The Whittling Post Digest - Issue 9

I appear to be having something of a mini-freak out this morning, for reasons I’m guessing only my doctor can explain to me, so I thought I’d put pen to paper in an attempt to take my mind off things. Usually, I’d dive into an alcoholic slump at a time like this, but I am trying to be a little more sensible at the moment. At least the weather has finally turned so there’s a brisk chill in the air, which always cheers me up. It also means the local noise-makers have retreated inside until spring. Hurrah!

Anyway, here are some musings on popular culture…

EMPATH

I genuinely can’t remember how I stumbled across this noise-rock band. Perhaps Spotify recommended them in their “Fans Also Like” section of another artist’s page. Regardless, I’m utterly hooked on their sound, which is somewhere between Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine. It says something when, even though the vocals are nonsensical and mixed down low, a song can make you cry. Kudos to them! I heartily recommend the tunes: “Hanging Out of Cars”, “Rodeo Fever”, and “Born 100 Times”. “Rodeo Fever” will make you want to run outside and sing at the top of your voice to the sky, even though you’ll have no idea what the devil the lyrics are about. Turns out it really doesn’t matter, at the end of the day.

EMPEROR OF ROME

I have nothing but time for historian Mary Beard, although apparently many people disapprove of her simply due to her age and nerdy appearance. Aren’t people awful?! It is fortunate then that I have ceased listening to the opinions of others, as I feel I have lived long enough to trust my own. I’ve got all of Beard’s audiobooks, which she has now started narrating herself. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about her replacing her original reader, Phyllida Nash, but Beard has clearly grown confident enough as a broadcaster, where she narrates her own television documentaries, that she has decided to crack on without the aid of Nash. Anyway, I was slightly concerned that Emperor of Rome would just be an amalgamation of Beard’s previous major works, Pompeii: Life of a Roman Town and SPQR, but this definitely feels like its own thing. She still makes some of the same references, but I think she is now conscious of not repeating herself. She still doesn’t seem to understand what an antihero is, as, when she yet again brings up Ridley Scott’s 2000 film Gladiator, she describes Joaquin Phoenix’s Commodus as one. No, Commodus is an unredeemable psychopath, not an antihero. Characters like Robin Hood and Brian Mills are antiheroes, as they go about heroic deeds by questionable means, but we still root for them. Nobody is rooting for Commodus. I hope. Well, Emperor of Rome is gloriously gossipy about the more intimate side of the life on an ancient Roman emperor, written and narrated by a fabulously eccentric person. I’m about 5 hours in at the moment and loving every second of it!

GLADIATOR II

Speaking of Gladiator. No, I’ve not seen this film, but I laughed quite heartily when I saw that it was actually a thing. What is it with Scott producing unnecessary sequels to his best movies?! At the very least he directs this one himself. I wanted to kick Blade Runner 2049 to death, not only for retconning certain things, but by stylistically standing in opposition to everything I love about the original. Wait, what was I talking about?! Oh yes, Gladiator II! It’s a shame Spencer Treat Clark hasn’t reprised his role as Lucius, as he is still working, but I’m sure the buff dumbass they have hired is competent enough. Sigh. I hope Scott gave Clark a curtesy call just to let him know what was going on, you know, just so there was no hard feelings, but I have my doubts. Scott does seem like a rather stern chap. I have no interest in seeing this movie, but I may rewatch the original because, well, one doesn’t need a reason. It’s still one of the greats.

MEDITATION

Well, my version of it anyway. I’ve not bought any of those sleazy self-help books that seem to infest bookshops nowadays, instead adapting what I was already doing to help with my anxiety and low moods. As I found myself drifting off into fantasy more and more, I felt mildly concerned that I was beginning to lose my grip on reality in general. Goodness knows why one would be concerned about this, as it seems like a good deal to me. But, as I was about to contact my doctor about going back onto antidepressants, I suddenly thought: “Wait, so when I’m feeling anxious, I stop what I’m doing, go lie down, put on some headphones, listen to some white noise, and focus my thoughts on something positive that I have complete control of until I calm down. Isn’t that meditation?!”. I believe it is, so I’ve stopped being concerned, however mildly. I also realised that I’ve done this all my life, in fact. I walked away from school at 16 with barely any qualifications, thanks to my penchant for staring out the class window lost in my own fantasy world. I’m also an idiot, but that’s a story for another day. Basically, I lie there meditating, or mentally role-playing, until I stop shaking and find myself in a creative cul-de-sac, then I get up and make some coffee, which probably doesn’t help with the anxiety. I hope this “meditating” or whatever it is will continue to aid my battle against mental illness. We shall see.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SEX COMEDY

