I want some snow.
Like this.
Friday, January 31, 2003
Monday, January 27, 2003
Brutal cradling, Elusive message, Uneven film
The story is simple enough. 8 Mile presents: Eminem as you've never seen him before. Erm, hang on - that means 'Eminem as we've definitely seen him before, many times'. The master of the moody glare, the mellifluous rap and the lost-boy-loud-boy crossover. But this is a Curtis Hanson film. Curtis Hanson, the director of Wonder Boys and L.A. Confidential, is the last person I would have expected to direct a film like this one. But dammit, he makes it different to all the usual 'music star as film star' films you've ever seen.
And the signs are all there. For all the distinct change of scene from the old-police-stations Hollywood of L.A. or the suburban cosiness of Wonder Boys, the cinematography is still rich and disciplined without you realising it, and the passionate sense of place - in this case, the tumbledown Detroit - oozes from every frame.
And the signs are all there. For all the distinct change of scene from the old-police-stations Hollywood of L.A. or the suburban cosiness of Wonder Boys, the cinematography is still rich and disciplined without you realising it, and the passionate sense of place - in this case, the tumbledown Detroit - oozes from every frame.
The plot follows, so spoiler alert!, don't read further if you don't what to find out here what you'll be able to guess after having seen the trailer. I don't mean that to be disparaging, but everyone, unless their head's been in a barrel for the past few years, knows who Eminem is and roughly how he dragged himself up the rap ladder. And everyone knows that, although Eminem isn't really Eminem in this film - he's 'Rabbit', a young white rapper who's been accepted by the black boys on the dodgy side of Detroit's 8 Mile - this story is nevertheless based around him. Around his story.
Rabbit hangs out with his friends. Rabbit is quietly determined, but appears in the film's opening shots vomiting down the toilet before a battle - a public rap sparring-match between two rappers competing for recognition from their peers. Later, he raps in a parking-lot (the amazing, evocative old Michigan Theatre, pictured left) in an impromptu conversation with a rival group of guys. His lack of security isn't quite pulled off by Eminem, though, and this is where the cracks start to appear.
Because although Eminem is very good at acting determined, his embarrassed Rabbit isn't embarrassed enough. But this is part of Rabbit, which it would take a better actor to deliver: Rabbit is weak, and aware that he's weak. He doesn't fall back on guns to make his point for him - none of the characters do, strangely, (post-9-11th-ally??) apart from one, who injures himself in a shot of poetic justice - but rap.
And that would be fine. But this is not a rap musical. It's a film. It Rabbit could really break into rap every time he got threatened and win through because of that, we'd know. But a savage beating scene gives the lie to that idea, and because of this, Rabbit's slightly-too-smooth edges don't seem right. They look right, though. Oh, yes. Because Eminem looks fantastic on screen - on that point I agree entirely with Rolling Stone. His fierceness shines, but a little too sparklingly at times. He's the angry boy with a soul, who finally gets his chance to flare in a battle, and wins through.
Rabbit hangs out with his friends. Rabbit is quietly determined, but appears in the film's opening shots vomiting down the toilet before a battle - a public rap sparring-match between two rappers competing for recognition from their peers. Later, he raps in a parking-lot (the amazing, evocative old Michigan Theatre, pictured left) in an impromptu conversation with a rival group of guys. His lack of security isn't quite pulled off by Eminem, though, and this is where the cracks start to appear.
Because although Eminem is very good at acting determined, his embarrassed Rabbit isn't embarrassed enough. But this is part of Rabbit, which it would take a better actor to deliver: Rabbit is weak, and aware that he's weak. He doesn't fall back on guns to make his point for him - none of the characters do, strangely, (post-9-11th-ally??) apart from one, who injures himself in a shot of poetic justice - but rap.
And that would be fine. But this is not a rap musical. It's a film. It Rabbit could really break into rap every time he got threatened and win through because of that, we'd know. But a savage beating scene gives the lie to that idea, and because of this, Rabbit's slightly-too-smooth edges don't seem right. They look right, though. Oh, yes. Because Eminem looks fantastic on screen - on that point I agree entirely with Rolling Stone. His fierceness shines, but a little too sparklingly at times. He's the angry boy with a soul, who finally gets his chance to flare in a battle, and wins through.
