Zwartboek

Paul Verhoeven has a new movie. Apparently, after realizing the utter shame involved in taking on a project like "Hollow Man," Mr. Verhoeven got his shit together, fucked off back to the Netherlands, and decided to make a movie in Dutch for the first time in twenty years. So, I'll be honest, Robocop it isn't, but, as Robocop is pure cinematic brilliance, it would be quite difficult to even come close.

The truth is that Black Book is a really, really good movie. Even by normal, non-Verhoeven standards. I mean, it's good in an actual, honest, non tongue-in-cheek kind of way. The acting is superb, the characters are really beautifully fleshed out, everybody betrays everybody and the plot and action are fantastic. Verhoeven even pulls off writing a sympathetic nazi character. No, seriously. Not only does he write a sympathetic nazi character (the head of the SS in Holland, no less) but he even pulls it off without looking like a total nazi sympathizer. That, my friends, is no easy feat.

Unfortunately, the places where the movie is weak, where it fails to live up to the Robocop standard, are in precisely the places where Verhoeven is Verhoeven. He is, for a change, giving us a serious, intelligent, complex action-drama, and in this atmosphere, the cheesy music swells, gratuitous nastiness (I'm thinking of a particular scene near the end of the movie . . . I won't give it away, let's just say it smells bad), and absurdly heavy-handed sound effects stick out like sore thumbs. These elements all meld seamlessly into farce and parody, but this film is too honest for Verhoeven's usual tricks. It is at its best when he takes his hands off and lets the actors and the script move along unimpeded. I know, without a little gratuitous sex and violence, it wouldn't be a Verhoeven film, and a fair amount of the gratuitous sex and violence in Black Book actually works quite well. There are a few points, unfortunately, where he goes a bit too far. Oh, I never, NEVER thought I'd say Verhoeven has gone too far. What a strange world we live in!

Also, the bookends are completely unnecessary, distracting, and obtrusive. He could have achieved the same effect with a rolling title card at the end saying what happened to Ellis/Rachel.

Despite all my bitching, it's a really good movie. It's intense, the story is great and twists in directions you never see coming, everybody is a villain, from the nazis to the resistance fighters to the liberators to the jews, and yet, most of the villains are, in one way or another, sympathetic. The acting is superb, the movie made me cry, bawl even, and apart from a handful of heavy-handed moments that keep it from being great, it is still really, really good. Highly recommended for anyone who likes action, who likes historical drama, who likes Verhoeven flicks.

And yes, I've seriously started deluding myself into thinking I'm a film critic. Obviously.

The mice, however, they don't do so well.

Went to the toilet at two in the morning. Flicked on the light and opened the door. A frantic mouse has it's tail stuck in a glue trap; it has dragged the trap halfway across the tiny room. It is squeeking madly. I jump and swallow a scream. Oh shit. What do I do? Everybody is asleep. At the sight of me, the little brown mouse tries to make a hasty retreat through the cardboard confines of the trap. It becomes more entangled. Its squeeking subsides. I look around -- what am I looking for? There is nobody to solve this problem for me. I could wake up the french boy, but what will he do? Murder the pitiful little creature? That is what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? Murder it. I pick up the glue trap. Feeble squeeking in my direction. The mouse pops its little head out and looks at me. It cannot move, it is utterly glued. I carry it to the kitchen window. I take a deep breath. I put the little death cage down to open the window. One. Two. Three. I toss it into the unused back garden, two floors down. I hear a long squeeeeeeeek grow softer before a gentle thud, and then silence. I look around again, and close the window. I look around for another trap to replace the one I've . . . discarded, but I can't find one. I go back to the toilet and pee.

The squirrels always do quite well, don't they?

I put up some photos from Hogmanay -- the torch procession, the viking long boat and the wicker bear, some fireworks, and sunset on new year's eve. There's pictures from Paris as well, if you haven't seen them.

My squirrel video won an award. As my friend Donald in the animation department put it, "They always do well, don't they? Squirrels, I mean." You can see it on my website, or I think you can see it on youtube as well. Anyway, follow the links to the right -------------------------------->
to see the photos and videos. I'm almost done with a new video, and a new animation, so look for those in the next week or so, if you're interested.

