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An inordinate number of peppers

  • What is a great man?

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    The Mountain Men  (1980)

    Unforgiven  (1992)

    The Mountain Men tries to answer the age old Hollywood question: what is a great man? Charleton Heston is our great man in training, Brian Keith is the sidekick inspired beyond his own capabilities. That ring of inspiration leads men to good or ill based on the fragility of their own character. 

    In this case, an Indian chief and his ragged band of Blackfoot are inspired against the antique mountain man, recollecting on the world as a place where all the endless beaver the land ever offered are born again into a single pond deep in the mountains, sacred and guarded. Paradise.

    Here is Adam and his rescued squaw, Eve, racing against all chance to regain that secret innocence. Endless streams of Indians, brave and foolish, race into the rifles of reluctant wisdom. 

    It still has those old western pretenses intact. Given the date of its release, that seems almost a wilfull contrast to the darker tones that the spaghetti western had provoked. Still five years before Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian drives another coffin nail, and 12 years before Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven makes his condolences. 

    Before that dream of great men really died, there was still Charleton Heston to drive us to our inspisration. It's Memorial day now and the world still rings with bravery and the urge towards greatness. Things are always getting complicated though. Even in this movie, the dream can't seem to be real enough. 

    There is no small measure of faith and folly to this last fling. Can Bill Tyler really be so beloved? Mountain men wreck themselves on whisky. Lovable rascals like Brian Keith and Seymour Cassel keep the air full of songs and wisecracks. Indian women throw themselves at the feet of ragged idiots. Whose dream is this? And yet even here in this camp of sinners, honor lives. I guess there is hope.

  • The hardest logic puzzle ever

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    Death Note  (2007)

    Saw this today:The hardest logic puzzle ever and thought about how much I love Death Note.

    I haven't seen any of the movies and I don't expect much from them. The anime is so finely done, I don't know why they bother. I've seen the manga, and I respect how much of the mood and character is conveyed in the anime, but still, I prefer the anime. 

    A good logic puzzle races my mind to draw snap conclusions and then doubt them, wonder anew with fresh insight and doubt once more. As the truth comes in Death Note, I am satisfied to be released so I can gladden myself with just being able to follow along.


    I love Sherlock Holmes, especially the BBC series with Jeremy Brett. My wife made me watch them when we first met and it is a marvelous experience. Death Note is very much like Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty if they were clinically even-matched. Kira and L, and all the other convolutions of these two personalities sparring, is top notch in my book. They never crumble once into sentimentalities that might disrupt the game. They show no flaw in their strategies. They guess perfectly based on the available information, but still something evades their understanding. They delve deeper into imagining each other, until innevitable conclusions.

    Soon the anime will be more readily available in the US I hope. It is playing on Japanese TV right now. European fans have been carefully writing their own subtitles with subtle cultural references highlighted. It is the most beautiful bit of fan love I have ever witnessed. It is a sort of evangelism based purely on a ravenous addiction to the show.

    If you are a fan of Lost or Heroes, keep your eyes pealed for the Death Note anime as it comes perhaps to the wee hours on Adult Swim. Follow it closely and learn how some of the freshest examples of cinematic narrative are coming out of this form.

  • Socio-political love

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    So, i watched this last night, past my bedtime, at Paul's instigation. I have a healthy respect for Fassbinder. I haven't seen nearly all his great films, but where I've dabbled I've generally found pleasure. He made a lot of movies and he made them very fast and it shows sometimes, but his eye is incredible. Working this way allowed him to feed off a moment's inspiration. I liked Lola very much and Fear of Fear is the sort of psychological drama that I enjoy. Think Polanski's Repulsion. 

    Fassbinder's world is post-war Germany. He was of the generation that gave us Herzog and Wim Wenders as well as Klaus Kinski, those that grew up in a ravaged world amidst a society in disarray. There is darkness in all their work and no small measure of hope as well. How does a country pull itself back together? Clearly, not without a good deal of social problems.
     
