Monday, December 28, 2015

good evening, fleshthings: all ur upgrade is belong to Megatron.

Optimus Prime has a weakness in wanting to protect the humans.  Decepticons will exploit this glaring error in logic for our own good success.

Send your thoughts to Starscream.  He lives still, having been hurled into the furthest reaches of space and low on energon.  It's almost funny, if he were not so pivotal to the Decepticon cause.  Also remember Shockwave, who is really doing the best he can as a subcommander, and still lacking any perceivable sign of personality or original thought.

(Heard a son married his step-mom.  This makes confusion at reunions and holiday gatherings.  Not down with that, ppl.  I'm sending Brother Timothy to straighten out this garbage once and for all.)

So we passed the Sandy Hook anniversary in the shadow of some panic and heightened security at large gatherings.  And we were still yet in the shadow of San Bernadino and paranoia over incoming refugees.

We are really seeing the darker aspects of ourselves in this fear and isolationism.  The world will test us.  Will we lose all humanity in the face of these challenges?  Will the world change us, or will we remain firm and steadfast?

We can look at that flag-the red and white bars and that blue field of stars, and glance back at the best aspects of our humanity since the birth of the United States, compassion locked with independence, that this nation is a source of refuge and prosperity for anyone willing to earn his or her dream with diligence and understanding.  Jefferson is a great man-regardless of whether he had slaves.  He was merely a product of the social custom of his time.  Let us walk forward holding fast to the best of these customs, and disregarding inhumanity and indecency.  There was a scene in a film where General Thomas Stonewall Jackson began praying and a nearby slave joined him; he seemed in that moment to view the slave as a complete person, which was in a sense a divine revelation.

May we all be subject to divine revelation, to take part in a commune larger than ourselves-this United States, this jewel of the Americas-and be the shining star, the standard that the rest of the world struggles to follow through the darkness of wayward lives, with communism, kingdoms, inequity, collective indifference, and the clawing struggle of life that so many endure through gritted teeth.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogue on Friday the 13th Part 3: The Dreams of Distant Manhood, That Cold Star With Smoky Ring

I submit this film is the only pure Friday the 13th film of formula, despite its eccentricities, as the overall plot is purely Jason killing without any other supernatural trimmings, save for his being hard to kill, past any other idiosyncrasies of the film's production(ie the movie ranch and the bikers, and the fake deaths)

Shamanism is always waiting to nod towards proof of manhood, but confounded by reality, like the cool trembling hand of a stranger's touch in the dark of the night; it is also forgotten when achieved, taken for granted, like the watched pot of proverb that never boils while the hungry waiting eyes study for any sign.

Here Jason is not the healing arbitrator shaman as he is in some of the other films, but he along with three of his victims are the Trickster of archetype.  It is the old trickster who is most notable to me-the pothead, who finds his death by the fusebox after being told to "man up, man".  So it is the very will to power and his trial of manhood that destroys him.  The mildly cute trickster is murdered upside down while walking on his hands.  No other subtext need be mentioned with him.  He is not subverted or inverted in theme, nothing aside from settling in to have sex, another rite of manhood foiled by the main trickster from the shadows.  The pathetic Trickster Shelly finds himself strung up and in danger several times in the film, but we are not shown the killing stroke, while he survives to die in front of an annoyed woman, and his final joke is then borrowed by Jason: the legendary hockey mask that was to become the murderer's icon.

The farmboy literally says "I'm just a dumb old farmboy", so from this not-so-subtlety I paint with a broader brush and say the film is striving for simplicity and clear typology.  The pothead is the older Trickster, who has come to nothing so far in his life.  The women are outgrowths of their men, save for the leading lady.

