Crotches and their repurcussions

You know something about Labyrinth? It's justly famous for all that David Bowie cock. There are lots of sweet things about that movie, but David Bowie's cock is definitely in the top five. Frankly I don't give a fuck whether his crotch was stuffed or not. The thing is it's impossible to watch five minutes of most children's/young adult films without seeing vast riches of hyper-sexualized feminine erogeny, if you count boobies, which I most certainly do. And if you count boobs the odds of single one out of dozens of pairs being real in any meaningful way are laughable.

But I can't think of another such movie besides Labyrinth that showcases men's genitals in quite such an exciting way - as something so very obviously attached to some magic goblin dude who can control time, walk upside-down, and do all sorts of other crazy fucked-up shit, but who can still be managed with the application of a little logic, imagination and fearlessness. I either credit or blame - generally credit - that movie, at least in part, for the nature of my relationships with cocks today.

Alright, after a bit of cock talk I think in good faith I can now continue to write about being pregnant. I'm in the middle of the trip back up to L_____, which pisses me off on every level except that of being happy to be returning to the arms of the F-word. I started Canadian Sunday Night, and will arrive back in L____ Australian Tuesday Afternoon. And once again, couldn't be doing it faster. It's been shit - the five hours to Vancouver followed by the 15 hours to Sydney followed by this hanging about in an airport full of Australians. I won't do that again if I can help it - definitely will break the journey in Vancouver with Elvis and Co. But I'd already resolved that, of course, and couldn't help it this time, given that the trip was executed impromptu and in haste. And who knows how many more such emergencies will come?

 Every time I leave Canada I feel a little dumber for doing so, and now I feel super-dumb for doing so, given that I was leaving an environment full of friends and family full of concern and love sparked off by my present delicate state, returning to an environment where - well, where we have some really good friends. But this distance is starting to seem bigger and bigger. The idea of doing what I've just done with a baby makes me want to vomit. I mean, more so than already. Which is less than I had before, happily.

Eating at the moment:

-unlimited helpings of pasta carbonara
-ABSOLUTELY NO cruciform vegetables besides crispy picked cabbage
-most deep-fried things
-FUCKIN' NO cruciform vegetables. GROSS GROSS GROSS.
-Rice Krispies
-Montreal-style bagels. Except now I'm back in fuckin' Australia, with its fucking lack of Montreal  Jews and the attendant Montreal-style bagels.

Ah, fuck this fuckin' place.

Not the good kind of chesty

New Jane Eyre? Ugh. It was nice to look at. I was with it all the way up until the end, actually; I mean, it was beautifully shot and sort of spooky enough that I could just ignore my fangirl reactionaryism any time they changed or skipped a line (to be fair it was one of the better "altered" scripts I've heard); it was a good and consistent vision of the book. Rochester being stripped of all his silliness wasn't the way I would have done it, but it did allow for things to be paced reasonably well, since his silliness takes up an awful lot of time.

But sheeeit. I know Michael Fassbender is really nice to look at himself, but giving him unseeing eyes and a beard is really not the same as chopping off one of his hands and cutting up that pretty face of his. What a bloody cop-out. Oh well. The film wasn't a waste of time and that's more than I can say for most such films. I'm going to try to sit through the BBC miniseries now, since I have a nasty flu and am not capable of much more than passive observation, which is making me feel really great about the Chinese test I'm gonna flunk tomorrow.

I usually deal with L--- pretty well but right now I'm bored enough to remember what it was like to be depressive. Since I'm running a temperature and have a nasty, chesty cough, there's a lot of things I just can't do - concentrate and run are two of them - and without them, there's fuck all to do in this shithole, since the F-word has taken the car to go working at some local markets, which cuts out the possibiities of driving somewhere, or having a nice mid-afternoon fuck.

It's times like this that I badly miss living in cities or other places you can actually enjoy having a little walk outside. And I don't think it's until today I've grasped the irony of that statement. But in small-town Australia, everything is far apart, and even if it wasn't, who gives a shit? It's all small-town shit, and ugly to boot. Usually I can keep busy with Chinese or exhaust myself with a run but at the moment neither's possible. I really have to give some serious consideration to how I'm gonna deal with being a heavily pregnant woman and a mother since the hormones, extra weight and exhaustion are probably gonna leave me feeling like this a lot. I think what'll do me is stopping the language courses and switching to history courses at Griffiths. History courses I could always manage, sick or well, high or sober.

Ladyporn and 19th century domination

This looks like the ladyporn of all time. The fact of having a film version of Jane Eyre is always a minor event in Dread Pirate Jessica world, because of the importance that book has assumed for me (and my vocabulary) over the years - me and millions of others, which is why, I suppose, they always make new versions of it. I can practically recite the bloody thing backward so I get a pseudo-academic kick of seeing how film versions of it depart from my own internal vision of it.

