Grumblings from the Interwebs re the new fourth season of Arrested Development, but I think the show is just fine.
"Play Misty for me, Clint."
(By the way, the Interwebs were not invented by Al Gore, as most believe, but by Graydon Carter and Kurt Andersen at Spy Magazine The New York Monthly back in the mid Eighties. In fact, it is possible that Carter and Andersen might have invented Arrested Development, as well, in their spare time.)
I love the whole Rashomon structure, and watching all the pieces come together as the episodes unfold. I think it is an absolutely genius way to get around all the actors' time and contract commitments -- though I would like to see a little more Jessica Walter. I did not even notice the green screen thing until I read about it, so that is not a concern, either.
And, the Showstealer Pro gag is hilarious.
The funny thing is, Renee and I sort of liked Arrested Development, but were never obsessed with it or tempted to lay supine in its glory. We might not have even seen all of season one, to tell you the truth. (And, I at least, even after enjoying season four so far -- half way through! Did not do the complete Memorial Day binge! -- do not have any desire to revisit the old episodes.) So, it is possible that the Wife and I are looking at this with much kinder eyes, and much of the humor seems fresher and tastier to us.
Which is great.
My favorite episodes have been the Lindsay ones so far, and I am not going to get all deep in to the Interwebs, trolling for info on if she has had face surgery on not. Because I do not give a damn. Her episodes have been great.
(Last note: Carter and Andersen mos def did not invent plastic surgery, but they might have invented the Rashomon structure.)
But I am officially "over" Mad Men. I am watching from pure grisly fascination at this point. And, it is not just me anymore. (h/t to Melissa V-H for the link) Perhaps the real Mad Men backlash has begun at last?
Mad Men now is simply a new Twin Peaks. Weird interior lighting on top of weird dirty soapy characters doing weird dirty things in front of wood paneled walls, or crazy 60s wallpaper. It is so weird! And dirty! And that wallpaper!
Hey Polanski, stop saying sexist shit at film festivals. I'm one of your biggest defenders but my patience is running thin.
Little gem of a movie. And, is a film that the Wife and I will eventually own at home and most definitely should bear repeated viewings.
Noah Baumbach is not one of my favorite directors, at all. But, I think it was Greta Gerwig's influence -- she stars and co-wrote the script with Baumbach -- that elevate this film to greatness. That, and Gerwig's co-star, Mickey Sumner's performance as Gerwig's best friend, Sophie.
Mickey Sumner (Sting & Trudy Styler's daughter) and Greta Gerwig drink a Stella.
The film is about reckless dreaming, pride, and platonic love. Ms Gerwig's Frances is reluctant to abandon her dream of being in a modern dance company, despite the fact that she has little talent as a dancer. And, it is her pride that gets in the way whenever she is offered an opportunity to further her career doing something else possibly related to her art, or to fix her living situation, that finally finds her at a low point in her life, and feeling "old" at twenty-seven.
The driving force for the film is the oftentimes strained relationship between Frances and Sophie, two best friends. "We're the same person, different hair," Frances says of her and Sophie. Frances, though, is in complete denial of Sophie's serious relationship with boyfriend, Patch, and when Sophie moves out, Frances becomes unmoored, and is forced to find herself, and her life, on her own, without a friend partner to guide her (or for Frances to become dependent upon.)
This "quest" makes up a great portion of the comedy for this film, including two fabulous talky scenes. The first takes place the morning after one of Frances' most recent housemates has hooked up with a girl the night before. The girl makes breakfast for everyone the next morning, and proves what a small world this is by telling Frances how she knows Sophie, too, and seems somewhat surprised to discover that she is meeting the Frances that Sophie had described to her.
The second is a real tour de force for Ms Gerwig, and is an extremely touching and moving sequence, because I know I have personally felt exactly how Frances feels at this time in her life in this particular type of social situation. Frances by this point is "crashing" basically at one of the dance company's member's houses, and then ends up "crashing" a dinner party, as well. Frances is well out of her depth amongst these very successful people, and perhaps, has too much to drink. Her attempts at making herself heard and understood are frazzled and disjointed, sometimes dropped altogether, until finally through the haze of smoke and drink, she is able to articulate her personal Mission Statement for what she sees as true love.
I have been there, Sister. A down on his luck beggar at the banquet, intimidated by wealth and breeding, rubbing shoulders with folks my own age or younger who were already so much more successful than me, folks that had figured it out already, how to live life, and made it seem so easy. And, me, desperate to prove my worth or intelligence or passion, whilst in the back corners of my mind, feeling I would never measure up, period.
The film is shot in black and white, which plays here as crisp and refreshing, and Frances Ha's most obvious influences are mid to late Seventies Woody Allen films -- there is a nighttime interior scene in a cafe that can remind you of the Elaine's sequence in Manhattan -- and the French New Wave films of Francois Truffaut. There are exuberant elegant character illuminating montage sequences, played alongside George Delerue music -- a composer who did much work for Truffaut and Godard -- that bring this influence to the fore, and, for fun, the script even has Sophie namecheck Jean-Pierre Léaud.
