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Author Topic: Movies  (Read 38751 times)
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kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #1845 on: September 10, 2007, 11:49:44 AM »

Having read American Psycho I wasn't in a big hurry to see the movie.  Well, although (for me) a totally different interpretation from the book, the movie was great --  I agree -- Bale nailed the character -- can't imagine anyone else, especially Leo DiCaprio, who apparently was vying for the role (after Titantic with Oliver Stone directing).  Fortunately that fell through and in the quite able hands of a woman director (can't recall at the moment) created a most apt glimpse of the 80's male yuppie/vanity ever.
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ponderosa
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« Reply #1846 on: September 10, 2007, 12:00:21 PM »

Mary Harron -- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0366004/

I see she mainly does tv. Her choice or Hollywood being Hollywood?

The Bettie Page flick is another great flick.
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barton
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« Reply #1847 on: September 10, 2007, 12:18:37 PM »

Kitin -- Count me as another Bale fan who was impressed by his American Psycho perf.  I'm still ticked that Rescue Dawn never made it to theaters here in Sticksville.

(his character in AP is "Bateman" -- later, he plays "Batman" -- what does this mean?)

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kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #1848 on: September 10, 2007, 12:46:29 PM »

Although my locale isn't the "sticks" as a tiny beach community it's nearly the same mentality.  Meanwhile, RD sits in my saved  Netflix queue with sooooo many others....
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kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #1849 on: September 10, 2007, 12:50:33 PM »

Barton--

Batman -- Bateman -- Man Bait? Grin
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madupont
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« Reply #1850 on: September 10, 2007, 12:50:51 PM »

Dzimas,

It's not  David Lynch's subconscious that concerns me.  There may even be one of his films that I thought aesthetically okay but since I and harrie have both admitted that we sometimes confuse two films and produce our own combo scenario, I'd have to check the list to find one. If he is surreal, it is kind of like the very first time I saw Times Square before the 1960s or before its present appearance; definitely trippy before I recall a trip experience. I like to take my surrealism straight, no chaser. Zounds! the first James Dean with Dennis and Nathalie on Observatory hill was surreal film when it was happening.(directed, by the way, as if you couldn't tell, by a Frank Lloyd Wright Student, Nicholas Ray)

Do you notice how the discussion has already moved from Lynch to American Psycho?

After one grows weary of Kyle, Laura,Isabella; and why Dean is a close friend of Neil but, also exhibits his paintings at Taos, what is left?

As Ponderosa says in Reply #1862,  or any Ponderosa post for that matter, in his sub-text re: William Blake.

One could just as well have substituted Robert Blake's subconscious to make my point.
And that is the one Lost Highway traveled that made some sense possibly because there was another writer's input or maybe it is because of Patricia Arquette who has proven that she understands acting and does it, constantly improving.

I'm not sure that works with Kyle, or Laura,or isabella,whose father was Roberto, and Dean, poor Dean, I am referring to Stockwell, not James, was called into action because the aura remained with him from his previous film and Lynch  could coldly sense it on him and therefore summoned him.

Which reminds me, in what was C. Bale an adult star? Velvet Goldmine, hands down.

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TrojanHorse
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« Reply #1851 on: September 10, 2007, 11:45:13 PM »

harrie,re:#1808

The Usual Suspects  is one of my favourite  films.


This is why this is one of my favorite topics.  You think you've discussed everything and then you see a post and say "how did we miss that one?"

Ditto on Usual Suspects.  I remember watching it on video for the first time laid up in bed after totallin a brand new car...

Great Movie
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TrojanHorse
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« Reply #1852 on: September 10, 2007, 11:50:58 PM »


Trojan, whatever Inland Empire is about, I'm pretty sure it's not about the geographic area known as the Inland Empire, which IIRC centers around Spokane WA, right? 
 

