Red Right Blog |
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Rants, Rates, Slags, Slates. Manic-depressive posts from Red Wright-Hand. Because there are thousands of worthless blogs out there and who am I not to add to their number?
Total US troop deaths in Iraq to date (09/01/07) since 03/20/03: 3739
From 05/02/03 through 06/28/04: 718 Myeloma (etc.) Blogs
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Tuesday, December 23, 2003
British fellow weighs in on David Foster Wallace's Everything and More and other considerations of the infinite. Another posting from Busan, South Korea, one that'll leave you with a lump in your throat: South Koreans have gotta be the most phlegmatic people I've ever seen. Everywhere you go, you're treated to the basso rumbling of Korean men or women hawking and ralfing up a mouthful of yellow-white slime, which they then propel groundward heedless of their surroundings. This bittersweet symphony is particularly strident if you walk the Busan streets early in the morning (as I do, heading off to teach my 7 a.m. English class). I don't know what it is--something in the kimchi or other Korean foods that breeds this viscous harvest? The high rate of smokers in the country? The air pollution? Whatever the reason, it is not advisable to look down as you walk. Every few paces you will see something you'll wish you hadn't. Throat meat. Lung butter. Air pizza. It's EVERYWHERE. Not a moment too soon for Lenny Bruce. First the Pope pardons Galileo, now this. Can Fatty Arbuckle be far behind? Ah, sleep deprivation. 57% of the benefits of opium at none of the cost (in dollars, that is). That's my excuse for my latest hiatus. Monday, December 15, 2003
TWO FACES (AT LEAST) OF THE UNITED STATES: 1. At about 9:45 AM on Saturday, December 13, I left Philadelphia International Airport for Charlotte, NC, en route to my final destination of Knoxville, TN. On this flight was a large number of Philadelphia Eagles fans, themselves ultimately bound for Miami, FL, in order to attend Monday night's impending game against the Miami Dolphins. Even if their licensed Eagles-team-player jerseys and caps hadn't given them away, their affections would have been evident from their steady cheering ("E! A! G! L! E! S! Eagles!"), hooting and whooping, shot through with loudly proclaimed insults about the Southern U.S. (often in broadly faked hillbilly accents), all fueled by rounds of Saturday-morning Heinekens. They were disgusting and embarassing, not least of all due to the sight of their round doughy bodies encased in green jerseys blazoned with the names of actual athletes, and I felt, as rarely before, how people overseas must view us Americans: with loathing, condescension, and the anger reserved for the antics of spoiled, arrogant children. 2. On Sunday morning, December 14, I woke (in Athens, TN) to the news that Saddam Hussein had been captured by US soldiers outside Tikrit, Iraq, and I will not deny the happy jolt that went through me, nor the joy at seeing the cyclical footage of Hussein being handled like an animal at the veterinarian's office, nor the pride I felt in belonging to the nation that had run him to ground. Monday, December 08, 2003
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
A helpful reader was kind enough to send me this link: Richard Hell Himself discussing his presentation of The Devil Probably earlier this month in Philadelphia. Nice to get independent confirmation from the original source. And since I'm going on about films, as I tend to do, here's a plug for My Architect, a documentary (this has been a good year for them) about the life and work of Louis I. Kahn, made by the son no one was supposed to know he had. Sunday, November 23, 2003
Fortunately, there is this place to visit on a warm and clear Sunday morning. On display: herons, cormorants, teal ducks, woodpeckers, waxwings. A month ago I noted the death of a former college roommate, and since then I've been made aware of this commemorative site posted by his brother. Thursday, November 20, 2003
The world’s most punctilious blog takes only slightly under two weeks to report that I had the (somewhat-)recent opportunity to view a theatrical screening of The Devil Probably (d. Robert Bresson, 1977), introduced by none other than Richard Hell, who I can literally say looked a Hell of a lot worse than when I saw him perform live in 1982. (I'm looking lots worse since that evening myself, but not a Hell of a lot worse. I hope the distinction is clear.) The discomforting fact proved to be that, while Hell has apparently become a touring spokesman for this particular masterpiece (and Bresson in general), he hasn’t become a particularly good spokesman; while introducing the movie, he lost his train of thought more than once, complained of hearing loss (but not from having seen the movie so many times, ha ha), and more or less rambled self-involvedly about how much Devil affected him when he first saw it. (In 1999! This truly surprised me, as Hell would seem to be, or was at one time, the epitome of NYC-hipsterism, and if there was anywhere you might see Bresson’s masterfully austere films without too much trouble, it would be Manhattan, so what the hell took Hell so long to recognize the great man's work? Hell, even the Philadelphia repertory houses showed his movies back in the 80s, which is when and where I fell in love with them, so you know they were playing in New York too. Was Hell too sleepy from heroin to pick up a schedule from the Thalia or the Bleecker Street Cinema? On the other hand, I never wrote Love Comes in Spurts, so there.) Anyhow, an uncomfortable introduction of the gosh-isn't-Uncle-Richard-getting-dotty variety notwithstanding, The Devil Probably is another outstanding movie from one of my favorite directors (whose L’Argent I sometimes consider the very greatest film ever made). Devil is the story of an almost beatifically anguished young man in contemporary (c. 1977) Paris, of whose death we learn in the very first minute, and whose deliberate abstention from life becomes a supreme comment on a spiritually polluted world. Who is responsible for this awful condition? "The Devil Probably." Or is the young man "simply" depressed to a clinical degree? The film would be unendurable (as it apparently was for a few audience members who walked out of the screening) if not for the characteristic care which went into every shot (there’s a great one where the hero, literally en route to his death in a cemetery, overhears some Mozart through an apartment window, stops on the sidewalk to peek in, realizes the music is coming from a TV set and continues on in disgust), as well as the clear sense that there is nothing fashionable or self-righteous whatsoever in Bresson’s despair, rather that he is working as clearly as his gifts allow him to perceive the elements surrounding him. This, as so many other of his films, is a deeply personal wail of horror at how far humanity tends to fall from its ideals. Speaking of prolixity, yeah, I know, it ain't me, babe. But just think, however much time I spend away from my blog, that's just how much time goes into making a certain health school's web site an extra-bit better. (Do I have to explain that?) Quick, while it's still up in full-text: The New York Times profiles GBV's voluminosity along with Robert Pollard's prolixity. (You may have to register to read this, but it's still free.) A decent article, aside from the callous reference to Tobin Sprout as "a former Guided by Voices guitarist." Sprout remains, of course, the George Harrison to Pollard's Lennon/McCartney. Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Let's see, where to start? How about a nod to last week's mayoral election in Philadelphia (Democrat John Street handily beating Republican challenger Sam Katz), which proved that only in William Penn's green countrie towne (c. 2003) can a Federal investigation into corruption, favoritism and influence-peddling boost the popularity of an incumbent mayor. (Did I say "only in Philadelphia"? I take that back.) A while ago I excoriated Californians for electing grope-meister and politically-inexperienced Arnold Schwarzenegger governor of their state, but I think The Terminator has to take a back seat to The Exterminator who found in the bug in Mayor Street's office and got him re-elected big-time. I suppose you could make a better joke... My eye doctor gave me the thumbs-up yesterday (and not in my eye, fortunately) so perhaps we'll see an increase in posting around here. I wasn't going blind or anything interesting like that, just feeling the sort of optic strain that didn't fill me with the urge to spend even more time typing onscreen after a day at the office. Wednesday, November 05, 2003
More creepy songs: Strange by The Soft Boys Diane by Husker Du Jordan, Minnesota by Big Black Inclusion restricted to songs that are genuinely unsettling (at least to me) and not novelty recordings (like "Monster Mash") or deliberate sops to the goth market (like "Bela Lugosi's Dead"), however appealing these may be. Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Steve from Korea writes: "Many Koreans think 'Joanie Loves Chachi' is the greatest TV show of all time. Why? Because 'cha-chi' means 'penis' in Korean. On a totally unrelated note: there's a punk band in New York called 'Joanie Loves Trotsky.'" Red's note: Yeah, but do they know Korea is a peninsula? Monday, October 27, 2003
For Halloween, a list of some of the creepiest songs ever recorded (that I can think of): Frankie Teardrop by Suicide #2 in the Model Home Series by Guided by Voices King Ink by The Birthday Party Untitled [track 11, CD 2, from Selected Ambient Works Volume II] by Aphex Twin Atlantis by Sun Ra [not really a song, I concede] Rub 'Til it Bleeds by PJ Harvey and, naturally, Red Right Hand by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds Seven off the top of my head. Should you think of any I should add, drop me a line. Button seen in Philadelphia supermarket: "BUG BUSH -- ELECT STREET" I'm not endorsing anyone or anything, I'm just reporting what I saw. Wednesday, October 22, 2003
I recently learned that a former college housemate of mine died late last year in a fire. I don’t know the circumstances, only that a couple of lines on the subject appeared in my college alumni rag (scroll nearly to the bottom). David Carne McKinney. A fellow two classes ahead of me, in fact, he’d already graduated by the time we ended up rooming in the same house. Bass player. Terminal mumbler. Serious political lefty. Cranky and clumsy. Moved from East Coast to Berkeley, CA in 1982. Last seen by me in December 1991, at which time he appeared to be the same cranky, awkward mumbling left-wing loser who used to forget to put the milk carton back in the refrigerator when he was finished with it. I miss him. At this time I would like to acknowledge the birth of my newest nephew. He is: named Daniel; two months old; countermanding Death. Monday, October 20, 2003
Steven from South Korea writes: " WWRGD? (What Would Richard Gere Do?) or CHARLATANS....I saw what looked like a Buddhist monk (robes, shaved head) walking from shop to shop, begging for money by banging a little hand drum. Hmmm--was this some lower-order initiate or acolyte learning humility by living off the kindness of others for a prescribed period? Guess again. A Korean friend told me that there are lots of bogus Buddhists (my phrase, not his) who get the robes/shaved head look down and try to scam money from businesses. Not many people buy the shtick, but I guess enough do to make them still do it. It ain't televangelism, but they're learning fast, those Koreans!" Friday, October 17, 2003
So that really was Nicolas Cage I saw behind Independence Hall on Tuesday. My neighborhood hasn't been so fouled up by a bloated movie crew since Jersey Girl filmed here last summer. That's right, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez Themselves, in August 2002, shot scenes for a movie just a few paces from my apartment...yet that was well over a year ago and Jersey Girl still hasn't been released and I just can't imagine what's causing the delay. Thursday, October 16, 2003
More from Busan: "COMIC MISUNDERSTANDING OF THE WEEK: I asked a student what she did during the weekend. I thought she said 'I watched the Spice Girls on MTV.' What she said was, 'I rode my bicycle at the beach.' Do I have some subconscious obsession with Baby Spice? Or is Koreans' pronunciation of English THAT bad? You decide." Wednesday, October 15, 2003
I've been meaning for a while to write something about Arnold Schwarzenegger's election to the governorship of California, but find myself stymied each time I begin. This isn't at all like seeing some album you know is wretched perched atop the Billboard charts, or some similar movie inhaling the box office. This is the real thing...or is it the unreal thing? Has Philip K. Dick taken his revenge upon us from beyond the grave? (PKD was a nearly lifelong Californian, remember.) Arnold Schwarzenegger, a human special effect with no political experience at all, will be governor of California, the most populated state in the nation, simply because he oozes charisma. The United States deserves every hateful insult that overseas countries can devise. You want Schwarzenegger's curriculum vitae? Well here it fucking is. What have you done, you damned Californians? What on earth have you done? You know, until very recently, when I had bad days on this side of the country, I still used to fantasize about jumping in a car and driving non-stop till I got to California. You know, to make my life over and everything. I've been to the Bay Area and it's stunning. But you know what? No fucking more. And since California's now likely to get bailed out with Federal $$$ courtesy of W. Bush, people will say Schwarzenegger's done a great job, too. I hope that fucking state breaks off and sinks to the bottom of the Pacific. Thursday, October 09, 2003
