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 Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom 
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Rock wrote:
Consider the scene where Patrick McGoohan tells him to use his powers on the man who can control his heartbeat. We get constipated grimacing followed abruptly by a completely hammy line delivery.


The grimacing is a weak point in his performance (as is the scene where he is dispatching gunmen with some violent bobs of his head), but the delivery of the line is where I feel his flatness works. The scene shows he is more in control of his powers than we believe him to be, and that there are glimmers that he is capable of using them for violence, just as Michael Ironside had in a few scenes previous. There is an eerie quality to him rising above the Dr who is about to sedate him, and proclaiming "You're right Dr. Ruth. It is easy". In the shallow pool of his personality, the shadow of his brothers personality can be seen just below the surface.

Now, again, not much credit should be going to Lack himself. Instead it should go to Cronenberg using his underwhelming presence as a virtue. You're right that the strength of the actors surrounding him highlight his weakness. But they also highlight that Cronenberg seems to have been on point with his casting choices across the board. He couldn't not be aware of what he was doing bringing Lack on board.

As for Cronenberg bringing his A game, I'd never considered it before now. Such was the negative power of not only Lack's acting, but the whole concept of his character. His motivations for doing anything are left vague, his connections to almost all of the other characters are transient. Until we discover Rivek's (sp) ultimate plan late in the game, the movie is actually mostly about Lack drifting about under the guidance of the wishes of others, looking for an identity in this conspiratorial world. Only through viewing the film in this way, which Lack's crap acting gave me the hint to start doing, was I able to see how on top of the game Cronenberg is in Scanners. Lack is an element of this, as problematic as he ultimately is.


Sun Sep 16, 2018 3:10 am
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Sun Oct 07, 2018 11:57 am
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Good movie.

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Sun Oct 07, 2018 2:24 pm
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I just put One-Eye Jacks on my Prime list. I've only seen it once before, and thought it was...OK. This restored version seems considerably longer.


Mon Oct 08, 2018 12:09 am
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Jinnistan wrote:
I just put One-Eye Jacks on my Prime list. I've only seen it once before, and thought it was...OK. This restored version seems considerably longer.


It is long, and the pacing is probably even more wonky than the version you saw. But the personality of the film I think is to be found in its flab.


Mon Oct 08, 2018 1:22 am
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crumbsroom wrote:
But the personality of the film I think is to be found in its flab.

This seems to be a recurring theme in Brando's career.

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Mon Oct 08, 2018 1:47 am
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Some lonely films....

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I'm not very well versed in the Japanese Pink genre. I was so naive, I thought In The Realm of the Senses was one of them (too high-brow, apparently). So this film is likely the first one I've seen, and I was immediately struck by, despite it's "grindhouse" designation, how unexploitative it is. It is pure melodrama, but artfully executed and, compared to what is typical of Western soft-core porn, a remarkably sympathetic portrayal of its female protagonist. The sex scenes are far more centered on her arousal than simply being aimed at the audience's male response. They are filmed with a sensuality and sensitivity that one could never hope from a Russ Meyer. And while the main theme of the film is still dependent on the question of shame - of her deriving sexual pleasure from a man that she obviously doesn't love whom she is bound to for strictly financial reasons - the film is far more of a social comment on the tragedy of a sexually unliberated Japan. (There's a reason why we never see films about such compromised men.) Still, the quality of the filmmaking, and of the performance by Noriko Tatsumi, elevates it above the implications of exploitative flick into something more artistically accomplished. I'm not sure if this quality is consistent with the rest of the genre, or director Mamoru Watanabe's other films, but it's a positive sign indeed.


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I gave this one a rewatch after Rock mentioned the new Zhang Yimou film. All of his early films with Gong Li are terrific. This is very similar to Slave Widow, a story of a woman doomed to a loveless relationship. Rather than a critique on post-war pre-liberated bourgeois of Japan, this is focused on a more feudal tradition of arranged marriages, but the same element of a financial obligation in the relationship remains. Ju-Dou, the young bride, is unfortunately wed to an older man, Jinshan (no relation), who is impotent and abusive. She therefore finds her forbidden pleasure elsewhere, with Jinshan's loyal artisan. Again, rather than portraying this illicit affair as something either shameful or tawdry, it is handled with artistic grace. The image of her deflowering is accompanied by a roll of silk streaming into a pool of red dye, for example.

