list http://www.spout.com/ Recent community activity around The Last Picture Show on Spout Copyright 2005-9 Spout, LLC Spout RSS http://www.spout.com/images/SpoutLogoRSS.jpg http://www.spout.com/ 136 30 http://www.spout.com/films/The_Last_Picture_Show/19718/default.aspx Title: The Last Picture Show
Year: 1971
Director: Peter Bogdanovich
Plot: Produced by Hollywood iconoclast BBS Productions, film critic-turned-director Peter Bogdanovich's 1971 film pays homage to Hollywood's classical age as it chronicles generational rites of passage in Anarene, a fictional one-horse Texas town. In 1951, high school seniors Sonny (Timothy Bottoms) and Duane (Jeff Bridges) play football, go to the movies at the Royal Theater, hang out at the pool hall owned by local elder statesman Sam the Lion (Ben Johnson), and lust after rich tease Jacy Farrow (Cybill Shepherd in her film debut). As the year passes, Sonny learns about the pitfalls and compromises of adulthood through an affair with his coach's wife Ruth (Cloris Leachman) and a thwarted elopement with Jacy after she dumps Duane. Following two tragic deaths, and with Duane gone to Korea and Jacy packed off to college in Dallas, Sonny is left behind in Anarene, wise enough to absorb the life lessons of Sam the Lion and Jacy's mother Lois (Ellen Burstyn). He is determined to honor Sam's legacy as the town's conscience, despite a telling sign of incipient communal disintegration: the closing of the Royal Theater after a final showing of Howard Hawks's Red River. Paying tribute to classical Hollywood directors like Hawks and John Ford, Bogdanovich used old-time cinematographer Robert Surtees and shot The Last Picture Show in crisp black-and-white, with a restrained style devoid of the kind of "new wave" techniques (jump cuts, zooms, and jittery hand-held camerawork) used by such contemporaries as Arthur Penn, Robert Altman, Mike Nichols, and Martin Scorsese. As in such Ford films as The Grapes of Wrath (1940), Bogdanovich relies on careful visual composition in deep focus to help communicate the regret over the passing of an era. Hailed as one of the best films by a young director since Citizen Kane (1941), The Last Picture Show premiered at the New York Film Festival and went on to become a hit. It was also nominated for eight Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Screenplay for Larry McMurtry's and Bogdanovich's adaptation of McMurtry's novel. John Ford stalwart Johnson won Supporting Actor and Leachman won Supporting Actress, beating out their cohorts Bridges and Burstyn. For an audience steeped in movie history and caught up in the chaotic 1971 present, The Last Picture Show presented a nostalgic look backward that was not so much an escape from the present as a coming to terms with what the present had lost. Its 1990 sequel Texasville, in which Bridges and Shepherd played later incarnations of their original characters, was not as successful. ~ Lucia Bozzola, All Movie Guide
Times Tagged: 14
Number of Lists: 22
Number of blog posts: 7
Number of discussion threads: 1
SpoutRating: 3
]]>Fri, 31 Oct 2008 03:37:30 GMTThe Last Picture Show1971Peter BogdanovichProduced by Hollywood iconoclast BBS Productions, film critic-turned-director <a href="/players/P____82288/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Peter Bogdanovich</a>'s 1971 film pays homage to Hollywood's classical age as it chronicles generational rites of passage in Anarene, a fictional one-horse Texas town. In 1951, high school seniors Sonny (<a href="/players/P_____7587/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Timothy Bottoms</a>) and Duane (<a href="/players/P_____3197/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Jeff Bridges</a>) play football, go to the movies at the Royal Theater, hang out at the pool hall owned by local elder statesman Sam the Lion (<a href="/players/P____35776/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Ben Johnson</a>), and lust after rich tease Jacy Farrow (<a href="/players/P____65168/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Cybill Shepherd</a> in her film debut). As the year passes, Sonny learns about the pitfalls and compromises of adulthood through an affair with his coach's wife Ruth (<a href="/players/P____41211/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Cloris Leachman</a>) and a thwarted elopement with Jacy after she dumps Duane. Following two tragic deaths, and with Duane gone to Korea and Jacy packed off to college in Dallas, Sonny is left behind in Anarene, wise enough to absorb the life lessons of Sam the Lion and Jacy's mother Lois (<a href="/players/P_____9777/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Ellen Burstyn</a>). He is determined to honor Sam's legacy as the town's conscience, despite a telling sign of incipient communal disintegration: the closing of the Royal Theater after a final showing of <a href="/players/P____93764/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Howard Hawks</a>'s <a href=/films/28469/default.aspx style='text-decoration:underline'>Red River</a>. Paying tribute to classical Hollywood directors like Hawks and <a href="/players/P____90133/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>John Ford</a>, Bogdanovich used old-time cinematographer <a href="/players/P___113287/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Robert Surtees</a> and shot The Last Picture Show in crisp black-and-white, with a restrained style devoid of the kind of "new wave" techniques (jump cuts, zooms, and jittery hand-held camerawork) used by such contemporaries as <a href="/players/P___106024/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Arthur Penn</a>, <a href="/players/P____79456/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Robert Altman</a>, <a href="/players/P___104435/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Mike Nichols</a>, and <a href="/players/P___110533/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Martin Scorsese</a>. As in such Ford films as <a href=/films/13967/default.aspx style='text-decoration:underline'>The