A Pocketful of Platyπ
I haven't seen much point in writing about the inability to write, as that seems, to me, even duller than writing about writing. That's how it's been the last few days. The will is strong, but the words aren't flowing. Today may be different. We shall see. These things happen. Deadlines are irrelevant. The dry spells happen anyway; fortunately, they do not happen very fucking often.
Yesterday, we met Byron for Grindhouse, and while I'll readily admit that I've never been a particular aficionado of grindhouse cinema, I do love what Rodriguez and Tarantino have done here. While Planet of Terror was great, gory fun - and I know it says something awful about us that Spooky and I find a one-legged Rose McGowan even sexier than the bipedal version - I think I actually preferred Deathproof. I'm a sucker for Tarantino's dialogue, and the last half of the film plays out like a wonderfully twisted, frelled-up Powerpuff Girls episode, with Kurt Russell standing in as Mojo JoJo. I will even go so far as to say that Spooky and I found it empowering, and gods how I hate that word in that context. But there you go. Grindhouse kicks ass, and I think it was just exactly the thing I needed yesterday afternoon. Oh, if only Werewolf Women of the SS could be made in it's entirety....with Nicholas Cage as Fu Manchu. I would gladly pay twice full price for tickets to such a thing.
Back home, we watched Allen Coulter's Hollywoodland, which I liked a great deal. This is, I think, the sort of film that Brian De Palma's tremendously inferior The Black Dahlia wanted to be. Or maybe not. Regardless, I was impressed with Coulter's first feature film and hope there will be more. Adrien Brody just keeps impressing the hell out of me.
My thanks to the 115 people who took a moment to vote in the podcast poll. 101 yes votes, 3 no, and 11 indifferent. Which means, I suppose, that as soon as I have fully mastered the pertinent software, there will be at least one experimental podcast. I may not like doing them, after all. Also, I reserve the right to wear masks and heavy make-up, the right to wear no make-up at all (and to remove these damned annoying hazel-green contacts), and the right to allow Jean-Pierre the Existentialist Snail to play the part of me.
And really, I think that's it for now. It's time to see which sort of day today means to be.
Yesterday, we met Byron for Grindhouse, and while I'll readily admit that I've never been a particular aficionado of grindhouse cinema, I do love what Rodriguez and Tarantino have done here. While Planet of Terror was great, gory fun - and I know it says something awful about us that Spooky and I find a one-legged Rose McGowan even sexier than the bipedal version - I think I actually preferred Deathproof. I'm a sucker for Tarantino's dialogue, and the last half of the film plays out like a wonderfully twisted, frelled-up Powerpuff Girls episode, with Kurt Russell standing in as Mojo JoJo. I will even go so far as to say that Spooky and I found it empowering, and gods how I hate that word in that context. But there you go. Grindhouse kicks ass, and I think it was just exactly the thing I needed yesterday afternoon. Oh, if only Werewolf Women of the SS could be made in it's entirety....with Nicholas Cage as Fu Manchu. I would gladly pay twice full price for tickets to such a thing.
Back home, we watched Allen Coulter's Hollywoodland, which I liked a great deal. This is, I think, the sort of film that Brian De Palma's tremendously inferior The Black Dahlia wanted to be. Or maybe not. Regardless, I was impressed with Coulter's first feature film and hope there will be more. Adrien Brody just keeps impressing the hell out of me.
My thanks to the 115 people who took a moment to vote in the podcast poll. 101 yes votes, 3 no, and 11 indifferent. Which means, I suppose, that as soon as I have fully mastered the pertinent software, there will be at least one experimental podcast. I may not like doing them, after all. Also, I reserve the right to wear masks and heavy make-up, the right to wear no make-up at all (and to remove these damned annoying hazel-green contacts), and the right to allow Jean-Pierre the Existentialist Snail to play the part of me.
And really, I think that's it for now. It's time to see which sort of day today means to be.