My Woody Allen boxset was still out after I reviewed Love and Death, so I thought I’d try one of his films I hadn’t seen before. I always assumed A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy was one of his early screwball comedies, due to its title, but it’s definitely one of his more mature works. Lusciously set around the 1920s, this, like much of Allen’s work, is a very charming affair indeed. In fact, I may watch it again today. I’m not sure he made the right decision in casting three women with similarly annoying voices, but it’s fine. All we need is for Melanie Griffith and Jennifer Tilly to turn up and we really wouldn’t have a reason to live. Anyway, if you can find a copy, I recommend watching this very simple, intimate, and beguiling little tale of six confused individuals spending the weekend at a country retreat together. Dammit if Tony Roberts isn’t the coolest motherfucker on the planet.

TREMORS

Yes, I’ve purchased the boxset. There appears now to be about six sequels in there, which is a terrifying prospect. I’m wondering whether to turn it into a whole-day movie marathon, but I don’t believe I hate myself that much. Let’s have a show of hands from you fine folks. Oh shit. Well, maybe I’ll do it for Halloween, even though I’m never too fussed about getting involved in the spooky goings on. Hmmm…

Right, I think that’s about all for now. I’m still feeling rather anxious, so perhaps I’ll make myself a sandwich. A full tummy usually does tie-in with a more stable state of mind, I must say. Well, I don’t have to say, but I just did.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Strange Brew (1983) - film review

“If I didn’t have puke-breath, I’d kiss you”

One thing I always respected about the Abbott & Costello movies, even as a dumb kid, was that they really want to entertain us. They’re like mini-music hall variety shows, with the titular pair doing comedy skits, serious actors pontificating in a romantic-drama subplot, and the Andrew Sisters popping in and out occasionally to do a few musical numbers. Forty years later, WWII was over, and movies weren’t quite so desperate to entertain us anymore. However, the bumbling comedy duo genre was alive and well, with films like Strange Brew and The Blues Brothers being blueprints for terrible modern incarnations of Abbott & Costello.

I guess I should really credit Laurel & Hardy too, but I’m just more of an Abbott & Costello person. Odd really, as I believe we have Bud Abbott to blame for inventing rap, in Buck Privates (1941).

I must confess, I couldn’t have known less about Strange Brew before sitting down to watch it if I’d tried. All I knew beforehand was that it was an early Rick Moranis comedy about two drunk Canadians. To be honest, that’s pretty much the film as a whole. As with most concept-based comedy features, Strange Brew suffers from “The Three Men and a Baby Problem”, which I’ve discussed briefly before. Basically, after the first act, which would be the entire point for the movie existing, the writer has nothing to do. Cue crime caper! Writers Moranis and Dave Thomas sort-of solve this problem by weaving the drama plot into the mix early on, which helps avoid the usual abrupt shift in story and tone.

It’s always a pleasure seeing Moranis in stuff, so I didn’t need much of an excuse to watch Strange Brew. Ah the 90s, a decade so bad for movies that he and Michael J Fox simply lost the will to continue acting, and Raul Julia lost the will to live. Of course, personal tragedy, Parkinson’s disease, and cancer may have also been contributing factors, but we all know the truth.

While I only know Thomas from the sitcoms Grace Under Fire and Arrested Development (“Mr F!”), he’s always fun to watch, especially with those adorably-cherubic features of his. He reminds me of a young Robert Pollard here.

Max von Sydow, who, like Peter Cushing, always knew to be the best thing in a bad movie, does a fine job playing Stock Evil Businessman, although he doesn’t have anything particularly memorable to do. I get the feeling he was being very patient on set. Like a lot. But he was forever a consummate professional who just wanted to work, so I’m guessing he wasn’t a dick about it. I’d miss him more if it weren’t for him being in most of the films in my movie collection. His prolific career has got my grief covered.