In terms of this film, I'm not sure why I think it's a winner. I'm not sure why I think Eminem is a winner in it, despite his weaknesses. Maybe it's Eminem. Maybe it's Curtis Hanson. Who knows?
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Sprawling, untidy inspiration
Martin Scorsese's latest film, which I saw a couple of nights ago, doesn't leave me with the impression that it was a crap film. I remember parts of it with pleasure, and others with the sort of wincing, guilty pleasure you feel at the end of a particularly nasty horror film. But I remember it. I am interested about the characters. If it had been substandard work, as so many people are saying, why do I feel this way?
Gangs of New York is undoubtedly sprawling and untidy. Salon points out that it's as if Scorsese had become lost in the grime-stained playground of his imagination for too long, wanting to revel in the multiplicity of characters (there are no computer-generated crowds, and the cast is huge) and the length of time it takes (nearly three hours). But I incline more towards the New York Times's review. To my way of thinking, the general epic scope is indeed akin to the films of DW Griffith, and there was definitely a feeling throughout the film that, while perhaps the shooting and scripting didn't always mould to a satisfying story like plasticwrap over glass, the style and scope was there to provide a spectacle in and of itself.
Many critics will disagree with me, I know. But I didn't even find Amsterdam, Leonardo Di Caprio's character, awful. Of course, he wasn't impressive. But then, he wasn't meant to be. Amsterdam, the son of the gang leader Priest Vallon (solidly and calmly played by Liam Neeson) who is murdered nastily at the start, only returns vengefully to the Five Points district after some years, and as such is like a fish half-in, half-out of the water at a time when he most needs to glide, silent and deadly, towards his intended victim.
Gangs of New York is undoubtedly sprawling and untidy. Salon points out that it's as if Scorsese had become lost in the grime-stained playground of his imagination for too long, wanting to revel in the multiplicity of characters (there are no computer-generated crowds, and the cast is huge) and the length of time it takes (nearly three hours). But I incline more towards the New York Times's review. To my way of thinking, the general epic scope is indeed akin to the films of DW Griffith, and there was definitely a feeling throughout the film that, while perhaps the shooting and scripting didn't always mould to a satisfying story like plasticwrap over glass, the style and scope was there to provide a spectacle in and of itself.
Many critics will disagree with me, I know. But I didn't even find Amsterdam, Leonardo Di Caprio's character, awful. Of course, he wasn't impressive. But then, he wasn't meant to be. Amsterdam, the son of the gang leader Priest Vallon (solidly and calmly played by Liam Neeson) who is murdered nastily at the start, only returns vengefully to the Five Points district after some years, and as such is like a fish half-in, half-out of the water at a time when he most needs to glide, silent and deadly, towards his intended victim.
His intended victim, William "Bill the Butcher" Cutting, is where the film really starts to fall apart and cohere at the same time. Dealing with the falling-apart first, Di Caprio can't stand up against older actors too well anyway, and Amsterdam isn't scripted to confront him. Instead, he woos him, scared, rather than waiting to reveal his hand. This isn't bad acting but rather a bad situation. (The worst most obvious slips Di Caprio makes during the film's entire length are slips of accent only.)
Now, to the coherence. Daniel Day-Lewis returns with one eye of porceain and one of glare and twinkle, and a voice which has been marinaded in bourbon, tobacco and grit for at least a few months. Standing so tall his character seems precarious, tottering badly at the end as intended, Day-Lewis is the true nucleus of the plot. Around his sun orbit Jim Broadbent, acting well as corrupt local politician William Tweed in his first Hollywood outing since Moulin Rouge, and John C. Reilly (of Magnolia fame). Cameron Diaz slips around tartly, thieving from the plush neighbourhoods before subsiding disappointingly into the story's love-interest, Jenny Everdeane.
All in all, it's sprawling, some characterisation is untidy, but it's not bad. People are used to thinking of Scorsese as a god who can do no wrong - or if not that, exactly, then at least as someone who is higher up there than most. So what if he wants to sprawl occasionally? Does that make this film bad, simply because of that? No. It's absolutely no worse than, for example, Gladiator. It's a lot better than The Two Towers, purely in terms of plot, characterisation and acting. And cinematographically, it's a dream. Before you buy into what the critics are all saying, go see for yourself. This is a big-screen must-see.
