Eating It Out

I have had a serious problem with college upon moving back to New York for the fall semester at SVA. I'm not sure why the city is stifling all my creative nodes or why I can't seem to bang out anything of value at the moment. Maybe it was the booze...

Booze? Yeah, it probably was. My nerves are frayed from the system shock of the steady IV drip of beer I downed last night. I had about one dollar to my name and I still managed to get my hands on close to a half a dozen Coors Lights, a couple big Bud Limes, a glass of wine, some rum and coke along with something else that I forget. The apartment was stuffed wall-to-wall with artsy kids, strangers, hipsters, outlaws, hucksters and scum. I don't take kindly to those types. I remember distinctly wishing to slash the throat of this one kid who condescendingly taunted me about knowing nothing of some band called Steppenwolf. Luckily, I reported my sinister urge to my significant other, who quickly escorted me out of there.

Next time he might not be so lucky. This city is full of nooks and crannies and places to hide. Who's to say it won't come to some savage act of violence in which I dash down the fire escape and make a break for the bar at the Marriot, where they'll never think to look for me. There I'll stay downing gin and tonics all night, shaking hands and slapping backs with doctors, lawyers, bankers and accountants, all convinced they've got a handle on things, (and hopefully paying for my drinks, flexing their wealth muscles as they often do, hotel bars would rape a poor man of a week's paycheck just like that). Then after that we go out for coke (not stepped on) and high class prostitutes on the Upper West Side (you don't call them, they call you). We will thrust to our heart's content, our jewels wrapped in golden rubbers.

This ridiculous fantasy is more attainable than you might think. You can work this city, then let it work you. This place is a bizarre labyrinth with opportunities everywhere to gain knowledge and experience. All you have to do is walk outside and start talking to people. You may dip your toes in some foul waters to be sure, but you'll be sure there is LIFE nonetheless. I'm pretty tired of being stuck in this building or that building. Being a loose cannon, crashing from one apartment to the next, hopping bars and parties, will transform you into a truly vivid aberration of nature. You'll die. But there is still so much Pleasure to Burn. Oh baby...

Oldies: The Psychedelic Orgy Massacre

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Oldies: Josh Gager's Nipples

Josh Gager's nipples are pyramid shaped. He frequently walks around defrocked in order to exhibit them, as they are a sign of fertility and drive women wild. I remember one time I was at a pool party and he swaggers in with his knowing grin, eyes squinting beneath his dark aviator sunglasses. I remember when he kicked off his sandals and finally took off his Quicksilver skateboarding t-shirt it was like he was moving in slow motion. As his nipples revealed themselves to the stunned crowd one at a time, I saw the blood drain from every woman's face, presumably surging to their engorged clits.

I turned back to my snow cone for a moment, stricken with jealousy. I was clearly in the presence of an alpha male and I didn't want to get his attention for fear he would punish me. Suddenly I heard a gasp from the crowd. I turned around just in time to see him do a parkour jump over a picnic table, then did a reverse somersault off of the squash court with the grace of a swallow in flight and finally landed in the deep end of the pool. Wild cheers rang out from weeping mothers holding small infants, who were unexpectedly stricken with a feeling of rejuvenation by the wondrous spectacle of Spartan athleticism.

My girlfriend looked over at me and sneered, instantly sickened by the realization of what an ugly mutt of a boy she had been dating the past six months. She slammed the strawberry snow cone in my face, making my chest cold and sticky, and dumped me right on the spot. Josh emerged from the pool, whipping his hair back from his face, sending a semicircle arc of water through the air. The first female he saw turned out to be my girlfriend, and thus he would have her, for he was Josh Gager. He climbed out of the pool, dripping wet, the sun glistening off of his freckled skin. My girlfriend, as if in a trance, walked towards the man she hoped she would one day marry. There was some kind of mutual understanding between them, because the next thing I knew, as I reached for a napkin, my girlfriend was sucking on his left nipple, desperate, greedy, like a baby suckling for milk. And that, my friends, is the first time I met the man they'd later come to call 12 Gager, the legendary east coast outlaw. God help us all.

Oldies: Taste of Cherry, a review

A link to the trailer. There's plenty of other media on the subject on Youtube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDSQLTtGZE0

Anything that is worth reviewing is worth being reviewed poorly.
With this in mind I give you my review of the movie "Taste of Cherry".



