Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
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I have no idea how to phrase this intelligently, but for me she is able to capture the way that you can be processing the external and the internal at the same time. Out of everything I've read of hers, Orlando is certainly the most accessible, followed by To the Lighthouse.
I want to put a bookmark in this for later comment.
Must wait until I'm well rested enough to babble pointlessly about post modernism. How I love it! Hate it! How these two things cancel eacother out and I've suddenly stumbled into a black hole.
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Yuck. Infinite Sadness may not be the objective worst album of the 90s (it has a couple of OK things), but it's one of the most dreadfully disappointing, a charon to the underbelly of creative damnation. It's a perfect epitaph for when the innovation of the era of (roughly) 86-94 was politely buried, when alternative rock became modern rock, when anything interesting in the mainstream saw its shadow and went back underground for the forseeable future. (Hip hop had a similar shift at this time, when conscience rap was enveloped and eclipsed by the less aspirational and materialistic gangsta rap.)
I finally listened to Neil Young's unreleased Homegrown album, the 1974 album he shelved until last year. It's OK, one of those things where its legend overwhelms its actual quality, not in the same league as Tonight's the Night, On the Beach, Zuma from the same era. I'm glad that it was, at least, surprising, because I've gotten used to this idea that I already had most of it from bootlegs or other sources, but there's a number of songs here that are brand new to me. Given that, it's not as good as Young's previous release of an unreleased album, Hitchhiker (originally called Chrome Dreams) which had this:
I finally listened to Neil Young's unreleased Homegrown album, the 1974 album he shelved until last year. It's OK, one of those things where its legend overwhelms its actual quality, not in the same league as Tonight's the Night, On the Beach, Zuma from the same era. I'm glad that it was, at least, surprising, because I've gotten used to this idea that I already had most of it from bootlegs or other sources, but there's a number of songs here that are brand new to me. Given that, it's not as good as Young's previous release of an unreleased album, Hitchhiker (originally called Chrome Dreams) which had this:
I've never needed someone to watch a movie like I need Crummy to watch MALIGNANT.
I've been going on the assumption doing so might kill me.
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Yuck. Infinite Sadness may not be the objective worst album of the 90s (it has a couple of OK things), but it's one of the most dreadfully disappointing, a charon to the underbelly of creative damnation. It's a perfect epitaph for when the innovation of the era of (roughly) 86-94 was politely buried, when alternative rock became modern rock, when anything interesting in the mainstream saw its shadow and went back underground for the forseeable future. (Hip hop had a similar shift at this time, when conscience rap was enveloped and eclipsed by the less aspirational and materialistic gangsta rap.)
I finally listened to Neil Young's unreleased Homegrown album, the 1974 album he shelved until last year. It's OK, one of those things where its legend overwhelms its actual quality, not in the same league as Tonight's the Night, On the Beach, Zuma from the same era. I'm glad that it was, at least, surprising, because I've gotten used to this idea that I already had most of it from bootlegs or other sources, but there's a number of songs here that are brand new to me. Given that, it's not as good as Young's previous release of an unreleased album, Hitchhiker (originally called Chrome Dreams) which had this:
I finally listened to Neil Young's unreleased Homegrown album, the 1974 album he shelved until last year. It's OK, one of those things where its legend overwhelms its actual quality, not in the same league as Tonight's the Night, On the Beach, Zuma from the same era. I'm glad that it was, at least, surprising, because I've gotten used to this idea that I already had most of it from bootlegs or other sources, but there's a number of songs here that are brand new to me. Given that, it's not as good as Young's previous release of an unreleased album, Hitchhiker (originally called Chrome Dreams) which had this:
Infinite is an easy album to hate. But I don't. While it's nowhere near in the ballpark to Siamese Dream, it has a special place in my heart. There are very few tracks on it I don't like, as much as they might try to convince me otherwise
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I've been going on the assumption doing so might kill me.
Perhaps for that reason. We're only truly alive once we've faced oblivion.
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Onibaba makes me think of bones. All that remains when everything has been picked clean. What gets left behind when life goes somewhere else. A reminder that you were once here, but don’t matter anymore.
