winter: fade to black

I should really stop writing so much poetry... Look for a discussion of David Lynch's new 'Inland Empire' coming shortly. Until then, a little poem about spring:

The Ides of March are burning
and the North Sea tide is turning
The evening sky still glowing
over wind and showers blowing
over rivers heavy flowing
The temperature is rising
which is not at all surprising
for the Ides of March are burning
Yes my darlings, spring has come.

lay down your arms, it's christmas

relaxation.
the marathon of work and stress ends. i am fulfilled, i am alone.
my mind tells my body it is time to rest. my body responds by shutting down.
we drink in a pub and listen to fiddle and mandolin, we break two glasses, we laugh and hug, we sing.
my mind tells my body it was only fooling, we cannot rest because the work in not finished. my body responds by shutting down.
fever dreams of sped-up worlds and anxiety and love making. fever dreams of absent lovers. tossing, turning, sleep paralysis, phantom pains. hallucination, psychosis. fever dreams.
my heart is singing, he says to me in gaelic. my heart is singing.
a weight lifted creates an absence. nothing survives in a vacuum. another weight is added to compensate for the one lifted.
never good enough, never good enough, the dishes are never done.
it is better this way because i get more work done, i tell her, that's what i tell myself, to keep from minding about being alone.
but it is nice to feel something so strongly, i tell her, even if it isn't always good.
but it's more productive the other way, i tell myself.
she feels the knots in my shoulders and gasps.
my mind speeds up, my body shuts down.
count to ten. breathe. relax.

A poem for all my lovers, past and future (some more than others)

Baked potato boiled rice, a visit from you would sure be nice. This dinner would taste better if it had some spice. She's not that into you, if you want my advice. Brandon Baldwin gave me lice.

Baked potato steamed peas, the pollen from olive trees makes me sneeze. At zero degrees celsius water will freeze. Looking at you makes me weak in the knees. They slaughtered the turkeys because they had a disease.

Baked potato creamed corn, your face looks better when your hair is shorn. My favorite smut is she-male porn. When I fell of the longboard a ligament was torn. I prefer your sweatshirt after it's been worn.

Baked potato with sour cream, I buy my computer paper by the ream. My favorite pair of jeans is ripped at the seam. You were giving me cunnilingus last night in my dream. When I come it's a trickle, when you come it's a stream.

Baked potato with butter and chive, when I was sixteen I learned to drive. Started masturbating when I was five. But when you touch me I really feel alive. I'll get you in bed if I have to lie and connive.

Baked potato candied yam, I got good marks for attendance but I failed the exam. The ewe is nice but I prefer the ram. The butter is good but I prefer the jam. You like the country scramble but I prefer the grand slam.

Baked potato pot roast, smoked salmon and cheese on toast. I come from the desert, you come from the coast. If you send me a letter it will arrive in the post. I loved all the others but I loved you the most.

plastic movie wood movie bad movie good movie

Ok, Babel is terrible for a whole fat list of reasons. There are three stories, poorly woven together, with awful dialogue for the actors, who are put in situations we don't care about, because we don't care for the characters, so we don't care what happens to them. The story line with Brad Pitt is the central one, but at the same time I cared about it the least. The characters are hollow, as a viewer I have no way of connecting with them, I don't care if they have marital problems, I don't care if they lost a baby, I don't care if Cate Blanchett gets shot. I don't care if she lives or dies. I just don't care. I care more about the story that takes place in Mexico, though not that much more, and I suppose I care the most about the story that takes place in Japan, but even there, I only care because the actors actually put something into it instead of just dialing it in. There have been some amazing films by Mexican directors this year, and then Innaritu totally dropped the fucking ball by making this stinker. And THEN, some idiot critics decided it was good. Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett, Gael Garcia Bernal for christsake, all are great actors, can be great actors, but they were so underused in this film it's almost criminal. They had nothing to work with. Ok, you write a story with a "message" about how the human family needs to listen to each other more, about how transcending culture and language and age and experience to gain some understanding of one another is no easy task, about how tragedy arrives when we are too busy thinking about ourselves and our small circle of influence to see the bigger picture, blah blah blah, yeah Alejandro, I get your message, but only because you slap me in the face with it. Your story is so dull, convoluted, unnecessary, you could have written a paragraph about your themes and it would have been more successful, and more entertaining. Blech.

BUT, today I saw 'The Science of Sleep,' and I am fulfilled. A cinematic masterpiece? Well, no, but with each film Michel Gondry directs, he's getting better (I confess I haven't seen the block party). This is the first film he's written as well, and it is completely delightful. And no, I am not one who normally brands things with the adjective 'delightful' and actually means it. But it's great. Gael Garcia Bernal is fantastic, and with Gondry's script, they create this character who is both completely charming and utterly flawed. He says things he shouldn't, reacts like a child, makes mistakes and then solves them with bigger mistakes, but he is real, and in the end, after all his mistakes, I still wanted him to end up with the girl. It is important to note that, unlike 'Eternal Sunshine,' in this film the plot is secondary. It is a fairly simple and straightforward love story, but as in many of my favorite films, the story is really there as a conduit for a visual extravaganza. The animated sequences are fantastic, the dreams/realities/fantasies all blend together in a way that is both familiar and completely insane. And even though they aren't central, the characters, acting, dialogue are all superb. In comparison with 'Babel,' I cared about ALL of the characters in 'The Science of Sleep,' even the minor ones. They are all written with such honesty and kindness, it is impossible not to care about them. The story arch is great as well, the pacing perfect, and it ends at exactly the point it should. And the final scenes are so poignant and touching, and so real, that they are almost painful to watch. It is obvious that Gondry loves these characters, and there is probably a lot of him in Stephane, the main character.

Yeah, so go see Science of Sleep (I think it's already been in and out of the theaters in the states, but you might find it on DVD?) and avoid Babel like the motherfucking plague.

Also, hooray, I moved flats today! I have a loft-style bunk-bed thing now, with a desk underneath, which is good fun and makes me feel like a little kid, or maybe my first year of college when I had the top bunk, except more sober. My new flatmates fed me, offered to get me high, and then played music for me on guitar and violin, and I am sure there must be something terribly wrong with them because it all just seems too lovely and perfect. They even make their own peanut butter. Seriously. Anyway, so far, so good.

in progress (step one: admitting you have a problem)

I went to the doctor and the doctor said, "Those pills you're taking are wrecking your head."
"Doctor, doctor," I said, "can't you see? These pills I'm taking give me what I need."
"No," said the doctor, doctor, "that ain't so. Those pills you're taking won't let you grow. They may keep you steady, they may keep you still, but they won't make you better, no, they'll just keep you ill."
I looked at the doctor in his white coat; I said, "Those pills I'm taking, they help me cope. When I swallow those pills the world is not so sour . . . "
"When you take those pills," he said, "you give up your power! You give up your free agency, you surrender your free will; you hand your autonomy to a tiny blue pill."

Can I borrow your nail clippers?

New videos and images on my website. The new video (Manicure) has been chosen as part of the Darkspaces exhibition at the Royal Scottish Academy (www.royalscottishacademy.org). The new images are part of a photo series: Film History of Janas.

Babel is a terrible movie. I'll tell you why later. Until then, I hope you enjoy the new art.

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.