While no other names in the credits will be familiar, their faces will. Strange Brew is chock-full of soon-to-be character actors, assumedly making their first onscreen appearances here. You’ll spend much of the runtime exclaiming: “Hey, where do I know him/her from?!”.

Sadly, I struggled with this good-natured film, with a major crisis point coming at the halfway point. I’m glad I didn’t give up though, as things actually do pick up in the second half. I think it helps once Moranis and Thomas start interacting with people more, rather than just wandering about muttering to each other. I initially thought the film was going to be super-low budget and uniquely subversive, but, once the professional-looking titles started at the 8 minute mark, my heart sank and I realised things might get terribly average. I guess they do, but, thanks to scenes like Moranis showing a cop his driver’s license underwater, the lawyer who beats up journalists, and the flying dog-skunk, I managed to make it to the end.

It’s interesting to note that, even though it was released the same year, Strange Brew references Return of the Jedi quite significantly. It must have had a fast production turnaround. Remember those days? You know, when movies didn’t sit in “development hell” for years until being abandoned.

If it weren’t for the interminably long scenes centring on the crime caper subplot (or uberplot, I’m not sure), I might give this film a second go, but I have my doubts. It’s certainly worth watching as a proto-Wayne’s World, but Mike Myers and Dana Carney did it much better a decade later.

Do stay in touch, darlings, eh.

Toodles!

[story corner]

SEBASTIAN AND DANIEL

A semi-autobiographical LGBT coming-of-age story about a pair of social outcasts who find peace within each other’s company. May contain uncompromising real-world situations.

CHAPTER TWO

Daniel sat in the second-hand bathwater wafting away the long strands of black hair left by his older sister. The hairs were drifting perilously close to his horrified stomach. The monthly water bill had arrived in the post the day before, with its bottom line shocking the pair’s mother so much so that she had declared a cap was to be put on the supply’s usage. The self-imposed drought meant that Daniel, who was yet to be old enough to perspire unpleasantly, could only bathe once a week, and only then in his sister’s used mire. For the rest of the week, he was permitted only a cursory stand-up wash at the sink once he had gotten to school.

This, alas, raised more than a few eyebrows amongst his more affluent peers.

As the strands of alien hair floated away towards the overflow grille, Daniel noticed a trail of black dye spilling out in their wake. He smiled, knowing full well that his sister had begun resorting to the cheaper brands again, which, in turn, meant that she had parted ways with her working-age boyfriend, a man who would certainly be footing the bill for the fourteen-year-old girl’s vain aspirations.

Daniel had not heard about these events explicitly, but it now made sense of the fact that his sister had unexpectedly morphed from a vibrant redhead to a mournful raven. She had also been refusing Daniel access to their shared bedroom, a luxury allotted solely for her monthly menstrual cramps. The ten-year-old boy, by way of compromise, currently had to make do with curling up inside the generations-old armchair in the living room, the sofa usually being taken up by their mother. The matriarch would generally pass-out in the living room after leisurely downing a bottle of vodka each evening. Daniel reasoned that he should probably just ask if he could sleep in his mother’s empty bed, but broaching this subject would require his mother to acknowledge her nightly alcoholic ritual, thus shattering the calm denial with which the boy had become so accustomed.

Now suitably uneasy with wallowing for so long in his sister’s murky swamp, Daniel swung himself out of the bathtub and onto the browning matt, dragging a good cup-full of water with him.

“Oh shit.” The boy said, as the wave of soapy expectoration splashed against the opposite wall.

He shrugged his shoulders and allowed himself to drip-dry in the bold summer warmth, turning his attention to the sink and examining the forest of toiletries that congregated, in no particular order of owner, around the mouldy taps. The two women the boy shared a home with clearly dipped into each other’s collections, although his mother’s was now thinning out, no doubt due to her slow-descent into unkempt, spirit-based apathy. Daniel selected the communal nailbrush, pressed it into the slither of pink soap that hid beneath a hairnet, and flicked a barrage of tiny soap spots onto his chest. As soon the one-sided battle was over, he dug around the plastic mug for his toothbrush, which was blue, gave it a rinse, and brushed his admittedly well-disciplined row of teeth with the unpleasant spearmint toothpaste. He had been outvoted in the great peppermint versus spearmint debate of three years ago. Once the plaque was efficiently scrubbed off for another day, the boy then spat, rinsed again, gave a final polish, then javelin-threw the brush back into its mug.