Hidden behind the tall grass, crawling in the dirt, and joylessly sucking on their own share of bones to sate their endless hunger, the characters in Kaneto Shindo’s film are an illustration of lives that continue after everything else goes away. Over the course of its runtime, there will be no evidence of love. Or of laughter. Or even dreams that might graciously contain a few fleshy scraps of either.
Instead, all that remains are the reflexes which only help keep life continuing. They get hungry and so they eat. They grow poor, so they rob. They grow weary, so they sleep. The only emotions that even seem to still exist in this world are lust, which in such a barren world becomes such an overwhelming sensation, it has one woman shrieking through the grass at just the thought of human contact. Every night she will hurl herself towards an opportunistic lover who can only offer more of the same. Poverty, despair, hunger and an empty shag before the sleep-sweats take over.
Onibaba is the sort of film that makes one consider what a horror film really is. Many might point to the demon masked figure that appears at the end of the film as a specter that qualifies it. But what Onibaba makes clear, is that it is what is under the mask which makes the film frightening. Such a disguise, no matter how horrific, at least offers the solace of keeping oneself hidden. Allows us to continue living protected by fantasy. Without it, we return to a world where we will find there is only mouthfuls of millet to fill our stomachs, evenings where it is too hot to even sleep, and the occasional fit of passion that leads us towards yet another emotional dead end.
Onibaba creates an unease towards our conception of what living really is once we strip away our illusions. And, as a result, it is as uneasy a watch as the most potent of traditional horror films.
Hidden behind the tall grass, crawling in the dirt, and joylessly sucking on their own share of bones to sate their endless hunger, the characters in Kaneto Shindo’s film are an illustration of lives that continue after everything else goes away. Over the course of its runtime, there will be no evidence of love. Or of laughter. Or even dreams that might graciously contain a few fleshy scraps of either.
Instead, all that remains are the reflexes which only help keep life continuing. They get hungry and so they eat. They grow poor, so they rob. They grow weary, so they sleep. The only emotions that even seem to still exist in this world are lust, which in such a barren world becomes such an overwhelming sensation, it has one woman shrieking through the grass at just the thought of human contact. Every night she will hurl herself towards an opportunistic lover who can only offer more of the same. Poverty, despair, hunger and an empty shag before the sleep-sweats take over.
Onibaba is the sort of film that makes one consider what a horror film really is. Many might point to the demon masked figure that appears at the end of the film as a specter that qualifies it. But what Onibaba makes clear, is that it is what is under the mask which makes the film frightening. Such a disguise, no matter how horrific, at least offers the solace of keeping oneself hidden. Allows us to continue living protected by fantasy. Without it, we return to a world where we will find there is only mouthfuls of millet to fill our stomachs, evenings where it is too hot to even sleep, and the occasional fit of passion that leads us towards yet another emotional dead end.
Onibaba creates an unease towards our conception of what living really is once we strip away our illusions. And, as a result, it is as uneasy a watch as the most potent of traditional horror films.
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OMG Norm MacDonald died.
I didn't really watch SNL growing up, so that's going to hit me less than most people, but it does have a, "wait, what?" reaction.
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I didn't really watch SNL growing up, so that's going to hit me less than most people, but it does have a, "wait, what?" reaction.
I almost never have watched SNL. I mostly know him from his random appearances on talk shows and such.
There's only about five people on the earth who I could count on making me laugh whenever they showed up. Now I guess there is four.
His final appearance on Letterman is one of my favourite moments from that entire show (Letterman being one of the remaining four). Rarely does a moment of affection and respect seem so honest on television. And, somehow, this came from Norm MacDonald, the least likeliest of places.
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Is that your first viewing of Onibaba? Wonderful motion picture.
I watched it a million years ago. I barely even recall how I felt about it.
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I assume you've seen Dirty Work?
I know my brother is a fan and used to play it all the time, so I'm sure I've seen it through osmosis at least. And because I always like MacDonald, and I sometimes like Lange, I probably thought it was alright.
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I know my brother is a fan and used to play it all the time, so I'm sure I've seen it through osmosis at least. And because I always like MacDonald, and I sometimes like Lange, I probably thought it was alright.
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