Arriving home just after midnight, and with a sudden urge to write in blue I grab my black book and begin to compose, my head fuzzy with drink.
I remember the moon, hanging in the sky, disc shaped and glowing, laughter, a few drunken girls and then a blurred walk home.
It is 1977, I switch on my computer, make myself a coffee and stumble through to the front room and turn the television on. I have missed the football - you know the feeling - the programme has finished, I curse.
You wonder what this can all be about in a certain shade of red, and turn the page, your drinking chocolate cooling beneath your bedside lamp. You remember as a child being snuggled up in bed and your mother, or father, bringing you a drink. It is comforting, you return to the story.
I remember a girl in the bar who had waved, mouthed my name, I couldn't hear because of the karaoke and the madness taking place all around me, I've been drinking vodka and blackcurrant and my friend, who went to the toilet half an hour ago, has gone missing. He has left his jacket on a chair and I pick it up and go outside to look for him.
I shiver in the cold.
You stop reading, your telephone is ringing. You wonder who it can be at this time of the night...morning. You answer, and the voice on the other end of the line is vaguely familiar, but he doesn't say much - 'Hello...erm...erm' and then goes silent - perhaps it is my friend? You say hello several times, but he can't muster the courage to answer anymore.
I see him leave a phone box on the other side of the street. He is staring at the ground. Music filters from the pub behind me. Anarchy in the UK by The Sex Pistols, a new punk band who have just burst onto the music scene.
I see my friend look up and he tries to wave, but he is drowning in a perplexingly purple ocean of colour.
Saturday 31 March 2007
Let's Sign Off This Month With A Quote And A Good One
What a stunner I think you scruffy, wretched lot will agree? I wonder if we could use the WICK reading method method to disentangle meaning here? Mmmmm, right let's take the word 'other'...uh-huh
A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
Thomas Mann
If you click on the quote it will take you to a quote site...I can do these things because I am an intalek...intalec...clever...
A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
Thomas Mann
If you click on the quote it will take you to a quote site...I can do these things because I am an intalek...intalec...clever...
Let's Sign Off This Month With A Quote And A Good One
What a stunner I think you scruffy, wretched lot will agree? I wonder if we could use the WICK reading method method to disentangle meaning here? Mmmmm, right let's take the word 'other'...uh-huh
A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
Thomas Mann
A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
Thomas Mann
WEEKEND CORPSE
Because most of us work so hard through the week, the weekend tends to find the individual in a state of Weekend Corpse. A bottle or two of wine consumed with a meal on Friday evening, is soon followed by several whiskies and beers.
Now the world seems to be a much more friendly arena. By closing time, you're slumped on a chair with your head tilted back and your teeth showing like a wolf's fangs. You are carted home, unceremoniously, by your friends and dumped into bed.
You sleep till around 1 or 2 on the Saturday, then you slouch around like a half-asleep zombie with a headache. A shower brings you back to partial life, and a pulse is found again. You promise, oh how you promise yourself, that you will just nip to the pub for a few beers and a quiet chat with your friends.
By ten you are heading into town, and 20 minutes later, by now unsteady on your feet, you are volunteering for the karaoke.
You murder Billy Idol's White Wedding and stagger triumphantly back to the bar. You are sick at some point on the way to another bar in a shop doorway.
Your friends cart you home. You rise at 5 in the afternoon and remember that tomorrow you are back at work...groan. You fall asleep in the armchair, waking only to go to bed. In the 72 hours between leaving work and then returning, you have been asleep for 50, waking only to go to the toilet, eat and get drunk.
But, as you always tell your friends, you have to do something productive at the weekend. I mean who really wants to go to Ikea? I wonder?
Now the world seems to be a much more friendly arena. By closing time, you're slumped on a chair with your head tilted back and your teeth showing like a wolf's fangs. You are carted home, unceremoniously, by your friends and dumped into bed.
You sleep till around 1 or 2 on the Saturday, then you slouch around like a half-asleep zombie with a headache. A shower brings you back to partial life, and a pulse is found again. You promise, oh how you promise yourself, that you will just nip to the pub for a few beers and a quiet chat with your friends.
By ten you are heading into town, and 20 minutes later, by now unsteady on your feet, you are volunteering for the karaoke.
You murder Billy Idol's White Wedding and stagger triumphantly back to the bar. You are sick at some point on the way to another bar in a shop doorway.
Your friends cart you home. You rise at 5 in the afternoon and remember that tomorrow you are back at work...groan. You fall asleep in the armchair, waking only to go to bed. In the 72 hours between leaving work and then returning, you have been asleep for 50, waking only to go to the toilet, eat and get drunk.
But, as you always tell your friends, you have to do something productive at the weekend. I mean who really wants to go to Ikea? I wonder?
Friday 30 March 2007
My Life As A Comic Book Superhero
I suppose I am on a roll at the moment. Flying with ideas, bursting with new words and ready to kick the ass. It's true, I am feeling a bit more enthusiastic this week, last week I just wanted to disappear. It's good to feel this upbeat mood, though all those promises of contributions to the blog have not materialised. A bit disappointing perhaps, still you can't make people post.
This week I was supposed to go to Edinburgh by train. A journey I eagerly looked forward to. There is nothing like that exit out of Queen Street on the eastern line and that long fabulous tunnel that seems to go on forever. Sweet bliss! I once travelled to Paris by train from Glasgow and had 20 minutes in the Channel tunnel, that was great, no that was fabulous if not supergreat! I suppose after that, the tunnel you enter as you leave Queen Street pales into insignificance. Anyway, in the end, my plans were changed at the last minute and I didn't go to Auld Reekie, so no train ride, no tunnels, supertrainspotter folied.
I know, I know, it's quite sad really.
Nevermind, I did find a great quote - El you'll like this - from Ralph Waldo Emerson. Take some time to consider this furry friends. 'A wild striving to express a more inward and infinite sense characterizes the works of every art'.
Thoughts?
Artists, are perhaps, over reaching souls who push beyond the routine and more mundane boundaries of the everyday. They strive, perhaps, to get to the essential core of what it is to be alive, what it means to exist at any time in any place. A far reaching search to understand the impossible reality of being?
Enough of this, I almost sounded intalektule there, trick of the light perhaps? And, hey, be careful with that axe Eugene!
This week I was supposed to go to Edinburgh by train. A journey I eagerly looked forward to. There is nothing like that exit out of Queen Street on the eastern line and that long fabulous tunnel that seems to go on forever. Sweet bliss! I once travelled to Paris by train from Glasgow and had 20 minutes in the Channel tunnel, that was great, no that was fabulous if not supergreat! I suppose after that, the tunnel you enter as you leave Queen Street pales into insignificance. Anyway, in the end, my plans were changed at the last minute and I didn't go to Auld Reekie, so no train ride, no tunnels, supertrainspotter folied.