The ad hoc toothbrush holder, under the force of his olympian triumph, toppled into the sink with a cacophonous clatter.

Daniel, after giving a deafened wince, dismissively rolled his eyes, picked up his towel that was wedged under the door to stop impatient feminine invaders, and tiptoed across the hallway into his sister’s-and-sometimes-his bedroom.

It was unoccupied, which went some way to explain the scent of cannabis drifting across from the darkened living room.

Daniel threw his towel purposefully at the head of his sister’s vacant bed, then dove onto his own, which lay as far across the small room in the corner that his sibling could possibly push it. The boy then sat, still waiting to dry fully, idly picking the now-concrete soap spots from his chest, vindictively flicking each one at his sister’s pillow before the soap had time to melt.

Ten minutes later, and at last in his school uniform, Daniel found his sister slumped in her brother’s makeshift armchair-bed, with a smoking roll-up teetering dangerously on the edge of her thickly-painted bottom lip. Their mother was awake, but still horizontal. Yesterday’s bottle of vodka, with only a swig remaining in the bottom, diligently stood to attention on the ash-singed carpet. The television was on, but Daniel suspected neither woman knew what they were witnessing. The curtains were drawn, but sunlight lapped at them excitedly from beyond.

“I’m off to school,” said Daniel, pulling his regulation-defying trainers over the balls of his feet, “are you walking with me, Gert?”

Nothing.

“Mum, tell Gert to answer me.” He said, waving a hand in front of his stoned sister’s face.

“Just go, Danny.” Said their mother, eyes not daring to move from the colourful images on the television screen. “Mummy’ll sort it out in a bit.”

Daniel, fully aware that the woman had no concept of what her son was talking about, lightly kicked over the thimble-full bottle of vodka, if only to illicit any response at all from the two women. After nothing was forthcoming, the boy sighed and casually shuffled out of the hazy den.

In the kitchen, he took a bite out of an abandoned takeaway pizza, being careful to avoid the mushrooms, then took a ten-pound-note from his mother’s purse, which lay next to a pool of knocked-over garlic mayonnaise dip.

“I’m taking a fiver, mum!” He said, choosing to at least mention his thievery.

Nothing.

After placing the purse delicately onto the pool of mayonnaise and pressing down slightly, the boy navigated towards freedom. Out on the pavement, Daniel noticed the estate was alive with contrastingly motivated humans. Commuters, dog walkers, postmen, bin collectors, children going in Daniel’s direction, and slightly more dedicated alcoholics than his mother, heading to the shop for another round. Stadge was largely strewn with blocks of single-bedroom flats and family maisonettes, with the odd row of coal mining terraces and betting shops haphazardly thrown in for colour.

The piercing morning sun was managing to cut through the estate’s usual patina of depression to raise Daniel’s spirits. He almost began to saunter merrily, but instead kept to a more socially-acceptable plod.

As would usually be the case when such a wave of unprovoked positivity washed over the boy, Daniel began to grow suspicious, even anxious. He decided he would treat the day with great caution, perhaps even leaving school early to hide in Waddlescross woods. The letters from his school regarding such tardiness would surely go ignored, even unopened, by his mother, as would the follow-up phone calls by the idealistic school secretary.

Yes, Daniel would play it safe today.

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Love and Death (1975) - film review

I was in something of an anxious mood yesterday. Feeling morbidly apathetic and constantly on the verge of tears, I came to the conclusion that my Woody Allen boxset needed dusting off and a light switching on at the end of my… erm… dreary tunnel of nihilism. I may actually promote his collection of works to somewhere more prominent and close at hand in my flat, as anxiety and low mood attacks are a regular occurrence in this lonely household of one.

I’ve never been too big a fan of Allen’s early screwball comedies, having grown up on his straighter 80s stuff mostly. Hannah and Her Sisters is on one of my genre-specific top ten lists, the comedy/drama one, I believe. It doesn’t sit very well next to Star Wars. I’ve also not seen anything of Allen’s, apart from the wonderful Midnight in Paris, since Manhattan Murder Mystery. So, yeah, I’m definitely due a major catch-up!

