This TV plays games with those of us on the cheapskate, much as we play games with the frustrations of touch interface, or online paranoia. Steve Jobs has neither my gratitude nor my fetish zeal, although one can look at Tim Cook's libertarian streak in his battles with the FBI as a paradoxical quagmire. Most of what we get from This is mediocre: mediocre space opera, mediocre war movies, shoveling shit to those worried about IVC Filter implants.
Once in awhile something you want to eat comes along: The Burrowers, District 9. Code 46 seems to have the same nutritious texture, but caught me off guard, because I was busy having an insurgency tantrum about Blogger's HTTPS update, figuring they want to muzzle stiff necked intransigents such as yours truly. (Is my rebellious despair all that important?) I will have to catch its rerun over the weekend, but what I saw of the first twenty minutes certainly had an unsettled effect, at least in terms of cinematography, which contributed as much to the dialogue as Morton's oozy Caucasian journey in an urban environment anesthetized to the residue of humanity within it. All I did was log on to research what I was looking at, wasted over 2MB getting upset about HTTPS encryption and security protocols which I certainly don't understand, missed getting grocery on time, and now have to roll to the Pakistani at the 7-11 to waste money on bad franchise food, hoping they still have wings, as that is their most tolerable selection. Obviously, we need time off now and again; let's see how I tap dance around an overage gigabyte, shall we? I'm worried about my castor tire, and if that goes, so do I. Live it lovely.
Showing posts with label the burrowers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the burrowers. Show all posts
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Friday, February 14, 2014
Rosemary's Thistle
#3: Soon-Yi was Woody and Mia’s adopted daughter. False. Soon-Yi was the adopted daughter of Mia Farrow and André Previn. Her full name was Soon-Yi Farrow Previn. -- Robert B. Weide
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What authenticates The Burrowers isn't Petty's underlying condemnation of what forged the last, now doddering, superpower. Any polemic in narrative can do that; it is his real appreciation for hands on tactile sensation. The soil, and foolish human primates roaming about on it until they forget themselves and become carcasses. Ulee's Gold, more than a decade older with subtly different aims, nonetheless has a similar physicality. The curious thing about Peter Fonda's poignant swan song, I might add, is, despite my displeasure with Easy Rider as a self-conscious farce, it provides Ulee with a textually richer undercurrent that would have been lacking otherwise. Derivative pleasures like this become somewhat complicated, always improving on older origin concepts.
To indulge my underlying misogyny, my loathing for Jane Fonda, which is visceral, doesn't spill over to Peter. He is quieter, less of a chameleon flitting across the screen, to quote from Jane's daughter with the delightful cruelty of an accurate observation (and yes, I give Jane credit for giving Charlie Rose this gem), and I'm more in sympathy with his center of gravity. Ulee's Gold was my life with my mother and her raucous lovers. The film gives viewers a sense of resolution: Ulee relents, realizing his son and daughter-in-law aren't beyond reform. This is a gravely wounded family, but one that doesn't quite break once the avarice of the white punks is harnessed and contained. The industry has to be placated, but we all know that addiction doesn't work that way. My dead brother can't be walled off in my bereavement as a monster. Yet he was indifferent to any number of things: the shame he brought to my family, committing felony rape, infecting himself with AIDS, not because he had any experience with sodomizing men, but because he blithely used dirty needles. The end of his life in 1995 was agonizing. "We had a brother who was a bit of a shyster." This is how my sister summed up little Nicky for my ex, the Nicky who passed HIV onto his girlfriend without my mother deigning to interfere. She was afraid of possible litigation.
The engine of the freight train has been idling on track a quarter mile off from my window since Thursday morning, giving me palpitations. I'd do anything to get out of Riverside, anything, except there is little use in exploring other public housing options within the city. I already know I couldn't expect to find creative and safe solutions networking online, so I research Woody and Mia, condemning sexual liberalism. What no one is willing to say directly is the price Allen made Mia Farrow and her children pay for his trophy happiness with Soon-Yi. He sounds like John Updike's failed little boy with his thumb stuck up his ass. I do not know if Dylan's memory of molestation is true or false, but that she did not like Woody's thumb in her mouth, that felt real to me. My stepfather sneak fondled my breasts that way.