For the four of you who've been paying attention, I am pleased to present the first posting from my South Korean correspondent, our Man in Busan, Steven K (click on the Poetry Plus + 20 link): "Today five of my students were admitted to the hospital after I tried to teach them some of the actors' warm-up exercises I used as a high school drama director, such as the chorus to 'I Am So Proud' from THE MIKADO: To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock In a pestilential prison with a life-long lock Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp, shock From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big, black, block. "I finished the rest off by trying to get them to say, 'The sixth sheik's sixth son's sheep's sick.' I also discussed with my adult students the curious concept of 'fan death.' You see, most Koreans are convinced that if you go to sleep with the windows closed and a fan blowing on you, you can die from some combination of asphyxiation and hypothermia. And if you try to disabuse them of this, um, interesting notion, many will claim that it is a scientifically provable fact. And if you persist in your incredulity, you will be met that curious expression on the Koreans' faces that is the result of two conflicting emotions fighting it out--The Teacher Must Be Respected vs. Americans are Stupid, Arrogant Asses. "In other news, the Pusan Internation Film Festival is wrapping up today and tomorrow, with just about every dang movie plumb sold out. I wanted to go see Gus Van Sant's latest, Elephant, tonight, but there was NO chance to score a tik. This is all a shock to me--Korean pop culture is usually about as lowest-common-denominator as you can imagine. This is a serious hard-working culture, and (so my theory goes), people want their entertainment to be fairly mindless. So it a surprise to see that there IS a niche for challenging, cutting edge films out here. Who knew?" So there you have it, folks, one Westerner's cultural impressions straight from the Korean peninsula. And speaking of which..... ....imagine if you will a grubby apartment building underneath an interstate ramp in some second- or third-tier American city. The time: 2:39 AM. Inside that building is one of its many beat-up efficiency rooms, across whose thin, booger-green and cigarette-burned carpet lies a crusty scattering of fast food wrappers, skin mags, movie mags, celebrity mags and empty cans of Miller. Tacked to one peeling wall is a large color blow-up of Uma Thurman's bare feet, photographed in adoring close-up. Underneath the photo is a flickering tv set playing an endless loop of clips from martial arts films (and pretty quality clips, it must be admitted: top tier Shaw Bros. stuff). Standing in the middle of the room is Quentin Tarantino, stark naked. His beady gaze shifts back and forth in an undying cycle between the photograph and the tv screen. His penis is hard, and he is rubbing it without cease, and he is panting "Oh man, oh man, oh man...." Imagine this for two hours. Congratulations. You have just seen Kill Bill Vol. 1. Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Yes, I'm still alive, just very very busy. Here, check out this South Korean film festival, that ought to hold you till I have time to write something semi-coherent. Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Monday, September 29, 2003
This sentence is like a great big hyperlink just waiting to get clicked. An excerpt from David Foster Wallace's new book. I was about to link to some critical commentary on that excerpt from a professional mathematician, but something's happened to that link's host server, at least for now, so no go. Which is too bad, because it was pretty sharp. Anyway, what do you think? As much as I admire G.K. Chesterton (whose Father Brown stories aren't appreciated nearly enough, despite having been praised by Borges himself), his quote in Wallace's opening is of course total b.s. It's not exactly a secret that a significant number of prominent poets and other creative types had/have problems in the attic, often with genuinely tragic consequences; I happen to know of a few cases personally. Chesterton was a devout Catholic, and I think his remark is intended as an attack on rationalism, materialism, empirical methods and all that good stuff, and cannot be taken seriously as a commentary on imagination (or logic, either) per se. Thursday, September 25, 2003
Yeah, I know, quite a hiatus. That's what happens sometimes when you work for a living, and your employer really wants you to work, and especially when it's web-related work; the last thing you want to do in your downtime is write more stuff online. You=me, of course. But, I'm glad to have a job. Had some thoughts about the part proximity plays in the press coverage of disasters. Two weeks ago, South Korea was beat up by a massive typhoon; estimated press coverage in the States: minimal. (I was paying attention because a friend of mine just moved to Pusan to teach English.) And of course, last week, parts of the mid-Atlantic states (where, you know, lots of Americans live) were torn up by Hurricane Isabel; estimated press coverage in the States, before, during and after: colossal. Proving that people tend only to care about what's happening directly to them. I'm certainly not innocent of this fault; when Isabel's fringes passed through my part of the world, I was only mildly impressed with the rain and the intermittent gusts of strong wind. "So this is the big hyped-up hurricane?" But of course, as I was saying this, people were being killed, homes destroyed, power lost by millions. So don't let your personal luck keep you aloof from the troubles of others. And keep watching the skies. Sunday, September 14, 2003
Today I either have a hangover or a brain tumor. Twenty-four hours should settle the difference. Meanwhile (again), a couple more R.I.P.s to note. A serious farewell to Charles Bronson, native Pennsylvanian, and final word in the argument that, where movies are concerned, certain folks don't have to shift their facial expression by one micro-millimeter in order to give an eternally cool performance. I'm quite serious; he was that cool. Bronson is cinema history if only for his appearance in Once Upon a Time in the West; I remember seeing that magnificent film during its theatrical (and restored) re-release in the mid-80s, and it remains one of the grand moviegoing experiences of my life. (The DVD is finally due out on November 18th, but if you were likely enough to see it on the real widescreen, you know what I'm talking about.) I can still hear Bronson, as Harmonica, saying "I like my water fresh," and "You brought two too many." A voice to outlast parody. Arrivederci, Charles. And another deep dose of respect, this time for The Man in Black. Stark and never any bullshit. Subject of the best music-biz photo ever. Bruised. Real. Unpigeonholeable. I hang my head and cry. Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Finally. Meanwhile, you never know who's going to check out the links you put on your blog: I heard back tout de suite from Blackben of The Other Red Right Blog, who was none too pleased with the aspersions I cast upon his Gallic station and parentage. Blackben, je suis tres kidding! What can I say, the fellow has great taste in titling blogs. Saturday, September 06, 2003
This was inevitable, I suppose. Goddamn French bastard. If you're really aching for a translation into English, Google the site and hit the supplied link. A Mr. Dave Schuman, Web Content Editor of the Land Grand College Review, was kind enough to write me and ask that I link to his publication. So I am hereby doing so. Finally saw American Splendor and was rather charmed by it, though the film inevitably suffers a bit from having to cram about three decades' worth of genuine life-struggles into the frame of a feature film. A very unorthodox feature film, thank goodness. Best laugh in my opinion involved the business with the pencil-written letter on Harvey's bed. Wednesday, August 27, 2003
