Here's another biopic, this time on Sylvia, the 2003 film with Gwyneth Paltrow as Plath. It's not a good film either--rather cliched, trite and the filming itself isn't interesting or good, and neither is the screenplay. The directors of these films just love to portray the lives of these artists as so pedestrian. When I saw this I thought Daniel Craig was cute (pre-Bond) and too good looking to portray Ted Hughes. Here's the trailer to this film, and you can watch the whole film on You Tube if you want. Part 1 is embedded.
So enjoy watching! It's a real whodunit!
Part 1:
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
10/24/09
Total Eclipse: Rimbaud and Stuff.
Here's another biopic, this time on Rimbaud. I've seen this one, and Leo Dicaprio plays Rimbaud and some other guy plays Verlaine. Ok, you know the story right? Melodrama, love affair, poetry, death, etc. One of Dan's friends loves this film but I think it's pretty much worthless.
It just gives all the cliches of the artist, one by one. And the film referred to Rimbaud as a "genius" and Verlaine as a "great poet." Well, Rimbaud had some moments here and there but was overall, an immature writer. But Verlaine sucked ass.
It just gives all the cliches of the artist, one by one. And the film referred to Rimbaud as a "genius" and Verlaine as a "great poet." Well, Rimbaud had some moments here and there but was overall, an immature writer. But Verlaine sucked ass.
Beat Trailer.
Some were discussing Ginsberg on the e-list and so I was put in mind of this film. I've actually not seen it--Dan reviewed it, but I didn't bother watching it, as he wasn't too favorable of it and the Beats give me a headache anyway. Ron Livingston, the guy from Office Space, plays Ginsberg.
9/12/09
Why don't some ever grow up?
Wassim made an interesting comment on the e-list about how his own film tastes have evolved and matured with age, yet the many that he knows still hold on to those childish "likes" when it comes to movies. I too have experienced that, where many pals of mine still have favorite movies like Wayne's World and The Three Amigos and Father of the Bride. While it's fine to "like" a movie, you would think that with age, you'd let go of some of these childish impulses.
For example, many of my favorite movies are not favorites now. You want to know what my favorite movie was when I was 7? Superman 2. My second favorite movie was Superman. I watched them 1000s of times. I also liked The Neverending Story (a fun little kid movie but the book is better, from what I recall), I liked all the Vacation movies, The Jerk, The Parent Trap (original--not the remake with ho bag Lohan), Pollyanna, there was a movie that involved a cat and a dog on a long journey but I don't remember the exact title, The Goonies, and all this sort of crap.
Now, some of these movies I still like, and still have their merits. I think The Jerk is a good bad movie, (as opposed to a bad bad movie, ala Crash and Saving Private Ryan). I still like The Parent Trap with Hayley Mills for sentimental reasons, and I like The Neverending Story, but none of these are anywhere in a league with being my favorite films now. Why would they be? I've grown and my tastes have grown. I don't get it. To not evolve is like saying my favorite band is New Kids on the Block because I liked them when I was 12.
But this does not just apply to movies, but to all art in general. I know writers who still think crappy writers they grew up with are good, simply because they "like" them, or this writer gave them some kind of "inspiration" as a kid. I liked a lot of those stiff poets from the late 1800s/early part of the 20th Century, like Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edwin Arlington Robinson, and John Greenleaf Whittier. But my tastes have since evolved. None of them come close to Jeffers, Rilke, Whitman, Shelley, Crane and Stevens--all poets I learned later on in life. So why would I still cling to them? Loyalty? What is it?
As example, one other movie I liked as a kid was Dead Poets Society. The guys are cute to look at (esp. the one that offs himself), the scenery is nice and Robin Williams is being his usual self. Not to mention the film quotes all the poets I knew at the time. But it's not a film that is high on intellect. For one thing, the message is very trite: "seize the day" YAWN. Also, the father (who later became the dad from That '70s Show) who forces the kid to become a doctor is so lame and there is no dimension to his character. Even the father/son relationship in Love Story was better than this.
I remember Roger Ebert gave this a bad review and I agree 100% with his review. Sometimes Ebert was spot on, and this is one of those times. Here's what he says:
"Dead Poets Society" is a collection of pious platitudes masquerading as a courageous stand in favor of something: doing your own thing, I think. It's about an inspirational, unconventional English teacher and his students at "the best prep school in America" and how he challenges them to question conventional views by such techniques as standing on their desks. It is, of course, inevitable that the brilliant teacher will eventually be fired from the school, and when his students stood on their desks to protest his dismissal, I was so moved, I wanted to throw up."
Another point he mentions is:
"The movie pays lip service to qualities and values that, on the evidence of the screenplay itself, it is cheerfully willing to abandon. If you are going to evoke Henry David Thoreau as the patron saint of your movie, then you had better make a movie he would have admired."