I know, I know, it's quite sad really.
Nevermind, I did find a great quote - El you'll like this - from Ralph Waldo Emerson. Take some time to consider this furry friends. 'A wild striving to express a more inward and infinite sense characterizes the works of every art'.
Thoughts?
Artists, are perhaps, over reaching souls who push beyond the routine and more mundane boundaries of the everyday. They strive, perhaps, to get to the essential core of what it is to be alive, what it means to exist at any time in any place. A far reaching search to understand the impossible reality of being?
Enough of this, I almost sounded intalektule there, trick of the light perhaps? And, hey, be careful with that axe Eugene!
WICK Reading Method
A new reading method which promises to revolutionise the study of classic English Literature texts has been devised by a woman from the north of Scotland. Called the Word Interplay Change and Kick method, it involves reading a single word of the author's text and cogitating on this for say six months. In this way the works of Franz Kafka can be re-interpretated in a new and exciting fashion. New dimensions to Kafka's work can be explored and new depths to the writer's psyche can be uncovered.
For example, take the word' relays' from the author's seminal text 'A Hunger Artist'. Think about this, what is the significance of this solitary...and by now very lonely word ...in the context of the work as a holistic experience for the reader. Without 'relays' Wickists may contend, the structure and syntax of the story collapses, and the text falls flat and is lifeless.
Another example is Italo Calvino's book of short stories, the brilliant 'Adam, One Afternoon'. This time the work is studied 'in tandem', that is a whole two words are chosen for analysis 'paralysed' and 'grapes'. Wickists examine how these artefacts collide with the whole edifice of structure, without them, they may contend, the whole apparatus is like a giant jelly, with them it is solid and strong and can be projected into the future of the material.
It is word interplay, and you do feel like a change, before kicking it neatly into touch - the WICK method - you know it makes sense!
With this method it may take you a while to work through classic texts but it sure is FUN!
For example, take the word' relays' from the author's seminal text 'A Hunger Artist'. Think about this, what is the significance of this solitary...and by now very lonely word ...in the context of the work as a holistic experience for the reader. Without 'relays' Wickists may contend, the structure and syntax of the story collapses, and the text falls flat and is lifeless.
Another example is Italo Calvino's book of short stories, the brilliant 'Adam, One Afternoon'. This time the work is studied 'in tandem', that is a whole two words are chosen for analysis 'paralysed' and 'grapes'. Wickists examine how these artefacts collide with the whole edifice of structure, without them, they may contend, the whole apparatus is like a giant jelly, with them it is solid and strong and can be projected into the future of the material.
It is word interplay, and you do feel like a change, before kicking it neatly into touch - the WICK method - you know it makes sense!
With this method it may take you a while to work through classic texts but it sure is FUN!
Tuesday 27 March 2007
God Has Flown From This World
Axasha recently introduced me to Cecil Collins, a British artist born in Plymouth. Something about this guy's work - is it okay to call him 'a guy' or will the art world hold its hands aloft aghast? Anyway, something about this guy's work was quite appealing to me. I particulalry liked 'God Has Flown From This World' an interesting composition in a kind of sepia colour.
For me, this painting was slightly Satanic - an upside down crucifix, all the figures starkers, skeletal figure (which I thought might be the Grim Reaper represented) and a guy with a long white beard fleeing the scene (God perhaps?). Another figure in the background is holding a telescope and looking up to the sky maybe suggests astrology or astronomy, but wait just a minute...in the forefront of this painting are a man and woman. The man is holding the crucifix reversed and the woman is trying to cover-up her nakedness. Could this be Adam and Eve, and God, realising that humanity has lost its innocence, is retreating back home to Heaven?
All the figures are standing on a globe-like object with paths and other planets in the sky, so there is also a creation feel to this.
Well, really Eugene? Your playing your music too loud again child!
Just added that last bit because Cecil was a bit surreal.
For me, this painting was slightly Satanic - an upside down crucifix, all the figures starkers, skeletal figure (which I thought might be the Grim Reaper represented) and a guy with a long white beard fleeing the scene (God perhaps?). Another figure in the background is holding a telescope and looking up to the sky maybe suggests astrology or astronomy, but wait just a minute...in the forefront of this painting are a man and woman. The man is holding the crucifix reversed and the woman is trying to cover-up her nakedness. Could this be Adam and Eve, and God, realising that humanity has lost its innocence, is retreating back home to Heaven?
All the figures are standing on a globe-like object with paths and other planets in the sky, so there is also a creation feel to this.
Well, really Eugene? Your playing your music too loud again child!
Just added that last bit because Cecil was a bit surreal.
Defiant Freedom
I like the theme of defiant freedom. It is a self-destructive notion, and yet, at the same time it is a liberating idea. To be honest it is something I have referred to before, when talking about surfers and climbers.
On a recent trip to Lewis in the Outer Hebrides I took some photographs of some surfers on one of the island's many windswept beaches. They were pitting themselves against wind and the power of the water as it rose and fell and finally crashed in on shore. A few seconds being driven along on a board toward the sand on wind and wave power while trying to maintain balance by shifting the feet, defying physics before the inevitable fall into the ocean.
I actually love beaches, and rocks and mountains and all those sort of places where natural things like the wind and the sea and heavy rain remind us of our mortality.
A few years ago I was walking in the Dolomites when I came across some climbers scaling a huge slab of about one to two hundred feet of rock. I remember it was a scorching hot day in July and I managed to also take some photographs. For a while I sat on a rock and watched them inch their way up their ropes like spiders moving on a thread. Some waved to me, and I waved in return. Life affirming waves, and I could see they were having fun.
Both these sports have fascinated me, though I have never wanted to surf - not really my thing. I could, however, see the defiant freedom in both activities. In a way I felt they were giving two fingers to a world which would probably condemn both sports as being crazy.
It intrigues me, however, why anyone would want to participate in either. Both are, to some extent, pretty scary things to do, and in a way actually taking part would mean overcoming fears. But in managing to suppress those feelings of fear there would surely be that sense of defiant freedom.
On a recent trip to Lewis in the Outer Hebrides I took some photographs of some surfers on one of the island's many windswept beaches. They were pitting themselves against wind and the power of the water as it rose and fell and finally crashed in on shore. A few seconds being driven along on a board toward the sand on wind and wave power while trying to maintain balance by shifting the feet, defying physics before the inevitable fall into the ocean.
I actually love beaches, and rocks and mountains and all those sort of places where natural things like the wind and the sea and heavy rain remind us of our mortality.
A few years ago I was walking in the Dolomites when I came across some climbers scaling a huge slab of about one to two hundred feet of rock. I remember it was a scorching hot day in July and I managed to also take some photographs. For a while I sat on a rock and watched them inch their way up their ropes like spiders moving on a thread. Some waved to me, and I waved in return. Life affirming waves, and I could see they were having fun.
