Godzilla


I saw Godzilla (in Imax and in 3D), but I’m not going to write about it right now except to say, pretty freaking awesome.

Godzilla: 2000 is one of the Toho films from the ‘Millenium Period.’ There is some human tension between those who want to study Godzilla and those who want to kill him (and perhaps harness his near indestructible to… I don’t know, grow new spleens or an army of super soldiers – I can’t remember which). Whatever.

A alien flying saucer on the bottom of the ocean rises, floats over Tokyo and transforms into a monster. The monster steals some of Godzilla’s Wolverine-like healing abilities, but that doesn’t really help when the big guy unleashes his atomic breath. End of alien monster. Godzilla has saved the earth, right? Right, but he hasn’t saved Tokyo. Godzilla is force of nature and does not answer to our individual needs (including our need not to be destroyed). The movie ends with Godzilla rampaging through Tokyo. He is king of the monsters and the defender of earth from aliens (a recurring theme in the Toho movies of the last fifteen years or so), but is different from defending humanity. A force of nature, he defends nature, but, like nature, is pretty indifferent to us.

Spoiler alert: to some extent, that is the vision of Godzilla we see in the most recent movie (minus the aliens).

Weekend Reading – Captain Kirk Was Right (Of Course; And By Captain Kirk, We Mean William Shatner, Because He Is The Sean Connery Of Captains Of The Enterprise; Look, No One Is Denying That Picard Was Cool, But Shatner’s Kirk Was The Man)


mirror-universe-spock-kirk-e1303199243190The multiverse is real. Maybe. Probably. We think. I can’t tell. Is there consensus? I don’t know. But here’s a picture of Goatee Spock and Sleeveless Kirk.

“Books, simply as props that happen also to be quite useful if you open them up, are the best—perhaps the only—bastions of contemplative intellectual space in the world.”

So, yeah. My home state of Florida is going be mostly underwater.

Midweek Staff Meeting – I Don’t Like Him Either


o-AMBER-570It’s true – it’s hard to like Cyclops.

You can deny workers raises and give that money to CEOs instead, but in Cali, that could cost you.

Fools! Children do not need to know poetry!

In case you had no idea what I did for a living, I worked on these two organizing campaigns.

Pretty cool, right?

Paper is still the best (for in depth comprehension, anyway).

‘Selected Poems’ By Bernard O’Donoghue


6f403dc9bef7d3cf2a89108927edeb22I finished the Selected Poems by Bernard O’Donoghue. Actually, I finished it something like a week ago, but life and work and stuff has kept me from writing about it. And now that I’m finally writing about it, I don’t have it in front of me, so I won’t be quoting from it. But, trust me. It’s good.

He writes about a life he left behind (according to his talk at the Folger). It’s mostly about a taciturn and unromanticized rural Ireland. Or, actually, it is romanticized. He actually has a poem about watching the great John Wayne movie, The Quiet One, which takes place in rural Ireland. I’m not a John Wayne fan, but I love this movie. Anyway, that movie romanticizes rural Ireland. Sometimes, O’Donoghue romanticizes it by explicitly unromanticizing it. The romance of gritty, poverty-inspired DIY and old fashioned sod busters.

The writing is dense on the page, too. Thick, dense stanzas, with lines being medium long (but not going beyond the available length, so it has to drop down like Whitman or Ginsberg) and mostly the same length, creating a sort of visual square, many times. There is a good deal of mid-sentence enjambment and sentences ending in the middle of a line, but he doesn’t break up the steady meter and it reads smoothly.

I want to right more, but I’m pressed for time.

His work isn’t easy to find, but worth seeking out. So, read it, okay? That’s all.

Which Briefcase Are You?


The New Inquiry  has this great quiz: which briefcase are you?

You answer some questions and it identifies you as a movie briefcase, full of money or… whatever.

I got the mysterious nuclear briefcase from the awesome and brutal film noir, Kiss Me Deadly. We are totally happy with that identification.

You’re “the great whatsit,” a mysterious case that exudes such confidence that everyone around you thinks you’re incredibly valuable, even worth killing over. A small valise, sure, but you’re hot to the touch, which means you’re not full of money, but you’ve got to be worth a lot of it, right? Nope. Turns out your personality is radioactive: you’re so thoroughly the opposite of charming that when you get opened you immediately kill everyone around you. Don’t worry though, it’s not you, it’s history. You’re just a sloppy metaphor for Cold War nuclear anxiety.

The Scarlett Johansson Trilogy


Coincidentally, the last three movies have all featured Scarlett Johansson (or at least her voice) and have all been pretty good. Neither of those are statements I ever expected to write.

First of was Her. Johansson played the voice of the OS (operating system) that Joaquin Phoenix’s character fell in love with. She was very good in that, I have to admit. Having her performance separated from her famous body enabled one to get a better appreciation of her qualities as an actor. And speaking of acting, the movie also drove home the fact that while Phoenix was going through his crazy period, we were missing out on all the great movie performances we could have had during that time. He really is that good. And the movie, at its best, was a moving and realistic depiction of how a relationship grows, develops, and the breaks apart as two people find themselves drifting further away their shared spaces and experiences. That being said… I’m not sure what the point of the movie was. I mean, I know… relationships, technology, singularity, blah, blah, blah. But… I don’t know. It wasn’t that it was cold or passionless, but the passion came from the great acting. Why did director Spike Jonze make this film? I don’t know, because I felt no passion from behind the camera and it left me feeling a little let down and betrayed. It made the whole less than the sum of its parts.

