Every now and then, our friend Mr. Dark likes to throw down a yellow flag with his red pen over at Les Reprises. (It says something like "Sugarhigh!" at the top, maybe because of copyright issues with that American novel, but unmind the gap.) As always, Joshua's sentences are mutli-bezelled and trig, and his disagreements are often good for our training regimen. But this time, Ms. Clover isn't disagreeing with me—he's just answering my question.
See—I don't read movie reviews. I haven't since I was a wee bairn. I hate knowing the slightest thing about a movie before I go in. An idiosyncrasy, maybe even a dopey one, but it saves me valuable eyeball time. When I was (feebly) making a (very short) film, I read reviews of films after seeing them, but I gave up that kind of track-keeping when the hours of the day were overrun by the number of cultural products making claims on those hours and my paycheck. So when I posted up about Imprisoned Willy, I did not know that reviewers had cited the Michael Jackson references, though I suspected it, which is why I asked.
(Within ten seconds of Depp appearing on screen, Sam said: "Hey, Mom, is that Michael Jackson?" I hope Burton isn't running around denying anything. [See previous graf re: don't read certain stuff.])
Jane thinks MJ/Oedipus a boring thread; I think it's enough to carry me to the finish line (though my Dad status makes me an unreliable observer), without feeling it is trans-historically nut-crushing. We are as one on Oingoman—you can't even hear many of the words in the Oompa numbers, making for bad musical music, since musical music is supposed to handle expository duties—and the uses of Depp's talents.
But, honest—I have no idea what's going on in movies. Joshua had to tell me which Asia Argento movies to watch, because I've never seen her on screen, and I have not seen Me, You and Everybody In The Area, though I have read July's story, "Birthmark," in The Paris Review Book of People With Problems. I liked it enough to transcribe (ow) this excerpt:
"The laser, which has been described as a pure white light, was more like a fist slammed against a countertop, and her body was a cup on this counter, jumping with each slam. It turned out three was just a number. It didn't describe pain and more than money describes the things it buys. Two thousand dollars for a port-wine stain removal. A kind of birthmark that seems messy and accidental, as if this red area covering one whole cheek were the careless result of too much fun. She spoke to her body like an animal at the vet, Shhh, it's okay, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry we have to do this to you. This is not unusual; most people feel that their bodies are innocent of their crimes, like animals or plants. Not that this was a crime. She had waited patiently from the time she was fourteen for aesthetic surgery to get cheap, like computers. Nineteen ninety-eight was the year lasers came to the people as good bread, eat and be full, be finally perfect. Oh yes, perfect. She didn't think she would have bothered if she hadn't been what people call "very beautiful except for." This is a special group of citizens living under special laws. Nobody knows what to do with them. We mostly want to stare at the like the optical illusion of a vase made out of the silhouette of two people kissing. Now it is a vase...now it could only be two people kissing...oh but it is so completely a vase. It is both! Can the world sustain such a contradiction. Only this was better, because as the illusion of prettiness and horribleness flipped back and forth, we flipped with it. Now we were uglier than her, now we were lucky not to be her, oh but then again, at this angle she was too lovely to bear. She was both, we were both, and the world continued to spin."
And I am with Jane on Sov, if we are both talking about beats as at least part of the elasticity: whatever genre Menta created with "Random,"* I want 55 more songs in that style. And I love Madness, which makes it weird that I am totes bored halfway through "9 to 5." Or not weird, because Madness was a melody band, oops, sorry, Ms. Rapper. Our concept knocked your topknot off.
Posted by Sasha at July 18, 2005 11:56 AM
(* Grimey one drop disco? Grime house? Grouse?)