idlesuperstar:

Kathleen Byron, talking about Jack in Cameraman: The Jack Cardiff Story.

(via schmanthonyp)

The novelist Steve Erickson, in a 1992 review of Fire Walk With Me, is one of the few critics who gave any indication of even trying to understand what the movie was trying to do: “We always knew Laura was a wild girl, the homecoming femme fatale who was crazy for cocaine and fucked roadhouse drunks less for the money than the sheer depravity of it, but the movie is finally not so much interested in the titillation of that depravity as [in] her torment, depicted in a performance by Sheryl Lee so vixenish and demonic it’s hard to know whether it’s terrible or a tour de force. [But not trying too terribly hard because now watch:] Her fit of giggles over the body of a man whose head has just been blown off might be an act of innocence of damnation [get ready:] or both.” *Or* both? Of *course* both. This is what Lynch is *about* in this movie: *both* innocence and damnation; *both* sinned-against and sinning. Laura Palmer in Fire Walk With Me is *both* “good” and “bad,” and yet also neither; she’s complex, contradictory, real. And we hate this possibility in movies; we hate this “*both*” shit. “*Both*” comes off as sloppy characterization, muddy filmmaking, lack of focus. At that rate that’s what we criticized Fire Walk With Me’s Laura for. But I submit that the real reason we criticized and disliked Lynch’s Laura’s muddy *both*ness is that it requires of us an empathetic confrontation with the exact same muddy *both*ness in ourselves and our intimates that makes the real world of moral selves so tense and uncomfortable, a *both*ness we go to the movies to get a couple hours’ fucking relief from. A movie that requires that these features of ourselves and the world not be dreamed away or judged away or massaged away but *acknowledged*, and not just acknowledged but *drawn upon* in our emotional relationship with the heroine herself — this movie is going to make us feel uncomfortable, pissed off; we’re going to feel, in Premiere magazine’s own head editor’s word, “Betrayed.” — David Lynch in his essay on David Lynch, as published in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and stolen from here so I didn’t have to write it all out myself
One of the things I learned during the recent Film Society of Lincoln Center Godard retrospective is that condemnations of late Godard running run across lines of “we prefer your earlier cooler films” are, while perhaps tenable on the ultimately utterly banal grounds of individual taste, built on an essential fallacy. There is no divisible Godard. The idea that you can have A bout de souffle and shrug off Le vent d’est is convenient and comfortable but ultimately impossible. If you are talking about the fashion-industry approved version of Godard you’re not really talking about Godard at all, but of an aspect of Godard that’s been removed from the host organism, so to speak. Glenn Kenny at his blog

yourmandevine:

balldontlie:

Take a look inside the crossover, because, why not?

the future is now

BDL has a Tumblr now. You should probably follow it because it will be fun and I am a good friend.

Justice? — You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law. — William Gaddis, A Frolic of His Own

Today’s Double Feature

A naked man terrorizing citizens at the 16th St. BART stop (um, he is naked, so consider that):

Leos Carax’s Merde (2008):

To rule forever,” continues the Chinaman, later, “it is necessary only to create, among the people one would rule, what we call…Bad History. Nothing will produce Bad History more directly nor brutally, than drawing a Line, in particular a Right Line, the very Shape of Contempt, through the midst of a People,— to create thus a Distinction betwixt ‘em,— ‘tis the first stroke.— All else will follow as if predestin’d, unto War and Devastation. — Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon
Rain drips, soaking into the floor, and Slothrop perceives that he is losing his mind. If there is something comforting—religious, if you want—about paranoia, there is also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long. Well right now Slothrop feels himself sliding onto the anti-paranoid part of his cycle, feels the whole city around him going back roofless, vulnerable, uncentered as he is, and only pasteboard images of the Listening Enemy left between him and the wet sky. — Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

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yourmandevine:

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