Grapes of Wrath</a> (1940), Bogdanovich relies on careful visual composition in deep focus to help communicate the regret over the passing of an era. Hailed as one of the best films by a young director since <a href=/films/6239/default.aspx style='text-decoration:underline'>Citizen Kane</a> (1941), The Last Picture Show premiered at the New York Film Festival and went on to become a hit. It was also nominated for eight Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Screenplay for Larry McMurtry's and Bogdanovich's adaptation of McMurtry's novel. John Ford stalwart Johnson won Supporting Actor and Leachman won Supporting Actress, beating out their cohorts Bridges and Burstyn. For an audience steeped in movie history and caught up in the chaotic 1971 present, The Last Picture Show presented a nostalgic look backward that was not so much an escape from the present as a coming to terms with what the present had lost. Its 1990 sequel <a href=/films/34585/default.aspx style='text-decoration:underline'>Texasville</a>, in which Bridges and Shepherd played later incarnations of their original characters, was not as successful. ~ Lucia Bozzola, All Movie Guide14Tag Target (>10)22713http://www.spout.com/ProductImages/t04749wo3u6.jpghttp://www.spout.com/films/The_Last_Picture_Show/19718/default.aspxFilm http://www.spout.com/blogs/karina/archive/2008/8/20/34158.aspx Post By: Karina
Post To: Karina on SpoutBlog
Post Date: 8/20/2008 9:01:31 AM
Body: Chris posted this a couple of weeks ago but, since the Bog Saget Comedy Central roast thing finally aired last night and the whole internet is going batshit crazy for Cloris Leachman, I thought I’d post this video again. Also, I just kind of get a kick out of imagining what Peter Bogdanovich thinks of all this. I know he was distracted on the set of The Last Picture Show, what with all that leaving his wife for his 18 year-old ingenue business, but even so, you have to assume he never imagined that his direction of Leachman would lead, almost 40 years later, to a nationally televised anal sex joke. I bet he’s really loosening his ascot over this one. For more on the Bob Saget roast, check out Chris’ original post. Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth
]]>Wed, 20 Aug 2008 13:01:31 GMTKarinaKarina on SpoutBlog8/20/2008 9:01:31 AM Chris posted this a couple of weeks ago but, since the Bog Saget Comedy Central roast thing finally aired last night and the whole internet is going batshit crazy for Cloris Leachman, I thought I’d post this video again. Also, I just kind of get a kick out of imagining what Peter Bogdanovich thinks of all this. I know he was distracted on the set of The Last Picture Show, what with all that leaving his wife for his 18 year-old ingenue business, but even so, you have to assume he never imagined that his direction of Leachman would lead, almost 40 years later, to a nationally televised anal sex joke. I bet he’s really loosening his ascot over this one. For more on the Bob Saget roast, check out Chris’ original post. Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth http://www.spout.com/blogs/spoutblog/archive/2008/8/20/34141.aspx Post By: SpoutBlog
Post To: SpoutBlog on spout.com
Post Date: 8/20/2008 9:00:47 AM
Body: Chris posted this a couple of weeks ago but, since the Bog Saget Comedy Central roast thing finally aired last night and the whole internet is going batshit crazy for Cloris Leachman, I thought I’d post this video again. Also, I just kind of get a kick out of imagining what Peter Bogdanovich thinks of all this. I know he was distracted on the set of The Last Picture Show, what with all that leaving his wife for his 18 year-old ingenue business, but even so, you have to assume he never imagined that his direction of Leachman would lead, almost 40 years later, to a nationally televised anal sex joke. I bet he’s really loosening his ascot over this one. For more on the Bob Saget roast, check out Chris’ original post. Originally posted on:SpoutBlog
]]>Wed, 20 Aug 2008 13:00:47 GMTSpoutBlogSpoutBlog on spout.com8/20/2008 9:00:47 AM Chris posted this a couple of weeks ago but, since the Bog Saget Comedy Central roast thing finally aired last night and the whole internet is going batshit crazy for Cloris Leachman, I thought I’d post this video again. Also, I just kind of get a kick out of imagining what Peter Bogdanovich thinks of all this. I know he was distracted on the set of The Last Picture Show, what with all that leaving his wife for his 18 year-old ingenue business, but even so, you have to assume he never imagined that his direction of Leachman would lead, almost 40 years later, to a nationally televised anal sex joke. I bet he’s really loosening his ascot over this one. For more on the Bob Saget roast, check out Chris’ original post. Originally posted on:SpoutBlog http://www.spout.com/blogs/spoutblog/archive/2008/8/6/33661.aspx Post By: SpoutBlog
Post To: SpoutBlog on spout.com
Post Date: 8/6/2008 6:01:00 PM
Body: It was a given that Comedy Central’s Bob Saget Roast would be raunchy. Especially without the Olsen Twins present to make the roasters feel guilty (the night was apparently filled with jokes about Saget having sex with his TV daughters). But who expected Cloris Leachman to steal the dirty show by threatening to use her Oscar as a strap-on in order to fuck John Stamos? Or did she want to fuck Jon Lovitz? Either way, it will make me think differently of her winning performance in The Last Picture Show from now on. Don’t you wish your grandmother was so crass? Only yesterday, while writing my Muppet Roommate clip post, I was thinking fondly about how funny Phyllis Diller is still (she was great in The Aristocrats). Now, I’m happy to know that in her ’80s, Leachman is still hilarious, too. Of course, unlike Diller, who supposedly never does blue comedy, Leachman is foul enough to make reach-around jokes about Jack Benny. I guess for those who can’t appreciate such octogenarian humor, a clip of some Olsen-fucking jokes can be found after the jump. Originally posted on:SpoutBlog