I never expect to enjoy them as films or as a vision of the book. The book's unfilmable. Or rather it could be filmable as a 10-hour miniseries directed by David Lynch and starring ugly people, but you know who the audience for that would be? Me. I think the Charlotte Bronte and the David Lynch fans would be almost equally turned off. Which is one of the reasons I suppose it's never been done yet. Still, if I was a billionaire, I'd try really hard to persuade David Lynch to do it. I don't know another director who could communicate Jane's emotional life as it's communicated in the book.

Because the book is about Jane, of course. It's only about the romance and the melodrama as showcases for Jane's fucked-up brain, a brain that's only going to be able to really embrace the romance once Rochester's wings are viciously and painfully snipped; a Jane who only evinces signs of getting turned on when she's at least getting the illusion of control and equality - or domination - over her partner. Rochester's big sexy manliness, which has been much commented on, is I believe in part made so awfully big and so awfully sexy to show us the depths of Jane's happiness when she manages to fasten it to herself with a watch-chain, which by-the-by is a reversing motif Charlotte Bronte used to express possession between Jane and Rochester - I could cite pages but this is a blog and no-one is giving me credits.

Rochester didn't have to lose an eye and an arm in the fire when his wife offed herself to open the way for a legal and sexy reunion with Jane. Charlotte Bronte chose that for a reason, and for a very good one - because after so many hundreds of pages with Jane and her hallucinatory but strong internal monologues, the reader would understand almost as well as the writer that the only way someone like Jane was going to be happy with Rochester was with a tamed, dependent Rochester. It's actually all pretty psycho, when you think about it. Fuck, it's a good book. I really, really wish David Lynch would turn it into a miniseries.

Anyways, I don't expect the movie to be terrific, but it'll have Michael Fassbender emoting out Rochester's big sexy scenes, so it's gonna be hot. He's not ugly enough for me to think he'd do it in my David-Lynch-directed-miniseries-fantasy way, or indeed for me to imagine him acting out the Rochester who has become part of my brain from so many years - how many, nearly 20 now, of loving that book? - but that's not what ladyporn is about.

Ladyporn is about the odd times when it makes sense somehow that Mr. Darcy goes swimming in the middle of Pride and Prejudice so Elizabeth gets to see he's packing some heat under all those clothes, or when the director of the Great Escape chooses Charles Bronson to be having a shower during the inspection scene and not one of his skinny-ass little co-stars, or the scenes in the Nolan Batman movies where he's toplessly getting out of bed after a long night's fighting. Ladyporn is gratuitous. Usually it either comes in dribs and drabs or it's so poorly done I feel condescended to. But casting a man who looks like a Daniel Day Lewis who's got beat with the pretty stick, and who is actually, you know, good at acting - casting him as one of the most romantic Romantic heroes of all time, who's walking around with the biggest boner in 19th century literature - now, that is Ladyporn.

Lizards, rainbows and shit

Back in L---. The frogs are singing, the bats are flocking, the plants are burgeoning, the lizards are scuttling (besides myriad little ones, we have two giants hanging around - one sorta iguana-looking thing and a bluetongue. If they were rats I'd try to have them killed, but since they're lizards I'm really enchanted, which I think is less because lizards are cool and more because my disgust receptors have alerted my brain to the fact that lizards aren't very closely related to me so they're less likely to give me diseases) and the rainbows are arching. It's all rather idyllic and bizarrely tropical springy considering my body was preparing itself for winter last week (which confusion probably explains my cold), and if it wasn't full of Australians here (besides my Australian of course, who would have made a homecoming to a giant pile of shit to be shovelled a happy event) I guess I'd be pleased.

I do miss my family though. Particularly when I hear this song, which is a favourite with Luke Duke's kids, who I miss so very, very much. It's hard to be so far away from them, and from the rest of the clan. After two months there the main conclusion I'm coming up with is that even eight weeks gives me barely enough time to catch up with them, and makes me neglect my friends, and once a baby comes out of me the odds are excellent I won't have time to speak to anyone anymore who can't donate bone marrow, which isn't exactly a nice feeling - but I also suspect that would be largely the case even if we lived back home.

Watched a fuckton of movies on planes - must have been around 15 - and none of them were memorable, with the exception of the Darjeeling Limited (the others, of course, I don't remember). Bridesmaids was one of them. I guess I was expecting Shakespeare or something, having heard from enough people that it was awfully funny and somehow important in terms of women in the movies, or something. I did smile occasionally. Which is more than I usually do at American comedies. Now, though, I can't remember when it was I smiled. Oh well.

Vam Dammaged

I'm really not much of a one for movies. The odds of finding a story that can be competently told in visuals over two hours or so, or simply of visuals that are engaging for two hours in a row, isn't too high as far as I'm concerned. It's enough time that I feel like I wasted it if it's a shit movie, and not enough time for me to commit to the alternate universe if it's not a seamlessly great film. So most of the time I'd rather just not watch movies. It's too irritating.

So when I watch a movie that I love, it's even rarer than it should be, because I don't watch enough movies, and it brightens up my whole week. And the other night, I saw a movie I absolutely loved - JCVD. Holy shit. I asked the F-word (who loves movies, and is always bothering me to watch more of them) to procure it for us because I thought it might be a little funny, and it had made some reasonably big waves in Belgium when it came out in 2008, and - honestly - I've reached the point of culture shock (Australia is so fucking white sliced bread) that I miss both the French language and Brussels.

