there will be a wedding. apparently
there will be death...
there will be reminiscing with long-lost friends
there will be lil' pea. finally on her hometurf
who is ALSO getting hitched. mercifully not this year. only so much i can take.
l: you are my best woman
f: oh yay
l: you. beth. julien and guy are my witnesses
f: great! 4 homos and a wedding.
l: in ponza
there will be work done on greta & co. or there will be murder in manhattan.
there may be some sleeping under this too.
and liquid skies
and there will be no blogging
29 March, 2007
there will be a wedding. apparently
28 March, 2007
looking ahead to NY ...
z: think i will redeem hilton points and get 2 free nites there
f: perfect. i love freebies!
z: pffft. no nonsmoking rooms.
f: FAB. i smoke...as you know. puff puff!!
f: you COULD of course get lucky and wind up sleeping elsewhere...i don't mind..
z: i want you to get lucky so i can have bed to myself.
f: er. well that's not very nice is it
z: listen. the rule is if i get lucky and want room, we find you alternate accomodations. if u get lucky, you have to go tramp yourself to whomever's flat. and i still get bed. deal? cool.
f: am disgusted. how squallid. and sordid. and
z: oh zip it
27 March, 2007
"When you come for me Grim reaper, try to catch me out-of-doors in touch with some living part of this, my favourite planet"
to a great woman, now deceased (Mykia Tylor) from the collection "Nutshell people and other biota"
To the kid on Mother's Day
It comes with the package
neatly enclosed in the caul,
Common to house cats,
Fierce to wild dogs,
I should like to confess
(Having been, by nature,
always more prone to criticize,
I should like you to know
That i love what the kid has become
That this fondness that i feel
Isn't because, but in spite of
Your being my son
** just so you know, tiziana, that these words move me today as they did then (3 years ago) when you first sent them.
it creeped up on me. but. yes. erm. i've become, erm, a "shipper"
specifically a ``GIZZIE''
from urban dictionary: The term "shipper" comes from supporting a ship. To ship something means a person wants two characters to get together and/or shows support for two characters already together. The term "ship" came from the X-Files fandom, when fanfics were written about Mulder and Scully. The fans then called themselves
shippers. It quickly spread and is now the title a person gives themself if they believe two characters should or will be together.
the characters in question: George and Izzie
the show: grey's anatomy
feeling truly pathetic. i've got to get out more.
26 March, 2007
25 March, 2007
by mere chance, leafing through Sight&Sound i saw a picture of Alida Valli in the Obit section. double take, stupour at seeing her there, almost as a footnote. oh no. another passes to the nether region. and there is no one left.
"The Italian film icon from the 1930s onwards, Alida Valli, who has died aged 84, was described by Benito Mussolini as the most beautiful woman in the world after Greta Garbo." (Guardian)
in the end she also wanted to be left alone:
"Don't bother, lasci perdere; it isn't worth it."
ah but it was.
24 March, 2007
*** the ever-present ganzy is a multitasker. between breast-feeding, entertaining overseas guests, getting little to no sleep, aiming to flatten her tummy in record-beating time... the mother-that-is still finds time to provide me with reading material she knows i will love on one of my favourite genres.... thank you "bovina_sneep"
By Stanley Crouch (Slant)
Film noir evolved from the American crime thrillers that rose to pulp prominence between 1920 and 1940. Hollywood took those tales and put the focus on cynics, fall guys, sluts, heists, and murders most foul. The huge screens in movie theaters provided lurid masks for the resentments that pulse within Americana. Our hatred of the upper class and of goody-two-shoes morality got plenty of play. So did our repulsive puritanical troubles with sexual attraction, our reluctant but ultimate belief in the righteousness of force, and our tendency to answer life's pervasive horrors with conspiracy theories.
