My mother told the A and E receptionist ‘He’s sustained a bad a cut.’ I leant in to the window and corrected her. ‘Actually, I’ve been stabbed,’ I said. It’s possible I sounded irritated, but I was speaking the truth. My sister had stabbed me in the upper left arm with a long, white-handled kitchen-knife. I had a small towel wrapped around the wound to soak up the blood. Continue reading
If some silly humans get their way, the Colston Hall in Bristol will be renamed. The excuse for this that the name, Colston, has ‘become toxic’ and because Colston was a slave-trader, the music venue needs a different name. Changing the name doesn’t benefit anyone, but it will give some single-issue merchants a rush of blood to the head for a few moments.
Changing the name doesn’t change the facts.
One of the defenders of this pointless excercise is David Olusoga. He says in the idea’s ‘defence’ that
‘Those who want to rename Colston Hall, like the students who want to topple Cecil Rhodes (not that I agree completely with them or their tactics), are campaigners for a fuller, more honest remembrance of history, not its erasure.’
That paragraph shows its typer simply doesn’t care. You do not get a ‘fuller, more honest remembrance of history’ by erasing the names of historical figures from public buildings.
In addition, you help nobody.
I promise you that, in removing the Colston name, no hungry children will be fed; no murderer will be caught; no teenage girl, trafficked from Eastern Europe and locked into sex-slavery, will be freed from her misery.
These campaigners are people without a grievance, looking to make themselves feel happier about their lives by claiming they did something good. They will have done nothing good. Nobody alive in Bristol suffered because of Colston’s business. Nobody alive in Bristol should apologise for the slave-trade because nobody alive in Bristol was responsible for the slave trade.
To campaign for the removal of the name is a form of narcissism, and I suspect these silly people are just a bit bored.
The musician, ‘Daddy G’ from ‘Massive Attack,’ was quite pleased with the name change. I have no idea why.
That ‘Massive Attack’ have for years ‘refused to play at Colston Hall’ is to fall for posing and gesture politics of the shallowest kind. If it were the case that ‘Massive Attack’ – upon learning of their city’s history – left the city in protest, refusing to spend their money here, or even enter the city because of it’s links with slavery, then I might believe they had principles. They are simply posing by picking an easy topic to decide to have principles about, one which causes them no inconvenience.
Muslim pirates enslaved white Europeans for centuries. As a white man, I managed to get the fuck over it about half a second after finding out about it.
Julius Caesar enslaved over a million white Europeans during his time in Gaul, helping to make Rome massively wealthy. I wonder if ‘Massive Attack’ has ever played a show in Rome?
Selective principlals are always fake principals.
‘”I am going to get fat and lazy in Hill House,” Theodora went on. Her insistence in Naming Hill House troubled Eleanor. It’s as though she were saying it deliberately, Eleanor thought, telling the house she knows its name, calling the house to tell it where we are; is it bravado? “Hill House, Hill House, House House,” Theodora said softly, and smiled across at Eleanor.’
In 1959 Shirley Jackson published ‘The Haunting of Hill House.’ Stephen King called the novel ‘As nearly a perfect haunted-house tale as I have ever read.’ This quotation sits on the cover of the Penguin Modern Classics paperback, is placed above the title (and Mrs Jackson’s name) so it’s obvious the publisher was happy with it, and why.
The first paragraph of the book was noteworthy for King.
Discussing the haunted house tale in ‘Danse Macabre’, he suggests the house requires an ‘historical context’ – a dark history – and that ‘Jackson establishes it immediately in the first paragraph of her novel, stating her tale’s argument in lovely, dreamlike prose.’ He then quotes the famous opening:
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly; floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
He says of the opening that
Analysis of such a paragraph is a mean and shoddy trick, and should almost always be left to college and university professors, those lepidopterists of literature who, when they see a lovely butterfly, feel that they should immediately run into the field with a net, catch it, kill it with a drop of chloroform, and mount it on a white board and put it in a glass case, where it will still be beautiful…and just as dead as horseshit.
He then goes on to offer some analysis of the opening paragraph. (He promises not to kill it or mount it, only to stun it a little before letting it fly on. I’m not sure he’s right to worry as much. I’ll change his metaphor to an analogy: what type of person doesn’t want to know how the magic-trick was done? What type does?)
Stephen King says he has neither the skill nor the inclination to offer a full analysis of Jackson’s dreamy opening. I’ll believe him about the inclination bit. Stephen King is a magician. I’d bet he knows exactly what Jackson’s opening does – but doesn’t want to reveal another magician’s secret.