Probably more than one.   Down hear, Inland Empire (also non-affectionately know as "The 909") is anything roughly east of Orange County -- Riverside San Bernadino, et al...   

though the recent split to 959 has given many residents hope of shedding their hopelessly backward, trailerpark image...
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jbottle
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« Reply #1853 on: September 11, 2007, 12:10:27 AM »

The thing about Harron's version of "American Psycho" is that it retained exactly the sort of joke lines of the bood while ignoring the more twisted passages that are really just the writer expressing his disdain bordering on bloodlust for his prep school peers, I thought it was a perfect distillation of the better parts of the book, that is, the black humor, without trying to ask the non-serious question of whether our hero is simply going mad or actually a killer, which Harron kind of dismisses because the book is arch satire, and leaning too hard on a factual rather than internal sort of narration would've been a big mistake.
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Dzimas
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« Reply #1854 on: September 11, 2007, 02:40:03 AM »

One could just as well have substituted Robert Blake's subconscious to make my point. - madupont

... and what point is that?  You seem all over the place in your posts these days.  I wasn't talking about Lynch's subconscious, I was talking about the moviegoer's subconscious.  It seems to me he starts with a pretty straight narrative and then begins to break it apart.  Sometimes he goes a little too far into the deconstructionist camp for my taste, but Blue Velvet and Mulholland Drive or shining examples of his work, as has been pointed out. 

This forum doesn't stay on any one subject for very long, so I don't see that as being indicative of any particular lack of interest.
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pugetopolis
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« Reply #1855 on: September 11, 2007, 04:41:42 AM »



Eraserhead (1977)

“Oh, I don’t know much of anything.”
—Henry Spencer in Eraserhead


Tonight is Eraserhead Night. I try to watch it at least once a night—seven days a week. I like to reward myself after coming home from work. My miserable existence needs a little entertainment—to keep me going. It’s nice to know I’m not the only post-apocalyptic working slob in the fucking universe. Henry Spencer reminds me that things could be worse—a lot worse…

It’s like David Lynch says—a guy needs a nightmare to wake-up to. That’s what Eraserhead is for—to get me ready for the next day. What better way to do that—than a nice neo-noir post-apocalyptic horror movie. I guess I’m that kind of guy—ironic movies keep me going.

The I-5 freeway is grid-lock after work everyday—so I take a sideways detour I know down through the glum depressing industrial parks and old brick buildings south of town. Past the dumpy old Rainier Brewery that now brews coffee—driving slowly through narrow twisted brick streets lined with tilting old red-brick warehouses and dumpy biker bars. It’s called Georgetown—a kind of old gritty pearl in the overgrown oyster industrial zone down by Elliott Bay south of town by the Seattle airport. 

The afternoon summer sun slants down on the grimy neighborhood—the dirty freeway pylons are constantly vibrating and roaring with trucks and cars—heavy with the insane crushing rush-hour traffic of the gods zooming by above us. I feel like a rat down there—escaping busy downtown—or better yet I feel like some insectoid-like creature scuttling my way down through the lawn in Blue Velvet (1986).

You know the scene I’m talking about? That weird Lynch-o-maniac scene with the camera burrowing way down deep inside the Bermuda grass—it still gives me the creeps. As if some alien creature had invaded suburbia—weaseling its way through the nice well-kept lawn of a nice well-kept citizen of a nice well-kept Seattle neighborhood.

And this poor guy who was innocently watering his lawn—suddenly keels over dead from a heart-attack with the hose still spraying everywhere. The scene always seemed awfully weird to me—and sexual in a perverted kinky way. Like having a heart-attack—while making love to your wife? Or to your girlfriend—or to yourself? Dying while squirting your brains out—what a way to go. It happens—it happens all the time. That’s not the way I want to go—watering my lawn.

I want to be watching Eraserhead—when I kick the bucket.
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madupont
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« Reply #1856 on: September 11, 2007, 09:42:59 AM »

Dzimas,"I wasn't talking about Lynch's subconscious, I was talking about the moviegoer's subconscious."   That's where I agree with you and I thought I said that.

However, I think that he reinforces, what the viewer saw; or, recognizes, or, realizes.  Each reinforcement is a conditioning process of forming a concept of reality.  That is why human cultures vary so radically; their value systems have been conditioned to accept a different reality.

