Here we have style and substance in equal measure. And, rarest of all, those levels are high. Without concern about making characters “likable,” Rian Johnson is free to crank pop culture personalities up to eleven. His attention to detail is unreal. The costume work alone does more character development than anything I’ve seen in a while.
A mix of intricate plot, wicked one-liners, and whatever it is Bautista is doing here, makes Glass Onion legitimately rewatchable. Some may say the characters are overly exaggerated, but to make it to the top of their industries (including fast fashion, Twitch streaming, and billionaire frippery) one can hardly hold on to everyday human traits. So even if the dialogue and personalities are turned up to ‘Muppet,” they ring true.
Cameos that aren’t overly harped on, an all-star ensemble that doesn’t stumble over itself, knockout visuals, and a Philip Glass joke. Come on.
somniloquist's comments
As a director, Olivia Wilde arrived at “style over substance” quicker than most. Take all the tropes of the Stepford Wives and distill them through a filter of red-pilled MRAs and you’ve got the entire plot. No social commentary or nuance deeper than what one could glean from the first couple paragraphs of a Wikipedia article about Jordan Peterson. (Though, thankfully, it is devoid of Peterson’s constant refrain of “it’s like…no” as some sort of reasoned point.)
Someone really did their research on visuals. The interiors notably aren’t limited to the still acceptable MCM styles that we’re still buying today. Glassware and tablesettings especially are allowed to include pieces that sit sour on today’s palettes, but are curiously accurate.
Wilde and Pine’s characters are only about two layers thick. Harry Styles gives it his best shot with a slightly more dimensional character, though his accent work is slapdash at best. And if it weren’t for the middling script, this could’ve been Oscar material for Florence Pugh.
If you’re interested in a gorgeous mid-century dystopian hell of perfection, watch it on a big screen. On mute.
What is a Wonder? It’s a fiction we use to comfort ourselves. Nurse Wright is called to a remote Irish village to watch a girl who doesn’t eat. She’s a Wonder.
Why did her parents promise not to feed her? Where is the faith of an 11-year-old seemingly from?
Nurse Wright tells herself a story that it’s easier that her husband is dead. The village priest and the local doctor tell themselves a girl really hasn’t eaten in four months. The girl’s parents tell themselves it’s real and it’s all for the best. The local journalist tells himself his family wouldn’t have starved if he hadn’t left home.
But how thick a shield can fiction lay over a life? Can a story be told well enough to save one?
With opening and closing sequences wonderfully wound in artifice and myth making, this is a film that holds a more meta commentary on filmmaking and it’s abilities than anything I’ve seen in years.
Though I am loathe to speak ill of a Scotsman, Steven Moffat has plopped another one. Great set up, pretty decent world building, doesn’t stick the landing. Took awhile, but hooked me hard, kept me watching, left me thinking “that’s it?”
If you liked hearing Christian Bale scream-growl “Where’s Rachel?” Or if you were super into Liam Neeson shouting “If you give my daughter back now” etc into a phone…you’re going to love hearing Gerard Butler repeatedly yell “Where’s my wife?!” over and over again.
Then again, if you’re looking for something highfalutin like plot or character development or anything resembling depth, look elsewhere.
One of the nicest things this series does is to step well away from the trope of serial killer as mastermind. It’s the coward’s way out to portray these people as genius level hunters evading capture, rather than expose the ineptitude of law enforcement and ignorance of family and acquaintances.
Throughout this series we see Dahmer show distinct warning signs in school, be discharged from the army rather than addressing his sexual predation, ask his father for help. We see a judge handwave a conviction for assaulting a minor because Dahmer “reminded him of his own son” and cops completely drop everything and all but run away when homosexuality is mentioned. We see a blatant criminal believed again and again for the color of his skin, and victims, neighbors, and witnesses disbelieved because of theirs.
Jeffrey Dahmer wasn’t a mastermind. He was allowed to do what he did by law enforcement, the armed forces, the justice system, and others. Hell, a victim ran out of his apartment into the street and begged police for help. They returned him to Dahmer’s apartment. He was 14. And, finally, this is a portrayal that doesn’t sugarcoat that with a sparkling veneer of some kind of super human acumen for murder.