Some think knowing the trick ruins the mystery. That depends on whether you prefer knowledge or mysteries. I’m not a magician, I always want to know how the trick is done, and I think knowing increases the beauty of it.
What does King say about it specifically? What he says about it first of all is interesting in itself. He states that
It begins by suggesting that Hill House is a live organism; tells us that this live organism does not exist under conditions of absolute reality; that because (although here I should add that I may be making an induction Mrs Jackson did not intend) it does not dream, it is not sane.
Does the opening ‘suggest’ Hill House is a live organism? I suppose it does, but ‘suggest’ is right. All humans are live organisms, and the first sentence tells us that to remain sane, live organisms need to dream. By ‘dream’ Jackson could well mean ‘fantasise’ or even ‘hallucinate’ as both these describe ways the mind of a live organism, a human one at any rate, can escape reality and therefore maintain sanity.
However I am unconvinced the first sentence actually refers to Hill House. It seems like it does, given the sentence which follows, but one needs to try to explain Jackson’s words ‘not sane’ to make this idea work.
Could she be telling nothing but the plain truth when describing Hill House as ‘not sane’? A house is indeed ‘not sane’ because it is a house, an object, not a live organism. Though something is ‘not sane’ it does not follow at all it must therefore be ‘insane’ – just as if something did not ‘turn left’ does not mean it necessarily ‘turned right’.
I think Jackson added ‘not sane’ into her description of Hill House to link it in the minds of readers with the first sentence, and could do so because to describe the house this way is still to tell the truth about it. If readers take it to mean something else then good: that might be the point – but Jackson hasn’t lied to anyone.
Once this piece of clever misdirection is complete, Jackson can then tell the plain truth about the house in more detail, knowing the reader will not be reading it as the plain truth. (Remove ‘not sane’ – therebye uncoupling it from the first sentence. Does it sound quite so creepy?)
Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly; floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
The ending sounds spooky, but it would be true of anyone who walked around a house by themselves. They would walk alone if that house wasn’t haunted.
In other words the first paragraph disorientates the reader; allows the reader to think the ‘problem’ – or the ‘issue’ as we might now say – lies with house, when the problem might really be with one of the characters about to pay Hill House a visit…
Let’s get one thing clear, American Psycho is a comedy. That needs to be understood before you read it. It’s a comedy about yuppies and how empty-headed and shallow they are: it’s about how far too much money and far too little imagination can cause you to begin to shrink your world, until you live in such a self indulgent cocoon, you cannot even spot the raving, murdering lunatic in your midst. That is what Easton-Ellis is telling us: yes, yuppies are that shallow.
This is a well-constructed work because it causes the reader to suffer from the same syndrome that grips the minds of most of its characters – only in reverse.
We have the self-obsessed city-boys, interested in the correct clothing labels and getting reservations at the right restaurant, and us, the readers, obsessing over the violent scenes of rape and murder, and – both us and them – missing the point entirely. The violence and murder are simply incidental to the plot, they are not the point. They serve the same purpose as a piece of misdirection performed by an illusionist. Just as you look the wrong way, the conjurer pulls a stroke.
Patrick Bateman is as hilarious as he is twisted: a perfectly tanned, toned and attired Metro-Sexual killing machine, drowning with pleasure in the very selfish excess that he despises, and yet must conform to the rules of. He maintains the required trophy girlfriend and adheres religiously to the latest men’s fashion, has membership of the most exclusive fitness club, styles his hair with a surgeon’s precision and forces rats into the vaginas of his victims.
There’s no accounting for taste.
His circle of co-accused are just as lacking in any sort of meaningful mental programming, treating the New York they live in as one huge private boys’ club, with membership relying on ticking certain financial and fashion based boxes on an ongoing basis. Most of the men in this work are successful, rich and stupid, and that is the point. A second point – which feeds the previous one – is that they never step out of the world in which they consume space, therefore never catch a glimpse of their own vulgarity, and, consequently, are unable to change for the better or want to. They are the small, obnoxious building blocks, whom together, make the impenetrable wall of arrogance and snobbery that protects their false, built-on-sand world.
Even between themselves, in packs of their own kind, these men are only half aware of each other. Do they even know who each other really is? They all have adopted the habit of addressing each other by their surnames, at least a large majority of the time. This is not so worrying until a particular character is introduced, and he starts referring to Bateman by the wrong surname. Why should this be worrying? Because Bateman responds to the surname as if it were correct, unable, due to the particular etiquette at work in their society, to offer a correction. This small, comical component offers to the reader some very disturbing questions about – if you will – the depths of their shallowness. When Bateman addresses an acquaintance, does he use the correct name himself? Are they just humouring him, shackled by the same etiquette? Is any of the group of friends Bateman surrounds himself with the people he thinks they are?
