The Grand Budapest Hotel: I'm Utterly Charmed

With no real attention to narrative, cohesiveness, or accurate description, let me relate to you the experience of watching The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014, dir: Wes Anderson).

This film is charming and vulgar; lovely and crude; quaint and pointed; apolitical and sharply mocking.

The entire cast is like a movie buff's dream team: Jeff Goldblum, F. Murray Abraham, Adrien Brody, Tilda Swinton. Willem. Freaking. Dafoe.

And of course, Ralph Fieness. Who should no-shit win an Oscar for his performance. It was perfection. His timing was impeccable. Even when I knew a joke was coming, he still managed to surprise me with it. His character is pompous, vain, bitchy, and demanding but also brave, loyal, talented, loveable and inspiring.

Wes Anderson's style doesn't always speak to me, but Grand Budapest bowled me over. The characters all hit the right note between whimsy and realism. The world is beautiful, but it still has very ugly parts. And the ugliness really strikes you--in the midst of determined quirkiness you are shocked and affronted to be reminded of the very plain and boring evil of which man is capable.

F. Murray Abraham is luminescent, Ed Norton is grimly dutiful, Goldblum is directly ethical, Brody is a foul brat, and Dafoe is menacingly fascinating.

This movie was sort of like if Inglorious Basterds (which I enjoy) had been made from love of life rather than love of justice. I was smiling as the credits rolled. I smiled every time I thought of it today. In one viewing this movie has evinced an ineffable fondness from me. I will be enjoy this one for a long time to come, hopefully.

I'm Dangerously In Love With True Detective

How could you see it and not be similarly moved?

Edited to add:

Episode 7 just ended. Fuck me running.

And now Christoph Waltz is presenting at the Oscars.

There is great and terrible beauty in this world.

I'd Go Out Of My Mind But For You

There are lots of things to complain about when you awake at 4:30 am, on travel, with a painful throat and nose thing going on.

What is wonderful and fully incapable of being conveyed through standard photography is the enchanted domed sky in the still-dark backyard. There, in the last slice of shadow before the day awakes, the moon is a razor thin crescent and Orion sprawls across the sky and it is like the whole universe has been spun into a ball and laid at your feet as the ultimate gift.

And because it's too damn beautiful you can't accept the gift, so you give it right back. Later, after the dazzle of starshine has faded, you will think how lucky it was to dodge the bullet of being responsible for all that glory.

It was me and my sidecik

He was drunk and I was sick
We were caught up in bar room fight
Till an Indian shot out the light
I'm so tired of being tired
Sure as night will follow day
Most things I worry 'bout
Never happen anyway

Billy Collins, Firefly, Nathan Fillion, Moments of Lucidity, and Other Distractions (Beautiful and Not, Per Your Personal Interpretations)

The capacity for self distraction is both a boon and a detriment, in some cases a probable cause of significant self harm, even. However, when finding oneself on what could best be described as the bipolar version of a narcoleptic insomniac's sleep schedule, it's good to be able to find things to do.

Things that don't wake the neighbors or require leaving the house at odd hours. Cabin activities.

Speaking of neighbors, I'm pretty convinced my across the way cohabitant has installed a small sun as the lighting source for his porch. A bright white luminescence now fills my front windows. I awoke from one of my lepto-nods today and the it was so bright in the windows I wondered if the 10:00 on my cable box was actually a.m. 

******
So, my honest reaction to reading this was just to actually say outloud, "Goddamn, Billy Collins." He's just that good.

Flames

Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it.

--Billy Collins

*****
I didn't get into Buffy the Vampire Slayer until the last few seasons, then at the urging of my roomate. My dood roommate. He's usually pretty spot on about good tv, had some discs, and he got me hooked.

As much as I enjoyed the series overall, one of my favorite and enduring personal memories comes near the very end. A new bad guy shows up on the scene, strutting around in a priest's outfit, and looking very, very familiar to me. It takes a bit, but my traitorous brain finally makes the connection and I reveal my shameful viewing habits:

OMG! IT'S FATHER JOEY BUCHANAN!

Do you think Father Joey took vows because of the whole affair with Dorian? Is she really the First Evil? Does Viki know?

I guess things got weird after he left Llanview. Maybe he went back and freaked because Randos were constantly walking around, claiming to be his brother and stuff (though, srsly, anything would have been an upgrade from the Kevin Buchanan model they were running at that time--that hair, and those blazers, and that freaking Cassie storyline, oy vey!) and that's what turned him to a life of pure evil?

No one knew what I was yelling about then, and probably still don't now. But Nathan Fillion, who has gone on to do many cool things since, will always be Father Joey Buchanan to me. And that always makes me laugh inside.

