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Author Topic: Movie Club  (Read 22691 times)
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pugetopolis
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« Reply #1275 on: April 26, 2008, 03:46:59 PM »



Interesting how comix, movies, graphic novels... and blogs interact...


Comix, movies, graphic novels, blogs...

To that I'd add flash fiction & short shorts...

Like this piece by Matthew Simmons:

Three Items at the Supermarket I See in a New Way,
Now That I’ve Read Some Books on Literary Theory


Cultured buttermilk
Post Raisin Bran
Metamucil

 Grin Grin Grin

http://happycobrabooks.blogspot.com/2007/12/creation-stories.html


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« Reply #1276 on: April 27, 2008, 12:08:40 AM »

Well, yeah, I suppose they are all interrelated. Metamucil to Raisin Bran;
raisin bran to buttermilk since you can make some dandy bran muffins and then you don't need metamucil.  But, I could just go for the buttermilk and make a buttermilk pie, and see what happens.

Here's a crazy thing that I didn't realize until we got into this Marlene Dietrich romp. When I was a kid, I didn't know enough to realize what I did when the subject came up,one movie following the other. The basic premise of Golden Earrings was impossible for the era in which it happens.

This struck me like minor lightning enlightening me that it was a faulty premise.

So I was a bit curious, and looking up the film, the big deal is Dietrich learning to play the zither because they can't come and go from the set or they'd be crossing picket lines from a strike(as in for instance this last year), so she teaches herself to play the zither (you can see where Third Man Theme is coming from!) and they are virtually living like gypsies on the set because they can't go "home".

Then there is the bit about Quentin Reynolds whom I vaguely remember as a real news commentator playing a news commentator whom Milland talks to in the opening of the film.

And just as I suspected, when you mention Zoltan, because of course I knew a Zoltan, used to baby sit for him, his father was a Hungarian sculptor for whom I worked as a model when he was teaching and at some point he's experimental with metal-working and ended up producing this sculpture of me with my arms raised akimbo holding up my hair, kind of a cross between Picasso's Demoiselles d'Avignon, Bridget Bardot and God Created Woman, some other French painter painting a bath scene but has fallen out of favor with Moma.org since last year or the year before.

The thing is just about life-size so what happens? It ends up winning him a prize with the Met.Museum of Art buying it for their permanent collection.

Thus unconsciousness becoming movies, I kind of figure wait a minute since the gypsies have been hounded down by the Nazis in Eastern Europe, that means Dietrich is leading Milland theoretically back west across the Rhein from the Black Forest of Southern Germany across the Rheinland into Luxembourg. Gadzooks, I even know what she used to change his skin color, the rinds from the butternut trees and the walnut.

But still it is a romance, about death because the Germans will take the whole continent.

I hoped last Monday to go see a local showing of Dial M for Murder but couldn't get away to make it in time.   Hadn't heard of this Muth film before but am always surprised each time I watch M again since I first saw it. Picking up suppressed details since films are the unconscious life.

Other than the romance, the film is pretty right on as to details; as far as the Drag aspects, it is a role reversal, since in Romany culture, they are not betrothed until he gives her the earrings, so you get this nice little Marlena/Lydia taking the lead again -- in other words, if Gary Cooper had actually responded to her, she would have led him out to the dance floor and it would have been this very campy scene  with Marlene in mens' evening wear whirling the Legionaire all over the dance floor of that night club in Morocco (I kind of like the club in Casablanca a lot better.What with Bogart looking as much a pied noir as Camus; and Hoagie Carmichael to boot).  In other words, the Dietrich of the Thirties was a lot more subtle than Madonna as a dominatrix on the cover of Esquire or whatever this month. She was more fun. 

I ran into this woman walking around in a supermarket  in a 1930's, light rose,dress and heels like Dietrich made a fuss over to lengthen her legs so she would look taller; and this woman was a plain Jane with a slight coral tinge to her blonde hair who was obviously raised on this era as a local German, no makeup to speak of. She agreed with me, that the whole object was to play it for laughs, like Groucho Marx, since men just want to have fun.  We are no longer really sure if today's women are having any. Taking advantage of the Madonna cover made this an easy interview on the spur of the moment. The last time that I saw a photo of Madonna, she didn't look like she was having any fun even though Tony Curtis was talking to her and he didn't look like she was much fun either.

She doesn't intend to be the joke because she wants to be taken seriously when she performs but people watch the performance because the joke is on her,AND Sean Penn just grimaces because she can't tell the difference between what he does and when she does "art".