Jason himself is revealed to be the ultimate Trickster, beyond the hockey mask, as an old attempt to murder the leading lady is revealed, Jason being foiled by unknown means, with an impotence of youth.  But here he is embarking on a spree, adopting iconography, murdering by the dozen, and making it all look easy, with the righteous motive of revenge fading into the background while he becomes simply a hunter of sorts, maybe even the Trickster of a god that pervades regardless of region, seemingly coming down from the clouds like a thunderbolt, at his own whim, called forth like the heavy hand of nature itself when the time is right and a soul is rip for being tricked, plucked for the gods.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Friday the 13th Part 2: The Compression of Time; A Science of Mechanics and Dimension

How those childhood dreams beckon!

The little girl sings, the mother calls.  Perhaps she's seen Jason, beckoning then the girl to come in, for the scavenger roams the darkness, and here he is not the perverted prankster of the next film, but a mis-grown juvenile, an orphan of sorts, an Oliver Twist filtered through the end of the dreaming 1960's and Free 1970's.  Jason.  Mobile.

Adrienne King making her farewell to the series, she who had the weight of the sequel on her head at the conclusion of the last film, how she could pitch a new film to the producers and the audience at the same time, with just a wondering glance.  In the last film she was simultaneously worldly, quiet, but virginal and good, being also broken somehow with a troubled past.

Like C.M. Punk, I too like the crazy women.

She talks to her mother and a vacuum of time envelops her after she hangs up the phone.  The camera seamlessly follows her around the house while confining itself largely to a hallway in her apartment.  She changes clothes fast.  Camera doesn't follow.  She crosses in front of us to another room.  The shower.  We come in close until we are right outside the shower curtain.  She scares us by pulling the shower curtain open.  It's a cheap gimmick, I know, and I silently hiss a little every time I see it, but the expression on her face tells another story, that some kind of fear or doubt has overtaken her, and likely not that which left her behind, but the latest malaise from the horror of Camp Crystal Lake.

This is the science of compression of time, director Steve Miner catapulting his actress and the DP across the realms of time.  Such is the subtext.  Malformed children.  The mother talking to her ailing daughter, offering help, but being pushed away because of the old inner-tension.  This subtext dies before the opening credits and the onslaught of the score by Harry Manfredini(this is an older one, so its got ominous sounding horns in it.  BONUS!!)

Like Tonino Delli Colli, with his camera guided by Sergio Leone, loving Claudia Cardinale, and I loving her, too, the camera of DP Peter Stein casts its interested eye squarely in the face of the young redhead, even as the strings of suspense enter after an anonymous caller jumps upon her nerves.  And she drew pictures.  Of Mrs. Voorhees victims.  But economy is the true mother of invention, be it an influx of cash or having to do something spectacular on a shoestring budget.

I wonder so much why Steve Miner did not use these techniques later in the film, but the aftermath follows an abrupt loss of time, as the leading lady probably goes unconscious and awakens in safety.  How convenient.  So they use this to entirely gip the entire audience and cover  a gap in the script.

Nevertheless.  A mal-formed manchild in a world of hypersexual young people.  I went to high school just like a lot of folks.  Just saying.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogues: Pale Rider, or More Jazz For Clint

The hills were racked with thunder and vexation, and came the death dealer, the one of higher justice.  He was hard, but equitable, and suffered not evil.  (That was Clint's starring role I'm talking about.)

It's important that Clint's fantasy character has the indisputable mark of a man, so he is part gunfighter, where from in other works he might be a policeman or a soldier, but here a part gunfighter and wearing the garb of a preacher.  This is the touch of male infallibility, that he is, as it were, a symbol.

I like Clint very much, and have since watching Two Mules For Sister Sarah as a child, though I really like Shirley Mclane much more than Clint, as the duplicitous redheaded temptress.  I have a raging boner when I watch a rerun of her cigarette-puffing portrayal of Irma La Duce.  BUT Michael Moriarity is an actor of whom his works I have enjoyed a lot.  Riveted to the screen like a suction-cup Garfield in someone's rear car window fifteen years ago.