Before watching this show, I had only ever seen Emily Deschanel in Bones. In the title role of that show I honestly thought that her cadence and speech patterns were a part of her portrayal as a high functioning autistic. As proven here in The Devil In Ohio, I was wrong about that.
They salute a cake. Let me say that once more. They salute…a cake.
This movie contains, quite possibly, the dumbest line I’ve ever heard an actor say on screen. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks after trying to watch this train wreck, and I can’t get it out of my head.
Bryce Dallas Howard has decided to quit the extreme PETA for puppy-eyed dinosaurs organization that she seems to have joined simply to shoehorn a car chase into the plot. The uniform of said organization is, naturally, a black turtleneck, black pants of some sort, and a black knit cap. She feels the need to burn these things so that no one will find out about her involvement. Because you know what gives one away as being part of a clandestine dino-saving band of do-gooders? A black turtleneck.
Anyway…
The McGuffin reluctant clone teenager arrives back to the cabin that Bryce Dallas Howard is sharing with her and Chris Pratt, who is currently away “training” dinosaurs by showing them his right palm. Naturally. The teenager, upon seeing Howard burning some things in a 55 gallon drum outside, asks what she is doing.
And here’s that line.
“I’m just burning some old blankets.”
What.
I’m just burning…some old…blankets. Do they have small pox? Do they have an expiration date? Is there no use for an “old blanket” as you live with your proto-nuclear family in hiding in the woods?
Burning. Some. Old. Blankets.
I… I can’t. Nevermind that they did my darling Sam Neill dirty in this one, this line is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen a character utter on film.
Anyone who can watch more than two episodes of this show and tell me that they’re not at least slightly in love with LaKeith Stanfield is a damn liar.
Love and sex and death and the body horrific, it’s like Cronenberg never left. Viggo Mortensen does most of his acting through breathing alone. Léa Seydoux is your own private Isabella Rossellini via the subdermal forehead implants of Orlan. Kristen Stewart plays a human as moth slamming and slamming into a lit bulb. The color palette is ultra restrained, the tone so even it spreads like soft butter. I’m already going to need to watch it again, and will forever regret that Chris Burden died seven years too early to see it too.
A well thought out documentary. The only missing information which is key to the personality of Mr Cosby, is the desire and repercussions of drugging [anesthetizing]his victims. This psychotic behavior could have been handled with more insight and explanation.
This precise thing is addressed very well in the second episode by a forensic scientist, a sex therapist, and an attorney. Very specifically they address sexual assault and the use of anesthetizing drugs, followed by the motives of the perpetrator and their desired repercussions to the the victim.
Think of everything you love about Ghostbusters. Got it? Great. Hold that thought.
Now take out New York City. Now take out most of the ghosts. Now take out about 95% of Ramis, Murray, Aykroyd, Hudson, and Annie Potts.
Now replace those things with, of all choices, rural Oklahoma, a kid from Stranger Things, some other kids that are Stranger Things rejects, and a severely watered down Paul Rudd. Now that’s this movie.
Maybe if it had not been a “Ghostbusters” movie, if had been allowed to be its own thing and not two hours of subtle call backs to something you already like.
Turns out Rick Moranis may have been the linchpin to the entire project all along.
Around the turn of the 19th century into the 20th a man is being educated. He goes to college, a rare and entitled thing at the time. He studies the classics and is heralded as brilliant. As a young man, both he and his brother are taught the ways of the ranch by an older man only known as Bronco Henry.
Now Phil is grown, as is his brother George. They ranch more successfully than most in the wilds of Montana, 1925. A cattle drive takes them to a remote restaurant owned and operated by a widow called Rose and her son, the delicate paper-flower-making Peter.
As the rowdy group of men are served chicken by a pale waif of a boy, Phil bristles like a dog. His words spit and sting. He sees something in George that he cannot tolerate. And as for Rose? Well, she, as a woman, is of no interest nor use to Phil. None whatsoever.