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My only complaint is against Amazon Prime, whose version of the film currently available is not a great print which does no favors to the film's technicolor photography, and is full frame instead of widescreen. Other than that, I can't recommend it enough.


Mon Oct 08, 2018 2:10 am
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THE ENDURING RACE TO BE THE MOST LAST OF ALL THE LAST HOUSES ON THE STREET (AKA ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO YADDA YADDA YADDA)


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MOVIE: The Last House on Dead End Street
DIRECTOR: Roger Watkins
SOMETHING I LIKED: That this movie hated me, even before we were properly introduced.

There are good reasons why I am inclined to think of movies in terms of what libation they most remind me of. How else to decide what from my fridge will be the most appropriate to drink in their company? For those films that are so light to the touch they seem to be filled with bubbles, it’s likely the popping of champagne corks will soon frighten my cat as I put on L’Atalante. As for films inclined to show lives that amount to little more than a five dollar bottle of wine, for these a spell of Thunderbird inspired gut rot is most helpful. How else can one calibrate their Barfly headspace properly enough to climb up inside the Bukowski shitted trousers of Mickey Rourke? You can’t, of course, and you’ve clearly watched it wrong if by the films conclusion you aren’t stumbling out into the alley behind your house to sleep with the baby raccoons that you have recently become friends with.

When it comes to Last House on Dead End Street though, it should be known beforehand that it offers no hope of quenching any kind of thirst. Best to simply show up already deplorable on drink since it is nothing but a half empty beer bottle being used as an ashtray. Filled with the remains of cigarettes half smoked by a lonely man on a sleepless night, it sits forgotten in a room, waiting to be mistakenly reached for when there is nothing left. The shock of all those cigarette ends soaked with old beer will not be pleasant as they land on your tongue, but in some ways they are precisely the beverage that should be paired with such a movie. The lingering flavor of ash carrying on and mingling with tomorrows hangover is the equivalent of how Last House cakes the senses, and refuses to be forgotten. It tastes like something as mundane and common as an untidy room, but for one moment manifests itself as something almost exotic. At least before you spit it out.

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The apparitions of every cigarette ever smoked haunt the film as profoundly as one of my childhood trips in the family car. No we can't roll the windows down. Yes, it's okay if you die before we reach grandma's. I am already suffocating and absolutely nothing has happened yet.


As a film, Last House seems to have been born from those moments before we find the aspirin or a toothbrush. It is sleepy and aching and empty, yet still also somewhat deranged from the night before. It presents itself to the audience as if it too is hungover and hasn’t quite gotten over the fact that it has left the bed. Characters are often found sitting in chairs or shuffling through rooms, staring in a fog, the only conversation they can muster being the voiceovers grumbling away in their head like a headache. The colors that emanate from its images don’t so much transmit from the screen, as dry and crack upon it. The sounds it makes are muffled like the arguing of neighbors through the walls. Everything seems presented to us from a distance. At least until those moments where it unleashes its violence upon us, and then the film becomes alive in ways that you might prefer it not to be. The color of blood, while seeming murky as if mixed with dirt, will still manage to glisten in a way that the rest of the film is much too dehydrated to ever do. The cries for help will be tinny and distorted, but will cut straight through whatever other dialogue is being mumbled, leaving audiences with no other option but to just sit there and gape. You are very aware you won’t be able to save anyone.

The violence will be so profound that it alone manages to give the entire movie some sense of a shape. From the ashes of their hungover mope, characters who have just been sitting around sneering about the world throughout the first half of the film, will suddenly rise up and move towards their victims as if they have purpose. Every thing about them now seems well rehearsed. They appear almost choreographed as they move closer. They will tend to their duties with a fervor hardly expected of such horrible slouches. Digging deeper and deeper into the entrails of their victims, they proceed undaunted by the blood or the screams. They are seemingly involved in an archeological excavation that will not stop until it reaches the center of the human body. Maybe the hope is simply to prove that there is no soul to be found inside of such a mess. They may even prove this as they hold what they find up to the camera as evidence. Nope, no soul here, their dead eyes will glint.

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Well, at least they stopped smoking.