But the nostalgia value of seeing bank machines and boulevards I used to use and the freak value of seeing Jean-Claude Van Damme acting like a human being were outweighed within 15 minutes by the film I was watching, though both the first two contributed a lot to the overall experience. There were points I was at tears. I was so engaged that it was only as the film was ending that the thought occurred to me - holy shit - Van Damme is fucking magnificent in this role.

As the F-word, who was similarly enthralled, pointed out, it probably helped he was playing himself, in a very direct and apparently very improvisational way. And I'm sure it also helped he was doing it in French. He isn't from a rich family, he's from Francophone Belgium, and he's middle-aged, so the odds of him having anything like an education in the English language as a kid are non-existent to laughably non-existent, which means that in just about any film you're likely to have seen him in (and besides the fact of the script being a very secondary consideration in them) he was probably learning a lot of his lines phonetically. In any case it was fucking magnificent. The director really got something fucking fantastic out of him.

Anyhoo, I really recommend watching it, I really recommend learning French so that you can listen to the dialogue (the subtitles are inadequate), and I'm not going to say anything about the content of the movie, not wanting to spoil it for you. Just two things:

1. Van Damme's timeless contribution to linguistics, and something he's been laughed at extensively for in the Francophone world, is a coke-fuelled, egomaniacal gem of a patois called Zen Franglais, which is pretty much what it sounds like.

Knowing about this will help you enjoy the movie. But the Anglophone world has never really noticed it, probably because the Anglophone world is incapable of understanding how someone trying to speak English could be funny, and incapable of speaking enough French to understand the hilarity of the context, and much less likely than the Francophone world to disdain coked-up celebrity egomania - witness the enduring Charlie Sheen industry, where the ranting is a hell of a lot more mean-spirited and egomaniacal than Zen Franglais. Here's the most notorious sample:



2. This is the most fucking Belgian movie I've ever seen. As the credits rolled, even though my nostalgia had really been fluffed, I'd been well reminded of why we left in disgust. Let's just say - it's fucking realistic.

Side effects: part 2

Running has lots of gross side effects that people who don't run aren't usually told about, I think so that they'll try running someday. There are three that I think would have pretty high ick factors for the general public: chafing, black toenails, and flatulence.

The chafing has only happened to me in a minor way because I don't run that much compared to people who really, really run, who will actually draw blood from all the chafing that happens wherever one of their bits rubs against another bit while they are running. They use Vaseline and Body Glide and all sorts of bizarre personal lubricants to keep it in check. All I and my thunderthighs have needed for protection so far is the compression shorts under my running skirt but if I keep trying to run more and further I'm going to get some of the self-warming KY Jelly and see how it works. Because, you know, then we just happen to have a thing of self-warming KY Jelly in the house.

The black toenails are also something I think are more restrained to people who really, really run, and are actually the best argument I can think of for not pushing the envelope horribly hard.

The flatulence is pretty funny. I guess running jostles your tummy and intestines in such a way that digestion turns into more of a challenge, because I don't have a farty diet and I'm not usually a farty person, but the day after a run is usually quite a farty day. The thing is, farts are funny. Black toenails aren't funny, chafing isn't funny, but farting is fucking hilarious. Especially since I work at home and I'm not embarassing or digusting any colleagues.

In other news, watched Flash Gordon last night. I think maybe that's the best movie ever, mildly improved by imagining Dr. Zarkov bursting into "If I Was a Rich Man" every time he appears on screen.

I'm afraid of the television

We're watching Twin Peaks again. Well, I'm watching it again, ten years or so after the fact, and the F-word is watching it for the first time, which is a shame, because last night we got to the episode where Agent Cooper finds out Who Killed Laura Palmer, and I'm fine with not watching anymore, but we must keep going so the F-word feels like he'll understand Fire Walk With Me, which I haven't seen yet and he has. Oh well. I really like Twin Peaks, though I didn't give a rat's ass about it when it was actually on television, and so the second half of the second season really, really disgusts me. It's like poor fan fiction. Everybody just checked out. Like the last two seasons of the Sopranos. The fucking well ran dry, but it's American television so you've gotta keep the fucking oasis open until all the camels are dead. Gah.

It does remind me, though, that I really like David Lynch, and what I really like about him: there's something emotionally honest about his sort of surrealism. I've only seen two or three of his movies but Inland Empire was just the best thing since sliced bread and watching the first season and a half of Twin Peaks reminded me of what I loved so much about it. More than any other filmmaker I can think of, David Lynch manages to communicate what I reckon is really most people's actual surrealistic state of mind - this sort of in-between, 1/10th in the world, 9/10ths completely preoccupied with a more-or-less playful three-way wrestling match between the shadow and persona and animus, each of which pick up bits and pieces of the physical reality surrounding them and/or the collective unconscious to hit each other with, like professional wrestlers with metal chairs.

