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oh tyler, rescue me

deliver me

deliver me from swedish furniture
deliver me from clever art
deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth

may i never be complete
may i never be content
may i never be perfect

i want you to hit me as hard as you can

Third

The Merchant of Venice [2004]

I have always been weary of this play. Shakespeare is truly versatile, granted, and speaks with a commanding and often urging voice. But when I read this one, probably back in high school, I could not get past the anti-semitism of it. Maybe I read it wrong, or over-simplified it, like people in high school are supposed to do. But it just tasted foul to me. I felt—and actually still feel—that Shylock was not just treated too harshly, but that he was treated that way because he was a jew. And that can't be tolerated. Enter this grand production, starring no less than both Al Pacino and Jeremy Irons. And grand it is. Pacino gives his trademark goosebump performance, expecially in the Hath not a Jews eyes? speech. I mean, he doesn't just nail it. He defines it. Man o man, what an overpour of talent. The big performance surprise though, for me, was Lynn Collins. She was the exact Portia that I remembered reading. Shakespeare has the odd strong and bright woman in his plays, but Portia is arguably the strongest, the wisest, the bravest, the most eloquent. She strides into the chamber where Shylock is debating his legal premise for demanding his pound of flesh—and summarily disarms him with his own logic. Breathtaking. She then goes on to crush him, ruin and humiliate him, which shows her single, but gigantic, character flaw. Not so breathtaking. Actually, that whole business is painted in such racist terms that you don't feel that it is she that is in moral lapse. Instead, you feel it is the whole play, and you just kind of slide backwards out of the whole thing at that moment. I will say though, that the movie actively tries to temper that anti-semitic streak of the play. And that is laudable. But it is not enough to cover all of the ugly, underlying contempt that Shakespeare, or just that whole time in which he lived, seems to have had for people of that particular religion. Maybe it's just my complete intolerance for racism in any form. Any notion that presents the view that we are not all just as equal, just as good, when we crawl into this world, naked and shivering, is a notion that I will not debate, but dismiss with my utmost contempt.

 

Second

The Mosquito Coast

I am a sucker for Harrison Ford. I feel like he can do no wrong. Even after I slap myself, pour cold water over my head and look myself in the mirror. Even gobbledygook like Six Days Seven Nights or Hollywood Homicide has not managed to turn me away. Still, I always knew this one was rotten. And rotten it is. It basically tells the story of a pathological, egotistic, self-righteous, maniacal tyrrant of a know-it-all, who dominantly drags his wife and several young children through hell and back, almost killing them in the process. And when his last act of grandstanding gets him killed, does he then repent in his final hours? Oh, no. He curses the people who have loved him enough to sacrifice their being for him—his family. All in all a pathetic idea for a film about that most pathetic of stereotypes, which I can't wait until becomes extinct: The 'master of the house'. That male who assumes control of his wife and children as if they were his property, tools to serve his mission. That guy sickens me. Mostly because he is the embodiment of an emasculated bloke. A jerk who does not have the fortitude—the masculinity—to tempre his strength, to share control, power, life, with his partner, or to guide his children to fulfill their potential, instead of serving his needs. So this is the film that ended my blind allegiance to Harrison Ford. Which is ironic in a way, since his acting here is among his most passable, ever. Probably means that I liked his stunts more than his stagecraft. Pity. And I was so looking forward to Indiana Jones 4. Ah, who am I kidding. Of course I'll go and see that too. And love it.

 

A strange, brief bout of jealousy

Somebody dear to me was in my dreams last night. We have not seen each other since last winter, and our conversations have grown shorter, blander, and further apart as time has gone by. It is mostly me that calls, and I think the answers nowadays may mostly be stemming from courtesy, and kindness, instead of interest. I made such a call on Monday, and this darling happened to have some good news to tell. Life was exciting and fun things were happening. And I was glad, and relieved, as one should be. But afterwards, I was suddenly overcome with jealousy. It was a powerful feeling, surging up through me like hot steam. And I almost never get jealous. It subsided quickly enough, but it was strong while it lasted, and equally surprising. Uncomfortable, but at the same time somewhat thrilling. Strange.

So many of my friends are back 'home', a five-hour plane-ride away. And with most of them, it is as if no time has passed when I fly back there, and casually sit down beside them on a couch. I will just get a smile, a hug, and that will be it. But some just seem to fade away. Granted, I am at fault here more often then not. It just turns out that I have no urge to seek out some of the people who I hardly meet anymore. Some are neighbors, others colleagues, some are just friends of friends, but some are people I used to be close with. These are people that I would meet routinely if I was still back there, even daily. And now, somehow, I just do not have anything to give them anymore. There doesn't seem to be a point in calling them up. And when they call, I am only on the receiving end. In the supportive role. Or accommodating the perception that we still have something in common, even if we have become a world apart. I don't think I am ever cruel or unkind in these situations. Just running on empty.