But is this enough? Anyone well versed in grindhouse films should be well aware that ugliness is as easy to create on film as giving someone the finger to their back. Going too far is even easier. Last House is guilty of both of these crimes in ways that, when simply describing what happens on screen, makes it seem like a movie that hardly has any more worth than some anti-social teens tantrum. Why don’t you come take a mouthful of this shit sandwich, world! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, it seems to cry out before barricading itself in its room. And in many ways, this is actually very much a part of its boast. It is deliberately unapproachable because it has already decided it doesn’t like you. It hates you for showing up to watch it, and it hates you even more if you think you’re too good for it. You can’t possibly win with a film that has fallen so deeply into its own sense of self and societal loathing.

But make no mistake. Last House on Dead End Street is a very good film. What makes the ultimate difference here, and elevates what on first impulse seems like junk, into something that could legitimately be called art, is that somehow director Roger Watkins manages the impossible. He makes what seems little less than juvenile provocation actually frightening. Never before has splatter felt so soul shaking. Although it is not nearly as successful, the only comparable reference point in modern film is Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Like Hooper’s exercise in human depravity, these films elevate what is little more than the crude actions of violent men, and turns them into something other worldly. The horror isn’t really about the threat of death, but is much more about creating a surreal and dream like space in which such corporal abominations can occur in. The internal organs the actors hold up to the camera for investigation are like discoveries from a lost world. It just so happens that this lost world is inside all of us, just out of view, and this movie exists just to let us know how terrifyingly easy they are to discover.

By employing a cruddy cinema verite style in introducing the lives of these slum villains during the opening half hour, Watkins creates a very drab and unadorned base world from which he will launch the rest of the film into the blood-sunset violence of its stratospheric conclusion. In the beginning, cameras are static. Characters seem to wander in frame aimlessly. Rooms are so dark and smoke filled figures are hard to make out. Dialogue is directionless. But then as the smell of violence rises in the air, the camera will suddenly begin to move with an eerie grace. Great care will be placed in how the rooms are lit (or over lit, or under lit). Atonal music will begin to clang. Characters appear from unexpected places, sometimes even banging holes through walls to make an appearance, other times breaking into dance at inappropriate moments. The difference in these two competing approaches is striking, and yet Watkins somehow will stitch these scenes of violence that appear to be transmitted in from another dimension, seamlessly into the Sunday morning blah of the surrounding film. They almost play like mirror images of those classic stories of alien abductions in the 1980’s. Some drunken yokel sobers up from his standard afternoon beer binge to find himself on an operating table, beneath strange lights, surrounded by inhuman faces holding up shining utensils. Except in this instance, it is not aliens but the hillbillies who are responsible for the kidnapping. As well as the upcoming surgery.

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Oh, please don't mind Catherine. She just likes to watch.


Like all nihilistic loud mouths, Watkins will of course not be able to resist attempts to blame his film on a corrupt modern world that would never dare to pay him any attention unless he was willing to sink to such vile displays. This wasn’t a particularly compelling excuse when Deodato attempted it in 1980 for Cannibal Holocaust, and the fact that Watkins got there first is hardly commendable, even if he doesn’t have the baggage of actually killing things and terrorizing native villages to justify his moral objection to violence. He does seem slightly more studied in his hatred towards society though, which gives his brutish philosophy, if not any reason to be contemplated seriously, a certain extra uneasiness. He comes across as a man who could possibly be just articulate enough to convince the sort of deadbeats that populate his world to do the horrible crimes he imagines. He was clearly able to convince others to appear in this film, which itself is something, considering at times it nearly seems to verge on the line of criminality itself.

With such a misanthropic world view at hand, Watkins doesn’t dare clutter up his philosophizing with complicated plot mechanizations or character motivations. Everything is kept at a bare minimum in Last House. His gaze will keep its unblinking focus on the days following a mans release from prison, and his big plans to begin producing snuff films. There is no eureka moment. No need to make a great case for others to join him in his pursuit. It is simply presented as a matter of fact principal. He’s angry, the world is shit, and he believes he has something to show it. The presumption that the world wants what he has, will go unchallenged.

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If you are not ready to dole out some close ups soon Mr. DeMille, these aspiring young upstarts are already closing in.