Noir's popularity was inevitable. How could American audiences resist the combative stance of an unimpressed hero whose ethos could be reduced to: "Is that so?" How could they fail to be lured by all of the actresses cast as Venus' flytraps? Everything in film noir takes place at the bottom, in the sewers of sensibility. It holds that the force of the world is not only indifferent to, but obviously bigger than, the individual, which is why personal satisfaction, whether illegal or immoral, is the solution to the obligatory ride through an unavoidably brittle universe.
A black and white phenomenon, film noir is thought to have achieved its greatest heights between 1945 and 1950, though the apparent moment of final brilliance arrived in 1958's Touch of Evil, directed with the heightened imagination of genius by Orson Welles. As a genre, film noir appeared as an antidote to the Hollywood conventions of pristine character and fulfilled romance because its creators sensed that "rah rah" was no longer the best prescription for the blues. Possessed of a shrewd aesthetic that was both meretricious and rebellious, film noir generously utilized sex and violence, firmly rooting itself in American culture.
A number of its most influential directors were European Jews like Fritz Lang, Otto Preminger, and Billy Wilder, all of whom had escaped the Nazis. The enthusiastic support of the Third Reich by the German people had convinced such artists that conformity always had to be questioned, ridiculed, and perhaps resisted. Another assumption was that corruption hid behind images of a gilded civilization, high-class refinement, uplift, and thorough social improvement. So, in one sense, Adolf Hitler was a major player in forming the sensibility of film noir. That Austrian boy whom Chaplin accused of having made off with his mustache had done it again but, as usual, not in the way the paperhanger intended.
Osgood: I called Mama. She was so happy she cried. She wants you to have her wedding gown. It's white lace.
Daphne: Yeah, Osgood. I can't get married in your mother's dress. Ha ha. That-she and I, we are not built the same way.
Osgood: We can have it altered.
Daphne: Aw no you don't! Osgood, I'm gonna level with you. We can't get married at all.
Osgood: Why not?
Daphne: Well, in the first place, I'm not a natural blonde.
Osgood: Doesn't matter.
Daphne: I smoke. I smoke all the time.
Osgood: I don't care.
Daphne: Well, I have a terrible past. For three years now, I've been living with a saxophone player.
Osgood: I forgive you.
Daphne: I can never have children.
Osgood (unperturbed): We can adopt some.
Jerry-Daphne: But you don't understand, Osgood. (He whips off his wig, exasperated, and changes to a manly voice.) Uh, I'm a man.
Osgood (unruffled, undaunted, and still in love): Well, nobody's perfect.
(Some Like it Hot) 1959
"Catherine Keener and Robin Wright Penn are set to star in the Hollywood comedy, What Just Happened?"
23 March, 2007
22 March, 2007
inexplicably, the rubber chicken is BACK, somehow. maude rifled through the trash. found the wretched thing. and leaving no signs of debris in the aftermath in the form of overturned garbage, has contrived a reunion with her little friend. the two will not be parted.
the good news is that she's quit her growling and alpha ways and is sharing her love of the aformentioned rubbber object. between shags with the blue bear.
v: pope into nylon?
f: stop being random and disrespectful
v: flavia - that describes you too ... you are a gao-gao
and forwarded earlier in the day from o:
Spalding Gray's Monologues Spring to Life in Actors' Oratorio
Review by Jeremy Gerard
March 21 (Bloomberg) -- Spalding Gray was neither a great actor nor a great writer until he became both by inventing ``Spalding Gray'' the character.
Some familiarity with the two Grays is helpful but not essential to appreciating ``Stories Left to Tell,'' a dramatic oratorio woven from Gray's autobiographical monologues and other writings, now running in Greenwich Village.
``Spalding Gray'' was the star of ``Swimming to Cambodia,'' Gray's intimate account, by turns hilarious and unsettling, of his adventures in Thailand while filming ``The Killing Fields,'' in which he played an American consul in Cambodia. Jonathan Demme's film adaptation of ``Swimming'' brought Gray -- whose Yankee good looks and detached sardonic humor barely concealed a tortured soul --to a wide audience.
