"Sandy, God is not a democracy."-- Reverend James Liddell
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Showing posts with label outer limits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label outer limits. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Dragon's Hundred
It's always the eyewitnesses to an event that can provide the most powerful testimony--Indoctrination
Hundred Days aired seven months to the day I was born, and of all the Outer Limits episodes in its initial tacky two year run, this tap into America's Maoist hangover made its indelible impression, cheap play on the Manchurian Candidate it may be, I believed the Communists were capable of such parasitic infiltration, haunted by the death masks and skin molded like putty, as laughable as it is, Pine shutting down a Washington engagement with a minimalism that would make Vice President Biden blush, and Sidney Blackmer using mincing eye movements as a substitute for Pavlovian stimulus. Childhood naivety superimposes itself on mature depreciation of camp. "Dragon," "The Mutant," and "Feasibility Study," these provoke powerful emotions still when they run at four am, whatever the popularity of Zanti Misfits as best in concept, lying to first professor. "What did you read coming up? Science fiction?" Yes I did but down played it with false pretensions, the only time, I believe. I read copious tomes of science fiction, filled my fucking bloody head with it, and God-genius divined that with one look at me. I wasn't about to give in, you see. Is it his memory I hate or my asinine, totally asinine worship-- if the man had told me Ho Chi Minh was a savoir, I would have went home to my father saying Korean servicemen were pigs and padre would have thrown me in the basement. Yes, I know, some students even fuck them, teachers, marry them, even in South Korea, wind up utterly disillusioned. Jerry was the only good thing that ever happened to me (or not). He was not Linda Dezenski, abusive manager, did not take advantage of me, encouraged whatever the fuck it was I possessed, and I'm throwing magnificent literary tantrums, my father cursing my every accomplishment, his dying guilt superimposed on my failing airways. "No one is going to put you away."
Dad has himself been putting me away, aged 9. Then 13, 16, my high school graduation. Consigning myself to a certain shorter lifespan, I had resolved to give notice on my lease this week, releasing myself to vehement castigation of Trudy Richardson, but one or two things dampen the pulse, Karina either being offline or blocked me, which I might reasonably expect, though she said she'd help me pack, nightmares of the Taipei crash play like a mechanized Seaworld kill. No one believes political ideology with such stark lines of demarcation, but this doesn't mean the heirs to Amazon and Google won't have a hard on for microchips, their implantation, stimulus, response.
Hundred Days aired seven months to the day I was born, and of all the Outer Limits episodes in its initial tacky two year run, this tap into America's Maoist hangover made its indelible impression, cheap play on the Manchurian Candidate it may be, I believed the Communists were capable of such parasitic infiltration, haunted by the death masks and skin molded like putty, as laughable as it is, Pine shutting down a Washington engagement with a minimalism that would make Vice President Biden blush, and Sidney Blackmer using mincing eye movements as a substitute for Pavlovian stimulus. Childhood naivety superimposes itself on mature depreciation of camp. "Dragon," "The Mutant," and "Feasibility Study," these provoke powerful emotions still when they run at four am, whatever the popularity of Zanti Misfits as best in concept, lying to first professor. "What did you read coming up? Science fiction?" Yes I did but down played it with false pretensions, the only time, I believe. I read copious tomes of science fiction, filled my fucking bloody head with it, and God-genius divined that with one look at me. I wasn't about to give in, you see. Is it his memory I hate or my asinine, totally asinine worship-- if the man had told me Ho Chi Minh was a savoir, I would have went home to my father saying Korean servicemen were pigs and padre would have thrown me in the basement. Yes, I know, some students even fuck them, teachers, marry them, even in South Korea, wind up utterly disillusioned. Jerry was the only good thing that ever happened to me (or not). He was not Linda Dezenski, abusive manager, did not take advantage of me, encouraged whatever the fuck it was I possessed, and I'm throwing magnificent literary tantrums, my father cursing my every accomplishment, his dying guilt superimposed on my failing airways. "No one is going to put you away."
Dad has himself been putting me away, aged 9. Then 13, 16, my high school graduation. Consigning myself to a certain shorter lifespan, I had resolved to give notice on my lease this week, releasing myself to vehement castigation of Trudy Richardson, but one or two things dampen the pulse, Karina either being offline or blocked me, which I might reasonably expect, though she said she'd help me pack, nightmares of the Taipei crash play like a mechanized Seaworld kill. No one believes political ideology with such stark lines of demarcation, but this doesn't mean the heirs to Amazon and Google won't have a hard on for microchips, their implantation, stimulus, response.
Shrewd Baby Blue Eyes, the Annoyance Recur
"Maybe, but if I win I can buy any doctor I want."-- Stephen Lang taunting the case for megalomania in Dead Man's Gun
Though Vancouver's take on America's mythology of its historical brutality leaves viewers frustrated with the case for domestic tranquility, Temptests makes the strongest argument North Hollywood can bring to bear. Does Hanson allude to Shakespeare's final and defiant play? I cannot snap my fingers with found correspondences for your edification, but the teleplay nicely turns on the dime with the argument that neither reality the lead actor doubts and believes is the correct reality, and we humans, sophisticated primates, believing we'll conquer space time, are conquered by alien arthropods the size of a forearm. Let that be a lesson to you. Nicely done bit of bemusement. Stephen Lang is not quite as strong as an archetype of compromised moral decency. The mad scientist who wrongly rouses a cadaver, then kills his murderer, his corpse, (surprise!) still fresh enough to regenerate, the lessons of conscience bringing him back to humility, scorched away from the violence of divine aspiration. He does the same thing for Showtime's rendering of the latter day American west, playing a gambler who needs to eliminate his principled pursuers, once again redeemed to find his way back to simpler pleasures with the right companion. The signature of not having a life is in the burgeoning recognition of the players. Shouldn't Blu Mankama make hard liners ashamed? Here he is the studio bar keep, no mention of free towns brought to bear, and there, six years later, he is Muth's reaper, the appropriator of pasteurized urbanity. It isn't so simple in the reverse, despite Kathleen Parker's hash over Comey's letter and what if it was Trump instead?