If you go on You Tube, all the idiots think the ending is a great scene, when it's so trite and over the top. The purpose: "ooh, see life in a new way and stand up for things," but that same theme can be explored in It's a Wonderful Life, albeit it is done much, much better.
Dead Poets Society is Hollywood's attempt at depth. It's not a terrible film, there is much worse out there, but it's not in any way a good one. The message is cliched and you know what's going to happen. Yet having said that, I do like the film, for the reasons I mentioned (cute guys, nice scenery, etc.) and if it's playing on a Saturday afternoon when I'm folding the laundry, I'll inevitably end up watching a little. But none of these are reasons to cling to any work of art, especially if that art is mediocre.
Here's the end scene, then it's best to leave it at that:
For example, many of my favorite movies are not favorites now. You want to know what my favorite movie was when I was 7? Superman 2. My second favorite movie was Superman. I watched them 1000s of times. I also liked The Neverending Story (a fun little kid movie but the book is better, from what I recall), I liked all the Vacation movies, The Jerk, The Parent Trap (original--not the remake with ho bag Lohan), Pollyanna, there was a movie that involved a cat and a dog on a long journey but I don't remember the exact title, The Goonies, and all this sort of crap.
Now, some of these movies I still like, and still have their merits. I think The Jerk is a good bad movie, (as opposed to a bad bad movie, ala Crash and Saving Private Ryan). I still like The Parent Trap with Hayley Mills for sentimental reasons, and I like The Neverending Story, but none of these are anywhere in a league with being my favorite films now. Why would they be? I've grown and my tastes have grown. I don't get it. To not evolve is like saying my favorite band is New Kids on the Block because I liked them when I was 12.
But this does not just apply to movies, but to all art in general. I know writers who still think crappy writers they grew up with are good, simply because they "like" them, or this writer gave them some kind of "inspiration" as a kid. I liked a lot of those stiff poets from the late 1800s/early part of the 20th Century, like Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edwin Arlington Robinson, and John Greenleaf Whittier. But my tastes have since evolved. None of them come close to Jeffers, Rilke, Whitman, Shelley, Crane and Stevens--all poets I learned later on in life. So why would I still cling to them? Loyalty? What is it?
As example, one other movie I liked as a kid was Dead Poets Society. The guys are cute to look at (esp. the one that offs himself), the scenery is nice and Robin Williams is being his usual self. Not to mention the film quotes all the poets I knew at the time. But it's not a film that is high on intellect. For one thing, the message is very trite: "seize the day" YAWN. Also, the father (who later became the dad from That '70s Show) who forces the kid to become a doctor is so lame and there is no dimension to his character. Even the father/son relationship in Love Story was better than this.
I remember Roger Ebert gave this a bad review and I agree 100% with his review. Sometimes Ebert was spot on, and this is one of those times. Here's what he says:
"Dead Poets Society" is a collection of pious platitudes masquerading as a courageous stand in favor of something: doing your own thing, I think. It's about an inspirational, unconventional English teacher and his students at "the best prep school in America" and how he challenges them to question conventional views by such techniques as standing on their desks. It is, of course, inevitable that the brilliant teacher will eventually be fired from the school, and when his students stood on their desks to protest his dismissal, I was so moved, I wanted to throw up."
Another point he mentions is:
"The movie pays lip service to qualities and values that, on the evidence of the screenplay itself, it is cheerfully willing to abandon. If you are going to evoke Henry David Thoreau as the patron saint of your movie, then you had better make a movie he would have admired."
If you go on You Tube, all the idiots think the ending is a great scene, when it's so trite and over the top. The purpose: "ooh, see life in a new way and stand up for things," but that same theme can be explored in It's a Wonderful Life, albeit it is done much, much better.
Dead Poets Society is Hollywood's attempt at depth. It's not a terrible film, there is much worse out there, but it's not in any way a good one. The message is cliched and you know what's going to happen. Yet having said that, I do like the film, for the reasons I mentioned (cute guys, nice scenery, etc.) and if it's playing on a Saturday afternoon when I'm folding the laundry, I'll inevitably end up watching a little. But none of these are reasons to cling to any work of art, especially if that art is mediocre.
Here's the end scene, then it's best to leave it at that:
8/28/09
"Monica Vitti’s Hands"
I was going to post this on my own blog but then I decided since it is film related, I will share it here. I had the image in mind of Monica Vitti's hands in L'avventura where there is the contrast of her long, slender fingers against the rough, sharp rock and it offers a good metaphor to play off of. I was just happy to be able to actually find a photo online that put me in mind of my poem.
Monica Vitti’s Hands
*after Antonioni
Somewhere, a solid drop of upheld stone
soaks into the smallness of her
slendering tips, parted within the lines
of foam, an island that lives as everything
slips. Tangled, her hands grasp
rock, as struggle ceases her
clasp—her mind has dangled
stranger things, when it’s late
should she say it? She is trying to impress
what little is left of him, his fondness
worn, that primitive
being. Calling, her name
only melts with afternoon
sea, an image incomplete, still
beneath the devolving harbor
that unpieces. A woman weaves starfish
in her hair and goes unfound.