He was essentially a creature of the stage who came to life under a spotlight, usually sitting at a table reading from a notebook or index cards, telling stories in what seemed like a stream of consciousness but which was, in fact, meticulously researched and scripted: ``I came to know my life through telling it,'' as he says.
``Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell'' continues through May 13 at the Minetta Lane Theater, 18 Minetta Lane in Greenwich Village. Information: +1-212-307-7171
21 March, 2007
f: had to give maude a good caning yday.
o: oh dear
f: she went psycho on me with her rubber chicken (Which i found among her doggy bag things). i gave it to her, thinking i was doing a nice thing finding her long lost favourite toy, and she went NUTSO. growling. and attacking if you came within a meter of her and her wretched chicken. in the end i had to beat her over her little sausage body with my bag and chuck the darn thing. she was put in solitary confinement for the rest of the evening.
.. though she managed to sneak under the duvet and lay at my feet at some point in the night though.
o: oh, the cutie
"The Death and Life of Dith Pran," the inspiration behind the Killing Fields and the incredibly real and true story of a New York Times Magazine journalist, Sydney Schanberg and his recollection of his friendship with Dith Pran, his Cambodian assistant for three years, who saved his life and who he was unable to protect when the Khmer Rouge began their purge. He never gave up looking, even though Dith was thought dead. The two men were finally reunited.
Daniele Mastrogiacomo, foreign correspondent for la Repubblica, irresponsibly takes off and follows some dubious lead and gets himself captured. The Italian government, seeking publicity as they try and get funding approved for their mission in Aghanistan (a touchy issue that brought them once already on the verge of collapse) are milking the event for all its worth. Five criminals are exchanged for the Italian journalist. His driver is decapitated in front him. His interpreter? Well no seems to care if he lives or dies. Media circus ensues. Mastrogiacomo becomes the hero of the hour. Every which way you turn he's there, talking about his ``ordeal'' that was so testing it didn't seem to hold him back (within minutes of his return) from penning a full-page ``reportage'' of his exploits, give interviews, pressers where he vainly, disingenuously and smugly displays little interest in the fate of the men who were with him nor does he reveal any telling, perceptive insights to his experience. All that was seen were the flamboyant, rock-star like flick of the hand indicating ``next question, please.''
Frankly, I knew that journalism had become discredited on so many levels but this just makes me want to never stop throwing up.
20 March, 2007
they don't make 'em like they used to.
they really don't. catching up with 3:10 to Yuma i was reminded of how much i love this, for all intents and purposes, dead genre. they were churning them fast and furiously right through into the 60s. and then something changed. it was high noon for our gun-slingers. yeah, sure i love the shaghetti westerns, eastwood's foray into the avenging angel territory as the man without a name. but somehow, i miss the all-american quality of that earlier time. i miss ethan edwards. that misogynist and racist. the ultimate anti-hero. ultimately, the most satisfying.
premise: am happy you're alive. am happy you're free.
can you just shut the fuck up? do you have to go on the air waves of your own newspaper, how tacky and self-serving, and spin the whole sad and sorry yarn of your days in captivity? does it not trouble you that you may be pissing someone off, royally, and by thus doing maybe, just maybe, putting in jeopardy the life of the next blighter who will be taken hostage? people just don't know when to keep their trap shut.
from the maker of red sorghum, ju dou, and raise the red lantern. i have impossibly high expectations. any film of his is an event. not always a happy one. after the impossibly shallow the forest of the flying daggers, i was in near tears wondering why oh why he was jumping on the crouching tiger hidden dragon bandwagon. Many have noted that his recent efforts seem to eschew the kind of scathing social criticism that got him fashionably in trouble with the chinese authorities and made him the darling of western critics. many say that his latest movie, is just the latest example of his recent trend: the triumph of style over substance. his decision to shoot the official 10-minute promotional film for the Beijing 2008 olympics bid was just further proof, for some, that the master has been lobotomized in some way. (afterall wasn't leni riefenstahl forever associated with Olympia 1938).
well? bollocks to all that. I LOVED IT.