Both these sports have fascinated me, though I have never wanted to surf - not really my thing. I could, however, see the defiant freedom in both activities. In a way I felt they were giving two fingers to a world which would probably condemn both sports as being crazy.
It intrigues me, however, why anyone would want to participate in either. Both are, to some extent, pretty scary things to do, and in a way actually taking part would mean overcoming fears. But in managing to suppress those feelings of fear there would surely be that sense of defiant freedom.
Thursday 22 March 2007
The Road To Darker Killingbeck
The dark woman, who reminded me of an older woman with silver darlings and peat and a clay pipe dangling from the corner of her mouth, stood aside and invited me inside. I stood in the poorly-lit hall and could see several men playing cards in the front room through the gap left in the half-open door. One, old and grey gentleman with a horrible green polo neck sweater, a thick white beard, a cigarette trapped between his yellow fingers - blue smoke curling and rising upward toward the ceiling - looked up, a frown creasing his heavy brows. He nodded, showed me the queen of clubs, grinned, his huge yellow teeth escaping from between his lips, but I did not respond.
The woman brushed past me and I caught the smell of her stale perfume, minty and spicy. She walked upstairs without another word and I followed, the stairs creaking as I ascended them.
"That's strange" I said to the woman. "I thought I could hear the ocean"
"You can" she smiled. "It's only 100 yards to the beach,and there are stars in the sky to guide your way. Beautiful stars." She smiled.
I frowned, I didn't know what she was talking about
She showed me to the room of teenage memories, opened the door and switched on the light.
It was a room with a solitary single bed, a poster of a football team above the head board, a football scarf casually draped over a chair beside it, a pair of football boots under the chair. A book on a small bedside table, an exercise book and a pen.
I moved to a long mirror by a second hand wardrobe and glanced into it. A stranger returned my gaze, was this witchcraft?
The stranger looked vaguely familiar, like an acquaintance from a long, long time ago. As I watched I saw that he was the life and soul, a carefree spirit who liked to drink and have fun, but then he was removing masques, one after the other, but in such a mesmerising way that no one could tell what lay behind. I noticed...and thought about it later when I couldn't slip into sleep... though he was at the centre of the party, he was also standing on the margins looking in. Always being someone else, which ever way you looked at it.
I was overcome by a strange feeling of poignant regret.
How much did I regret not being twenty years younger, how much did I regret not fighting the good fight then, how much did I regret taking advice from those who said they knew it all, but really knew nothing, liars, frauds and cheats, their hubris only matched by the depths of their ignorance, those and their offspring. How many lives will they be allowed to damage, learned idiots, qaulified clowns. How many artists will they dissuade from picking up a paint brush, how many writers will they dissuade from purchasing a pen, how many photographers will they advise not to buy a camera? How will they look to tick the correct boxes before giving encouragement?
The room was small, yet lived in. Here is where someone plotted to take over the world, someone who was just learning about deceit and injustice, who had learned not to trust and felt the abandonment of every teenager and wanted so much to find out who they were and have the maximum fun on the journey, who knew not what lay ahead and didn't care, tomorrow would always take care of itself, and death was a cul-de-sac for old people, and bungalows were naff, and prog rock was a poor excuse for music of the most self-indulgent and overbloated kind, and everything had to be edgy and raw and stripped bare of pretentions. This was someone who wanted to start walking, keep going and never look back. Someone who wanted to go where everything was an adventure and nothing could ever be foretold. Someone who held the fascination of the world in his eyes and wanted to know everything. But all he found was dissonant sound and the headlong rush and the mostly futile opinions of existence.
A growing crescendo of sound climaxed and was immediately followed by a solitary piano tinkling in melancholic minors in an empty room, but in the end, he was always doomed to contemplate how he had got to a certain point in his life a certain time in a certain era.
In the distance I heard a train whistle. A strange, plaintive sound rising into the night air, and I moved away from the mirror and to the window. From here all I could see were houses, high rise flats and an open concrete square, where several cars were dumped or abandoned and seemed to be rusting. Time flaking the fresh paint from the exterior, the inner workings decaying and falling slowly apart, oil leaking slowly in thick globular drips from a cracked sump.
I could hear too, but not see, great waves crashing onto rocks.
And, anyway...what was he doing here? And, anyway...what was I doing here.
A high pitched sound caught my attention, it squealed with energy and shrieked with pain and rage. The muffled sound of people calling my name...over...over...and over, mixed with unfamiliar voices, people shouting commands...
"I lifted a stick from my basket and he ran out into the road" I heard the old crone say.
Sounds which resonated and reverberated.
Until, at last, I drifted off to sleep.
The woman brushed past me and I caught the smell of her stale perfume, minty and spicy. She walked upstairs without another word and I followed, the stairs creaking as I ascended them.
"That's strange" I said to the woman. "I thought I could hear the ocean"
"You can" she smiled. "It's only 100 yards to the beach,and there are stars in the sky to guide your way. Beautiful stars." She smiled.
I frowned, I didn't know what she was talking about
She showed me to the room of teenage memories, opened the door and switched on the light.
It was a room with a solitary single bed, a poster of a football team above the head board, a football scarf casually draped over a chair beside it, a pair of football boots under the chair. A book on a small bedside table, an exercise book and a pen.
I moved to a long mirror by a second hand wardrobe and glanced into it. A stranger returned my gaze, was this witchcraft?
The stranger looked vaguely familiar, like an acquaintance from a long, long time ago. As I watched I saw that he was the life and soul, a carefree spirit who liked to drink and have fun, but then he was removing masques, one after the other, but in such a mesmerising way that no one could tell what lay behind. I noticed...and thought about it later when I couldn't slip into sleep... though he was at the centre of the party, he was also standing on the margins looking in. Always being someone else, which ever way you looked at it.
I was overcome by a strange feeling of poignant regret.
How much did I regret not being twenty years younger, how much did I regret not fighting the good fight then, how much did I regret taking advice from those who said they knew it all, but really knew nothing, liars, frauds and cheats, their hubris only matched by the depths of their ignorance, those and their offspring. How many lives will they be allowed to damage, learned idiots, qaulified clowns. How many artists will they dissuade from picking up a paint brush, how many writers will they dissuade from purchasing a pen, how many photographers will they advise not to buy a camera? How will they look to tick the correct boxes before giving encouragement?