Back to the reason for the season:  The scene of the rock in the stream and the giant is a dull new-Fordian meditation on fecundity, in the portrayal of the insurmountable and the urethra and testes, and the masculine violence of overcoming, the affirmation of one's own sexual potency in while refuting the sexuality of a passing nemesis, with the proto-Fordian cast of players looking on at the hero's works, but unlike a John Ford work, they do not commentate.  The commentary of the bit players can be done without, unless we are talking of a Michael Bay work, who is the truest modern example of an amoral heart-bent Fordian.

It is the rockhard traditionalism of Eastwood that punts the villian in his testes and then destroys the boulder in the stream, but it is yet a hopeful and silly manchild version of Clint that is hit on in turn by all the women in the valley, even the dark-skinned comely teen girl, and the loyal and good woman of the Earth wife.  Escapist fantasy, I say, to be not a prodigy, but a male archetype, or a blending of such, beyond the reproach of those he wishes to impress with his works, and in the course of the particular story, there is even the intimation that he is beyond life, a very emissary of divine justice.

Your dreams Eastwood.  My saturday afternoon.

Friday, December 11, 2015

2005: Two Riders Were Approaching.....

I wasn't far removed.  The young man without a future, standing on pine needles and bone-white topsoil, pining among the pines with a beverage near my lips.  Meanwhile, outside, things churned, people changed and the world rotated on its axis.

Does it matter?

Ever?

I wasn't far removed.

You are number six.

But you must understand the severity of the situation: I could imagine no future.  For me, the future was darkness-a blank darkness.  This was so for a long time.

Lonely rivers flow, to the sea, to the sea!

Eventually I found myself surrounded by people who were trying to pull pieces of me away, for their own use.  Needless to say, I did not like how the world reacted to me.  In turn, I was lead to hate even myself, as much as I began to hate and/or mistrust the rest of the world.  So in my own world, I cancelled my future, until I had time to go back to the old drawing board to come up with something new and appropriate for the changes I had undergone.

And time can do so much....

I let go.  I was quite upset, filled with dread, and in a schizoid moment I proclaimed I knew how to stop the terrorists.  I was wrong.  It was a crazy shot from left field, when I had thought much too deeply about the matter for too long a time, thusly making the whole idea seem highly improbable now.  As evidence, there have been small terrorist attacks, but to my credit I was talking about organized terror attacks on the scale of 9/11. Maybe I was right or wrong.  The point is moot.  A piece of my soul broke and I gave up.  Part of my soul died, leaving a bloody wound somewhere inside, and I remember walking around my hometown all the next day with that wound.

2009: I was then very far removed.

2005: I had a Mountain Dew.  I screamed.  Everyone heard, but no one reacted.  Like stone faces in a gallery.  The day went on, the same as ever.  I looked at the oaks and the freshly-mowed grass in my yard.  It was so staid.

Made me want to yell more, did it-the quietness of the scene.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

They are entirely enthralled by my Booty Monstering ways. Enthralled, I say.

It's been a while, and yet, a legendary fighter can still return to smite all of you.

Behold: The Booty Monster!

Where Walks the Booty Monster!

The Tears of Mortals Sate the Booty Monster!

I am that Booty Monster, that noise in the night, that nagging feeling when you think you are alone, the notion to turn around and scream in the very face of absolute horror.

I'm laying this on pretty thick, ain't I?

Typical boasts of an aging horndog, a crazy loner ascetic prayer warrior with capacities that have never been exhausted, save for physically running(which is a known and low quantity).  I run neither far nor fast, but at the age of 36, out of shape, diabetic: I can still run. 

Just know.

There will be lust, if only a passing lust, like a mosquito doing a kamikaze attack on the bug zapper.  If only a few short breaths, and then I return to reality, away from the pictures of women, to the real world-with its hurts and aches and dull disappointments.

You cannot hold down a good Booty Monster.  And I am a good Booty Monster; the voice outside of the shower, that shadow you saw out of the corner of your eye-I am that shadow.

In the words of Rudy Ray Moore:  "Put your weight on it."  Also: "That honkey sheriff want to be like me; think he bad and got no class."