]]>Wed, 06 Aug 2008 22:01:00 GMTSpoutBlogSpoutBlog on spout.com8/6/2008 6:01:00 PM It was a given that Comedy Central’s Bob Saget Roast would be raunchy. Especially without the Olsen Twins present to make the roasters feel guilty (the night was apparently filled with jokes about Saget having sex with his TV daughters). But who expected Cloris Leachman to steal the dirty show by threatening to use her Oscar as a strap-on in order to fuck John Stamos? Or did she want to fuck Jon Lovitz? Either way, it will make me think differently of her winning performance in The Last Picture Show from now on. Don’t you wish your grandmother was so crass? Only yesterday, while writing my Muppet Roommate clip post, I was thinking fondly about how funny Phyllis Diller is still (she was great in The Aristocrats). Now, I’m happy to know that in her ’80s, Leachman is still hilarious, too. Of course, unlike Diller, who supposedly never does blue comedy, Leachman is foul enough to make reach-around jokes about Jack Benny. I guess for those who can’t appreciate such octogenarian humor, a clip of some Olsen-fucking jokes can be found after the jump. Originally posted on:SpoutBlog http://www.spout.com/blogs/jlgdrd/archive/2007/7/2/12830.aspx Post By: jlgdrd
Post To: Wicked Fun
Post Date: 7/2/2007 11:42:00 AM
Body: Etienne's grandmother gives him a video camera for his seventeenth birthday. Right away he takes to it, trying the whistles and bells, zooming in on his mother's face, urging her not to pose. Etienne's story is all about distances, intimacy, alliances. At the beginning, the subjects of his video-biography (his mother, grandmother, best friend, teacher) are flattered, self-conscious. Gradually they become annoyed, then barely tolerant, and finally, subdued. From the moment he starts shooting, he gets bolder and bolder, asking personal questions, spying, catching his mother in her skivvies. Some of this we can chalk up to adolescent mischief, curiosity, lack of respect for privacy. What therapists call boundary issues. But by the final chapter, he is capturing incidents far better left off-camera. Which is, of course, what makes for good cinema.My Life on Ice (originally titled Ma vraie vie à Rouen or The True Story of My Life in Rouen) is the directing project of Olivier Ducastel and Jacques Martineau and a very risky concept: to create a video journal that feels and looks as if there were actually a 17-year-old boy at the helm. The trick is to evoke randomness that is not random, armed with the knowledge that the most casual camera-wielding tourist will pick and choose what to photograph, consciously or not. This was for Ducastel and Martineau a formidable accomplishment. Our understanding of Etienne is deepened by what he "mindlessly" chooses to document. My Life on Ice has the feel of home movies. The exchanges seem spontaneous, the action meandering, sometimes we come in on the middle of a conversation, yet the narrative, Etienne's despair and urgency, come through. Much of what we see is what you'd expect. Etienne tapes his ice-skating practice and tournaments, nightclubs, classes, parties, visits to his father's grave, dangerous and evanescent cliffs that parallel his precarious manhood and sexuality. But it all adds something, the framing (say, the space left when Ludo (Lucas Bonnifait) abandons Etienne) the colors, the backdrops, look like the work of an amateur but enrich the tapestry. Even when Etienne picks subjects that are grossly inappropriate, it fits his character, demonstrates his intense need to be included, to connect. The camera, neutral and persistent, enables him to grapple with hidden emotions because he is merely the transcriber. It transforms moral ambiguity into voyeurism. He can pretend it is someone else's life he is witnessing. My Life on Ice explores Etienne's need to form loving attachments with other men, including Laurent, the geography teacher who is also dating his mother (Ariane Ascaride). Etienne spends a lot of time tracking him from a safe distance, and moving closer in as Laurent becomes a member of the family. Etienne (like all teenage boys) is a hormone case, but Ducastel and Martineau do not take this lightly or as occasion to humiliate him. He never sticks his penis in an apple pie or a hole in the locker room shower. They are not shy, however about exploring his frank sexual attraction to his mother's boyfriend. And vice-versa. In one scene where Etienne is watching Laurent (Jonathan Zaccai) sleep, they pose him like one of Balthus' prepubescent hotties, legs splayed provocatively. In another, Laurent drunkenly flirts with Etienne, unnerved when he senses how seriously he is being taken. Like The Last Picture Show and For a Lost Soldier, My Life on Ice examines this behavior without condemning or condoning it. I think it's safe to say Etienne is not the last teenager who will be attracted to an older man. The casual tone that pervades the piece only makes these sorts of revelations more startling, more difficult to take. Jimmy Tavares, who plays Etienne, is exquisite and poised. He has a mature handsome face that belies his insecurity and need to keep his emotions in check. Like the others, Etienne is uncomfortable when someone turns the camera on him. There is a profound anguish threatening to show in his face, whether he is copping to a smile or looking blankly into the lens, with no words to ease his pain. We can still tell he feels lost. Empty. The beauty of My Life on Ice is in its subtlety. Like the other components (dialogue, milieu, lighting, composition) the acting is appropriately off-hand. Special note should be taken of the cast, who must act as if nothing extraordinary is happening, while imbuing their parts with resonance and dimension. Their characters' awareness of Etienne's camera makes them guarded and very difficult to play, but the ensemble comes through with aplomb. Ariane Ascaride, as Etienne's mother, is impressive, striking a delicate balance between indulgence and exasperation, turning in a performance with fine shades of mood and demeanor.
