Archive for the ‘Cine-mania’ Category

La commare secca (1962)

Saturday, August 16th, 2008

La commare secca (The Grim Reaper) was Bernardo Bertolucci’s directorial debut (at 21 years old, the upstart). Pasolini (a mentor) wrote the film but then went to work on Mamma Roma, so Bertolucci was hired to direct instead.

It’s a murder mystery unraveled via slice-of-life stories of the various Roman proles who passed through the park adjacent to the scene of the crime. Each segment begins with a police interrogation and a flashback to the beginning of the day, and is marked by a sudden afternoon downpour. In between these episodes are glimpses of the victim moving gently around her room during that storm, preparing for her night’s work. Bertolucci claims he hadn’t yet seen Rashomon (1950), but I’m not convinced. Maybe Pasolini was influenced by the famous Kurosawa film?

La commare secca is very easy on the eyes and by far my favorite of Bertolucci’s films.* Beautiful faces and some terrific moments of melodrama—just engrossing. Fascinating Italian dialects too! And I love the strange and striking six-tays dance scene at the climax. Feels like I’d seen it before. Ditto the scene with the kids dancing to a record player in the apartment.

Criterion + my public library = big love

****

From here:

  • avanti ad Accattone e la magnifica Anna Magnani in Mamma Roma
  • un ripasso di Il conformista

*Last Tango in Paris—traumatizing; the four hours of 1900—forgettable, apparently; The Last Emperor and Little Buddha—I don’t remember much about them either (totally overshadowed by Scorsese’s Kundun in my mind); Stealing Beauty—gag me with a spoon; The Dreamers—just not interested…

We’re gonna need a montage

Monday, June 9th, 2008

Today, it takes a pick-up-your-sad-ass-and-prevail, funk-decimating sort of montage.

Supplement to The Professor and the Madman

Friday, June 6th, 2008

Rather than relinquishing this book to the library right away, I felt compelled to reread the fourth chapter on the history of English dictionaries (which transports us back to Shakespeare’s time, when it was impossible to look a word up—the horror!—and highlights some amusing entries in Dr. Johnson’s mid-18th-century dictionary) and also to append a few more notes to my review.

Best echo of recently enjoyed English fiction about crotchety German philologists (amidst a marvelous digression on the controversy surrounding the plural form of protagonist, which prompts a close examination of the OED entry and oldest citation of the word’s written use):

This, from a lexicographical point of view, seems to be the English word’s mother lode, a fair clue that the word may well have been introduced into the written language in that year, and possibly not before. (But the OED offers no guarantee. German scholars in particular are constantly deriving much pleasure from winning an informal lexicographic contest that aims at finding quotations that antedate those in the OED: At last count the Germans alone had found thirty-five thousand instances in which the OED quotation was not the first; others, less stridently, chalk up their own small triumphs of lexical sleuthing, all of which Oxford’s editors accept with disdainful equanimity, professing neither infallibility nor monopoly.)

Best stirring reminiscence of the first feature film I captioned (at the scene in Westminster of the seminal November 5, 1857, meeting of the London Philological Society):

The gas lamps fizzed and sputtered, and on the corners of Piccadilly and Jermyn Street small boys were still collecting last-minute pennies for fireworks, their ragged models of Guy Fawkes—soon to be burned on bonfires—propped up before them.

Mapped, in my mind, just around the corner from the murder and insanity of Hangover Square!

Moving ahead, The Professor and Madman inspires me to:

Cat Ballou (1965) and Blazing Saddles (1974)

Friday, June 6th, 2008

These classic western spoofs—the one a hammy, hokey romp; the latter a vulgar, racy burlesque—weren’t quite as fun this time around. Probably best enjoyed among the gregarious company and contagious chuckling of Dennis or certain former in-laws.

1/2 star for the dizzying web of references that stoke my fascination with pop western mythology; for the catchy, make-your-family-crazy-humming-it-for-days-on-end “Ballad of Cat Ballou”; and for Lee Marvin and Slim Pickens.

***1/2

Spurs me on to:

Little Miss Sunshine (2006)

Monday, June 2nd, 2008

Well, now I’ve seen that.

***

The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary, by Simon Winchester

Sunday, May 11th, 2008

This ten-year-old best seller is a layered biography with a brief history of lexicography at its heart—the lives of two sorts of doctor entwined around the epic making of the Oxford English Dictionary. James Murray, a self-taught scholarly Scot who would be hired to edit the “big dictionary” by the Oxford University Press dons, is the professor of the title. William Minor, a Connecticut Yankee and doctor of the surgical kind who served briefly in the Civil War and later shot an innocent stranger in the mean streets of Victorian London, is the madman. Most likely suffering paranoid schizophrenia, Minor would ultimately contribute thousands of citations to the OED from his personal library within the confines of the Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

With precise and breezy British prose, Winchester deftly navigates the scene of Minor’s crime, the circumstances of his youth as well as Murray’s, his traumatizing service at the Battle of the Wilderness, the OED’s conception and development, the popular myth of the two men’s first face-to-face encounter, their twenty-year-long relationship, and the sad decline of Minor’s post-dictionary life. All in just over 240 pages. It’s a fascinating multifaceted story with something for everyone—or at least for fans of true crime in Victorian London, Civil War buffs, mental health care history enthusiasts, and lexicography nerds! It’s especially not to be missed by the lexicography nerds: Woven so compellingly by a gleeful wordsmith and self-professed dictionary hugger, with nuggets of raw dictionary entries prefacing each chapter and the deliciousness of the author’s prose itself, it often approaches word porn.

