I paid Google, fool that I am, for 24 months with this domain, whether or not I should tell you that, and I'll be incredibly lucky to still be posting that long, unsure if Blogger is penalizing me for my mouth with Adsense or if I just don't know how to link the damn domain back into the ad account. I have to get a customer rep on the phone, and try to promise not to get gunned down for sedition. I am simply a clever twist on the conventional quadriplegic, not the dazzling American right wing militia; symptomatic of how much I've changed, however, the FBI's justification for the kill shot to Finicum doesn't sit well with me, not that I am prepared to gnaw that bone at the moment. I feel that no matter what I do my life is finished, and Presbyterian Homes won. I lost, because my rage toward the corporation is destroying whatever cardiovascular durability I've left, and if I give my notice they've just won faster, because I do not know if I can tap dance my way into any temporary security, and my emotional pain over this is killing me. I hope most of you are better fortified.
Prison, with a shockingly young Viggo Mortensen, is actually a viscerally frightening horror film, vis-a-vis the template body snatchers formula which mushroomed into enough cheap films in order to torture the poor. It works, for me, due to the spiritual habitation of place, and its malevolent vengeance intersecting with blood guilt, just on the edge enough to remain entertaining, and utilizing African intuitive links to the totem to give the grotesque body dysmorphia a tangible quality which makes you want to keep pace. Like District 9, this late Reagan vehicle transcends its tricks. Few in its family tree do. Viggo just has that face, like a grimaced pole cat. My right leg is numb, domestic terrorist spinster extraordinaire. I did not create this account to whine, but I've taken alot out of myself this winter, and need a solution.
Showing posts with label viggo mortensen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label viggo mortensen. Show all posts
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Triple Talaq in Dennis Hopper's Oxygen Tank
It's impressive, how thoughtfully Penn handles this material. The good brother isn't a straight arrow, and the bad brother isn't romanticized as a rebel without a cause, and there are no easy solutions or neat little happy endings for this story.--Ebert's relative digital archive
Celluloid is merely a flammable plastic. Images print at 24 frames per second. There may be gaps in my knowledge as to how digital design and upload changes this basic camera technology, but this is the way it works at a material level. There is nothing to signify that Dennis Hopper's violent ends in the medium relate to his obituary, succumbing to cancer, as opposed to a heart attack or stroke, the three main killers in American medical models. In Easy Rider, he is merely a tag along biker taken out in a brutal shot gun sequence by Peter Fonda's suppliers. Perhaps it is merely a question of aesthetic appeal, but Easy Rider is too conscientious in making sure its audience understands the ruthlessness of commune culture radicalism. Robert Blake's Electra Glide in Blue, though its title character is softened by a nascent simplicity which ultimately dooms him, is equally too deliberate on this point, five years older as it may be. Hopper's biker wants to authenticate attachment. Blake's cop ends his life trying to live up to the imprimatur of every police force: to protect and serve. Hopper is more of a diode. For the always borderline hysteria of David Lynch, which despite itself, bears the signature of an auteur, Hopper is the flawed menace of Blue Velvet, a film the dowager always wanted to see after the whirlwind of Twin Peaks, and Kyle MacLachlan's masturbatory sequence in Sex and The City, and due to the fact that a local syndicate in Reading does not submit its schedule to the broadcast grid, the first 30 minutes were missed, to an interior howling, as the consumption of usage might have been avoided, here Hopper still serves up an appearance of sharp definition, despite the necessity of the oxygen mask and the vein in his right temple, protruding. Lynch'es intent is still puzzling, with the yellow man's statuesque bleeding contusion, but Hopper's destructive morbidity is not, whatever the rationale for the freak torture he inflicts, a 180 degree curve from the clueless barkeep in The Indian Runner, an old man who just happens to get in the way of Viggo Mortensen's triggers, a culmination of the domino effect more effectively scarring American can do sensibility than altering Indochina's xenophobic collectivism.
What does all this convey about Hopper's morbid mortality? Being eaten alive by metastasized tumors at the age of 73 is not exactly an untimely demise, to be sure, but it seems predictable through the projection of a callow rebelliousness that has no purposeful aim.
Celluloid is merely a flammable plastic. Images print at 24 frames per second. There may be gaps in my knowledge as to how digital design and upload changes this basic camera technology, but this is the way it works at a material level. There is nothing to signify that Dennis Hopper's violent ends in the medium relate to his obituary, succumbing to cancer, as opposed to a heart attack or stroke, the three main killers in American medical models. In Easy Rider, he is merely a tag along biker taken out in a brutal shot gun sequence by Peter Fonda's suppliers. Perhaps it is merely a question of aesthetic appeal, but Easy Rider is too conscientious in making sure its audience understands the ruthlessness of commune culture radicalism. Robert Blake's Electra Glide in Blue, though its title character is softened by a nascent simplicity which ultimately dooms him, is equally too deliberate on this point, five years older as it may be. Hopper's biker wants to authenticate attachment. Blake's cop ends his life trying to live up to the imprimatur of every police force: to protect and serve. Hopper is more of a diode. For the always borderline hysteria of David Lynch, which despite itself, bears the signature of an auteur, Hopper is the flawed menace of Blue Velvet, a film the dowager always wanted to see after the whirlwind of Twin Peaks, and Kyle MacLachlan's masturbatory sequence in Sex and The City, and due to the fact that a local syndicate in Reading does not submit its schedule to the broadcast grid, the first 30 minutes were missed, to an interior howling, as the consumption of usage might have been avoided, here Hopper still serves up an appearance of sharp definition, despite the necessity of the oxygen mask and the vein in his right temple, protruding. Lynch'es intent is still puzzling, with the yellow man's statuesque bleeding contusion, but Hopper's destructive morbidity is not, whatever the rationale for the freak torture he inflicts, a 180 degree curve from the clueless barkeep in The Indian Runner, an old man who just happens to get in the way of Viggo Mortensen's triggers, a culmination of the domino effect more effectively scarring American can do sensibility than altering Indochina's xenophobic collectivism.
What does all this convey about Hopper's morbid mortality? Being eaten alive by metastasized tumors at the age of 73 is not exactly an untimely demise, to be sure, but it seems predictable through the projection of a callow rebelliousness that has no purposeful aim.
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