The room was small, yet lived in. Here is where someone plotted to take over the world, someone who was just learning about deceit and injustice, who had learned not to trust and felt the abandonment of every teenager and wanted so much to find out who they were and have the maximum fun on the journey, who knew not what lay ahead and didn't care, tomorrow would always take care of itself, and death was a cul-de-sac for old people, and bungalows were naff, and prog rock was a poor excuse for music of the most self-indulgent and overbloated kind, and everything had to be edgy and raw and stripped bare of pretentions. This was someone who wanted to start walking, keep going and never look back. Someone who wanted to go where everything was an adventure and nothing could ever be foretold. Someone who held the fascination of the world in his eyes and wanted to know everything. But all he found was dissonant sound and the headlong rush and the mostly futile opinions of existence.
A growing crescendo of sound climaxed and was immediately followed by a solitary piano tinkling in melancholic minors in an empty room, but in the end, he was always doomed to contemplate how he had got to a certain point in his life a certain time in a certain era.
In the distance I heard a train whistle. A strange, plaintive sound rising into the night air, and I moved away from the mirror and to the window. From here all I could see were houses, high rise flats and an open concrete square, where several cars were dumped or abandoned and seemed to be rusting. Time flaking the fresh paint from the exterior, the inner workings decaying and falling slowly apart, oil leaking slowly in thick globular drips from a cracked sump.
I could hear too, but not see, great waves crashing onto rocks.
And, anyway...what was he doing here? And, anyway...what was I doing here.
A high pitched sound caught my attention, it squealed with energy and shrieked with pain and rage. The muffled sound of people calling my name...over...over...and over, mixed with unfamiliar voices, people shouting commands...
"I lifted a stick from my basket and he ran out into the road" I heard the old crone say.
Sounds which resonated and reverberated.
Until, at last, I drifted off to sleep.
Monday 19 March 2007
MY LIFE AS A COMIC BOOK SUPERHERO
My inactivity, in case you hadn't noticed, was not helped by getting broadband this weekend. This is now Monday and I have been unable to go online since Friday lunchtime! To make matters worse my Jambos lost 4-0 on Saturday and Hibs won their first trophy for 16 years....don't please mention football. And, as if that wasn't enough, I am once again and for the sixth time, hit by my allergy - though, at least this time I don't look like the elephant man.
Good news...well there is none...but apart from the above I have not lost the will to live quite yet, and if I had I suppose I would be inclined to write the longest suicide note in history. Now there is an idea for a novel.
The blog has been spluttering along and despite my best efforts to get more people involved, nobody else apart from the home guard - only kidding guys - has taken up my offer to come on board. Four or five have said they will post but, as yet, haven't.
Nevertheless, the posts so far from everyone else have been excellent.
Tonight, I am back online and about to eat my Lasagne, the next installment of Darker Killingbeck is all but ready, and despite this nuisance allergy, I am optimistic about the future.
Now I have to get back to Gotham City before they close the gates.................and get out of these tights....
Good news...well there is none...but apart from the above I have not lost the will to live quite yet, and if I had I suppose I would be inclined to write the longest suicide note in history. Now there is an idea for a novel.
The blog has been spluttering along and despite my best efforts to get more people involved, nobody else apart from the home guard - only kidding guys - has taken up my offer to come on board. Four or five have said they will post but, as yet, haven't.
Nevertheless, the posts so far from everyone else have been excellent.
Tonight, I am back online and about to eat my Lasagne, the next installment of Darker Killingbeck is all but ready, and despite this nuisance allergy, I am optimistic about the future.
Now I have to get back to Gotham City before they close the gates.................and get out of these tights....
Sunday 18 March 2007
Quote
Sorry if you all find this boring but I thought this was a great quote from the cover notes of an old Sonic Youth album
Once the music leaves your head it's already compromised.
Attributed to Jack Brewer
I wondered if this was the same with a writer writing a story?
Once the music leaves your head it's already compromised.
Attributed to Jack Brewer
I wondered if this was the same with a writer writing a story?
Friday 16 March 2007
Quote # whatever
I found this line from one of Sergi's favourite songs "Cat Stevens" "Father and Son"
From the moment I could speak I was ordered to listen
Says it all really!
EL
From the moment I could speak I was ordered to listen
Says it all really!
EL
Monday 12 March 2007
Tate, Shmate...
Just in from seeing the Moscow Ballet! Oooh, it was lovely! Wonderful music, sublime dancing, gorgeous costumes, beautiful women and (best of all?) a Corp de Ballet bursting with strapping young men in tights! Bozhe moi!
*fans herself *
Anywho, to business.
Contacted the Tate today to request copyright permission to use thumbnails of paintings for us to discuss on the art post. They said yes…for a fee. So I very politely told them where to stick it. I’m really hacked off about this.
B*ll*cks anyway!
David G,
I’m still working on my list of favourite films (it’s sooo hard!) but I’ve been doing my homework and have read up a bit on Andrew Sarris and mise-en-scene, which I now know is [clears throat] “…(an) emphasis on the content of a frame rather than the relationship of one frame to the next..”
This is eye-opening to say the least. I’ve been labouring under the misguided belief that mise-en-scene is something MUCH more specific – a layering effect I’ve seen in some films.
For example, Buster Keaton’s Sherlock Jnr. (1924), where Buster literally steps INSIDE the film (how very Post-Modern of him!): The view of the cinema screen (the film inside the film) is framed by the stage. Buster steps off the stage into the screen, and then, through an opening door (apparently existing only in the two-dimensional space of the film), we see an interior space beyond (which is actually three-dimensional space).
Buster is playing with our minds and with our perceptions of spatial depth, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy! It’s very cool!
“In the character of a dozing film projectionist, Buster steps out of his sleeping body as his dream self makes its way through the aisle of the darkened theatre and steps up into the screen. Barely 20 years into the existence of the cinematic medium, Keaton was painstakingly examining the form’s limitations whilst at the same time exploding its possibilities. In questioning the artifice of presenting depth on a flat screen, Keaton simultaneously pushes the very limits to which that artifice can be made to seem wholly real. The illusion remains utterly convincing.” Thom Robinson. © 2006 University of Sheffield.
As the late, great Walter Kerr said, "He was the most silent, as well as the most cinematic, of silent screen comedians."
Sarris sees mise-en-scene as encompassing ALL aspects of visual style though (right David?), including “mystical meanings and [the] emotional tone” of the film.
I especially liked the definition that as opposed to the montage of, say, Eisenstein, mise-en-scene is the single shot, the “…static unblinking camera..”
The metaphysical “blink” of de Chirico’s “The Child’s Brain” (1914) always makes me think of Buster Keaton’s oh-so-expressive eyes – and his obliterating “blink”.
Sorry, now I AM being pretentious!
Still, I’ve always thought of Keaton as the master of the long shot.
Axasha D’Arc
*fans herself *
Anywho, to business.
Contacted the Tate today to request copyright permission to use thumbnails of paintings for us to discuss on the art post. They said yes…for a fee. So I very politely told them where to stick it. I’m really hacked off about this.
B*ll*cks anyway!