Interestingly enough, Father Joey Buchanan went on to play a priest yet again, though this time much less diabolical and much more yellow.

Dracula 2000: Father David is totes getting ready to skip town, thereby denying fans a hot makeout scene with him and Gerry Butler. Selfish. Also, I believe he was up for the Jonny Lee Miller role, and the directors liked him so much they revamped this part just so they could give it to him. 

And lest we ever forget, the you know what is his you know what:

*****
So, through the magic of Netflix and continued unemployment, I've started watching Firefly. Don't even try to geek-shame me, bitches. I do things on me own schedule. I'm just now getting to some filing from the Mesozoic era. Stone slabs be heavy, y'all.

So it's a space western, which is nice. And they based Mal Reynolds' outfit on Han Solo. Which won't get a peep of complaint outta me. I could do without the outmoded sexist attitudes and very pointed use of the word "whore" that gets tossed about A WHOLE FRIGGING LOT. I keep hoping this is leading to some type of character revelation like ZOMG Mal's mom was a ho or sumjunk.

But then they have a scene where everybody gets their panties in a twist because two chicks are going to have sex. REALLY? Because that's still a cause for comment in a future filled with a sect of people who roam the galaxy cannibalizing, raping, and murdering (not in that exact order) everything they come across? I remember this from ST: TNG. Some lame ass episode where Dr. Crusher is all hot for this alien who switches hosts and when he switches into a female host, BLAMMO, then her Twu Wuv is Wuined. She even says some bs line about "Our species hasn't learned to deal with that."

It's not that I expect or even want to see omnisexuality or whatever. It's just that in the context of sci fi/fantasy these moments like that can really take you out of a work and highlight the obvious hang ups of either the writers or the society you live in.

Whatever. Let's be shallow. FX are good. The ship reminds me of some animal or protozoa or sea creature....I can't put my finger on it. Some kind of thing I learned about long ago, a water horse or something. Damn...that's not quite it. Cute Whedon-y dialogue. Nice acting. Suspiciously skinny girl who will no doubt kick ass despite clear lack of any visible muscle. Fun show.

Are they speaking Chinese sometimes on this show? Sure sounds like it, doggerel Chinese, perhaps. If so, awesome choice for a common language of the future. Very nice touch.


*****
Sometimes my mind don't shake and shift
But most of the time it does
When I get to the place where I'm begging for a lift
Or I'll drown in the wonders and the was
...Cos I'm tired of whys choking on whys
Just need a little because because. . . 

When my brain does work, it sometimes works like this:

I'm reading a description of a character practicing on a cello. They start out playing pianissimo. Then they progress to piano-forte. The author says this literally means soft-hard. As I keep reading, I think that this means that piano must mean soft in Italian, which is very interesting. And in English forte is used to mean specialty. But that doesn't really make sense. A person doesn't announce that diplomatic negotiations is their business hardness. So, in addition to being your specialty, your forte could be your niche, or your. . . strength. Strength is the same as strong. So, like in English, strong and hard can have similar meanings. You strike the key or the string gently/softly or strongly/hard.

I find the conclusion of a thought process like this very satisfying. I imagine it's what people who understand math must feel, when they see a problem and solve for a solution. I don't understand math--I have to work very hard at it and I am never sure of the solution, I can never see the answer within the question. But little word puzzles like this, simple as they are, amuse me to no end.

*****

Well, I've been trying to write this thing for near on 4 hours now. Guess a writer I'll never make, as I couldn't account for quite what happened there. But filling out this last part damn near took me out.

I tried to do find a live version of this one, but fookin L---knowing what I know I just can't watch that boy, it's too damn painful. I can't praise every aspect of this piece of musical brilliance enough.

i'm here today and expected to stay on and on and on
i'm tired
i'm tired
looking out on the substitute scene
still going strong
xo, mom
it's ok, it's alright, nothing's wrong

You don't really follow that up. You just put something beside it. I love this un-ironically. It curls around what passes for my heart, and and it's almost like the slowing, almost stuttering tempo in the outro is reminding that organ to sync up and that everything is broken or breaking, and don't forget to lock the door on your way out.

PS....Also, mostly Radiohead just fills the world with Amazing, but today Thom's Basement version of Last Flowers made me burst into tears within the first four lines. Fucking Radiohead. I will Not put them on heavy rotation today. *hides new Radiohead CD*

88 Minutes, or 88 Hairpieces?

Finally watched 88 Minutes. I'll give some proper feedback later. But I just wanted to take this moment and say:

*sigh* I heart you forever, Beautiful Al.

The world hangs from this man's cheekbones. There are moments in Godfather, Dog Day Afternoon, and Serpico where he is so breathtakingly beautiful that it's like sculpture come to life.