Most filmmakers and certainly most television writers are so procedural and observational, and that's fine so far as it goes but I don't think it reflects anybody's real relationship with the world. When you get dumped, you don't just sit there crying while mood-appropriate music plays until you feel better; a million things buzz around in your brain around the sort of central emotion of "aw shit", and it is very complex and very different from everyone else's experience of that emotion in the details while being the same in the broad design, and frankly I think it's impossible to communicate or illustrate that while maintaining any sort of 'realism' because our brains are not realistic. Nonetheless, when you watch a normal movie or television show and someone gets dumped, all that happens to communicate the emotion to you is some person sits there crying while mood appropriate music plays until they feel better.

All of which, again, is fine so far as it goes, but considering how much television-type media a Western person watches from cradle-to-the-grave - considering that unless you're off your fucking head, you have to admit that most Western people under 35 have almost certainly learnt as much or more from television than from their parents about how the world is supposed to work - well, it concerns me. It concerns me that that sort of media isn't letting people know that it's okay, probably even good, when your emotions are complex and conflicted; when it isn't letting people know that emotional procedures don't exist, and that words like 'joy', 'grief', 'guilt', 'pride', 'love' and 'hate' aren't ends in themselves or self-contained or tidy, but just very simplistic shorthand for very rich and confusing experiences.

I guess I have two real fears about this: first, that we're raising generations of perfectly normal people who are going to confuse the complex emotions that they're feeling with some sort of mental illness, and second, that eventually perfectly normal people will simply stop experiencing emotions in such a complex way. The second is probably very unlikely but it's my greatest fear that doesn't involve having my fingernails ripped off and points upward on the physical discomfort scale for me and mine. The first is probably currently rolling out in a household near you.

Book on plane

Just one from this past trip, actually, which is a bit of a shame. But what can I do? It's getting to be standard practice on aeroplanes now to have the monitors and a choice of a kabillion movies, and American films are really good at distracting me from my conviction the aeroplane is about the fall out of the sky. So before I get to the one book, a quick rundown of the movies; there were more than this but I can't remember them:

Robin Hood. It was silly but Russell Crowe is still a peice of mecha-ass, even if his head is shaped like a cabbage. And Cate Blanchett can make almost anything believable. Okay - maybe not the beach battle scene at the end. Actually there's no way I can pretend this was a good movie, but it didn't offend my easily offended sensibilities so that must be worth something.

Prince of Persia. I ended up being more emotionally committed to this movie than I would have believed possible because I started watching it on the plane from Vancouver, and then we landed sooner than I'd expected, so I didn't see the last half-hour until flying back to London, and it drove me crazy all week. Even sillier than Robin Hood but Jake Gyllenhaal is even more of a peice of mecha-ass than Russell Crowe.

Green Zone. So extremely silly and Matt Damon such a non-peice of mecha-ass that I gave up after half an hour. Who the fuck enjoys movies like that?

Anyways, Green Zone being so extremely bad more or less released me from the monitor and drove me back to the one book I got around to reading on planes, which was Patrick White's Voss. My literary friends tell me it's the Great Australian Novel. Hmm. It was pretty great, actually, I really enjoyed it, but it was as laboured as a fucking Italian wedding cake. And that isn't all bad, of course, and for me as a reader it worked very well when he was talking about the environment and people's relationship with it - and since that's what the bulk of the book is about, the book works quite well.

Consider:

Heavy moons hung above Jildra at that season. There was a golden moon, of placid, swollen belly. There were the ugly, bronze, male moons, threateningly lopsided. One night of wind and dust, there was a pale moonstone, or, as rags of cloud polished its face, delicate glass instrument, on which the needle barely fluttered, indicating the direction that some starry destiny must take. The dreams of the men were influenced by the various moons, with the result that they were burying their faces in the pregnant moon-women, or shaking their bronze fists at any threat to their virility.

That's nice, right? I like it anyways. But when the style was applied to Voss's relationships with everybody else, or Laura Trevelyan's, and certainly their relationship with each other (which was so miserable, antagonistic, and unappealing a romance I wonder if I would have guessed White was gay without three or four people telling me before I started reading) it got too thick and deliberate. It's hard to drive a plot with poetry, I suppose. But White did well enough as far as I'm concerned, because I really liked the book in the end, even though bits of it came close to making me laugh out loud.

Also there was something somehow ballsy about the labouredness. I have a hard time imagining the shitty male writers who get the most press these days having that sort of commitment to conjuring up mental and environmental states in such painful detail - a commitment to their subject to the exclusion of even sounding like you're making sense. Yeah, that's ballsy. Assholes these days are too busy writing veiled movie treatments or expounding their own retarded views on the state of Modern England or whatever. For Jeebus's sake, just get a blog.