Now, to the coherence. Daniel Day-Lewis returns with one eye of porceain and one of glare and twinkle, and a voice which has been marinaded in bourbon, tobacco and grit for at least a few months. Standing so tall his character seems precarious, tottering badly at the end as intended, Day-Lewis is the true nucleus of the plot. Around his sun orbit Jim Broadbent, acting well as corrupt local politician William Tweed in his first Hollywood outing since Moulin Rouge, and John C. Reilly (of Magnolia fame). Cameron Diaz slips around tartly, thieving from the plush neighbourhoods before subsiding disappointingly into the story's love-interest, Jenny Everdeane.
All in all, it's sprawling, some characterisation is untidy, but it's not bad. People are used to thinking of Scorsese as a god who can do no wrong - or if not that, exactly, then at least as someone who is higher up there than most. So what if he wants to sprawl occasionally? Does that make this film bad, simply because of that? No. It's absolutely no worse than, for example, Gladiator. It's a lot better than The Two Towers, purely in terms of plot, characterisation and acting. And cinematographically, it's a dream. Before you buy into what the critics are all saying, go see for yourself. This is a big-screen must-see.
Saturday, January 18, 2003
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
Talking
There are several kinds:
1. Pointless conversation used first thing in the morning to wake you up. Usually takes place with strangers at bus-stops.
2. Inner monologue. If you're lucky, it's not so much talking as thinking, but if you're unlucky like I was, you end up thinking aloud in coffeeshops over the newspaper. And people look at you strangely, so you smile back, and they don't know where to look.
3. Tentative engagement. Usually used when you're in a room with strangers and you just want to get to know one or two of them. Every sentence is a stepping-stone which might slip on the riverbed and send you flying, but you still keep walking.
4. Fluidity. Can be verbal or written, and I've been having an enjoyable few sessions of this with a few people, including Chris, over the last few days. Nothing is an effort, and freedom and clarity usually result.
5. The kind that I've just heard coming from behind the bathroom door, where dad is probably seated on the porcelain. I don't know what he's saying, but it seems he talks to himself on the toilet quite a lot. I can't say I do. Do you?
There are several kinds:
1. Pointless conversation used first thing in the morning to wake you up. Usually takes place with strangers at bus-stops.
2. Inner monologue. If you're lucky, it's not so much talking as thinking, but if you're unlucky like I was, you end up thinking aloud in coffeeshops over the newspaper. And people look at you strangely, so you smile back, and they don't know where to look.
3. Tentative engagement. Usually used when you're in a room with strangers and you just want to get to know one or two of them. Every sentence is a stepping-stone which might slip on the riverbed and send you flying, but you still keep walking.
4. Fluidity. Can be verbal or written, and I've been having an enjoyable few sessions of this with a few people, including Chris, over the last few days. Nothing is an effort, and freedom and clarity usually result.
5. The kind that I've just heard coming from behind the bathroom door, where dad is probably seated on the porcelain. I don't know what he's saying, but it seems he talks to himself on the toilet quite a lot. I can't say I do. Do you?
Friday, January 10, 2003
First Snow!
But not here, in Belfast, sadly. However, I've just been kidding myself with ample resources from this snow gallery.
But not here, in Belfast, sadly. However, I've just been kidding myself with ample resources from this snow gallery.
Freedom
Look at this piece of glowing invective, from none other than The Pyongyang Times.
Notice that North Korea doesn't call itself North Korea (beware MSN pop-up). It calls itself DPRK - the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. There's a slight difference. (Obviously *South* Korea doesn't exist, then. Or not really, anyway.) I think it'd be an interesting place to visit.
Look at this piece of glowing invective, from none other than The Pyongyang Times.
Notice that North Korea doesn't call itself North Korea (beware MSN pop-up). It calls itself DPRK - the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. There's a slight difference. (Obviously *South* Korea doesn't exist, then. Or not really, anyway.) I think it'd be an interesting place to visit.
Monday, January 06, 2003
Iraq: Liberation, Invasion or Colonization?
Dubya has been at it again. Think for a moment, he told us. Think about what Saddam has done. Think about what we can do for Iraq. And then you'll see that we won't be invading the country, but freeing its people.
