Saturday, August 29, 2015

all the stalkworthy maidens: madness and innervation mistaken as love, a futnuckery special report

don't hide away for safety's sake.  let some of the light come out of the heart and illuminate those around you; be smart but do not live in fear.

when you see me standing there staring, its appreciation.

I quit stalking around the time facebook started up, and I'll tell you this: it's too easy to stalk on facebook.  Don't be lazy thy unrequieted; do the necessary stalkwork, for the appropriate provenance.  Pictures of puppy's and jesus banners are not quality stalking fodder, but lurking in the walmart parking lot is like being right there in the trenches, as you wait for that passing glance of your beloved, for that little moment will make your day.

That and not some lame-oid facebook trolling.

It's like oldschool detective work that I'm talking about, getting out there, in the game, being near that beloved one.  seeing with your own eyes.  not pool party pics in some online album.  That's not satisfying.  You know you want to be there, so be there.  Lurk.

Know the routines, know the connections, and if you can, watch her sleep, without regards of how much you're scaring the crap out of her, for at least fear is some reaction, some acknowledgement.  As you are lead away to jail, you think maybe you can build on that; you have hope.

and hope sustains us.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015


Ah, to see a tittybean squished over by cloth, ripeness accentuated with a maddening curvature that makes my want to go paint still life scenes of bowls of oranges.

a man in transit, the process of individuation, the coming together, the maturation of the spirit

a solitary fence post on a vast dusty plain, lonely

a dome: protection and imprisonment, dualistic, the thing we hate being the thing that keeps us alive, so that the fish people are prevented from dropping from the sky, may everyday be an eternal dusk under the shield!

doctors: "Good morning, gentleman.  Extinguish your tobacco products and listen at full attention."

a man in transit, progressing from the infantile to the gerontologic utopia, at the end of the sentence, the end of the piece, as an adieu, "Goodbye, gentleman.  You have been good doctors, loyal to your oath, but I must say goodbye, letting the piece dissolve like tp in the septic tank."

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Identity VS Role Confusion in Halloween 5

Myers, shot by a mob, drifts, remains dormant in the latency of sleep and healing for a year.  "Gonna wait a whole year then get back to it.  That'll show them.  Can you feel it?  It'll be my time, the time of masks and candy."

In the meantime, little niece had became a pawn of the system, with its tile floors and ammonia scent.  We are treated to nothing but visions.  Screwy visions in the laundry, a tradition in these films with the killer lurking behind pinned blankets and such, mocking household chores with his single-minded murdererness.  We have the misplaced anxieties of the little girl and her handlers, juxtaposed with the halfhearted bachanalia of the teenagers in which their lethargy and repose is punished by violent murder.  A pitchfork even enters the fray, but not for gathering hay, rather for impaling a youngster.  Coitus, hedonism, murder.

The lonesome woods-the grasses and the trees-and the searching lights of the car represent the heartwomb, search after loss; not an attempt to reach Michael but an effort to confront him, something they seem for which they seem woefully unprepared.

Without giving away the ending(who gives a damn?), I'll say that themes of family, parenthood, drive the narrative, with even the surrogate father Doc Loomis getting into the act, attempting to bring the Myers demons to a sensitive place, like an implosion therapy, collapsing the personality, with even the niece getting into the mix, playing dead, and Michael approaching her.  This was a lost moment of the film, a part in which the music of emotion becomes a long sustained note, like a solo where a crescendo may have been needed.

And it would take him all night to get to his prey, because that one has to be last.  He's going to take out everyone in between him and the girl.  Jealous-hearted creep.  Then to see her playing possum, lying in the coffin and approach, and to have her speak to him, and he's thinking "I dreamed this", the film gets uncomfortable, maybe he gets uncomfortable in a way we have not seen before, too.

