As of now, these are far and away the top searches for this blog:
twilight, twilight pictures, pictures of twilight, the glow is gone, my wife is retarded
Wonderful.
Лезгинка из Фильма
Nikita Mikhalkov’s new film, released in 2007 somehow just made it to Fayetteville. Click for the less-than-great writeup. It was a decent film with some nice compositions, though the reliance on sentimentality became a bit problematic by the end. I’m just psyched the film found its way belatedly to the local AMC Select (for about four days). Mikhalkov, who also directed Burnt by the Sun appears to have a fairly optimistic view of Russia’s post-Soviet malaise. Critics who thought Burnt offered conciliatory gestures as some kind of Western pandering will probably see the same at work in 12; he is, after all, transcribing a Western cinematic text for Russian exigencies, even as he lampoons capitalist gangsterism. One of my favorite history courses in grad school was on Soviet historiography, the gist being that the Russian narrative is situated in some kind of liminal space between Western Modernity and the older modes of the Far East. Stephen Kotkin called it something like “Russia’s mirror of Modernity,” implying a relationship with forces we consider historical both causal and distinct from that of the West. For practical purposes, just read Andrew Meier’s Black Earth or Ryszard Kapuscinski’s Imperium for the outsiders’ perspective. I wish Mikhalkov could delve a little deeper into his nation’s mythos, past and present, the way Sokurov has done, but I suppose its a tall order.
What? They are.
Me and Stephen Hawking
Being in high school was like being in hell. Emotional retardation coupled with inexperience coupled with chronic dysthymia. When I wasn’t moping around in black sweaters I was moping around in black sweaters while listening to the Manic Street Preachers, a band that practically exists for that sole purpose. The obsession didn’t last; the Manics haven’t released a solid album since This is My Truth Tell Me Yours, and I hadn’t bothered with them outside of nostalgia binges. Coming across the new Journal for Plague Lovers, I was surprised to find about half a dozen good songs. Not quite enough to mount a comeback, if only in my head, but it makes me feel young again.
I promise I’m not going to use patchouli roll-on deoderants
In my continued search for a lifestyle of sustainable good health, I’ve recently taken a pretty surprising turn and am trying out a vegan diet. I’ve been a vegetarian for about 7 years, implemented because I was a college student with easy access to tofurkey and fake chicken nuggets. It was never especially about ethics, either animal cruelty or environmentalism or the malaise of mass production in a post-industrial society; admittedly, these are issues I think about, but mostly I just wanted to find a way to stay skinny. As a shortcut to improved health, this move was a bust – my inherent laziness made vegetarianism a way to avoid the hamburger while still eating the french fries. I came to rely on cheese. Delicious, wonderful cheese, to my detriment.
After reading some books about dairy products, most of which regarded them as food for infant mammals no longer appropriate or healthy for adult mammals, I’m giving subjective veganism a shot. I don’t intend to be 100% strict, and given that all kinds of animal shit (literally and figuratively here) ends up in the foods we buy, that would be really difficult and/or expensive. I also don’t intend to be a crusader; again, this isn’t about “morals,” and I fully regard this as an atomized personal choice in order to avoid affiliation to a particular social movement or ethical gesture.
“Man, fuck all them metanarratives.”
-Jean-Francois Lyotard
The Mystery of…
I keep telling people that Dan Simmons is like Stephen King, except good. Picking up the new Drood, an 800+ page monster follow-up to the 800+ page monster The Terror, was like settling in to a nice overlong miniseries you’re bound to reap days, maybe weeks of satisfaction from. I won’t disclose that much since I’ve already commissioned Pajiba’s own Jenn McKeown to review this next week, so you’ll have to be satisfied with the précis: bitchin’. It’s best to read The Terror and Drood back-to-back, though the level of pagination there could destroy entire cities; both books form a great fictional counter to real events and environments of the 19th-century. If you aren’t enough of a bibliophiliac to get the reference, Drood refers to the eponymous character of Charles Dickens’ last novel, unfinished at the time of his death. Simmons writes from the perspective of the “Inestimable’s” confident, fellow author Wilkie Collins, and Drood feels more like the work of that latter writer of borderline-sensational gothic revival and detective fiction, of The Moonstone and The Woman in White. Simmons writes in decent proximity to 19th-century verbosity, and his subject time is ruthlessly researched, but this is modern horror, all dread and exigencies within a High Victorian sensibility- a good fit, considering the fringe imagination of that age would lead to Jack the Ripper and Spring Heeled Jack.
What *is* Best in Life?
This week’s show: epic-fucking-ass metal, heartfelt Swahili, and my lousy-but-hilarious impression of Schwarzenegger.
ENJO1
A Short Film About Killing Puppets
Due to reasons known only to God and sonny Jesus I recently took it upon myself to ignore the early films of Kieślowski and Jean-Pierre Melville sitting in Netflix envelopes to download and watch all eight films in the Puppet Master franchise (Eight films! God, I’m so lonely). The last one, Puppet Master vs. Demonic Toys, came out in 2004 starring the indomitable Corey Feldman and a flatulent baby. Based on a true story.
WordPress is being a cunt, otherwise I’d include a video. You’ll have to suffice with this. Skip to 1:20, unless for some reason you don’t want to waste your life.