18 March, 2007
16 March, 2007
15 March, 2007
today the world has one extra. his name is cosmo and he is a pisces, dammit. am checking out the goods tomorrow. cannot wait.
ganzy. i hereby undertake to babysit at your slightest whim and on the shortest of notices.
(Ps is this binding?)
CLICK HERE TO HEAR IT, oh jesus mary and joseph!
``Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be....''
in the meantime, in NY, p frap is setting aside her marriage plans and working her own magic...
P: so listen, we are GOING. regardless of whether we pay or not.
but NOT paying is better. ha (fyi tickets are a TAD on the pricey side)
f: DAMN STRAIGHT
when the shi** hits then fan. what do fraps do?
1. dive into the muck FULL THROTTLE
2. dodge the flying turds
3. calm and collectedly rationalize on how to end the IMPENDING crapfest
P: 3 now, used to be 1
F: IT'S STILL 1 PAL!!!
P: yeah i spose. frap--you, me and Vanessa. MAGIC!
PROJECTING OURSELVES IN THE FUTURE, the two fraps imagine themselves at the theatre.
One-Act Play--called "The Wedding Day Surprise"
Judge: Do you P, take this man...
F interrupts: Excuse me, P? We got those tickets but the
curtain comes up in 20 minutes! (faints)
P hands her bouquet to the judge, picks F up in her arms:
P: Honey, we'll be back in 95 minutes...there's no
f: pal. i may seriously pass out again
p: UH HUH
f: pal, i can't bear it
p: yeah alright
f: pal, it's too much
Still another one act play:
P: So did you want to see Vanessa...
F: Don't say that name! I'll faint!
p: pipe down woman!
never going to be able to keep a secret from you am i?
O: keep dreaming, little hedgehog
f: am mysterious and inaccessible
O: did you hear me just burst out laughing?
f: a woman of few words. keeps card close to her CHEST
each day i love my neighbourhood just a little bit more.
it could be the discovery of a dive place that does the best zabaglione icecream i've had in my life.
or swinging by max's tattoos and giving them a quick appreciative flash of my mermaid -- the most beautiful woman in the world and the only one for me.
it could be the casual encounters with freaks. and tramps. and watching maude scoff at them from her 2 inches off the ground.
or the staple favourite: the foul-toothed tomato man in the open-aired food market, who every time i ask him ``allora, come va?'' invariably gives me the same answer, with a gap-toothed smile: ``UNA FAVOLA!'' (a fairytale) while chewing my ear off about the cherry tomato grown under the mount etna.
or could it be the endearing splatter of pig's blood splashing onto the streets first thing in the morning from the myriad of butcher shops.
the falafels round the corner?
trying to get a table at Felice for their sublime artichokes?
seeing instead i have only 5 euros on me so pop into Remo for the tastiest of pizzas, where you scribble your order by putting a cross on a skanky printout?
the peacefulness among the graffiti walls behind the old slaughterhouse?
the hags gossiping on the piazza benches?
the old men chewing the fat in the chinese-run bar on piazza maria imperatrice and playing the lotto?
the re-opening of the testaccio bookstore where you can prowl the shelves till the late hours?
the home-made mini cornetti, the closest thing to heaven at 8am in the morning, at maurizio's bar?
ducking into volpetti, the deli to end all delis, for the most expensive slivver of cheese ever?
could be that it's the closest thing to a neighbourhood. it's all here. everything you could need and want. from the old woman selling eggs, wrapping them individually in old newspapers. to bolthole spice store, selling pumpkin pie mix.
testaccio. i love YOU.
-- juggling work shifts --
o: nah, can't do tonight, i'm on the 7 shift
f: oh, i think i am too!
o: no, you're on at 8
f: oh, well then, i'll switch with you. i don't mind
o: ok then, i'll be in at 8
f: errrr...yeah i'll probably be in at 8 too!