Nonetheless if you want to watch a lady have fun with all the adulation she gets, I've got to find this video for you because it hit me today that Marlene runs around in it as if she were Hillary running for President and you can believe it because she is that popular!
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« Reply #1277 on: April 28, 2008, 08:21:56 PM »



Sapphic Quest for Corvo

“…a sort of Sapphic
quest for Corvo.”
—Terry Castle,
Travels with My Mom
LRB 16 August 2007

Moving right along—Marlene Dietrich,
Djuna Barnes, Mina Loy…

The reason for Dietrich was her
Divahood—in regard to the Thread
About Sapphic Modernism that I’ve
Been posting about. The opposite
Of Mr. Pound & his gang of Male
Modernists. Dietrich in tuxedo
Is sort reverse “drag” and yet
She was criticized for Lesbian
Appearances by many Hollywood
Directors & actors, resulting in
Several breach of contract suits.

So now perhaps I’ll look into
Gertrude Stein’s Sapphic Modernism
In regard to Hollywood & movies.
Her literary theory & interest in
Non-representational Narrative
Is well-documented. The only
Problem is that there’s only a
Couple of Stein movies out—
Mostly documentaries.

But there is the rich surrealist
Filmography going on with
Parallels to Sapphic Modernism.
Like Luis Bunuel’s L’Age D’or
(French, 1930).


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« Reply #1278 on: April 28, 2008, 09:57:23 PM »

Had a poet friend who went to visit Stein as soon as he was demobbed but he took the guys with him. They didn't know what to make of it all but they did dig the paintings up high on the wall where ever they would fit in as she arranged them(kind of similar to Barnes,not Djuna but Dr. Barnes who bought up a house-load through a friend he sent to Paris to spend the money wisely on Moderns).

Alice served them tea and cookies, and they felt just like they were back home with Mom.  A fine time was had by all.  He told this to Karl Shapiro while they were patients together as poets sometimes are and although I often read Karl together with Allen Ginsberg back in the Sixties as a sample of the interconnectedness before launching into where Allen's Congregational-liturgy-influenced Biggies came from, I was astounded to read this remark in Shapiro(late in the Nineties) in regard to their hospitalization in Baltimore as I recognized the story because my friend has a rather large salon which drove his wife crazy and he was the first person I went to visit when I returned from New York(which drove my husband crazy).Altogether, I must have known George John for about thirty years up until the evening that he told me about his family taking care of Rainer Maria Rilke in Switzerland.

His salon was inspired by Gertrude but unfortunately his wife was no Toklas. She was very (American copy of) the English August Johns painterly-portrait. who raised a family but not in the Vanessa Bell manner.  His poetry came to a stop, as far as we know, looking back after half a century; but he did teach by being.
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« Reply #1279 on: April 28, 2008, 11:08:05 PM »

Pugetopolis....you may have already seen this on Pound and Stein, from Stephen Watson's "Prepare for Saints."

Ezra Pound was the most self-consciously energetic promoter of modernist literature.  He promoted his band of protoges through several little magazines (including The Dial, The Little Review, and Exile).  Whatever sympathy he felt for Stein's writing dissipated when they met in person and competed to dominate the conversation.  A few desultory meetings later, Pound accidentally broke a chair at 27, Rue de Fleuris, and Stein refused to see him again.  Each relished the opportunity to ridicule the other in print and in conversation.
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« Reply #1280 on: April 29, 2008, 12:10:17 AM »

Hemingway mentions the same thing. Except he says that Stein, Pound and Joyce...
they all had big egos & couldn't stand each other. They were like generals. The
only way to get along with generals, according to Hemingway, was to criticize
the "other" general so that the general you're with will shrug and say well, he
or she failed but did the best they could etc. That way you still be invited back
to whatever general's salon you were attending. One should never mention
another general unless of course you were criticizing that general and whatever
general you were with would nod knowingly etc etc.

Gawd this sounding like Stein!!!
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« Reply #1281 on: April 30, 2008, 12:17:53 AM »

Here is Watson on Stein and Joyce, also from Prepare for Saints

"Stein regarded Joyce as her most formidable peer and Ulysses as one of the three greatest novels of her generation, adding that his influence was 'local.'  Virgil Thomson observed that the rivalry was inevitable, since 'viewed nearby, they appeared as planets of equal magnitude.'  When Shakespeare and Company published Ulysses, Stein informed Sylvia Beach, the bookstore's proprietor, that henceforth she and Miss Toklas would borrow all books from the American Library.  Although Joyce's informal headquarters at Shakespeare and Company was only a few blocks from her home, neither made an attempt to arrange for an introduction.  When they did finally meet at a party in the thirties, Joyce was nearly blind and had to be led to her.  'How strange that we share the same quartier and have never met,' he remarked.  Gertrude looked at him and replied, 'Yes.' "
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« Reply #1282 on: April 30, 2008, 09:29:41 AM »

http://www.thefirstpost.co.uk/people,913,john-hurt-reprises-quentin-crisp-role,27579