This question is thrust at the reader, when after killing Paul Allen, a man he has been obsessing over for sometime, Bateman learns that the same man has been seen in a restaurant in London. This is a confirmed sighting because Bateman is told by his victim’s dinner guest. So who on earth has he killed?
This particularly gruesome murder offers Easton-Ellis the chance to have another subtle kick at the world he is ripping to pieces. The killing happens in Allen’s own plush apartment. Upon returning to clean up the mess, Bateman – armed with a surgical mask to cope with the smell – has a brief conversation with a real estate agent who is re-selling the expensive property. The agent spots the surgical mask, and Bateman spots the mysteriously clean apartment. Their brief exchange involves the agent saying she doesn’t want any trouble and that Bateman should just go. So he does, walking away from the scene of his crime utterly bewildered, his fragile mind ever more confused.
It is exchanges like this that allow us to wonder if Bateman has actually been created by the world he lives in. Is the “greed is good” culture causing his psychosis? What could happen to a person’s view of what’s acceptable, when that person lives in world which lacks substance and any shred of morality; a world where even murders can be cleaned up if there’s a possibility of profit? Is Bateman the ultimate avenger for the self-indulgence of the slick-haired city boys and their air-head women? It’s possible, though I believe that Easton-Ellis lets Bateman loose on this world because he simply thinks they deserve it.
It was people of this kind that Brett Easton-Ellis was mixing with during the second half of the Eighties; he saw their world from the inside, the celebrity and credibility of being a writer allowing him rare access. He has stated that the time spent mixing with New York’s yuppie elite convinced him that they were the sort of people he would hate to be like; though they certainly left a lasting impression on the man, and this work demonstrates that impression.
He didn’t like them much.
I said this book is a comedy, and so it is. Consider this scene. Finally snapping and deciding to kill a chap whose attentions our psycho is sick of, he strides into the men’s room to confront his intended victim, his black-gloved hands ready to strangle the life out of this irritating man. As Bateman’s hands grip the man’s throat, the victim starts to smile, feeling the first stirrings of sexual desire. The victim is secretly gay (and must enjoy his own dark pleasures behind closed doors, it’s implied, if strangulation turns him on), and Bateman’s hands gripping his throat confirm Bateman must be as well. At last, the façade is dropped, now they can be together!
The comedy runs throughout this book. A urinal cake, taken from a men’s room, coated in chocolate, and then offered as a present, provides hilarity as the trophy girlfriend attempts to eat it. Bateman dropping his veil of normality and telling people directly what violent acts he’d love to perform on them (no-one really listens to each other, so he gets away with it), whilst the empty heads just nod along, paying no attention. Yeah, yeah, man. Sounds good, let’s touch base, oblivious that Bateman is telling them he wants to dig out their eyes.
The laughs are there, just so long as you don’t allow yourself to be tricked into paying too much attention to the violence. There’s plenty of it, and most is incredibly graphic, but it’s there to catch your eye – to keep you from the seeing reality: just like the soulless drones that populate the book can’t see it either. They’re too busy obsessing about designer labels to be able to.
London Has Fallen is the worst film I’ve seen for a long time, and that it has received (so far) a rating of 5.9 on IMDB is one of the mysteries of the universe. 5.9 on IMDB is unimpressive, but trying to reconcile gravity with the Standard Model would be easier than working out why this film has received an IMDB rating twice as high as it deserves. It really is appalling.
The problem with the film is that it tries to be ‘serious’ yet is predicated on the stupidest premise in fiction: the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent enemy.
America itself is personified in one man, Mike Banning (Gerard Butler): a hero so good at what he does, so fucking American, that not even God can kill the President when Gerard Butler is around.
In other words, goodness will always survive when America is there to protect it.
The omniscient and omnipotent enemy is the laziest type of convenient enemy to have. We see that the terrorists have infiltrated not only the British Army, but also the British police, and done so to such depth that terrorists are (somehow) sufficiently undercover to be vetted for official ceremonial duties, and can whip-out the old shooters at just the right time. What would be the back-story for just one of these under-cover baddies? How did they get in the police station and listen to the first briefings? How did they get in the barracks and into their uniforms without being noticed or questioned? How did they drill themselves to walk in step?
The enemy is God, here. Only God can do anything; only God can put anything or anyone anywhere He wants. This is one reason why the film fails. It is an excuse for a lot of preening and posing by Mike Banning.