Aurora is a paradise for surfers, with its long coastline exposed to the Pacific Ocean. The sport was made famous in the Province by the classic film Apocalypse Now. The scene in which U.S. soldiers are surfing was filmed here, and the production crew surfboards for the locals to use. The locals of Baler claim that the surf is sometimes so huge that they could hear it all the way from the provincial capitol building, some 1.5 km away from the coast
"SURFERS are unquestionably a hardy lot. Awkward and heavy surfboard in tow, they will travel anywhere on the globe, put up with conditions you would wish only on your worst enemy, eat strange food and stay in substandard accommodation all for one reason: riding the perfect wave."
** or a ``small'' wave in the case of us aspiring surfers
14 March, 2007
13 March, 2007
that jake sure is hot
and that maggie sure can act
saw sherrybaby. through fits and starts. and some uncomfortable shuffling in my airplane seat as randoms peered curiously over my shoulder at impromptu blowjobs broadcast on my small laptop screen. er.
i do hate sitting around waiting in airports.
12 March, 2007
oh. after freaks, well...now guess who wants to move to quebec again (10 years after conteplating being a nanny in montreal). er
"Canada is known for many things (hockey, cold winters, Celine Dion), but producing films by Canadians about Canadians isn't one of them, at least here in the United States. (at least here in the U.S. being the operative word) That could hopefully change, though, with the DVD release of C.R.A.Z.Y., a Quebecois family saga that's set mainly in the 1970s and is one of most entertaining and moving dysfunctional-family films from any country in any year, winning an astonishing 11 Genie Awards (Canada's equivalent of the Oscars)." (Reel Magazine)
much more telling, is this italian reviewer:
C.R.A.Z.Y. (il titolo è composto dalle iniziali dei nomi dei cinque figli) è un film a tratti esilarante e grandiosamente immaginativo. Brevi sequenze di sogno sono utilizzate con grande perizia contrapposte alle rappresentazioni semplici e crude della vita quotidiana e della sessualità adolescenziale, quella di Zac, mai facile e mai raccontata in maniera scontata. Vent’anni della vita di un ragazzo non comune, e di riflesso della sua famiglia: dalla nascita il 25 dicembre, cosa che porta sua madre ad attribuirgli poteri guaritivi in realtà inesistenti, alla crescita, con le prime esplorazioni della sessualità, alla maturità faticosamente raggiunta.
La musica e le icone musicali legate all’era del «Glam Rock» sono parte integrante di C.R.A.Z.Y. Come non amare un film una scena del quale mostra in chiesa preti e credenti che cantano «Sympathy for the Devil» dei Rolling Sotnes con tanto di coro gospel?
oh, and the trailer features space oddity
frankly. i am SOLD.
live, from lagos, our guest blogger: z
context: fonda (f) discusses a meeting with garbo (g) in her autobiography. and mentions that g asks her to join her to swim. z and ffrap debate ensue over whether garbo is pervy predator or misunderstood soul.
g: little janey you look quite nice in that maillot.
f: who are you, old naked lady?
g: they call me garbo.
f: you're famous.
g: you're hot. come swim naked with me.
f: daddy! help. old butch bag is hitting on me.
g: i vant to go for a swim
f: OH! can i come!
later in the sea. garbo as par abitude is in the nude. fonda, age 11, isn't
g: Are you going to be an actress?
f: i don't think i have any talent
g: I bet you do, and you're pretty enough to be one.
Minutes later, an argument ensues
z: garbo tried to seduce fonda
f: no she DIDN'T you &&(*^&^*&^ bixch. i've read the book. you haven't. you're totally perverting the truth. this is just not on. you're totally out of line
z (quietly chuckling): am repeatedly amazed at how you allow yourself to be wound up!
f: am NOT wound up. i just don't understand how you could come to such a conclusion. it's just not true. blah blah blah blah
z: garbo hit on fonda!
f: no she DIDN'T! *&)*()*()&*(&*((
11 March, 2007
Friday September 27, 2002
Beyond bad taste, beyond political correctness,
Tod Browning's long-banned macabre classic
Freaks uses authentic circus performers and unapologetically exploits their real genetic malformations in a melodramatic masterpiece of black comic horror. A scheming trapeze artist marries a circus midget (NOT a dwarf) for his money; his fellow performers welcome her as an honorary "freak" and their chanting ritual - gabba gabba, one of us! - left me gasping. When they find out the perfidious truth, they attack.