Random awesome sentence (on the protagonists’ beards):

But both were magnificently fecund arrangements.

Random favorite moment of linguistic humor and British wit (on the changing of the guard at Broadmoor):

He was replaced by Doctor Brayn, a man selected (for more than his name alone, one trusts) by a Home Office that felt a stricter regime needed to be employed at the asylum.

Most shocking new vocabulary:

autopeotomy

Random, intriguing aside I might like to follow:

The great librarian—for Justin Winsor [of Harvard College] remains one of the grandest figures in all of nineteenth-century American librarianship, and a formidable historian to boot—then told the story, which Murray then retold to his friend in Boston.

Munch of the Penguin

Tuesday, February 5th, 2008

I recently rented March of the Penguins, that big cuddly sleeper of 2005, to understand what all the fuss was about, but I still don’t understand what all the fuss was about. It was good, but it didn’t move me like Winged Migration, which was exceptional. (Man, those French have totally cornered the market on quality bird flicks!) Perhaps it’s unfair to pit the waddlers against the flyers. Perhaps it was more beautiful on the big screen. Perhaps if it had emerged when I was ten and in the mental throes of a penguin obsession…

Gordon eviscerates the penguin

Anyhoo, to drum up some penguin mania in advance of this documentary screening (since we’re almost three years behind the curve here), we staged a stuffed penguin death match with the dogs, or as Scott has dubbed it, Munch of the Penguin. Enjoy!

Maddy re-kills the penguin

Hollywood Public Library

Monday, May 7th, 2007

So for many years (I’ve lost track of when I started) I’ve been working my way through AFI’s Top 100 Greatest American Movies of All Time. My checklist has been pinned to several different refrigerators in at least two states, and by now I’ve ticked off about 80 of the 100. I’ll earnestly watch a trio of westerns or Hitchcock flicks, then lose interest in mainstream Hollywood and wander off into a Bollywood marathon or a documentary spree (or maybe even see a slew of new movies), only to return to the project months later for another round. By no means do I dig all of these movies, but I sure love checklists!

Let’s see. It happened one night recently that I finally got around to watching It Happened One Night. Solid Frank Capra entry. Good show! Check!

Bringing Up Baby, on the other hand, didn’t happen one night. No, it took me the past three evenings to get through this assault of a screwball comedy. The sensation of watching it was vaguely reminiscent of trying to chase away (catch?) little Jeremy Martin, the fastest runner in my fourth-grade class, as he took schoolyard name-calling to an interesting new level by mercilessly taunting me: “Katherine Hepburn! Katherine Hepburn! Katherine Hepburn!”

The best thing about the Bringing Up Baby DVD (another generous loan from The Best Library) was the gallery of trailers for other Howard Hawks films. This trailer for Rio Bravo is kind of a giddy thrill, especially when the rockin’ baby-faced Ricky Nelson breaks into song and then breaks character to address the movie-going masses. (”There’ll never be another like the ragged woman-wrecked castoff called Dude.” Those folks obviously never predicted the coming of The Big Lebowski.)

Even more enduring a thrill is the reference interview fantasy that introduces The Big Sleep. Check it out!

Celebrations

Thursday, April 26th, 2007

These celebrations are dedicated to my sister, who’s overworked and underpaid and a hell of a lot more graceful about it than I could ever be. I would love nothing more than to invite her over tonight to relax by the fire and ease the stress of her seven-day workweek.

The celebrations reach back to lucky Friday the 13th, when Scott and I saw The Host at the Darkside. (more…)

In which I lose my appetite

Sunday, March 25th, 2007

On Friday I barfed three times, at ever-shrinking intervals, for no good reason. My appetite disappeared entirely, and I shrank into a pathetic heap on the sofa and in bed (alternatively, in between trips to the bathroom). I passed the day and the night seeking to remain as still as possible, slipping into a vampiric stupor, a vestige of my true self (me! the one obsessed with rich food—ice cream and fruit pies, nachos and fettuccine all’Alfredo, Chianti and Fat Tire, curried peas and precious roasted garlic!) I missed the apparently awesome vault by my favorite OSU gymnast, Mandi Rodriguez, at the last home meet of the season.

Scott came to the rescue with a bottle of nuclear pink pepperminty slime-dicine, and yesterday I managed to choke down (and keep down) a few glasses of Cran-Raspberry, a small bowl of granola, and six stale water crackers. Still bereft of all epicurean desires, I pulled Twentieth Century Eightball off my bookshelf and burrowed into the sofa to enjoy the misanthropic pornography of Daniel Clowes. Late in the afternoon, I got the crazy notion to do something useful and decided to cut the grass. So when Scott wasn’t looking, I hauled our new old reel mower out of the shed and set to work. Maddy ran wide circles around me as I staggered across the back lawn, stopping to catch my breath and steady myself after each pass. Not the bliss of before.

The good news is that I ate a full plate of peas and pasta for supper (though sadly recoiled at Scott’s objectively wonderful garlic sauté) and Inland Empire is playing at 3:00 and 6:40 today. Depending on how lunch goes, I may just be ready to take it on.