The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T

It's fun to consider works of art in historical context, and The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T flies in the face of the era in which it was created, the Eisenhower 50's. This was a time of post-war prosperity, a forced return to normalcy where blandness and routine was considered ideal (compared to a world in flames a few years earlier, completely understandable). But this was America, where the center never holds. Dr. T's anti-authoritarian stance seems like something that would have found a welcoming home several years later in the late 60's. It's got autocratic leaders, restless youngsters who regard "discipline" as a dirty word, off-kilter music, and it's all awash in surreal, bendy colors meant to 'trip' you up, ahem. All that's probably why the thing tanked upon release.

But we don't live in either of those eras, so we must judge the flick as a stand alone piece of work (if such a thing is possible; I'll get to that later). The one absolute stand-out is the design with its proto Frank Geary curvilinear Terwilliker Institute. They didn't half-ass it. Twisty walls, giant pointy fingers, cumbersome musical instruments that dripped from Dali's brush, a ladder to nowhere. It's a real-life Dr. Seuss (pronounced "soice," like "rejoice," thanks, J) that contemporary attempts of filming his work failed at. Like The Wizard of Oz, the dream worlds, despite their dangers ("disintegrated, atom by atom"), both outshines and shines a light upon the real one. What I found myself doing, however, was admiring the obvious labor that went into the design and construction of the sets and immediately thinking that now some poindexter with a Mac can crank the same thing out in an hour. That's where modern filmmaking imposes its will (and invariably sucks the life out of) on the way viewers view the classics.

OK, so being forced to practice the piano isn't fighting against worldwide tyranny (or is it?), but you pick your battles. It's enough for it to become a life-or-death struggle against a dictatorship ("very atomic!") and search for a father-figure, for an impressionable scamp.

Wild At Heart, or life is a tarmac badly traveled 3/22/09

We chose this movie for Ron, who was visiting at the time, and nursing a healthy Nicholas Cage fetish.

This movie has an aesthetic mix of conceptual coolness and an unpredictably-tempered wildness that allows powerful images to gaze into the mirror of the other. What does this mean? The audience experiences the two sides of proximity and distance, the sense of security and exposure, the physical and the psychic, that Sailor and Lula presumably experience. The characters develop out of a highly personal and subjective exploration of a room or space in which they have sex, which forms the emotional framework for ideologically-spawned vestiges in sculptural, architectural, psychic, and narrative fragments of life.

It’s difficult to choose this movie between good and evil, adolescence and maturity, accountability and negligence. There are so many symbols in this movie that indicate a limbo, and the entirety of the story is looking for a home. Especially the violent rest in Big Tuna calls to mind the mythological “fish” static state between bliss and banishment. I particularly love cousin Dell’s “disappearance”--the ultimate escape, and Lula’s hope for ascension.

But part of me just wants to call “Wild At Heart” maniacal pop. It’s full of quotable lines. (I think that has come to mean to me, after knowing Erik for about a year, that the lines quoted out of context provide a considerable amount of amusement and pop-culture value. Would you agree, E?) My friend Donald came to movie night this week for the first time and created a kind of division between the regulars. Was it a failed attempt by Lynch to make a deeper, more resonant film, or is it supposed to be a simple love story, as Karen believes? The discussion was diffused by Ron laughing in the corner and then privately acquiescing to Donald’s theory. (Ron will get me back for saying that.)

Anyway: Maniacal Pop. Maybe I’ll re-write Dickman’s All American Poem and create the genre…

Badlands (1973) 3/1/09

Martin Sheen ends up playing the President of the United States on national television. And he's still got that hair. It's unilateral.

Badlands 3/1/09

Badlands is like a malpais, but not volcanic. Though you could say Kit erupts fairly easily. Badlands never gets to Mexico, but if it had, they would call it tierras baldías. Malpais is also in Brave New World, whose title is the opposite of what this movie is about.

There’s a lot of kicking in Badlands, but it’s all show and spark, and the dusty terrain lends itself naturally to the action. Kit kicks a cow, a rock, a dog, various trash, the ground, a tire. He kicks the cow to know it’s safe to walk over, like a bridge. He kicks the ground so he doesn’t have to shoot Holly. He shoots a tire to make it look flat, but not to make it be flat. He shoots a football to save space in the car. He rams cattle with the car to save on ammo.

In everything in this movie there is desolation. There are no surprises. The editing is fluid. There is no climax or dénouement. The lost paradise of the love story is perturbed by a free violence. It is particularly obvious.

Quentin Terantino said he wanted to be like Terrence Malick so he made Pulp Fiction, but it turned out to be too judgmental. That’s why Badlands is so good and so stupid, together.

I would never call this movie “poetry” like it had been described to me. Maybe only in that the main characters refused to be sustained by normal life, but that their fantasies could not sustain them, either. I would call that normal life.