And finally, this terrible milepost: as of today, even taking into account the contradictory methods of toting up US military casualties (at last, a job for Worldcom), it is certain that more American soldiers have died in Iraq since May 1, when President Bush declared that "major combat operations in Iraq have ended," than died in the previous weeks of declared war. Of course, the president never participated in even a minor combat operation, so his confusion may be excused. Put mathematically, we are averaging slightly over one death of a serviceman daily in Iraq, and I don't want to forget this, even as I'm laughing at the SuperFriends. Now this is the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. Not as interactive as the make-your-own-Bush speech I linked to some weeks back, but more hysterical and anal-retentively creative...hours of viewing pleasure...particularly if you're male...and of a certain age. Don't pass up the little movie clips either, they're some choice stuff! My favorite: Batgirl exclaiming that she just landed on "something hard." Kevin Smith, you will never be this humorous, please stop making movies, now. Good. I hate Worldcom, or MCI, or whatever alias they're using this hour. They were my wireless provider until late last summer, when their innovative methods of bookkeeping began to receive some mild publicity. They socked me with an insane roaming fee on the last bill I received, which I refused to pay for several months, and then when I finally did pay it, they said I hadn't. I told their bill collectors to fuck off. Haven't heard from any of those nice people for a few months now...gee, I hope nothing bad happened to any of them. Monday, August 25, 2003
The new Guided by Voices album, Earthquake Glue, is not bad (you can presently listen to the whole thing on the band's website and judge for yourself) but neither is it especially memorable, or so it strikes me at the moment. (I didn't win one of the golden tickets, either.) So once again you can forget about a return to the classic mid-90s period of Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes. A guy I know told me yesterday that the last time he saw GBV in concert (that would be last year), a more-inebriated-than-usual Robert Pollard yelled from the stage: "People talk about the classic line-up of GBV....FUCK the classic line-up!" So that explains that. Meanwhile, this large-hearted boy is a big fan of the pigpen, so check him out; I even added him to my side-menu Hall of Clickable Fame. Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Just to prove I'm not entirely morose 24/7, I hereby post my proposed lyrics to "Love Theme from Gigli." I can just imagine some studio employee conjecturing that all the movie really needed to avoid its leper-status at the box-office was a solid ballad for Jennifer Lopez to belt over the closing credits. But hell, I didn't even see the movie; for all I know, Jennifer Lopez does sing some horrible song as the tail end of the movie unspools to a theaterful of empty seats. Things to bear in mind while reading: 1. Like I said, I haven't seen the movie, so these lyrics are based entirely on reviews and hearsay. 2. Imagine these words set to some shitty Hollywood ear-punisher of your choice. Heartlight, Evergreen, you know what I mean? Real sludge. 3. There was a third thing but now I can't remember what it was. LOVE THEME FROM GIGLI I was lost and I was drifting, been hurt by so many guys I’d gotten used to finding love between a woman’s thighs I did what the mob guys told me, I killed here and I killed there Once I pushed some old lady in front of the D train, you could say I just didn’t care And then one day they sent me out, to keep an eye on some kidnapped kid You opened your door, you opened your heart, do you know what you’ve done did? Ohhhhh Gigli, you really really make me feel so high I think I fell for you when I watched you saw the thumb off that dead guy Ohhhhh Gigli, I really think we’re meant for one another I’m gonna do some yoga then spend my life with you... After days in your apartment with that cute retarded boy Your muscles and your forehead ridge became an everlasting joy My life is now a sundae, and you’re the maraschino Let’s run away together, I think you’re sexier than Al Pacino, and... Gigli, you really are my special kind of guy You’re the one man in the Mob who’ll Do me when I say “Gobble, gobble” Gigli, you’re the sun who chases away the rain I'm writing my girlfriend a letter that reads “Dear Jaaaaaaaaaaaane” Tuesday, August 19, 2003
A note that I've re-published the figures of American troop deaths to reflect those supplied by the Department of Defense and the Iraq Coalition Casualty Count, but I am also republishing the link to this article. For those of you writing in to bitch about me being some sort of ghoul, I reply that I am only reprinting official figures which come from a branch of the United States government; I don't enjoy seeing those numbers go up, quite the contrary. In fact, I could easily be accused of jingoism, or nationalistic self-centrism (or something) as I am entirely omitting available figures on other coalition (i.e., British) forces, not to mention the high but imprecise numbers for Iraqi military and civilian deaths, or today's murders of United Nations workers. I just don't want anyone to think that war takes a summer vacation. So it turns out that Idi Amin , that sweetheart syphillitic cannibal whose name became a Western household word after the 1976 Israeli raid on Entebbe, spent the last couple of decades enjoying a quiet exile in Saudi Arabia. You remember Saudi Arabia. They're our friends who we helped out in the First Gulf War. The monarchy that can claim 78.94% of the September 11th hijackers as citizens, a wonderful relationship with the present US administration, and a human rights record that takes a back seat to none. I guess Amin must have snuck in under the Saudi radar or something. Thursday, August 14, 2003
I'm breaking radio silence once again to point out that Harvey Pekar is prominently featured in today's issue of USA Today, including his mug on the front page, upper right corner. Longtime fans exult: there is some justice in this world. We now return you to your revised (as in higher) death count of US forces in Iraq, adjusted by the US military to "to take account of soldiers wounded in action who later died of their wounds." Sunday, August 10, 2003
Breaking my vows, this tentative post while vacationing, from a very slow connection in my hotel room. The sun is having its own problems out of doors. Looking forward to a campfire and more seafood tonight. Oh boy, what a dead giveway to my location. Wednesday, August 06, 2003
You'll all be fascinated to learn that the air-conditioning has been out today at my place of employ, and I am suffocating. But the head honchos may let us bail early. Meanwhile, what should I read at the beach this weekend? I just... can't... decide.... Wednesday, July 30, 2003
I think it's great that someone wrote a song about Matthew Barney...or about part of him anyway. Scroll down to the mp3 link. Richly deserved. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. But now here's something important to read: Report of the Joint Inquiry into the Terrorist Attacks of September 11, 2001....the entire report online, free, in PDF format. (Note: it's big, 858 pages.) It's ours, we paid for it, in all sorts of ways. Tuesday, July 29, 2003