]]>Mon, 02 Jul 2007 15:42:00 GMTjlgdrdWicked Fun7/2/2007 11:42:00 AMEtienne's grandmother gives him a video camera for his seventeenth birthday. Right away he takes to it, trying the whistles and bells, zooming in on his mother's face, urging her not to pose. Etienne's story is all about distances, intimacy, alliances. At the beginning, the subjects of his video-biography (his mother, grandmother, best friend, teacher) are flattered, self-conscious. Gradually they become annoyed, then barely tolerant, and finally, subdued. From the moment he starts shooting, he gets bolder and bolder, asking personal questions, spying, catching his mother in her skivvies. Some of this we can chalk up to adolescent mischief, curiosity, lack of respect for privacy. What therapists call boundary issues. But by the final chapter, he is capturing incidents far better left off-camera. Which is, of course, what makes for good cinema.My Life on Ice (originally titled Ma vraie vie &agrave; Rouen or The True Story of My Life in Rouen) is the directing project of Olivier Ducastel and Jacques Martineau and a very risky concept: to create a video journal that feels and looks as if there were actually a 17-year-old boy at the helm. The trick is to evoke randomness that is not random, armed with the knowledge that the most casual camera-wielding tourist will pick and choose what to photograph, consciously or not. This was for Ducastel and Martineau a formidable accomplishment. Our understanding of Etienne is deepened by what he "mindlessly" chooses to document. My Life on Ice has the feel of home movies. The exchanges seem spontaneous, the action meandering, sometimes we come in on the middle of a conversation, yet the narrative, Etienne's despair and urgency, come through. Much of what we see is what you'd expect. Etienne tapes his ice-skating practice and tournaments, nightclubs, classes, parties, visits to his father's grave, dangerous and evanescent cliffs that parallel his precarious manhood and sexuality. But it all adds something, the framing (say, the space left when Ludo (Lucas Bonnifait) abandons Etienne) the colors, the backdrops, look like the work of an amateur but enrich the tapestry. Even when Etienne picks subjects that are grossly inappropriate, it fits his character, demonstrates his intense need to be included, to connect. The camera, neutral and persistent, enables him to grapple with hidden emotions because he is merely the transcriber. It transforms moral ambiguity into voyeurism. He can pretend it is someone else's life he is witnessing. My Life on Ice explores Etienne's need to form loving attachments with other men, including Laurent, the geography teacher who is also dating his mother (Ariane Ascaride). Etienne spends a lot of time tracking him from a safe distance, and moving closer in as Laurent becomes a member of the family. Etienne (like all teenage boys) is a hormone case, but Ducastel and Martineau do not take this lightly or as occasion to humiliate him. He never sticks his penis in an apple pie or a hole in the locker room shower. They are not shy, however about exploring his frank sexual attraction to his mother's boyfriend. And vice-versa. In one scene where Etienne is watching Laurent (Jonathan Zaccai) sleep, they pose him like one of Balthus' prepubescent hotties, legs splayed provocatively. In another, Laurent drunkenly flirts with Etienne, unnerved when he senses how seriously he is being taken. Like The Last Picture Show and For a Lost Soldier, My Life on Ice examines this behavior without condemning or condoning it. I think it's safe to say Etienne is not the last teenager who will be attracted to an older man. The casual tone that pervades the piece only makes these sorts of revelations more startling, more difficult to take. Jimmy Tavares, who plays Etienne, is exquisite and poised. He has a mature handsome face that belies his insecurity and need to keep his emotions in check. Like the others, Etienne is uncomfortable when someone turns the camera on him. There is a profound anguish threatening to show in his face, whether he is copping to a smile or looking blankly into the lens, with no words to ease his pain. We can still tell he feels lost. Empty. The beauty of My Life on Ice is in its subtlety. Like the other components (dialogue, milieu, lighting, composition) the acting is appropriately off-hand. Special note should be taken of the cast, who must act as if nothing extraordinary is happening, while imbuing their parts with resonance and dimension. Their characters' awareness of Etienne's camera makes them guarded and very difficult to play, but the ensemble comes through with aplomb. Ariane Ascaride, as Etienne's mother, is impressive, striking a delicate balance between indulgence and exasperation, turning in a performance with fine shades of mood and demeanor. http://www.spout.com/blogs/jlgdrd/archive/2007/6/26/12208.aspx Post By: jlgdrd
Post To: Wicked Fun
Post Date: 6/26/2007 2:42:00 AM
Body: A Thousand Clouds of Peace is an ode to loss and yearning, an extended fever-dream or hallucination that we share with Gerardo (Juan Carlos Ortuño) as he carries Bruno's letter in his pocket, haunted by the words he used to explain why he can no longer see him. Sometimes he appears to be looking for Bruno (Juan Carlos Torres), for others he meanders and malingers, making contact with friends, clients, and strangers. There is something intuitive and almost preverbal about the way he connects, as if he knows them intimately and not at all, as if they can read each other's minds. It's a familiarity of attraction and repulsion that reminds you of Bergman. Like when you mingle drunk at a party where social conventions have been dropped and there's a kind of jovial, empty intimacy. It doesn't seem adequate or appropriate to describe Gerardo as a prostitute. He accepts money from the men he engages only grudgingly, as if looking for something else. His urgency is not the kind plied by hustlers who hang out in