(Footage of an American body-builder, in stars and stripes pants, poncing about on a stage for an hour and a half would have offered the same message, and a more credible one, too, because the stage on which the posing happened would have had a solid foundation.)
Banning’s doings are the usual ruthless-yet-witty-action-hero-by-numbers fare. Consider two absurd examples.
Banning has grabbed a terrorist while driving at speed in the obligatory chase-scene. The bad guy is leaning in the window, and Banning has grabbed him by the crash-helmet. The terrorist is deeply committed to his cause, and says to Banning: ‘fuck you.’ Banning replies, ‘fuck me?’ and then deliberately swerves the car into a barrier, decapitating the terrorist and leaving his severed head in Banning’s hand. ‘Fuck you’ he tells the dead head.
What is going on, here?
He decapitates the guy in reaction to the insulting language, so we are free to ask why Mr Banning is so easily offended. What would Banning have done had the terrorist not said ‘fuck you’?
His witty quip is without any irony. When the Terminator, or John McClane, offer the old one-liners, there’s an element of self-deprecation, and an acknowledgement of the movie universe in which they live without acknowledging they are fictional characters; but Banning’s ‘fuck you’ isn’t that sort of one-liner. Who is he talking to? The terrorist is dead, so is his line and sense of humour for our benefit? The only thing missing here is Banning looking at the camera and winking after chucking the head out the window.
That Banning doesn’t look directly at us when he speaks doesn’t mean the line isn’t spoken to us. The decapitation scene unintentionally breaks the fourth-wall, and to break the fourth-wall unintentionally is unforgivable. It means the director and writer(s) don’t care about the psychology of fiction, or the relationship between fiction and the audience.
The second example has Banning use the expression ‘fuckheadistan’ when suggesting the bad guys might want to go back to where they came from.
It’s daft enough that the apparently loving, caring, soon-to-be-a-father nice-guy slowly tortures a man to death to annoy another bad guy listening over the radio (making one wonder about Banning’s stupidly unrealistic light-switch personality) but to use such a hicksville expression is to appeal somewhat to the Toby Keith foreign policy school.
These are two examples of straightforward absurdity, and more could be offered.
For instance, where do the millions of London’s public disappear to? As Banning and Mr Goodness-personified run about through London, we are supposed to take seriously the idea that the public will simply vanish, leaving our two heroes alone in a deserted capital city which minutes earlier was conducting a normal day’s business.
I mean to say, this is just stupid.
Deadpool can be taken much more seriously, even though it’s a comedy, because to be a stupid film is perfectly acceptable if the film knows itself, and isn’t pretending to be anything else; but London Has Fallen presents itself without any irony or humour and without any tongue in any cheek: it wants us not laugh out loud, but to punch the air shouting ‘Go Gerard!’
When the press report that there are events taking place ‘across the world’ in honour of Jo Cox, one has to ask why.
All over the world?
Why are most of us so eager to show how caring we are by acting like retarded farm animals?
What we are seeing here is the beginning of the deification of a young woman and mother who is famous for being murdered. This sort of horrible nonsense happened when Diana checked-out in Paris.
I’m not doubting the woman was decent – most people are. There’s no reason to gush over the woman’s corpse and create a legend where none need exist.
In the opening scene in Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino gave us what was something of a novelty at the time. His characters were talking. That’s not the same as having characters exchange dialogue to further the plot. His characters talked to each other. From the speech about the subtext to Madonna’s Like a Virgin to the bullshitting about tipping, the easy, realistic dialogue made us another character at the table: we were listening to ordinary folks talk, and because we’re ordinary folks, an invisible wall was removed and we were sat having breakfast, too.
The dialogue is one of the immediately recognisable things in a Tarantino picture. The exception to this rule, the Tarantino movie which isn’t rammed with Tarantino dialogue, is Inglorious Basterds, but that movie still has two scenes which are two of the best scenes in the Tarantino canon.
So what are six of the best scenes in Tarantino’s writing?
Reservoir Dogs in not going to be included in the six scenes. Why should it be given what came after it? On the fair logic that the more you do something the better you get, Dogs should be his worst film, right?
This list runs in no particular order and I’m not bothered about the release sequence. The list is simply six of the best scenes and why I like them.