What cultural references are there for this? Poe? David Lynch? Antonin Artaud? Diane Arbus? Maybe. Freaks is filled with poignancy; it offers a premonition of eugenics, as well as a provocative comparison with the alienated condition of women and the freakish nature of all showbiz celebrity. It is a work of genius.
** think bradshaw might have got carried away a bit, banging on about "alienated condition of women" and "freakish nature of all showbiz celebrity" and what not. but this weekend's viewing of freaks was quite the treat. not least for pointers on how to light a cigarette with no hands, or feet.
10 March, 2007
taking a break from the self-consciously quirky, frankly. and settling to good old fashioned film-making. good plot. good script. good actors.
basta la pasta
salon, as always, on the money:
"The Painted Veil," a movie that would have seemed conventional 30 years ago, (but today) is an act of mainstream daring."
can someone please put this woman in some amazing film soon, or i may have to. i want to see her pull a helen mirren and sweep a shitload of awards and look fabulous on the red carpet, in all her middle-aged glory asap. ok she might not qualify for middle age anymore.
09 March, 2007
a further reminder why the independent has always been my newspaper of choice
Tainted love: Are we wrong to treat incest as a taboo?
and for a good list of 588 films to plow through:
on my favourite subject matter: enter the keyword
07 March, 2007
nothing worse than seeing a film that leaves you cold.
seeing running with scissors did just that. left me strangely empty. tossing between kind of liking it, then deciding against it and then back again. drawing unfavourable comparison to the royal tannenbaums. i decided to drop it. instead, to prop myself up. i had to remind myself of what great cinema is. and what it can do. and this is where i found it. in just this ONE scene. wow. yes. i feel much better now.
vinnie: when i was in 2nd grade a little gal named mary kay willing sat behind me. i liked her and she used to hit me. you remind me of mary kay willing.
f: that's a good thing i take it?
vinnie: yes ... purrrrr
i can't commend either enough.
the first: a unique take on little red riding hood
the second (confessions of a trickbaby): a unique take on hansel and gretel
with a TWIST (to put it mildy) and TWISTED. huge fan of first. eager to see the second.
06 March, 2007
foraging on youtube, as you do, i stumbled into this, which took me back to a touching scene at fiumicino airport with an ipod and a packet of smokes.
f (glum and depressed): --
O: OH! I have just the song for you!
f: (looks up): oh
O: it's called BENT
...If I fall along the way
Pick me up and dust me off ....
f perks up
...Can you help me I'm bent
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together...
f, doesn't perk up: !
..I started out clean but I'm jaded...
f, most definitely not perked up: er. pal.
o: good innit?!
...``Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects....''
05 March, 2007
while she's quite happy to tart herself to any random stranger on her daily walks around our neighbourhood, miss turdette the canine testaccio toucher, does have her, well how can i put it delicately, her likes and dislikes. gleefully flirting (with all the candour fitting to a reluctant yet decorous virgin) with large dogs say 6 times her size, she loathes the yappies. she doesn't seem partial to the fairer sex as such. frankly she doesn't seem to be able to tell the difference. i was beginning to think she had no standards -- bar, size -- but today came the realization that she does have a sixth sense. when it comes to castrated males. she can, i surmised, spot them a mile off. yanking with unprecedented vigour at her fashionable red leash -- which, incidentally matches her S&M-style harness -- she became dogged in her pursuit of an object far from the immediate eye. after a few swerves and double takes we came face to face with the object of her unwantom wrath: a rather mild-tempered, and well, non-descript medium-sized mutt. the resigned owner of said mutt, seemed to have expected the aggression, saying: ``eh...he's castrated. she can tell... it's not the first time. if only i'd known...''