Well.  Usually I don't like horror films about kids, and this was no exception.  So I don't find it too difficult to wait around between these films, like Myers himself, as if waiting for producer Akkad to drum up some more cash for a sequel.  Back to the point: the girl is confused, muddled, Myers is wearing a mask as if in denial, and an unidentified deliverer is in play.  Only Myers is sure who he is, and, hell, HE'S WRONG. His victims are dissociated little punks who feel alienated-the outcasts, the young and dumb.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Production Notes: Beach Volleyball Holocaust

When I think of a murderer, I think: Rutledge Wood.

Dinker the murderer probes, attempting to insert himself into the gynocracy and even have the respect of said gynocracy and the second class 18-25 demographic.  To penetrate an enigma, he would need skills that naturally elude a man, therefore his efforts are confounded, befuddled, turning violent.

They turn hysterical.

Dinker himself has succeeded the 18-25 demographic, yet in his heart, he could very well still be one of them, or even a 13-17.  He represents the potency of the young, but the lack of aim, the lack of resolve, like hiding a loaded weapon in a hat box while the barbarians tear away the house.  Dualized potency of the youthful and robust, compounded by impotence through lethargy, with the Playstation and XBox generation given a clear challenge, other than within the confines of a game.

My how the women are so modern in their ways!

This tribe of athletic mesomorph females must evoke Scandinavia, the myths of the Amazonian superwomen.  Smart, beautiful, ruthless, but with a soft, warm smile that can melt the hardest heart.  Volleyball players as transcendental figures, icons and harbingers of the future, is a powerful mojo Chopchop can play on an unsuspecting public, who sees writ large the bumbling Aniston, the dumb but earnest Heigl, the brilliant siren Portman, the facemask that is JLaw, the innocent eyes of Hathaway and the masturbation fodder we called Scarjo.

It becomes evident that the filming needs producers who are at least as morally ungrounded as Chopchop McJangle.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

movie treatment: Beach Volleyball Holocaust

Only a lesbian could guide them.

Rutledge Wood, part-time codspank, wannabe lifeguard, becomes transmogrified, empowered babies.  He's the bringer of the violence on the beach.

You kicked sand in the wrong face this time, hosebags!

 Sleek, athletic bodies.  And one with breasts like Taryn Tyrell, right fruitful and abundant, fecund, as it were.  Character?  Character don't matter when you're in a tiny bikini.  Also, I'm sure the DP can get plenty of shots of the femmes digging sand out of the cracks of their sleek asses.  As stated earlier, the coach is a lesbian, which brings up the concepts of impotence and penis envy, infantilism in authority figures, with a lipstick lesbian in place of the male's shadowy anima.  Should would have man issues.  This is how I would write it, for my own sense of humor.

An old Jeep Cherokee.  Some warm beers.  A crappy lawn chair.  The killer picks at his nipples, because they sunburned and hurt like two bee stings.  And he has a stiffy, pretty much the entire film, so some PA would have to find a suitable item to shove in his pants.  These are mere props.  Sauce for the goose.

This is art, don't you see?


modernity in the original texas chainsaw massacre

The good guys follow astrology.  The good guys read magazines.  The good guys left the homeland.

The good guys are weak and unprepared.

The bad guys: one, a psychopath, works at the slaughterhouse, or once worked at the slaughterhouse, but then goes back and aggravates them, maybe standing outside absorbing the grue, the atmosphere.  One, who disconnected his phallus in the form of a chainsaw that he can turn on and off, functions as housewife, like a stay at home dad, but to dysfuntional himself to bring forth children.  The modern woman maybe, dressed in a man's formal suit, murdering, butchering, in a state of unburdened dualistic confusion.  The other, the last, the surprise if you will, runs the local gas'n'go, and there we get the reference to OPEC, fuel shortages and the like, which read differently today than back in 1973.

 You laugh.  You say, 'he is just an old man'.

The old ones left to their own devices in the homeland modernizes, but in bizarre ways that confound the modern man, and herein the modern man is younger than middle-age, not emblematic of the everyman, but the younger sort, like the woodstock generation of the time.  Fight the power dope smokers that jack off in their rooms listening to Jefferson Airplane.  Reads differently now. 