How ill white hairs become a fool and jester: How old was Bob Hope? So old that Vincent Canby, author of his New York Times obituary, has been dead for three years. I'm not the only one having a hard time believing the byline, either. Maybe the Times can still squeeze another Woody Allen review out of the guy, only appropriate considering Allen's movies these days. [ba-dump chish] Hey how bout that Raquel Welch, isn't she something? Grrrrrrrowl.....One look at her and Ho Chi Minh changed his name to Oh Gee Pleeze...Grrrrrrrrowl. But seriously folks, I'm going to apply for a grant, so I can finally film my dream project, the Bob Hope Alternate-History 1966 Christmas Special, where he entertains GIs on Mars, makes jokes about President Philip Dick, and introduces a special guest from the audience, Marine sharpshooter and interplanetary hero Lee Harvey Oswald. Feel free to contact me directly with contributions. Speaking of great American entertainers, okay, here it is: the Cremaster cycle is a load of shit. Just Google on "Matthew Barney" and "pretentious" and see what you get. The five Cremaster movies are so shallow, so self-involved, so annoying, that official explanations actually make them seem worse: an admittedly effective sequence early on in Cremaster 3 (that is, 15-20 minutes out of a three-hour film) involving an animated female corpse is rendered null for me when I learn the corpse is that of Gary Gilmore (played by Barney in Cremaster 2) magically transformed by death into his female self. This makes even less sense than no explanation, and, folks, I sat through the films in numeric sequence. Barney's admirers will tell you that everything he does must be seen in context, the films being only one element in the entire gesamtkunstwerk which must be judged entirely, but when the "context" is little more than superficial observations about gender and the creative urge (i.e., building a skyscraper is like having an erection, creation and destruction are related, boys are biologically different from girls, etc.), I have to say you're full of bullshit. And is the audience supposed to charitably ignore the technical shabbiness of the earliest-made films: the poor photography, discontinuity, sloppy lip-synching and clumsy editing? THESE MOVIES ARE BORING AND THEY REFER TO LITTLE BUT THEMSELVES! Barney never learned why the cutting-room has a floor, and that audiences are not obligated to sit through every image that happened to pass through his mind; six-and-a-half freaking hours; at best, I see these flicks enduring as "moving wallpaper" running on widescreen monitors for those who can afford them in their homes. Remember, Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali (two real artists) made Un Chien Andalou in 1928 and it was a half-hour long...in other words, those guys knew how to hit it and quit it, and allowed the viewer to draw such meaning from the surreal images as he or she might; they never pretended to have some vast personal mythology to promote and commodify. (And Bunuel went on to have an extraordinary career as a narrative film director, putting his gift for disturbing pictures to use in unforgettable, and often brilliantly funny, stories of character and society; I can't see Barney ever coming close to this.) Apologies about the ranting, but after three separate trips to the theater and an outlay of $25.50, I never felt enlightened or opened-up by Barney's work in any way, only that I had endured it. Monday, July 28, 2003
I woke up this morning to the gratifying news that last Friday's post is officially Big in Japan. Always happy to promote cross-Pacific relations, especially now that comedy is needed more than ever. I am apparently responsible for a mini-tempest (yeah, right!) at one of my newly favorite blogs. Moorish Girl may have picked up on what I wrote about Michael Moore, but I hadn't really meant to focus on that particular filmmaker...until yesterday, when I found this extraordinary account, from a lefty more-or-less-Moore-sympathisizer no less, about The Big One's proven mendacity. The entire piece is worth a full, close read, and a solid indicator that you shouldn't trust anyone, even if and especially if they seem like "one of us, on your side, representing you, the little guy," ad nauseam. Yeah I survived the Cremaster films. Details to come, I promise; I am at work right now. Friday, July 25, 2003
Delillo fans take note: this Underworld is not that Underworld. It is instead a thought-provoking summer movie with a totally unique style and design unlike anything you have ever oh god somebody please make it stop. Comments on the Cremaster cycle after I've seen all five films. Teaser: unimpressed by what I've seen so far. Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Sic semper tyrannis. Moving right along, Matthew Barney's Cremaster cycle commences unspooling tonight in Philadelphia and through the 27th. Yes, I plan to see it, and no, not all in one sitting. The days when I dutifully viewed Our Hitler in one day, and the entirety of Berlin Alexanderplatz in one weekend, are long passed. On the wordy tip, hurry up and read this remarkable essay by Kathryn Chetkovich while it's still available online...or you could actually buy the issue of Granta in which it appears. No points for deducing the identity of the man "correct"-ly (ha ha); Ms. Chetkovich's gossamer-like circumspection is part of the point, I think. Hmmm, circumspect Chetkovich...that's fun to say. Anyway, I'd really like to hear people's opinions on this: is the article a shamelessly craven bid for attention, or a stunningly honest confession of weakness and failure? Monday, July 21, 2003
For those of you left writhing in suspense by my last remarks, here is your relief, a few words on today's enhanced documentaries. By now, it's no secret that Bowling for Columbine, last year's most successful documentary was a concoction of, uh, fact-based opinion masquering as objective truth. Filmmaker Michael Moore's supporters don't seem to care how much he tweaks and pokes and turkish-taffyizes the facts so long as he aggravates the "right people." That casual attitude appears to have leaked into the approach of other documentarians, not to mention their audiences, and this bothers me. I saw a festival screening of Winged Migration back in April, with director Jacques Perrin Q&A-ing afterward, and he blithely admitted that dramatic scenes of birds in peril had been staged, even though the film contains a notice that no special effects were used. In fact, he said some of the birds had been raised from birth for the explicit purpose of being in the film. Did the sell-out crowd rush the stage? No, though I heard some tsking of tongues. Meanwhile, Stone Reader, which moved me almost to tears, has some rather obviously "re-created" scenes of the director's buddies getting packages from him in the mail...these are perhaps so goofy as to not be worth criticizing. As for Capturing the Friedmans, I am literally at a loss as to where to begin. Director Andrew Jarecki is hailed by some critics for having captured the essence of a "who-do-you-believe" investigation, and accused by others of having "crafted a market strategy based on ambiguity," that is, deliberately omitting exculpatory evidence from the film that would "prove" Arnold and Jesse Friedman completely innocent of all the molestation charges made against them in the 1980s (to many of which charges, however, the father and son pled guilty and received heavy jail sentences). Jarecki's film left me with the strong impression that the police and prosecutors piled on to the Friedmans...but also that the latter were hardly untainted. (And of course, many viewers would likely believe that Arnold, as a proven trafficker in child porn, should have gone to prison anyway, and the molestation charges, true or not, were only poetic justice.) I guess I'm arguing not against the admittance of ambiguity in a fact-based film, but against the cynical manipulation of an audience as per Moore and Perrin. And CtF, if nothing else, proves the volatility of child molestation as a topic; emotions are such that there is no plain objectivity. I'm done. Sunday, July 20, 2003