In short time George and Rose marry, bringing their newly melded family of three into the large mansion on the ranch with Phil.
It turns out, what Phil sees in George may just be everything he hates in himself, everything he has worked these many years to press down and down. Artful, weak, effete, delicate, and civilized. Nowadays Phil never washes, never bends, never shares.
And yet, when he spends time alone, it is with a length of silk. Our boy may have been taught a bit more of the ways of the Greeks by Henry than anyone else knows.
He now spends his life struggling against this personification of what his life may have been, what he still may wish it had been. Until Phil starts to bend, until he starts to share, until he starts to wash. And we see him there, exposed without his armor of mud and smoke and bitterness.
Laid bare, what will pierce his heart now? An arrow or a knife?
The Green Knight is brilliant. It is, perhaps, the film David Lowery was born to make.
First and foremost, Lowery understands this story for what it is. This is threefold. The Green Knight is a fairy tale, and therefore fairy tale logic applies. There is not a lot of exposition in dialogue. In tales like this characters don’t need to explain themselves all the time. Their motives are societal and cultural, understood by its audience as almost a second nature. Time stretches and contracts, animals are trusted guides, magic is real. Given. Unquestioned.
Second, this story is one told over centuries. It is Celtic in origin, but was woven into Norman and Anglo-Saxon culture, and picked up different flavors in its telling and retelling across peoples, years, and languages. Lowery handles this very well in not nailing down a pronunciation of Gawain’s name. He is Gawain, G’Wayne, Gow-in, Gown, because he has had all these names and retains them still, simultaneously.
Third, this is a chivalric tale. In very very basic terms… The Norman (French) word for horse is cheval. A horseman (knight) is a chevalier. Therefore the rules that govern the knightly class are called chivalry. Chivalric tales, told through the form of epic poems, laid down rules and examples of how someone with those resources and level of power was to govern himself. The chief principles were five, represented by the five pointed star that you see again and again in this film; generosity, courtesy, chastity, friendship, and piety. Gawain’s journey to see the Green Knight sees him facing tests to prove these values in himself. Boy Scout badges in a pre-modern world with life and death consequences.
If I get into a plot breakdown of how all this is done I’ll be here all day. If I dive into the symbolism that Lowery has so expertly laced throughout the film, I’ll be here all week.
The Green Knight is brilliant. It is, perhaps, the film David Lowery was born to make.
First and foremost, Lowery understands this story for what it is. This is threefold. The Green Knight is a fairy tale, and therefore fairy tale logic applies. There is not a lot of exposition in dialogue. In tales like this characters don’t need to explain themselves all the time. Their motives are societal and cultural, understood by its audience as almost a second nature. Time stretches and contracts, animals are trusted guides, magic is real. Given. Unquestioned.
Second, this story is one told over centuries. It is Celtic in origin, but was woven into Norman and Anglo-Saxon culture, and picked up different flavors in its telling and retelling across peoples, years, and languages. Lowery handles this very well in not nailing down a pronunciation of Gawain’s name. He is Gawain, G’Wayne, Gow-in, Gown, because he has had all these names and retains them still, simultaneously.
Third, this is a chivalric tale. In very very basic terms… The Norman (French) word for horse is cheval. A horseman (knight) is a chevalier. Therefore the rules that govern the knightly class are called chivalry. Chivalric tales, told through the form of epic poems, laid down rules and examples of how someone with those resources and level of power was to govern himself. The chief principles were five, represented by the five pointed star that you see again and again in this film; generosity, courtesy, chastity, friendship, and piety. Gawain’s journey to see the Green Knight sees him facing tests to prove these values in himself. Boy Scout badges in a pre-modern world with life and death consequences.
If I get into a plot breakdown of how all this is done I’ll be here all day. If I dive into the symbolism that Lowery has so expertly laced throughout the film, I’ll be here all week.
Girl 6 is the story of an uncommitted actress. She can’t commit to the auditions her manager sends her on, she can’t commit to the scenes her acting coach gives her, she can’t commit to her husband. The film opens with all three of these relationships at their ends.