It's Better in Context

But it's still damn good as an excerpt. The following paints, so very beautifully, the quiet moment in life that both fulfills us and leaves us with an inescapable ache. Then it gives us the truth that we know but struggle with anyway:

What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger.

They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies in a single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis' pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis' breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, "Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you're sleeping on your feet like a horse," and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words "see you tomorrow," and the horse's shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives.

**********

There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can't fix it you've got to stand it. 

--Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain

There are several passages from this book that haunt me. With me for life. It's a short easy read, and very worth it.

If you don't know the above described feeling, I'm not sure if you should be pitied or envied. Once you've visited that place, that in between where nothing is asked for but everything possibly desired is given, I think you probably spend the rest of your life longing to return, consciously or otherwise.

Poetry, in various forms

I'm boring and redundant. Let's hear from some others.

First off, the lesson I'm still trying to learn. I don't know the author of this fable, nor do imagine does anyone else.  For my co-conspirator in chatting, texting, and searching for beauty.

Two monks were on a pilgrimage to a neighboring province. They came from an austere and strict order, and both the younger and the elder followed their vows with intense observance.

They came to a river which had begun to rise with the spring thaw. At the river was a courtesan, finely dressed and painted, her robes the softest silk.

Even though the river was not higher than a man's waist, her elaborate and heavy garb made it impossible for her to cross without being weighed down and swept away. This was evident immediately upon seeing her.

The elder monk bowed to her, offered his help, and bent his back. She climbed atop his shoulders, and he carried her across the river and deposited her on the other side. Bowing again, he resumed his path.

The two monks continued their trek for many miles, and the younger monk seethed and simmered with barely tamped frustration. Finally, he could take no more and he burst forth.

"You have broken some of our most sacred vows! You have spoken to a woman! Worse yet, you have touched her! And more horrible still, she was a woman of ill repute. All things forbidden to us. How can you have done these things and walk beside me in silence and contentment? What have you to say for yourself?"

The older monk did not pause in his stride, as he replied, "You speak of the courtesan we met many miles ago. I put her down by the riverside. When, brother, will you put her down?"

Secondly, for some reason I have a stack of printed poems that came in a book shipment the other day. Those who know me have already seen this one, but I do love it so. It's perfectly funny and horrifically true. That those traits somehow exist together is wonderful.

'The Drunken Driver Has the Right Of Way'

by ETHAN COEN

The loudest have the final say,
The wanton win, the rash hold sway,
The realist's rules of order say
The drunken driver has the right of way.

The Kubla Khan can butt in line;
The biggest brute can take what's mine;
When heavyweights break wind, that's fine;
No matter what a judge might say,
The drunken driver has the right of way.

The guiltiest feel free of guilt;
Who care not, bloom; who worry, wilt;
Plans better laid are rarely built
For forethought seldom wins the day;
The drunken driver has the right of way.

The most attentive and unfailing
Carefulness is unavailing
Wheresoever fools are flailing;
Wisdom there is held at bay;,
The drunken driver has the right of way.

De jure is de facto's slave;
The most foolhardy beat the brave;
Brass routs restraint; low lies high's grave;
When conscience leads you, it's astray;
The drunken driver has the right of way.

It's only the naivest who'll
Deny this, that the reckless rule;
When facing an oncoming fool
The practiced and sagacious say
Watch out — one side — look sharp — gang way.

However much you plan and pray,
Alas, alack, tant pis, oy vey,
Now — heretofore — til Judgment Day,
The drunken driver has the right of way.

Deserving of Its Own Post

The following in an excerpt from a monologue taken from a comedic film:

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to be an Emperor - that's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone, if possible -- Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another; human beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world there's room for everyone and the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone.

The way of life can be free and beautiful. But we have lost the way.

Greed has poisoned men's souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.

The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women, and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people.

To those who can hear me I say, "Do not despair." The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass and dictators die; and the power they took from the people will return to the people and so long as men die, liberty will never perish.

Soldiers: Don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you, enslave you, who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel; who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don't hate; only the unloved hate, the unloved and the unnatural.

Soldiers: Don't fight for slavery! Fight for liberty! In the seventeenth chapter of Saint Luke it is written, "the kingdom of God is within man" -- not one man, nor a group of men, but in all men, in you, you the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.

Then, in the name of democracy, let us use that power! Let us all unite!! Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie! They do not fulfill their promise; they never will. Dictators free themselves, but they enslave the people!! Now, let us fight to fulfill that promise!! Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men's happiness.

Soldiers: In the name of democracy, let us all unite!!"

--The Great Dictator, 1940

May this holiday season find you well, safe, loved, and with all those same comforts and securities for your beloved.