Highly recommended by me and the Wife. (The Wife really liked it. She liked the film so much that she was somewhat angry coming out of the theater. I figured what made her angry was why are not all films this great? Think about how many millions and millions of dollars are spent on so many films that can not even hold a candle to this cheap black and white indie film. At least, that is what I think she was thinking.)
Forgotten just what a badass album Viva! Roxy Music is? Man, those guys had some serious swagger. What a powerful rocking album it is. Out of the Blue, Pajamarama, and Both Ends Burning are just completely living inside me right now. Every one do yourself a favor and buy this album right now if you do not own it. It will change your life.
The Wife and I were away from our television set last Sunday, enjoying our second anniversary celebration, thank you v much, and we had an absolutely bloody marvelous time. (Hotel Vitale, Michael Mina, a movie, Boulevard, the City, the Ferry Building -- much more on all of this tomorrow.)
These ladies could solve the whole Israel/Palestinian thing, I have no doubt.
So, we settled in to watch our Sunday lineup yesterday instead. Man, am I glad we did that.
Although Veep was hilarious as usual, it was v strange, and uncomfortably awkward all the way through. Even though it was nice to see two more In the Loop vets make an appearance. No Veep next week, it gets a week off for Behind the Candelabra, which Renee and I are seriously looking forward to. Veep is fine, great, still almost perfect; they just had to have an episode to really raise the stakes and set up the last four installments.
But, can we talk about Mad Men? Seriously, what the fuck was that? Honestly, the way the last few seasons have gone I can finally confirm that I am strictly watching Mad Men in the way I watch The Newsroom on HBO. Purely for the gore and carnage on the side of the road as we drive on by. Sunday's episode, The Crash, was a complete travesty; an abomination. The Wife and I believe it would have been much better if it all had been a dream. Because we certainly could not believe what happened on screen. Completely implausible, and frankly, smacking of self-indulgence and pretension. Why so many people consider this program one of the greatest dramas ever is beyond me.
Then, we finished up with Call the Midwife, and faith was restored again. Great acting, great writing, great stories, and some thoroughly cheesy soapy moments. A breath of fresh air after Super Awkward Hallucinatory Sunday.
There is hope. Perhaps the future is not broken, after all.
Veep has become insanely other-worldly good this season. I do not even know where to begin. They got their first season under their belt, added brill new characters, and are even starting to throw in great new guest stars, i.e. the fabulous Dave Foley as the Finnish Prime Minister's husband last night.
There just is not any better show on television right now in my opinion.
What is intriguing is that the liberal political blogs are still reluctant to do live open threads about the program, or even frickin' use the hundreds of great lines in their postings. This troubles me. Fair enough, if you do not like the show on its merits, but what I really suspect is that many serious Lefties can not take a joke. (I also understand if folks do not like the program because of the swear-y language -- even though Lefties have been lambasting Winger blogs for being prudes for ages now.)
And, Lefties, including myself, have been ridiculing the Wingers for decades now as the Political Wing with Absolutely No Sense of Humor. There is a lot of truth in that. Wingers are getting busted by satirical websites daily, seriously embarrassed. But, one of the most important characteristics of a sense of humor is the ability to laugh at yourself.
Even though Veep has never made a big deal about Selina Meyers (and the Administration's) political party affiliation, it is becoming increasingly obvious to viewers that she is a Centrist (just like all Democratic Veep and POTUS' since LBJ) Democrat. And, if the "serious" political blogging Lefties can not deal with that, or are going to get up on their high horse about satirizing serious political issues, and how mean these folks are, then I give up.
I am 'bout the Leftiest guy any of you know, and I am still a pragmatic proud Democrat, too. But, I also know that No Matter Who You Vote For The Government Always Gets In.
Mindbogglingly highly recommended, everyone should be watching Veep right now, best thing on teevee by miles.
Everybody and their Mum has already written a novel or a play, made a film, done a dissertation, or a song, or a power point, or a conceptual performance art dance piece about the year 1968.
"A young girl disturbed by thinking too often of the future."
But, what the heck, I am officially throwing my hat in the ring, too. I will be doing a 1968 Timeline here on fauxluxe over the coming months. The Timeline will be distilled down to twelve longish pieces that will cover each month of 1968, perhaps the most tumultuous and thrilling year of the Twentieth Century.
May 1968 graffiti, Paris: "Beneath the paving stones, the beach!"
It will not be all doom and gloom. It will be a fun ride with lots of YouTube videos and serious and sometimes not so serious observations about the year in which I was born.
I plan to write the January installment sometime next week, and publish it here by Monday, May 20th (My Wife and I's second Anniversary!)
Right on,
Love you all,
Have a great Mum's Day oot there,
All you Mums, Mwah, ...
And, it is a truly smashing novella; a tiny tour de force, if you will.