 Collegiate set, I say. 

Collegiate set, except for Franklin the wheelchair-bound manchild who acts in a sense as a bridge between the old and the new, the originals and the transplants.  Old world meets new world in his hysterics, his anxiety.  But Franklin, my boy, you're past is caving in, there are spiders on the wallpaper, and the neighbors never liked you anyway.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Unintended Consequences: Comedia Dell'Arte in The Burning(1981)

We are told the meek will inherit the Earth.  We are warned that in the end times the last will be first, and the first will be last.  There will be a new effigy of Colonel Sanders on the television, two royal babies and a bombastic businessman running for the White House.  We can consider ourselves warned by the forward looking scriptures, the word of God, the words distilled from the divine inspiration.

Herein we see a meek lamentable soul, treated unfairly, rudely, and the law of unintended consequences at once smacks him down, like the hard, cold soul of a city.  But we do not end here.  This is not juvenile justice.  The grotesque quality of a practical joke gone wrong meets a grotesque revenge, and the grossness is from a sideways glance, laughable, as jokes sometimes grow large and gross, giving a wide divergence from the commonplace.

As I said in my review of the film: whilst burning, he rolled down the hill, into the water.  Of course this turns him into a superhuman maniac.  It was a warning that sniping and tomfoolery have consequences, even intended innocently, but it is the tragedy, the very accident that empowers the bumbling contemptible soul, like Jason X getting his metal upgrades, like Clark Kent taking off his fancy office shirt in the phone booth, empowered and no longer underpinned-no longer hindered-by the usual trappings of a life, as if dead, his humanity stripped away, without from social standards, apart and aside from propriety, the strings that hold together this human commune.

The fire represents the strive for the forbidden, the impulse to transcend in ways that are dangerous.  The teens have unknowingly then given him not only a meta-human tribute, but an impetus for which to strive and evolve past his capacities.  And it goes wrong, he catches fire, and flailing takes a long fall into water, which is the unknown, the murky obscurity of either death or just the unconscious; each have their own power.  The water-the obscurity-is as his cloak as he is reformed as a transcendent figure.

The modern iteration of the tragic clown, given to us by a generation that had looked revenge and hatred in its face, and then knew full well how to portray blood, revenge and innocence gone wrong, outraged.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Movie Treatment: Be Good For Goodness' Sake

The sheer horror of the holiday season brought to you by Chopchop McJangle, my alter-ego, without conscious or concerns for social finery.  Teens text and have sex, then check facebook, then get strangled, maimed, broken and beaten by the vengeful Santa.  Who spends hundreds on a smartphone then even more for a data plan for these little zipperheads?  Or several hundred for a game console then however much on games?  Santa is tired of it.  No one wants the wooden hobby horses or yo-yo's or marachas anymore.  It's all gear, now.  Santa should give them a talking to, maybe, but herein he overreacts and spills bloody vengeance all over the ungrateful brats, all before they can get their clothes on.

They think they will be happy with the latest gadget, the latest in-thing.  Instead they are pinioned by Claus, naked, in mock sainthood from the spirit of a saint himself.  We mix metaphors with victims nude, splayed, as if offering themselves up, but truly, this is just how the bodies of the greedy little creeps fall.

The parents will be off: father golfing, mother on a pilgrimage to make herself as a Kardashian.  Modernity is a busy pursuit; you cannot just read the news and be modern.  You have to do the prerequisite work, the prep, and then after, you must maintain the image, the trappings of success and happiness, blinding yourself like a carriage horse and giving oneself over to modern play.

Santa ain't havin' it this time.  There will be no reward for bad little girls and boys.  He brought a chainsaw, with a bow on it, under the pretense of giving it to the father, but alas, its only there to make his killing easier: chainsaw murders.  This time he's making a statement, painting the town red.

All your cookies and milk are belong to Chopchop.  He's a shockmeister, the man from Snowy River.  He's on the ground to ruin Christmas for all the greedy little chilluns.