"Who would want to live in a world without pharmaceuticals?"-- Peter Strauss
The dowager saw just enough (1.7 hours) of American Crime in its first season to now be confused by its second, until reading enough entertainment news allowed Ridley Scott's reprisal role strategy to dawn on a wearied mind; in essence meaning I shall have to stream season one, realizing how much I missed out in my enthusiasm for Felicity Huffman, whose work on Sports Night remains sorely under-appreciated, even to the point that her Desperate Housewives director allowed her to echo her savvy sports channel executive.
While too cautious to offer Scott's bravado a raving endorsement, and perhaps too old, as well, spastic is slowly supplanting NBC's Code Black with Scott's consciously jacked torque ratios. Paid critics call the series brave, spastic calls it catching up with cable television as the models for content slowly collapse and merge, but instead of staying by Tom Reid's battle worn contrivance of a desk to watch the episode, I sat up in bed, writhing in pain most of the evening, and yes, this is the fault of my obstinacy, trying to stay abreast of the online privileges to which I've become used to, and could not get my legs back up on the Jazzy cushion for a significant length of time when I tried to lie back down. I got where I was going, but part of the problem was the metal plate seating of the Jazzy cutting the surgically fused arch of my foot; this would not happen with the Quickie P-200.
Hutton is at once ubiquitous and exceptional as the Everyman American inheritor of Protestant moral sensibility. Those of us who grew up with him cling to the raw repressive exposures of Ordinary People, because it manages to cut across the value systems between the sprouting denominational folly of the Reformation and the Catholic imposition of rational hierarchy. Some of you no doubt laugh at these vulgar descriptions I deploy, as opposed to with me. Is it okay? Perhaps sometimes, and perhaps sometimes it's okay to be undercut. Writing a furious scold to minority ethical lapses in my head juxtaposed against a furious struggle to control my posture with aging furniture and bad equipment. A personal care attendant wouldn't have been around that time of night just because I wanted to use my daybed like a lounge chair, and yet, even a nearly perfect talent like Felicity gets lost in our streaming rush to be in all places at once. In the dowager's estimation, she's a great actress, and nobody's beating the drum.
Showing posts with label timothy hutton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label timothy hutton. Show all posts
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Friday, April 24, 2015
Derelict in Transition
"I don't want any surprises."-- a Philadelphia police officer who ignored my request to be placed under arrest as he took my arm and I pivoted.
Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.
Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.
My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.
Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.
Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.
Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.
My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.
Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Keitel's Mumbai, Florid
"Pakistan is no ordinary country."-- Benazir Bhutto's last preface.
One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.
Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.
The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?
Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.
Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.
One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.
Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.
The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?
Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.
Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Snowman Boyce to Snowden
Tense, intriguing, and darkly compelling, The Falcon and the Snowman is a uniquely American story of betrayal. On the face of it, there was nothing to indicate that Andrew Dalton Lee and Christopher James Boyce were anything but two devout Catholic boys growing up in happy, warm families in one of the most affluent suburbs in America, living one version of the American Dream and facing nothing but the best of futures--Lyons Press
Robert Lindsey could assure you with the certitude of his specialization that we have been here before, as it pertains to Edward Snowden. Edward, Bradley Manning, Boyce, they form part of a larger pattern that is a distinct subset in the world of espionage, related, but discernible in motive from the gaming of Ana Montes and Robert Hanssen.
The actions of Snowden, to my nose, are slowly taking on the odor of sour milk; he seems to be a character inside of his own Timothy Hutton morality play, although the NSA's technical capacity and ability is something that I am sure keeps James Fallows awake on his pillow, in addition to this well bred correspondent's other worries.
Some films are distinctions of their auteurs; some films have an educational agenda. The Falcon and the Snowman, in addition to what I have written on it in other posts, is representative, at least through Hutton, of the corrosive effects of delayed ejaculations and rapist rage that ventilates itself in treasonous activities.
Robert Lindsey could assure you with the certitude of his specialization that we have been here before, as it pertains to Edward Snowden. Edward, Bradley Manning, Boyce, they form part of a larger pattern that is a distinct subset in the world of espionage, related, but discernible in motive from the gaming of Ana Montes and Robert Hanssen.
The actions of Snowden, to my nose, are slowly taking on the odor of sour milk; he seems to be a character inside of his own Timothy Hutton morality play, although the NSA's technical capacity and ability is something that I am sure keeps James Fallows awake on his pillow, in addition to this well bred correspondent's other worries.
Some films are distinctions of their auteurs; some films have an educational agenda. The Falcon and the Snowman, in addition to what I have written on it in other posts, is representative, at least through Hutton, of the corrosive effects of delayed ejaculations and rapist rage that ventilates itself in treasonous activities.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)