True Romance (1993)
Drexel Swings the Lamp
This scene is beautiful because Tarantino understands Drexel’s savagery, and also how a savage thinks. Those thoughts are demonstrated by the dialogue. In this scene Christian Slater has gone to the HQ of his new girl’s pimp to get her stuff and tell him Alabama – the peachy chick in question – isn’t coming back. She’s had to tell him that old Drexel is only just human, and that’s a compliment. He sniffs out Christian Slater instantly, and knows he should have nothing worry about.
The whole psychology of the scene rests on the Chinese food. Drexel invites X to sit down and have a bite, and that’s a move to see how confident Clarence is. Tarantino has Drexel explain this to us. He shines the lamp at Clarence and tells him ‘You’ve already given up your shit.’ Straight away, we wonder, what? How’s that? And that’s when Drexel explains had Clarence sat down for food, and acted like he wasn’t worried about anything, then Drexel might have thought Clarence didn’t have anything to worry about, and the implication is that he would have then started to wonder why not – and begin worrying himself. It’s a beautiful bit of psychology which shows the instinct developed by animals like Drexel and the innocence of old Clarence. It reminds me of an old wildlife documentary I saw where two tribesmen jogged right towards some lioness and her cubs, and she picked them up and ran from these two skinny humans. It also strongly implies that Drexel is not just quick, but fucking dangerous.
Which he is.
It’s written beautifully. The audience starts off with Clarence’s POV because we don’t know what to expect, either. Clarence’s first look at Drexel is ours, too. When he’s explained the psychology of Chinese food, us and Clarence both know there’s a wild animal sat over there, but we don’t know what Clarence has planned. Then we shift over to Drexel’s POV, as we don’t know what’s in the envelop, either. When we and Drexel see the envelope’s empty, and Drexel correctly updates his assessment of Clarence and states we’ve got a ‘mother-fucking Charlie Bronson’ in the room, we’re primed for action.
And we get it.
Clifford Smokes a Chesterfield
Clifford is Clarence’s father, a security guard and former police officer. The clichéd Italian mobsters (possibly clichéd because wrote them that way on purpose) interrogate him to find out where his son has gone with Drexel’s drugs. What’s important, here, is Clifford refusing a Chesterfield to begin with, then asking for one a little later. In between these moments, he’s decided the gangsters are going to kill him and there remains a possibility he was mistaken about that.
Upon thinking he’s about to be topped, he asks ‘Can I have one of those Chesterfields, now?’ He then delivers the famous ‘Sicilians are descended from Niggers’ speech. This is not a ‘racist’ speech, there is depth, here: the speech is actually a condemnation of racism. The kind of casual racism Tarantino is condemning here is the kind Eddie Murphy brilliantly jokes about in Raw when he does the sketch about Italians after just seeing Rocky. Eddie Murphy is taking the piss, but Tarantino isn’t. He’s going for the throat with this speech, and the whole speech is clearly motivated by a hatred of racism, and aimed at one category of casual racist.
When I first watched this scene, I didn’t understand what was happening until Clifford began smoking the cigarette. It was the sound of it burning as he sucked it, and bits of ash flicking off it, that made it clear he was really fucking enjoying this cigarette, enjoying it like it was his last, and that’s when I ‘got’ what was going on. The scene ends with the tragic irony that the whole speech was a waste of time because, although Clifford keeps his mouth shut about where Clarence and Alabama have gone, they leave their address on his fridge, so it was all for nothing. At least he got the Sicilian speech in.
Inglorious Basterds (2009)
Landa Drinks the Milk
This is the entire first scene to Inglorious Basterds, which begins with Landa’s strangely pleasant manners and ends with the murder of the Dreyfus family who are hiding under the floorboards. Talk about a scene having an ‘arc’.
What actually happens, here?
The film begins with a dairy farmer and his daughters going about their normal business, when a Nazi staff-car – with motorcycle outriders – approaches the house. The farmer, Perrier La Padite, tells one of his daughters to get him some water and go inside, but not to run. Running looks ‘guilty’.
The man in the car is Col. Hans Landa of the SS, and he sits at the table. He is offered wine, but – and this is oddity number one – Landa, because he’s on a dairy farm, chooses milk instead of wine, and drinks his glass down with theatrical pleasure, praising the farm and its cows for the delicious milk. What does drinking the milk do?
Drinking the milk is one way we learn something about Landa’s character. He’s on a dairy farm, so he drinks milk. He blends in with his surroundings, in other words, and he makes something of a show of enjoying it. This is important.
What follows is a pantomime.