Taste of Cherry manages to personify everything I dislike about foreign films within a single movie. It’s a lengthy and boring piece with a message that manages to fall flat in spite of all the time spent on developing the concept. Supposedly this film lasts only ninety three minutes. It felt like twice that long. The director, Abbas Kiarostami is an elitist douche bag who will never get distribution for his films in the West and he doesn’t seem to care. This is mainly because his own tongue is still licking out his own asshole down in the editing lab if the French aren’t doing it for him. It’s all fine by us though because we don’t want him.

The film opens with Mr. Badii, our moody protagonist, driving around a hilly section of Iran looking for a kind stranger who will assist in his burial after he kills himself. He already has a grave dug underneath a tree which he will lie in once he has swallowed his sleeping pills. Mr. Badii doesn’t tell the first two people he picks up what he wants from them initially but as he drives them around his intentions soon become clear. Both of them refuse. The first one runs away. The second one says it goes against his religion. Finally Mr. Badii finds Mr. Bagheri, who agrees to help, but makes a great fuss about it, imploring him to reconsider. He cites the various simple joys of life such as the taste of cherry, as a reason to keep on living. Mr. Badii says almost nothing in response to this before dropping the man off at his work.

It is at this point in the story where the film takes a nosedive for me, by that I mean diving into some “making of” footage followed by the credits. Mr. Badii takes a cab to his grave and lies down in it. We can hear the sound of rain and thunder as the screen goes black. Then, out of nowhere, we cut to some footage of the camera crew and the actor alive and well, hanging out on the set. Do we ever find out what happens to Mr. Badii? Does Mr. Bagheri keep his promise to help? We’ll never know. Maybe Kiarostami is too refined for my crude Western mind but I was always taught of the virtues of setup and payoff. That’s where you set up a situation and then reward the audience with an outcome. The ending to this movie defies that convention, but is this really such a good thing? I watched the interview with director and I did some research on the film, wishing to learn more on the story behind his choices. Here’s what happened. He simply lost the last reel of footage. For some reason it was damaged and could not be used. So, rather than go back and re-shoot the ending, he stuck some making of footage onto the end and left the ending ambiguous, then called it art. The making of footage is supposed to remind the audience that we’re watching a piece of fiction. My crude Western answer to that? Fuck-a-doodle-doo. We knew that you pretentious preening prick.

The fact that the film dwells on the pros and cons of killing oneself as its central theme leaves me unimpressed as well. Contrary to the closed off and isolated Iranian culture, I became jaded at an early age within the super-saturated American pop culture. Suicide is nothing new to me. Even though it’s supposed to be some heavy shit, all I could think the whole time was “Please just kill yourself already!” We never find out why Mr. Badii wants to die, but we can only assume he’s being a whiny little bitch about something or other. I don’t think he has enough fruit in his diet, hahaha. Kiarostami says he doesn’t like to say anything with his films. He makes a virtue out of saying nothing at all. He just wants to be “great” or whatever. Well good for him, but that does not qualify as art in my mind. I believe that art should be about communication. If you won’t share your thoughts with others then all you’re doing is being an attention whore. Just because the meaning of a piece is difficult to determine doesn’t make it a great work of art. They say artists use lies to tell the truth. In Taste of Cherry’s case though, no truth is revealed and we’re reminded of the lies anyway. Of course the Cannes judges saw fit to hand out a Golden Palm to this pretentious piece of crap “Muah! Magnifique!”

He also said something to the effect of “I like films that put people to sleep in the theater, but keep you awake at night.” At night we are tired and will sleep anyway. The reason I couldn’t sleep after watching Taste of Cherry was because I couldn’t understand how it won the Golden Palm. The Cannes judges gave the Golden Palm to Fahrenheit 9/11 one year. We could stand to learn a lot from the French, but not about art, save that it is the word they substitute for “bullshit“.

The last comment I’ll make is this. Pacing and entertainment value has always been important to me as an American audience member. I want to be entertained as well as engaged by the films I see. Learning something and inspiring new thoughts within others is great. I’m glad when it occasionally happens within mainstream film. The trouble is, a film could have the most powerful message ever written, but if it’s boring and slow then nobody will want to see it. I wouldn’t want to see it. Nobody likes to be talked down to by the film they paid twelve bucks to see. Thus my theory goes that you can have both entertainment and refinement in the same sitting. I am going to define my career by this philosophy. Until Kiarostami realizes this, he can fuck off to Iran where he belongs. Nobody except for upper-crusty cinephiles and film instructors will remember he was ever born.