A little premature, isn't it. Or is it? Nobody knows because, at the moment, America is the only country in the entire world which has said it's going in there sometime soon. It's true that Britain's Prime Minister is hawkishly keeping his eyes open, and kicked off 2003 with a speech full of dire warnings of worldwide threats to peace and security. (Threats to peace and security, incidentally, which are anything but war on Iraq.) So far, though, he hasn't said yes. His ministers, and others, are increasingly saying no. So, where does this place George W Bush?
In a word: alone. America is massing troops in the Gulf. Britain is due to send its biggest carrier there tomorrow, but even in a few months, its commitment of people and hardware would still be less than America's. There's a very good reason for that: no concrete plans have been made because, unlike the once-in-a-lifetime groundswell of world support for pursuing Osama and the Taleban in Afghanistan, nobody in the world knows why they want to invade - Saddam is not Osama bin Laden; there's no real world interest there. Apart from America, no single country anywhere even knows if there's any point to it, but all countries can see at least one glistening end-result: OIL.
A little premature, isn't it. Or is it? Nobody knows because, at the moment, America is the only country in the entire world which has said it's going in there sometime soon. It's true that Britain's Prime Minister is hawkishly keeping his eyes open, and kicked off 2003 with a speech full of dire warnings of worldwide threats to peace and security. (Threats to peace and security, incidentally, which are anything but war on Iraq.) So far, though, he hasn't said yes. His ministers, and others, are increasingly saying no. So, where does this place George W Bush?
In a word: alone. America is massing troops in the Gulf. Britain is due to send its biggest carrier there tomorrow, but even in a few months, its commitment of people and hardware would still be less than America's. There's a very good reason for that: no concrete plans have been made because, unlike the once-in-a-lifetime groundswell of world support for pursuing Osama and the Taleban in Afghanistan, nobody in the world knows why they want to invade - Saddam is not Osama bin Laden; there's no real world interest there. Apart from America, no single country anywhere even knows if there's any point to it, but all countries can see at least one glistening end-result: OIL.
Now, don't get me wrong here. I'm not suggesting for one millisecond that America just wants to boot Saddam up his hairy Arab crack and grab some black stuff. I'm really not. The American hawks do actually believe that a regime change would be beneficial to the country. Why they believe this is beyond me. Why would a population which naturally inclines to a multifarious, and sometimes violent 'clan-based' rule, possibly want democracy? They would have to take their place, and recognise their *responsibilities to*, and in, the wider world. America would allow nothing less. Of course, they'd all rather welcome Saddam's downfall because it would give them the chance to get that system established. Self-rule for Iraqis would mean a multiplicity of different local rulers. And yet the press has been so full of a single word, Iraq, that you'd almost be forgiven for thinking it's a single people.
Anyway, so what if they do or they don't have a change of regime. America doesn't like Saddam. America despises his filthy little moustache. Furthermore, the portraits of him in various heroic poses are almost as kitsch as the Stars and Stripes flying all over America. Get the shitty, weaselly sand-nigger off his perch and let's show the world we whupped his ass. Then, let's set up a postwar interregnum in Iraq, which we won't call a ruling council because that would give us too much actual responsibility, and let's make the interregnum as slow as we can so that we can get as much OIL as possible out of there.
Oh, come on Britain, you know you want to get in the car with us. Come oooonnn! :o) You'll like it, I promise. We suckee suckee. Aww, please think about it? We can't do it without you! Britain? Britain. I'm not going to ask again... Now. Get in the fuckin' car.
Anyway, so what if they do or they don't have a change of regime. America doesn't like Saddam. America despises his filthy little moustache. Furthermore, the portraits of him in various heroic poses are almost as kitsch as the Stars and Stripes flying all over America. Get the shitty, weaselly sand-nigger off his perch and let's show the world we whupped his ass. Then, let's set up a postwar interregnum in Iraq, which we won't call a ruling council because that would give us too much actual responsibility, and let's make the interregnum as slow as we can so that we can get as much OIL as possible out of there.
Oh, come on Britain, you know you want to get in the car with us. Come oooonnn! :o) You'll like it, I promise. We suckee suckee. Aww, please think about it? We can't do it without you! Britain? Britain. I'm not going to ask again... Now. Get in the fuckin' car.