Landa questions La Padite about the Dreyfus family – a Jewish family, hiding from the Nazis – and wants to know what La Padite has heard about what happened to them. La Padite tries to shrug this off by saying he’s heard ‘only rumours’ and this animates Landa, who says he loves rumours because, whether they are true or not, rumours can be revealing. La padite then, as he lights his pipe, says he’s heard ‘rumours’ the Dreyfus family escaped into Spain . Landa asks, ‘So the rumours you’ve heard have been of escape?’ I would have liked to have seen Landa’s face when he gives this line, but the camera stays on La Padite and drops slightly to show the pipe in La Padites’s mouth looking like Pinochio’s nose. We already know they are under the floorboards, and now, thanks to the ‘rumour’ about their escape, Landa is now convinced they are, too.
I think this is the confirmation he needed, as he always was suspicious. Consider the information he asks for. What number of children in the family? Ages of the children? He doesn’t ask for more than that because he’s not really there to find that out, he just wants confirmation that they are under the floorboards.
It’s here that Landa gives his ‘rat’ speech. He tells La Padite that if the German shared any characteristics with a beast it would be the predatory cunning of the Hawk, and if the Jew any characteristics with a beast it would be that of the Rat.
It’s here that he explains why he drinks milk while on a dairy farm.
He engages the farmer on his dislike of rats, and suggests the farmer wouldn’t be too kind if one scampered in the door. The farmer agrees, then Landa suggests that any filth spread by a rat a squirrel could equally carry, and he also points out that rats and squirrels, aside from the tail, look quite similar, yet he bets La Padite doesn’t have the same feelings for squirrels as he has for rats. La Padite has to confess he doesn’t. Landa then explains that he can ‘think like a Jew’ and that he understands the kind of behaviour a person is capable of after they have ‘abandoned dignity.’ It’s this ability which allows to work out the family are under the floorboards.
Landa is probably a homosexual, and therefore member of a minority persecuted by the Nazis, and he’s hiding by acting like an enthusiastic Nazi. This is how he knows how to ‘think like a Jew’. He knows how persecuted minorities think, and what a person will do to stay alive.
Donny Swings the Bat
This is one of the most memorable scenes from Inglorious Basterds. A German soldier is questioned about the positions of his comrades stationed ‘up the road a piece’ and he refuses to reveal their locations. He is told, quite simply, that Sgt. Donny Donowitz, the Basterd nicknamed The Bear Jew, is going to beat him to death he if doesn’t talk. The Sgt theatrically raises his hand and respectfully refuses, while touching the Iron Cross he got for bravery.
In one version of the script I read, there’s some backstory shown of Donowitz getting his Jewish neighbours to sign the baseball bat he’s taking to Europe to beat Nazis to death with. It’s an American kind of brutal death, being battered with baseball bat, Imagine if Donny was instead Donald, and English officer who used a Golf club or a Cricket bat. Would it have worked? I don’t think so. In addition to having this very American death imposed, the Americans are seen scalping the dead Germans, like the ‘Indians’ did to some white Americans. In one simple stroke, Tarantino equates the holocaust of the American ‘Indians’ with the genocidal doings of the Nazis. So while the American punishment is being dealt to the heads of the captured Nazis, we are reminded that Americans have their own ‘history’ to remember, so perhaps we shouldn’t take too much of the moral high ground.
I think he was going for a small act of moral fairness with the German Sgt by having him sit calmly and with immense bravery while The Bear Jew comes out the tunnel swinging. Indeed, he stabs at the Iron cross on the German’s chest and asks if he ‘got that for killing Jews?’ showing a little bit of obsession on Donny’s part. ‘Bravery’ he replies, sitting as like a Buddhist.
Donny looks almost sad as he tees up the bat, ready for the first blow. But by the time the German’s head is battered this way and that a few times (which is shown in a long-shot which is somehow unsatisfying) old Donny’s blood is flowing to where it’s needed, and he’s shouting about ‘Teddy fucking Williams!’ whose knocking one out the park and so on.
There’s no attempt to hide or in any way sweeten the near psychopathic violence of the Americans, and it’s this which is important, too. How do you deal with Nazis? You can’t talk to them, or reason with them in any way. You just gotta kill the fuckers.
Death Proof (2007)
Mike offers Pam a Lift, not a Ride
Consider the following scene. Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell) throws his car keys along the bar because Pam (Rose Mcgowan) asks the bartender if there is anyone he will vouch for to give her a ride home. It’s a classic western shot. Most of the time what gets slid down the bar is a shot or bottle of whisky, but this is a modern movie, so it’s a bunch of car keys. (Pam actually asks Mike if he’s a cowboy.) There is irony there, and it’s at the expense of Pam, who knows less than the audience. Of all the guys to ask for a lift, Stuntman Mike is the last dude you’d want driving you home. She doesn’t know it, but we do.