So what’s a girl to do? Can’t pay her agent, can’t pay her acting coach, but she’s got to pay her rent. Phone sex work. Of course. She’s an actress, and from the comfort of a mid 90s cubicle, she’s acting all day long.
The girl in question learns to play roles on the phone the way she never could on film or even on the stage. She falls in love with fiction, but slowly. It disarms her. Friends and coworkers alike warn her of how they see this affair with fantasy is starting to look…wrong. But, like many women in abusive relationships, she struggles to see the red flags until they’re close enough to smother her.
For Girl 6 Spike Lee called in favors across the board. Practically everyone in this movie is someone. From Naomi Campbell to Richard Belzer, from Quentin Tarantino to Madonna. And the entire soundtrack? Prince!
I guess it had to happen, I really hope Ru & Michelle don’t try Australian slang or Kiwi accents as it will only show how stupid they sound to the rest of the world!
RuPaul does a passable Australian accent. His husband is Australian.
The first rule of art club is never admit that you were wrong. The second rule of art club is NEVER admit that you were wrong. What makes a painting “real” enough to be “worth” 11 million dollars? Is it beautiful? Do the scholars approve of it? Is it published?
This is deep and slightly nauseating dive into the high pressure, high dollar, remarkably self absorbed world of top tier art dealers. People that say things like “the Ab-Ex Market.” Unironically. People who are million-dollar-certain one day, and the next never admit to things they themselves wrote and said.
Major trouble and major embarrassment aren’t always (if ever) followed by major consequences. ‘Cause money.
A well-made documentary with some of the worst contributors I’ve ever seen. It starts well with experts, law enforcement professionals, people working within the community, and others with firsthand knowledge of the factors in play.
And then they start talking to “YouTubers.” (Note: the longer this goes on, the more I want to scream.)
There is a LOT of time paid to people who have no education in criminal investigation, no knowledge of mental illness and its effects, and no experience with the city and setting of the crime. You get to see at least a dozen people go on and on about how “something else must have been going on” or “someone must know.” Investigators are working in their dozens, one day with 50 detectives at the Cecil Hotel at once, and people online complaining that it’s “taking too long” and therefore hotel staff and cops must be “in on it.” They find and harass a Swedish black metal musician whose work had “too many similarities” with this crime, and he wasn’t even in the country at the time.
I’m most of the way through the fourth and final episode, but if I hear one more person say “the report came out but it just didn’t seem right” or “feel right”…if anyone justifies their position with “I’ve spent hours on this”…or if anyone, when speaking of a young woman with BPD-1 who was (as evidence has backed up) off her meds says that her actions “don’t make sense” (HEAVY SIGH)…or any other line of uninformed web-babble, I’m going to turn this off and never come back to finish it.
Okay… This thing pulled itself out of a nose dive at the last opportunity. It turns out that speculating wildly about something without education, training, or knowledge of it (beyond what can be gleaned from a surface reading) doesn’t turn out all that well. Deeming yourself a valid voice and opinion in a field that involves death, grieving families, and horrific real world consequences is a really awful thing to do. There’s no telling the ripple effects of damage this kind of behavior caused to this case, but hopefully someone out there will take heed and not participate in these actions in regard to others.
A well-made documentary with some of the worst contributors I’ve ever seen. It starts well with experts, law enforcement professionals, people working within the community, and others with firsthand knowledge of the factors in play.
And then they start talking to “YouTubers.” (Note: the longer this goes on, the more I want to scream.)
There is a LOT of time paid to people who have no education in criminal investigation, no knowledge of mental illness and its effects, and no experience with the city and setting of the crime. You get to see at least a dozen people go on and on about how “something else must have been going on” or “someone must know.” Investigators are working in their dozens, one day with 50 detectives at the Cecil Hotel at once, and people online complaining that it’s “taking too long” and therefore hotel staff and cops must be “in on it.” They find and harass a Swedish black metal musician whose work had “too many similarities” with this crime, and he wasn’t even in the country at the time.