But, out of all his cute early work, Love and Death is one I can watch over and over again. While I’m guessing not underrated, the film is certainly under-appreciated. Perhaps the idea of a comedy set during grim wartime in early-1800s Russia isn’t as exciting to some as it is to… well… nobody. I think that’s why I’d been putting off a viewing for decades too. It’s a shame really, as Love and Death is one of those comedies where, even when nothing particularly funny is happening onscreen, I’m chuckling merrily to myself at the overall tone.

On the surface, it’s a film parodying po-faced philosophical Russian literature while following the exploits of a bumbling peasant as he goes through the farce of war and ends up attempting to assassinate Napoleon. However, at it’s heart, Love and Death is really about how funny and pretty Diane Keaton is. It’s actually endearing how Allen essentially hands the movie over to her, even though he’s technically the star. I believe they are still friends to this day.

While some of the seemingly-improvised moments of comedy fall a bit short of the mark, the more well-crafted sketches will force you to press pause as you attempt to contain yourself. From Allen’s mother gleefully sending him off to die, to Keaton’s insincere words on her husband’s deathbed, to Allen making so much noise as he sneaks up behind Napoleon to shoot him, to rambling philosophical asides that lead nowhere. This style of comedy, which fights the mundanity of self-righteous conservatism with absurdist liberalism, is very dear to my heart.

The relatively brief appearance of Principal Strickland, as Napoleon, is lots of fun too, also proving that James Tolken is a much more versatile actor than my unfair reduction of his career gives him credit for. Just watch Dick Tracy (1990) and see if you can spot him!

Jessica Harper also turns up for the final scene, apparently in an attempt to try and out-pout Keaton. To give her some credit, she nearly succeeds. I believe Harper retired from acting after marrying a rich Hollywood producer. A noble pursuit indeed.

Well, that’s all I really have to say, other than maybe to recommend watching this in a double-bill with the same year’s Barry Lyndon. Both are great, subversive period comedies that not enough people have seen. Love and Death has just a pinch more art and subtlety to it though.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

The Master (2012) - an emotional reaction

“How is this helping?!”

“You’ll see.”

There are many things adults do not prepare you for when you are a child, such as how to pay an energy bill, that hard work does not pay off, and that you will feel painfully alone once you reach a certain age. When you are a child, you are free to run round to your best friend’s house and bang on their door until they come out and play with you. In fact, sometimes you run so fast that you trip and hurt your knee. But nobody warns you that this freedom is only fleeting. In fact, eventually, making friends will be hard for you. If you approach someone, as an adult, with your heart open, they will fear that you are planning to steal from them or hurt them.

When you are a child and learning your alphabet and trying to colour inside the lines, nobody tells you how to cope with losing the things that not only matter to you then, but will also matter to you as an adult. Apparently, the wide-eyed joy you feel as a child should end so that “life can start”. But life has already started. It started the moment you were born. It will not start when you begin secondary school. It will not start when you go off to university. It will not start when you find a job. It will not start when you retire. I believe the sadness a lot of us begin to feel in our late-20s, a bleak example being “The 27 Club”, is to do with the realisation that we have been lied to. We have, in fact, been living all along. Despite going to work, making dinner, paying bills, and doing housework, all we really want to do is run round to our best friend’s house so fast that we trip and hurt our knee.

But we no longer can.

Over human history, people have devised, without planning to, various methods for making friends as an adult. Perhaps it started by sharing a cave, then moved onto building mud-brick hovels next to each other, to coming together to worship a god, to raising an army to pillage a city, to opening a factory, to creating an internet chat forum. Somebody always has to be in charge though, which defies logic. The person in charge will create logic for their leadership, however, and this logic will usually change to suit anyone questioning their authority. You don’t need someone to tell you how to run round to your best friend’s house. You know not to trip and hurt your knee, but you will anyway.

A standard musing may go like this:

PERSON A: What’s the different between a religion and a cult?

PERSON B: The number of members.