(Think of all the movies you’ve seen where the scream queen wanders down to the cellar without a torch. It’s a cliché. It aint believable, but it’s popular. It works. Why does it work? It works because an audience enjoys knowing more than the characters on the screen. Knowing more than the characters do is irony in action.)
That’s one type of irony, but what about other types? This is where things get a little complicated.
After the car-key slide and a little conversation Pam asks Stuntman Mike if he is offering her a ride home and whether he’ll be okay to drive later. (For completeness ‘icy-hot’ is a logo on the back of Mike’s jacket.)
Follow the conversation closely:
PAM: So, icy-hot, are you offering me a ride home?
MIKE: I’m offering you a lift if when I’m ready to leave, you are too.
PAM: And when are you thinking about leaving?
MIKE: Truthfully, I’m not thinking about it. But when I do you’ll be the first to know.
PAM: Will you be able to drive later?
MIKE: I know looks can be deceiving, but I’m a teetotaller. I’ve been drinking club-soda and lime all night and now I’m building up to my big drink.
PAM: Which is what?
MIKE: Virgin Pina Colada.
Notice that Stuntman Mike corrects Pam. It’s not a ride he’s offering her, it’s a lift. Once you get that the rest of what this exchange actually means should fall into place and allow you to see where old Stuntman Mike is coming from.
Run the same conversation again, but have them say what Tarantino actually means. Pam is just checking if old Mike is going to be getting ‘friendly’ later:
PAM: Do you want to have sex with me?
PAM: Will you try to have sex with me later?
MIKE: I know looks can be deceiving, but I’m a dickless virgin who’s terrified of women. I’m not really interested in you because I’m building up to my big crash scene.
PAM: Which is?
MIKE: The virgin’s penis collider.
So the irony is double layered. There’s what the conversation really means, and in addition there’s poor old Pam who has no idea just how unfriendly Mike is going to become.
Django Unchained (2012)
Django takes the Dynamite
This wonderful scene comes toward the end of the movie, and by this time, we know Django is heading back to Candyland to have a word or two with the white folks over there. This scene is splendid for a few reasons. First, it allows the murdered King Shultz to be proved right, even after he’s dead. He tells Django to keep the handbill of his first kill for luck, and it’s this handbill Django uses to get the interest of the guys taking him to the mining company, so it’s nice that Schultz’s wisdom is in play after he’s dead.
Django sells the idea of going back to capture the outlaws, and shoots the men transporting the slaves. Well, one of them gets blown up. Just as he’s about to ride back to Candyland, he goes to the slave cage where the slaves have been watching him go about his ruthless business, and takes the dynamite. It’s here the scene is superb. What does Django say to the slaves? What bit of inspirational pep-talk do they get which will change their lives for the better?
Django takes the dynamite, rides off looking like an Indian, and leaves them there; and it’s in his silence that he fucking roars at them and us. If you want to do something, do it. Don’t wait around for anyone’s permission. Django’s speech is conspicuous by its absence. This is smart because, had he spoken, what half-assed motivational bullshit could he have spewed? Much better to say it by showing it.
Get off your own ass.
Yesterday, twenty three years after it was released, I watched Schindler’s List for the first time. I didn’t feel glad after I had done so. I was quite fed-up after watching it, but not for the reasons which might seem obvious.
Contrast this film with a later WW2 movie – Quentin Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds. The Schindler picture is certainly the more ‘serious’ picture, and it’s based on actual events; Basterds is Tarantino’s ‘bunch-of-guys-on-a-mission’ movie and is significantly counter-factual, so one might expect all the ‘weight’ to be with Schindler and all the – well, all the Tarantino to be in Basterds.
Here’s one thing which annoys me about WW2 movies. I don’t like it when English or American actors play the Nazis and talk in English, either with or without a German accent. It’s convenient for the viewers (some of them) but it annoys me. I’d rather read subtitles. It makes the movie more believable.
(Actually, what else annoys me is when the foreign language is dubbed into English. The French zombie movie Le Horde was ruined in this way; the original, which I preferred because I have no problem reading, was a hundred times better than the unwatchable dubbed fuck-up which followed it.)
For all the seriousness of Schindler, the two lead roles are played by an Englishman and an Irishman, they speak in accented English, and spoken German is left to the background players for background noise.
Tarantino cast French actors to play the French characters and native German speakers to play the German characters. Why is their more authenticity in a ‘less serious’ movie than in the ‘serious’ Schindler?