David G,
I’m still working on my list of favourite films (it’s sooo hard!) but I’ve been doing my homework and have read up a bit on Andrew Sarris and mise-en-scene, which I now know is [clears throat] “…(an) emphasis on the content of a frame rather than the relationship of one frame to the next..”
This is eye-opening to say the least. I’ve been labouring under the misguided belief that mise-en-scene is something MUCH more specific – a layering effect I’ve seen in some films.
For example, Buster Keaton’s Sherlock Jnr. (1924), where Buster literally steps INSIDE the film (how very Post-Modern of him!): The view of the cinema screen (the film inside the film) is framed by the stage. Buster steps off the stage into the screen, and then, through an opening door (apparently existing only in the two-dimensional space of the film), we see an interior space beyond (which is actually three-dimensional space).
Buster is playing with our minds and with our perceptions of spatial depth, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy! It’s very cool!
“In the character of a dozing film projectionist, Buster steps out of his sleeping body as his dream self makes its way through the aisle of the darkened theatre and steps up into the screen. Barely 20 years into the existence of the cinematic medium, Keaton was painstakingly examining the form’s limitations whilst at the same time exploding its possibilities. In questioning the artifice of presenting depth on a flat screen, Keaton simultaneously pushes the very limits to which that artifice can be made to seem wholly real. The illusion remains utterly convincing.” Thom Robinson. © 2006 University of Sheffield.
As the late, great Walter Kerr said, "He was the most silent, as well as the most cinematic, of silent screen comedians."
Sarris sees mise-en-scene as encompassing ALL aspects of visual style though (right David?), including “mystical meanings and [the] emotional tone” of the film.
I especially liked the definition that as opposed to the montage of, say, Eisenstein, mise-en-scene is the single shot, the “…static unblinking camera..”
The metaphysical “blink” of de Chirico’s “The Child’s Brain” (1914) always makes me think of Buster Keaton’s oh-so-expressive eyes – and his obliterating “blink”.
Sorry, now I AM being pretentious!
Still, I’ve always thought of Keaton as the master of the long shot.
Axasha D’Arc
Walt Whitman
I do not know much about literature, but I wish I did. I want to talk about Walt Whitman, who I adore. He is an American poet, I am sure you know, who grew up in Brooklyn and was a real humanitarian.
I want to list one line from his poem To The States and that is Resist much, obey little and he goes on to say Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved. That says so much yeah, so much.
Danny
I want to list one line from his poem To The States and that is Resist much, obey little and he goes on to say Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved. That says so much yeah, so much.
Danny
Sunday 11 March 2007
Freegan Interview
This afternoon I interviewed a Freegan, that is an alien from the planet Free, but of course, I am kidding. Actually his name was Alf and with his friend Martin they have been helping me with my research into this loose grouping of individuals disenchanted with the way the world is headed. They choose to lead an alternative lifestyle having opted out of the death machine and freed themselves from the slavery of the work ethic - who says it has to be that way anyway?
Freegans are focused on 'saving' the planet, on illustrating the way people are manipulated and controlled by an economic system that causes poverty, starvation and, perhaps, even the end of existence.
Me I am just a hypocrite, but at least I am aware.
Freegans are focused on 'saving' the planet, on illustrating the way people are manipulated and controlled by an economic system that causes poverty, starvation and, perhaps, even the end of existence.
Me I am just a hypocrite, but at least I am aware.
Another Quote
I am afraid I am so sad I actually like quotes. I am trying to add my own wee bit on, that is supposed to make them sound funny.
God had a divine purpose in placing this land between two great oceans to be found by those who had a special love of freedom and courage. (Ronald Reagan)
I am not sure where Ronald is talking about, Jamaica? Cuba? I mean America? Freedom and courage? Would that sound like America to someone from East Los Angeles? Oh, and now it's God the builder?
EL
God had a divine purpose in placing this land between two great oceans to be found by those who had a special love of freedom and courage. (Ronald Reagan)
I am not sure where Ronald is talking about, Jamaica? Cuba? I mean America? Freedom and courage? Would that sound like America to someone from East Los Angeles? Oh, and now it's God the builder?
EL
Another Quote
I am afraid I am so sad I actually like quotes. I am trying to add my own wee bit on, that is supposed to make them sound funny.
God had a divine purpose in placing this land between two great oceans to be found by those who had a special love of freedom and courage. (Ronald Reagan)
I am not sure where Ronald is talking about, Jamaica? Cuba? I mean America? Freedom and courage? Would that sound like America to someone from East Los Angeles? Oh, and now it's God the builder?
EL
God had a divine purpose in placing this land between two great oceans to be found by those who had a special love of freedom and courage. (Ronald Reagan)
I am not sure where Ronald is talking about, Jamaica? Cuba? I mean America? Freedom and courage? Would that sound like America to someone from East Los Angeles? Oh, and now it's God the builder?
EL
OZYMANDAIS
I never really was a big poetry fan, though this one caught my imagination. It's by Percy Byshe Shelley and its theme is decay. The clever part of this, however, is that Ozymandais, 'The king of kings, Look on my Works ye mighty and despair' is a decaying statue in the 'desart', and as the work of the sculpture deteriorates and returns to the sand from which it was made so the syntax of the poem breaks up.
In many ways, and this is my take on this poem, this is about the cycle of life and death. Even though the statue was once sculpted for some great and powerful man, it is, nevertheles, rapidly returning to sand. It is, for me, an ashes to ashes work, it is actually a sonnet of fourteen lines, can't remember what type of sonnet that is, but think it is the 'classic' style that Shakespeare worked in, eight lines and then six - they had a name for them which I also forget, sorry - but they were different from Italian sonnets.
I really like the irony however, and, for me, it represents the rise and fall of empires, kings, queens, leaders and so on and reinforces the mortality that we all share, rich, poor, hungry. Shelley's great poem was the one on the Peterloo riots of 1819 and the guy was quite a liberal thinker for his time, a republican to boot, what was it he said about the last king being strangled by the entrails of somebody or other?
In many ways, and this is my take on this poem, this is about the cycle of life and death. Even though the statue was once sculpted for some great and powerful man, it is, nevertheles, rapidly returning to sand. It is, for me, an ashes to ashes work, it is actually a sonnet of fourteen lines, can't remember what type of sonnet that is, but think it is the 'classic' style that Shakespeare worked in, eight lines and then six - they had a name for them which I also forget, sorry - but they were different from Italian sonnets.
I really like the irony however, and, for me, it represents the rise and fall of empires, kings, queens, leaders and so on and reinforces the mortality that we all share, rich, poor, hungry. Shelley's great poem was the one on the Peterloo riots of 1819 and the guy was quite a liberal thinker for his time, a republican to boot, what was it he said about the last king being strangled by the entrails of somebody or other?