I’m most of the way through the fourth and final episode, but if I hear one more person say “the report came out but it just didn’t seem right” or “feel right”…if anyone justifies their position with “I’ve spent hours on this”…or if anyone, when speaking of a young woman with BPD-1 who was (as evidence has backed up) off her meds says that her actions “don’t make sense” (HEAVY SIGH)…or any other line of uninformed web-babble, I’m going to turn this off and never come back to finish it.
This probably would have been more suspenseful without a basic knowledge of runes. Anyone who has seen Midsommar, certain Waffen SS insignias, or particular people in mosh pits knows that when one comes upon an othala rune one has also come upon a people who are far too concerned with some mythical “heritage” and it’s best to not stick around. Here be monsters.
The Bechdel test is definitely not a perfect system, I’ve found.
Of course the most interesting part of the test is in how often films fail it.
Werner Herzog’s basic recipe for eating one’s shoe.
One leather shoe, left. Place within fresh herbs of your choice, two large heads of garlic, lots of hot sauce.
Tie shoe tightly closed.
Place in a pot with duck fat, lots of lavender, even more hot sauce.
Boil for five hours.
Cut the shoe apart with kitchen scissors, leaving the sole because “when you eat a chicken, you leave the bones away.”
Consume shoe in public.
Chase with beer.
Consider not making off-the-cuff bets anymore.
Perhaps the academic equivalent of seeing the work of a Great Master reflected in the waxed paint of some guy’s midlife crisis sportscar. Technique? Sure. Art? Not to me anyway. And maybe I’m the overly grumpy academic in this situation, but don’t bother David Hockney with your navel gazing ‘passion projects.’ The man has enough to deal with. Geez.
When my brain finally dies, as they keep promising me it will, the mix of euphoria and terror will not be foreign to me. An electrical imbalance between the cells will wade through neurons filling themselves with charged ions as the electromagnetic forces try to wipe clear the charge imbalance and maintain a hold on the ions. As the systems panic, the serotonin sets in. My eyes glaze.
And how is none of this entirely unfamiliar? Because I have already seen Too Many Cooks.
To best digest this documentary, you must consider its source. This is a project done by an (inexperienced) young film maker about his own mother. These circumstances present both problems and opportunities.
First, objectivity is nearly impossible. While objectivity is very very difficult for any documentary maker, Madison Hamburg has an easier time admitting it. If a documentarian tries to take the stance that they completely separate themselves from their subject, or that their involvement with their subject doesn’t change perceptions or outcomes of the research, they are either lying, naïve, or both.
Second, the story being told in non-linear. There have been very popular documentary series in recent years (i.e. Making a Murderer) that give into “storytelling” and force a pleasing and cohesive narrative. Investigations aren’t linear. The grieving process isn’t linear. Family relations, especially those involving substance abuse and money problems, certainly aren’t linear.
Hamburg does fall into a bit of a Documentary 101 formula of getting a bit too episodic. Having each of the four pieces of this series focus on a different aspect of the story, following different motives and subjects, is an easy way to break down a very complicated story. But unless handled by a masterful documentarian, this approach can leave things feeling disjointed, abrupt, and jerky.
Real life is messy. Murder is messier. Madison Hamburg doesn’t shy away from either of these truths, nor does he try to tie up the story of his mother’s death with some kind of big plastic bow. His efforts continue and I wish him well.
Mary Anning is a fossil. She’s dark, muddy, rough. She’s unassuming yet exploited. She is exceedingly difficult for most people to understand. And anyway, they don’t take the time to even try. She takes daring to obtain, hours of work to reveal, a certain knowledge to understand, and her ultimate value is incalculable.
Along comes Charlotte. She learns to hunt for, discover, and care for fossils. One in particular.
(Nothing says historic lesbian drama like a dimly lit film with precious little dialogue. If Winslet and Ronan don’t get best actress nominations for their work in this, I quit.)
The way, the only way, to break the cycle of trauma is to face it, name it, and bring it into the light. Which is precisely what Sasha Neulinger has done here, in harrowing detail.