I'm moving my lazy and red right hand to tell you that while I hate to join voices with a mass-media observation, the fact is that the most affecting films I've seen in recent months have all been documentaries. Capturing the Friedmans, Stone Reader, Cinemania, Stevie, Winged Migration and Spellbound, while varying in quality, all provoke emotions inaccessible to fictional scripts. (Although Lilya 4-Ever comes close.) Add Rivers and Tides to the list: an extraordinary account of Scottish sculptor Andy Goldsworthy, of whose work, I am mortally ashamed to admit, I was completely ignorant till last week. Goldsworthy works almost entirely out-of-doors with natural elements such as ice, stones, leaves (at one point he even paints with rain; please discover for yourself how he does this), making work whose inherent degradability is its point. Paraphrasing the man: "The element that brings it to fullest life also brings about its end," commenting on an icicle sculpture fierily illuminated by, before being finally melted by, the sun. The film succeeds perfectly at at least two things: proving that what might seem at first to be childish gimmickry is in fact a deeply respectful observance of natural processes (the twined flowings of water and air, the way stone can be said to move similarly); and the participation of film in Goldsworthy's resume, recording his one-time-only creations before they melt back into the surroundings; in other words, you have to see Rivers and Tides in order to see certain things he's done. (Of course, Goldsworthy's been keeping photographic records of his sculptures before the moviemakers came around, but still, this time you get to see them rise and fall.) Enough for now. I hope to post more later, either today or tomorrow, about the selective presentation of factual truth in these and other documentaries, likely contradicting everything I just wrote in the paragraph above. Thursday, July 10, 2003
After the Gramme: last night's Fall concert was near-excellent, much more enjoyable than Sunday's show, with a bigger and better air-conditioned venue allowing for more concentration on the band and less fear of dehydration. Same basic set list as in New York, with Big New Prinz substituting for I Am Damo Suzuki. (Uhm, you're all following this, right?) Highlight: MES tossing the mike into the first row, as is his wont, during the encore, where I was able to grab it and shout "He!....Is!....Not!....APPRECIATED!" during the appropriate moment in Big New Prinz. I can now die happily. Smith appeared completely off booze for the evening, meaning that instead of crazy and drunk, he was merely crazy, as intensely aloof as I've ever seen him (and if the pictures I snapped come out well, I'll post them for view), actually seeming absorbed in the music generated by his band. He only walked off once (followed by the band; they all came back a moment later; classic Fall stuff). And the band: I'm beginning to relish this new stripped-down, grinding outfit and their ability to create the old Fall magic, whereby a merely adequate riff is brought to transcendental levels by the simple expedient of being played over and over again. "Repetition in the music and we're never gonna lose it...." I had a great time. Wednesday, July 09, 2003
As promised, I was in New York City over the 4th-of-July weekend, and among other things took in the July 6th performance of The Fall at the Knitting Factory. Presently I have neither time nor energy to explain why this band plays such a significant role in the history of Western music, so I'll just skip ahead and tell you that Sunday night's performance was an energetic and satisfying one, superior to the last time I saw them (Nov. 2001, at the very same venue; with the obvious exception of Mark E. Smith, guitarist Ben Pritchard is the only band member from the 2001 show to return for the current tour) and much better than the semi-legendary meltdown shows of April 1998. We got a decent sampling of tracks from the still-unreleased Country on the Click and the last three studio albums, as well as some deathless Mancunian chestnuts, such as Mere Pseud Mag Ed., Mr. Pharmacist (yes, I know it's a cover version) and the classic I Am Damo Suzuki. However, the band's present line-up produces a sort of monolithic garage-vamp sound instead of the spindly dissonant clatter that first attracted me to this most idiosyncratic of music groups way back in the very early 80s, and I miss that sound. MES' latest wife Elanor adds some decent keyboard textures but it's not the same, and yeah I know the point is that MES can do as he pleases (which he certainly did on Sunday, howling into the club's sweltering atmosphere with or w/o a mike, fiddling/MESsing with equipment knobs, even yanking the band offstage after five songs w/o explanation then returning with them less than a minute later still w/o explanation, and does the guy ever eat any food, I mean jeez, look at these pics!) but I have my preferences like anyone else. Did I have a good time? Yeah mate, and I'm seeing them again tonight in Philadelphia, in a venue whose air-conditioning I bloody well hope is more powerful than that of the Knitting Factory. May even try to take some pictures. I hope a certain fellow living in Japan is happy with this posting. Saturday, July 05, 2003
Oh yeah, now I remember: I have a blog. Been absent for a while and perhaps it was the thought of all the R.I.P.s I'd have to type out that kept me from logging on, and son of a gun, the longer I waited, the more prominent deaths there were. There's a mini-essay to be produced on the whole "Dead Pool/obituaries-just-waiting-to-be-defrosted" theme, exemplified by the lengthy articles that immediately appeared upon word that the very old and ailing Katharine Hepburn had just passed. But I'm not going to produce it. Ms. Hepburn, to name one person, had a full life, accomplishing what she wanted, and (for once the cliche is true) we are all richer for her having been here, so let us celebrate her life and not go on about her death. For example, let's point out that Bringing Up Baby, one of the greatest movies ever made, was a big flop with critics and audiences upon initial release, but time passed, and at last the world knew better. If you haven't seen this movie, you need to. But what does shock me is Barry White's death. 58? Fifty-eight? That's terrible. How will future generations learn to make out on the sofa now? If you really want an earful of the man's majestic voice in high dudgeon, try to find a copy of this album; pray that your ad copy never falls into the hands of a wellknown vocalist. Speaking of albums, this one is presently getting some heavy rotation in the Wright-Hand abode. As is the music of The One-Time Greatest Band in the World; The Fall are currently touring North America; I'm planning to catch them on their July 6 date in NYC, and again on the 9th in Philadelphia. Reports to come. Speaking of Philadelphia: nice job, guys. Way to commemorate the Fourth. No, really, I mean it. The mayor, a slimy senator, and a Supreme Court justice nearly all killed at one go on the nation's most preeminent day? Hats off! But next time, wait until Sen. Santorum is there too, okay? Kind of a full-house effect. Ooooh, almost forgot. Found some apparently relevant non-tiresome blogs that don't suck...at least for the time present. I can't believe it. Maybe you won't either: I refer you to Maud Newton and Moorish Girl. Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Please link to Arts & Letters Daily, an intelligent clearinghouse of worthwhile articles online. This is what a blog (or a Web stationhouse, or what-have-you) should be. On the other end of the spectrum, or at least at some distance further along the band, we have The Best Page in the Universe, which I confess to finding extremely funny. Sunday, June 22, 2003