Hurt to play Englishman in NYC
 
The actor John Hurt is to reprise his role as the celebrated eccentric Quentin Crisp. The new TV film, called An Englishman in New York, will pick up where the 1970s classic The Naked Civil Servant (pictured) left off, and will focus on the period when Crisp, who died aged 81 in 1999, lived in New York. This proved a rollercoaster ride for the former artist's model and author.

At first New Yorkers embraced his witty, waspish ways, but he then fell out of favour after saying that AIDS was only a "fad". He was later rediscovered and immortalised in Sting's song An Englishman in New York.

The one-off film, which is being made by ITV, will be shot in August in London and New York and will be broadcast later this year. Hurt's performance in The Naked Civil Servant won him a Bafta for best actor.


[There's a very fine picture in here of Hurt as Crisp that you might retrieve.]
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« Reply #1283 on: May 09, 2008, 08:29:26 PM »



Casablanca (1942)

“How is a text like a performance?
—Laura Luise Schultz

Play—word(play)—playing the word(play) game each day—enjoying the play of words—playing and playing and playing away—playing the POMO wordgame way—which is to say—play it again, Sam—like in Casablanca (1942)—playing with words like cinema does—the way movies play with images—playing with words & action & sad nightclub songs—playing with noir & the playback of love & all that screenplay stuff—making it real again & conversationalese—playing with whatever’s there—things gradually revealed again—all that pretextual playing around—like Bogart getting stood up at the Paris train station—Ingrid Bergman playing with Rick’s broken heart—after falling in love with Paul Henreid instead—smarmy Peter Lorre playing the usual rat—playing the M game & all of that—Claude Raines playing the usual cynical cop Capt. Renault—Conrad Veidt adroitly playing ze Major Strasser—Sidney Greenstreet playing scummy Signor Frari—Dooley Wilson as Sam playing “As Time Goes By” once again—hummed by Ingrid moody there by the piano—the déjà vu song playing itself again & again—as the movie goes on & on—playing it again for Sam & Rick—playing it again back then & playing it now—isn’t that what classic films do—unlike Orson Welles—Director Michael Curtiz playing by the old studio rules & elevating the form—playing it again & again—repeating it intensely—reaffirming the movie-making rules of his day—by improvising the script like it was play—playing with the word(play) & dialog in new ways—playing even now with Rick’s tortured face—as I watch the movie playing on the Flatscreen tonight—always suddenly there’s Ingrid there again—scintillating suave & sophisticated—there in Rick’s nightclub—humming to herself sadly as time goes by—playing with her pain & heartache—and Rick’s too—“The Germans wore grey, you wore blue”—all of that strange subtlety of WWII before I was born—Claude Rains’ perfect cynicism—all the dark conceits & knowing one-liners—the play of noir & gallows humor—the play of endless Galgenlieder nuances, nicht wahr?—the play of Director Michael Curtiz directing in the wings—the same with his performance art with Captain Blood & The Adventures of Robin Hood—and now playing Casablanca again tonight—refreshing my filmic imagination—playing with text on the page—turning it into my own filmography & literary performance—fattening out the edges & outlines like Cézanne—smoothing out the portraits three-dimensionally—doing what Picasso did with Gertrude’s portrait—turning her into the playful gnomic cubist sculpture that she would become—just as I’m doing now—flattening out this page—and giving it a rough relief texture—so that it can become what it is—another Casablanca…


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« Reply #1284 on: May 23, 2008, 11:12:52 PM »



The Man Who Wasn’t There (2001)

“To find a form that accommodates
the mess, that is the task of the
artist now.” – Samuel Beckett

“So then that is like that. So
Now farther.”—Gertrude Stein,
Blood on the Dining Room Floor