Neulinger documents his adolescence and lays bare the generations of silence that led to his own being yet another in a line of sexual abuse. The futility of a trial held against a powerful perpetrator is contrasted against the work the director, and others, have done in easing the plight of victims coming forward. The film maker’s parents, younger sister, childhood therapist, and others do a great job of helping to destigmatize talking about these issues.
(I feel I should add, if you or someone you love has been effected by anything like this, get help. Shun the stigma and get help. …And those who gave this film a low rating because of its subject matter, I hope they realize that this is a massive part of what perpetuates cycles of abuse.)
It’s interesting how you guys all assume that those who aren’t in your camp are in the red neck Trump camp. I won’t be voting for either of these numbskulls. But seriously, you guys have really no humor and have ruined comedy with your insistence on making everything political and PC.
Sir, all I did was recommend some nice wholesome watching options on this here tv/movie site. But the update on your voting plan is…nice?
So bad. SJWs think their humor is much funnier than it actually is. They’re ruining comedy with their take over of the industry.
Larry the Cable Guy is still working. Go watch some Jeff Dunham. You’ll be fine.
This strain of films in the Warhol oeuvre aren’t really films in the conventional sense, in that they aren’t really made to be paid attention to. This one in particular is double projected, which is to say that two difference scenes play one beside the other. This emphases even further that your attention ought to be divided rather than focused. This would have played, most likely with other of Warhol’s films like Sleep or Empire, during ‘happenings’ with people gathered (coming and going) for hours or even a whole day.
Best experienced rather than watched. Turn it on, cook an egg or something, feel arty as all hell while you do.
Eric Bogosian plays Pepe before Pepe on 4chan before 4chan. What starts out as “feels good man” ends up as anything but. No one feels good. No one. Give hate speech an inch and it takes… well… whatever it can carry. And that monster has octopus arms.
Very nicely lit, the greens especially. Camera work on action almost entirely centered in a single dark room is phenomenal.
Folktales should all read this way. A little gritty, warm and living, the colors slightly too bright at times. It should be made of wood and not plastic, be warm and once alive, inviting to the touch. Tales should have grown over time, casting roots into the hearts and leaves from the mouths of the people that told them. Also, they should involve some really spectacular mustaches.
Viy does every one of these things.
Here’s a truly weird one for ya. (And remember that I didn’t say good, I just said weird.) This documentary, if you call it that, is way too long, far too slow, and is mostly a rehash of an old jailhouse interview.
But it’s notable for two things. Firstly it’s made by Nikloas and Zeena Schreck. Zenna’s maiden name? LaVey. Which makes her father, that’s right, Anton LeVay.
Secondly it’s, if you can believe this, pro-Manson. Nikloas Schreck in particular really tries to make Manson’s “philosophies” work, but all you have to do is watch him speak for about 90 seconds to know that it’s all institutionalized yammering that might sound half decent if you were on a whole lot of drugs. Schreck tries talking about dates that have “power” or ancient gods or an equinox somewhere along the line. But everything presented (in almost two whole hours) is stretched so thin you could use it as a window pane.
I’ve waited YEARS to see this. Danny Boyle can do whatever the hell he wants.
But here’s the thing, Cumberbatch and Miller switched rolls every night when this was on stage. So is the OTHER version out there as well?
Spoiler One: A society where women are mistrusted, treated as dirty, pitted against each other, and given no agency is horrific and (always) ends in tragedy.
Spoiler Two: You very well may be living in one of these societies right now. Cinematic microcosms notwithstanding.
Spoiler Three: The lead looks a whole lot like Daniel Radcliff. I can’t unsee it and now neither can you.
Gooter gets tutored on how to be a better suitor. He’ll get the girl if he looks cuter on a scooter. But first Trout has to boot her.
So you went from a quote romanticizing the Jacobins (apparently with no motivation) to backing out from having any position at all. Well done.