Phew. President Bush must have read my last post. Glad to see all the confusion straightened out. Liz Phair, R.I.P. No thanks for your voice, ma'am. (Secretly she's [a] shy...ster.) Thursday, June 19, 2003
And maybe you thought Gulf War 2 was over. Seems I recall someone telling us that. Seems some folks in Iraq have other views. Anyone want to speculate on just how long this situation seems likely to continue? Anyone got an egg timer? Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Why I am addicted to the Web. Here's the Japanese version: a completely different tune! (And not nearly as good.) Monday, June 16, 2003
A sorry avalanche of farewells: Jimmy Knepper, Hume Cronyn and William Marshall. Cronyn's debut film performance in Shadow of a Doubt remains unforgettable and a personal favorite, and Marshall is remarkably classy in Blacula. Yeah, Blacula, and don't laugh; the movie's a hell of a lot better than the cheesy title (and the "undead interior decorator" gags) would lead you to expect. A friend once told me that when Marshall appeared on a local campus, student activists, black and otherwise, protested a screening of the film, on the grounds that it was undignified. I wonder if they ever actually watched the movie, or were aware of Marshall's resume. As for trombonist Jimmy Knepper, he may always be best remembered for having been decked by Charles Mingus in mid-concert, but I submit this is practically a badge of honor. Saturday, June 14, 2003
I finally purchased a copy of the Ellington at Newport 1956 (Complete) CD, which prompts several observations. So many, in fact, that I may have to post them separately for all you readers out there who don't like those big blocky paragraphs of mine. Two main and somewhat related thoughts: 1) the hairsplitting liner notes on this excellently produced reissue would make any OCD-disordered science fiction fan proud (it's an OCD CD, har har); 2) the whole issue of the "artificially generated concert" that made up the original release of this recording belongs in a Philip K. Dick novel. More science fiction! I wonder if PKD, who was a serious music fan, ever knew the story behind this. Wednesday, June 11, 2003
I'm getting complaints about my "big blocky paragraphs" that are too hard to read on screen. So there's your blogosphere for you: people who don't like to read more than five lines at a time. There. Are you happy now? Are these paragraphs convenient enough? Better news: Harvey Pekar finally has his own website, complete with blog. Check it out, and be sure to see the American Splendor movie when it's released later this year. Saturday, June 07, 2003
While I'm thinking of it, I want to mention The Hot Rock, newly released on DVD. This is a 1972 film adapted from the very first of the Dortmunder series of novels written by Donald E. Westlake. (Fans of comic-mystery books know exactly what I'm talking about, and the rest of you ought to.) The movie is directed by Peter Yates (Bullitt, Breaking Away...and nothing very much good since, I'm afraid) stars Robert Redford, George Segal, Zero Mostel and Ron Leibman, plus a very young Christopher Guest in a bit as a cop (in the raid-on-the-precinct-house scene), and a decent Miles-Davis-ripoff score from Quincy Jones. Why am I going on about this 30-year-old movie? First, it is based on one of my favorite narrative devices, in which a series of elaborate and extremely-thought-out and even-arguably-brilliant plans all go wrong in execution. (Unfaithfully Yours [1948, with Rex Harrison, remade {why?} in 1984 with Dudley Moore] and Bedazzled [1967, with Dudley Moore and Peter Cook, remade {why?} in Tuesday, June 03, 2003
I confess: the case of Eric Robert Rudolph had slipped entirely out of my mind since the late 90s, and his capture last weekend was startling; I mean the realization that he had apparently been surviving in the same pocket of these United States for so many years, while so many law-enforcement officials, local and Federal, had clearly *not* forgotten him, their vigilance having finally been rewarded. But as many have commented, Rudolph's long fugitive status in the same region, and his apparent good health when finally arrested, indicate a level of community support for him, even beyond the sympathetic remarks and signs openly and seemingly proudly displayed to the media by residents of western North Carolina. Sometimes the wallpaper of popular culture makes this country look like one friendly homogenized mass, and sometimes real people break through, to remind us what elements really make up part of "our national heritage." The War Between the States continues. Sunday, June 01, 2003
For surgical cattiness and Manhattanite self-loathing, this article about writer Meghan Daum in today's New York Times is difficult to match. Saturday, May 31, 2003
MATRIX FILMMAKER IN "SUCKS-CHANGE" SCANDAL: By now, most of you readers who pay any attention at all to Hollywood/celebrity gossip have probably heard the shocking whispers about filmmaker Larry Wachowski, writer-director (with brother Andy) of this summer's The Matrix Reloaded. I can officially confirm those eye-opening rumors, here, before the world. After a private and in-depth investigation that consumed no less than 150 minutes of my time, and at a personal expenditure of $8.50, I can now attest that The Matrix film franchise has had a sucks-change operation. That is correct. The Matrix Reloaded, the sequel to 1999's smash hit The Matrix and this year's most quiveringly anticipated film, absolutely sucks. What had promised to be a thrilling continuation of a trendsetting earlier movie, and an expansion of the characters and philosophy contained therein, has revealed itself to be a robotic clunker that even many confirmed arrested-adolescent fantasy-film nerds don't like. There are some who doubt this, who say it is unfair to pry into the privacy of artists' lives, that it is callous to snigger at private parts bared to the unblinking light of clinical inspection. They say: "Aw man, why can't you understand? It's supposed to be robotic. And, uh, boring. And repetitive. And pointless. Cause then it's like, you know, like it was generated by The Matrix itself. Why are you so blind to that? And it was like really cool when those vanilla rasta guys got all transparent and stuff! And that 10-minute dance scene at the beginning? That was so totally important to letting the audience know what life in a 23rd-century underground city would be like! I hope you get it now!" To which I say: "Boys, don't you have Bar Mitzvah lessons to attend?" And, really, has anyone spotted anything resembling an actual essay on The Matrix Essays? Let me know if you do. I've certainly been earning my paycheck this week, which is my excuse for not having posted since Monday. Ha! Like I need to make excuses for not posting. Laziness rules! Monday, May 26, 2003