Billy Bob Thornton wasn’t there—he’d never been there—that’s just the way things were—he wasn’t there and didn’t want to be there—but he was there even if he didn’t want to be there—being there wasn’t something he was happy with but could do it—in fact, he was better at not being there—than being there—he was better at being laid back, stoic and laconic about his ho-hum boring existence not being there—being a wishy-washy ambitionless barber in dumpy 1949 Santa Rosa—he was better at being a pawn of fate—rather than being somebody hoity-toity like big shot “Big Dave”—better at being a louche insignificant bottom-fish—better at being a mere pawn rather than a King or Queen or Bishop or Knight or Rook—that’s just the way it was—that’s just the way is was being wasn’t—being wasn’t was actually a lot better than being was—other people were lots more was than he was—he was at the bottom of the wasn’t totem pole—just look at his wife and best friend “Big Dave”—they were a lot more into being was than he was—they were into making out behind his back—Big Dave and his wife were really into it—doing the was instead of the wasn’t—but even that didn’t bother him much—that’s how laissez-faire and laidback he was with being wasn’t—along with his dead-end job as a barber cutting hair in a small-town—working with the dumb cluck in-law who was his wife’s brother—even tho he fell somewhat half-heartedly and accidentally into a naive $10,000 blackmail scam—meeting up with a skanky gay blackmailer in a crummy hotel room—ending up later on with Big Dave finding out somehow and attacking him—with Big Dave somehow ending up dead—with his wife somehow blamed for the murder—but even then he still plays the resigned depressing game of fate’s pawn—not lifting a finger to save his wife from being executed—so that everything just keeps going along fairly the same for him—not tempting fate or trying to change anything that comes his way—the perfect pawn of fate—stoically and laconically dealing with it—shrugging his shoulders and dealing with the cards dealt to him—everything the same just as long as he stays the man who wasn’t there—that way then things stay the same and what was and what wasn’t are okay—but the minute he stops being the man who wasn’t there—that’s when things go wrong and the whole house of karmic cards comes tumbling down—because fate is a racket like everything else—and fate does in its racketeers sooner or later—so he falls in love with this cute young chick—pays for her music and voice lessons—the voice teacher being a racketeer like the blackmailer, Big Dave, his wife and everybody else in the movie—so that when she gropes him on the way home, well, there’s this car accident—there’s a crash and the usual tragedy—and then the car with the dead gay blackmailer gets dredged out of the river—with all sorts of incriminating paperwork about the $10,000 scam—then there’s another murder trial with Billy Bob as the chief suspect in Big Dave’s murder and blackmail—with his in-law slugging him in the courtroom for letting his lovely two-bit cheating wife take the murder rap—so that you get the picture—with the moral of the story being—trying to be somebody who is—rather than somebody who isn’t—surely that’s only asking for trouble—it’s better to be the man who wasn’t—rather than being the man who was…


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« Reply #1285 on: May 30, 2008, 03:00:26 AM »

I doubt that anyone would really be interested in exploitation movies, but I came across this title recently,



which is supposedly a cut above the others, judging by the reviews.  However, the youtube clip didn't look that promising.  Looks like an Appalachian version of The Bride Wore Black,

http://www.truveo.com/I-Spit-On-Your-Grave-Trailer-1978/id/1492909549

But, Camille Keaton, who plays the lead role, is apparently related to Buster Keaton.



There is a bit of resemblance.
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« Reply #1286 on: May 30, 2008, 07:49:48 AM »

http://www.imdb.com/rg/VIDEO_PLAY/LINK//video/screenplay/vi3817865497/

The imdb trailer such exquisite camp. A classic exploitation movie...

I could get into it... How many times have I felt that way too?


Grin Grin Grin
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« Reply #1287 on: May 30, 2008, 07:57:51 AM »

I remember the old drive-in that showed movies like these.  As kids we liked to sneak in through the fence to watch these pix, although I don't remember seeing this particular one.  I do remember Blacula,

He"s black! he's beautiful! he's Blacula!
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0068284/

 
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« Reply #1288 on: May 31, 2008, 06:03:56 AM »



Blaxploitation Queen
—for Marlene Dietrich

I’m a blaxploitation queen—
I’ve got all the black classics like
Blacula & Scream Blacula Scream—
Both Shaft & Shaft in Africa
Plus Super Fly & Jackie Brown..

I’m into new blaxploitation—
I’ve got Boyz n the Hood—
Urban Menace, Bones and
All those Snoop Dogg flicks
Seen Hood of Horror

Baby Boy is cool—
Tyrese Gibson turns me on
And Ving Rhames nude
In the kitchen with nothing
On but an apron!!!

