reality of ableism, that I can't say. Activists, like the ailing Cassie James, might say it is a delusional escape valve, but neither masculine class ever really chose to see me before they saw the spastic savant, and as Jerome said, with a trill of bemusement, relieved that the take was concluding, "C'est dure!"
Clarity Media sent me my severance commission, and that too is an irony of embittered circumstance, wondering if I'm waiting for a final breaking point despite the shattering crises of the turn of the century's fresh decade. What do we have left within the embers?
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
The Vertigo of Popeye Doyle
This Prince, in the year 1744, while hastening from one end of his kingdom to the other, and suspending his conquests in Flanders that he might fly to the assistance of Alsace, was arrested at Metz by a malady which threatened to cut short his days. At the news of this, Paris, all in terror, seemed a city taken by storm.-- Thomas Carlyle, The Death of Louis XV
Alain Delon's stagger in his take on the procedural, Frank Riva, is meant to echo the chic swagger of youthful virility. His sang froid serving to explain why every woman in six hours worth of video forgives his abandonment of them is the tired apologia of European cinema. His nemesis, Jacques Perrin, has an interesting ambidextrous hovering over the playing field for 90 minutes, only then to devolve Xavier into a monotone of unipolar spite which is too strident to hold any further viewing interest, but the series plays Gene Hackman on his deathbed, still playing the French Connection on an intravenous line. People who should be dead relics are only playing possum, and everyone is compromised in some way, caught in the scars which last lifetimes, well into a fourth generation. Maxime Loggia takes quite a beating, and then, in an anachronistic absurdity, gets thrown out of his ruthless uncle's jet.
But why do French dramatists feel beholden to a film, nearly a half century old, where American cowboys made a dent but never got their man? Is this something European weariness is projecting? It's own antiquity? In Nicolas Le Floch it is a dynamic antiquity, a little too smooth, but not incorrect in the assertion that this is where the modern world begins, in the compassionate savagery of the Enlightenment, just as Rai gets the pathos in De Luca just right: This is my Italy, the post Mussolini world that created my twilight, my tenement demise in a provincial backwater created and landscaped by Quakers, their utopia little more than nigger bling. It is not a block, as per twitter's sugared enthusiasm, only a cripple's death, buffeted by one form of brutality after another.
Alain Delon's stagger in his take on the procedural, Frank Riva, is meant to echo the chic swagger of youthful virility. His sang froid serving to explain why every woman in six hours worth of video forgives his abandonment of them is the tired apologia of European cinema. His nemesis, Jacques Perrin, has an interesting ambidextrous hovering over the playing field for 90 minutes, only then to devolve Xavier into a monotone of unipolar spite which is too strident to hold any further viewing interest, but the series plays Gene Hackman on his deathbed, still playing the French Connection on an intravenous line. People who should be dead relics are only playing possum, and everyone is compromised in some way, caught in the scars which last lifetimes, well into a fourth generation. Maxime Loggia takes quite a beating, and then, in an anachronistic absurdity, gets thrown out of his ruthless uncle's jet.
But why do French dramatists feel beholden to a film, nearly a half century old, where American cowboys made a dent but never got their man? Is this something European weariness is projecting? It's own antiquity? In Nicolas Le Floch it is a dynamic antiquity, a little too smooth, but not incorrect in the assertion that this is where the modern world begins, in the compassionate savagery of the Enlightenment, just as Rai gets the pathos in De Luca just right: This is my Italy, the post Mussolini world that created my twilight, my tenement demise in a provincial backwater created and landscaped by Quakers, their utopia little more than nigger bling. It is not a block, as per twitter's sugared enthusiasm, only a cripple's death, buffeted by one form of brutality after another.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Inundated Drives, on Brioche toast
I do not give a rat's ass in hell that I am eight years older than Jerome Robart. There is some intangible quality about French seduction and French fucking and with one little turn of the key, with a trophy love like this, I would have been a satisfied and happy woman, in love with life. Please, please, help me kneel like the actress who plays Sabine (or Satin), in one last false bloom, my spastic grip on his ass riding the rocking horse, I once had a reputation for dedicated oral sex and I would bury my face in his testes and gladly suffocate; no wonder poor Maupassant went insane with syphilis. What the fuck is it about European men? And you do not tell me about Nicolas Le Floch? Wicked viewers.
When I stop fervently straining to harvest the last of my nectar for the heaven of such a seduction, by the mother of Christ, Robart's subtly might inspire some rosette synapses to brilliance. Don't grow old bereft for such unions of masculine definition, if you heed nothing else from me, feel your passion and live it fiercely. Go after it, if I only had.
---------
There is a trollop at play, and an undercurrent of truth to the fact that Robart's role in a Enlightenment era procedural ignites frustration. My ex fiance tried, early on in our failed liaison, to ignite the same sparks one can find in a Paris boudoir, but I did not love the man, and he could not persuade me with such attributes as he had that others assumed made Frank and I a couple who were suited for each other: Everyone around the neighborhood called him my husband, when I could still get him out of his bed, and this says something about outward appearances over interior dissatisfaction, Jerome may not be picture perfect, which is a deterrent in George Clooney, but what he does with the bemused wrinkle of those almond eyes, Robart.
Fuck. I must go to Europe to die. It is imperative, even if difficulties are paramount.
When I stop fervently straining to harvest the last of my nectar for the heaven of such a seduction, by the mother of Christ, Robart's subtly might inspire some rosette synapses to brilliance. Don't grow old bereft for such unions of masculine definition, if you heed nothing else from me, feel your passion and live it fiercely. Go after it, if I only had.
---------
There is a trollop at play, and an undercurrent of truth to the fact that Robart's role in a Enlightenment era procedural ignites frustration. My ex fiance tried, early on in our failed liaison, to ignite the same sparks one can find in a Paris boudoir, but I did not love the man, and he could not persuade me with such attributes as he had that others assumed made Frank and I a couple who were suited for each other: Everyone around the neighborhood called him my husband, when I could still get him out of his bed, and this says something about outward appearances over interior dissatisfaction, Jerome may not be picture perfect, which is a deterrent in George Clooney, but what he does with the bemused wrinkle of those almond eyes, Robart.
Fuck. I must go to Europe to die. It is imperative, even if difficulties are paramount.
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