Auf Wiedersehen, Deutschland

You know, I honestly think I'm going to miss Germany more than Belgium. Seems strange but of course it's not strange at all, as Germany has been nothing but the scene of a series of pleasant holidays, undemanding, over-subsidized conferences and escapist weekends, all healthily soaked in reinheitsgebot beer. Whereas Belgium has been the scene of all of my travails and an embarassing abundance of incidences of alcohol poisoning as I kept refusing to understand the sugary, extremely strong beer was not intended to be drunk in the sort of quantities I'd previously considered satisfying. And we've been going to what is apparently one of the least charming bits of Germany at that - Dusseldorf - a sterile yuppie town, they say. Well, maybe considering how damn filthy Brussels is, the sterility was more welcome than it otherwise would have been.

We went to Dusseldorf last weekend - probably for the last time, as our friends there are likely to move to Brazil before the F-word and I can afford jaunts back to Europe, and when we make a jaunt back to Germany no doubt we'll prioritize and spend our time somewhere awesome like Berlin. That makes me a little sad. There are lots of nice things about yuppie towns, one of which is the fucking awesome international richness of their cuisine, and when those yuppie towns are in Germany there's the pleasant corollary of them not being overpriced. We had tapas and it was grand but we could have had any number of other things there and it would have been grand. Mind you the food in Berlin is fucking awesome too.

We also went to the track, which got old - I'd been expecting the vast and delicious buffets they offer in North American racetracks to keep the punters in - and we went to a couple of open air concerts in the Hofgarten, the memorable one of which was Oquestrada, a nice Portuguese band with a lot of flavours. You can listen here.

Not much else that's fit for print today. We saw Wolfman last night, a film I'd been excited about seeing. I know I don't read entertainment magazines or anything but I'm really shocked I hadn't heard about how bad it was. Not just garden variety bad, either, it was really atrocious. I've never borne witness to such a revolting waste of a big budget, fantastic acting talent, and concept, via an excruciatingly poor script and really indifferent direction. And what makes me angriest, I think, despite all the love I've got for Benecio del Toro, Hugo Weaving and good scripts, is the waste of a concept. I mean, fucking werewolves, they're awesome. And now that that turkey has came out and been all shitty, nobody's going to make another big-budget werewolf movie for a decade or two. Fuck.

Men Who Stare at Boston

In a naughty world, I take perfection where I find it, and Boston's "More Than a Feeling" is perfect. Of all the genres of music I dislike yacht rock is probably close to the top, and of all the instrumental conceits I dislike big, jerk-off guitar solos are certainly on top, I honestly can't think of anything that annoys me more. Earlier this week I was trying to listen to Ritual de lo Habitual again and kept getting annoyed with the solos, and considering when it comes to Jane's Addiction you're either listening to the whiniest voice in rock or the guitar solos, that's fatal. But I actually really like the big jerk-off guitar solo in "More Than a Feeling" and I can't think of another that doesn't turn me off, although that probably has more to do with marijuana brain than another not existing.

Anyways. It is a fucking ace song. I can't think of another pre-1980 song that is so meticulous and tidy, up to true true yacht rock standards, while still having some sort of emotional effect and aesthetic beauty, outside of Motown properties. Or that window of time when the Beatles had figured out how to play their instruments and work with good producers but hadn't started taking all those sloppy lovely drugs yet. I've hitherto resisted loving it because of the horrible wankery of the yacht rock era, which I feel it paved the way for. But that's like hating on Van Gogh and Gauguin for all the art school dweebs who think just because those two weren't great technical painters they don't have to learn a damn thing about formal composition.

Also I have a weakness for dedicated autocratic fruitcakes and it looks like Tom Scholz fits the bill.

The song resurfaced on my consciousness due to watching Men Who Stare at Goats, one of about ten films I sat through on the way to Shanghai and back. Probably the best of the bunch. Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes was in there too and that was kind of dumb though Robert Downey Jr is a real testament to how the drugs keep some of us young, and, erm, what else? It's Complicated . . . that was pretty shitty . . . some kung fu movie about Wind and Rain and Old Uncle Pervert, or something . . . well anyways, it just goes to show you how memorable it all wasn't. Oh yeah, there was another George Clooney film, Up in the Air, that was also kind of shitty. Men Who Stare at Goats was at least cute . . but facile, I thought . . . begging for the Coen brothers really, and considering they've been begging for some decent material it's a pity they missed each other. Also, why does Ewen McGregor keep getting wasted by his directors? I'm not just talking about the schlong not being got out. I totally remember him being this super-good actor a decade or so ago and he keeps failing to convince, these days.

If I have to I'm gonna die last

We watched Out of the Past the other day. I just wanted some Hero Robert Mitchum to wash Max Cady Robert Mitchum out of my mouth (we watched his Cape Fear a few days before Robert Deniro's Cape Fear; all in all I preferred the first one even though Gregory Peck interfered with my suspension of disbelief because I can't look at the man without thinking "he must shit ice cream") and oh my goodness it did. Out of the Past is the best movie I've seen since . . . hmm. Casablanca, I guess. In both cases it was the dialogue. Making Humphrey Bogart and Robert Mitchum really quite attractive.