alleys, abandoned playing fields, and other deserted parts of the city. Most likely he's trying to rekindle the one-time tryst, an affair that was cut short. It may be that Gerardo wanders in search of a lost lover, and while this may be dangerously close to a cliché, A Thousand Clouds of Peace makes it infinitely plausible. In no way does Gerardo seem mercenary or depraved, his compulsive behavior driven by hunger of memory and longing for the lost bliss of intense, exquisite, mythic, sexual love.We are forever noting the distance between Gerardo and other men, the guarded steps they take before touching, whether affectionate or commercial. We see how men can pass from obfuscation in one another's eyes to clarity. Gerardo approaches women protectively, affably, but without the desire that informs his conquests. A Thousand Clouds of Peace is set in Mexico where we grasp in almost ballet-like body language and movement how queer identity and electricity fit into machismo culture. We see how much information can be transmitted without dialogue. Gerardo acts but doesn't seem audacious or daring; he is who he is. His abuse at the hands of an ambivalent john is almost treated as an occupational hazard, until we witness the effect. His mother is horrified, "You look like a wandering ghost," she remarks, and sure enough, he does. Along with cinematographer Diego Arizmendi, director Julian Hernandez has crafted a subtle, remarkable liquid visual poem of a film. Shot in black and white and rivaling the visual style of Orson Welle's Touch of Evil, Peter Bogdanovich's The Last Picture Show or Francis Ford Coppola's Rumble Fish, it is crisp and sharp, yet surreal. The lack of color softens the tawdry, squalid streets, the bedrooms, crumbling walls, stairwells, and dilapidated apartments where Gerardo struggles and agonizes through his recollection and loss of flawless ecstasy with Bruno. Arizmendi brings out the raw beauty, visual texture that might normally evade our radar - rocks and dust and steel and posters torn from the sides of buildings. The actors in A Thousand Clouds of Peace are not attractive in the conventional sense, but they are fetching. They might have jug ears or wide mouths or rubbery jowls. But their appeal, their unrefined tragic handsomeness gradually, ineffably soaks in.Understated eroticism suffuses the film. Though beaten down by desolation and anguish, it's there in the gleam and shadow of Gerardo's recollection. The bodies sometimes glow like the Dada photos of Man Ray in the 20s. When Gerardo rolls his undershirt and drops his jeans and BVDs to masturbate, it's such a quiet, startling, reverent moment. Plain and accessible, powerful without the customary rashness or dirt. We shudder because Hernandez doesn't turn us into voyeurs. It's as if we're participating, sharing in a sacrament. In flashback, Bruno steps behind Gerardo to caress his torso and we only see his arms. It's as if Gerardo's exploring himself. Identities blur as they engage in mutual cherishing and epiphany. We want these scenes to last longer, but I think Hernandez was smart to pull back, to buzz our nerves with this symphony of torture and tantalization. A Thousand Clouds of Peace compares favorably with Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Querelle and Joaão Pedro Rodrigues' O Fantasma. It has a semiotic confidence and sophistication unlike anything I've seen in a long time. It's strong but doesn't call attention to its shots, many of which are ravishing and eerie. The dialogue, internal, explicative, is mostly scaffolding for the camera, which does 90 percent of the work. It's not extravagant, like Querelle, or explicit, like O Fantasma. But Hernandez's skill at expressing coarse male idolatry, the empathy we feel for Gerardo's ache and disconsolation is a triumph of intuition and manifestation. It's what the best movie making is all about.
]]>Tue, 26 Jun 2007 06:42:00 GMTjlgdrdWicked Fun6/26/2007 2:42:00 AM A Thousand Clouds of Peace is an ode to loss and yearning, an extended fever-dream or hallucination that we share with Gerardo (Juan Carlos Ortu&ntilde;o) as he carries Bruno&#39;s letter in his pocket, haunted by the words he used to explain why he can no longer see him. Sometimes he appears to be looking for Bruno (Juan Carlos Torres), for others he meanders and malingers, making contact with friends, clients, and strangers. There is something intuitive and almost preverbal about the way he connects, as if he knows them intimately and not at all, as if they can read each other&#39;s minds. It&#39;s a familiarity of attraction and repulsion that reminds you of Bergman. Like when you mingle drunk at a party where social conventions have been dropped and there&#39;s a kind of jovial, empty intimacy. It doesn&#39;t seem adequate or appropriate to describe Gerardo as a prostitute. He accepts money from the men he engages only grudgingly, as if looking for something else. His urgency is not the kind plied by hustlers who hang out in alleys, abandoned playing fields, and other deserted parts of the city. Most likely he&#39;s trying to rekindle the one-time tryst, an affair that was cut short. It may be that Gerardo wanders in search of a lost lover, and while this may be dangerously close to a clich&eacute;, A Thousand Clouds of Peace makes it infinitely plausible. In no way does Gerardo seem mercenary or depraved, his compulsive behavior driven by hunger of memory and longing for the lost bliss of intense, exquisite, mythic, sexual love.We are forever noting the distance between Gerardo and other men, the guarded steps they take before touching, whether affectionate or commercial. We see how men can pass from obfuscation in one another&#39;s eyes to clarity. Gerardo approaches women protectively, affably, but without the desire that informs his conquests. A Thousand Clouds of Peace is set in Mexico where we grasp in almost ballet-like body language and movement how queer identity and electricity fit into machismo