Sunday, January 05, 2003
Weapons of Mass Destruction
Each word or phrase which is over-used becomes one of the above against the power and magic of words. The top offenders on Lake Superior State Uni's list this year (showing just how much ordinary Americans hate Bush (thank-you, Jeeeee-zus)): Material Breach; Make No Mistake About It; Weapons of Mass Destruction; Homeland Security.
Today's quiz: what literary surname links together all items on the above list?
Answer: Shakespeare.
Yes, that's right. Because the Pentagon is slipping a copy of Shakespeare's racier war-based plays into its soldiers' backpacks before they get helicoptered, shipped and flown to Iraq. I ask the next question in all seriousness: why??
Each word or phrase which is over-used becomes one of the above against the power and magic of words. The top offenders on Lake Superior State Uni's list this year (showing just how much ordinary Americans hate Bush (thank-you, Jeeeee-zus)): Material Breach; Make No Mistake About It; Weapons of Mass Destruction; Homeland Security.
Today's quiz: what literary surname links together all items on the above list?
Answer: Shakespeare.
Yes, that's right. Because the Pentagon is slipping a copy of Shakespeare's racier war-based plays into its soldiers' backpacks before they get helicoptered, shipped and flown to Iraq. I ask the next question in all seriousness: why??
Am I turning American?
5 minutes ago, I typed 'That sucks' into a message to a friend on OUT. He wrote back and told me I'd written 'That sucks'. I stared in disbelief. No, I *couldn't* have written that! I went back through my history to check. And there it was. Since my friend is Canadian, he asked me why I'd said it - us 'brits' never say it, apparently.
Well, we do now. God help me.
5 minutes ago, I typed 'That sucks' into a message to a friend on OUT. He wrote back and told me I'd written 'That sucks'. I stared in disbelief. No, I *couldn't* have written that! I went back through my history to check. And there it was. Since my friend is Canadian, he asked me why I'd said it - us 'brits' never say it, apparently.
Well, we do now. God help me.
Wednesday, January 01, 2003
And. . . . . ?
I really don't know what more to say. I usually feel underwhelmed by New Year things. I feel much happier that it's still Christmas!
Perhaps unsurprisingly, because I'm sure this happens to a lot of people, I'm feeling rather unmoved now that we're in the aftermath of 2002 turning into 2003. Today, arguably, the internet is 20 years old, but other than the usual celebrations around the world, there's not much to say.
Today is, however, the first day of something a lot bigger (to me at least) than just another year: the appearance of Samuel Pepys' Diary online. Presented in the form of a blog, the diary will be put online at a rate of one entry per day. Pepys started the diary on the 1st of January 1660 and died in 1703. That means that we have about forty years to wait before the complete text is online, but it will be a valuable experiment in whether readers will actually come back each day, or for catch-up sessions, to read something on the web that they wouldn't necessarily have read on paper.
Today is, however, the first day of something a lot bigger (to me at least) than just another year: the appearance of Samuel Pepys' Diary online. Presented in the form of a blog, the diary will be put online at a rate of one entry per day. Pepys started the diary on the 1st of January 1660 and died in 1703. That means that we have about forty years to wait before the complete text is online, but it will be a valuable experiment in whether readers will actually come back each day, or for catch-up sessions, to read something on the web that they wouldn't necessarily have read on paper.
I really don't know what more to say. I usually feel underwhelmed by New Year things. I feel much happier that it's still Christmas!
Saturday, December 28, 2002
Disbelief
Two stories have set me blinking in indignation today. The first is that a strange sect masquerading as a 'scientific' cloning company claims to have successfully cloned the first human being.
The second is that steel from the now defunct World Trade Center in New York is to be used... to make a great big warship. Maybe I'm wrong, (no, really, maybe I really am - I can't remember properly) but I seem to recall that shortly after the catastrophe, the Twin Towers were lamented and the description of the buildings leant heavily towards values like peace, creativity, freedom, beauty and so on. Obviously the same sense of peace and freedom which led US law enforcement officials to jail two foreign students for being 'work shy'.
And there's one more star in heaven tonight - or one more star-maker - as news comes in that photographer Herb Ritts is dead at the age of 50.
Two stories have set me blinking in indignation today. The first is that a strange sect masquerading as a 'scientific' cloning company claims to have successfully cloned the first human being.