You know it's a fantasy of course, a fantasy that any hard-bitten man in a trenchcoat with shoulders that look like three axe-handles laid end-to-end can deliver lines like "you're going to find it very easy to take me anywhere", as much of a fantasy as that dumb young girls have about the epilated blue-eyed floppy haired personal-trainered pretty boys they poster their walls with being heterosexual or not so narcissistic as to be reproductively useless. But still, man, hawt.

Out of the Past also has the famous "Baby, I don't care" line, and like Casablanca with its catchphrases you can know the line is coming and even have played it in your head before, and it's still a fucking good line . . .

Dear oh dear

So I don't often post things that are frightfully personal (by which I mean penetrative) here, but I will write now that years and years ago I had a surprisingly enduring physical relationship with a man who looked like a youngish Robert Deniro, and it was awesome until it wasn't anymore; he was Italian, and in sexual terms they tend to start strong and slow down, so after two months I moved on to greener pastures.

But during those first heady (heh) weeks I have to admit that part of the charm, only a part, was realizing things like "I'm being .....(whatever was happening at the time).... by a guy who looks like a youngish Robert Deniro." And to cap it all off, he was a bad boy, who'd just finished doing time for armed robbery; he got in fights; he also claimed to be a gigolo. Now, I imagine if I was on the market now, that sort of thing would have me out the door even before my bra started chafing me, strong resemblance to YRD or not, but at the point I was with YRD I was 20 or 21 and as dumb as shit, so somehow it had the opposite effect. Fuck, I can't believe how dumb I was. I'm not the sort to regret her roundheel days - in fact I don't know any former roundheels who regret their roundheel days - but nonetheless I was really as dumb as shit sometimes. Something that helped me to realize I'd been as dumb as shit and to be rather smarter than shit afterwards was the knee-buckling relief I felt every time I tested negative for HIV for the next three years.

Nonetheless over the last decade or so I've occasionally thought back to YRD with a certain vestige of my 20-21 year old idiocy compounded by the fact that I didn't catch anything, a sort of "I got a lot of awesome.....(insert action here).... from a bad boy who looked like a YRD." Even a certain relief, not unmixed with smugness and probably not irrational, that I'd done something that retarded when I was young enough and stupid enough to really enjoy it, but not so young and so stupid that I couldn't figure out that this was not an appropriate thing to continue doing with my reproductive life.

And then last night we watched the 1991 version of Cape Fear. Holy fuck. Suddenly looking like a youngish Robert Deniro, even in my memories, became a real non-asset.

I didn't like the film, Jessica Lange and Nick Nolte annoyed the hell out of me and the PI always drinking the Pepto Bismol with bourbon got in the way of my suspension of disbelief too. Worst of all, though, you're not telling me that even in the American South in the early 90's a woman can get her cheek bit off in a sexual encounter, not to mention all the other injuries, and then not be capable of arguing that it was criminal battery, especially when it had been done by a man who'd just got out of prison the week before after a 14-year sentence for battery while the police and the public prosecutor are searching for ways to put him back in jail. An alienated roundheels getting punched in the face back in the Robert Mitchum version in the 60's made some sense, but in those terms the 1991 version made no sense: it was just stupid, insulting, and if it weighed on the mind of even one woman who had been raped and was considering whether or not to report it, fucking criminal. Spits.

But Robert Deniro's performances as a frightening, disgusting creepy and violent piece of murderous shit was phenomenal, really very excellent. Excellent enough that the fact he was playing a swamp redneck while having one of the woppiest faces in cinema was only occasionally funny. So excellent, in fact, that I think my days of smugness over YRD are out the window for good- any vestige of the smug is gone, replaced with straight relief over fact that, you know, I'm still fucking alive.

Giving a fuck

Still as seasonally fucked as I can be but had a nice weekend and I think I can start anticipating a light at the end of the tunnel, because for the first time since Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I give a fuck about a movie: this one. By the same guy who did this one, which I wrote about here. I am on the edge of my fucking seat, frankly. This is going to be the best movie ever. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

Last Night's movie

In the spirit of all the apocalypse that's been floating around here, but actually mostly because of peer pressure, I went to see 2012 yesterday. I either have a great deal to say about it, or very little, and since my boss has disappeared we are so fucking swamped with work that I'll go for the "very little" option.

1. The car chase was sweet. If the whole movie had been that car chase, and if I'd been allowed to smoke weed in the theatre so that I was still buzzing after the car chase, the movie would have been roughly 100 times better.

2. Most of the rest of the movie was so bad that I spent it mentally comparing it with Canada's own sun-sparked apocalypse effort from a few years back, that helped launch the lovely and talented Sandra Oh to the dizzying pinnacles of becoming a Grey's Anatomy Regular, which by my calculations makes her the most famous entertainer of Korean descent known in the Anglophone world, or at least second between Kim Jong Il and Margaret Cho - the altogether tolerable Last Night

3. The erstaz Russian, Johann Urb, was a peice of super-ass. Whenever my mind wandered from comparing 2012 to Last Night in a microcosmic mental experiment to work out the fundamental difference between Americans and Canadians, it moseyed over to getting a damn good spanking from that. He looked like a Sean Bean that doesn't punch people for fun.