I started writing my own piece on the scandal. Because of Roman Polanski, what I relearn reviewing his mastery of repression, of what he intimates about sadism. More than that; yet as to Farrow herself, I never saw myself as a fan, not in terms of her performances. The poem never leaves me, the one in my head with wombs and spawn, the World Trade Center, the Empire State building, through her eyes. A few years ago, I caught the revision of the piece in hand, then lost it with the Vista driver crash. I have to redo all that research once again as well. Hypothetically, if I get it published, tweet her a link, how would I react if she thanked me for the tribute?
I'm unsure. If Woody had done to me what he did to her, he'd be dead; I'd be a cause celebre in prison, so in terms of being aggrieved, I have picked a side. That does not necessarily mean, as a disability journalist, I need access to her. I am not Orth, the Vanity Fair journalist who reignited old rivalries.
Would a mutual interaction be beneficial? Ambivalent about that, what she's like beneath the pixie damsel of Roman's coaxing, or Allen's irony.
---------
What authenticates The Burrowers isn't Petty's underlying condemnation of what forged the last, now doddering, superpower. Any polemic in narrative can do that; it is his real appreciation for hands on tactile sensation. The soil, and foolish human primates roaming about on it until they forget themselves and become carcasses. Ulee's Gold, more than a decade older with subtly different aims, nonetheless has a similar physicality. The curious thing about Peter Fonda's poignant swan song, I might add, is, despite my displeasure with Easy Rider as a self-conscious farce, it provides Ulee with a textually richer undercurrent that would have been lacking otherwise. Derivative pleasures like this become somewhat complicated, always improving on older origin concepts.
To indulge my underlying misogyny, my loathing for Jane Fonda, which is visceral, doesn't spill over to Peter. He is quieter, less of a chameleon flitting across the screen, to quote from Jane's daughter with the delightful cruelty of an accurate observation (and yes, I give Jane credit for giving Charlie Rose this gem), and I'm more in sympathy with his center of gravity. Ulee's Gold was my life with my mother and her raucous lovers. The film gives viewers a sense of resolution: Ulee relents, realizing his son and daughter-in-law aren't beyond reform. This is a gravely wounded family, but one that doesn't quite break once the avarice of the white punks is harnessed and contained. The industry has to be placated, but we all know that addiction doesn't work that way. My dead brother can't be walled off in my bereavement as a monster. Yet he was indifferent to any number of things: the shame he brought to my family, committing felony rape, infecting himself with AIDS, not because he had any experience with sodomizing men, but because he blithely used dirty needles. The end of his life in 1995 was agonizing. "We had a brother who was a bit of a shyster." This is how my sister summed up little Nicky for my ex, the Nicky who passed HIV onto his girlfriend without my mother deigning to interfere. She was afraid of possible litigation.
The engine of the freight train has been idling on track a quarter mile off from my window since Thursday morning, giving me palpitations. I'd do anything to get out of Riverside, anything, except there is little use in exploring other public housing options within the city. I already know I couldn't expect to find creative and safe solutions networking online, so I research Woody and Mia, condemning sexual liberalism. What no one is willing to say directly is the price Allen made Mia Farrow and her children pay for his trophy happiness with Soon-Yi. He sounds like John Updike's failed little boy with his thumb stuck up his ass. I do not know if Dylan's memory of molestation is true or false, but that she did not like Woody's thumb in her mouth, that felt real to me. My stepfather sneak fondled my breasts that way.
I started writing my own piece on the scandal. Because of Roman Polanski, what I relearn reviewing his mastery of repression, of what he intimates about sadism. More than that; yet as to Farrow herself, I never saw myself as a fan, not in terms of her performances. The poem never leaves me, the one in my head with wombs and spawn, the World Trade Center, the Empire State building, through her eyes. A few years ago, I caught the revision of the piece in hand, then lost it with the Vista driver crash. I have to redo all that research once again as well. Hypothetically, if I get it published, tweet her a link, how would I react if she thanked me for the tribute?
I'm unsure. If Woody had done to me what he did to her, he'd be dead; I'd be a cause celebre in prison, so in terms of being aggrieved, I have picked a side. That does not necessarily mean, as a disability journalist, I need access to her. I am not Orth, the Vanity Fair journalist who reignited old rivalries.