I'm not saying that Lynch is the "lone weirdo"; far from it. In fact, I went into detail as to how and why I find Cronenberg widening the aperture on how the valid can gradually overextend from professionally ethical to pathological. I was conditioned to recognize it  and how often it becomes a reality not mitigated by the screen.

But I do think there is a difference in "Surrealism" in art from fixating on the aberrant.

On the other hand what better time to live in, (right?) to experience conditioned acceptance of the trite and banal. It is just the right "pablum" to redirect attention away from extreme political alterations.  It's just one of the sacrifices this generation has to contribute to "accomplish the mission" (but sorry, I haven't read Petraeus yet this morning). Just how much is believable? How much is delusional? How much is ersatz which you can tolerate? 
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TrojanHorse
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« Reply #1857 on: September 11, 2007, 11:29:35 AM »


Tonight is Eraserhead Night. I try to watch it at least once a night—seven days a week.

I want to be watching Eraserhead—when I kick the bucket.


I'm never quite going to look at one of your posts in the same way again I'm afraid...
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barton
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« Reply #1858 on: September 11, 2007, 02:14:15 PM »

Re -- "know the scene I’m talking about? That weird Lynch-o-maniac scene with the camera burrowing way down deep inside the Bermuda grass...."

I think that's the opening scene of the film, IIRC.

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pugetopolis
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« Reply #1859 on: September 11, 2007, 03:39:47 PM »



Eraserhead (1977)

“Oh, I don’t know much of anything.”
—Henry Spencer in Eraserhead


Everyday is Eraserhead day for me—especially coming home from work. That’s when being Eraserhead comes in handy—that’s when I really become Henry Spencer my hero.

The traffic usually moves slowly—which is okay with me. Anything is better than the mean inhuman maddening grinding bumper-to-bumper grid-lock shitty commute going on up there on the freeway.

Even so I keep looking out my side window—at the passing dirty gutters with their chipped curbs—the beer cans and crummy garbage and old newspapers... It all has a secret charm for some strange reason.

Why? Am I like Kyle MacLachlan—on the verge of finding a severed ear there in the gutter or by the sidewalk? Suddenly Lorena Bobbitt drives by in ’68 Dodge Dart convertible throwing something out the window—she’s got tears in her eyes and a butcher-knife between her teeth…

The traffic swerves to make room for her but then resumes it’s normal snail-pace—nobody notices anything. Everybody’s tired and wants to get home from work. Who knows what she threw out the window—who really cares even if it’s what I think it is?

Who cares? I’ve still got mine—even if I don’t have much fun with it anymore. Except on weekends—when I watch my other movie. My favorite porno movie—Niagara (1953) with my favorite sexy actress Marilyn Monroe. She’s got such a skanky fine ass—walking down the sidewalk to call her lover. Although she doesn’t really walk—she kinda slinks and glides…you know what I mean, baby? Nothin' like a skanky ho in the morning...to make a man feel Wanted Dead or Alive!!!

Call me sicko pricko but my favorite scene in Niagara—the one that excites my instinctual male-slut cinematic desires the most—is when Joseph Cotton strangles ho Marilyn Monroe to death. There in the locked-up lonely quiet bell tower—so deadly quiet as he chokes her slowly to death.

Sometimes after watching Niagara—I have these strange nocturnal emissions late at night. It must be my Monsters of the Id—or my skanky Anima ho. It's always waking me up and wrecking havoc with my poor wretched male psyche. I wake up dazed not knowing who or what I am—squirting my fucking brains out. I feel like that spastic hair-lipped child-idiot Benjy in that crummy Faulkner novel. You know the one—both him and Quentin his brother gots the hots for their sister Caddy? Kinky huh?

Well, whatever Mrs. Bobbitt threw out the window there under the crummy overpass—nobody but me seems to care. But I’m sure Mr. Bobbitt is the most frantic man in Mudville to get that thing back. I know I would—wouldn't you? I doubt if anybody else cares—but I know if it happened to me, I'd strangle that ho to death like Cotton did to Monroe...strangle that ho good, baby.


« Last Edit: September 11, 2007, 08:15:52 PM by pugetopolis » Logged

“Other people's obsessions
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