Am I just telling myself that I'm watching American Television Dramas because I'm researching "narratives" because I feel guilty about it otherwise? Or is it actually useful? Story lines in tv are always so obvious, with stupefying exposition-as-dialogue. But seriously, the first season of Lost . . . it's so good. Ah, I have a weak will.

a SAD day in Edinburgh

Judging by the fact that today and over the last weekend, I only managed to get out of the house a total of three times, two of which were to sit in a coffee shop alone and write, all of which took place after the sun had set, and judging by the fact that I'm finding it fairly impossible to get out of the house, or even out of bed, before 3 in the afternoon, (not to mention the paranoid dillusions creeping in), I think it's fair to say that the dreaded SAD (the most brilliantly acronym-d disorder ever created), or Seasonal Affected Disorder, has wrapped it's viscera-stained talons about my already weakened psyche. Do you, by any chance, happen to know of anyone who might have a SAD light box I could borrow? I realize the chances are fairly slim, but for some reason I thought if anybody knew of the location of such a therapeutic light-emitting device, it would be you. Any help would be greatly appreciated and rewarded with triple-distilled single malt whisky.

Thank you for your time.

The Last King of Scotland

Saw "The Last King of Scotland" tonight. Yeah, the critics are right, actually. If Forest Whitaker doesn't win the Oscar for this performance, well, I don't know. It will mean the polar bears really are completely doomed. Which I guess they might be anyway. But I digress. According to the IMDB, this movie was released in the states in September? Can that be right? The movie is about a Scotsman for christsake. And it's just been released here. Well. As a staunch lover of films, I so often overlook mediocre or even lousy acting because the other elements of film are good. Even Pan's Labyrinth, which I still say is one of the absolute best films of 2006, had maybe two decent performances. But, as a fairy tale, believable acting is not really a requirement. Most of the characters were more caricatures, archetypes, than sympathetic, believable, multi-dimensional characters. The film in part called for this, and in part was made weaker because of this. There was something that bothered me at the end, something I couldn't quite put my finger on, that kept me from proclaiming, "one of the great masterpieces of filmmaking!" and instead compelled me to admit, "a great film, though not without its flaws."

Ok, "The Last King of Scotland" is one of the great masterpieces of filmmaking. It is wonderful, brilliantly written, brilliantly acted, beautifully shot, well put-together, brutal but not overly-so. Even the lighting was amazing -- I don't know how they consistently lit the lead actor so that his blue eyes appeared to be glowing from the inside-out, despite everything happening to him and around him, but they did. At the end there is some footage of Idi Amin, and, and, and had the performance not been so multi-leveled and multi-faceted, I would say that Forest Whitaker simply pulled off the most brilliant impersonation ever committed to celluloid. Except it wasn't an impersonation, because impersonations are notoriously cardboard. It's more like he was channeling Amin.

The story arch and pacing, also, were perfect. The set-up and the knock-down perfectly executed. Acting, dialogue, story elements that could be easily overplayed were pulled off expertly. I know this "review" is woefully uncritical, so I will say that there was one point when I was brought out of the film's world, when the director (who has previously only directed documentaries, and clearly does his best work when sticking to that format, even when tackling narrative fiction) adopted some cliche filmic techniques in order to illustrate a character getting drunk. If I had to complain, if I was forced at gunpoint to find a weak point, this would be it. It's about 10 seconds, and really only stands out as weak because of the perfection of the rest of the film that surrounds it. In a lesser film, it wouldn't even be noticed.

This is a great film. The folly of youth. The corrupting power of power. Brave, brutal, fucking brilliant. I'd recommend you see it.

The telephone's out of cigarettes.

Edinburgh winters. I've been trying to write fiction, trying to not drink, trying to get to sleep at reasonable hours. The term started. Writing is a struggle, not drinking is a struggle, sleeping is a struggle. Sanity is slipping sideways, so I'm trying to keep a handle on that. The sun doesn't come out, and the winds are so extreme that people are being killed by flying debris. It is very Mary Poppins here, very very Mary Poppins. Tom Waits helps some, jazzy Tom Waits, late 70's Tom Waits. The piano has been drinking, not me.

I know it's too early to resign myself to life as a spinster, and yet.

The term is keeping me very busy, and extra time goes to writing stories, and that is my excuse if there is nothing of worth here. Mainly I'm grateful I haven't begun hibernating, despite my natural inclinations.

The carpet needs a haircut.