Saturday 10 March 2007
american gothic
Let us consider American Gothic. A composition of two figures facing front in a rural setting, Clearly from the pitchfork, the man's denims and the ladies dress it is a farmer and his wife in front of their white clapperboard farmhouse. The painting dates from 1930.
The painting has also a menacing quality. The austere faces of the couple looking frontward, and their rigid faces, give them a sinister aura. The couple could have been part of the the Salem witch hunts, nevertheless, I believe the painting was authored in Iowa.
It also speaks to me of right wing christianity, the clapperboard house in the background could be a church. The top window has an ecclesiastical look to it. The pitchfork is three-pronged, representing the son, the ghost and the holy spirit?
Check out the wife's position, on her husband's shoulder and slightly behind him, represents her subordiante role beside the far more austere husband. She also has an air of dutifulness toward her husband, the verbal clues have us believe she will follow him, and his demeanour shows that he will demand her subserviance. What he says is law, no matter what.
Check out also the hand on the pitchfork, the strength represents tilling the soil, working the land, but there is a devilish quality to the man holding the pitchfork. Is he the devil? Think about that.
Danny.
The painting has also a menacing quality. The austere faces of the couple looking frontward, and their rigid faces, give them a sinister aura. The couple could have been part of the the Salem witch hunts, nevertheless, I believe the painting was authored in Iowa.
It also speaks to me of right wing christianity, the clapperboard house in the background could be a church. The top window has an ecclesiastical look to it. The pitchfork is three-pronged, representing the son, the ghost and the holy spirit?
Check out the wife's position, on her husband's shoulder and slightly behind him, represents her subordiante role beside the far more austere husband. She also has an air of dutifulness toward her husband, the verbal clues have us believe she will follow him, and his demeanour shows that he will demand her subserviance. What he says is law, no matter what.
Check out also the hand on the pitchfork, the strength represents tilling the soil, working the land, but there is a devilish quality to the man holding the pitchfork. Is he the devil? Think about that.
Danny.
MY LIFE AS A COMIC BOOK SUPERHERO
MY LIFE AS A COMIC BOOK SUPERHERO
Second month of the blog and we have enjoyed some interesting posts. Did someone mention Ingres?
Let me tell you, however, there are people lurking in the shadows just waiting to make their presence known. You know who you are street poet! All told I reckon there are 4 people who have said and promised to post but who are obviously busily polishing their work for the consumption of others?
Also, after appearing in a blaze of glory and having some of the most positive comments on the blog Hayles has had to get her head down for some serious studying, but she will be back.
I noted that someone called Depe, another David, had commented, and Conductor 71 had also commented. In fact Conductor 71, from the safety of her own planet, whirring around in cyberspace somewhere, commented, and then ran off with the (drumroll, trumpet fanfare, cheers - the jeering is David G please ignore him he wants to win everything) Lyrics of the month competition without even posting. We work on democracy up here. She won an angel, you've probably noticed it by now Conductor, flies around a lot, can help you with your life, does good things - what? Flyswatter? You're joking me, right?
I also remember Axasha giving everyone a wonderful and fascinating art history lesson on a comment, please post these little nuggets of genius and let us all share! Could I suggest a monthly art history post, I, for one, would certainly volunteer to be part of that. Did anyone mention Ingres?
At this point can I share with you some really bad news? One of my favourite football fanzines (soccer to our American friends) My Eyes Have Seen The Glory is about to fold.
Dedicated to Tottenham Hotspur football club and written by dedicated and committed supporters after 15 years or so the magazine has come to the end of the road. I am now writing something for my friend in London with the death of the little venture very much in mind.
I have been to Tottenham Hotspur's super stadium in London and saw the team play, so it is a sad day.
So that's it. more Man From Uncle, more photography, more film knowledge, more art history. In fact let's start this week with more art. Good idea or what? I suppose, humble cough, stare at floor, try and look modest, that's why I am a comic book superhero guys......and, did anyone mention Ingres?
SERGIO
Second month of the blog and we have enjoyed some interesting posts. Did someone mention Ingres?
Let me tell you, however, there are people lurking in the shadows just waiting to make their presence known. You know who you are street poet! All told I reckon there are 4 people who have said and promised to post but who are obviously busily polishing their work for the consumption of others?
Also, after appearing in a blaze of glory and having some of the most positive comments on the blog Hayles has had to get her head down for some serious studying, but she will be back.
I noted that someone called Depe, another David, had commented, and Conductor 71 had also commented. In fact Conductor 71, from the safety of her own planet, whirring around in cyberspace somewhere, commented, and then ran off with the (drumroll, trumpet fanfare, cheers - the jeering is David G please ignore him he wants to win everything) Lyrics of the month competition without even posting. We work on democracy up here. She won an angel, you've probably noticed it by now Conductor, flies around a lot, can help you with your life, does good things - what? Flyswatter? You're joking me, right?
I also remember Axasha giving everyone a wonderful and fascinating art history lesson on a comment, please post these little nuggets of genius and let us all share! Could I suggest a monthly art history post, I, for one, would certainly volunteer to be part of that. Did anyone mention Ingres?
At this point can I share with you some really bad news? One of my favourite football fanzines (soccer to our American friends) My Eyes Have Seen The Glory is about to fold.
Dedicated to Tottenham Hotspur football club and written by dedicated and committed supporters after 15 years or so the magazine has come to the end of the road. I am now writing something for my friend in London with the death of the little venture very much in mind.
I have been to Tottenham Hotspur's super stadium in London and saw the team play, so it is a sad day.
So that's it. more Man From Uncle, more photography, more film knowledge, more art history. In fact let's start this week with more art. Good idea or what? I suppose, humble cough, stare at floor, try and look modest, that's why I am a comic book superhero guys......and, did anyone mention Ingres?
SERGIO
Monday 5 March 2007
The Road To Darker Killingbeck
THE ROAD TO DARKER KILLINGBECK
I reached the top of the hill and looked back the way I had came. I gazed at the empty, wild and endlessly free countryside behind and to the side of me, the mountainous shadows in the background overseeing the surface of the land, pockmarked with small lochans reflecting silvery moonlight on their rippling tides. Tiny unseen winds of the night ripping the water on the surface, lifting tiny droplets of water and whispering in the darkness. I was sure I was being watched and the watcher was sure that I knew they were watching me.
Black night swooped down as I turned, the road ahead straight and treeless, night gathering its skirt around me as I prepared to stick my head in the jaws of the beast. The jaws of the beast, how often, I ask myself have I been there? There beside the beast, facing the beast, my heart pounding, the forest dark.
As I stood on that long and lonely road with the black night studded with stars folding around me on all sides I considered all the risks I had taken in my life. The number of times I had teased the beast, the number of times I had taken chances... Maybe, it occurred to me, that this was one risk too far.................................