culture. We see how much information can be transmitted without dialogue. Gerardo acts but doesn&#39;t seem audacious or daring; he is who he is. His abuse at the hands of an ambivalent john is almost treated as an occupational hazard, until we witness the effect. His mother is horrified, "You look like a wandering ghost," she remarks, and sure enough, he does. Along with cinematographer Diego Arizmendi, director Julian Hernandez has crafted a subtle, remarkable liquid visual poem of a film. Shot in black and white and rivaling the visual style of Orson Welle&#39;s Touch of Evil, Peter Bogdanovich&#39;s The Last Picture Show or Francis Ford Coppola&#39;s Rumble Fish, it is crisp and sharp, yet surreal. The lack of color softens the tawdry, squalid streets, the bedrooms, crumbling walls, stairwells, and dilapidated apartments where Gerardo struggles and agonizes through his recollection and loss of flawless ecstasy with Bruno. Arizmendi brings out the raw beauty, visual texture that might normally evade our radar - rocks and dust and steel and posters torn from the sides of buildings. The actors in A Thousand Clouds of Peace are not attractive in the conventional sense, but they are fetching. They might have jug ears or wide mouths or rubbery jowls. But their appeal, their unrefined tragic handsomeness gradually, ineffably soaks in.Understated eroticism suffuses the film. Though beaten down by desolation and anguish, it&#39;s there in the gleam and shadow of Gerardo&#39;s recollection. The bodies sometimes glow like the Dada photos of Man Ray in the 20s. When Gerardo rolls his undershirt and drops his jeans and BVDs to masturbate, it&#39;s such a quiet, startling, reverent moment. Plain and accessible, powerful without the customary rashness or dirt. We shudder because Hernandez doesn&#39;t turn us into voyeurs. It&#39;s as if we&#39;re participating, sharing in a sacrament. In flashback, Bruno steps behind Gerardo to caress his torso and we only see his arms. It&#39;s as if Gerardo&#39;s exploring himself. Identities blur as they engage in mutual cherishing and epiphany. We want these scenes to last longer, but I think Hernandez was smart to pull back, to buzz our nerves with this symphony of torture and tantalization. A Thousand Clouds of Peace compares favorably with Rainer Werner Fassbinder&#39;s Querelle and Joa&atilde;o Pedro Rodrigues&#39; O Fantasma. It has a semiotic confidence and sophistication unlike anything I&#39;ve seen in a long time. It&#39;s strong but doesn&#39;t call attention to its shots, many of which are ravishing and eerie. The dialogue, internal, explicative, is mostly scaffolding for the camera, which does 90 percent of the work. It&#39;s not extravagant, like Querelle, or explicit, like O Fantasma. But Hernandez&#39;s skill at expressing coarse male idolatry, the empathy we feel for Gerardo&#39;s ache and disconsolation is a triumph of intuition and manifestation. It&#39;s what the best movie making is all about. http://www.spout.com/blogs/jlgdrd/archive/2007/6/24/11912.aspx Post By: jlgdrd
Post To: Wicked Fun
Post Date: 6/24/2007 3:25:00 AM
Body: Joao Pedro Rodrigues' O Fantasma is a rich, spellbinding celebration of raw male adolescent sexuality unlike any film I have ever seen. It is a paean to tawdry, squalid, horndog homo-sex. A glorious reverent escapade in shamelessness. But far more than that, it soars. It is poetry culled the from the trash heap of a mean and meager world where imperative need turns us all into scavengers. Lyricism from the reckless rush of teenage testosterone that grips us in its bite and shakes us like a rag doll. Ricardo Meneses, in what has to be one of the most auspicious film debuts of all time, captures all the urgency, electricity and innocence of male coming-of-age without affectation or apology. He is so completely intuitive and unselfconscious that his most outrageous behavior seems plausible and rational. Even sympathetic. 17 when he auditioned for a role that has almost no dialogue, and self-identified as straight, he nonetheless copped to several same-gender experiences, which he readily admitted enjoying. The eroticism of his character, Sergio, is so infectious, even cops can't resist tantalizing him with their nightsticks. But when he responds to their rough foreplay, it is with rapacious defiance. He is emboldened by the sheer velocity of his hunger. Meneses has the looks of a young Brendan Fraser, the swagger of James Dean, and charisma that is his alone. He takes the torch from Dean, who might have made such a film, had he been born in more enlightened times. O Fantasma translates from the Portuguese as: The Phantom. It is the story of Sergio, a garbage collector who seems to have no friends, but plenty of male sexual contacts. He cares for a dog named (appropriately enough) Lorde. Lorde is Sergio's consort, soul-twin, familiar. O Fantasma takes its core conceit from doggy behavior. Sergio almost seems to revel in canine ritual. Marking territory, rooting through garbage, nuzzling and sniffing articles of clothing. Like a dog he is opportunistic, indiscriminate, beyond humiliation. Like a dog his senses are amplified and intense.Only truly alive when acting out, his sexuality overflows into other elements of his life. Again, it is Ricardo Meneses' flawless performance that vindicates the fantastic content. He has such utter conviction, such focus, that what might have seemed ludicrous or repugnant becomes a revelation. He approaches fetishes instinctively, as if he's the first one to discover them. Ever. There is a splendid scene where he strips naked except for biker's gloves, and, like Mishima's first glimpse of Sebastian's martyrdom, his hands seize a mind of their own. Admittedly, women do not fare well in O Fantasma The key female character, Fatima, is treated with bemusement and contempt. Mostly she's the victim of alpha-dominance and the whore/Madonna split so prevalent in macho patriarchies. There may be some balance at work, here, though, when