The second is that steel from the now defunct World Trade Center in New York is to be used... to make a great big warship. Maybe I'm wrong, (no, really, maybe I really am - I can't remember properly) but I seem to recall that shortly after the catastrophe, the Twin Towers were lamented and the description of the buildings leant heavily towards values like peace, creativity, freedom, beauty and so on. Obviously the same sense of peace and freedom which led US law enforcement officials to jail two foreign students for being 'work shy'.
And there's one more star in heaven tonight - or one more star-maker - as news comes in that photographer Herb Ritts is dead at the age of 50.
Thursday, December 26, 2002
What? A white Christmas?!
No, we didn't get one here in Northern Ireland. But Arkansas (right), Missouri, Pennsylvania and New York all had a freakish snowstorm sweep across them yesterday. We could do with some of that. There are so many warm nuggets of colour and food and drink in this house that I long to look towards the window and see snow-light, to step out of doors and hear the crunch of snow.
No, we didn't get one here in Northern Ireland. But Arkansas (right), Missouri, Pennsylvania and New York all had a freakish snowstorm sweep across them yesterday. We could do with some of that. There are so many warm nuggets of colour and food and drink in this house that I long to look towards the window and see snow-light, to step out of doors and hear the crunch of snow.
Sunday, December 22, 2002
Blatant, Over-reactionary Lunacy
American Airport Staff scared, or insane? And I thought I was badly treated in the UK...
More comments here.
American Airport Staff scared, or insane? And I thought I was badly treated in the UK...
More comments here.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
The onset
I just went out to the back garden and could tell as soon as I stepped outside that it's much, much colder tonight. The pergola is dusted with frost, and when I went to the bin, I spent a while cracking the ice around the lid so I could open it.
This is where I start to feel the onset of Christmas. There's a very bright star in the eastern sky; of course it's not that which the Three Kings saw... but things are starting to coalesce. :o)
I just went out to the back garden and could tell as soon as I stepped outside that it's much, much colder tonight. The pergola is dusted with frost, and when I went to the bin, I spent a while cracking the ice around the lid so I could open it.
This is where I start to feel the onset of Christmas. There's a very bright star in the eastern sky; of course it's not that which the Three Kings saw... but things are starting to coalesce. :o)
Monday, December 16, 2002
The Little Friend
When I heard, on a winter day late last year, that Donna Tartt's second novel would soon appear, I longed to plunge back into The Secret History with new eyes, and take heed of signs, and wait, and wonder. At last, She was publishing again. At last, I would read something by Her which I hadn't read before. Her new book would be as rich and studded with jewels as Her first, and hitherto only, novel. It would change my mood for weeks on end. It would devour me over a period of perhaps three days, and I would devour it many times thereafter.
Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling; and our story shall be the education of our heroes.
This prefatory quotation from Plato, slipped ironically into the first pages of The Secret History, certainly cannot be applied to The Little Friend. It is a large book. At more than 500 pages, bound in black, and excitingly solid and bulky, it is just heavy enough to make you think you might be carrying a box of riches in your bag. You will undo the clasp, open the lid, and gaze, wide-eyed and short of breath, at the dim glitter inside.
But this is a slow book, and its richness is as thick as a midge-filled summer afternoon. While occasionally you may be allowed to canter through a few pages at most, the rest of it may as well have a "Do Not Run" signboard, presided over by some stern, angular matron. The syrupy paragraphs drop slowly and heavily through your mind, one, two... three...... and another..... Some of them are light and sweet, some as dark and tinged with bitterness as black treacle.
It's not such an easy lay as The Secret History. It won't lie down with you and engage you in sweaty abandon for days on end, only to spit you out light-headed and spinning afterwards. It will hold you firmly, talk slowly, smile in a small way, and though you may want to pull away and do something else, you'll know you have to keep listening. This tale does not tell itself simply, but then, in the American South, a story may be months in the telling...
Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling; and our story shall be the education of our heroes.
This prefatory quotation from Plato, slipped ironically into the first pages of The Secret History, certainly cannot be applied to The Little Friend. It is a large book. At more than 500 pages, bound in black, and excitingly solid and bulky, it is just heavy enough to make you think you might be carrying a box of riches in your bag. You will undo the clasp, open the lid, and gaze, wide-eyed and short of breath, at the dim glitter inside.