And this shouldn’t be surprising, considering the way Watkins sees the world. In Last House, there is only him and his band of misfits, and those Watkins seems to view as the Have’s to his Have-Nots: the professional pornographers. No one else seems to exist or matter. The only time he will ever cut away from the dingy snuff world he has created, will be to show us the pampered lifestyle of these actually successful smut peddlers, as if simultaneously condemning and jealous of them. Just look at them laughing it up in their middle class luxury, drinking wine and eating cheese, their decadent lives being entertained by the sight of a humpback whipping a woman in blackface. Tra-la-la and please pass the brie. With such bourgeois atrocities as sadomasochistic minstrel pantomimes presumably being performed in the living rooms all across American suburbia, there is almost a feeling that Watkins is using this as a wedge issue to make the case that in comparison his penniless scumbags are some kind of working class heroes. Not because they are any better, but simply because of the fact they have been denied the chance of profiting off of their scumbaggery. What has white privilege ever given them, dammit!

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Humpbacks can hate racially insensitive iconography too, Watkins makes sure to suggest in hopes that audiences understand the progressive politics at play just beneath the surface of Last House on Dead End Street.


At times the main character will fantasize about the stardom and money he believes he will be rewarded with for being so prescient about the value of real violence in film. Playing this leading role himself, it becomes easy to imagine that Watkins himself may have thought similarly about his unapologetic vision of a super violent American New Wave, and that the world would soon be his oyster. It’s definitely possible that his view of society was so debased that he truly believed Last House would put him within reach of the first rung on the ladder of success. But with this unholy mix of HG Lewis’ dime store cynicism and a primal version of Ingmar Bergman’s existential terror, the result was of course never going to be anything but abject failure. Nothing this toxic could ever grant any one access to anything beyond a societal shunning, and so he would sadly never attain the luxury of having his very own humpbacked servant with a whip. Instead, after making this film, he would fall directly into the world of sex films and pornography, the very industry he had condemned as not being forward thinking enough to appreciate his auteurs eye for debasement. Such a step backward into oblivion makes it easy to conjure up images of him late in his failed career, sitting up alone at night, fuming at society while filling a beer bottle with one cigarette after another. One can only hope he never mistakenly took a sip, since such a taste could not help but bring him back to memories of his failure, and the strange misery masterpiece it birthed.


Mon Oct 08, 2018 6:01 am
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Jinnistan wrote:
I'm not very well versed in the Japanese Pink genre.

The one you've seen sounds much better than any of the ones I've seen:

School of the Holy Beast is one that I've seen touted as one of the best of the genre, but I found it a chore to get through. It's way too perverted for its anti-religious message to work, but is too humourless in its presentation for any of the proceedings to be entertaining.

Entrails of a Virgin and Entrails of a Beautiful Woman are two that straddle the line between pink and horror. These are actually somewhat effective as horror movies, but as you can probably tell from the titles, they're a tad unsavoury content-wise. Virgin is a slasher where the killer is with a monster with a prominent member, and Beautiful Woman is a rape-revenge thriller where the killer is a woman who mutates into a monster with a similarly prominent member, but one which resembles a xenomorph (in case you're wondering, there is a chestburster scene). The latter is one of the sleaziest movies I've seen, and while I'd probably give both a mild thumbs up for doing what they do well, I've lost my appetite for this kind of thing.

Debauchery might be the easiest to recommend from the ones I've seen. It's like a more explicit Belle de Jour with a considerably dumber ending. Obvious, it's not the same quality as the Bunuel, but putting the emphasis on the heroine's experience makes some of the content much more palatable. I can't imagine this is a genre highlight, but I liked it enough.

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Mon Oct 08, 2018 9:18 am
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crumbsroom wrote:
THE ENDURING RACE TO BE THE MOST LAST OF ALL THE LAST HOUSES ON THE STREET (AKA ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO YADDA YADDA YADDA)


Like all nihilistic loud mouths, Watkins will of course not be able to resist attempts to blame his film on a corrupt modern world that would never dare to pay him any attention unless he was willing to sink to such vile displays. This wasn’t a particularly compelling excuse when Deodato attempted it in 1980 for Cannibal Holocaust, and the fact that Watkins got there first is hardly commendable, even if he doesn’t have the baggage of actually killing things and terrorizing native villages to justify his moral objection to violence. He does seem slightly more studied in his hatred towards society though, which gives his brutish philosophy, if not any reason to be contemplated seriously, a certain extra uneasiness. He comes across as a man who could possibly be just articulate enough to convince the sort of deadbeats that populate his world to do the horrible crimes he imagines. He was clearly able to convince others to appear in this film, which itself is something, considering at times it nearly seems to verge on the line of criminality itself.