4. I discovered the reason John Cusack is such an engaging actor; he plays his characters so that you know, after they kiss the girl, that their cock has gone chubby. Funny how most American actors fail to communicate that fundament of a good, satisfying, emotionally charged kiss so spectacularly. When my mind wasn't fixed on the cinematic symptoms of the difference between Americans and Canadians or on getting a damn good spanking from an ersatz Russian pretty boy, it was wondering if the vast majority of American actors are gynophobes, gay, chronically impotent or just utterly bereft of any fucking dramatic talent whatsoever.

The first days of SAD

Ugh. SAD. Ugh. Stupid short days and painfully finite mortal lifetime. Ugh.

That having been said, I'm reading Daniel Deronda and it's fucking ace. Don't tell me how it ends, I like to not know that with George Eliot books. Love her writing so much - such characterization, such dialogue, combined with such an aesthetic sense - unique perhaps - that I'm starting to seriously question the hitherto fundamentally unquestioned superiority of my shmancy undergrad degree: why the fuck didn't we read any George Eliot? Maybe they did in the lit concentration. Anyways. Water under the bridge. I'm reading it now and it's good reading material for a thirty year old; perhaps I wouldn't have liked it in my late teens and infant twenties.

We watched The Caine Mutiny last night. Not a waste of time despite that sort of dated direction that patronizes the audience so awfully and makes American movies so distasteful, because Humphrey Bogart was impossible to stop looking at. Also Jose Ferrer, was, well, Jose Ferrer. I didn't think much of the script and even less of his speech at the end to the crew, but when he trotted out the line 'I'm a lot drunker than you are so it'll be a fair fight' it made the whole thing worth it. Most people would have made that line stupid. Not him.

Buck up - never say die! We'll get along

I think I've found my political Messiah . . . pity he's a kiddie-fiddler who's been dead for 32 years. Oh well. There have been dumber ideological choices made, as mine is on the basis of this rather wonderful movie:



What I noticed all through it is that the pacing is superb. No dead space, no holes. It's an extremely well put-together film, aside from the funniness factor - far better than most American films made before the 50's in terms of just being spectacularly well put-together. And it's fucking funny. Particularly for us pinko stoners.

BTW - here's a Guarniad review from 1936 about the film. It must have been strange back in the days when newspaper entertainment section writers were allowed to use the present perfect and words like "undeliberating". Keep on to the end, to the section about how the Nazis banned it, and of course the moustache . . .

Filthy swine

I've got swine flu, the friendly house-call doctor reckons. House calls. They're awesome. I didn't even have to change out of my pyjamas. It's good to know I can drop out of wondering about commercial-ethical problems with conventional medicine and whether the vaccine race is a big circular scammy money maker or not now because, well, I've already got it, don't I? I fucking knew this would happen. What don't I get that's catchable through nose-picking? Fuck.

He also said that based on when my symptoms began I won't be infectious anymore by Wednesday, so I can still go to Istanbul . . . working on the assumption that the city is open for business after the floods. The rain has stopped and the conference organizers, who are no doubt shitting themselves, have sent out reassuring emails about how everything is still a go. Personally I want the food that will be attached to the conference so bad that I'll cry if it isn't a go. But I really, really don't want to go in for any disaster tourism.

We meant to get me some tree-time this weekend in one of the few national parks Belgium boasts but I was too sick, so instead we watched Bruno and 30 Rock. Bruno was pretty funny, I guess. I liked his assistant, who I can't find out anything about except that he's Swedish, which is probably why he consented to do such outrageous things that would be widely considered career killers outside of Scandinavia. You have to admire the balls of it all but I guess I'd been expecting too much and only got three or four belly-laughs out of the experience. 30 Rock, of course, I love. What a great show. I wrote before it's no Arrested Development and it's true, but it's as good in its own way. Such great characters. At least one belly-laugh per 20-minute episode. The last one that nearly made me die, as the swine flu is putting some fairly severe limits on my respiratory abilities, was:

Kenneth: Well, you know what they say: 'Money is the root of all evil.'
Tracey: I thought that was just a tag line for my movie, Death Bank.

It was actually sort of scary, I think the F-word was mere moments away from calling me an ambulance. . . .

Air Canada next time, perhaps

I've been kayaking rather than blogging since getting to North Bay, but this morning I'm respecting my aching muscles and taking a little break. I could chill your blood with photos of my legs and the revolting farm of mosquito and blackfly bites bursting out of the skin there but tonnes of other disgusting things are happening in the world, so why subject you to mine . . . and I'm trying to be stoic and take it as preparation for moving to a country where everything bites.