(Birthday) "Week End" Jean-Luc Godard 1967 2/22/09

First, I will say that Sunday evening was one of the greatest movie nights I have been to! Thank you, Jamalieh, for being born.

I sat for a while with this one, guys. There were moments of wondering when the film would end and times when I wished I had brought some needles and yarn to move around my fingers in hopes of keeping my mind focused on Godard's political lectures. Ramblings, really. It's okay to call Godard a rambler who is very chaotic. I decided to write him a letter.

Dear Godard,

I'll always love you for "Breathless". Jean Seberg is captivating and sexy with short hair, that striped dress, and black top hat. Come to think of it, we should have watched that movie. The point is, we didn't and while I have been sitting with the one we did watch, I realize there are moments when you captured much beauty in the chaotic nature of people and the forest. You really have an eye, too, Godard. Like the scene when the two burned that perfectly nice girl in the middle of the woods and kept saying that she was only a part of a story, not real. Well, she was really burning wasn't she? Truth is, I was mesmerized in part by the green leafy forest and in part by the man sitting next to his burning corpse friend.

Thank you for your time,

Chanin H.

Below are three scenes that I have revisited since the first time and appreciate for their moods, chaos, and camera work, as seen separated from the rest of the movie (which I am still digesting and may need to put away for a while). I encourage you to comment and discuss.

Chinatown (1974) 2/8/09

We spent a little time talking about bloopers this movie night. For example, the ring tones that they use in Chinatown sound like they're out of the 60s. Mr. Polanski, it's my dream that one day our society will do a Moulin Rouge-esque noir mashup, that your movie will be involved, and that they'll put The Move's "Chinatown" (1971) in there. Please let me dream.

Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie (1971) 1/25/09

I went down the stairs; I went up the stairs. I went down the stairs. I went down the stairs and I miss dinner. I sat down. I watched something intricate that was never eaten. I mentioned to a rhinoceros. I mentioned to a city you had become. You thought I said you make the city look good. It was weird that O'Neill was alluded to, even in a misunderstanding. I miss Sasha/Electra. I miss Freddy. I miss Ionesco. Thank you-- for bringing that pistol. And without justice. And with first names being the same. Without promise of reality.

Charme discret de la bourgeoisie (1971) 1/25/09

I'd like to tell you about a movie night I attended recently. I approached the front of the house as usual, preferring to leave my shoes in the little corner of the living room dominated by an overworked coat tree. Through the living room window there was a warm glow of light and a Christmas tree still but, curiously, I saw no one. Was it remotely possible that I had lost track of the week this badly, that I was now climbing the two or three steps into a Monday evening or even a Tuesday, a lost little evening rung in and out with only a few hollow footfalls up the steps and taps at the front door? Hard to be sure. It wasn't until I could see through the little window in the door that I found them as they were, all on the floor, below the eye level of an observer positioned on the street, quietly stunned for a moment in a cold picture square of door glass.

I opened the door and was met by warm air and people, threats of French toast but, also curiously, no takers. I accepted some tea from Jamalieh. It was decaffeinated and healthful, at least nominally, and I expected Derek to make fun of me for it as he had earlier in the week. He only smiled and I forgot my plan to make a joke on his behalf. As he is not much of a drinker and generally well spoken he left me little opportunity anyway.

At 8:05 my brother called me from many time zones away. I paced around the living room, greedily taking in his opinions about Obama, his plans for after May and the ambient sounds of socializing in the kitchen. The conversation went on for a while and when I rejoined the party I found that they had waited graciously for me to finish to begin the movie.

We watched a really weird movie and ate a box of Donettes.

And then Kara drove some of us home, which was nice. Thanks, Kara.

Light Years aka Gandahar (1988) 1/18/09

I was the last to arrive to Movie Night on Sunday because I missed the 14 bus and decided that dealing with the cold and taking my bike was going to be the only alternative to missing Light Years. Actually, I didn't know it was Light Years and I'm glad for my ignorance because I got my annual sci-fi quota done last week with Wall-E.

But I didn't miss it, luckily. I got right down on that couch and there began a story without words about an easy world with no bikes, buses or physical exertion period. People walk around naked eating big fruits that fall constantly from the trees and, no doubt, are delicious and nutritious. They socialize with themselves and with the animals that bring them comfort by nodding and when they open their mouths to talk the insides of their mouths are the same colors as the outsides of their bodies and the movements of their lips does not correspond to the sounds that they make. Everything was simple again and I had a glass of cool water.

There is trouble in paradise and I don't want to give it away. But if you thought He-Man and the Landshark were cool, you're going to need to check out the "impetuous" leading man and his flying Stingray! Sci-fi synth tracks: A-, He-Man-esque animation: B, story: B- Oops, I made a smiley!