    There is almost always a naked man of African descent in Fassbinder's films and this one follows suit. Sometimes it feels like the fascination is clinical, to show the base humanity of a black man. See? He is just a man.

    There is something extraordinarily manipulative about this movie. Its intentions are likely to shock a German public recently traumatized by the attack at the Munich games covered by Spielberg in Munich. Germans lashed out at Arabs of whatever descent in a way that should resonate with Americans of the early 21st century.

    An old woman, a widower, a cleaning woman, the sort of woman whose face is easily forgotten, forgotten by her children, enduring what remains of her life, finds love in the arms of a Moroccan mechanic, the victim of his own cultural dissolution, an outcast, a berber roaming wide into the belly of Europe looking for work. Their love is convincing despite how absurd it seems. 

    This would have been satire in other hands. Fassbinder is too interested in love to let this just be social commentary. These people love each other and that makes everything all the more disconcerting as they suffer the prejudice of their neighbors, of the woman's children, of the whores at the corner bar. There is a broad spectrum of possible reactions played out through a variety of stereotypical characters. That's perhaps the irony: all the stereotypes are German. The real people are victims of stereotypical people.

    Because it is meant for an audience of Germans busily lashing out at the Arabs in their midst, a bit of transposition needs to occur to find application to our own day and age. Still, it is a humanizing movie after all. Ali is not the man's name, but the general name given to him by his German masters. A derogatory name. Acceptance is fleeting. It seems likely that their struggle for simple love will kill them in the end. But love is still what it's all about and is worth the struggle.

    I've thought recently that one of the central problems in life is that human love is possible without trust. Thus we leave ourselves open to betrayal and many other miseries. Fassbinder screams at me that the problem is worth enduring. Those moments of ecstatic joy are worth the scorn. Human life is precious because of our capacity for love. It is what has let us survive all our petty conflicts. We brutalize each other vindictively for no better reason than hurt feelings. That's the flipside of our capacity to embrace and nurture.

    Fear eats the soul is what Ali says. In Fassbinder's world, the soul is probably best expressed as the capacity for love. Fear rejects. Fear corrupts. Fear diminishes the expressive possibilities of life. We deserve better.

  • At the Secretary of State

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    Volver  (2006)

    I was at the Secretary of State renewing my driver's license. I sat with a bunch of other folks with my number, counting the minutes, ten people in front of me. Above me was a sign that read 'Volver.'

    I thought, how strange that they would be advertising Almodovar at the Secretary of State. Fool I am. It wasn't long to figure out that volver means return, as in you had some additional paperwork you needed or you needed to get your license plate number and so they gave you a return slip so you didn't have to stand in line twice.

    Volver presumes to be a zombie movie oddly enough, as only Almadovar could do it. I sat at the SOS and tried to recall the story. Murder,  the Deus Ex Machina of the undead, the plight of women in Spain, the poor cancer woman who is nothing but heart. All great Almadovar themes. I'd like to say it was a ghost story, but this woman was back in the flesh, interactive. What is a zombie after all but animate flesh?

    I waited my turn and thought about my number and what it would be like to have a return slip instead, just gliding up to the counter whenever I chose. There was an old man there who wore a fedora and played at not hearing the numbers, as if he might trick someone into giving him their number. He was quite amusing, though I might have been the only one who got the joke of it.

    His hair was trimmed poorly. There were patches of short stubble at the back of his head. He had done it himself. He was all alone.

    In an Almadovar film, we are thrust into the emotional depths of his characters' lives at once. They all confess everything to each other. Everything is open and uninhibited. People do very strange things as if they were perfectly normal and justified. They make no excuses for who they are.

    They swim in each other's pathos, pure duende. When a woman sings in an Almadovar film, it is the story. It is not Bollywood. The movie rises out of the song, is the setting for that jewel. Here Penelope Cruz gets to try her chops. What a privledge it must have been to work with him.

 


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