Just to say that on the plane ride over, the only movies on offer were Hannah Montana: The Movie and Seventeen Again. I watched both. And Air France, you fucking cunt, you have sooooo lost this customer. The only reason I flew on your craptacular aeroplanes that keep crashing and put up with your stewardesses' shitful behaviour and consistently and obligingly changed seats on every flight I've flown with you in the last five years as your agents are too fucking retarded to book families seats together is because you have seatback movie screens with a wide selection, not so that I can fucking sit there and watch a generation of young girls educated to have the most fuckwitted and unrealistic priorities in the history of society by an underaged, overprivileged celebrity daughter lipsynching, poncing around on a horse and 'scoring' with sexless blond adolescent cowboys who don't try to get into her fucking pants, or by an unthreatening, dancing, selectively waxed male model educating a highschool using his 'hotness' into believing that sex is only for making baby daughters and yet a boy getting onto the basketball team is a sign that you should nail him.

What fucking element of my painstakingly compiled customer profile, the one that makes you spam me up the douchehole, encouraged you to think this was a good fucking idea? Fuck you, you fucking fuckers. Air Fucking France indeed. It's all in the name, isn't it? God I hate the French. BTW, I used to, uhm, "try to make baby daughters" with a guy who looked like Zac Efron and he was the filthiest pervert I've ever given an opportunity to express himself. A propos of nothing. Just good memories.

It smokes, it drinks, it philosophizes . . .

Old impending-doomy feeling is back. I don't know if it was that Air France thing, which is basically an example of my worst or strongest nightmare, or all the film noir we've been watching or the fact that the weather has been encouraging the idea in me that it is summer, but I'm perpetually incapable of carpe dieming and thus am living in fear the sun will once more be snatched away from me and leave me as summerless as I've been since leaving Canada. The idea of Australia in the circumstances is a little like heaven; I don't know anything about it except that where we're thinking of is as warm in the winter as it is here now, and that's enough to make up my mind for me.

Summer. Could it really be summer?

Watched a really funny movie last night: Beat the Devil, that Truman Capote participated in writing. A few real laugh-out-loud moments. The bit where O'Hara offered a critique of Maria Dannreuther's portrait had us howling and quoting at each other all night, trying to get that creepy, crawly Ren-from-Ren-and-Stimpy voice down. Some great characters and performances, but I wonder how Truman Capote was with writing women. The lead blonde may as well have been Holly Golightly airdropped in from Manhattan. Maria Dannreuther was fine, though, and all of the men characters were great. Rather funny to see Humphrey Bogart being funny - funnier than in The African Queen.

With a comical look on his face

I had a nice weekend with La New Yorkaise visiting, and truly buried the reefer wagon with a trip to warm, sunny Maastricht. The sun was shining and I was high and cheerful the whole time. We watched The Great Escape again early Sunday morning and I liked it even better the second time - and part of the reason La New Yorkaise and I are such close buddies is because of things like both understanding Charles Bronson was one of the most magnificent pieces of ass to walk the earth; a fact bizarrely lost on most women these days. In hot relief in The Great Escape; wifebeater, long underwear, emotional vulnerability and lots of dirt. Sweet. Throw me over your horsy's saddle and take me away from all this, you beautiful Tatar man. The rowboat also works for the fantasy file.

My point is that nice as a weekend as it was, now it all feels like it was leading up to last night, returning here after getting La New Yorkaise on the TGV back to Paris, curling up with the F-word, and watching Casablanca for the first time. I'd insisted we give it a watch, not because I expected it to be stupendous, but because it's such a big cultural reference point, and it was a hole in our education, that we'd seen dozens of things spoofing off it but never the it itself.

Holy shit. That's the best movie ever.

The storyline had me weeping like a tile, and you may put that down to my femininity if you like. But you'd be foolish, because aside from all the lovey-doveyness it was well evocative of a city full of desperate people, and absolutely absorbing - absolutely good. The writing was just jaw-dropping and those lines that people refer to ad nauseum are referred to ad nauseum for a reason. In context they're fucking brilliant. For me the best one was when Ilsa came back to the bar the first time when Rick was drunk and he got pissy with her. That has to be the greatest sequence of pissiness ever captured on celluloid. "Or aren't you the kind that tells?" Oh, sweet.

And the look, the noir and all those shadows and all those great shots, right from the pan into Sam leaning back and singing to everybody - it looked so good. The actors looked so good. Humphrey Bogart, that piece of battered driftwood, was perfect for Rick, and Ingrid Bergman was scrumptiously beautiful. The F-word pointed out what La New Yorkaise and I had been discussing that morning in reference to Charles Bronson - her face isn't vapid enough for her to be a famous beauty now. She had a big nose and strong features and a funny face shape, and while it all came together into this really remarkable and flawless beauty - that incredibly Scandinavian beauty - it would perhaps be much harder for her to get proper professional recognition for that perfect beauty now.

Scarlett Johansson, the Swede currently massaging the dreams of a generation of young men with that lovely rack, has such a docile little girly face, and even the notoriously beautiful Anglo actresses who aren't white and should be subject to different measurements of loveliness - Frieda Pinto, Halle Berry, for examples - all have butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth chewing gum commercial, boring boring girly faces. The only interestingly beautiful faces I can think of in American movies come from Spain or Latin America - Javier Bardem, Benecio del Toro or something, and Salma Hayek - now those are some real faces. I guess there's hope yet.