I'd probably have to watch it again, but I don't think Last House as a movie endorses that argument the same way Cannibal Holocaust does. Maybe it's something in the presentation (Last House doesn't have a line asking who the real cannibals (houses?) are and comes across as less pretentious about having something to say), but in Cannibal Holocaust I got the sense that the movie was equating the documentary crew with the audience and society at large, while Last House exists more in its own ugly void. Despite the main character's rantings, statements about society at large don't seem to be on the film's mind.

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Mon Oct 08, 2018 9:25 am
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Rock wrote:
I'd probably have to watch it again, but I don't think Last House as a movie endorses that argument the same way Cannibal Holocaust does. Maybe it's something in the presentation (Last House doesn't have a line asking who the real cannibals (houses?) are and comes across as less pretentious about having something to say), but in Cannibal Holocaust I got the sense that the movie was equating the documentary crew with the audience and society at large, while Last House exists more in its own ugly void. Despite the main character's rantings, statements about society at large don't seem to be on the film's mind.


Last House doesn't play as a lame guessing game who the savages are, as Cannibal Holocaust does. It also doesn't have a surrogate for the audience as Cannibal Holocaust does, nor is as bald faced hypocritical. But Last House definitely makes more than enough comments on the tastes of modern audiences. After the scene where the producer has been sated by the display of blackfaced whippings, he goes up to visit the porn director, who has been hiding sheepishly away from the scene. The producer claims he wants to see something new. Something extreme, and all the director has to show him are his new films of women undressing and lesbians gently kissing. The director talks about how this is real love, that it will really turn people on. But the producer isn't having it and is irate. He makes a case similar to Watkins that people aren't interest in that sort of shit. They want to be shocked. They want to see something they've never seen. \This is what leads him to search out Watkins' and the films he is making. So Watkins is quickly and with little leg work proved to be correct in that he can generate real interest in simply filming murders as a replacement for traditional pornography. His cynicism is rewarded.

And who is ultimately rewarding Watkins. It is the audience who is currently watching Last House. So where the similarities are is that both directors, Watkins and Deodato, are presenting films that are quite deliberately provocative filth, but adopting the opinion that if you didn't want to see a film like this, they wouldn't have any reason to make it. Watkins is just fulfilling a demand and here is an attitude in this that is of absolving themselves of the sins they are proving more than willing to commit to get your attention. Deodato, of course, over sells this to the point that it becomes infuriating. But Watkins is also making a claim that society is ultimately to blame for being so extreme.


Mon Oct 08, 2018 11:41 pm
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crumbsroom wrote:

Last House doesn't play as a lame guessing game who the savages are, as Cannibal Holocaust does. It also doesn't have a surrogate for the audience as Cannibal Holocaust does, nor is as bald faced hypocritical. But Last House definitely makes more than enough comments on the tastes of modern audiences. After the scene where the producer has been sated by the display of blackfaced whippings, he goes up to visit the porn director, who has been hiding sheepishly away from the scene. The producer claims he wants to see something new. Something extreme, and all the director has to show him are his new films of women undressing and lesbians gently kissing. The director talks about how this is real love, that it will really turn people on. But the producer isn't having it and is irate. He makes a case similar to Watkins that people aren't interest in that sort of shit. They want to be shocked. They want to see something they've never seen. \This is what leads him to search out Watkins' and the films he is making. So Watkins is quickly and with little leg work proved to be correct in that he can generate real interest in simply filming murders as a replacement for traditional pornography. His cynicism is rewarded.

And who is ultimately rewarding Watkins. It is the audience who is currently watching Last House. So where the similarities are is that both directors, Watkins and Deodato, are presenting films that are quite deliberately provocative filth, but adopting the opinion that if you didn't want to see a film like this, they wouldn't have any reason to make it. Watkins is just fulfilling a demand and here is an attitude in this that is of absolving themselves of the sins they are proving more than willing to commit to get your attention. Deodato, of course, over sells this to the point that it becomes infuriating. But Watkins is also making a claim that society is ultimately to blame for being so extreme.

Those are fair points. Never thought I'd accuse the movie of being subtle, even in relative terms, but here we are.