Tableaux (a revision)

"So," said the little girl, "so this is how it ends up."
"You're disappointed?" asked the young woman, "you expected more?"
"I expected more than you just exploiting my fears and weaknesses."
"You have a better idea? It's easy to criticize, but you offer me no alternatives."
"I have an idea," said the child, "I have hundreds of ideas."
"Name one."
"Well . . . I've forgotten them just now." The little girl wrinkled her brow. "You never nurtured them so I lost them, somewhere."
"Oh, don't blame me for your irresponsibility." The woman's face was tight. "Where did you put them? How could you lose something so important?"
"Don't be cross; I know where they are. I remember now."
"Well?"
"I put them somewhere in the void that divides us. I gave them to someone there. She said she'd pass them on to you."
"She didn't give me anything but poor choices and insecurity. Why would you do such a foolish thing?"
The little girl stared sullen at her shoes while the woman looked on. "I didn't have any choice," she said, "She took them and made fun; she said she had no need for silly childish things, and she hid them away."
"Where did she go?"
"She's where she's always been – pining after some boy."
"You used to do that too, you know."
"Yeah, but it wasn't the same," said the little girl. "I was just curious. She obsesses. She thinks the unattainable will save her from herself . . . or from you, maybe."
"She's foolish and insolent," said the woman. "She longs for something she doesn't understand. She looks outside herself for something that can only be found inside."
"I feel sorry for her," said the child.
"You have too much empathy. She's ruining my life and your dreams. I'm going to find her."
"Wait. Please don't leave me here alone. I'm scared."
"You're so good at imagining nightmares. Why don't you imagine yourself someplace safe and warm? I have to go."
"Please?"
"Oh, grow up."

The young woman found the teenager bony and agitated on a beach, hugging her knees against the sea breeze and staring blankly at the expansive horizon. She sat down beside her. "I've been looking for you."
The teenager looked up suddenly. "It's you!"
"You have something that belongs to me. I need it back now."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman glared. "You do know. You stole it from a child and then god knows what you did with it, but you'd better remember because I need it."
The teenager looked away, expressionless. Slowly, she glanced back and crinkled her eyes. She studied the woman's face. "Are you in love?"
"What the fuck? Are you even listening to me?"
"Are you?"
"I don't need anyone but myself."
"Yeah, but are you in love?"
"No," snapped the woman, glancing down at the girls knees, "have you been cutting yourself?"
"Leave me alone! I can't believe you're not in love."
"You're disappointed too? Look, there's more to life than love." She quickly clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late. The words had escaped.
"Like WHAT?" There was venom in the adolescent's voice.
"I mean I was in love, but now I’m happy to be alone."
"You were in love?" The girl's eyes perked up.
"Yeah, for a while. It didn't work out. We weren't good for each other."
"Did you . . . you know?"
"Of course."
"What was it like?"
"Good. It was good." The woman sighed. "Listen, I need you to remember."
"When?" asked the teenager.
"When what?"
"When did you first . . . you know?"
"In college. Listen, I shouldn't even be telling you this."
"College?! That's like, ugh. Was it worth the, you know, the wait?"
"What wait?"
"Do I know him?"
"No."
"Oh . . . " The teenager frowned.
"Can you just focus? What did you do with my . . ."
"Leave me alone. I don't know what you're doing here anyway. You certainly aren't helping."
"I'm not here to help you," said the woman, "I'm here to get something from you. Then you can go back to brooding or pining or slicing up your legs or whatever."
"I hate you," mumbled the teenager, rubbing her nose.
"What?"
"I said I HATE YOU!" She jumped up and ran toward the sea, screaming.
"Jesus Christ," said the woman, rising to follow her.
By the time she reached the water the girl was up to her knees, fully clothed, with tears streaming down her face. "How old are you?" she yelled through her tears.
"Twenty-five," said the woman, wading into the water. "I'm in grad school. I'm going to be an artist."
"Like I care." The teenager rolled her eyes and sniffed.
"You have something that I need."
"You're single?" demanded the girl.
"Yes. You know, there are worse fates for a woman my age."
"Like what?"
"Being depressed, or ill, or out of ideas. Losing inspiration . . ." She stared at the girl.
"Maybe you lost your inspiration because you don't have LOVE." She shouted the word 'Love,' spitting it like a poison into the woman's face.
"Why are you so fucking angry?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" she screamed, wading further into the water.
"You'll drown out there, or catch pneumonia. Come on, let's go someplace warm." She reached out a hand.
"Ha! You'd be happy if I died! I can tell!"
"That's absurd," the young woman insisted, though she knew it was probably true. She grabbed for the girl's hand.
"Only once?" she shouted, pulling her hand away and stepping backwards over the crashing waves.
"Only once what?"
"You were only in love once?"
"Uh, yeah, maybe twice. I'm not really sure."
"You don't KNOW?" The water was icy, and the girl was starting to shiver.
"Fuck," the young woman thought to herself, "so this is how it ends." Her teeth chattered. "No," she shouted, "I don't know. Once for sure. But it wasn't good for either of us, so it ended."
"God!" screamed the teenager, "you are SO LAME! You don't know anything! Why are you even here? Why don't you just leave me alone? You're a STUPID BITCH and I HATE YOU and YOU'RE UGLY and I Don't FUCKING have what you're looking for!"
"Fine." The young woman turned and headed back to the beach cold and annoyed. When she reached the shore she looked back toward the water.
The girl stood holding her fists clenched over her head, screaming the Gloria Patria through choking sobs: "GLORY BE TO THE FATHER, AND TO THE SON, AND TO THE HOLY SPIRIT, AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING, IS NOW, AND EVER SHALL BE, WORLD WITHOUT END, AMEN"
At the sight of this, the young woman sat down on the ground and wept. Then she closed her eyes and sat silent. After a time, she sensed a presence. She looked up to see the little girl standing beside her, watching the water.
"Hey," said the woman, wiping her face with a sandy sleeve.
"Is she ok?" asked the child, pointing toward the sea. The teenager sat in the water up to her neck, floating her arms in front of her.
"I don't know. I guess so."
"She didn't have them, did she?"
"I guess not. She wasn't very eager to help."
"Will you play with me now?"
"I can't just leave her out here."
"Her will to live is stronger than her will to die," said the little girl, holding out her hand.
The young woman sighed and took the child's hand, standing up. "She wants to know someone cares."
"No," said the child, "she just wants space to be alone and work things out. You should understand that."
"How did you get so smart?" asked the woman as they walked toward the cabin holding hands.
"How did you get so dumb?" asked the little girl, laughing.
"Ha! Not funny!" and she reached to tickle the girl who screamed and ran ahead. The woman ran to catch up, yelling, "I'm gonna get you! I'm gonna get you!"