you consider how many film-buddies bond by fucking women at the same time. Sex validation is an experience too often denied the queer male audience in theatrical cinema, but O Fantasma raucously rocks the boat. Sergio doesn't prowl because he's wicked; he prowls because he's lonely and lost. His unabashed need for male contact makes him even more alluring, even more impossible to resist. Rodriques enacts what Camille Paglia described as the queer male ability to construct sex altars anywhere (alleys, bathrooms, warehouses) because sex is a sacrament unto itself. Rodriques tries to redeem us from the self-hatred that fills the tearooms and cruise parks. Sergio is a post-Apocalyptic Dionysus manifested as hound/stalker/phantom. A voluptuary who finds expiation in brief, extreme sexual encounters. Orgasms are his last refuge from despair. The sex in O Fantasma is graphic but never feels gratuitous or lurid. In the 1971 Peter Bogdanovich released what may be the best coming-of-age film for straight teenagers, (and a great film, besides) The Last Picture Show. There was a frank theme of homoeroticism in Larry McMurtry's novel that sadly, never made it to the screen. In The Last Picture Show, the promise of sex was smoldering, but consummation, poisonous. Mostly it just left everybody feeling more isolated. In O Fantasma, the sex also feels genuine, bleak, but different, somehow. We ache for Sergio because libido shackles his spirit. But it also precipitates transformation. Mutation. His skulking and spivving, his junky, frantic longing spins him out of orbit. Rockets him to the stars. I am not certain that O Fantasma is covering new subject matter, but I can tell you that it is original, powerful, and groundbreaking. It's both subtle and astonishing. Good films entertain you, hold your attention, surprise you. Great films do all that, and then, they take you to places you've never dreamed. O Fantasma is not only a great Queer-Themed Movie; it is an extraordinary film that transcends any genre.
]]>Sun, 24 Jun 2007 07:25:00 GMTjlgdrdWicked Fun6/24/2007 3:25:00 AM Joao Pedro Rodrigues' O Fantasma is a rich, spellbinding celebration of raw male adolescent sexuality unlike any film I have ever seen. It is a paean to tawdry, squalid, horndog homo-sex. A glorious reverent escapade in shamelessness. But far more than that, it soars. It is poetry culled the from the trash heap of a mean and meager world where imperative need turns us all into scavengers. Lyricism from the reckless rush of teenage testosterone that grips us in its bite and shakes us like a rag doll. Ricardo Meneses, in what has to be one of the most auspicious film debuts of all time, captures all the urgency, electricity and innocence of male coming-of-age without affectation or apology. He is so completely intuitive and unselfconscious that his most outrageous behavior seems plausible and rational. Even sympathetic. 17 when he auditioned for a role that has almost no dialogue, and self-identified as straight, he nonetheless copped to several same-gender experiences, which he readily admitted enjoying. The eroticism of his character, Sergio, is so infectious, even cops can't resist tantalizing him with their nightsticks. But when he responds to their rough foreplay, it is with rapacious defiance. He is emboldened by the sheer velocity of his hunger. Meneses has the looks of a young Brendan Fraser, the swagger of James Dean, and charisma that is his alone. He takes the torch from Dean, who might have made such a film, had he been born in more enlightened times. O Fantasma translates from the Portuguese as: The Phantom. It is the story of Sergio, a garbage collector who seems to have no friends, but plenty of male sexual contacts. He cares for a dog named (appropriately enough) Lorde. Lorde is Sergio's consort, soul-twin, familiar. O Fantasma takes its core conceit from doggy behavior. Sergio almost seems to revel in canine ritual. Marking territory, rooting through garbage, nuzzling and sniffing articles of clothing. Like a dog he is opportunistic, indiscriminate, beyond humiliation. Like a dog his senses are amplified and intense.Only truly alive when acting out, his sexuality overflows into other elements of his life. Again, it is Ricardo Meneses' flawless performance that vindicates the fantastic content. He has such utter conviction, such focus, that what might have seemed ludicrous or repugnant becomes a revelation. He approaches fetishes instinctively, as if he's the first one to discover them. Ever. There is a splendid scene where he strips naked except for biker's gloves, and, like Mishima's first glimpse of Sebastian's martyrdom, his hands seize a mind of their own. Admittedly, women do not fare well in O Fantasma The key female character, Fatima, is treated with bemusement and contempt. Mostly she's the victim of alpha-dominance and the whore/Madonna split so prevalent in macho patriarchies. There may be some balance at work, here, though, when you consider how many film-buddies bond by fucking women at the same time. Sex validation is an experience too often denied the queer male audience in theatrical cinema, but O Fantasma raucously rocks the boat. Sergio doesn't prowl because he's wicked; he prowls because he's lonely and lost. His unabashed need for male contact makes him even more alluring, even more impossible to resist. Rodriques enacts what Camille Paglia described as the queer male ability to construct sex altars anywhere (alleys, bathrooms, warehouses) because sex is a sacrament unto itself. Rodriques tries to redeem us from the self-hatred that fills the tearooms and cruise parks. Sergio is a post-Apocalyptic Dionysus manifested as hound/stalker/phantom. A voluptuary who finds expiation in brief, extreme sexual encounters. Orgasms are his last refuge from despair. The sex in O Fantasma is graphic but never feels gratuitous or lurid. In the 1971 Peter Bogdanovich released what may be the best coming-of-age film for straight teenagers, (and