But then there are those precious few. People who I never thought would drift away. Some are friends who I had only just started to really get to know, and a couple are actually among the people I have known the longest. And still I see them grow softer in their greetings, quieter in their answers, more distant, less vibrant. I feel our bond unravelling. Their interest in me vaining. Until one day I realize that it is I that am making all the phone calls. That I am not needed by somebody, not wanted even, and that it is time to let go. Leave these people in peace.

And move on.

First

Fight Club

You should never see a movie unless your expectations are low. Preferably really low. And you should wait until all the buzz has passed. Wait a few years. Then see the flick for what it really is. Sure, this one is a decent excercise in that whole dual personality shit. But actually, it is more than that. Granted, Brad Pitt couldn't act to save his pretty face, but then, he isn't in this one to act. No, he is portraying that exact two-dimensional cool alter-ego we all wish we have. Sometimes. That carefree handsome son-of-a-bitch, who doesn't need to be too bright, doesn't need to be responsible, isn't going to catch things that are falling. All of that. We need that alter-ego, even if it never emerges from within ourselves. We need it, because day-in, day-out, year-round, life demands that we conform. And behave. Set good examples. Play by the rules. Be content. Smile. Wake up when the clock rings. Go to sleep when appropriate. Say nice things. Be considerate. Only challenge perceptions in controlled dosages, and only live at a certain volume. Because if you inhale too deeply, if you stray outside the parameters, people will not understand you. They will be frightened. So you grasp control of your urges. And you rein them in. Keep them under control. Be comforting. And responsible. And safe. And smile. While you allow yourself only to rage within. That's what this movie is about. Maybe it is a male thing, like this movie maintains. Testosterone, and all that. Maybe. I have done my share of tasting my own blood. And it does make you feel alive, strange as that may sound. But I have never just let go. I do not have periods of recklessness in my past. Times when impulse just took over. Not long ones, anyway. There has always been an element of control. Somewhere. Maybe that has saved me from graver mistakes than I have made. From having regrets. Somebody once called me cold-hearted. I think she was referring to the image I was portraying. The thing is, if I had to choose, I would still choose being the responsible bonus pater with the steady job and the mortgage, over being the reckless, cool, and 'free' guy, who may woo and charm, but will never stick around. Preferably, I would want both. And I have tried. Both. Often. But they do not mix. So I choose to be who I am. And quietly let myself enjoy flicks like Fight Club.

 

Be kind to your blog

I tend to not listen too well when people speak to me about my blog. Possibly because I usually write it without an audience in mind, and am thus a little startled when people strike up a conversation about how I write it. However, someone wrote me an e-mail the other day, suggesting that I should treat my blog more kindly.

She is right, of course.

One of the things she pointed out was that I do not give very much of me, of what happens in my life. That the blog receives only disjunct ponderings on stuff that I have been internalizing, making for a rather bland and confusing read for other people. I agree. She's absolutely right. And although that is exactly what I had meant for this blog to be, I think it is time for a slight change. For one thing, I have myself become bored with writing the thing. Possibly because it isn't the same outlet that it used to be. Also, aside from my next-door neighbor, I do not think that I know any of you who read this regularly now. That only compounds the boredom of those people. You people. Which actually brings me to another point. I am constantly amazed at why all you people read this stuff. And write back, asking for more. I mean, disjunction and confusion aside, this drivel is so persistantly gloomy, boring, and pessimistic that it should have long since put you all to sleep. Or triggered the onset of depression. Or something. Why do you stay? What could this blog possibly be doing for you? Perplexing. But back to the point.

The change.

I am going to try out two changes. First, I am a movie buff. I watch a lot of them. Not just because I am alone a lot. I have always loved movies. Books I like, poetry, music, ballet, and even the odd painting. But movies I love. Good movies, obviously. Which makes bad movies even more of a letdown, because they feel like an opportunity lost. I mean, all this money, talent, time, people, and film, just to make National Treasure, when you could have been making Am/eacute;lie, to waste it on The Ring instead of striving for Ringu, or settling for Swordfish instead of trying for another Brazil. So. My first change to this blog, in order to give those of you who actually bother to come back here, day after day, to read the ramblings of a man you do not know, is to talk a little about the movies I see. Each day. Now, these will not be reviews, so they will actually not be of any use. Except maybe to give a little bit more coherent picture of me. Perhaps.

Secondly, I am going to try to be better about telling you what is actually happening in my life. And thus possibly gaining back some of the nice feelings I used to have for this blog. This part of me. Because, frankly, I have never been that good at being good to me. Which is silly. Since that is what you should do.

Be kind to yourself.