While sort-of true, the phrase “cult”, as we think of it today, is a shortening of “mystery cult”. Basically, it refers to a religion that you need to apply for membership to. The religion does not hand out literature on street corners, instead whispering to potential members: “Hey, wanna get involved in something cool?!”. Open religions and mystery cults, whilst gaining members through different means, basically end up in the same place: one person requiring mental, emotional, and financial subjugation from a number of other people.

Private initiation and evangelism are just two sides of the same coin and a means to the same end.

My mind is somewhat broken. I do not view the world as most seem to. I broadly define this as a “mental health illness”, although more concisely my doctor defines it as “cyclothymia”, which is a form of bipolar disorder. Reading the official definition of my illness is like reading my biography. This makes me feel both happy and sad. Happy, because, at the very least, I am not alone in my mental anguish; but also sad, because of the simple fact that I experience this mental anguish. I find isolation therapeutic, but also counter to my instinct. My instinct, of course, is to run round to my best friend’s house and bang on their door until they come out and play with me. But I am unable to make friends as an adult, so attempting to recreate this childish instinct is impossible to me. I have had fleeting friendships over the years, but they have all failed. The current time limit I give any close association is five years. Tragically, I am usually correct in my estimation. I post on blogs and formerly on social media in the hope of making friends, perhaps unwisely considering my personal history, but it no longer works. Sometimes I get hundreds of page views for a review on here, but nobody talks to me. While this deepens my loneliness, I now know it is for the best. For them and for me.

Sometimes I look at my life as it is now and think how much of a prime target I am for religious groups. I am lonely, troubled, riddled with disability and low self-esteem, and yearning for companionship. But, much to their annoyance, I will take my current situation over being subjugated by someone who takes pleasure in subjugating others. I have come to terms with the fact that, when I die, nobody will know about it for a long time. I will not “die peacefully surrounded by family and friends”, but instead be found by the emergency services who have had to break down my door. I will most likely have died of natural causes, most likely in front of my television. The television will be off, because the power in my flat will be off. The power in my flat will be off, because my electricity meter will have ran out of credit months ago. But I will have died with a smile on my face, knowing that I never broke and subjugated myself to someone who takes pleasure in subjugating other people, simply to quell my loneliness.

Due to my broken view of the world, I now believe I was born into a mystery cult. It was definitely not an open religion, as you had to be initiated into it. The leader was a woman who called herself my “mother”. She had a dutiful lieutenant, known as my “middle brother”, and a drone, of very low intelligence, who collected money for her, known as my “father”. I had an “eldest brother”, who was shunned from the cult for not obeying the strict rules laid out by the cult’s domineering leader. The “eldest brother”, whilst certainly provocative, was full of life and from whom I gained many of my interests and pastimes. I will most likely never see him again. Once I achieved my first taste of freedom and realised I was in a cult, I spent many years fighting to escape for good, which I finally achieved when the leader died of natural causes earlier this year. I only assume her lieutenant is now desperately searching for someone new to be led by. He is very eager to subjugate his mind. During the years of my self-isolation, as I attempted to escape, I would have fleeting contact with the leader. At first, she would be pleasant, until my individuality did not provide her with satisfaction. At this point, she would become cruel and dismiss me. The dismissal would usually come at the ten minute mark. That was all the time she had for me.

At one of the eight schools I ended up going to as a child, apparently I had been so visibly scared of my parents during a parent-teacher conference that the headteacher felt inclined to come find me in the playground the next day and ask if everything was alright at home. Considering the man was basically an administrator, with usually-scant concern for his pupils, this was quite a significant incident. At the time, I did not know why I had been so scared that day, but, looking back, I believe I do now.

I cannot engage in society anymore, for which I am sure I will eventually be punished. I have committed no crime, other than to want to be left alone. At first, I found society would be pleasant, until my individuality did not provide it with satisfaction. I drink excessively due to my mental anguish, loneliness, and acceptance that I will never again find love. But at least, for now, I am free.

This was a review for the Paul Thomas Anderson film The Master. Whilst not a formal analysis, with details of shot composition, performances, and musical score, my above thoughts are what this 2012 film inspired in me. I urge you to see the film for yourself. And to live for yourself, even if you fall over and scrape your knee as you go.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!