I get da déjà vu chill—
When I see Ving that way
Reminding me of that
Time down in the basement
Doing Pulp Fiction homo…

Blaxploitation evolving—
Black Snake Moan & Bad Boys
Blade, American Gangster,
Juice, Young Caesar, Ali,
Higher Learning, Poetic Justice…

Serious & more PC now—
Like the difference between
The Shaft of Richard Roundtree
And the toned-down Shaft of
Samuel L. Jackson…

But I like the new flicks—
Like Boyz n the Hood…
I’ve got the hots for—
Cuba Gooding growing up
Down in South Central LA…

Black urban America—
Ice-Cube “Doughboy” dealer
Morris Chestnut “Ricky” &
Lawrence Fishburne trying
To keep his son on track…

Maya Angelou’s poetry—
Gives Janet Jackson and
Tupac Shakur something to
Do in John Singleton’s
Road trip Poetic Justice…

But every once in awhile—
Classic ‘70s “Blacula” camp
Comes back again with flicks
Like Dracula 2000 & tres
Gauche Vegas Vampires…

I’ve got nothing against—
Black intelligentsia flicks like
Looking for Langston, Brother
To Brother & Jim Jarmush’s
Interesting Coffee & Cigarettes…

I’m into Harlem Renaissance—
Langston Hughes & especially
The poetry of Bruce Nugent’s
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade” with
Its long Gertrude Stein lines…

I’m into Black Gay Poetry—
Especially Essex Hemphill:
“I am only sure of this:
I continue to awaken,
in a rumpled black suit.”

Lately I’ve been reading—
“Remember Me To Harlem:
The Letters of Langston
Hughes & Carl Van Vechten
(1925-1964).”

But sometimes I ache—
For the sense of Rebellion
And sheer Blaxploitation Joy
That is & was Black Soul
Back then before Stonewall…

Tonight in a DVD daze—
Browsing thru my Library
Doing snippets of the Past
Delving back into Black Soul
With my magic Flatscreen…

A quick black montage—
Nice twist postmodern snap
Random “Jane Chords” with
Stop-action, Fast-forward
And my Earphones on…

The Blues Brothers—
Aretha Franklin’s “Think” &
“I Can’t Turn You Loose”
by Otis Redding & John
Lee Hooker’s “Boogie Chillun.”

Ray Charles singing—
“Shake A Tail Feather” and
“Gimme Some Lovin” with
Belushi & Aykroyd as icons
Jake & Elwood Blues…

Then Super Fly (1972)—
Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusherman”
With its metallic percussion &
Hypnotic drugged tone kissing
It rather than singing it…

Flashback to 1968—
Sitting in the Neptune Theater
Watching George Romero’s
Night of the Living Dead—
Duane Jones the black hero…

Rosey Grier & Ray Milland—
Camping it up as Ultimate Odd
Couples in The Thing With Two
Heads & even worse Incredible
Two-Headed Transplant …

Descending even deeper—
Kitschy Marlene Dietrich doing
“Voodoo Love” drag in campy
Gorilla suit with drums & jungle
Maidens in Blonde Venus (1932)…

Spawning other cult classics—
Bowanga Bowanga, Queen Kong,
The Devil’s Daughter, Bride of
The Gorilla, White Zombie, Son
Of Ingagi and Chloe!!!

As well as the “Black Epic”—
Fay Wray cute little drugged
Hollywood innocent sacrificed
To well-endowed King Kong
There on evil Skull Island!!!


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« Reply #1289 on: May 31, 2008, 10:24:03 PM »




Monster’s Ball (2001)

Heath Leger’s gone—why do I miss him so?

I’m not ashamed to admit it—admit what most men can’t admit—wouldn’t want to admit—couldn’t admit even if they had to—like me saying it now—Heath Leger—he was maybe the most vulnerable man in the whole crummy known universe—just about as hurt & vulnerable as Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca—not quite as cynical & full of weltschmertz yet—not as cool & aloof as Bogart—but getting there fast—the sun setting for him—the shadow of the day embracing him…

Like last night—turning off all the lights—pulling down the Venetian blinds—getting out the Crown Royal—slipping in the DVD—letting the shadow of the day embrace me—letting the sun set for me—sometimes solutions just aren’t so simple—but what else can a guy do—sitting around moody & blue—slowly sipping a tall cool one—what can you do on a rainy Friday night—except let Heath Leger do his thing—letting his sun set for you—letting you feel the shadow of his day—letting the look on his face—say what it seems to always say—saying it to you no matter which flick—but especially this one—Billy Bob Thornton’s young troubled son—Sonny—all mixed-up—imprisoned by adolescent angst—caught up in pointless crummy existence—the shadow of the day—embracing him in grey—the prison death row world of his father so grey—three generations of hurt living that way—embracing the world in grey—the same old crummy heartless way—since time began for the kid—in that terribly cold monstrous way—the shadow of the monstrous day—embracing the world of grey—the shadow of day—embracing Heath Ledger that way…

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