Spoiler alerts coming, by the way.

Captain America: Winter Soldier was, as the reviews have often noted, the best of the recent spate of Marvel universe films (which is to say, excluding the Spiderman movies). I’m also biased because I liked the first Captain America movie better than any but the first Iron Man movie. The unironic, straightforwardness of it appealed to me.

This one is more convoluted but solves, or at least, works around, what has always been the character’s conundrum. Captain America was created during World War II and makes the most sense in the (relative) black and white world of that conflict. Like most of the best comic book story arc around the Captain, this one plays on the boy scout being thrust into a complex situation and trying to still be a boy scout. Chris Evans is suitably boyish and charismatic. Scarlett Johansson looks good in Diana Riggs’ old skin tight catsuit from her Avengers days (not the Marvel Avengers, but the old British tv show). And Robert Redford should play more villains. Never one to overact, he drips menace, without raising his voice and with boyish, rakish twinkle in eye.

I have some qualms (the Winter Soldier looks too boyishly handsome not menacing enough when he’s not wearing a mask), but it’s got a nice, though imperfect combo of action and conspiracy flick.

Under the Skin is deeply alien. In an awesome way. Johansson plays an alien wearing the ‘skin’ of a human being to lure other humans to her lair for… some kind of harvesting. The harvesting isn’t Cronenberg-seque, really, but there’s a definite element of body horror.

The movie is from Johansson’s (she’s never given a name) point of view. How to make relatable an alien who is deeply alienated in her reactions to and understanding of our world? Easy. The movie takes place in Scotland and the other characters (Johansson speaks with a decent, but not great, generic British accent) have heavy, sometimes nearly incomprehensible Glaswegian accents. The landscapes are deliberately alien looking. They’re clearly earth landscapes, but it would no surprise to learn that everyone of them had been used as stand in for an alien planet in a long ago episode of Doctor Who.

When she’s scared, we feel and empathize with her fear, even though, in another movie, Arnold Schwarzenegger would be hunting her down before she kills again.

And yes, there’s nudity. She gets naked. But if that’s your reason for seeing it, you’ll be a little disappointed. Not just because her body is good, but not great, but also because there are far more shots of unobstructed full front nudity by men in various stages of tumescence. She draws them onto a reflective black floor, leading them on by slowly taking off her clothes (most of the time, just bra and panties are enough to get them men to drop their pants) and once the men are full naked, the floor turns into thick black sludge that they blithely walk into and finally under, while it remains firm beneath her feet. It’s very yonic (when they walk into the place where that black floor exists – the room and building changing over the course of the movie – the walk into a lightless black opening), but the alien lacks a true vagina. Her sex organs are literally only skin deep (as she finds out when trying to have sex).

The whole thing is mysterious and strange and resists easy meaning or interpretation, but it’s an amazing piece of film making and Johansson does very, very well. Partly, she is called upon to be a siren, who leads men happily to their death via the irresistible lure of the promise of her body, but she’s also a cipher, trying to figure out what it means to be human. She is never human, but wearing the skin affects her and she does embark on an exploration of what the human skin means.

Go see it.

 


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The Sunday Newspaper – Dead Poet C–p


Dead Poets Society sucks. That’s not what studying literature is about. But on another note, have you seen that freaking iPad commercial where Robin Williams’ voice from that movie wafts about, reciting and lecturing on Walt Whitman as a means to emphasize the importance of poetry and how poetry makes us human, makes life worth living! I do agree with that sentiment, wholeheartedly, 110%, unabashedly. You name it. But no one in the commercial is doing anything remotely to do with poetry. And they’re all holding iPads, devices which are mainly for consumption of video content. I have an iPad and I actually have some poetry apps on it, but, c’mon. The iPad is about kitten videos, Angry Birds, and mobile pornography. It is emphatically not about poetry. And, despite including that Whitman-esque voiceover, the advertisement does not even remotely try to pretend that the iPad in use has anything to do with poetry! Ack! This is just pissing me off to no end!


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Weekend Reading – More Stuff About Things Declining Or Dying Out Or What Not


Coffee HP and pressmark

It’s not books this time, it’s readers. But usually, stuff about the death and/or decline of the book is really about the decline and/or metaphorical death of readers, aren’t they? But actually, this article says that’s not really happening, after all. So I’m going to blame the person who wrote the headline, because that’s usually different than the person who wrote the article.

A strange and somewhat confusing article about James Bond. Some weird psychoanalysis taking place here.

Never stop making manifestos!

So, hey! A little profile of Coffee House Press! I bought Anne Waldman’s Iovis Trilogy from them. That book get mentioned a couple of times in the piece so I should really get around to finishing it. Maybe after I finish The Cantos. Generally, they do a lot of great work with contemporary poets. I actually dropped into their offices one time, when I was living in Minnesota, just asked, hey, do you need entry level folks? They were polite in saying no, so… that’s about as far my anecdote goes, really.

Robert Creeley’s books and why he left Scribner.

The GOP is struggling to find new, young donors to replace their aging donors.