But this is a slow book, and its richness is as thick as a midge-filled summer afternoon. While occasionally you may be allowed to canter through a few pages at most, the rest of it may as well have a "Do Not Run" signboard, presided over by some stern, angular matron. The syrupy paragraphs drop slowly and heavily through your mind, one, two... three...... and another..... Some of them are light and sweet, some as dark and tinged with bitterness as black treacle.
It's not such an easy lay as The Secret History. It won't lie down with you and engage you in sweaty abandon for days on end, only to spit you out light-headed and spinning afterwards. It will hold you firmly, talk slowly, smile in a small way, and though you may want to pull away and do something else, you'll know you have to keep listening. This tale does not tell itself simply, but then, in the American South, a story may be months in the telling...
Sunday, December 15, 2002
Donnie Darko
Yes, there is a film (its young director's first) called Donnie Darko. No, I hadn't really heard of the thing until about two weeks ago, when my friend Jonny mentioned it to me. It's about... well, it's very difficult to say exactly what this film *is* about. It follows Donnie Darko through either the first or last years of his adult life, depending on how you look at it.
Feeling increasingly alienated from the world around him, Donnie, played by Jake Gyllenhaal (right), moves through it in a sensitive, troubled, and increasingly playful way. Testing the boundaries of the reailty he lives in, as directed by a big evil bunny, and fascinated by increasingly bizarre events which lead him to kickstart the mind-bending denouement, this is a film which made me laugh, well up with tears, go all hormonal for Donnie, and all motherly for him and the rest of the misguided characters (played by a wonderful cast), all at the same time. Nobody's talked about it here in Northern Ireland, where it would usually be regarded as an irrelevant piece of childish weird shit, instead of the quirky masterpiece it undoubtedly is.
Go see.
PS. - Dec. 19th - Apparently, it caused a huge stir in America when it was released. Due to the release-date being only a few months after September 11th, and the prominence given to a jet engine and a house.
Feeling increasingly alienated from the world around him, Donnie, played by Jake Gyllenhaal (right), moves through it in a sensitive, troubled, and increasingly playful way. Testing the boundaries of the reailty he lives in, as directed by a big evil bunny, and fascinated by increasingly bizarre events which lead him to kickstart the mind-bending denouement, this is a film which made me laugh, well up with tears, go all hormonal for Donnie, and all motherly for him and the rest of the misguided characters (played by a wonderful cast), all at the same time. Nobody's talked about it here in Northern Ireland, where it would usually be regarded as an irrelevant piece of childish weird shit, instead of the quirky masterpiece it undoubtedly is.
Go see.
PS. - Dec. 19th - Apparently, it caused a huge stir in America when it was released. Due to the release-date being only a few months after September 11th, and the prominence given to a jet engine and a house.
Friday, December 13, 2002
Thursday, December 12, 2002
Jobless, again
Even I am starting to think that I'm hopeless. Today, in the middle of the afternoon, someone from my agency called me to tell me that someone in the very building I work in had decided to say byebye to me and quite a few other recent temp workers today - because work was slowing down before Christmas. So, my manager lived down the corridor and he didn't have the guts to tell me. And I've been employed now for a grand total of, oh, 9 days.
I could swear here, really. But there really fucking wouldn't be any fucking arsing cunting point.
Even I am starting to think that I'm hopeless. Today, in the middle of the afternoon, someone from my agency called me to tell me that someone in the very building I work in had decided to say byebye to me and quite a few other recent temp workers today - because work was slowing down before Christmas. So, my manager lived down the corridor and he didn't have the guts to tell me. And I've been employed now for a grand total of, oh, 9 days.
I could swear here, really. But there really fucking wouldn't be any fucking arsing cunting point.
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Driven to Distractions
Does any of this not ring true?
That's because the handkerchief's actually a watercolour. And beyond the doorway out of the room, there isn't a corridor at all. Just another painting.
It's time I lightened the mood on here, at least. So, after a somewhat shitty day at work, here's a nice handkerchief belonging to a Shaker Man, woven by George Constantine in about 1936.
And a brilliant doorway with corridor beyond (at Chatsworth House, UK), with a little violin hung on a door. Architect thought to be Jan van der Vaart, in the 1670s.
Does any of this not ring true?
That's because the handkerchief's actually a watercolour. And beyond the doorway out of the room, there isn't a corridor at all. Just another painting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