a great film, besides) The Last Picture Show. There was a frank theme of homoeroticism in Larry McMurtry's novel that sadly, never made it to the screen. In The Last Picture Show, the promise of sex was smoldering, but consummation, poisonous. Mostly it just left everybody feeling more isolated. In O Fantasma, the sex also feels genuine, bleak, but different, somehow. We ache for Sergio because libido shackles his spirit. But it also precipitates transformation. Mutation. His skulking and spivving, his junky, frantic longing spins him out of orbit. Rockets him to the stars. I am not certain that O Fantasma is covering new subject matter, but I can tell you that it is original, powerful, and groundbreaking. It's both subtle and astonishing. Good films entertain you, hold your attention, surprise you. Great films do all that, and then, they take you to places you've never dreamed. O Fantasma is not only a great Queer-Themed Movie; it is an extraordinary film that transcends any genre. http://www.spout.com/groups/Top_5/Re_Top_5_black_and_white_movies_made_after_1970/190/6017/1/ShowPost.aspx Post By: BigJeffLebowski
Post To: Top 5
Post Date: 3/4/2007 1:35:04 PM
Body: Manhattan's my favorite film, so that's obviously going to have to be my number one. Beyond that, though, the question must be raised: how much can the mere aesthetics of the film affect our selections? There are some black and white films which are beautifully shot, but are not as good as a Jarmusch or Clerks. Trying to focus on the film itself, I'm going to have to say:1. Manhattan (and also Stardust Memories and Broadway Danny Rose by Allen)2.The Last Picture Show3. Raging Bull4. Pi5. LennyThese are all films which I think are superb upon their own merits, but the fact that they are in black and white adds a new dimension.No one really brings this up when they mention the film, but I think the monetary restraints on the original Clerks (black and white, stationary camera) give the film a certain security-camera feel that really helps the juxtaposition of the mundane and the outlandish, and is part of the reason Clerks is able to assimilate the two so well.I really agree with everyone who said Man Bites Dog, Ed Wood, Good Night and Good Luck, The Man Who Wasn't There, and the David Lynch films, but we are limited to five...And shouldn't we have special mention for films that either spot-color or switch between black and white and color for more than simply flashbacks? For instance: Rumble Fish, American History X, Pleasantville, Memento, Wings of Desire, Zelig, The Notorious Bettie Page?
]]>Sun, 04 Mar 2007 18:35:04 GMTBigJeffLebowskiTop 53/4/2007 1:35:04 PMManhattan&#39;s my favorite film, so that&#39;s obviously going to have to be my number one. Beyond that, though, the question must be raised: how much can the mere aesthetics of the film affect our selections? There are some black and white films which are beautifully shot, but are not as good as a Jarmusch or Clerks. Trying to focus on the film itself, I&#39;m going to have to say:1. Manhattan (and also Stardust Memories and Broadway Danny Rose by Allen)2.The Last Picture Show3. Raging Bull4. Pi5. LennyThese are all films which I think are superb upon their own merits, but the fact that they are in black and white adds a new dimension.No one really brings this up when they mention the film, but I think the monetary restraints on the original Clerks (black and white, stationary camera) give the film a certain security-camera feel that really helps the juxtaposition of the mundane and the outlandish, and is part of the reason Clerks is able to assimilate the two so well.I really agree with everyone who said Man Bites Dog, Ed Wood, Good Night and Good Luck, The Man Who Wasn&#39;t There, and the David Lynch films, but we are limited to five...And shouldn&#39;t we have special mention for films that either spot-color or switch between black and white and color for more than simply flashbacks? For instance: Rumble Fish, American History X, Pleasantville, Memento, Wings of Desire, Zelig, The Notorious Bettie Page? http://www.spout.com/blogs/msmaxwell/archive/2006/3/31/728.aspx Post By: MsMaxwell
Post To: MsMaxwells Blog
Post Date: 3/31/2006 10:02:00 AM
Body: I watched this last night. It is a beautiful, sad film about the realities of small towns. What I've been thinking about the most is how this film destroys all romanticized ideas one may have of 1950's Americana. These characters are not rejoicing in their freedom--they're trapped and sad in a landscape of scrub grass, dust, and decrepit store fronts. What's hopeful are Sonny's relationship with Sam the Lion and Billy--but before the end, both of these characters have died and Sonny is left in the kitchen with Ruth, the coach's wife with whom he's had an affair. Nevertheless, the cinematography is beautiful. I love the choice to film in black and white; it's as if the audience enters the 1950's and participates in reality, not some glitzy, full-skirted, shiny appliance world.
]]>Fri, 31 Mar 2006 14:02:00 GMTMsMaxwellMsMaxwells Blog3/31/2006 10:02:00 AMI watched this last night. It is a beautiful, sad film about the realities of small towns. What I've been thinking about the most is how this film destroys all romanticized ideas one may have of 1950's Americana. These characters are not rejoicing in their freedom--they're trapped and sad in a landscape of scrub grass, dust, and decrepit store fronts. What's hopeful are Sonny's relationship with Sam the Lion and Billy--but before the end, both of these characters have died and Sonny is left in the kitchen with Ruth, the coach's wife with whom he's had an affair. Nevertheless, the cinematography is beautiful. I love the choice to film in black and white; it's as if the audience enters the 1950's and participates in reality, not some glitzy, full-skirted, shiny appliance world. http://www.spout.com/members/0/tags/Classic/MemberTagFilms.aspxClassic
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