In the cabin, the woman changed into dry clothes and lit a fire. She prepared some sandwiches and then the two sat down and began telling stories. They played intricate games of make-believe long into the evening, acting out adventures and inventing strange creatures. Much later, after both had fallen asleep on blankets before the fireplace, a lone figure watched through foggy windows and tried to understand.

a girl's first hogmanay

sat in my bedroom watching crack tv and eating chocolate until 2200. checked the internet which said that hogmanay celebrations had been canceled due to bad weather. at 2230 decided to get dressed, brave the weather, and walk to a party. couldn't be worse than spending new year's alone. put on a party dress and some thermal pants and a hooded coat and walked across town. rang the wrong doorbell and asked at the intercom, "is there a party?" the man's voice on the other end answered, "there's always a party, baby." then I noticed the number on the door was 45 and not 59. walked around the corner and found the right number, went up to the flat and realized i knew nobody, it's only 2300, i have an hour before the new year. got right to the task of getting as drunk as possible as fast as possible, made some small talk, crafted a unicorn out of the wire basket from a bottle of champagne. drank more, drank faster. watched fireworks out the window. the witching hour came and went as i held an unlit sparkler in my hand, no countdown, no realization that the time had come (and gone), until someone came by and squeezed my arms, wishing me a happy new year. "it's not," i mumbled, pulling out my phone. 23:59. it is. went to the bathroom, got another drink, drank that. decided to blow the party since i only knew two people -- the host and a married man who was busy trying to call his wife in cuba. walked up the royal mile where a crowd of people gathered screaming and singing and dog-piling. walked up to the castle terrace. two girls sat on top of a mounted statue, on either side of the general. one girl stroked the general's face, saying, "i love this horse, i love this horse, i love this horse, i love this horse." walked a bit further and looked down at prince's street, desolate and empty as the street party had indeed been canceled. stopped to make a note in a journal and two drunk french boys tried to carry me away. diverted their attention and walked around and back toward the royal mile, where the two french boys again caught up with me and tried to carry me away. diverted them again and headed down the hill. a ginger-bearded scottish man told me he would ask me to marry him in 2008. he grabbed me by the hips and said, "I'm going to marry you in 2008." "I'll be looking for you," I responded, and he trotted back to his friend, exclaiming, "she doesn't believe me. i'm going to find her in 2008." walked along the grassmarket where random men hugged me and slapped me high-five. a man with a roman nose stood in the doorway of a georgian flat on his cell phone, saying, "oh, yeah, i'm a big fan of drugs." men hugged in the streets and women screamed, "happy new year!" and the sidewalk was covered with piss and vomit. chatted with a young art student studying in newcastle, who was looking for a party. composed this letter in my head, and finally came home. i enter 2007 with virgin lips and endless possibilities, and a mind that is desperately trying to wrench it's way open, wide open.

happy new year, fools.