There was a moment in time before the revolution where the king was gearing to extend the tax further on the first two estates, then a bunch of self-motivated fools decided to forego that in order to gain more power, temporary as it was, for themselves. Despite centuries of revolutions, the super-rich remain untaxed and the organized minorities are vested in destroying life as it is for the working class. Any dissent was seen as counter-revolutionary and thus heresy.
The parallels to today are striking, hence my sarcastic original comment. Screw the Jacobins.
So when I quote Furet it’s romanticizing and taking a firm position, and when you quote Furet it’s what? Constructive? Informative? Whichever other word you’d prefer? Cool.
I think we’re done here.
Well we seem to agree on Marat at least, but I extend my distaste for him to the entire movement. There are a great many wars initiated for noble causes, and while this one on the surface may look like one, it was not. Nearly everyone was personally motivated. The 3rd estate only convened at all at the urging of Abbé Sieyès. What was he motivated by?
And for the record, 3rd estate existed for centuries before the revolution. All the revolution did was kill the First and Second Estates, along with 2/3rds of the representation for the Third. We can argue that they extended the vote, but that has gone back and forth a few times.
And anyway, according to Francois Furet, a French Revolution historian (highly recommend his book if you’re into the topic):
“the ambiguity of the word “popular” when it is applied to this period: “popular” the French Revolution was certainly not in the sense of participation by the people in public affairs. But if the word “popular” is taken to mean that revolutionary policy was formed under pressure from the sans-culotte movement and organized minorities, and received an egalitarian impetus from them, then yes, the Revolution had well and truly entered its “popular” age.”
The majority of the population was not even involved! So I’m probably enjoying being a part of the 3rd Estate as much as the regular French populace was at the time.
Okay, let’s review what’s just happened here.
I quoted Furet.
Then I told you I quoted Furet.
Then you recommended that I read Furet.
I’ve (fairly obviously) read Furet, but thanks for homme-splaining the Third Estate to me. The entire point I was making is that the Estates are dead. (And before you try to claim that, some-crazy-how, they’re not really dead: Which lord’s land are you currently working? Which monastery runs your particular town? Are they Dominician or Franciscan?)
And I neither endorsed nor condemned the motivations of that (or any other) war. I referred strictly to “the acts of individuals during war time.” Every war, no matter the “motivation” suffers from the acts of individuals. But you talked for a long time and that sure did make it seem, if I squint really hard, like you actually addressed anything I said.
Un ami Quebecois sur ce site! Ca me fait plaisir de vous rencontrer.
But I’m a fierce Anglo, and I’d prefer the Queen’s English to French any day of the week. Anyway, how did you know I spoke French? Interesting guess!
So which part of the revolt did you support? When the nobles, including Lafayette of War of Independence fame, were killed? Or when the Girondins were named and rounded up by their fellow Montagnards? Or was it when Robespierre himself was taken to the same end he brought so many others to? Did you think Chatlotte Corday was right in what she did to Marat in his bathtub with his wife at hearing distance in another room?
The French Revolution was an absolute crapshow that plunged the French people into successive revolutioms for centuries. Anyone who thinks differently is a foolish romantic or a moron who doesn’t know the history they espouse. Or both.
Sure, let’s talk about the sainted Marat in his bath. Because, surely, the note that David depicted him writing on behalf of the poor was real. Then we can talk about how David ended up in Napoleon’s lap.
But what you’re really asking me is whether or not I approve of the acts of individuals during war time. Which, facile at best, is rude at worst. Can I assume you’re enjoying your time in the Third Estate?
I was quoting Furet. (And some of the Paris graffiti from the uprisings in 1968, which Furet so often paralleled with the end of the 18th century in the same setting.) Je vous en prie.
Trump is a fat gross maniac who despite being representative of only one branch of the United States is single handedly responsible for the spread of racism and COVID in the US. All by himself.
If it wasn’t for Trump, we’d all be loving in a utopia of a plurality of views and ideas. Except for the ones that challenge our type of thinking of course. For that we can rely on a bevy of think-police and idea-moderators, but the end result, I assure you, will be complete freedom, just like during the Jacobin years.
That’s why I’m voting Biden.