Honestly, I think Fitzgerald goes a little overboard sometimes, tries to pack so much style and attitude in to it that it can come off as if he is a little in love with the sound of his own voice. That is forgivable though because the book is so good, and it is extremely typical of great young men writers in their twenties.
Man, F Scott F, how'd you get so bitter?
My gosh, he is certainly heavy with the similes and metaphors, though? Early in the book there appear to be at least two or three per page! Most of these are jaw-droppingly gorgeous, i.e. the simile about children leaving the street at dusk; or, the metaphor about the row of houses on a street like a birthday cake, etc, ... There are a few clunkers, too, but not many.
I also love our narrator, and his sly way of passing judgement on all these really awful people that he spends the Summer with. I love the incredibly voyeuristic style that Nick Carraway employs to tell his tale. I love the fact that Carraway, himself, the one passing judgement on these folks, is really a pretty despicable person, too. I love Carraway's whole "the other things I did that Summer" passage, as well: He kept signing love to his girl back West, even though he kept thinking of the "moustache of sweat" on Jordan Baker's lip while he did it; that he had another girl until her brother starting looking at him sideways; that he cares for Jordan Baker despite the fact that she is a liar and a cheat -- in fact, Carraway goes on to say that lying and cheating is to be expected of all young attractive women. I also love how all "the help" are portrayed throughout the book, as rude, idiotic, stuck-up buffoons. Even Carraway's personal "help" is only ever referred to as "The Finn." We never learn their name.
This is an extremely cynical book, a real indictment of wealthy America. There is really not a single likable person in the whole novella. Carraway tries to paint a pretty picture of Daisy Buchanan, but by the end, one gets the feeling that Carraway is trying just a little too hard; that most likely, Carraway, is probably in love with his second cousin, which has blinded him to Daisy's very silly and slight nature.
I am so glad I have finally read the book. If I had read it in High School it probably would have been wasted on me. The Great Gatsby is a true American Masterpiece.
This weekend, so I can read The Great Gatsby before I see the film next Friday.
(By the way, I am near done with the first of the four novels of the Parade's End tetralogy, and it is definitely one of the greatest books ever written, as far as I am concerned. The forty page Sylvia/Tietjens conversation that begins Part Two of the first novel is just out of this world amazing, with numerous major plot points just dropped in, or thrown away in conversation. The whole dynamic of Sylvia and Tietjens' relationship is another stunner for the ages, and most certainly can resonate with modern readers. It certainly resonates with me. Just fantastic brilliant writing, including some crazy stream of consciousness passages that exhilarate. Plus, the way young Miss Wannop stands up to Tietjens, and demands his respect, and goes toe to toe with him! And Sylvia, too, of course. Tietjens only seems able to keep the company of strong, smart, forthright women. Great stuff. I could go on longer, but will not, ... )
My history with The Great Gatsby is I was required to read it in High School, but I do not even remember if I finished it. I did not like it then. It was completely wasted on me. I simply refused to read anything I was told to read (except some books my parents pushed on me) and read other things, and wrote terrible love sick poetry, or poems about time or sunsets, or whatnot.
I expect I will really enjoy Gatsby this time, and am eagerly looking forward to it.
"I saw your films, Open City and Paisa, and enjoyed them very much. If you need a Swedish actress who speaks English very well, who has not forgotten her German, who is not very understandable in French, and who in Italian knows only 'ti amo', I am ready to come and make a film with you.
Best regards,
Ingrid Bergman"
It was that beautiful and ever so elegant, and eloquent, letter that sent off a chain reaction of events: Ms Bergman went on to have an affair, and a professional relationship with Mr Rossellini, eventually divorcing her first husband, and having three children with Rossellini, including the exquisite Isabella Rossellini.
Once it was learned Stateside that Ms Bergman was living "in sin" with Rossellini she was censured by the United States Congress, and was blacklisted indefinitely from working in Hollywood.
She eventually returned, of course, and won two more Oscars, but that is so ludicrous to me, what those white men in power think they feel they have to say about a woman and her personal private life. Screw 'em.
Ms Bergman is forever. Nobody knows those yahoos' names anymore.
When I was around six years old, and we were living in Norman, OK, Donna -- my Mum -- brought home a couple of children's storybooks from the college bookstore. I was reading literally every thing I could get my hands on at that time. I was obsessed and delighted with this new thing I could do, read.
These new storybooks though were from the Soviet Union, and were written in cyrillic. I had no idea what the text meant. I secretly hope now that it was pure unadulterated party propaganda (except I severely doubt it.) I explained to Donna how I could not comprehend the book, and Donna sweetly told me that I should use my imagination, looking at and absorbing the pictures and the beautiful Russian letters, and make up my own story of what the books said.
Beautiful, right?
(And, you gotta love the fact that my Mum was getting that Soviet Commie stuff to me at a very early age! In Norman, OK! In 1974! Indoctrinated, indeed!)