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Tue Oct 09, 2018 6:30 am
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crumbs, I know you're not into the vault-scraping, classic rock nostalgia thing. That's cool.

So just as a heads up, when I get that 7CD deluxe White Album set in a couple of weeks, I will refrain from telling you all about it. Every sigh and whisper, every uncovered pre-song cough. And as I preemptively assure you of my silence, I just wantd to also assure that I will love it. I will love it all. I will sautee it with exacting attention, as if it were a fine bird in a basil/brandy rub. And, probably, more than likely, I will become naked at some point. It may take me weeks to recover my strength. I might even play it all backwards.


Sun Oct 14, 2018 9:21 am
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Jinnistan wrote:
crumbs, I know you're not into the vault-scraping, classic rock nostalgia thing. That's cool.

So just as a heads up, when I get that 7CD deluxe White Album set in a couple of weeks, I will refrain from telling you all about it. Every sigh and whisper, every uncovered pre-song cough. And as I preemptively assure you of my silence, I just wantd to also assure that I will love it. I will love it all. I will sautee it with exacting attention, as if it were a fine bird in a basil/brandy rub. And, probably, more than likely, I will become naked at some point. It may take me weeks to recover my strength. I might even play it all backwards.

Save some room for More Blood, More Tracks

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Sun Oct 14, 2018 9:46 am
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Captain Terror wrote:
Save some room for More Blood, More Tracks

My body is weak, but my soul wants!

I'll still be prioritizing the White Album set for the time being. That's a more central, primal album in my particular musical cosmology. I'll grab the Dylan eventually, maybe like February, but he needs to remember how he already broke my wallet with his box sets before.


Mon Oct 15, 2018 3:56 am
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Jinnistan wrote:
crumbs, I know you're not into the vault-scraping, classic rock nostalgia thing. That's cool.

So just as a heads up, when I get that 7CD deluxe White Album set in a couple of weeks, I will refrain from telling you all about it. Every sigh and whisper, every uncovered pre-song cough. And as I preemptively assure you of my silence, I just wantd to also assure that I will love it. I will love it all. I will sautee it with exacting attention, as if it were a fine bird in a basil/brandy rub. And, probably, more than likely, I will become naked at some point. It may take me weeks to recover my strength. I might even play it all backwards.


Since I generally reflexively call The White Album my 'favorite of all time', this release has definitely caught my attention. But as you mention, I'm not much for digging too deep into endless alternative cuts of songs, because I am already giving myself enough trouble just sticking to studio albums. I also am very deep into buying mostly artists I am completely unfamiliar with, since I am more about just pushing myself further and further away from everything I know. Arguments can be made that going beneath the surface of one of the most celebrated albums ever, by the most celebrated band at their most splintered, idiosyncratic and experimental, can't help but be worth something. But the same time, by returning to The Beatles, after I felt I had already completely digested everything they had to offer, seems like a step backward, when all I want is to be free from the shackles of my older listening habits. And the Beatles are kinda ground zero for those.


Mon Oct 15, 2018 7:01 am
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Don't know if this is old news, but after having just gone to Rotten Tomatoes for the first time in months, it seems Pauline Kael's old reviews are now being posted online. That's exciting, at least for me.


Tue Oct 16, 2018 9:04 am
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crumbsroom wrote:
Don't know if this is old news, but after having just gone to Rotten Tomatoes for the first time in months, it seems Pauline Kael's old reviews are now being posted online. That's exciting, at least for me.

*sigh* There goes Kubrick's percentages.


Tue Oct 16, 2018 11:09 am
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I like how RT has just left the Forum page sitting there, completely devoid of topics. Why bother nuking the forums but not the main forum page? I can't figure out if it's a taunt, like a tombstone-shaped welcome mat, or if they've restored our ability to post, but no one has bothered to go back and try.

I don't think I'm going to bother trying tonight.


Tue Oct 16, 2018 11:13 am
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Jinnistan wrote:
I like how RT has just left the Forum page sitting there, completely devoid of topics. Why bother nuking the forums but not the main forum page? I can't figure out if it's a taunt, like a tombstone-shaped welcome mat, or if they've restored our ability to post, but no one has bothered to go back and try.

I don't think I'm going to bother trying tonight.

I have, there was nowhere to go.


Tue Oct 16, 2018 12:28 pm
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