Le jacobinisme est à la fois une idéologie et un pouvoir. La lutte continue, buddy.
of course it is, it’s about control, they knew what they were getting into.
Foundational ignorance of consent is the bedrock of rape culture. Which, I’d say, is one of the excellent points made by the documentarians.
For one that hates the feminisation by Holywood of all that was manly in the world, I did think what horrors have they wrought on my favourite detective but I actually really enjoyed it
Comment deleted due to the regret of stepping into a whirlpool of circular reasoning where feminization is both bad and good. And then being told I don’t understand. Which is true, I don’t understand that.
Well hell, I guess I don’t have to watch it now. Thanks so much for the MASSIVE unmarked spoiler. Edit: Thanks to whomever went back and spoiler tagged this.
I wasn’t saying that at all. Think about all the fighting that happened in the late 1960’s and 70’s. Monty Python poked fun at it in The Quest for the Holy Grail. Humor, done correctly, brings about as much social change as hatred does, and Mr. Noah has talent enough to do that. I’m all for reforming the police. They kill more white people than black people, and frankly, they shouldn’t be killing anyone. I’m simply saying that Mr. Noah has the ability to get people to laugh at how stupid the police are being and bring about social change that way. Goodness knows we need all the ways to bring it about.
The statement that police shouldn’t be killing people, but more of them are white anyway, is simplistic and entirely unhelpful. What I mentioned above was the lack of consequence for the perpetrators of these killings when the person killed is black. That’s pretty indisputable. There are very very few indictments and as yet no convictions. This clearly projects to the people affected that these murders don’t matter to the state.
It would seem that Trevor Noah(and a large number of his writing staff) are of a demographic that is directly impacted by this particular brand of racism. And, correct me if I’m wrong, it would also seem that you are not. Therefore their approach to it and the way it affects them is what matters, and your tone policing of their writing is not.
The Holy Grail example is quite strange to me, as I’m not sure of how Monty Python made direct change to the political climate of the 1960s. Satire has existed for a very long time, and the problems of race relations in the US have persisted. So pivoting to a more direct address of the issues at hand not only makes sense, but also presents itself as quite necessary. Especially in the current political climate.
Lastly, I think John Krasinski has a show of only good news. Perhaps that would better suit your taste.
While I understand that racism is important to the host (and to me too), I get tired of hearing about it every, single episode. Laughing at something is just as powerful as hating. It can be used as an equal motivator for stoping something evil, like racism. There are a million chances for jokes that he is missing where this show would be ten times funnier and just as effective against racism. We NEED to laugh right now. With all the horror that’s happening around us, we NEED funny. This guy hasn’t delivered a good, solid laugh in a long time. He needs new writers.
Aw shucks, super duper sorry that being black in America means that you can be murdered in the street by cops who face no consequences. It should be so much more light-hearted to be shot dead in your home, or walking down the street, or driving a car. If Trevor Noah and his writing staff would just make more jokes about having a skin color that serves as an arbitrary death sentence, I sure would get to laugh more. Cause we NEED funny right now. Racism is a real bummer, huh? Sure wish people didn’t take it so darn seriously.
The Menu is a masterful portrait of the juxtaposition between those who serve and those who are served.
Julian Slowik isn’t a chef, he’s -the- chef. A man who has risen through all the harrowing circles of the service industry. And tonight he has gathered a rogues gallery of diners, the most served people on earth. The movie star and his do-able assistant, the mega rich jaded regulars, the high powered critic and her buttressing hanger-on, the sycophantic suck up and his…date.
Again and again those who are served are served. They are served obsession, deprivation, blood, bile, terror, their own greatest shame. Slowik has risen so far in service that he is now calling the shots. They may want bread, but they’re not getting any damned bread.
But the date, she refuses to eat. Chef senses that she is on the wrong side of the line. She is a woman in service, not one who is served.
So how will this Last Supper proceed without all proper apostles present? How will Slowik say to the world…”Take, eat; this is my body.” And what will happen when the date asks the great Julian Slowik to slide back down the ladder he spend decades climbing and -serve-?