Copyright by Jessica Schneider
Monica Vitti’s Hands
*after Antonioni
Somewhere, a solid drop of upheld stone
soaks into the smallness of her
slendering tips, parted within the lines
of foam, an island that lives as everything
slips. Tangled, her hands grasp
rock, as struggle ceases her
clasp—her mind has dangled
stranger things, when it’s late
should she say it? She is trying to impress
what little is left of him, his fondness
worn, that primitive
being. Calling, her name
only melts with afternoon
sea, an image incomplete, still
beneath the devolving harbor
that unpieces. A woman weaves starfish
in her hair and goes unfound.
Copyright by Jessica Schneider
5/30/09
Salo: The Dullest Film Ever?
Shit-eating and assorted other debaucheries made not repulsive, but dull.
Pier Paolo Pasolini was a failed poet and writer, and, like Jean Cocteau, decided to take his failure into another art form.
Salo, or 120 Days Of Sodom is a yawnfest from start to end.
Herein a trailer/clip:
Quoth me: 'Overall, Salò, or 120 Days Of Sodom is a very bad film; not the worst film I’ve ever watched, but surely amongst the dullest- think of an Andy Warhol Factory Film with some pointless perversions tossed in. There is little artistic merit, technically, no real narrative nor character development, no deeper ‘meaning,’ so why watch it? The only possible reason would be so that a young filmmaker could see exactly what NOT to do. I will watch some of Pasolini’s other films, but given my knowledge of this and his poetastry, I hold out little hope of getting by aesthetic socks knocked off.
Of course, one of the reasons the film’s ‘reputation’- such as it is, has endured, is because of the death of Pasolini shortly after the film’s premiere. Depending on your mood, it was either ironic or fitting that Pasolini was murdered by a young man who was repulsed by the lech’s overt homosexual advances and propositioning for money. There are several versions of the tale, online, but the most consistent details seem to be that the underaged youth, then recently released from jail, beat the crap out of the filmmaker, left him in the road, and then took Pasolini’s keys to his car and repeatedly ran over the man with his own Alfa Romeo until he was dead. Naturally, and given the acrimony following the release of Salo, Pasolini defenders took to claiming that the Left Wing ‘artist’- a convicted child molester, himself, could not have been killed by the kid, but was the target of- you got it, a government conspiracy to ‘silence him.’ Now, given the utter lack of intellectual depth that his last film, and his body of poetry, as well as a sampling of his ‘critical writings’ that I have read translations of, this would be akin to the proverbial ‘using a sledgehammer to kill a flea.’ But, it has kept Pasolini and this swill on the fringes of cinematic consciousness. In fact, in 2006, Time Out magazine rated Salò the most controversial film ever made, or, did exactly what PPP wanted: if one is incapable of art, go for what keeps the name.'
Correct again!
Pier Paolo Pasolini was a failed poet and writer, and, like Jean Cocteau, decided to take his failure into another art form.
Salo, or 120 Days Of Sodom is a yawnfest from start to end.
Herein a trailer/clip:
Quoth me: 'Overall, Salò, or 120 Days Of Sodom is a very bad film; not the worst film I’ve ever watched, but surely amongst the dullest- think of an Andy Warhol Factory Film with some pointless perversions tossed in. There is little artistic merit, technically, no real narrative nor character development, no deeper ‘meaning,’ so why watch it? The only possible reason would be so that a young filmmaker could see exactly what NOT to do. I will watch some of Pasolini’s other films, but given my knowledge of this and his poetastry, I hold out little hope of getting by aesthetic socks knocked off.
Of course, one of the reasons the film’s ‘reputation’- such as it is, has endured, is because of the death of Pasolini shortly after the film’s premiere. Depending on your mood, it was either ironic or fitting that Pasolini was murdered by a young man who was repulsed by the lech’s overt homosexual advances and propositioning for money. There are several versions of the tale, online, but the most consistent details seem to be that the underaged youth, then recently released from jail, beat the crap out of the filmmaker, left him in the road, and then took Pasolini’s keys to his car and repeatedly ran over the man with his own Alfa Romeo until he was dead. Naturally, and given the acrimony following the release of Salo, Pasolini defenders took to claiming that the Left Wing ‘artist’- a convicted child molester, himself, could not have been killed by the kid, but was the target of- you got it, a government conspiracy to ‘silence him.’ Now, given the utter lack of intellectual depth that his last film, and his body of poetry, as well as a sampling of his ‘critical writings’ that I have read translations of, this would be akin to the proverbial ‘using a sledgehammer to kill a flea.’ But, it has kept Pasolini and this swill on the fringes of cinematic consciousness. In fact, in 2006, Time Out magazine rated Salò the most controversial film ever made, or, did exactly what PPP wanted: if one is incapable of art, go for what keeps the name.'
Correct again!
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