Could Inglorious Basterds be a more serious movie than Schindler?
It certainly is. Schindler is about a ‘more serious’ topic, but Basterds is the more serious movie.
Also – and I’m not going to name them – but plenty of humans knew all about the deliberate destruction of the Jews from outside Germany, our hero Schindler only seems to realise the Nazis are a little nasty after accidently watching a Jew ghetto being cleared, and only then does his moral wheel start (very slowly) turning, though he’s working quite close to the military.
Another point needs to be made. Shooting it in black and white was a mistake. Black and white film was never an aesthetic choice, it was a technical limitation. It’s the same with silent movies, why make a ‘silent movie’ these days? Those who went to the cinema in the 1920s might have taken silent movies for granted, but every person would have known that people, in real life, spoke words when they moved their mouths to speak, just as they would have known the real world is not black and white. Reality wasn’t black and white during the silent era, and it wasn’t black and white when Schindler was made. Black and white is nostalgia, or an attempt to be ‘arty’.
It’s got to be Rick who gets his head smashed in. Well, okay – it doesn’t have to be him.
The first thing which is weird after the The Walking Dead season finale is that Glenn is actually the safest member of the group. The producers already messed about with him with the fake-death thing from earlier in the season, and they removed his name from the credits to play with us some more.So to mess with Glenn again might seem a little lame.
Also, Glenn is the character who gets killed by Negan in the comics, so it would be too obvious to make it him who gets battered.
How to think about the likely victim?
First, if it’s not a major character, then what’s the point, right? A supporting character’s death doesn’t justify the off-season wait to find out who it was, and it would irritate the fans to wait that long for a minor character be revealed as dead. So logic requires it’s a major name.
So who are classed as major names? I’d say – and in order of majorness:
Rick, Daryl, Carol, Glenn, Michonne, Abraham, Maggie, Carl, Eugene, Morgan, Sasha, Rosita, Gabriel, Tara, Aaron.
It’s an order which can be argued about, but no matter.
Okay, so does long-term character or series regular mean the same as major character? I think not, so the list becomes:
Rick, Daryl, Carol, Glenn, Michonne, Abraham, Maggie, Carl.
I’ve alread discounted Glenn, so the list becomes:
Rick, Daryl, Carol, Michonne, Abraham, Maggie, Carl.
But Carol isn’t there because she’s off with Morgan, getting shot, so the list becomes:
Rick, Daryl, Michonne, Abraham, Maggie, Carl.
Now, who of those could die without the viewers caring too much? Abraham. So that leaves:
Rick, Daryl, Michonne, Maggie, Carl.
At a push, Carl could die without too much uproar: he’s already tainted goods in anycase because of his eye, so I don’t see the audience caring too much if it were him. So that leaves:
Rick, Daryl, Michonne, Maggie.
If Negan wanted to show he was a real evil shit, he’d kill a kid or a woman; if Carl’s discounted, that leaves Maggie. But why would Negan kill the most vulnerable of them? Surely he’d want to weaken their group by taking out a strong member? He wants to make sure they know he’s now in charge. That leaves:
Rick and Daryl.
The best way to assert your authority is by killing the enemy leader. That leaves…..
Rick is the character to die.
He’s the least likely because everyone would consider him the safest.
Spolia Opima Baby.
I’m betting that he’s not dead. I think this is a safe bet, but there’s still a chance he might be. Why is it likely he’s not dead?
Because Daryl is one of the show’s most popular characters is one reason. It’s also the main reason, actually. I mean to say, if the producers didn’t have the nerve to kill off Glenn, then they won’t have the nerve to kill off Daryl, right?
Well, here’s the thing. The producers pulled a stroke when they made us think Glenn was getting his guts munched, so doesn’t that mean they’ve used-up that trick? Why would they risk making the audience groan by pulling the same stunt? So maybe he will be dead come the season finale?
Why didn’t we get to see to whom the shooter was talking when he said ‘You’ll be alright’ under a black screen? Was he talking to Daryl, telling him his wound isn’t all that serious, or was he talking to Rosita, letting he know that she’s not getting shot because a bunch of outlaw men can make use of her? Or was he talking to the others tied and gagged and sat down?
We’ve got to go back to the Governor cutting Hershel’s head off to get a death of a lead character which is actually shocking. Since Hershel, they’ve just been surprising. That’s not the same thing at all.
I don’t like this ‘an episode a week’ crap. Netflix needs to buy The Walking Dead from AMC so we can sweat an entire season on one lazy Saturday. I know AMC wouldn’t sell it – I’m just annoyed at having to wait.