Would a mutual interaction be beneficial? Ambivalent about that, what she's like beneath the pixie damsel of Roman's coaxing, or Allen's irony.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Sciatic Isotopes
"It's surmountable."-- Miles O'Brien, always on CNN
Adding to texture, even sexually arousing in a bizarre liberation toward a thanatological analysis, JT Petty also toys with reversal expectations in his admirable film. When Karl Geary leads his little posse in search of his fictitious band of indigenous marauders, and they find the girl with the spasmodic movements of her lingering humanity in her toe, the dialogue suggests a lethal Alien cavity burst. We don't get that. The actual burrowers are swarmers, an ambiguous terror, overgrown termites bursting out of a nightmare. Placing Doug Hutchison in the appropriate frame, he played the southern commander who doesn't get picked off, doubtlessly there are correspondences to be extrapolated from that, in his projection of dangerous virility, he would no doubt think my former supervisor's scathing epithet of sweetheart an apt dismissal of why I can't play with men like him.
I can see why he found Stodden a platinum trophy. That long nosed sexual suggestiveness is something Susan radiated outward in her youthful sexual adventurism, my former best friend and was she really? But I cannot pry too deeply into memories that suggest disdain. Sue did care about me, but her friend Kim mocked my vacant facial expressions; it hurts more now that I did not understand that Kim was suggesting the dowager buffoon by pretending to drool in her lap. Pretty girl, raven actress looks with curly black hair, almond eyes. Rich cherry pout for a mouth. She taught me about English coins, having been across the pond.
Should Sue be out there, on FB or whatnot, reconnecting wouldn't help. There is too much pain in our mutual past alone for it to be surmounted. To play a game of six degrees though, if you know an aging blond in her fifties whose unmarried name was Davison, I send along a deep hug to pass on. I loved her once; hope she found happiness. What the fuck is that, eh?
Adding to texture, even sexually arousing in a bizarre liberation toward a thanatological analysis, JT Petty also toys with reversal expectations in his admirable film. When Karl Geary leads his little posse in search of his fictitious band of indigenous marauders, and they find the girl with the spasmodic movements of her lingering humanity in her toe, the dialogue suggests a lethal Alien cavity burst. We don't get that. The actual burrowers are swarmers, an ambiguous terror, overgrown termites bursting out of a nightmare. Placing Doug Hutchison in the appropriate frame, he played the southern commander who doesn't get picked off, doubtlessly there are correspondences to be extrapolated from that, in his projection of dangerous virility, he would no doubt think my former supervisor's scathing epithet of sweetheart an apt dismissal of why I can't play with men like him.
I can see why he found Stodden a platinum trophy. That long nosed sexual suggestiveness is something Susan radiated outward in her youthful sexual adventurism, my former best friend and was she really? But I cannot pry too deeply into memories that suggest disdain. Sue did care about me, but her friend Kim mocked my vacant facial expressions; it hurts more now that I did not understand that Kim was suggesting the dowager buffoon by pretending to drool in her lap. Pretty girl, raven actress looks with curly black hair, almond eyes. Rich cherry pout for a mouth. She taught me about English coins, having been across the pond.
Should Sue be out there, on FB or whatnot, reconnecting wouldn't help. There is too much pain in our mutual past alone for it to be surmounted. To play a game of six degrees though, if you know an aging blond in her fifties whose unmarried name was Davison, I send along a deep hug to pass on. I loved her once; hope she found happiness. What the fuck is that, eh?
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Molar Snippets
The Burrowers (09) has antecedents in the earlier American sneak-hit, Tremors. The difference lies in the send up. Tremors has its fun poking at the creature genre, and offered the audience nicely plotted irony. Burrowers, however, caught me by surprise, half tempting me to send This a fan mail for running a very well done movie that took itself seriously and aimed a devastating impact at reactionaries like me. Along with District 9, Burrowers falls into my knapsack, scantily loaded, of rave favorites; it is the type of film I hoped online users would recommend for this thrashing thesis. As to the specifics, and a hats off to JT Petty (too young for me to hit on alas, but I'd send out a fucking wedding proposal in an eye blink)-- I'm a bit tongue tied, inured to being idiotic, but it brought me back to the one multi-cultural issue I've equivocated over, been ambivalent about, perhaps, and not quite parallel to Cape Town as a Dutch company carved out of a continent not quite tamed, and that is the systemic pacification of the American Indians.
I've taken heat, at least online, for pushing back against white guilt over atrocities, without necessarily snickering at indigenous romanticism over its tribalism, though it is also true I run out of patience with it. I've held my fire, saving it for the I'm ready to fight gay radical equality. A few of you may have noted by now that I have little love for egalitarianism. Canada scores on this one. I know when I have to cede the field.
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