Well, in the Post's coverage of Trump as front-runner, Donald was the target, so incessant, so constant, that my vote for the fuck witted bastard was part spite. Russian hackers have nothing to do with my nausea toward the Clintons and their cosmetic pretenses. A Reason Magazine contributor, when journalists were granted access to the nefarious paragraph, analysed that the director was covering his ass. It is a rather plausible motive, as why someone like Comey would prefer a paranoid mogul to a paranoid Yale domicile matron who skews her loyalists is also a reasonable inquiry. At some point, perhaps Pence takes over the reigns, and we find ourselves waking up to the occupation of Taiwan.
Though Vancouver's take on America's mythology of its historical brutality leaves viewers frustrated with the case for domestic tranquility, Temptests makes the strongest argument North Hollywood can bring to bear. Does Hanson allude to Shakespeare's final and defiant play? I cannot snap my fingers with found correspondences for your edification, but the teleplay nicely turns on the dime with the argument that neither reality the lead actor doubts and believes is the correct reality, and we humans, sophisticated primates, believing we'll conquer space time, are conquered by alien arthropods the size of a forearm. Let that be a lesson to you. Nicely done bit of bemusement. Stephen Lang is not quite as strong as an archetype of compromised moral decency. The mad scientist who wrongly rouses a cadaver, then kills his murderer, his corpse, (surprise!) still fresh enough to regenerate, the lessons of conscience bringing him back to humility, scorched away from the violence of divine aspiration. He does the same thing for Showtime's rendering of the latter day American west, playing a gambler who needs to eliminate his principled pursuers, once again redeemed to find his way back to simpler pleasures with the right companion. The signature of not having a life is in the burgeoning recognition of the players. Shouldn't Blu Mankama make hard liners ashamed? Here he is the studio bar keep, no mention of free towns brought to bear, and there, six years later, he is Muth's reaper, the appropriator of pasteurized urbanity. It isn't so simple in the reverse, despite Kathleen Parker's hash over Comey's letter and what if it was Trump instead?
Well, in the Post's coverage of Trump as front-runner, Donald was the target, so incessant, so constant, that my vote for the fuck witted bastard was part spite. Russian hackers have nothing to do with my nausea toward the Clintons and their cosmetic pretenses. A Reason Magazine contributor, when journalists were granted access to the nefarious paragraph, analysed that the director was covering his ass. It is a rather plausible motive, as why someone like Comey would prefer a paranoid mogul to a paranoid Yale domicile matron who skews her loyalists is also a reasonable inquiry. At some point, perhaps Pence takes over the reigns, and we find ourselves waking up to the occupation of Taiwan.
Traces of Martin Landau
"People say it's failed. My attitude it that it didn't."-- Anthony LaPaglia
The Bellero Shield is transcendental despite itself, and always haunted the dowager, setting aside that it assuages Seti Institute vanity like a wet dream, Landau now the tortured son of an overbearing father who wants his own version of domination. Searching for aliens and hello, a humanoid in a glitter suit pops in speaking English like a Buddhist monk and gets murdered by an avarice driven wife ironically imprisoned by her own overreach. A retired science teacher wrote an excellent post, which he should publish, on Yabberz, about why alien life forms on hospitable planets will never find each other, and I should have copied it-- not to be unethical, but because it was the best rebuttal I have ever read about why this human quest is doomed to failure-- a grand opera version of quantum mechanics, but beneath the surface of this high camp, with catty lesbianistic overtones, is an undercurrent about justice and mercy complicated by megalomania, which, again, despite itself, imprinted and stayed, despite lack of recollection about the humanoid's disappearance, a film splice of a martyr, do his "people" save him, does the blond with diluted white out on her palm die, go insane? Do we pity Landau for his work in these serials, with his hawkish countenance, recycled in Without A Trace, where he provides a more evincing performance as LaPaglia's dying father afflicted with end stage renal disease, not discounting on Columbo he gets to play his twin, which Falk invariably foils? Unfortunately, I never saw Space 1999, and cannot afford to put the series on my video library, but such are the intangible qualities which lead actors into video science fiction.
The Bellero Shield is transcendental despite itself, and always haunted the dowager, setting aside that it assuages Seti Institute vanity like a wet dream, Landau now the tortured son of an overbearing father who wants his own version of domination. Searching for aliens and hello, a humanoid in a glitter suit pops in speaking English like a Buddhist monk and gets murdered by an avarice driven wife ironically imprisoned by her own overreach. A retired science teacher wrote an excellent post, which he should publish, on Yabberz, about why alien life forms on hospitable planets will never find each other, and I should have copied it-- not to be unethical, but because it was the best rebuttal I have ever read about why this human quest is doomed to failure-- a grand opera version of quantum mechanics, but beneath the surface of this high camp, with catty lesbianistic overtones, is an undercurrent about justice and mercy complicated by megalomania, which, again, despite itself, imprinted and stayed, despite lack of recollection about the humanoid's disappearance, a film splice of a martyr, do his "people" save him, does the blond with diluted white out on her palm die, go insane? Do we pity Landau for his work in these serials, with his hawkish countenance, recycled in Without A Trace, where he provides a more evincing performance as LaPaglia's dying father afflicted with end stage renal disease, not discounting on Columbo he gets to play his twin, which Falk invariably foils? Unfortunately, I never saw Space 1999, and cannot afford to put the series on my video library, but such are the intangible qualities which lead actors into video science fiction.
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