I sighed, another hill, rising to an even greater height lay before me. I still did not know where I was, and I shivered with cold in the silent moonlight and remembered Marlowe's Faustus.
'O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars'
And as if by miracle when I finally reached the top of the next steeply rising brae and after long purchase on its staggering slope (Not Marlowe) I saw Darker Killingbeck.
It's skyline reaching skyward, gothic spires, dark shaped buildings moonlight sparking off its angles, streets and houses, and people aimlessly wandering from home to work and home again like a scene from a Lowry. Existence churning out over and over till the money runs out and the machine breaks down and stops and crumbles like Shelley's Ozymandais.
I walk down into town, a church bell chimes midnight and knock on the door of a house advertising in garish lights 'bed and breakfast'.
I knock the door and wait and a woman, dark and mysterious answers.
"I’m temporarily lost in my memories," she tells me, "Both good and bad. I can see faces from faded photographs. And I’m looking at the stranger in the mirror…" She concludes and tilts her head to the side. "are you looking for a room dear?"
I reached the top of the hill and looked back the way I had came. I gazed at the empty, wild and endlessly free countryside behind and to the side of me, the mountainous shadows in the background overseeing the surface of the land, pockmarked with small lochans reflecting silvery moonlight on their rippling tides. Tiny unseen winds of the night ripping the water on the surface, lifting tiny droplets of water and whispering in the darkness. I was sure I was being watched and the watcher was sure that I knew they were watching me.
Black night swooped down as I turned, the road ahead straight and treeless, night gathering its skirt around me as I prepared to stick my head in the jaws of the beast. The jaws of the beast, how often, I ask myself have I been there? There beside the beast, facing the beast, my heart pounding, the forest dark.
As I stood on that long and lonely road with the black night studded with stars folding around me on all sides I considered all the risks I had taken in my life. The number of times I had teased the beast, the number of times I had taken chances... Maybe, it occurred to me, that this was one risk too far.................................
I sighed, another hill, rising to an even greater height lay before me. I still did not know where I was, and I shivered with cold in the silent moonlight and remembered Marlowe's Faustus.
'O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars'
And as if by miracle when I finally reached the top of the next steeply rising brae and after long purchase on its staggering slope (Not Marlowe) I saw Darker Killingbeck.
It's skyline reaching skyward, gothic spires, dark shaped buildings moonlight sparking off its angles, streets and houses, and people aimlessly wandering from home to work and home again like a scene from a Lowry. Existence churning out over and over till the money runs out and the machine breaks down and stops and crumbles like Shelley's Ozymandais.
I walk down into town, a church bell chimes midnight and knock on the door of a house advertising in garish lights 'bed and breakfast'.
I knock the door and wait and a woman, dark and mysterious answers.
"I’m temporarily lost in my memories," she tells me, "Both good and bad. I can see faces from faded photographs. And I’m looking at the stranger in the mirror…" She concludes and tilts her head to the side. "are you looking for a room dear?"
ART FOR ARTS SAKE
As this is an artistic blog I thought I would mention some of my favourite painters, like Brad Davis from the eighties. I remember vaguely, a painting by this chap which was to all itnents and purposes a landscape with patterned border. It was strange, but also big and bold and dare i say it over the top. The brush strokes, if I remember was big and powerful and chunky. I suppose you could say it was also flamboyant. I liked Davis because of he was adventurous, and during the eighties I was into art, to some extent. I wasnt pretentious about it, but also remember someone called Sandro Chia, an Italian, who also painted some really funny stuff, well it made me laugh, and i liked his style. Unlike someone I know i wasn't a poser.
I still like art and i like Beryl Cook, again big and over the top style like Davis and Chia. She is striking when she portrays large ladies and now that i am larger than i was i can appreciate Cook and her fatties.
David G
I still like art and i like Beryl Cook, again big and over the top style like Davis and Chia. She is striking when she portrays large ladies and now that i am larger than i was i can appreciate Cook and her fatties.
David G
Sunday 4 March 2007
Adam Walsh
I really liked Adam Walsh's photograph of Helen, I thought it was exquisite, bright and a bit tacky. Definitely punkish, I am sure this a fashion shoot, but I like the way it gets you thinking. Is Helen posing or is she simply being herself, and the hair, well get the hair, I think it's fabulous.
This photograph could have been taken anywhere but we know it is in Waterloo, London, and it's an area I don't know, but it looks suitably down market. Just liked this photo and wanted to say so.
EL
This photograph could have been taken anywhere but we know it is in Waterloo, London, and it's an area I don't know, but it looks suitably down market. Just liked this photo and wanted to say so.
EL
The New Adventures of the Men From Uncle # 1
The world will end in 30 seconds. A man standing on a rooftop in central London is holding a vial of the most destructive material known to man. If he drops it to the street and it breaks it, as he says he will in 30 seconds, the world will end.
Illya Kuryakin appears on the rooftop, 25 seconds to go.
'I am Illya from Uncle, I'd just like to say before you drop that vial, that this is your chance to become a hero.'
'Hero?' the man swings round toward Kuryakin.
Napoleon appears in the background and whispers to Illya.
20 seconds to go.
'Be careful, maybe this time we are beat, and it's going to ruin my new suit.'
'Yeah nice' Illya nods looking back at Solo and his blue pin-striped combo. 'You have such good tailors.'
'You think?'
'Duh...yeah!'
Fifteen seconds to go.
'Hey! the bad man calls out and shakes the vial. 'What about me becoming a hero? How does that work?'
'Oh yeah. sorry, I was just admiring Napoleons new threads.'
'Yeah' the bad man calls over to Solo. 'The colour suits you'
'Why thank you' Napoleon accepts the compliment graciously.
Ten seconds to go.
'Hero?' the bad man looks back toward Illya.
'Oh yeah that, yeah if you give me the vial and don't drop it in what' he checks his watch 'Six, five...'
'I'd become a hero instead of an evil villain?'
'Yes'
'Why didn't you say so before' He hands the vial to Illya.
One second to go.
Illya and Napoleon save the world. Yay!
Illya Kuryakin appears on the rooftop, 25 seconds to go.
'I am Illya from Uncle, I'd just like to say before you drop that vial, that this is your chance to become a hero.'
'Hero?' the man swings round toward Kuryakin.
Napoleon appears in the background and whispers to Illya.
20 seconds to go.
'Be careful, maybe this time we are beat, and it's going to ruin my new suit.'
'Yeah nice' Illya nods looking back at Solo and his blue pin-striped combo. 'You have such good tailors.'
'You think?'
'Duh...yeah!'
Fifteen seconds to go.
'Hey! the bad man calls out and shakes the vial. 'What about me becoming a hero? How does that work?'
'Oh yeah. sorry, I was just admiring Napoleons new threads.'