Now. I'm back. Then I had fun reading what students think of professors I know and/or used to study under. (Admission of vulgar gratification: a writing instructor with whom I had a bad date turns out to be not much more popular with students, either.) This weekend of traditional travel has also been a good time to read some Paul Bowles stories, and be reminded why it is often a good idea to stay home where you belong. And so far as that goes, nothing quite encapsulates Memorial Day like a batch of Coffin Joe movies, available on DVD since last October. Curl up with these on a rainy day and knock yourself out, literally. PARABLE: A statue pointed to its supporting pedestal and said: "You can't argue with success!" Discuss. Meanwhile it appears there is at least one spot in this nation not being inundated with rain at the moment. I am going there. Now. Wednesday, May 21, 2003
While I'm thinking of it, a plug for the excellent Philly Carshare organization. For $10.00 a month (and a $350.00 refundable deposit), you're allowed 24-hour use of any of several cars conveniently parked in a number of city neighborhoods, basically a collectively shared rental car system. Naturally you have to reserve a car ahead of time, but you can still do that at a moment's notice and use any car available right away. It's worth it just for the reserved parking, believe me. This system first flourished in San Francisco, I believe, and has been imported here with great results. Monday, May 19, 2003
You will notice a nine-day gap between this posting and my last. We call this gap "health." I was away from home during most of that time and NOT OBSESSIVELY POSTING TO THE INTERNET WHILE ON VACATION. Once again, the word for this is "health" (with the modifier "good" being understood). Because only a hopeless screwhead would feel compelled to hunch all tappity-tappy over a keyboard and bathe in irradiated monitor light when he could be strolling the pavements of Northampton, MA, or driving leisurely to visit Herman Melville's home in the Berkshires (where Moby-Dick was written in longhand, if you know what that means), or hiking the stunning landscapes of the Quabbin Reservoir and Mount Tom. I mean, do you need to know about these things the moment they happen? Is there any reason you should care? Of course not. Only sickeningly self-involved creeps feel obliged to inform the world of every last pimple they've popped in the past half-hour, and if Claude Shannon were still alive to see the uses to which his classic theories of modern communication have been put, he would have fallen off his unicycle at the very least. Saturday, May 10, 2003
It just keeps getting better: The Philadelphia Inquirer reports that The Stones of Summer will be reissued in September. So we see that justice, upon occasion, is accomplished. Meanwhile I'll be vacationing in New England next week. There may be guest correspondents. There may not. There may not even be any corresponding from me during that time. Meanwhile, is anyone else as amused as I am by regularly contrasting this husband-and-wife pair of blogs? How much money says they both have their own customized teevees? Thursday, May 08, 2003
You want confluence, I got confluence: this recent LA Weekly article tells how Don DeLillo is a fan of Stone Reader. What did we do before Google? Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Thanks to everyone who's written so far. Keep those e-mails coming. Yes. Please. Thanks. Everybody's beating up on Don DeLillo this spring. Pretty much everyone. Which is of a piece with Heidi Julavits' article in the premiere issue of The Believer, written to the effect that book reviewers are a careerist bunch more interested in making waves than reading and explicating carefully. Which is unfortunately obvious. One negative review of Cosmopolis, appearing in Newsweek (or was it Time?) states that Eric Packer, the book's protagonist, has, in the course of a day, sex with three women, none of whom are his recently-wedded wife. That is incorrect. The third and last woman he makes love to is his wife, a fact that's unmistakable to anyone who's read the book (all of 209 pages) through to the end. In fact (no snickering please), it struck me as easily the most moving and memorable interlude in a novel of deliberate abstractions. Conclusion: the jerk from Newsweek (or Time; I don't have either mag in front of me and will try later to clear up this terrible confusion) DIDN'T REALLY READ THE BOOK. None of this is to say that Cosmopolis is a masterpiece simply because critics/reviewers, sensing a shift in cultural tides, decided to fall upon DeLillo like the conspirators on Caesar. It is a minor work by his lights, not up to the magnificent standards of White Noise and Libra and large sections of Underworld; there is the too-easy feeling that, after the Herculean effort of Underworld, DeLillo is allowing himself to drift (his previous novel, The Body Artist, the first post-Underworld, is also relatively bare, if purposefully). But respect must be paid. At the very least, read him to the end before embarassing your own self in print. Tuesday, May 06, 2003
This is the world's newest blog, though by the time I finish this post, the statement will likely no longer be true. But it's free, and I want to see how far I will get with this before I and any assumed readers lose interest. So yes, I am Red Wright-Hand and this is my Red Right Blog. Admirers of Nick Cave and/or John Milton (and his chief work in particular) will get the reference, I trust. I also like the name for its contradictory political implications, as though I were some Communist neo-conservative out to poison the well of the world-mind. Hysterical, ain't it? I don't intend to speak about myself directly, but will be interested to hear from readers who may be able to detect who and where I am by references dropped from time to time. (Blue has his clues, Red has his threads.) Here is my e-mail before I forget: redrightblog@hotmail.com. (Of course, someone had already snarfed the redrighthand user ID at hotmail, so I had to settle for what I've got.) One recommendation to start: Stone Reader, an unorthodox and extremely moving documentary about the search for Dow Mossman, the forgotten author of a long out-of-print novel (he never wrote another) titled The Stones of Summer. The director captures the lasting effect a particular book, read early in life, will have on a person's character, and along the way interviews leading (or formerly leading, which is the point) critics, editors and writers, as well as Mossman's former agent, to illuminate the grievous state of literary fiction in current America. The dreams painfully constructed stone by stone, then utterly discarded. But a celebration of those dreams too, and a recognition of those titanic books (like The Recognitions and Call it Sleep) that came finally to be acknowledged, somewhat, by good readers. |