'Yeah' the bad man calls over to Solo. 'The colour suits you'
'Why thank you' Napoleon accepts the compliment graciously.
Ten seconds to go.
'Hero?' the bad man looks back toward Illya.
'Oh yeah that, yeah if you give me the vial and don't drop it in what' he checks his watch 'Six, five...'
'I'd become a hero instead of an evil villain?'
'Yes'
'Why didn't you say so before' He hands the vial to Illya.
One second to go.
Illya and Napoleon save the world. Yay!
Friday 2 March 2007
NEWS
Hi fur covered creatures, latest news AHK is proud to announce the imminent arrival of several (3) new Hamsters, watch out for them soon.
Also want to let you know that a project I have been tentatively working on has attracted interest from a surprising, yet welcome,quarter. This, guys has come out of the blue and while nothing has been agreed yet, and I am a bit gobsmacked, though delighted,by the interest to be honest, it will, if agreed, allow me to work on a text covering culture and art. It would be a dream to do this work. It might also, of course, make me sound intellectual...sorry maybe I am pushing this a bit far?
Also want to let you know that a project I have been tentatively working on has attracted interest from a surprising, yet welcome,quarter. This, guys has come out of the blue and while nothing has been agreed yet, and I am a bit gobsmacked, though delighted,by the interest to be honest, it will, if agreed, allow me to work on a text covering culture and art. It would be a dream to do this work. It might also, of course, make me sound intellectual...sorry maybe I am pushing this a bit far?
UNCLE Quote of the Week
It's Friday so it must be time for UNCLE Quote of the Week!
Guard: But the Casbah is not the place for a casual stroll. Especially not for a well-dressed stranger.
Napoleon Solo: This happens to be my oldest suit.
And a little later that episode…
Napoleon Solo:[calling over the intercom] Illya, how do you feel?
Illya Kuryakin:[in hospital] I feel fine. I just had an alcohol rub and I think she's gonna powder me next.
Napoleon Solo: I need you immediately.
Illya Kuryakin: Napoleon, my pores are still open!
(The Come With Me to the Casbah Affair)
Axasha.
Guard: But the Casbah is not the place for a casual stroll. Especially not for a well-dressed stranger.
Napoleon Solo: This happens to be my oldest suit.
And a little later that episode…
Napoleon Solo:[calling over the intercom] Illya, how do you feel?
Illya Kuryakin:[in hospital] I feel fine. I just had an alcohol rub and I think she's gonna powder me next.
Napoleon Solo: I need you immediately.
Illya Kuryakin: Napoleon, my pores are still open!
(The Come With Me to the Casbah Affair)
Axasha.
Thursday 1 March 2007
Man From Uncle Fact File
Note - the organisational rival to the limp-wristed 'men' from UNCLE were a group collectively known as...wait for it...THRUSH! Can you believe that...THRUSH! Actually THRUSH stood for Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity! I'll bet Axasha knew that...yes, I'll bet she did!
Fellow Jambos Of The World Unite
Hi Hamsters please note along the right hand side of the blog are links. All are recommended, the latest is a blog by a Jambo friend of mine and I think it is great and think you all should visit. I have even invited my fellow Jambo to join the Alien Hamster Kollektive because he is handsome, intelligent and witty - he is a Jambo after all. Please use the links fur covered creatures and remember if he is a Jambo, then ees al richt!
BLACK HAWK DOWN
This Ridley Scott movie is probably as close to war as you can get without actually fighting. It covers an ill-fated US mission into war torn Somalia, a nation bleeding and writhing from the pain of civil battle. The Americans are sent in to capture several warlords with disastrous consequences.
Based on a true story, Scott, to his credit, is faithful to the actual events, including Todd Blackburn's 70 foot drop from a helicopter. He falls all the way to the streets of Mogadishu, crumpled and badly injured, his colleagues racing to the stricken soldier's rescue.
It is, for me, a wonderful movie of bravery and courage, of frightened young men, overcoming their fear to fight for one another against overwhelming numbers of Somalians. It is a
tremendously dark film that reaches into the very depths of compassion and comradeship. Isn't it strange, that to really bring humans together, despite their fear, in unconditional support, it takes a war situation? Aren't we all a little frightened after all?
Actually, I am quite fascinated by this period of military history and especially with regard to the chaos and anarchy of Somalia. To this day, some 15 years later the country is still tearing itself apart, and lesson learned, the US have kept their distance from the madness of this east African state.
Black Hawk Down, one of my favourite movies. Simple as that....
Sergio
Based on a true story, Scott, to his credit, is faithful to the actual events, including Todd Blackburn's 70 foot drop from a helicopter. He falls all the way to the streets of Mogadishu, crumpled and badly injured, his colleagues racing to the stricken soldier's rescue.
It is, for me, a wonderful movie of bravery and courage, of frightened young men, overcoming their fear to fight for one another against overwhelming numbers of Somalians. It is a
tremendously dark film that reaches into the very depths of compassion and comradeship. Isn't it strange, that to really bring humans together, despite their fear, in unconditional support, it takes a war situation? Aren't we all a little frightened after all?
Actually, I am quite fascinated by this period of military history and especially with regard to the chaos and anarchy of Somalia. To this day, some 15 years later the country is still tearing itself apart, and lesson learned, the US have kept their distance from the madness of this east African state.
Black Hawk Down, one of my favourite movies. Simple as that....
Sergio
Favourite Films
One of mine is 'It's A Wonderful Life', starring James Stewart and thanks to conductor 71 i am reminded. Directed by Frank Capra this movie flopped at the box office after it's release in 1946. It's a melnacholic tale of George Bailey from Bedford Falls who has decided upon sucide - I am sure you all know the story. It also starred Donna Reed.
The film only became a hit in the 1970's after TV networks put it on their Christmas programming.
It is schmaltzy and sentimentally sweet, and, admittedly, very sugray, but behind this there is a morality tale. James Stewart character George Bailey, being slowly ruined by ruthless tycoon Henry F. Potter, played by Lionel Barrymore, wishes he had never been born. An angel, Clarence, trying to earn his wings, shows him what it would have been like, and Bailey realises that he has stay and fight and not give up.
He finally defeats Potter and everyone lives happily ever after of course, I love it
David G
The film only became a hit in the 1970's after TV networks put it on their Christmas programming.
It is schmaltzy and sentimentally sweet, and, admittedly, very sugray, but behind this there is a morality tale. James Stewart character George Bailey, being slowly ruined by ruthless tycoon Henry F. Potter, played by Lionel Barrymore, wishes he had never been born. An angel, Clarence, trying to earn his wings, shows him what it would have been like, and Bailey realises that he has stay and fight and not give up.
He finally defeats Potter and everyone lives happily ever after of course, I love it
David G
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